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Hitoka is freezing.
She, admittedly, should’ve been prepared for this. During her panic-induced packing frenzy, Hitoka had packed everything she would and wouldn’t ever need for her trip—all except a winter jacket. It’s as if three mere years abroad have deprived her of the simple knowledge of seasonal weather.
She’s tried. A turtleneck, a knit sweater, two pairs of socks and her warmest pair of sweatpants—all for naught. Hitoka slaps her cold, cold palms to her cold, cold cheeks. “Agh!”
Iwaizumi chuckles heartily. He stands in front of a seated Hitoka, a gloved hand curled around the pole. Ushijima, bless his heart, gives Iwaizumi his best glare from beside him. Iwaizumi simply laughs harder, while Hitoka wants to shrivel up into the train seat.
“What’d I say?” Iwaizumi jabs, tugging off his pair of earmuffs and placing them over Hitoka’s winter stricken head. A comfortable warmth stirs. “I told you, Yachi. Tokyo is not as kind as Barcelona.”
Hitoka is so embarrassed. “I—it slipped my mind…?”
Ushijima shifts. “Unfortunately, winters are harsher in Japan.” He slips off his puffer jacket, revealing a dust-pink hoodie. It makes Yachi smile, before Ushijima folds the jacket in half—placing it gently on Hitoka’s lap. “This will help.”
Hitoka’s smile dissolves, a flush crawling up her cheeks in embarrassment. “I couldn’t ask that of you, Ushijima-san.” Despite it, Hitoka relishes in the shocking heat it gives off.
“You know he won’t take it back. Put it on before he gives up his gloves, too,” Iwaizumi says, smiling reassuringly at Hitoka. She looks away, down at her lap, then at Ushijima, who nods his head solemnly. “Iwaizumi is right. People have also told me that my blood tends to run warm, so my jacket is guaranteed to provide comfort in the cold.”
“Ushijima, it’s like you’re promoting your business,” Iwaizumi teases.
“I suppose… do you believe I would be able to make that an actual job?”
“Honestly? You might. You’re famous enough that your cozy jackets could be sold at a decent price.”
“How would I go about it?”
“Well, I don’t know. Your friends are a good starting point.”
“Alright, then. Iwaizumi, would you like my hoodie?”
Iwaizumi snorts. “What for?”
“To keep you warm?”
Iwaizumi laughs into the crook of his elbow, tears slipping from the corner of his eyes. By the time the exchange ends, Hitoka has zipped up Ushijima’s jacket up to her nose. It really is like a space heater.
“Ah, Ushijima-san… I’m not sure Iwaizumi-san was all that serious about the idea.”
Ushijima shakes his head. “No, I was aware. Is it not doing an ample job?”
“No, no, it is! I’m snug.”
“See, Iwaizumi? Customer reviews have been positive, thus far,” Ushijima says, glancing at Iwaizumi with a glint in his eye.
“Oh, I’m sure they have, Ushiwaka.”
Ushijima frowns. “Really, Iwaizumi?”
“Don’t act as if you’re not used to it.”
“How would I be?”
Iwaizumi gives Ushijima a disapproving look. “Oikawa calls you that.”
At this, Ushijima smiles. “Have you still not told him you are back in Japan?”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise, man.”
Hitoka sinks further into the jacket, eyes slipping shut. It will be interesting, watching them reunite. Hitoka often walked in on Iwaizumi talking to Oikawa on Skype. Watching them, her heart pinches—it’s a bit sad.
As far as Hitoka knows, he and Oikawa have not seen each other for a full two years. She’s not in a position to dictate what they feel—though, she likes to think she’s a part of their story. Everyone is—everyone that’s witnessed the weight of Iwaizumi’s longing. A gaze full of adoration, a voice containing thinly veiled love. A smile reserved only for the other.
Hitoka feels a tap at her shoulder. “Yachi, we’re here.”
