Work Text:
Yachi meets her through volleyball in the first year of high school. She’s got hair that’s inky black and a calm disposition that only seems to flicker by unease of her teammates’ shouts.
"Shimizu Kiyoko," she says, offers her hand. They're setter's hands, Yachi can tell. Bandaged fingers, chipped nails, skinny, long, large. Her palm is calloused in hers, slips out too soon and for some reason, Yachi can't meet her eyes when she pulls away.
It’s okay though— they're both shy. She’s a third year, captain of the team, all soft edges until you see the angles of her cheek bones. Yachi hasn't got any friends, and she extends an olive branch with those red chipped nails and invites her to sit with her at lunch, and oh, Yachi thinks, this might be where she falls.
It’s under the willow tree where they sit, the branches heavy and leaning low enough to brush Kiyoko's head when she stands. Yachi notices she likes to paint her nails, and it’s without thinking that she offers to bring her polish the next day. She begins to apologize when she sees the surprise in Kiyoko's face, she’s got her lips, chapped and bitten, hanging open in surprise.
"That'd be nice," Kiyoko says with a small smile, leans back and rests her head against the trunk of the tree, sunlight creeping through the leaves and cascading over her face.
This, Yachi thinks. This is where I fall.
—
Yachi plays libero, plays with passion and for some reason, not a single fear of the ball. She's quick, adaptable, and those are her strengths that make her a starter in her first year. It's nerve wracking in a way she can't describe, makes her heart beat too fast to be normal, thump tha thump, thump tha thump— but when Kiyoko smiles and assures her she'll do fine, all those fears stop buzzing.
Yachi almost wishes she were a spiker, but she’s much too short. She imagines, though, dreams up realities where she's jumping high into the air, with Kiyoko beside her, those long, setter's hands outstretched, ball floating through the hair towards her palm.
It's just a player's fantasy, not a girl's, Yachi tells herself. She never thinks of falling to the ground with palms red and raw, turning to see Kiyoko's look of pride swelling on her face as the ball hits the other side of the court, out of the other team's reach. She doesn't wonder what Kiyoko's arms would feel like around her in a hug, doesn't imagine the press of lips to hers—
Who is she kidding. Of course she does.
Yachi stays late that night after practice, gets the coach, Saeko, to spike so she can practice receives. It makes her forearms burn, but it's a good pain, and she's used to it.
She's used to it. She'll get used to it.
—
That's the thing about Kiyoko: everyone likes her. She's soft, and kind, and funny when she needs to be, smart and observant and never backs down. She's pretty too, with hair that shines and skin that glows, a mole below her lip and long, long legs. Her uniform— volleyball and school— fits her like it was made just for her, and she seems like she could make flowers grow just with a smile.
Yachi doesn't forget to bring her polish to school the next day, carries the little heart shaped bag with kittens on it in her lunchbox to avoid any odd looks. Is it childish, the soft pastels and the colours? Would Kiyoko think of her strange?
It's a miracle she doesn't. Instead, she admires the little zipper and it's keychain, asks where Yachi she got it and listens wholeheartedly to the story of how Yachi explored Harijuku on her own because her mom was at a meeting. Kiyoko quirks the corners of her mouth, opens the bag and selects a navy polish with little flicks of silver.
"Can you paint mine for me?" Kiyoko asks.
Yachi feels her face heat up. "I'm not that good at it."
"Neither am I,” Kiyoko admits. "I always end up getting polish all over my fingers."
It's enough reassurance for Yachi to take the bottle from her and unscrew the lid, taking Kiyoko's long, spindly, hands in hers. She's traded the bandages for bandaids to cover the sores, and the red nail paint has almost completely chipped off. Yachi doesn't bother trying to scrape the rest off, sitting on her feet and getting comfortable as she begins to paint the polish onto Kiyoko’s fingernails. It’s a pretty colour, and Yachi finds herself repeating don't slip up, don't slip up in fear of getting it on her blouse.
Yachi isn’t a perfectionist, but she’s got steady hands, is able to clean up around the edges of each nail and apply two coats that make the colour opaque. Kiyoko talks smooth and quietly as she works, about a new song, about the team, asks more questions than she gives out answers. Yachi replies with earnest, trying not to blush or stumble over her words. It’s a minefield of nail polish and pale skin, praying she doesn't get any on her clothes or her heart or in Kiyoko’s eye. She’s nervous— she's always nervous, but Kiyoko doesn't seem to mind.
