Caramel Eyes

The gym lights buzzed overhead, throwing that harsh white light across the polished floor. The last echoes of volleyballs smacking palms and shoes squeaking on the court had faded into the thick silence that always followed practice. Players trickled out in small clusters, voices low and tired, leaving behind sweat and liniment. Atsumu Miya lingered by the net, pretending to re-tie his shoelaces. His fingers trembled against the laces.

His heart pounded in his ears—loud enough to drown out the distant chatter of his teammates. He’d been waiting for this moment all week. A break in the routine. A sliver of privacy. His gaze kept flicking to the far end of the bench, where Kita Shinsuke sat methodically wiping down a volleyball. The captain’s movements were precise, unhurried, his face a mask of calm detachment.

Atsumu swallowed. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing sand. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head, but now, with Kita so close, the words felt foreign and clumsy.

He stood and walked over. His footsteps were too loud on the empty court. Kita didn’t look up until Atsumu stopped directly in front of him—close enough to see the faint crease of concentration between his brows.

“Kita-san.” His voice cracked on the name. He cleared his throat. “Can I ask ya somethin’?”

Kita finished his task—a final, deliberate polish—before lifting his gaze. His eyes were steady, unreadable. Still water on a winter morning. “What is it, Tsumu?”

The nickname sent a warm flutter through Atsumu’s chest, but he forced himself to focus. Heat crept up the back of his neck, staining his cheeks. He ducked his head, scuffed the floor with his shoe. “Do ya… do ya remember what color me eyes are?”

The question hung in the air—fragile, desperate. Atsumu lifted his head, hoping to catch a flicker of something. Recognition. Warmth. Anything. Instead, Kita’s expression froze, the mask hardening into something almost cold.

Kita tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question with mild disinterest. “I don’t remember, Tsumu.” The words fell flat, precise as a serve hitting the floor.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. He blinked rapidly. He doesn’t remember? It was a simple question—stupid, maybe—but it had felt important. Like a test. And he had failed.

“Please try, Kita-san.” His voice was smaller now, edged with a plea he couldn’t swallow back. “Please. Just try.”

Kita’s eyes didn’t waver. He pretended to think, staring into the middle distance, lips pressed into a thin line. Then he shook his head slowly, like a teacher dismissing a foolish answer. “I don’t remember, Atsumu.”

A tear slipped down Atsumu’s cheek before he could stop it. He felt it trace a warm path along his skin, and he hated the burn of it, hated that Kita could see. He wiped at it furiously with the back of his hand, but another followed, and another.

“Bet ya’d remember Heather’s eyes,” he said, the name bitter on his tongue. Kita’s ex-girlfriend. A girl from the neighboring school who visited once and smiled too brightly. Atsumu had hated her instantly.

Kita’s jaw tightened. But he said nothing. The silence was worse than a denial.

Atsumu turned and ran. His shoes slapped against the gym floor—echoing—and he burst through the side door without looking back. Evening air hit his face, cool and damp. The sky was bruised purple, heavy with the threat of rain. He kept running until he rounded the corner of the gym, then collapsed against the rough brick wall, sliding down to the ground. He buried his face in his knees and let the tears come.

Inside, Osamu had been gathering his water bottle from the bench when he caught the tail end of the exchange. He heard his brother’s cracking voice, saw the tear fall, watched him flee. Now he stood frozen, eyes fixed on Kita, who had returned to wiping down volleyballs like nothing happened.

Osamu’s hands curled into fists. “What the hell was that, Kita-san?”

Kita didn’t look up. “It’s not your concern.”

“Not my concern?” Osamu’s voice rose, sharp and jagged. “That’s me twin brother ya just made cry. That’s my business.”

Slowly, Kita set the volleyball down. He stood and faced Osamu, expression placid but with a hardness around his eyes. “It’s between me and Atsumu.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu stepped closer, shoulders tense. “I saw the whole thing. He asked ya a simple question, and ya stomped on his heart like it was nothin’. Why? What did he ever do to ya?”

Kita’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. A crack in that stoic facade. But he smoothed it over quickly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” Osamu’s voice was a low growl. “Because from where I’m standin’, you’re bein’ cruel for no reason. He looks up to ya, Kita. He worships the ground ya walk on. And ya treat him like he’s dirt.”

Kita said nothing. He picked up his bag and walked toward the locker room, steps measured and unhurried. Osamu watched him go, anger burning cold and useless.

The locker room was empty when Kita arrived. He sat on the bench in front of his locker, the clatter of the door closing too loud in the silence. He stared at his hands, still smelling of leather and dust. Slowly, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if he could push out the image of Atsumu’s face—the shine of tears, the tremor in his voice.

I don’t remember, Atsumu.

The lie had come so easily, sliding off his tongue like a practiced line. But he did remember. Of course he remembered. Atsumu’s eyes weren’t just brown—they were caramel, warm and soft, with flecks of gold that caught the light when he laughed. Kita had cataloged that detail months ago, in a quiet moment during a water break, watching Atsumu argue with Osamu over onigiri fillings. He had memorized the curve of Atsumu’s smile, the way his nose crinkled when he was genuinely happy, the sound of his real laugh—rare and precious.

And he had hurt him. Intentionally. Because it was easier than admitting he cared.

Kita leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, slow breath. The guilt was a heavy stone settled in his chest. He had built walls around himself for years—walls of routine, discipline, emotional distance. They kept him safe, kept him in control. But Atsumu had a way of slipping through the cracks, with his loud voice and his soft heart. And Kita had panicked.

