this is how tomorrow moves... ushijima wakatoshi x reader
˚₊‧♡‧₊˚ - wakatoshi's life was always lived along side the hum of your violin, since when did it get replaced by strums of metal? tags: rich!reader, semi's cousin, fluff, swearing, angst later, musical prodigy reader, sfw <3, discription is mentioned sorry, but only stuff like hair and clothing masterlist
Much to his oba-chan’s dismay, Wakatoshi only knew how to play the piano. Not the cello. Not the flute. And worst of all, he had never touched a violin.
"A baby could play the piano beautifully," she had scoffed once, arms crossed as she watched his fingers move stiffly over the keys. "But a violin? Now that takes true artistry."
She had wanted a musician. Someone who could bring out the soul of an instrument, who could command an audience with a single bow stroke. A violinist’s hands were meant to mold sound into something alive—fragile, fierce, untouchable. But Wakatoshi had never been interested in delicate strings or breathy woodwinds. He wanted control. He wanted movement. He wanted to play volleyball, just like his father.
So, the violin—her prized instrument—remained untouched in its case, the polished wood hidden beneath layers of velvet, gathering dust in the corner of their home. She had told him it would stay that way until he could play both voices of the song properly.
Carnival of the Animals: The Swan. A duet for piano and violin. A melody that drifted through his childhood like a whisper of things left unfinished. The song he had learned to pour tea to, each note threading through the air with the scent of steeped leaves and warm tatami. His grandmother’s favorite piece—and for now, his as well.
But this wasn’t the usual melody that spoke tenderly to Wakatoshi’s thoughts. Lasting keys gave way to striking strums, the sharp twang of steel strings breaking through the quiet. His brows drew inward.
Ever since his last year in junior high, he had come to the third-floor music wing to listen. One of the rare places in Shiratorizawa Academy that brought him back to his early mornings with his oba-chan. He would sit just across from the open practice rooms, letting the soft timbre of violin strings fill the empty hall. It had become a habit, an unspoken ritual, one that helped quiet the restless thoughts that sometimes settled in his mind.
But today—today was different.
The confusion was evident in Wakatoshi’s expression. His brows knit together, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his usually steady gaze. His head tilted ever so slightly to the left, as if a different angle would help him process what he was hearing.
It was wrong. Not in an unpleasant way, but in a way that unsettled something deep in his chest.
The sound had hit him just as he stepped onto the third floor—a sharp, resonant strum, cutting through the air like a clean blade. Not the smooth glide of a bow across strings, not the aching vibrato of a well-held note. It was rougher, bolder, something that demanded space rather than slipping into it.
Ever since his last year in junior high, the third-floor hallway had been a sanctuary of delicate strings and practiced arpeggios. A place where he could sit against the wall, close his eyes, and let the weight of the day dissolve into each measured note.
But this—this wasn’t the same. It was something new. Something Wakatoshi couldn’t help but be drawn to.
And it was coming from the practice room at the end of the hall.
Determination was a quality that was evident in the way he lived. Every step he took carried weight, every word he spoke was measured—nothing wasted, nothing lingering. There was no room for indecision in his movements, no hesitations in his plans.
He was methodical, the kind of person whose pace never faltered, whose decisions never wavered. When he moved, it was always with intent. Even his silences had purpose—reserved for moments when words didn’t need to be said. All those were qualities he had been praised and admired for, though he never understood why. At the end of the day, he always knew what was next.
But this sound, this discordant strum, it tugged at the edge of that rhythm, a break in the usually seamless pattern of his life.
The music was louder now, a sharp edge that seemed to vibrate through the floor beneath him, drowning out the usual echo of his footsteps. For a moment, he found himself frozen in place, the usual clarity of his next movement stalling. His foot, which would have naturally moved forward without a second thought, hovered for the briefest instant. The sensation that this moment was different had an almost tangible weight to it—something unsettling, yet undeniably... pulling.
Without thinking, his pace quickened. His bookbag bounced against his leg, the familiar thud a reminder of the habitual things he carried with him. But his thoughts weren’t on the bag or the end of the day. No, they were on the sound. The rhythm was foreign to him, but it had a strange kind of pull—a curiosity that made his heart beat a little faster.
