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here’s to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
—e. e. cummings
*
Ushijima moves into his new apartment in March.
There’s something a little nostalgic about it; the last time he moved apartments, he’d been a newly graduated student, swept straight from the halls of Shiratorizawa Academy into the Schweiden Adlers’ gym. It had been March then, too.
That time, his friends and former teammates had visited him in the weeks following—Reon had been first, offering to help him unpack. Then Yamagata and Semi, on the cusp of April, making his apartment their last stop before moving into their college dormitories. Shirabu had arrived with Kawanishi on the only free weekend Shiratorizawa volleyball players were allowed in May, an apprehensive Goshiki at his heels. Tendou had been last, arriving on the thirtieth of that month. He had taken one look at the apartment, laughed, said “Wakatoshi-kun, even your dorm room was cozier than this,” and taken him shopping. Tendou had, as always, brought color into the space.
This time, five years later, Ushijima follows Tendou’s advice and hosts a housewarming party. Although, it’s less of a party, more of a group gathering—is what he tells Tendou on the phone, anyway, and blinks at the ceiling in that puzzled way of his when Tendou erupts into laughter and says, “Wakatoshi-kun, what exactly do you think a party is?”
Tendou is the first to arrive and the last to leave, on the day of. He comes bearing gifts: the catering Ushijima had ordered, an extra pack of Suntory beer, the scarf he had accidentally swapped with Ushijima’s the last time they met. The last thing he takes out of his shopping bag is a plant, curling up from a white pot.
“A housewarming present,” says Tendou, handing it to him.
Ushijima takes it, feels the chilled tips of Tendou’s fingers where they brush his. The plant is small enough that its pot fits in Ushijima’s palm; a young thing, perhaps, but Ushijima can’t say for certain. He knows next to nothing about plants, not their care or their species, let alone their ages. It is a nice-looking plant, though, he thinks. Bulbous leaves, purple on the inside and pale green at the edges. It has the appearance of a flower, even though it has no petals.
“This type of plant is a succulent,” Tendou says, smiling down at it. “A ‘Perle von Nürnberg’. It reminded me of you.”
“In what way?” Ushijima asks.
“The color, for starters. That purple, just like our old uniforms! And it’s a hardy thing, looking at the leaves—sturdy on the outside, soft on the inside.”
“I see,” says Ushijima. Then, “Tendou. Thank you.”
Tendou aims his smile at Ushijima. Even at his most sincere, his smiles still have a certain look about them. Catlike; but one that has found a warm blanket to stretch across. These smiles are softer than the ones he conjures for all other situations. Ushijima has catalogued them over the years. Tendou’s smile when talking to a stranger, for example: cheerful but stretched too broad. His smiles when joking with friends: pleased like an old cat that has found something new to toy with. The smile he aims at the opposing team, which only halfway reaches his eyes, tends to inspire a queasy, unsettled feeling. And then there’s the smile he saves for the players he particularly dislikes, or the ones he finds interesting to torment—those are jagged, sharp, accompanied by a predatory narrowing of his eyes. Ushijima has never been on the receiving end of that smile. He can’t imagine a situation where he would be.
“Wakatoshi-kun,” Tendou says, interrupting his thoughts. “Did you know that talking to plants makes them happy?”
“I did not,” replies Ushijima.
“You should try it. Succulents, they don’t need the same frequent watering that other plants do, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy a little tender, loving care.”
“Tendou, it seems unlikely that plants have emotions.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible!” Tendou declares. “You should name it, too.”
Ushijima stares at the alien succulent in his hand. He’s never named a plant before. He’s never named anything before. There’s never been any need. But Tendou has always introduced Ushijima to new things, new experiences, and delights in it when Ushijima approaches each one of them with an honest try. So, he considers.
“I will name it Murasaki,” he says after a moment.
“Oh? After the heroine in Genji monogatari,” says Tendou. “I didn’t realize you connected with the story so deeply, Wakatoshi-kun!”
“No, I am naming it after the color.”
Tendou pauses. His smile slips into an open-mouthed expression of surprise. Eventually, he says, “You’re naming your purple plant… Purple.”
“It is a reasonable name,” Ushijima confirms.
The smile returns, this time brighter and wider than before, accompanied with a sunny laugh. It is a sound that Ushijima has become familiar with over the years. An agreeable, comforting sound.
“I’d expect nothing less from you,” Tendou says.
The reply is recognized for what it is: something fond, something not requiring a response. Ushijima returns his gaze to Murasaki, this new addition to his small household of one and thinks—I wonder how large you will grow.
*
Ushijima approaches the task of caring for his plant in the same way that he approaches all important tasks: with dedication, and a single-minded focus that often earns him the label ‘intense.’ In the days that follow the housewarming party, he learns all that he can about succulents—about his succulent, in particular. He reports some of these findings to Tendou. Tells him, “Murasaki is an Echeveria succulent, rose-shaped, flowering, attractive to butterflies. Belonging to the family crassulaceae, the subfamily sedoideae.” Tendou humors him.
