Disclaimer: Haikyuu! belongs entirely to Haruichi Furudate, I only own the OC character, nothing else.

This fic follows the manga, so if you do not want spoilers past the anime episodes, read with caution!

Chapter 11: What Hold Us Back

'Soon this childish body

Will have all its power

And one day a man's strength

In its arm will flower.'

- 'A Child's Song to a Widow,' Jaako Juteini

Present

After the Aobajousai Match

He had been internally battling with himself to just go up and speak to her. He wasn't afraid of her, he was just afraid to speak to her and slip up and accidentally spout something incoherent or stupid. She was a smart, studious student with grades that apparently toed the water of collegiate. As well, she was apparently a fair volleyball player according to the upperclassmen, while he was the only first year left out standing in the rain with Sugawara, Kinoshita and Narita.

He wasn't offended that he shared the sidelines with his elders—they were probably very skilled in their own right—but he did feel a little shut out that since he wasn't as talented as Kageyama or Hinata, or as tall as Tsukishima, he was put on the backburner.

Along the sidelines was Apollonia as well, but she didn't look as though she was left out in the cold: there was a certain amount of pride she wore, whether it was just the shape of her face or the positioning of her body. It was admittedly admirable, that just because she was a woman—and thus was by rules and regulations, not allowed to play alongside them in actual competitions—she stood as though she would be called to the court in an instant. She had a look not of hesitation that he wore, but of expectation, like she was ready to play at a moment's notice.

He desired to profess his awe towards her, but had suffered enough of Tsukishima's reprimanding to know that the phrase, 'She's so cool,' had now become a vile curse in Tsukishima's vocabulary.

'Since she's been here, she hasn't really done anything except check for concussions and stretch with us,' he had said as they walked a few steps behind the group making their way home. 'Yet they talk about her as if she invented volleyball itself.'

Perhaps, but he still wanted to know: he wanted to know more about her, about her skills, about Finland, anything he could learn. Maybe, if he knew, then just maybe she'd be able to mold him into a player worth of standing on the court.

"Yamaguchi, what are you doing?"

He hadn't even realized that his steps had lengthened in stride thus surpassing Tsukishima's. Tsukishima always had a foot ahead of him, in everything in fact, so understandably he must have been startled to see his trusty sidekick departing from his side.

Yamaguchi flinched, but did not slow, instead taking another large step, then another towards the group. He turned his shoulder and offered his a friend a small wave.

"Sorry, Tsukki, I just wanted to ask Apollonia-senpai something."

He could hear a clear, 'Tch,' in return, though had walked too far to turn around. He was already padding lightly behind her, she had taken her place at Sugawara and Daichi's side with all standing tall like an impenetrable wall of third years. He nervously brought his hand out in front of him, cursing himself that his palm was in fact, physically sweating, and lightly tapped Apollonia's shoulder.

She turned around with a quick snap of her neck, the tips of her hair and eyelashes quite ominous being lit in the conflicting tones of the streetlights and nightfall. She inquired his presence with a lift of her eyebrow and patiently waited for his response.

But, all he could do was stutter: not even her name, but just unidentifiable sounds. She probably thought he was pathetic for showing his stomach like that to her as if he were a lowly puppy.

She slowed her limber stride to settle alongside him, looking down at him in what she dearly hoped to portray as a soft and comforting manner. She was a bit downtrodden to see him flinch and shove his hands in his pockets then quickly look away from her—worried that she probably frightened him more than ease him—though straightened back up when his voice—albeit almost trembling—met her ears.

"U-Um… Apollonia-s-senpai… I-I was wo-ondering… U-uhm," how was he going to go about this, "What… is your position on the court?"

There, that was a good start. Ask her what her position was to break the ice, thus giving him the gateway towards asking when she would finally help train them, and then he would be able to pick her brain for how he could train in order to get a chance to actually be on a starting team.

Apollonia offered him a quick look of inquiry. "Middle Blocker," she stated.

"UUUOOOOH," came Hinata's star struck howl, "You're a middle blocker too, Apple-senpai?!"