His steps came faster, now, the music almost guiding his movement. There was something magnetic about it—something that made him want to see who was behind it. Who could create such a sound? He could already feel the words bubbling up, the anticipation of telling Tendou later. He almost didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.
Finally, he reached the end of the hall. The other practice rooms were empty, their doors left ajar, but all the sounds were coming from the one at the end. He paused briefly, hand resting on the doorframe, listening.
Then, as if on cue, someone started singing. The soft, almost fragile voice cutting through the music.
"Spinning out on what to say or what to do."
He almost stopped, the air catching in his throat. His steps faltered, his usual precision thrown off by the beauty of the voice. It was soft, tender—a contrast to the strums that echoed through the hall, which still rang with strength and urgency.
Wakatoshi hadn’t expected this. He’d imagined that a strong guitar would accompany a strong voice, something deep and raw, like the rock songs Eita had once forced him to listen to. Songs that had felt like they were meant to punch him in the chest, to rattle his bones. He remembered those moments—the ache in his ears, the harshness in his head. But this? This was different.
This voice was like velvet—smooth, controlled, each note wrapping around him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The guitar’s intensity was tempered by the delicate timbre of the singing, a seamless blend of power and softness, of strength and vulnerability. The contrast felt like a revelation to him, something unexpected and unshakeable.
Wakatoshi’s feet moved again before he realized it, the beat of the music syncing with his own steps. He had to see who this was. He couldn’t let the curiosity go—he wanted to know what was happening in that room, to understand the magic that had pulled him here.
The door was just a few feet away now, and his heart seemed to beat a little faster with every step.
Through the gap in the doorframe, he saw you.
He could only make out the side of you—your figure silhouetted against the room’s light, framed by the soft glow of the windows. His gaze immediately settled on the guitar you held so tenderly, the way your fingers brushed the strings. There was something captivating in the simple way you sat there, at ease, as if the music was a part of you. And yet, he couldn’t shake the sense that he wasn’t simply watching someone play an instrument—he was witnessing something far deeper.
Wakatoshi’s heart skipped a beat, the confusion settling in, tight and inexplicable. You looked beautiful.
He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t even begin to decipher why he felt this way. He had seen beautiful things before. His mother had an extensive collection of vintage yukatas displayed in one of the many halls of their estate, each piece carefully preserved and admired for its intricate colors and fine craftsmanship. When he was little, he would sit for hours in front of them, entranced by the delicate threads woven together into something so exquisite. He knew what beauty was. He understood it in a way that went beyond simple admiration.
But this... this was different. Why did he feel this pull toward you? Why did something so simple as the way your hair fell against your shoulder, the pink highlight catching in the light, stir something in him?
He watched the way you held your guitar, the wood of the instrument catching the sunlight streaming in through the windows, casting a soft, pink hue at your feet. It was as if you were suspended in time—unaware of the effect you were having on the world around you. Your movements, delicate and purposeful, seemed to have their own rhythm. There was something natural about the way you existed in the space. The contrast between the soft, almost ethereal voice and the steady strums of the guitar created a harmony that felt real, raw. It made Wakatoshi want to understand you more, to know what had led to this moment.
In some ways, you reminded him of an idol—though the thought immediately felt wrong. Idols performed for an audience, their image curated, their emotions manufactured by the hands of a controlling company. But you, Wakatoshi could tell, didn’t play for anyone but yourself. The way you seemed lost in the music, your fingers dancing across the strings as if the world had faded away around you, made it clear that this was something pure. Something personal.
Wakatoshi stood there, the edge of the doorframe digging into his shoulder as he lingered in the threshold. At first, the music was all that filled his senses—the sharp, deliberate strums of the guitar, each one echoing down the empty hallway, threading through the air with a mix of tension and release. It was hypnotic. The kind of sound that seeped into the space around him, demanding attention, drawing his thoughts away from everything else.
But then, as the melody continued, something shifted.
