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It starts with a few clouds throughout the day, a couple faint thunders in the distance. It starts with a few sips of whiskey and a senseless drinking competition.
“Never have I ever kissed someone in the rain,” says Romero after a few moments of deliberation. The whole table erupts into groans and rolling eyes. “What, not in the rain either, Tobio?”
The boy is fairly rosy by now, embarrassed by having to skip every relationship-oriented dare.
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” he says, glaring at his soda while everyone else questions and prods.
“Oh well,” says Hoshiumi before a wolfish grin splits his face. “Never have I ever kissed someone.”
The table explodes in laughter. Ushijima skips the drink too.
It's not embarrassing. Ushijima doesn't think so. He didn't get into sports to pick up women, and even if he has no issue with players who have (or even those who got into it for the money) Ushijima figures that there being a range of human experience only makes sense.
So no, Ushijima is not embarrassed, but a pinprick of curiosity finds a nook within his brain as the night develops. He's sure Kageyama is rather popular, and that he needn’t struggle to find someone willing to kiss his face. He knows popular teams hold popular players that gather troves of attention from fans. He’s seen the comments on team posts, and the gifts he gets during fan meetings.
Hell, even Ushijima himself had a few admirers back in high school.
Why hasn't he kissed anyone again?
Maybe Kageyama is also career oriented. For some reason, the notion doesn't sit well with Ushijima. He's not sure why, but something about it simply doesn't fit with the image of Kageyama that lives in Ushijima’s brain.
Not that Ushijima has spent much time pondering any of his teammate’s love lives, but when compared with other players who are known for their looks (players like Atsumu and even Oikawa) it only makes sense that Kageyama would get a date or two, right?
The enigma finds Ushijima intensely studying his empty glass when everyone else agrees they've had enough of post-game celebrations. One by one they trickle out, sometimes in pairs, stumbling together and laughing to themselves.
Why is he so absorbed by Kageyama’s assumed lack of a love life?
Ushijima gets up, grabs his jacket after slipping his bill on the table, and thanks the bartender with a small nod. He says goodbye to the remaining teammates and makes his way to the exit. It's later than he’d usually like to be awake, but if he rides the train home and skips dinner and his nightly routine, he can still be up for his morning run at a reasonable time.
His thoughts come to a halt as he walks outside. Kageyama is standing beside the door and staring off at the empty street.
“Something the matter?”
Kageyama looks up at him and twists his lips. “I think it's gonna rain soon.”
When Ushijima glances up, the sky is dark. Large clouds hang over the city and the distinctive smell of humidity already permeates the air. He turns his attention back at his kōhai. “Did you not bring an umbrella?”
“I always forget it,” Kageyama admits. “I don’t know if I'll make it to the station before it starts pouring.”
Realizing that he's heading in the same direction, Ushijima pulls out his phone and consults a map. They're about fifteen minutes away from the closest station, which means that with a quick pace and their blessedly long strides they should be there in five. Less if they run, though Ushijima would rather save the run for the morning.
“We can make it if we hurry,” he says, alongside the muffled rumble of a faraway thunder.
Kageyama doesn't look convinced, but he follows when Ushijima begins walking.
“Do you think I can still grab the shinkansen to Sendai?” Kageyama asks aloud. Ushijima doubts it. He's sure the last train to their hometown left hours ago. “I should probably find a hotel.”
“Do you commute everyday?”
“Just this week.” Kageyama trips on the pavement while trying to keep pace, so Ushijima slows down just barely. “I haven't found an apartment near the gym that will take an unaccompanied 19 year old.”
“Is that so? Why don’t you ask the team manager for help?”
“I’m not a student so I thought…” Kageyama thinks about it for a moment before adding, “I haven't asked management.”
Ushijima hums. He doesn't remember struggling to find an apartment to lease, but then again he probably took the first option that was available to him. He’s never been particularly picky.
“You can stay at my apartment, if you’d like,” Ushijima offers, realizing that Tobio will actually be stuck in Tokyo with no hotel reservation if he has missed the night train.
Kageyama doesn't answer right away, so Ushijima doesn't press him, even if he wants to mention that his apartment is near the gym and the train station. He's not sure why, but Kageyama has been constantly in his thoughts all day, even before the celebration, even before the game (where it makes sense he'd be aware of Kageyama's position on the court for hours on end, three games in a row).
No, even before that morning, Ushijima forgot what he was dreaming about as soon as he woke up, but he's sure it involved Kageyama in some way.
“I hope everyone will be alright for tomorrow's early practice,” Kageyama wonders out loud.