Hinata shoved Kageyama out of his way to bypass for her—but was immediately yanked backwards by Daichi, being glued to his other hip alongside Tanaka with Sugawara offering a strained wave. Yamaguchi tried to close his jaw without actually moving his hand, and tried to lower his eyebrows to a more respectable level rather than the high peaks of his hairline.

"O-Oh," he returned, trying to quell the palpable excitement in his voice for the sake of remaining casual, "I'm a Middle Blocker too." As if she didn't already know from their charts.

He meant to elongate the conversation into something eloquent and enlightening, but found himself stuttering while Apollonia offered him a pitied tone of acknowledgement—as if she were apologetic that he was at a loss for words beyond the ones he spoke. He glanced around to those in front of him, finding Kageyama and Hinata curiously looking over their shoulders at the two, musing questions of their own, though Daichi ensured that they remained polite enough to allow Yamaguchi the room to speak.

"Di-Do, Do you have any tips for us f-fellow Middle Blockers?"

Apollonia raised her eyebrow and titled her head, rubbing the back of her mane with her bandaged hand.

"What did you want to know?"

Her voice was soft, as if she were trying to save the sanctity of their private conversation despite Hinata desperately trying to wriggle out of Daichi's grip while Kageyama kept flicking his attention behind him. Yamaguchi averted his eyes down to his shuffling feet, mumbling with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Will you be playing with us at all?"

Apollonia seemed to stiffen at his question, but did not deny him of an answer.

"Likely not."

Apollonia

Her apartment was rather small: not as if she would complain about the size—she was lucky to have been graced with housing quarters at all—but everything was small in Japan compared to Finland, especially the likes of her home in Kalajoki.

The walls were stark, unadorned; she had not yet hang up any pictures, mostly because she really never took any pictures or had pictures taken of her during her lifetime, only documentations of certain vegetables that she would buy for a new stew recipe or of the scenery located outside of her porch.

Her phone was oddly bare for a woman of her age: it was as simple, plain and silver as it had been when she first took it out of its packaging, as was its contents inside. Of course, that was mostly because upon arriving in Japan, she decided not to endure the trouble of SIM cards and roaming charges, and just went out and bought an entirely new phone altogether. Her old phone—equally as drab and uninteresting in appearance—was back in Kalajoki, probably powered off and gathering dust.

There was only one number in her new contact list—begrudgingly being her housing manger less she have troubles with her room. Other than that, everything about the device was completely empty: no numbers, no pictures, nothing but her alarms to wake her up for school and calendar to remind her of exam dates. She primarily communicated with her parents through emails and letters, seeing as calling them would probably have cost her enough euros and yen to rent a car in Miyagi.

Not that she was particularly enthused at the thought of driving in Japan—the youth of Kalajoki were bad enough on the roads, she couldn't imagine what the drivers in Asia were like after hearing the California's speak so rudely of them, not that the west coast was any better. Back in Kalajoki, she harbored the money her parents were saving to buy her a used car and burrowed it away for other locomotive vehicles: taxis, rickshaws, boat travel, rental vehicles, etc. In Miyagi she had settled to just go out and buy a bike; she was set on just renting a bicycle or even a car, but after applying to one of the local Universities, she had broke down and just bought a new bike for the sake of permanence.

She strolled over towards her porch, rather grateful that she was actually able to get a room that gathered a few hours of sunlight, providing her an adequate spot to dry her clothes—though it hardly mattered, considering she had little to wash.

She really only had her school uniform, as well as seven days worth of athletic clothes. Her parents had provided her with money for shopping as soon as she entered Japan so that she would be able to venture out and find clothes worn by Asian youths, but unfortunately, she was not exactly a desirable size in Japan, nor were their aesthetics all that appealing to her. Never before had she seen so many ruffles and tulle on one article of clothing in her life—but God was Japan infested with them—among other foreign textures that were miles away from the cotton and wool she was so accustomed to. She stood absolutely petrified when she first walked into a clothing shop, even more so when the natives with their petite stature and plush faces just stared at her as if she had just walked into another dimension. And as the women brought their hands to their mouth with shock to see someone of her nature, she turned foot and power-walked out of the mall, red-faced and mortified.

