Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world was moving fast— too fast —and you couldn't keep up.

You and your younger brother were adopted, your parents were woefully divorced, and you had an identity crisis at a young age. Five-year-olds typically did not have an identity crisis. Five-year-olds were worried about how the sky was blue and how the economy was rapidly spiraling downward. 

Your main concern should have been whether or not your imaginary friend was willing to play house with you.

Spoiler alert: your imaginary friend did not want to play house with you. Your imaginary friend was a bitch.

Moving to the Miyagi Prefecture in Japan was not ideal for your five-year-old self, seeing that you had previously lived in the loud and liberal America. Moving to Japan implied that you had to learn manners and courtesy. Nothing disgusted you more than apologizing or saying 'please.'

On the second day of your arrival to Japan, you stared at the grand black piano being carefully hauled into your house by deliverymen. The men spoke rapid Japanese—none of which you were able to understand. Since your mother was full Japanese, she had taught you and your brother basic household terms, but anything beyond was incomprehensible to you.

The only thing you could recognize were the dots and strokes of music notes on lined paper. When holding music sheets in front of you, you greedily read in the familiarity of it all. This was a language you could read. This was the language you spoke .

With a sensitive ear, you listened as your mother instructed them to be delicate with the instrument. It had cost thousands of American dollars, she had told them. That piano was irreplaceable.

You spent your beginning days in Japan holed up in your house, doing nothing of actual substance other than playing the piano. You figured that you'd finish your hour of piano practice at the crack of dawn in one swoop, leaving the rest of the day to (likely) commit crimes. 

When you would emerge from the living room, having finished your piano practice for the day, you would be greeted with the sight of your mother sitting at the breakfast table, drinking tea. She would always wake up early in the morning simply to hear you play. Your mother was the word 'pristine' in human form. She kept a neat appearance and neither fumbled nor made a mistake.

Your mother was quite fond of tea. She drank it in a peculiar way: she would place a sugar cube between her front teeth and sip her green tea, letting the tea sift through the sweet sugar. Your mother was refined and such, but she despised the bitter flavor of tea without sugar.

The deliverymen would come and go, bringing your American memories to Japan. They would marvel at the little girl sitting on the piano bench. Your back was stiff and unpleasant, and your fingers were cold with constant practice. Your legs were not long enough to reach the golden pedals so they dangled awkwardly.

After a week had flown by, your mother grew tired of watching you laze around on the couch.

So your mother kicked you out of the house, insisting that you spent the day doing something other than play video games and obsessively watch Sailor Moon .

Now you were in your front yard with a large net to catch freaky bugs with and a shit-eating grin that plainly stated, 'fuck bad vibes; get money.' You had heard about the horned beetles that roamed around Japan in the summertime, and you had every intention to catch one and teach it how to overthrow a problematic government or something of the like.

You weren't too sure about which trick to teach it. More on that later.

The neighborhood wasn't as colorful as you had expected. Instead of dashing splashes of green lawns and red roofs, you were greeted with dull grays and blocks of brown. Utility poles were everywhere, seemingly stringing the houses all together with black wires and filling the sky with grid-like lines.

So this was your new kingdom. A condensed little neighborhood tucked in the heart of the Miyagi Prefecture. This was your world now, and every neighbor, every animal, and every bug was simply living in it.

Japan had little to offer to you, so you were going to seize what you could from the country's hands.

That was the kind of young lady you were.

Swinging around your net like a lightsaber, you paraded down your neighborhood street. It was a hot summer day, and your neighbors were hanging up their laundry to dry. The sun's heat pulsated, causing your skin to feel thick and clammy. Perspiration rolled down your cheeks as you squinted around the neighborhood, seeking out a beetle to fight or befriend (depending on the current situation).

But the Sith weren't bothered by the heat. Only the Jedi were bothered by the heat. You were, of course, a Sith. The Sith had dope makeup and yellow eyes. You weren't entirely sure what the Sith did or what they stood for, but they looked cool.

You, a five-year-old, had a pretty solid grasp of what was cool and what was lame. Practicing piano was lame. Babysitting your brother was lame. Catching freaky bugs was cool. Being a Sith was cool. Rigging the political elections of a relevant first-world country was cool.

Coming to the end of your neighborhood street, you spotted a familiar boy.

The boy who lived next door to you was sitting on the curb, a volleyball being hugged between his knees and his right hand cradling his left hand with care.

At that moment, two distinct paths had crossed.

You knew very little about the boy, but you knew he was different than most. He kept to himself and wasn't as talkative as you'd liked him to be. You thought him to be strange, but you couldn't say anything when you were just as weird as he was.

Whenever you peered through the windows of your house, you saw the boy passing a volleyball with his father, whom you assumed the boy was close to, on the street. The ball that was passed between them would be ricocheted back and forth with the same speed of a bullet—with such intensity.

It made you wonder if your mother would ever play volleyball with you. 

You doubted it; your mother had always preferred Steinway & Sons over Molten.

He looked about your age, boasting dark olive-brown hair and sharp eyes. His thick brows were slanted, and his mouth was curved in a small frown. What truly stood out to you was the boy's long legs, pointing toward his height. He was tall , and you've seen tall American boys.

A fated encounter, one might call it.

Your neighbor's household was quiet and serene, and only the sound of a volleyball being bumped repeatedly could be heard. Your house was filled with the music of your piano and the cries of your younger brother, who was only three.

Your neighbor's household was traditional and neat, flourishing with wildlife and sturdy infrastructure. Your house was in a messy transitional state, littered with American items and cardboard moving boxes.

The boy looked up at you.

You inched closer to him, wondering what he was cradling in his hands. You didn't say a single word, eyeing him warily. You hoped he was carrying a bug. An animal would be acceptable as well, but what animal was small enough to fit in a young child's hands? Hamster. Guinea pigs. Fish.

The boy continued to gaze at you; he looked like a cow staring at a new gate.

As you came closer, you realized he hadn't been carrying anything at all. Instead, in the place of what should have been a fugly stag beetle was a wounded left hand. The boy's small left hand was blooming blue underneath his middle finger. His wounded finger was noticeably swollen compared to the rest.

You realized that he had jammed his left hand.

Fuck this. You had wanted ugly bugs and scary beetles. This was boring shit.

It was a miracle the boy wasn't crying. You had once jammed your finger in America by playing with your father's recreational volleyball. Your mother had been upset, as you weren't allowed to play piano until it had healed. Nevertheless, she had made you relentlessly study music theory.

"Are you okay?" you asked out of courtesy.

You had pulled out what little shaky Japanese you knew out of your ass to form a barely coherent sentence. It wasn't too often your mother had asked you about your wellbeing, so you never picked up caring Japanese phrases.

"Yes," the boy lied. Just as you were about to spin on your heel and go home, the boy added in a quieter tone, " no ."

You weakly attempted to mask your rising face of displeasure.

You walked to the boy with your stubby little legs, and then you crouched in front of him, looking at the boy face-to-face with an unwavering stare. The boy's sharp eyes were the same color as his hair, which you thought was uncommon.

The bruise on his finger must have pained him. You wondered why he hadn't gone home to his parents with a bruise like this. The jammed part of his middle finger, as aforementioned, was blue. It was an ugly blue with hints of light black.

"I'm [Y/N]—oh, um, I mean—Suzuki [Y/N]," you said. "I moved in a week ago."

"Ushijima Wakatoshi," the boy offered.

"Where do you live? You... uh ... go home, and treat your finger," you advised. You eyed his left hand. "It looks scary."

Wakatoshi blurted bluntly, "I can't."

You decided not to question him further than that. It wasn't a decision, really. Your small mind had simply forgotten the words to continue the conversation in that direction. Instead, you had stood back up to your real height—which wasn't very tall to begin with. A very dedicated bush could rival your height with ease.

"You can come into my house," you proposed. "I hurt my finger before, and my mom helped me."

"My mom says it's rude to intrude into another person's house," Wakatoshi replied glumly, cradling his left hand with even more care.

"You can come into my house," you insisted, using the same wording as before. You waved your hand with dismissal. "Don't worry. My mom is cool with that. We live close, and— um— go home after so your parents don't find out."

Wakatoshi's face was stony. He was thinking hard, it seemed. It looked as if his mouth was set in a permanent small frown and his brows were forever furrowed. His sharp eyes were calculating, causing a child like him to look like an experienced cop who's had his fair share of stubborn criminals.

Your face indicated that you were about to commit crimes. Insurance fraud, if you were in a good mood. Arson, if you were in a bad one. You had lovable baby-fat in your cheeks and small child hands. There was something along the lines of determination in your smile. It couldn't be called determination just yet. You hadn't tasted defeat enough to know what it was like to be determined.

"Okay," he said curtly.

Allowing you to take the volleyball, Wakatoshi stood up. You balanced your bug net and the volleyball in your hands. You studied the volleyball. The volleyball's stripes stretched across the sphere, creating whorls of green, red, and white.

It's Christmas-colored, you thought blandly.

Written in black Sharpie, Japanese lettering was displayed on a thick white stripe. It was, what you assumed to be, Wakatoshi's family name: Ushijima . 

You and Wakatoshi walked side-by-side as you lead him to your house. He was a little taller than you—maybe by a few inches. You sized him up briefly, ultimately deciding that you had the mental and physical capacity to beat the fuck out of this little man.

His left hand was trembling slightly, but Wakatoshi kept a straight face on. You thought about all the sick stag beetles you were missing because you happened to stumble upon an injured boy. It was so boring in Japan. Nobody wanted to fight.

"Wa—Ushijima- san , how did you hurt your hand?" you curiously asked.

Wakatoshi looked down at his left hand. "Ah, well, I tried to spike the volleyball."

"Spike?" you repeated, the foreign word tasting bitter in your mouth. "Ah, do you mean hit ? You hit it with your left hand, too."

"I'm left-handed."

"Oh, cool," you said, thinking nothing of it. When you were in kindergarten, you knew a few kids who were left-handed as well. "I see you sometimes when I look out my window with your dad. All you do is practice volleyball. Is there anything else you do?"

Wakatoshi shook his head. "Just volleyball."

The boy neighbor kept his words short and clipped, making conversation increasingly difficult. On the other hand, he might have made your life easier, considering that you knew little Japanese.

His face was slightly rounded at the cheeks, giving the impression of growing cheekbones. You ogled his hands, bruised and already calloused at a young age—an outcome of constant volleyball. There was magic growing underneath his palms, and you would never know what that magic was like.

"Is your dad any good at volleyball?" you questioned, tearing your gaze away from his hands and moving them forward.

Wakatoshi nodded. "Yeah, he's amazing. He wants me to be an ace, too. Just like his team's ace."

You had no idea what an ace was. You were only vaguely aware of societal norms, so how would you know half of the random words your neighbor spouted? Ace was a rather pretty word. It sounded official —like a secret weapon one would use once everything has gone to hell.

More importantly, Ace would be a dank name for your freaky bug (once you caught it).

"Oh, well, I want to be a bug hunter!" you declared.

Wakatoshi's eyes flicked to your net. "Is that what the big net is for?"

"Catching ugly bugs?" you asked. You shifted your large net around your small body. "Yeah, duh . I can fit my whole head into the net if I tried. Want to see?"

"Not really," Wakatoshi deadpanned. "Are you not afraid of bugs?"

To be frank, you were somewhat terrified of bugs. Centipedes, roaches, spiders, men —you name it. Even with your slight fear, you were fascinated by their beady little eyes and ghastly number of arms. You were no bug, but if you had been born with eight arms, you wouldn't know what to do with yourself.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

"A little bit," you admitted. "But I want to catch a stag beetle and teach it tricks. Then, I can convince it to conspire against the other stag beetles. After my pet stag beetle and I have killed off the entire stag beetle population, we can— I don't know —go play house."

Wakatoshi was very still.

There was a certain word for killing an entire population—or nearly killing an entire population. That word was genocide . Of course, typical five-year-olds didn't know the word genocide. Most students didn't know the word genocide until covering World War II during their Sophomore year in high school, which was strange because genocide was surely practiced beforehand, most notably when the United States of America had been founded by Christopher Columbus.

As one would expect, Wakatoshi didn't know the word genocide just yet. He would in a few years. Instead, Wakatoshi safely replied, "What are you going to name your stag beetle?"

Additionally, Wakatoshi couldn't comprehend any word you said after 'teach it.' Your words had sounded lazier and louder and nothing like the Japanese he knew. He half-hoped it was a different language and not complicated Japanese vocabulary. It seemed, without realizing it, you had lapsed back into English momentarily.

"Ace," you said sheepishly, as if you hadn't been planning mass genocide seconds before. "Being an ace sounds cool!"

"My dad told me that an ace is a tall, strong man whom everyone on the volleyball team trusts," Wakatoshi explained, his eyes sparkling. You doubted Wakatoshi could visibly convey an emotion other than indifference, but this was cutting close. It was strange how a stoic boy like him could show passion .

His eyes were vibrant and alive—leaving you to wonder if you could do the same.

"You really like your dad."

Wakatoshi nodded. He looked at the volleyball in your hands, and then he looked at you. "What about you, Suzuki -san ?"

"My dad is in America," you said loudly, not caring if you woke up the neighborhood cat that was attempting to sleep on a stone wall next to Wakatoshi. "We left him there."

" What? Did you forget to bring him home to Japan?"

"Oh, no, no, no," you sputtered out—and if your hands had been free, you would have waved them around wildly for emphasis. "I come from America. I moved here like, a week ago."

Wakatoshi visibly blanched; the color was slowly draining away from his face. His features had frozen up, and his movements were strangely rigid. You chalked it up to Wakatoshi processing wild, unflattering information, which led to his mind malfunctioning. 

"You're a foreigner," he said as if he couldn't believe it.

"I think I'm an official Japanese citizen now," you corrected numbly. The word foreigner stung. You hadn't a clue why it stung, but it did . The word foreigner was like a gnat on a hot summer's day. "And then some stuff happened, and now my dad is not my dad anymore. It's okay, though. I'm still cute."

"You speak Japanese so well," Wakatoshi said. "How?"

"My mom speaks it, farmer boy," you said proudly.

Wakatoshi's face and attitude practically screamed of a farmer-like essence to you. You could easily describe Wakatoshi with three adjectives: simple, plain, and strong. Were those not the qualities of a potato farmer?

Wakatoshi stopped walking. "Far— Farmer boy? Are you mad at me, Suzuki -san ? Am I still allowed in your house?"

"Yeah," you said. "I'm not mad."

Eventually, you had reached your house at the end of the neighborhood.

You never took the chance to admire the architecture of your home. In America, houses were all strangely unique—like Lego bricks assembled by a toddler who mistook curiosity for innovation. In Japan, houses were all the same and designed to be compact; they fit perfectly like puzzle pieces on each block.

In all honesty, the reason why you could pick out your house was because of the plethora of commotion surrounding it.

Delivery trucks were parked outside your house with strange men going back and forth, carrying boxes. Loud shouts of instructions rang outside your house, contradicting Wakatoshi's house, which was quiet as it always had been.

Compared to your new house, Wakatoshi and you were very small; you and he were only children. At that moment, there was a darling little girl who was fascinated in everything except for what she was meant to do, and standing next to her was a darling little boy who wasn't fascinated by anything except for what he was meant to do.

"When your finger gets better," you said, "promise me you'll show me your spike."

"It needs practice."

"I know," you said cheerfully. "But can you still show me?"

"Why?" Wakatoshi asked. "If it's not good, then it's not worth showing anyone."

"I don't care," you insisted. "I still want to see it."

There was an innate desire in you to see something new. Even if it was shitty, even if it was terrible—it would be new . There was something in between the lines of the music sheets and something farther than the highest C note.

Curiosity was a terrible vice, but at times it could be a kind virtue.

Wakatoshi looked conflicted. He often had a lot of thoughts, but none of them spoken. You were strange to him. You were unknown. Wakatoshi didn't like the unknown. The unknown was dangerous and unthoughtful. His father had told him that the best place to be was where Wakatoshi could cultivate his talents. Somewhere safe .

"Fine," he said flatly. "You can call me Wakatoshi."

"Call me [Y/N]."

Chapter Text

"[Y/N], who's this?" your mother asked, eyeing the boy who was awkwardly standing by the door frame. 

Your mother was your adoptive mother, named Mary Suzuki—previously Mary [L/N]. She was a tall woman with keen black eyes and clipped short hair to match. Her thin lips were permanently set in a line of dissatisfaction and rosy blooms rested on her high cheekbones.

"Wakatoshi," you replied coolly, taking off your shoes. "Oh, um, Ushijima Wakatoshi. He lives next door."

"What did I say about bringing strangers home, [Y/N]?"

"To release them into the backyard and kill them?"

" No, that's —that's about bringing bugs home," your mother corrected. She looked at you briefly with disappointment , and then she relented. "It's all right. He can come in."

Wakatoshi, your newfound friend, was shifting back and forth, allowing various deliverymen to haul moving boxes into the house. Those same deliverymen would then proceed out, not allowing the boy to stand still. He looked uncertain and stood out like the jammed middle finger on his left hand.

You gave Wakatoshi a half-ass thumbs-up, indicating that he was permitted to enter. Wakatoshi gave you a wary look and glanced at your mother. Nevertheless, he followed in suit, taking off his outdoor shoes and slipping on generic house slippers.

Absentmindedly, you told your mother as you walked past, "Also, Wakatoshi jammed his middle finger, and I told him that you could help."

Your mother looked incredibly done with your five-year-old bullshit.

"Why didn't you lead with that?" your mother exclaimed. "Go take care of Adam. I'll help your new friend here."

Wakatoshi and your mother began speaking rapid Japanese. Your Japanese vocabulary was limited immensely, and you couldn't easily catch on to what was being conversed. You could pinpoint a few syllables and change in intonation, but other than a few words, you were completely stumped.

Ushering Wakatoshi to the bathroom, your mother shot a glare at you—a reminder, so it seemed, to take care of Adam. Wakatoshi hadn't said a single word to you ever since he entered into the household, presumably because he was bombarded almost immediately with the strange setting of an American-Japanese household.

Adam Suzuki was your Chinese younger brother. He was adopted, just like you. Right off the bat, he had trimmed black hair and condescending brown eyes. His brows were shaped like tadpoles, and his small mouth was scrunched up like the brat he was.

He was sitting on the large couch in the living room, watching Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi . Arguably, it was the best episode out of the original trilogy. Your father had rented it from Blockbusters a few months ago, and you took it with you to Japan. You had no idea what the consequences were when you took something without the intention to return.

You were five, and you had committed your first crime unknowingly.

Your brother was wearing a navy sailor outfit with a red ascot tie. His cheeks were red with life and drool dribbled down his chin. You had the unexplainable urge to squeeze the living daylights out of the little man.

Maybe it was because he was cute.

"Remote," Adam said bluntly. 

Maybe it was because he acted like he was the king of the household.

Dropping your bug net and Wakatoshi's volleyball on the carpet, you picked up the black remote on the coffee table in front of the couch and plopped down next to Adam. At the impact of your body hitting the couch, your brother flopped like a jiggly cheesecake. You handed him the remote and attentively watched Han Solo and Chewbacca.

Adam's chubby fingers smashed miscellaneous colorful buttons on the black remote. Considering that most of the controls were in Japanese, you were just as clueless as he was.

Consequently, the TV winked out.

You and Adam glumly stared at the black TV and then at each other. You had half a mind to blame your brother (as it had been his fault), but you knew your mother would ultimately pin the blame on you because you were older. It was as if you weren't a child yourself. Simply because you were older didn't mean you knew any better.

"Let's just hope that you just turned the TV off, right, Adam?" you said nervously.

Listen, if you had totaled your mother's TV on the seventh day of living in Japan, you might as well have sat in an electric chair and plugged in the damn thing yourself.

Wakatoshi and your mother emerged from the bathroom with Wakatoshi's hand wrapped in bandages and a cold compress being pressed against it. Your mother had a small smile on her face and a calm hand on Wakatoshi's back. She briefly glanced at Adam, who was now gnawing the top of the black remote with his gummy teeth.

"Your friend should be fine," your mother reassured you in Japanese, now conscious of Wakatoshi's presence. "[Y/N], you're friends with such a well-behaved kid. The Ushijimas, eh? Next door? They must be excellent parents."

Wakatoshi nodded solemnly.

"Maybe you'll be a good influence for my [Y/N], hmm, Wakatoshi -kun ?" your mother said brightly to the boy. "She's a troublesome young American lady, and Wakatoshi -kun , you're a rather well-mannered Japanese boy."

"Thank you," Wakatoshi said curtly.

Your mother soon decided to take Adam outside and greet the neighbors. She lifted Adam onto her hip, despite Adam's newfound ability to walk. Her grip was stable on the infant, and a smile graced her features when Adam mustered out a word that was neither Japanese nor English. She seemed like a real mother instead of the scary dark demon you believed she was.

You beckoned Wakatoshi to sit on the couch where Adam previously sat. Wakatoshi obeyed. You wiped Adam's saliva off of the remote, telling Wakatoshi that Star Wars: Episode VI — Return of the Jedi was playing. He then proceeded to tell you that he had no idea what Star Wars was, leaving you to wonder if you should end this friendship before anything more drastic happened.

Before your mother had left, she had asked you and Wakatoshi to watch over each other and said not to hesitate to come outside and alert her if anything was wrong. Wakatoshi nodded like a military general given a serious command, eliciting a smile from your mother.

You stuck your tongue out defiantly when your mother had her back facing you.

Once your mother had left, you turned on the TV. Wakatoshi seemed to lack the five-year-old curiosity that most children your age had. He watched Luke Skywalker withdraw a green lightsaber in true 1980s hero fashion, but Wakatoshi's sharp eyes hadn't glittered like before. You could see that Wakatoshi wasn't particularly interested in Star Wars: Episode VI — Return of the Jedi .

You wondered what it would take to get Wakatoshi's eyes to sparkle again. There was something ignited in the eyes of a stoic boy such as Wakatoshi, and you wanted to explore it. You had never wanted to explore something more.

His eyes had been near sparkling when he was talking about his passion— his volleyball .

Did your eyes sparkle similarly when you talked about your passion?

Your current passion at the moment was catching stag beetles and planning mass beetle genocide. It wasn't a common conversation topic, so not many people would see the riveting intrigue in your eyes that likely mirrored Wakatoshi's.

"Does your finger still hurt?" you asked Wakatoshi.

"Yes," he said.

"I guess you won't be spiking for me soon," you whined, slouching against the couch in disappointment. "How long do I have to wait? I want to see it now ."

"It's not any good yet," Wakatoshi said. "I don't understand why you want to see it so bad."

"Because it's cool , and I've never seen one before! I want to hear the"—you raised your right hand up high, sitting upright on the couch, and mimicked a spike sloppily—" whoosh! And bam! And the..."

The boy next to you on the couch could hear it. He could hear it! He could hear the sound of the volleyball hitting the hard, wooden floor and the spectators gasping. He could hear the trailing thuds of the volleyball after the hard impact. He could hear the heavy breathing of the volleyball players after a hard set.

He could feel the volleyball in his left hand. The smooth curve, the grooves where the stitches laid, the little scratches from constant practice on concrete. He could feel his left hand colliding with the ball, his palm encapsulating the curvature of the ball. He could feel the satisfaction of the action—

Wakatoshi sat forward in his seat. His right hand gripped his knee, knuckles whitening. His left hand clutched his cold compress. The boy's eyes followed your mock spike, entranced.

Yeah, that was the look .

You wanted that look.

"Oh, Wakatoshi, you're left-handed, right?" you said, gazing at his wounded hand. "So you would spike it like this"—you waved your left hand and made similar sound effects—"and it would be equally as awesome, if not even more awesome."

"I don't think it would be awesome. There are not a lot of left-handed aces," Wakatoshi said. 

"And what about it?" you asked. "That just makes you rare. Like a shiny Pokémon card."

Listen, you didn't play Pokémon, but as Smash Mouth infamously sang, 'All that glitters is gold'—so therefore shiny Pokémon cards must have some financial worth to them.

Wakatoshi eyed his volleyball that you left on the ground. "You don't think that being left-handed is unnatural?"

He said it like he had been told this all his life.

"I don't think so," you said. "I know a lot of kids who are left-handed in America. People who think that being left-handed is weird are stink bugs."

Granted, you had never seen a stink bug, but you thought the name was self-explanatory.

"Stink bugs?" Wakatoshi repeated.

"Yeah," you assured, curling a determined right hand into a fist, "stink bugs. I'll get rid of them for you, like a severely underpaid bug exterminator who works for a capitalist private company! I'll exterminate all the stink bugs for you, Wakatoshi, because we're friends, right?"

Wakatoshi tilted his head, blinking owlishly. His mind couldn't process your words. "We're friends?"

"It's only natural for us to be friends," you reasoned unreasonably. "Out of everywhere in the world, my mom chose the Miyagi Prefecture in Japan. Japan , Wakatoshi. I'm from America. There was a whole ocean between us a week ago, but now I'm here. I'm your neighbor"—bug exterminator—"and your friend."

Being your friend wouldn't be so bad, would it?

"That's—" Wakatoshi tried to find an answer. He looked uncertain, and he was uncertain. To be your friend was all his five-year-old mind wanted. He wanted to teach you about spikes— about volleyball . He was uncertain about everything but one thing. "It's—um—"

"What?" you questioned.

"Yeah," Wakatoshi breathed out. "I'll be your friend."

It only took you a week to make a friend. How long would it take you to become an enemy of the Japanese state?

Eventually, your mother had come home to you and Wakatoshi making remarks about a certain volleyball game he wanted to watch. With the Star Wars: Episode VI — Return of the Jedi DVD discarded to the side, you humored Wakatoshi's interest in the sport.  It was a college volleyball game—nothing too fancy.

It shocked you and Wakatoshi when your mother walked into the living room with two unidentified figures that resembled the boy who was sitting next to you.

As it turned out, Wakatoshi's parents came looking for him. They had coincidentally met up with your mother and Adam on the street while looking for their son. Strangely, your mother and Wakatoshi's parents ended up getting along well, which unnerved you just enough for you to be wary around Wakatoshi's parents.

Wakatoshi's mother bore dark hair that curled around her chin. One portion of her hair was tucked behind her ear professionally with not a single flyaway. Her eyes were sharp and nose small. Wakatoshi's sharp eyes were rounder than his mother's, you noticed. Wakatoshi's mother stood at an average height, which contradicted her husband's height.

So it seemed Wakatoshi inherited a majority of his features from his father, most notably height-wise. You had to crane your neck to look at the boy, but it was nothing compared to the height of his father. However, his father had lighter hair than Wakatoshi and boasted an air of determination.

"Wakatoshi," his mother chastised, "what did I say about entering people's homes unprompted? You're lucky that Ms. Suzuki is hospitable enough to take care of you."

The boy stood up from the couch abruptly, causing the remote in your tiny hands to fumble. You gazed at him with wide eyes as he did an apologetic bow toward your mother, who was still carrying Adam on her hip. Wakatoshi was still and sincere, unlike you, who happened to be oddly sarcastic for a girl who hadn't lived much of life.

Wakatoshi happened to treat his mother with respect. You could feel your mother's pointed stare at you, indicating that she would like you to treat her as Wakatoshi treated his own mother. You looked away, guilty.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Suzuki," Wakatoshi apologized. "Sorry for the intrusion."

Your mother smiled kindly, which sent shivers down your spine. You weren't used to her smiling too often. She hefted Adam up higher on her hip, saying, "Wakatoshi -kun , you're invited over any time. [Y/N] is still new to Japan and needs smart friends like you."

You wanted to go back to watching Star Wars.

"You must be the rumored [Y/N] -chan ," Wakatoshi's father said, bringing your attention to him briefly. There was a bright smile drawn on Wakatoshi's father's face. "I'm glad that you were able to make friends with Wakatoshi so easily. You're welcome into our house any time as well. You're very cute."

"Thanks," you said. "You're not that cu—"

"[Y/N]," your mother said quickly.

"Thanks," you said. "You're very kind, Mr. Ushijima."

Wakatoshi's mother tilted her head. Her sharp eyes that mirrored Wakatoshi's softened when she looked at your face. She must have had a soft spot for children. "I heard from your mother that you play the piano. Are you the one who plays the lovely, simple lullabies early in the morning?"

"Well, yes," you said, "I've just started playing a year ago, so I can't play really cool songs like the USSR national anthem."

"Some day, you'll have to play for me and Wakatoshi -kun , hmm?" Ms. Ushijima said to you. "We'd love to have you over. Our house gets quiet sometimes, [Y/N] -chan ."

Your mother laughed softly. "It'll be good practice for [Y/N]. She needs more motivation."

Wakatoshi turned to meet your bored gaze. His dark eyes shone with slight interest. You had learned so much about him, but he had learned nearly nothing about you. "You play the piano?"

"Yes," you replied, "there's a grand piano in the next room near the bathroom. Did you not see it?"

"My left hand was injured. It hurt."

"Oh, right!"

"The primary school I was planning on sending [Y/N] to," your mother said to your friend, "just so happens to be the same one that you are going to, Wakatoshi -kun . You two will be in the same elementary school next year."

You were going to be spending the next six years with the little volleyball-obsessed boy. Wakatoshi and you were very different kids, but what could one say? Opposites attracted. 

It was as if you and Wakatoshi were made of the same cloth but put to different uses.

The days flew by quicker than your arrival to Japan. 

After learning that it took a month or two for a jammed finger to heal, Wakatoshi was, what the kids might call, depressed. He lived and breathed for volleyball. You were no 4000 Japanese yen volleyball, but you entertained him well enough during his summer days. Interacting with Wakatoshi improved your Japanese vocabulary, which your mother approved of immensely.

Wakatoshi talked succinctly, using two words whereas you would use nine. Although Wakatoshi talked in blunt and simple sentences, conversation failed to grow dull. You and he oddly made an excellent friendship.

You would invite him over to your house and make him watch the entire Star Wars series with you. Wakatoshi grew to dislike the sound of lightsabers and whatever noise Chewbacca made. 

"[Y/N], we've watched Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace three times this week," Wakatoshi dryly pointed out when you clumsily entered the DVD into the tray with an evil cackle. "Let's watch my father's old volleyball games."

"I know , but I want to see Obi-Wan Kenobi again," you said shyly, shifting your feet back and forth. "There's just something about him—"

"You think he's attractive."

" No , Wakatoshi! What ma—makes you think that? I would never —"

"You think he's attractive."

He had come so often to your house that your mother had bought a special pair of house slippers for him. Wakatoshi tried to pay her back with a 500 yen coin, but your mother refused. It had gotten to the point where it became a game. Wakatoshi would come to your house and creatively hide the yen coin in odd places—in between the cushions of the couch, underneath stacks of magazines, and hidden in the compartment of the piano bench.

Once, you had entered your bathroom only to find a 500 yen coin in the sink.

Countless times, Wakatoshi had eaten dinner with your family. He would help with the dishes, and your mother would be delighted at the sight of you and Wakatoshi doing chores together. When your mother had to make quick runs to the convenience store, you and Wakatoshi ended up babysitting Adam briefly.

"Say 'Wakatoshi,' Adam," you said to your little brother. "Wa-ka-tosh-i."

"It's a long name," Wakatoshi said from his place on the couch, where he was watching a volleyball rerun. "He'd be better off saying Ushijima."

"That's not any shorter, Cow-jima," you retorted. An idea popped into your head, prompting you to pound your fist into your open palm. You turned your head to Adam, who was crawling over the carpet. " Wait, I got it . Adam, say 'cow.'"

"That's just mean."

Adam only blinked obliviously and fell on his side. He looked a bit like a frog.

You frequented Wakatoshi's house, learning how to make green tea with his mother and talking animatedly with his father about miscellaneous American topics. Wakatoshi's parents took a liking to you, and if Wakatoshi wasn't at your house, you were over at his place due to his parents' insistence.

The Ushijimas owned a decorative piano on which you played occasionally. You played lovely lullabies for Ms. Ushijima, who listened to your piano playing. Ms. Ushijima stood by the end of the piano, a hand resting on the piano fallboard lightly. She hummed lightly to your simple tunes, her finger tapping a steady metronome-like tempo.

The moment you learned a new song, you drilled every note into your head, hoping that you'd impress Wakatoshi's mother. Whenever your finger slipped, you winced and hoped she never caught on.

You happened to find the piano a bore, but it was embarrassing if you couldn't play the piano well. Your mother had already told the Ushijimas that you were learning and growing better by the day. You ultimately decided that it was better to hate the piano yet still be decent at it than to hate the piano and suck ass.

Everyone was decent at something with practice.

"[Y/N]—" Wakatoshi began, opening the sliding door to the living room. He held a DVD of, what you assumed was, a volleyball rerun.

You paused your piano playing, turning to look at your friend. "Another one?"

"I recorded a women's game," Wakatoshi said blandly. "I thought you might be tired of watching men's games."

You looked up at Ms. Ushijima, who was looking at the DVD in Wakatoshi's left hand. You weren't sure if she was looking at the DVD or Wakatoshi's left hand. Wakatoshi's hand was still wrapped in white bandages from his injury, but something told you that Wakatoshi's jammed finger wasn't the reason Ms. Ushijima was staring.

"[Y/N], go with Wakatoshi," Ms. Ushijima said lightly. "I can clean up here."

"Nice!" you exclaimed, launching yourself toward Wakatoshi. "Thank you so much! I'll play for you again once I learn a cooler song!"

Ms. Ushijima only smiled.

Mr. Ushijima, on the other hand, could only be described as 'bright'—not bright as in intelligent or smart but rather bright as in the blinding sun or the soft glow of a lightbulb. You were surprised to find out that he had taken his wife's last name, and that his former last name was Utsui.

"Whoa," you had said, "if I get married to a guy, I'll make him take my last name, too!"

"Why?" Wakatoshi asked.

"Dunno," you replied loosely, eliciting a tired face from Wakatoshi and a chuckle from his father. "I also don't know which last name I'll make him take—Suzuki or [L/N]."

"[L/N]?" Mr. Ushijima repeated. He flicked his eyes to yours. "Ah, is that your father's last name?"

"Yeah," you said, "but in Japan, my last name is Suzuki."

"You're a smart kid, you know that, [Y/N] -chan ?" Mr. Ushijima commented, eyeing you. Wakatoshi looked like he disagreed, but you elected to ignore the look of dispute on your friend's face. "Are you okay even with your father in America? Do you feel sad?"

Asking a kid if he or she felt sad had to be some sort of war crime. It took awhile for you to register the question, partially because you didn't know how to respond. You safely answered that you and your little brother were fine. Mr. Ushijima had said that he was happy for you and Adam. 

Mr. Ushijima commonly asked you about your experiences overseas and your feelings about it. He often sat in with you and Wakatoshi while watching the volleyball reruns. You could see Mr. Ushijima's attachment to volleyball seep out of every pore he had. It seemed Wakatoshi's passion for the sport stemmed from his father.

Later, you learned that Mr. Ushijima was once a second division volleyball player, and in high school, he took his team to Nationals. However, due to an injury, Mr. Ushijima had to retire. 

"I've never seen Wakatoshi play volleyball," you said to Mr. Ushijima one day, "but I'll believe that he's a good player."

"My boy will be better than good," Mr. Ushijima proclaimed. "You see, my son already has a good foundation for growth. Since he has the potential and all the opportunities in the world, it is likely that he will be the greatest volleyball player of all time. His outcome, when he is older, will be a million-fold what it is now."

You didn't understand half of the words Mr. Ushijima had said, but at this point, you were too afraid to ask. You were sure that Mr. Ushijima had said something impressive, but you were too confused to be impressed. In response, you clapped in delight, eliciting wows.

As you were with Wakatoshi more often, you noticed how he looked up to his father, eyes sparkling. Wakatoshi hung on to nearly every word his father said about volleyball. Whether it'd be about the rules or about the ideals of a player, Wakatoshi seemed to absorb the littlest of things.

If only he'd pay this much attention when watching a Star Wars movie with you.

You measured your hand against his one day while you were sitting out on Wakatoshi's porch. His palm was noticeably bigger, but your fingers were longer. All in all, Wakatoshi's hand was simply a smidgen bigger than yours. This caused you to create and experience a sixth stage of grief.

The swelling soon reduced underneath Wakatoshi's middle finger after two months. What once was a blooming blue of ugliness was a tame blemish of navy and a somewhat more normal-shaped finger. Your mother had removed the bandages on Wakatoshi's fingers, allowing him some freedom with his dominant hand.

"Hey, Wakatoshi," you said, watching him hold his volleyball. "Do you want to be like your dad?"

You and he were on the neighborhood street. Since Wakatoshi's hand was feeling better, his father permitted him to practice for a few minutes. You sat on the curb, drawing the Death Star in the dirt with a stick. Wakatoshi was a few feet away, balancing the large ball in his hands.

Today would be the day you would see Wakatoshi's spike—the spike that you had been yearning to see since day one, the spike that would change everything for you.

Wakatoshi thought about it for a moment. "I don't think so."

"No?" You looked up from your drawing that looked more like a terrified bear than the planet-killing machine from the hit movie Star Wars: Episode VI — Return of the Jedi . "Then what do you want to be when you grow up? You'd make a sick volleyball player—or an ace . Don't you want to become one? An ace?"

The boy in front of you tilted his head, thinking to himself. "I don't—I don't think I want to be like my dad. My dad is amazing, but I want to be something else."

"An ace, then."

"I guess... I want to be an ace. " Wakatoshi hardened his grip on his volleyball. There was something alit in his eyes that could only be accurately described as fire. He insisted, "yes, I want to become an ace."

Wakatoshi said his words with such finality that it made your own dream occupation (bug hunter—but the idea of being a Sith was growing more appealing by the day) wither in comparison.

"Then let's accomplish our goals together!" you exclaimed, tossing your stick to the side and nearly hitting the neighborhood cat. The cat shrieked and skittered away. "We're going to the same school for the next few years. It must be fate, right, Wakatoshi? Destiny, even?"

"Fate and destiny are the same thing, [Y/N]."

Before you could say anything more, you noticed the change in Wakatoshi. 

Wakatoshi's face was set in stone—it looked permanent. Boy, if his face was permanently looking like a stoic potato, you might have pitied him. His sharp eyes were calculating, tracing the lines that compiled the volleyball's Molten design.

After studying the volleyball in his hands for a long amount of time, Wakatoshi looked up. This time, you could see determination written all over his face—as plain as day. So it seemed Wakatoshi had three emotions: indifference, determination, and volleyball.

A mere second later, Wakatoshi had tossed the ball in the air with both his hands. You watched the ball spiral into the sky like a comet and shoot back down like a bullet. Without hesitation, Wakatoshi had lifted his hand, and he smacked the ball downward with immense power for a puny five-year-old.

His motion was hard to catch. It was like a smear of peach colored paint across a canvas. If not for your beady and quick eyes, you might have missed the action entirely. The volleyball was smashed against the ground, nearly flattening from the pressure. 

The volleyball was bouncing away in little dribbles from where it impacted the ground. Silence consumed the two of you. 

Wakatoshi wasn't perfect. He was blunt and stupid and intimidating and tall. He couldn't easily grasp concepts and took things literally. He was constantly on fire. He was a mess. He was quiet. Wakatoshi made you watch volleyball reruns until your eyes bled with the sweat of volleyball players after a particular hard set.

But when you saw his hands grasping his knees, his back curved, and his chest heaving, but when you saw Wakatoshi stand up straighter than he already had been (which should have been impossible), but when you saw a glorifying triumphant grin cross your stoic friend's face— all you wanted was to be Wakatoshi .

You wanted the look in his eye when he talked about a side-out. You wanted the excitement in his voice when he explained to you the logistics of a 15-point set. You wanted the adrenaline rush he surely felt when he touched the hard surface of the ball. 

You wanted, you wanted, you wanted, you wanted—

Wakatoshi looked like he was having fun.

" You —that—" You struggled to put your words together. "That was so cool."

Chapter Text

You were finally discovering who you were—and you were, undoubtedly, an asshole, for starters.

Realizing your dire situation, you decided to improvise, adapt, and overcome. The dire situation was that there were no bugs in your neighborhood. At first, you blamed it on Wakatoshi's naturally stunning face that made no bug even crawl within his vicinity.

Your second blame was on the climate and setting.

Your third blame was, and rightfully so, the economy.

After having Ms. Ushijima point out where exactly you were in Japan, you realized that the Miyagi Prefecture was huge. With the Miyagi Prefecture being large in scale, you figured that somewhere else in the prefecture might have different temperatures and all sorts of little things that could factor into a bug's wellbeing.

It took much convincing on your part to have your mother take you to a park.

At first, your mother asked Wakatoshi if he wanted to come. Wakatoshi wasn't opposed to tagging along, but his mother planned on taking him to the city to buy supplies for the upcoming school year. Your mother gave you a pointed glare, implying that if you hadn't been so insistent on going to the park, she might have been able to go shopping with Ms. Ushijima.

Upon your arrival to the park on the other side of the Miyagi Prefecture, your mother said, "[Y/N], I'll be taking Adam for a walk. Don't go too far, and don't hurt your fingers swinging around that net."

It was more likely for you to hurt someone else if you were to swing around the net, but you didn't say anything.

You were dressed in a cute sundress and a sun hat sat on top of your head, fitting for the summer weather. You wore a backpack, carrying a disposable camera your father had bought you when you lived in America. Half of the film was used up, filled with your American memories. Star Wars pins decorated the straps of the backpack, creating a messy line of buttons.

The park was nice, you supposed.

It was a local neighborhood park. There was a colorful jungle gym and grand trees providing shade to the park. It was wide and expansive that allowed kids of all ages to play around. Families took their infants for a small stroll while teenagers loitered around in awkward hormonal couples.

You tittered near the trees, hoping to find a stag beetle on one of the trunks.

The trunks were large in shape. The trees were in such a formation that it was too spacious to be called a forest but too natural to be called part of the park. It was simply a clump of trees that happened to be next to the local park. Surely there had to be some bugs here. If not, you might have packed your bags and moved home to America.

If you were Luke Skywalker, you might have used your lightsaber to cut down trees to see if any stag beetles were hiding. If you were Yoda, you would use the Force to draw all the beetles to you. Oh, to be a Star Wars character! Oh, to be in a galaxy far, far away! Oh, to be anywhere but here!

Unfortunately, you were an American kindergarten graduate in the Miyagi Prefecture of Japan, lightsaber-less and powerless.

The Miyagi Prefecture was supposed to be your kingdom, your Galactic Republic, your empire. Though the latter two heavily contradicted one another, the point was that you were supposed to be the ruler of it all.

You would bring peace, freedom, justice, and security to your new empire—

"Iwa -chan ," a voice whined to your left, "bugs are stupid."

"No, they're not," another voice piped up. "Who told you that?"

"My nee-chan ," the original voice replied defensively, "and she's always right, you know."

You whirled around, tilting your head.

Bugs had to be intelligent creatures. Cockroaches were infamously known for surviving even the toughest of situations. Stag beetles also had some degree of intelligence if they were smart enough to evade your large net and greedy eyes.

To your left, you were greeted with the sight of two children your age. One bore unruly, soft brown hair that flitted over his eyelashes like snow. His brown doe eyes were beaming with vibrancy—with passion—and his mouth was set in a flawless cupid's bow. This boy had peach skin, and his cheeks were rounded with pink life. His friend, however, was different.

The boy's friend donned a serious expression on his face. He had tanner skin and keen dark eyes. His brows were clipped short and furrowed, giving off an intense irked aura. The friend had short, spiked black hair in contrast to his friend's hair. What caught your eye in particular was the bug net that the boy's friend was holding.

They had been trekking through the tree area just as you had. The boy with lighter brown hair looked like he had reluctantly agreed to tag along whereas his friend was very eager. 

"Are you here to catch bugs, too?" you asked the boys, drawing their attention to you. You hefted your net on your shoulder for emphasis. "I'm looking for stag beetles."

"Yeah," the boy with soft, brown hair said. "Iwa- chan here loves bugs."

"There are no stag beetles in this area," the boy's friend, dubbed Iwa- chan , informed you, his voice expressionless. "It's summer. The most common bug here is a cicada. Those are what I'm looking for."

You stared at him.

There were no stag beetles here? Japan was a menace. Immediately, you wanted to fly home. In America, there were bugs of all shapes and sizes. A cicada was no different from a stag beetle, you supposed. If you couldn't form a revolution with a stag beetle, you might as well do it with a cicada.

If only you knew what it looked like. Uglier than a stag beetle, no doubt.

"I'm Oikawa Tooru," the boy offered brightly. "Anyway, what's a girl like you hunting for bugs like Iwa- chan ? That's a boy thing."

You stared at Oikawa Tooru. "Girls can hunt bugs, too, but we just look cuter while doing it."

Tooru's friend cleared his throat. His dark eyes shone with solidarity after seeing your net, likely acknowledging you as a fellow bug hunter in the making. "I'm Iwaizumi Hajime, and I also hunt bugs. What's your name?"

"[Y/N]—I mean, Suzuki [Y/N]," you answered, still fumbling with your introduction. "Do you live in this neighborhood? Can you show me where all the cool bugs are, Hajime- san ? The cicadas, you called them?"

Iwaizumi blinked. "Sure. They are not pretty, though, Suzuki- san . They're huge, and their wings are cool. They have beady eyes, too. Once you see one, you'll know what I'm talking about. Coming to think of it, they look like Oikawa."

Oikawa had the audacity to look a bit hurt.

"Oh, um, you can just call me [Y/N] or Suzuki," you said to Iwaizumi, waving your free hand. Being called by your last name felt odd and chunky. It was uncomfortable for you. It didn't fit well in the mouth. It was your mother's name, too, and not rightfully yours. "So you'll really show me where all the bugs are?"

"Yeah, Suzuki [Y/N], sure," Iwaizumi said. "You can call me Hajime or Iwaizumi, then."

"You've got a nice net, Iwaizumi," you complimented the boy, eyeing his fine net. It looked worn yet sturdy. In a way, it resembled its owner remarkably, similarly to how a pet resembled its master. "I like it a lot. Have you caught a lot of bugs with it?"

Iwaizumi nodded. "Mostly cicadas. There's bound to be plenty here. I can show you how to catch one, too."

You lit up immensely. This was the beginning of your revolution. It all started with Iwaizumi Hajime and his bratty friend Oikawa Tooru. With their help, you could finally become an officiated bug hunter. At the sight of you brightening up, Iwaizumi looked away shyly. He clutched his net closer to his body, his knuckles whitening with his grip. 

Oikawa made a face. "Great. Two bug lovers."

You glared at Oikawa. "Well, Oikawa- san , what do you like, then? Bugs are cool, dude."

"Ignore him," Iwaizumi said flatly. "I'm only hanging out with him because we live close. He's annoying, and he doesn't think bugs are cool."

"Iwa- chan! " Oikawa protested.

You, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa walked through the greenery together. Iwaizumi was far more amicable, in your opinion, because he shared your love for bugs. You had soon found out that Iwaizumi and Oikawa lived in the same general area and often came to this park to catch bugs and whatnot.

The three of you would hide behind bushes, on the lookout for bugs swarming near the thick trunks of the trees. You and Oikawa rolled on the dirt like pigs, pretending to be espionage on a mission. Iwaizumi would keep his net up and ready to attack.

Despite being closer than two peas in a pod, Iwaizumi and Oikawa differed in many ways. Oikawa was the open type; he wandered around, complaining and grinning wildly. He pouted childishly, and his shoulders were often scrunched together in excitement and confidence. Iwaizumi was more mature; he was effortlessly masculine and kind. He seemed to hold a mutual respect for you, and he walked with broad shoulders and even broader intelligence on bugs.

Iwaizumi told you of the bugs that were common in the Miyagi Prefecture and confessed that he had never seen a stag beetle in his life. After hearing this, you fell into a small pit of sadness—it had reminded you of how little you knew about Japan. However, Iwaizumi quickly added that he'd be willing to look out for stag beetles.

Oikawa seemed to catch on to the fact that you spoke your Japanese slowly and with a slight accent. You talked with a full mouth, words tumbling out freely like a bag of rice spilling over a countertop. You talked with gestures and facial features, not masking a single emotion. Your words were crisp and loud—and you enunciated oddly.

"Say, Suzuki- san ," Oikawa said, hopping over a certain twig. "You're not from Japan, are you?"

"No." You shook your head. "I moved here a while ago. I'm from America."

"America! That's so far— that's—that's amazing! Can you speak English?"

Your eye twitched. "Yes."

After learning that Japanese wasn't your native language, Iwaizumi and Oikawa talked slower. It was easier for you to understand them, but you felt as if you were a hindrance. They rapidly added definitions to their words when you furrow your brows in confusion. Overall, they were kind enough about the subject—and curious, too.

You trekked through the tree-filled plain, tailing Iwaizumi's experienced footsteps. Oikawa matched pace with you, keeping conversation lively as you sought out bugs to catch. Oikawa wailed about how this was the fifth time this week he had gone on this exact trail with Iwaizumi. He wanted to do something new.

Iwaizumi replied that there simply was nothing else to do. Their parents ushered them outside anyway, so they might as well explore. Iwaizumi was kind enough to ask about your family, to which you replied by saying that you had a mother and a baby brother while your father was overseas in America.

Since Iwaizumi and Oikawa lived near each other, that meant that they were going to the same elementary school. Once they had told you their elementary school, you had frowned. You said that you were going to a different elementary school, since you lived on the other side of the Miyagi Prefecture. Iwaizumi looked sorely disappointed.

Eventually, Iwaizumi had caught sight of the bug that the three of you had been hunting for quite a while: the cicada .

He motioned for you and Oikawa to quiet down and crouch low to the ground. Oikawa rolled his eyes and obeyed, and you soon followed. Iwaizumi straightened his posture, his net specifically aimed to capture the buzzing cicada.

The cicada was perched on a low branch of a tree. It sang a high-pitched song, ringing in your ears. Its orange wings were folded inwards, and its body bore a smooth metallic gray cover. Perhaps if you polished the bug's body, you might have been able to see your reflection in it—like a mirror. True to Iwaizumi's word, the cicada did have beady eyes that spasmed here and there every so often.

"It's beautiful," you gasped.

Oikawa, next to you, said, "that has got to be the ugliest thing I've ever laid my eyes on."

With a clean swoop, Iwaizumi brought his net toward the cicada, capturing it neatly. It was a blur, and if you had blinked, you would have missed it. Iwaizumi's accuracy was deadly—it had reminded you of Ushijima Wakatoshi's spike. That sort of precision would make him an excellent spiker, you believed.

Of course, you were no volleyball player, but you had seen Wakatoshi and his father in action.

The cicada sang sadly in Iwaizumi's net, buzzing helplessly against the string rope. Iwaizumi had a small fist bunching up the fabric, blocking the bug's escape. Iwaizumi stood proud like a pillar of stone—unmovable and dependable. He had a wide grin on his face, proud of his achievement.

He beckoned you forward to look at the bug. Oikawa followed in suit, his light brown hair flopping with his movements.

The bug bumped against the walls of the net, crying for help. It sang louder than ever. Oikawa covered his ears. You eyed it with curiosity. You stared at its beady eyes, unable to tear your gaze away. It was unfortunate how beautiful this bug was—and how it was caught in a boy's weak net.

Its wings fluttered helplessly, and its limbs scratched against the string of the net. You gulped apprehensively, watching the cicada struggle in Iwaizumi's net.

You clutched the pole of your net tighter.

As quickly as he had caught it, Iwaizumi's grip on the net had loosened. The net fell in crinkles—Iwaizumi's grip had been strong.  Once the cicada realized that there had been an opening, it flew out of the net. In a mere breath, the cicada was gone—never to be seen again.

"Why'd you let it go, Iwa- chan ?" Oikawa asked. "What if Suzuki—[Y/N]- chan— wanted it?"

Iwaizumi shrugged loosely, swinging the net over his shoulder. "I don't know. Cicadas tend to have short lifespans. I wouldn't want a second of its pitiful life to be spent in a cheap net."

Iwaizumi Hajime must be a really kind person, you thought.

Maybe you shouldn't plan a genocidal revolution with the cicadas. It seemed, for a bug hunter, that Iwaizumi was oddly fond of them. You would hate to be on opposing sides with Iwaizumi in the Final Cicada War to End All Wars. Iwaizumi would prove to be a difficult opponent, especially with his talent for catching bugs.

"Iwaizumi was only showing me how to catch them," you told Oikawa with a bright smile. "If I come back here, maybe I'd be able to catch them myself, and then I'd be the one showing off the bug that I caught!"

Oikawa had laughed and said that he wanted to get ice cream—it was too hot to stay in the greenery any longer. With those words, you, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa trekked through the tree-filled plain, back to the park where you had last seen your mother. You had a handful of change sitting at the bottom of your backpack, but you couldn't remember if it was American or Japanese.

You wondered what Wakatoshi was up to. After finishing supply shopping with his mother, he would likely go to his father to watch more volleyball reruns. The moment you came home, you would have to practice the piano—and then you were free to go to the Ushijima residence, only to watch more reruns with Wakatoshi.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy watching reruns with Wakatoshi. You liked them, and you liked the way Wakatoshi would explain the rules to you, and how this move was a foul move, and how that move was a sneaky one. You liked his pure excitement breaking through like light.

"[Y/N]- chan ," Oikawa said, dragging you out of your thoughts. "I've been meaning to ask you this. What are those pins on your backpack straps? Are they from something?"

You'd been waiting for this one. Turn it up!

"They're Star Wars pins!" you answered fanatically. "This pin is for the Rebellion! This one is Luke Skywalker's X-wing Starfighter! Oh! And this is Darth Vader's helmet! I had an Obi-Wan Kenobi pin a while back, but I think my brother ate it—"

"Hold on, hold on, [Y/N]- chan ," Oikawa said, raising his hands to form a T-shape. He was slightly taken aback by your sudden burst of enthusiasm whereas Iwaizumi kept a careful eye on a Stormtrooper helmet pin fastened on your right backpack strap. "What's Star Wars?"

Your eye twitched.

"It's a movie series from America," you said, disappointed. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were just as ignorant as Wakatoshi. "It's super, super popular. I don't know why you guys haven't heard of it before. Lightsabers? The Jedi? The Force? I'm sure the movies have premiered here in Japan."

"What does premiered mean?" Oikawa asked.

"My mom says it means to show a movie for the first time—like a debut."

Iwaizumi scratched the back of his head. "You like movies, too, [Y/N]? I like Godzilla."

"I've heard of Godzilla," you said. Godzilla couldn't be as cool as Star Wars. What was cooler than space wizards? Surely not a giant lizard. Though if Godzilla were a space lizard, that would be an entirely different story. "I hear there's a movie coming out in winter. Is Godzilla like, a space lizard?"

The sun-kissed boy shook his head. "No, he's a monster under the sea. He gets woken up by an explosion and stuff by humans. In the movies, he's here on Earth way before humans—"

Oikawa cut Iwaizumi off promptly, making the boy irked. "Oh! There's the convenience store!"

Before you had realized it, you, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi had emerged from the greenery. You were greeted with the sight of the familiar park, and you spotted your mother carefully watch Adam wobble around on his two feet. A few new people were at the park, playing around with the infrastructure and babysitting the younger kids.

Right next to the park was a convenience store that lit up with colors akin to Wakatoshi's volleyball. A group of teenagers came out of the convenience store, complaining about the summer heat.

"[Y/N]- chan !" Oikawa nudged your arm. "Have you had red bean ice cream before?"

You shook your head. 

"We'll get you one! Iwa- chan will pay for everything, so don't worry about it!" Oikawa turned to Iwaizumi, who furrowed his brows, unsure if he had heard Oikawa correctly. The brunet eagerly patted Iwaizumi on the back. "Iwa- chan , go get me and [Y/N]- chan one red bean and one mint chocolate chip popsicle!"

Iwaizumi looked annoyed. He hit the back of Oikawa's head harshly. " What makes you think I'll pay for you, Oikawa ?"

You slung your backpack over to the front and rummaged through its contents. The handful of change collecting dirt and dust sat at the bottom. You scraped your hand underneath it, drawing out a pile of metallic coins to the light. You were greeted with the faces of Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Disappointment was evident on your features.

"It's all American money," you said glumly, letting the coins slip through your fingers and back into your backpack.

"Fine," Iwaizumi said reluctantly, tossing a brief glance to you. "Just this once, Oikawa."

Oikawa whooped cheerfully, punching the air. You and your newfound friends walked to the convenience store. Everyone you passed at the park was tall—like trees, almost—and there was no doubt that an athletic boy like Oikawa would grow tall, too. Iwaizumi was no exception.

Iwaizumi left you and Oikawa outside of the convenience store so he could purchase the ice cream. You and the brown-haired boy sat on the curb, awaiting Iwaizumi's return. The summer heat came in a haze, numbing your senses. You fanned your face. Oikawa's baby hairs stuck to the back of his neck due to light perspiration.

"Say, [Y/N]- chan ," Oikawa said, tucking his knees and wrapping his arms around them protectively, "you never told me what Star Wars was about."

You perked up. "It's about aliens fighting in outer space."

"Aliens?" Oikawa repeated. "I like aliens. They're the best. Is the main character an alien, too?"

"I guess you could say that," you said thoughtfully. "But he looks like me and you, you know. It's not so bad to have a main character that looks just like us— human ."

There was a little bit of Luke Skywalker in you.

How beautiful it would be to explore a world that wasn't your own. To escape the summer heat and to delve into the lore and history of the Star Wars cinematic universe. To jump at lightspeed and be wherever you wanted in an instant. To travel with friends whom you loved more than family.

"So tell me about Star Wars, [Y/N]- chan ."

You lit up like the dawn. "It all starts in a galaxy far, far away with a boy named Luke Skywalker. He lives on a planet called Tatooine, where there are two suns..."

You explained the fourth episode of the Star Wars film series with such intensity that Oikawa couldn't help but feel drawn into the story. Immersed in it, even. You talked about disobeying problematic self-imposed governments and reckless heroes who saved the galaxy simply because they lived in it.

There was simplicity yet a struggle in your explanation. Occasionally, you'd forget a word or two or you'd start slipping back into English. Your Japanese had only been a household language for you growing up, but now it was fundamental. How could you convey such a magical thing so perfectly that Oikawa would understand everything ?

Star Wars was an American thing. It tethered you to your homeland—even when your citizenship read State of Japan, even when you spoke weak Japanese, and even when you lived and breathed in the land of the Samurai.

Could you grow up 'Japanese' like Oikawa or Wakatoshi? Could you enjoy 'Japanese things' like Godzilla as Iwaizumi did? 

"You really, really like Star Wars, huh, [Y/N]- chan ?" Oikawa noticed after you had just explained the destruction of the first Death Star in Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope .

You laughed sheepishly. "Yeah. Am I talking too much?"

Oikawa stared at you. "No. I actually li—I don't mind listening. You talking about it makes me want to watch it, [Y/N]- chan !"

"Really?" you exclaimed happily, your hands clapping. "You should watch it with me sometime! Ah, wait, I live on the other side of the prefecture, though. We can't watch it together then, hmm..."

Your friend leaned forward with an impervious smile. "I'll promise you that I'll watch it. Iwa- chan can make sure that I will. How many movies are in the series?"

"So far there are four," you said, "but you need to watch the fourth, fifth, and sixth first, and then the first."

"What—"

Iwaizumi came out of the convenience store with a plastic bag in hand. He withdrew two popsicles: mint chocolate and red bean. He plopped down next to Oikawa, handing him the mint chocolate and you the red bean. He fished out his respective popsicle and opened it neatly.

Was this a true Japanese summer? Would you experience all summers like this? Eating popsicles with your friends on the curb of a convenience store? With your and Iwaizumi's nets discard to the side, you enjoyed the company of your friends, hoping that, despite living far away, you would still be able to see them in the near future.

"Did you know that [Y/N]- chan likes aliens, too, Iwa- chan ?" Oikawa asked Iwaizumi. "Don't blame me when [Y/N]- chan and I get kidnapped by aliens and leave you here by yourself because you're a non-believer!"

"Aliens aren't real," Iwaizumi deadpanned.

"Sure, they are," you said. The government was likely withholding evidence of alien existence alongside basic human rights. "Oh, and Oikawa said— he promised— he was going to watch Star Wars. Iwaizumi, you better make sure he does, okay?"

"I will." Iwaizumi nodded. The hazy summer day was drawing to a close. It was getting late in the afternoon. "Hey, Suzuki, are you going to come back to this park soon?"

"Mmm, I guess," you said, consuming your popsicle like a wealthy capitalist consuming a paycheck that rightfully belonged to essential workers. "Why?"

Iwaizumi stopped eating his ice cream. "Ah, well, you still have to catch a bug by yourself."

You snapped your fingers. "That's right ! I'll be back soon, then. I want to catch a cicada before summer ends. That will be so fun! You made it look really cool, so I want to try."

"Yeah, I want to see you catch one, too," Iwaizumi said. "Oikawa and I will be at this park every Saturday if you want us to come with you. We have nothing to do anyway. I'll buy you more ice cream once you catch a bug."

"You never offer to buy me ice cream!" Oikawa protested.

Your eyes shone at the prospect of free ice cream. "Really?"

Iwaizumi looked at your face, and his dark eyes had softened at the sight of your excitement. "Yeah, really." 

Over the summer, you frequently went to the park on the weekends to meet with Oikawa and Iwaizumi. You explored Farou Island, alien planets, and Tatooine with them. They took you to all the places they loved and kept secret. You jumped over small creeks and spied on crickets together.

You had caught your first cicada with them, and Iwaizumi had beamed when you showed your cicada proudly. He told you to let it go, however. You watched your first cicada bug buzz away with a newfound appreciation for freedom.

"Cicadas really do look like Oikawa," you had hummed to yourself, causing Iwaizumi to cackle.

Oikawa piped up, "[Y/N]- chan ! Not you, too!"

At the end of the day, Iwaizumi always bought you and Oikawa ice cream. You would sit on the curb of the convenience store with them, wasting the rest of the minutes you had before you had to go home. One day, you had introduced Adam Suzuki, your young brother, to them, with apprehension.

Luckily, Adam had taken a liking to Oikawa and vice versa.

You and Iwaizumi would watch Oikawa baby Adam with to no extent. Oikawa seemed to be excellent with children despite being a child himself. It was amusing to watch Oikawa and Adam topple over themselves out of pure silliness.

Your mother knew about them but knew nearly nothing outside of their names.

She watched you and your park friends take care of Adam with a satisfied smile. She had seen you so often with them that she eventually allowed you to trade house phone numbers with Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi called you whenever he spotted a new bug in his neighborhood, inviting you over to help him catch it. Sometimes you came and helped him, and sometimes he would have already caught it by the time you swung by. Iwaizumi would always wait for your arrival before releasing the bug.

"[Y/N], there's a bug outside my window," Iwaizumi's voice came from your side of the phone. "I've never seen it before. It looks like Mothra from the Godzilla movies."

"Eh?" you exclaimed. "What are you waiting for? Go get it, Iwa!"

Oikawa phoned you regularly, telling you where he was in the Star Wars movie series. He and you had lengthy conversations about the Star Wars universe, and whether or not it was better to be a Jedi or a Sith. You had lent him your DVD version of Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace with much sadness. 

"Not a single scratch on that DVD, you hear me, Stupid-kawa?" you threatened over the phone. You could hear your mother tell you to quiet down from a different part of your house. "Ah, and tell me your favorite parts the next time you call me, okay?"

"Wah, even you're scary sometimes, [Y/N]- chan !"

Chapter Text

Eventually, the summer festival rolled around the corner.

You had never been to a summer festival before! In America, your mother seldom let you go to a festival because of the high crime rate. Japanese summer festivals were friendly enough for five-year-olds.

"Do you want to go with Wakatoshi?" Mr. Ushijima had asked you. 

It was a hot summer day, and you were lazing around on the Ushijimas' front porch while Wakatoshi bumped a volleyball to himself. He had excellent control over the ball, rhythmically bumping it without pause.

You could have played piano along to this, as Wakatoshi was as steady as a metronome.

"To the summer festival?" you questioned, fanning your face with a silk fan Ms. Ushijima had lent you for the day. It wouldn't be so bad to go with Wakatoshi. "Yeah, I want to see a summer festival. I want to know what it's like."

Wakatoshi bumped the ball one final time before having it land directly into his open palms. His ball control at his young age was phenomenal—truly a genius . "It can get crowded sometimes. You need to stay close or else you'll get lost."

"I want to eat a candied apple," you said, electing to ignore your friend's wise words, hanging off the front porch with your legs swinging wildly, "and taiyaki! Taiyaki is the best!"

Mr. Ushijima agreed, "Taiyaki is the best."

When you had told your mother that Mr. Ushijima invited you to go to the summer festival with them, your mother had smiled and gave you permission. She and Adam would be at the same festival with the Ushijimas, so if you were to get lost, you would be able to find them easily.

The night summer festival was the textbook definition of vibrant.

Splashes of red, gold, and blue filled the scenery before you. You had walked through this very path with Wakatoshi multiple times, and it had been barren. Now, it was life itself. The wooden booths stood with pride, cloth awnings hanging with colors you had no idea existed before. Lights were strung like stars in the night sky.

Signs that advertised food such as cotton candy and takoyaki were everywhere. Lanterns were hung in beautiful rounded cylinders, like colorful blotches of paint on a canvas. It made this small, local summer festival seem like a star, too, in the sky. However, it was really the people that made this festival so starry.

Laughs and chatter swarmed the area. People shouted for their food to be sold, and others offered any passerby a chance to win a prize. The smell of baked goods and sweet things settled in the area, and the smiles on everyone's faces seemed to be contagious.

Your mother had dressed you in a summer dress that flowed just above your knees. It made you look like a lampshade, in all honesty. Originally, Ms. Ushijima had attempted to convince you to dress in a yukata —a traditional Japanese garment meant for casual summer wear—but you could feel your embarrassment crawling up your neck by simply imagining yourself in the yukata .

Wakatoshi wore a simple shirt and shorts—a plain outfit for a plain personality. After your mother had told Wakatoshi to not lose sight of you, he held your hand earnestly when walking. The colored lanterns of the festival made his skin glow with light hues of red, yellow, and blue. 

Fireflies zipped past your ear, nipping it as they went. You whirled your head around, your mouth open in amazement. If you had squinted past the lively vendors, you would have been able to see the luscious local forest beyond. There were blankets upon blankets of fireflies that resided there, partaking in such a lovely night.

As much as you wanted to follow the fireflies and undergo a strange coming-of-age adventure with a mysterious masked man who likely lived as a ghost in the forest, you elected to stay in the general area where Wakatoshi could see you.

Currently, you were eyeing a certain stuffed frog animal that hung as a prize alongside many other animals—a stuffed toy menagerie. Anyone could take one home for a price. The price was five yen and the ability of being able to knock a whole building of blocks down with three small rubber balls.

Your friend had come back from purchasing your much wanted candied apple that you complained about earlier. You gratefully took the sweet from his hands.

Wakatoshi followed your gaze toward the stuffed frog toy. His sharp olive eyes lingered on the building of blocks one had to knock down with the rubber balls.

"Do you want it?" he asked.

You were taken aback. You were unsure if you had heard him correctly. "Do—Do I want what?"

"The toy," he replied. "Do you want it?"

"Yeah, it'd be nice," you said. "I think I'll come back with my mom, and she can help me win it."

Wakatoshi said, "I can get it."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can."

You held his candied apple as Wakatoshi gave the vendor a five yen coin. The vendor's brows furrowed in confusion and a small frown was painted on her mouth; however, since she was paid, she didn't say a word about Wakatoshi's young age. 

He was able to get the frog stuffed toy.

You held the large toy in your hands, and you were small in comparison. It was soft to the touch and as big as your upper body. The frog looked dazed—like it was in a dream. You couldn't tell if it was intentional or simply an interpretation. You loved Wakatoshi's gift to you nevertheless.

"Thank you," you said happily. " Thank you so much !"

Your happiness left Wakatoshi eerily still. He had wondered if his face was feeling so warm due to the summer's heat—indeed the Miyagi summertime temperature was at its peak at this time. His heart burned with uncertainty, simmering his nerves as it ran through his arms and legs.

The noise of the nighttime crickets intensified, and all Wakatoshi could think about was how he wished the world around him would quiet down from just a moment so he could focus .

His lip trembled ever-so-slightly as he withdrew another five yen coin. "In that case, I can get the rest of the animals—"

"Please don't."

You and Wakatoshi ambled around the local festival. He bought you various foods—so much that you could only feel full after the sixth thing he had bought you. You reassured him that next year you would sample all the other foods that were being sold. 

Holding on to Wakatoshi's hand tightly, you made sure not to stray too far from your friend. Your mother might have gotten mad if Wakatoshi had lost you. She might have cursed your incompetence—because, true enough, you were very incompetent—but, granted, you were five .

Since you were having this much fun at a summer festival, you wondered if your father was having fun. You liked seeing your father happy—it made you happy, too. What time was it in America? Did your father already leave for work? Did he miss you and Adam? When would he call you as he promised he would?

There was a whistling noise that jerked your head up toward the sky.

Fireworks .

Japan was better than you even knew. It was an entirely different world. You lived and breathed on the same planet as Americans, Canadians, Russians, and more, but you felt strangely separated. Japan's world was so, so tiny.

The fireworks lit up the sky above you almost as brightly as the sun could have. It was a dark summer, and you were witnessing it through the lens of a cinematic camera. Good things were happening, and you wished you had your father around to see them.  Good things were happening, but you had Wakatoshi right next to you to see them.

There was nothing but you—and Wakatoshi—in this little world.

You had gotten sick the next day.

Although you hated to admit it, you knew it was because you had chosen to stay out late with Wakatoshi when you could clearly feel the fatigue washing over you. You just wanted to consume the entire night before you. You hadn't wanted the night to end so soon. Excitement was running through your nerves, and it would kill you to just go home .

It was laughable, almost.

