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To stay unattached is to keep a distance.
Ushijima Wakatoshi knows this well enough. He had gotten accustomed to it at an early age, when his parents divorced. It was pretty clear that his mom hardly wanted anything to do with him, and neither did her family.
His intention is to keep this maxim walking into the date. Though, it doesn’t deter him from being the gentleman he is, even when you show up 15 minutes late.
Your first impression of Wakatoshi is that he is a man of few words. You aren’t put off by it, however, you prefer a man that knows his points, speaks it, and waits for a response in deliberate silence. It’s endearing in its own way.
It’s endearing now, when you can’t help but find yourself staring at him. His dress shirt and pants—Armani— are tailored to fit him perfectly. You saw when he stood up to greet you, even pulling your chair out for you (swoon.) His jawline is sharp, eyes stoic, and his shoulders are so broad—
He’s turned to you with expecting eyes.
“Oh- sorry, what did you say?”
Wakatoshi clears his throat and straightens in his seat. “I said because I’ll be in Europe soon, I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”
Oh. Okay… you can work with that. You usually don’t do one-night-stands, but the longer you look at him, the more amorous you’re getting.
“I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”
You perk up, realizing you haven’t given a reply. “Not at all! I’m not really interested in that either.”
A lie. You fear you are quite the hopeless romantic at heart.
As you resume to your dish, he takes a moment to watch you.
Wakatoshi might not be too well versed in pop-culture, but he has picked up a few magazines in his free time and reads enough ads to know that you’re quite the public figure yourself. Quite the vivacious one at that— according to some headlines.
He isn’t too sure of what your job is, just knows that you’ve worked alongside Kuroo for a while and recently ventured into the fashion world. Your confidence in style illuminates under the dim lamps of the restaurant: classic, chic, timeless. He hadn’t missed the wandering eyes when you walked through the door.
When Kuroo had called him during his off-season trip back to Japan, Wakatoshi had initially declined, not wanting to start something he wasn’t sure if he could finish. But, Kuroo had insisted, saying that you thought “his eyes are pretty” and wanted to see for yourself if they were olive or brown. Safe to say, he was intrigued and figured he’d quell your thirst for knowledge.
When dinner concludes after some small, but interesting talks, Wakatoshi insists he pay for the bill, and before you can deny, his card is already given to the waitress without even looking at the check.
“Thank you for dinner, Wakatoshi. It was delicious.”
“Of course.” He says as he holds the door open for you. You both walk to the marble water fountain placed in front of the parking lot. “Have you decided what color my eyes are?”
You freeze.
(“They’re definitely brown.” Kuroo assured.
“We’ll see. You didnt tell him I said anything about his eyes though did you ?”
“Not at all!” Kuroo gave his salesman smile to your glare. His two thumbs up acting as a shield from your valid accusation.
He did.)
You make a mental note to leave a scathing voicemail later.
“Oh!” You laugh, bashful, a hand coming up to rub your neck. “That….”
It appears Wakatoshi is still waiting for an definitive answer. You suppose he’s the not the type of man to tease, but still comes off just as humorous through his bluntness. It’s lovely, you think, you prefer to be the one teasing anyway. You step closer, leaning in close enough for him to feel the surface of fabric on your evening wear against his own. The string lights around the restaurant have given you both a warm, golden hue. It’s brighter out here.
“…Right now, they look olive. In the restaurant, they looked a dark brown.” Your voice is quieter now, but you’re still looking at him with that inquisitive gaze of yours. And he can’t help but study back. He scans your face and absentmindedly thinks those magazines don’t do you justice. He watches as your lips curve upwards into a small smile. “I guess it depends on the lighting, but my verdict is olive.”
Neither of you have moved, still inches apart. It feels… intimate. “What color do you say they are?”
Wakatoshi never thought about it, never really cared, but right now, he just wants to agree with you. “Olive.”
He watches as your smile grows, feeling his heart beat at a quicker pace. “Ah, I love being right.” There’s a moment of silence until you take a step back and extend your hand, “Well. Goodnight, Wakatoshi.”
Wakatoshi gives a nod, breaking out of his short-lived trance. He takes your hand, thinks your skin is some sort of magnet the way he can’t bring himself to pull away.
And before he can think clearly and go through with his plan of saying goodbye and leaving it at that to go your separate ways, he leans in closer, gently tugging you in with his hand still in yours.
You don’t move a way, instead you purse your lips as you look to his and back up at his olive eyes.
His voice is just above a whisper.
“May I… kiss you?”
He’s not sure who kisses who first after he asks. He just knows that for the following weeks, Wakatoshi sees you more than he should be. He becomes accustomed to your presence in his apartment, your smell on his bed, and the way you call him ‘toshi against his lips.
The weekend before his flight(weekends of which you usually spend the night) you don’t come over. He doesn’t play dumb at the fact that he had been the one to say it wasn’t serious in the first place. You seemed to take that to heart. He remembers the sadness in your eyes the last time you were in his home, telling him you weren’t good at goodbyes. Did you think he was?
Wakatoshi spent that weekend mulling the last few weeks over, missing you. He mentally scolds himself for letting it go this far, but how was he supposed to know his heart would cave at your simplest touch?
This kind of issue can only be resolved by talking to one person: a best friend.
And Tendou Satori rarely misses a phone call from his.
“I suppose me leaving is for the best.” Wakatoshi had rationalized, the afternoon before his flight, filling Tendou in about the heartache that is you.
“Maybe.”
“The more distance the better.”
“Ah, but Wakatoshi-kun, doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?”
His flight landed in Poland around noon. Many hours on the plane, Wakatoshi decides he isn’t good at goodbyes either. He calls you when he reaches his hotel.
“Hello?”
“Hi.” His voice is caught on the air, surprised you’d picked up so quickly. “I just landed. I…I—“
To be unattached is to keep a distance. But, even thousands of miles away from you, Wakatoshi is bound, tied true to the anchor that is your voice and the mirage of your face when he hears it.
“I miss you too.”
He wants to laugh because really, it’s only been three days since you’ve seen each other. Have you both grown lovesick?
“Can I see you when I get back?”
“Wakatoshi, that’s weeks— months away.” You laugh. He smiles upon hearing it. Yeah, lovesick. “Who knows what will happen by then?”
His smile is replaced by a confused frown. “What will happen?” Before you can answer, he has spoken again. “Nothing will change. For me, at least.”
You hum. A beat of silence. “‘Toshi?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be thinking about you until then.”
Wakatoshi thinks he might just fly you out and attach you to him forever.
…
(On a random weekday, Kuroo receives a box of Parisian chocolates and a typed out ‘Thank You’ card on his desk. The card flips to show a man with red hair and red eyes.)