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It’s a hot day, the kind of hot that makes it hard to swallow, hard to breathe, and hard to exist. The kind of heat that makes everything move in slow motion, reality melting like a Dali painting. Sure, it’s only 29 degrees, but it’s March. And for all its pomp and endowment, Shiratorizawa Academy is stingy with their air conditioning—they don’t start using it until June 21st, not a day earlier.
Practicing in the gym is like practicing in hell, and Coach Washijou, the devil himself, seems to be using the sweltering temperature as a teachable moment. “Other weaker schools would take the day off, or lighten their practice,” he lectures, as the team starts their third round of grueling diving drills. “Practicing in discomfort will strengthen you, discipline you. If you can succeed in this, you can succeed under any conditions.”
Shirabu pushes himself off the ground, his arms shake with effort, but he does his damnedest to hide it. Any sign of weakness could get him called out, or worse, subject the team to more drills. He’s always respected Coach’s ruthless desire to win. He mirrors the same unwavering ambition in himself. Still, he can’t help but think there’s something unsettling about the way he strides casually around the room, barking “inspirational messages” as the team suffers. If it came down to it, he’s sure the old man would break his hip from doing even one of the exercises he tortures them with.
He uses that image, Washijou diving clumsily like a penguin, to fuel him through the rest of practice.
There’s not a lick of steam in the showers, and even though cold water makes Shirabu’s bones ache, he forces himself to huddle under the frigid spray for as long as he can tolerate, desperate to lower his body temperature as much as possible. It’s the most economical option to cool down, even if he knows full well that the second he steps outside, all of his efforts will be for naught.
By the time he’s done cleaning off, almost everyone has cleared out of the locker room. Almost everyone—one of the only teammates left is the last one he wants to see. Shirabu keeps his head low as he changes, trying to make himself as unapproachable as possible. Of course, trying is an overstatement, he’s well aware his natural aura is about as inviting as a hornet’s nest. Unfortunately, some people have a penchant sticking their hands where they don’t belong.
“Can I help you with something, Semi,” he asks pointedly. He’s felt eyes on him from the moment he entered the room. “Or are you just enthralled by my body.”
Semi steps forward from where he was leaning against his locker. “You wish. But you have to be at least this tall to ride the ride.” To emphasize his point, he holds his hand just above the top of Shirabu’s head. He doesn’t miss how Semi’s fingers graze his hair.
Shirabu slaps him away and works to smooth down his bangs. “I don’t know what’s more pathetic: you or your juvenile attempts at humor.”
“You just don’t understand true comedy.”
“Do comedy a favor: die.”
“Now, now, don’t get yourself overheated. You don’t want to melt that genius brain of yours,” Semi says with a laugh. He’s teasing, but his voice has a softness to it, like he gives a shit about Shirabu’s well-being. The jury’s still out on that one.
Shirabu huffs but doesn’t try to pursue the banter. If this were a year ago, perhaps even a few months ago, this kind of repartee would end with them being physically separated by one of their more stable teammates. When Reon and Yamagata graduate, Shirabu owes them a “thanks for entering the line of fire to stop me from beating Semi’s ass” card. Maybe a cake, too.
Lucky for everyone, they’ve come to some sort of equilibrium in their antics. They push, but not too hard. They poke, but not to the point of no return. It’s an unspoken truce—and while Shirabu is not sure if they’re friends, they’re definitely not enemies. Maybe the Karasuno match broke them, or maybe, it’s the fact that their rivalry is a moot point.
Semi’s high school volleyball career is over. Graduation is a week away. There’s no reason to keep punishing Shirabu for replacing him as setter.
And It’s not like Shirabu didn’t feel bad. He might have a brilliant poker face, and he’s more likely to make a jab than a compliment, but he does care. What most people don’t know is that he spent many nights struggling through a nauseating swirl of guilt, insecurity, and other feelings he doesn’t want to name. Just because he doesn’t publically air his every thought and emotion like some of his other teammates, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.
“Shirabu? Earth to Shirabu. Do you think he’s got heat stroke?”
“I’m not sure. He looks kind of peaked.”
“Well, yeah. But he always kind of looks like that.”