His mind snapped back to the present when you turned your head, catching the way the sunlight caught in your hair. You weren’t aware of him at first, lost in the reverie of the music, your fingers lightly grazing over the guitar strings, moving with such practiced ease. You had a few clips in your hair, some colorful and some simple, sticking out of your otherwise messy ponytail, strands of hair escaping and curling around your face. The clips weren’t particularly stylish, but they gave the impression of someone who wasn’t concerned with perfection—someone who just... was.
What caught his attention most was the way the sunlight danced across your skin, casting a soft glow, illuminating the contours of your cheekbones, the gentle curve of your jaw. The slight pink hue of the light reflected in your hair—giving the whole room a surreal, ethereal glow.
Then, when you finally turned to meet his gaze, it wasn’t the shock or discomfort he expected. Your expression was more... teasing? His heart gave a peculiar lurch, and the moment stretched out between you two. For the briefest second, he thought he imagined the slight lift of your eyebrows, the way your lips curled in the most subtle, mocking grin—like you knew exactly what you were doing. His breath caught, caught somewhere between disbelief and fascination. And before he could even fully process that, your voice melded effortlessly back into the music, an easy continuation of the song, as if the brief interruption didn’t matter.
The strumming continued as your hand moved fluidly along the guitar, and he caught the fleeting contrast of the motion—the way your fingers danced so tenderly across the strings, like each note was a secret only you could share. But it wasn’t just the sound that made him stay rooted to the spot; it was the way you embodied it. Every movement of your hands, every small breath between words felt like it had a rhythm of its own. The light that surrounded you, the shadowed shapes of your figure—everything felt like it was part of the same song, woven together seamlessly.
Wakatoshi’s focus shifted slightly, and for the first time, he took note of the little things—the details he might have otherwise missed. You were wearing those mismatched leg warmers, the kind that were so out of place in the sweltering warmth of the afternoon sun, but they fit you in some inexplicable way. The fabric was wrinkled from frequent use, the woolen texture a contrast to the smoothness of your skin. They were colorful too—stripes of purple, pink, and blue, which somehow added to the whimsical vibe of the whole scene, like you didn’t mind the oddity of it. It was such a small thing, but it made him feel like he was seeing something genuine, something real. You weren’t putting on a performance for anyone. You were just... existing.
And then there was the way you held the guitar. He hadn’t realized how delicate the act of playing could be. Your fingers pressed against the strings with a kind of reverence, barely any pressure, as though the instrument was an extension of yourself. The polished wood of the guitar gleamed in the soft light, the grain of it catching the sunlight in a way that made it look almost alive. He didn’t know much about guitars, but the way the instrument seemed to come alive in your hands made it clear that it wasn’t just an object—it was something you shared a connection with.
That connection was even more apparent when you glanced at him again, this time with that faint smile. It wasn’t a smile that invited company or conversation—it was almost as if you were amused by him being there, caught in your world without an invitation. That small, knowing laugh bubbled up from your chest, almost in time with the song, and it threw him off-balance. For a brief moment, he wondered if you were laughing at him. Was his presence that obvious? Was it strange that he couldn’t pull himself away? But there was no mockery in your voice—just a playfulness that was unexpected. It felt... like you were in on a joke he hadn’t heard yet.
Wakatoshi’s gaze was caught by your lips as you turned back to the guitar. The soft smile lingered there, like a secret you hadn’t shared yet, but it didn’t disappear into silence. Instead, it turned into the quiet hum of your voice again, slipping back into the song. The sound of your voice weaving its way through the air, so fluid and natural. His chest tightened again.
And in that moment, he wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had shifted in him. It wasn’t just that you were beautiful—there were plenty of beautiful things in the world. Beautiful objects, beautiful places, beautiful people. But this felt different. It wasn’t a superficial thing, not the kind of beauty that one could describe in simple words. There was something about you—the way you existed in the space, the way your energy matched the music, how the light seemed to bend to you—that created a pull, one he couldn’t understand.
His pulse quickened as his eyes traced the outline of your figure. You were like the song itself—melodic and haunting, but also untouchable, unknowable. And that was what drew him in. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wanted to know more. There was a quiet hunger in his chest, an urgency to understand what made you so magnetic.
But, as he’d been graced with your presence, something had to go horribly wrong. For the first time in his life, Wakatoshi was late to volleyball practice.