Hitoka sits up, still drowning in Ushijima’s jacket. The voice announcing the stop filters through the speakers, followed by the soft bustling of people stepping off. There’s Iwaizumi fixing the earmuffs on her head and Ushijima waiting for her to step in front of him, a gust of wind coming with the soft hiss of the doors opening.
A step outside, Hitoka shrinks into the jacket that she thinks is up to her knees, and thinks about how absurd it is, that a month ago she was sharing an apartment with the two scariest looking men she knew after a chance encounter. Hitoka is moving back to Japan from California, where she went after 2 two years studying at Barcelona.
They walk beside each other, Ushijima to her left and Iwaizumi to her right. She feels incredibly small and important. If it were Iwaizumi in the middle, it would still look funny—like they were matryoshka dolls. A big one followed by a smaller one and a smaller one.
Ushijima leads them to the front of the store. Fitness Shop Harajuku, it reads. A quick glance to her right makes anticipation crawl up her throat—Iwaizumi’s excitement is poorly contained, his whole body shaking like a leaf, his eyes immediately shooting from left to right.
Iwaizumi stops to look at Hitoka. There is something—something in his gaze, knowing. He smiles, teeth glinting and cheeks dimpled, and laughs. An airy thing. Ushijima pats Iwaizumi’s shoulder, then Hitoka’s, prolonged.
“Ushijima,” Iwaizumi starts, hushed. “You first. We’ll hide behind an aisle. Let me check our texts. He announces every step he takes, so.” His movements are stunted, and Hitoka desperately wants to know how it feels—to yearn for someone so much. Hitoka has, at some point, though thinking of it does her no good. No rising anticipation, only sinking.
“He’s by the treadmills,” Iwaizumi says, turning his phone off. They all scan the store of never ending aisles, and Hitoka’s head spins a little but with the way Iwaizumi totters.
Ushijima points to a sign, then starts walking. Hitoka squeaks. Iwaizumi takes a huge, shaking breath. The smile on his face doesn’t leave and he follows three steps behind.
When they reach the place near the very back of the store—which is big —Iwaizumi makes a strange, strangled noise and steps behind Hitoka, as if that would do him any good. Ushijima walks forward, all pink hoodie and mittens warmth, Iwaizumi inhales sharply. Hitoka’s gut stews anxiously.
Hitoka discreetly peeks out from behind the aisle. Iwaizumi does the same, gripping at the hood of Ushijima’s jacket.
When Ushijima spots Oikawa, neither Hitoka or Iwaizumi can see him. The way Ushijima keeps looking back every millisecond gives it away.
“Oh, God,” Iwaizumi whispers as Ushijima clears his throat in what Hitoka assumes to be an attempt to catch Oikawa’s attention.
“Oh!” Oikawa’s voice is all sweet and smooth, and they can finally see him when Ushijima takes a few steps to the side. “How may I he—oh my God!”
Hitoka slaps her hand to her mouth in order to stop herself from laughing out loud. The look on Iwaizumi’s face is—she can’t describe it. Starstruck? Relieved? She believes what she sees—the widest smile, dimpling his cheeks. He hasn’t even spoken a word to Oikawa.
Oikawa—Hitoka really, really did not expect this—jumps at Ushijima, wrapping his arms around his neck and hanging off of him. His face looks troubled. Ushijima pats his back a little awkwardly.
In the same position, Oikawa makes an attempt at smacking Ushijima’s head. “What the hell! Why are you here?!”
“I… needed something from the store.”
“So you left America and came to Japan? What?”
They continue bickering in their awkward position, and Hitoka only then realizes that Iwaizumi is gone from beside her—instead turning on a treadmill and running on it. Hitoka is awfully confused, and a little tickled.
An awful screech sounds from Oikawa’s side. Iwaizumi and his startling confidence spares him not one glance. No one would believe Hitoka if she says he was near hysterics just five minutes ago.
Oikawa rips himself from Ushijima and runs over to Iwaizumi, and despite Hitoka’s sixth sense of detecting all sorts of impending doom, this is one of many she cannot prevent.