Shirabu shakes his head, registering that, in fact, the world is still turning around him. He looks up from where he’s sitting on one of the metal benches (he doesn’t remember how he got here) to see Semi and Reon standing over him.
“Are you ok? One minute you’re giving me sass, the next you’re on the bench tying your shoe over and over,” Semi asks.
It is oppressively hot in the changing room, somehow even hotter than the gym. Mixed with the humidity of sweat and showers, it’s no wonder that his mind switched into autopilot. He’s never been good at coping with extremes.
“I’m fine,” Shirabu grumbles, grabbing for his bag. He doesn’t bother tying his shoes; his objective right now is to get the hell out of that room. “I’ll see you two at dinner.”
“Hold on.” There’s a hand on his shoulder, Semi’s hand, preventing him from leaving. Shirabu bristles under his grip but stops moving. “I was waiting for you to finish changing. I thought maybe we could go for a walk,” Semi continues.
Shirabu whips around so fast he’s positive he’ll feel it in his neck tomorrow. “You want to go for a walk. With me. In this heat?”
“Uh, yeah. I thought the invitation was pretty clear there,” Semi says, cocking his head. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”
He doesn’t, but something about the ask makes him feel on edge. He and Semi have spent time together outside of practice, sure, but it’s a very new thing, and it’s usually more spur of the moment than this. There’s a deliberateness to this invitation that makes him feel like there’s an ulterior motive outside of just “hanging out.”
“Why,” Shirabu asks. “Why are you choosing today of all days for this shit?”
From behind both of them, Reon laughs softly. He’s been packing his bag extra slowly, likely to keep a vigilant, albeit amused eye on them. It’s probably entertaining to watch their interactions, even the simplest of situations can turn into conflict.
“You’re so difficult.” Semi rubs the bridge of his nose, the way he always does when he’s toeing his breaking point. “How about this: I’ll buy you ice cream if you come with me.”
Shirabu smiles, it’s time to play a little. “Oh? Wow, that certainly sweetens the deal.”
Semi narrows his eyes; he’s wise not to be totally convinced by his response. “Does it?”
“Of course not. Piss off.”
Semi’s right eye twitches and his hand not-so-subtly clenches into a fist. The gauntlet is thrown.
“Ok, now you’re just being a fucking—”
“Both of you, settle down.” Reon has inserted himself between them, effectively nipping whatever was about to happen in the bud. “Shirabu, why don’t you go for a walk with Semi? It seems important to him.” His voice is neutral. It’s not a command, or even a request, it’s a just a question.
Shirabu glances at Semi, who mysteriously can’t seem to make eye contact. Then, back at Reon, who is looking at him with a mild, pleasant smile.
There’s one choice here. You don’t say no to Reon. No one ever says no to Reon.
“Fine. But you’re buying me ice cream,” Shirabu says. He aggressively turns on his heels and heads for the door. He’ll go for that walk alright; it doesn’t mean he has to be civil.
“I already said I would,” comes Semi’s taunting voice, just a step behind.
◇
“What the hell are you looking at?”
Shirabu turns from where he has his nose pressed against the glass door of the freezer; he’s staring mournfully at the empty shelves where popsicles should be. It’s not surprising that the unexpected heatwave cleaned the shelves out, but he’s displeased to see that his favorite treats aren’t available.
“They’re all sold out of the fruit pops I like,” Shirabu responds.
“Oh, what a tragedy,” Semi says ruefully. He moves to hang off Shirabu’s shoulder, similar to the way Tendou is akin to do. “Do you want me to break out the world’s tiniest violin and play you a solo?”
Shirabu groans. “You have two seconds to remove yourself before you lose a finger. Though, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore now that you’re not going to be setting.”
Semi goes stock-still, a pensive, distant look on his face. Something about his abrupt mood change makes Shirabu feel tense.
“Did someone tell you already,” Semi asks.
Shirabu cocks his head. He’s unsure what Semi is referring to. Normally, he’d say something biting, but something inside urges him to play it cool. “Did someone tell me what?”
Semi makes a contemplative noise, like he’s parsing out the best response. There’s a long pause before he finally says, “Drop it for now. Let’s go get you that ice cream.”