The soft hum of his watch on his wrist broke his trance. He blinked, pulling himself back into the present. He glanced down and saw the notification—Shiratorizawa Boys Volleyball Club Practice
The cold reality hit him like a slap. 5:00 p.m.
His usual routine was precise—he had it all memorized and organized, everything set neatly in his calendar. Practice at 5:00 p.m., with reminders set in place out of habit. It was a habit formed after his mother’s presence began to decline, when she could no longer drive him to club practices. He’d gotten used to the rhythm of those reminders, a gentle nudge that kept everything in place.
He could curse under his breath, the reminder of his responsibilities dragging him back to reality. His eyes flickered back to the practice room, disappointment settling in his chest. He hadn’t expected to be this drawn in by the song, by you. He wasn’t the type to get sidetracked like this—he was always so on top of things. So organized. And yet, here he was, standing in the doorway, trying to force himself to pull away.
But before he could take a step, he heard the final notes of the song float through the door. The last one hung in the air like a sweet, lingering breath, a note that refused to fade completely, as if it wanted to stay forever. His feet seemed glued to the floor as the sound wrapped around him, sinking deep into his bones.
The room had fallen still again, and for a moment, everything was silent, save for the faint echo of that final note. He could feel it in his chest, the way it settled like a quiet promise, like something unfinished.
And though words barely formed in his mind, a realization took root: he wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for, but he knew—he didn’t want to leave until he found out.
The melody still lingered, but the reality of his commitment tugged at him. He took one last glance into the room, a brief moment where he caught the lingering softness of your presence, your hair still catching the light, the guitar resting in your lap like a lover, before he reluctantly turned and walked away. His steps were slow at first, like he was walking in sync with the fading music, trying to hold on to the memory of the sound, the way your voice had seemed to pierce through the air, leaving an imprint on his mind.
But as he stepped back down the hall, the final notes of the song reached his ears, and though he didn’t look back, he knew—he wouldn’t forget either the voice or the song. They would stay with him, hidden deep inside, like a seed waiting to grow.
“Days blend to one when I’m on the right beaches.”
The words came out quietly, almost too soft to catch over the muted thud of a volleyball landing somewhere in the gym. It bounced once, then rolled lazily across the court, nudged by a stray gust from the wall fan overhead. Most people would’ve missed it entirely—but Satori didn’t.
He paused mid-stretch, the long lines of his frame frozen in a lazy arch, towel slung loosely around the back of his neck. His red hair was damp with sweat, clinging to the sides of his face in uneven wisps. Slowly, he turned his head toward Wakatoshi, who stood at his side like a statue caught in thought.
“…What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Satori asked, blinking in mock offense, like the sentence had personally walked up and slapped him.
Wakatoshi didn’t answer immediately. He stood tall—noticeably taller than most of the third-years still lingering around the court, despite only being a second-year himself. His height alone made him a presence, but it was the stillness that made people look twice. He wasn’t just resting between drills; he looked… caught. As if his body was in the gym, muscles warm and humming from practice, but his mind was somewhere miles away—somewhere with soft sand, salt-warm wind, and a voice like honey and waves.
He held a water bottle loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the plastic like he’d forgotten he was holding it at all. His eyes were fixed on the far wall of the gym, where the banners hung proudly from seasons past, but it wasn’t the fabric he was seeing. Not really.
His chest rose and fell with a calm, post-practice rhythm. Measured. Controlled. But inside, something had been shaken loose.
“Getting into poetry now, are we, Waka-chan?” Satori asked, voice lilting as he leaned in slightly, like he was trying to peer into the deeper layers of Wakatoshi’s head.
Wakatoshi shook his head once—slow, deliberate.
Then he turned to face Satori more directly, and there was something oddly open in his expression. Not vulnerable, exactly. But… inquisitive.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
Satori blinked. Then blinked again.
“Wait—you don’t know?”
No answer.
And that alone made Satori’s grin twitch a little. Because Wakatoshi always knew what he meant. He always said exactly what he thought, whether people liked it or not.
So Satori squinted at him, exaggerated and comical. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to be mysterious. Oh my god, are you trying to build intrigue now?”
Wakatoshi looked away. Not sharply. Just… distantly.