He asked about my eyes. The thought came unbidden, and Kita felt a pang of something he refused to name. He wanted to know if I see him. And I pretended I didn’t.

He stayed in the locker room until the last of the staff had gone, until the lights clicked off automatically, plunging him into near darkness. Only then did he stand, grab his bag, and walk out.

The campus was quiet, the air cooling with the evening. The gymnasium loomed dark and silent, but Kita’s feet carried him around the back, where a narrow strip of grass and a few shrubs bordered the fence. And there, huddled against the wall, was Atsumu.

He was sitting with his knees drawn up, forehead resting on his arms. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. The sky had begun to drizzle—fine droplets beading on his hair and jacket.

Kita stopped a few feet away. For a long moment, he didn’t move. The rain fell softly, pattering against leaves. Then he set his bag down, walked over, and sat beside Atsumu on the damp ground.

Atsumu’s head snapped up, eyes red and swollen. The sight of those eyes—caramel and gold, now smudged with mascara and tears—made Kita’s chest ache. Atsumu turned his face away, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve.

“Go away,” he mumbled.

Kita didn’t go away. He sat still, watching the rain drip off the eaves, gathering his courage. Finally, he said, “I do remember.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. He didn’t turn around.

“I remember,” Kita repeated, voice low and rough. “They’re like caramel—warm and soft. With little gold flecks when the light hits them.”

A sob escaped Atsumu, half-laugh, half-cry. “Then why’d ya lie?” His voice cracked again, raw and hurt. “Why’d ya make me feel like I’m nothin’?”

Kita closed his eyes. The truth was a bitter thing, and he had to force it out. “Because I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Atsumu’s voice rose, petulant and desperate. “Scared of answerin’ a stupid question?”

“Scared of what it would mean.” Kita opened his eyes and looked at the gray sky. “If I admitted I remembered, that means I’ve been payin’ attention. That means I care. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

Atsumu sniffled, finally turning to face him. His expression was a mess of anger, confusion, and fragile hope. “Ya care about me?”

“More than I should,” Kita said quietly. “More than I’m comfortable with.”

Atsumu stared at him, searching. The rain fell harder, plastering strands of hair to their foreheads. Atsumu shivered, but he didn’t look away.

“That’s a shitty way of showin’ it,” he said, but his voice held less venom now.

Kita nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The apology hung between them—simple and inadequate. But Kita meant it, and somehow, Atsumu could tell. The taut line of his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction.

“I don’t forgive ya yet,” Atsumu said. “But… I’m listenin’.”

So Kita talked. He talked about the weight of being captain, the pressure to stay composed, the fear of emotional entanglement derailing the team—and himself. He admitted that he had pushed people away all his life, because it was easier than risking losing them. That Atsumu’s openness, his vulnerability, had both drawn and terrified him.

“I lashed out,” Kita finished, voice barely above a whisper. “I knew exactly what I was doin’. And I hurt ya on purpose. That’s not somethin’ I can undo.”

Atsumu wiped his nose on his sleeve. “No, ya can’t. But ya can promise not to do it again.”

Kita met his eyes. “I promise.”

A beat of silence. Then Atsumu scooted closer, until their shoulders touched. The contact was tentative—like testing a wound to see if it still hurt. But when Kita didn’t pull away, Atsumu leaned into him, letting his head rest against Kita’s shoulder.

“Ya know,” Atsumu said, his voice muffled, “for a guy who’s supposed to be so calm and collected, you’re a mess.”

Kita let out a small, humorless laugh. “I know.”

They sat like that for a while, the rain soaking through their clothes, the chill seeping into their bones. But neither moved. Eventually, Atsumu shifted, looking up at Kita with red-rimmed eyes.

“This is stupid,” Atsumu said. “We’re gonna catch cold.”

“Probably,” Kita agreed.

“But I don’t wanna go back yet.”

Kita nodded. He hesitated, then slowly, carefully, wrapped an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders. Atsumu stiffened for a second, then melted into the embrace, burying his face in Kita’s neck.

They stayed until the rain stopped, and the first stars struggled through the broken clouds. Then Kita helped Atsumu to his feet, and they walked back to the dormitory in silence—hands brushing, not quite holding. A fragile beginning, tender and bruised. But a start.

In the days that followed, nothing was immediately fixed. Awkward silences, unspoken words. Moments where Atsumu’s gaze lingered too long and Kita looked away too quickly. But there were also small gestures—Kita leaving a bottle of Atsumu’s favorite sports drink in his locker, Atsumu saving a seat for Kita at lunch, their eyes meeting across the gym with a shared understanding that hadn’t been there before.

And one afternoon, during a break in practice, Atsumu found Kita sitting alone on the bleachers. He walked over and sat beside him, close enough that their arms pressed together.

“Hey, Kita-san,” Atsumu said, his voice light but with an undercurrent of sincerity.

Kita looked at him, waiting.

“What color are me eyes today?”

A slow, rare smile—barely a curve of his lips—touched Kita’s mouth. “Caramel,” he said. “Always caramel.”

Atsumu grinned, bright and genuine, the warmth reaching his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, Kita allowed himself to hold that gaze, to let the warmth seep through his carefully constructed walls. The future was uncertain, but at that moment, standing on the edge of something new, it was enough.