“Coach had to drag Fukuro-san into a taxi,” Ushijima agrees, “I wonder if they’ll push it back to the evening.”
Kageyama thinks about it. It would be good if such things could be announced in anticipation. “Ushijima-san, you almost didn't drink, did you?” He didn't. Ushijima barely ever drinks. And since everyone had initially agreed on “taking it easy” tonight, it definitely wasn't part of his plan. “At least I wasn't the only one just watching.”
“Watching is enjoyable,” Ushijima muses, “Everyone else makes a fool and you still get in on the fun, without sharing in the embarrassment.”
Immediately, Kageyama lights up. “Right, yeah! Hoshiumi-san telling Fukuro-san to dance or else drink everyone's next shot was the best part.”
“I wonder if Fukuro-san likes dancing. He wasn't very good.”
A gasp, Kageyama looks at Ushijima like he's grown a second head. “I thought he looked cool!”
A lone drop lands on Ushijima's left hand, then about a dozen more tap his head. Ushijima has no time to dwell on the mild annoyance that stirs when Kageyama talks about their captain so enthusiastically.
Thankfully he didn't scold Kageyama for his forgetfulness, because Ushijima left his own umbrella back in the izakaya, he realizes as he quickens the pace. Kageyama follows along, shielding his face with a hand while they fruitlessly try to beat the rain.
When it's evident that the initially light sprinkle will turn into a proper downpour before they reach the next street, Ushijima pulls Kageyama into a phone cabin for shelter.
It's a tight squeeze. They're chest to chest in the small glass box, but as the rain continues to grow in intensity Ushijima wonders how long they'll have to wait until it's light enough for them to make it to the train station.
He’s ended up running anyway, and to make it worse they still got wet, Ushijima thinks while Kageyama pushes his damp bangs out of his face. Didn't he have a handkerchief with him? Ushijima searches his pocket and offers it to Kageyama.
“Thank you,” Kageyama accepts it, but then glances at Ushijima. “Don't you wanna dry up too?”
“It’s fine,” Ushijima says, struggling to take off his jacket in the cramped space. He rubs it on his hair and face, and he thinks Kageyama might have exhaled in amusement, but he's not entirely sure.
The few people that run by or hurry along while fighting their umbrellas barely spare them a glance. It's only a matter of minutes before the street is completely empty.
Kageyama sighs. He hands back the hand towel with a quiet thanks, and Ushijima folds it before stuffing it in his pocket. “We should call a taxi.”
He doesn't have phone data, and Kageyama's phone is completely dead. The pay phone, which they're stuck with until the rain lets up, doesn't take coins and neither of them even own a phone card.
“What luck,” Ushijima muses aloud.
“Maybe we’re cursed or something.”
Ushijima thinks about it. “That makes no sense. We’ve won every game that matters this season.”
“But that's not luck; It's because we’re the best team,” Kageyama says, eyes bright like street lamps. Ushijima has to agree.
With nothing left to do, Ushijima leans back on the glass pane. He doesn't want to think himself defeated—not by the comedy of errors he's currently living out—but he is stuck in a glass box in the middle of a storm, with a teammate he's not necessarily close to.
It’s as if time has stopped.
Ushijima watches as the city melts into a colorful impressionistic scene, like the expensive oil paintings Tendō showed to him as soon as he’d landed in France. The sounds of the city too, merge into white noise under the heavy rainfall.
All of that, outside the box, drowned by the gentle buzzing and cold shine of fluorescent lights, renders the city into a distant memory—almost a dream.
With nothing else to do, Ushijima turns his attention to the inside of the cabin, to the way Kageyama’s breath fogs the glass, to the way his lips part every so often as if he wants to say something but can't find the words, to his slender fingers tangling together in complex formations. Kageyama blinks a few times, shifts his weight. Ushijima realizes it’s completely unlike him to be so still.
After a moment, Kageyama’s eyes turn to him, rounder than usual. Almost wide enough that his sclera is visible all around the pupil. His eyes skirt back to the fogged glass, he blinks, then looks back at Ushijima.
“You’ve been staring at me since back at the bar,” he finally says. His voice is softened by the sound of the rain, but the tone is sharp, accusatory.
Ushijima doesn’t deny it.
He has been. He doesn't have the excuse of the court, of tracking his setter’s position for the perfect play, of being attuned to his team. At least, he doesn't think he does.
Something in the pit of his stomach itches. Ushijima finds himself glancing at the glass ceiling, willingly blinding himself with the fluorescent lights. It feels as though his gut is being uncomfortably stretched out.