Satori's teasing slowed to a crawl.
“...Where’d you hear it?” he asked, suddenly more curious than playful.
Wakatoshi paused.
He’d been excited earlier. Really, genuinely excited. The lyric had stuck in his head like a thread caught on a nail, echoing and reshaping itself every time he thought about it. He’d wanted to ask Satori what it meant because Satori was good at that—turning abstract things into shape, giving names to emotions Wakatoshi didn’t always know how to express.
But now that he was here—now that Satori was looking at him with that knowing glint in his eye—he didn’t want to say it.
He didn’t want to tell him about you.
About how your voice had stopped him mid-drill like a rope around the ribs. About how that lyric floated out of you so casually, like it had always belonged to you. About how the gym felt different after hearing it. How he felt different.
It felt selfish. Wanting to keep it. Wanting to keep you.
Everything he had was always shared. The jersey number he wore? Someone else had worn it first. His position on the team? Earned, yes—but never truly his. Volleyball belonged to everyone who played it. Even his victories were shared with teammates, with the school name stitched across his back.
But that song? That lyric? That moment when your voice filled the room and found him in the middle of everything? That felt like it was only his.
And he didn’t want to give it away.
So he lied.
Badly.
“I read it,” he said, flatly. “In a book.”
Satori stared.
Then snorted.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, deadpan, tilting his head. “Sure you did. What book, Waka-chan? The Complete Guide to Suddenly Feeling Human?”
Wakatoshi nodded.
“Yes.”
Satori let the silence stretch a little longer, watching him.
He could see the edges of something fragile in Wakatoshi’s body—the way his grip flexed subtly around his water bottle, the way he wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore. And that alone told him everything he needed.
Wakatoshi never lied. He was blunt to the point of being painful sometimes. His opinions weren’t things he ever felt the need to hide.
So if he was lying?
It had to matter.
Satori didn’t push. Not this time.
Instead, he let the grin come back slow and wide.
Wakatoshi’s mind had already slipped away—to the faint blush of pink light on the floor where you’d sat earlier, guitar balanced on your knee. The quiet confidence in your voice. The shimmer of your hair clip catching sunlight as you turned. The moment your eyes lifted and found his—and the soft little laugh you gave, like you hadn’t expected him to be watching.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
From across the court, one of the third-years cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Ushijima! Tendou! We need you for blocking practice. Semi vs. little Shirabou.”
Satori stretched out his arms dramatically. “Duty calls,” he said with a smirk, then leaned in as they walked. “But this conversation isn’t over. I’m going to find out who made you get that look. And when I do, I’m making them a cake.”
Wakatoshi didn’t respond. But a tiny shift in his expression—halfway between fond and distant—was enough.
He could still hear the lyric in his head, looping like a soft tide.
Days blend to one when I’m on the right beaches.
The hallway still smelled like disinfectant and sweat. Freshly cleaned floors. The faint sting of shampoo Wakatoshi had just rinsed from his scalp still clung to the collar of his uniform shirt. The walk from the gym to the classroom wasn’t long, but the chill of the morning air still clung to his skin beneath his sleeves.
He adjusted the strap of his bag, gaze steady on the door ahead. The familiar scrape of Satori’s footsteps followed behind him—dragged, lazy, a soft slap of soles against tile as he half-shuffled beside him, towel still hanging like a limp scarf around his neck.
Late. But expected. Monday always started with morning practice. The teachers understood that.
Class 2-3 was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the projector at the front of the room. Some documentary was playing, the kind that played slow orchestral music under old film footage. Not that anyone was really watching. A few students had their heads down. Others were doodling in the margins of notebooks or sneakily scrolling through their phones.
None of them looked up—at first.
Wakatoshi stepped through the door and into the room like he always did: silent, steady, unbothered.
Then he stopped.
Mid-stride. Dead still.
Satori bumped into his back with a soft “oof”, and muttered, “Waka-chan, why are we braking in the middle of traffic—”
But then he looked past him. Around him.
And saw it.
Wakatoshi’s desk—his desk, always second from the window, third row—was not empty.