Needless to say, she was somewhat thrifty using her athletic clothes, going so far as to hand wash them in the shower and dry them for the next day since she was reluctant to go out and actually buy something new. She lifted a pair of tights from the line, tucking them under her arm before returning down the narrow hall towards her kitchen.

She pulled a small glass mug from the cupboard and filled it with a bit of water before setting it on the counter. She opened her fridge and pulled out a half-cut lemon from the crisper, squeezing what juice was left into her mug. Lemon water was refreshing in nature, and cleansing for the body, and after a long day of scrutinizing the team as their opponents, she took the liberty to give herself a pick-me-up for the night to come. Despite the bleak color outside, and the time displayed on her phone, she still had much to do before she would allow herself the luxury of sleeping.

She flipped the lantern on that hung over her workstation, sliding the chair out as she set her cup of lemon water to the side. She opened a drawer at her left, revealing a long line of colored notebooks of varying sizes, each with their own pen strapped to its back. She pulled out a few notebooks, setting them on a small pedestal, first opening the grey spiral that read, 'Wing Spikers.'

She documented Tanaka's noticeable strength increase due to his maturing body—though he was still heavily lacking in a maturing mind—and wrote extensively of his use of calf muscles and abdominal muscles. In a separate color, she regarded with caution that due to his liberal calf usage, he was putting himself at risk for muscle strains and Achilles tendonitis by relying too much on the tips of his toes for balance. She praised Daichi for his improved receives—though she was honestly unsurprised that he was making so much progress, considering he pushed himself daily to exceed his own expectations. There were lines and lines that illustrated Ennoshita's playing style—how it was not innately aggressive, but nonetheless improved since his first year.

She flipped through her other books, the ones that were labeled, 'Middle Blockers,' and, 'Setters,' absolutely gushing about the phenomenal pair that was Hinata and Kageyama. Trying to keep her head on straight, as well as keep an unbiased eye towards the two—she had scolded Hinata's recklessness, citing his disregard for the fall after his high jumps, for the sometimes odd way his knees would bend upon impact. As well, she slighted Kageyama—for even though the boy was no doubt a genius, and no doubt swept nearly all of them in speed and stamina—his form could have used a bit of a spit-and-shine polish. There was stiffness to the way he set, a lack of relaxation and control over his outer demeanor that made his tosses look far too intense for what they actually were. It was inefficient for the boy—the look on his face would eventually suck out all of his energy and leave him open for his opponents to catch any mistake he would make, any slip up to give them the upper hand.

She took a sip of water before she finished her thoughts on Tsukishima's height regarding its advantages as well as its disadvantages. She cocked an eyebrow at the boy's body mass index, trying to assure herself that he was inherently a small-boned individual, as well he was not from Finland—thus not as bulky as her brethren up north—and that he was not distressingly underweight for a boy his age and ancestry.

Still, he could stand to gain a few kilograms, or ten.

She shook the thought off, glancing at the time displayed on her phone's screen, turning it of with a small 'click.' She shuffled through her files, making small comments on some of her prior observances, fleshing out a hypothesis regarding their improvement rate, coming up with exercise plans for those who could stand to carve a little muscle—essentially everyone, actually—among other trivial side-notes here and there. She set each one aside once finished, turning them on their façade and running a hand through her hair, taking another gulp of lemon water, now mostly acidic pulp.

But, as she came to one lone book—vibrantly orange, just as loud as his uniform, just as loud as his personality—she paused, and traced her long fingers over the bold print she had stamped on its cover, as if every stroke of her hand were a thousand hours of memories she had dedicated to that one, single boy, all the hours she spent analyzing his spritely jumps and hops from end to end of the court, all of the hours she willingly endured his horrendous volume and aggressive affection.

She looked inside at the words she had written merely months prior, nothing but praises and exultations for him despite their free-fall from the skies. His recklessness and prideful bruises exasperated her, but she could not deny that his form was fair, and he was unnaturally flexible and limber—somewhat surpassing what she assumed the normal human body could stand. Her diction was positive, through and through, though stained with a maternal vexation when he would shrug off his sore muscles, completely ignoring her request to properly stretch, heat and wrap his trouble areas. Still, even Apollonia could tell by her own, vague linguistics that she was more than happy to document his improvement, to document all of the hours she spent watching him grow and prosper.