Due to this specific reason, you planned on performing vigilante justice. You refused to sit in bed for an allotted amount of time. There was still so much to do! You had bugs to catch and Wakatoshi to annoy. You still had to get your English DVD of Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace from Oikawa.

Your hobbies really only included starting a revolution and obsessing over Star Wars.

So here you were, laying on your bed with a cold cloth to your forehead and an unbeatable fever. Your mother had forced you to stay in bed, not even allowing you to get up to play the piano because apparently you were "too defiant" and "too loud for someone with a 39°C temperature."

Life was so much better when you actually had the physical ability to defy authority.

You had a piano book in your hands as you attempted to read the notes. Sight-reading was not your forte, much to your mother's dismay, so the least you could do was pretend you had decent sight-reading skills. The notes were starting to blur, spilling across the pages like ants on a white sheet.

You squinted. Where the fuck was Bach's music going?

Chalking it up to your headache and raging fever, you calmly closed your sheet music. If the notes were still flowing off the page by the time you re-opened it, you might consider seeing a therapist.

Your door creaked open, revealing Wakatoshi.

His small body had garnered a plethora of bruises and scratches. His tan skin had patches and bandaids on his elbows and knees. His dark olive-brown hair was a mess, and there was an open slit on his cheek, red seeping from the fine line. Volleyball practice must've been rough that morning.

"I have something for you," he said, his hands behind his back.

"My mom said I can't eat anything except for rice porridge," you replied glumly.

"I don't have candy," Wakatoshi said. He crept closer to your bed, bringing his hands forward to unveil what he had brought you. In his tiny, calloused hands laid a mason jar.

Inside the mason jar, there were bright green leaves at the bottom. There was a damp paper towel as well. The lid of the mason jar was pierced finely—there was no way Wakatoshi had pierced them by himself. However, the true spectacular sight was the two fireflies buzzing around inside the mason jar.

"Wakatoshi," you breathed, sitting up from your bed. The cold cloth on your head fell to your lap. "But you never want to catch bugs with me!"

He set the two fireflies on your bedside table.

"My father came with me into the forest where the summer festival was," Wakatoshi said. "We caught these fireflies together. It was hard, though, because it was daytime, but—"

You jumped out of bed, your appearance astray. You leapt toward Wakatoshi in joy. Engulfing Wakatoshi in a warm, gooey hug, you chanted, "thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

Wakatoshi's frame stiffened when your arms wrapped around him stubbornly. You placed your chin on his shoulder, giggling to yourself, and he relaxed. Wakatoshi slowly brought his hands up, patting your back in return awkwardly.

"[Y/N], you're going to get me sick."

Finally, after a year, you and Wakatoshi formally enrolled into an elementary school together as first graders.

Your mother had taken a photo of you and Wakatoshi before you went to your first day of school. Ms. and Mr. Ushijima stood behind her when she took the photo. It was difficult to keep you and Wakatoshi still for so long. Donning cute sun-yellow hats and matching navy blue uniforms, you and Wakatoshi were undoubtedly as thick as thieves.

The photo that your mother had taken hung in your hallway—and a copy was present in the Ushijima's household as well. Now, no matter which house you were in, you were face-to-face with a photo of your six-year-old self with a wide and bright smile and Wakatoshi with a fine and firm pout.

Compulsory education gave you quite the culture shock.

The classroom was clean, neat, and formal. Your American classroom in kindergarten was anything but. Where you were expecting colorful walls and messy decorations were nude-colored walls and well-kept bulletin boards.

You introduced yourself kindly, and afterward, the teacher informed the class that you were from America. She added that she hoped that everyone treated you with sensitivity and remembered that you were not very fluent in Japanese.

If anything, your Japanese was quite decent due to your exposure over the past year. You had Japanese friends, such as Wakatoshi and Iwaizumi who helped you often, aiding you in vocabulary and correct grammar structure. They taught you manners as well. Obedience was a prevalent theme in Japanese society, you figured out.

Learning obedience was the first step into becoming a sheep.

You sat down, glum. Your mother must have told your teacher beforehand. 

Wakatoshi stayed close to you and vice versa. He was particularly dry and kept to himself most of the time. Wherever you were, he was. Even during the breaks, when students would crowd around you, asking about America, Wakatoshi kept by your side—unwavering.

"Suzuki- san , Suzuki- san ," a girl cooed, drawing your attention from your homemade lunch to the girl. 

"Uh," you said awkwardly, "you can call me [Y/N], if you want."

"Ah, right, that's what they do in America, right?" the girl asked innocently. "My mom said it's rude to refer someone to their first name when you first meet them. Americans do it anyway, right?"

Your eye twitched.

Every day, you and Wakatoshi would walk together to school and walk back home. Utilizing a buddy system of sorts allowed your mother and the Ushijimas to relax about your whereabouts. Japan's streets were fairly safe compared to America's streets. When you would come home, your mother would ask about your day—and Wakatoshi's as if he was a part of your family.

Years started to fly by quicker than you had expected, and you had begun to get used to your life in Japan. You were taught how to use a train and how to order from a ramen bar. You went on trips to Sendai City and even visited the ruins of the Aoba Castle. The Ushijimas would sometimes take you to volleyball games so you could watch firsthand. 

Though, growing up, you often felt as if you were watching Wakatoshi.

Whenever he played, you could note the littlest of details crossing his features. You could see the small furrow of his brows, crinkling his glabella, and you could make out the determined smile that curled his lips up. This was passion . This look— this everything! This was the look of a main character.

Yes, you were watching him as you would a TV show.

Although he was certainly tangible, you couldn't help but feel that there was a barrier. It was as if there was a TV screen that separated you from him. You were watching a character , whom you wanted to be so desperately, live out your dreams. Surely, you were still quite young—still an elementary schooler—so you had no concrete dreams yet, but—

But you wanted what Wakatoshi had. You wanted his passion toward his art. You wanted to know if what he felt was what Luke Skywalker felt when he first picked up a lightsaber. You wanted to know if this is what Anakin felt when he saw Padmé. You wanted to know if you, too, could be a protagonist like Wakatoshi.

It made you feel green.

How would Wakatoshi feel if you had a passion and he didn't? How would he feel if volleyball didn't exist? What would he look like if he saw you enjoying what you did? How quickly would that determined smile of his melt into a frown and how easily would his furrowed brows turn from one of ambition to one of worry?

Maybe one day, he would feel what you've felt now.

No, [Y/N]! you thought to yourself.

Wrenching yourself from your violent and negative thoughts, you thought about what passions you might have. There had to be something that you loved, that you did every day simply because you enjoyed it. 

A certain thought pressured the side of your head, like a stone numbly being pressed. It irritated you. The more you drew yourself away from the thought, the more annoying it became. It demanded attention like a needy six-year-old with nothing better to do. Slowly albeit reluctantly, you gave way to the thought:

Piano .

Your years of elementary school continued to drag on.

You turned seven, then eight, then nine, and Wakatoshi was alongside you. You watched him blow out the candles on his cake and complain when his growing pains started to kick in. Suddenly, you had to look up to face Wakatoshi because of his randomized growth spurts. Wakatoshi and you would make bubbles with cheap bubble wands and toys. There were times when you would visit Oikawa and Iwaizumi in the park, talking animatedly about Star Wars and bugs.

Adam Suzuki, your young brother, was changing as well. His previously trimmed black hair grew into thin locks that tickled the tops of his ears. He had outgrown his toddler clothes and now had a lanky build that resembled a fountain of sticks. Of course, his small mouth was permanently in a frown—there was nothing you could do about that.

That film camera of yours that you had brought from America had finally filled up its roll. You had approached your mother, asking if there was any way to develop them in Japan. Your mother, in turn, asked Ms. Ushijima, who said that she would most certainly check for you, and it was highly likely that there was.

On boring days, Wakatoshi would bounce the volleyball to himself on his front lawn while you scoured the ground for crickets. When you would catch one with your bare hands, Wakatoshi would tell you to let it go almost immediately. You would frown and ask why, and he would reply with: because you play piano.

Eventually, Wakatoshi joined a recreational boys' elementary volleyball club and was soon recruited into bigger and more prestigious clubs. Sometimes you had to remind yourself that he was only an elementary schooler.

"Is being an ace really that worth it?" you asked Mr. Ushijima flatly one day, watching Wakatoshi in his new volleyball uniform practice his sets against a wall. You were on a picnic blanket on the front lawn in front of Mr. Ushijima. "Wakatoshi is working so hard."

Mr. Ushijima looked at you briefly and set down his canned coffee. "Come here, Wakatoshi- kun ."

Wakatoshi caught his volleyball and ambled toward Mr. Ushijima, who sat on the porch. He held his volleyball with two hands, as his hands weren't big enough to carry the ball with one hand just yet. Wakatoshi had grown into a fine young boy with a tall stature and muscles starting to edge in. His face still carried most of his childish features, but there was no doubt that he would become very nice to look at.

You had been having a lovely picnic by yourself. Your mother had prepared lunch for you and Wakatoshi, but he had yet to join you since he was so wrapped up in his practice. The lunch consisted of two sandwiches, apple juice boxes, fruit salads, and milk puddings. Your mother was a fanatic of sweet tea, so there was a flask of sweet tea in the small wicker basket you had brought.

"Wakatoshi- kun , you want to be an ace, yes?" Mr. Ushijima asked, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. Wakatoshi nodded. "The ace is the most important member of the team. Aces never disappoint their team or the spectators because when you set to them, they always can get the point. Isn't that cool, [Y/N]- chan ?"

"Ah..." You nodded. "Yes."

Mr. Ushijima pursed his lips. "I told you before, [Y/N]- chan , that Wakatoshi- kun is capable of becoming one of the greatest aces because he has much potential. Look at him now! He's tall and growing; his muscles are coming in quite nicely. There is no doubt that Wakatoshi- kun will utilize his good foundation to grow into an even better player than I am.

"However, it is not an ace's individuality as a player and impressive stats that make an ace so outstanding. Sure, these qualities can make an ace admirable, but true admirability comes from the ace's dependability. The team will depend on the ace to secure the point for the team every time the setter sets to them. Aces are able to get the kill no matter the circumstance, and the team has absolute trust in him. That is, without a doubt, cool.

"Becoming an ace takes hard work, and it is worth it in the end. Wakatoshi- kun works so hard because he wants to become the ace that everyone depends on. My ace on my team was very much like that, yes. I want my Wakatoshi- kun to become better than that ace. Say, Wakatoshi- kun will you be able to become a dependable ace—an outstanding ace ?"

You turned to Wakatoshi, who was trembling in excitement.

Once again, you were witnessing Wakatoshi through a television screen.

You watched him grip his volleyball tighter until his knuckles turned white. His olive eyes shone with opportunity. It was his eyes that provoked thought in you. Oh, to be severely attached to something! To do something simply because one loved it! To feel the electricity of loving something so much run through your fingers!

He had drive—the one thing that you had lacked. You and Wakatoshi were different. It was a strange sort of difference that attracted him to you, and you to him.

You and he were not like night versus day respectively, but rather you and he were like the tame, lapping waves hitting the beach similar to puppy dog licks versus the roaring, thundering waves that overturned whole ships with raging brutality.

If Wakatoshi was a main character with ambition, what did that make you?

Certainly you were made for far better things than this. You were just a kid, but you had already felt as if you were overshadowed by everyone else. Were you really simply a side character in this story? Were you the childhood friend or the sidekick in Wakatoshi's story? Would you forever be the comic relief that made obscure political jokes and then left?

No, you had to be a main character—but of whose story?

In your story, the main character was your mother.

Your mother feared that you were learning too much Japanese. It was a strange and peculiar fear that stemmed from reasonable intentions. When you lived in America, Japanese was a household language for you, and you spoke English outside of the house. In Japan, you were speaking Japanese outside and inside the house.

Thus, your mother had started to speak English to you inside the house. The roles had reversed—Japanese was now the language of society, and English was your household language. Her intention was to keep you well-versed in both languages.

No Japanese inside the house . English only.

It was a rocky change—one you were not used to. You fumbled over your words, and your tongue never felt quite right . The words in your mouth didn't belong to you, and they felt foreign. It was like bitter candy, and all you wanted to do was throw a tantrum and stick your tongue out in disgust.

Later, your mother had revealed her true motive.

"Mom," you said at the dinner table, picking at your food. "Can't I just speak Japanese to you? What about Adam?"

Your mother sat at the head of the table, with you and Adam seated at the sides. She plucked a sugar cube calmly and set it between her teeth. She neatly picked up her teacup and sipped it elegantly. Her left hand cupped the bottom of the cup whereas her right hand gently caressed the side.

After the sugar cube between her teeth dissolved with the warm liquid of the tea, your mother set down the cup. Her dark eyes fell on your curious prepubescent self. 

"Your father and I," your mother said, "came to a compromise before we left America. Over your summer and winter breaks, you will be flying over to America and spend time with your father. You will start doing so when you reach middle school."

You were taken aback. "What about Adam?"

Adam was across from you. He was seven now and even more of a bitch—in your honest opinion. He didn't say a word as he picked up a piece of his food with his chopsticks, only tossing you a brief glance. Adam had a natural resting bitch face while you couldn't help but awkwardly smile in every situation.

Your mother shook her head. "Not Adam. Just you. When he grows older, he might choose to come with you, but he is too young now. When you'll be twelve—starting middle school—he'll only be ten. Too young, too young."

"Why only me?" you demanded, setting down your utensils. "I haven't seen my dad in four years, Mom! And Adam deserves to see Dad, too, at least. What about you? Aren't you going to come with me?"

" Aiyah , if you continue to run your mouth, your mouth will run so fast that it'll run away from you," your mother scolded. "I'll be watching over Adam. I'm having you learn English so you'll fare well in the States on your own. I'll purchase some language books at the nearby bookstore so you can improve."

You shut your mouth and picked up your utensils glumly.

"Also, it will not hurt if you know two languages," your mother continued. "It will be better for your future. When you apply for college, you can say that you are bilingual. Adam does not need to do so just yet. He is only seven."

You furrowed your brows. "When I was seven—"

"Don't compare yourself to your brother," your mother said curtly. "We will not continue this conversation any further. How is Wakatoshi- kun ? I hear he is being scouted by volleyball professionals. How successful he is. The Ushijimas must be proud."

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Wakatoshi is doing good."

One night, you were conspiring against the corrupt clergy of America on your front porch. With the new Star Wars movie, Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones , having been released around a year ago, you were seriously considering that the Catholic Church was expanding worldwide for lucrative means over religious means.

Your mother had retired for the night, and Adam was watching TV in the living room. You could hear the distant chatter of Adam's TV show through the walls of your American-Japanese household.

You fiddled with a portable radio in your hand. Originally, you had brought it out here to listen to music while conspiring against higher powers, but to your dismay, there was a DVD that held the commentary to a volleyball rerun.

That damn Wakatoshi , you thought dryly to yourself.

However, your household was strangely quiet compared to the Ushijima residence.

The Ushijimas were being loud tonight.

You could hear the rising voices of Ms. Ushijima and Mr. Ushijima. Ms. Ushijima's familiar melodic voice had turned into a high shrill whereas Mr. Ushijima's usual bright voice was burning hotter and hotter by the second.

It was strange for their household to be so loud. It was usually your house that contained your mother's strict shouts, your brother's chuckling, and your rambunctious laughter. You tried to hear Wakatoshi's voice amidst the loudness of his household. You sought out his calm voice.

The fight between Mr. and Ms. Ushijima was intense. The neighborhood cat scurried away from its usual napping place on the concrete wall that separated the residences. Squirrels ran down the trees, and you could hardly hear the crickets. The voices overlapped each other occasionally, usually ending in a frustrated shout.

You gazed at the yellow light that illuminated the windows of their house.

When your parents divorced, the matter was quiet. Wordless. It had been so quiet that you wished that they had parted with some kind words to each other. There were no brief exchanges or anything of the like. They had gone from lovers to complete strangers, but you were grateful that they never spat harsh words at each other.

You heard footsteps approaching your household.

Immediately, you thought that Jesus had descended down from heaven to give you a beating for suspecting the corrupt people in church offices. You quickly discard the thought, as Jesus had always preached about peace. It was more likely that he would politely drag you down to hell for eating seafood or wearing mixed clothes or whatever.

Instead, Wakatoshi's familiar tuft of dark olive hair peeked from behind the concrete wall.

He entered your residence softly. His footsteps were quiet and solemn, dirt crackling only slightly when his running shoes hit the ground. His build was easy to make out—he was the only boy in the neighborhood who was rapidly growing. Wakatoshi wore a white pajama shirt and purple pajama pants. It was evident that he had come out here on a whim.

You scooted over on the front porch, allowing him room to sit next to you. His presence was familiar to you—it always had been. It would be familiar forever, you supposed. Wakatoshi smelled like the scent of newly bought volleyballs and freshly made dinner. It was an odd thing, but it was what made him Wakatoshi.

Wakatoshi and you were like salt and pepper. It was uncommon to see you apart from him, and it only felt right to be sitting or standing or playing right beside him.

"My mom doesn't want me to be left-handed anymore," Wakatoshi said, breaking the silence. "She says that it's not natural and doesn't understand why I inherited such a thing."

You blinked. "What is she going to do—tape your left hand down and force you to write with your right?"

"She might."

"Oh my God."

He eyed the bright, white moon that hung from the night sky.

Wakatoshi turned his eyes down to look at his left hand and compared it to his right. You curiously looked on. Wakatoshi's left hand was far more bruised and calloused and used than his right. He curled his hands into fists.

"My dad says that it'll be my greatest weapon," Wakatoshi said. "He wants me to keep it. They're arguing again."

As it turned out, contrary to popular belief, Wakatoshi was not doing good. Every time your mother had asked you about him, you had replied he was doing well. You were lying to her face, but your mother was friends with the Ushijimas. She must have known about the tense situation.

"Do you want to keep your left hand?" you asked.

"Yes," Wakatoshi said. "Yes, I want to keep my left hand . I don't know how to use my right hand. But I think that my mom will warm up to the idea of it eventually."

You nodded.

"My dad and my mom have had so many arguments about my hand that I'm used to it. The argument is usually over by morning. I just—I don't know if this argument is just about my hand anymore," he confessed. "I hope this argument is done by the next morning like all their other arguments."

"It probably will," you supplied uselessly.

You wished you could say more. You were only nine—almost ten. It was impossible to stir up some useful wisdom in your mind to help Wakatoshi's situation. Desperation crawled in your stomach. You hated seeing Wakatoshi sad. What could you possibly say that could make him feel better?

In all honesty, you couldn't say shit . You were never good at consoling. How did anyone find the right words to say to someone when they were at their lowest? How did their mind work, how did their words form, how did they do anything ? It was up to them to take care of their friends, and they did so flawlessly.

What could you, a young girl who punched up way too often for her own good, do?

"I think my parents will be like your parents," Wakatoshi said.

You looked away from Wakatoshi.

"But it'll be okay in the end," Wakatoshi continued quietly. "Because you're still here, and you're fine. If you're fine, then I'll be fine, too."

The bridge of your nose tickled and you could feel tears welling up. Your heart ached. Just five minutes ago, you were plotting the demise of the Catholic Church, but now you were touched. Wakatoshi, for a man of few words, had such a way with words that moved you.

You wanted to bury your face in your hands.

He was right, though.

You were okay, you were breathing, you were alive. He was okay, he was breathing, he was alive. Everything was okay, everything was breathing, everything was alive. As long as you and Wakatoshi were okay, the world would be okay. The moon above you seemed to breathe as well.

The shouts from the Ushijimas' house rose and rose higher, and you tried to imagine the shouts so high that it wafted away like smoke. It wasn't loud enough to wake up the neighbors, but it was loud enough for you and Wakatoshi to hear. You couldn't make out exact words, and every shout was muffled with angry and impatience.

"I didn't know that you could hear the shouts," Wakatoshi whispered.

It was evident that Wakatoshi had crawled here to get away from it. You could hear the bumps and thuds of objects being haphazardly handled within his house. You could see Wakatoshi visibly wincing.

"Here," you said, revealing the portable radio in your hands.

You set it between you and Wakatoshi, pressing a few buttons. You clicked the play button with finality, and the DVD whirred inside the radio. The radio hissed with life, suddenly being played in the middle of the night. You raised the volume to the loudest it could possibly be, not bothering if you disturbed your mother sleeping or Adam trying to watch his show.

The commentary of a volleyball rerun filled the neighborhood, covering the shouts of the Ushijima residence, and you and Wakatoshi listened to it all night.

Chapter Text

"You and Wakatoshi will be going to different junior high schools."

You jerked your head up and your hands faltered on the piano, creating an ungodly clash. You had been playing the piano for Ms. Ushijima for your tenth birthday. Birthday surprises were supposed to be cute puppies or a new toy, not that your best friend of the past six years was going to a different middle school. 

Ms. Ushijima broke the news as succinctly as possible. She held a sad smile on her face as her finger traced shapes on the fallboard of the piano. You couldn't help but note the resemblance between Wakatoshi and his mother.

"My Wakatoshi... is very talented," Ms. Ushijima said. "He's found love in a ball. A ball out of all things. Shiratorizawa Junior High School will be an excellent fit for him. Shiratorizawa Junior High feeds into the famous high school of the same name. The coaches there have been scouting Wakatoshi for some time. That is where his father went, after all."

You lifted your hands away from the piano and placed them in your lap. You fiddled with your fingers nervously. 

"There is no doubt that if you were to take the rigorous exam to get into Shiratorizawa Junior High, you would pass it," Ms. Ushijima said. "You are a brilliant child, [Y/N], and I would love to see you with Wakatoshi more. However, Shiratorizawa offers dorms for its students."

That was the catch. Your mother would never let you stay at Shiratorizawa, nevertheless apply for Shiratorizawa. You had to practice your piano at home with your mother listening. She would prefer to have you at home, as she did have a strong sense for family. There was no way you and Wakatoshi could be at the same middle school.

"The Shiratorizawa campus is very far from home," Ms. Ushijima said. "It's across the Miyagi Prefecture. It's very hard to commute—even if you decided to opt out of the dorms and stay at home."

So if you chose to commute from home, the commute was lengthy. By then, you would be twelve and still too young to commit that far across the Miyagi Prefecture. Some god was tearing you and Wakatoshi apart with his bare hands.

"We can still see each other on the weekends, at least," you said.

Ms. Ushijima let out a shaky, curt laugh. "Ah, well, you do have that."

"Does he know?"

"Wakatoshi knows he's going to Shiratorizawa," Ms. Ushijima replied, sighing, "but he doesn't know that you will not be coming along. The last time we had this conversation, I had told him that I would ask your mother if you would consider applying. It is very unfortunate that your mother wishes for you to go elsewhere. Please, do not tell him just yet."

"Why?" you asked.

Ms. Ushijima shook her head and repeated, "Please."

You had only nodded numbly and wondered why.

"You don't know what hayashi rice is?" 

You set down your music score that you had been studying for an upcoming youth piano competition. You looked at Wakatoshi. "No. I don't."

"But you're American," Wakatoshi said. "It's a Western dish."

"You're acting as if I haven't lived here for the past five years, Toshi," you said. "If anything, I'm more Japanese than I am American."

It was an ordinary day. The most ordinary day out of any day ever in existence. Mr. Ushijima was out in Sendai for the day—when you had asked your mother why, she said that he was visiting a travel agent—so there was hardly anything to do.

Wakatoshi and you sat outside on his front porch, looking at the field one would call the Ushijimas' front lawn. It was hardly a front lawn. It was a luscious garden teeming with biodiversity. There was a small section squared off for Wakatoshi to practice his volleyball, but other than that, the front lawn was marvelous.

The Ushijima lawn was terrible in the spring, though. Neighbors complained about their pollen allergies.

"You speak English at home," Wakatoshi said bluntly as if it proved a point.

"I also plot the death of rich people at home," you replied, returning back to the music score in front of you. Your mother said you had to have it known by heart by the end of the day—you had to know it so well that you could play it in air. "It's nothing special."

Wakatoshi said, "I'm hungry."

"Me too."

"I want hayashi rice."

Next thing you knew, you were in the kitchen of the Ushijima household.

Your music sheet was in the living room, likely left to rot. You wondered if your mother would murder you for taking a small break. A cute apron was wrapped around your waist. Wakatoshi was next to you in an identical apron, holding a spatula awkwardly. You were holding a knife.

The ingredients were laid out on the wooden table for hayashi rice—a meal that was supposedly Western, but you had never heard of it in your life. Wakatoshi looked at the ingredients, fighting his visible excitement, and you looked at the ingredients with a sudden interest toward the mushrooms. Mushrooms were dope.

Now, mushrooms were a hit or miss. They could either be poisonous or de-fucking-licious. It kept you on your toes.

"Hayashi rice is better than Star Wars," Wakatoshi said, "but not volleyball."

"You really shouldn't say that to the person holding the knife," you, a die-hard Star Wars fan, dryly commented. "Have you ever made hayashi rice before, or did you just decide to drag me into the kitchen to make it?"

Wakatoshi tied his apron tighter behind his back. "There's a recipe for it taped to the fridge. We can start there."

Ms. Ushijima was tending to the garden out front. She trusted you and Wakatoshi in the kitchen, for some piss-poor reason. Through the slits of the window blinds, you saw your younger bitch brother Adam talking to Ms. Ushijima. Adam was holding one of Wakatoshi's volleyballs that he must've left at your house the last time he was over.

You heated the pan, preparing the sauce, whereas Wakatoshi was prepping the vegetables. You had reluctantly given him the knife, as you had a competition in a week and couldn't risk cutting your fingers on accident. This argument never made sense to you, but you never said anything about it.

If you had cut your finger, there would be no problem applying a bandaid on it, so why was everyone so protective over your fingers?

Dropping butter into the pan, you adjusted the pan's low heat. You watched the butter sizzle and slide on the pan, and you let out a sigh. You were grateful for Wakatoshi. If not for his stupid puppy-dog eyes, you might've still been learning the sonatina for your competition. Competitions were lame. Competitions were for kids desperate for their parents' approval. You weren’t looking for anyone’s approval!

The sun's rays shone through the blinds, reflecting strips of light across Wakatoshi's face while he was washing his hands thoroughly. You noticed how the top strands of his hair were lighter than the rest, and there were small smudges of red underneath his bottom lashes—and the same dash of red was on the tip of his nose.

Wakatoshi only made this face when he was happy.

There was a whisper of a smile on his usual serious thin lips. If you hadn't known him since you were small, you would have been intimidated a little bit. Really... for a stoic kid, he had the softest eyes.

"We have no more paper towels," Wakatoshi noted to himself with his sopping wet hands.

"I have a handkerchief on the counter. Use that. Keep it, while you're at it," you said.

You wondered what made Wakatoshi so happy. You had known him long enough to know how he felt but never why he felt. You didn't know what to call the soft look on Wakatoshi's face, but you liked it. It was rare and gentle and good.

He turned the faucet off and wiped his hands with your handkerchief. Your mother had given you that handkerchief and told you to carry it around because you kept getting dirty outside. You'd been meaning to get rid of it for some time, and who was a better metaphorical trash can than your dear friend Wakatoshi Ushijima?

You absentmindedly added flour to the bubbling pan. Stirring with a wooden paddle, you made sure not to burn yourself or your fingers.

Wakatoshi folded the handkerchief with the damp side inward and pocketed it. He picked up the knife and stared at it. Wakatoshi put the knife in his left hand, getting a good feel for it, before transferring it clumsily to his right. It looked awkward and jarring to see a knife in Wakatoshi's right hand. His brows furrowed.

"Just use your left hand," you told him.

"But Mom—"

"You could get hurt if you use your right," you said simply. "Better safe than sorry."

Comfortable silence filled the kitchen where shouts often resonated. The sizzle of the pan. The thuds of the knife against the cutting board. The neighbors gossiping through the thin walls. Wakatoshi's breathing. Your breathing. You hummed your competition's sonatina under your breath.

It was only when you and Wakatoshi were alone did the silence start to settle in. It was a good sort of silence. It made you feel gooey—like the inside of a well-baked brownie.

Dust visible because of the sun danced across the warmth of the kitchen, like specks of gold in a prospector's pan. The smell of butter and fresh vegetables accompanied it.

One day, you and Wakatoshi would go different ways. 

There would be no more days where you and he would make food for the hell of it. There would be no more watching him practice on his front lawn. There would be no more sitting through volleyball reruns and Star Wars movies. Weekends were a pathetic substitute for children who had spent nearly their entire childhood together.

And you and he would learn how to live with that.

But not now. Not quite yet.

The hayashi rice turned out decent for two ten-year-olds who impulsively decided to try their hand at cooking.

You and Oikawa were in his room with a wide floor futon encompassing a good quarter of the room.

It was astray with blankets of many kinds, and an open box of pizza with bags of candy was littered in the area. Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones was playing on Oikawa's TV. An open DVD was discarded somewhere in the pigsty you and Oikawa called a shared futon.

His school uniform hung on the wall, and right next to it was his elementary school volleyball team uniform. An hour or so ago, you and Oikawa worked very hard to hang up fairy lights and set up lava lamps to illuminate the darkness of Oikawa's room. When you had first entered his room, it had been so barren.

Because of you and Oikawa's constant squirming, one of his volleyballs rolled away pathetically. Oikawa leapt after his volleyball like a morbid form of cat, leaving you traumatized—to say the least.

After you had promised your mother you would practice piano a little extra, she allowed you to go to a sleepover with Oikawa. It was a difficult argument, as your competition was drawing soon, but you managed to break through to your demon-like mother because you were a cool kid.

"Oikawa," you said, "don't flatten the agedashi tofu with your foot—"

Without warning, Oikawa jumped at you, taking you down with him. You and he fell to the futon. If not for the soft blankets, you might've broken your entire back. Oikawa was far more muscular and stronger than you were, as he was a volleyball player.

You laughed maniacally as you dove underneath the covers to evade his grabby setter hands. Oikawa soon followed you, and you tried to kick his body away.

"Get out of my hideout!" you squealed. 

"Your hideout?" Oikawa demanded dubiously. "It's our hideout."

"What is this, communism?"

It was warm and condensed underneath the covers. You and Oikawa were a bundle of elbows and knees and skin being clashed against each other. One blanket was not enough for the both of you. Space was limited, and there was always someone's limb being pressed against someone's stomach.

Uncontrollable giggles came from you and chuckles from Oikawa. He would reach for you, but you would clumsily crawl elsewhere, taking the blanket with you. Oikawa was persistent and forced himself underneath the blankets with you, tumbling you and him around in the blanket. At some points, you and he would be stuck in the blanket in a burrito-like fold.

After much adjusting, Oikawa and you laid like dead men underneath the covers, breathing heavily. The blanket breathed alongside you and Oikawa, rising with your chest.

"Your breath stinks," Oikawa said.

"Your breath smells like spoiled milk," you retorted.

Oikawa went to kick you, but his foot was greeted with something hard—likely his desk. He yelped and hugged his knee, nearly kneeing you in the process. Oikawa rubbed his injured foot. "What was that?"

"My shrine to God," you said. "Sometimes he answers."

The door to Oikawa's room creaked open, revealing Oikawa's two-year-old nephew. He sucked on a knuckle and held the door knob in his little grubby hand. Mrs. Oikawa was babysitting little Takeru for the time being, as Oikawa's older sister had errands to run for the whole week.

You tore the blankets off of you and heaved a deep breath of crisp air in. Oikawa's spoiled milk breath was the only air you could breathe under the covers. You swore never to take fresh air for granted again. Oikawa's head underneath the covers popped up, making him look like a deformed lump or a poor pimple.

"Hi, Takeru," you cooed. "What are you doing here? Come to your older sister!"

"If you keep talking to him like that, he'll end up liking you more than me!" Oikawa whined, his voice muffled by the blanket. "And I'm his uncle!"

What a shitty uncle.

"That's the plan," you said in a snot-nosed manner. 

Oikawa Takeru stumbled over to you, occasionally tripping over the mess of Oikawa's room. Oikawa's room wasn't typically this messy, but you supposed you rubbed off on him when you graced the Oikawa household with your presence. You moved a few blankets and cartons of food out of his way.

There was little resemblance between Oikawa Takeru and Oikawa Tooru. Takeru still had baby fat shaping his chubby cheeks, and his eyes were round with wonder. Oikawa's eyes were half-lidded and soft, and his face was gaining shape as he grew older. He must have been popular in his elementary school with looks like those.

You welcomed Takeru with open arms, letting his small body embrace you. 

"He's so freaking cute!" you sang, rubbing Takeru's back warmly. You tossed a side-glance to Oikawa, whose messy head was finally out of the covers. "What went wrong with you?"

Oikawa pouted. "[Y/N]-chan, that hurt!"

Takeru was very adorable. You and Iwaizumi babied him frequently, much to Oikawa's disdain. You remembered that when Takeru was born, it was all Oikawa could brag about. However, when you and Iwaizumi started to pay more attention to Takeru, Oikawa had the audacity to get irked.

As an older sibling yourself, you could somewhat understand Oikawa's pain.

Your friend huffed and stood up. He dangled a piece of candy in front of Takeru's face, and Takeru giggled. Takeru blindly followed Oikawa, who was leading him like a pig with a carrot. You watched as Oikawa gave Takeru the candy and promptly shut the door in Takeru's face, locking Takeru out.

"That was mean," you said. "Locking your nephew out like that."

"Not as mean as you calling me ugly!"

You flopped down on the futon lazily, turning your head so you can watch Obi-Wan Kenobi beat the shit out of some robot clones. You giggled, lovesick, when Obi-Wan made his appearance. The man was just so handsome! You couldn't help yourself. Oikawa made a face behind you.

"If you say anything," you said, knowing that Oikawa was about to make a snide comment, "I will not hesitate to strangle you."

"Can you even reach my neck?"

You whirled your head to meet Oikawa's smug smile.

"That's it," you said, rising from the futon to keep to your word. You had gotten up too quickly, and your head started to spin. After you regained your senses, you pointed at Oikawa. "Come here, Crappy-kawa so I can absolutely murder you."

You chucked a pillow at Oikawa, sorely missing your target. Oikawa laughed haughtily at your shitty aim. The green lava lamp that he had plugged in earlier made his face look a little like an alien, and you could only snicker. Oikawa was certainly, in more ways than one, out of this world.

"Kids!" Mrs. Oikawa called from downstairs. "Iwaizumi is here!"

Oikawa and you looked at each other for a long second and gulped.

With your clothes looking like a rat's nest and Oikawa looking like he just came back from the dead, you and he were not prepared to meet Iwaizumi—king of the monsters. Iwaizumi could be quite terrifying, but you weren't scared of him. You weren't scared of any men. However, Iwaizumi could catch a freaky bug with no hesitation, and that warranted your respect.

You and Oikawa scurried around his room, trying to fix what mess you and he had left. Oikawa picked up scattered DVDs and open bags of candy. You picked up the blankets and flapped them accordingly, and little wrappers of candy tumbled out. You folded them and tossed them to the side.

Oikawa turned on the fairy lights, and you picked up the forgotten and cold agedashi tofu. You put it on top of the desk before getting on your knees to push the untouched box of pizza underneath Oikawa's desk. Satisfied with your work, you stood up and turned around, only to be greeted with Oikawa smiling.

"Why are you smiling?" you asked.

"Can't I just be happy?"

You looked at him warily.

Oikawa's hands were behind his back—and you suspected that he was hiding something from you—and Oikawa let out a dry laugh. "Your competition is coming up, isn't it? Even with a big competition like that, you still came here."

"Well, yeah, of course," you said. "You invited me, and it's Iwa—"

"I"—Oikawa shuffled his feet—"kind of feel bad. But I'm glad you're here..."

The lava lamps that he bought illuminated across his face. They were touches of green, blue, then red—different shades of light, and Oikawa looked different in each shade. You studied his perfect cupid's bow lips and the soft brown strands of his hair falling over the middle of his brows.

The color of purple remained on his face for a second too long, showing off his cheekbones and his straight nose. He was a sculpture taken straight from a museum, meant to be admired and studied. A faint, shy smile was painted on his face, and his mind was moving a mile a minute.

Oikawa made a lot of faces in the few years you had known him.

He rarely gave such genuine smiles.

"...so I can give you this before Iwa-chan comes," Oikawa said, revealing what he was holding behind his back. "It's a Star Wars comic. I meant to give it to you earlier in the year, but the shipping took so long. It's shipped from America, you know."

You took it out of his hands and flipped through it. The comic was thin; its pages were fresh and filled with color. Despite its thinness, it felt heavy in your hands.There were whole adventures in this thin comic book. The sagas of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader flashed through your mind. It was colorful and vibrant.

It was shipped from America, too. You looked closely at the dialogue, recognizing a few English words here and there. Bubbling excitement rose up in your chest, and your fingers shook as you flipped from page to page. 

Jerking your head up, you said, "Tooru, tha—"

Oikawa's bedroom door opened to reveal Iwaizumi Hajime whose bag was slung over his shoulder. Iwaizumi surveyed the room. He was still a little shorter than Oikawa, but there was no doubt that he'd grow like a beanstalk in due time.

The warm, golden light from the hallway lit up Oikawa's face more clearly than the lava lamps had. Oikawa's shoulders were scrunched up, making him look smaller than Iwaizumi. You could see a light blush of red on the tops of Oikawa's cheeks and a glossy shine in Oikawa's beautiful doe-eyes—as if he was close to crying.

He seemed embarrassed, almost.

"Happy birthday," Oikawa said, picking up the agedashi tofu from his desk, "Iwa-chan!"

Iwaizumi looked at the agedashi tofu, his favorite food. "Thank you, Oikawa. You remembered, surprisingly."

"Actually," Oikawa said, gulping down the emotion that he displayed for a second, "[Y/N] bought it on her way here. Of course, I remembered your favorite food because I know everything, but it was [Y/N]'s money."

"Happy birthday, Iwa," you said.

"[Y/N]," your mother's voice came from the door of your bedroom. Your mother leaned against the threshold, her arms crossed over her chest. "The competition is at 10 AM—today."

It was sometime after midnight—you weren't sure of the exact time, as you did believe that time was a concept to fool humanity—and you were tucked away in bed. However, you held a flashlight to read the book that rested on your propped thighs, and your mother had caught you in the act.

You turned off the flashlight in slight surprise.

"What are you doing up this late?" your mother asked. "You need your sleep."

You showed her the cover of the book that you were reading—the competition piece. Clementi's Sonatina in G Major, Op. 36 No. 2. Your mother read the title of the piece, and her eyes flashed with recognition. She pursed her lips and nodded in approval.

"Be sure you get enough sleep," your mother said. "I don't want you to fall asleep when you're on stage."

"I will," you said. "I'll go to sleep in a few minutes."

"All right. Make me proud."

She promptly shut the door behind her when she left, leaving your room encompassed with darkness. You listened to her muffled footsteps walking down the hallway in a rhythmic fashion—like a metronome. You listened to her switch off the light in the hallway, and the tiny creak beneath your door turned from golden yellow to black.

You listened to your own breathing for a few seconds.

Then you clicked on your flashlight and held it over the pages of your book. Placed in between your competition book was the comic that Oikawa had given you. It was open to a certain fight scene, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from the page. You greedily read in the English words.

This was far better than any competition piece you had to study.

"Ah," you said, looking at the scoreboard.

Fourth place wasn't so bad.

Fourth place still gained rewards and recognition. Fourth place was admirable and vied for by those below it. Fourth place was a good place to be for someone who put off piano practice frequently. Considering that the kids in second and third were scary twelve-year-olds—in other words, middle schoolers—you thought that you did well.

"Congratulations, [Y/N]," Ms. Ushijima said, rubbing your shoulder. "Fourth place. That isn't too shabby, yes?"

You looked up the scoreboard to see who had gotten first place. It was a boy. You recognized the name, as you had flipped through the pamphlet before the competition. 

Semi Eita.

Some name that was.

A ten-year-old managed to score first place. This small fact irked you somewhat. He was ten years old, just like you.  You might as well burn the pamphlet before your mother might see it. She might start comparing you and Semi, and you didn't even know the boy personally.

You clearly recalled his photo in the pamphlet because you were in awe when you saw his ash-blond hair. It was remarkably blond—nothing you had ever seen before. 

"Four's an unlucky number," you said to Ms. Ushijima.

Ms. Ushijima said, "There's no helping it. You performed your best. Your mother should be very proud of you."

You roamed around the recital hall, leaving Ms. Ushijima. You had told her that you were going to the bathroom. However, you were not going to the bathroom. You had to find one of the people from the judging panel.

Since you had gotten fourth place, you knew that your mother would ask you what you needed to improve on. She made it a habit that you ask one of the judges for feedback. The hard part was finding one of the judges. Fortunately, you found a judge rather quickly, as she was looking at a large sign that advertised for shaving cream.

"Oh, it's the little [Y/N] [L/N]," the judge said. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?"

You shook your head, surprised that she remembered your name. "I'm here for feedback."

"Well, congrats on fourth place, little missy," the judge praised. "You were against some real competitors. Quite talented prodigies we had in this competition. One of them is bound to go overseas at some point."

"Thank you. Is there anything I can improve on?"

The judge laughed. "There's always something to improve. I suggest you keep your tempo steady. I noticed that when you were excited, you unconsciously played faster. It's important to keep a steady tempo throughout."

"I see."

"You had a tendency to make the piece your own," the judge said. "It is not a bad thing. However, you made crescendos when there were no crescendos in the score, and you slowed down when you wanted to, which I assume was for dramatic effect. It was as if the composer wasn't there. If you want to win actual competitions, you must play the piece just how the composer intended."

God, you hated feedback. Composer this, composer that—when were you going to compose a new form of anarchy?

"That boy who placed first—he's a natural musician. He managed to stay true to the score nearly the entire time. Staying true to the score is nearly an impossible feat," the judge continued. "It is better to play without emotion when you are playing the piano. It keeps you stable and composed."

"Thank you," you said, feeling off-put by her advice. "I'll keep that in mind."

The moment you said that, every word that the judge had said went out the other ear. You refused to listen to anyone besides the voice in your head that told you violence was always the answer.

Your mother took you home.

It was a silent trip back, which scared you infinitely more than being yelled at. Adam said nothing and instead chose to mind his own business. Occasionally, he'd glance at you. By the time you looked back, Adam would have looked away.

The moment you came home, Adam retreated into his room—a habit that he somehow procured. Your mother didn't mind him, and she sat at the breakfast table. Her freshly brewed green tea was in front of her, emitting small wafts of smoke. A cup of sugar cubes and tongs sat next to the boiling tea.

"Fourth place," your mother said.

"Fourth place," you echoed, sitting across from her.

"I don't understand," your mother said, "how could a girl like you get fourth place. Sonatinas are simple and light-hearted, so how did you mess up that badly?"

You looked down to your hands. "The judge said I was too emotional."

"Maybe she's right." Your mother used the tongs to pick up a sugar cube. She placed it between her teeth and sipped her tea in the suffocating silence. "You did go off tempo a few times during the piece."

There was a small sentence that bubbled within you. You wanted to ask your mother if she was proud of you. You wanted her kind words after a competition. There was no better reward than having your mother be proud of you. Of course, judging from her reaction to you securing fourth place, you knew that she was very disappointed.

"I don't understand," your mother repeated. "You are so brilliant, [Y/N]. How did it end up like this?"

Your voice was quiet. "I don't know."

"You are capable, [Y/N]," your mother continued, "and you have an outlet. First place is what you would have gotten if you hadn't failed to use your brilliance. You are capable of doing so much more than fourth place, and I can't seem to understand why you aren't reaching and striving."

"Next time, I'll do better," you heard yourself say.

Competitions were lame.

Competitions were for kids desperate for their parents' approval, anyway.

Chapter Text

Your mother had found the perfect middle school for you: Kitagawa First.

She had searched through other schools, such as Chidoriyama Junior High and Yukigoaka Junior High but ultimately decided on Kitagawa First. Kitagawa First implied that there was a Kitagawa Second or even a Kitagawa Third.

Kitagawa First was placed directly between your neighborhood and the park you would frequent to meet Oikawa and Iwaizumi. You had no problems commuting there, as you had a steady sense of the train lines and when and where to get off.

You would know almost no one there, though. Wakatoshi wouldn't be with you to experience the feeling of going to a new school with you. It would be strange and foreign and disgusting . You were being wrenched away from your best friend, your soulmate . You could adapt, though. You were used to adapting.

What about Wakatoshi?

He couldn't adapt as easily—or maybe he could. However, you had yet to see it firsthand. The boy was a mystery, if you were honest. Whenever you were at school, he was with you and only ever talked to his volleyball teammates. Wakatoshi was a matter that left your brain puzzled.

"Wakatoshi- kun will be coming back from Shiratorizawa Junior High during breaks—like winter, spring, and summer breaks," Mr. Ushijima had told you when you and he were alone, and Wakatoshi was at volleyball practice. "You can see him then."

It took all your courage to shake your head slowly.

Mr. Ushijima noticed the uneasiness in your eyes. "Hmm? What do you mean by no, [Y/N]- chan ?"

"During my breaks, I will be in America to visit my dad," you responded softly. "My mom calls it a 'compromise' or something like that. I will not be in Japan during the long breaks. Adam will be home, though, and Toshi can play with him."

There was silence.

It was as if some higher power was preventing you and Wakatoshi from meeting ever again. You and he had the weekends, at least. Such a short amount of time for children who spent their childhood together. There was no doubt that Wakatoshi would have volleyball, too.

"Is it hard, [Y/N]- chan ?" Mr. Ushijima asked. "Is your life hard when your parents are divorced?"

He must have been asking on Wakatoshi's behalf. The reason why Mr. Ushijima asked you about America and asked you if you were sad all those years ago—it was for this. Mr. Ushijima did not want to make Wakatoshi miserable by leaving. It was a horrid thing to do to a child, but you knew Mr. Ushijima's situation all too well.

You looked at Mr. Ushijima. "I haven't flown to see my dad just yet, but my life is okay. I have my mom and Adam."

Mr. Ushijima only nodded in return, seemingly unsatisfied with your answer, but you had nothing to offer to him. He let the matter go quickly and returned to sipping his coffee on the front porch.

Your life in Japan went by as usual. The looming threat of separation weighed on your shoulders. In a year, all that you knew would be gone. Now entering your final year as an elementary schooler, you wondered if life ahead of you was any worse than this. It couldn't possibly be—you would be older and smarter and sexier.

Ambling down your staircase, you were greeted by the sight of your mother sipping tea at the breakfast table.

Her black hair was clipped into a tight bun that strained the roots of her hair. Her angular hands plucked a sugar cube and placed it between her teeth and sipped her tea, letting the bitter tea sift through the sugar. Your mother looked at you before motioning for you to join her at the breakfast table.

You sat across from her, and your mother pushed a stack of photos toward you wordlessly. She continued to drink her tea while you sorted through the photos that she had given you.

"Are these—" you started in Japanese.

"English," your mother corrected.

"Are these the photos from my disposable camera?" you asked again in English, flipping through the memories that had been developed. Photos of Wakatoshi, of Oikawa and Iwaizumi, of Adam, and of you were in your little hands. You felt extreme nostalgia running through your veins.

Your mother nodded curtly. "I found a place that takes American disposable cameras in Sendai."

Photos of your old American house resurfaced. You stared at the photos of the toys that your father had bought you and the parks that he would take you to. It was all so bright and colorful—your memories of America were distant, but you couldn't help but reminisce about the land you barely remembered.

"Can you buy me a new one?" you asked. "A new disposable camera. Please."

Your mother took a lengthy sip of her tea. "Pass the Kitagawa First exam with flying colors and improve your English, and we shall see."

"'With flying colors?'" you repeated, confused.

"It's an English idiom," your mother replied. "It means to be successful. Pass your entrance junior high exam with high success and with ease, and I will buy you your disposable camera."

Wakatoshi was still under the impression that you were enrolling into Shiratorizawa with him.

You had finished helping Ms. Ushijima make hayashi rice in the kitchen, as she had taught you how to cook for the past six years when your mother was busy with Adam. As you were setting the table, Wakatoshi lent you a hand after washing up.

"When is the Shiratorizawa entrance exam?" Wakatoshi asked you as he set down a placemat. "My friends tell me it is difficult to get in without a scholarship. The exam is rigorous."

"Ah," you said, your shoulders tightening. Guilt burned your insides and flamed every useful organ you had. It was difficult to even think about lying to your childhood friend. "Yeah. I'm not too sure when they are. I'll have to ask my mom."

Wakatoshi noticed your anxiousness. "Don't worry. You are smart."

"Th—" You sighed. "Thanks."

"I'll pray that you'll get in. I'm sure Goku will grant my wish."

You didn't have the heart to tell him that Goku was not one of the gods and instead the main character of hit anime show Dragon Ball Z .

Piano lessons had only intensified ever since you came to Japan.

Your piano lessons were held virtually—over the phone. Your teacher was American and a friend of your mother's. She would call you and teach you by ear; admittedly, this was far more difficult than finding a new piano teacher in Japan, but your mother was insistent on this. 

Your piano teacher was the textbook definition of expectant.

"Please keep in tempo," your teacher said. "It is not that difficult, as I had thought this piece would be somewhat easy for someone of your prowess. I do not understand why you have been making the same mistake for the past three weeks we've been on this song."

Every time you moved on to a new piece, your piano teacher always said that it would be easy for you. Of course, she would be slightly stern with you when the piece happened to not be easy for you. Piano required eye and hand concentration. It was difficult for you to read the sheet music and play the corresponding note.

Multitasking was not your forte. You were better suited for bigger and better things, such as overthrowing oppressive governments or instigating arson.

You had already forgotten what your piano teacher looked like—what features did she have?—but you would never forget her voice. There was something about her voice that made you want to smack a bitch and feel insecure about your lack of music talent the entire time you did it. Her voice made you increasingly frustrated. 

You knew your piano teacher had a daughter of some sort. You wondered if she was as strict with her as she was with you.

When you went to your usual park to visit Oikawa and Iwaizumi, you noticed them almost immediately.

Oikawa wore a bright yellow t-shirt hoodie that you wouldn't even wish upon your worst enemy. There was a small alien print on the sleeves. He held a volleyball in his hands. Iwaizumi wore a black tank top with the word king written on it. He, too, held a volleyball, and his bug net was discarded to the side.

Wakatoshi was not the only boy who had grown. Oikawa was tall with Iwaizumi only a few centimeters shorter than him. They were no longer lanky and had developing muscles. Oikawa bore a rather nice looking face with a straight nose and sharp jawline. His doe-brown eyes brightened when he caught sight of you.

"Eh?" Oikawa exclaimed. He turned to Iwaizumi, pointing at you. "Iwa- chan , your girlfriend's here! Hi, [Y/N]- ch— "

Iwaizumi chucked a volleyball at Oikawa; the brilliantly colored ball collided with Oikawa's face, immediately taking the brunet down like the Titanic.

"Ignore him," Iwaizumi said, dusting his hands off. Unlike Oikawa, Iwaizumi kept his hair clipped somewhat short, but it stuck up in various directions. If anything, the hair style made him look like a cute hedgehog. "Hi, [Y/N]. Are you here to catch bugs today? I brought my net in case you would come."

You shook your head. "I'm just here to hang out."

Oikawa and Iwaizumi had taken up volleyball a few years ago, leading you to believe that volleyball was a new craze that was taking Japan by storm. Wakatoshi was infatuated with the damned sport, and now Oikawa, your Star Wars buddy, and Iwaizumi, your bug buddy! Volleyball was taking everyone you knew.

Next thing you knew, Adam would join a volleyball team.

"Do you want to practice with us?" Oikawa asked, having been recovered from Iwaizumi's critical hit. "I can show you how to set, and Iwa- chan can hit it!"

Years of watching Wakatoshi play volleyball flashed before your eyes. Your mother kept an eye on you, making sure that you didn't touch the volleyball. After all, what would happen if you injured your fingers? The one thing you were able to do would be taken away from you.

"Setting is all in the fingers," Oikawa said, waving his refined fingers. If he hadn't played volleyball, he might have made an excellent piano player with fingers like that. "The fingers are like a trampoline—you manipulate and bounce it toward your chosen spiker. Isn't it cool, [Y/N]- chan ?"

You could hurt your fingers if you tried to set. When watching volleyball reruns with Wakatoshi, you've seen setters wrap bandages around their fingers for support.

However, the thought of touching a ball you were banned from stuck with you. It would be liberating and beautiful to set a volleyball. You wanted to feel the rough grooves of the volleyball and feel the stitches underneath your finger pads. You wanted to cusp the leather of the ball in your palm and caress the sides.

What was the harm in only setting one ball? It was unlikely for your fingers to get hurt if you only set one ball.

It wouldn't be so bad to set just one ball, right?

"Sounds cool," you replied, and you swallowed down a rising gulp. "Not my thing, though. Thanks, Oikawa."

"Are you sure?" Oikawa persisted, holding his volleyball tightly. He pressed the volleyball into your hands, egging you on with childish innocence. "It's super, super fun, I promise! Come on, just a small set. What's the harm?"

You shook your head fervently.

"Even if you mess it up, I won't make fun of you," Oikawa reassured. "I'll be sure that Iwa- chan hits your ball no matter what. That's the cool thing about being a setter, [Y/N]- chan . Just try it."

The volleyball was so, so captivating . 

Oikawa pursed his cupid's bow lips in a cute pout. His brows furrowed and his cheeks blushed with a fresh pink. Just as he was about to insist some more, Iwaizumi placed a hand on Oikawa's shoulder. Iwaizumi looked a little irked at Oikawa's insistence and yanked him—and the volleyball—away from you.

"Hey, stupid," Iwaizumi said to Oikawa. "Don't you remember that she plays the piano? What if she hurts her fingers, Shitty-kawa? It would be all your fault."

Oikawa's eyes widened and looked down at your piano fingers—fingers that were meant for cradling and tapping and not for pressing and setting. He bowed his head and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry, sorry, [Y/N]- chan !" he apologized. "I got too ahead of myself there."

"It's okay," you said, waving your hands.

"Why don't I teach you how to pass instead?" Iwaizumi questioned, picking up his volleyball and tucking it underneath his arm. "It shouldn't hurt your fingers at all. It will take some getting used to on your forearms, but it'll be really fun."

Oikawa lit up. "If we teach [Y/N]- chan to bump, then I can set, and then you can hit!"

You swallowed thickly. You had seen a pass before. The players used their forearms to bounce the ball—usually toward the setter, so the setter could set it to the spiker. "Iwa, are you sure that it won't hurt my fingers?"

"Yeah," Iwaizumi said, ruffling your head. "Don't worry about it. I'll show you how to do it correctly."

As Oikawa practiced setting to himself, Iwaizumi guided you. Iwaizumi was rather gentle with you, explaining everything in a clear manner. He extended your forearms in front of you and told you not to intertwine your fingers together. Iwaizumi said that a correct bump had your right hand rolled into a loose fist and your left hand clasped over your knuckles.

"You want to keep your arms constricted like this"—Iwaizumi demonstrated—"and you want to receive the ball  by lightly pushing up. You want to use your knees for this. All your power is in your knees, which is why volleyball players usually have their knees bent and arms open in front of them when they're in defense."

Oikawa piped up, "Knees are just as important as fingers. Without your knees, it'll be hard to play volleyball."

"Right, Stupid-kawa," Iwaizumi said, nodding. "So, [Y/N], when you receive the ball, you push up with your knees, and don't swing your arms or else the ball will go flying elsewhere. You only tilt your arms this way and that for maneuvering purposes only."

"These nicknames hurt, you know," Oikawa whined. "Why not call me something more accurate? Like hot—"

"Anyway," Iwaizumi cut Oikawa off promptly, "why don't we try it, Suzuki?"

Sitting at your piano bench with the piano in front of you, you were listening to a piano piece on your electronic device.

You had taken this up as a habit to familiarize yourself with the music that you were required to play. As you were sitting on the piano bench with your headphones in, you could hear Wakatoshi's shouts outside your house.

You slipped your headphones off and heard Wakatoshi yell, "One more!"

The hard thud of a nice receive. The soft grasp of a set. The smack of the ball against a palm. It was muffled through the walls of your house, but it felt so real to you. It was as if you were watching another one of Wakatoshi's elementary school volleyball matches. He shone like a star.

Whenever you watched him jump into the air, you could only think to yourself about how starry Wakatoshi was. He was blinding, almost. The sweat that shone on his tan skin, and the sweat that he shook off his hair after a hard set—they were like stars.

He was an endless galaxy, and it tore you apart.

You wanted to run to the window and gaze at Wakatoshi. Maybe if you lingered near the glass pane, you would somehow absorb his passion. It was a stupid thought, you knew, but you were eleven and you were hopeless.

Unfortunately, it was not good to have the piano aligned directly near the window—the light could damage it. Your back was to the nearest window, and you faced the grand black piano that your family owned for quite some time.

Turning off the music, you opened the fallboard of the piano. The slim black and fat white keys of the piano stared back at you hopelessly. If passion did not find you, you would find it. Piano would be your passion; piano could be your passion . You would take passion and force it underneath the curved palms of your hand.

When you played the piano, your teacher's words rang in your head. Your teacher had told you to cup your hands as if you were carrying a smaller, tinier world inside of them.

You played the piano with such rigor.

Perhaps the harder you played, the quicker you played, the stronger you played, the passion would start to flood through your veins and to your heart. You wanted to jumpstart the passion, you wanted to feel it so bad .

Piano had to be your calling! It had to be! There was no other thing for you out there. You had no art, no craft, no talent, no volleyball .

You were eleven, and all you wanted to do was smash plates and fight people to the death. There was indescribable rage inside of you that was the cousin of jealousy. You pushed down your competitive side as much as you could, but you couldn't help it—you were nurtured by your mother to take and take and take .

Oh, to be motivated by purpose! It wracked your very core, your very being. You wanted to be someone . Was life really worth living if you had no purpose? You had no interest—nothing to live for. You went from one day to the next with no resolve. The fear of being average was breathing over your shoulder.

You were playing the piano with such "passion."

So why did you feel disappointed?

What was with this surging dark wallow of sadness that was eating you from the inside out? It scratched at your heart and squeezed the life out of it. It forced passion through your arteries and into your finger pads.

Was there such an emotion that was so riveting that you could feel passion?

Maybe what you were feeling was, in fact, passion, and you simply had high standards. This sad lump of passion that was weighing down at the bottom of your stomach was really, actually, truly the passion that you dreamt about in your sleep and saw in action in the eyes of Wakatoshi Ushijima.

If this was passion, you didn't want it.

Something else told you differently. Something told you that what you were feeling was not passion. You were wringing the passion out of you; it was to hold passion at gunpoint and tell it to make you feel something. 

Though when the world had given you nothing, you felt the unexplainable urge to take everything the world had.

That was the kind of young lady you were.

Perhaps piano was not meant to be your passion.

It was a silly notion to try and squeeze out the dregs of an empty toothpaste bottle when there was obviously nothing left. The toothpaste would be wrung out and curled with no life, so it would make sense to purchase a new toothpaste bottle. This new toothpaste bottle would be full and teaming with opportunity. With ease, one could garner up enough toothpaste to brush one's teeth.

Was piano really what you were meant for ? Everyone seemed to be destined for something or at least drawn to something. Wakatoshi was the perfect example; he lived and breathed for a damned sport! Oikawa and Iwaizumi, too. Your mother was fond of green tea and listening to your piano playing—while hers wasn't much, it was at least something!

All you wanted to do was become God and overcome this prepubescent existential crisis.

You needed to make more opportunities. It would give you the freedom to search, and search, and search until you were able to find something that you loved and stuck with it. Why were you contemplating something so small and so insignificant that it made you feel even littler?

It was simple. You needed to find something new!

You'd never tell your mom about your motives to find something new. You weren't very sure about why she wouldn't let you find something new, but you knew that she would not. Your mother was a stubborn woman.

Perhaps when you were older and more wiser, you'd be strong enough to approach your mother with your intentions. When you were a middle schooler, you'd have enough bravery to fight against the dragon in your life.

You finished your piano piece with a new resolve and a sudden urge to go look for more bugs outside.

The night Wakatoshi's father officially left, the stars wept.

Ms. Ushijima was standing on the front porch, her hands clasped in front of her. Mr. Ushijima—or now officially declared Mr. Utsui—stood by the concrete wall, his suitcases packed. He wore his heaviest clothes, indicating his departure. His eyes were drooped with weariness, and his hand was placed lightly over his brimmed hat.

It was on Mr. Utsui's last night that you noticed, once again, how similar he was to Wakatoshi. They had a similar build—same broad shoulders and tremendous height—as expected of their family.  You knew Mr. Utsui bore lighter hair than your childhood friend's, but it wasn't very evident at this moment, as it was night time.

You would miss Mr. Utsui dearly, as he did raise you—almost as a father in your very fatherless life. You would miss the volleyball reruns that Wakatoshi would make you watch with him and his dad. You would miss Mr. Utsui's coffee breath and pestering questions about America.

Mr. Utsui planned on moving overseas.

Just like your mother had when she divorced your father.

Wakatoshi was standing in front of Mr. Utsui, his eyes staring at his father. His eyes glossed and glinted with the reflection of the big, beautiful moon that seemed to mock you.

Your hand was grasping onto the back of Wakatoshi's shirt, the cotton scrunched in your hand in an ugly fashion. Your knuckles tightened, and you could feel the crescent moons of your fingernails carve into the soft palms of your hand through the fabric of Wakatoshi's shirt. Your head was bowed down.

It wasn't that you didn't want to see Mr. Utsui's departure—it was that you didn't want to see him leave and never come back. 

Your mother had already bid her goodbyes to Mr. Utsui, and Adam, too. She understood the pain of it all. You would never understand, or at least your mother hoped you would never understand.

Mr. Utsui knelt to the ground, coming face-to-face with you. 

His voice was soft. "[Y/N]."

The way he said your name was the way you imagined your own father would say it. He said it with such gentleness, as if simply saying your name in a harsh manner would break it. It was devoid of the -chan ending, but it made you feel warm.

"Thank you," he said to you, "for being there for Wakatoshi. I hope that you will always be there for him, yes?"

Both you and Mr. Utsui knew that it would be hard. Both you and Mr. Utsui knew that you would still try. It was a filthy, filthy world, but everything was going to be okay in the end, you believed, because Wakatoshi was here.

"I am sorry I had to leave you like this," Mr. Utsui continued. His voice said: you. His eyes said: Wakatoshi. "I do not want to hurt Wakatoshi anymore by staying, and I will deal far less damage by leaving. He knows that I love him. I wish to hug him every day, and I wish to praise him every day. He is exceptional."

You could feel Wakatoshi take a deep breath in.

"That very kindness you have shown to Wakatoshi—I am very glad that you have shown it to me. I suspect that you are Wakatoshi's best thing. Wakatoshi  will do great things in the future because he met you. I would love to see him shine so brightly, [Y/N], and will you be there to see it for me?"

"Yeah," you murmured, your voice nearly caught in your throat.

Mr. Utsui turned to Wakatoshi. He reached a fine, long arm out and ruffled Wakatoshi's head with his calloused hand. Wakatoshi blinked harshly. There was a shadow of a smile on Mr. Ushijima's face.

"My Wakatoshi- kun ," Mr. Utsui said, withdrawing his hand. His son looked at him, and Mr. Utsui could only sigh. "Oh, my Wakatoshi, Wakatoshi, Wakatoshi. During the summer, you will eat taiyaki with [Y/N]- chan , yes? In my place? I know it is not your favorite, but there will be no one—"

Wakatoshi interrupted. "I'll eat taiyaki with [Y/N]. I'll eat candied apples. I'll eat anything you'll ask me to."

"Don't say that, my boy," Mr. Utsui replied, chuckling. "Tell me, you plan on pursuing volleyball professionally?"

Your friend nodded, his throat bobbing. His hands curled into fists, and his breaths turned uneven. There was so much stubbornness in Wakatoshi's heart and so much passion, too.

"I do not mind whatever profession you intend to pursue," Wakatoshi's father said, rising from his knee. He towered over you and Wakatoshi just like he had when you had first met him nearly seven years ago. "But no matter what happens in the future, as long as you love volleyball, Wakatoshi, I will be happy."

Every child wanted to make their parents proud and happy. They took it upon their shoulders like a burden when growing up. Oftentimes, this burden weighed them down as they climbed the mountain to maturity, but there were others who took this burden and crafted it into a guide to the summit.

Your friend was the latter. He always had been the latter.

Wakatoshi shook, his broad shoulders shrinking. He nodded desperately and uncharacteristically. This young boy was only twelve years old, and he had room to grow. It made you wonder if that, in the future, you would be there for him when he was at his lowest. It was a matter of that when Wakatoshi was at his lowest, would he reach for you?

"All right." Mr. Utsui smiled. "Go on, then, and join a strong team. I want you to meet new people and encounter new abilities. I want you to be challenged, and I want you to be the challenger. Wakatoshi, I want you to grow because the soil you have been planted in is fertile. You have potential, and I want you to love the sport that you are dedicated to."

"I will," Wakatoshi croaked.

Mr. Utsui filed into a taxi headed for the airport. Wakatoshi's mother called you and Wakatoshi inside, but Wakatoshi refused to budge. Wakatoshi stood his ground and stared into the swirling darkness of where his father had been. You had been next to him.

Ms. Ushijima eventually went back inside, leaving you and Wakatoshi standing.

It was late in the night. You had let go of Wakatoshi's shirt, and Wakatoshi kept his shoulders bunched up. The sounds of the crickets rose, and the arguments of the Ushijimas had ceased. All that could be heard was the quiet clanking of mailboxes and weathervanes, and the water rushing of streams and sinks nearby.

The world was peaceful.

It was the same sort of peace that resonated in your house early in the morning. That exact peace that shrouded your house with its cape before your mother or Adam woke up or before you touched the piano. This peace bled warm colors of the sunrise through the panels of glass, and you watched it bleed.

Wakatoshi turned to look at you.

"You're..." Wakatoshi's shaking words trailed off. "How did your entrance exam to Shiratorizawa go?"

You're staying with me, right?

"Kitagawa First," you corrected quietly in a hush.

"What?" His voice was hoarse and came out small, as if it had been caught in his throat.

Please stay with me .

The truth was terrible. He was bound to get hurt; it was inevitable. It was when you saw his dull eyes and his crumbling world when you realized exactly why Ms. Ushijima had asked you to keep a secret.

Did Wakatoshi think that you and he were going to be forever ? Did he really, really think that the days where you would watch him play volleyball in his front lawn while his dad sipped coffee on the front porch would be immortal? Did Wakatoshi Ushijima think that you were in his future, if not his genuine, actual future?

This feeling harshly tugged at your heart—because you had felt the same way.

"I did not take"—your voice bubbled incoherently—"I did not take the Shiratorizawa exam."

"Why?"

Why are you leaving me?

"My mom wouldn't let me," you said, the bridge of your nose tickling and tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm going to Kitagawa First next year, not Shiratorizawa, Toshi."

You had made eye-contact with Wakatoshi. He looked at you—truly looked at you—with pain, and you could only feel like you've betrayed him.

Then stars began to fall from his eyes.

Beautiful droplets of pure starlight streamed down his cheeks like shooting stars across the night sky. The stars glistened in the corner of his rounded yet sharp eyes that looked so much like his mother's. His stars shimmered with realization, and then they fell, and fell, and fell, and fell . 

"Please stop crying, Toshi," you said quietly. "I'm sorry I can't go to Shiratorizawa. I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I kept it a secret. I'm so, so sorry , Wakatoshi. We—We can still keep in touch, and we can write letters, and we can call..."

Wakatoshi's lip trembled. You trailed off and quickly brushed a thumb underneath his eyes. His silent sobs tore apart the peace of the world. He shuddered underneath your touch, and he noticed that you were crying, too.

He thought it was silly to cry over something as trivial as parting ways in middle school. It was a silly thing to become attached to a silly American girl with a silly fondness for bugs and silly American movies.

But no matter how silly he told himself that you were, he would still rise early in the mornings to listen to your music.

He hated the way your music made him feel. He hated the gentleness of how you handled the piano keys, and he hated how the universe had given you such tender magic within your fingertips. He hated your magical hands and your magical smile and your magical eyes and your magical laugh—

Your piano songs made him feel curious and adventurous—it made him feel .

He hated that you were pure magic.

He could feel the magic in your hands. Your thumbs were warm against the cold feel of his cheek. Your palms were even hotter, burning with intensity, and all Wakatoshi wanted to do was have you press your palm against his cheek and tell him that you were going to stay.

Why was he crying so much?

Ah , he thought, so this was sadness .

Wakatoshi wanted to stop the tears, but his arms draped uselessly by his sides and his fingers were numb. The stars wouldn't stop falling.

Everything was going wrong. His father had to leave, and now you, too. Wakatoshi wouldn't want to live one second in a world that didn't have you in it. He could only wonder if you thought about him the same way.

Before he had realized it, he had begun to care for— to depend on —you.

Wakatoshi's heart had hurt. Was he yearning? This yearning of his wretched his heart and squeezed it. It made him want to clasp his chest and protect the gentle and vulnerable part of himself. He was crumbling.

You, with your warm and magical hands, could reach into his chest and take whatever he wanted, and Wakatoshi would not be mad. He couldn't be mad at you. Never you. You were stuck and implanted in his soul, anyway. He couldn't take you out of him. It was painful, and it ripped him apart from the inside.

It was the night that Wakatoshi's father officially left when Wakatoshi saw you in a different light than he did the night before.

He was twelve, and he was desperately trying to deny the inevitable.

Chapter Text

"I'm getting my fucking drink," you murmured to yourself, your hand stuck up the dispenser of the vending machine.

You had rightfully paid the respective yen for the drink, and therefore you were owed a drink. Now, you had some suspicions about the vending machine money being forwarded to the underground Japanese yakuza, but you kept those ideas to yourself.

It was during your lunch period when you decided that you needed to quench your thirst for justice with a 150 yen drink. The American exchange rate for that would roughly be around $1.50. You had been practicing exchange rates in your head for when you needed to visit America.