Ayumi was sitting there. Legs crossed neatly at the ankles. Headband tucked into her chestnut curls. She had her bag propped on the seatback and a glitter pen between her fingers, tapping it absently against her cheek as she glanced up at the two of them.
“Oh—hey, Wakatoshi-kun.”
Wakatoshi blinked.
Slowly.
He looked at her. At the desk. At the little ceramic cat charm dangling from her pencil case where his own mechanical pencil normally sat. His brows drew together slightly. His hands shifted where they rested on his bag strap, the tension working into his knuckles.
“I think you’re in the wrong spot, Ayumi-san.”
His voice was low, polite—but loud in the quiet classroom.
Ayumi’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced toward the projector screen like it might save her.
“I—no, um—can you sit down, please?” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips and motioning frantically to the teacher, who was still watching the video from their desk. “We switched spots—I’ll explain, just sit—”
“I think you’re mistaken.” Still not whispering. “This is where I always sit. Satori bothers me, but I can handle it.”
A stifled laugh echoed from somewhere in the back, as well as a small sound of protest from Satori.
Ayumi looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Wakatoshi didn’t move. He reached forward slowly, hand hovering over her things—the pen, her notebook, her drink bottle—like he was about to start gently moving her belongings off his desk.
Satori saw it. He watched Wakatoshi’s fingers twitch like they were trying to grip a volleyball and instead landing on a glittery fruit sticker instead.
“Oh my god,” Satori muttered, stepping around him. “As much as I love attention, I do prefer it when I’m not actively getting Ayumi-chan in trouble.”
“I don’t understand why we need to switch seats,” Wakatoshi said flatly.
“Waka-chan,” Satori whispered—actually whispered this time. “C’mon. New seating chart. It’s fine. There are two empty desks right there, just sit—”
He tugged at Wakatoshi’s sleeve gently, the way one might try to move a boulder that’s thinking about becoming a mountain.
Finally, reluctantly, Wakatoshi stepped back. His hand hovered over Ayumi’s notebook one more time before he let it fall to his side. She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for an hour.
Satori slid easily into the desk to Ayumi’s right, dropping his bag beside his chair with a thump and sprawling immediately like a cat into sunbeams.
Wakatoshi walked around the row, already preparing to sit—
And then he saw you.
You were seated just behind Ayumi, diagonally to the left of Satori’s new spot, right beside where his new desk was.
And you were watching him. With a hand curled near your lips, covering a smile that threatened to spill out anyway.
A soft breath caught in his throat.
It was like the projector light hit you first. Like the room around you dimmed for just a second. The dust motes in the air moved slower. His thoughts lagged behind his body as he took in the delicate slope of your shoulders, the sparkle of the hair clip above your ear, the slight shine of lip balm, the gentle shake of your head as if to say that was ridiculous.
You smiled wider.
He sat down too fast, too straight. Like he was suddenly very aware of how he moved.
Your perfume—something sweet and almost caramelized—drifted into his awareness and completely wrecked the logical part of his brain.
You turned back to the screen.
Wakatoshi stared at the edge of his desk.
He hadn’t said a single word to you.
And yet his heartbeat was in his ears.
He blinked once. Twice.
Satori leaned backwards and whispered like he was narrating a slow-burn movie. “Wonder who Pinky Pie is.”
Wakatoshi didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to. His hands were perfectly still on his desk. But the tips of his ears—just slightly—were red.
You had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.
They weren’t just beautiful. They were familiar.
A very specific kind of familiar. Not the kind that comes from seeing someone in a hallway or on a club poster—but the kind that crawls up from your bones and knocks softly on your memory like an old friend.
And he didn’t know why.
Wakatoshi didn’t shift often. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t move unless movement had purpose. But now—now his posture adjusted in the smallest of ways, a subtle slide of his arm, a half-inch shift of his leg under the desk. Not because he was uncomfortable. But because the energy inside him was prickling.
His brow furrowed—barely. Just a crease. Just enough to mark that something had snagged in the smooth flow of his thoughts.
Your eyes had pierced through it.
There was something about them—the exact hue, the way the light settled into them like it was home. And the smile you wore, too easy and too knowing, it stirred something in him. Not desire. Not nerves. But… a sound. A tune.
A violin.
Just a whisper of it.