“Thank you,” Kiyoko smiles, looking down at her finished hands. They dried quicker than she expected, which makes Yachi sigh in relief. “I think pink would be a nice colour for you.” Yachi squeaks involuntarily as Kiyoko holds her hand steady. “May I?”
She nods, tries not to blush. Kiyoko is gentle, hums softly as she works around Yachi’s nails, bitten short and small. Kiyoko’s hair falls into her face, and with her spare hand she tucks it back behind her head, exposing little gold hoop earrings that catch the light of the afternoon.
Kiyoko was right— pink looks nice against her skin, the rose tones warming her skin, brining colour to what she always thought was just off yellow. Yachi’s hands shake ever so slightly, along with her lips, her mind hyperaware of how close they are, of how she can hear Kiyoko humming softly under her breath.
“There,” she says, looking up to meet Yachi’s eyes. “All done.”
It isn’t perfect by technical means— theres polish all over her hands, and a smudge on her pinky— but it’s perfect to Yachi, a testimonial of this being more than just a feather soft fever dream. She brings herself to smile, an action that takes more energy than it should, meets Kiyoko’s blue eyes and thanks her.
“You’re welcome,” Kiyoko tells her, and its all but a notch above a whisper. “I-if you’d like, we can go get tea after practice. It’s nice spending time with you.”
Yachi’s heart clenches, heart flutters, heart squeezes. “Yeah,” she says, starstruck, blood buzzing. “I’d like that.”
—
Yachi isn’t sure how it becomes routine, leaving after extra practice together, bags slung over shoulders, walking through the streets to stop at whatever café looks like it could be pretty enough. The first time is bubble tea, and Yachi gets to giggle when a pearl pops in Kiyoko’s mouth, the seventeenth is ice cream, and Yachi’s entire body seizes when Kiyoko leans over and steals a bite of Yachi’s cookie dough.
“You can have some of mine if you want,” Kiyoko offers as they leave the little parlour, handing her the strawberry ice-pop she holds.
Yachi knows she must be as pink as the ice cream, mind a scratched record loop of indirect kiss, indirect kiss as she leans over, licking the top part Kiyoko hasn’t touched. Yachi wonders, as she stands up straight and leans away, if Kiyoko tastes like strawberry and creme, too. She wonders if Kiyoko would pull away if she kissed her now.
Yachi never finds out the answer of that question, because she starts talking instead, nerves screaming error, mistake over and over as if she doesn’t know it well enough. Kiyoko laughs at her attempts at a joke, brushes the backs of their hands together. Yachi doesn’t jolt away this time, letting their fingers twist together and their shoulders touch.
So it’s the warmth of the summer that creeps onto both of their backs and the never-ending butterflies captured in Yachi’s chest that make her feel like fainting, make her feel like the only thing in the world is strawberry ice cream and setter’s hands. It’s summertime, and she’s drinking in it all next to a girl with raven hair and a smile brighter than the sun.
—
The first tournament is hard. Yachi’s stomach rises perpetually to her throat, resting on her throat and threatening her face to turn green. It wears off in leu of sheer exhaustion, sweat soaking blonde hair, leaving her arms close to bruised and her legs close to jelly She’s painted her nails for the occasion— Karasuno colours, black and orange—courtesy to Kiyoko of course. They drum against her thigh as she watches the match in the centre court, hands clammy, teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“Whoever wins this,” she says, gripping onto her shorts. “We play for a spot at the finals.”
Kiyoko looks over to her, their eyes meeting. She’s wearing contacts, and her face looks softer without her glasses somehow. Slowly, she reaches out, placing her hand overtop of Yachi’s, squeezing it in her own. Those calloused palms, those setters hands— they comfort her, make Yachi’s heart flip in her chest.
They make it to the finals the next day, and loose in the fifth set. Kiyoko says it’s because they never knew they’d be able to get that far, that they’ve survived off of their resourceful attitudes and pushing themselves to the brink. She’s happy, of course, but Yachi sees her expression falter. There are tears gathering in both of their eyes, little streams trailing down cheeks. They wanted this, craved it to the last dive for the ball. And as they bow for the crowd that has gathered, Yachi realizes that they have only one more chance.
