Archive of Our Own ^beta

"What's that?" Kawanishi asked. He stopped outside their classroom building to unzip his backpack and pull out his water bottle, and it brought him to a stop next to Shirabu, who was still holding the enveloped note in his hand.

Shirabu glanced to his open backpack. "Kawanishi, can I see your writing?"

"Why?"

"No matter what I say, you have to take something out for me to see anyway."

Kawanishi reached his hand back in and fished out his folder. After fiddling with opening it and still holding his backpack, he showed his homework to Shirabu.

Shirabu opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, holding it up next to Kawanishi's work. Kawanishi's writing was a little neat, but it wasn't as precise and even as the writing in the anonymous letter.

"Here." Shirabu pushed his folder away.

Kawanishi raised an eyebrow as he tucked it away. "What is that?"

"A letter." Shirabu opened his school bag and slipped it in. "It's not important."

"You're fidgeting a little," Kawanishi said, his eyes on Shirabu's hands.

"No I'm not."

"It's bothering you."

"Not really."

Kawanishi hooked his arms through his backpack straps and shrugged. "Keep on not-worrying. I have to go to the science building to check on something."

"See you later, then."

Kawanishi waved and left. Shirabu adjusted the strap across his chest and walked down the steps, his feet trudging through movements as he fixed on one thought splintering into several unsatisfying endings. Someone he knew wrote it, someone had to have written it. And it wasn't Kawanishi.

Kawanishi could've disguised his writing, but Shirabu doubted it. His writing was clean, except it was his writing for homework, and Shirabu suspected that his writing for school strained the limits of his penmanship. After talking with him, he didn't think it could be him, anyway. The words on the page didn't suit him. He couldn't imagine Kawanishi writing like this.

The sentences read in a direct flow, polite but cutting past any small talk. "Dear Shirabu" was the only introduction offered, jumping right into a series of clear phrases and details that Shirabu couldn't understand as a whole, beyond the sum of the words.

"I believe that hard work and sincere deeds shouldn't go unnoticed," Shirabu reread. "I appreciate everything you do for Shiratorizawa. Your history has rooted your reputation in me, and I admire what you do, even if you aren't aware." The letter went on to compliment him a few times, but Shirabu had to reread it to realize they were compliments. Whoever it was, they wrote with so much honesty that its quality overwhelmed the words themselves, or at least his understanding of them. They were reported like facts, and the straightforwardness stunned him when he finally caught up to it.

He wasn't dense. He guessed that it could be Ushijima, or Tendou as a stretch, or someone else he couldn't think of in the moment, but if he spiraled and wondered too much it could be anyone. Shirabu didn't want to confront the wrong person and make a fool out of himself. 

Shirabu opened the door to the dorm building and walked in, still drifting in thought. If he tried asking a few people about their writing, it would be really suspicious to whoever wrote the note, if he found the writer. They'd know what he was trying to do, and there was no way anyone would admit to writing it.

Walking into someone else's room was a questionable boundary, it was soft trespassing, even if his friends intentionally left their doors unlocked for spontaneous visits. Then again, whoever gave him the letter invaded his locker to do it - or at least slid it through a slot in his locker - and that was just as dubious. It was worse, when Shirabu thought about it. He hated anything anonymous. The unintended suspense crushed his concentration, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. And over something this pointless and small, Shirabu berated himself and disproportionately inflated it into something beyond annoyance. Between that and his inability to just ask, Shirabu dug a hole for himself.

Shirabu stopped outside of Tendou's door. Shirabu didn't have any qualms about entering his room unannounced, and he approached his desk to investigate the papers piled there, stepping around a chair in the middle of the floor. 

Right away, Shirabu realized that Tendou's writing was too messy. He could've sworn that he wrote neater, but now, with smears of ink blurring into scribbles in front of him, he couldn't believe he thought that. Tendou's writing was abominable.

Shirabu closed the door behind himself and paused in the hallway. Clearly, it couldn't be Tendou or Kawanishi. Shirabu was willing to gloss over Goshiki to check Ushijima and Semi instead. Ushijima's room was closest, on the floor below, so Shirabu decided to go there next.

He went down the stairs and turned the corner to another floor. Ushijima was in front of his room, closing the door as he stepped away. He stopped his hand on the door. 

"Shirabu?" 

Shirabu fixed his school bag to the side and cleared his throat. "I thought you were out with Tendou."

"No. I'm on my way to the library."

Shirabu didn't move as Ushijima shut his door and stepped around him.

"Do you need something?"

"No." Shirabu inched away in small steps, and when Ushijima disappeared behind the corner, Shirabu continued to the doorknob.

It was locked. Ushijima was the only person he knew who locked their door.

Shirabu's eyes closed. He didn't want to chase Ushijima to the library, but he had to know. Shirabu couldn't let it sit in the back of his mind and haunt him all week.

He hurried down the stairs to catch up, moving at an outwardly calm pace that didn't kick up his feet. Ushijima was already out of the building by the time Shirabu made it to his side. He huffed a large breath to recover.

"I just remembered. I have to go to the library, too," Shirabu said.

"You're always welcome to come with me." Ushijima nodded. "You can invite me next time you go, if you want."

"If I remember, I will." Shirabu stretched his hands in front of himself and linked his fingers together to crack them. He yawned to fill the silence, and their footsteps sounded below in a faint cadence, crunching over concrete and grass. 

Shirabu trailed next to him to a table, and he pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Ushijima glanced up. 

"Are you here to study?"

"Yeah," Shirabu said to follow along, grateful that Ushijima gave him a reason.