Soft and bright, flitting along the edge of a memory.
He didn’t remember the notes, not exactly, but he remembered the feeling. The space between each one. The hush of a room listening to a solo. The scent of polished wood and faintly drying flowers. The swish of a dress hem near a concert stage. The sound you made when you bowed with your head just slightly tilted, before rising again.
That music lived in his memory like dust caught in golden light.
He kept staring. He didn’t even know he was doing it.
Not in the way people stared when they were interested or stunned or trying to get under your skin. No—Wakatoshi stared the way a child looks out a window on a rainy day, trying to remember something the storm reminds him of.
And you felt it.
You’d felt it the whole class. The steady weight of his gaze pulling at your shoulder blades. So eventually, you leaned over, chin tilting with casual confidence, hair spilling like silk across your cheek as your body shifted toward him.
“Is there something on my face, Ushijima-kun?”
Your voice was soft. Curious. No edge. No bite. And that smile—gods, that smile—curved slow and teasing across your lips, as if it had been waiting to be used all morning.
He blinked.
He should’ve looked away. That was the normal thing to do. The polite thing. But he didn’t. He just… looked.
The glitter on your eyelids caught the light like dew. Your eyeliner was sharp and clean, accentuating the upward sweep of your lashes. The shape of your eyes—larger now than he remembered, but still yours.
And then the sunlight from the window hit the pink in your hair. And his breath hitched—only slightly.
Because it was the exact shade of the first flowers to bloom in his mother’s garden each spring. He remembered them. Quiet and soft, blooming between the stones. He remembered bringing one to you once. A long time ago. Maybe.
It clicked—just a little more.
“Still have a staring hobby, huh?” you asked, voice warm with amusement.
His throat moved. And then, in a gesture so very Wakatoshi, he nodded.
You laughed—a quiet thing, like water slipping over stones—and it was only interrupted by the teacher’s voice slicing in:
“Semi-san!”
Heads turned. You straightened slowly, not rushed, not panicked. Graceful. Composed. The ease of someone who was never truly caught off guard.
“I assume you already finished reading the text since you’re chatting with Ushijima-kun! Give me a rundown, if you would.”
Wakatoshi almost—almost—shifted in his seat again. The flicker of guilt was unfamiliar and didn’t sit cleanly in his chest.
But you didn’t miss a beat.
“Of course, sensei,” you said, voice respectful but light, like you’d balanced on the edge of formality and made it your stage. “The koto is a traditional Japanese stringed instrument that dates back to the 7th or 8th century. It was originally imported from China and became part of the imperial court’s gagaku music during the Nara period.”
You tapped your pen gently against your notebook, not to fidget, but to keep time. Your rhythm was steady—measured.
“It was considered an instrument for the elite,” you continued, “mostly among aristocrats and the highly educated. The koto has thirteen strings and is played using picks worn on the fingers… which are super uncomfortable, by the way. At least mine are.”
The class chuckled. Even the teacher smiled.
“Well said, Semi-san.”
You dipped your head once, gracious but amused.
And Wakatoshi just… stared.
Semi.
The puzzle pieces rearranged themselves again. Not fast. Not all at once. But noticeably. Tangibly.
You. Semi.
At break, he stayed in his seat, watching the class shift around him in waves of motion and laughter. He watched you zip your bag. And then, with the same quiet straightforwardness that made his serves so feared, he asked:
“How are you related to Eita?”
You turned, brows raised slightly.
“We’re cousins,” you said.
He frowned—not deeply. But thoughtfully. “Eita only has one cousin.”
You smiled again. Slower this time. Wiser. Like you knew what was coming.
And Wakatoshi felt it. The moment the memory slotted into place.
You.
You were the violinist. The prodigy who went overseas. The girl who played at that recital years ago, whose music silenced even his restless feet. The girl with pink-tinted petals in her hair.
And those eyes.
He remembered you bowing with a practiced grace. The swell of strings that lingered in the air after your last note.
He remembered holding his breath for reasons he didn’t understand.
And now, here you were.
Smiling at him like you’d never left.
a/n: woah, its been a while. sorry here's an old draft i had <333 probably gonna take a little break from writing, sorry loves
