Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shiratorizawa is big.

It’s not just big in the size of the grounds, though that in itself is huge and quite overwhelming. There’s a lot more buildings than at Wakatoshi’s Junior High School, and each department seems to have so many different rooms that it surely would be easy to get lost.

Shiratorizawa is also big in the amount of people. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi arrives on his first day, blazer freshly pressed and his backpack full of all the supplies he’s been told he needs and is greeted with the sight of literally hundreds of other students. Some walk in groups — greeting their peers and friends with a familiar friendliness. Others, like himself, enter the school grounds with apprehension visible on their faces; Wakatoshi can recognise it through the furrowed brows and the bitten lips, a skill he’s been practising all summer. 

And so, Shiratorizawa is perhaps what you could call intimidating.

Everything is manageable if you plan and prepare though, and that’s exactly what Wakatoshi has done. Through speaking to his father, to the school representative who had helped him with his entry papers and provided information about the volleyball club, Wakatoshi feels confident that he knows exactly what to expect. He’s been preparing himself for the giant change of moving from Junior High to Senior High for months and now that it’s here, he feels completely ready.

Or so he thought.

As the swathes of students pass by him, walking leisurely or sprinting depending on the urgency of where they need to be, his hands begin to sweat. Wakatoshi clenches his fist, rubbing the tips of his fingers against the meat of his palms to try and self-soothe. Familiarity is what makes things easy, makes them comforting, and this doesn’t feel familiar at all.

‘It’s okay,’ he tells himself ‘you know what to expect.’

Shiratorizawa has just over one thousand students. Shiratorizawa has nine main departments, split into approximately twenty two different blocks. Each block has between four and ten rooms which can sit between twelve and fourty five students. There is a teacher for each room, plus assisting staff, coaches, nurses, cleaning and maintenance staff, the principal and other senior staff.

Wakatoshi will have a homeroom class, and then a class for each of his subjects. He will then have any extracurricular activities that he has opted to participate in — namely the Volleyball Club. The club will have the core starting players, the pinch hitters and players that stay on the bench, up to four managers and two coaches.

With all these hundreds of people he will encounter, he won’t make friends. People don’t like him and don’t understand him. For all it’s worth, he doesn’t understand them either, but it doesn’t matter because they don’t come anywhere near him in the first place. 

Too big, too awkward, too stern looking — that’s what his mother tells him. 

So Wakatoshi knows how it will go, has it planned down to the finest details. Wakatoshi knows exactly what to expect: he will meet all of these different people, in all of these different places, and they will speak to him as little as possible. He will be alone, like he always is — the easiest way to be.

A life of solitude is familiar after all.

Ushijima Wakatoshi’s meticulous planning does not account for Tendou Satori. 

“Wakatoshi-kun.” 

Wakatoshi looks up from where he’s been arranging his pens on his desk; he brings two black ball points, for if one runs out, a mechanical pencil with extra lead, an eraser, a ruler, two highlighters in orange and green and a metal compass for Mathematics. 

The boy who said his name is tall. That’s the first thing he notices, because Wakatoshi himself is also tall. It runs on his father’s side of the family, whereas his mother and grandmother are short and slight in stature. They tell him it’s unsightly that he’s already so large at just fifteen years old but as far as he’s been able to tell from his research, a lot of his growth is genetic. 

The rest is due to his rigorous diet and training regime to ensure he’s in peak physical condition for volleyball — he needs to be strong enough that he can support his team if he is going to become the ace he dreams of being. His mother does not seem to understand that he doesn’t encourage growth to look pleasant, because that would be ridiculous: looking pleasant won’t win you volleyball games.

The next thing he notices is the boy’s hair. Bright red, and pointing up in many directions. It must take a long time to style and a lot of product to get it to stay so upright like that. Wakatoshi knows this because he enjoys watching commercials when his mother is out and he gets access to the family television, and hair product commercials are some of his favourite.

“Do you use Shiseido Uno?”

The boy has a very expressive face. Wakatoshi likes that — it makes talking to him a lot easier. Like a cartoon character the boy’s wide eyes scrunch up, pushed down by his eyebrows and his mouth twists to the side.

“What’s that?” he asks curiously.

“A hair wax. The number one in Japan for a man who likes to look stylish but natural.” Wakatoshi quotes easily; he’s seen the advert many times.

The boy’s eyes squint just a little more before popping wide open, and his mouth stretches into a grin that shows eight of his top teeth. One of the front ones is chipped at the corner; Wakatoshi thinks he should see his dentist about that to ensure that there hasn’t been any further damage.

“Oooh! I haven’t heard of it, but it sounds very good.” the boy says around his chipped tooth. “But nope. This is au naturale. You want to know my secret?”