But her map of his prosperity was cut frighteningly short; and still she could feel the chills and tremors overcome her at the mere thought of how much anger Nishinoya was capable of holding in his little body. Frustration, betrayal, emotions so bold and sincere that it was hard to believe that just one person could house them all at once without physically exploding. Apollonia could only handle what felt like one or two emotions at once, any more and she would crack. Because she was not as strong as Nishinoya. In the deepest subconscious of her mind, it was one of her worst fears that she would see Nishinoya shatter, knowing just how strong and special he was. But, after that certain match, he released what felt like a lifetime of hurt, of heartbreak that still sometimes echoes throughout the supply room.

And even still, it chills her to the bone.

One Year Before the Storyline

'He's so small, like an elementary school kid.'

'But he's pretty talented for someone his size.'

'It's lucky that he's a libero: that's where the shorter ones usually prosper.'

'I wonder if he'd be even better if he were a little taller.'

'Yeah, he's probably thinking the same thing.'

It's not as if he was immune to their words: it was just that he was so skilled putting on a brave front that he was.

Sure, he was not the tallest member of the team, and he did begrudgingly have to buy trousers from the petite section—as if he would ever admit such a fact to anyone else but his dearest friends. And, while it was a compliment that he was athletically talented, did they really have to tack on that snide comment of, 'for someone his size?' Why couldn't they just say that he was talented and leave it at that? Height or not, he worked just as hard as any of his teammates whether he was on or off the court. He was worthy of the praise he was given, but not because he was small, not because he wasn't two meters tall.

So why couldn't people see that?

Why couldn't someone just come out and say, 'You're enough. You're strong?'

'I trust you with my back, I know you'll protect it.'

'Thank you, Nishinoya.'

Words such as those would be worth more than gold in his book, more precious than the backhanded comments he often received.

As far as he could see, his height was irrelevant to his skill. Even though he had to take an extra step or two to make up for lost ground, he wasn't any less talented than those long-legged giants opposite him. He was waiting to bloom, to soar, but was constantly held down by the doubts of his peers—doubts that, unfortunately, were dingy enough to stain his own clothing.

'I could have gotten that return if I could stretch my arm a little bit longer, if I could jump a little bit farther,' he inwardly scolded. It was only a practice match, but he couldn't bear to glance up too see Asahi standing on the front line, looking down at him while he was on his knees, the point lost because of his downfall.

But when he looked up, he was turned slightly in his direction, panting and doubled over. He was grateful. Asahi was always grateful.

Asahi, like the rising sun, was just peaking over the horizon, smiling gently, laughing a small laugh. He wiped the sweat under his lips, shifting the tuft of hair resting on his chin before he brought his hand back to his knees. It was warm, the way he looked at him; like the dawn of a new day giving him another chance to live and breathe in tandem with the earth he stood so solidly on. Giving him renewed energy.

"Good job, Nishinoya," Asahi puffed, "You'll get it next time."

'You're good enough. You're strong.'

'Thank you.'

He bowed his head, more than exhausted. He didn't need to say it, but the message was clear.

'I trust you with my back, I know you'll protect it.'

"I-I'll get them all next time," he boasted, stepping slightly towards Asahi, "I swear I will! So you just take the sky, and I'll handle things down here! With me as libero, you won't need to worry about your back, because I'll protect it!"

Asahi straightened up, his face wiped clean as if it had fallen on the floor under his shoes before twitching up into a small, flustered smile.

'You won't need to worry.'

'I'll protect you.'

'I am strong enough.'

He'd never let any of them down.

Two Months Prior to the Storyline

All Asahi knew was that he was falling, falling, plummeting out of they sky, a seemingly endless decent, the wind whipping around him, through him. His teammate's voices had been lost in the decline, and he had lost his own, his breath empty as shallow as he hit the ground on his back, his arms spread out, broken and clipped.

'Nishinoya is doing so much,' he mused. But it was all for not, his own teammates labored efforts wasted on him, someone so meager and pathetic like himself. Someone unworthy of the title, 'Ace.' He was practically crawling over the floor, covered in bruises and sweat, his limber arms thrust out in front of him for every dive. Sugawara stood between them limbo of Sky and Earth, delivering the ball to him for what he thought was an assured victory.