Shirabu frowns but decides not to push the issue. Even if he wanted to, Semi is making a hasty retreat towards the ice cream counter, leaving him no other option other than to follow along. He chooses a scoop of vanilla ice cream, the most palatable flavor, considering his aversion to sweets, while Semi opts for green tea. After paying for their snacks, Semi herds Shirabu to a small park on the outskirts of campus.
“Do we have to stay outside? Can’t we just go eat in the dorm’s common area,” Shirabu whines. He holds the cup of ice cream to his forehead in an effort to keep cool.
“I promise it won’t be long, we’ll be done by the time you finish your ice cream,” Semi says, spooning a large bite into his mouth. He hums cheerfully as he licks the spoon clean.
The two sit in silence, watching a group of students play frisbee on the lawn of the park. Shirabu can’t fathom how people are enjoying outdoor activities right now, he can already feel himself sweating through his shirt—and they’re sitting in the shade. A couple more minutes (or, what feel like minutes) pass, and he grows restless; Semi needs to start talking, or Shirabu is going to bail on this hangout session.
“Semi, was there something you wanted to discuss with me,” he asks, trying to get the ball rolling.
Semi blinks, bringing himself back from where he was zoning out. “Yes, sorry. Give me a second.” He scrambles to a more upright position so that he can talk to Shirabu at eye-level.
“Ok, I know you don’t like sentimental shit, so I’ll try to keep this brief,” Semi starts. “You and I haven’t always been agreeable, and we’ve gone at it more than a couple of times. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d see the day where you and I could sit down as friends. I’m happy that this happened before I graduated.”
Shirabu nods. Nothing Semi is saying is untrue, and he has to admit that their increased amicability wasn’t an unwelcome change.
“I want you to know that even during our worst times, I still considered myself your mentor. Yeah, it hurt like a bitch to watch you slowly replace me as setter, but I always knew it was what was best for the team. I’m proud to have been your teammate, and I’m proud of you.”
The air, already warm, now feels scorching. If Shirabu’s hands start to tremble, he covers the motion by tucking them into his lap. His ice cream sits abandoned at his side, long melted into an inedible puddle. It’s like the world has narrowed, and Shirabu can only focus on Semi’s words.
“Um, I guess the last thing I want to say is that...you have a tough year ahead. Ushijima is leaving, and we all know you hid behind his talent, to avoid the spotlight. Now, you’re stepping into a role where all eyes will be on you.” Semi pauses to take another bite of his ice cream. It’s a strange juxtaposition from the serious speech he’s giving. “For what it’s worth, I believe in you and, more importantly, the team believes in you to lead them. You might scare some people, and you’ll definitely offend some people, too. But you’re gonna do a damn good job.”
Shirabu takes a few deep breaths, trying to process everything he’s just heard. He knows a response is appropriate, but he’s overwhelmed. Hearing all of this now, from Semi of all people, is unexpected.
“I—, I—” Shirabu starts. He’s sure he’s flushing and not just from the heat. It’s embarrassing that he can’t seem to formulate a sentence; he’s so used to being quick to the draw with quips that he’s entirely unprepared to respond to kindness.
“Hey, no response necessary,” Semi says, smiling. He reaches out to ruffle Shirabu’s bangs, earning only a quiet growl of annoyance. “The fact that you’re speechless is good enough for me.”
“Thank you,” Shirabu says, finding his words. He bows his head, a rare acknowledgment of Semi’s seniority. He’s not sure if his graciousness is aimed at Semi’s sentiment, or for not pressuring him to respond in-kind.
“Alright.” Semi shifts in his spot and picks at the calluses on his hands, an obvious tell of discomfort. “That was the nice part of this little chat. Now, I’m going to tell you something a little heavier, if that’s ok.”
In honesty, the idea of Semi confiding something in Shirabu is both baffling and distressing. No, he doesn’t want to hear what bad thing Semi has to say, yet he’s not in a position to decline. He nods curtly.
“So I may have played this up to be more dramatic than it needs to be but…” He trails off, and Shirabu’s mouth goes dry. What the fuck Semi going to say? He hopes it’s not a love confession, then simultaneously wonders why that’s the first assumption he made.