You were sitting on the ground with your arm halfway in the mouth of the vending machine. You fiddled around in there, hoping there was some way to trigger the snack machine into giving you your drink. However, when you adjusted your arm, you realized that your arm would not budge.

Kitagawa First was not a bad school. You had met a few nice girls in your class and chatted with them for a bit. The conversation started with, and of course, about your American heritage. It was never not about your American side.

They asked about the living situation and the setting, which was unfortunate because you hadn't stepped foot in the land of the free since the prime age of five.

"Is that first-year stuck in the vending machine?" a few passing students murmured as their eyes were glued on your figure.

"Oh my God, she's actually stuck," another voice said. "Wait, isn't that the American first-year?"

You were tired of trying. Perhaps you could merge with this vending machine that was slowly eating your arm and become a cool robot like R2-D2 or General Grievous. This was who you were now—a cyborg. Half-human, half-vending machine. A movie about your life and your struggles as an outcast snack machine cyborg would blow up the box office, surely.

Maybe you didn't need lunch after all. Your body could run on raw rage alone.

"Suzuki?" a voice came from your side.

You whirled your head, and you were greeted with Hajime Iwaizumi standing there. He wore his uniform messily. The vest that was supposedly mandatory was gone, and his shirt was untucked. Iwaizumi's tie wasn't even properly tightened. His sharp eyes widened with recognition.

"Hey," you said.

"Are you—" Iwaizumi blinked. "You go here?"

"No," you replied dryly, "I broke in through the back, stole a uniform, and purposefully stuck my hand and arm up a vending machine because I was bored."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Iwaizumi asked. "I thought you were going somewhere else that was near your house because you live kind of far from us. Does that mean Adam will come to Kitagawa in a few years?"

"Yes. Probably. I guess. I don't know," you said.

Iwaizumi squatted next to you, ruffling your head harshly—he had picked up this habit over the years, as Oikawa had always been a few centimeters taller than him, but you had yet to outgrow Iwaizumi. "Oikawa's here, too. Why didn't you tell us anything? You just show up to a middle school in our area! I was expecting a lot of things, but I certainly wasn't expecting that."

"I wasn't expecting for my arm to get stuck in a vending machine, but here I am."

"There's a volleyball club here," Iwaizumi said. "Oikawa and I are going to join and aim to be in the first lineup as first-years. You should see about applying for the managerial position. I'm sure the club needs one."

You wrinkled your nose. "I'm not good at managing things."

Iwaizumi tilted his head, and the soft dark locks of his hair lilted alongside his motions. "You're a natural at volleyball. When I taught you how to receive, you caught on quickly."

Now, that was because you watched volleyball reruns while growing up thanks to your childhood friend, Wakatoshi Ushijima, who was kind of, sort of good at volleyball. Scratch that—he was amazing at the sport. Iwa and Oikawa didn't know or know of Wakatoshi, as he never did come up in conversation.

"It's not just managing the club, too," Iwaizumi went on. "You can help the team practice and keep scores of practice matches. You're like a TA almost. You can help out by taking home uniforms and washing them. It's a pretty good experience."

If that was how you were going to spend after school, you would rather babysit Adam. Experience, your ass! What a load of bullshit. You had better things to do after school, like plot the demise of the 1% and bully your younger brother. Iwaizumi might have been handsome and respectful, but he would not sway you today!

"And"—Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck—"you could spend more time with me and Oikawa. It'd be nice to hang out with you after school and stuff. Now that you go to the same school as us, we could eat lunch together, too. What homeroom are you in?"

"1-2," you replied coolly. "Iwa, I am still stuck in th—"

"That's Oikawa's homeroom," Iwaizumi said. "How did you not notice him? He has a really big presence, and his shitty face gets a lot of girls."

You weren't surprised you hadn't noticed Oikawa; you were rather oblivious. You had far more pressing matters than a handsome alien-loving boy. Being stuck in a vending machine, for example.

"I'm really glad you're here, [Y/N]," Iwaizumi continued. "I would have thought that I still needed to go to the park to meet up with you again. Do you want to come with me and Oikawa to the volleyball club for an interest check? It'll be really quick after school, and then we can go to a nearby convenience store."

"Sounds fun!" you said. "But I'm not so sure about becoming a manager—"

Iwaizumi ruffled your head again, giving you a miniature headache. His hands were rough and calloused. Before you could yelp for him to stop, Iwaizumi gently smiled at you. "You don't need to become a manager if you don't want to. Just promise you'll come to our games and cheer for us, okay?"

You clutched your head with your free hand on top of his in order to still your vision. The world seemed to spin around you. "Yeah, yeah, sure"—slyly, you mocked Oikawa's nickname for Iwaizumi—"Iwa-chan."

Your friend chuckled darkly and ruffled your head more aggressively, causing you to cry out for help.

"Iwa, Iwa, I'm sorry! Please forgive me!"

You, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa walked to the gymnasium together after school.

"I tried to approach [Y/N]-chan during homeroom," Oikawa protested, "but I was preoccupied. So many girls asked for my cellphone number! I had to tell them that I only had a house phone number because Kaa-san told me not to give out my cellphone number so freely."

Oikawa indeed was pretty enough to garner attention on his first day of school. His almond-brown hair was combed outwards in a soft manner. His light skin was clear, untouched by the cruel hands of puberty. Oikawa's brown eyes were captivating, and he certainly was drinking plenty of milk and getting enough sleep at night.

Iwaizumi made a face.

"Okay, it wasn't just that, Iwa-chan!" Oikawa raised his hands in innocence. "People heard that [Y/N]-chan was from America. She was bombarded with questions from girls. She was also surrounded! [Y/N]-chan, is it true that Tom Cruise helped deliver you when you were a baby?"

"Yeah," you said. Iwaizumi looked at you incredulously. You added, "what are you going to do, Iwa? Prove me wrong?"

Oikawa laughed and looped a strong arm around your neck, causing you to topple toward him. "I always knew you were special, [Y/N]-chan! Say, are you coming with us for the managerial position? You'd make a great manager."

You opened your mouth. "Well—"

"I admit, I'm biased," Oikawa confessed cheerfully, "but two of my closest friends spending time after school with me as I play the greatest sport in the world? Who would be stupid enough to turn that offer down! Become a manager, and you'll even secure a spot on the bench—the closest spot to the court!"

Iwaizumi said, "I told [Y/N] that if she didn't want to join as manager, she didn't have to."

"But she'd look great in the manager uniform," Oikawa pointed out.

"I look great every day, so what does it matter?" you said. "And isn't the manager uniform just a jacket and sweats?"

"Don't get too ahead of yourself there, Ms. I-look-great-every-day," Oikawa said. "You're a 7 in Miyagi and maybe a 6 in Toky—"

You grabbed the top fluff of Oikawa's brown hair and dragged his head down to your height. He stumbled at the sudden movement. You gave him a strained and scary smile. "That scale better be out of 7, or you're gone, Tooru," you gritted out.

Oikawa clutched the part where your fist had his hair in a clump. His perfect face was scrunched up cutely while Iwaizumi watched on with slight amusement. Oikawa yelped, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, [Y/N]-chan! Watching all those American movies turned you into a brute—"

"We've been watching Star Wars since we were five, Oikawa! Don't act like you haven't watched them with me!"

As Oikawa was about to retort, a voice caught your attention. The voice was deep and slightly nasally, indicating that it belonged to a grown man. "And here I thought the first-years would be well-behaved. Looks like we have a rowdy bunch this year."

You and your friends were greeted with a thin middle-aged man whose wrinkles defined the crevices of his face. He wore his glasses pressed to his face, and a rather wide nose seemed to dangle underneath the bridge of his glasses. The man stood at a generous height, and his arms were crossed with seriousness. His black hair was clipped unevenly, barely coming past his hairline in little shags.

Embezzled on the left breast of the man's black tracksuit was the Kitagawa First lettering encircled in a fine patch. He stood at the open gym doors, staring down at you holding Oikawa by his poofy hair and Iwaizumi snickering at his alien friend's misfortune.

Before you had realized it, you and your friends had already made it to the Kitagawa First volleyball designated gym.

You let go of Oikawa's head.

"I assume you boys are here for volleyball club applications," the man said, "and you, young lady, are here for a managerial position. I'm Kitagawa First's volleyball coach this season. Let's hope that you three put as much spirit into volleyball as you do into quarreling."

It was a relief that you had friends when you enrolled into Kitagawa First. You had Iwaizumi and Oikawa—your childhood friends. If you had to start with a brand new slate, you might have cried. Making friends was a feat that very few could accomplish. Granted, you were far more amicable than your brother, but that wasn't impressive considering your brother's attitude.

However, as much as you wanted to spend time with your friends, it wasn't imperative for you to join the volleyball club as a manager. You already had so much to do. You had TV shows to watch, Wakatoshi to text, and piano to play. Your piano practice was strenuous—both on your fingers and on your mentality.

Thinking about piano practice gave you an intense headache and a welling sense of dread.

The inside gym was huge. Dark blue banners hung from the high walls of the gym, and there was even a second floor that overlooked the court. Boys were lining up around the perimeters of the court, likely being debriefed for the volleyball club. Most of them were reasonably tall in height—and you had yet to see a short person on a volleyball team.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi jogged to join the boys that were lined up while you were told to go see the current Kitagawa First volleyball club student manager. The boys stared at Oikawa and Iwaizumi as Iwaizumi threw a hard left at Oikawa's chuckling face.

The club manager was a second-year with a clipboard seemingly attached to her hip. She was very eager to show you the ropes. She stood near the benches, talking animatedly while you awkwardly stood beside her. You watched the volleyball coach talk about the expectations for the team and the scheduled practices.

"Your friends are very good-looking, [Y/N]-chan—that Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime," the manager cheerfully stated. "When I was a first-year, there weren't any cute boys in my grade. If you're looking to date someone, look to the third-years."

"Good to know," you said.

"Now, being a manager demands quite a bit," the club manager said. "You have to deal with transportation issues and schedule practice matches. Most importantly, scheduling the actual competition slots is a bit of a burden. The most important job has to do with the schedule—after all, managers manage schedules."

You froze. Listen, your schedule was fucked. Your sleep schedule included. Managing wasn't a particular talent of yours, and you doubt you had the facilities to manage other people.

"Other than that, observing the court should be a hobby to pick up," the second-year manager said. "The previous manager told me this. When the coach tells you to write something down, you do it, as it might come up for feedback later. It'd suck if he forgot what he needed to say in order to boost a player's improvement."

Obeying authority was also not one of your talents. Obeying would turn one into a sheep. You were not a sheep.

"Let's see if your friends are any good at the sport," the manager said, nudging your ribcage. "Look, the boys are starting their drills right now. I want to see what Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime are made of."

The boys that were lined up had dispersed among the court. It seemed that they had finished basic stretching, and the new players, most of which were first-years, were divided into teams of two on the court.

The volleyball coach likely wanted to see the potential of the incoming players and what he could work with. You easily spotted Oikawa in the setter's position—it was hard not to notice Oikawa's rather loud and friendly personality—and Iwaizumi in the wing spiker's position.

It was Oikawa's serve.

"It's rare to have first-years in the starting lineup," the club manager said. "Usually it's third-years who have the privilege of playing. Most first-years spend their first year as a ball boy, picking up serves and chasing after balls."

Oikawa walked far from the edge of the court, leaving his team, save for Iwaizumi, to wonder what stunt a little first-year like Oikawa could do.

"Third-years wait their entire middle school volleyball career for a chance to play on the court. It's not fair to dish out that spot to a first-year unless the first-year happens to be insanely good," your upperclassman continued. "Also, third-years tend to have far more experience with matches. You know, having been to athletics tournaments and all that."

Taking a deep breath in, Oikawa bent and tossed the ball up in the air. 

The club manager whistled. "That high? Can that first-year even re—"

Oikawa swooped low and stepped forward in rhythmic fashion. He let his shoes stabilize his footing and push him up off the ground. He jumped high into the air, and with a sharp thud, his hand connected with the volleyball like a magnet. Without a second's hesitation, the volleyball came careening to the other side of the court like that of a meteor.

The volleyball crashed into the flooring, and it dribbled away pathetically, leaving the first years on the opponent's side terrified of his power.

"Aw, man, side-out," you said, placing your hands on your hips. "Don't mind, Tooru."

Oikawa overheard your remark and placed his hands in a pleading motion. "Sorry, [Y/N]-chan!"

It seemed Oikawa had gotten antsy and too fired up. When he had served the ball, the volleyball went a smidgen out of bounds, giving the first point to his opponents. While the other team did get the point, Oikawa's serve seemed to have instilled some fear into them. It was an intense mental game.

"That was insane," the club manager said, her hand flying to cover her open mouth. "That serve of his is terrifying!"

"It would be more terrifying if it aced," you said—though you had no right to complain. You grew up around the damned sport but never tried to play seriously due to your piano. If you tried serving overhand, you risked aching your fingers—or worse, getting yelled at by your mother.

The game went on.

"Moreover, [Y/N]-chan, you seem to know some volleyball terminology." Your upperclassman patted you on the back roughly. "That's quite impressive. Well, considering you are friends with that guy with a monster serve, it's not unbelievable."

"I don't think I am going to be a volleyball club manager," you confessed, causing surprise to cross the manager's face. "I'm not good at managing schedules and—and all that. I may know some fancy words about a sport that smacks a ball around, but it's nothing in comparison to someone who can actually organize well."

The manager smiled. "Well, that's why I'm here! I can teach you. I'm here to guide you."

You started to sweat. 

After the ball was served over to Oikawa's side of the court, Iwaizumi received the ball with ease. His strong forearms were in perfect form—the exact form that he had taught you a year ago or so. He passed it directly to the front middle section of the court, where Oikawa had ran to.

Oikawa reached the ball and set it with excellent precision to Iwaizumi, who noticed Oikawa's aim.

Iwaizumi used his knees to propel himself up. His left hand was outstretched, as if it were a branch of a strongly rooted tree expanding across the sky. With satisfaction, Iwaizumi brought his right arm forward to spike the ball directly through the arms of the opposing team's middle blocker.

You clapped. Iwaizumi's teammates crowded around him and gave him a high-five. Iwaizumi noticed your clapping and gave you a small, timid wave. You waved wildly, nearly hitting your upperclassman. Quickly, you retracted your hand before she realized that you nearly smacked the living daylights out of her. Luckily, she was too entranced with Iwaizumi.

"Iwaizumi Hajime," the manager breathed out. "Now he has potential to become an ace on our team."

The coach, who was watching from across the court, scribbled a few words in his notepad. There was a smug smile on his face, and he looked at your manager knowingly. The manager nodded back, looking quite impressed with your friends.

"The first-years are incredible and will definitely make the starting lineup with their manpower and technique." The manager laughed. "You are no exception, [Y/N]-chan. You surely can become a ma—"

"But, you see," you said, "I... I'm busy. I play piano, and I play competitively, too. I have a competition next week, speaking of. As much as I'd like to be a volleyball manager"—which you really didn't—"I have other priorities."

Your upperclassman frowned. "Then what are you going to do for your extra-curricular? It seems you're already drawn to volleyball, and there aren't many options out there."

Rubbing the back of your neck, you said, "Ah, I might join the classical music club. I heard that they'll let me practice my competition songs after school. It's odd anyway for a girl who plays the piano to join a volleyball club when you think about it."

The first set had been taken by Oikawa and Iwaizumi's team.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi cheered and whooped, slapping each other on the backs like hooligans. Red excitement bloomed on Oikawa's cheeks, and Iwaizumi was flushed with exhilaration. The boys turned their head to look at you for approval. You couldn't help but smile. Their happiness was infectious, to say the least.

Your upperclassman noticed your happiness. She giggled. "You're not going to be eleven—almost twelve—forever, [Y/N]-chan. It seems you're genuinely happy here. I saw that smile. Don't frown—hey, I know that frown is fake! Stop frowning! If you're going to fake being sad, at least look convincing about it!"

"Don't talk about me being twelve when you're, what, thirteen?" you said curtly with your fake frown. You shied away from your upperclassman's gaze. "And I'm—I'm happy playing the piano."

"Sure, sure." 

The second set started with Oikawa and Iwaizumi's team already on a roll. They easily took three points with Iwaizumi's intense serve. The more the team played, the more reliable Oikawa and Iwaizumi seemed to be. Your friends worked like clockwork on the court—cogs in a machine.

You knew they practiced consistently with volleyball.

The way Oikawa moved was due to repetition. Practice made permanent. Every move of his was calculated, used, tried, and done. He worked it so well it was embedded in him like muscle memory. Iwaizumi, too. Iwaizumi didn't work as hard as Oikawa, but he still worked nonetheless. He worked with low sets and high sets, improving his versatility when it came for the final blow.

"You know," your upperclassman started, "with our first-years on the starting lineup, we may have a chance to win the Miyagi Prefecture qualifiers for the All Japan Middle School Boys' Athletics Tournament or the Miyagi Junior High Athletics Meet."

"Has Kitagawa First ever made it to the All Japan Middle School Boys' Athletics Tournament?" you asked.

The manager shook her head. 

"What about the Miyagi Junior High Athletics Meet? Do we win that?"

"No, but we do fairly well. There's just this one team that dominates all junior high athletics tournaments in the Miyagi Prefecture," the manager said with slight disgust. "They're nearly impossible to defeat. I hear they've got some monster southpaw first-year."

Your eye twitched.

"Shiratorizawa Junior High," your upperclassman spat. "Damned fancy kids. Their high school isn't too shabby either. They're well-known for their volleyball team. Even Aoba Johsai doesn't stand a chance with their high school. It's insane. Now that they've got this scary and nasty first-year, they'll be unbeatable."

This scary and nasty first-year... it wouldn't happen to be Ushijima Wakatoshi, would it?

So it seemed Wakatoshi's reputation preceded him. You had been to a few of his games, and you've overheard prestigious scouts talking about him and his potential, him and his height, him and his left-hand. It surprised you when there weren't any people talking about your childhood best friend.

Wakatoshi attracted attention on the court whether he knew it or not.

You and the manager watched Oikawa and Iwaizumi play hard. It was shocking how the morale of the Oikawa and Iwaizumi team shone in comparison to the opposing team. Oikawa carried his team well and used each of his teammates to the best of his ability. You saw the middle blockers jump high and the outsiders hit perfect line shots.

High jumps and line shots were impressive and all, but the true mastermind was the stupidly handsome brunet with a silly smile on his face whenever you looked at him. He orchestrated such a beautiful, beautiful game.

Iwaizumi kept Oikawa and the team stable. Oikawa was flamboyant and loud, but Iwaizumi was level-headed and stern. He felt a bit like a pillar to Oikawa—someone to lean on. It was his dependability that made him remarkable. Whenever Oikawa tossed to him, it seemed Iwaizumi could make the shot every goddamned time.

Your tanned friend held the team sternly. Their team was unmovable, like a grand oak tree. While Oikawa executed and dictated the sets, Iwaizumi covered the groundwork and held down the fort of the team. Whenever the ball dropped, Iwaizumi patted his team on the back and kept morale high.

When you looked at Iwaizumi, all you could think about was how ace-like he was. 

Iwaizumi was the ace that Mr. Ushijima talked about, surely! He exemplified all the qualities that Mr. Ushijima romanticized about. Iwaizumi was instrumental toward the team's success, and Oikawa trusted him blindly. 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi's victory was swift. They took the second set with ease, winning with a 16-point lead against their opponents. 

"Amazing," the manager gasped. "They're so in sync."

"They've been on the same team since elementary school," you said. 

"Are you sure you don't want to be a manager?" your upperclassman asked you. "I feel like you have to become one. You seem like a good fit, and I feel like I'm missing out on an opportunity if I don't force you into a manager uniform right this second."

You made a face. "The uniform ain't that cute."

"Yeah, that's true. I wish they would change it to something cuter," the upperclassman admitted, pulling at her jacket. "But [Y/N]-chan, uniform or not, please think about it. I think that this is right for you. I barely know you, but you just look so hap—"

"Your friends, little [Y/N]," the coach said, causing you to flinch noticeably from his sudden appearance, "are truly amazing. We are blessed to have these boys this year. They'll be on the starting lineup, that's for sure, with their skill."

"Holy—" you cut yourself off.

The coach had crept up behind you and the manager. He chuckled whole-heartedly at the sight of Oikawa and Iwaizumi celebrating. Although it was a harmless match, this was the match that decided their fate. This was the match that would put them on the starting lineup.

This match would give them the spotlight.

Sweat shone off of Oikawa and Iwaizumi's proud faces, and they gave each other a sweaty bear-hug that outmatched everyone else's victory high-fives. Their hug looked tight and compact and full of trust. They clasped at each other's shirts tightly, surely making an imprint on the fabric. 

They loved the sport they played. They excelled in it. The hours of practice paid off because they enjoyed what they did and they showed it. You saw the laughter in their eyes and the happiness in their smiles. It was so beautiful. Your curiosity was piqued, and you felt the urge to revel in whatever victory Iwaizumi and Oikawa were drunk in.

Oikawa perked up from his hug with Iwaizumi. His cheeks were flushed with joy, and his doe-brown eyes were awake. He outstretched an arm, inviting you into his embrace with a wide smile. "[Y/N]-chan! Come join our hug!"

You cringed. "No way, Sweaty-kawa! I can smell your B.O. from here!"

"Now that's just mean."

Chapter Text

Your legs didn't dangle off the sides of your front porch anymore.

It was a small thing that you noticed. When you were littler, your legs used to dangle like shiny ornaments off the front porch, and you would talk to Mr. Utsui about America and volleyball. 

A moth buzzed around a lantern that hung from the side of your house, and crickets chirped loudly. There were many bugs. Too many bugs. You had discarded your dream of being a bug hunter quite a while ago, as the more bugs you discovered, the more legs you found on them.

If a bug had more than ten legs, you were gone. 

Who needed that many legs in the first place?

Being twelve sucked. You were too young for this but too old for that. Whenever you stood for something serious, the adults brushed it off, and whenever you goofed around, those very same adults chastised you. Fuck twelve.

Adam poked his head through the doorway. "Nee-chan, dinner's ready. If you don't come now, Mom'll eat your skin for breakfast."

Your mother was a sentient being in your house. To describe your mom as a sentient being was a little on the kinder side. An entity would be more accurate. She was the morally gray higher power that granted the protagonist wisdom for the journey ahead, whether the protagonist liked it or not.

You and your mother frequently talked to Ms. Ushijima—and sometimes Ms. Ushijima's mother (in other words, Wakatoshi's grandmother) would visit. Out of shyness, you hardly talked to Wakatoshi's grandmother, but it did seem like she was vehemently against Wakatoshi's use of his left hand. It must've been a family thing.

Wakatoshi and you traded numbers with each other once he had purchased a cellphone for his dormitory days and you had purchased a cellphone for when you would go to America.

Later that night, you, your mother, and Adam sat at the dinner table for a meal.

"Why do you still insist on sitting out on the front porch like a weirdo?" Adam asked. His looks hadn't changed a bit. However, just as Oikawa and Iwaizumi in elementary school, Adam's interest in volleyball had started to pique—unfortunately. "It's like you're waiting fo—"

"The bugs talk to me sometimes," you said, picking at your food, "Adam."

"Oh, yeah?" Adam questioned sarcastically. "What are they telling you, then?"

"Mortal Kombat 2 cheat codes."

Adam snorted, taking a forkful of his dinner into his mouth. His mouth was full. "You're just mad that I beat you every time."

"And you're just mad that you're mad ugly."

Your mother drank her tea. She glanced at Adam and then you. She said nothing about the argument and instead said, "Your English is improving, [Y/N]."

Adam had eventually started speaking English inside the house alongside you and your mother. He had no intention to visit America with you, however. While you were far more adept in understanding English, Adam's field of expertise was in speaking English—which irked you to some degree.

You shouldn't have been surprised, though. Adam vigorously studied vocabulary and grammar. While English came naturally to you—and you often said things because it "sounded right"—Adam hardly remembered his American days and had to learn everything from scratch.

Flowers bloomed in your stomach from your mother's compliment. For a girl who hated authority, you certainly felt excited when your mother complimented you. It gave you a sense of accomplishment. "Thanks, Mom," you said, "Your English, on the other hand—"

"I hear the Junior High Athletics Meet is coming up," your mother interrupted, setting her cup down. She ignored your attempt at a sly jab. "Who will you be supporting?"

"Kitagawa, of course," you said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Shiratorizawa will be there," your mother replied. "Adam and I will be supporting them with Ms. Ushijima. Wakatoshi-kun is in the starting rotation. Are you in the cheer section for Kitagawa First?"

For a brief moment, you had forgotten that Wakatoshi existed in the volleyball world. You shook your head.

"I'll call your front office to excuse you from classes," your mother said. "You can watch Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Just be sure to make up your work later on."

"I don't know who I'll cheer for now," you said to your Mom. "Whose side do you think I should sit on?"

Adam sighed dramatically and placed a hand on his chest. "Oh no! I have to choose between the team that happens to have my hot childhood best friend/neighbor and another team that also happens to have my other hot childhood friends! Whatever shall I do?"

"Adam," your mother warned. 

"Sorry," he said, not particularly looking sorry enough.

"Choose whichever you think would be best," your mother said. "I have a feeling it'd be worse if you didn't attend at all. This is Wakatoshi-kun and Kitagawa's first official tournament of the season."

You frowned, playing with your hands on your lap. "That—I still don't know. I'm indecisive."

"I'm partial to Wakatoshi-kun," your mother said. "He is your childhood best friend, after all. You're neighbors with him and not Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Wakatoshi-kun's mom is very nice as well."

"Wakatoshi's mom doesn't want him to use his natural dominant hand," you said.

"[Y/N]," Mary Suzuki reprimanded. "We will not be having this conversation again. Ms. Ushijima is a very nice woman."

Adam snorted.

"Adam."

"Sorry."

Your mother sighed. "However, I will not hold it against you if you choose to sit on the Kitagawa side. It is your school, but I'm sure Wakatoshi-kun will be so disappointed."

"Maybe I'll attend but won't sit on Kitagawa or Shiratorizawa's side," you said, poking at your food, "I'll sit on the Chidoriyama side. Or Uwamushi."

"You should learn the chant," Adam said. "It'd be funny."

"I don't even know my own school's chant. What makes you think I have the time to learn another school's chant?"

"Ah, I forgot you were stupid."

"I'll hit you so hard you'll turn stupid."

Adam played with his food as if he were an infant again. "Regardless of history, I think you should sit for Kitagawa. Oikawa-san is a cool guy. I'm sure every girl in your school thinks so, too. You have the advantage because you actually talk to the boy on a daily basis."

"Lesbian erasure," you chimed. "And, for the record, you are the only person who thinks Oikawa is cool."

"It's because he's not the one who dropped me on the head as a kid."

"I never dropped you on the head," you protested. "Though if I did, it would explain your behavior and brain."

"What about your own brain?" Adam questioned. "I can't believe the hospital just sent you back broken."

"Adam," your mother said.

"Sorry."

Your mother sipped her tea placidly. "[Y/N], you should help Adam practice volleyball. You have some knowledge from when you were younger, right?"

"I'm allowed to practice with him?" you asked. Your palms were hot on your knees and the pads of your fingers buzzed with excitement. Volleyball—the sport that was treasured by the boys you knew. You would be able to hold one. You've held a volleyball before, but this time, your mother had permitted it.

In your world, your mother's permission was God.

"Well, I trust you won't injure yourself in the process," your mother said. "It'd do a number on your piano practice, and moreover, it'd be your fault, too. Of course, you won't be able to pursue the sport professionally."

You beamed. "I won't injure myself!"

"You know, little Oikawa brags about your receives frequently."

After hearing your mother say that, cold sweat dotted on your forehead and warmth flooded your cheeks.

It was an unspoken rule that you avoided any activity that would injure your fingers, volleyball included. When you were in America, you had played volleyball with your father and, as a result, jammed your finger—just as Wakatoshi had when you first met him. Back then, your mother had fretted over you and made you study music theory to make up for your lack of piano practice.

"That boy is a lot of things, but the one thing he can't do is keep a secret." Your mother shook her head, hiding a smile. "He is very adorable."

You cursed Oikawa under your breath.

He was so loud and he couldn't keep secrets. Did this guy have any redeeming features other than his face?

"An athlete's playability relies on their health," your mother said. "Without a well-maintained health, an athlete is nothing. Even a high-level athlete can become a useless toddler with a flu. Taking care of your own health is up to you."

Her words weighed like bricks and cement on your shoulders. It was up to you to take care of your fingers. If you were to hurt yourself, it would be your fault. You sucked a deep breath in.

"It is your responsibility to thank your body for keeping you alive." Your mother took a final sip of her tea. A black kettle sat on the table. She picked up this kettle and poured more tea into her cup. Setting down the kettle, she pushed your dinner plate toward you. "This includes eating, yes?"

"Say, Nee-chan," Adam said, "Oikawa-san seems like the type to be a spiker. A setter doesn't fit someone of his personality."

"Personality?" You shook your head. "Oikawa is smart—even though he doesn't look it. He's more than capable of being a setter."

Adam himself was a setter. He certainly had the intelligence and the strategic skills for a setter. Adam played for a club, too—dubbed Little Falcons. 

"How'd Oikawa-san become a setter anyway?" Adam asked. Just as your mother was about to chastise Adam for not properly eating his food, Adam cast a side glance toward your mother and hastily stuffed his face. He added a few more words that you were unable to discern due to his full mouth.

You shrugged. "People inspire people, Adam. Why are you a setter?"

Adam swallowed his food down. "'Cause Oikawa-san's one. Does that mean Oikawa-san has a role model, too?"

"Everyone has a role model," you said matter-of-factly.

"Your role model should be a well-behaved lady," your mother interjected before stacking her empty dinner plates to wash. "You could use some manners."

"No lady has ever changed history by being well-mannered," you said. 

Adam then asked, "Who's Oikawa-san's role model? Ken Watanabe? George Clooney? Leonardo DiCaprio?"

"None of those people play volleyball professionally."

"Who knows? Maybe Oikawa-san will be a hot actor in the future," Adam said to you, crossing his arms. "That's better than you'll ever be."

"You think too highly of Oikawa," you said dryly. You sat back in your seat. "I remember long ago when I was still in elementary school, there was an international tournament here in Sendai."

Adam bumped his fist into his other hand's open palm. "I remember. You went to see the match between Argentina and Japan with Oikawa-san and Iwaizumi-san."

"There's a player on that team," you said. "José Blanco. He didn't play very much during the match, but Oikawa was entranced. I remember that Oikawa wanted to get Blanco's autograph. Before the game, Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and I chipped in to buy an autograph paper, actually, but Iwaizumi already used it to get a Japanese player's autograph. Honda something."

"Handa?" Adam repeated. "Handa Kouji? He's not a car, you know."

"In the end, Oikawa used his athletic underwear for Blanco's autograph," you said, resting your chin on your hand. "Like a total weirdo. Mrs. Oikawa did end up washing it once, though. I really hope Oikawa doesn't use it."

"I wonder why Oikawa-san likes José Blanco," Adam said.

"Why don't you ask him?" you asked. "I don't remember much about the match itself. I'm not the right person to ask about this volleyball stuff."

"Of course you aren't. Volleyball's never been your thing," Adam said offhandedly. "Piano's the only thing you're good at, really."

Your stomach coiled. "I'm not even that g—"

You were cut off by your mother placing all the dirty dishes in front of you to take to the sink.

"After this," your mother said, "be sure to practice your piano. Make me proud during the competition."

"I might get second place again," you said. You had a particular running streak of continuously getting second place for the past year or so. While it wasn't fourth place or third place, it was still second to the best.

Your mother looked at you. "Don't say that."

Being twelve meant that you were old enough to wash the dishes but not old enough to be insecure. Being twelve meant that you had to find something and stick with it because it would define your entire teenage life. Being twelve meant that you were still figuring yourself out and nobody would be there to help you.

Maybe you were being dramatic about doing some dishes and playing the piano, but you were twelve years old.

Fuck twelve, you thought.

"Mine!" you called, digging the ball.

The ball went up into the air to the setter's position. Receives were hard to perfect, but you would call your receives decent. Your forearms were warm with use and bruised from constant action. However, as long as your fingers were all right, you would continue to dig Iwaizumi's spikes.

You had yet to test your receive against Wakatoshi.

Adam set the ball, and you spiked it, allowing Iwaizumi to receive your ball. Adam let out a noise of distaste and averted his gaze quickly from your glare.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi played against you and Adam in a quick game to prepare Adam for his elementary tournament coming soon. When Iwaizumi was younger, he'd practice his receives constantly along with his spikes. Spikes were his favorite, personally. He'd be patched head to toe with various bandages, making him look like a wild child.

In reality, Oikawa was the real wild child.

Iwaizumi was dependable and calm. Nevertheless, he was the last thing from calm around Oikawa. Oikawa managed to get underneath his friend's skin with a surprising amount of ease.

If Oikawa was pretty, then Iwaizumi was handsome. Iwaizumi's skin was sun-kissed, and he was rough in all the same ways Oikawa's features were gentle and delicate. Iwaizumi's hands had always been rough and calloused due to his volleyball training. Your hands were soft and delicate, but lately they too were getting rougher.

The ball bounced from Iwaizumi's forearms to your side of the court.

"Free ball!" Adam hollered.

"Got it," you said, receiving it with an overhand move. 

You, Adam, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi worked your hardest on this unofficial practice match. There was no reason to work as hard as you did. People worked hard in the craft that they loved. That was why volleyball players drank energy drinks and ate plenty of protein in their daily routine. It was why pianists played a song in the air while nervously waiting for a paper math test.

Also, the losing team had to buy the winning team a hot, hot meal.

And you hated losing.

"Toshi!" you said, seeing your friend round the corner. 

Wakatoshi carried a volleyball underneath his arm. He nodded to you, wearing his volleyball club uniform. Wakatoshi was noticeably taller, constantly growing by the second. The more he grew, the more he resembled a wall or a giant.

Of course, he was still the Toshi you knew since day one.

You couldn't even remember clearly the day you met him. It seemed as if you had known him since forever. The events of the day you had met him still circled in your mind, but you didn't remember if it was a Monday or a Friday or if you had met him on the curbside or in front of a convenience store.

This didn't change the fact that Wakatoshi was an athlete through and through. He was one of those boys you'd pass on the street and immediately know he did sports. His shoulders were broad and his hands were refined with practice. Wakatoshi's eyes were starting to look like his mother's, and his mouth was set in an impervious little frown.

It was the weekend, and he was visiting his mother and you.

He didn't stop by your neighborhood every weekend, so you looked forward to when he did. Wakatoshi frequently had volleyball conditioning on the weekends and after school.

It was greedy of you, but a small part of you wished he would spend more than just weekends with you. He was your friend, and you missed him! When you were in elementary school, you and he would spend nearly every day with each other. It was like you and he breathed the same air.

"Hello, [Y/N]," he said. "Do you want to make hayashi rice with me?"

"You're so funny, Toshi," you said.

"I did not make a joke."

Just looking at Wakatoshi brought back memories.

When you were younger, you played the piano at dawn in order to free time. Tip-toeing down your halls in your pajamas, you would venture to the window nearest to the Ushijima residence. You would peer at the concrete wall that separated you from them, and you would wonder what Wakatoshi was doing.

"Is it fun?" you asked. "Playing for a powerhouse middle school team?"

He nodded. "I've met many powerful players. My coach says that I have potential for an athletics scholarship if I keep my performance up."

Your childhood friend oozed of main character material. He had potential from the beginning, and he was only growing into a strong young man. He was Luke Skywalker, and what were you to a Jedi master? How could you defend a galaxy if you had none to defend? You wanted to destroy the Sith, the evil, Darth Vader—you wanted to be a hero, too. 

Wakatoshi came home and spent the majority of the day with his family and you. You and he made hayashi rice again, much to your chagrin and Wakatoshi's pleasure. Wakatoshi's cooking skills deteriorated due to his reliance on cafeteria food, to which you teased him relentlessly about.

Dinner felt just right with him. It was to have a lost puzzle piece click. The empty chair that you stared at during the weekdays and some weekends was filled with the tall boy that was taking Japan's volleyball world by storm.

You and he were sitting on your front porch as you watched the sun linger above the rooftops of buildings. It slowly melted, the haze of the day fading away albeit slowly.

"The Miyagi Junior High Athletics Meet is coming up," Wakatoshi said, wrinkling his straight nose when a small leaf nearly smacked him in the face. He cradled the leaf in his calloused hand.

You sighed loudly. "I'll be there."

"Whose side?"

"Maybe Chidoriyama or Sekodai"—and at the sight of Wakatoshi's slightly disappointed face, you giggled—"I'm kidding. Adam's coming, too. He'll be sitting on the Shiratorizawa side with my mom."

"But what about you?"

"What about me?"

Everything was about you, Wakatoshi thought.

The world seemed to breathe and live around you. You were the sun—you were a star. You were light. Wakatoshi looked at the setting sun glow in your bright eyes. He felt as if he could sit on the front porch with you until the end of time.

His hand curled around the leaf.

"Congratulations," you said, "Semi-san—right?"

Semi Eita was a young boy with ash blond hair that was messily parted in the middle. His hair had darker tips that matched his thin brows. He was awkwardly dressed up for the competition, looking professional as a first place winner should be. He was a little taller than you, which impressed you.

You'd seen his pictures in the music catalogues and pamphlets for the past two years, so you could easily spot him in a crowd. His picture made him look like a very mean twelve-year-old. It took you much courage to approach him for the first time.

You were not a sore loser—you just hated losing.

Semi's usual slanted eyes widened in surprise. The competition's pamphlet was hugged close to his chest as he was looking at the scoreboard.

"[Y/N] Suzuki?" he questioned before shaking his head. "You're second place, right?"

You were called a number of things, but second place really took the cake. Everyone remembered the first of things. People remembered their first car or their first house. People remembered when this was first discovered or when this was first found. But people never paid attention to when it was done a second time.

"Just for today," you said. "You know my name?"

"The same way you know mine," Semi said, raising the pamphlet. "I see you at competitions a lot. You're at nearly the same competitions as I am, and for the past year, you've been getting second place frequently, too."

"It's not a habit I intend to keep, but yes," you said.

Semi said bluntly, "you're good at the piano, Suzuki-san. Your Sonatina Op. 157 No. 4 was impressive."

"That's a funny thing coming from you, First Place," you said. 

Semi raised a brow. "We all have our weaknesses. I still need to improve my piano velocity, and you need to control your pianissimo, Second Place."

"You can tell what I do wrong?" you asked, dumbfounded.

"I like music." He shrugged. "Don't you listen to the other players while they play?"

You had never listened to anyone in your entire life, and you didn't intend to start now. It was strange how people praised one's obedience and listed it as an enviable trait on résumés and such.

Blinking, you slowly said, "you like music?"

"Well, yes," he said. "You play the piano, too."

He said if as if it was the answer to all the world's problems. You played the piano so you must like music. That would have been the ideal situation. You loved the idea of music. Music was so expressive, but you couldn't bring yourself to express. You were indifferent toward it. Nothing more, nothing less—like a Sith.

This was too much thinking for you. You wanted to go home and watch Cardcaptor Sakura. 

In all honesty, you felt more passionate about a fourth grader on roller skates with a magical flying pet than you ever did about piano.

Iwaizumi and you were watching a movie.

After much convincing, Iwaizumi relented to watching Titanic with you. It was an American movie, so you had Japanese subtitles playing at the bottom. You and he were sitting on his couch with blankets swaddling you from the cold AC. You were slumped against the couch like a sack whereas Iwaizumi kept himself wrapped tight in a ball.

His family was out for the day, and you had come over to keep him company. He wanted to play volleyball, but you wanted to watch old American movies. Judging by your current predicament, one could tell who won the argument.

Just as the movie was drawing to a close, you heard a sniffle.

Whirling your head to Iwaizumi, you gawked at his blanket hiding his face.

"Are you crying, Iwa?" you asked, sitting up from your blanket to take a closer look. The blanket fell off your head and pooled around your torso. Iwaizumi wrapped his blanket tighter around himself.

His voice was muffled. "It's allergies."

Allergies your ass.

"Iwa, are you crying?" you repeated. "It's a sad movie."

"I'm not crying," he said. "You're crying."

"No, I'm not," you said.

"Why aren't you crying?"

"I've seen the movie before, Iwa," you said, crawling close to his side of the couch. "I brought it because I thought you might like it."

Iwaizumi threw his blanket off his head, revealing the redness underneath his eyes and the growing puffiness. His nose was blushed with color, and his cheeks were wet. Iwaizumi's hands clasped the blanket around him, making him look like a small mountain on the couch. His throat bobbed.

"Does it look like I liked it?" he questioned.

You stared at his face. "You look very moved. You liked it. I can tell."

Iwaizumi turned around and forced the blanket over his head like a pathetic child.

"Oh, Iwa," you said, wrapping your arms around his blanketed self. "When I first watched Titanic, I cried, too."

His voice was soft. "I don't want you to see me cry."

"It's okay to cry," you said, comforting Iwaizumi. You ran your hand down his back soothingly. "Oikawa might make fun of you for crying during Godzilla movies, but I won't. I cry all the time. I'm really glad that you were moved. It makes me happy that you liked my movie choice."

Iwaizumi's head shifted underneath the blanket. "Really?"

"Really," you assured. "Next time, you can choose the movie."

"Even if it's Godzilla?"

"Even if it's Godzilla," you said.

Iwaizumi sniffled underneath the blanket again. For a tough-looking boy, Iwaizumi being cute for a millisecond was rare. You and he sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes as you patted his back, letting him cry over Jack and Rose from the hit American movie Titanic. 

"Do you want to hear a cool fact that I saw in an aquarium pamphlet? Maybe it'll cheer you up," you said. "There's a fish that's dubbed as a pale chub. It's also named zacco platypus."

"And?"

"It's also named Oikawa," you said. "Isn't that funny? Oikawa's a pale chub."

Iwaizumi let out a laugh. 

Your friend was very calm, even when he was crying. Things never really changed when it came to Iwaizumi. He had the same unruly dark hair from when he was a kid, and the same sharp brows. Iwaizumi carried the same brownish-green eyes that made him look intimidating at times.

He was very warm underneath that blanket of his.

Iwaizumi's voice was cracking. "There was definitely room on that escape boat."

Chapter Text

"Good morning," you mumbled, rubbing your eye tiredly.

"'Morning," Iwaizumi greeted.

Since you lived some ways away, you commuted to Kitagawa First by train. Iwaizumi had been waiting for you at your stop with his usual messy uniform. His school bag was lazily slung over his shoulder, and he held a plastic bag from early morning convenience store shopping while waiting for you.

Iwaizumi could have easily slept in and walked to school from his house, but today he had chosen to pick you up from your train station stop early and walk together with you.

The hot summer heat beat down through your thin uniform. The air was clammy and compact, and you fanned yourself with your open hand. Autumn would come sooner or later, and you wished for the brisk fall weather that was perfect to play around with. For now, you'd have to deal with the uncomfortable warmth.

"Are you skipping volleyball today?" you asked Iwaizumi.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm planning on getting sick later today. What about your classical music club? Isn't your competition this upcoming weekend?"

"I'm sure Mr. Club President won't mind me skipping out on club activities for one day," you said.

You ended up not becoming the volleyball club's manager. When push came to shove, your piano studies took priority over spending time with your friends. After all, not becoming the volleyball club manager didn't mean you would never see Iwaizumi or Oikawa again. Oikawa was in your homeroom, and you ate lunch with Iwaizumi and Oikawa nearly every day.

Of course, the conversation of the volleyball club manager came up frequently. Since the current manager took such a liking to you, you were invited to join the club whenever you wished. Oikawa constantly pestered you about it, but Iwaizumi was content if you showed up to their official matches.

"What song are you playing?" 

"For prelims?" You adjusted your bag strap. The folder that held the music sheet weighed heavy in your school bag. "It's a Chopin piece."

"Sounds fancy," Iwaizumi retorted. "Is he French?"

"I think he's Polish."

Trekking through various neighborhoods, you noticed the local park that Iwaizumi and you used to play in with Oikawa. Iwaizumi would take you to see the freaky bugs, and Oikawa would chatter about aliens and whatnot. Eventually, when they had joined their elementary volleyball team, the park visits became more scarce.

However, since you had their home phone numbers, you managed to stay connected with them and occasionally even met up at the park instead of coincidentally seeing each other.

Sometimes, when you came alone to the park without your family members, you would pass and bump volleyballs with Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Your forearms would grow slightly sore, warm with continued use. Oikawa had once told you that if you ever decided to play competitively, you'd be an intimidating enemy with your receives.

Just as you were about to enter school grounds with Iwaizumi, a hand grabbed the back of your uniform collar. You toppled backward, your arms waving wildly in order to regain your balance.

You clung onto Iwaizumi like a barnacle on the hull of a sea ship to prevent yourself from falling.

"Aw, [Y/N]-chan!" Oikawa said. "I was trying to surprise you!"

"Are you sure you weren't trying to kill me?" you dryly asked as Iwaizumi helped you steadily on your feet. "I saw my life flash before my eyes."

"Was I in it?"

"Of course."

A smug smile crossed Oikawa's lips, and his brown eyes were round with cheer. Unlike Iwaizumi, Oikawa kept his appearance tidy. His tie was tightened, and he actually wore the vest of the uniform. He looked preppy, out of all things. He opened his mouth to say something.

Iwaizumi stared at Oikawa before taking you by the collar of your uniform and dragging you with him through the school gates before Oikawa could say anything more.

The brunet's jaw fell open. "Are you just going to leave me?"

"Yes," Iwaiziumi said with little hesitation.

Oikawa scrambled to keep up with Iwaizumi's persistent footsteps. You were being pitifully dragged and had given up on walking entirely. Iwaizumi was very strong. A few students watched on—some at Oikawa's unfairly pretty looks, and others at  Iwaizumi dragging a whole body (yours) as if it were a corpse.

You, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi were a strange trio. You had gotten your arm half-way stuck in the vending machine on your first day of school, Oikawa once received seven confessions in one day, and Iwaizumi won an arm-wrestling match with a particularly strong basketball player.

Iwaizumi stopped at the shoe lockers, setting you free. 

"Um, hello?" Oikawa questioned.

You blinked. "Hello."

"What day is it today?" Oikawa asked.

"Thursday," you replied cheerfully. "It does feel like a Friday, though, doesn't it?"

Oikawa looked miffed.

Opening your shoe locker, you laughed at Oikawa's face. Iwaizumi's locker was the one next to the locker above yours. Oikawa's was conveniently right next to yours. It was strange how closely placed your lockers were together—it was almost as if this placement was due to convenience and laziness.

Oikawa opened his respective shoe locker. Massive amounts of pink and red letters were piled in his locker. You doubled back in surprise, watching various chocolates and notes spill comedically to the ground.

"I thought that only happened in shows," Iwaizumi said. "Jesus Christ."

"Aw, Iwa-chan, are you jealous that no girls confess to you? Well, it looks like today is a special day," Oikawa said, gathering the love notes that had spilled from his locker, "for me, at least!"

"Congrats," you said. "What gender is the baby?"

Iwaiziumi made a face.

As you and Iwaizumi finished closing up the lockers, Iwaizumi gave you a small high-five in accomplishment and nodded to Oikawa before departing for his homeroom. You stayed behind with Oikawa, waiting for him to clean up his mess. You and Oikawa had the same homeroom, anyway.

"I really do think Iwa-chan is just jealous that he gets no love letters," Oikawa said flippantly. "It's because he scares all the girls off with his scary face. He'd be so handsome if he knew all his good angles." 

You snorted. "Do you know your good angles?"

"Every angle is a good angle when it comes to me!" Oikawa gave you a thumbs-up. The number of letters and candy he had received made it look like today was Valentine's Day. "I usually don't get this many letters in my shoe locker. Isn't it a little weird, [Y/N]-chan?"

"I guess so, Mr. Popular." You waved your hand to a friend who was passing by and looked at the analog clock that hung on the wall. "If you don't hurry up soon, we'll be late to class. I hate being late."

"For a girl whose one personality trait is constitutional anarchy, it's strange that you don't like being tardy."

You quickly buried your face in your hands. "But it's so embarrassing when you walk into class and everybody's looking at you like you killed their aunt or something."

"You really are still a young girl at heart!"

"I'm a cool, freaky alien-bug mutation at heart, and you know it."

The school day dragged on as per usual.

You sat at the front of the classroom while Oikawa sat at the back, so there was little interaction between you and him. During your breaks, you'd take a quick nap as girls would talk to your friend nervously. You could feel Oikawa's pointed gaze piercing your back as if he was expecting something.

Oikawa was an exceptional kid. He was very smart and maintained good grades. Additionally, he was noticeably athletic. The volleyball coach talked about Oikawa's hard work frequently. To top it all off, Oikawa was pretty. He had this pretty-boy-privilege that let him wink and wave at girls without consequence.

He had a certain presence about him that was loud. Yes, that was the perfect word to describe him! Oikawa Tooru was loud.

Everything about him was loud. With his light brown hair swept to the side and perfectly-lidded eyes, Oikawa made himself known wherever he went. The various girls that seemed to trail after him like birds to breadcrumbs was a major factor, too.

During lunch, Iwaizumi came into your classroom. He held his food in one hand and sat across from you. Oikawa came over to your desk as well and politely asked the girl who sat next to you for her seat, to which Iwaizumi replied with a snide remark about hitting Oikawa over the head.

Iwaizumi opened his lunch. "You're more annoying than usual today, Shitty-kawa."

"This month is special." Oikawa pointed out eagerly, "It's July, and many important things happen in the month of July."

"In America, I remember celebrating the 4th of July," you said, eating your food. "It was a big show with a bunch of fireworks and guns."

"Independence day, right?" Iwaizumi asked.

"Independence my ass," you muttered.

Oikawa shook his head. "That's not what I mean. Aren't you guys forgetting another important day that happens in July?"

You placed a fist in your open palm. "Godzilla Day!"

"That's November 3rd," Iwaizumi said, ruffling your head—nearly causing you to throw up the food that you were trying to chew. "Nice try, [Y/N]. Stick to Star Wars."

Oikawa furrowed his brows. His voice was softer, and he picked at his food lightly.  "Did you guys really forget?"

"World UFO Day," Iwaizumi said, releasing his hold on your head. "I remember you and [Y/N] bugging me about it. Then we stayed up all night looking for UFOs—which, by the way, do not exist."

Your mouth was full of food. "The government is likely hiding evidence of aliens alongside basic human rights."

"Aliens do exist, Iwa-chan!" Oikawa exclaimed, his voice returning to its usual loudness and waving his hand dismissively. "I don't understand why you're such a nonbeliever in the obvious. When aliens finally kidnap you, don't come crawling to me or [Y/N]-chan."

"If anything, you're the alien that's kidnapping me, Creepy-kawa," Iwaizumi said. "I'll punch you."

Lunch soon ended, and Iwaizumi left the classroom.

Oikawa returned to his seat in the back of the classroom, and a few girls picked up conversation with him. You sleepily rubbed your eye and yawned. A girl asked you if you had done the English homework, and you had—so you let her copy off of yours.

You thought about America. Now, America was a constant controversial topic and country. For a first-world country, it certainly had quite a few third-world country qualities from what you've studied. It had been a while since you were there, but you could still feel its impact.

Remembering the hot summers and the melting artificial-flavored popsicles in colors of red, white, and blue, you wondered if America was in the same shape as you had left it.

Since your father would be housing you for your summer, winter, and spring breaks, you wondered what he was like, too. There was no chance that he spoke Japanese, so you had to utilize your English more often. You were more than nervous for your return to America.

Nearly your entire personality was based off of the fact that you were born in America.

You called an American in Japan, so what would you be called in America?

Supreme Darkness Awesome Overlord [Y/N] Suzuki, probably.

For the rest of the day, Oikawa looked at you expectantly from afar. Your eye twitched whenever he began to pester you during your breaks. He'd ask what you were reaching for in your school bag and what you were doing every time you moved or breathed.

When walking down the halls, a couple of boys and a few of his volleyball teammates would clap Oikawa on the back. Oikawa would laugh and smile in return—but never genuine laughs and smiles, though. His eyes weren't as bright as his perfect mouth.

"Say, [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa said during a break, prodding at your side, "do you have plans coming up?"

You glanced at a few nervous first-year girls behind Oikawa, who were waiting to talk to him, and replied, "No. Why?"

"Oh. Just wondering."

The school day ended, and Oikawa went to volleyball club—though he did seem to linger around you, seemingly waiting. His reluctance to leave caused you to wave him a final goodbye at least ten times. Whenever you thought he had already gone to the club, he was suddenly behind you, pestering you about a crumb on the edge of your mouth or how your brows were uneven.

Eventually, Oikawa did leave, but his lasting presence left you on edge. You left the school, intentionally taking a path that you knew your club president wouldn't find you on. You were skipping club activities for a reason. This reason could either be as important as a birthday party or as trivial as staging yet another coup.

Consequences were no match for cool ideas!

You met up with Iwaizumi, who wore a mask over the bottom half of his face. Iwaizumi was waiting by the school gates, his leg propped up on the wall. When he saw you, he gave an exaggerated cough.

"Very convincing," you said.

"What a terrible thing to say to a sick man," Iwaizumi commented, kicking himself off the wall to walk side by side with you. He pulled his mask off and tucked the cloth beneath his chin. "Did Shitty-kawa annoy you today?"

"He was a little persistent, that's all," you said. "I can't blame him."

Iwaizumi let out a sigh. "I don't understand how girls squeal over him. He's a real crappy guy."

"Oh, Iwa, you're so harsh on him, and for what?"

"You're only saying that because he agrees with your ridiculous theories about aliens actually existing," Iwaizumi said, pulling a clementine from his pocket. "Trashy-kawa isn't that bad, though."

"Am I supposed to believe that we're the only living, breathing creatures in this entire universe?" you asked. "There's got to be more than just Earth, Iwa. I've never believed in something more."

Iwaizumi dug his thumbnail into the skin of the clementine, neatly peeling it off. "You should believe in other things, like the gods or that math test we've got coming up."

"Our what test."

Your friend ruffled his hand on your head, causing you to yelp.

Perhaps this habit of his had to do with his height. While he was still shorter than Oikawa, Iwaizumi was more toned and muscled. He must have liked being taller than you. Iwaizumi's hand had always been rough and calloused due to training. A citrusy scent came from the palms and the pads of his fingertips.

"Your hands smell like oranges," you complained.

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped in his tracks, nearly causing you to stumble backward—as his hand was still on your head. "I forgot to buy candy."

"I can do it," you said as Iwaizumi took his hand off your head after a final ruffle. "You can head home, and I'll pick up candy from the convenience store. It'll save time."

Iwaizumi peeled the rest of his clementine and threw the skin in a nearby trashcan. He halved the clementine, saving a part for himself and offering you the other half. You accepted it. Iwaizumi said, "Well, we do have two hours. We can just go together to pick up the candy."

You munched on a clementine slice. "I can do it. I'll be in your neighborhood in like, an hour. I'm quick."

Eventually, Iwaizumi relented.

He gave you a small fist bump before parting ways with you albeit reluctantly. He walked down the street that led to his neighborhood while you took the street that led to a small pocket filled with convenience stores, ramen bars, and other vendors.

The sun was beginning to touch the rooftops of the buildings faraway, indicating its upcoming descent. The shadows of the buildings were painted over the cracked sidewalks of Japan in thick, dark strokes. There were hardly any people on the streets; those who did walk past you were either the elderly or working class men out for a smoke.

Birds rested on the landlines, chirping final goodbyes before flocking away. They flew over your head, their wings spread wide and resembling small lapping waves on the beach. You wondered what it would be like to fly.

Did the birds ever think about the ground?

What a silly question, you thought to yourself. Birds are government drones. 

You slowly ate away at the clementine that Iwaizumi had given you as you walked.

Even with your budding friendship with Oikawa and Iwaizumi finally coming into its peak, you kept in touch with Wakatoshi. He and you texted frequently—though your texts were far more friendly than Wakatoshi's single sentence texts with a period at the end.

Wakatoshi talked about the students that attended frequently. Shiratorizawa was an excellent fit for Wakatoshi, and the more you spent your days at Kitagawa First, the more you realized that Shiratorizawa wasn't ideal for you. Shiratorizawa was prestigious—it held geniuses and prodigies!—and you were anything but. 

Parting with Wakatoshi was admittedly dramatic, and you were embarrassed to think about it now. You and he were only going to different middle schools, so why the waterworks? However, to Wakatoshi, it was far more than going to different middle schools. His father, Mr. Utsui, was leaving him, and you were following.

Communicating over cellphone was different from what you were used to, though.

You missed Wakatoshi.

You entered the convenience store.

Picking up the candy that Iwaizumi had uncharacteristically forgotten to purchase, you moved past the food section. The convenient stores were indeed very convenient, as they had anything the little child in you wanted. When you were younger, you would frequent convenient stores like this with Oikawa and Iwaizumi and eat snacks after a whole day of playing in the park.

Your stomach growled. You had never wanted to consume a convenience store sandwich more than now.

The child in you became slowly captivated with the magic inside the convenience store. The bubbles over there looked as appealing as the milk pudding over there. You wanted this, and you wanted that. You could always use a new pen, but you could also always use another umbrella to bother Adam with. Of course, this all required one thing—money.

Money was a silly concept designed to showcase wealth.

You missed the days where you could buy twelve eggs in exchange for a chicken and a barrel of hay.

The local TV played behind the cash register where the cashier stood as stiff as a stick. The TV showcased the weather for the night, and then the channel switched to sports. Baseball was being featured.

There was a bigger world out there than volleyball, but to boys like Wakatoshi, their world was volleyball.

Would their world ever expand to new horizons? Would they ever learn to love something more than a 4000 yen ball? All the questions were would they this and would they that—and that was because you had no idea what it was like to hold something so close to your heart in the first place.

Now, the real question was if they were willing to overthrow the fucking government or what?

"Bubbles and candy," the cashier said, ringing your items up, "will that be all?"

"Yes," you said, pulling out your wallet.

You left the convenience store with a plastic bag in hand.

For some time, you had meant to find a reusable bag. Changing the world could start with insignificant change such as attempting to reuse as many materials as necessary. Of course, large corporations that caused mass light pollution ought to pull their weight as well.

The day had turned cooler in comparison to its blazing morning. You shuddered in your thin uniform.

Your cellphone in your breast pocket rang a familiar tune. You picked up your phone, flipping it open and answering the call without checking the caller ID.

"[Y/N]," Iwaizumi's voice came from the other side of the phone.

"Oh, Iwa," you said. "What's up?"

"Apparently, Oikawa wasn't feeling well and didn't show up to volleyball practice, so Coach called his mom, saying that he was coming home early," Iwaizumi said.

Your heartbeat quickened. "Shit, am I lat—"

"No, you're not late. That's not the problem. That's the complete opposite of the problem," Iwaizumi said, and you heard something crash on his side of the phone. "Oikawa should have been home by now."

You needed your ears cleaned. "Huh?"

"He's missing," Iwaizumi explained, his voice teetering on the edge of worry and annoyance, "or he's taking his sweet time walking home. Did you bump into him on your way to the convenience store?"

"No," you said. "I didn't see him at all."

"That's it, I'm goi—Mrs. Oikawa, I'm fine, I can go—no, [Y/N] is unharmed. She's at the conveni—okay, Mrs. Oikawa," Iwaizumi said, seemingly having two conversations at once. "I want to go and look for Oikawa, but Mrs. Oikawa insists I stay home for my safety."

"That's very smart of Mrs. Oikawa," you complimented.

Iwaizumi said, "Would you happen to know where Oikawa is? We're kind of worried."

"I can look around this side of the prefecture really quick," you offered.

"No, it's safer if you come home with us. Mrs. Oikawa can look for her son," Iwaizumi reasoned. "Oikawa isn't the type to run away from home, you know. She'll be able to find him."

"I'm already out, so I might as well look."

"[Y/N], you don't even live here."

You bit your lip. "I can check the park. I know where the park is. Then I promise, promise, promise I'll go to your place afterward."

Iwaizumi was quiet for some time. "Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise."

"Fine. But if anything weird happens, don't hesitate to call me."

You hung up the call, putting your phone back into your breast pocket. Iwaizumi was right—it would be safer if you were to come home and wait for Mrs. Oikawa to find your friend. Fortunately, Iwaizumi acknowledged that you didn't need his permission to fuck around. He respected you and your hustle.

His concern was warranted, though.

Gripping your plastic bag, you jogged toward the park underneath the setting sun. You skidded down the streets, your shoes rhythmically thudding against the concrete of the sidewalk. You flew past the elderly who were admiring the sunset that seeped warm colors throughout the sky and the smoking men who wanted nothing more than a break.

The first time you had visited the park, you had been brimming with excitement. You wanted to catch bugs. You wanted to be cool. You wanted to have fun. Now, you were anxious. You wanted to see Oikawa. You wanted to see Oikawa. You wanted to see Oikawa and beat the shit out of him for scaring Iwaizumi and his mother.

Oikawa was insane.

Why did he not come home? Your mind ran faster than your pumping legs. You told yourself to breathe while you ran; athleticism wasn't your strong suit. Small stings and tingles ran up your thighs with every step, and your feet were numb with cold.

Did something happen at school? Oikawa wasn't bullied—if anything, he was the bully.

Or did you and Iwaizumi go too far today?

Whatever the reason was, you'd find Oikawa. 

You arrived at the park.

The infrastructure was untouched by kids at this time. It seemed the park equipment had fought the tests of time. While it had started to rust over the years, it still stood. The last of the sun's rays disappeared behind the buildings, engulfing the sky with a brilliant hue of dark blue.

A full moon hung from the sky, its moonlight showing you that Oikawa was nowhere to be found at the park. You scoured the park's infrastructure, looking for your friend with long gangly limbs and a pretty face.

You had promised Iwaizumi that you'd be home after you checked the park, but there was a sense of responsibility seeded in you that begged for you not to leave until you had found Oikawa. You'd spend your precious time for Oikawa because he was worth it, because he was your friend.

The wind brushed over the greenery next to the park, rustling the leaves of the trees.

It wouldn't hurt if you were to check the forest. Scratch that—it might actually hurt a lot. Forests at night were scary, and it was sort of a rule of thumb never to go into the woods at night. You knew these woods, however, like the back of your own hand. You had spent countless days here with Iwaizumi and Oikawa, hunting for bugs.

And technically speaking, the park did encompass the infrastructure and the forest.

Was it just you or did the woods look infinitely scarier at night? Small slim cuts of darkness wove in and out of the trees, and various animals sung a haunting rhythmic melody. A shudder ran up your spine, and your stomach swirled with uncertainty.

You were a dumb, stupid kid about to do a dumb, stupid kid thing, and there was nobody who was going to stop you.

Breathing your fears in, you traversed into the greenery with nothing but your plastic bag in hand and your school bag that hung lazily over your shoulder. You walked over logs and moss, and you stepped on sticks until you could hear a good crack. The louder you were, the more animals and bugs that knew of your presence.

This was your playhouse, and every demon, murderer, and bug in these woods was just living in it.

Moonlight from the moon was growing scarce, as the branches and leaves of the trees were starting to cover it. Fractions of light swayed here and there on the ground, fickle. You had wished you purchased a flashlight from the convenience store when you had been there. You didn't even know if you owned a flashlight at all.

The more you trekked into the forest, the more uncertain you were of the terrain. Uncertain or not, you kept pushing forward. You were fucking your way into this mess, and you were going to fuck your way out, if need be.

You walked over logs and around trees, and you took steady deep breaths in—the same way Luke Skywalker took breaths in when he was on the Death Star. As much as you wanted to turn around and go home, you knew that turning back and running away wouldn't help find Oikawa. You needed to press on.

Heroes didn't turn around when things got dark. It was a sensible thing to do, but sensible wasn't a very common trait in many heroes. You swallowed the stone in your throat and your heart beat loud in your ears.

Just beyond the edge of the forest was a strange expanse of navy blue—the sky, you quickly realized, it's beautiful.

It was a clearing.

All your life, you had no idea that there was a clearing beyond the forest you knew. If you had turned around a few minutes ago, you wouldn't have been able to see such a new thing.

You stumbled over fallen twigs and brushed past the tree's branches that gave you shallow cuts on the sides of your arms for days. You pushed and pushed and pushed despite how difficult it was. In order to make it to the clearing, you needed to go through the forest that you loved as a kid.

Curiosity burned inside you.

You broke through the forest, your breaths louder than the crickets.

Right where the clearing laid was a grassy, soft hill underneath the beautiful dark sky. The creeks in the forest all filtered into a small river that looped around the hill. The fresh water gurgled and warbled over small stones with floating specks of dirt and moss.

A boy was sitting at the top of the hill, his knees tucked underneath his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. His brown hair tickled the collar of the back of his shirt as his face was tilted up toward the sky, admiring the moon that night. The white moon seemed so large for a chunk of rock that was hundreds of thousands of miles away.

You walked up the hill softly, careful not to break the boy's trance. You knew the boy noticed you, but he didn't say anything as you sat down next to him, tucking your own knees under your chin and putting your plastic bag to the side.

"Did you really forget?" Oikawa asked.

"No."

The moonlight paled Oikawa's fair skin, making him look like he was made out of porcelain. His eyes closed, and his long lashes dusted the tops of his cheeks.

"God," he said, "I feel so stupid."

Useless words formed in your throat. You swallowed them down.

"I had this whole lengthy speech about how you and Iwa-chan were the worst best friends ever," Oikawa said, laughing dryly. "And how you two lead me to believe this entire day that you had forgotten about my goddamned birthday."

Today was Oikawa Tooru's birthday.

Iwaizumi and you had planned on feigning obliviousness throughout the day, only to surprise Oikawa with a birthday party when he came home. This plan backfired.

You stayed quiet, feeling the long grass brush against your calves.

Oikawa opened his eyes. "After I would say my speech to you and Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan would start to cry, and you—you would beg for my forgiveness. Of course, I wouldn't forgive you or Iwa-chan for making me sad during my birthday."

You couldn't help it—you giggled. "That's a little unrealistic, don't you think, Tooru?"

When you had said his first name, his heart skittered.

"Is it because Iwa-chan cries in my unrealistic daydream?" Oikawa asked.

You cracked a smile, telling him that it was a surprise.

Oikawa was constantly shifting and evolving. He looked gentle at times, especially with his pretty features that one didn't typically see on men, and despite his dramatics, Oikawa was the furthest thing from dense.

"You're here because my mom is worried, aren't you?" he asked.

His eyes flitted to yours, and you said nothing.

"Some part of me knew that you and Iwa-chan would never carelessly go around and break my heart for fun," Oikawa said. "But when I was at practice, Coach noticed my decline in performance. It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, and I ended up leaving practice early."

You said, "Iwa and Mrs. Oikawa are waiting for us at home, and we're going to celebrate your birthday. We're going to celebrate your birthday so hard that it'll make up for how shitty Iwa and I were today. So let's go home, Tooru."

When you said it like that, it made Oikawa want to go home. 

"Let's stay," Oikawa said instead. "I kind of want to spend the rest of my birthday looking at the stars."

"There are no stars," you said, "because of pollution."

"Ah, you're such a mood-killer, [Y/N]-chan!" Oikawa complained, flopping his body down on the grass. "If there are no stars, then we can wait for aliens. And if no aliens decide to descend on my birthday to claim me as their alien king, then we can look at the moon."

You flopped down on the grass next to him, and the coarse feel of the plants tickled your ears and every exposed bit of skin you had. It was a bit scratchy, a bit uncomfortable, and a bit of everything you hated, but for Oikawa's birthday, you'd do it.

With moonlight dusted over his soft, brown eyes and the stars barely visible in the sky, you had your heart set on watching Oikawa Tooru grow. Where there had been flickering uncertainties and dying stars, there were constellations and galaxies and universes. It was in the air that you and he breathed.

Oikawa Tooru was loud and angry. But now he was quiet. He listened to your breathing on this very night as you laid right next to him. He listened to you every day, really. He hung onto every word you said when you talked about Star Wars and those damned bugs.

"One of these days, [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa said, "I'm going to set the moon."

He held his pale, fine hands—his hands that would undoubtedly be good for the piano—up toward the sky. He cupped the roundness of the moon and gently flexed his fingers upward—a setting motion. His perfect cupid's bow lips pulled into a gentle, quiet smile.

"You'll be there to see it, right?" he asked. "You'll be with me?"

"Of course," you said. "Happy birthday, Tooru."

Chapter Text

Annihilated.

That was what Kitagawa First was.

Shiratorizawa Junior High Academy won the Miyagi Junior High Athletics Meet.

Second place wasn't too shabby—you were accustomed to second place, after all—but it was obvious Oikawa desired more. He sat on the court, volleyball between his knees, as Shiratorizawa celebrated. Iwaizumi patted Oikawa on the back wordlessly before returning to the Kitagawa team that was huddled near a bench.

You were conflicted.

You had a sense of duty when it came to Kitagawa First. Nationalistic, almost. You belonged to Kitagawa—you were a student. It was natural to feel heavy disappointment when your team came in second, but it was even more heartbreaking to see one of your closest friends sitting on the court, silent.

Oikawa was thinking. He was always thinking, really. You would never know what went on inside his head. His eyes were focused on the volleyball in front of him. Oikawa needed someone's support—anyone's support.

However, Shiratorizawa housed your best friend since childhood: Ushijima Wakatoshi the giant.

You hardly knew anything about the school other than its powerhouse school reputation. It seemed that they were familiar with winning. Shiratorizawa was the textbook definition of victory. They were flying to victory, and with Wakatoshi on their team, they'd achieve greater heights.

A congratulations was due on your part toward Wakatoshi. He deserved a good pat on the back and praise. He had been your childhood best friend since God knew when. You watched him bloom into the player he was today, and there was no doubt that he'd keep growing and growing.