SLAM.

But, he couldn't score. Not a single point: everything just splattered against the wall, denied their view beyond the horizon. Everything black.

SLAM.

He was afraid. They had been defeated.

SLAM.

Nishinoya's efforts,

Wasted.

Sugawara's tosses,

Wasted.

Everything,

Wasted.

In the supply room, tensions ran high. Their backs at one point were facing away from one another, but they might as well have been at each other's necks, teeth just above the jugular.

"Block follow ups… I couldn't do them all!"

That's what Nishinoya was worried about? He by far had worked the hardest, who was torn down the most, covered in scars. How could he be so frustrated running around the court, when the pitiful man-child that was supposed to be their rock, their, 'Ace,' could not even penetrate the, 'Iron Wall?' Not even once?

Asahi's fists shook.

"Why," he cried. "Why aren't you blaming me?! It was my fault we lost!" The frustration was rising in his wasted body, his voice croaking and his throat red with fury. They were staring—Daichi, Sugawara, Apollonia and Kiyoko in the distance—just staring at him, frightened with disbelief as the fires engulfed both he and Nishinoya.

"No matter how many balls you recover, it's meaningless if I can't get a spike through!"

"What do you mean, 'it's meaningless,'" Nishinoya growled, his petite frame licked with fury, pushing back against Asahi with his own frustration. "Then why didn't you call for that last pass? You could have hit it from your position."

"I couldn't have scored anyway, if you had tossed it to me," he spoke lowly, angling his head off to the side, unable to meet any of them in the eye. The ropes around him were pulled so tight, the bindings on his arms, his legs. Choking him, stretching beyond his reach. The light within him was slowly fading, giving way not to night, but to nothingness.

Nishinoya grabbed him by the collar, throwing him back, twisting his bindings tighter.

"You won't know if you don't try, dammit!"

He was choking, tighter. Tighter.

"The next one could have gone through, for all you know!"

Sugawara was striding towards them, his arm out, but he was already broken. They all were. He heard the sound of wood cracking under his feet, and for just a moment he thought it was just a mirror of his bones, of his glass-covered ribcage.

"DON'T YOU DARE DECIDE TO GIVE UP ON A BALL I'VE RECOVERED!"

And as he walked away, Nishinoya's eyes prickling with moisture, his own no drier, he damned himself.

He had fallen.

They had been severed.

The Next Day.

"He didn't show up," Nishinoya stated with his arms crossed.

The rest of the team did not speak, but glanced at the ground, silently acknowledging his observation, the absence of their, 'Ace,' rather apparent among their dwindling flock. Apollonia stood off to the side, her notebook in hand, observing Nishinoya as his shoulders tightened and he began to tremble, like the beginning of an earthquake. It was unsettling, and put them all on edge that their little spitfire was uncharacteristically tame. He spun towards her, pointing with an outstretched finger.

"Apple-san," he began roughly, like the texture of hard clay, "You need to bring Asahi-san back."

Apollonia, understandably shocked, tilted her head back, as if to question, 'What?'

"Tell him you'll help him," Nishinoya pressed, his words as loud in volume as ever, but tougher in delivery: just one single step from desperate, angry. "Tell him you that if he comes back, that you can help him overcome the blockers, no matter what."

Apollonia just shook her head. She could not nourish what didn't want to feed.

"It is not my place," she said. Though truthfully Apollonia was capable of no such thing.

"What do you mean," Nishinoya returned with a sneer, grabbing hold of Apollonia's shirtsleeve. "He wanted to be better, you need bring him back! You're our coach right now, aren't you?"

"This is not about me. Right now, there is a disconnect between the two of you," she returned, lightly brushing Nishinoya's hand from her shirt.

But she didn't mean that: it wasn't them as a pair, it was them individually, all three of them, setter, libero and wing spiker. But she found herself pinpointing them, as if the problem were as simple enough as their weakening bonds. But it wasn't the matter of group dynamics, it was of self-worth.

And she felt disgusted that she was callous enough to blame the faults in their connections, knowing full well that Nishinoya valued the wires that connected them all more than anything.