—
On the bus home, Kiyoko sleeps with her head on her lap. Her contacts are out and her glasses rest on the back of the chair, so not to press into her face or Yachi’s thigh as she breathes warm and finds sleep. This new development of intimacy is one that makes Yachi’s hair stand on end. Kiyoko’s guard is down, her expression softened, beauty shining from her sweat slick face and messy hair. Absentmidedly, Yachi combs her fingers through it, unravels the braids that held it back. She wonders if it feels nice on Kiyoko’s scalp, if the tension transferred from her head to Yachi’s shoulders makes her sleep better. Hair cascades like waves across her cheek and Yachi does her best to keep it from her mouth. Raven, ebony, static strands sticking to her hand as she pulls it away.
It’s here that she knows its love, where the pieces click and the knot in her throat unravels. Kiyoko, who sets and smiles and dances across the court. Kiyoko, who makes every person on their team sigh when she lets down her hair and holds beauty in the smallest actions. Kiyoko, who drops her guard, who pushes past her shyness with Yachi and paints her nails, who comes over on weekends for sleepovers, who helps her with her english homework while struggling with trigonometric identities.
She’s graduating come spring, and somehow every day feels more visceral after that.
—
They’re lying on Kiyoko’s bed, listening to pop music and waiting for the paint on their nails to dry. Yachi hums along and bounces her feet in rhythm, trying to time it to the stuttered beats of her heart that threatens to leave her chest. Kiyoko is watching her, glasses set aside, little indents on either side of her nose. They’re close enough that she has no need for them, can make out enough details in Yachi’s face without too much blur. Every time Yachi remembers she’s watching her, her cheeks flush. She must look like a mess— hair out of place, no makeup on her flecked skin, fingers stained with colour. When she meets Kiyoko’s eyes, she’s forced to turn away, heat creeping further up her neck.
“Yachi?” Kiyoko asks, sitting up fully. “Is something wrong?”
“N-no, I just— nothing’s wrong,” Yachi assures her, turning back around. She crosses her legs, slouching slightly as she averts her eyes. “It’s okay.”
There’s a lapse in conversation where the hum of music is all they hear, playing softly through their radio. The sun shines warm through the window, falls like a spotlight onto Kiyoko’s cheeks as she leans forwards. She glimmers, she shines, and Yachi can’t help but look up to see the anticipation in her sapphire eyes.
“Yachi,” she says, voice soft as ever, a whisper above electronic synths and wind chimes outside of the window. Yachi’s throat seizes, and Kiyoko’s lips purse together in something she knows well as anxiety. “Do— do you like me?”
Yachi sucks in a breath, because she can hardly believe this is real, that Kiyoko is staring at her with eyes wide and waiting, their knees almost touching, breathing in each other’s space. She’s sure her entire face is pink now, as pink as the glitter that’s still tacky on her fingers. There’s seven heartbeats worth of silence in the air before she clears her quivering throat and speaks.
“I— I love you?” Yachi stammers, looking down to her lips and back up to her eyes. “A— a lot. That’s weird, isn’t it? Oh my god, you just asked if I like you and I—”
She’s cut off when Kiyoko presses her lips to Yachi’s, mouth to mouth, kissing her. Yachi freezes, and then she melts, tasting the sweet cherry lip balm off of Kiyoko’s lips as two hands brush her cheeks. They’re clammy and a little cool but it’s okay, because Kiyoko’s lips are warm and make Yachi’s chest bubble. Yachi lets Kiyoko lead since she’s too shocked, her head splitting between wanting to kiss Kiyoko again and again and again and savour this moment because it cannot possibly be real.
But it is real, and Kiyoko’s bed dips since they’re so close together, and her fingertips are tilt back so Yachi’s hair isn’t caught in the polish. But Yachi doesn’t care now, so she presses a little closer and tentatively touches her tongue to Kiyoko’s bottom lip only for a sigh soft enough to only be heard by her but with the force strong enough to blow Yachi away. They stay there, with a breath between them, looking into each other’s eyes and waiting, watching, until Kiyoko smiles.
“I love you too,” she says. Yachi’s heart stutters, but she steadies herself using Kiyoko’s waist and smiles back— shaky, but there. There are probably smudges in her nail polish and pink in her hair, but right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, everything else dulls in comparison to the way that they shine.