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Wakatoshi has been acting strange in practice today.
It’s an almost imperceptible strangeness – not obvious, like when Semi tried to dye their hair red and ended up with bubblegum-pink, or obnoxious, like when Yamagata decided it would be funny to stick a sign reading “NERD” on Satori’s back and he didn’t notice until the first-years started snickering in the locker room that afternoon, or even olfactory, like when Goshiki had started wearing a new type of deodorant that smelled inexplicably like cat piss. No, this is a more subtle strangeness, a more Wakatoshi type of strangeness, noticeable only in the extra seconds of hesitation in between his jumps and his swings, the slight unsteadiness of his landings, the just-above-average inaccuracy in his serves.
If Satori didn’t know better, he’d say Wakatoshi is tired, or maybe dehydrated. But he knows Wakatoshi got eight hours of sleep last night (as he does every night), and that Wakatoshi monitors his eating and drinking schedules more rigorously than Satori’s aunt when she goes on one of her health cleanses. Plus, there are these looks Satori keeps catching – he’ll glance over at Wakatoshi and find the other boy staring steadily back at him, as though they’re protagonists in a shoujo manga or something. Satori can’t think of any good reason for it. They’re already dating, for one, and Wakatoshi isn’t exactly the nervous type – if he had something he needed to tell Satori, he’d just tell him … right?
They’re practicing on opposite sides of the gym today, Satori helping some first-years with their blocks while Wakatoshi does spike practice, so he doesn’t have a chance to actually talk to the guy until after. He changes slowly, taking the time to tease Semi for how terrible pink hair looks with their orange T-shirt (their hair is mostly pale silver again now, but it’s still got the slightest tint under bright light, and that’s enough for Satori) then heads back to the gym to find Wakatoshi still practicing serves.
He doesn’t notice Satori come in. Wakatoshi must’ve practiced a million serves by now, each one exactly the same – toss-swing-hit, toss-swing-hit, toss-swing-hit. He must’ve practiced a million serves by now, but he just keeps at it, watching the arc of the ball like an eagle tracking a mouse several kilometers up ahead. And Satori leans against the wall and watches him – the taut muscles of his shoulders, the sinewy curves of his arms, the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. As the steady tempo of balls hitting the ground settles into white noise, Satori wonders what Wakatoshi thinks about during these long practices. Does he notice the daylight slowly dimming outside the gym, or go over plays in his head, or decide what he’s going to eat for breakfast the next morning?
Satori is halfway to figuring out what Wakatoshi eats for breakfast (something light, but with a lot of protein, and fruit on the side) when the ace serves his last ball, straightens to watch as it falls just out of bounds with a loud smack.
“Satori,” Wakatoshi says, still facing the other side of the court.
“Woah!” Satori jumps a few centimeters in the air, then recovers. “You need to stop doing that.”
“Would you prefer that I break my concentration to alert you to my awareness of your presence?” Wakatoshi asks, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He heads over to the other side and starts picking up balls, tossing them easily to the cart.
Satori follows him and does the same. “I guess not. But don’t start talking to me without looking at me. It’s kinda creepy.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Wakatoshi picks up the last two balls from the back corner, balances them on top of the cart, and pushes it towards the closet.
“It’s okay. Not a big deal or anything,” Satori tells him, following.
For a minute, the gym is silent save the squeaking of the cart wheels and the droning of the cicadas outside. They seem to be chanting, demanding – echoing the voice in Satori’s head that wants to know why Wakatoshi was being so strange earlier. The question bubbles up in his throat but he pushes it back down. Anything Wakatoshi wants to say, he’ll say, Satori tells himself. Don’t rush it. Don’t rush it. Don’t –
“Is everything okay?”
Wakatoshi – now striding to the locker room – stops and stares back at Satori.
“Yes,” he says. But it’s after a pause just too long for comfort, and there’s an uncertain lilt to the ace’s normally deep voice.
“At practice, earlier,” Satori goes on, coming up to stand next to his partner. “You seemed a little … off. You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Wakatoshi looks at him – long and careful, as though deciding where to aim a serve. “Come over,” he says.
And then, he turns and goes into the locker room, as though he didn’t just make Satori a hundred times more confused.
“I do that every other day anyway!” Satori protests. But, upon receiving no response, he shrugs and heads for the door anyway.
Wakatoshi’s house is quiet.
It’s always quiet. Quiet, and dark, and cool, with the air conditioning running all day in the summer. Wakatoshi’s mother works long hours at an office an hour’s train ride away, negotiating important deals with men in suits, or something. Wakatoshi’s never told Satori exactly what she does, and he’s never asked. He’s only met her twice – both times at school assemblies. Never at volleyball games. Never here.