Nishinoya stepped back, his mouth parted in shock, his brow furrowed.

"Working with a broken machine is inefficient. If the connection between you two cannot be mended, then it is pointless."

No. No. She didn't mean that. She didn't mean any of that. She had made a mistake saying what she had. That wasn't what she wanted him to hear. It wasn't the team, it was the individual. It wasn't the bond between he and Asahi, it was the fear that held them both back. That held all of them back from trudging forwards.

It was just fear, it was just doubt.

His fists curled, his body burning up once again, as though he had been doused with gasoline and defeat, but he couldn't find the means to yell at her. He was cracking, his surface splitting in two, three, one hundred fragments, opening him up and swallowing him under. Falling.

Without their dawn, they had been bathed in darkness, blind in the cool breeze of the inky obsidian around them, but without even the night sky to console them, then what would befall of the land beneath that had sought their attention, their praise?

"Don't say that," he barked, walking past the club doors.

"Don't call us, 'broken.'"

Two Months Before Storyline

After Practice

"This isn't your fault either," she said quietly as they made their way down the road, "Just so you know."

Everyone was just on edge that was it. Everyone was still reeling with emotions after the fall.

She was hoping that he would glance up at her, and grace her with a small smile—even if it was forced and insincere, even though she didn't deserve it. But Sugawara would not even raise his head to her; he held his body low, as if he were not even worthy to walk upright with the rest of his teammates. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and his head was facing away from her, more towards the dimly lit shops as they passed.

He was blaming himself, clear as day, for the unfortunate events that had transpired. He blamed himself for Asahi shattering in his hands and growing fearful of battling head-on against his opponents, for using and abusing him just because he was, 'The tallest,' just because he was their, 'Ace.' He blamed himself for all of their losses, because he wasn't fast enough or strong like his teammates, and he couldn't even handle the pressure he placed upon himself. Just as Asahi became scared to call for a toss, he became scared to toss at all.

To see them crumble sent shockwaves up and down Apollonia's arms, weighing down her shoulders and her mouth into a full body frown. She wasn't even on the court with them, watching idly from the stands far from their crowd in the shadows, and she felt shattered, severed, disheartened by their defeat. She couldn't bear to endure their vulnerable expressions: they tugged at the slowly beating heart within her chest, until she too wore their emotions on her skin. And she felt selfish for doing so.

They reached the base of the hill, passing by a store still illuminated, the headband-donning shop owner reading his paper with tired eyes. She held her hand out in front of Sugawara's chest, ushering him to stop, then made her way into the shop, not a moment later coming back out with a small paper bag. She held it out to Sugawara, though he hesitantly glanced at the bag as if she were outright handing him a tangible question mark.

"You all seem to be partial to this Nikuman," she clarified, "I bought the spiciest one."

A small upturn of his lips was barely legible in their light, accented by his quiet, defeated voice.

"Oh, thank you, Apollonia-chan," he returned weakly, "But I'm not very hungry right now."

"You don't have to eat it," she deadpanned, as if ingesting such a meal would have been nothing short of ludicrous in nature. Sugawara tilted his head to further emphasize the confused, 'What am I supposed to do with it then,' he offered her, complete with a quirked lip and brow, holding the Nikuman as though it were made of glass.

"Isn't something like that a symbol in your culture," she asked clumsily, gesturing to the bag a little more timidly than she intended to. Seeing that Sugawara's face was still contorted in a shape of disbelief, she snapped her neck away from him, and fiddled with the strap of her bag.

She was just being courteous: she had meant for the gesture to acknowledge her intention to console them to the best of her abilities—which, obviously resulted in complete failure on her part. If she were lucky enough to be blessed with a small height or waif-like build, or basically possess any qualities relating to a traditional woman for that matter, she would have gently hovered her hand near the back of his arm, towards his elbow—as if to assure him, 'I'll do my best to make everything all right.'

But she bore none of those qualities on her skin—the most she wore was the little feather etched into her arm, though even an emblem as loaded as the tattoo on her skin seemed dingy beneath her clothes, under the dreary lighting above them.

Therefore, she had the bright idea to buy him hot food.