It would be significantly worse if you didn't do anything at all.

This was their first tournament of the season. It had some sentimental value to it! If you, their so-called best friend, didn't say a single word to either of them out of neutrality—you couldn't call yourself a best friend.

Somehow, this was more difficult than choosing which team you'd cheer for.

In the end, you had sat on the Kitagawa First side since you were a student of that school. You sat with your friends on the cheer squad, unsure if you should have been glad that Shiratorizawa did a three-point service ace during a certain set or crestfallen when Wakatoshi's spike cut through Kitagawa's middle blockers.

You walked on to the court to where Oikawa was.

"Hey," you said, looking down at the sitting Oikawa. "Let's go."

"I'm thinking," he mumbled.

"You can think during the ceremony," you said, squatting down to meet his eye level. Oikawa averted your gaze. Your brow twitched. You opened your mouth.

Oikawa said, "I know what you're going to say. You're going to say what everyone else says—I still have two more years because I'm a first-year, and I should try harder next time."

Sometimes Oikawa's intelligence jarred you.

"I'm glad you acknowledge it," you said, patting his back. His back was warm, and his jersey was soaked with sweat. "Come on, your teammates are waiting for you. It's time for the ceremony."

There was a crease between Oikawa's brows. He only curled up tighter. "People like them are born lucky, really. They're all so lucky—the lot of them."

Oikawa Tooru was not lucky. 

"Normies like us can't compete, huh, [Y/N]-chan?" Oikawa's voice was low and less frivolous than his usual tone. "Normal people like us can't—we can't do anything."

Sure you can, Oikawa, you wanted to say, you can do anything, Oikawa!

Words always failed you when you needed them the most. You weren't the best at cheering people up, and your Japanese would intermingle with English at times. Your words could never break through the barrier you called your throat. How did people know when to say this and when to say that? They say the perfect words at the perfect times, and you were jealous.

"But we—you can try," you said weakly.

"I can try?" Oikawa repeated. His tone dripped with satire. "Oh, sure, yeah, I can try! I can try all right. I can try and try and try, but what are my skills to that giant southpaw on the other side of the court? And, hell, what did Yoda say? 'Do or do not. There is no try.'"

You could feel the stress in Oikawa's back. There were plenty of knots and coiled stress and insecurities. No matter how smug and flamboyant Oikawa tried to act, you—and Iwaizumi—could see right through him. "I think you're misinterpreting the quote, Mr. Sarcastic. What Yoda's trying to tell you—"

"Fuck Yoda, [Y/N]-chan!" Oikawa spat. "He's an ugly-ass wrinkly green bean. What does he have to sa—"

"What he's trying to say is that if you're going to do something, at least see it through to the very end," you said, annoyed at Oikawa's attitude. "Think about the ball. Think about when you're serving. If you're going to hit it, hit it until it breaks."

Oikawa paused for a second. 

He mulled over your words for a second—long enough for your cheeks to burn and feel insecure about what you said.

Not only that, but you and he were still in the middle of the court. The Kitagawa First team were filing out of the gym while Shiratorizawa had yet to notice you and Oikawa on the floor.

"You're right," Oikawa said, "surprisingly."

"Surprisingly?" you exclaimed. "I'm always right."

"I'm going to see this through." Oikawa's voice hardened. He stood up from where he was, picking up his volleyball under one hand. "I'll do something about it. I'll—I'll fight those who were born lucky. I am not lucky, but I'll work hard. I'll grow and try my very best—and, just as you said, I'll see it through 'til the very end."

You patted his back, not minding the sweat anymore on his jersey. "That's the spirit, Tooru!"

Oikawa's muscles tensed and soon melted in relief when you said his name. 

Wakatoshi was with his teammates on the other side of the court. His sharp eyes searched the crowd in the stands—many of which were already making their way to the ceremonial hall. His teammates were congratulating him roughly, rubbing his shoulders and laughing like hooligans, but Wakatoshi's stoic face remained.

He nodded his head out of politeness to everyone who congratulated and even said a few kind words in return; however, his mind seemed elsewhere. Wakatoshi wobbled around like a ditzy, tall statue.

Ushering Oikawa out of the gym to catch up with the rest of the Kitagawa First team, Wakatoshi caught sight of you.

You stopped, looking over at Wakatoshi's stern gaze. Your childhood best friend scrutinized you. His olive eyes stared at the hand that was comfortably placed on your friend's back, and then he noticed at the flush of pink on Oikawa's face—which you assumed was from the hard game Oikawa had just played with Wakatoshi's team.

Oikawa frowned, confused as to why you had stopped.

"Congratulations, Toshi," you said to Wakatoshi. "I'm really proud of you."

"Thank you," Wakatoshi said, "[Y/N]."

You ignored Oikawa's complaints of 'what was that about?' and 'how do you know that bastard?' as you piloted Oikawa out of the gym to stretch out his tense muscles. His voice seemed to rise higher with every other question, and you only patted him roughly on the back in retaliation.

Wakatoshi watched you and your friend leave the gym. His mood had significantly dampened, and it showed on his face. His teammates slowly etched away from him.

"Wakatoshi-kun," one of his teammates said, bringing Wakatoshi's attention to him. "We won, didn't we?"

The giant stared at him. "Yes, we did. Did you not look at the scoreboard?"

His teammate sighed. "Never mind."

Despite winning to Kitagawa First, Ushijima Wakatoshi felt as if he was losing.

It was summer break, and you were in America for the first time in seven years.

The moment you had stepped off the plane, you had almost forgotten how to speak English. Everything was wordy and loud and mouthy—you, to be frank, wanted to go home. You wanted to go to Japan.

Japan had cool convenient stores and stressful work environments. In fact, work was so taxing in Japan that they even dubbed death by overwork as a legitimate issue. If you were going to die, you were going to die as a witch burned at the stake. You would have it no other way. Only bad bitches were burned at the stake.

A family of four walked past you, speaking Japanese. The familiarity of the language gave you some sense of relief. 

"Tetsurou," the father said to his son in Japanese, "stay by me."

You found your adoptive father, named Charles [L/N], standing awkwardly by the gate.

He was a tall man with light red curls and a tuft of a beard to match. There was a bit of graying here and there, but it didn't affect the noticeable angularity of his features. His shoulders were broad, and his legs were lanky. Your father noticed you almost immediately and beckoned you over.

Your father looked like he wanted to say something. His features were twisted with uncertainty, and he opened his mouth.

"I can speak English," you reassured him quickly. 

"I missed you," he said.

Whatever you were expecting, it wasn't that. Heat ran up to your cheeks. You were still, and your luggage almost slipped out of your hand. You almost started to blabber incoherent nonsense that was neither English nor Japanese.

This was your father. This was the man who once played volleyball with you, and you had jammed your finger as a consequence. This was the man who gave you a Star Wars DVD from Blockbusters. This was the man who bought you your first disposable camera.

"Is Mary still up to that piano stuff?" your father asked. His American accent was apparent. It seemed he was talking with his facial expressions more than his actual mouth. "Are you still playing? Ah, who am I kidding? Of course you are. I know you call your piano teacher nearly every week."

"Dad," you said, the word awkward on your tongue.

Your father looked at you. "Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"How's Adam?" he asked, patting you on the back like a good sport. "Last I saw him, he was three or four! I miss that little rascal. Come on, you should tell me everything in the car."

So you told him everything while he drove.

You told him about your little adventures in the tucked pocket of the Miyagi Prefecture. You chattered about tall boys and leather volleyballs and sturdy bug nets. You described the grand piano in the living room and the hot summers and the constant banter at the dinner table.

You talked about Adam and his attitude that either made him the easiest or the hardest to love, and you talked about your mother who loved you in the strangest way possible.

"So you play a bit of volleyball now, hmm?" your father asked, using a turn signal and waiting until all the cars safely passed straight before turning right. "You on a team?"

"Am I on a team?" you repeated the question. "No. I don't play for a team. I usually just play with Adam, who's on a team."

"Maybe we can play for a bit—you and I," your father said. "That is, if your mother doesn't find out. For someone who lives in Japan, though, your mother's got quite the hold on you. Your piano lessons will now be in person with your usual piano teacher when you're in America."

You blinked. "Oh."

"Right now, I'll take you to meet your piano teacher and her daughter, and then you can recover from your jet lag." Your father changed lanes on the road, preparing to make a left turn using the middle road. "Now, tell me more about this Iwaizumi person, would you?"

Over the summers, you'd hold hands with Wakatoshi as you walked through the summer festivals, eating taiyaki and candied apples. Sometimes, Iwaizumi and you would catch bugs only to release them, and you and he would talk about little things—it was never big talk. Nearly every day, Oikawa and you spoke over the phone about Star Wars and babysat Takeru and Adam together.

It all came back to you.

The words that had always failed you seemed to bubble up in your throat and tumble out freely.

It was strange how excitement ran down your arteries and up your veins. It boiled in your gut. Perhaps it was because you missed your father. Yes, that was it—you missed him. You told your father nearly everything, and he listened on with a satisfied smile, occasionally checking his rearview mirror and making various turns.

You arrived in a neighborhood.

It was nothing like your Japanese neighborhood. A few houses even had the American flag hanging from flagpole brackets. The lawns were luscious with green, and everyone seemed to seize the opportunity of decorating their front yard—as if it were a competition to see who attracted HGTV.

Your father parked outside of a certain house and retrieved you. He told you to leave your items in the car as he led you to the front door. He then rang the bell and gave the door a good rap. The brass knob of the door had a rusted spot over where the thumb usually laid—a perfect spot of smudged gold in the midst of a muddy brown color.

The door opened to reveal a woman your mother's age—otherwise known as your piano teacher.

You had forgotten what she looked like, but her voice forever resonated in your head. She had an aquiline nose and keen eyes that seemed to look down upon you. Her curls of dark hair rounded her shoulder. You stared back at her, unafraid of how terrifying she genuinely looked. She stood stiffly with her hands on her daughter's shoulders. 

Her daughter bore furrowed brows and a large closed smile. She had frizzy dark hair that shaped her face similarly to a lion. Despite her rather ferocious looks, your piano teacher's daughter's eyes were closed. The thick dark lashes dusted the tops of her cheeks, similar to Oikawa's. She was beautiful.

"[Y/N]," your piano teacher greeted, "welcome to America. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"Hi," you said. "It's nice to see you."

"This is my daughter. Her name is Diba," the piano teacher said, squeezing her daughter's shoulders together. "You are around the same age, [Y/N]."

You paused for a second. "Hi, Diba."

"Now, Diba," the piano teacher addressed her daughter, "[Y/N] is a Japanese citizen. She cannot speak English as quick as you do. It's actually quite admirable how well her mother has raised her. She's bilingual, practically. Do not get impatient and be careful with her."

Diba kept her eyes closed. "Hi, [Y/N]. Do you speak Japanese?"

"Yes," you said.

"Come inside, Charles, [Y/N]," your piano teacher said. "You must be tired from your journey. [Y/N], I've been dying to hear your piano playing in person. I'm sure it'll be infinitely better than it is over the phone, I assume."

You stuttered, "Oh, y—yeah, I'm sure."

The piano teacher and her daughter walked into the house. Diba took her mother's guiding hands off her shoulders. The piano teacher furrowed her brows. Your father walked into the house with his shoes on, leaving you partially horrified.

Holy shit, you thought to yourself. I'm not going to survive here.

After discreetly sliding your shoes off, you walked into the house.

There was blue tape on the floor where the legs of the furniture stood over—likely indicating which should go where. There were small strips of tactile before each entrance of every room, and everything was neat and sparkly clean, as if a housekeeper cleaned it every day. A white cane leaned on next to the front door.

Your mother would certainly be jealous of a house like this. Your house was filled with messy appliances and Adam's briefs. It was why you hardly invited anyone over, save for Wakatoshi who was used to the strange American-ness of your household.

"Ah, I need to make a quick call to your mother," the piano teacher said to you. "Why don't you head into the piano room ahead of me and practice for a small bit? Charles and I will stay in the kitchen."

A dog popped its head from the hallway.

It looked like a German Shepherd. You weren't the best with dog breeds. It growled at you, its snout forming ugly ripples. The dog's teeth bared long sharp yellowed slits. It was nothing like your friendly neighborhood cat that you grew up with.

This dog was going to kill you before any assassin would.

Making yourself comfortable in the piano room, you studied the Yamaha grand piano. It was properly against the wall, the window on the other side barely shedding light on its wood exterior. There were no plants on the piano. It was well-maintained. You sat on the bench, adjusting it to your height. It was a bit too low for you.

You opened the fallboard and tested your knuckles. 

Then you started playing.

Your fingers drummed the keys. The pads of your fingers that were once soft were forming rougher patches on the tips from your volleyball practices. The lengths of your fingers were cold as if they weren't a part of the rest of your body. It was nothing new to you. Hardly anything was new these days.

No matter the brand of the grand piano, it was still the same eighty-eight white and black keys.

Pain boiled underneath your left brow, and your throat went dry. A migraine was coming. All your life you had yearned and yearned and yearned. There was nothing wrong with yearning. When you were in Japan for the first time, you had yearned for America. Now that you were actually in America, you yearned for Japan.

It was truly amazing how you managed to fit nowhere and everywhere at once.

You heard your heart beat in your ears like large waves on Japan's shore. You clenched your jaw, and your fingers shook with every pounding note you gave out. Your muscles tensed.

Forget how your hands were supposed to be cupped as if the world was held in them! Forget how your back was supposed to be stiff! Forget how your arms were supposed to hang loosely form your shoulders! Forget how the government has failed this country! Forget, forget, forget—

"I hate your piano playing," a voice said from the entrance of the piano room.

Your hands fell on the keys, creating an unpleasant sound.

You whirled your head to see the owner of the voice. It was Diba—your piano teacher's daughter. Her brows were even more furrowed than before, and she was cleaning out her right ear with her pinky as if your piano playing had nearly made her go deaf. Her voice was too similar to her mother's.

Diba strolled into the room, confident. She plopped down on a couch that was directly adjacent to the grand piano. She withdrew a small wrapper from her pockets and chewed on it harshly. For some reason, her eyes were still closed.

"It's like you're angry at the world," Diba said. "It's disgusting."

"I'm not angry."

"Oh, believe me, you're angry."

"I'm not angry," you insisted. "I don't look angry."

"I don't need eyes to see or know that you're angry," Diba said simply. She scooted to the edge of the couch, close enough for you to study her facial features. 

Diba opened her eyes that seemed so locked together before. Her pupil was not visible—the glossy sheen of a pale blue seemed to cover it over like a blanket. A dark blue outer rim colored her eye in contrast to the paleness of the inside.

She was blind.

She was beautiful, and she was blind.

"What you're doing to the piano," Diba said, closing her eyes, "is vandalism. You're vandalizing my piano, [Y/N]."

"Sorry," you said, unsure of what exactly you were supposed to say. You were talking to a blind girl. What do blind girls talk about? You thought back to the German Shepherd that wanted to chew your skin off. "So the dog. It's yours? Your, uh, guide dog? It's not very friendly for a guide dog."

"Brahms? Yeah, he's mine," Diba said. "He's a very gentle dog."

You hated to say it, but Diba must have really been blind to not notice how scary her dog was. That dog was far from gentle. That dog was straight from hell, and here you were thinking that cats went to hell. Gentle dog your ass.

"Sure," you said. 

Diba crossed her arms. "Anyway, if you're going to be playing on my piano, you're going to have to stop acting like you're committing a hate crime on it! You're so angry. What are you, a criminal?"

"You never know. I might be."

"You're a funny one, [Y/N]," Diba drawled. "I think I like you. I still hate your piano playing, though. Tell me what you look like."

"I'm absolutely stunning," you started off, "so jot that down."

"Never mind," Diba said, fighting to hide a smile that was growing on her lips. She hopped off the couch and stood next to you, a smidgen away from the bench. You wondered how she knew where everything was and how she didn't bump into any furniture along the way. Your eyes fell to the blue tape on the floor. 

You scooted over on the bench and then realized that Diba couldn't see you did that. "You can play?"

Diba shook her head. "I don't play. And I don't need to play in order to tell you that your playing style is shit."

"A judge told me that once," you said. "I don't particularly like authority."

"Well, I suppose you can't win all wars," Diba said flippantly.

"I sure can try."

Diba looked intrigued. She pointed up the stairs—and you wondered how she knew where the stairs were. "Hey, angry girl, want to play a card game with me, then? We can go upstairs to my room. I'm really good at it. Maybe if you run fast enough, Brahms won't eat you for dinner."

Supposedly, you were supposed to play for your piano teacher—Diba's mother—but you loved nothing more than breaking the rules to have fun. You stood from the piano bench, causing Diba to step back. 

You could hear your piano teacher and your father talk in the kitchen in hushed tones.

Diba ambled up the stairs, her hand barely touching the bar that was presumably implemented to help her ascent. You could only marvel in awe about how confident she was. It seemed she was always looking forward, even if her eyes didn't really work. You wondered if you would forever stare at her back.

You and your newfound friend sat on a rug that was in the middle of Diba's room.

Diba's room was filled with different textures. To a person blessed with sight such as yourself, her room looked awfully funky—like a person from the 70s who decided to buy every piece of clothing they found. There were soft materials, hard materials, woven materials, fuzzy materials, and even more.

The blind girl shuffled the cards in her hand professionally. Her eyes were still closed, but the cards still seemed to dance around her fingertips with no hesitation. She had trust in her skills.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Diba said, "but I'm blind. You'll have to read out loud your card, its attack points, and its defense points whenever you place it down, okay?"

"How will you know which card you're holding?" you asked. "Magic?"

Diba snorted. "Magic. I don't believe in that. I have braille stickers on each card."

"How do you even play this game?" you asked as Diba gave you your own deck to play with. She neatly separated the cards and held her respective deck. 

Diba said, "it uses a little bit of logic. Don't try to look into the brain you don't have, though."

"I've got a brain." You stared at the little plot of space that read where your cards' strengths and weaknesses were. You ran your thumb over a certain card with little braille bumps on it. "I have a question."

Diba looked unfazed. "What is it, angry girl?"

"Do you have perfect pitch, by chance?"

"Of course," Diba said, reaching her hand over to flick your head but sorely missing. Her fingers flicked the air to your right instead. "I think I was meant to be a musician. As obvious as it sounds, when you're blind, it's hard to become one. I can play a bit of piano, though. I am very glad I was born lucky."

You stared at Diba. "What do you mean born lucky?"

If you had been born blind, you wouldn't consider yourself lucky at all.

"I know what you're thinking," Diba said. "Sounds weird, doesn't it? I was born without sight. When one sense is diminished, the others enhance. I think I am very lucky to be able to polish my perfect pitch."

"Even I don't have perfect pitch," you protested. "And I've been playing piano for all my life."

Diba retorted, "for a girl who's been playing piano all her life, you're not that good."

"Hey, was that an insult?"

"A fact," Diba said. "Fundamentally, you are lacking. You're angry. And harsh. And scary. You play as if the world had stolen something of yours. Be gentle with my Yamaha grand piano. Play the keys as if you were stroking Brahms' head."

"I would never touch your dog," you said matter-of-factly. "Your dog's scary."

"He's a gentle soul."

"Not with that face."

Diba said, "You still have much to learn, my little pawn."

"It's Padawan," you, a Star Wars fanatic, corrected.

Diba looked at your mouth—the source of your voice. "I said what I said. Let's play, angry girl."

This card game was really enlightening for a stupid card game. You didn't initially expect much out of it. The moment you found out that it had nothing to do with overthrowing problematic governments and instituting anarchy, you lost interest. However, Diba kept it interesting.

You would read out your attack points and defense points for Diba to hear. She would nod in return and think. Whenever Diba started thinking, you started to sweat. Diba's brows would furrow, and her eyes would crinkle. She'd brush her finger over the braille bumps on various cards, reading and scheming.

Diba kept a winning streak over you. It was only natural.

"Err—200 attack points," you said. "100 defense points."

"Why are you so slow with reading numbers?" Diba asked. "Ah, 500 attack points, 250 defense points. I'll attack your first card—the one with 100 attack points that you talked about earlier."

"I'm not good with numbers," you complained. "Hey! I liked that card. It was very pretty."

"You need to get better at this," Diba said, "or else people like me will run ahead of you."

"Run ahead?" you asked. "Where are you running?"

"I forgot you couldn't understand metaphors."

"I hope we run to Blockbusters," you said. "I want to rent the rest of the Star Wars DVDs and then steal it when I go back to Japan."

Diba laughed.

America was a lot of things. America was filled with injustice and strange things. It was nearly nothing like Japan. You felt like a stranger. But if America was filled with young girls like Diba, you supposed you could find a place to squeeze in somehow. Diba was full of life and energy and wit.

It would be a lie if you said you didn't want to be like Diba. 

You had a tendency to complain if things ever got boring. You would get frustrated—or angry. You would look to other things and hope to find some entertainment in them. Your fatal flaws were your curiosity and your impatience. You recognized it all too well. There was a matter of knowing what your flaws were versus actually dealing with it.

Piano.

Of course you wanted to express yourself through piano.

You just didn't know if you had the talent, the strength, the patience, the stubbornness to do so. The boys you knew in Japan would know what to do. They had everything that you lacked, really. When one grew up next to impressive people, it was hard to see the worth in oneself. A harsh comparison.

You had to come face to face with the reality that people like you weren't gifted. Diba was gifted. Wakatoshi was gifted. 

Perhaps your fatal flaw all along was envy.

Chapter Text

When you had come home from America, Oikawa pestered you plenty about your relationship to 'that bastard Ushiwaka.' You replied that Wakatoshi wasn't a bastard and actually a very nice young man. Oikawa didn't seem to believe you, and you weren't in the mood to persuade him either, as you needed to catch up on sleep.

Just neighbors, you told Oikawa when you recovered from your jet lag.

Just neighbors? Oikawa pressed on.

Just neighbors.

Oikawa wasn't very convinced. You realized that if Oikawa were ever to come over to your house, he'd see Wakatosh's lasting imprint in your household. After all, the picture you and Wakatoshi took as children hung in your hallway, indicating that you and the giant of Shiratorizawa were more than just neighbors. Friends, even.

Enemies were a bit of a stretch, but you had always wanted to fight a giant.

You weren't the only one who wanted to fight a giant.

During the tournament in order to secure a spot in the All Japan Middle School Boys' Athletics Tournament, Kitagawa First was an incredible contender, and in the final round, eventually lost. Shiratorizawa Junior Academy won by a landslide. Kitagawa never took a single set due to the boy Oikawa so endearingly called 'bastard Ushiwaka.'

You congratulated Wakatoshi, approaching him when he wasn't surrounded with his tall teammates and when Oikawa was occupied elsewhere. Wakatoshi proposed that you, his mother, and your mother go out to celebrate with a hot meal of hayashi rice. With you gone over summer break, he had no one else to visit summer festivals with, he had said, and it made him sad.

Oikawa took to cheering up his team whenever they lost to Shiratorizawa, and he often sneered at Wakatoshi whenever they were near each other. Wakatoshi would look down upon Oikawa, hardly saying a single word to him. 

However, when it came to the gym's closing hours, Oikawa stayed the longest.

He practiced volleyball every day like it was his last. He called for the ball like it was a prayer. He exercised 'til his arms drooped heavily by his side and his knees shook with overexertion.

Oikawa learned to keep his insecurities to himself and only really ever showed it to you or Iwaizumi. He believed he had to set an example for his team. He had to keep morale high, even when victory was an arm's length away and it was still snatched by those blessed.

"Hey," you said, rapping the gym door loudly. "Is Iwa gone?"

Oikawa nodded, sweat dripping down his chin as he hastily gulped water from his bottle. He wiped the sheen off his forehead, and his brown hair clung to his skin in small swirls like an artistic rendition of waves. Oikawa was hunched over with exhaustion, his free arm holding him up against his right knee.

"I stayed after school for you," you said, strolling over to him, "because I love you."

Oikawa's voice held its familiar lilt of amusement. "Didn't you have to retake that history test?"

"It's not my fault that our history teacher doesn't believe I committed war crimes in the former Yugoslavia."

"You look like you commit war crimes."

"That's no way to treat your beautiful and charming best friend that has been around you since you were five and ugly," you retorted. 

"You? A beautiful and charming best friend?" Oikawa cried out incredulously. He set down his water bottle. "Don't lie to yourself. [Y/N], with your looks, you're an American brute—"

You grabbed Oikawa by the hair and pinched his cheeks harshly. His skin was warm from his practice underneath your piano fingers, and his cheeks were flushed with pink. "Sweaty-kawa! I'll push on all your pressure points so you grow horizontal instead of vertical!"

Oikawa yelped. "I'll shed all those kilos off with volleyball, stupid! Stupid [Y/N]-chan!"

"I'd like to see you try!" you exclaimed. "Milk bread is all carbs anyway!"

"Take that back!" Oikawa demanded. "Milk bread has a lot of heart!"

"Wh—heart? Heart my ass! The only heart you'll be getting is a heart attack! Look at what you've been eating! Sugar! Carbs! Milk bread! That sandwich you stole from me a while ago and still haven't paid me back for!"

"It was a good sandwich!"

You and Oikawa bantered back and forth. He tugged on your ears and the hem of your shirt just to annoy the shit out of you, and you continued to pinch his cheeks until you didn't know if his cheeks were red from your grip or red from Oikawa's constant laughter. You had never been good with words, so you had picked up the habit of attempting to whoop his ass whenever he provoked you.

Perhaps you had picked this up from your dear friend Iwa-chan.

Oikawa's hand pulled at your ear like a mother chastising her child, and you attempted to sock him in the gut. For a tired boy, Oikawa looked like he was raring to go. You fought with him as you would a sibling. It was a constant brawl of skin-on-skin contact, but strictly platonic.

It made Oikawa wish that you'd become slightly more aware. It made him wish that—

"Hey, [Y/N]-chan, if you keep making that face, you'll never get married," Oikawa found himself saying.

You furrowed your brows and stopped pinching his cheeks. You patted his cheeks lightly as if that would undo all the damage you had already done to his poor skin. "Ha! The concept of marriage was made by men and for men in order to capitalize and combine wealth and property."

"Wow, what a turn-on," Oikawa dryly said, flicking your forehead. "You're a girl. Girls like talking about their future weddings."

"Girls also like talking about how the law has never been an indicator of morality," you said. "I don't see why we can't do both."

"Don't come crying to me when you're unmarried."

"Yeah, yeah, you say that about me, but I personally don't see you getting married, either. Girls bring you free gifts all the time," you said, shaking your head. "You have to choose one and stick with her, Tooru."

His heart ricocheted in his chest.

Really, he thought, you ought to stop saying my name like that.

It wasn't that you exactly disproved of his flirtatious actions—he was entitled to do whatever he wanted—but he was never going to get a girlfriend at this rate. For a boy as popular as Oikawa, it was strange how he had yet to find a girlfriend.

Everyone gave him free stuff. You wanted free stuff.

"If you don't get a husband, I'll marry you." Oikawa's voice was light and jumpy, but his eyes said otherwise. He then quickly added, "Out of pity, of course."

"A failsafe," you said. "You think I need a failsafe marriage."

"Well, yeah. Consider yourself lucky that your failsafe marriage is with someone pretty," Oikawa said. "You might as well give up on marriage now because you'll never find anyone as good-looking as I am."

"No wonder you're single," you said. "Your personality is atrocious."

"Personally, I am single because I'm free real estate. I'm for everyone. I need to share the wealth, so to speak," Oikawa said defensively.

"You're terrible," you said, amused. "You're single because you're twelve and addicted to volleyball."

"I can't be addicted to it if I'm not any good at it," Oikawa remarked offhandedly. "Even a smoker knows how to light a cigarette without burning the house down."

"Are you comparing yourself to Toshi again?" you asked. "You shouldn't do that. He's a spiker. You're a setter. Different caliber and positions."

Oikawa looked miffed. "Even so. He's the best, [Y/N]-chan. They say he has a bright future. They say he has potential. They say he'll be one of the best aces in Japan in no time—

"You're good, too," you said.

"Not good enough," Oikawa said, picking up the volleyball he had dropped when you grappled him like a monkey for calling you ugly. "I have never, ever been good enough."

You crossed your arms. "Ever since the All Japan prelims, you've been mopey. Second place is good."

"Second place won't beat Ushiwaka," Oikawa said. The nickname Ushiwaka was a funny one—it referred to a legendary Japanese warrior. Wakatoshi, to everyone, seemed to be akin to Ushiwaka. "It's not good enough. I'm going to see this through—just how you told me to. It's first place or nothing."

"Don't underestimate the greatness of second place," you said. 

Oikawa said nothing and turned to the court, where he threw the ball up into the air. He dove immediately, swooping upward like a thin growing plant. Oikawa's hand smacked the ball harshly. The ball shot to the tape of the net, whirling around from the momentum before falling on Oikawa's side of the court.

You didn't have to see Oikawa's face to know what he thought of his serve.

Not good enough.

You were now a second-year.

Puberty was starting to knock on your door only to invite itself in and raid your kitchen. You and Iwaizumi ended up in the same homeroom, much to Oikawa's dismay. This didn't stop Oikawa from barging into your homeroom every time class ended so he could poke fun.

"Are you done bitching?" Iwaizumi asked after Oikawa had ranted about an alien spotting in the Bailiwick of Guernsey—an island that you had never heard of and likely would never hear about again.

Oikawa said, "that was just a warm-up."

"Hey, [Y/N], want to see my character sketch?" Iwaizumi held up the paper he had been doodling on. It was a pencil sketch of a lizard standing on its hind legs and stick-like arms outstretched, as if it were waiting for a hug. "Boom. Godzilla."

"That's really ugly," Oikawa said with no hesitation.

"You're really ugly."

"That's really mean."

Oikawa was as lovable as ever. He was a flamboyant hot-shot with childish antics that pissed off Iwaizumi. It seemed he was always improving as a player—whether it be around girls or on the court. Oikawa was no José Blanco, but his determination to become better left you awestruck.

As each growing day passed, Iwaizumi was admirable as well. He was dependable, and whenever you forgot to do the homework, he had your back. Iwaizumi often brought you back to Earth when you started talking about Star Wars and galaxies far, far away. He shared his lunch with you, too.

Of course, no matter how much you begged, Iwaizumi wouldn't give you a piece of his tofu.

Talk about fake!

Sometimes, after volleyball practice, you, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa would dawdle by a small beach that was sectioned off.

In the summer, it was filled with brilliant and bold umbrellas with girls huddled underneath them to prevent themselves from tanning and little children giggling with pool noodles in the blue expanse before them.

In the winter, it was barren, almost. Hardly anyone came out here, save for angsty teenagers who stole a cigarette or two or adults who planned to propose to their significant other and wanted a very nice beach landscape in the background as a romantic gesture.

You took off your shoes and held them in your hand. The brown sand seeped between your toes, and when you walked, you left behind deep footprints that would get washed away by the licking waves. You heard Oikawa behind you complain about the smell of Iwaizumi's shoes, to which Iwaizumi replied with a harsh chuck of those said shoes to Oikawa's face.

Your geography was rather shitty, so when you looked at the sea, you hoped that you were looking at America.

Oikawa ran up to you, pulling on your arm to showcase his face. The moon illuminated Oikawa's face, and a bruised red smudge was evident on Oikawa's red cheek.

"Look at my face!" Oikawa complained.

"It looks the same—" Before you could finish your sentence, Oikawa tugged on your ear and stuck his tongue out childishly. You cried out. "Let go of me, you beanpole!"

Iwaizumi mindlessly kicked a rock out of place, and a small something shot out of a hole beneath it and made its way toward the sea. He blanched. Setting his shoes aside, Iwaizumi flipped over another rock.

"Shitty-kawa, stop strangling [Y/N] for a second," Iwaizumi said. "[Y/N], there's crabs."

"Like the big ones?" Oikawa asked, letting go of your poor ear. "The ones that look like aliens?"

You crouched down and let go of your shoes. You flipped over a stone, and a small light crab scuttled out of a whole before digging itself another hole. The crab was minuscule—around the size of an American quarter. Its pinchers, however, looked sharp.

"Kanikko," you whispered.

Oikawa made a face. "Huh?"

"Like the snack," you said, jerking your head up. "The small crabs. They're really good. It's super crunchy, too. I want to catch one. And then I'll name it Leonardo DaPinchy-o."

Iwaizumi piped up, "Boring!"

"Mind your own business, you jock!"

"Really, [Y/N]-chan? Bugs first, and now tiny crabs?" Oikawa asked. He set down his shoes and flipped over a rock to see what the big deal was. He nearly flinched when a crab scurried out, made a small circle around Oikawa, and then settled beneath another rock. "Geez, you and Iwa-chan are nature-loving freaks."

You pushed over another rock, and a crab scampered out. You shot your hands forward, intending to catch the crab. You didn't care if sand got underneath your fingernails or in your uniform. Carefully, you opened your hands. No crab—it was too fast for you.

"One day," you said, dusting off the sand from your uniform sleeve, "these beaches will be gone."

"Christ, [Y/N]-chan, that's so ominous."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," you said blandly. "I meant like, climate change."

You picked up a rock to see if there were any crabs hiding underneath it. You would not leave this beach until you caught at least one crab. What did a girl have to do to steal a crab around here?

Iwaizumi caught a crab in his calloused hands. Sand slowly fell through his fingers as Iwaizumi made his way to you. The small crab scuttled in his hands. The crab pinched the meat of Iwaizumi's thumb, causing the young boy to wince slightly.

"[Y/N]," Iwaizumi said, crouching next to you. "Crab."

The crab scooted around Iwaizumi's palms, attacking various parts of his hand. It was very pretty, you noticed. The crab was a pleasant yellow, and the pinchers resembled the face of the stag beetled you oh-so treasured when you were five. It pinched Iwaizumi's finger, and he sucked in a deep breath.

"Crab," you agreed.

Oikawa stared at you and Iwaizumi, wondering if you and he shared a mutual understanding toward bugs and crabs. He planted his hands on his hips. "I bet I can catch a better crab than Iwa-chan. Crabs aren't that cool."

"Bring it, Shitty-kawa," Iwaizumi said, letting the crab go. A true nature-lover. 

"You're forgetting the real contender here," you said, pointing to both of them like a cliché rival anime character challenging the protagonist to a fight. A wicked smile came across your features. "I'll catch a crab better than you boys!"

Iwaizumi deadpanned, "you haven't even caught one crab yet."

"Your hair looks like un-mowed grass."

"Low blow, Suzuki." Iwaizumi grinned. "I'll beat your ass."

Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and you scampered around the beach, flipping rocks over to find little crabs. Hollers and jeers from you and Oikawa rang throughout the empty beach. Footprints were left behind in your wake as you circled around the wet sand, and Iwaizumi followed you, trying to pick up all the rocks before you reached them.

Various candy wrappers and empty alcohol bottles littered the beach. The beach wasn't a very pretty sight, unfortunately, but it was your home prefecture. In America, you doubted there was a beach in the next town over. 

Iwaizumi and Oikawa rolled up their pants and sleeves to prevent wet sand from dirtying them. You rolled your sleeves up similarly.

Your tanned friend would show off the small pinching crab in his hands, making your brow twitch. There was a wide, triumphant smile that showed his teeth and was held from ear-to-ear. You had never wanted to beat your buff friend at something more. You pointed at him and accused him of being a crab-whisperer and a spy.

Countries and empires fell, continents shifted, and governments were overthrown. There was constant change in the world, whether it be a girl choosing a different drink than her usual at a boba shop or a newly elected ruler.

Many things were temporary, but catching crabs were forever.

Just as you were about to catch a crab, Oikawa tackled you out of nowhere, taking you down with him. You cursed him out for it, leaving Oikawa laughing on the ground. You felt bad for Mrs. Oikawa, who had to wash out his dirty clothes, and you prayed for yourself and prepared for the brunt of your mother's nagging when you brought home your own dirtied uniform.

You kicked sand in Iwaizumi's face with an obvious death sentence. It was only fair, as Oikawa had gotten your uniform dirty. If you and Oikawa were going down, Iwaizumi was going down as well. Iwaizumi dropped the new crab he was holding and chased you around the beach. You let out a yelp and told Oikawa to run.

The stars weren't visible that night, but the moon was.

The moon had a presence despite being quieter than the sun. Its soft light shone on the beach, on you and your friends.

One of these days, Oikawa was going to set the moon.

The moon wasn't as smooth as a volleyball. The moon had craters and rough terrain. The moon wasn't fully visible for most of the time, often hidden by shadows. The moon had dust and holes and unknown objects and bumps and everything that you could dream of.

The moon was far, far up in the sky, and you wondered when it would ever reach you.

"Man, beat by you again," you bemoaned. The results of your latest competition had come back with you as second place and a certain ashy blond as first.

Semi Eita shrugged. "Sorry, Second Place."

Competitions were for racehorses. Competitions divided impressionable young children into success and failure. Everything seemed to be a competition, whether it was lottery winning popsicles or the American presidential election. 

You and Semi were sitting on the stairs that led to more halls. Commonly those halls were booked for theatrical performances or orchestra. It was blocked with stanchions to prevent everyone, save for staff, from entering.

"I don't know if I'll still do recitals in the future," Semi said. "I've been thinking about it."

"You're quitting music?"

"No, I would never," Semi said. "I'm currently being scouted for a sport. If I work hard enough at that sport, I might be able to secure an athletics scholarship toward a prestigious academy."

You blinked. "So you're focusing more on athletics instead of arts."

"I still love music," Semi explained. "I wouldn't be opposed to becoming a musician in the future, actually. I'm thinking about picking up the electric guitar as recreation. It's just that this school is very fancy, and I want to take advantage of this opportunity."

"I hope you get that scholarship," you said. "You're a hard worker. You deserve it."

"Thank you," Semi said. "Since I won't be around to beat you, you'll dominate the youth music competitions in no time. You'll learn to love winning."

You laughed wryly. "I don't like competitions."

Semi shrugged. "Winning feels good. You wouldn't know how good winning tastes until you've lost."

Boys and girls your age with their family members crowded the first floor of the music hall. A few of them were carrying violin cases. You watched as little children squealed with joy, and their fathers chastised them for exercising their vocals at a time like this. They all seemed to slowly gravitate toward a particular recital hall.

"Is there a violin recital happening in Hall G?" you asked Semi. 

"How would I know?" Semi replied, his chin resting on his palm. He looked at the crowd. "Looks like free entry."

"I kind of want to go," you said. 

Semi said, "I would go with you, but my mom will be here any time soon. Don't get lost."

You stood up from where you were sitting. "I'll see you around."

"Bye," Semi said, "First Place."

Leaving Semi at the staircase, you ambled toward the hall that everyone was flooding into. Your mother trusted you enough to commute back home through train, so you took this with an 'I can do whatever I want as long as I make it home at a reasonable time' sort of approach.

For a girl who was willing to fight everything and everyone, you strangely held curiosity close to your heart. If you were curious, you'd need to satisfy that curiosity before you moved on. There was this insatiable hunger in you to find out everything in the world.

Long live fuckery and tackiness!

Manners were dead! There was no point in respecting those who didn't hold you in the same light! Become addicted to chaos! Go feral! Dare to disturb universes! Make the comfortable uneasy! Bring every man to his knees! Conquer the world! Stealing was okay if they had something you wanted!

Rebellious was a lousy way to describe you.

Right now, you wanted to listen to a violin recital. Your entire world was your mother, piano, and America. What was wrong with expanding your world?

You had expanded your world just a little bit when you were five and asked Wakatoshi to show you his spike. You had expanded your world more when you met the explosive Oikawa and snarky Iwaizumi. There was still so much you needed to do.

Just as you reached the entrance to the hall, a skinny boy around your age with messy black hair stood, staring into the dark abyss that led to the violin recital. The skinny boy fiddled with his fingers. It seemed that you and he were the last people to go to the recital; however, he blocked the entrance, preventing you from going in.

"Are you lost?" you asked. 

The boy didn't bother to look at you. "No."

"So you're going in, then," you said. "So am I."

"Cool," the boy said, not budging from his position. 

Weird-ass kid, you thought to yourself, bypassing the fact that you were a weird-ass kid yourself—just in a different field of weird. You had half a mind to squeeze past him.

"Are your parents in there?" you asked.

"No," the boy said. "I'm alone."

"Me too," you replied. Silence overcame both of you. This boy didn't seem like the type to take the first step in initiating conversation. You cleared your throat. "Do you want to sit with me?"

The boy looked at you. His features were pretty, like Oikawa's, but this boy's prettiness was more fragile. His brows were slanted, making him look quite determined. His eyes flitted to your recital attire—a dress that you undoubtedly wore a million times over whenever a fancy occasion rose.

"I've always wanted to attend a violin recital," you added.

The skinny boy paused for a second before looking back into the dark hall. You could hear the sound of a brief presentation of the music school's dean, talking about the school's best violinists. There were scattered claps every now and then. 

He said, "sure."

Oddly enough, you never caught his name.

Kitagawa First constantly lost to Shiratorizawa Junior Academy.

It was a running circle.

Every time Oikawa lost to Wakatoshi, you knew that Oikawa was growing and growing—but in the wrong direction. He was growing spiteful and critical of himself. You noticed his scrunched shoulders and his clenched fists. Oikawa's teammates focused on his tight smile and words of satire.

You and Iwaizumi caught Oikawa staying in the gym after hours multiple times, often practicing his serves and sets to the wind. He worked until his elbows were knobby and his knees were cramping from yesterday's extreme workout.

"Back at it again," you said, entering the gym with a failed science test in your hand. The paper was crumpled in your hand, preventing you from looking at the score marked in—what was likely—red blood. "All those carbs from the milk bread can go elsewhere, you know."

Oikawa picked up a volleyball that was rolling away. He rolled his perfect eyes. "You seem chipper."

"You shouldn't be working so much," you said. "You'll get muscle cramps, and then I'll need to hand feed you pickles."

"Pickles," Oikawa repeated, wrinkling his nose.

It seemed Oikawa had selective hearing tonight. With little regard for your words, Oikawa tossed the ball up in the air, and then when the ball came careering downward, his slim fingers set up back up neatly. Ball control. You were familiar with it.

"Oikawa, you've been doing this ever since"—you bit your lip and tried to choose your words carefully—"ever since we lost to Shiratorizawa in the All Japan tourney."

Last year, when first-year Oikawa had lost in the All Japan Middle School Boys' Athletics Tournament, he was desperately practicing his serves. You remembered that he had only taken a break when you disrupted him with a conversation that you couldn't recall the topic of.

You imagined his muscle cramps. You couldn't practice for more than an hour of volleyball without waking up sore in the morning. If Oikawa was practicing every morning and every evening, he would be hurting. You couldn't even monitor him at home. Iwaizumi kept an eye out for him, though.

"I've been doing what?" Oikawa asked dryly, keeping his head up to overhand receive the ball.

"Doing this"—you waved your hands toward his focused body—"and you better be stretching before and after your insane practices."

"I'm stretching," the distracted Oikawa said.

You shook your head, tempted to smack the ball away from Oikawa's greedy fingers. "This is too much, Oikawa. You're practicing way too much. You're—You're overexerting yourself. A good athlete—"

"A good athlete is Ushijima Wakatoshi," Oikawa cut you off. The ball fell back into his hands, and he tucked it underneath his right arm. "A good athlete practices like it's a hobby—a lifestyle. A good athlete—"

It was your turn to cut him off. "A good athlete takes care of their health. A good athlete doesn't do whatever the hell you've been doing for the past two weeks. Even Iwa is getting concerned about your constant exercise, and he's the buff one!"

Oikawa looked at you incredulously. "You're the one who told me I had to try."

"Yeah, but I don't want you to try too hard," you blurted out. You realized how bad that sounded. "What I mean is that you need to regulate your practice, and constant practice with little breaks is no good, Oikawa."

"What else can I do?" Oikawa asked. "I'm trying because it's all I can do. You told me so yourself—"

You said, "I told you to try, Oikawa. I didn't tell you to work until you were dead. I've been trying to take care of you, and I'm looking out for you because you seem to care very little about your own goddamned self!"

With every word you spoke, you seemed to get more riled up. Your voice was getting louder and louder and louder, and you couldn't seem to stop because you were worried about Oikawa. He didn't take care of himself. Oikawa was young and thirteen and stupid—but he was also your friend.

Oikawa was exasperated. He held on to the volleyball tighter until his knuckles turned white. "No, [Y/N]-chan, I'm not working until I'm dead. I'm working until I'm good enough. You will never understand how I'm never good enough."

"You're good enough—"

"Oh, really?" Oikawa snapped. "Your version of 'good enough' is second place. I'm tired of second place."

"There is nothing wrong with second place, Oikawa!" you exclaimed. "I've been second place my whole life. You don't think I don't think I'm not good enough? I've always felt that way, Oikawa, but I have never overexerted myself to the point where—"

"So you're making it about yourself now, huh," Oikawa said. 

Warmth flooded your cheeks. "No! I—I'm trying to give you advice coming from my personal experi—"

"You can't give me advice," Oikawa spat. "You're giving me advice as if you know what I'm going through. You have never known what first place is like because you've never been in first place. You have been and forever will be second place, and you're okay with that? You're just going to sit down and let someone else taste victory?"

You stared at him. He was right, you know. The crumpled test in your hand squeezed harder in your hand.

"Volleyball is different from piano," Oikawa said. "Fighting that bastard is like fighting a giant, and I'm just a mere human. Of course, you'll defend the giant—that Ushiwaka—because he's your childhood friend, too. You just have to be so friendly with everyone you meet! You're always jumping left and right. You lack commitment."

Commitment.

You weren't very committed to piano. You grew out of your bug phase. You talked loudly, much to your elders' dismay. You never had a set goal in life. You would likely never know what it was like to find something and stick with it. 

Whenever someone asked you what you did or what you liked, you had to pause for a moment. Whenever you filled out questions with your strengths and weaknesses, you were at a loss. Whenever you were introducing yourself, you had to choose between saying that you were from America or from Japan.

It was small moments like those that made you wish you were a person.

"Do you know how much it hurts when you're not good at something you love to do?" Oikawa asked, and you said nothing. "You have never cared for the piano."

Your heart was loud in your chest. You could feel your throat burning up.

"And you, [Y/N]-chan, would never know what it's like to fight against something! And you would never know what it's like to keep on fighting because you were fighting for something you loved!" Oikawa accused.

"You don't know I want to love something, Oikawa? You don't think I'm jealous of you and Wakatoshi and Iwaizumi and Adam and everyone that I know?"

"Of course you're jealous." Oikawa's voice tightened. "You've never sought out anything for yourself. You're stuck. You give up too easily and pick up a new hobby the next day as if nothing happened. You're desperate."

"And you have never cared for your own health!" you shot back, disregarding the fact that your friend had touched upon a sensitive subject. "If you won't take care of yourself, I will!"

"The world revolves around you, [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa said sotto voce. He said the -chan ending as if it were an insult. "I'm tired of you nagging me and telling me to take care of myself. I know what I'm doing. You would never know."

"There are so many things that I don't know, Tooru," you said, your voice cracking. "And I'm going to find everything out. And when I find everything out, I'll—"

Oikawa scoffed. "For a moment, I thought we were similar. We were just two normal kids in a world full of geniuses. I thought we were two kids who loved something but was never good at it. We weren't geniuses, but at least we wouldn't be geniuses together."

He was right.

You and Oikawa were similar in the fact that you and he were not talented. Oikawa wasn't a natural at volleyball, and you weren't a natural at piano. You were only good at the piano because you had been playing since you were five, and Oikawa was only good because he constantly practiced.

The stark difference, however, was dedication.

You cared very little for the piano. It was a chore. It was something you had to do to keep your mother happy. Oikawa loved volleyball. He did it because he loved it. No matter how much Oikawa's words had hurt you, he was right. You would never understand what it was like to love something but be bad at it—because you had never loved something before.

He was right.

You and he weren't geniuses and in almost all ways, you and he were alike—too alike. Oikawa approached his problems with determination and dedication—dedication that you envied. You approached your problems with lack of resolve. You were always looking for something new.

You sniffed. "Fuck you, Oikawa Tooru."

Chapter Text

It felt a bit like cheating.

You know—winning the piano competition.

You had only really gotten first place because Semi Eita was retired. It didn't sit right with you. It was as if you were undeserving of such praise. There were far better players out there than you, far more talented players. Sure, you might have been the best in this competition, but you would never be the best in Japan.

Standing over the clapping crowd, you looked at the judges who sat in the second row. They gave small smiles of approval. A few people stood up here and there, giving you whistles and shouts of encouragement. No player had roused up this much support before—other than Semi Eita.

You thought back to what Diba had said—she said your playing was angry and bad. How could your playing be bad if it won competitions? You mulled the thought over as the crowd gave you a standing ovation.

Iwaizumi sat in the back, and you spotted your mother and Adam next to him. Adam was engaged in a video game on his PSP, uncaring that your performance was so well-done that it gained a supple amount of traction from the audience. Adam's current obsession happened to be online chess.

You wouldn't know how good winning tastes until you've lost, Semi had said.

Winning didn't taste that good. Despite being under the pretense that it was appreciation for the arts, it tasted suspiciously like capitalism.

"[Y/N]," Iwaizumi praised, once you exited backstage after the competition was finished. "You were really good. I think I was moved to tears."

"I can tell," you said. With Semi Eita knocked out of race, you easily snared first place. For the past three years, you had gone head to head with the aforementioned boy; it was a constant uphill climb since for what you had in experience, Semi had in talent.

Your friend revealed a lovely bouquet of flowers from behind his back. His tan cheeks were flushed, and he averted your gaze of wonder. Iwaizumi's shoulders scrunched up, a habit that he and Oikawa happened to share. The flowers were your favorite color, which shocked you.

"Iwa," you said in wonder, "I love them! I never told you my favorite color. How did you know?"

Thrusting the bouquet into your hands, Iwaizumi mustered up an explanation as the blush increased on his cheeks. "Ah, well, umm, I just—I noticed that your pencil was this color, and you have a keychain this color, too. The keychain on your bag? The one you bought when we, umm, went to that one volleyball tournament with José Blanco in ele—"

You fought the warmth that was crawling up your cheeks. You were so honored that he noticed the little things. "Thanks, Iwa, you made my day. Winning competitions is nothing compared to you and the eventual fall of the patriarchy."

"Good to know I'm as important as the fall of the patriarchy," Iwaizumi said.

You scrunched up your nose and stuck out your tongue in response. Iwaizumi noticed your face and ruffled your head roughly. His warm eyes crinkled as he smiled. You had never looked Iwaizumi in the eyes before. 

Iwaizumi said, releasing his hand, "Crappy-kawa didn't come, if you were wondering that."

At the sound of Oikawa's name, you frowned. It had been a while since your fight with the pretty boy. It was the worst fight you and he had yet. In the past, you and he had petty fights, such as who was prettier—Leia or Padmé—and who was Iwaizumi's true best friend—which was settled with a rock, paper, scissors game (and you won).

You lost count of how many exact weeks and days you and Oikawa had been giving each other the silent treatment. At school, you would sit in your homeroom with your girl friends, and they would ask why you weren't sitting with Oikawa that day. You would seethe out a reply, and every time it would be different. Oikawa sat with his volleyball teammates. You didn't know how he was doing, and you didn't particularly care either.

"Hmm?" you said. "Who's that?"

"[Y/N]."

You said nothing. You thought about how if men came from Mars, it wouldn't be so bad to send some of them back—especially Oikawa Tooru.

"He doesn't hate you, you know."

"He should be, and he does," you said. "He spoke the truth, and he told me how he really felt."

Iwaizumi sighed, and whenever Iwaizumi sighed, your mood would fall. Iwaizumi said, "he crossed a line, and I talked to him about that. He was angry, [Y/N]. He didn't mean those things. He's just a shitty guy."

"That's exactly why he meant those things, Iwa," you reasoned out. "When people are angry, they say the things they really think."

"And where did you learn that?"

"Star Wars," you replied smugly. "The third episode where Darth Vader, formerly known as Anakin Skywalker, and Obi-Wan Kenobi fought on Mustafar."

"Always Star Wars with you, idiot." Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. "But do you hate him, [Y/N]?"

"Just a little bit," you admitted. "What he said was true, and that's why I hate him for it. I shouldn't have told him what to do, but I was concerned. I honestly think I overstepped my boundaries."

"That's the funny thing about arguments," Iwaizumi said, "no one is really in the right."

You gave Iwaizumi a wide, unforgiving smile. "Of course, he's going to be the one to apologize."

"You have such a big ego."

"Shut up, Meanie-zumi," you said loudly. "I'm a wounded young woman who has been wronged by society and men."

Deep down, you knew you were a very proud girl. Insecure, sure, but proud nonetheless. It was pride that told you that your argument with Oikawa wasn't your fault and that he had no idea what to do with a girl like you. However, it was insecurity that told you that you were at fault and messy and that you were hungry for candied apples and justice.

"Would this wounded young woman who has been wronged by society and men be willing to come look at the koinobori with me?" Iwaizumi asked.

The question seemed to jump out of Iwaizumi's throat—out of nowhere, almost. Iwaizumi immediately looked shocked, more so at himself. Smudges of red bloomed on his skin, and spread to beneath his eyes and to the tips of his ears. His warm eyes flitted from you to the side and then back to you.

"That'll be a lot of fun," you said, squeezing the bouquet closer to your chest. The flowers tickled the underside of your chin with the soft petals. "Isn't it something you go to see with your family, though? Don't you have a koinobori to hang up with them?"

"You'll go with me?"

"Yeah," you said. "My family doesn't really celebrate Children's Day anyway. Not even with Adam. That's just our American side showing."

Children's Day was a day nationally set aside to celebrate children and their happiness. You had only seen the celebrations through your TV screen, as your family didn't celebrate it. Your family hardly celebrated any Japanese national holidays. They did, however, celebrate Christmas, but you were gone during winter breaks because you were in America.

Iwaizumi lit up. "The festival is so cool, [Y/N]. I don't know how to explain it. It's colorful and friendly. You'll like it—you'll like it a lot. It's a perfect way to celebrate your competition. What 'bout your mother, [Y/N]? You should ask for permission."

You wondered how a festival could be friendly. Then you said, "I'll ask. What about your parents? You celebrate Children's Day, don't you?"

"Ah, well, I'm not a child anymore," Iwaizumi said, waving his hand. "I'm thirteen."

"Old enough to drive a car," you said, nodding along.

"No? No, it's not?"

"I never said legally."

Days passed quickly and calmly.

"No Oikawa-san again?" one of your friends asked during lunch when you sat with her. "How long have you had this fight with him?"

With her mouth full, your other friend said, "I think you should apologize. The fight might not be your fault, but at least the fight would be resolved. Then you, Iwaizumi-san, and Oikawa-san can live happily ever after."

"Why would I apologize?" you asked. "Men are pigs."

Thirteen-year-olds were constantly angry. You personally were angry because the world was unsatisfactory. 

The world was ugly.

Every day, you would sit in the same train seat whenever you wanted to travel. The Miyagi Prefecture really was your home despite being such an alien. You were tired. You were tired of looking at the inside of the Japanese train. You should've slain dragons and been granted magical powers and started a rebellion by now!

You rested your head on Iwaizumi's shoulder, and you noticed all of the beautiful things you did have.

Attempting to romanticize your boring everyday life, you studied the symmetrical hang handles, the grab handles, and handrails. The sun's light flitted through the windows as the train rumbled on.

Iwaizumi looked perpetually angry, and you loved it. The sun-kissed boy had the softest hair despite its strangeness (you once grappled his hair when he stole your candy from your lunch box) and the oddest laugh that was too kind to be a cackle and too sharp to be a giggle.

Iwaizumi Hajime was no Oikawa Tooru. Iwaizumi was rougher and less cleanly cut around the edges. He was like sandpaper and the hot summer sun. Iwaizumi stretched and jumped like a true ace during practice, but it seemed he would forever only be a smidgen taller than you (unlike Oikawa who was lanky like a bean sprout).

You and he were one of the few boy-girl friendships in your grade. Friendships like yours were often ruined by romance and petty fights.

The doors of the train opened, and you and Iwaizumi exited the train. 

"You've gotten taller," you said to Iwaizumi, sizing him up.

Iwaizumi looked amused. "You haven't."

On sunny days, you and Iwaizumi would escape to the greenery of the park where he and you had first met. No matter how old or tall you seemed to grow, it always came back here.

He and you dawdled on the hill where Oikawa had promised you that he would set the moon. It was a very pleasant hill with very pleasant memories, but the thought of Oikawa dampened your spirits. As aforementioned, his friendship with you was ruined. Another rare boy-girl friendship had gone down the drain because of your incessant pride and his undeniable harshness.

You rolled around in the sharp grass, uncaring of the leafy blades that poked at your skin. Dirt and small leaves stuck to your clothes, and you knew your mother would nag you about it later. However, consequences were no match for cool ideas.

"You'll get pimples if you keep rolling around like a pig," Iwaizumi said.

"Oink oink," you said.

Iwaizumi was a bundle of sturdy sticks. He was a wolf. He was a bug-hunting adventure that lasted forever. There was something so simplistic about Iwaizumi that made you feel at home. It was to walk into the woods and smell the earthy scent of the first rain of the year.

Kicking off your shoes, you waded barefoot into the river that looped around the hill. You watched the fish swim away from your ankles, and studied the mossy rocks beneath you. The water was too shallow to skip rocks, but Iwaizumi swore to you that he knew how to. You didn't believe him and laughed his protests away.

Iwaizumi followed you into the river, kicking his shoes off as well. He attempted to scoop the fish up into his hands. The clear water pooled in his calloused hands, but there were no fish. He cursed.

A frog croaked on a certain rock.

It was a beguiling frog with murky green-brown skin. Its cheeks blew up, and it let out another satisfying croak. 

You crouched down near the stone, uncaring if the hem of your clothes got wet from the gurgling stream. Slowly, you ushered the frog softly into your open palm. You patted the back of the frog, slowly easing it into your palm. 

The frog was small in your hands, and you cupped it gently. The frog stared openly at you, its eyelids ever so often blinking. Its skin was slimy in your hands, and you lightly brushed your thumb against its back. There was no real response other than another croak out of the frog.

"It looks like you," you said, whirling around to meet Iwaizumi's rather impressed face. "The frog."

"You have dirt on your face, Suzuki," Iwaizumi said.

You pressed your shoulder against your cheek, attempting to smear the dirt off. The frog's color was the same color as Iwaizumi's eyes. Iwaizumi's eyes were murky. If one had asked you what color they were on a Monday, you'd say brown, but if one had asked you the same question on a Tuesday, you'd say green.

The frog leapt out of your hands, much to your dismay.

You washed your hands of the frog's leftover essence in the stream, letting the cool water run over your digits. After Iwaizumi had told you that you had dirt smudged on your right cheek, you gathered water and rubbed it accordingly. The water dripped down your chin and soiled your clothes.

"For a pianist, you sure do have butterfingers," Iwaizumi remarked.

"Ha-ha," you dryly said.

"I'll race you to the top of the hill," Iwaizumi said, turning around. You stood up too quickly, wobbling your arms in the air for balance. He gave you a wicked grin. "Three, two, on—hey, no cheating!"

You bolted up the hill, barefoot and ahead of your best friend. Your shoes and his shoes had been discarded at the foot of the hill as you ran forward. Iwaizumi let out one of his odd laughs and followed suit. He nearly tackled you, but you dodged his reach just in time. 

However, his hand caught on your ankle, and you went down.

"I hate you," you grumbled, rolling over on your back. 

Iwaizumi crawled next to you. "It's because my hands are so big. If I were the one carrying that frog of yours, I wouldn't have dropped it."

"Hey," you said, "I didn't drop it. It went voluntarily. Who am I to hold Mr. Frog back from sight-seeing?"

"Whatever you say, butterfingers."

"Hold up your hands, Iwa," you said, irked. "Let's measure."

Iwaizumi kind of wanted to hold your hand.

Asking you to put your hand in his was too much for him—too forward. He settled with teasing you for having butterfingers and bragged that his hands were bigger than yours. Iwaizumi knew which buttons to push, and your competitive streak would show.

For now, he was all right with measuring his hand against yours all because it meant he could brush his clammy, hormonal palm against yours.

Iwaizumi liked studying your hand against his. You had piano hands and long fingers accustomed to stroking the notes. Your hands were simply so small compared to his, and he had to fight the urge to slip his fingers in between yours and intertwine them. The palms of your hands were soft and hardly bruised from constant volleyball practice, which contradicted his hands.

"I think my hands are getting bigger," you noted.

"You wish, Suzuki."

He couldn't seem to fixate on anything but your hand. You and he were seated atop the grassy hill with a clear blue sky, and the river that flowed around the hill trickled over rocks and moss. He was in the middle of it before he had realized that it began.

Iwaizumi knew one thing, and that was the fact that he really, really liked being your friend.

"You should make up with Shitty-kawa." The words had escaped Iwaizumi before he could even register what he had said.

You let out a groan. "You, too? Why does everyone want me to make up with him? He hasn't talked to me since. Why should I talk to him?"

"Try to be the bigger person?" Iwaizumi offered weakly.

"I can't," you said furiously. "I'm thirteen, and I pick up frogs for fun."

"Think about it this way: I want to eat lunch with you again," Iwaizumi said. "I don't want to choose between you and Oikawa whenever I sit down. It'd be nice to eat together again."

"Meanie-zumi," you called out, pointing to a certain koinobori, "that carp looks like you. The really mean and ugly one up there."

Iwaizumi hit the back of your head.

"Let's get sticky rice cakes," Iwaizumi said simply, dragging you down the plain and to the vendors. You and he navigated around the picnicking families. "Is there anything you want?"

The demise of the 1%, you thought.

"Candied apples," you said.

The festival was beautiful.

It was held over a shallow river with a large grassy sloped plain that was flat enough to house various tents, each blooming a different colorful color. Of course, the tents paled in comparison to the koinobori that colored the sky in small swatches of paint.

Koinobori were cylindrical kites that were shaped like carps. The wind flowed through the kites, causing its tails to flap back wildly and imitating real carps swimming upstream. They were hung from poles and lines that were strung over Iwaizumi's local river like laundry lines.

Families with their own kites set up their respective poles, hiking up the colorful koinobori to showcase for the entire world to see. A few were settled with picnic blankets on the plain, and children ran around in circles with their siblings.

You finally understood what Iwaizumi had meant when he said the festival had been friendly. Families cuddled up near each other, and the vendors shouted for attention. The koinobori and the tents were different colors, too. This festival was friendly, indeed.

Compared to all the small children present, you and Iwaizumi were far too old to be at this sort of event. This event was targeted toward children, not second-year middle schoolers. Even so, you had never seen a koinobori kite this close, and you tugged on the hem of Iwaizumi's shirt, telling him that you wanted a closer look.

Iwaizumi knew that he could grow tired of looking at the koinobori on Children's Day. He had gone to this festival nearly all his life, and this view wasn't anything new to him. When he would come here with his family, he'd hold his father's watch in his hands, counting the hours and minutes until they were able to go home.

But Iwaizumi could never grow tired of looking at you.

You and he walked side-by-side with candied apples in hand and thoughts of the demise of the 1% in mind.

A vendor shouted, "goldfish for sale! Goldfish for sale! Buy for your son! For your daughter! Hell, buy one for your cat!"

The voice belonged to a girl seated behind a bright blue stall. She wore a cap to protect her eyes from the sun, and in front of her was a display of various goldfish lined up in little plastic baggies. She waved a wild hand around, attempting to grab people's attention.

The goldfish were blotches of bright orange, stark against the clear waters they swam in. The bags were far too small for the goldfish, but they managed. A few swam around just fine, nipping at the squashed corners of the plastic bags, and others seemed to be suspiciously floating upside down.

When you and Iwaizumi approached, the girl said, "ah, do you two want a goldfish?"

"Yes, please," you blurted. At five years old, you intended to have a stag beetle army. At thirteen, you decided that you would spice it up and lead a naval army instead.

The girl lowered her voice to a whisper. "Technically, I'm not allowed to sell to children, but business is doing very poorly. I'll give you guys a freebie! How does that sound?"

"Sounds good," Iwaizumi said. "Don't give [Y/N] any of the dead fish you have up front, though."

The girl blanched. "They're just sleeping." 

In no time, you and Iwaizumi became parents to a singular goldfish in a small plastic baggie. This goldfish was lazy and bounced from the sides of the baggie like a buoy. Iwaizumi was concerned for its health. You were concerned that it wouldn't be up to the challenge of changing the gender gap in Japan.

"What should we name it?" you asked.

Iwaizumi watched the fish in wonder. It was a child-like wonder that one wouldn't typically see in a thirteen-year-old. His murky frog-brown-green eyes widened, staring at the goldfish that stared back at him. The apples of his tanned cheeks were flushed with red, and a small smile graced his features.

"I think Susan B. Anthony," you said. 

"Berry," Iwaizumi suggested.

"Berry's a little plain, don't you think?" you mused. "Susan Berry Anthony, on the other hand—"

"What 'bout Zacco?" Iwaizumi asked, tearing his gaze away from the fish to look at you. "Zacco."

Zacco platypus—otherwise known as pale chub or Oikawa.

You were the one who told this fun fish fact to Iwaizumi when he was crying about the American movie Titanic. When you and Iwaizumi showed off a magazine with this very fish, Oikawa wasn't very impressed and replied with: 'Why do you two look so proud of this?'

It was a very cute name for a fish. It fit perfectly in your thirteen-year-old mouth. You hated to say it, but for a Godzilla-obsessed volleyball freak, Iwaizumi might have been on to something.

Although this name was likely a ploy for you to make up with Oikawa, you couldn't deny that it worked. It had been weeks since you last spoke to the boy, and you knew that Oikawa loved nothing more than attention. You believed that there was no better time than the present to take action.

In a way, other than the name, Oikawa was like this goldfish. It was alone in its little plastic world with only you and Iwa for company. Even if the goldfish refused to eat and even if the goldfish disliked the infrastructure of its future home, you would relentlessly take care of it. Being a friend wasn't something you could throw away easily.

"I like it," you said. "I like that a lot."

Maybe it was time to check up on Oikawa.

"[Y/N]-nee-chan!" Takeru lit up upon seeing your face, opening the door when you had knocked. Takeru was around five years old, and he certainly looked it. He would be starting elementary school anytime soon. "You're back!"

"I'm back," you said. You crouched down to Takeru's height and placed a finger over your lips. "Can you keep me a secret from Oikawa-nii-san? He doesn't know I'm here."

Takeru nodded eagerly. "Oba-san said that you and Oikawa-nii-san were fighting."

Oikawa's nephew let you into the house, and you took off your shoes at the entrance. You waddled quietly into the kitchen after the small boy. A small wooden photograph was flipped on its face on a coffee table. You set it on its feet, staring at an image of you, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi as kids.

This photo was taken with your disposable camera from America. There was dirt smudged on Iwaizumi's face as he gave the camera a toothy smile. You were proudly clutching your bug net and holding up a peace sign. Oikawa had his arm slung over your shoulder and his tongue sticking out maniacally.

"What did Mrs. Oikawa say?" you asked, forcing your eyes to look away from the photograph.

"She said that Oikawa-nii-san needed to apologize," Takeru said. "It's his fault that he hurt your feelings."

"He didn't hurt my feelings that much. Some of it was my fault, too."

Takeru whirled around and looked up at you with wide eyes. "Oba-san gave Oikawa-nii-san lectures every night whenever he came home from school without making up with you. Something about respecting women."

You liked Oikawa's mother. 

"Anyway, she said that it was no way to treat a girl you liked," Takeru said, opening the fridge to look for food. It seemed Oikawa's mother was out for the day, which meant Oikawa was supposed to be watching his nephew. He was doing a poor job of it. "Which boys do you like at school, [Y/N]-nee-chan? I bet all the boys like you."

"I like bald boys," you said. "I want to punt their heads off of the Tokyo Skytree."

"When I'm older, I'll shave my head for you!" Takeru said and pumped his fists up happily. "Then you'll like me, right, [Y/N]-nee-chan? You're kind of scary, but you're really pretty!"

"Thanks," you said. "I'll see you at the Tokyo Skytree, handsome."

"Are you flirting with my five-year-old nephew?" a voice came from the top of the stairs.

The voice belonged to none other than Oikawa Tooru, breaker of hearts and volleyball. His brown curls were unruly and messy, indicating that Oikawa had just woken up, but seeing that it was late in the afternoon, that wasn't very probable. There was a small, unsatisfied pout on his face.

"Are you here to apologize?" His voice tightened.

"I'm here to talk to you," you said.

"I'm supposed to be the one who comes to your house and apologizes. I'm supposed to be the one who begs for forgiveness," Oikawa protested. Oikawa was still. He gripped the stairwell's handrail. He stared at you. "I'd—I'd been meaning to!"

You hadn't. You had come here on a whim.

"It wasn't your fault," Oikawa said. "It never was your fault."

"I overstepped my boundaries," you felt compelled to point out. "I was giving you empty advice, and I was telling you what to do even though I had no experience prior."

Oikawa ambled down the stairs, the soft padding of his household slippers hitting the wood steps. He kept his hand steady on the handrail. Takeru found leftover pizza in the fridge and hauled the cardboard box into his room, leaving you and Oikawa alone. He didn't notice the heavy tension.

"No, [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa said. "I was wrong, and I know it. I was wrong for being harsh, and I was wrong for ignoring you for a month afterward."

"You say you'd been meaning to apologize to me," you said. "Then why did you not say a single thing to me? I would've... I would've said something back if you had only talked to me."

"But it was my fault." Oikawa's voice started off as quiet. It slowly rose as he descended the steps. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't talk back to me. I wished you wouldn't have talked back to me. It was what I deserved for being such an ignorant prick blinded by shitty, worthless pride."

What a coincidence. [Y/N] Suzuki and Oikawa Tooru had incessant pride to match. 