“I have,” he says simply.
“Why?” Somehow, Ushijima didn't anticipate the question. Ushijima turns it around in his head. Why? The honest answer lies somewhere Ushijima hasn't fully mapped yet. He’s been tracing the edges since the drinking game, since Hoshiumi’s grin, since the strange dissatisfaction he felt when Kageyama called Fukuro cool. He takes his time with it.
“I find myself curious about you.” Ushijima says it as if the words were made of cotton. As if the words were stuffing his mouth and he had to carefully pull them out, one by one.
Kageyama considers it. “Curious?” He repeats flatly, like he’s inspecting the word for structural damage.
“About why you haven't kissed anyone.”
Tobio exhales heavily. His shoulders drop. He looks tired of the topic being brought up again. The rain intensifies for a moment, beating hard against the glass. Kageyama’s expression sours like he’s indigested, then smooths itself out.
“I haven't had time.”
“I believe you.” Ushijima drums his fingers on the glass near his hip. He does. He also doesn’t think it’s the whole truth. “I haven't either.”
Kageyama glances up. Something shifts in his face—the sharpness giving way to something younger and less sure. Ushijima realizes they’re standing close enough that he can count the droplets caught in his eyelashes.
“That’s different,” Kageyama says.
“How, exactly?”
Kageyama’s lips twist as he thinks about it. “You’re—” he pauses, seems to reconsider. “You look like you could have, if you wanted to.”
Ushijima thinks about it. Does he? It has never occurred to him that kissing people might be an interesting recreational activity. At least not until tonight.
On the other hand, Kageyama is a popular player. He’s always surrounded by people trying to get a rise out of him. People laughing at what he says, complimenting his game sense. Ushijima’s stomach turns. He taps the glass again. He’s reluctant to say his next words.
“So do you.”
The fog in Kageyama’s breath drifts between them and dissolves.
“But that’s different.” Kageyama doesn’t explain how. He drags a hand over his mouth and wipes a section of the glass. The sigh he lets out then clouds it back up. “I don't know what to do.”
It occurs to Ushijima that he’s not talking about the rain.
Ushijima looks at Kageyama’s bronzed hand resting against the glass. For a moment he thinks about reaching out, holding it between his larger ones, and leaning in. At least then this whole dilemma would be over for both of them.
He doesn't.
Instead he stares at Kageyama’s collar. It must be cotton, the white shirt that makes Kageyama’s skin look almost radiant in all its tan glory. He stares for long enough that Kageyama starts fidgeting again; the fingers, the weight shifting, the barely there exhale that keeps obscuring the glass. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands when he’s not setting a ball.
“You’re weird,” Kageyama says, almost offended by his own words.
“I’ve heard that before.” Ushijima thinks Kageyama himself might have said it already. “Still not embarrassed by it.”
Kageyama makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh, nor quite a scoff. He doesn't look at Ushijima—his reflection does. His eyes search long enough that Ushijima starts looking at his collar again. After a while, Kageyama swallows a gulp of saliva.
“Would you?”
Ushijima looks up. Kageyama still isn't looking at him. It takes him a moment to understand what Kageyama is asking. He thinks he might be assuming still.
“Yes,” Ushijima says. “If you wanted to.”
Kageyama exhales slowly, the way he does before serving the ball. He continues looking at Ushijima through the glass until he stops fiddling, then turns to meet his eye.
“Really?”
Ushijima nods. Kageyama closes his lips and swallows again. Ushijima mirrors him. Finally, Kageyama’s lids fall closed. “Okay,” he almost whispers.
Ushijima stares for a moment. Kageyama's eyelashes are long, long enough to rest softly on his cheekbones. His lips are parted slightly, bitten by the cold, chapped by the soda. His fingers have once again found each other’s company. Ushijima’s heart feels heavy, almost painful with how hard it's beating.
Slowly, hesitantly, Ushijima leans in. He cups Kageyama’s chin and watches as his lower lip trembles. The pit in his stomach grows heavier, but Ushijima is an expert at ignoring nervousness, so he closes the distance between lips.
The touch is light, barely there, and then it’s over too quick. When he pulls back, Kageyama’s eyes are still closed, and when he opens them, he’s not looking at Ushijima.
Kageyama sucks on his lower lip as he stares off at Ushijima’s navel. “That’s it?” He asks. “I thought it would be… different. I don't know, people always talk like kisses are this whole thing, but…”
“I enjoyed it,” Ushijima says.
“It wasn't… bad,” Kageyama says carefully. He sucks on his lip again, glances at Ushijima, then down again. “Can we… are you willing to try again?”