“I won’t be playing volleyball anymore. During my college visit, I was able to meet with the coach. He told me that as a walk-on, based on my skills and history, I have a slim chance of making the team and, even if I do...I’ll never get to play,” Semi says to the ground. He’s not looking at Shirabu, hasn’t been for a while. The way he looks and sounds, one would think he’s confessing to a murder.
Shirabu furrows his brow as an unfamiliar, unpleasant emotion coils in his stomach. He can tell how much this upsets Semi and, for some reason, that’s making him feel upset, too. There’s a soft coughing sound, followed by a sniff, and he’s ripped from his own thoughts to the source of the noise. He looks up, and his blood goes cold. There are tears in Semi’s eyes.
He’s crying. Semi never cries. Shirabu is not sure how to handle Semi crying.
His gears turn furiously as he searches for the appropriate reaction. For all of his intellect, the simplest of emotional situations can send him into a tailspin.
And it gets worse.
“Out with it already, Shirabu.” There’s a harsh bite to Semi’s voice, detectable even through the slight wobble. “If you’re going to make a comment just go ahead. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Semi, what are you—” His voice is high with confusion and a touch of fear. Semi’s anger and aggression are jarring.
“Don’t play dumb. I’m sure you have shit to say about me crying.” He stops to wipe a rogue tear from his cheek. “Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you about this. I’m never going to hear the end of it now.”
There’s a moment in movies, right after a gun goes off or there’s an explosion, where the character’s ears are ringing, and all they can see is someone’s mouth moving. It’s happening to Shirabu now, only there’s no bullet, no bomb, just the ugly realization of how Semi sees him—a talented volleyball player, a strong future captain, and a shitty person.
Shirabu thinks about when Semi called them friends just minutes ago. Those words can never be genuine if Semi thinks of him as a predator, waiting to snap when he’s most vulnerable. He has to do something to change his mind.
On instinct, he surges forward and wraps his arms around Semi in a bone-crushing embrace. At this point, it’s less of a hug, more akin to constriction, but Shirabu doesn’t care. Nothing about him, from his words to his touch, is gentle.
He rests his face flat against Semi’s shoulder, in part because he can’t bear to look at him, in part because it’s steadying. They sit like this for seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours—time seems of little consequence right now. He’s more preoccupied with the fact that Semi has yet to make any motion to return the hug. Instead, Semi hangs limply against him, save for a few quivers Shirabu recognizes as crying.
“I’m sorry,” Shirabu offers quietly.
Semi tenses, the apology likely coming as a surprise. His voice barely raises above a choked whisper when he asks, “for what?”
For what? A few things come to mind: for taking Semi’s spot during his third-year; for acting like a self-righteous prick when Semi was doing his best to help him; for using his guilt as an excuse to lash out at everyone around him; and, most of all, for being an asshole because he couldn’t be a friend.
He’s not sure he can articulate any of that into an intelligible statement. So, he settles with a simple—
“A lot.”
There’s a moment of silence, then, the distinct feeling of a hand on his back. Semi isn’t holding him, but he’s offering something, bridging the gap. His hand moves slowly until it reaches the base of his neck, just shy of the longest ends of Shirabu’s hair. The grip is strong and reassuring.
No words have to be exchanged: Shirabu is forgiven—at least by Semi, it will take him a bit longer to forgive himself.
Shirabu releases Semi and scoots back to give him some space. He notices that Semi is not crying anymore, his sadness is replaced by an unreadable, trance-like expression.
“Do you want to go to dinner,” Semi asks. “If we don’t go now, they might be out of the good food.”
“Sure.”
Semi offers a hand to him, and Shirabu allows the help.
“Please don’t talk about what just happened to anyone,” Semi says, pulling him to his feet.
His urge to be defiant is overpowered by an inexplicable sense of duty. “I promise.”
Semi nods and takes their cups to the trash. After that, the pair starts the walk to the student union. Luckily, the sun has set behind some taller buildings, lowering the temperature from sweltering to balmy.
“Can I ask you something?” There’s a question that’s been on Shirabu’s mind since Semi’s confession.
