Would a Calico Cat Like the Bright Sun?

The roar of the court and the warm aroma of the bakery, the writing on the strategy board and the late-night lights: four beams of light, each following its own arc, carve a path all their own through Kenma's world.

Bokuto's passion is always touched with childlike sincerity. During practice, he repeatedly adjusts the height and spin of his spikes so Kenma can receive every ball perfectly. Even when the coach scolds him, he just scratches his head and grins. "What matters most is that Kenma can receive it comfortably." After a match, he clutches his sweat-damp medal and rushes over, pressing the cold metal to Kenma's face. The light in his eyes is hotter than the spotlights on the podium. He remembers that Kenma wants two soft-boiled eggs in his ramen. Even the owner of the ramen shop knows that "Bokuto always orders the double-egg special." He knows Kenma is shy, so at every gathering he acts like a beast protecting its young, stepping in front of him and taking on all the small talk. The "I've never liked you" he's kept hidden for years feels more like a confession scorched by sunlight. He's afraid his warmth is too intense, that he'll burn the shade-loving plant. Yet on countless nights spent alone studying the strategy board, he stares at the little sun he's drawn there, his finger brushing over the small character "Ken" beside it again and again. After they reunite, he can't learn to be subtle. He just keeps saying, "I was wrong." When Kenma frowns in pain during rehab, Bokuto clumsily hands him a hot-water bottle. It burns his own hands, but he doesn't say a word, only watches Kenma's knee with reddened eyes.

Miya Atsumu's sharp edges conceal a crooked kind of concern. On the court, he's a no-nonsense setter, shouting, "React half a second faster!" Yet during a timeout, he's the first to notice Kenma's knee trembling. He deliberately makes him sit out, goading him with, "You're too weak to receive my tosses." After practice, he throws him an ice pack, grumbling, "You're so slow, you're holding everyone up," while watching him apply the ice until he's sure he's all right. He remembers every milestone in Kenma's rehab plan. One day, he suddenly tosses him a sheet of paper. "Here's a new training schedule. It's more reliable than the old one." In reality, he's stayed up late researching and revising it. When someone questions Kenma's "declining form," Atsumu can berate them into silence. Then he turns around and hands Kenma a bottle of warm water, with the cap already loosened. His love isn't expressed in sweet words. It's the possessiveness of "You're the only one who gets to receive my tosses" and the certainty of "If we lose, we'll face it together." He points all his armor at the world, leaving his soft underbelly exposed only to the one who can receive his most difficult tosses.

Miya Osamu's tenderness is always tucked into the creases of everyday life. Warm light spills across his face in the bakery. As he kneads dough, he remembers that Kenma doesn't like things too sweet, so he cuts the sugar in the chestnut filling down to just the right amount. When he bakes dorayaki, he sets aside an extra one without filling, knowing that sometimes Kenma just wants a simple taste of wheat. In high school, he helped Kenma organize his rehab notes, writing more neatly than in his own test-prep notebook. He even marked "Don't apply heat for more than 15 minutes" in red. As an adult, he opens a shop and puts a single sofa by the window, with a brushed blanket draped over it. "It's nicest to watch the rain when it's raining." He never says, "I'll wait for you," but always leaves the entryway light on when Kenma comes home late. When Kenma stares blankly at his computer, Osamu quietly offers him a freshly baked dorayaki at just the right temperature. When it comes to love, he's like a patient baker, waiting for the dough to rise and the frosting to set. When Kenma hesitates, he only says softly, "Whatever you choose, I'll be here." His voice is as light as the dusting of sugar on a dorayaki, yet sweet enough to make you feel safe.

Akaashi's restraint always crumbles in certain moments. His notebook is always meticulously organized. The first pages contain opponents' statistics, the middle has tactical analysis, and the last few pages hide Kenma's rehabilitation notes, recorded precisely down to "knee flexion improved by 1 degree today." At practice, he calmly records every missed pass, but when Kenma accidentally falls, Akaashi is the first to rush over, his sweaty palm leaving a faint mark on the clipboard. He never uses intense words. He hides "I'm worried" inside "I've revised your rehab plan" and wraps "I care about you" in "This angle will put less stress on your knee." When others try to get close to him, he turns them down gently but firmly. "There's no room for anyone else in my plans." Yet his restraint always breaks: when Kenma says, "You're nice to everyone," Akaashi frowns for the first time and argues, "It's different with you," his voice trembling without him noticing. After an argument, he stands in the pouring rain outside Kenma's apartment building, clutching the rehab plan he's revised again and again, just to say, "I was wrong." His love is like a secret written into a strategy manual. It seems calm, but every page has a footnote that reads, "I'll make an exception for you."

Four beams of light, four different kinds of warmth. The blazing sun will rein in its brilliance for you. The sharpest light will hide its edges for you. The quiet glow will burn on for you without ever going out. The cool moonlight will lose control and show you favor. Each carries its own awkward certainty, crossing through the roar of the court, the fragrance of the bakery, and the writing on the strategy board, until they all point in the same direction: wanting to give you the very best.

Theme: You know, whenever I see you smile, it's as if an invisible thread pulls at my heart, making it beat out of control.