Taking care of Murasaki isn’t difficult. Perle von Nürnbergs don’t enjoy the cold, do enjoy sunlight. Ushijima settles Murasaki on his kitchen windowsill. Next to the pot, he pins up a calendar, blue circles on the days he should water the plant. He makes notes for future reference, things like Make sure the soil is completely dry before watering and exact milliliter measurements.
Time passes. Ushijima diligently maintains his watering schedule. He sends Tendou pictures of Murasaki when he asks for them, sometimes even when he doesn’t. He catches himself talking to Murasaki, too, in the quiet moments. The first time had been a halting, stiff experience. The second time, easier. The fifth, routine.
“Today we won our game against the Suntory Sunbirds,” Ushijima says to the plant, while washing dishes. “Kageyama scored the final point. Everyone was very impressed by his quick thinking. When we were in the locker room, he told me that it had been an accident. For some reason, the way he said it reminded me of Goshiki…”
There is no response, of course. Which is fine—Ushijima isn’t looking for one. He’s coming to understand the innate comfort that comes with being able to speak to something, someone, and not be misunderstood. The freedom that comes with saying what he likes without having to interpret responses or expressions. Murasaki is a constant, unchanged in shape and size, and from what Ushijima can tell, wholly unbothered by his intensity.
“That reminds me,” he says, turning off the tap. “Goshiki has been scouted to play with the Blue Rockets. When I went to dinner with Tendou and Reon last, Tendou pointed out that all of our old teammates were in the same area. A Shiratorizawa reunion, he called it.”
This, too, is a comfort. Many years ago, his father had told him of the joy that came from playing volleyball with interesting people. He hadn’t mentioned to him the joy that came from being friends with them outside of the game. Maybe he hadn’t known that joy. Ushijima is grateful that he does.
To Murasaki, he says, “I expected us to go in different directions. Instead, we seem to have all congregated in the same city.”
There are different meanings to the word ‘direction.’ Ushijima thinks in physicalities; direction refers to space, place. Someone like Tendou thinks in intangibilities; direction refers to life’s invisible pathways. There is value in both views. Ushijima is learning to combine the two.
On the counter, Ushijima’s phone vibrates. He towels his hands dry before picking it up. A series of text messages, from Tendou. He arches a brow, glances at Murasaki.
“To borrow Tendou’s words,” he says, “‘Speak of the devil.’”
Ushijima does not believe that plants have personalities, but he does believe that if they did, Murasaki’s would be similar to Tendou’s—they both, after all, meet his unwavering gazes head-on.
*
The Japanese National Team has an away game that falls on the same day as Murasaki’s scheduled watering. Two days before he leaves, Ushijima presses his finger into the soil Murasaki rests in and frowns at his finding: too damp to water early. The very last thing he wants is to come home and find Murasaki dry and shriveled, so he asks Tendou if he will cover for him.
“Sure, sure,” says Tendou, dropping onto Ushijima’s sofa. “Murasaki can come home with me. I’ll take your calendar, too.”
Ushijima’s expression must intensify, because Tendou’s eyebrows rise and his lips curl into something amused upon seeing it. “Or not?” he says.
“Having Murasaki change environments is inadvisable,” Ushijima replies. “Consistency is key.”
Speaking of. Ushijima opens the kitchen drawer closest to the living room, the one filled with miscellaneous items, mostly pens and takeout menus. Hidden underneath a colorful mess of rubber bands and coupons is the spare key to his apartment. He offers it to Tendou.
“Oh? You’re giving me the key to your apartment? How scandalous, Wakatoshi-kun,” says Tendou.
“I do not see what is scandalous about it. You need to be able to unlock the door to water Murasaki.”
“Never you mind,” Tendou laughs, taking the key. “Are you sure about this? How do you know that I won’t paint all of your walls a different color, or replace all of the furniture?”
Tendou is, as ever, puzzling. Ushijima asks, “Why would you do that?”
“For fun!”
“I… see,” says Ushijima. He gives the words careful consideration, as he does with everything Tendou says. “I still enjoy the decorations you selected for my previous apartment. But, if you decide this one needs upgrading, I trust your judgment.”
He pauses before adding, as an afterthought, “Please spend within reason. I will reimburse you.”
The amusement in Tendou’s features has vanished by the time Ushijima has finished speaking and is replaced with a softer emotion, one that Ushijima isn’t able to name. He is reminded of the texture of Murasaki’s purple leaves—smooth, aching to be touched.
“Ah, Wakatoshi-kun,” says Tendou. His smile is crooked, tender. “It’s hard to tease someone so sincere.”
“So you’ve said before,” replies Ushijima.
He smiles privately at the sound of Tendou’s bubbling laugh.
*
The weather gets warmer.
Murasaki has not grown much during this time, in shape or size. But with the changing of seasons comes the changing of color. What was once pale green becomes purely violet with a pink hue around the leaf edges. Murasaki is now the color of the Shiratorizawa uniform, vibrant against the white of the pot it rests in, vibrant against the blue color of the sky outside.
The succulent is not the only thing that changes during this time—Ushijima’s apartment changes, too. It becomes livelier.