Ushijima uselessly extends an arm. “Wait—”
Chaos ensues. It’s oddly nostalgic, and Hitoka feels as if this is a scene she’s witnessed before. Oikawa stumbles onto the treadmill—which Iwaizumi is still on, but his face morphs into one of regret—sending them both into a heap onto the floor.
Iwaizumi groans. “What the fuck, Tooru.” He lays face first into Oikawa’s chest, making no move to get up from the—thank God—carpeted floor. He even maneuvers his arms somehow around Oikawa’s waist.
Oikawa, voice wet, whines, “Iwa-chan,” hitting him after every syllable. There are tears slipping down his cheeks, and the way Oikawa’s shaky hand reaches down to tilt Iwaizumi’s face up makes Hitoka’s chest pang. She’s always been like that—emotional encounters make her cry.
Iwaizumi crawls forward to plant kisses all over Oikawa’s teary face, and Ushijima gives a watery chuckle himself. Oikawa sniffles. “Ushiwaka, this is your fault.”
“I do not think it is.”
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees, “it’s not. It’s Yachi’s fault.”
Hitoka is startled at the mention of her name. “Uhm…”
“What?
Oikawa tries getting up only to be pushed back down by Iwaizumi's weight. “Yacchan is here?”
“We came with her because—well… why not, I guess.”
“Yacchan, where are you?”
Hitoka jolts. “Over here!”
“Okay! I need you to go by the register by the side of the store.”
“Oh! For what?”
“Hmm. If she’s not there already, ask for the manager. Don’t think you’ll need to, though.”
Iwaizumi lifts himself up on his elbows, giving Oikawa one of his warning looks. Hitoka’s sixth sense stirs.
“Uhm, okay. What should I tell them I need the manager for?”
“Oh my God. Oikawa, please—“
“Just go, Yacchan!” Oikawa demands lightly.
Hitoka hesitates before walking off, head a little dizzy, guiding herself through the aisles. She passes the odd person or worker, but it doesn’t seem like many. They came here pretty late.
Hitoka musters up some courage to ask someone where the register is, tripping over her feet after she bows and leaves to the direction the man pointed. The dull gray of the fuzzy carpet makes her hot pink Uggs just that much brighter—and they’re a bit comforting.
When Hitoka stands in front of the register, the sheer shock of seeing Azumane and Kiyoko chatting idly with each other nearly sends her into the next life. Her heart beats so ridiculously fast she thinks she might pass out, and oh goodness, she cannot imagine how pathetic she looks right now. If she had known, she would have dressed appropriately for this… occasion.
Her very bland outfit pales in comparison to how beautifully regal Kiyoko looks in just her work uniform— a black shirt tucked into gray cargo pants. She’s let go of the glasses. Her hair is in a bob. Hitoka is weak, and she might faint if—
“Yacchan?!” Azumane says in surprise, a strand of hair falling from behind his ear. His hand is half raised to his mouth, and he looks from Hitoka to Kiyoko, nervous but expecting. Hitoka has nothing to give—Kiyoko is already in possession of half her heart.
Kiyoko smiles at Hitoka like she’s fully aware of this, carrying not a semblance of regret. She has nothing to regret. Her gaze is warm, unsurprised.
“Hitoka-chan,” Kiyoko greets, the blush on her cheekbones pink-soft, mirroring her voice. “It’s a surprise seeing you here.”
Here in her store? Here in Japan? What does she want her to do? “Ah, hello Shimizu-senpai!” Hitoka’s voice sounds foreign to her ears. Hitoka doesn't know what to do with the softening of Kiyoko’s gaze or the wringing of Azumane’s wrists—but it means something.
“Last I heard, you were in Barcelona,” Kiyoko says, questioning. Hitoka’s brain questions.
“Ah, no. Last year I was in California!”
“Oh wow, “ Azumane mumbles, a bit pale. “All alone?”
Hitoka shifts on her feet. “Well, no. Do you remember Iwaizumi Hajime?”
Kiyoko tilts her head. “Seijoh’s ace?”