Wakatoshi doesn’t know what ‘au naturale’ means but it sounds like English, or maybe French. Like the perfume adverts on the sales channel: ‘La vie est belle - Lancôme’.

“What secret?” Wakatoshi asks.

The boy leans in close and Wakatoshi gets a hint of pine. Maybe he uses the same shower gel as his father? It’s a pleasant, familiar scent. 

“I haven’t brushed my hair in six years!” the boy whispers excitedly, wide eyes darting about as if he’s revealing something secret and important. Wakatoshi is reasonably certain that nobody cares if the boy does or does not brush his hair.

“I see.” 

The boy stands up straight again and sticks his hand out. He’s got spindly fingers with plasters wrapped around his bony knuckles on some of them. His nail-beds are narrow and the nails themselves have been bitten until there’s no white showing at all. 

“It’s bad for your gut health to bite your nails.” Wakatoshi points out. “It can also lead to chipped and misaligned teeth.”

The boy examines his own nails before wiggling his long fingers at Wakatoshi. They look like fleshy pink spiders. Wakatoshi likes spiders — they’re smart, small and quick. Spiders would be excellent at volleyball: eight legs for receiving, spiking, blocking and serving, and nets they could make themselves. 

Of course, spiders do not play volleyball, because they are spiders.

“Don’t worry about my gut! I spit the nails out after I bite them; collect them in a little pile and put them in the garbage. My teeth?” The boy grins again, this time stretching his lips enough that Wakatoshi can see the tops of his bottom teeth as well. “Well, I already chipped one from falling on the court, so if I chip any others maybe they’ll just be symmetrical. You seem like a guy who appreciates symmetry. Two chipped teeth would be better than one, don’t you think?”

Wakatoshi doesn’t listen to the boy talk about symmetry. The minute the boy’s mouth curls around the word ‘court’, Wakatoshi feels his heart race. It feels like his blood is electric as it races around his body at double speed and it makes him want to rub his fingers together.

“The court?” he asks, his toes curling in his shoes. He can hear his mother in his head, telling him that clenching his fists isn’t appropriate in social settings — it makes you look violent, Wakatoshi — so he wiggles his toes instead. The shoes aren’t big enough for much movement but it’s something to keep the simmering discomfort from bubbling up.

“Yep!” The boy sticks his hand out again and his big eyes look pointedly at it as he wiggles his fingers. “The name’s Tendou Satori - like the mind reading yokai." He stretches across the remain distance and grasps Wakatoshi's own hand in an awkward handshake. "We’ll be playing together on the Volleyball Team, Wakatoshi-kun.”

“Did you like the manga I leant you, Wakatoshi-kun?” Tendou asks over lunch.

Over the few months he has known the other boy, Wakatoshi has observed that Tendou doesn’t eat very much and when he does, he eats in very particular ways. Today he has plain uruchimai which he picks up with two fingers and shapes into small, sausage shapes before eating them. He doesn’t add nori, or tako sausage or any filling or topping at all. Just plain rice. Then he will eat a piece of fruit, and a vegetable — cut into small, bite size chunks. Lastly, he will eat a singular chocolate. The brand is always something that Wakatoshi doesn’t recognise; they look expensive and foreign. Tendou saves these for last, and his mouth stretches wide whenever he eats them.

“The advertisements were very enjoyable.” Wakatoshi replies, taking a bite of his own lunch and suppressing a grimace. "I will begin reading the story this weekend."

His mother has packed him a spinach salad which is horribly low in protein and has a foul slimy texture that makes him want to swing his arms to let out some of the unpleasant feeling that wells up inside of him. Wakatoshi has learnt, over many years, to control this urge until he can let it out in a private environment but it does not make the dish any easier to consume.

Tendou studies him for a moment, his expressive eyebrows scrunching up in the centre of his face. 

“Gimme that salad.” 

Wakatoshi must look as confused as he feels, because Tendo laughs. It’s a bright, warm laugh that for the first time feels like it’s not directed at him.

“I can tell you hate it, but you’re too polite not to eat what’s been packed for you or waste food. So I’m taking it off your hands. I’ll rinse it and feed it to my sister’s rabbit when I get home, so someone who enjoys spinach can have it.”

Wakatoshi wordlessly allows Tendou to take his bento box and sits silently while the boy gets up from their bench in the dining hall and shimmies through the crowd. A few minutes later he reappears, holding a tray.

“Ta-da!” he says loudly, signature grin fixed on his face. 

Tendou presents the tray to Wakatoshi, who takes it with both hands. Upon it are three bowls; one with plain uruchimai, one with grilled fish and one with some boiled vegetables.