“Of course.”
“Why does this whole volleyball thing bother you so much? I don’t want to assume anything, but it seems like you could have seen it coming.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Shirabu braces himself for an onslaught. He should’ve been more tactful.
Semi pauses, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. “If you tell me you’re going to hit me tomorrow, it’s still going to hurt when you do. Doesn’t matter if I know ahead of time.”
Shirabu responds by punching Semi in the arm.
“What the fuck was that for,” he groans, rubbing at the tender spot.
“I assumed your point was not to warn you before I hit you since it doesn’t matter either way.”
There’s a tense second, then Semi bursts into laughter. “You really are a little shit, aren’t you?”
“Through and through,” Shirabu replies easily. It’s a new kind of banter for them: gentler but with the same quickness and wit he enjoys.
They continue their trek towards dinner, filling the time with light, inconsequential conversation. They’re right outside of the doors to the student union when Semi turns to him, with that same unplaceable expression he saw earlier. “Believe it or not, I think I’m going to miss you.”
Now, it’s Shirabu’s turn to pause. He’s frozen in the middle of the walkway, eyes wide, heart fluttering. Semi says something about grabbing them seats, then disappears behind the glass. Shirabu remains paralyzed, standing like a fool outside of the front entrance.
No one has ever said that to him before.
◇◇◇
Graduation comes and goes and before Shirabu can bat an eye, Semi is gone off to university. But, in some ways, he never really leaves.
About a week into the semester, Shirabu starts to hear from Semi. At first, the messages come every few days, during business hours, and are specific, targeted thoughts.
“I heard you’re playing Karasuno again.” “How were midterms?” “I just saw Ushijima on TV.”
He’s not always timely, but Shirabu always ends up responding, though the conversations only last two or three messages before fizzling out. This pattern persists for a while, then abruptly begins to shift. Semi starts texting at any and all hours, and the messages become more open-ended, more personal.
“How was your day?” “I’ve been missing everyone lately.” “Are you awake?”
Their conversations become longer and longer, to a point where they’re communicating at least once a day. Shirabu has his hands full with the team, Goshiki (he’s enough work to warrant his own spot), and college preparation, so hearing from Semi becomes a kind of escape for him. He can vent about the stressors in his own life, or simply melt into Semi’s world, where there are classes at reasonable times, freedom to determine your own schedule, and, best of all, no overachieving aces constantly up your ass.
Everything is going swimmingly until it happens: the deviation, a stumble away from the safe, predictable path their relationship was on.
It starts when Shirabu studies too close to bedtime. Though he’s usually an efficient machine when it comes to getting his work done, practice ran long, which threw the rest of his meticulous schedule off. Now, it’s 1 a.m., and he can’t sleep, his mind too revved up to settle down. Fortunately for him, tomorrow is Friday; he’ll have a hell of a time in the morning, but he only has to slog through one day before the weekend.
He sighs and decides that the best course of action now is to curl up with some TV and hope he passes out at some point. After cleaning up for bed, he pops in some headphones and queues up a show. Four episodes later, he’s still wide awake and succumbs to the realization that he may inadvertently pull an all-nighter.
His phone vibrates against his side, interrupting him from his internal griping. Confused, he digs into his blankets and extracts it. It’s 2:30 in the morning, who could possibly be calling?
Semi Eita, the screen displays.
Seeing Semi’s name on the screen gives him a strange feeling. It’s surreal, like he’s participating in a moment he shouldn’t be a part of. He should be asleep. This is a call not meant to be answered, a call meant to go to voicemail. By being awake now, he’s disrupting the natural order of things, the timeline. It’s similar to the way he felt when he looked through the cracked door of the supply closet in the gym and caught a brief glimpse of an intimate moment between Tendou and Ushijima. Practice had been canceled that day, but Shirabu had to grab a book he left in his locker. He shouldn’t have been there. He shouldn't have seen it. And yet he did.
Of course, the world didn’t end after that happened, so Shirabu slides his finger across the screen.
“Hello,” he whispers. Across the room, Kawanishi turns in his sleep, and the noise reminds him that he should probably go to the common area to talk.