“Mhmm! I ran into him—it was a very chance encounter, but I’m super grateful for it. I’m sure you also remember Ushijima Wakatoshi…?”
“How wouldn't we?” Azumane gives a kind smile, to which Hitoka responds with a sheepish one.
“Of course you do. So, I ran into Iwaizumi-san who just moved into an apartment and was looking for roommates—and at first I was super scared about it. ‘Cuz he’s like… a pretty scary guy on the outside,” Hitoka giggles, rubbing a hand against her neck.
“I could tell he meant well, though imagine my surprise when Ushijima-san walked through the door at nine o’ clock in the evening while I was doing homework.”
Azumane and Kiyoko share similar looks of shock. “That’s... Wow.”
“They’re here with me, actually.” Hitoka grins. “It was a spur of the moment thing, when I told them I was moving back to Japan. Iwaizumi-san wanted to see Oikawa-san.”
Kiyoko stands straighter, clearing her throat. Her eyes are filled with reverence. “You’re moving back, Hitoka-chan?”
✐
Hitoka is a bit more prepared for the cold, this time. Her insides churn, standing on the steps to Kiyoko’s porch, despite the fact.
There’s no point in wondering how she ended up here, because she knows. Soft chatter can be heard from the inside already, golden light slipping through the gaps in the blinds, lightening the dark of the evening. Hitoka doesn’t know who’s attending the party—just that she’ll be seeing a lot of faces she hasn't seen in a long while. Each breath she sucks in shakes, because God she is so nervous.
“Wow! Hitoka-chan?!”
Hitoka nearly jumps out of her own skin when she hears the voice from behind her, but as she registers who it belongs to, she nearly squeals.
“Saeko-san!”
Saeko plants a wet kiss on her cheek, ruffling her hair up. Hitoka giggles, but it sounds far away. Saeko is exactly the same. Same glint in her eyes, but now her hair is shorter and swept to the side—plus a whole new collection of piercings. She still screams confident and beautiful, and Hitoka knows that she’d love Barcelona, and Barcelona would love her. Hitoka’s heart beats so fast, because who would she be if she wasn’t the smallest bit in love with everyone she meets?
“What the hell!” Saeko glances at Hitoka then at the door, jerking her chin towards it. Her movements are smooth like a woman who knows everything with a look. “Get inside, darling. No point in stalling.”
✐
It is the sort of party where there is not one person that can deny they danced.
It’s perfect, a bit unreal. Music filters through speakers at all times, quiet enough that people can hear each other, but loud enough one can feel the rhythm in their feet. A sweet taste lingers on the tongue, Hitoka’s had an absurd amount of chocolate eclairs. She doesn’t think she’s picked up one by herself, though.
Her skin dances pleasantly. It is entirely adrenaline, for Kiyoko was smart enough not to get strong alcohol—seeing that the entirety of Karasuno was able to come, minus Sawamura. He had work, Sugawara informs her.
She’s surrounded by the warmth of people, and she’s pleased. Everyone’s been in everyone’s arms, and as of right now, Hitoka is laughing to the point of tears as Kageyama has shaky arms winded around her waist, stepping all over her feet. He’s laughing too, a little nervously, entirely giddy.
“I’m sorry—”
“Ahh, it’s—haha, ouch! No—no, it’s okay!”
Hinata swoops in, ducking between their bodies and shoving Kageyama away, who—to everyone’s dismay—ends up in Oikawa’s arms. Oikawa squishes his cheeks and guides Kageyama’s hands to the right places, and the way he stares adamantly at Oikawa’s feet makes Hitoka feel silly. He’s a bit taller than Oikawa now, and wow, he looks ridiculous.
Hinata thinks the same. “Oh my God—!” He wraps his arms around Hitoka’s shoulders, and they end up tottering on their feet in a strange hug. “Holy crap, look at him! He—! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Hitoka smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. Oikawa has Kageyama in some sort of a chokehold and is aggressively smothering the frosting from a cupcake all over his face. Once Oikawa is satisfied and Kageyama’s voice is hoarse from wailing in agony, Oikawa plants a gross kiss on his temple for good measure and releases him with the widest smirk on his face. It’s handsome, admittedly.