“I didn’t get you miso soup because I know you don’t like the texture, and the pickled vegetables looked sort of slimy so I left those too.” Tendou explains as he takes his seat again, tucking the spinach salad into his school bag. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want chicken or fish but I think fish is healthier so I figured you’d prefer that.” 

It has been a very, very long time since someone gave Wakatoshi food that considers his aversions to certain tastes and textures. When he was young, his father would allow him to separate his foods so that softer, wetter dishes didn’t touch things that were more firm and dry. His father wouldn’t force him to eat salads that were soggy or slimy, or soup which is too runny. But when his mother found out she had scolded them both, telling his father that pandering to his unusual palette would only make him appear strange as he grew up. After that, his father didn’t prepare his lunches at all.

“Thank you, Tendou.” he says quietly. 

Tendou just gives him a very long look before his face splits into a smile. “No worries, Wakatoshi-kun. That’s what friends are for, right?”

The word ‘friends’ sends warmth shooting down Wakatoshi’s arms and legs. He wants to swing his arms in circles, hard and fast and stamp his feet on the ground until it makes his bones rattle. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch, a feeling that is welcome but uncommon.

“We’re friends?” Wakatoshi asks. He’s not sure if that’s a rude thing to ask but so far Tendou hasn’t seemed bothered by anything he says or does, not like the children at his Junior High school. 

Tendou’s mouth makes a small ‘o’ shape and his big eyes blink at Wakatoshi. For a moment, Wakatoshi’s heart sinks. Has he misspoken? The rules of social situations have become more familiar to him the older he gets — really, it’s the same thing over and over in different settings. Once he learns the formula for one situation he is able to apply it to others: like algebraic equations. He’s sure that he doesn’t fit in seamlessly, but he can generally get by without causing too much upset. Perhaps he’s slipped up? Afterall, this is a situation he hasn’t encountered before.

It doesn’t last more than a second though before Tendou laughs loudly and slaps Wakatoshi on the arm with his boney hand. 

“Of course we’re friends, Wakatoshi-kun! Do you think I lend my precious shonen jump manga to just anyone?”

Tendou Satori is the first person to call Ushijima Wakatoshi a friend.

“You need new shoes.”

Wakatoshi glances over his shoulder from where he’s been stretching. 

“Volleyball shoes?” he asks.

His volleyball shoes are top of the range; he’d saved up for months to buy them because of how highly recommended they are. He can’t imagine why Semi-san would think he needs new ones.

“No, your ordinary school shoes. They’re the same design I wore when I was ten.”

Wakatoshi blinks and then goes back to his stretches.

“They’re ugly, Ushijima. You can't turn up to Nationals in those things, we’ll get laughed at before we’re even on the court.”

“Now, now.” Tendou says, floating across the court with his arms spread. “Don’t be mean to Wakatoshi-kun, Semisemi. He can wear whatever shoes he likes!”

“If you call me that one more time—” Semi-san uses the voice that is almost exclusively reserved for Tendou. Wakatoshi can’t quite pinpoint what it sounds like but he knows from experience that it means Semi-san is annoyed.

“What will you do, Semisemi?” Tendou asks curiously, bobbing from side to side. “Fold me up until I fit into a little box and then package me up and ship me off to a far away land where there’s no chocolate or parfait?”

Wakatoshi looks over his shoulder again to see Semi-san staring at Tendou with a look that can only be described as dumbfounded — his jaw hangs open a little and his eyes look almost completely flat. 

“You are insane, you know that?”

“All the best people are!” Tendou sing-songs back before he departs to the other side of the court with a skip in his step, no doubt to badger their seniors about being made a starting blocker. 

Wakatoshi was made a starting wing spiker almost as soon as they began the year, but five months on Tendou has still yet to kick any of the third years from their places. ‘Patience is a virtue I do not possess’ he tells Wakatoshi whenever the subject comes up ‘I’ll steal it from them with my teeth if I have to.’ Wakatoshi isn’t sure how you can steal a volleyball position with your teeth but he wishes Tendou the best of luck nonetheless.

“I’m serious Ushijima.” Semi-san’s voice directs his attention away from thoughts of Tendou biting their captain into submission. “That style hasn’t been in trend for a long time and I think you’ll find you fit in more at school if you get a more modern design. I know you don’t care about fashion, but I also know you don’t like to stick out.”

A tiny warmth blossoms in Wakatoshi’s stomach; he hadn’t realised his teammate paid attention to him so closely. It’s not a skill Wakatoshi himself possesses — to be able to observe another and gain insights into their likes and dislikes, subtle elements of their personality, just from looking. He knows from experience that others are able to, but only from taking the time to observe. It is an act of care.