Even if Oikawa apologized, it wouldn't erase the heavy feeling in your heart when he had rubbed salt into your wounds. You'd still stay up at night, thinking about how you could never be a better person and how you were so passionless for a musician. You'd have to throw your blankets over your head to ward off all the bad thoughts.

You'd still brush your teeth, staring at yourself in the mirror, and wonder if you were destined for greater things or if you had to snatch destiny for yourself. Oikawa had exposed the worst parts of yourself to the world, and you weren't sure if you were ready to wholly forgive him just yet.

Oikawa reached the floor, looking down at you with his summer hazel eyes. He had always been tall for his age—a decent size for a volleyball player. You were a growing girl yourself but you had always been a whisper away from your volleyball friends' heights.

"And I thought about you every day," Oikawa said. "I thought about you and how I had completely ruined our friendship because I was angry that I wasn't good enough. I thought about you so, so much."

"I just"—you thought over your words (more carefully this time, though)—"I just wanted you to take care of your health, and I'm sorry—"

"Don't say sorry," Oikawa cut you off. "I understand where you're coming from. I didn't back then. I wanted to become better than Ushiwaka too soon and too quickly. Like I said, I was thinking a lot over the past month."

"Thank you for thinking about me." You crossed your arms over your body, suddenly conscious of the draft of AC that flooded the Oikawa household. You tilted your head up to look at Oikawa. "I wasn't in a position to give you advice, but I gave it anyway. In a way, it's both of our faults, really."

"Maybe more so my fault," Oikawa admitted. "I'll shoulder most of the blame. I hit a sensitive subject, didn't I?"

"But what you said was true." You fought the happiness that was rising in you. Now was not the time to be happy. The world was still fucked over by men. But a smaller part of you wanted to convince yourself that it wouldn't be so selfish to be happy just once. "That's the funny thing about arguments. No one is really in the right."

Oikawa hardly talked about his feelings; you wanted to carve out his head hollow and have him tell you everything. It gave you flutters in your chest when Oikawa was being genuine.

He had done plenty of thinking in the month of your absence. He had done so much thinking that his mind undoubtedly belonged to a depressed poet or an elderly man. Whenever you were on his mind, he quieted down and began to think. It was unlike Oikawa Tooru to be so quiet.

Without you, Oikawa Tooru was in something along the lines of heartbreak.

Girls came as soon as they heard about the rift between you and him. They wanted to assume the place of Oikawa's best friend—and perhaps evolve into something more—and Oikawa let them. He let them talk about their interests, whether it be reading books or visiting museums or karaoke, and the more they talked, the more Oikawa fought the urge to say, 'Oh, [Y/N] would like a book like that' or 'I'll take [Y/N] there sometime.'"

The conversation with them only scratched Oikawa's surface. It would never delve deep like the late-night phone calls about Star Wars theories or analyses. It would never swim down and pierce his heart like helping you study for a test you had so carelessly set aside. It wasn't you.

He just wanted a meaningless conversation with you.

It felt as if he were a fish in a very small glass bowl. He would watch you and Iwaizumi laugh about an inside joke (let him in on the inside joke, too!) or overhear about your plans to look at the koinobori (oh, you had never been? Oikawa would be more than happy to take you).

It was just Oikawa. It was him and his tender self, dying to be loved.

Realizing what he had felt about you was horrifying. It was to realize that he was incapable of living, of breathing, without you around. He blamed it on hormones and the fact that he was still in junior high—but it didn't disregard the fact that he wouldn't hesitate to put himself down, yet when it came to you, his heart could only swell with pride.

There was no one he'd rather storm Area 51 with.

He was in love with you, and it was a feeling that pushed him into the dryer and spun him around and around until he retched. It was a life-changing, time-freezing, world-stops-spinning sort of moment that he thought he would only feel when he was much, much older. He wondered how long he could keep this to himself.

Oikawa was loud.

Loud people demanded to be heard because they didn't know how to do it softly. Oikawa's mind ran a mile a minute. He was constantly thinking and striving and reaching. His presence grabbed attention, and his determination spoke ten words when only two were needed. Young Oikawa was triumphant and loud.

But secrets—secrets were quiet, and quiet people asked for attention because they didn't know how to do it assertively. To be quiet was to be calm, soft, and lulling. Quietness never strove or reached but rather gravitated. Quiet was a fierce beauty that could only be heard in the rhythmic thumping of the heart.

And you—you were Oikawa's greatest secret.

You made Oikawa quiet.

"Thank you for your apology, Tooru," you said. "It really means a lot."

His name was pretty on your lips and on your tongue. Oikawa wanted to hear you say his name over and over again. He wanted to say everything he was thinking about you. He doubted he could fit the words he felt toward you into coherent sentences, and he doubted that you wanted to hear them in the first place.

Being in love with you didn't change anything. Oikawa shouldn't have been so harsh to you, even if his words were true. You deserved a genuine apology. You deserved so much more than a boy with inferiority complex.

Oikawa Tooru had hurt your feelings, and you had chosen to forgive him. You shouldn't have. You knew you shouldn't have forgiven him. He was the worst. He knew he was the worst. You were being kind in a dog-eat-dog world.

So he cried.

He cried, and you hugged him fiercely, bringing his warm body to yours and mumbling half-choked apologies about what you had done wrong. You had never done anything wrong in your entire life, he believed. He believed in that like he believed in aliens. He swore that he'd become better, and he swore it on you.

He swore it on you because there was nothing he believed in more.

Chapter Text

"Here," you said, tossing Oikawa a bottle of Advil.

Oikawa sat on the metal bench, sitting out from a practice match. His long legs were outstretched and wide open in front of him. You dubbed him 'Daddy Long Legs' which he took with an absurd amount of pride. His hand gripped the back of the metal bench in slight pain as his free hand caught your pill bottle.

You sat next to him on the bench. "Forget to stretch last night?"

"My right knee has always been more sensitive than my left," Oikawa admitted. He dry-swallowed a pill before fastening the lid back on. His black knee pads were discarded to prevent pressure on his right knee. "I need to eat pickles."

"You really ought to get a knee supporter," you said. "For preventative reasons, of course."

"What color?" Oikawa asked, closing his eyes.

"Pink," you said.

Oikawa's eyes were still closed. "Maybe I'll ask Adam instead. It looks like the keen eye for fashion doesn't run in the family."

In Iwaizumi, and Oikawa's third year of middle school with you, Oikawa was chosen as captain of Kitagawa First's volleyball team with Iwaizumi as vice captain. Their vow was to finally make Ushijima Wakatoshi eat dust.

There were many prospective first-years for the volleyball team. Those prospective first-years included Suzuki Adam—your brother—Kindaichi Yutaro, Kunimi Akira, and Kageyama Tobio—a young boy from Akiyama Elementary school who had allegedly been playing since he was in second grade. 

While the first three named boys were increasingly average in their plays—with Kunimi skipping practice every so often, much to the coach's dismay—Kageyama Tobio had caught the eyes of many. With plays like those, Tobio could easily assume a position in the starting six.

Iwaizumi was neither threatened by the first-years' presence nor insecure about his role in the starting six. He utilized and taught the first-years as a true vice captain should have. The first-years watched Iwaizumi with innocent eyes, making you wonder if you had made eyes like that when you were a first year.

Oikawa, on the other hand, saw Kageyama as an obstacle he had to overcome. You loved Oikawa's tenacity and determination, but it often led Oikawa to overwork himself time and time again. You even started to keep a bottle of Advil in your school bag for your menstrual cramps and Oikawa's muscle pain.

One day, you were seated outside of the gym, waiting for Iwaizumi and Oikawa to finish their practice.

A small, yellow dandelion twirled in between your thumb and index finger lazily. Your legs were outstretched in front of you, and your school bag was discarded to the side and its contents were free-flowing from it. You stared at a certain crumpled sheet of paper that had yet to be filled out by you. 

"Thank you, Iwaizumi-san," a voice said, coming from the entrance of the gym.

It was a young boy with evenly parted black hair. It was clipped right above his small brows, and his eyes were wide open with excitement—it was as if he needed to absorb every part of the gym or else the view before him would disappear. He was fairly skinny for his age. You ultimately decided that he needed to consume more calcium.

Ah, this was Kageyama Tobio, the bane of Oikawa's existence.

"Iwaizumi-san is so cool," Kageyama said to himself when the gym doors closed shut.

"He's not that cool," you piped up and gave the dandelion in your hand another twirl. "Why are you staying at the gym so late, To-Kageyama-kun? Most first-years are gone by now."

You had nearly slipped and used Oikawa's endearing nickname for Kageyama—Tobio-chan.

"I wanted to practice," Kageyama said bluntly. "The upperclassmen and coaches don't let us practice until they're done."

"Stupid upperclassmen," you remarked, slowly picking the yellow petals off of the flower. "Respect this, respect that. I think we should obliterate anyone older than twenty."

Kageyama fiddled with his school bag. "You shouldn't say that. You're a first-year, aren't you?"

You dropped your dandelion.

It was an excellent thing to look young, but for a first-year to acknowledge you as a first-year really stung your ego. Oikawa relentlessly teased you for the baby fat in your face, and you were usually immune to offhand insults. There wasn't a single thing anybody had said to you with ill intent that Oikawa hadn't said to you first.

"I'm a third-year," you protested. "A. Third. Year."

Kageyama's eyes widened—you didn't even know that was possible in the first place. His people skills seemed to be below adequate. "Oh. Sorry...?"

"Suzuki [Y/N]," you offered. "I'm Adam's older sister."

"Adam Suzuki?" Kageyama questioned. "In elementary school, I was on the same team as him. You don't look like him—err—he doesn't look like you."

"He's adopted," you said dryly.

Kageyama crossed his arms. "Don't siblings walk home with each other? Suzuki is long gone. He doesn't like school. Who are you waiting for?"

"You have a sister," you said. "An older one, too. Why don't you walk home with her?"

"She's eight years older than me," Kageyama said. His blue eyes flitted from your sitting self to the gym doors. Something told you that Kageyama had drawn a horrible presumption. "Ah. You must be confessing to Oikawa-san then. He's pretty popular."

Your jaw slackened and heat rushed to your cheeks. You? Confessing to Oikawa Tooru? The thought itself was so preposterous that you had to laugh, but the fact that you were accused of confessing was embarrassing in itself. You felt the urge to muster up an excuse.

Kageyama Tobio had wounded your pride without even knowing it.

"Iwaizumi-san, then?" Kageyama asked. "He's popular, too. He has a lot of muscles."

You wanted to tear at your head. Why must everyone assume it was romance with you? It wasn't like you were a main character of a romance show or novel. You were the main character of an action movie or an apocalypse TV show! You fought cool robots, tamed Godzilla, and fought Anakin Skywalker!

"Thanks, Kageyama," Iwaizumi said from behind Kageyama. He must have finished locking up the classroom while Oikawa practiced more serves or sets inside. "[Y/N], are you ready?"

You stood up and dusted your clothes off. "What about Oikawa?"

"Shitty-kawa's cleanin' up the gym," Iwaizumi said. "He said he would if I let him practice his serves more."

"Oikawa-san practices so much," Kageyama said as Iwaizumi helped you clean up your books and belongings on the floor. "He's the best middle school setter in the prefecture. I've heard about him. He's really good."

"Kageyama-kun," you said, "Oikawa's just a volleyball maniac. He's not some superhuman being."

"You don't call me Iwaizumi-kun," Iwaizumi pointed out, passing you your tattered Mathematics book.

"I'll call you slave, if you want."

Kageyama nodded with excitement. His hair bounced with each nod. "I've seen his serves, though, Suzuki-san. Do you think he'd teach me how to serve like him if I ask?"

You and Iwaizumi exchanged a glance.

"You could always try," Iwaizumi said, standing up. You swung your school bag over your shoulders. You dusted off a dandelion petal from Iwaizumi's shoulder all the while suppressing the urge to eat said petal. "There's no harm in asking, but don't expect much."

"But don't ask right now," you said. "Not when he's practicing after hours."

Zacco the fish lived a chaotic life.

He was exchanged each month, going from the Iwaizumi household to the Suzuki household as if he were a child of a messy divorce.

Zacco was handled with inadequate care in the Suzuki household, where Adam overfed Zacco in hopes for Zacco to get so fat that he sunk to the bottom of the fish tank. Nothing scared Zacco more than being in Iwaizumi's hands, where flying baseballs nearly crashed his tank every other second and rowdy shouts of Iwaizumi Hajime disturbed the silence.

He was thus saved by a god, who went by the name of Oikawa Tooru. Oikawa Tooru rescued Zacco the fish from the hands of two monsters. The Oikawa household was filled with women (and a very handsome young boy) who took care of Zacco accordingly. No more wild baseballs or fish food so frequent that Zacco could feel his own metabolism lower—

"Hey," you interrupted, "why is Zacco a boy? Zacco could be a girl, you know."

Oikawa made a face. "You interrupted my story, [Y/N]-chan! Zacco is a boy because—"

"If Zacco's a boy, go look for the penis," Iwaizumi called from the couch. He was strewn over the comfortable pillows, and he clicked the remote in his hand to change the channels of the TV. "Tell me when you find it."

"You're so vulgar, Iwa-chan," Oikawa said. "Even if Zacco's born a girl, if Zacco feels like a boy, then Zacco is a boy. Penis or not."

"Gender doesn't matter," you said. "Zacco just wants to see the fall of the patriarchy. Don't you, little Zacco? Let's close the Japan gender gap, Zacco-chan! Let's give women equal pay, hmm?"

Iwaizumi opened a bag of potato chips. Oikawa perked up from watching Zacco swim around in the tank. He whirled around and attempted to snatch the bag from Iwaizumi's hands. Iwaizumi didn't bat an eyelash as he moved the bag of chips away from Oikawa's greedy hands.

"Does Zacco want a potato chip?" Iwaizumi asked.

"You're a father," you said, still watching Zacco bob up and down in the tank happily. "Act like it. Feed him justice."

Iwaizumi said, "what if this father wants to feed his child a potato chip?"

"Huh?" Oikawa cut in. "Iwa-chan's the father? And you're the mother, [Y/N]-chan? What does that make me in this family dynamic? The dog?"

"Say woof and I'll toss you a potato chip," Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa crossed his arms. "That's not fair."

"If you want, you can be the babysitter," you said. You blinked. "Oh! Or the really cool rich aunt. I've always wanted to be one of those."

"I don't want any of those," Oikawa said.

"Being a parent is lame, Oikawa," you bemoaned, settling your arms on the counter and resting your head down. "It's all responsibility, and responsibility is just a longer word for hell."

Oikawa whined, "I know it's about responsibility! I'm a team captain; I know all about responsibility. It's—It's about who I'm wit—never mind! You and Iwa-chan are terrible people."

"Don't argue in front of the child," Iwaizumi said, getting up from the couch. He rolled up the potato chip bag and set it on the counter. He turned the TV off manually before dusting any excess crumbs off his clothes. You leapt onto the couch that Iwaizumi had just vacated, the pillows warm from Iwaizumi's prolonged nap.

The child, in this case, would be the rather obese goldfish bobbing in the fish tank. You, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi stared at Zacco, who stared back. Zacco blinked owlishly—how uncharacteristic for a goldfish. Silence filled the room.

"I take better care of Zacco," Oikawa replied, glowering at Iwaizumi. "He lives at my house because you nearly knocked him over with a baseball bat!"

"Accidentally," Iwaizumi added.

"As if that makes it any better!"

"You can be the mother, Oikawa," you offered. Oikawa shook his head. "No? Not that, either, huh?"

Iwaizumi crossed his arms. His gaze flitted from you to Oikawa before sighing. He scratched the back of his neck. "Agh, Oikawa, you can be the father."

"Really?" Oikawa asked, immediately lighting up.

"Yeah," Iwaizumi said, waving his hand in dismissal. "It's as you said. Zacco lives at your place. And you're too pussy to swing a baseball bat at him. There's no point in arguing about it. [Y/N], we're getting a divorce."

"Oikawa," you called out lazily, "you've got to propose to me now."

Oikawa, who had been standing behind the couch, flushed a deep scarlet. He gripped the edge of the couch until his knuckles turned white. He suppressed his blush before clearing his throat. "Do I have to, [Y/N]-chan?"

"Yeah, get me a big ring, too," you said. "The economy looks good right now."

"You just want me for my money," Oikawa teased. "I always knew I'd be a rich guy in the future."

"If I wanted money, I would have married Iwa." You turned your head to look Oikawa in the eyes. "Maybe I married you because you said you would as a failsafe marriage. Maybe I married you because I want your pet fish. Maybe I married you so I could get closer to Watanabe Ken—I know you have connections, Oikawa Tooru."

Oikawa tried to hide a smile. "I never pegged you as a romantic."

"If you keep this up, I'll go back to Iwaizumi," you said. "Now go get the pota—"

Oikawa walked over to your side of the couch and dramatically got on one knee. Your face immediately went hot. You laughed at the silliness of Oikawa Tooru.

He drew something out of his pockets—a ring? He had a ring on hand? Well, you knew Oikawa was a rich kid—and he revealed a gum wrapper. Oikawa's hands fumbled with the gum wrapper, quickly shaping it into a sad heap of a ring. It was a little limp and a little half-assed, but it was a cute gum wrapper ring.

You eyed Oikawa. Oikawa's eyes darted from you to the side shyly. It was a joke, he knew, it was all one big joke! But he couldn't help it. He couldn't register anything, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knee. He gave you one of his customary smiles sheepishly, and you resisted the urge to ruffle Oikawa's brown hair.

The words perfectly fit Oikawa's mouth, but he felt as if he were saying this too soon. Oikawa had always been a smooth-talker and a very loud person, but his words stumbled and tripped and ran over each other messily.

"[Y/N]-cha—I mean, Suzu—no, that doesn't sound right. Err, [Y/N]," Oikawa said, void of the -chan ending for the first time in his life ever since your first meeting with him, "will you marry me?"

"I asked for the potato chips," you said. "Not for your hand in marriage."

"Can you at least say yes?" Oikawa asked. "My pride's on the line here."

"You're so stupid, Tooru," you said. "I can't believe I used to tell you my super smart Star Wars theories."

Ah, he thought, you ought to stop saying my name like that.

If Oikawa could, he could get drunk on the way you said his name.

Unfortunately, Oikawa Tooru was fourteen and a half, and you didn't say his first name very often (only when Oikawa was being sillier than usual and when he needed a good talking to). It made Oikawa want to misbehave a little more when you were around.

The ring was slipped on your bare fourth finger on your left hand. Oikawa slid it on shakily, and you made fun of him for it. You admired the shitty gum wrapper ring in the sunlight. It glinted and shimmered.

You imagined a fat diamond on the ring, one that you could pawn off and make big bucks with. Oikawa imagined a house—four bedrooms, three bathrooms, one story—and maybe a dog. If you were up for it, maybe ki—

"What'd I miss?" Iwaizumi asked, coming back into the living room. A kitchen rag hung over his shoulder, indicating that he had finished washing his hands for whatever reason. He stared at the gum wrapper ring on your left hand and Oikawa kneeling on the floor. "Oh. [Y/N] got married."

Diba was curled up into a ball, seated next to you on the piano bench, while you played.

You were getting agitated while playing the piano. Your fingers picked at the keys, and you felt unsatisfied with the music composition. There was a bubbling voice inside of you that told you to smash your fists against the keys and start over until it was perfect. It was the irrational, childish part of you that spoke like the devil on your shoulder.

Diba's dog, Brahms, trotted into the piano room. Upon hearing you play the piano, he growled and barked at you. His barks were short and clipped and horrifying. His snout was rippled with anger, and he bared his fangs at you. Your hands immediately flew up in surprise.

"Holy shit," you said in Japanese. You cleared your throat and said the obscenity in English for a good measure. "Holy shit."

"He's a gentle dog," Diba said. She tucked her knees closer to her chest. "I suppose he doesn't like your piano playing. Or your Japanese accent."

"I don't either," you said. "Get in line."

Diba said, "there's nothing wrong with an accent. If anything, it's impressive that you can speak three languages."

"I speak two," you corrected.

"Music's a language," Diba said matter-of-factly. It was obvious she intended to make a snarky remark out of it, like 'you're well-versed in stupidity, though' or something similar, so it shocked you when she said music.

You shook your head. "I can't read music the way the composer wants it, and it makes me angry."

"It's outrageous, isn't it?" Diba tucked a hair behind her ear and blankly stared at the wall. "I don't understand why your mom is making you play so specific to the composer's needs. You are not subservient to the composer. The player is king."

"You live in America," you said. "Here, you fight kings and win."

"Even so, even so." Diba waved a hand in dismissal. "If you're asked to do such impossible feats and you hate it, then why do you keep doing it?"

"Because I'm good at it."

Diba snorted. "Is piano what you're good at, or is it the only thing that people acknowledge you for?"

Your American visits were often composed of your father dropping you off at your piano teacher's house, and you spend the day with Diba and her damned dog that hated you. Your father would pick you up in the evening to spend the rest of what little daylight there was to hang out with you.

Sometimes, you would be shown the cities and the lights of America and wonder where the stars of Miyagi had gone. The air was polluted from where you lived, and you missed your hometown's naturalistic feel. It felt so strange to you, but you felt like you belonged here—here in all the strangeness.

They said to follow your dreams, and they said it with ease. It was easier said than done, really. One had to be truly, truly passionate and determined to pursue their dreams. There could be no room for doubt—and you had plenty of that.

For a country so praised for its individuality, America convinced its younger generation that pursuing in art was destined for hard times. It made you want to pursue art—just out of spite. The world did not have enough artists.

"Hey, Waka-chan!" you said to Wakatoshi an hour after you had landed back in Japan.

Wakatoshi's voice was groggy. "[Y/N], it's two in the morning?"

You clutched your phone closer to your ear. The airport was strangely quiet at two in the morning. Where there were usually bustling crowds were whispers and people swaddled in their travel blankets.

"Yes," you admitted, "but let's address the elephant in the room—"

"There's an elephant where you're at?"

"It's your birthday phone call," you explained. "I called you last year like this, too. I promise to call you again at a more reasonable time, but I felt compelled to call you now."

There was a long pause. "If you count time zones, my birthday is technically two days."

"I'm not staying on the phone with you for two days."

"That's not very nice of you."

You sat down. You had been waiting for your mother and Adam to pick you up, but something told you that they would take their sweet, sweet time with it. At least you had Wakatoshi. You always had Wakatoshi. He had been with you since forever, and although you and he weren't as close anymore, you still relied on him just as much as he relied on you.

"Tell me about the All Japan tournament," you said. "I'm bored."

Wakatoshi's side of the phone rustled. He was likely moving to a different location away from his dorms so he could communicate with you better. You heard Wakatoshi's familiar heavy footsteps, and you heard him bump against something. He let out an indignant grunt.

"I saw Sakusa again," Wakatoshi said. "He's doing well, if you were wondering. We're going to be attending the same training camp soon. It'll be coming up. I'll take a photo of the gym for you."

You wondered what you would do with a photo of a gym.

"Thank you," you said.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was a young boy whom Wakatoshi frequently bumped into. You had never personally met Sakusa, as you had never been to official All Japan tourneys, but Wakatoshi sprinkled him into the conversation here and there. Apparently, Sakusa approved of Wakatoshi's skill and often saw Wakatoshi as a good volleyball rival of sorts.

"For high school, you should come to Shiratorizawa," Wakatoshi proposed. 

You rolled your eyes. "Nothing you say will convince my mom to let me enroll into Shiratorizawa. The dorm system doesn't exactly work out for me, and I don't want my entire high school life to depend on cafeteria food. If I eat too much cafeteria pudding, I'll start to look like it."

"Take the exam," Wakatoshi said. "I know you'll pass."

"Shiratorizawa isn't cheap, and it's not like I have an athletics scholarship, either, Waka-chan."

"If you come to Shiratorizawa, I can introduce you to my friends, and I can take you with me to Nationals. You can watch all of my games, and you can cheer me on like you did when we were in elementary school."

"I can do that at a different school," you countered. "Like—"

"Like Aoba Johsai?" Wakatoshi asked. "Shiratorizawa will beat them regardless."

"I know. I just need more time to think about it."

Wakatoshi's voice nearly cut out due to the connection. "You have until December, [Y/N]. I think that you should choose Shiratorizawa. There are horses."

"If I go to Shiratorizawa, will you take me on a horse ride?"

"I'll take you on as many horse rides as you want."

You said, "I'll think about it, Toshi."

Adam Suzuki's ego undoubtedly rose (not that it needed to rise) when you had sprinkled in the fact that Oikawa thought that Adam was fashionable, which wasn't saying much since Oikawa's fashion was pretty shitty. Adam took it upon himself to find Oikawa a fitting knee supporter that wasn't hot pink, much to your dismay.

You were carrying said knee supporter in your school bag, and you were headed toward the gym to drop it off after coming back from your classical music club meeting. You didn't want to be late for your club meeting, so you opted to give the knee supporter afterward.

For a girl so hell-bent on destruction, you were surprisingly punctual.

"Do you have any business with the volleyball club?" a soft voice asked upon your entry.

It was the first-year volleyball club manager that Oikawa managed to round up with ease. Your upperclassman, the previous volleyball club manager, failed to find one and departed Kitagawa First for Aoba Johsai, giving you a sobbing goodbye.

"You must be the new manager," you said to the first-year.

"Are you the other manager? Oikawa-kun told me that there was no other manager," the first-year girl said. She was somewhat tinier than most, and you felt like Godzilla when compared to her. "Who are you?"

"Oikawa-kun?" you repeated incredulously. "What are you, his girlfriend?"

The first-year blushed.

"I'm kidding," you said. "I'm Suzuki [Y/N]."

"Are you looking to be a manager, too?" the first-year asked, clutching her clipboard closer to her chest. "Are you into volleyball? The girls' court on the other side."

You held up your hands in surrender. "I'm nobody. I'm just here to give Oikawa something."

It was obvious the girl had thought that you were giving Oikawa a confession of some sort. One of these days, you really ought to give Oikawa a confession. You'd dress it up in a pink card and decorate little hearts on it. Oikawa would open it up, only for the card to reveal how much of a dickwad he was.

Your brother, Adam Suzuki, was glaring daggers at you from across the court, as he wanted to be the one to give Oikawa the knee supporter, but after a shoddy game of rock-paper-scissors with him, you were given the pleasure of being the gift-giver.

Adam Suzuki may have chosen the color and brand of the knee supporter, but you had bought it with your own money. If anyone was receiving credit for the knee supporter, it would be you because it was directly out of your piggy bank.

Oikawa was patting his teammates on the back, encouraging them and evaluating how they were feeling. He had always been on the more perceptive side of things. Iwaizumi started yelling at Oikawa, who probably provoked him seconds earlier.

The girl awkwardly shifted from foot to foot around you, but you didn't mind her. Instead, you were focused on Kageyama Tobio's intense gameplay. He looked so overjoyed when he was playing volleyball. Those wide eyes of his seemed to be absorbing the entire gymnasium, leaving no speck of dust unseen. 

Kageyama Tobio moved with ease. He had the technical expertise of a high school pro and the energy of a ten-year-old on sugar. He was an excellent well-rounder. It was as if he had been made to do volleyball. A natural genius at it, even. He was very lucky to be good at what he loved to do.

You overheard the coach talking about Kageyama.

"Kageyama will eventually be a setter," the coach said to the supervisor. "He can play any position we need him to and is a natural at the sport. Says he's been playing since second grade, too."

Immediately, you caught sight of Oikawa picking up a ball that had flown out of bounds. He gripped the volleyball harshly and closer to his chest—as if he could absorb the volleyball and become one, too. It was a silly notion, but you wouldn't put it past Oikawa to try and become a 4000 Japanese yen ball.

He had overheard them.

Fuck, you thought, and you turned your head to Iwaizumi, who was also glancing at Oikawa. You didn't need to be telepathically connected with the tanned boy to know that his thoughts were similar to yours.

It would be another day of Oikawa obsessing over his serves until they were 'good enough'—and to Oikawa, they were never good enough. You and Iwaizumi prepped to stay behind just a little longer. 

Soon, practice ended.

"[Y/N]-chan," Oikawa called out, waving at you. "Have you finally come around to marrying me?"

"You'll be the one wearing the wedding dress, then," you said.

Oikawa cracked a smile. "You just want to see me in a dress."

Iwaizumi hit the back of Oikawa's head. "Have fun standing around in heels for an entire day."

"Welcome to being a woman," you said dryly. In Japan, some workplaces required high heels for women in most customer-facing jobs. Many jobs deemed it as mandatory and said it finished the professional look. "I bet you can't play volleyball in a dress."

"Maybe not," Oikawa admitted, rubbing the back of his head, "but I'd be radiant, wouldn't I?"

"As radiant as the sun," you agreed.

"Too much radiance can cause headaches," Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa whined, and you fished through your school bag. You pushed past the crumpled schoolbooks and your disposable camera that was nearly filled up with miscellaneous photos (you were very sure you had snapped a photo of Diba's terrifying hellhound from America).

Eventually, you pulled out a white knee supporter.

"I bought this for you," you said. 

Oikawa took the knee supporter. He broke out into another smile. The apples of his cheeks were dusted with pink. "Thank you, [Y/N]-chan."

Ah, the first-year manager thought, Oikawa is taken.

"You're very much welcome," you said. "And to Iwa, I will give my unconditional love and support."

"Yippee," Iwaizumi said. 

When you had introduced yourself to the first-year, you had said you were nobody. Just some girl who needed to give a knee supporter to a very popular classmate. You didn't look like 'nobody'. The world seemed to revolve around you, almost, whether or not you realized it. 

It was as if you were the main character.

Some main character, the girl thought.

"Go stretch!" you told them. "Get off of me, Iwa! Meanie-zumi! Stupid-zumi!"

Maybe you had worked hard for your main character spot. Maybe there was a point in your life where you had felt that you were less than a main character. Maybe you didn't even think of yourself as the main character, but it was so evident that you were to other people. 

You worked hard, and she could see that.

Everyone started from the bottom, she recognized, and you were no exception.

Looking at your stupid grin and Iwaizumi ruffling your head with familiarity, the girl realized it. It amounted to the same realization one had when they tried a new flavor of boba or when they realized that their favorite food was in stock or when they tried on clothes and found a perfect fit. It was a very happy but very small realization.

This girl—this first-year girl—kind of, sort of wanted to be like you when she was older.

Chapter Text

"Kageyama, you're in."

There was no doubt that Oikawa Tooru was having an off day today. He fumbled up his sets and his serves and lacked the usual communication that he carried whenever he graced the court. 

You watched as Oikawa clasped his hand over Kageyama while the referee briefly surveyed the jersey number. You were unable to catch Oikawa's face, but you saw Kageyama's excited joy and wide eyes from your spot on the bench. Oikawa ambled toward the bench and sat down, his hands clasping his knees. 

He was wearing neither his knee pads nor supporter, you noticed. 

Oikawa bent his head down low and shook as the rest of the team played on. Shouts of 'nice cover' and 'mine' resonated throughout the gym as Oikawa kept his eyes trained toward the ground.

You just hoped that Oikawa wouldn't grow to hate Kageyama more than he already did.

Later that night, you were waiting outside of the gym for Oikawa to finish practicing.

Your skirt was rolled up and hitched over your hips to give your legs more breathable air. You were sprawled over the uncomfortable grass, watching the starless night with displeasure. If you were late to your train stop, it'd all be Oikawa's fault.

Iwaizumi was seated next to you, his elbows propping his upper body up. His eyes took in the boring sky. His blazer was draped over your shoulders since you had accidentally spilled paint on your own blazer. You and he switched blazers throughout the day to prevent the teacher from dress-coding you—the unfortunate reality of attending a Japanese school.

"... and you'd be on my apocalypse dream team, too," Iwaizumi said. 

You snorted. "I'm a lone wolf."

"You're too dangerous to be left alone," Iwaizumi said, tucking his knees beneath his chin. "I have a feeling that you'd somehow rile up the zombies and become dictator of the zombies. Dictator [Y/N] Suzuki."

"What's your image of me in your head?" you asked incredulously. "My apocalypse dream team has Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys, and my base would be an underground bunker of sorts."

"That's not very safe." Your tanned friend snorted. "But don't leave me with Shitty-kawa in the apocalypse. Let me into your underground cellar."

"I'll play the piano to hide the sound of the zombies outside." You lifted your hands up to the sky and pretended to play a simple song in the air. "It'll be very pleasant with you there. You can protect me from the zombies."

"Pull your own weight, Suzuki."

"Whose bunker are you in again?" you shot back.

Iwaizumi ruffled your head and retracted his hand to ruffle his hair, creating a more disheveled look. "Bunkers are useless without people to defend it. I want to see you fight a horde of zombies."

"Oh, I will," you said hotly. Your arms fell to your sides. "I'll bite the zombies back. See how they like a taste of their own medicine."

Iwaizumi said, "they'll turn human."

"Ew, turn them back into zombies."

He looked over at you dubiously. His face was all angles and cuts, sculpted like a war hero. Upon first glance, Iwaizumi looked like a man who'd greet you with a firm handshake and a small nod, making you feel like a hero as well. "Isn't the whole point of a zombie apocalypse to find a cure and restore humanity?"

"It's not very fun when the world's all humans," you said. "Isn't it more exciting to be with your closest friends in a bunker while the world is crashing down? I'd want to spend my apocalypse with you, Godzilla freak."

"Don't lie. You just want anarchy."

"And a sword," you added hopefully. "Swords are cool."

Iwaizumi let out a laugh. It was his laugh. It was the sort of laugh that you could recognize blindly. It was the odd laugh you treasured because he laughed at your jokes—even if they weren't funny. 

After laying with you on the grass for a long, long time, Iwaizumi checked the watch on his wrist that you had bought him for his birthday one time. He uncurled from his little ball and stood up, towering over you and casting a moonlit shadow. Iwaizumi stretched here and there.

"Assy-kawa's sure taking his sweet time," Iwaizumi said. "Do you want to co—" He stopped himself.

"I'm all right," you said. "You can go and check on him without me."

"I'll check up on him. Wait here."

"Aye, aye, cap'n." You did not budge from your spot.

As Iwaizumi strode for the door, you sat up messily, scratching the back of your head. Casting a glance to his figure in the illuminated doorway of the gym, you drew out a sheet of paper from your schoolbag.

December was coming soon, and you needed to choose a school.

Your teacher was very adamant about you turning this paper, as you were the only student who still had this paper in possession. Everyone had already turned their papers in, confident about which school they were headed to. Most students from Kitagawa First fed into Aoba Johsai—otherwise known as Seijoh. 

Iwaizumi and Oikawa were headed toward Seijoh, and it was only natural that you were going, too.

They continued their everyday life as if it were never going to end. They treated it like a day in the park when you and them were kids. But sometimes the day had to end. The sun had to set, and friends would have to go home. Everything had an end, and this was no exception.

The ending credits had to roll eventually, and you were rather used to good things ending. You wouldn't be enrolling into Aoba Johsai.

There were many high schools in the Miyagi Prefecture that you could enroll to. Date Tech was a good choice, but you weren't looking into technical schools. You couldn't enroll into Shiratorizawa Academy because of its dorms. Aoba Johsai was a private school. Private meant more money out of the bank account.

Your mother could put you through a private education, but you visited America nearly three times a year. It was costly, and she could do it—but thinking financially about the future, it wouldn't be possible (especially with university around the corner). There was also another factor in the equation: Adam Suzuki, your little brother. 

You fished for your pencil from your school bag and propped your paper on your thighs. In shaky, true ladylike handwriting, you wrote down the only available high school in your vicinity that checked all the boxes—and the one that you and your mother agreed upon.

Staring at the scratches of lead on the white sheet, you messily folded the paper and stuffed it back into your school bag. You didn't want to look at it anymore. You would give it to the teacher next week instead of tomorrow, merely because you had complete disregard for anyone who thought they could control what you did.

Kageyama walked out of the gym, clutching his school bag like the first-year he was. He looked a little shaken, but overall, he kept his usual wide-eyed demeanor. He gave you a small respectful nod before leaving in a different direction.

What is he doing out so late...? you asked yourself.

A few minutes passed, and the yellow gym lights were shut off. Oikawa strolled out of the gym with Iwaizumi locking up the doors behind him. Oikawa's nose was bleeding freely, and red smeared the side of his cheek like a shitty abstract painting. The cuff of his sweater was dotted with red as well.

You snorted. "Did you get into a fight, Oikawa?"

Oikawa jerked a thumb to Iwaizumi. "Ask Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi turned around, and you were greeted with a small, bruised welt on his forehead. Iwaizumi gave Oikawa a frown. "I just beat some sense into this dumbass."

"Literally," Oikawa said. "You literally beat some sense into me!"

You gathered your belongings and stood up. You stuck your hand in your school bag, fumbling for a tissue. You had given your only handkerchief to Wakatoshi when you were a small child, so you revealed a half-wadded napkin from lunch earlier in the daytime. Oikawa took the napkin gratefully.

"Pull some move like that again, and I'll headbutt you so hard that your stupidly perfect nose breaks," Iwaizumi dryly said.

"You think my nose is perfect?"

"Talk about selective hearing," Iwaizumi said. You tossed Iwaizumi's blazer back to him, which he caught easily with one hand. "[Y/N], say the word and Shitty-kawa's nose breaks."

Oikawa hummed. "No thanks. I'm not looking for septum deviation right now."

During the next tournament, Oikawa was louder and brighter than ever.

He encouraged his teammates, picked on the first-years (much to Iwaizumi and your dismay), and led the team as a true captain. He was socially inclined, exhibiting the traits of both a leader and a setter. 

You watched from the sidelines as Kitagawa First became the runner-up for the tournament. You gripped the railing, watching Kitagawa First and Shiratorizawa Academy rally the leather volleyball over and over again. Shiratorizawa was undoubtedly the best in the prefecture, and you half-hoped that things would change eventually.

There was nothing more enjoyable than the underdogs winning.

Kitagawa managed to snag the first set from Shiratorizawa (for the first time!) and placed second to them. You watched the happy Oikawa Tooru accept his best setter award. Iwaizumi next to him seemed to shoot a remark, to which Oikawa responded with a protest. You couldn't hear them, but you swore their voices resonated in your head.

It was a genuine smile for once. Not a smile plastered for show and tell. Not a smile to convince his mother that he was all right. It was a smile. Your heart fluttered seeing Oikawa's genuine smile. It wasn't often that Oikawa was authentic about his happiness. It made you feel happy, too.

In the end, Kitagawa First never beat Shiratorizawa.

Oikawa was teary-eyed and swore to bring Ushijima to his knees, and then he turned around and gave little Kageyama the same speech as well. Kageyama offered Oikawa a tissue. Oikawa took it, still rambling on about defeating geniuses like him.

In a few months, you would be a high schooler.

You'd be a woman. You'd be mature and wiser. Well, growing up was optional, you believed. You being a few years older was no excuse to lose that little brilliant spark inside of you that called for revolution. You could still transcend circumstance and beat down social ideals out of spite.

There was still time for you to make big decisions and break free out of glided cages. There would be no more forlorn thoughts and no more languid feelings when it came to piano. You were alone in your experiences of the world. It was you, and it had always been you. Life favored fuckups, and lucky for life, you were the biggest fuckup you knew.

If something was worth having, it was definitely worth taking.

That was the kind of young lady you were.

Iwaizumi Hajime knew Oikawa Tooru loved [Y/N] Suzuki.

It was only a matter of who didn't know that the pretty boy was smitten with you.

He wasn't daft. Iwaizumi figured it out the moment Oikawa pouted and whined about not being your husband on that fateful day. It didn't take a genius. It only took a pair of eyes and a half of a brain—which surely you lacked, because you never caught on.

In class, Iwaizumi caught Oikawa doodling your name as '[Y/N] Oikawa' all over his papers, and he saw Oikawa hurrying to erase it as soon as the teacher called for all the papers to be passed to the front. Passing by convenience stores, Iwaizumi noticed Oikawa flipping through the newspapers to check his star sign compatibility with you, and when Iwaizumi asked what Oikawa was doing, Oikawa hastily stuffed the newspaper back into the slot and replied with a nonsensical answer.

At volleyball club, Oikawa'd toss his smiles here and there—the fake one—but when you'd come visit Oikawa, there was always a twinge of authenticity to his laugh, to his smile, to his eyes.

Oikawa never said anything about his evident love for you, but whenever someone made a joke—or whenever he made a joke—Oikawa's hazel eyes would slide to you to see if you were laughing, too. Oikawa Tooru was plainly existing for you alone.

Iwaizumi watched as you and Oikawa stayed out late at night, even if you were scolded by your mother and forbidden from hanging outside of school for the next month. He noticed that Oikawa loitered near your shoe locker in the mornings, half-praying that there were no confessions. Iwaizumi knew that Oikawa went brain-dead every time you called him by his given name, and Iwaizumi knew that Oikawa wouldn't tell you that he loved you, but he loved you.

It was post-graduation ceremony. 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi hadn't taken your news very well. It took days—almost weeks—for him and Oikawa to come to their senses about the reality of things. Was it so bad to wish for a picnic that lasted forever and friends that never had to go home?

Karasuno High School, you had told them. Have you heard of it?

Your taste for independence often led you to rooftops. Cops can't climb, you told Iwaizumi when he asked why you liked loitering on the roof.

Iwaizumi hiked up the stairs of Kitagawa First for the last time in his entire middle school career. The metal creaking underneath his nice graduation shoes resounded throughout the emptiness of the hall. 

Fiddling with the second button down on his uniform, Iwaizumi felt the familiarity of the metal underneath his calloused thumb. This button was held right over his heart. He gave it a sharp twist and turn until it was cleanly plucked off of his uniform. There were three remaining buttons on his uniform.

Competition between Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime had always remained lighthearted. In fact, it was always Iwaizumi who picked Oikawa back up, and Oikawa who kept Iwaizumi's head in the game.

However, if this were a race (and Iwaizumi knew fully that it was not a race, but hypothetically, if it were) it was Iwaizumi Hajime who had fallen in love with you first.

Yes, it was Iwaizumi Hajime who decided that he loved you before Oikawa Tooru ever even knew the concept of love.

Iwaizumi had known all his life that he loved you. While seasons and years changed, while the news flashed another sob story on TV, while the world seemed to spin in its orbit, the one thing that never changed was that he had fully given you his heart at the mere age of five years old.

It didn't sound right, but Iwaizumi was unable to discern the exact minute, day, or year he had realized that he loved you. He was in the middle of it before he had realized that it began.

Iwaizumi felt such passionate emotions toward you that he couldn't pick or choose the correct words to convey them. However, if being with you as a lover for five minutes meant that he had to spend the rest of his life in jail, then perhaps the romance he shared with you briefly would be worth the jail time.

He had never been good with words to begin with, anyway.

He always shared his clementines with you, peeling them neatly before giving you half. He liked it when he cried into your arms about sappy American movies that he didn't understand half of the time, but the acting was good enough to sell the sad points. He always let you take his seat on a crowded train even if his legs hurt from volleyball practice.

Iwaizumi ruffled your head nearly every day because he liked the feeling of you being near him (and he liked feeling tall for once, too). He remembered the little tidbits about Star Wars that you mentioned, and he was lulled to sleep by your piano playing. Iwaizumi remembered that you weren't fond of men's deodorant because of its strong smell, so he washed his clothes every day—and when it came to buying sports deodorant, he opted for the unscented ones.

Iwaizumi felt that he could recognize you blind and by the way you breathed. He would know every part of you, and you, hopefully, would know every part of him. 

And since Iwaizumi had never been good with words, he had never uttered a single word to you about his feelings.

He was never good with pet names either, like 'sweetheart,' 'honey,' or—God forbid—'love.' Instead, he chose names like 'stupid,' 'Star Wars freak,' or 'Suzuki.' 

There were times where he wished so desperately that he could bring himself to say such words. Unfortunately, he was fourteen—almost fifteen—and he was very, very awkward. 

Iwaizumi slowly opened the heavy metal door that separated him from the rooftop. The sky opened up in a light blue expanse that colored the sky. Dead plants hung from the side, as the kids who were supposed to water them neglected their duties. 

You were adjusting your graduate pin on your uniform. Your eyes flickered up toward Iwaizumi, who suddenly felt his bones stiffen up and his nerves jumble. He swore his knees locked, too, which wasn't a good thing because he was an athlete.

The graduate pin fell off your uniform, and you swore.

He approached you while you picked it back up. Iwaizumi took the pin from your hand and fastened it over your chest. It wasn't much of an accomplishment, but when you cracked a joke about him being a doting mother and thanked him profusely, Iwaizumi felt as if he had cured all illnesses.

"Iwa, what's that in your hand?" 

Iwaizumi held up his second button with an earnest grin. "Do you want it?"

"Isn't that something you give to someone you like?" you questioned. "I mean romantically. I know you like me. I'm a catch."

"Hmm?" Iwaizumi said, "are you saying that I can't give it to the one girl who's been annoying me since I was five? She's kind of ugly, so it'll be really sad if she ends up without a button when she graduates."

"I hate you," you mumbled, snatching the second button from his hand.

Life was so short. You knew that. Iwaizumi knew that. But Iwaizumi felt that he still had so much more time with you. He was satisfied by being with you like this. It made him happy that you could just stand next to him and smile. You and he didn't have to be something more. The only thing Iwaizumi wanted was time.

You would eventually go to Karasuno High School, and Iwaizumi would depart for Aoba Johsai.

So Iwaizumi stood there, hoping to never be forgotten by you.

You were meant for greater things, he knew. If greater things meant someone that was not him, that was all right with Iwaizumi. But he would be waiting here for you. Iwaizumi was unable to move on, and he was unsure if he wanted to move on, too. 

He really liked you. He really did.

However—

"[Y/N]-chan!"

Oikawa appeared on the rooftop, the metal door shutting behind him. All of the buttons on his uniform were gone, as Oikawa had always been popular with the girls. They probably begged a button off of him.

"Oh, Iwa-chan, you're here, too," Oikawa said, striding over to where you and Iwaizumi stood. He noticed the missing button on Iwaizumi's uniform. "Did a girl ask for your button, too?"

"Shut up, Crappy-kawa."

The pretty boy said, "I'm a beloved third-year moving on. Of course everyone asked for my second down button. Unfortunately, I had to give my remaining buttons to—"

"We don't care, dumbass."

"I care," Oikawa protested. He turned to you with a flourish. He produced a familiar metal button for you to take. "But, [Y/N]-chan, since you're ever-so close to my heart, I decided to save my second down button for you."

Eyeing the button that Oikawa held, you said,  "you know, if you wave that thing in my face, I'll eat it."

"What a terrible thing to say to my proclamation of love," Oikawa said dryly.

"Well, I'm all for destruction of property," you said and took Oikawa's button as well. You held it up to the sun and examined it. "Your button's a little rusty. Have you been washing your clothes, stinky?"

Oikawa had the audacity to look offended.

Iwaizumi really liked Oikawa, too—not that he'd ever say that to Oikawa's face. It wasn't a romantic love, like he had felt toward you, but rather a familial love. He wanted to continue being friends with Oikawa and you.

It had always been Oikawa, you, and Iwaizumi. It was rare to see one without the others. It had always been three friends on some whimsical adventure on Tatooine. It had always been a grand bug-hunting escapade with an unfairly pretty boy, a snarky American girl, and a strong no-nonsense boy. 

He treasured you and Oikawa as if you were family. Iwaizumi was fourteen, and he felt that he shouldn't be feeling these things. He was so intricately connected, and he felt as if he couldn't pull himself out because of the knots and the ties that were created throughout the past couple of years.

He loved you, but he also loved this. 

Emotions boiled in Iwaizumi. If he confessed now, he would shift the friendship that was forged. Oikawa would be cold and miserable, you would be confused and uncomfortable, and Iwaizumi would regret everything.

He loved this friendship; he loved you and Oikawa; he loved catching crabs on the beach; he loved being compared to ugly frogs, he loved the bugs in nets; he loved this moment; he loved these people; he loved it when you measured your hands against his; he loved Zacco the goldfish; he loved your piano playing; he loved, he loved, and he loved.

Love was not a finite source.

And because he was in love with someone who so obviously had a soulmate, and because he thought about you even when he wasn't thinking, and because he was stuck with the enormity of this torn emotion, he hated himself.

Iwaizumi loved too much, and he loved you so much that he realized it wouldn't break his heart to see you with Oikawa.

Oikawa loved you. For these past couple of years, it had always been Oikawa and you. You and Oikawa were the ones with promise gum wrapper rings. You and Oikawa were the ones with inside jokes. You and Oikawa were the ones who stared up at the moon together. Iwaizumi was just a friend—a best friend—and he would never have what you and Oikawa had.

Would Iwaizumi be willing to give you up in favor for his best friend?

Always. 

The world was built for two, Iwaizumi realized. Not three. Never three.

This time around, he'd watch. This time around, he'd let you and Oikawa be happy together. Iwaizumi was all right with being the best man. Iwaizumi was all right with being a godfather. Iwaizumi was all right with being that one friend who had all the best jokes to tell about two oblivious love birds.

Iwaizumi was fine with being Friend A for now. Iwaizumi only had one small, tiny request for whatever gods were watching.

He prayed that in the next life, you and he would end up together.

Reincarnation was a strange thought, and it was even stranger that Iwaizumi went so far as to refer to it. This careful craft of a friendship that Iwaizumi had would fall apart if Iwaizumi were to say he loved you. Iwaizumi, at least, would be happy to see his best friends together and in love.

In this life, he was supposed to sit and watch you fall in love with someone else and get married to someone else. He would die a little bit more every day while watching, but it would be okay. It—this pain—would be okay because he'd see his best friends be happy in this life.

And if he could have you in his next life, the pain was worth every second of it.

Why do I fall in love? Iwaizumi wanted to ask whatever God there was. The pain drowned him because Iwaizumi knew he could not love without pain, and you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Iwaizumi vehemently believed that you and Oikawa Tooru might have been soulmates. Perhaps Iwaizumi, you, and Oikawa were soulmates but a different sort of soulmate. A sort of soulmate that just... clicked.

Of course, if there was a slim chance that you might have returned Iwaizumi's feelings, he'd be overjoyed. He'd wait for you. Iwaizumi would wait for you until the earth was nothing but dust, and he'd wait for you until the end of the world or until the apocalypse. You were his makeshift heartbeat, his morning dew, his love.

He was simply petrified that he would hurt Oikawa more than needed in the process.

Oikawa was very soft, and he had a rambunctious personality to hide it. Oikawa needed Iwaizumi to remind him that he was not alone in the world.  Oikawa needed Iwaizumi to rely on when the tides were turned against them. Oikawa needed Iwaizumi, and Oikawa needed—

Oikawa needed you, really.

You were the one who carried Advil in your school bag for Oikawa. You sat down next to him on the bench so he didn't feel so alone when he sat out. You were the one for Oikawa, and it was so obvious that you were meant for no one other. Oikawa needed you to tell him that he was enough because you were living proof that talent was something that one bloomed. 

If you and Oikawa couldn't make it, then no one would.

"Iwa." Your voice drew him out of his thoughts. "Why don't we stop by a restaurant after this? I'll pay for your first round of tofu."

"What if Iwa-chan isn't in the mood for tofu?" Oikawa rolled his eyes, and his buttonless uniform flapped with the wind. "Look at him. Tofu won't make him any taller."

"How are you feeling, Iwa?" you then asked. 

He felt as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. He felt like he didn't deserve such a happy feeling whenever you briefly looked at him. He felt as if you still had the universe in your piano hands. He felt—

Ah, but never mind what he felt.

Who cared about Iwaizumi Hajime's feelings?

Iwaizumi Hajime, the boy who was fully in love with the girl who so obviously had a soulmate, made eye contact with you, and he could feel his heart turn upside down. He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his clammy hands.

"Like shit," he said. "And all that milk bread goes to Shitty-kawa's height instead of his brain."

Iwaizumi knew one thing, and that was the fact that he really, really liked being your friend.

Chapter Text

High school.

So long, awkward prepubescent middle school days! So long, days of not being able to understand math! So long, being lazy and uninspired! You were now a high schooler, and that meant that you could make far worse mistakes—but now you would have to take responsibility for it.

Don't let being a dumb bitch keep you from reaching your dreams! you told yourself convincingly. Your dreams consisted of vying for revolution, finally learning how to love yourself, and getting a personality that doesn't revolve around being angry.

You were once again a first-year, and that meant you had to climb your way up the ranks once again. You loved nothing more than a challenge and when good people fought bad laws.

Life was holding your hand as it ran, and you either had to let go or be dragged.

As much as you wanted to gaze out the window and wonder about your place in the universe, your seat in Class 1-4 was farthest from the window and nearest to the back door. The only thing you could gaze at was the hung ancient Japanese proverb on the wall that you couldn't understand.

(Not that you wanted to understand the ancient proverb. The people who wrote that were dead and were likely dead for good reason.)

The boy in front of you dropped his eraser. 

You picked it up accordingly and moved to touch the boy's shoulder. You paused briefly, trying to remember the boy's name. It was on the tip of your tongue, as most things were. You hardly paid attention in class, and you zoned out when everyone was introducing themselves. If their hobbies didn't include a coup-d'état, you were less than interested.

"Su—" you tested out the name. "Suga—Sugawana? No, Sugawara-san."

Sugawara turned around. He had gray hair that couldn't have been genetically possible that was evenly parted in the middle. A gray lock of hair protruded at the top of his head and bounced with each move he made. He looked very kind, you noted.

"Ah, thank you, Suzuki-san," Sugawara said, taking the eraser from you.

"No problem."

Crisis averted, you thought to yourself. If you had gotten his name wrong, it would have been over for your high school career. You already had American girl attached to your name. It was likely that Sugawara had 'grandpa' attached to his name for his odd gray hair. He must have been a stressed out kid.

You wanted to go back into the forest near Oikawa and Iwaizumi's neighborhood. Forests were kind of freaky, but if you brought Iwaizumi along, who was seemingly scared of nothing, you might live to tell the tale! No nerds like Oikawa were allowed in the forest!

Perhaps you could venture in the forest after school ended. You could kick ass and pretended you didn't care about what people thought of you. You would make questionable decisions (like eat rocks) and swear as loudly as possible (because you were the perfect definition of a lady, and you'd accept no other name).

Glancing out the window from afar, you remembered that when you were younger, Wakatoshi had purchased you a balloon of your favorite color. The balloon was very slippery in your hand, and you had accidentally let it go. Wakatoshi didn't hold you accountable for it, thankfully. You watched the balloon float high up in the air and hoped the alien that received your balloon was happy with your color choice.

A shiver ran up your spine.

You turned your head to the front of the classroom, only to be greeted with Sugawara's brown eyes keenly looking at you as if you were a criminal. You had half a mind to say something—anything—but Sugawara quickly turned back to the teacher writing something down on the blackboard.

What the fuck, you thought to yourself. 

Hoping to read his mind and find some form of an answer, you stared at the back of Sugawara's head. Did he think you were cute? Oikawa told you that you were cute once. Well, it was Oikawa. He either could have been lying to make you feel better or lying to make fun of you.

All your friends in middle school started to date or talked about boys. You personally jumped crushes frequently in middle school. The moment your crush came to school with a buzzcut, you suddenly found one of your upperclassmen a little more handsomer than usual that same day.

Oikawa Tooru was a popular subject among your friends. He had always been one of the well-liked boys of Kitagawa First. You had grown up with the pretty boy and he was one of your best friends, so Oikawa seemed a little off-limits.

You came to the conclusion that high school was weird.

You awkwardly shifted in your seat and your leg bounced. Out of everything in this dreary and drab classroom, the only real entertainment was how Sugawara's hair managed to turn gray at the young age of fifteen. Karasuno High School wasn't strict on uniform, so there was a good chance that Sugawara might have dyed his hair.

Now, you weren't very spiritually inclined, but when it came to Sugawara, you could feel a sort of premonition coming over you. Maybe he was the ancient master who would grant you infinite knowledge on the Jedi. The eraser was just a metaphor for the sacred texts or some shit.

Everyone had this feeling when meeting a certain someone. It was to meet a friend of a friend and feel an immediate connection with them. There was a word for this. Inevitability. You mulled over this word in your very empty head. Inevitability, inevitability, inevitability. 

Eventually, your brain power maxed out, and you went back to thinking about your weakly concealed desire for something beyond daily life.

Meanwhile, Sugawara had the sudden urge to be your friend, but staring at you so obviously in the middle of class kind of fucked up his chances.

He came to the conclusion that he had no idea who you were, but he knew this feeling.

You were in Tokyo for a youth music gala.

Due to your outstanding performances for the past year or so in Miyagi, you were nominated to visit Tokyo.

There was a music school in Tokyo that hosted children from all over Japan to play during this certain gala. It would be an understatement to say that you were worried. Sure, you had visited Tokyo during small weekend vacations, but you had never performed there as a pianist.

Galas were no competition. It was to showcase one's talents with prestige and stick out compared to the rest of the musicians. You liked the idea of your skill being appreciated, but if you showcased too much, there might be an offer to move you overseas. You didn't want to go overseas. You still needed to conquer Japan.

Tokyo would be one big shit-show, and you were never one to half-ass shit-shows.

You fiddled with the hem of your dress, nervously peaking through the velvety drapes that separated you from the brilliant wooden-planked stage. The boy before you was finishing his violin solo. From where you were standing, you could see sweat drip down his forehead.

Jesus Christ, you said, this is a music gala. Not a volleyball game.

Backstage, all sorts of musicians were practicing. It was a terrible symphony of various music media clashing. Cellists were in the corner, slaving over their large cello that seemed to make up half of their body. Violinists and violists raised their arms up in the air with their instrument, dragging their bows across the strings consistently. Vocalists warmed up their voices and greedily took in their music sheet.

It was a very, very loud room. You couldn't concentrate on your piano sheet at all. You ultimately decided that if you didn't know everything in the next thirty minutes, then you just didn't know. You were very lenient when it came to your piano practice, after all.

You could hear your mother's voice in your head, telling you to consistently practice or else you wouldn't improve, or else all her money would have gone to waste, or else you wouldn't be a pianist. You wished you were in bed so you could pull the blankets over your head to prevent all these intrusive thoughts from getting to you.

The boy's violin playing was full of love. He cradled his bow, and his jaw rested on his chin rest accordingly. His eyes were closed, and he took deep breaths in tune to the steady beat of the accompanist's playing. The boy finished the song as if it were a love letter, sealed gently with wax and a pressed flower.

The crowd clapped enthusiastically for the boy, who bowed low as if he was reaching to shine his shoes. His grip was very harsh on his violin, and you swore that he'd snap the neck if he gripped it any more harsher.

This was the Hyogo Prefecture's violin nomination, you realized when he started thanking the loud crowd in an unusual accent.

It'd be difficult to live up to a performance like that. 

You shook your head. It was difficult, yes, but not wholly impossible. You needed to focus on the positive aspects of playing the piano. Piano was a very easy-going instrument. You thought about Oikawa absorbing himself in with volleyball and hoped that you'd do the same with the grand piano that stood before you.

Swallowing any fear and allowing it to grow in the pit of your stomach, you walked on to the stage as the boy left. You set your hand on the piano and bowed to the audience wordlessly. Your eyes flitted to your shaking, clammy hand and knees.

It was then you realized that playing the piano was far easier when you were younger.

The golden lights above displayed your shadow as you stared at it. It moved when you moved. You were here. You were alive. You needed to play the piano. You bobbed your head back up and gazed at the crowd before you. It was much more than what you were used to, you admitted to yourself, but you would be fine.

The crowd was like a sky full of constellations. Though it dulled in comparison to Miyagi's view, this view before you was beautiful. Cameras and phones shone in the expanse of the darkness. You swore you could see Cancer's constellation in the left hand corner.

You adjusted the lid of the piano higher and propped it up. Then you fiddled with the pianist's bench. After perfecting it to your liking, you sat down. The emboldened words of Steinway & Sons stared back at you. You stretched your hands over the keys and swallowed thickly.

The piano started off softly underneath your fingertips.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, you told yourself despite not breathing. You kept your posture straight and curved your hands as if you held the world in them. This piece was meant to be played gently. Gentle was hard to play. It was why your mother had chosen this piece for you.

It's to showcase how you overcome your weaknesses, your mother reasoned, because you are a strong girl.

This piano was the world's piano.

Everyone was conscious of your every move. Their eyes drifted downward to your pedaling and how your foot softly stepped on the golden plates rhythmically, and they stared at your stiff figure. You were conscious of how the pianist before you kept the seat very warm and how one of the lights to the side of the stage flickered every now and then—an obvious sign for replacement.

I love you, the piano seemed to say.

I will pay you to never say that again, you said to the piano.

The composer depicted this piece as very dreamy. He was lost in his own thoughts, in his own mentality. It was to be content with the simplicities of life and to gaze out windows romantically, hoping your sapphic lover in the 1800s received your letter.

Unfortunately for this composer, the last place you wanted to be was in your own thoughts. You didn't want to be a part of any thought that happened in your mind. You were less than satisfied with what the world gave you, and you were angry about it. You didn't have a beautiful girl to write love letters to, and you didn't live in the 1800s, either.

You lived in the 21st century, where you had a little more rights and a longer life expectancy. 

The composer was king, and you had to bide by his rules. A select few members of the audience slumped in their seat, and some rested their cheek over their fist. They had been riding the high of the musician before you and were being lulled back to sleep. You didn't particularly like that. 

Playing the piano with no passion was terrible, but you didn't want to play boring music. You were not a boring person! This composer might have liked to watch paint dry, but you were the type to eat paint just to see how it tasted like. You were not the type of kid who watched ants file in and out of anthills for fun. You collected the ants in your grubby hands and showed them to Iwaizumi (who'd tell you to put them back where you found them).

There was more to you, you swore!

It was just that this composer and this piece was really boring. Blame the boredom on the old white guy who sat down and thought this was a masterpiece and not the girl who was forced to play it to prove to her mother that she was worth loving.

Then go feral, the piano said.

I can't, you told the piano. I'm fifteen, and I shouldn't be questioning the composer.

Question the composer, the piano insisted. Question everything you've known.

Rage filled your every bone. You were crazy for talking to a piano. You couldn't even begin to explain how headaches brewed like hurricanes underneath your brow and how every muscle in your body tensed up at the thought of a piano shit-talking you.

It made you want to play the piano as shitty as possible—out of spite. Most things were done out of spite, and they were done well. You couldn't let your angry emotion get to you. Diba had told you that you played disgusting when you were angry, but how could you play any different?

All you knew was anger.

You were fifteen, and you were questioning. Why did you have to do this? What happiness did it bring you? What were you going to do when you were older? Were you going to play the piano for the rest of your life? What would happen if you were able to breathe fire? 

The composer compiled a song that was all soft fabric and subtle touches. It made you feel like you were stuck in a romanticized daydream. Holding one's breath, small smiles, and saffron dawns.

But you.

You wanted to play a song about stubborn hope and marble floors. You wanted the fall of Rome. You were the sky after the storm. You wanted to talk not about the peace but the rising after the fall. Perhaps that was why you liked stories like Star Wars. In order to climb the ladder, one needed to be at the bottom.

I hate you, you said to the piano.

I know, the piano replied. So what are you going to do about it?

You knew that you disliked playing the piano, so what were you going to do? How were you going to move forward? What was your next step? Why are you doing this? What were you going to do? What were you going to do? What were you going to do?

This piano was your piano.

This piano was your world, and you were going to play it how you liked it.

You were going to play the piano like how Wakatoshi played volleyball. You were going to play the piano like how Oikawa talked about Star Wars. You were going to play the piano like how Iwaizumi caught bugs. With passion, with determination, and with hope.

If you played angry, so be it! If Diba hated your music, then who cared? If your mother reprimanded you severely, what was she going to do about it? Nobody could control you. You were no puppet, no pianist, no king. Kings were subservient to the people. And you were subservient for no one!

Then, you'd stop listening to a dead white man.

The worst thing that could happen was if Debussy rose from his grave and strangled you in your sleep, but Debussy already had a trapezoid for a head, so he had to deal with his own problems before strangling you.

Suddenly, you were very much awake.

You needed to move forward if you were planning on getting anywhere. You knew the piano was unsatisfactory. Would you continue to play it until you learned to love it, or would find something else that you loved? You were on the cusp of your young adult years, and far more decisions had to be made.

It hurt you to be strong. You were, frankly, scared of the piano, of your mother, of the future. How could your mother call you a strong woman if you still felt so much like a child? It was difficult to be strong.

But there was still so much more you had to do!

You were a powerhouse. Mary Suzuki, your mother, had raised you as one. You were loud and demanded freedom. Your love for defying authority gave you the satisfaction you needed to keep going. However, when you played the piano, you were a very, very scared little girl. You played meekly and with feeble hands as your mind got roaring for more.

It wouldn't be so bad to combine the two, would it?

Yearning for the softness of the scared little girl and for the bravery of the powerhouse, you'd be able to play how you wanted. All your life, you had tended to the composer's garden, unaware that you were carrying the watering can. The piano was an intimate, smaller part of your soul that you had to treat gently, not with anger.

The crowd stirred. 

You had painted a daydream, just as the composer had intended. It was all the soft colors of the composer, but it was not your colors. The reverie of your music piece was slowly being broken up. It wasn't being smashed apart but rather taken apart—like a slowly crumbling cookie.

A few select people from the crowd blinked wearily as if waking up from a stupor. You heard a child burst into tears when you reached a certain part in your piece. The composer dreamed about a daze of romanticism, but you brought it to reality.

Small shit like a fumble of the keys didn't matter here. Galas were no competition. Galas were supposed to be fun. You didn't care if you came off as boring. Nobody's opinion mattered because it was not their place to dictate how you should play.

The softness of your own colors held a stark contrast to the composer's. You wanted badly to be brave. You played a piece about petting Brahms' fur—a feat you had yet to accomplish because the dog hated your guts—and a piece about your mother's uneasy love for you and sweet green tea.

Years ago, you believed that the harder you played, the quicker you played, the stronger you played, the passion would start to flood through your veins and to your heart. You wanted to be someone. The fear of being average was breathing over your shoulder.

Looking back, you realized that you didn't have to be anyone. There was still time to evolve and become someone. You were only fifteen. You were still so young, and you were still so confused about the universe. You were allowed to question the acceptable and the unacceptable.

It was all right to have no idea what to do or what to think.

So you played the piano.

Are you having fun? the piano seemed to ask for the last time.

Yeah, you said. I'm having a lot of fun.

"You can't play like that at competitions, [Y/N]," your mother reprimanded you when you were outside. There were scarcely any people outside, as most were inside to enjoy the other venues. Adam was in the bathroom at the moment. "You made far too many mistakes."

"I know," you said proudly.

Mary Suzuki eyed you for a long time. She let out a sigh. "You shouldn't be happy about this. I thought we went over tempo when we were at home. I made you practice it until you perfected it."

You stared at your mother, and you carried your piano bag innocently behind your body. "I remember."

"The real world isn't going to accept that," your mother said. " I don't want your skills to go to waste with you playing around on stage."

"I'm not playing around," you said. "I'm playing the piano."

"Don't talk back to me, [Y/N]. That's rude," your mother reprimanded.

"I'm not," you lied.

"You're a brilliant child, really. Your future is very big, and I want you to be prepared for it." Your mother pursed her lips, and her keen eyes seemed to drill holes into your poor forehead. "There are many opportunities for you here, and you need to take advantage of them. You are a very lucky girl for being invited out to a gala like this! Be grateful."

You said, "It's a gala, Mom."

"How are you going to live if all you do is break the rules?"

"Why try if it's not a competition—"

"Why try?" your mother repeated. "You need to put your 100% in everything. It's plain disrespectful if you don't work hard while everyone else is worked to the bone. There's no harm in doing it, either. You're honing your skills, so there's no real loss."

"But what if I don't like to do it?" you asked. 

"Even so, [Y/N]," your mother said. "I am paying money for your lessons. I have paid for your lessons for the past thirteen years. I want to see improvement. I am investing in your potential because you are so brilliant."

"I don't even know if you'll see improvement," you confessed. "If I don't like piano, then I won't put any effort toward it. That's how it works—"

"Don't tell me how things work, [Y/N]. You're fifteen. You're not an adult. Think about it before jumping to a completely different field. I don't know what happened on that stage, but I do not want to see it again. You need to think, [Y/N]."

"I'm thinking," you protested. "I'm thinking so much."

"We are talking more when we get home," your mother said, readjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I'm going to talk to the venues and the gala hosts about your performance and apologize. I'll come back with feedback, and your piano teacher will go over what you missed today."

As your mother left you outside, you swung your piano bag around.

Your mother had a very special way of talking to you. It made you feel like a five-year-old in the body of a fifteen-year-old. Luckily for her, the most dangerous snakes always happened to be the youngest ones because they lacked control.

Your mother talked to you, and you only felt compelled to say sorry in order to get into her good graces again. You would only apologize in order for your mother to make up with you. You didn't feel guilty—no, you didn't feel guilty at all! It was good. This was good. You convinced yourself that this was good.

Everything was so different, but everything was so good. 

Maybe you'd pick up cooking! Or chess (you were adequate at it, but Adam was better). Painting was a good option, too. You weren't very good at arts and crafts, but there was no harm in giving it a try. There were so many things you just had to try out!

True to your mother's wishes, you'd still continue piano—there was no arguing there. Your mother seemed to be so desperate to draw out the talent that you never had.

A small dog, around the size of your piano bag, barked for your attention from afar. The dog loitered near the corner of the school, sitting down. It was a Corgi with little stubby legs and a tail that wagged excitedly. It was a blotch of tan color stark against the gray pavement. It stared at you with its beady black eyes.

"Dog," you said, dumbfounded.

The dog barked.

You felt your legs move below you. Without realizing it, you were already on your way to follow the Corgi. Your mother didn't tell you to stay put—and even if she had, you wouldn't listen anyway.