“Yachi—did he really—really just—!”
“He really did!”
God, Hitoka’s never laughed so much in her life. Now Iwaizumi has arrived by Kageyama, who’s looking sullen. Iwaizumi offers apologies in the form of tissues, looking quite tickled himself. Oikawa is leisurely now dancing with Sugawara, a scene which Hitoka—a mere mortal—feels she has no place witnessing.
Hitoka taps Hinata and points in their direction. Oikawa has one arm looped around Sugawara’s waist and the other one by the junction of his neck and shoulder. Sugawara has his around Oikawa’s neck, and they both stare at each other mouthing the lyrics to the song playing, one Hitoka can’t give a name to. They spin around the center of the living room, looking like a pair straight from the movies. Oikawa even lifts Sugawara and dips him down, and everyone else is singing along to the nameless song while they watch. They share identical, dazzling smiles, creasing their eyes.
Hitoka can’t name the feeling she feels while watching them, lit by the dim moonlight. She’s watching them, Hinata’s watching them, everyone is. Two people who most likely haven't exchanged more than a couple sentences in the years they’ve known each other, enjoying each other's presence in such an attentive way. It is the language of a person, in one's touch, one’s gaze, one’s unknowing hearts.
The song ends, they hug, everyone shouts.
✐
Now, this—this, Hitoka swears she hasn't done on purpose. Now, she’s cold like she’s never been before, sitting on one of the yard chairs placed on the porch as Kiyoko waves goodbye to Nishinoya and Tanaka. And now, Kiyoko’s looking at her. It snows.
She’s wearing a long, green dress, shimmering and satin. She’s thrown on a gray cardigan because of the cold, and the moon makes her skin pale and pretty. The shadows are harsh but gentle by the dip of her collarbone, dotted with moles here and there. Her hair glows blue.
Hitoka has always been indescribably aware of her. It’s been that way ever since she’s known Kiyoko—she’s grown used to always looking. It scares her.
Kiyoko outstretches her hand.
Objectively, her hand should be cold. Snow falls slowly from the sky, like specks of dust revealed by the sun, but the opposite. When Hitoka’s palm slips into hers, her heart jumps so suddenly.
Winter is silent—lovely.
When Kiyoko presses play on the song, Hitoka’s gut lurches so hard and her heart jumps to her throat—Kiyoko smiles that way. Heart lurching.
She runs a hand through Hitoka’s hair and pushes her head gently to her chest, and Hitoka can feel the way her mouth moves with the lyrics. They shift on their feet, and the wood of the porch creaks with the movement. When Kiyoko hums, Hitoka feels it.
As the song ends, Kiyoko guides her arm around to spin Hitoka on her feet. She laughs gently at the way Hitoka half yelps and trips, gripping onto Hitoka’s shoulders. Kiyoko breathes in.
“I’m happy you’re back,” she says, her thumb rubbing slow circles by her jaw. Hitoka blinks slowly, once, twice—Kiyoko’s lips are soft and warm and everything else against her mouth.
Hitoka’s breath hitches and Kiyoko pulls her closer. Hitoka’s cheeks are on fire, and her hands are clenched into fists by her side. Kiyoko’s nose is cold.
When she pulls away, the first thing Hitoka manages is, “Your nose is cold.” It’s distant, and Hitoka’s sight is hazy. She makes out the look on Kiyoko’s face before she bursts out laughing, flecks of snow catching onto her hair. When she opens her eyes, they’re a bit wet, and Hitoka gasps.
“Oh no… are you crying?!”
“Ah… no.”
“... Really?”
Kiyoko blinks. A snowflake lands on her eyelashes, and Hitoka doesn’t realize until she’s doing it that she’s reached up to brush it away.
When Hitoka startles from her stunned state and moves to bring her arm back to her side, Kiyoko catches her wrist and tugs her inside—smiling back at Hitoka.
The cold melts away with her gaze, always.