“Hold on,” Semi says, his voice barely audible over the obvious clamor of a party.
In the background, a female voice yells “noooo Semi,” and there’s a chorus of suggestive sounds, followed by a hissed “shut the fuck up.”
“Can you hear me now,” Semi asks.
“I can,” Shirabu replies. He kicks his feet up on the lounge’s couch and lays his head against a pillow.
“How are you doing?”
“I should ask you that, Semi. Are you drunk?” Shirabu knows he’s being accusatory, but there’s an unmistakable slur to his speech.
“I’m not drunk.”
“Oh really? Well, my mistake then. I guess you always sound like a lush.”
“Fine. I may be a little tipsy, a little.” The way Semi draws out “a little” tells Shirabu everything he needs to know. “Anyway, how are you?”
“I’m ok. Sort of. I can’t sleep.” Shirabu rubs the bridge of his nose, he can feel a headache coming on. “Semi, why are you calling me.”
“I thought you liked talking to me,” Semi says, a hint of dejection in his voice.
“I do. But—” But what? The two of them text frequently, talking on the phone isn’t that much different. Except it is. “I just wasn’t expecting a call, that’s all,” Shirabu fumbles.
“I was thinking about you,” Semi admits.
Shirabu should push the “end” button and pretend this never happened. He should give Semi an out. He’s not in his right mind, doesn’t know what he’s saying. It would be cruel to keep him on the line, to allow him to dive deeper into whatever thoughts he’s having.
Instead, Shirabu asks, “Why?”
“I miss you. I told you I would miss you, and I do.”
“But why?” He curses himself for his voice coming out as a frustrated whine but, in his defense, none of this conversation is making sense. It’s been seven months since he last saw Semi, why is this all hitting him now?
There’s a soft sound of contemplation on the other line, followed by a deep, shaky breath. “Do you ever wish that we got another shot at this, like a new start? I feel like if we had more time, we could have been—” There’s a long pause, enough time to make Shirabu’s palms sweat. “We could have been good friends.”
“I’d like that,” Shirabu admits, there’s no reason to lie right now. However, with Semi gone, there’s a limited set of conditions for their reunion. All of them are up in the air, and Shirabu prefers not to rely on uncertainties. “But we don’t have another shot.”
“Maybe not.”
There’s a shuffling sound, a slam, and the return of the cacophony from before.
“Semi? Are you still there,” Shirabu asks. He needs to hear his voice again, to know he hasn’t ruined things for good.
The line goes quiet.
Shirabu lies on the couch in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how long he’s there, but eventually a door opens, and Kawanishi emerges, wrapped in a blanket. He’s a deep sleeper, yet somehow always knows when things aren’t right. Just a few weeks ago, he found a crying Goshiki in the bathroom.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says, nudging Shirabu with his leg. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“I think I fucked everything up,” Shirabu groans helplessly. “I poison everything I touch.”
“Emotional Shirabu? Now I know you need sleep, get up,” Kawanishi urges. “There’s nothing you can do tonight, anyway.”
He’s right. There’s nothing he can do right now. Semi is in a questionable state of mind and calling him back might only dig a deeper hole. The safest course of action is to get some rest. He can figure everything out over the weekend.
As a small mercy, he falls asleep as soon as his face hits the pillow.
◇
In general, Shirabu considers himself a pessimist. On a good day, he’s a realist. But every once in a while, something happens that makes him think, “hey, maybe life isn’t the chaotic clusterfuck I feel like it is.” When Shirabu wakes up, having slept through his first class, he’s greeted by three messages—all from Semi.
Semi 7:35: I’m sorry about calling. It wasn’t fair to corner you.
Semi 7:37: If it’s any consolation, I feel like shit today. I threw up in my backpack at some point.
Semi 7:38: And if you don’t disown me over that knowledge, I still want us to talk.
Shirabu doesn’t hesitate to respond. Sure, maybe they could (and should) rehash last night’s conversation with both parties sober, or they can move on and cherish what they have, rather than lament what it could be.
Me 9:35: You’re disowned *and* disgusting.
Me 9:56: Wait, did you ruin your books?