It was something—whether he decided to eat it or not—that was warm to the touch, comforting. It was spicy: something that Apollonia eventually learned through his habit after lunch of ingesting numerous mints and portable mouthwashes was to mask the smell of peppers and chili sauce, was Sugawara's favorite flavor. It was true to his culture—a food that was oddly fun in appearance, and common in festivals as well as convenience stores—so it must have appealed to him just by the kitsch alone, to eat a food somewhat indulgent in nature. It was a treat, in short.

She had intended to hand him the bag, and exchange mental dialogue with him, then both be off on their way to their respective houses: his smile restored and intact, her inner-depreciation silenced with the assurance that she was at least able to console one of the three downtrodden crows.

Sugawara folded the edge of the bag slightly over, holding it limply in his hand as they returned to a slow walk at her side towards their respective homes, his, 'Thank you,' quiet in nature, aimed more at the ground than her. Apollonia bowed her neck in a defeated fashion: food had not worked, her shameless attempt at appealing to him with cultural symbolism only confused him, and probably made her look like an ignorant fool. Only her unspoken words were left as an option, though the thought of it tore her apart: would she speak intelligibly for him, would he understand her, would she be able to get her point across?

It never hurt to try.

"We all deal differently with the trials we are faced," she began, shifting her sleeves up high on her arm to allow the cool, evening air to prickle her skin—hoping that by some grace, perhaps the chill would reawaken the feather on her arm and soften the hard look on her face and allow her to relax within his presence. She unconsciously ran her hand up and down her arm to smooth the almost unperceivable hairs standing on end before her hand settled idly on her bag once she realized just how fidgety she had shown herself to be.

"But eventually, we'll all return to one another despite our differences. Beneath the ground, a forest's roots are all intertwined."

Sugawara raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips in thoughts.

"That sounded pretty poetic, Apollonia-chan, is it a Finnish proverb or something?"

"Uh… no," she deadpanned with a small recoil. "I did not intend it to sound poetic, should I reword it?"

"No no, it's fine the way it is," Sugawara assured with a strained smile, trying his best not to laugh at the fact that Apollonia looked completely serious about rewording her entire monologue for his benefit.

She had done her best to console them, though even he wasn't sure the proper way of mending the situation. It would have been convenient that Asahi came back and everything could be back to normal: but there was still animosity, and everyone was still wallowing in self-pity, everyone was still terrified to play, to play with one another in fear of letting each other down. It was an endless cycle, an eternal circle of self-blame that no one but themselves could fix.

'She's trying,' Sugawara assured himself, thankful that Apollonia despite all of the factors that separated her from them, she too was entangled in their roots, she was a part of them. He felt grateful that he could metaphorically lean against her in that manner, that she cared enough about them despite not having any valid reason to do so.

"Please do not hold your head that low," she said suddenly.

Sugawara was honestly taken back, seeing that her brow was slightly creased—almost in a motherly fashion—as if she were truly concerned with his demeanor.

"You'll get a neck ache doing that. As well…"

She tilted her head away from him, lifting her chin up, the terse line of her jaw quite ominous as the sickly glow of the shops painted her skin and shadow, and opened her mouth before she let it close. Sugawara blinked to clear his vision and ensure that the color building in her skin was in fact of the tone he believed it to be: a light European pink warming bits of her skin under the conflicting tones of indigo and yellow. And as he confirmed the small flush that she was desperately trying to hide, he straightened his shoulders and offered her a gentle smile, knowing very well that she could still see him in her peripheral.

She waved lightly before setting off on her path home, whatever words she may have spoken tossed to the side in place of a nonverbal, 'Goodnight,' by the small swivel of her hand.

Sugawara folded the bag of Nikuman under his arm and cupped one hand around his mouth.

"Check yourself to see if you have a fever, Apollonia-chan, your ears are all red!"

He chuckled quietly as she cringed, apparent even in the dusk, but allowed the grin the slowly drop as she made her way out of sight.

And in silence he walked home.

Author's Note:

Small glimpse of Apollonia's apartment/ personal life. She spends her nights filling her journals regarding the crows, and in later chapters we will actually get to have a better look of what exactly she writes.