The Corgi stood up and disappeared around the corner of the school. A second passed, and the Corgi poked its head out, checking to see if you were still following it. Upon seeing your growing figure, the Corgi continued to trot away.

What was a dog doing on Tokyo school grounds? Did its owner bring it here? Was it lost? In your side of the Miyagi Prefecture, it was more common to see a stray dog or cat every so often, but this was the city. The Corgi was really cute, so someone might pick it up and wrongfully claim it as theirs.

You rounded the corner.

There was a teen boy around your age crouching near a large ventilation opening against the school wall.

He had disheveled black hair with lightly tanned skin. His long arm was stroking a different puppy dog, and the Corgi that you had seen happily joined its fellow puppy. The boy spotted the new Corgi and cracked a smile before petting it as well.

You approached the boy softly, clutching your piano bag closer to your body. The boy didn't look like the owner of the Corgi, just a passerby. He didn't wear the uniform of this music school and instead wore a casual outfit, indicating that he was a visitor and not a student.

"Can I pet the Corgi?" you asked the teen boy.

The boy looked up at you and a lock of his black hair fell over his right eye. His face was defined and sculpted like a statue and held cat-like eyes that made him look slyer than the boys that you knew. His brows were thin and raised, showing his slight surprise.

"I don't see why not," the boy said, moving his hand over to let you pet the Corgi.

His voice was low, even for a teenager.

You set your piano bag aside and brushed your hand behind the Corgi's ear, giving it a good rub. The Corgi pushed its wet snout into your palm, and you giggled. It looked up at you with true puppy-dog eyes that made you think of Ushijima Wakatoshi. You scratched the Corgi's head lovingly.

"It's cute," you said, trying to spark conversation in the awkward tension between you and the teen boy. "Are the dogs yours, or are you just a dog person?"

The boy shrugged. "Just a dog person."

You felt compelled to point out the boy's odd hair. A few choppy locks stuck out here and there, unruly. Was it considered stylish in Tokyo to wear one's hair like that? Like a dried-out paint brush? His hair couldn't have been a personal choice. It was just too ugly. Too bold.

"So," the boy said, his gaze falling to your piano bag, "you play piano?"

"No, I'm here to pay taxes," you said. The boy went silent. You sighed. "I'm kidding. Yes."

"Oh, so you're a student."

You shook your head. "Not at this school. I was a nominated representative from my home prefecture. I just performed in the school's gala."

"Wow," the boy mused, and he scratched the back of the other dog's ear. "Ms. Prestigious over here."

Your face flushed hot. You'd been called many names before but never prestigious. It made you feel privileged. It made you feel snobby and smart—which you weren't, unfortunately, but you did like to fuck around in your local forest and that had to count for something.

"I can tell that your mother put you on a leash when you were younger," you dryly said after swallowing your embarrassment and hesitation.

"Don't have a mother," the boy retorted, standing up and dusting his hands off. After standing up did he reveal his broad shoulders and tall, lean body. He placed his hand on his hip and looked down at you expectantly. "With that attitude, I'd expect you to be the one on a leash."

"A metaphorical one."

"You think you're funny."

"Not any funnier than your hair," you said. "What's up with that?"

"Bedhead," he explained curtly. 

"Why are you here again?" you asked tiredly.

"I wanted to listen to music." The boy pointed to the large vent that was screwed against the school walls. "That leads directly toward the school's recital hall. I can kind of hear the music from here."

"You came all the way here just to listen to classical music?" The thought raised question marks in your head. "Why didn't you just walk in and sit down?"

The boy emptied out his pockets. "I never got a ticket, and I like dogs."

You tried to register the boy who liked dogs and adored classical music so much that he was willing to linger next to a ventilation system in order to grasp the tidbits of the recital. You stared at his terrible bedhead and hypnotic eyes that gave all sorts of warning signs in your head.

"Right," you said, giving the Corgi one final pet before standing up. The boy seemed to tower over you, and despite this, you gave him a look that eerily resembled Oikawa's disgusting glare. "I'm going to go now. Thanks for your time."

Boys infuriated you.

Boys didn't have hearts. Boys had copious amounts of useless WW2 knowledge in the very place where their hearts were supposed to be. 

"Wait," the boy called out to your retreating form. "Your piano bag."

You promptly turned around to take it back from him. You didn't mind losing the damned bag, actually. If you did, then your mother wouldn't make you practice because none of your pieces or books were on hand, and she'd have to repurchase them in order to get you to play again.

The black-haired boy carried your familiar bag in hand. It was a very plain bag, in all honesty. There was a doodle of the Death Star in white pencil from when you were seven, and there was even a shitty drawing of a volleyball—courtesy of Wakatoshi. The boy's eyes flickered to the design of your bag for a brief moment before looking back at you.

He held it out for you, and you took the bag, grateful that he had no snide remarks for you this time. The moment the bag left his hand, the boy swooped down in a low bow.

"Please give me your number."

You nearly dropped your piano bag.

Chapter Text

In the end, you had given the cat-eyed boy with a bedhead your number.  

Why should I give you my number? you had asked incredulously.

I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, the boy apologized while bowing. Please give me your number.

You were dumbfounded. Give me your name first.

You stared at your cellphone. There, in your contacts app, was the name Kuroo Tetsurou staring right back at you. You didn't know what exactly compelled you to give him your number and what compelled him to give you his number. Maybe it was the innate desire in you for something beyond daily life. 

At least now you could brag to Iwaizumi about having a Tokyo boy's number in your phone.

Kuroo Tetsurou was a strange teenager. He was truly an anomaly. You had met strange kids in the past—yourself included—but this boy really took the cake.

You looked at your piano bag. There really was nothing special to it.

Right above the drawing of the Death Star and Wakatoshi's volleyball was your first and last name stitched in your favorite color. Your mother had embroidered it on and gifted this bag to you for your sixth birthday, and you never had the courage to tell her that you wanted justice for your birthday, not a bag.

Was Kuroo Tetsurou so moved by your shitty drawing of the Death Star that he felt compelled to give you his number? Maybe you were a natural charmer like your good friend Oikawa Tooru.

Now, you weren't an expert in the romance field—that actually might've been Oikawa's field of expertise, surprisingly—but Kuroo Tetsurou had to have some interest in you if he went so far as to bow to obtain your phone number. You were attractive enough to distract the guards as your heist crew snuck in to steal the crown jewel hidden in a large vault underground.

When you went to class the next day, you found yourself lamenting about the little troubles of life once more. You had actually picked up cooking that morning and attempted to make a wonderful breakfast for the neighborhood cat. 

How were you supposed to know that cats despised burnt milk bread?

Of course, Adam didn't want any of your burnt milk bread, and your mother had tried some—perhaps out of pity—and complimented your cooking. If Wakatoshi had been home, you might've made him eat the rest of your burnt milk bread. Your mother heavily advised against giving any to the Ushijimas.

"Suzuki-san," Sugawara called for your attention.

Your gaze shot up from the ruffles of your skirt to the teenager's eyes. He had a very small beauty mark underneath his left eye that you hadn't noticed before. You remembered how odd Sugawara was, but overall, he seemed like a friendly guy.

"What club are you planning on joining?" he asked. "I'm curious."

"I don't know," you confessed. "Maybe classi—no. Cooking club. What about you?"

"You have plenty of time to decide anyway," Sugawara said, waving his hand in reassurance. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. I want to join the volleyball club."

Volleyball again. 

"That's amazing. What position do you play?"

"Setter," Sugawara said. "Karasuno made it to Nationals recently, so I'm sure their volleyball team is super good."

"This school?" you said dubiously. 

"It's not so hard to believe—especially with all the right people," Sugawara continued excitedly. "I know a few other first-years who want to join the club with me, too. We have this super tall guy. Asahi, I think his name was. He looks super intimidating."

"Wow," you said, wondering how intimidating this Asahi guy really was. You turned over to the black-haired boy who sat next to you and was doodling a rather provocative poodle on his math homework. "What about you, Yoshida-san?"

Yoshida gave you and Sugawara a thumbs-up and a wicked grin. "Soccer! Best sport in the world."

"Say what?" Sugawara exclaimed. "But volleyball is so much better."

"Volleyball is just professional hot potato," Yoshida said dismissively. "Soccer is dangerous and cool and kicks ass. Come watch our games sometime, and you'll see a real sport."

"I would like to kick ass," you grumbled with your chin resting on the palm of your hand, "and not do English homework."

"Amen to that," Sugawara muttered. He blinked and digested your words for a second too long. "Hey, aren't you from America?"

You suppressed the feeling of alienation down to the pit of your stomach and tried to focus on the noun-adjective agreement worksheet in front of you. "America this, America that. I'm still going to fail this upcoming English exam just how that government has failed that country."

"Suzuki-san, you should cook something for me, like a pancake," Yoshida said idly. "Cooking club, was it?"

"I'll burn it," you deadpanned.

"What about mine?" Sugawara asked.

"I'll burn it on both sides just for you."

Sugawara snorted.

Karasuno High School was just like any other ordinary school. It wasn't extraordinarily good. It didn't seem like the type of school to make it to Nationals, in your opinion. You supposed that it was a part of Karasuno's charm.

Throughout film, you always supported the underdogs. You relished in the satisfaction of someone so small standing up to someone so big. It was always someone whom no one ever expected who rose up. It filled you with happiness and hope, and maybe one day, you'd see one of Karasuno's volleyball games.

Although, you did promise you'd see Oikawa and Iwaizumi's first game at their first tournament.

You tried to arrange to meet up with them on Mondays when they didn't have volleyball practice. It worked half of the time, but Oikawa coached little Takeru and other children at the Lil' Tykes Volleyball Classroom in his free time.

"Suzuki," the teacher called out during English class, "do you mind reading out loud this passage for the class?"

After reciting the passage, you sat down. Although you were somewhat of a Native English speaker, you struggled the most with basic grammar. You mostly chose words that sounded right in your mouth. It was school that taught you the proper grammatical structure, and you hated them for it.

Your English was filled with slang and unfamiliar terms that were technically not taught in the Japanese curriculum. However, you managed to pass by with a very high grade.

"Okay, American girl," Yoshida retorted from your side. "You should teach me how to swear in English."

"Yeah, sure," you said. "Say 'I am stupid.'"

"Come on. I'm not that gullible."

"Remember when I told you that there was a bald eagle outside of the classroom so you—"

Yoshida cleared his throat, cutting you off. Sugawara, who overheard your conversation with Yoshida, let out a laugh. He turned around when the teacher was absorbed in the lesson book at hand.

"You know, I think it's really cool that you're fluent in both languages," Sugawara complimented. "Languages are good to know. Even if you don't know a language that well, at least you know some words, Suzuki."

"Thank you," you said. "[Y/N] is fine, by the way."

"A true American girl!" Yoshida nearly exclaimed, and you whacked the side of his arm with your pencil case. The teacher heard the noise and whirled around.

The teacher was greeted with Sugawara studiously looking at his notebook, you idly looking at the beige wall as if it were a window, and Yoshida tapping the eraser part of his mechanical pencil against his desk. The teacher sighed. It was a mistake to put Sugawara, you, and Yoshida at the back of the classroom together.

Today, in your home economics class, you wore your battle armor—a pink, frilly apron.

With your hands planted on your hips, you frowned at the stove in front of you. Today, the class was being taught how to create cabbage soup from scratch. Unlike most students, you preferred to eat your cabbage like an apple. It gave you personality.

Sugawara was your partner. He wore a matching pink, frilly apron and stared at the pot that was boiling. He had his arms crossed as he kept an eye on the timer as well. His forte was multitasking. Your forte was telling people that you ate your cabbages like apples.

"I hear the Interhigh Preliminaries are coming up," you said.

"Yes," Sugawara said. "There are really good teams this year, but I'm sure our upperclassmen will do well."

"Good luck," you said.

"Thanks."

"Are you doing a training camp?" you asked.

"Ye—"

Yoshida, who was unfortunately partnered up with a different person at a different table, was carrying a tray of vegetables. He stopped by your station with Sugawara and snickered. "Man, you guys suck at small talk!"

The teacher glared at him from across the room, to which Yoshida responded with a weak apology and a bow. He returned to his table, every so often looking at you and Sugawara in matching pink, frilly aprons.

Maybe this was what your mother meant when she said you needed to expand your social circle. You hardly knew what Sugawara liked outside of volleyball. You knew he liked tofu—like Iwaizumi—but you didn't know what type of tofu. Unlike you, Yoshida had a knack for conversation.

You were better at having conversations with toddlers.

"I wonder what counts as big talk," Sugawara thought out loud, "if what we were having was small talk."

"Do you have any big plans?" you asked. "I know it's a bit early, but any plans for college or university? That's pretty big."

"I'd really like to continue volleyball"—there he went with volleyball again—"but I'm thinking about going in the education direction. Like, an education major."

"A teacher!" You perked your head up. "That's pretty big."

Sugawara frowned, thinking to himself and stroking his chin like an ancient genius. "I feel like we have to think bigger. [Y/N], you must have big plans, too, right? Honestly, I can't imagine you without one."

"I plan to become important enough to be assassinated rather than murdered."

"Well," Sugawara said, "that makes the two of us."

Your eyes became as big as saucers. "You're kidding—"

"Hey, pink team!" Yoshida hollered. "Your cabbage soup is burning!"

There was never a dull day in that damned classroom after that day.

It was high school, and almost everybody was adjusting to the new environment, you realized. The Karasuno entrance exam wasn't extremely difficult, so nearly everyone from all over the prefecture fed into Karasuno. 

Since you were friends with Iwaizumi and Oikawa since the beginning of time, you never felt the need to make more friends at Kitagawa First because you always had them to come back to—but you did make more friends, of course, because boys couldn't even begin to compare to girls and the best friend necklaces that girls would give out as a token of friendship.

With Yoshida, Sugawara, and a few other friends sitting near you, you found yourself warming and loosening up. You would consider them friends. Allies in war, maybe. You knew Sugawara was up for revolution, but Yoshida was an entirely different subject.

"You two would totally get caught," Yoshida said. "Your plan to kill the richest man in the world will never work."

"Would you just relax and let Sugawara and I kill for money?" you asked Yoshida. "It's fun. A hobby. Something you do after school leisurely."

"You're just jealous that you're the lookout, Yoshida," Sugawara singsonged, leaning back in his chair and using the edge of your desk as an elbow rest. "You want in on the action."

Yoshida made a face. "In on the action of getting arrested for life? No thanks."

"We don't talk to corporate puppets," Sugawara said, half-glaring at Yoshida's face. "Come on, [Y/N]. I'll show you my science homework and give you all the answers—"

"Wait, Sugawara, I didn't mean it like that!" Yoshida protested. His arms flailed about. "Let me see your work, too!"

As the school year progressed, you found out that the volleyball coach who led Karasuno to Nationals—Coach Ukai Ikkei—was hospitalized and thus forced to retire. Sugawara was disappointed, but he still kept his determined façade on. He told you that maybe, if he was lucky enough, the team would make it to Nationals or Interhigh Preliminaries while he was still in high school.

The cooking club wasn't anything special. You learned a few new recipes here and there, and you finally learned how to work an oven. Occasionally, you'd drop by Oikawa's house to give him a half-assed cake and milk bread (from the grocery store, much to Mrs. Oikawa's relief), and you'd give Iwaizumi a platter of cookies.

Ovens were dangerous. That's why they were fun!

You mastered the art of the stove a few weeks ago and successfully crafted pancakes for Sugawara and Yoshida. Of course, when you came to school with said pancakes, you ended up eating all of them before the boys had arrived because your pride told you it was embarrassing to give shit to boys.

Boys didn't deserve it!

You already established your superiority to Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and Wakatoshi, so they were alright for now. Oikawa Takeru, who was growing up quickly, was even considering shaving his head.

The Interhigh Preliminaries was drawing near.

Sugawara and his volleyball club were preparing for it. You and Yoshida didn't even get a chance to speak to him after school because he would zip out of class immediately. Yoshida merely shrugged and left for his own soccer practice because he had a tournament coming up as well.

Strangely, your mother hadn't signed you up for any piano competitions as of late, but you didn't particularly care. After she found out that you applied for the cooking club instead of the classical music club, she started utilizing your new skills in the kitchen to help prepare dinner.

It's a good thing you're learning homemaking skills, your mother said. What if when you're older you don't know how to cook for yourself? You'll starve and die.

I'm going to live forever, you said.

As you were baking lemon bars—a suggestion from Diba whom you kept in contact with over the phone—your mother was at the dinner table, sitting at her usual spot. She plucked a sugar cube and placed it between her teeth, taking a long sip of her bitter green tea.

The TV played an American comedy show with Japanese subtitles at the bottom. 

Your life was a comedy show, you believed. Apparently, the funniest thing people liked to watch was a young, naïve teenage girl fuck up her entire life through a string of wrong decisions that inevitably involve romance. 

"So," your mother said, setting down her cup of green tea.

"So," you repeated, watching the lemon bars bake in the oven. You turned off the oven light and took off your mitts to look at your mother.

"Wakatoshi-kun invited you to his training camp," your mother said. "I hear the Interhigh Preliminaries are coming up, so Shiratorizawa is training very hard."

You leaned against the kitchen counter. "I have school, don't I?"

"It's next week. It's not a whole week as you'd expect, [Y/N]." Your mother took another quick sip of her tea, thumbing off excess sugar that was left on the rim. "The one Wakatoshi-kun invited you to spans from directly after school on Friday to Sunday night. It's a very brief training camp."

"I doubt he got permission, Mom," you said. You imagined Wakatoshi in your head. Wakatoshi likely invited you out of the blue without notifying his teachers or coach. If you accepted his invitation, you'd be thoroughly embarrassed and kicked out on the spot. 

"Well, Shiratorizawa is in need of a manager," your mother said. "The first-years and second-years ordinarily do the managerial duties for big teams like Shiratorizawa, but I'd assume since it's a training camp, the first-years and second-years will be participating as well."

"And?"

"And all Wakatoshi-kun had to do was suggest you as a temporary manager despite you going to a different school." Your mother idly looked at you. "Of course, he was about to simply invite you without informing his teachers, so I asked him to think of a tangible, genuine excuse."

You blankly stared at your mother. "You want me to go?"

"Not really," your mother said. "I wanted to say no."

"And did you?"

"I told Wakatoshi-kun I'd talk to you first. I don't want to send you off to a training camp with teenage boys. However, Wakatoshi-kun is there, which gives me some relief." Your mother tapped the wood of the dining table rhythmically, like a metronome. "But also, [Y/N], all you do is stay in your room on the weekends and watch TV."

You held up your hands innocently. "Whoa, why are we attacking me?"

"You need to expand your social circle," your mother pointed out. "I remember when you were little, I forced you out of the house and you made friends with Wakatoshi-kun."

"I have friends," you protested. "And I'm half-way through Sailor Moon, so you might as well let me finish."

"You've been watching Sailor Moon since you were little. It can wait. What's with your obsession?"

"I like girl power."

"Again, you are also in the cooking club. You might as well put your newfound skills to good use there." Bringing her cup up to her lips, your mother flitted her keen gaze toward you. "Impress some boys."

You wrinkled your nose. "I don't like the sound of that."

Frankly, if you could, you'd eat men for breakfast. 

However, you did want to explore new interests. This training camp was the perfect opportunity to try out a few new recipes and become closer to volleyball. And the best part—you wouldn't have to practice the piano!

On top of exploring new fields of interests, you'd see your childhood best friend again! You didn't have what your mother and Adam had. Your mother and Adam saw Wakatoshi during winter, spring, and summer breaks. You didn't. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were fun and all, but when it came down to partnering up for a project, one person was always left out.

Two was the perfect number. 

"If you do go, you'll need to text and call me every night. If not, I'll ask Wakatoshi-kun to do it." Your mother took a sip of her tea and grimaced upon tasting the bitter flavor. "Are you going?"

You weighed your options.

Out of habit, you fiddled with a necklace that donned the gum wrapper ring that Oikawa had given you. You had painted it in resin—to retain its shape—and slipped it on a necklace that you wore habitually. When your mother had asked you about it, you changed the story every time.

Wakatoshi was at the training camp. New opportunities were there. Piano was not there. However, boys were there. Stupid, stupid teenage boys whom you didn't know, and you had to help them. The last time you helped a boy was helping Iwaizumi with his math homework in exchange for a limited edition Star Wars poster.

Your mother also didn't want you to go, but there was nothing more you wanted to do than to spite your overbearing mother. Fuck smoking or sex or fishing! You were given more than enough satisfaction by slightly inconveniencing your mother. 

You nodded enthusiastically. "It's been a while since I've bothered Toshi."

"All right," your mother said. "Remember to make up your piano hours on Monday, though. Don't think I didn't catch that."

Dammit, you thought.

"Hooray," you said.

Spite fueled your veins more than hope did, and you had to say—spite was more effective. 

There was irrational behavior sitting in your body's neural map of a million ideas to overthrow a government. People said there was nothing scarier than a man with no will to live, but unfortunately for the man with no will to live, you were a woman with everything to live for. You could pummel his ass any day. 

As the school week dragged on like a drunk man on the streets of London, you started packing for your weekend trip to see your good friend. You half-hoped that none of Wakatoshi's friends were threatening, but you knew that Wakatoshi had to at least be the most threatening boy on the team.

"Sawamura-san," you said as he passed your desk in your homeroom class, "you're a part of the volleyball team, yes? Good luck on Interhigh Prelims."

"Oh, thank you," Sawamura Daichi said. "Just call me Daichi."

"Sure thing."

Daichi was a sturdy teenage boy with clipped dark hair and round eyes to match. He had a large build with a broad frame that made him appear giant-like to you. He carried a stack of papers, likely to deliver to the teachers' office. Daichi donned a very gentle smile and was overall pretty approachable.

He made you wonder how Karasuno was prepping for Interhigh Preliminaries. The Karasuno volleyball team was smaller than other teams. Aoba Johsai's team was quite big as well. You knew that they had no manager, either—like Shiratorizawa.

Shiratorizawa training camps were private, for the most part. Wakatoshi had called you and told you that most schools in the prefecture paled in comparison to Shiratorizawa, and so Shiratorizawa had to collaborate with other prefectures or college teams. 

You knew that Itachiyama would be at the training camp. 

"We have a super cute manager," Sugawara bragged to Yoshida. "Shimizu Kiyoko from Class 2. Daichi got her from somewhere, but I don't know how. He's always got a serious frown on his face."

Yoshida leaned forward on his desk. "You got Shimizu Kiyoko? Seriously? I can't believe you guys!"

You saw Kiyoko every now and then in the hallways. Kiyoko didn't talk much to others. It was as if she was meant to be admired from afar. She was really gorgeous. You had no idea that she chose being the volleyball manager as her extra-curricular. 

"She used to be in track and field. I don't see why she'd be a volleyball manager."

"You can't question what was meant to be, Yoshida!"

Yoshida rolled his eyes. He jutted a thumb to Sugawara. "[Y/N], can you believe this guy?"

"Shimizu-san should join the cooking club," you said in return, earning glares from the two boys. You stuck out your tongue in return. "I'll cook her the best omelette ever."

It was true that Sugawara and you weren't very good at small talk. Small talk disinterested many, as the conversation always ended up being about sports or about the weather. You didn't play any sports (but you did do competitions—and Sugawara had yet to know about your music), and you didn't care about the weather, either.

Small talk was short clipped words that barely held any meaning to them. You wanted to talk about the big things in life. You didn't care about his schedule or her day so far. You wanted to hear about the embarrassing thing that happened at karaoke the other day. You wanted to hear about how one would get away with murder.

You wanted to hear everything.

Sugawara was a very kind boy, but he had a mischievous spark in him that accompanied his wild grin. Daichi told you that Sugawara was an incredible team player. Sugawara encouraged his upperclassmen, even if he was a ball boy his first year. 

In history, your teacher talked about the influences of Confucian ideals in Japan.

Sitting idly behind Sugawara, you stared at the blackboard that your teacher was pointing at. The days were drifting slowly by, and you hated that you'd stay in school for at least seven more years. Was being a dreamy teenager in a cliché American movie too much to ask?

Determining that Confucian ideologies on women weren't worth much of your time, you picked up your pencil and lazily scrawled across your notebook:

Do you want to dismantle the deeply rooted patriarchy with me?

You added a half-assed smiley face at the end to emphasize your diplomatic friendliness. As discreetly as possible, you tore the paper from your notebook, hoping that your teacher hadn't caught the noise. You folded up the notebook paper.

Taking a deep breath of courage, you lightly tapped Sugawara's shoulder with the notebook paper folded in between your fingers. He cast you a side-glance and noted the paper. Sugawara faked a yawn, fawning over his mouth. He subtly took the paper from you and immediately set it on his lap.

You watched as Sugawara's gray-haired head dipped down to see what you had written. You heard the faint crinkling of paper and a soft chuckle coming from your friend.

Anxious, you tapped your pencil against your desk. You didn't know why, but you felt strangely hot. Excitement pounded in your chest, and your ears were warming by the second. The teacher really ought to check the temperature in this class. Any hotter and you might have a heat stroke.

Was this what it felt like to die? This adrenaline shooting up your veins and shaking intensity that caused your hands to grow clammy. You were never going to die, you thought. You were going to live forever.

You caught yourself studying the symmetry of Sugawara's back. His frame was square, all sharp lines and lean edges. He didn't have a broad frame like Daichi; Sugawara was far smaller. No, smaller wasn't the correct word choice. Fragile? You weren't sure how to describe Sugawara at all, actually.

There were slim shadows of his shoulder blades protruding. If Sugawara were an angel, you'd imagine wings sprouting from those places. His shoulders were rounded off with slight muscle, and you—

And you tore your gaze away from him.

What the fuck, [Y/N]? you thought to yourself. Focus on your paper. Papers are cool. 

In all honesty, you pitied the tree that grew for twenty years only to become your notebook. Your notebook was filled with incoherent scribbles of plans (to fight the government if the government ever decided to colonize alien planets) and doodles of you riding a dinosaur.

Sugawara pretended to stretch in his seat, quickly tossing the paper on your desk. The folded notebook paper skidded across the length of your desk, and you caught it before it slid off the side.

You dropped your pencil and unfolded the notebook paper carefully. He drew a smiley face next to your smiley face, and there was a speech bubble that gave a little 'hello!' to your smiley face. Your eyes fell to his response.

Of course! I'll bring the snacks for the road. Do you like spicy tofu?

Sugawara used an unhealthy amount of exclamation points and question marks. It was cute. A smile crossed your face. It was an uncontrollable smile that no matter what you did, it would stay and make your face its home. 

Faint humming of the generator next to the school wall could be heard. Scratching of the teacher's chalk on the blackboard. Angsty students bouncing their legs up and down. Pencils being scraped against notebook papers in a rush. Focus, focus, focus.

A strange, star-like spark burned in your chest.

Chapter Text

"Oh?" a voice sang from behind you. "Who's this?"

You, who only managed to find the Shiratorizawa Academy grounds through a kind convenience store clerk, stood with a duffel bag at your feet and your eyes glued to your phone (in order to look busier than usual to prevent anyone from approaching; obviously, it didn't work).

Tearing your eyes away from your illuminated square screen, you turned around. You were greeted with a lanky teenage boy around your age with vibrant red hair that was combed upward. His hair defied all laws of gravity, but since Sugawara's hair defied all laws of genetics, you chose not to say anything.

The lanky teenage boy donned tired eyes and a perky nose. His smile was that of a straight line with small dimple imprints on his cheeks. He was tall enough for you to tilt your chin up slightly to look him directly in the eye. This boy looked smug no matter what angle one looked at him with.

"You're not a student, are you?" the boy asked. "Usually, one needs a permit to come onto campus."

It was pretty damn obvious that you weren't a student, seeing that you had come directly after school on Friday just to pitch in on the training camp of Shiratorizawa's volleyball club.

On cue, you motioned to the sticker permit that clung to your Karasuno High School uniform skirt.

The Shiratorizawa Academy campus was huge. Your sorry ass had gotten lost upon arrival, and after the front office had given you a permit and shitty directions, you decided that if you couldn't find the bus before 4 PM, then you just wouldn't go. 

After all, you didn't even go to this school. It was a miracle that Wakatoshi was able to pull some strings for you to tag along. Was Wakatoshi really that important? You supposed that the volleyball club wouldn't be the same without Wakatoshi. He was a rare southpaw with an insane amount of strength and talent.

"Do you know where the volleyball club is meeting up?" you asked tiredly.

The teenage boy tilted his head. "I'm in the volleyball club."

"Okay," you said. "Do you know where the volleyball club is meeting up?"

"Err—right around the corner." The boy's face melted into one of mischief and slight intrigue. "Are you a fan? You look familiar."

You had half a mind to say that you starred in Star Wars: Episode IV — A New Hope as Chewbacca or that you were once on the news for being a war criminal, but you bit your tongue.

"Usually people who aren't on the volleyball team are not allowed to tag along." The boy clasped his hands together in a very unapologetic plea. "You can see us off, though."

You sighed, picking up your duffel bag and slinging it over your shoulder. "I'm—"

The boy perked his head up, obviously catching sight of someone that was coming behind you. The boy's hair bounced with each slight movement, and you couldn't help but think that the boy's hair resembled wheat stalks. You turned around, curious.

"Wakatoshi!" the boy exclaimed, taking a step back and finger-gunning the boy approaching you. "Miracle boy!"

Holy shit, Wakatoshi was tall.

You wanted to ask him so many questions. The words jumbled in your head as you jumped from English to Japanese in your head, attempting to handpick the perfect words that conveyed what you wanted to convey.

Why did he insist on bringing you along to the Shiratorizawa training camp? How did he benefit? You didn't even go to Shiratorizawa; you were an outsider! The thought of it was ridiculous, but actually enacting it was even more ridiculous! How did he even get you permission to come along? Did Wakatoshi miss you like you missed him?

You hadn't seen him in forever, it felt like. Wakatoshi had a more large and lean-muscular build with a broad shoulder length. His familiar dark olive hair was parted in the middle, and the short locks of his hair barely caressed his slanted brows. He wore his Shiratorizawa jacket unzipped, revealing the dark shirt he wore underneath. 

His mouth was set in a small frown, and he had an incessant determined look crossing his features.

Even with his intimidating stature, you recognized his dark olive-brown eyes that resembled puppy dog eyes to you. They were a little sharper than you remembered, but they were still Wakatoshi's eyes.

His eyes widened.

Wakatoshi took long strides toward you before engulfing you in a singular hug that nearly broke all of your bones.

Wakatoshi's arms were taut around your shoulders, seemingly enveloping you deeper and deeper into his warm body. His grip on you was strong, and if only you could hug him back. Your arms were squeezed against your sides, unable to fight Wakatoshi's strength.

He settled his chin on top of your head, comfortable. His heart thudded in his chest loudly, and you assumed that it was because he had speed-walked over to where you were just to hug you. Wakatoshi let out a deep sigh—of content?—and his Adam's apple bobbed.

Your cheek was pressed against his zipper, and you were sure that you'd have an imprint by the time your childhood best friend let go of you. You weakly flailed your arms about. The stare of the red-haired boy seemed to drill holes into the back of your head, and you flushed hotly.

Those questions you had for him—none of them were answered. At least, none of them, save for the last one. By this hug that reminded you of home, of your childhood, you knew for a fact that Wakatoshi missed you like you missed him.

"I tap out, I tap out," you said, patting the side of Wakatoshi's hip bone. "Come on, you oaf, get off of me."

He only tightened his hold.

"Waka-chan," you said. "Toshi. 'Jima-saurus Rex. Cow-jima. Ushi."

It was only after the sixth nickname did Wakatoshi retract his head from yours and look down at you. His skin was a lot smoother up close, and you studied his straight nose and sharp jawline. It seemed he was a statue straight out of a museum with his chiseled features and sculpted looks.

"Ushi," he said, his voice deep. His arms slackened their hold around your shoulders but didn't move. "That's a new one."

"You haven't aged a day, Waka-chan," you complimented.

Wakatoshi looked perplexed. "I've aged three years since I last saw you."

The red-haired boy swam over to Wakatoshi's side, taking another good look at you. You were very well-aware of the imprint of Wakatoshi's Shiratorizawa jacket zipper on your cheek, since the boy kept glancing at it every now and then. The boy pounded his fist into his open palm.

"Oh, I know why you look so fami—" The red-haired boy was cut off by Wakatoshi.

"Tendo Satori," Wakatoshi said, "this is Suzuki [Y/N]."

"Hi," you said stupidly. "Honestly, you can just call me [Y/N]."

"So you're Suzuki [Y/N]," Tendo mused. "Cute name."

"Thanks," you said, unsure if he was referring to your first name or your last name. "It's my mom's."

Tendo's smile widened, and you noticed that he resembled a cat of sorts—much like that Kuroo Tetsurou you had met in Tokyo. His down-turned eyes stared directly at you, as if meaning to intimidate you. You could see how Tendo Satori could be intimidating. His build was somewhat skeletal, and he was lanky like an outdoor light pole.

The red-haired boy exclaimed, "Wow! Wakatoshi really hugged you like there was no tomorrow! How uncharacteristic of Super Lefty! How long have you two known each other?"

"There is a tomorrow," Wakatoshi corrected at the same time you said, "I don't remember."

You and Wakatoshi looked at each other briefly.

"Waka-chan is very literal sometimes but he's cool," you said at the same time Wakatoshi said, "since she was a tiny child. I was not a tiny child. I have always been taller than [Y/N]."

Tendo blinked.

You pulled yourself away from Wakatoshi's arms. "What does being taller than me have anything to do with this? Suddenly I feel like committing first-degree murder."

"[Y/N], you could get arrested for that," Wakatoshi said.

"I ate my breakfast," you said. "I have enough stamina to run from a cop or two."

"[Y/N], you're sort of a tagalong, right?" Tendo interjected. "You're real lucky that Wakatoshi knows you. I never expected a guy like him to know a girl like you. It's like you appeared from out of the blue!"

"Well," you said, "all the best people do."

"It'll be nice to have someone take care of us for a change." Tendo placed a hand on his hip. His tone was a little skeptic, but you didn't mind it at all. It might've been natural. "I also hear you're in the cooking club. Is there anything else that you do that could be—you know—helpful?"

You shrugged. "I've grown up around volleyball, and it's been a long time since I've seen Toshi."

"I'm just a little surprised that Miracle Boy himself recommended you out of all people."

To be frank, you were even more surprised that Wakatoshi even managed to find you an invitation. You were still half-convinced that Wakatoshi simply let you come with him without telling anyone. Judging by Tendo's reaction, it seemed like you had nothing to worry about regarding permission.

"Your nicknames for him alternate," Tendo pointed out, "frequently."

"Having an expansive vocabulary is sexy," you said. "Your vocabulary is quite impressive, Miracle Boy."

Tendo squinted his eyes at you.

Wakatoshi and Tendo accompanied you to the volleyball club's bus. Unlike Karasuno, it seemed that the volleyball club at Shiratorizawa was well-funded, as they did manage to perform well. Schools often funded the programs that garnered more profit but would underfund art programs as a result.

Along the way, Wakatoshi showed you the horses that he briefly mentioned during a phone call. You pointed out that a particularly stunning horse looked like Wakatoshi. Your childhood best friend had the heart to remind you that he was not a horse but a human and said that you could ride one of the horses later.

A few tall boys were already gathered near the bus, duffel bags discarded here and there, and they chatted animatedly, occasionally harshly patting each other on the back after a well-told joke. You tightened your grip on the shoulder strap.

"There's nothing to be scared of, angry girl," Tendo said, his face appearing over your left shoulder. "Just a bunch of boys having fun."

"I'm not scared," you said.

"Intimidated, then."

"Not that, either."

There was another person who called you angry. Notably a certain blind girl in America with a talent for music yet never pursued it due to her disability. When you looked at Tendo, you could see Diba. Just a little bit. Ah, well, a little could go a long way, you supposed. You saw a little bit of yourself in Sugawara Koshi—not that you'd ever tell him.

Tendo straightened his posture and sauntered over to Wakatoshi's side. If you hadn't known Wakatoshi—and by extent, Tendo—you might have been (and you would never admit this to Tendo) a little intimidated. After all, it was two giant-like volleyball players standing next to each other with determination.

Wakatoshi's voice rumbled. "[Y/N] shouldn't be scared."

"Why?" Tendo teased, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning forward. He tilted his head to look Wakatoshi in the eye. "'Cause you'll be there to save the day? Hmm, Wakatoshi-kun?"

Wakatoshi stared at Tendo with his signature stony face. "Have you seen her talk about Obi Wan-Kenobi?"

There was a hunched old man with his hands clasped behind his back who approached you, Wakatoshi, and Tendo.

His light, graying hair was slicked back behind his ears and furrowed, thick brows to match. His eyes were dropped with age, and wrinkles sagged in the places where muscles and polish might have been. The old man's nose jutted out of his face, too big to be seen as natural, and his ears rounded his face down to his jawline.

Immediately, Wakatoshi and Tendo gave slight bows to the old man out of respect. You almost went in for a handshake but smoothly brought your hand down as you bowed your head to awkwardly follow Wakatoshi and Tendo. You weren't in America.

Wakatoshi introduced to you, "this is Coach Washijo of the Shiratorizawa Volleyball Club."

"Nice to meet you," you said, bobbing your head back up. "I'm Suzuki [Y/N], but you can just call me [Y/N]."

"Wakatoshi has told me all about you," Coach Washijo said. His eyes scrutinized every part of your body, and you felt a chill run down your spine. "In fact, he insisted you come along."

Insisted?

You turned your head over to Wakatoshi, who said nothing, and then to Tendo, who still had his hands in pockets and paid no mind to the conversation.

Coach Washijo said, "we could have picked any other girl from the cooking club at our school. It would make more sense, yes? In fact, we usually have more than one girl come along. Thankfully, Itachiyama has a few supervisors of their own."

"Cool," you said. "I hope I can get along with them well enough."

"Sure. Of course, cooking for Shiratorizawa and Itachiyama is a strong feat. You girls better be prepared to cook a storm three times a day," Coach Washijo said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We are powerhouse schools, and it is filled with men who need to feast like kings."

"I'm sure," you said. You tried not to roll your eyes. You really, really did.

Something told you that you were going to hate this training camp.

Maybe you should join a different club. In all honesty, cooking was a little more dull than you expected. What you wanted was a Gordon-Ramsay-esque experience where you kept developing your cooking skills, but what you received was this. You were an equivalent to a stove to this senile man.

The cooking club was more than 'does this taste good?' or 'is this delicious?' It focused a lot on nutrition and health. The students learned about balanced meals and the food groups. You were only really interested in eating the rich, so maybe it was time for you to look elsewhere in regards to passion.

Newspaper club sounded nosy. Art was for kids with broad imaginations and lifted chins. English club was an obvious choice, but you could already feel your head nodding to sleep at the sight of Wilde or Keats. You thought about sports and immediately threw the thought out of your mind.

You were friends with far too many boys who did sports. The last thing you wanted to do was boost the ego of one of them by asking them to help you practice because you played seriously.

It provoked thought in you. 

Piano, more specifically.

"[Y/N], would you mind helping me load the bags into the bus?" Coach Washijo asked. "If the bags and the coolers are too heavy, you can pull out a few strong boys to help you."

"I can help her," Wakatoshi offered almost immediately.

You shook your head. "I'm okay with moving the stuff by myself, Waka-chan."

"But I am strong."

"I know you're strong," you said to him. "But it's just a few coolers and your teammates' duffel bags, along with your supervisors' belongings, too."

"What if they're heavy?" Wakatoshi asked.

You eyed your tall friend. "What could be so heavy that's in the duffel bags? The national debt of America? I'm sure I can carry them, even if they're heavy."

To be frank, you didn't want to call upon the help of 'a few strong boys.' You were sure that you were perfectly capable of moving bags in the compartment of the bus just fine. It might take time because there was only one of you and so many bags and coolers, but it had nothing to do with your strength.

"Wakatoshi is right," Coach Washijo said. "He's one of the strongest boys on our team and likely the one with the most potential. It wouldn't hurt to have him help you."

"I'm all right," you attempted to persuade. "Really."

Wakatoshi looked unconvinced. 

"Fine," you reasoned. "You can help me if I end up needing it."

If Wakatoshi was going to be stubborn, you might as well use a different tactic: compromise. 

You and Wakatoshi bid farewell to Coach Washijo and Tendo and strolled to the heap of bags next to the tall boys of Wakatoshi's volleyball team. They paid no mind to you and instead shot slight glances over at Wakatoshi. Although Wakatoshi was a first-year, he stood at the same height as most of the third-year volleyball players.

Promptly storing your duffel bag away in the bus' compartment, you hefted the strap of a particularly large, dark duffel bag. You wanted to get all the larger bags in first so you could maneuver the smaller ones around easier.

You tried not to drag the duffel bag to prevent any scrapes or scratches on the fabric. The olive-brown haired boy held his hands out to take the bag from your hands, but you quickly jerked the bag away from him. You heaved the large bag into the compartment and adjusted as you saw fit. 

"I'm fine," you said, wiping your palms off. "See. One already down."

"I could carry two at the same time."

"Don't make this a competition, Toshi," you warned. "I'll gnaw your right arm off."

"If you do that, I'll only be able to carry one duffel bag."

Coach Washijo and Tendo watched as you hauled the various bags and coolers into the compartment. They saw you shake your head when a few boys that were arriving late asked if you needed help. Then they saw Wakatoshi ominously standing behind you.

It was comedic to see you trudge back and forth, bringing coolers and duffel bags to the bus. Wakatoshi would lean down to help you, to which you'd respond with a squint of your eyes and your tongue sticking out.

Wakatoshi, with nothing to do, walked behind you. Wakatoshi was noticeably bigger than you—he always had been.  Tendo watched as Shiratorizawa's ace followed you helplessly. Wakatoshi nipped at your heels like a guard dog.

Tendo couldn't help but think that Wakatoshi looked like he was very close to kidnapping you. If you didn't look so fearless and daring, the lanky boy might have been compelled to save you, even. However, with those loose morals of yours, Tendo pictured you as a spoiled wealthy princess-like brat and Wakatoshi as a scary bodyguard with unbeatable loyalty.

Eventually, you finished off the job without Wakatoshi's help.

As the last few boys came to the bus, you realized how tall and strong the Shiratorizawa team was. They all boasted of a strong build and broad shoulders. There was no diversity when it came to body type, you realized quickly. No short people. Just muscular and tall boys.

You shot a look at Coach Washijo, who was checking off names as each boy formed a single-file line into the bus. You suspected that he accepted neither anyone with a shorter height nor anyone who lacked strength (yet specialized elsewhere—like speed). Maybe he accepted those who he thought would score the most points, too.

Coach Washijo wasn't tall himself, either, so you couldn't see why he wanted such a one-dimensional team.

Wakatoshi and you waited at the back of the line. Usually, volleyball players were at the front of the line while managers were at the back. However, Wakatoshi wanted to sit with you. You had to admit that  it was very comforting to have your soulmate by your side again.

Two really was the perfect number.

"Hey, legends," Tendo said, popping his head in between you and Wakatoshi. "Do you have any snacks for the road?"

"Nothing," you said.

"Really?" Tendo teased, his eyes full of mirth. He pulled out an awfully familiar bag of potato chips from midair. "Mind explaining this, then, young lady?"

Your brow twitched. "Did you take that from my snack cooler, jackass?"

"No. Maybe. Yes," Tendo said. "You lied and said you didn't have snacks. It made me sad. Here I was, hoping I'd get your permission to eat these wonderful, wonderful chips on the road."

"At least you've got some morals in you," you said. "Go ahead, but you better share."

Tendo raised his hands up in the air triumphantly, taking the potato chip bag with him. He let out a cheerful whoop. "The wonderful Tendo Satori wins again!"

As the red-haired boy pranced away, Wakatoshi looked at you.

"[Y/N]," he said, "you didn't have to let him take the snacks."

"I know." You glanced at Wakatoshi's slightly concerned face—furrowed short brows and the smallest hint of a pout. You smiled. "It's called diplomacy and creating favors."

When you and Wakatoshi reached the bus after the rest of the line had filed inside, you surveyed the rowdy bus. All boys. It was a mess of gangly limbs and smelly snacks everywhere. It had only been around five minutes since everyone piled into the bus, but there were already haphazard socks and jackets strewn everywhere.

Since this was a school bus, you doubted there were any restrictions or manners regarding taking a bus, but it still mimicked a pigsty. You kept to yourself and feebly followed Wakatoshi's giant footsteps to the back of the bus where there strangely were empty seats. 

You stepped over volleyball shoes and jerseys and dodged crazy hands that were aimed toward fellow teammates. A bottle of soda rolled past your feet which you nearly slipped over.

I'm going to die, you thought.

Tendo was sitting at the back of the bus, happily munching on potato chips and reading a book. You never pegged him as a book lover. The seat next to him was empty. His legs were crossed, so it was no wonder nobody sat next to him.

Wakatoshi let you have the window seat. You hoped that you didn't need to use the restroom along the way to Itachiyama. It was a drive to Tokyo. Not France. Not England. Tokyo. You took a deep breath in and fiddled with your piano fingers as Wakatoshi sat next to you.

"Have you gotten shorter?" Wakatoshi asked you.

You crossed your arms. "You've got some nerve."

"I've been informed that there are more than a million in one body."

Tendo's mouth was full as he piped up from across Wakatoshi, "around seven trillion."

A familiar boy with ash blond hair boarded the bus in a messy fashion.

He nearly fell over on the stairs, and his hand flew out to catch himself on the railing. He let out an awkwardly chuckle before surfing the crowd of boys for an empty spot on the bus. The boy caught sight of the seat next to Tendo.

As he neared the back of the bus, you noted the darker tips of his hair and the thin brows that the boy donned. He was tall and had broad shoulders, much like the rest of the team. Your jaw nearly dropped at the sight of him (not because he was handsome—but he certainly was).

Without so much as sparing Wakatoshi a look, Semi Eita sat down next to Tendo.

"They need to put more leg space on these buses," Semi Eita complained to Tendo. "This is tall people discrimination."

Tendo swallowed the potato chips in his mouth. His down-turned eyes stared at Semi. "Semisemi, why'd you come so late? That's really uncharacteristic of you."

"I lost the key to my dorm," Semi explained. "I had to scour the campus for it."

"Did you find it?"

"Err—yeah." Semi looked sheepish. "It was in the pocket of my jeans the whole time."

It was Mr. First Place. He went to Shiratorizawa. Shiratorizawa was the prestigious school that Semi had been talking about. The athletic sport that he specialized in must have been volleyball. Somehow, in the strangest way possible, volleyball always came back to bite you in the butt.

And for what? You didn't even do anything.

Semi nodded a greeting to Wakatoshi, and Wakatoshi nodded back. You took this as an opportunity to lean forward to catch Semi's attention. Wakatoshi's lean-muscular build had almost covered you from Semi's line of sight.

"Hi, First Place," you said, waving your hand. "I take it you got that scholarship?"

It took Semi Eita a second to fully register you.

You didn't blame him. His eyes stared at you in slight disbelief. He had frozen in his seat, his hand curled over the edge of the armrest. Semi Eita blinked. You blinked. Tendo tilted his head. Wakatoshi looked at you. Silence fell over the awkward first-years that sat over the back of the bus.

The bus started to move, and everyone jolted slightly from the sudden force. As the wheels of the bus rumbled over the paved roads of the Shiratorizawa Campus, Semi broke the silence.

"Suzuki?" Semi asked in disbelief.

"Sometimes I am called that, yes," you said. You leaned back into your seat, letting Wakatoshi hide you from Semi's line of sight. "People usually call me Jedi Master [Y/N]."

"Wait, don't go," Semi said. "Stop hiding. Suzuki, I know you're there."

Wakatoshi, in a true guard dog fashion, asked Semi. "How do you know Jedi Master [Y/N]?"

"Piano competitions," Semi answered Wakatoshi. He furrowed his brows. "How do you know her?"

"We're childhood friends," you said quickly for Wakatoshi. "So, the scholarship—you know—the one that made you drop competitions?"

"Yeah, the athletics scholarship was for Shiratorizawa." Semi moved to take a potato chip from Tendo's bag, to which the lanky boy begrudgingly offered to the dark-tipped blond. "I'm still extremely grateful that I got an opportunity to play with your childhood friend. He's well-known in the Miyagi volleyball world."

"So I've heard," you said. "Still, congrats on the scholarship. Are you still going to do music?"

Semi shook his head. "Not classical or the type that you're thinking of. It's too—what's the word?—taxing. But I really, really do like music, so I was thinking about band music. I picked up the guitar not too long ago to cope with stress."

"So," Tendo chimed lazily before you could respond to Semi, "[Y/N], you just happen to know everybody on the Shiratorizawa volleyball team, huh?"

"Coincidence." You shrugged and leaned back into your seat. "And it's just two people."

"Next thing you know, you're in cahoots with Ohira," Tendo said.

"I'm always in cahoots with someone," you said. "Don't know who this Ohira guy is, but if he's down for a life of crime, I'm in."

When the bus arrived at Itachiyama Academy, the sun was well on the other side of the world. The moon had risen in its place—not a full moon, though, much to your disappointment. You wondered if Oikawa could set a half-moon instead of a full one.

Dinner was served, courtesy of the Itachiyama supervisors.

You sat next to Wakatoshi and Tendo, and Tendo needlessly picked on you. Of course, it didn't really affect you because Oikawa had said all of these things before Tendo could even think of them. Sometimes it paid off to have such a teasing friend around, even if your feelings were hurt.

The book that Tendo had been reading was actually the weekly copy of Shonen Jump.

Adam actually kept up regularly with Shonen Jump (much to your mother's dismay, and she believed that it was an incredible waste of money). When you were bored, you'd go through all the old editions and doodle facial hair on the characters. 

Sometimes, you'd completely rewrite the script and the dialogue of the story for the hell of it. Who was going to stop you? The author? Some strange higher power? If they really wanted to stop you, they would have hunted you down for sport long ago.

Wakatoshi expressed his approval for the advertisements placed in the weekly copies, to which Tendo responded with a small pout.

Semi and you talked about music, despite the latter hating it to a certain degree. Semi offered to burn you a DVD of a list of songs that he found enjoyable. When you asked if it was classical, he shook his head. They were band songs, and he intended to cover them before thinking about writing any of his own songs.

When you were helping the team clean up the dinner, you met the girl whom Itachiyama brought along. She was around your age and also part of the cooking club. Easily you and her became friends.

The girl enjoyed reading and gave you a list of books that you needed to put on your TBR. In return, you asked her a bit about Sakusa Kiyoomi.

You found out that Sakusa Kiyoomi—Wakatoshi's friend of sorts—was not at the training camp because he was still a third-year in middle school. The girl had gone to middle school with him and told you that he and Wakatoshi were well on their way to becoming the best aces in Japan.

Everyone was settled in the Itachiyama rooms near the gymnasiums for the night. The boys were separated from the girls and the supervisors. You shared a room with the Itachiyama girl, and you were aware that Wakatoshi, Semi, Tendo, and Ohira (whom you met during the dinner) shared a room.

There were two large Japanese futons splayed out on the hardwood floor. They were a good meter away from each other with your and her duffel bags placed in between them. It was a rather spacious room for only two girls, and all the other supervisors opted for their own rooms down the hallway. Even further down the hallways was the boys' rooms.

The girl was absorbed in a book and curled up on her respective futon. She used the light of her phone so she could read. She winced at the bright light coming from the entrance and took note of you. She waved hello before turning back to her book.

You had just gotten back from taking a shower, and you shut the sliding door behind you, letting the room be engulfed in darkness.

"No light?" you asked her.

She shook her head. "I'm fine. I'll be going to sleep in a few minutes anyway. I'm just doing some light reading."

"What are you reading?" you asked, kneeling down on your futon and folding up your clothes to put back into your duffel. 

"An encyclopedia."

You set your phone alarm for 6 AM—the supposed time that everyone woke up for light training and for you and your new friend to go meal prep. It was an ungodly hour. Only pathetic students and determined athletes got up at 6 AM. People ought to wake up a little bit past noon more often, like a cool kid.

Settling into your futon, you pulled the covers over yourself and played around with your phone. You texted Oikawa and Iwaizumi that you were going to eat their brains the moment you came back home from Tokyo. Then Iwaizumi responded with an ugly cat photo. That was when you decided to put down your phone for the night.

"How do you know Ushijima Wakatoshi?" the Itachiyama girl asked.

"Childhood friends," you said.

"Really?" The girl set her book down and stared over the wall of bags that were placed between you and her. "Not anything more?"

You sat up messily, looking her in the face—or where you thought was her face. The room was too dark for you to see anything. "Why do you ask that? We're not dating, and I think he's single, if you want to go after him."

"Not that," the girl said. "If you don't know, then never mind."

With those words, she flopped down on her futon and pulled the covers over herself, leaving you with slight confusion. You slowly went back to bed, your mind filled with the strangeness of the girl and what she meant.

She gave you a muffled good night.

A few minutes passed, and you felt yourself drift off into a slow and steady sleep. The futon here was comfier than your bed at home. You ought to tell your mom that. Maybe she should invest in a futon. Maybe you should invest in a futon when you go back to America. 

You wondered if the Itachiyama girl would mind if you gave her encyclopedia a read. You slowly crept out of bed. Although you were very close to slipping into slumber, you knew that there was no rest for the wicked. You were of utmost wickedness, you believed. There wasn't a more nastier woman out there—and that was a compliment.

The girl was dead asleep.

You crawled over to the girl's side and picked up the encyclopedia that was laid by her head. It was a thick book with a makeshift paper bag cover over it. You hauled it on your lap and opened it randomly in the middle.

After skimming a few sentences, you realized quickly that this was not an encyclopedia.

Haunted, you took a peek underneath the paper bag cover and confirmed your suspicions. You swiftly placed the book back right where you found it—next to the girl's head—and weakly made your way back to your futon.

That was enough curiosity for the night.

Just as you were tucking yourself into bed, the sliding door creaked open and a sliver of golden light seeped into the classroom. There was a large figure standing at the doorway. You sat up once more, your eyes bleary from the sudden light. 

The figure was revealed to be Wakatoshi, who was wearing one of his father's old t-shirts. He eyed the girl that was wrapped up in her sheets behind you. Then he looked at you.

His voice was deep and broke the silence of the room that you slept in.

"I heard you had a nightmare."

Unsure if you heard him correctly, you rubbed your eyes. Then you blinked at him wearily. "No?"

"You had a nightmare," he insisted.

"No, I didn't," you said quietly, trying not to wake up the Itachiyama girl. "And even if I did, how would you know? You're in a different room, Toshi."

"Yes, you did," Wakatoshi said a bit louder.

"Are you trying to wake up my friend?" you hissed out.

Wakatoshi stared at you. You stared at him. The warm light of the hallway behind him made him look like a sort of benevolent god. A stoic, volleyball-crazed god. His broad shoulders took up nearly the width of the door, and you had to remind yourself that he was only fifteen—almost sixteen.

You came to a conclusion. You realized it.

With Wakatoshi, you had to read in between the lines. It was all about reading in between the lines when it came to him. With you, it was about reading the annotations—the lines that went off the pages or filled the margins with doodles of evil cats.

"Fine," you said. You brought a finger to your lips. "But you're not exactly Mr. Stealthy, Toshi, so you better be quiet."

You scooted over on your Japanese futon until your back hit the bags that separated you from the girl. You hastily casted a glance over to her, only to see her blankets strewn across her body and her face to the side. She let out snores that were loud enough to cover Wakatoshi's footsteps as he came to the foot of your futon.

You patted the side of the futon that was available for Wakatoshi to crawl into. Even as children, you and Wakatoshi had never slept in the same bed. Whenever there were sleepovers, he'd let you sleep on the bed, and Ms. Ushijima would roll out a Japanese futon for him on the ground.

Sometimes you'd feel guilty and sleep on the hard ground, and Ms. Ushijima would be less than thrilled to see you with back pain from the uncomfortableness of the floor.

Wakatoshi laid in the futon next to you, and the smell of clean laundry hit your nose. It brought you back to the Ushijimas' laundry hanging on laundry lines in the hot summer.

You were glad you brushed your teeth that night, and you hoped that Wakatoshi did, too. You had half a mind to sleep back to back with him, but you remembered that was how spouses were killed. You turned around.

You wondered what compelled Wakatoshi to come to your room and sleep next to you. There was nothing between you and him but the sheets and air. Thankfully the futon was large enough for you to bring your legs in and curl into a ball. Wakatoshi, unfortunately, was too tall for that.

"Sometimes I sleep with a volleyball," Wakatoshi said.

You tried not to laugh. "How do you even sleep at night, dude?"

He looked confused. "I close my eyes."

You hit your forehead against his chest, and you could feel the warmth of his heart. The lupp-dubb was increasingly loud. A metronome, you thought. An alive, beating metronome. You flushed hotly and said, "stupid."

It was just him and you in this world, you felt like. There was no Itachiyama girl who was sleeping, oblivious to the fact that a boy crawled into bed with you. There was no Shiratorizawa team, no Itachiyama team, no nothing. It was Wakatoshi, the boy blessed with gifts and talents and everything you could ever want and more, and you.

Jealousy erupted in you.

Wakatoshi had chosen you to be here.

It might have been just you, but you didn't like the feeling of being chosen.

It made you feel there was some sort of higher power that patronized you. One would ordinarily like the feeling of being singled out or being recognized as a cut above the rest but not you. You didn't want to be chosen. 

There was some strong, innate desire in you to take. 

"Why didn't you cheer for me?"

The question was so abrupt that you nearly shot your head up and hit Wakatoshi's chin. Instead, you meekly looked up at him and watched his Adam's apple bob anxiously. You sighed and put your head back over his metronome heart.

"You didn't cheer for me once in middle school." The fact rippled through his chest and vibrated. It seemed to pierce through your skull and into your very, very small brain. "You only cheered for Oikawa and Iwaizumi."

"I know," you said. 

"They were going to lose," Wakatoshi pointed out, his frame relaxing by the second. "You knew I was going to win, so why did you still stand by them?"

You struggled to find an answer. This was a question you didn't even know yourself. "They—they needed it more. I have my full faith in you, Toshi, and I know that you'll win, but I wanted to encourage my friends. Even if they'll lose, I don't want to—I don't want to abandon them. Is that so bad?"

Wakatoshi was quiet.

"I guess not," he said eventually. "But you shouldn't let people hold you back. Even if there's a sentimental connection, it's not worth it. Moving forward is the good part."

Moving forward meant growing up.

Wakatoshi then asked, "so what do I have to do in order for you to be with me?"

You thought about it. He didn't have to do anything. Wakatoshi was the first person you met when you landed in Japan. He was a star, you knew. He was a star, a constellation, a solar system. He was the sort of thing you had to look up to see (both literally and figuratively).

Desperately, you had wanted to be him.

When you were younger, all you wanted to be was Ushijima Wakatoshi. He was your best friend, yes, but that didn't stop green envy from crawling up your veins. You understood what it was like to be just a planet in his solar system. You felt a desperate sort of jealousy that made you believe that you had to stick to one passion.

But it didn't make you a bad person to be jealous. 

Even if you were jealous, you'd still want Wakatoshi to move on and become better. Even if you were sedentary, that didn't mean Wakatoshi had to stay with you. You had to encourage him.

"Get to Interhigh," you said in a small voice. "Get to Nationals."

You and he were magnets. 

Fantasizing about your childhood with him was nearly perfect. It had all the bits and parts that you loved about being a child and you knew how lucky you were to be one. But childhoods had one major flaw, and that was that you and he eventually had to grow up.

"Done."

Chapter Text

It was too early in the morning.

You waddled out of the bathroom, scratching underneath your shirt. A toothbrush was hanging haphazardly in your mouth as you looked Wakatoshi in the eye. You took out the toothbrush and poised it dangerously in front of Wakatoshi's face. "Don't look at me. I just woke up."

"I know," he said. "I was there."

Thankfully, you woke up before the Itachiyama girl had and successfully snuck out with Wakatoshi to prepare for the day. When you first woke up, your head was resting on Wakatoshi's shoulder with his arm across your shoulders. Wakatoshi's cheek was pressed against the temple of your forehead.

Wakatoshi was splayed out on your futon with your leg awkwardly thrown over his. The formerly straight blankets were roped this way and that around your limbs and his, strewn all over messily. You had leaned over Wakatoshi's sleeping body to snatch your phone, which showed you that it was thirty minutes before your alarm would ring.

You did not want to get up.

It was too comfortable being entangled in your warm, warm bed instead of walking around the cold, cold hallways. Wakatoshi reminded you of home. He wasn't the best person around to hop into bed with, admittedly (as seen with his cheek pressing down on your forehead), but he smelled like clean laundry!

People who smelled like clean laundry had to be trusted. No questions asked.

Not only that, but Wakatoshi was very cozy. His frame was thicker than most, packed with muscles from intensive training and exercise, and thus was comfier than most. He always had this gentle feel to him despite being built like a steel crate. He was your childhood best friend, and you felt like you were sleeping with your memories.

However, it was likely that the Itachiyama girl would wake up at the sound of your alarm, so you quickly shook Wakatoshi awake so you and he could start the day fresh and early.

Eventually, all the other boys started rising minutes before 6 AM. You passed them in the hallways as they remained oblivious to the fact that Wakatoshi had not stayed the night in his respective room.

Tendo, of course, thought that Wakatoshi had gotten up early.

You fanned your hand in front of your mouth as you yawned. The kitchen was around here somewhere; the Itachiyama girl had showed you its whereabouts just yesterday! Athletes needed carbohydrates for breakfast, according to the shitty photo of the cooking classroom's nutrition chart on your phone.

You were ready to bake the fuck out of some bread and rice, then.

"Here," Wakatoshi said from behind you, dropping his jacket over your head.

When your vision temporarily blocked, you had thought that you were going to die and readily accepted such a death. Then you removed the jacket from your head, and you turned around to look up at Wakatoshi.

"Won't you be cold when you're out for the run?" you asked. Coach Washijo had instructed the teams to go on a morning run to begin their exercise for the day. It was sadistic, yes, but such was the life of an athlete.

"It's fine," Wakatoshi said. "Just hold on to it."

You folded his jacket in your arms and stared at him incredulously. "Sure. You really are weird, Toshi."

As the boys started to prepare for the long day ahead, you met up with the Itachiyama girl who held your phone in her hand. Apparently the alarm had indeed woken her up, and she handed you back your rectangular device.

The Itachiyama girl noticed the folded jacket in your arms and decided not to say anything about it. She and you ambled to the kitchen to prepare breakfast and lunch.

Through the window of the building, you noticed a long file of boys leave the building to depart on their morning run. A few boys were chatting animatedly while others were still trying to wake up. Wakatoshi was at the front, jacket-less. Disappointment was evident on your features. Wakatoshi was an athlete; he needed to take better care of himself.

As she was chopping vegetables, the Itachiyama girl asked, "how'd you sleep?"

"Just fine," you replied. "You?"

"All right." The girl handed you a bag of potatoes. "Can you peel these? Thanks."

If Sugawara were here, this training camp might be more fun. He always knew how to make conversation flow easy. Before you had gone to sleep last night, you finally drafted up a step-by-step plan on what you'd personally do if you were Julius Caesar. Your first step was not the fuck up, first of all.

You still had lots to learn about Sugawara.

You wondered what was the last movie he watched. Yours (while not technically a movie) was an alien documentary that Oikawa convinced you to watch. Did Sugawara like cats or dogs? Was he up for staging a coup with you? Did Sugawara believe in luck or miracles?

And you realized you shouldn't be thinking about Sugawara.

He wasn't here.

"So, do you have a crush?" the Itachiyama girl asked, finely slicing the carrots. 

"Yeah, I have the urge to crush the societal standards of women," you said while peeling the potatoes. You briefly glanced at the girl before ducking your head back down and sighing. "I have a feeling that you're talking about me and Wa—"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yes, you and Ushijima-san."

"Not him. I don't have a crush on him. I don't think—I don't think I have a crush"—you swallowed thickly—"that I know of."

"You sure are touchy-feely with him," the girl retorted dryly. "He follows you around like a puppy dog."

"Again, childhood friends," you explained. "We've known each other since we were like, five. We were neighbors. I mean, we still are, but we never see each other anymore."

The Itachiyama girl snorted. "Is that why he practically begged for you to come, Karasuno girl?" She looked at you. "Yeah, I overheard the rumors."

"Begged?"

"Ah, well, not begged," the girl corrected herself. "More like he haunted every corner that Coach Washijo happened to walk around until Coach Washijo relented. Coach Washijo had to give in eventually. After all, Ushijima-san is Shiratorizawa's rising star player—if not the rising star player. He exemplifies every quality and aspect that Coach Washijo looks for in a player."

"What—strong, tall, and muscly?" you asked satirically. 

The girl popped her lips. "Exactly. And Ushijima-san isn't that bad-looking either."

The thought of having a crush on him crossed your mind a few times during your elementary school days, but you simply just didn't have one. You would admit, however, that Wakatoshi was very good-looking (if one bypassed his rather intimidating stature). 

But even just imagining romance with Wakatoshi meant that you had to climb this very, very tall, stagnant wall built of brick and ego. He was simply so much better than you; it seemed he had his life all figured out. He had scholarships offered to him, and he had the approval of some prestigious coach.

Most of all, he knew what he was doing and where he was going.

Sugawara, though, seemed to be like you. While you lacked the very hopefulness the grandfather-haired boy had, you had the dregs of what one might call determination. You called it the fear of not being a pussy.

The boy who sat in front of you during homeroom, dare you say it, understood you. Wakatoshi could never understand what it was like to not have a fiery passion. He wouldn't understand what it was like to be bad at something one was supposed to excel in. You felt like a failed product of the inescapable duty to showcase the success of one's parents.

Sugawara was always reaching for the top. He was reaching for Interhigh and Nationals despite being at a disadvantage. He was so unnecessarily filled with hope, and he was sanguine in every sense of the word. You admired that in him, really.

And you needed to stop thinking about a guy who wasn't even here. The more you thought the more you would realize things, and you did not need to realize anything right now.

You slammed the peeler and the potato on the counter. "Can we stop talking about boys?"

"Sure," the Itachiyama girl said, eyeing you before returning back to her work. "Talking about boys makes us look a little two-dimensional, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so," you said. 

"Would you like to borrow my encyclopedia tonight?"

"I'll pass."

Eventually, the boys came back from their morning run and started on various drills and exercises.

The Itachiyama girl offered to serve the boys their breakfast while you started preparing the large lunch. Supervisors came in and out of the kitchen, occasionally helping and fetching groceries from local stores.

An hour or so later, the Itachiyama girl burst through the kitchen doors and gushed about the sight she saw in each gym. You rolled your eyes in response as she explained to you in great detail about the boys she saw. As much as you wanted to see the view as well, you decided to stick to your potato agenda.

When you were alone in the kitchen later that day—as the Itachiyama girl had gone to help pick out groceries and the rest of the supervisors were in various buildings—you had accidentally burned the side of your left pointer finger when handling the stove. 

You were wrapping your finger up delicately after running it under cold water (and much swearing on your part). A knock was made on the open kitchen door and standing in the doorway was none other than Coach Washijo, Shiratorizawa's volleyball coach.

He looked at you, interested. "That looks like it hurts."

"Burned it," you explained. "I'll be fine, though. A blister or two might form."

"Ah, well, at least you know how to take care of yourself." Coach Washijo kept his hands behind his back as he surveyed the kitchen area. "The boys are scrimmaging in pairs right now, so they don't need my immediate supervision."

You didn't know what to say. 'Okay, cool' was always an option. 'Go away, old man!' was a good one, too.

"Ushijima Wakatoshi—your childhood friend—has become a valuable member on our team," Coach Washijo said before you could even formulate a response. "Since you're not from Shiratorizawa but still a temporary manager, I thought I might give you a small debriefing on the team."

Temporary manager sat in your mouth like poison. It weighed on the tongue, and you were sure if you wanted to swallow it or spit it back out.

"I know a bit," you said defensively. "You're the top school in the Miyagi Prefecture. Congrats."

If Coach Washijo didn't like your tone, he didn't show it. "We are indeed the top school because we have star players."

"By star players, you mean tall, strong, and athletic," you butted in. "You take anyone who seems like they'd score the most points on the court."

Coach Washijo cracked a smile. "So you've noticed."

"How fitting of your team slogan," you remarked dryly. "'Intense force,' was it?"

"You did your homework," said Coach Washijo. "It's only the strongest team that gets to move on and fight even stronger teams. In order to do that, you need strong players."

"So you've assembled Miyagi's beefiest players and called it the strongest team."

"It is the strongest team," Coach Washijo said. "Technique and skill is good, but when it comes down to it, it is brute force that shows results."

You quickly realized that you weren't fond of Coach Washijo. Hating old people became a part of your lifestyle. As much as you wanted to say something back, you realized that Coach Washijo had the authority to kick you out if he pleased.

"Later on, I'll need you to distribute water," Coach Washijo said, motioning to the gallon coolers that sat in the corner of the room. "Then you can watch them play. There is  no doubt that Shiratorizawa will make it to Interhigh once again this year."

"Looking forward to it," you said.

Coach Washijo left you with the records and stats of each player on the Shiratorizawa team. You flipped through the various pages. Semi Eita was a setter, like your friend Oikawa. Tendo Satori was a prime example of a player who easily scored points. He was a tall middle blocker, and he used this risky technique called guess-blocking.

But Wakatoshi's stats were off the shits.

Sometimes Wakatoshi was too fast for you.

He and you grew up in the same neighborhood with the same summer festivals. Wakatoshi and you went to the same elementary school and spent lazy summer afternoons together. You and he had the same soul split in two different bodies, so what set you and he apart? What did Wakatoshi have that you didn't?

Wakatoshi was growing up and learning without you. He was leaving you behind. Wakatoshi was moving on to greener grasses filled with fruit and life, leaving you with a sad clump of yellowed grass, dried out and likely dead. You wanted him to take you with him. You wanted him to hold your hand in his, and you wanted him to bring you to wherever he was, because wherever he was, you were sure to enjoy it.