Ushijima straightens up. This he understands. Kageyama asking to perfect a technique. Practice. He gets practice.
“Of course.”
This time, when Ushijima presses their lips together, Kageyama tilts his head slightly to the side. Ushijima follows him. Their noses bump together and Kageyama stumbles on his feet. When they part, Kageyama huffs.
“Again,” he demands. Ushijima obligues.
Kageyama’s hand comes up to rest on Ushijima’s chest. Kageyama’s mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to say something. Before Ushijima can pull back to let him speak, Kageyama’s mouth closes around his lower lip. Ushijima slides his hand from Kageyama’s cheek to his damp hair. He leans in, enough that Kageyama looses his footing and leans bodily against the glass.
“Sorry,” Ushijima mumbles against his lip.
“‘S okay,” Kageyama whispers back.
This time, when they pull back Kageyama nods. “I get it now.”
Ushijima nods. Neither of them moves. Ushijima notices the warmth radiating from Kageyama’s hand through his damp shirt. Kageyama is looking away again. Ushijima’s heart hasn't calmed down.
“Um…” Kageyama’s voice pulls him back to the present, to the rain beating down the cabin, to Kageyama’s body pressed against the glass. He still doesn't move. “Does this—like does it mean… something?”
Ushijima thinks about it. He doesn't pull back. “I don't know.” Kageyama nods.
“Does it mean something, to you?”
Ushijima falls silent for longer this time. He thinks he can feel Kageyama’s heart beating against his chest. Ushijima’s fingers tighten around Kageyama’s hair before releasing.
“Yes.”
Again, Kageyama nods. He goes quiet as he thinks about it for a moment, and then looks up at Ushijima. “Do you want to try again?”
There’s nothing else to do in the cabin, Ushijima thinks, and then, quietly, he thinks that’s still not what compels him to lean in again. The way Kageyama meets him halfway and his lips welcome him is.
Kageyama continues moving his lips, and Ushijima tries to follow him, trapping Kageyama's upper lip between his teeth. Kageyama surges forward, kissing Ushijima with gusto.
The kiss goes on for longer than the other two, and when they part, Ushijima is surprised to find himself out of breath.
The sound of rain is softer against the glass of the cabin. Kageyama looks at the ceiling as he sucks on his bottom lip. Instead of suggesting they make their way to the station, he looks at Ushijima and covers his eyes with his hand.
“Try closing your eyes this time,” he says before leaning in again.
Ushijima hadn't noticed his eyes had been open all the other times, but as soon as Kageyama’s lips are on his, it’s like a wholly different experience opens up to him.
With his vision gone, Ushijima can only focus on the pressure against his lips, on the motion of Kageyama’s lips as they slide against his, the way his teeth scrape against him every so often and how he toys with Ushijima’s lips, and the warmth of his body being pressed closer than before. Ushijima’s heart almost flips.
When Kageyama pulls back, Ushijima misses it, so he chases after it. Tobio laughs against him. “How was it?”
“Good,” Ushijima says against his lips. Kageyama hums.
They continue kissing for a while, until Kageyama finally pulls back and pushes slightly on Ushijima’s chest. Ushijima sighs, and Kageyama snorts.
“I think we should get going.”
Outside, the rain has thinned into something almost polite. Ushijima opens the door and realizes at once just how warm the cabin has become. The streetlights reflect off the pavement in long ribbons that dance with each raindrop. A car dives by and splashes the sidewalk.
Kageyama falls into step next to him. Ushijima realizes he’s standing closer than he needs to be, their arms brushing with every step. Neither of them says anything; neither of them moves away.
Eventually, the station appears at the end of the street. Its light bounces off the wet ground with a yellowish glow. Ushijima slows down when they approach the entrance.
“The offer still stands,” he says, “if you missed the last train.”
Kageyama looks up at the departure board, then at Ushijima, then at his feet. His face has gone quiet and new, the way it looked when he first closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, “okay.”
They go through the gates together, the mechanic whirring of the turnstile echoes almost too loud in the empty station. Kageyama stands close enough that his shoulder presses against Ushijima’s. He doesn't move away when Ushijima doesn't.
The tain arrives after a few moments. In the window’s reflection, Ushijima can see them both: damp and wrecked the way they only look after a tournament, standing there like it’s a normal thing—to be this close, to do what they did, to be heading somewhere together. Kageyama meets his eye through the glass.
“You’re staring again.”
“I am,” Ushijima says.
Kageyama says nothing. The corner of his mouth shifts, just slightly, before he looks away.