◇◇◇
“Are you sure you want us to drop you here?” Shirabu’s father asks. “We’re happy to help you take your things up to your room.”
Shirabu eyes the small pile of suitcases and boxes on the sidewalk. It’s not a lot compared to the bounties he’s seen other students bringing, but if his plans fall through, it will be at least a few painful trips carting his stuff to his dorm. He glances at his phone one last time and decides to take a chance.
“Yeah. I have a friend coming to help me. Some people I know from high school are here.”
“Is it one of your volleyball friends,” Shirabu’s mother pipes in.
“I guess you could say that.”
His father returns with the final bag from the trunk. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need us, I guess this is where we’ll say goodbye. It’ll be nice to get on the road before dark.”
Shirabu is sure to hug his mother extra tight and gives his father a firm handshake. After some words of encouragement, for both his academic and volleyball success, his parents return to the car and drive off. There’s a lump in Shirabu’s throat at the sight of the retreating form of the car and, for a moment, he regrets not asking them to stay longer. He’ll be sure to give them a call after he settles in.
Alone again, he sits on the ground next to one of his boxes, looking pathetic amongst the groups of families and friends swarming excitedly in the cul-de-sac of the dorm building. He locks and unlocks his phone, waiting desperately for any new messages. The only text he gets is from his mother, telling him that she misses him already. Five more minutes pass with no word. Sighing, he contemplates starting his move by himself.
“Shirabu!” A voice calls.
He looks up to the most glorious and hideous sight he’s ever seen. Semi is running towards him, wearing what appears to be a leather jacket with a pair of...frayed denim cutoff shorts. He was right to have his parents leave before Semi made his entrance; he’s not sure how to explain any aspect of his appearance to them.
“Hi Shirabu,” Semi says, panting.
“Hello again.” Though he’s embarrassed as hell at Semi’s get-up, he’s unable to keep the warmth out of his voice.
They take a moment, mutually appraising each other, refamiliarizing themselves after a year apart. Semi is a bit taller but, otherwise, he looks the same, all the way down to his two-toned hair and awful fashion sense. As for Shirabu, he's the spitting image of his high school self, a fact that he’s quite bitter about, mostly because he was hoping to have a late growth spurt. Last year, Goshiki grew another three inches.
“So, how was the drive over?” Semi asks, running a hand through his mussed up hair. “Looks like you got here in one piece.”
“Shut up and take a bag. You can talk while you work.”
Semi cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?”
No, it’s not going to be that way. This is an opportunity they didn’t think they would have, an opportunity that they both, yes both, admitted they wanted on that fated phone call. Shirabu is not going to spoil it in the first five minutes.
“Shut up and take a bag...please. I’d like to catch up with you, but I want to move my shit off the sidewalk.”
“Sounds fair to me.” Semi slings one of the larger duffle bags over his shoulder, and Shirabu helps by taking a backpack and the two smaller boxes. Collectively, they’ve managed to move about half of the load in one go.
“I’m happy to see you,” Semi says as they walk towards the dorm. “It’s been kind of lonely here.”
I’m happy to see you, too, Shirabu thinks, but the sentiment feels beyond his reach—he can’t say that one out loud. He resorts to something more comfortable. “I take it that you don’t have any other friends, hm? Well now, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Semi sighs. “Oh man, I can’t believe I missed your garbage attitude. I must be some kind of masochist.”
“You don’t have to justify what you’re into,” Shirabu quips. He shoots Semi a classic shit-eating grin.
The taunting and banter seem to inspire something in Semi because, out of nowhere, he throws his arm around Shirabu’s shoulders, humming happily. Though Shirabu’s body is straining with the weight of what he’s carrying, he can’t ignore how light and warm Semi feels against him.
The uneasiness he’s felt since his parents left melts away at the familiar touch. It’s strange that someone he once wasn’t too fond of would have that kind of calming effect. In a past life, he would have attacked Semi just for breathing on him.
But now, when he lets Semi keep his arm around him until they get to the dorm, he only feels a hint of hostility, overpowered by something else—unexpected and not unwelcome. And, if he leans in ever-so-slightly to the embrace, he won’t berate himself later.
After all, it’s a new start, right?