Satori’s house is loud, full of his sister practicing the piano and his brother playing Pokemon and his father shouting at the TV and his mother singing along to the radio as she makes dinner, and whenever he goes to Wakatoshi’s (which happens more and more often these days), he wonders if there’s some way he could pull some of that loudness over here. Not a lot, because then Wakatoshi wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his homework, but – just a little. So that the place feels a little less lonely.
Satori follows Wakatoshi through the front door, pauses to kick his shoes off in the foyer, then up to Wakatoshi’s bedroom. It’s as clean as ever, clothes folded neatly on the dresser and pictures of trees and flowers (cut carefully from National Geographic in neat rectangles) decorating the walls. Satori flops onto his stomach, arms outstretched, on the bed – takes a moment to let his tired muscles appreciate the luxury – then props himself up on his elbows to look at Wakatoshi.
“So,” he says. “What d’you wanna do?”
Wakatoshi hesitates in the doorway for a moment. He reaches for the light switch, as though to flip it on, then leaves it off and crosses the room.
“I want to show you something,” he tells Satori. He sounds serious. Determined. Satori feels his heartbeat start to pick up, almost out of its own accord.
“Close your eyes,” Wakatoshi says.
Satori nods and lets his eyes close, then lies back down all the way, pressing his forehead to Wakatoshi’s cover. He always makes his bed, which Satori doesn’t understand, because he’s just going to mess it up later – but the blankets are soft and comfortable, tickling Satori’s face like a curtain of feathers.
He hears Wakatoshi’s closet opening, then some rustling, the sound of clothes dropping on the floor. He briefly entertains the concept of Wakatoshi doing a strip tease, then realizes that it would make no sense for him to close his eyes. Plus, aren’t you supposed to put music on if you’re doing a strip tease? Satori isn’t sure what kind of music he would want – something romantic, probably, but he mostly only listens to rock and anime soundtracks.
As Satori contemplates if any of the anime openings he knows would work for strip teasing purposes, he hears more rustling, a couple of shuffling noises, then … silence. The silence persists for several seconds. Satori picks his head up from the comforter, eyes still shut tight – but no, it wasn’t just that noise was muted, it really is completely quiet. Wakatoshi couldn’t have fallen and injured himself without Satori noticing, could he?
“Wakatoshi?” Satori asks.
He opens his eyes. Wakatoshi is standing in front of his mirror, back to Satori, completely still. He’s wearing something … different. Not his uniform, or shorts, or sweatpants, but Satori can’t see quite what it is.
Satori reaches over and turns on the lamp on Wakatoshi’s night table, just as Wakatoshi turns around – slowly, carefully, as though afraid that if he moves too quickly, something will break.
“What do you think?”
For a moment – the space between two heartbeats, perhaps – Satori can’t think. And then his mind is everywhere at once, noticing the freckles on Wakatoshi’s bare shoulders, the curves of his thighs, the way the blue fabric falls across his chest like a waterfall. He’s wearing a dress, a twilight-blue dress covered with little embroidered sunflowers, and the gold of the flowers makes the hazel in his eyes gleam brighter. It’s completely different from what Satori’s used to seeing him in – uniform, sweats, T-shirt – but it suits him, somehow, despite the fact that the skirt is probably too short and the straps probably too tight. The dress seems as though it was designed for Wakatoshi - for him to tend to a garden in, perhaps, or stroll through a field of wildflowers in midsummer, or buy out half of a farmer’s market. He’s undeniably, almost unbearably – not handsome, no. Lovely. Gorgeous. Breathtaking.
“I apologize,” Wakatoshi says suddenly. “This was a bad idea. I can just –” He reaches around to the back of the dress, going for the buttons.
“No!” Satori practically lunges for Wakatoshi, catches his hand before it can reach. They stand like that for a moment, caught in limbo – then Satori brings the hand up to his lips and kisses Wakatoshi’s knuckles. He’s still lying half on the bed, holding himself up with one hand braced on the carpet, but the discomfort barely registers.
“No,” he says again, more softly. “You look good. Really good.”
He glances up and Wakatoshi is staring at him – eyes wide, almost nervous. As he never is on the court, as he never is at school, as he never is with anyone but Satori. It’s a look that makes Satori want to pull him close and never let go.
“You think so?” he asks, so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. “It isn’t … too feminine?”
Satori pushes himself forward off the bed. At first, he lands on his face – he definitely didn’t think this plan through as much as he should’ve – but he recovers quickly, jumping to his feet in front of his partner.