Giving Tendou a key is the same as giving him an open invitation to stop by. Once Ushijima tells him to keep the key after returning from his first trip away, Tendou treats visiting Ushijima’s apartment the way he once treated visiting Goshiki’s dorm room, all those years ago. He appears whenever he is bored, or in the area, or procrastinating from his own work. Ushijima doesn’t mind. All he asks is that Tendou send him a message if he chooses to come over in the evening, so when he goes grocery shopping on his way home from training he can shop for two.
Ushijima is no stranger to having a roommate—he and Reon had shared a dormitory for three years, after all—but having an unofficial one is something he is unaccustomed to. But Tendou is easy to be around, is easy to get used to, and Ushijima adapts without fuss. He finds himself content with the change.
Tendou helps out around the apartment. When Ushijima brings home groceries, Tendou assists with the cooking. Ushijima enjoys the rhythmic motions of chopping vegetables and stirring broth. Tendou enjoys adding spice, picking out new recipes to try. Ushijima washes the dishes, Tendou dries them.
Usually, Tendou leaves an hour before the train stations close. Enough time to meander his way there, he says, to see what he can see in the dark, but not enough time to get distracted and lost. On the occasional visit, he stays overnight. It takes a few weeks, but Ushijima spots the pattern in his calendar—Tendou stays only on the days after he’s met a work deadline. Sometimes he falls asleep on the sofa, most times Ushijima manages to get a futon out for him.
The mornings after are the nicest, because Tendou is—surprisingly—an early riser. Ushijima will leave his bedroom and be greeted by the sound of Tendou’s singing. Tendou, Ushijima is now able to confirm, can compose a song for any occasion. He has as many songs as he has smiles—a song to taunt opponents, a song to cheer on his friends, a song for celebration, a song for sleep. Ushijima’s favorite is the ditty Tendou composes for watering Murasaki. Tendou hums the opening when he fills a glass with water, sings the chorus when he pours the water into Murasaki’s pot, and trails off into doting compliments on Murasaki’s color and vibrancy when he’s done. Murasaki looks brighter on the days Tendou waters it.
It’s likely the sunlight, or the kitchen lights. But Ushijima enjoys the thought that Murasaki is happy, too.
*
Ushijima has been spending a lot of time in airports this week, traveling for both the National Team and for the Adlers. He’s walking through the Chitose airport with Kageyama when he passes a bookstore and pauses. Kageyama stops, too, and looks at him quizzically.
“I’m going to see if they have a copy of Genji monogatari,” Ushijima says to him.
If any of his friends from Shiratorizawa were here with him, they would have broken into baffled laughter. Kageyama, on the other hand, nods like Ushijima’s explanation makes sense. He waits outside while Ushijima steps into the store and makes his purchase.
Later, at the terminal, Ushijima gently flips through the book. He’s not a fast reader by any means, but he remembers pieces of the story from his literature classes—the story of Genji, the son of an emperor, stripped of his title and made a commoner, and the trials in his life. The book was written by a woman named Murasaki. Genji falls in love with a girl named Murasaki. And Murasaki is the title of the poem that Genji composes, short and spontaneous, upon meeting her.
Murasaki. The word settles in Ushijima’s mind, a new weight to carry but not one he minds. He ruminates on it when sitting in the plane. Before takeoff. After takeoff. He remembers what his literature teacher, Awase-sensei, had said about the word during their studies—Murasaki is a color, and a name, and a symbol.
A color and a name. Ushijima knows both of those things.
He stares out the plane window. The sun is setting outside and has lit the entire sky in color. From this vantage, the clouds look like a sea of violet and red. Above them, the yellow of the light; below them, the blue of the atmosphere. Ushijima can’t bring himself to look away from the clouds. Their color is a blend of Murasaki’s leaves and Tendou’s hair.
The memory of the symbol comes to him later, when he’s exiting the plane. Murasaki, in poetry, represents love and constancy. He thinks about it when he says goodbye to Kageyama, and thinks about it when he’s on the bus, and thinks about it when he’s on the train.
Maybe he had Murasaki from Genji monogatari in mind when he named the little succulent. Maybe he had seen the purple and thought not only of the color, but also of Shiratorizawa, of Tendou, who had always enjoyed literature class, who has always been a constant for him.
It’s on his mind still when he unlocks the door to his home. He steps inside and notes that the lights are on. In the living room, Tendou is asleep on the sofa. In the kitchen, there is a half-full glass of water. Ushijima presses his finger into Murasaki’s soil and sighs, content, when it comes away damp.
“Ah, Wakatoshi-kun,” murmurs Tendou, rousing from his sleep, voice catching on a yawn. “Welcome home.”
Ushijima turns and observes. Perhaps he stares a little too long, but Tendou has never been fazed by his intensity, or his oddity. He meets his gaze with practiced ease, blinks slowly like a cat, and waits like he has all the time in the world.
Strange, how no one thinks of Tendou as someone who can bring stability into a life, except for Ushijima.
“Satori,” he says, quiet. “Thank you.”
The smile that stretches across Tendou’s face, sleep soft, pleased—Ushijima returns it as best he can.