“I do not know what else to buy.” Wakatoshi admits, pointing his toes and leaning forward to stretch out his calves and hamstrings. “I chose these because I have worn this style since I first started school.”

He brings his arms above his head and then allows them to fall down, repeating the action over and over. When he was diagnosed with autism at age six, he was told that these behaviours were called “stimming” or “self-stimulating” behaviours. Wakatoshi also knows — his mother will never let him forget — that these behaviours are not typically acceptable in public or social situations, at least according to her.

However on the court, where bodies and limbs are constantly moving, Wakatoshi feels comfortable letting them out; each spike where the ball connects solidly with his hand and his arm flies round is a joy. It’s part of the reason he loves volleyball. 

Semi-san clears his throat, redirecting Wakatoshi’s attention to the conversation. “I’ll take you then.” He says, as if the solution is as simple as can be. “As your friend, I can’t let you walk about in those monstrosities anymore. This weekend, we’ll go and find something better.”

Semi Eita is the second person to call Ushijima Wakatoshi a friend.

It is amusing to Wakatoshi, now that he thinks about it.

It’s his final year at Shiratorizawa, and they’ve made it to Nationals yet again. Of course they have, they’re incredibly strong — he never doubted them for a second.

Wakatoshi watches with curiosity as their opponents prepare themselves. He’s surprised to see that they’ve made it this far. They’re not a wealthy school, or one with a good history. Logically, there is no reason that they have succeeded to this point — poor foundations give way to fragile buildings. And yet, here they are. It’s a school he’s had very little contact with, aside from giving a rather short tour to two of their youngest members earlier in the year. 

It is one of those members that grabs his attention now. 

He’s a tall boy, with black hair and a serious face. Kageyama Tobio, if Wakatoshi is remembering correctly. People have never been, and probably will never be, his strong suit but he’s pretty certain that’s the boy’s name.

He stands apart from his team, as if not quite allowing himself into their circle which is slightly too tight for him to comfortably move into. His face is a picture of focus but his shoulders hunch up and down and his fingers tap at his sides, going unnoticed by his teammates who chatter amongst themselves as they warm up just a few metres from him.

Wakatoshi feels the urge to say something. He knows that feeling, knows it too well. It’s not the first time he’s recognised it in other people; perhaps because autism is so closely woven into his own experience of living, it is one of the only things he can easily recognise in others. The subtleties of facial expressions and spoken conversation pass him by on a daily basis, but the rhythmic tapping of fingers is a language he is fluent in. 

It’s still a quarter hour until the game starts. Perhaps, as a senior in the game, he should go over and say something — to tell the boy that it’s okay to let it out, that restricting himself will in turn restrict his ability to play on top form. That his autism isn’t something to be ashamed of, that it is part of himself that he needs to learn to live with peacefully. Wakatoshi wants to tell the boy all the things that he wishes he knew then; things that he has learnt since, with the help of his friends.

As he stands from his stretch to walk over, Kageyama looks over at the tiny ginger middle blocker who had swiped the ball right out of the air in front of Wakatoshi’s face several months ago. 

‘Hinata Shouyou’ his brain supplies ‘from the concrete’.

Hinata bounces over to Kageyama and says something which turns the other boy’s passive expression into a deep frown. Kageyama’s hand, which had been fidgeting restlessly at his side, shoots out and finds purchase in the shorter boy’s hair where his fingers flex and pull, over and over. Hinata makes no effort to move away though, and simply laughs — a wide smile that shows eight of his top teeth — and Wakatoshi watches as Kageyama’s shoulders finally relax. 

Wakatoshi didn’t need to worry. Kageyama has already found someone to call him ‘friend’.

He turns his back to his opponents and is greeted with the sight of his own team. Tendou catches his eye and waves with both hands, ten gangly fingers wiggling at him with an enthusiasm and energy for life that never seems to run out. Next to him, Semi rolls his eyes at the erratic hand movements but smiles all the same. The rest of his teammates beckon Wakatoshi over and he fits easily into their circle; there was a spot waiting just for him. Tendou and Semi were the first people to call him a friend, but now he has so many that he fears he may lose count.

It is amusing to Wakatoshi, now that he thinks about it. How lonely he was when he first joined Shiratorizawa. He’d never experienced support or companionship, at home or at school, he was always alone. Now, it seems like a distant memory; so long ago that it must have happened to someone else rather than him. That isn’t true of course, he knows his own life from some fantasy or story. 

And yet, as he stands shoulder to shoulder with people whom he trusts with his secrets, his dreams, his vulnerabilities and his happiness, he thinks that a life of solitude isn’t familiar at all.