“I think it’s as feminine as you want it to be,” he says fiercely. “But I think that doesn’t matter anyway, because you look good.” He takes Wakatoshi’s hands and looks him up and down, from bare feet to deep brown eyes and back again. “Really good. So good. Like, I wish I knew how to write poetry so that I could describe you better good.”
Wakatoshi nods – then suddenly, like a tree felled by a strong gust of wind, half-staggers forward and pulls Satori into a hug.
He always gives good hugs – tight, warm, like how Satori imagines a grizzly bear would hug – but this one is especially tight, especially warm. It takes Satori a moment to realize that this is a grateful hug. He’s not quite sure why it’s happening, what he’s being thanked for, but he hugs back – runs his hands along the back of Wakatoshi’s dress, admires how silky and delicate the fabric is.
“This is … my mother’s,” Wakatoshi says, not moving from the embrace. “I took it from her closet. She has yet to notice.”
“Why did you take it?” Satori asks.
Wakatoshi pulls back but keeps ahold of Satori’s hands, caressing their palms lightly with his thumbs. “Sometimes, I feel … not right. Like I should be wearing something else, or calling myself something else, or seeing something else when I look in the mirror. Not all the time. Not like it’s painful. But it’s there. Like a sprained wrist that you don’t notice until you try to spike.”
Satori nods. He doesn’t entirely understand, but he thinks he’s starting to. “And … this helps?” he says, looking at the dress.
“Yes.” Wakatoshi follows Satori’s gaze, down to the fabric hanging just above his knees. “This helps.”
“How does it feel? Cold? Freeing? Would it be easier to play volleyball in?”
Wakatoshi looks up, surprised, as though playing volleyball in the dress didn’t occur to him. “Maybe,” he says. “But it’s … nice. It feels right.” His mouth twitches up, like the start of a smile.
Satori grins and steps forward, winding his arms around Wakatoshi’s neck. “Want me to petition Coach Washijo to make this the new uniform?”
Wakatoshi stares at him. “I’m not sure that would be prudent. And it isn’t in our school colors –”
“Wakatoshi-kun, I was making a joke,” Satori interrupts. He tilts his head up enough that their mouths can meet, then kisses his partner fiercely, trying to convey with lips and tongue everything he can’t put into words.
Wakatoshi kisses back readily for a while, for long enough that Satori loses track of time in the curve of his waist and the hollow of his neck – until, as Satori is exploring just how much chest is currently at his disposal, Wakatoshi’s stomach rumbles.
“Time for dinner?” Satori asks, pulling back to look at Wakatoshi.
Wakatoshi nods. “I think there’s rice. And gyoza in the freezer. And maybe some wonton soup. But …” He trails off, looking down at his skirt.
“Do you want to keep it on?" Satori says.
And then, Wakatoshi smiles – a big, unbelievable smile, like the sun coming out after a long rainstorm.
They make dinner together, in Wakatoshi’s cold kitchen with the gray granite countertops and the bowl of stale fruit that always sits untouched next to the sink. Or, well, it can’t really be called making dinner when they’re just heating up premade food – but Satori feels like they could make dinner together, someday, if Wakatoshi took the time to actually open a cookbook or Satori learned not to forget about pots as soon as he put them on the stove. They could do it, just like how Goshiki could be the ace someday, or how Reon could fit five packets of tissues and an entire volleyball into his fanny pack, or how Wakatoshi could wear a Shiratorizawa jersey or worn-out sweatpants or a blue sundress or even nothing at all and always look incredible.
Satori puts the radio on and perches on the countertop, singing along off-key to the music and kicking his legs in the air. Wakatoshi seems mostly ambivalent to it, reading packages and following microwaving instructions – but then, when the song reaches a particularly exciting musical break, something incredible happens:
Wakatoshi twirls.
He stands on one foot, pushes off the ground, and spins around in a circle. The skirt billows around him like a dark blue cloud, and his hair lifts ever so slightly with the momentum. He looks like a forest spirit, or a professional ballerina, or a firefly flitting through the midsummer night – and for a moment, Satori stops breathing.
But he recovers quickly – hops down off the counter, grabs Wakatoshi’s hands, and starts to dance with him. Their feet don’t quite move in time to the music, and they nearly knock the microwave off the counter a time or five, and when Satori tries to twirl Wakatoshi around like gentlemen do in the movies, that one centimeter of height Wakatoshi has on him makes the move more like a punch in the face than an elegant step – but it’s okay. It’s all okay. The kitchen is loud and Wakatoshi is smiling, and Satori thinks that this, this is all he could ever want from the world.