1 - 20 of 40 Works by tsauergrass
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Kiyoomi swears that his life is not a rom-com, the universe is just out to get him.
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Final project: Short Film
Due: April 13th
Length: Two to five minutes
Prompt: Create a short film about loveA film project, a cluttered apartment, a shaved-ice shop by the sea. Oh, and love. That, too.
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Nothing about this seemed quick: six months of sitting, hundreds of afternoons spent in stillness. Miwa was already collecting her letters, shutting them away in the drawer with a neat shove. It was how she moved these days, the deftness of a stone skipping over the water. It was how she’d arranged Tobio’s marriage and for his portrait to be done, a gift to the bride at the end of the courtship.
“I’ve never met him,” Tobio said.
“You will in a few hours.”
“I’ve never met her.”
Miwa came around the desk as she headed for the door. She squeezed Tobio’s hand.
“You will.”
The painter was not what Tobio expected him to be.
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Hinata is talking about something else already, reaching for the tamagoyaki: the Black Jackals have one more game, doesn’t Tobio know, the seaweed from the combini tasted better. Tobio stares at him. He always holds himself so easily in Tobio’s kitchen after they spend the night, as though Tobio’s place is his own.
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Collection of short stories featuring Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi. Tags updated as chapters are added. Rated G, and chapters rated otherwise will be noted in chapter summaries (please check!)
1. strawberry cake, the night before Christmas Eve
2. overheard
3. in twenty years
4. the colors of
5. aubade
6. 00:52 a.m.
7. moonlight -
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他們小跑步到不遠的公車站裡。雨一開始落得細密，漸漸傾盆；兩人坐在簡陋的公車站長椅上，世界只剩下雨聲。
「飯綱學長最近在躲我？」
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Shinsuke watches him sauté the onions, watches him move around the kitchen with ease. He had held the onion so easily and gently, as though he knew its story from when it was pulled out of the earth, dirt still clinging, as though he knew how he was going to mold its flavor.
“Teach me how to make something,” Shinsuke suddenly says.
Osamu looks up. “Huh?”
“Anything.”
In which Shinsuke discovers something new.
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i found god in a patch of light by the kitchen window by blueeeeberries (tsauergrass)
Fandoms: Haikyuu!!
08 Jun 2022
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How should he count it? When he first lost, when he first pointed his finger as though pointing through time, when he first reached for Shouyou’s hand? When the words first tumbled out of his mouth? When they found each other six years later, in a vapid summer afternoon outside the stadium, Shouyou’s hair still sweaty from the tryout, a promise finally beginning to be fulfilled?
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The shape of his hands when he slices the fruits: the peaches falling into thin, soft crescent moons, the pear skins a long ribbon between his fingers. The strawberries lose their shapes in the pot, sugar melting, sweetness rising in the air. The tea leaves unfurl in the glass pot, hot water dyed into the color of the sun.
Atsumu hums a soft little tune when he does the dishes. He thinks the sound of the running water buries his voice. It doesn’t. Shouyou doesn’t tell him.
Falling in love in a seaside city.
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They stood, watching the rain. Sakusa’s hand lingered. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of Ushijima’s clothes, through the cool of the night.
“I bought pickled plums from the convenience store,” Ushijima said.
Sakusa smiled. He lowered his head, tucking it to himself. When they go back home, Ushijima thought, they would share a bed. They’d washed and dried the sheets yesterday. They would be clean and warm.
A walk down the memory lane.
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goodbye, goodbye, hello by blueeeeberries (tsauergrass) for westernbee
Fandoms: Haikyuu!!
03 Apr 2022
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It wasn’t his first time in Italy. It was, however, his first time staying with Kageyama. When Tsukishima learned, he broke their long-standing rule of I-will-never-contact-you-first-because-I-loathe-to-be-in-the-vincinity-of-your-idiodicy-ever-again and called Shouyou to tell him he was stupid. Fair, Shouyou conceded. When you were trying to part from someone, staying with them in their house for five days was likely not the brightest idea.
It was hard, Shouyou thought, to part from someone.
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“Is it not good that it’s just like before?” Yamaguchi asked, bewildered. “Isn’t it better than getting awkward?”
Tobio supposed it was. He hesitated.
“But then why did he tell me he liked me?”
Hinata confessed.
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“Have you reached the edge of the universe?” Kiyoomi asks.
Wakatoshi smiles at this. The hem of his cape is streaked with dirt, colors fading from wear, and the folds of his shirt are slightly ruffled, his boots clogged with mud—traces of a long journey. Yet his hands are clean and neat, and Kiyoomi wonders, briefly, what they had touched: the map, the mast of a ship, the streak of stars reflected in a river; a touch through the current as the water soaks the earth, as it becomes part of the planet, a history Kiyoomi collects into his hands and retells.
“No,” Wakatoshi says. “Not yet.”
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Kiyoomi eats another spoonful of red bean soup. Osamu looks at his glasses and, as if deciding, says, “I like it.”
“Bribery,” Kiyoomi murmurs.
At the age of 39, Kiyoomi concedes defeat and buys a pair of glasses.
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He would have dusted the snow off Atsumu’s shoulder except it was summer here in Brazil, there was no snow, only the perpetual lingering warmth of dusk, and Atsumu shuddered lightly in it when he shrugged off his shirt in Shouyou’s living room, laughing a little, self-conscious.
Atsumu visits Shouyou in Brazil for the holidays.
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When he was small Atsumu believed in fairytales. At twenty-two, on the court, he believes only in himself; he is ruthless, and Shouyou is more ruthless still. But then Shouyou laughs and yelps when he bites down on an ice pop too soon and finds the most beautiful river Atsumu has ever seen and Atsumu thinks: miracles happen, regardless of whether you believe in them. On the long, long road home in the summer heat, they glow like hidden windows behind the roofs amidst the tall buildings.
What is forever, anyway?
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Beside you, he dangles his legs from the bench; they are too short to touch the ground. The white of his sneakers glows under the dark sky. Rarely is he quiet; the rain speaks for him, now, a chorus of sound. You think you don’t understand. You think you understand a little bit.
Of rain, of hydrangeas. In which a coming together takes years.
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You know we went back home last week. He made a huge fuss because he couldn’t find his handkerchief. None of us knew what he was on about—he hadn’t used his handkerchief in fifteen years and even back when he’d had it, he’d never used it. That evening before he showered, he took off his chain and his ring and spent ten minutes arranging it on that little square piece of cloth. I’d never seen him that careful with anything.
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Without realizing, Shouyou had grown to want this, too: to prepare lunch for the both of them in the morning, to hold Atsumu’s hand on the bus.
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“Tell me something about Hyogo,” Shouyou said.
Atsumu opened his mouth, just a little.
The mountains. The fields. They are so green in summer you can taste the colors in the wind, the sweetness of rice on your tongue when you chew long enough. There’s this shaved-ice shop that sells bowls of shaved ice bigger than Osamu’s face and when the wind blows, the wind chime somehow always clinks through the cicadas croaking all around. Summers are wet. It rains and drenches your sneakers but it lets you take the first step—towards home, towards the nearest convenience store, but the dark, thick clouds always, always catch up before you reach it—
“The vending machine,” he blurted.
And wanted to bite his own tongue. Or disappear into the pillows for the rest of his life. But Shouyou nodded, his fingers still on his cheeks.
“The vending machine,” he said, prodding.