Apple Trees

Part One

"Asahi."

He hums, not looking away from his computer. Deft hands tap away at the keyboard incessantly, typing something I can't see.

"You've been typing for hours," I grumble.

He clicks at something with one hand and absentmindedly pats my head with the other. Then he brings it right back up and continues typing.

"Asahi!"

Finally, he sighs and looks down at me, where my head lies in his lap. I glare up at him, puffing out my cheeks. But of course, how could I stay mad at him? Not when his long hair falls like that around his scruffy jaw; not when his nervous brown eyes look down at me; not when his lips are curved up into a small smile.

"It's the holidays," I tell Asahi, sitting up and narrowly avoiding hitting my head on his table (which I've done plenty of times now). "You shouldn't be typing away on your computer!"

Asahi's room is surprisingly large, considering the lack of decor, and the fact that his older sister moved out a couple years ago. Where my room has posters covering the walls, he simply has photos hanging from strings. Instead of a drum set and piles of clothes, he has two bookshelves, the table we're sitting at, a spinning rack full of movies, and a television. And instead of a small bed shaped like a red car (which I refuse to give up), he has a full-sized bed with cream-colored sheets.

Boring.

Asahi holds the table as I rise from my own chair and plop myself onto his lap. "Yuu, it's for extra credit--"

"And it's Monday! The break's only just started!" I stubbornly cross my arms.

He raises his eyebrows and tugs nervously at the collar of the emerald green hoodie I'd gotten him yesterday, ignoring his protests. They bring out your eyes, I'd told him, and out was true - the green compliments the rich brown beautifully.

"L - look. I just have... one more paragraph left. I'll look over it and turn it in later, alright? Just give me ten minutes," Asahi pleads, scrunching up his eyebrows.

He knows I think he's cute when he does that. He knows. So I won't give in.

I groan and slump forward, giving in. "Fine," I say into his chest. The rumble of his laughter sends shivers through my nerves. "Just hurry up."

Asahi hums a familiar tune as he begins typing again; I'm small enough, however much I hate it, that he can simply reach around me to his keyboard. I lift up his hoodie, still grumbling nonsensically. Then I burrow in, tugging it down behind me and wrapping my arms around him - as 'around' as I can, at least.

That's the real reason I got him one that was at least two sizes two large: although I'd said I just wanted to make sure it'd fit, I really just wanted to share it. Of course, he probably saw right through my blatant lie, but he's far too kind to say it.

I sigh, content at last, and close my eyes. Asahi's warmth comfortably seeps through his undershirt like a heater.

~•°•°--------------------°•°•~

About One Year Ago

After Losing to 'The Iron Wall'

"No matter how many tosses I get... I will never be able to spike. I'm not an ace."

Nishinoya grabbed Asahi's jacket front after hearing the latter's words. "THIS IS THE POINT OF VOLLEYBALL! TO KEEP TRYING UNTIL YOU GET A POINT! UNTIL YOU WIN! YOU CAN'T EVER GIVE UP!"