Ushijima unpacked a book and a few notebooks and pencils and placed them on the table. Shirabu slid onto the edge of his chair and leaned closer, hovering as Ushijima faced his backpack, distracted. Shirabu nudged a notebook open to peek. 

It was empty. 

Shirabu sat back, letting the notebook cover fall closed.

"Is something wrong, Shirabu?" 

"No, I'm just trying to think of what I need to take out." Shirabu unzipped his bag and fumbled around inside to take out a book, paper, and a pen. He genuinely needed to study, so he didn't fake the scribbles and notes he took on his paper.

He eyed Ushijima's fingers to see when he'd write, but Ushijima was reading each time Shirabu checked. Shirabu couldn't move closer to see what he'd written without brushing against him and prompting attention and questions, so he studied and bided his time.

Shirabu tilted his head forward for a better view after a while. The more time passed, the more he convinced himself that Ushijima wouldn't notice if he did anything. His hand slipped to Ushijima's elbow, nudging it away to free his vision to Ushijima's notebook. 

Ushijima raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Shirabu's eyes slid around. "I want to see your writing," he admitted.

"Why?" 

Shirabu tapped his pen on the table. "I don't remember seeing it before."

"You haven't?" Ushijima's mouth tightened in a frown.

Shirabu pressed the back of his hand under his chin, a quiet snort shaking him. Ushijima looked confused, thrown off by the point of the request, but he didn't say anything.

He pulled his hands away to let Shirabu look. The lines and curves matched the memory of the letter in Shirabu's head. Ushijima wrote it. 

Shirabu's hand brushed to his forehead, rubbing to the side of his head. "Did you write the letter that was in my locker earlier?" 

"I didn't put my name on it? Sorry. I meant to." 

"You meant to write your name?" Shirabu asked. 

"Yes." 

"It wasn't...a confession...?"

"I wrote a letter to personally give my gratitude and acknowledge you as someone close to me, but it wasn't a confession." Ushijima's head tilted. "A confession for what?"

"A letter."

"A letter?"

"When you confess something in an anonymous letter..." Shirabu couldn't finish.

"Can I see it? I was sure that I wrote my name." 

Shirabu pulled it out and handed it to him. "Here."

Ushijima skimmed over it, and he continued onto the next page. "I signed on the other side, Shirabu."

Shirabu grabbed it and read the back. Ushijima did sign, in the same clean writing after a few more sentences of the next page.

"You're right," Shirabu said. He slowly sighed.

"What did you want me to confess?"

"I didn't want you to confess anything."

"You sounded hopeful."

"I didn't." Shirabu filed the letter back in his school bag, wedging it into a folder to preserve it.

Ushijima leaned closer. "Did it sound like a confession?" he asked in a quieter voice.

"I don't think so."

"I don't want to accidentally make you uncomfortable." 

"I'm the only reason I'm uncomfortable." Shirabu squeezed his finger into his fist, stretching his finger back as he stared at the table. "Don't tell anyone about the letter."

"I won't."

Shirabu went on to stretch his other fingers. After he finished, he dropped his hands to the table. "Would you confess if you wanted to?"

"Confess what?"

"Is there anything you want to confess?"

Ushijima fell quiet, his eyes moving to his open book. "I don't know. What about you?"

"No," Shirabu said quickly. He paused and reconsidered, his mouth pinching to the side. "Well..." 

When Shirabu trailed off, looking into space with growing unease, Ushijima leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg. The movement drew Shirabu's eyes. 

"I don't think there's anything new I can say. You already know I like you, Shirabu."

"I do?" Shirabu echoed. "And you. What did you say?"

"I'm very fond of you." Ushijima's mouth lifted softly, smiling at him with a steady glow lighting his eyes. 

"You... Me too," Shirabu said, his eyes averting to the side. 

"Was that the confession you wanted?"

Shirabu's head dipped down, his shoulders rising stiffly.

"Shirabu?" Ushijima bent forward to meet his eyes. 

"What did you mean, you like me?" 

"I do." 

"But how much?" 

Ushijima scratched at the top of his chest in thought. "An indescribable amount. But I'm not that articulate with words or feelings. Can you understand from that?"

"I think so."

"Good. As long as you know about my feelings for you, then I'm satisfied."

"...No, I don't understand that."

"What's confusing about it to you?" Ushijima asked.

"What do you mean by feelings?"

"Hm." Ushijima's arms crossed, and he gave a deep hum. "I think I would date you if you wanted to, as well."

"You would?"

"Yes. Would you?"

Shirabu coughed into his hand. "Yes."

Ushijima nodded and lowered his head to his book. 

Shirabu placed his hand on Ushijima's arm. "If we feel the same, then why aren't we dating?"

"Do you want to?"

"It's the reason why I'm asking." Shirabu's hand tightened. "Do you want...to eat this weekend, then?"

"I'd love to. You can choose where we eat."

"Alright." Shirabu removed his hand and patted it on the table. "I'll see you this weekend," he said in a daze.

Ushijima brushed his hair away from his forehead and returned to studying. It took Shirabu a few minutes to finally focus again, minutes of shifting and scratching the side of his head, his thoughts walled to replay their conversation. He didn't get through too much material, and by the time Ushijima decided to pack and leave, Shirabu barely made it past a couple pages.

"Bye, Shirabu." Ushijima waved to him and left to join Tendou and Reon waiting outside the dorm building. Shirabu drifted to his room and dumped his school bag on his desk, and he leaned against the wall, forgetting to close the door. He didn't completely understand where their conversation went, but his chest was still pounding.