"Do you have my jacket?" a deep voice behind you asked.

"Over there on the counter," you replied. "Did you get cold on your run, Waka-chan?"

You turned around to see Wakatoshi standing in the doorway, wearing a jersey and sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The Itachiyama girl was right—Wakatoshi wasn't bad-looking, but you forced the thought down anyway. You gave Wakatoshi a small wave after placing the sheets of paper down.

He strode over to the counter and picked up his jacket. "No."

"Lucky you," you said. "I burned my finger on the stove while you were away."

"Let me see," Wakatoshi said, throwing the jacket over his shoulder and ambling to your side of the kitchen. "I know how to treat a wounded finger."

You frowned. "I don't think volleyball players get their fingers burned on the court."

You held up your hand for Wakatoshi to see, but you didn't expect him to hold your hand up to his eye-level. His hands were warm from the constant abuse of volleyball. The palms of his hand were rough with callouses, and the pads of his fingertips were stiff but gentle on your skin.

He inspected your hand, eyeing the bandage. You noticed the top strands of his hair and how they were lighter than the rest. The kitchen light managed to shed light on the small smudges of red underneath his bottom lashes—and there was a likening dash of red on the tip of his straight nose.

There was a whisper of a smile on his usual serious thin lips, and his soft eyes seemed to melt into gooey chocolate chips. The near-transparent splash of red on his cheeks and nose increased as he shyly darted his gaze from yours.

"Your hands smell like potatoes," he said.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

Warmth started to crawl up your neck and encapsulated your cheeks. You had a feeling that you were supposed to be flattered; Wakatoshi had said it like a compliment, but you found it strange. You were more so embarrassed that Wakatoshi had even said that in the first place.

Did your hands really smell that bad? You were sure that you ran your hands through water when dealing with your stove burn. Maybe you should ask the Itachiyama girl if she had any hand lotion—she was bound to have some, at least.

"Thanks?" you said. "I'll—uh—I'll go fill up the gallon coolers now for you guys when you practice later on. You should show me your spike when I go see you, Toshi."

Wakatoshi nodded and let go of your hand. He had been so gentle with it despite being so intimidating and stoic. Wakatoshi wasn't emotionless, you knew. He was brimming to life with emotions: passion, determination, and excitement. You doubted he had ever felt a negative emotion.

You, however, were bottled with negative emotions.

When Wakatoshi left, the Itachiyama girl rounded the corner. She was carrying groceries in plastic bags and marched right into the room, promptly setting them down on the counter. Her eyes glanced from Wakatoshi's fading figure to you and a smile came across her lips.

"It's not what you think," you said immediately. 

"Sure," she said. She rummaged through the bags. "I've been meaning to ask you—what's that necklace on your neck? Something sentimental?"

"Yeah," you said, helping her with the groceries. "My friend made it for me as a joke. Said he was going to marry me or something. Then I turned it into a necklace because my fingers were getting fat."

The Itachiyama girl hummed. "Oh? Who?"

"Not Wakatoshi."

"Pity."

Eventually you were kicked out of the kitchen by the Itachiyama girl (as it was your turn to haul the gallon coolers to the boys as promised). 

The gallon coolers were on the wobbly cart as you rolled it into the gym. This was the gym where Tendo Satori and Semi Eita were practicing. You saw them paired up on one side of the court against a few second years. Tendo and Semi were at match point, surprisingly.

Tendo and Semi were incredibly good for first-years. Scratch that—they were just incredibly good. Tendo and Semi wore the same color jersey as Wakatoshi had. Semi had his hands over his knees, his back bent as he caught his breath. Tendo raised his jersey collar to wipe his forehead briefly.

When the second-years fetched the ball, Tendo and Semi relaxed into a defensive position, their knees bent and unlocked. Once the ball was served to Tendo and Semi's side of the court, Tendo received it. It went directly to the setter's position, and Semi set it for Tendo to smack down.

"The wonderful Tendo Satori wins again!" Tendo's arms shot up to the sky in victory after the ball dropped.

"What about me?" Semi asked, pointing to himself.

"And Semisemi!"

You cleared your throat. "Hey, guys. I have water, if anyone's thirsty. I don't know if you're allowed to, but why don't you guys take a break really quick?"

Tendo's eyes turned to you immediately. He made a face of intrigue. His smile was pulled ear-to-ear and his eyes were half-lidded. Tendo sauntered over to you, disregarding his sweat as he slung an arm over your shoulders. 

"Hey, [Y/N]," Tendo sang. "Thanks for the water."

"You're welcome," you said, handing him a bottle. "It's my job."

As the boys were taking a break, you sat down on the floor, fiddling with your phone. Diba had sent you a few audio recordings of her and her dog, who still inconveniently hated you. You wondered why she was still awake; America was in a totally different time zone.

Tendo sprayed Semi with his water bottle, causing Semi to get mad and hit Tendo with his towel. Tendo yelped something about Semi's sweat and germs being spread to him. Semi yelled something about not caring and how it was well-deserved.

Semi, clothes soaked and feeling disturbed, sat down next to you on the floor.

"Hey," you said. "You should probably change."

"I know," he grumbled. He shot a look at Tendo. "Bastard got my clothes all wet."

That said bastard was caught in his jersey trying to take it off. He stumbled around the court looking like a knotted piece of hair, nearly knocking over the makeshift volleyball net.

"I'm curious," you said, trying to find a conversation starter. "What other instruments do you play? You're very musically talented, First Place."

"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you." Semi ran a hand through his oddly-colored hair. "I've been teaching myself a lot of band instruments. No, I don't mean marching band. I mean guitar, drums, and even keyboard."

"That's so cool!" you exclaimed. There were far more forms of art than classical. While the thought had crossed your mind previously, you never thought about looking too deep into it. If you tried your hand at the drums, someone might end up with a drumstick impaled in their chest and you running from the police.

"I don't think I've asked enough about you. Are you going to pursue music professionally?"

You thought about it. And by thinking about it, you answered immediately, "absolutely not. I don't think my mother would let me, and music's never really been my priority."

"That's a surprise," Semi admitted. "It looks like you've been playing since you were really young."

Apparently, Tendo had found a way out of his self-made contraption of a jersey. He sat down next to you, his red hair ruffled up and falling. You wondered if he used hair gel and if his hair wasn't naturally brushed upward. Tendo looked like a frazzled cat caught in an overhead power line. 

You exited your messages with Diba, intending to click on a different app this time.

"Say, [Y/N]," Tendo said, "you're American, right? Do you know any cute actresses over there? You guys have Hollywood!"

"Yeah, I'd assume we have a lot." 

"My personal favorite is Devon Ao—oh my God, who is that?"

"Who is who?" You blinked and followed his gaze over to your home phone screen. Your screensaver was a photo of you and Diba. It was from your first year visiting America. Your father had convinced you to take a photo as if it was the last time you'd be visiting America. "That's my friend."

"I didn't know you had friends," Tendo said. You glared at him. He held his hands up in surrender. "Jokes, jokes. Is this friend of yours an actor? She's real pretty."

"No," you said. Diba was arguably one of your closest friends to date. She might have been brutally honest and somewhat better than you in every musical way possible, but you didn't hate her. "She's just my friend."

"Can you give me her number?" Tendo asked.

"She doesn't speak Japanese, dumbass," you said. You looked at the photo again. Diba's eyes were closed as usual, but she held you tightly and close to her. You smiled. "She lives in America. Sometimes I go there and visit my dad." You nudged Semi. "She actually has perfect pitch."

Tendo said, "I never knew you had a life outside of Japan. That must be hard."

"I'm used to it. It's not that bad. Plus, America has great churros."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see this."

You walked into the kitchen with the intention to grab a glass of water. However, you were greeted with the sight of wonderful Tendo Satori sitting on the kitchen ground with a pint of chocolate ice cream between his crossed legs. There was a metal spoon between his slim fingers and the ice cream was smudged around the corners of his lips.

His eyes were wide with surprise, and he clutched his pint protectively. Tendo was wearing a Naruto sweatshirt and long pajama pants. Strangely, it fit his odd personality.

"Don't snitch on me," Tendo said. "Coach might make me do fifty serves if he catches me eating all the chocolate ice cream again."

"So explain this."

Tendo licked the excess chocolate off his lips. "Everything's more fun if there's risks."

It was nearly the middle of the night, and everyone was likely fast asleep because of their boringly healthy sleep schedules. The only light that was visible was the shoddy, dim kitchen light near the refrigerator. Tendo looked more like a B-rated movie villain than his usual charismatic volleyball self in this lighting.

You sat down next to him, setting your phone down. The kitchen floor was cold and unbearable, but it was a small price to pay for salvation. You scooted next to Tendo and made grabby hands for the chocolate ice cream.

Reluctantly, Tendo passed you the pint and leaned over to one of the drawers. He pulled out a clean spoon and handed it over to you. You thanked him with a smile and scooped measly bite. You moved the pint between you and Tendo, and you and he would occasionally rotate with it. 

Eating chocolate ice cream in silence with Tendo Satori was the last thing you'd find yourself doing.

"You know, he's different around you," Tendo said, taking a huge scoop with his metal spoon from the sides of the pint. The chocolate ice cream dripped from the sides of his spoon as he carefully navigated it to his open mouth.

You already knew who he was talking about. "Who?"

"Miracle boy," Tendo said simply.

"I doubt it," you said. "He's been like that since we were children."

Wakatoshi to you was the same person as he had always been. He was always rather clumsy with his emotions. He tended to take things rather literally and was driven with such passion despite struggling to convey emotion. 

But you knew that he could crack a shy smile every now and then whenever he was happy. You had his face imprinted in your mind. You knew what he looked like when he was crying, when he was happy, when he was cutting vegetables, and when he was playing volleyball. You knew him more than you knew the English language.

And you could either be the luckiest girl in the world or the most unfortunate because you watched him grow up and evolve into a better version of himself while leaving you behind.

"Well, maybe that's why you don't see it," Tendo pointed out, nudging the pint closer to you. You took it gratefully and swallowed a rather large bite. Tendo motioned to the right side of his cheek, and you rubbed off the chocolate stain on your respective right cheek.

"What's he like around you, then?" you asked curiously. "I can't imagine he's any different."

"I don't know," Tendo confessed. You rolled your eyes, and Tendo snatched the pint back from you. "He's friendly, yeah, but he keeps to himself more. It's like he's more expressive around you."

You nearly laughed. "What, are you saying he has a crush on me? Him? I know what you're implying here, Tendo. I'm not dumb. I doubt he thinks of me that way anyway. I've had this talk a million times over with my other friends. It's not like that."

"It's not my place to say." Tendo shrugged. "Crush or not, it's obvious that he cares deeply for you. I can see it."

"Yeah," you agreed. "I care for him, too. We've been best friends since we were five."

"I know. Childhood friends, yada yada," Tendo said. "I just think that you two would make a great match; that's all I'm saying. He's different around you than he is with us, which means he might even hold you in a higher regard than the rest of us."

"Wakatoshi doesn't show favoritism around me, if that's what you're wondering."

"You probably don't know it because you're the first person Wakatoshi has ever met." Tendo pushed the pint back to you. "He plays his best when you're around. You're good for him. It's a good kind of favoritism."

"I did tell him that if he went to Interhigh or Nationals, I'd cheer for him," you said. "Truth is, I'd cheer for him anyway because I care for him a lot. He doesn't need to prove anything in order for me to be by his side."

Tendo looked at you. "I know. He's also a bit clingy, don't you think?"

"Yeah," you admitted. "But he's his own person, and I'm my own person. It's just been a long time since we've seen each other. We're childhood friends, yes, but we're individuals, too. If it ever gets out of hand, I'll tell him to stop."

"Good on you."

You took the pint into your lap, wondering if you should finish off the last few scoops. You didn't know Tendo that well, so out of courtesy, he might let you finish the chocolate ice cream. "Jesus Christ. Whenever people open their mouths around me, it's always about Wakatoshi. I feel like a stupid romance protagonist in a stupid book."

"I wonder why," Tendo dryly commented.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Passing the pint off to Tendo, who made a small remark about how you left him nearly nothing, you tucked your knees underneath your chin. "It's all about love when it comes to me and Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi is in love with volleyball, Tendo. You've seen him when he plays."

Wakatoshi was a shooting star.

He always was when he played. Every time you watched his games, you'd watch him use his feet to shoot up into the air, and for a moment, you would think that he was a star permanently glued to the sky. Everyone around him would dim, and it would only be Wakatoshi visible.

The boy was easy to love. He was kind although he didn't look it. He bought you taiyaki, and when you were sick, he captured fireflies for you. When you cried, he was there for you. He had the heart to record a girls' volleyball game because he was afraid that you were getting bored of boys' volleyball games.

"You don't have to get together with him." Tendo talked as if he knew something you didn't. "When Wakatoshi goes pro—and I know he'll go pro—it's a matter of whether or not you'll be willing to watch him play."

"Of course I'll go," you protested. You were Wakatoshi's best friend. "Why wouldn't I?"

Tendo made a face. "And I don't mean it in the way you're thinking of."

"Don't act like you can read my mind."

"Your expression gives it away, [Y/N]." Tendo finished the chocolate ice cream. "You're like an open book."

"I just naturally look like this."

"Like a bitch?"

"You can't say that. You look like a Cheeto."

You and Tendo bantered back and forth although half of what Tendo said was out of pocket and thus you poked and prodded him for eating all the ice cream.

Eventually, Tendo rose from the ground. He took your spoon and dumped it in the sink. He recycled the ice cream pint. You continued to sit on the ground, idly watching the ticking clock. The big hand on the clock motioned to twelve—midnight. You resisted the urge to fall flat on your back and pass out in the kitchen.

Your phone on the ground vibrated. You picked it up. It was from Kuroo Tetsurou.

Hey. Sorry for not texting sooner.

Chapter Text

So what do you like to do?

The text from Kuroo Tetsurou stared at you. You stared at the text. 

The Shiratorizawa camp was over. You were rolled up in your bed, exhausted from the events of the past two days. It certainly was an enlightening experience. You caught up with your childhood friend, formed tighter bonds with the Shiratorizawa team, and switched numbers with the Itachiyama girl.

Right now, the blankets wrapped around you like a caterpillar. You certainly didn't feel like a caterpillar. You felt like a deformed bug, but to your relief, your five-year-old self would have loved you.

Why, out of all the questions he could have picked, did Kuroo Tetsurou have to choose the hardest one? You easily answered his previous text with a 'hello' and a smiley face (for diplomatic purposes). It was simple, small text messages back and forth for a while—nothing too fancy—until he pulled up with this.

I like to cook, you texted back after gaping at the text for a good minute or so. What about you? 

Going to the beach during the summer! Kuroo's text had said. I'm going with my family this year. It's going to be really fun.

During the summer, I usually visit America to see my dad. You hoped that you weren't oversharing, so you quickly added, what do you like about the beach?

Crabs. 

Me too!

You had sent your text in a flurry of excitement. You didn't even give yourself time to process it. Of course, you couldn't help it—you adored beaches. Well, to amend that, it wasn't that you loved beaches; it was that you loved the memories that came with it. When you were younger and in middle school, you, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi used to flip rocks on the Miyagi neighborhood beach to catch small crabs.

Kuroo's incoming text bubbled up in the lower left corner of your phone. You gulped thickly, intently watching it. The worst thing the boy could do was leave you on read—and you knew it wasn't so uncharacteristic of him to do so. 

What's your favorite food? You seem like the type of person who'd like overly sweet things, the text read. Despite the conversation being over technological means, you could hear his provocative and teasing tone through the glowing screen.

He ended his text with an ellipsis, obviously implying something else. It left you somewhat irked by his comment. This text seemed offhanded.

You texted him a picture of your favorite food. Well, you seem like you like salty food. It'd explain a lot.

Was that an insult, Suzuki?

Not in the slightest. What food do you like?

Kuroo decided to send a familiar gilled consumable water creature emoji with his answer. Fish.

You wrinkled your nose. I don't even need to insult you if that's your favorite food.

Kuroo had gone silent for a minute or two. You spent those minutes staring at the glowing screen underneath your covers, wondering if you had finally killed him.

How's your ugly tote bag? Kuroo finally texted—to which you snorted because it had taken him all that time to formulate an insult. You could do better in half the time he took.

How's your ugly bedhead?

The teenage boy sent a frowning emoji, and you almost felt bad if he hadn't immediately texted afterward: Don't get me started on appearances, you—

Following the sentence was a passionate amount of expletives. You didn't even know half of these were in the Japanese language. Kuroo's language was very colorful and vibrant when it came to describing you. None of it was good, but it was very entertaining to read. Now if your mother got ahold of Kuroo's text to you, she would have grounded you for forever and a half.

In response, you sent him a laughing cat emoji and texted, loser, bye.

School continued on as usual.

While occasionally looking at your phone every now and then to see if Kuroo Tetsurou the Tokyo boy had texted you back or sent you a picture of the skyscrapers as he had promised, you were still pretty much unoccupied when sitting at your desk at the back of the classroom.

You weren't necessarily ungrateful for your spot; you'd hate to sit in the front—right where the teacher had her eyes on you. However, there was nothing to do in the back. The more bored you were, the more hungry you were for revolution or something of the like.

"Yo, Sugawara, Yo, [Y/N]—" Yoshida, who had just entered the classroom, froze upon seeing you. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Watch the language," Sugawara jokingly reprimanded. "The teacher'll make you sit outside again."

"I know, but what the fuck is she—"

"She," you interrupted, looking up at Yoshida, "is knitting."

Yoshida looked at you before glancing at Sugawara briefly, who shrugged. Yoshida gazed at you incredulously as he sat in his seat next to you. He set down his school supplies before asking, "and why is she knitting?"

"She picked up a new hobby," you said. You lifted up your half-assed knitting project for Yoshida to get a better look at. "Do you want her to poke your eyes out with the needles?"

To put it simply, you had gotten bored.

You were still a part of the cooking club. Albeit you were a more reluctant member now, only participating in mandatory cooking activities. You'd approached the teacher, wondering if there was any chance you'd be able to transfer to a different club.

Your knitting project consisted of a ball of magenta yarn that sat on your desk and a shitty excuse of a knotted piece of fabric. The yarn fed into your needles as you wove it through various holes, increasing the fabric that you were making. You were unsure if you wanted it to be a scarf or simply a patch of fabric. It'd really all depend on your patience.

"Tell her I said sorry," Yoshida said.

"She accepts your apology."

"Why are you referring to yourself in third person?" Sugawara interrupted, a brow raised.

You flushed hotly. "For fun, obviously."

You were determined to do anything but piano. If piano wasn't your calling, that meant you had to try an assortment of activities. You needed to try on the world for size and make it your bitch. Even the stereotypical 'boring' activities had to be trying out. 

With the Interhigh drawing near, you could see Sugawara finding himself torn between focusing on volleyball and focusing on the upcoming exam. In the middle of class, his leg would bounce with anticipation, and Yoshida and you would cast each other a quick glance.

While you only got a view of Sugawara's back, you could see his nervousness from a kilometer away. His back would tense every now and then when the bell rang. When he looked to the side, bored, you could see him shift his eyes back and forth from the teacher to the faraway window, and he would bite his lip gently.

Sugawara's face was like that of fine china. His cheekbones were delicate and soft, pulling his light skin taut. Sugawara's lashes were dark against the rest of his features, and—

And you realized you were over-describing Sugawara again.

You cursed yourself. You ought to stop doing that!

What if there was a mind reader in your class who overheard these thoughts? While fantasizing about your friend couldn't be the worst possible thought out there (the boy who sat nearest to the teacher was somewhat of a known pervert around your school; who knew what went on in his mind), it was still embarrassing. 

Sugawara was pretty. He was terribly, excruciatingly pretty. You didn't know why you had such an urge to describe him and stare at him all day. It was as if he was a sight that you couldn't get sick of. Committing crimes was all right—as long as you were able to do it with him, at least.

"Karasuno's volleyball team has a nickname, you know," Sugawara brought up one day after class had ended. "'Clipped Crows.'"

"Oh, for real?" Yoshida said. "Our soccer team is just called Karasuno's soccer team."

"Why Clipped Crows?" you asked lazily. If you had to personally name the Karasuno volleyball club, you'd name it Super-Duper-Crime-Clowns. "Why not something cooler?"

Sugawara made a face. He stood up from his seat and slung his school bag over his shoulders. "Well, it's not a very good nickname that we have. It's because Karasuno used to be really good once."

Yoshida nodded. "Right. Why're you telling us this?"

"Karasuno will get rid of that nickname eventually," Sugawara said. "I want it to happen in the span of my three years at this high school. I want to make it to Interhigh—or even Spring Nationals."

"Who knows?" Yoshida shrugged. "This might be the year. You guys have Asahi."

Sugawara smiled. "I also want you guys to be there when it happens. Come to our game."

Ushijima Wakatoshi had already invited you to the game, but you quickly took a rain check because your mother scheduled a competition on the same day. You were able to come to the second day of the Interhigh Preliminaries but not the first.

"We'll see," you said. "Good luck."

When Sugawara smiled at you, you felt as if everything was all right in the world. It was riding the high of overthrowing a corrupt government; it was defeating the bad guy and relishing in a friend's hug; it was the soft, quiet calm of watching the world rebuild itself.

Holy shit, you were feeling feelings. You, the impregnable [Y/N] Suzuki, felt a drop of emotion.

You've really only known anger before. All you did was question the norm and question the outlandish. You were angry at this, angry at that. Why couldn't this change? Why couldn't this stay the same? 

But looking at Sugawara made you content. Happy, even.

As Sugawara left to attend volleyball practice, Yoshida tossed you a weird look.

"Girls are weird," he remarked, finishing his doodle on his English homework.

Warmth crept up your neck. You glared at your friend. "Determination is sexy on a man."

"I'm sure."

The day after your piano competition, you had nearly flown over to the gymnasium that hosted the Interhigh Preliminaries. Your mother had really only let you go because you said you wanted to support Wakatoshi. 

Adam came along, saying he wanted to see Oikawa and Iwaizumi in action again.

It was odd that nearly every boy you knew played volleyball. Did it really have such a significant impact on people's lives? How could people commit themselves so readily to one sport? To them, the world was their oyster, and volleyball was the shiny, large pearl. You couldn't bring yourself to commit to one thing at all.

You were always jumping from one thing to another. Once you had your fill with a certain field, you jumped to a different one. It wasn't that the certain field was boring; it was that you needed to find more. More.

Gazing at the competition brackets, you noticed that Karasuno had been knocked out on the first day. Pity wallowed in your stomach briefly. You thought about Sugawara's determination and felt your emotions sink lower. 

God, you felt bad. He had been so excited about Interhigh Preliminaries. You had known that there were too many good schools competing this year. Shiratorizawa was a favorite to attend Interhigh, and it was likely they were going to win, too. You heard that ever since Oikawa and Iwaizumi joined Aoba Johsai, Aoba Johsai would be a likely competitor, too.

It was just like the old days.

After briefly meeting up with Shiratorizawa and Wakatoshi, you wished them good luck. Wakatoshi asked if you wanted to stay and see them play for the whole day, but you declined politely, using your brother as an excuse.

Listen, you loved Wakatoshi and his little personality, but you had been in his presence for an entire weekend. You wanted to see a bit of Aoba Johsai as well. Who knew—maybe the attachment to Oikawa and Iwaizumi ran in the family. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were also your childhood friends, too.

You leaned over the railing as you attempted to get a clearer view at Aoba Johsai's game.

They were playing some other team whose club banner flew proudly over their players. Aoba Johsai High School's vibrant blue banner shown in comparison to its opponents: Rule the Court. In a way, Aoba Johsai could be seen as a king commanding his servants, but you saw it more as a thick, intricate tree intertwined to create such a well-rounded team.

You spotted Oikawa and Iwaizumi in the starting lineup once again. They sure were intimidating first-years, and you pitied the third-years that had to give up their spot for them.

Aoba Johsai's cheer team leader stepped up with a turquoise megaphone and began the chant. So this was high school. The chants resounded in the gym hall, nearly breaking your eardrums. Adam clapped along to the chant, and when you stared at him incredulously, he said something about how you were ugly.

"[Y/N]-chan!" a voice came from below. "Yahoo!"

"Oikawa," you greeted, waving your hand.

Your friends were on the court, wearing their new jerseys. It seemed that they still maintained a blue themed uniform when they were promoted to high schoolers, but Aoba Johsai's uniform was a different color of blue from Kitagawa First's. If you had gone to Aoba Johsai, would things be different? You couldn't imagine it being that different.

Of course, you'd still support them, but you'd have classes with them. You'd get to eat lunch with them. You'd get to walk home with them, and they'd walk you to your train station. It made you wish that you realized that you had been living in the good old days when you were middle school.

Now you had to make new friends with new people—but you didn't regret it. No, you didn't regret a single bit of it. You were able to meet Sugawara, and, boy, were you grateful for that—

Enough about Sugawara.

Oikawa donned a cheerful smile and gave you a peace sign. He maintained his silly aura around him, uncaring if his opponents were ticked off by his lax behavior. Iwaizumi was next to him.

Iwaizumi crossed his arms. "You don't sound very enthusiastic to see us."

Your brow twitched. "You want me to come down there and fight you, ugly?"

"You'd lose."

"And you'd be too pussy to fight back, Iwa."

Oikawa laughed, placing his hands on his hips. "Here to cheer me on, [Y/N]-chan? Loyal as ever, I see. I hear your school got knocked out yesterday. Torino, was it?"

"Karasuno," you swiftly corrected. Oikawa knew perfectly well which school you attended. You motioned to the court. "Have a good game out there. Wouldn't want to disappoint your fanboy."

Adam glared at you. "Not a fanboy. I just wish Oikawa-san was my older brother. Obviously, he wasn't the one who dropped me on the head when I was little."

"Sorry your head was so big that I mistook it for a ball," you snapped.

Oikawa smiled from ear-to-ear. He haughtily put a hand under his chin and bragged, "I'm basically Adam-chan's older brother at this point."

The coach called for both Iwaizumi and Oikawa to begin the game.

The game was intense although it was also rather one-sided. One couldn't call it a battle—or a game, even—if it was total annihilation. The teamwork of Aoba Johsai brought out the strengths of each teammate. You couldn't help but think it was similar to Diba's card game back in America.

Each teammate had attack points and defense points, almost. It was up to the player to decide which card to activate or which card to remain hidden until the end. In this case, the player would be Oikawa. It was the setter—always the setter.

Kageyama Tobio the genius back at Kitagawa First was rumored to be Kitagawa's next setter. Well, not really rumored but more so the place of setter was reserved for him. You wondered how he was doing.

It seemed Oikawa was a crowd favorite. He even gathered girls from other schools to watch him despite being a first-year. He had the personality, the looks, and the brain. A group of girls gawked right next to Adam, pointing at all the serves that Oikawa did. Oikawa noticed the various cheers and gave a small wave.

You watched on as Oikawa and Iwaizumi clapped each other on the back after their landslide victory.

When the day had concluded, the finals for the Interhigh Preliminaries would be Shiratorizawa vs. Aoba Johsai. You felt as if history had repeated itself. It was always Oikawa and Iwaizumi vs. Wakatoshi. It was always you vs. the world. It was always them on the court and you on the sidelines.

Wakatoshi called you on your phone, telling you that you should come to the game and cheer for him, and then Oikawa and Iwaizumi stopped you just as your mother was about to pick you and Adam up, asking you to join their cheer squad for Finals.

Jokes on both of them, you weren't even going to be there for Finals.

You had a piano workshop that your mother was having you attend tomorrow. There was nothing you loved more than attending a five-hour theory lesson over seeing a volleyball game.

A few days later, as you were holing yourself up in your room to avoid human contact with your mother and your brother respectively, your phone on your bedside table buzzed.

You reached a hand outside of the sad heap of blankets you wrapped yourself with and blindly felt up the bedside table for your device. After banging the back of your hand against a rather sharp edge of the counter and nearly jamming one of your fingers, you fumbled with your phone and snared it. 

How are you?

Kuroo Tetsurou.

I'm good, you texted back. I saw a volleyball game a few days ago.

You could almost hear Kuroo's surprise. Volleyball? You're into volleyball?

Not really. My friends play, so I just watch sometimes. Although you had sent that, you were wondering what Kuroo's reaction would be if you had lied and said that you were super into the sport.

I play volleyball.

That text just hit you over the head. Of course he played volleyball. It was natural to assume any boy you made contact with just so happened to play volleyball at this point. It was even more surprising if they didn't. Yoshida was an example. 

What position? you asked.

Kuroo's text came quickly, surprisingly. Middle blocker. I play for my school's team.

Middle blocker—that was a new position. You knew outside hitters and setters, but you'd never met a middle blocker before. Intrigue filled your gut.

What's it like? It was a dumb question, and the moment it had sent you realized how dumb it really was. You threw your phone against your pillowcase and screamed into the mattress. Your phone vibrated and you reluctantly looked at what Kuroo had said in response.

I block stuff.

It was a dumb and obvious response. The question warranted for one. You watched as another one of Kuroo's texts appeared right below it.

With my hands.

You snorted. Obviously, dumbass.

Well?

Well what?

Who won, Ms. Prestigious?

It was a preliminary tournament, you texted back. I wasn't there for Finals, but the victor was Shiratorizawa Academy. I live in the Miyagi Prefecture, and they're a big sports powerhouse school.

You watched as Kuroo's text bubbled up and died back down. It would appear every now and then, as if he was deciding what to say. It seemed he was typing something into the subject box before promptly deleting it, attempting to find the perfect sentence of words to use.

This preliminary tournament wouldn't happen to be the Interhigh Preliminaries, would it? he finally asked after a good minute or two.

Yeah, you said. Why?

It was then that Kuroo left you on read. You hoped that he was just trying to text you back but taking a long time to do it, but after five minutes had passed, you came to the resolution that he had indeed left you on read.

Boys weren't shit.

You angrily swore vengeance on his ugly ass. The walls were somewhat thin in your house, so your brother on the other side of his wall banged on his side. He told you to shut up about taking over the world with pure rage.

Later into the year, you flew back to America.

"So what university are you thinking about, [Y/N]?" your father, Charles [L/N], asked when you were seated at the dinner table. Your father was an excellent cook and always insisted on cooking when there was company over. 

You looked up from your food. "Is this what fifteen-year-olds in America talk about? College? University?"

"It's very competitive here, so it's good to start ahead," your father explained. "It's a part of growing up."

Fuck growing up, you wanted to say. You still had time to organize a coup and punch government officials in the face. The term 'growing up' made you feel as if all the small moments of your childhood were slipping through your fingers like sand. 

You hadn't yet felt as if you were living a life worth living—and all you wanted was more time; you hadn't done any of the things you wanted to do yet. How badly you wanted to experience everything all at once! You liked being a child, and you liked a world where there were no consequences.

"I was thinking maybe a university in Tokyo. Something not too far from home," you said. You played with your food idly. "I wouldn't know what my major would be."

"You're growing up, [Y/N]," your father said. "Being vague like this won't get you anywhere—especially not here."

"I know. You've been saying I should broaden my horizons when it comes to the future," you said. "Thinking outside of the box—is that the saying?—has never been my forte."

Your father nodded. "How do you feel about growing up? What opportunities do you want to take on when you grow up?"

Opportunities. That was a word you liked. You hadn't thought much about your future occupation in Japan, and you'd be damned if you ended up a corporate drone. Office jobs sounded boring, and unfortunately, they were extremely popular in a booming country such as Japan.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I really, really don't know anything about the future."

Thinking about the future made you think about all the times when you were a child and decided to stay in just another day instead of going out to explore the great outdoors. What stopped you from exploring? What stopped you from being a kid? 

Now that you were a teenager, things had consequences. You hated consequences. Time was running faster and faster, and you were struggling to keep up. 

"That's why I'm here," your father said. "I can give you a few American programs, and you can study up to apply for a few American colleges and Japanese universities—to diversify your applications. When the time calls for it, you can choose."

"Thank you," you said sheepishly. Seeking higher education in Japan would be tricky, but you were sure that you'd figure something out later. Not now. College was a weighty word to use during dinner. It sparked all sorts of arguments. "I'll be sure to look at the American programs."

"Also," your father added, "I'll be busy tomorrow. If you don't mind, can you spend tomorrow with Diba?"

"Sure, Dad."

You spent a lot more time with Diba when you were in America. She might've been sarcastic and brutally honest at times, but those traits were what set her apart from every other person you knew. It was a jarring pull that tugged you away from the polite customs of Japan to the relaxed manners of America.

The next day, you were sitting on the piano bench, playing for Diba.

Diba, as usual, was curled up on the bench next to you. Her frizzy mane of hair felt down to the small of her back as she settled her face into her arms. Diba's eyes were closed. You never asked her if she was born blind or if her sight failed her as the years went by. Maybe  later, you'd ask her.

Your fingers ghosted over the keys. The world was this piano of yours. It was the grand piano vs. the less grand you. There was always this strange separation between you and this instrument. 

The structure of a piano was quite interesting, too.

Piano was a percussion and a string instrument. The sounds of a piano were caused by small hammers hitting string, thus making it a string instrument. However, because hammers were used, it was also a percussion instrument. Technically, pianos were percussion in name, but the logistics of a piano fell in both categories. 

"You're not angry anymore," Diba commented.

"Thank you—"

"Now you're just sad," Diba said, almost knocking you out with her choice of words. "Sad and confused. Pick a struggle, [Y/N]."

You almost stopped playing, but spite told you to keep playing until Diba told you your piano playing was 'good.' You had half a mind to burst out, demanding as to why your playing was sad and confused—as to why you were sad and confused.

Instead, you said, "what do you mean?"

"You're hesitating while playing," Diba said. "Everything is now half a second behind. Your fingers are slow, and you're getting out of tempo. It's like you're thinking before you press the key."

"I am thinking," you said matter-of-factly. "How am I supposed to think that fast?"

"That's the problem. Don't think. Thinking makes you confused."

"Jesus Christ," you said. "Thank you! Now all my problems are figured out. I'll stop thinking from now on. I wouldn't have done it without you."

"Don't be sarcastic. What I mean is that thinking takes too much time," Diba said. "When you play, you're supposed to just know what comes next; it's like ingrained in your mind."

You continued playing. "Like a memorized sheet of music?"

"I guess, but it's something more intricate than that," Diba said. "It's like understanding. Not memorizing. The piano is a part of you, so you need to play it gentler and with more care. You need to love the piano."

"If I were part piano, I'd be taken by the government and experimented on to see if there's any part of me that can be used for war," you deadpanned. You couldn't force yourself to love the piano. You hated the piano. No, that was wrong. You hated playing the piano. The piano itself was quite expensive. You couldn't afford to hate it.

Brahms waddled into the room and noticed you.

You sighed.

Immediately, the room erupted in a fit of barks from the German Shepherd. Brahms stretched out, his paws scraped against the floorboards. his elbows were bent, and Brahms quite obviously saw you as a threat to Diba. His snout rippled with anger, and he bared his teeth like a monster.

What about you did Brahms hate so much? He was supposedly gentle, but judging by the yellow slits of his teeth and aggressive eyes, he was anything but. His ears lowered, and he focused on your back as he continued to bark. His barks resounded throughout the house, sounding sharp and clipped.

"He's a gentle dog," Diba said simply. Diba must have been really blind. "He's very serene."

You stopped your piano playing.

When school resumed back in Japan, you were sitting at your desk, fiddling with a cootie catcher. Your recent obsession was origami, out of all things. You had tried to figure out how to make a frog for Iwaizumi not too long ago but ended up trashing it. The amount of paper cuts you had gotten was not worth it.

Sugawara sat in front of you, talking animatedly.

You thought it was amazing how he was able to bounce back from his loss during the Interhigh Preliminaries. He smiled and laughed as if it hadn't affected him at all, but there was something along the lines of disappointment in his eyes. If it had been you, you might've quit volleyball all in all.

It was just you and Sugawara in the back of the classroom that day, much to your teacher's relief. Yoshida had taken a sick day as playing soccer in the rain turned out to not be the best idea. With Yoshida, things were much more hectic (and not to mention, more vulgar).

"You should watch Star Wars sometime," you recommended.

"That American movie series?" Sugawara questioned. "I've been meaning to, but I haven't had the time. What's it about?"

You perked up. You tried to fight a smile. There was nothing you loved more than explaining Star Wars lore. "This'll take a while, so expect me to talk your ear off during the breaks in between our classes."

"Ready."

Sugawara looked attentive. His dark lashes were stark against the pale color of his skin. Because you and he were so close, with only your desk space separating you and him, you could note every little thing on Sugawara's face. It made you flush warmly.

You had never noticed this about him before—his eyes were brown. Brown eyes were the most common sort of eye color out there. It was far more beautiful than anyone would give it credit, though.

His eyes were brown like the forgotten coffee grinds wedged in between machines. You wished you could describe them as pools of honey or the color of caramel, but Sugawara's eyes were simply brown. You loved it.

Brown was the most inconspicuous color ever. It was the color of cacao beans that were oh-so treasured back in the old days and furnished mahogany tables priced for a hefty sum. It was the color no one would expect to crawl up one's shoulder and whisper Death Star plans.

Brown was the color of revolution.

"A long time ago," you said, "in a galaxy far, far away..."

You wondered why you liked Sugawara's expressions so much.

He was the gentleness that Diba talked about. If you were ever to play a piano piece, you'd want it to be him. Sugawara wasn't perfect. He didn't have the same chiseled face that Wakatoshi did. He didn't have Oikawa's pretty features or Iwaizumi's strong frame. Sugawara was delicate and soft.

Sugawara had a slender build and stood at an average height. There was nothing extraordinarily outstanding about him other than his shocking gray hair. He excelled at his studies as much as the next boy over did, and he studied hard because he was in the college preparatory classes as well.

The boy listened to your story, nodding every now and then. Occasionally, he'd make an outburst about how much he hated so and so and how much he loved this particular character (of course, you'd keep it to yourself that Padmé Amidala ends up dying until the time was right).

He made your story feel special.

Star Wars definitely wasn't your story. It belonged to some corporation, but you were allowed to bend the facts and tell it how you thought it was. It might have not been your story, but it was yours to control. It was yours to convey, and more importantly, Sugawara would listen.

You were sharing this small, complicated part of yourself with Sugawara. 

There was always the constant fear of being shut down. The students at your previous schools didn't find American films all that fascinating and spoke about other shows. You'd sit down after school ended and forced yourself to glue your eyes to the TV just so you could talk to them about the things they were passionate about.

"Man, this Darth Vader guy sounds like he could really use a nap," Sugawara said. "He's not the Anakin I know."

"Right?" you said. "Just wait 'til you hear about Chewbacca."

"Sounds like a hunk."

You wanted to express your passion as easily as everyone else did without diminishing another's passion.

How could one feel so passionate about the thing they liked—no matter how big or small? They felt so compelled to bring it up in conversation, and they did it so smoothly. All you wanted was to be so full of passion that it overflowed out of you.

However, you didn't want to crumple up another person's hope. You didn't want to bypass another person's passion in the process. Just because it wasn't what you were interested in didn't mean you had to ignore it. Everyone had something they liked, and when people shamed the other party for liking such a thing, it was terrible.

That other party was lucky to at least like something so much that they wanted to share it with someone!

Sugawara shared your interests and even conveyed that he felt the same way about how the system was built. He wanted to destroy the patriarchy with you, and it warmed your heart. 

When you were little, all you wanted to do was topple governments and every boy your age would stick to volleyball.

Sugawara was absolutely lovely. His features weren't perfect—there were plenty of small flaws here and there. He was skinnier than most. Dainty, even. His bottom lashes were short, and his mouth was always stretched into a smile. You looked at him, and you could see everything.

You didn't know why you could see everything, but you did.

You saw that he wasn't satisfied with the nickname that was tagged onto Karasuno's volleyball team, and you saw that he desperately wanted to win. You saw that Sugawara was average in most fields, but his patience and determination made up for it. He had his flaws, too, you could tell.

Even if Sugawara wasn't a volleyball Superman like Wakatoshi, you still found him quite endearing. His flaws didn't define him; his attitude, did, though. His attitude was positive. It was sickeningly positive, and you couldn't help but find that part of him cute. You wanted an attitude like his—it was admirable.

Sugawara was a very kind boy who saw eye-to-eye with you. No, Sugawara wasn't perfect, but he was at least perfect for you—

"And then Luke Skywalker was ambushed by a wampa—" You faltered a little bit and stopped your explanation. Your mouth went dry, and you swallowed thickly. Your cheeks flooded with warmth.

And oh my God.

You liked Sugawara.

"[Y/N]? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. So he's in the cave, right? Then..."

Chapter Text

Good morning, Ms. Prestigious.

You glared at the text through the screen and hoped that Kuroo could feel your death glare from kilometers away. You woke up to such a terrible excuse for a good morning text and wondered if it was even worth it to text him back.

Hey, bedhead, you texted back groggily.

You rolled out of bed. Kuroo had left you on read the other day, and to say the least, you were still incredibly irked about that. You fiddled with the portable radio that you had kept since childhood and turned on the music. It was so old that it could have been considered vintage, at least. 

Preparing for the day by throwing around clothes and sorting through heaps of unfinished laundry, you tossed your phone back on your bed and placed the radio on your bedside table. The Star Wars posters on your wall were partly peeling off, and you lacked the patience to slap it back on every day. Your toe hit your bedpost and you swore colorfully.

Having your shirt halfway on your head, you awkwardly danced around your room. You nearly tripped over a bug net that used to be propped up against your bed. You hopped over the SAT prep books that were scattered over your floor. From the bed, your phone vibrated.

After finally finishing your morning chores, you picked up your phone.

I never asked you what school you go to, Kuroo's text read.

What about you? What school do you go to?

Way to redirect the question, Kuroo had said. Another text bubbled up right below it. I asked you first, so answer the question.

You snorted. How childish of him. I asked you second, and two is more than one. You answer my question.

That makes no sense.

As much as you wanted to be irrevocably mad at Kuroo Tetsurou for not joking along with you, you supposed it was warranted that he didn't understand. Boys didn't understand anything these days except for cheat codes and how to unnerve adults.

Anyway, I go to Nekoma High School in Tokyo. 

Kuroo's text stared at you. You had never heard of a school that went by that name before. After all, you did live in the Miyagi Prefecture. You hardly knew anything about Tokyo except for a few competition halls here and there that you were forced to attend for recitals or competitions.

Karasuno High School in Miyagi, you texted back quickly.

Kuroo's response text bubbled up but quickly died down as he erased what he had in his subject line. You stared dubiously at his fickle texting bubble. What about your school made Kuroo hesitate about what to send you? The worst case scenario was that he left you on read again with no explanation.

Eventually, Kuroo's text came through:

Do you have a volleyball club?

Yeah, you texted. Why?

This might sound crazy, but your school is my school's rival.

It was then Kuroo delved into a long explanation about the lore and history of Karasuno and Nekoma's rivalry. You tried to read everything before Kuroo sent more and more texts about the background of it all. Apparently, there was a longtime rivalry between the respective coaches of each team: Nekomata and Ukai.

The teams would battle, and the battles would be dubbed 'Battle at the Garbage Dump.' However, that rivalry had faded away, as both Ukai and Nekomata went into retirement. It was unfortunate, Kuroo had told you, as he wanted the battle to happen once more—just for fun.

It was the first time that Kuroo had sent such long paragraphs to you. Kuroo was so passionate about the Battle at the Garbage Dump that you had to laugh. It was, admittedly, cute.

Does this make us rivals? you asked him after he finished giving you the extended rundown.

Kuroo's text came swiftly with a winking emoji and a kissing face emoji. We don't have to be rivals if you don't want to be. We could be like Romeo and Juliet.

They both die in the end.

Spoilers. Jesus Christ, Suzuki.

You've had a good five hundred years to read it, Kuroo. You sent your text with a shrugging emoji and a red heart emoji. This was inevitable.

I hate you.

You sent Kuroo another red heart emoji.

Later that week, Oikawa had invited you to babysit Takeru with him. Since you loved Takeru dearly, you couldn't bring yourself to say no—especially after you heard that Takeru was sporting a bald head.

"Uncle Tooru, you're so weird," Takeru said to Oikawa.

Oikawa pouted and tugged the shell of your ear. "[Y/N]-chan, your foul words are spreading to Takeru! Look at what you did! You ruined a perfectly good child."

You crossed your arms haughtily and stared at Takeru's cleanly shaven head. "I think he's quite handsome."

As Takeru played around in the playground, you and Oikawa stood at the side. Iwaizumi was unable to make it today, as his parents dragged him elsewhere that day. He sent you a very long text explaining why, and you felt very compelled to frame it on your wall. 

When you were younger, you played in this playground all the time with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, but most of the time, you and them stayed in the forest. Oikawa hated catching bugs, but Iwaizumi made him tag along with you. It had always been you, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi—nobody more, nobody less. 

If only Sith deal in absolutes, then you would consider yourself a very sexy Sith.

"Coach Irihata," Oikawa started, folding his hands behind his back as he watched Takeru pants a poor kid, "the Seijoh coach, actually knows someone on the Tachibana Red Falcons."

The Tachibana Red Falcons was a Japanese V-League team. Oikawa brought up this team multiple times because José Blanco, his volleyball idol, coached for the Falcons. You also watched this team play frequently when Wakatoshi was able to record games. There were a lot of handsome men on that team—and admittedly, that was all you remembered.

"He introduced me to José Blanco," Oikawa said. 

You gasped. "That's great, Tooru!"

Oikawa's heart skipped a beat.

"Damn right," Oikawa said enthusiastically. "Blanco said I was welcome to talk to him about volleyball anytime. I'm going to take up on his offer."

Oikawa was moving forward; he had found a mentor to learn from. He was ever-evolving and ever-changing like the moon in its various phases. There was a smile of determination on his face—one that you saw on Wakatoshi before the perfect spike. Despite letting his defeats define him, Oikawa was growing. You could see it on his face.

Perfect half-lidded eyes and a faraway dreamy smile. This was Oikawa Tooru.

"It's good to have someone to talk to," you said. "I'm really proud of you for reaching out."

Oikawa's progress as a volleyball player was always blocked by more threatening and better players—such as Ushijima and Kageyama. It was as if he had vines and plants wrapped around his ankles and legs to prevent him from flying higher. He would struggle in its binds until he bled.

Plants couldn't fly, but they could grow.

You were so lucky to watch him develop. He pursued what made him smile. You ran alongside him, uncertain of where your own path led, but as long as you were near Oikawa, you knew you'd be fine. You watched as his story unfolded. Some heroes didn't start off as nothing. Some heroes started off a little misguided, a little unhinged, a little broken—but being broken did not mean unfixable.

Oikawa Tooru was a hero all right—he was a hero straight from the comic books. He wasn't Luke Skywalker though; he was something along the lines of a former villain. 

Although you were envious, you found your happiness much brighter.

"Also!" Oikawa said, "Volleyball Monthly reached out to me, and they want an interview for the high school section! This is my first time doing an interview!"

"Might as well get your autograph now before you become too famous," you joked.

Oikawa puffed up his chest. "I guess I really impressed them during Interhigh. Seijoh was the runner-up, after all. Iwa-chan was really jealous. I could tell."

You rolled your eyes. Iwaizumi was probably annoyed by Oikawa's constant nagging about it.

The envy you had for Oikawa could go for Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi was an obstacle you had wanted to surpass. You couldn't see past him. You couldn't see him as anything but a childhood friend and a dragon who you needed to slay. 

Perspectives were always set in the main character's eyes. It made one wonder what side characters thought when they watched their friend be whisked away on an adventure. It made one wonder what side characters did when the main character was valiantly fighting. Likely something mundane and boring and repeated.

Wakatoshi made you feel that if you couldn't love something as much as he loved volleyball, then it wasn't true love.

It wasn't intentional on his part, but you were young and impressionable. That sort of thing tended to stick to growing children. It was time to discover what was beyond—what was beyond Wakatoshi.

You were Wakatoshi's best friend. You needed to be [Y/N] Suzuki.

Being blinded by envy wasn't a good look for someone who wanted to make a difference. You realized that you needed to be more self-conscious. Time was slipping through your fingers; you were growing up; you were going to university. If simple things like jealousy were holding you back, then you wouldn't be able to achieve everything.

You needed to be like Sugawara.

When Nationals swung by, it was Shiratorizawa Academy who snagged the representative spot.

Was Coach Washijo's method of choosing the strongest players indeed correct? Despite there being six men on a team, it seemed that each man's abilities were funneled toward Wakatoshi—the cannon of Shiratorizawa. He drew the crowds and the cameras. Among a flock of swans, Wakatoshi was an eagle. 

Shiratorizawa invited you to watch them play, and you went. You begged for your mother's permission to let you travel across the country just to see a stupid high school national tournament. Shiratorizawa ended up losing, and you watched as Coach Washijo issued them one hundred serves to do.

You watched Oikawa and Iwaizumi swear to beat Wakatoshi and Tendo next year during Interhigh, and you witnessed Sugawara swear—and hope—that Karasuno would get top four next time. 

Despite being pushed down, they were getting back up. 

"[Y/N]," Sugawara said one day in class, and you immediately shot your head up. "Is that this month's edition of Volleyball Monthly in your hands? Why're you reading something like that? Aren't you in the—uhhh—theatre club?"

"It's art club now," you said. "I switched a few days ago."

You were, in fact, holding the newest edition of Volleyball Monthly. This was the edition that Oikawa was featured in, and he handed the magazine to you very eagerly this morning before you went to school. You wondered how early he had gotten up to catch a train to your side of the prefecture.

This column was for players to keep an eye out for during the Miyagi Spring Tournament Preliminaries. The page was open to Oikawa's interview that included a body shot of him and an added photo of him setting to Iwaizumi. You already knew that Oikawa was going to pester Iwaizumi about being featured in Volleyball Monthly because of him.

Sugawara was turned around and sitting at his desk. You put the magazine on the table so both you and he could look at it. He settled an elbow on your desk, leaning over so he could get a good look at the magazine.

"Oh, that's Aoba Johsai," Sugawara said. "I recognize the uniform. They were the runner-up for the Interhigh Preliminaries this year. Their teamwork is admirable."

"Ah," you said as if you didn't know this information already. "That's really cool."

Yoshida snorted. "Not as cool as soccer. When I'm a second-year, I'll actually start playing games instead of being a benchwarmer."

"You want to go, little man?" Sugawara shot back. "Volleyball's so cool that [Y/N] even has a copy of the monthly magazine. I don't see people carrying around a soccer magazine."

"[Y/N] was bound to get into a sport." Yoshida rolled his eyes. "Is there a single thing that she hasn't done already?"

"Go back to fouling the opponent through fake injury," Sugawara sneered.

"Okay, Mr. Hot Potato."

When Culture Day came around the corner, you attended a local youth art exhibition for piano under your mother's orders. You thought that you were too old for such an exhibition—you were fifteen!—but she made you play anyway. There were other recitalists there as well, many of which you grew up with due to your years in the classical music field.

Culture Day was purely a Japanese holiday, and in addition to it, it was a major win for the arts. Many sort of art forms were celebrated, and piano was not excluded.

You played on a gilded piano with a supportive audience.

It was easier playing the piano when you were little, but surprisingly, it was much more enjoyable playing the piano when you were older.

With complete disregard for the music sheet (as you had vandalized every music sheet your mother had given you with random doodles of private parts and dragon-slaying carrots), you didn't remember piano being this fun before.

Your rule was that if the music wasn't there, then you didn't have to play it at all. You scratched out any notes you were too bored to play and any notes that you deemed unnecessary even if it was there for the sake of the time stamp.

But sometimes you always played the full piece because you found the challenge fun—especially with an audience.

You wanted the audience to marvel in your prowess; you wanted them to be shocked that a pathetic fifteen-year-old could play a piece with such dexterity. You wanted the chance—the opportunity—to choose when you wanted to play your very best. Being given the option of showing your true colors was better than being forced to squeeze color out of you.

Your mother was so desperate to draw out the talent that you never had.

Talent didn't matter; you wanted to have fun. In a world of competition and hatred, you wanted to be a child that was destined to change it! You wanted to be Luke Skywalker! You wanted to be Sailor Moon!

It was late at night, and your mother left you to your own whims to have fun at a nearby festival.

Your piano bag was slung over your shoulders, and you ambled throughout the vendors. The smell of freshly cooked food wafted through the air, and people animatedly chatted about the beauty of culture festivals.

Beautiful women passed by, wearing traditional garments and their face caked with makeup. In a faraway temporary stadium, there were men reenacting an ancient Japanese tale of a warrior. One of these days, you'd take Diba to a Japanese festival—or something similar to it. 

"[Y/N]," a voice said from behind you.

You turn around, and you see Sugawara. In the lighting of the festival, his hair looked like it was bathed in light. The gray strands of his hair were dipped in the gold of the lanterns hanging from the stalls, and his dark lashes dusted the apples of his cheeks. He was wearing casual clothes, and in his hands was a plastic bag.

"Sugawara," you said cheerfully. "What's up?"

You tried to ignore the thumping excitement in your chest. What a coincidence that you happened to see the boy you happened to like at some local festival. He was brighter than any of the lanterns at the festival; there was this soft, homey look to Sugawara that washed you with familiarity.

"Not much," he said. He lit up upon seeing your piano bag. "I saw your piano gala thing. I had no idea you were that good at playing the piano! That's—that's amazing. You're really skilled."

Hey, the piano wasn't so bad. If you were able to draw a raw, lighted smile on Sugawara's face, then playing piano wouldn't be so bad. Was this what musicians felt when they finished a composed piece and received a round of applause? You'd prefer his smile over any audience's clapping.

You flushed hotly. "Thanks."

"It made me wonder why you're not in the classical music club," Sugawara said. "People really know your name out there, too. The audience was raving about you."

"Thank you," you said again. "What's that in your hand?"

Sugawara lifted the plastic bag. "Hm? Oh, this? They're sparklers."

"Oh, that's cool—"

"Yoshida was supposed to meet up with me, and we were going to light them." Sugawara checked his watch. "He told me he would be late because he was playing a quick scrimmage of soccer with his friends, but that was like, an hour ago."

"Knowing Yoshida, I don't think he's going to come at all," you said. "Sorry."

Sugawara made a face. "Damn that Mr. Soccer-is-freaking-better-Yoshida! I bought these sparklers for nothing."

"Don't feel bad," you said. Your mother didn't let you buy sparklers because it disturbed the neighbors and you weren't allowed near anything near fire because you made one too many arson jokes in the household. "At least you had an excuse to buy sparklers."

"Do you want them?" he offered. "I have no reason to keep them."

You figured that you could call Oikawa and Iwaizumi to see if they were available tonight to light sparklers. However, you wanted to spend a little more time with Sugawara. You couldn't believe you were about to choose a hoe over your bros. You swallowed thickly and prayed to whatever higher power was up there. 

"Why don't we"—you hoped nobody was watching this shit-show go down—"set them off together?"

Sugawara stared at you.

Immediately, excuses bubbled up from your mouth. "Ah, well, I feel bad that Yoshida stood you up—I mean, we all know how he is—and what a better way to celebrate Culture Day than to light sparklers. And I really don't have anyone to set them off with."

Flaming lies.

As far as you knew, Sugawara and you were just classmates. Just incredibly close, trouble-making classmates who sat at the back of the classroom and annoyed every teacher that walked in. You couldn't bring yourself to say that you were friends with him—it was far too awkward, but you hoped that you were at least friends with him.

There was no reason for him to stay with you and set off sparklers, but you had every reason to stay and set them off with him. You kind of, maybe, sort of liked him, and you knew that Sugawara just thought of you as a classmate. Out of kindness, Sugawara might say yes, but you'd feel bad for taking advantage of that said kindness.

Sugawara let out a sigh and shook his head. When his eyes flitted to you, you could almost feel yourself melt in the warmth of his brown eyes. "Why not? Let's go for it!"

Happiness spread throughout your body. "I know a place! There's this hill in a nearby park, and you can see the moon and shit! It's beautiful, Sugawara! Let's do it there."

You took him to the hill that was beyond the greenery of your favorite park. 

Long ago, in middle school, Oikawa was at this very hill, looking up at the moon. It had been July 20th—his birthday. You couldn't erase the image of the moon's reflection in Oikawa's big, brown eyes. Around the outskirts of the hill was the trickling creek that gurgled over rocks and moss. Iwaizumi and you caught frogs, and he would measure his hand against yours. You couldn't forget the feeling of his calloused palm brushing over yours.

There was hardly anyone on this hill.

The green grass rolled over the hill, not a single clip yellow. Small bugs jumped in and out of the grass, and a few fireflies dotted the green canvas of the ground. The half-moon overlooked you and he as Sugawara pulled out the miniature sticks of fire hazards.

It was just you, the sparklers, and the grandfather-haired boy.

Sugawara passed you a sparkler and brought out a lighter. He flicked his thumb against the small machine, and a faint, weak flame sprouted. Carefully, he cupped the tip of your sparkler to prevent any wind from reaching it, and he attached the flame to the sparkler. He quickly withdrew his hands.

Your sparkler did exactly what was in its name: it sparkled. You let out a gasp of surprise and waved it around slowly, trying not to put it out. It sparkled miniature stars, popping and fizzing in various directions. You couldn't help but admire the private firework at the tip of your stick—only for you and Sugawara to see.

Sugawara lit his respective sparkler.

His sparkler exploded softly in a myriad of stars. The smell of slight smoke filled the air. Sugawara kept the sparkler close enough for him to watch it intently without burning himself. He brought it up and slowly etched something in Kanji with it in the air.

You asked him what he wrote, and he said that he had written the word shit.

The sparklers Sugawara had bought only lasted for ninety seconds. It was a heartfelt, short star cupped in the hands of two adolescents who knew little to nothing about life.

"Thanks for celebrating Culture Day with me," you said gratefully.

The sparkler mirrored in Sugawara's eyes and the golden light of the sparkler warmed his cheeks. His eyes looked like pure fire. "Sure thing, [Y/N]."

You and Sugawara were eerily similar; it was as if you and he had the same soul split in different bodies. You felt like you were watching a clearer, more defined extension of yourself. You watched him be successful—and not in the way one normally thought success was like.

Sugawara reached and reached for his goals. Even if the odds were turned against him, he still had hope—that flimsy, stupid hope—for his future. He didn't give up on his directed path, and instead, he pushed onward. You saw yourself in him; you both were talentless, non-hotshots with no future in the fields that were supposed to be pursued.

However, you were growing on the piano, or rather, the piano was growing on you. It was much more fun when one didn't need to follow rules; you were a young brazen child while playing. And Sugawara kept his interest in volleyball even if he wasn't amazing at the sport. 

You felt as if Sugawara could make it, you could, too.

There was a little bit of yourself in the boy and a little bit of the boy in you. What you felt for Sugawara balanced the line between love and admiration, and you didn't know the difference.

He loved something. You never learned how to love.

Sugawara sighed, his sparkler still alive and fighting. "I'm so stressed for that test we have coming up. It's been consuming me ever since the teacher put it on the calendar."

"I hate math."

"That, too." Sugawara rubbed his forehead. Then he threw up his hands in fury and yelled, "I hate school!"

His words resounded off the hill that you and he stood on. There was no reply to his fit of rage—not that you were expecting one, anyway. The darkness of the sky stared back at you and he, its one brilliant white eye unblinking. 

"That really helped," Sugawara admitted. "It's like yelling into a void."

You raised a brow and cleared your throat. You shouted, "I hate math!"

"Math falls under the category of school, [Y/N]," Sugawara pointed out. 

"Since when was hating things a competition?" you asked incredulously. You waved your sparkler in the direction in front of you. "I thought we were just yelling things we hated into nothingness."

"Just try to be more original next time."

"Bite me."

Sugawara cracked a smile. He indignantly planted his sparkler in the ground and cupped his hands around his mouth as he shouted, "I hate Yoshida!"

"I hate pia—" The words lodged themselves into your throat. "I hate people!"

"That was really nice of you," Sugawara, a person, said.

Your face grew warm, as you were a little proud of your cover-up. You waved your sparkler around menacingly. "You shouldn't say that to a girl with a fire hazard."

Sugawara laughed. He took a deep breath in of the smoke and the forlorn clouds that barely covered the moon. He tilted his head up, the angle of his chin creating sharp angles of shadows. He splayed his palm up toward the sky, reaching for the moon. His hand then fell back to his side.

"I hate losing!" he exclaimed.

You really ought to find more things to hate—just to spend more time with Sugawara. You had an inkling that he didn't actually hate these things; he was just stressed and confused. Just for a moment, he wanted to be angry.

Always, you had been looking to the future. You wondered if Sugawara would like you back in the future. You wondered what college you were attending in the future. You wondered if you were able to love something and finally stick to it instead of letting it consume you wholly.

But for now, you wanted to live in the moment. For now, you could pretend that Sugawara could feel the same way that you did.  For now, something as trivial as a crush or two didn't matter.

You were wondering where all the fragments of your childhood were going. You wanted to know why it was slipping through your fingers so easily and you couldn't seem to quite catch it fast enough. Then you realized that it was happening right now.

Childhood memories were always made up of the moments that didn't matter.

Moments that mattered:  learning how to walk, your first menstrual cycle, winning a prestigious classical music award, obtaining your driver's license, graduating high school, being accepted into your top university, graduating college, and finding a well-paying job.

Moments that didn't matter: watching volleyball reruns with Wakatoshi, catching bugs with Iwaizumi, debating with Oikawa about the prettiest girl in the Star Wars franchise, experiencing the joys and wonders of a trivial argument with your little brother, and now.

"I hate taxes!" you shouted. Granted, you had never done taxes before, but the thought of doing them was associated with growing up. You never wanted to grow up, and you never wanted to pay your taxes, either.

"I hate growing up!" Sugawara confessed to the sky. He clutched his sparkler in his hand, the sparks bursting and exploding. It was as if he was holding a star in his hands.

You and he blew through each and every one of the sparklers that he had bought that night. They came in a myriad of colors—blue, red, green, and yellow. The world between you and Sugawara was covered in flecks of rainbow. The colors were flying off the sparklers and crackling everywhere.

Sugawara seemed to be the part of you that you wanted to be.

Strangely enough, you felt at peace with yourself.

Sugawara wasn't very spiritually inclined, but he could feel a sort of premonition coming over him. It was as if your path and his were meant to cross eventually. 

Everyone had this feeling when meeting a certain someone. It was to meet a friend of a friend and feel an immediate connection with them. Soulmates, almost. This moment wasn't unusual, but Sugawara never thought it'd be the girl who hated authority and played the piano.

There was a word for this. Inevitability. Sugawara mulled over this word in his head. Inevitability, inevitability, inevitability. Many things were inevitable when it came to you, but he didn't know what.

He just felt as if this moment was supposed to happen.

You were yelling something about being indestructible. Sugawara kind of dug that.

When there was only one sparkler left, Sugawara tentatively lit it up. The flame was very faint, but slowly, the sparks grew and grew—blooming into a flower of smoke and stars. You held it between you and Sugawara; it glowed in the dark of the night, flickers of light dotting like gold flecks across a canvas.

As the sparkler continued to live its short life, you couldn't help but wish that the sparklers that Sugawara had bought would run longer, so you could spend more time with him. Unfortunately, you only had this crumb of time—this ninety second time span.

And for ninety seconds, the world was all right.

Chapter Text

You found yourself texting Kuroo Tetsurou more often than you usually thought you would.

A boy had never asked you for your phone number with romantic intentions before. You had thought that you and he would chat for maybe a day or two before never speaking again. However, time after time again, Kuroo Tetsurou has never failed to surprise you.

Your second year of high school was drawing closer and closer, and more work was piling up. Kuroo Tetsurou was a good distraction—he always had been. He delighted you with conversation topics that you had never heard about, and you found out quickly that he took a liking to Chemistry.

It was late at night, and you were supposedly studying for an upcoming exam. After failing your last exams twice in a row, one would figure that you would have learned your lesson by now. You refused to learn your lessons; you were going to make mistakes like a cool kid.

Your phone was next to you on your desk, warm because of your constant use.

However, you didn't expect your phone to start vibrating.

A text or two called for a short vibrate—nothing special—but the duration of this vibration meant that someone was calling you. You didn't know who could be calling you at this hour. It was almost eleven at night.

The caller ID was revealed to be Kuroo Tetsurou.

You stared at the picture-less profile that appeared on the screen of your phone.

Anxiety flared inside of you. Maybe he accidentally called you in his sleep. You wouldn't know how he would be able to achieve such a feat, but Kuroo Tetsurou surprised and irked you on a daily basis.

Why would he even think about calling you? You and he had never called before! It was strictly texting and the occasional photo of food. You knew a good portion of his friends, and he knew a few of yours. He was nothing more than an 'online' friend—right?

You prodded your phone carefully with the mechanical pencil in your hand, as if your phone was a dangerous object that would burn you if you touched it. You stared at the green pick up button and the red hang up button. Choices had to be made, and you were the worst person to come to when it came to making a definitive choice.

Eventually, the profile faded away on your phone, indicating that you had let the phone ring for so long that the phone hung up for you. You let out a sigh of relief; you could probably text Kuroo tomorrow morning and apologize for missing his call.

Just as you were about to continue your work, your phone started ringing again.

You nearly fell out of your chair.

What in the world could Kuroo want from you? If he wanted money, he should've asked your mother—as you were still very financially dependent on her. Out of anger and out of spite, you snatched your phone up from the desk and furiously pressed on the green button.

"You finally picked up," Kuroo's voice on the other line said.

It had nearly been a year since you last saw Kuroo or heard his voice. His voice was deep and drawn out in a provoking manner. Albeit, his voice was somewhat scratchy from the quality of the call.

"I was asleep," you lied. "You woke me up."

"Sure," he said. "Say that to the photo you posted thirteen minutes ago."

Your cheeks warmed. "I was asleep for thirteen minutes, then."

Kuroo laughed. It was an authentic, coming-from-the chest sort of laugh that you had never heard before. You squeezed your phone in your hand. Kuroo said, "you should play the piano for me, Suzuki."

You clutched the phone closer to your ear as you incredulously asked, "you called me at near midnight to play the piano for you?"

"Your tone hurts." He shuffled around on his end of the call for a few seconds. "In short, yes."

"Do you always demand people to play the piano for you at night?" you asked, rolling your eyes. You huffed and leaned back in your chair. "How do you even sleep at night, Kuroo?"

"I sleep on my chest with two pillows pressed against my head. It's quite comfortable, actually—"

"And you wonder why you have a bedhead."

"I'm self-conscious about it, so shut the fuck up."

You idly rolled your pencil on your desk with your index finger. You glanced at the digital clock on your desk. Your mother would still be awake at this time; she liked staying up late to finish reading or drink tea. Adam was definitely asleep—or locked up in his room. 

There was a twinge of apprehension apparent in your voice. "You've never heard me play before. I could be the worst pianist in the world."

"I know you're not," Kuroo said. "I call you Ms. Prestigious for a reason."

"Not that I won't play for you, but why do you want me to?" you asked. "Just out of curiosity."

A pause. "I have insomnia."

"Well, all right then."

When you trekked out of your room and made your way to the living room where the piano was situated, you came across your mother who was sitting at the breakfast table. She picked up a sugar cube and tentatively placed it between her teeth. Your mother took a sip of her tea, and her eyes flicked to you.

You poorly communicated to her that you were going to play the piano for your friend who was on the other side of the line chattering about his Chemistry class.

Noting the phone in your hand, your mother nodded and motioned to the clock on the oven. You crept into the living room and stationed the phone on the music rack. 

"And then I told him Potassium," Kuroo said.

You rolled your eyes. "And what does that mean?"

"K," he said. "Obviously. You're not that bright, are you, [Y/N]?"

"Well, excuse me, let me go memorize the entire periodic table, and I'll get back to you," you said. Kuroo let out another laugh. Your voice went quiet as you opened the fallboard of the piano. "I'm at the piano right now."

Kuroo said, "you are?"

He sounded excited. It was strange because no kid your age was excited about classical music. Kuroo was the exception to everything; he even liked Chemistry for Christ's sake. What a nerd—but then again, nerds made the most money in the future. 

"Any requests?"

"You should play a sonatina," he said.

Kuroo then gave you a name of a certain sonatina he liked—of course he had a favorite sonatina. The cat-like boy probably had a favorite element. You wouldn't put it past him to have a favorite condiment, either. People like Kuroo Tetsurou were conclusive. People like him didn't hesitate when answering this or that questions. Kuroo Tetsurou was a confident boy.

The sonatina name was familiar to you. "Oh, I think I've played that song before when I was little. If I look hard enough, I might even be able to find a music sheet!"

The boy chuckled.

You rummaged through your past music books and opened the piano bench to continue looking. You trashed a few papers whose titles gave you unsightly memories of a judge's poor feedback. You must have been causing a ruckus because your mother appeared and handed you the sonatina you had been looking for.

The sonatina had been in her room, she told you. 

You thanked your mother respectively and placed the sheet on the music rack. You stared at the familiar notes and wondered if you would be able to read them properly at the same time as you played. You splayed your fingers out in front of you and took deep breaths—the textbook piano breathing techniques.

You were not playing for an audience or any judge panel. You were playing for Kuroo Tetsurou, who somehow was the worst evil out of them all. It was just you, him, and the piano in front of you. Your mother had returned to her place at the breakfast table, but you knew she kept her keen ear out for you.

"Do you like piano music?" you asked Kuroo.

The response came quick. "I love it."

Pleasing a whole audience was difficult. There was bound to be someone in there—whether it be a picky judge or an infant—who disliked one's music. But you felt that if you could draw out praise from Kuroo Tetsurou, then playing the piano in spite of hating it would be worth it.

If Kuroo Tetsurou really did love piano, you didn't want to be the one who took that away from him.

So you played for him.

Being a second-year meant that you were in the middle of everything all over again.

