literature

welcome home. ushijima wakatoshi

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Literature Text


author's note: this fic contains spoilers regarding Ushijima’s family situation (ch. 176).


*



            The ambiance of the airport is excessively festive, with an obscenely large Christmas tree placed at the center of the waiting area, and under it are neatly wrapped presents, which Ushijima quickly deduces are merely empty boxes inside. Crowds of people are bustling about, carrying with them heavy suitcases while greeting their loved ones with affectionate kisses beneath the bright, glittering Christmas lights dangling haphazardly on white, sterile walls; some have gone inside the duty-free to do their last minute shopping amid the horde of holiday shoppers.

             Ushijima is seated in a steel bench situated near the glass windows, already dusted with light snow, staring at the assembly of airplanes on the runway. One hand is shoved inside a pocket of his leather trench coat, the other holding onto your photograph.

             An elderly woman beside him decides to start a conversation, a kind smile on her face. “You must be waiting for someone special.”

            He gives her a wry look. Ushijima is not well versed in the art of conversing, only replying with short, clear-cut answers, and Tendou (or was it Semi? Maybe even all of the members of the Shiratorizawa volleyball team) had pointed out to him that he was only much more vocal when talking about volleyball. He has no problem with this.

            The woman has apparently grown accustomed to cold politeness and continues on despite his lack of reply. “You’ve been waiting here for almost three hours.”

             “The flight was merely delayed,” Ushijima states, his tone clipped and somewhat strained, clearly unamused by her suggestion.

           “That is true, but,” her eyes flicker to the photograph, and the former grand ace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not quite enjoying her inquisitive look, “you’ve only been looking outside the whole time and—aha! You’re worried, aren’t you?”

           Wakatoshi has never liked clever, almost invulnerable seniors—he already has his matriarchal grandmother, who was traditionally strict, going as far as correcting his left handedness, because ‘that is how things have always been in our household,’ and had his father not pleaded her to let him remain the same, he would not have been able to be where he was now.

              “...Yes,” he acknowledges her unwillingly, lips drawn to a thin line. His eyes briefly wander to your picture and gives it a withering look, as if to say “this is all your fault.”

            “And you’re most definitely waiting for that person in the photo, am I right?” She asks, looking thoughtful for a moment, and then—Ushijima did not just witness an 80-year old lady looking downright smug.

               Unbelievable.

               The ex-captain decides then and there to quietly ignore the still snickering elderly woman, focusing instead on your slightly faded photograph—it’s a portrait of you carrying a bouquet of freshly cut sunflowers, with a chestnut colored straw-hat placed on top your head. But what really captured his interest was your naturally radiant smile that captured a thousand suns, and the distinct pearly whites adorned in between, moonlit and heavenly.

               The old woman has stopped laughing now, replaced by a more serious face.

               “Do you love her?”

             Ushijima was never a sentimental person—he saw no reason to wear his heart in his sleeve, for emotions were nothing more than a peculiarity to him, an abstract concept that went beyond his normal comprehension. Yet he finds himself glancing at your photograph that he had neatly tucked inside his wooden desk more often during your indefinite absence, or that you constantly plague his dreams at three in the morning, when the stars are simply faint particles in the night sky.

             But more than anything, he was afraid: because while love is a burning passion of innocent hearts, of strange lovers and soft whispers, it is also fickle and volatile and ever-changing, where there is no permanence—and he is so, so scared of losing himself in this abyss of uncertainty. He remembers his parents’ divorce, his father moving away and going overseas, and although he is no longer grief-stricken by his departure, it still remains a lingering memory in the back of his head.

             Even when he meets you, he is still cautious. Always carefully treading on thin ice, never opening himself to you, even if the rhythmic pulse of his beating heart roars painfully against his ribcage. There was always this measured distance, invisible words at the tip of his tongue when his determination left him in the dust, what ifs and could haves.

                It was one summer ago when you confronted him about his behavior, and he was very much sure that you were going to end the relationship, and yet—

                The soft, delicate smile on your face proved him otherwise.

                “You have to open your heart a little, Wakatoshi-kun. I can’t promise that I won’t ever hurt you, but...” You interlace your fingers with his larger ones, “it’s better than nothing, right?”

                “Yes, I do.” Ushijima says, confident.

               The older woman smirks a little, not at all surprised by his answer. She stands up from her seat, pulling her scarf closer, and responds before leaving. “Take care of her, okay?”

                “I will.”

            You’re running hastily towards his direction with a suitcase behind you, cheeks flushed from both exhaustion and excitement. Wakatoshi makes his way towards you, and shoves your picture in one of his coat pockets.

                “[Name]—”

            “Wakatoshi!” You lunge towards him and encircle your arms around his neck, abandoning your suitcase somewhere on the floor. He stumbles a bit, but eventually regains his composure and tentatively wraps his muscled arms on your back to support you.

                “I missed you so much! You were really sad without me, huh!? Aww, looks like Wakatoshi-kun missed me too—”

                You’re caught off guard by the faint, genuine smile in his face, and you can feel your heart clench at his unusually soft features.

                “I did.”

                He presses his forehead against yours.

                “Merry Christmas, [Name].”
this fic is an entry for espressocakes's contest!
this is also my holiday themed fic for december (even if it's almost january lmao)
if you see any grammatical mistakes, please tell me right away!


haikyuu (c) furudate haruichi
© 2015 - 2024 dovelair
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Babyparadise's avatar
Merry Christmas too toshi-kun~ 💜