A Sonata For Flowers ; (various haikyuu x reader!)

2 : Lotus / Silver

They call them Blessings of Kisshōten.

(Y/N) didn't know they had an official name for the term. In the Western world, it was just simply known that some Japanese people were strangely born with outlandish hair and eye colors. (Y/N) rarely ever met anyone with a so-called blessing back in America. It's still a shock for her to see the color blue so naturally sitting on top of one's head.

The first week of school is abundant with shocks. The following day after (Y/N) meets the twins, Atsumu asks her at lunch why she isn't following him to Osamu's classroom next door.

It's a ridiculous question, and (Y/N) tilts her head in confusion. The kids who were previously so curious about America are gone, much to (Y/N)'s thankfulness. She didn't know how long she'd have her status as the Shiny New American Girl. Now, she does. It was a whopping three days.

"Lunch?"

"Are you always confused? Lunch," Atsumu jeers. He sounds it out, "L-U-N-C-H."

"I know what lunch is," (Y/N) hisses. She gestures at her bento, but he simply makes an exasperated face as his steps progress further away from her.

"You coming?"

It's only lunch, she thinks, grabbing her stuff. "Yeah."

Students are clustered in groups chatting animatedly, their laughter echoing through the hall as Atsumu and (Y/N) walk by. They easily interact and seem to fit together like puzzle pieces. Atsumu, however, walks with a certain detachment, his demeanor unbothered by the lively chaos around him.

(Y/N) quickly finds that Miya Atsumu has no friends. It seems Osamu meant it when he called himself "the better twin". Where Osamu is constantly surrounded by friends without the presence of his brother, Atsumu seems to exist in a bubble of solitude, as if rejected by any notion of affection. She notes how he spends the school day's short instances of free time alone and rolls his eyes at the sight of anyone trying to talk to him. Never does he join any groups of students in the bustling hallways.

It's practically fantasy when (Y/N) overhears some girls talking one afternoon while mopping the girls' restroom. They gush about how 'smart' and 'cute' Atsumu is. There's no way I'm listening to this right now, (Y/N) thinks.

"Too bad he's an actual dick," one of the girls remarks, brushing her hair.

Another perks up. "There's always his brother."

(Y/N) willingly erases the memory from her mind as soon as she finishes cleaning. She passes by another girl with outlandish hair—startlingly white, neat, and pristine, she immediately notices—and collides with her with a resounding thud. The girl nearly drops her bag as (Y/N) nearly drops her mop.

(Y/N) quickly bows. "Sorry."

But the girl has already moved on, looking over her shoulder at (Y/N) blankly.

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

It didn't take long for (Y/N) as a tiny child to get used to the concept of competitions.

Plainly speaking, they were exactly how one would expect them to be.

Wait around anxiously. Go into the restroom a few times mindlessly. Wonder if your hair and outfit have messed up. Stare at an instrument case, only to forget about it moments later. Lamely attempt to cure boredom and fail. Check in with an accompanist if needed, practicing with them in a small room a few times over in a fruitless attempt to satisfy nerves.

You get called up.

You wait.

Stare out into the audience from that small side of the stage; rows of chairs full with expectant parents, friends, and simple observers. The energy around is palpable, you almost think you could hold it in your hand. Shuffle over to the center, where everyone can see you and every little micro movement you make. The piece you play is something you've significantly memorized and drilled into muscle memory.