You had to start thinking about the future (as ghastly as it was). The future would mistreat you terribly. You were a young woman with the halves of hearts split between America and Japan. The future was unkind to everyone—especially to those who were ignorant of it.

You had to stop thinking about the past (as comforting as it was). The past was familiar and known to you. But you knew that you would get nowhere dwelling upon it. Heroes like Luke Skywalker didn't stay in Tatooine—a place that was familiar to them. Heroes were pushed into action and into unknown places.

"What college are you thinking of, [Y/N]?" Yoshida asked you one day.

"Who said I was going to college?" you asked while writing an obscenity in your notebook in pretty calligraphy. Your hobby of the week was calligraphy. You took it upon yourself to purchase the brush pens for it. "I'm going to live forever and not be a product of the capitalist education system."

"Your handwriting is ugly."

"I'll stick this pen up your nose."

Interhigh Preliminaries rolled around the corner again.

As usual, and what started to become a pattern, Shiratorizawa won with Aoba Johsai as a runner-up. This time, the Interhigh Tournament was too far for you to commute. Your mother said that you couldn't go because it'd require a plane—or an extremely dedicated train ride—to get to the stadium in use.

Coach Washijo reached out to you and expressed his sadness when you said you weren't coming, as Wakatoshi tended to perform his best when you were around. You didn't bother emailing back because you weren't very fond of the old man.

Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime expressed their passion toward defeating Ushijima Wakatoshi eventually. It seemed Oikawa was even harboring a bit of a grudge against Wakatoshi. Iwaizumi found Tendo Satori to be the scariest member on the team though. 

"Maybe Nationals," you said to Sugawara one day.

He had been staring at the blank, beige wall of the classroom for some time now. Sugawara and you stayed behind after class, caught up in a whirlwind of various conversations. Sugawara didn't look at you.

"Thank you," he said. "I was really hoping that with Tanaka and Nishinoya this year we'd get somewhere. Coach Ukai is rumored to come out of retirement as well. Things will only get better from here."

Sugawara sounded unsure of himself. It sounded like he was convincing himself of these things rather than you. He had thick skin, as you wouldn't have been able to come close to being as determined as he was. To you, it was just volleyball, but to him, it was his pride in the Karasuno Volleyball Club.

You slid an egg sandwich across the table. 

"What is this," Sugawara said, picking it up, "a bribe? A 'feel better or else' sort of thing?"

You cracked a smile. "You could call it that. No more negativity!"

You wanted him to make it to Interhigh, but with an opponent like Ushijima, there was no chance that he'd be able to. You and Sugawara had the same opponent from afar, but in order to combat that opponent, you and he needed to make sure that the respective opponents in front of you and he were defeated first. You were heartbroken for Sugawara.

However, you couldn't tell if you were heartbroken for Sugawara because you liked him or because you saw yourself in him. You walked the fine line of admiration and love when it came to the boy, and the line was starting to blur.

Crushes came and went with you; you had a few passing crushes back in middle school, too, but Sugawara was the first crush that lasted for an entire year.

Perhaps you and Sugawara were too similar. Sugawara was the person you wanted to be. You liked him because you wanted to be him. You had always been a rational thinker—there was a reason for this and for that. It was easy for you to deduct simple things and to untie unnecessarily complicated situations.

Would your rationality ruin love for you?

"[Y/N]," Sugawara said, "do you—no, that's not correct. You're—you're very good at music. Why aren't you more dedicated to it?"

You frowned. "It isn't my thing. I'm not that good at it, either."

"You're amazing at it; what do you mean?"

"Well, not all of us are blessed with ambition, Sugawara," you said. "I think that I am good at it only because I have the experience that others don't. I have been playing since I was five."

"Five?" Sugawara exclaimed. "So you do admit that you're good at the piano."

You flushed hotly. "I guess. I feel conceited saying that, but it's not the 'good' I want to be. I want—I want the unmatched raw talent that everyone else has. I want"—there were a lot of things you wanted—"to be happy with what I'm doing."

"[Y/N], some people are just born lucky," Sugawara said. "Other people—us—have to take a different route. Have you found what makes you happy?"

Your mind ran a mile a minute. You enjoyed every hobby you picked up albeit you'd get bored quickly. You loved calligraphy, you loved knitting, you loved art, you loved cooking, and you loved origami. But was it real, tangible, genuine love? Was it the love that Wakatoshi had for volleyball?

"No," you said, unsatisfied with your own answer. "It really sucks not being passionate at the things you're good at."

"It also sucks to not be good at the things you're passionate about," Sugawara said. "I understand you."

Was understanding the same thing as loving?

Sugawara was you. He was a clearer version of yourself whom you were striving to be. Slowly but surely, you were gathering the fragments of yourself and building yourself a bridge. The other side was wider and glorious. You were halfway there—no!—you were almost there. 

You figured that if you could love Sugawara, then perhaps you could love yourself.

You really did have a crush on Sugawara, but there had to be a reason for this. It could have been the same reason why you liked that stupid airhead back in middle school or the same reason why you liked that popular athletic boy in the grade above you. However, you felt as if this reason was different.

Sugawara was different. He was palpable and alive and someone whom you aspired to be. Could he have not been a crush and more like a first love?

"Thank you for cheering me up," Sugawara said. "It means a lot that you stayed after school with me."

"I didn't do anything," you said.

"Sure you did."

No, you wanted to say, it was all you.

"How's your SAT preparation going?" Diba asked. "Since you're applying for American colleges along with Japanese ones."

"It's very different," you admitted. "More application to the problems. No poems to memorize, too."

Diba yawned and stretched on the couch she was seated upon. You were at the piano bench, as usual, and Brahms was likely fucking off elsewhere. Diba made a face. "You need to memorize poems in Japan? For what? It's not like they'll help you in the future or anything."

You went quiet. "Ideologies maybe?"

"Right." She sounded unconvinced.  "You're so boring. What happened to anarchist [Y/N] Suzuki-[L/N]?"

"She retired last week."

"Well!" Diba exclaimed. She flopped on the couch, crossing her legs and leaning forward. "You sound doubtful. What's wrong? Trouble in whatever rebellion you're planning this time? What's wrong, anarchist [Y/N]?"

"Oh, please, I'm an unfortunate product of the capitalist education system," you said dryly. "The one thing that sets me apart is that I'm an artist, and artists starve in America."

Diba said, "oh, wow, you must really hate studying."

"I hate it!" you exclaimed. "I've come to realize that I hate a lot of things. Hate might be too strong of a word, though, my mom says. Is there a word that describes something akin to lighting what you dislike on fire and then using its flames to toast marshmallows?"

"That's hate all right." Diba sighed. "If it's any consolation, I'm here in America. Maybe we'll even go to the same school. I know it'll be hard to leave whatever you had in Japan."

"Like my whole life?" you retorted. "It's not like I'm officially leaving Japan anyway. I'm just applying to a few colleges because I want to broaden my horizons."

"You have a life here, too," Diba pointed out. "You talk about your friends a lot—those boys. Have you ever realized that you are a person outside of them? You can make decisions on your own; your world does not orbit around theirs."

Eventually, you needed to pick a side: American or Japanese. In Japan, you were treated as a foreigner—an American. In America, you were treated Japanese. You felt as if you were picking up a new mask every time you crossed the Pacific Ocean. One day you were the color pink, and the next you were the color orange.

You glanced over at the piano.

The piano was an instrument that fell into two categories. You were a human that fell into two categories. It was odd how the bane of your existence was something so similar to you that it was sickening. You remembered what Diba had said—you needed to love the piano. And if Sugawara was who you loved—and the person you wanted to be—then what was the piano?

The piano was the part you kept hidden deep inside you, in the crevice of your heart.

A grin was painted on Diba's face. "How's it going with that boy you like? Sugar-marijuana? Was that his name?"

"Sugawara," you corrected. "He's okay."

"Do you still like him?" Diba asked. "I remember you ranting to me about him the last time you were here. You told me he smelled like Snuggle laundry detergent and sometimes gives you the answers to the English homework even though you are very much fluent."

"Yeah, because who the fuck smells like Snuggle laundry detergent? I smell like a musty music room on a good day." You shook your head in disbelief. "I just—I don't know. I like him. I really do. The feeling of being in love is so magical, and it makes me feel so alive, Diba—but it is fleeting and brief."

Diba shrugged. "Sounds like you still like him. It might not be as exciting or as big as it was before, but you still like him."

"Really?" Your face lit up.

"Jesus Christ, you're that excited about liking a boy?" Diba's voice was flat.

You flushed hotly. "I like the idea of liking someone. As I said, I hate so many things, and it's hard to find something that I genuinely like. I feel giddy and happy all over again."

"I think you love a lot of things."

"Love is a very weighty word to throw around."

"You love Star Wars, and you love taiyaki. You love the idea of fighting a higher power, and you love me," Diba said. "You love your friends, and you love Sugawara. You love your mother, and you love the piano."

"Is it really love, though?" you asked. "I see myself in Sugawara, Diba. Is that the same thing as love? I'm so scared of losing what I love. I'm so scared that what I feel isn't actually love. It's too shallow."

Diba was quiet. "I think... I think you just need a little bit of admiration in order to love. Your view of love is big and is something you've seen while you were growing up. You think that a small drop of love isn't enough. You believe that it is only true love if it's something that consumes your whole life."

For someone who was always dissatisfied, one would assume that you would know that you loved. One would think that you would know what you want—what you needed.

"The tiniest bit of love can go a long way, [Y/N]," Diba said. "I bet there are so many things in Japan that you love. You talk about your friends—Oikawa? Iwaizumi? Am I saying those names right?—a lot, which means that you really do care about them. You might not die for them, but you love them, don't you?"

"Well, yes, I do love them," you admitted. "But it's not the love I'm thinking of. It's not the love that I want to feel, so I'm not—"

"You're bottling what little love you have all up."

"Of course I am. What if what I feel isn't real?"

"You bottle up tomatoes and fruits. You don't bottle up emotions or feelings or compliments," Diba said. "If you love something—even just a little bit—acknowledge it."

What did you have to lose if you said you loved something? You loved Wakatoshi and the face he made whenever you and he were making hayashi rice, and you loved Iwaizumi and the bugs he'd release with his gentle, calloused hands, and you loved Oikawa and his wide eyes when he stared at the moon.

"Loving small, trivial things is not bad," Diba said. "Even if your love is not as grand as someone else's, it does not mean that you don't love. Love is not a unit of measurement."

You were growing up, and you were learning how to love.

Perhaps you already did know how to love. Perhaps it was already ingrained in your soul and in your heart right next to the piano. Maybe that was why you had the ability to feel heartbroken multiple times over. It was impossible to feel heartbroken without love already being inside you.

You had tasted defeat enough to know what determination was, and you had tasted heartbrokenness enough to know what love was.

To you, love was actions and in motion. You saw it on screens of TVs and in the littlest of glances when Han Solo looked at Leia. But you learned that love was also words. Words that tumbled out of someone's mouth when they wanted to appreciate what you did despite being unable to convey it properly with action.

You loved playing the piano—genuinely, really, and truly. Your love for it might not have been as big as Wakatoshi's love for volleyball, and your dedication to it was lacking, but you felt as if the piano was a small, dying spark in your palms. You had to cradle it close to your chest, and you had to be gentle with it.

But you hated how your mother made you play. You hated how she squeezed what little brilliance you had and funneled it toward an instrument. But you loved your mother; she cared for you. 

"Even if you end up falling out of love with Sugar-marijuana," Diba said, "you will still love him. You'd love him as a friend and as a person. And I, [Y/N], love you."

Love was fifty years of an eternal summer with fireflies and summer festivals. Love was butterflies in nets and two immortals attempting to find peace of mind. Love was letters so old that it was withered brown and dogs waiting by their ailing owner's death bed.

Love was your mother letting you have a taste of a sugar cube when you were younger. Love was the cup of tea that your mother set out for you but was cold because you never drank it. Love was your mother killing a spider in the bathroom because you had no father to do it for you.

Love was so grand and so delightful and one step below heaven. Although love was so big, it was so simple. It wasn't complicated like a knot or nerve-wracking like a final exam. It was simply there. 

Maybe you didn't need such a grand love. Little loves. Little loves went a long way, and you liked the sound of that.

Love and passion were the same thing, you felt. If not, they might as well be cousins of the same nature.

You had come back from America a little earlier than you expected.

You thought you were having a fever dream when you saw Adam setting a ball for Wakatoshi to spike. Wakatoshi and Adam were playing volleyball in your front yard in casual clothes. Wakatoshi, of course, was built like a very large brick, and Adam was a very flexible cat.

Wakatoshi noticed you immediately, and the ball that Adam had set came careening down and hit Wakatoshi on the head. The ball bounced off and dribbled away on the dead lawn. Wakatoshi's puppy-dog eyes widened at the sight of you with your bagged luggages that came up to your hip.

Adam looked at you and then at Wakatoshi. He mumbled something about Oikawa and picked up the ball. Adam let out a mean remark about how you looked absolutely atrocious and retreated inside where it was safe.

"Your room is really plain, Waka-chan," you said upon entering his very traditionally organized bedroom. "It always has been I guess. You should put up a few posters other than your training regime."

The training regime was properly pinned on the wall right above his bed.

Immediately after you had come home, Wakatoshi urged you into his house with as little words as possible. You barely had enough time to put away your luggage and take a bath. You felt like a half-assed third grader's project, but you ultimately came to the conclusion that Ms. Ushijima would let you finish your shower at Wakatoshi's house.

"You say this as if you hadn't been to my house before," Wakatoshi pointed out.

You stuck out like a sore thumb in Wakatoshi's bedroom. He and his lifestyle had always been like this. He was organized and simple and succinct. There wasn't a single flyaway or magazine paper out of the stack on the table. No one could tell that you were heavily involved in Wakatoshi's life, too. There wasn't a single reminder of your presence here.

And Wakatoshi couldn't help the tidiness of his room, either. Wakatoshi didn't sleep here for a good portion of the year, as he slept in the dorms on his campus. There was no one to make it dirty.

However, the limp plastic white bag in the corner of his room caught your eye. You ambled toward it, picking it up and pathetically swishing it side to side as if it were a dead fish.

"What's this, Waka-chan?" you asked. "You're not the type to keep plastic bags in your room. Ms. Ushijima has always been strict about keeping them in the cupboard below the sink for later use."

"Tendo got them for me," he said as you ruffled through the bag curiously. Wakatoshi made no move to stop you. "They're plastic stars. They have adhesives on the back. He told me to decorate my dorm, and I accidentally brought it home."

You pulled out the package. "They're glow-in-the-dark! That's so cool, Toshi!"

"Don't all stars glow in the dark?"

You ignored him and circled around the room, already eyeing places where you'd assume the stars would best fit. "You have to decorate your room with these! Or your dorm—whatever! You have to, have to, have to! If you don't really want them, I'll take them gladly!"

Wakatoshi watched the stars in your eyes. "What do you want to do, [Y/N]?"

He wouldn't mind it if you took the stars home. He had no use for them anyway, and if you kept that look in your eye, he quickly found out that he was willing to do anything you asked for. You rummaged through Wakatoshi's desk carefully, trying to find a pair of scissors to open the package with.

You complained about his room being too organized and how it was near impossible to find anything. You opened a random drawer in his desk, and you saw a get-well-soon card that you had poorly crafted for Wakatoshi when you were very young. Your face flushed with embarrassment and pretended you didn't see it.

Eventually, you found the scissors and cut open the package happily, humming while you did so.

If you asked for all the stars in the sky, Wakatoshi would pry each and every glittering gem from its place in the sky. It might take his entire lifetime—no, two or even three lifetimes—but it'd be worth it.

The glow-in-the-dark stars were papery thick in your hand. There were fifty of them—maybe even more. You passed a few over to Wakatoshi wordlessly and looked up at the ceiling. "I think we should put them in your room. Tendo was right. Your room is really sad."

Wakatoshi wondered why you had to attack him like that.

You immediately whirled around to look at him. "Well, if you're okay with it, of course. And your mom, too. I don't know if Ms. Ushijima will be very happy that we vandalized your room like this."

"She won't care," Wakatoshi heard himself say. His mother would very much care, but he'll be damned if he ever told you that.

You turned on your phone and quickly put on a randomized song. Diba had made you download all of ABBA's songs on your phone against your will, and much to your shame, "Dancing Queen" started playing. You had nothing against ABBA—but it was that you and Wakatoshi were not seventeen. You and he were sixteen.

How unfitting.

You tossed your phone on his bed. You eyed how far the ceiling was from your normal height and then how far the ceiling was from Wakatoshi's height. You came to an ultimate decision.

"You can start putting up stars," you said, lazily dragging his chair out from his desk. "I'm going to stand on this and help you."

Immediately, Wakatoshi said, "that's not safe."

You felt strangely reprimanded. You shook off any qualms and instead plastered a grin on your face. "Then I'll eat shit when I fall. There's no fun if there's no risk!"

Wakatoshi watched as you wobbled on the chair like a newborn fawn. You were taller than him on the chair—for the first time. You looked glorious and triumphant (he wanted to say you looked like an elephant, but he had a burning suspicion that he'd be slapped if he said that). He really ought to see you on chairs more often. He wanted everyone to look at you and see how grand you were.

And of course, if you were to fall, he'd be there to catch you. 

He and you started peeling the stars and sticking them on the ceiling. With his height, Wakatoshi was easily able to stick the stars on the ceiling. You envied him for that. You were just barely a whisper away from reaching the ceiling as well, you told yourself convincingly. If you told yourself this sentence enough times, it would become true.

You plastered the stickers, humming along to ABBA. You smoothed out all the creases with a gentle press of your fingers.

Wakatoshi was just so great, and what were you to a star?

You cursed yourself for your mindset. You reached out and pressed another star to Wakatoshi's ceiling. Everyone lived amongst others in this world. You needed to stop seeing Wakatoshi in such a green light. He was a star. You could be a star, too, if you were persistent enough.

Envy. Envy. Envy. You looked at Wakatoshi and saw the good in him. He was focusing on a certain star that was overlapping with another star. He was trying to peel it off, as it seemed he had stuck it there on accident. Even with his raw talent, he was still working hard. You could tell.

And when his eyes glanced at you, you could see—

No.

You let out a nervous smile and quickly looked the other way. There was nothing to look at there, so you pretended to admire the training regime that you blasted just a few minutes ago. 

What intense workouts, you noted to yourself with a fake pleasant smile.

He looked at you with such admiration. You refused to delve deeper into the subject and minded your own business. You were not someone to be admired. You had always felt that you were doing the admiring. Jealousy had really fogged your glasses when it came to Wakatoshi, you suppose.

You loved how far Wakatoshi had gone. You loved Wakatoshi and his star-like-ness. He was so much like a star, and you couldn't stop admiring him. You had a few redeeming qualities about you, too. None of them were great enough to be admirable, but you appreciated Wakatoshi's look anyway.

Jealousy wasn't a bad thing. You wanted to push yourself—just to see how far you'd go—but what if there was failure at the end of the road?

Getting rid of your envy wouldn't happen over night. However, this was only the beginning. Your view of the world was growing bigger and bigger, and even a small start could be considered a start.

Your jealousy was still there, but your pride and love for Wakatoshi was brighter.

For now, you'd be content with watching him soar. You'd be content with being stuck on the ground because you weren't born with wings like he was. But you wouldn't be like this forever. One of these days, you were going to find a plane, a spaceship, or something that can fly and make it to the skies yourself.

Wakatoshi didn't understand English. 

But even with ABBA's seemingly incoherent babbling in the background that overpowered all senses and was due for a noise complaint by the neighbors, he couldn't exactly focus on the lyrics. Not that he could or wanted to register the lyrics in the first place. He just kept looking at you.

Wakatoshi wished he had put these stars up with you in his dorm. There, he could spend all the time in the world looking at them and thinking of you.

There were rare days like this where he was able to catch you. 

He couldn't help it—he had gotten excited. He could do anything if he had you around. He liked it when you were cheering on his side. You weren't required to, of course, but Wakatoshi loved seeing you in the stands for him. 

With your constant dodging to America, Wakatoshi felt as if he were falling behind. He didn't have the advantage that Oikawa and Iwaizumi had. He wanted to watch you be dauntless and impetuous. With you around, he wanted to keep his eyes open all the time. There wasn't a single thing that he could miss.

Because you were fleeting and brief when it came to him.

He should have spent more time with you when you and he were little.

Chapter Text

"Have you decided on a college yet?" Iwaizumi asked, his arms resting on the metal bar that separated him from the beach.

"'Course not," you said, a lollipop dangling precariously on your tongue. "I'll probably go somewhere in Tokyo. I've always wanted to head on there and pursue—I don't know—How To Be Punk 101."

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. "That was a dumb joke."

"I'd like to see you be funnier," you said, leaning your forearms on the metal bar and leaning forward to see the coastal construction that was happening before you.

With the looming threat of tsunamis and other ocean disasters, the government mandated that seawalls be constructed to protect certain areas of the Miyagi Prefecture. The beach that you, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa had caught crabs on was under construction and was no longer accessible by the general public. You cried out in anguish when you had found out.

One day, you had said long ago, these beaches will be gone.

Iwaizumi didn't feel as if the beach was really gone. Physically, yes, but was the beach ever really gone when you were next to him? You had the same fresh breeze of salty air about you, and you carried the memories of an ancient sea on your shoulders like a heavy cloak meant for flaunting.

You settled your cheek on your open palm and watched the foggy view before you. Forlorn, gray clouds hung reluctantly over the sky, and the harsh wind caused your jacket to flap haphazardly. Although the tips of your fingers were cold and you could hardly feel the apples of your cheeks and the tip of your nose, you refused to go home.

"What about you, Iwa?" you asked. "Does any college catch your eye? I personally see you as a D1 athlete."

"Too short." He grimly shook his head. 

Your eyes flickered to the top of his head briefly. "Right."

"I'm serious," Iwaizumi grumbled. "At the rate I'm growing, I'll still be considered short in the professional world. Oikawa threatened to push all the pressure points on me in order to stop me from growing. One of these days, his head is going to get so filled with helium that he'll start floating away from here."

You snickered.

Your eyes fell to the sea. "I'll miss this beach. I wonder what'll happen to all the crabs here."

"I'll miss the beach, too," Iwaizumi said. "Maybe I'll go to college near the beach. I've always liked beaches."

"Oh, really?" you questioned. "Like where?"

"Irvine."

"Irvine? That doesn't sound Japanese," you joked. You turned to look at him, and you saw the look in his eye. Your heart stopped for a moment. "Because it's not Japanese," you added quietly.

Iwaizumi shook his head. "America. California, to be more exact. They have a good program for sports science in the colleges there. I'll have to look around more, though."

"You're going to school in America." The words seemed to tumble out of your mouth before you could even register it.

"It's not official," Iwaizumi said. "I still need to get into the American colleges, of course. The application process will kill me, too—no doubt."

"No doubt," you repeated mindlessly.

Studying in America wouldn't be so bad, then, if Iwaizumi was there. You would be chasing Iwaizumi's shadow, because to you, Iwaizumi was a fragment of Japan. Iwaizumi had Californian eyes and a Californian body, but there was something so unique to him that made him feel like home to you.

Iwaizumi's experience would be different from yours as well. You had a dual citizenship, so you'd be staying there until your schooling was finished and could easily fit into society whereas Iwaizumi would only be studying abroad—a foreign student. America was only temporary housing for him. You knew America your entire life.

You were also unsure if you were able to let go of all of this. Japan. Japan was your world, your kingdom, your everything. Japan had little to offer to you, so you were going to seize what you could from the country's hands. And you did. You took everything you could.

The opportunities were lying elsewhere. The opportunities were across the Pacific Ocean that you and Iwaizumi stared at now. The opportunities were on a completely different continent. The opportunities were where you had started in the first place.

You found yourself torn between following Iwaizumi to America in pursuit of bettering yourself or staying with your mother and reminiscing about everything that you had gone through.

"California, huh?" you asked.

Iwaizumi pursued his lips. "Yup."

"Let's go surfing some day. Let's go surfing on California beaches," you proposed. "I've always wanted to try it."

"You? Surfing?" Iwaizumi made a face.

"Hey, I don't like that look," you said. "Wipe that face off right now."

You felt as if you were wasting your prime years away worrying about the future. If only your mother knew how little you knew about the things that mattered. You and your mother were the only people living inside of your head. Your mother was a place to return to when things went awry, but sometimes she was the reason things had gone awry in the first place.

As much as you were curious about higher education in America, you couldn't bear to leave your mother. 

Your mother was here. Your mother chose Japan. Your mother came back to Japan. She tethered you to this island and called it home. She took this barren rock and gave you friends, a community, and a family.

Oikawa and Sugawara and Kuroo were here, too.

Diba was right—you loved a lot of things.

"School sucks," Iwaizumi said out of nowhere. It was as if he was grasping at straws for a conversation topic. He wanted more time to talk to you. "I hate English especially."

"I hate English, too," you said.

"Okay, bilingual," Iwaizumi said dryly. "Say something to me in English."

Right as Iwaizumi had said that, it seemed that the entire English language had disappeared from your mind. However, you then decided on saying in English, "I miss the sun. It's so cold.”

Iwaizumi blinked. "Your accent is good. I barely understood what you said."

Iwaizumi wondered what he'd do with this sedentary love of his. It was settled at the pit of his stomach, and he was unable to budge it at all. It remained stagnant and stubborn—a little bit like you.

He didn't want you to change at all; to him, you and you alone were worth all the tumbles and the obstacles.

But you were changing anyway.

Every time you came back from America, you were a little different each time, like a string being tuned to a higher frequency. It was as if you were receiving counsel from someone, and you were growing more experienced. You were being shaped into the woman you were always supposed to be, and there was no stopping you.

You were impossible. And Iwaizumi was so happy to watch you grow. He watched you change, and he watched you unravel. He didn't know if you were able to see it in you, but he was able to see it. This love of yours. You had so much of it, and you were fumbling with it, trying to figure out what to do.

It looked like you were figuring it all out.

Collision after collision, revision after revision, and everything after. He wanted to see every little change about you. He wanted to know what was new and what things were the same. And most of all he wanted to talk to you about them.

"You should teach me English," Iwaizumi said, "in case I do go to America."

"Of course," you said. "I'll teach you all the swear words you want."

Time spent talking with you was so tentative and intimate. Iwaizumi was always grasping for time, for conversation. If possible, he'd want to talk to you in two or three languages. He'd be willing to learn all the languages in the world even if it meant that he'd exchange a single word with you.

But he was too selfish for only one word. He wanted dictionaries, stories, and thesauruses with you. He wanted a multitude of languages, and in each and every one of them he wanted to learn how to say 'I love you.' 

Iwaizumi was never good with words, though, and he couldn't keep up conversation as easily as Oikawa could. He didn't know how to talk, it felt like. But this time—this time with you—he could relish in it.

He didn't know a lot of things, but Iwaizumi did know that if the sun were to explode, it’d take eight minutes to reach Earth. Would eight minutes be enough time to tell you everything he had ever felt? Would each sentence, each word, each emotion be able to fit in the frame of time until the world was supposed to end?

If nothing else, he wished that you would know that he always had this burning sensation of breathing and of loving you. He wanted you to know how lucky he was to see your story unravel and how you changing was not only important to you but to the people around you. He dreamed of telling you that, if it were possible, he'd strive for both yours and his happiness.

But there was Oikawa's happiness, too.

Iwaizumi fully intended to stay in your life for as long as you'd allow it. He'd play whatever part you wanted him to. He'll be the best man, the godfather, the babysitter, the best friend, and many more. He wanted to love you without restraint, even if he had to die a little more every day to do so.

Out of all things and everything, that would never change.

"[Y/N], did you get enough to eat?" Tendo asked when you came to the inn that Shiratorizawa was staying at. You were bundled up in Wakatoshi's clothes and sweater because you wanted to get fresh air after dinner. "You left kind of early."

"I did," you said.

"Are you sure?" Tendo pestered, trailing behind you as you walked down the hallway. He was a rather lanky boy and swung this way and that around you like a dealership car blow-up. "You still look kind of hungry."

You nodded your head. You and the rest of the Shiratorizawa team were at the Spring Nationals. Wakatoshi, through some miraculous power, managed to snag you a spot as the manager once more. What you usually did was pay for your own inn and etcetera, but this time, Wakatoshi insisted that it was an all-expenses paid trip.

Who were you to refuse the will of the Lord (and a free trip)?

"I don't know." Tendo continued to follow you down the hallway. "I think if I listen close enough I can hear your stomach growl. I know you were eyeing that candied apple earlier."

Rolling your eyes, you said, "I'm not hungry, Tendo. Thanks for checking in, though."

Tendo let out a dissatisfied hum. "You kind of look like a starving child in the 1800s. I feel compelled to feed you bread or something."

You stopped in your tracks. "What?"

"Why did that get your attention?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

Tendo stared at you. You stared at him. Tendo's large, downturned eyes seemed to mock your face and a slow smile was spread across his features. Even with his sinister look, you could tell that Tendo had no ill intentions. In fact, his intentions were surprisingly innocent.

"You want to eat chocolate ice cream again," you quickly deduced.

Tendo bobbed his head up and down. He finger-gunned you. "Bingo!"

"Fine." You scratched your arm. "But we are not stealing from the inn's kitchen. You're going out and paying for it."

"You're so stingy!"

"Come on, you wanted to eat with me," you said. "Make it make sense."

Tendo frowned, but then his face lit up. "Oh, and completely off-topic, but I finally figured out why you look so familiar," Tendo said in a jovial tone. "You know, when you first came to our training camp last year, I was like, 'wow, this girl must be a fan because I've seen her face around.'"

You made a face. "I don't know why, but that hurt."

"Miracle boy keeps a little frame on his bedside table," Tendo said, his fingers tracing a box in the air. "It's a photo of little you and little Wakatoshi in elementary school. You and he were wearing matching yellow hats and blue uniforms—I couldn't believe that Wakatoshi could wear something so cute."

"Oh, I'll be sure to tell him that for you," you said. 

Tendo smiled. "That's besides the point."

"I know the exact photo you're talking about," you said. "My mom took it on our first day of school. I'm surprised you recognized me from a photo dated ten years ago."

"Ah, well, how couldn't I? Your features are so uniquely you," Tendo said. "I don't think I could mistake you for anyone else."

If you had a big brother, there was no doubt that you'd want him to be a little like Tendo. Despite his constant teasing, you found Tendo quite endearing and brotherly. Of course, you'd never tell the red-haired man this embarrassing thought.

Upon more thinking, you realized that Tendo might have been calling you disastrously ugly, but you didn't care. Nothing was able to top the time that Oikawa told you that he had mistaken you for a stag beetle. That very comment started a week-long silent treatment and resulted in Oikawa crawling back to you for forgiveness.

Later that night, after you finished eating chocolate ice cream with Tendo, you settled into your room.

Wakatoshi was watching a volleyball rerun on a tablet in the corner of the room. Shouts and yells came from his thin screen. You could hear a referee whistle. Technically, Wakatoshi was supposed to be in a different room, but since you had an extra twin bed, you let him into your room for the night.

The volleyball that he usually slept with was seated on the cushiony pillow of his bed. You resisted the urge to pick it up and try bumping the ball to yourself.

Your friend's eyes flickered up to your busy figure that was shifting clothes around. You waved absentmindedly at Wakatoshi and said, "don't let me disturb you. I'm just trying to find a book that the girl from Itachiyama lent me."

"What are you going to do?" Wakatoshi paused the video.

"Light it on fire and throw it out a window," you said. "I'm kidding. What else am I going to do? I'm probably going to read it. It'd be a waste of words if I didn't."

Wakatoshi nodded and returned to his video.

After finding the book underneath a rather ugly shirt that you intended to use for sleepwear, you crawled into your bed and pulled the sheets over your lower half. You curled on your side, keeping the book open so you could greedily consume the words.

There was only the dim inn lamp between the twin beds that provided you light to see. You snatched a few words easily while others you had to shift over closer to the light to catch.

The blue light of the tablet shadowed Wakatoshi's face as the light danced across his stoic features. You wondered how he could be so entranced while watching others play volleyball. You supposed that when one was so passionate about a sport, they were content so long as they were interacting with it in some way.

You had grown up with Wakatoshi, so silence like this was all right. Silence like this was comfortable. There was no need for conversation or constant talking. Wakatoshi kept his words clipped and short anyway, and you never knew what to say at the right time.

There was something about comfortable silence that only you and Wakatoshi could create.

It was the same silence that covered you and him when making hayashi rice. It was the same silence that you and he held when he was practicing volleyball with his father and you were reading a piano sheet. It was the same silence that you and he had after finishing decorating his ceiling with sticky glow-in-the-dark stars.

After decorating, you and he had turned off the lights and laid on the hardwood floor. It was then that you and he had pointed out stars and constellations crafted on the traditional ceiling. A few stars didn't stick as well as others and fell to the ground in sad little splatters. You and Wakatoshi had to scramble somewhat to avoid the falling—or "shooting"—stars.

Eventually, you marked a page and closed your book. You set it on your bedside table and asked Wakatoshi if he wanted the light on. He said no. You turned it off and stretched into your favorite sleeping position. The weight of silence sauntered into the room.

The room wasn't exactly silent. There were the calls of 'mine' and 'free ball' from Wakatoshi's tablet. There were the occasional rumblings of your stomach from last night's dinner that didn't sit exactly well with you. There were the soft breaths of Wakatoshi and your heavy crescendo-like snores.

What was it about silence that was so loud?

Wakatoshi wondered if you could hear how loud his heartbeat was in his ears. Volleyball made him excited. His heart thrummed and pumped with excitement. He could hear every little movement, every little squeak, and every little whistle. 

He was told in one of his classes that the size of his heart was the size of his fist. Wakatoshi balled up one of his hands and stared at the curled fist. 

I must have a very big heart, he thought.

He wanted to give his heart to you, as scary as it was. He would be gentle. He hoped you would be, too. You were never one for gentleness, but Wakatoshi knew that for him, you might have been willing to try.

Wakatoshi, in all honesty, felt a lot of things for you. He felt joy, wonder, and curiosity amongst others. He knew that you might not feel as many—or the same—emotions as he did, but he couldn't help but hold out for you. For you, Wakatoshi was willing to be patient—a trait he never knew he'd come to be so familiar with.

Once the volleyball rerun ended, Wakatoshi switched tabs. He looked at a photo of his ceiling. It wasn't a perfect photo. Wakatoshi had to keep completely still to take the photo he had now, which was blurry, shaky, and terrible to be completely honest. However, if he tried hard enough, he would have been able to count all the stars individually.

As much as Wakatoshi would have liked to look outside at real stars, the window was closed shut, and he knew that you preferred to have the window shut while you were sleeping (as you were frightened of any bugs that would come flying in and into your poor ear).

He stared at the stars that you and he had put up. 

[Y/N] Suzuki, he thought, the name so familiar on his tongue. [Y/N] [L/N], he thought again, the name foreign but the person was the exact same. You were [Y/N]—no matter the last name, no matter the change. He found himself thinking of you when looking at the stars, plastic or real.

It was stupid, he knew.

Volleyball was really the only thing on his mind, but your name seemed to edge and scratch at the corner of his mind like a puppy dog whining for attention in front of a locked door. Eventually, all dog owners had to open the door for their dog. Was Wakatoshi willing to do the same for you?

Always, he felt. You were a complacent young woman who seemed like she knew everything in life. You shrugged out of norms and stated opinions—to which most would woefully wish you to shut up about them. 

Wakatoshi really liked that about you, and he wanted to tell his father.

Good things were happening, and he wished he had his father around to see them.  Good things were happening, but he had you right next to him to see them. There was nobody but him—and you—in this little world of his.

When Wakatoshi looked at the stars, he felt as if he were talking to his father. Somewhere, across the globe, his father was looking at the very same sky. Although it might have been daytime rather than nighttime, it was still the same sky with the same stars and the same moon.

Even if the stars he was talking to were artificial (such as the ones on his tablet), he wanted to talk and talk and talk about you. He wanted his father to know that he was doing all right and that he was very much so in love with volleyball. He wanted his father to know that he was grateful for his left hand. He wanted his father to know that he felt a surplus amount of adoration for you whether you knew it or not.

So he told the stars about you.

"Listen, do you want a medium or a large?" you asked Oikawa on the phone.

"I still cannot believe you're at the Spring Nationals," Oikawa rambled, "supporting that bastard Ushiwaka!"

"Okay," you said. "Medium or large?"

Oikawa's voice only continued. "Do you know how many times Ushiwaka has wronged me—has wronged Iwa-chan? I thought we were ride-or-die, [Y/N]-chan."

"Medium or large, Oikawa."

"You disgust me." His voice was obnoxiously whiny. You wanted the call to cut out or something to avoid Oikawa's complaints, but unfortunately, you were in the middle of a city with data unlimited. "I offer you my friendship and you spit in my face."

You contemplated simply hanging up the phone. "I'll just get you a large. I'm holding up an entire line."

The line—otherwise known as a very friendly family of four—gave you an understanding wave and said something about boyfriends and indecisiveness and told you to take your time. You were grateful for their consideration and pluckily picked out the first large t-shirt you saw.

"Iwa, I assume, is the same size? If not, bigger?" you asked. "Recently he's been packing on a lot of muscle. I wonder if he drinks protein shakes or something."

Oikawa continued to rant about how you shouldn't be at Spring Nationals. You should be in the Miyagi Prefecture scheming a way to beat Ushiwaka for the Seijoh team. And then, supposedly, you were allowed to attend. Of course, you didn't take Oikawa's words to heart.

The brunet boy questioned your loyalty, to which you responded with how you were buying Iwaizumi a large t-shirt as well. 

"[Y/N]-chan, if you keep pulling stunts like this, you'll be cut out of my will!" Oikawa exclaimed from the other side of the phone. You could hear his family having a calm dinner in the background. "Or even worse, uninvited to my next birthday party."

"Okay," you said. "Die mad, then."

"Maybe I will!"

You were at the Spring Nationals stadium. While other teams were playing, you decided to stop by the vendors and support local businesses in the area. There were t-shirt vendors and food vendors galore. The first thing you did was find a place to buy clothes for your two confidants, Iwaizumi and Oikawa respectively.

Because of Oikawa's attitude, you had chosen his shirt without hesitation. You hoped it wasn't ugly, but with your luck and Oikawa's, it was probably the most regrettable thing on the planet. For Iwaizumi's shirt, you had actually given it some thought.

"What kind of shirt did you get?" Oikawa asked after you paid for it.

You juggled your phone and the bag all at once, drawing the random t-shirt that you had bought. You held the phone with your shoulder close to your ear and you held the new t-shirt by the shoulders. 

"It's white," you said. "It has a little cute mantra on it with hands and balls."

"That doesn't sound very pleasant."

"It says 'catch it, hold it, serve it,'" you said. "Right up your alley. You still do those monstrous serves, right? I remember in middle school you blew the manager away with it."

Oikawa was quiet. "Can you get a refund for the shirt?"

Your brow twitched. "What do you mean get a refund? I bought this for you, and you're going to appreciate it."

"[Y/N], your sense of fashion has never been good," Oikawa said, causing you to feel as if an arrow had struck you through the heart. "I don't trust your shirt choice."

"Hey, hey hey," you said, "now my pride's been severely wounded. You're going to like it whether or not it's ugly, okay? It's not even that bad, in my opinion."

"Tell her that her sense of style is bad, Iwa-chan," Oikawa commanded while presumably passing the phone to his shorter, more muscled counterpart.

Iwaizumi held the phone. "Hi," he said in English.

You blinked. "Hi?"

"How are yo—"

Oikawa then snatched the phone away from Iwaizumi. You could tell because there was a slap, the sound of struggle, grunts, and rough handling on the other side of the line. Iwaizumi let out vulgar shouts such as 'Shitty-kawa' and 'Assy-kawa' while Oikawa was whining even louder.

"I did not give you my phone just so you could gossip about me in English," Oikawa said to Iwaizumi after obtaining his phone back through miraculous means. 

You rolled your eyes and folded the shirt. You pushed it back into the plastic bag.

The crowd around you started to get busier.

Even with Oikawa's voice right next to your ear, you could hardly pick up on any word he said. You were shouldered around in the excited crowd, and people were rushing to vendors and food stalls in a hectic manner. Someone shoved you, and you nearly stumbled over your own footing.

You figured that there had been an intense match between two contenders for first place. People seemed to flood through the entrances, excitedly talking about a certain match. You caught the words of 'setter' and 'ace' amongst them.

After your shopping, you had to help the Shiratorizawa cheer squad set up for their next game. You promised them that, at least, because they were letting you stay at their inn for free.

In order to catch up with the wind of the crowd, you reluctantly hung up on Oikawa—who'd understand your situation. You pocketed your phone and clutched your bags closer to your back as you wove in and out of the crowd.

"Man, if only Kuroo was here!" a loud voice exclaimed from next to you.

You flinched from the volume. 

Right next to you was a tall man whose height made you double take. His brows were curved in strange, gray parabolas, and a smug, triumphant smile coated his lips. What was even stranger about his man was his dark-rooted gray-tipped hair—which was combed upward likely through hair gel.

He looked like an eager child who had played around too much in the mud. His wide brown eyes seemed to take in the entire arena greedily, and you thought of Kageyama's innocent doe eyes when seeing the loud man. It was then that the strange man's eyes fell on you.

"Hey, hey, hey!" he exclaimed. "Are you a volleyball player, too?"

You shook your head, scared for your own life.

This man was an extrovert in the flesh—someone who made friends with whoever whenever. Oikawa was the closest person to an extrovert that you knew, but Oikawa used his people skills elsewhere.

"Oh, so a spectator, then!" the man shouted. "Be sure to watch Fukurodani's match in an hour or two! That's my team!"

"Sure," you lied weakly. You were already on your way to watch the Shiratorizawa match, and you doubted the loud man would find out that you weren't in the stands for them. "I—"

Another voice came from behind him. "Bokuto-san, don't go scaring people we don't know."

This voice was deeper and calmer. Bokuto, the loud man, turned halfway to look at the new voice. He revealed a shorter and slimmer young man whose messy black hair was clipped short. The boy fiddled with his fine, piano-like fingers. You figured that he was a middle blocker.

He was pretty, unlike Bokuto. It seemed he had plenty of traditionally feminine features and high cheekbones. His brows were slanted, and his jawline was sharp. He looked somewhat tired—borderline dissatisfied, even.

"Sorry, Akaashi!" Bokuto apologized rather loudly. You assumed that 'Akaashi' was the calmer boy's name, but Bokuto had butchered the name while saying it. It was barely comprehensible in both Japanese and English. It sounded more like a keyboard smash than an actual name.

You looked at the boy. "Is that really your na—"

"It's Akaashi," the boy corrected before you finished your sentence. "Sorry for Bokuto-san. He can get excited sometimes."

Bokuto puffed up his chest. "Akaashi's my setter."

"I'm Fukurodani Academy's setter," Akaashi corrected quietly.

You blinked. "I would have thought that you were a blocker. My friend is a middle blocker, too, and he takes care of his fingers."

"You noticed my habit?" Akaashi questioned, his hands immediately falling to his sides upon mentioning his idiosyncrasy. "But I'm actually a setter. You have—you have a sharp intuition."

"Thank you," you said, unsure if it was a compliment or not. "I hate to drag the conversation further, as you two must have a game coming up, but If I'm not mistaken, you said something about a Kuroo?"

Bokuto smiled. "That's my friend! He goes to Nekoma High School! His school failed during the qualifiers, so he couldn't come."

"Is his first name Tetsurou?"

"Yeah!" Bokuto said, finger-gunning you. "Oh, are you friends with Kuroo, too? That dumbass! He's got girls all over the world pining for him!"

You forced a smile and decided to hold back the fact that it was Kuroo who asked you for your number first. "What a crazy coincidence that you're friends with Kuroo, too. Say that [Y/N] Suzuki says hi."

Akaashi nearly gaped. "You're [Y/N] Suzuki?"

"Well, yeah," you said. You crossed your arms solemnly. "I do go by an alias, though. I've been keeping quiet all this time, but I'm actually Sailor Mo—"

Bokuto made an evil grin. "We should take a selfie and send it to Mr. Bedhead!"

The loud man lifted his phone up and angled it so you were squished in between him and Akaashi. You weakly held up two peace signs and gave your widest smile. Akaashi looked reluctant to be in the photo, as he was standing dangerously still with an empty expression on his face, whereas Bokuto was all-too-happy.

Bokuto took multiple pictures, much to your surprise. With each photo he took, the  more your health points seemed to deplete. You cast a side-eye to Akaashi, who looked used to Bokuto's antics.

After he was satisfied with the obscene amount of photos he had taken, Bokuto immediately sent all of them to Kuroo's familiar number. He looked diabolical while he did so, his brows furrowing inward with a grin that only seemed to grow by the second. He laughed to himself as you and Akaashi watched on.

You then remembered something very important.

"Oh," you said, glancing at the metaphorical watch on your wrist. You promised that you'd help the Shiratorizawa cheer squad set up, and you didn't need to check a watch to know that you were late. "I have to catch the Shiratorizawa game!"

"You're not wearing a watch," Akaashi pointed out, confused.

"It was really nice meeting you two," you said and bowed slightly. "Later!"

You bolted through the crowd.

Coach Washijo was going to skin you. You already hated old people, and you wouldn't be surprised if he felt the same way about young people. He already had one too many intimidating talks with you about Shiratorizawa's progress as a team after you expressed your apparent dislike for his ideologies.

"'Later,' she says," Akaashi said to Bokuto, still standing there. "So casual."

Bokuto, who picked up a blue t-shirt, held it up against his body, measuring it. He was already distracted with something else. "I think she's a very nice girl. Very fun. Is she your type?"

"No," Akaashi said. "Not at all."

"I heard a rumor," Oikawa said, sauntering down the hallways of the Junior High Athletics Meet building. He, the newly elected captain of the Seijoh team, took it upon himself to survey the incoming first-years and recruit a few if they caught his eye. 

Iwaizumi, the vice-captain, said, "rumors are normal, Shitty-kawa. I don't know why you look so excited."

You, unassociated with Aoba Johsai, tagged along anyway. Your best friends had asked you to come with them, and who were you to say no—especially after they bribed you with food after? Aoba Johsai kids were wealthy, private school kids, so you might as well take advantage of the opportunity.

"There's this boy on the Kitagawa First team," Oikawa continued, ignoring Iwaizumi. "He's dubbed 'the King of the Court.' It's a super prestigious nickname, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Iwaizumi said. "You never had a nickname. I guess you're not cool enough."

Oikawa protested, "I had plenty of cool nicknames back in middle school! Didn't I, [Y/N]-chan?"

"No," you said, mid-chew.

You were holding a handheld snack that you had bought minutes ago. It was why Oikawa and Iwaizumi were a few minutes late to the start of the tournament. You were also wearing Iwaizumi's jacket over your shoulders, and since Iwaizumi's build was so muscled, the Aoba Johsai jacket made you look like a sad heap of laundry.

"You look like a strangely content pet," Oikawa offhandedly commented. "I feel the need to pet your head."

"I'll bite your hand off," you said.

Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and you made it to the open gym. You were on the second floor with them, surveying from above. There were kids scattered around each of the courts. The volleyball teams were practicing and drilling for their respective upcoming games.

You noticed the familiar dark blue and white uniforms of the Kitagawa First team. You saw the coach instructing them, and your mood dampened. You never liked the coach, if you were honest. Adam's lanky, annoying figure stood out to you, and his hands were on his hips, reluctantly listening to the Kitagawa First coach.

"Adam-chan should be playing on the court as a third-year!" Oikawa exclaimed. "I bet he's really excited to see you."

You swallowed your food and scoffed. "Oh, please, the last time we saw each other, he kicked me out of his room and snarled at me like a feral dog."

"That sounds like an exaggeration," Iwaizumi said. "I think Adam has enough dignity not to snarl."

"You don't know him like I do," you said.

Oikawa leaned over the railing, and you thought about pushing him off. Then you realized that it'd only break an arm or two if you pushed at that height. His light-brown hair flopped over his brow as he eagerly gazed at the Kitagawa First team.

"There he is, Iwa-chan and [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa said, whistling. "The King of the Court—Kageyama Tobio-chan."

Iwaizumi's arms were crossed as he peered at Kageyama. He made no motion to move next to Oikawa and opted to stick behind him with you instead. "Is it just my imagination, or has he gotten taller?"

"Neither. You're just short," you said, and Iwaizumi harshly ruffled your head.

Oikawa's eyes glimmered with interest. His forearms were lazily placed on the railing, and he propped up one arm so he could rest his cheek on his palm. You studied the back of his jacket that read Aoba Johsai VBC. It was the same design of the jacket that you wore (and rightfully belonged to Iwaizumi Hajime).

The game started, and each respective team fell into their individual courts.

Eventually you finished your meal and threw away the remains. You watched alongside Iwaizumi and Oikawa. The game was going very well for Kitagawa First, you noticed right away. The team they were playing against seemed very inexperienced, but its captain was very enthusiastic.

A group of high schoolers walked in. Your eyes immediately flew to them. 

Black jackets. Familiar faces. Karasuno High School. You looked at Sugawara who was surveying the court happily next to Daichi. He looked like a puppy next to Daichi and Tanaka—the new first-year with a shit-ton of energy (so you heard from Sugawara).

It was impossible to miss Sugawara in a crowd. He was the only one with shocking gray hair and a gentle smile. If he didn't have his hair, you might have skimmed over him. Karasuno High School made their way to the seats, intending to survey the incoming first-years as well.

You quickly realized that the more you looked at Sugawara, the more normal you felt.

There were no more nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching feelings. You looked at him, and you saw yourself. You didn't feel what you had felt during your first year of high school. You no longer felt like you were going to die upon seeing him.

It was a gradual process—falling out of love.

Sugawara, by far, was one of your longest crushes in a while. You wouldn't say you had been deeply in love with him, but you were somewhat in love with him for a while.

If this happened a few months ago, you might have been desperate to re-fall in love with Sugawara. You had been so desperate to feel passionate about something. You wanted to feel the same way Wakatoshi did about volleyball. But you were growing, and you were growing far bigger than your original self.

Change, ultimately, was a good thing.

It wasn't what anyone coveted unless they were stuck in between a rock and a hard place.

You held so much hatred for the world, but with Sugawara, you learned that this anger was just a denomination of passion. With this passion came love. You wanted to love the world so much—and you wanted to change for the world and you wanted to change the world.

You loved a lot of things, and Diba was right—as she always was. You might not have loved Sugawara anymore as a romantic person of interest, but rather you loved him just as a person now. 

Maybe one day your feelings would kick start back up again. You wouldn't be surprised if they did. But right now, you were focusing on yourself. You were focusing on what you needed to do, what choices you needed to make, and what paths you were going to pave.

You would have thought that falling out of love was a big, grand event that would have you shaking and crying, but it was so, so simple. It was so uncomfortable how simple it was. It made you think about the unrecorded history of time and how people fell out of love all the time and how it was never written down.

People always talked about falling in love but never falling out of love. 

Having a crush on Sugawara—a person whom you desired to be—was only the first step to your growth. It spurred you to move further and further, just to test your limits. You had fought to find what passion really was, and you had fought to see why you had lacked it. You wanted to see a big arrow in the direction you wanted to go, and you realized that you had to paint the arrow yourself instead of waiting for it.

Sugawara made you feel like that if you could love him, then surely you could love yourself, too.

You felt as if you saw a little bit of yourself in Sugawara, which was strange and odd, but it felt like falling in love with yourself. It might have been narcissistic, but it really, really helped you out.

For now, you had bigger problems in front of you. 

You lived to pursue your individuality, or in more correct terms, you were going to take back your individuality from your mother.

"That nickname of Tobio-chan's," Oikawa said, drawing you out from your internal monologue, "I don't think it's a compliment. Look at the way he plays on the court."

"But it's such a fun title," you said.

Iwaizumi said, "I know this is just a rumor, but I heard that it wasn't a nickname given to Kageyama by other teams. Instead, it was his own teammates that named him this."

You turned to look at Kageyama. That innocent doe-eyed boy was gone. Where you had seen endless curiosity and excitement came slanted eyes and insecurity. You could see his stiff shoulders as he yelled at his own teammates to take the game seriously, and you could see the team growing more irked by the second.

A part of you felt lost and responsible. As a third-year, it was your responsibility to guide him on the right tracks. Even if you hadn't been associated with the VBC at all, you were still there with him. He knew Adam, and Adam was your brother.

"Coach Irihata offered him a pretty good place in our volleyball club," Oikawa said matter-of-factly. "Even if his attitude is shitty, he still has got the talent. He just needs to work on his team-player skills."

Iwaizumi snorted. "How're you going to beat him if he goes to Seijoh, Stupid-kawa?"

Oikawa's brow twitched. "I'll figure something out, Iwa-chan!"

As the game continued, you watched as the poor opponent of Kitagawa First only scored points through Kitagawa First's mistakes. You bit your lip in anticipation. You had always rooted for the underdogs, but it was plainly obvious that this team was going to lose.

"Then we'll have a lot of good players this year," Oikawa said. "We have Kindaichi, Kunimi, and Adam—"

"Very funny," you said.

Oikawa blinked. "What?"

You looked at him. "You said Adam, didn't you?"

"I did." Oikawa looked confused. "He's going to Seijoh, isn't he?"

"He isn't," you said. "He's going to Karasuno, where I am, obviously."

"That's strange," Oikawa said. "He and I have been texting recently, and he told me that he was going to Aoba Johsai. I even told him I'd get him a girlfriend because he's such a looker."

You gaped at Oikawa. You crossed your arms. "I'm sure you texting my brother violates some unspoken friendship-code. I'm his sister. I thought for sure that Adam was going to Karasuno. It makes sense."

Iwaizumi popped into the conversation. "What Oikawa is saying is true. I called your household the other day because I was trying to reach you. Your mom picked up, as you were in your room. We had a small conversation, and Adam is going to Seijoh."

"I thought it was strange that you went to Karasuno, and Adam was going to Seijoh," Oikawa said. "I wanted to ask your mother, but I wouldn't want to bother Ms. Suzuki. She's a very busy woman."

"We thought you knew," Iwaizumi said.

A headache was brewing beneath your right brow. Your mouth went dry. Oikawa was right—it was strange. It was even stranger that you had no idea about this information yourself. 

You couldn't control your own movements. You could only hear yourself say in disbelief, "Adam is going to Seijoh?"

Chapter Text

"Mom!" you shouted, skidding down the hallway and past the kitchen.

"No shouting inside of the house," Mary Suzuki said from the breakfast table. She took a familiar sip of her green tea, and it made you shiver in disgust. "I've told you multiple times before—"

You scrambled back and forced yourself through the entry to the kitchen. You exclaimed incredulously, "Adam is going to Seijoh?"

Your mother made a face and put her tea down. She said, "so you found out."

"Of course I found out," you said, marching to the breakfast table. You sat in the chair across from your mother and crossed your arms. "And do you know how I found out? Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime—not even from my own mother! Not even from my own brother!"

Unfazed, your mother said, "I knew that you'd react like this. That is why I wanted to tell you later."

"It makes sense that I would! If I didn't react like this, there would have to be something wrong with me. I had to make new friends in a new environment," you protested, doing your best not to throw a fit at the breakfast table. "Why does Adam get to stay with his friends and feed into the high school where all his friends are going to?"

Mary Suzuki was quiet. She always had been.

Anger boiled in your chest. It seemed that Adam was always living the better life. He never had to play an instrument and despise it, and he always had a choice in his interests. You and he were alone in the experiences of the world, but for once, you wished that Adam would know what it was like to be you.

"Yes, I know it's expensive to fund a child going to America three times a year," you said, "but with these conditions, I'd assume that Adam would be attending Karasuno as well."

"Things change, [Y/N]," your mother said simply as if it were the answer to all your problems. "Your father has offered to pay the expenses of your trips to America. We are not wealthy, but we are not poor, either. You going to Karasuno saves money for college."

"And Adam not going to Karasuno also saves money?" you questioned. "Wouldn't it be beneficial if Adam also went to Karasuno? You save way more. Or better yet, since you have all the money, why don't I transfer to Seijoh?"

"You will be in your third year," your mother said. "It would be silly to pull you out of Karasuno and transfer you. You're already so deep into the Karasuno curriculum."

"I—" You paused. "I know. I know, and I understand. But I'm hurt. I'm hurt by the fact that this opportunity did not come sooner."

Your mother nodded. "One of your father's productions ended up doing very well, so he was able to scrape enough money to fly you over from now on. He's also chipping in on your college funds and Adam's, too."

You felt unnecessarily angry. You knew that your mother let Adam go to Seijoh because of the financial situation, but you felt as if it were unfair. Unfair to you. The world had given nothing to you but scraps and bolts, yet the world gave everything to Adam and praised him like a god.

It was futile to even protest, as each statement your mother had given you was reasonable.

"And your brother expressed his desire to go to Seijoh as well," your mother said. "I wanted to do what was best for him. He's grown to be a little vulgar and lacking in manners. I think private school would suit him well, in all honesty."

"So I haven't 'expressed my desire' enough to go to Seijoh?" you pointed out. "I wanted to go to school with Oikawa and—and Iwaizumi. I wanted so much, so why couldn't you give me this one thing?"

"I give you everything," your mother said snippily. "I have given you everything, and I will continue to give you everything."

Your mouth ran dry. "I'm not ungrateful. I just—I felt like I wanted something for the first time in my life, but the moment you said it was better for me to go elsewhere, I rolled over like a dog and agreed. I never put up that much of a fight ever, but if Adam—my younger brother—speaks up, he gets what he wants?"

"[Y/N], you do not understand Adam at all," your mother said. "You and he have lived very different lives. You cannot compare him to you. He goes out and plays volleyball while you sit inside and play video games."

"That's completely different!" You threw your hands up in the air. "I sit inside and play piano—the very instrument that you told me to play. Adam and I are brother and sister, and we should be treated the same way."

"I cannot treat you the same way," your mother admitted. "It is too late. The least I can do is allow Adam to go to Seijoh—especially when he asked for it. Rather, let's talk about your future. Have you chosen a college yet? We could take a small trip to Tokyo to look at a few colleges."

Enough about your future. You wanted to talk about now. You wanted to talk about how you were almost seventeen—almost a third-year—and you couldn't make any demands of your mother. You felt as if you were just another instrument for your mother to play, and Adam was his own individual person.

She was treating you like a helpless middle schooler who didn't know any better, and you let her. You let her do whatever she wanted because she was your mother. You played the piano for her. You lived and breathed for her. You holed yourself up in your room because of her.

Mary Suzuki might have given you everything, but you did everything for her. Your relationship with your mother ran further than Adam going to Seijoh. Your discomfort might have stemmed ever since you were a small child, and you didn't know how to break away from it and gain your own personality.

Your mother would never give you the liberation that she had given Adam, and you hated it.

"I feel like it'd be better to have an English teacher teach you," you said. "They know more about the schematics of the English language than I do. I'm just a speaker."

You and Iwaizumi were seated at his study table in his room. His room had always been a mess. Various sports equipment sat in the corner, and posters of various training regimes and sports stars hung haphazardly on the walls. Iwaizumi was the pure definition of athletic, and if he were in a stereotypical American high school movie, he'd be a dumb jock.

"Isn't that the same thing?" Iwaizumi asked. "You're fluent."

"Other than school, I've had no formal training in English other than my one year in American kindergarten," you admitted. "I say things in English because they sound right to me. I studied books on them reluctantly so I know the basic sentence structure, too."

Iwaizumi shifted in his seat. "I'd rather have you teach me than a teacher. I think it's better to have a one-on-one tutor, especially if it is someone I know."

You cooed and put a hand over your heart. "I always knew you had a soft spot for me."

Iwaizumi reached over the table to ruffle your head, and you tiredly let him roughly handle your head. You lost more and more sense each time he shook your head endearingly, and you were beginning to think it was for the better.

After he let you go, you took his worksheet to see what he had finished.

"It's bad," Iwaizumi protested.

Your eyes skimmed his paper, reading his shitty handwriting. Overall, other than a few spelling mistakes, Iwaizumi moreover had grasped the concept of what you were trying to teach him. 

"If you think this is bad, you should see what our government is up to," you said. You set the paper down. "Good job."

Maybe you should go to America. Iwaizumi would be there, if he managed to get into a college there. You already took your tests and were awaiting your early admission response. Iwaizumi was a staple in your life—if everything managed to change, you'd still have him, and he'd still have you.

You thought about what you and he might experience there. Of course, surfing on California beaches would only be a part of it. There were so many things that you and he could do there. You could see yourself next to Iwaizumi as easily as you could see yourself next to Oikawa.

"There's this boy at my school," Iwaizumi said, making conversation as you flipped through his Seijoh English workbook. "Oikawa calls him Mad Dog."

"Mad Dog's a cute name," you said absentmindedly. You marked a place where Iwaizumi had made a simple mistake. "I should give you a name, too. How does [Y/N]'s little doggy sound?"

Iwaizumi threw his pencil at you, which you narrowly dodged without looking up from the workbook. The pencil made its way to the wall of Iwaizumi's room and fell to the sheets of his unmade bed. If the pencil had hit you, you were sure that you might've died. Iwaizumi's strength was unmatched.

"He would challenge me to all sorts of athletic games," Iwaizumi continued as if he hadn't tried to kill you in cold blood. "Baseball, track, soccer—you name it."

You flicked your eyes up momentarily. "Did you win?"

"Of course," Iwaizumi retorted. "Who do you take me for?"

"Good," you said and continued to shift through the English workbook. "Only winners under this roof. I'd kick you out if you lost."

"This is my house."

"I said what I said."

Languages were a cruel barrier yet an easily breakable one. Languages were worth knowing even if the language ran limited. There was value in broken English and in weak, pathetic sentences. With languages, one could build bridges even upon the most broken of pieces. It was to take down a wall and reconstruct it.

Even English itself was a broken language. It was built upon languages—both ancient and modern. It was Frankenstein's monster of words, but also one of the most important international languages, too.

As you grew up, you found yourself seeing English advertisements occasionally in Japan. You found small joy—a little love—by simply translating it impromptu. It amused you to read the snippets of the captions, even if it was for a short while. You hoped that Iwaizumi would do the same when he made his way to school.

You and Iwaizumi crowded around his small study table as you listened to him talk to you in English. The languid, loud pronunciations gave you a taste of your home, but the soft rolls and the clipped accent pulled you back to Japan. Iwaizumi was perfect.

Then there were the whispers of two languages clashing.

Iwaizumi would say something to you—anything—and you'd respond accordingly. Sometimes, out of habit, you'd talk too fast, and you'd apologize. Sometimes Iwaizumi would struggle to build a sentence together, and you'd be patient with him. Sometimes he'd say a sentence, and you'd correct him gently.

Speaking a new language to a friend was so tentative and shaky, but you loved the thrill of it. You felt as if he and you were dancing to the same tune, but the rhythm would be shaky and off; however, it was still a dance.

As you and he were reading an English play—an abridged version of some sappy love story that Iwaizumi had never heard of—he found the language coming smoother and smoother to him.

It was practice, you explained. You would play the part of the hunky handsome boyfriend, and Iwaizumi would play the part of the girlfriend. He asked why, and you said that the girl had easier and less lines and words.

The shitty copy was delicate in his roughened hands. If he wanted to, he could take a page and rip it with ease. The pages fluttered underneath his fingertips, and he wondered if this was what you felt when you played the piano. He noticed, from a very young age, that you were never keen on recitals.

But recently, you were growing more fond of the recitals. He wondered what changed. He loved it when you changed for the better to become the best version of yourself.

In the fragile copy, Iwaizumi's eyes caught sight of a familiar, infamous three-worded phrase that made him break out in cold sweat. The black ink seemed to mock him. That stupid Times New Roman font size 12. His hands were clammy, as his eyes flitted up to you who was casually taking in the rest of the play.

"'I love you,'" he quoted.

"Aren't you saying that way too early?" you asked. 

Iwaizumi's head shot up. That wasn't part of the script.

You flipped your copy of the play over to him and stuck your pointer finger two lines above the cursed three words. "You're a line ahead, buddy. You say that after I say my line. You're getting ahead of yourself."

Iwaizumi pretended to get angry, but he was never angry at you. "This is my first time, so shut up! You should at least be happy that I said something instead of making up English words like I did last time."

"Making up English words is hitting rock bottom, Iwa!" You pretended to grab at his hair. You dropped your hands and made a face. "And everyone knows 'I love you.' You just wanted the easy way out."

Iwaizumi found out that he really liked the English language, as confusing as it was. He could proclaim his love straight to the point without beating around the bush. He didn't have to tease you or pretend to be mad at you in order to keep the conversation flowing.

He just wanted to hold your hand.

Iwaizumi wanted more time with you, and he was willing to make more time just to be with you. Nothing else could create more time than fabricated lies and cold truths and words and sentences and paragraphs and plays and stories. He was excited to see how your story would play out and where this was all going.

"Sometimes the easy way out is the best way out," Iwaizumi said weakly. "Now, where were we?"

As the year dragged on, your calls with Kuroo became more frequent.

Your mother knew Kuroo was the boy on the other line who asked you to play for him. She noted that you were more willing to play for him than you were for her, but she wasn't angry. She seemed content to hear you from afar.

You wondered why Kuroo liked to hear you play. For a rambunctious guy, he sure went quiet when he heard the first note of your grand piano. You and he seemed to relish in the quiet music that you played. Once, you had asked him if the connection was ever spotty when you played, to which he replied with that he lived in the city and the connection was never spotty.

"Is that him again?" your mother asked as you made your way to the piano room in the middle of the night. "That boy who you always talk to on the phone?"

"Yes," you said.

"Hi, Ms. Suzuki," Kuroo said from your phone.

When you settled into the piano, you asked Kuroo what he wanted you to play. He gave you a song that you knew, luckily. All you had to do was sift through your piano books to find the corresponding piece. Your phone's volume was set to the highest setting, and you could hear Kuroo's soft purr-like breathing and the scratch of his pencil against his Chemistry homework.

"You have no idea how lucky you are," you said, finding the piece that Kuroo wanted you to play. "All the songs that you request me to play are songs that I already know."

Kuroo chuckled. "Lucky, you say."

"If I had to learn a new piece for you every time you asked me to play at midnight," you said, shaking your head, "I might've taken a train to Tokyo and strangle you right then and there."

"I'd be into that," Kuroo said casually.

As you played the piano for Kuroo, you felt strangely at peace. You never wanted to look back at the past again. You were growing away from that. You had been a little girl who hated the piano and everything it stood for. You played the piano with such hatred, and you despised that music.

You created such bad music when you were a child. To clear things up, there wasn't anything "bad" about your playing, but it was that you were so passionless. You struggled to find what you liked. You played with anger and annoyance because you weren't as great as Semi Eita or the other children there. You felt as if you'd never go past second place.

If there was anyone out there who even liked your music when you were a reluctant pianist, you'd be surprised. 

"Suzuki," Kuroo said once you finished your piece. "You know Bokuto and Akaashi?"

You sat back from the piano, trying to recall where you heard those names. They sounded awfully familiar, but many things were familiar to you. Those names were as familiar to you as the number five or the color gray. "Who?"

"Last year, you went to Nationals," Kuroo explained. "You saw them there briefly and even took a few selfies. I'd been meaning to bring it up with you, but I keep forgetting. Your music has its ways."

"Are you saying that my music gives you memory loss?" you dryly retorted. You thought back to them. You remembered that one of them had the strangest hair and brows and the other one was pretty with traditionally feminine features.

Volleyball players, of course. There wasn't a single person who wasn't a volleyball player. You really had to thank the mundaneness of Yoshida later though he might get somewhat offended. Yoshida had a special place in your heart specifically because he was a soccer player.

"I'm friends with them," Kuroo said. "I just think it's a funny coincidence that you met them, at least."

"You're a dork," you said.

"Do you believe in coincidences?" Kuroo asked. He sounded eager. Kuroo Tetsurou didn't seem like the type to believe in coincidences. That boy liked to connect and reach out. He probably thought accidents were meant to be. "You should give me your address."

You went quiet. 

He went quiet.

"You're really unpredictable," you said. "You're a Chemistry nerd and you ask for people's addresses unprompted. Pick a struggle, and make it make sense."

Kuroo scoffed. "I'm not going to show up at your door tomorrow morning if that's what you're expecting. I've got a lot more dignity than you expect."

"Right, and I'm not failing Literature class."

"You're failing Literature?"

"Shut up," you said, flushing hotly. You might have been failing Literature class and a shit-show on wheels, but you would not, under any circumstances, let Kuroo Tetsurou make fun of you for that. He was an expert at provoking, and you refused to let him get the better of you.

Kuroo laughed. "So?"

"So what?"

"Address?"

You sighed. What was the harm in giving a city boy your address? It wasn't like he was a complete online stranger. You and he had been chatting for around two years, and your mother even complained about the phone bill once. You had seen him in person a while back, too—at the Tokyo High School Gala. 

Kuroo Tetsurou, to your memory, was a handsome boy. He seldom sent any photos of himself. He often sent photos of cute dogs and cats that he saw. He even showed you his childhood friend at some point. You thought about sending your own childhood friend as well, but since Kuroo was well-versed in the volleyball world and would know the famous Ushijima Wakatoshi, you decided against it.

"Fine," you said reluctantly. "But send yours back. Equal trade."

"You strike a hard bargain, but sure," Kuroo said. 

You often thought about why Kuroo Tetsurou asked you for your number outright. He seemed like the type to be a bit of a player, but as time went on, you found out he was everything but. He was a genuine nerd. You thought that he might have thought you were cute, but the only other people who asked for your number were fellow students trying to finish a group project.

He was an outlier. 

"One of these days, you ought to teach me piano," Kuroo said, his tone jovial. "Then you'll be the one calling me to hear my piano-playing. I'm no Ms. Prestigious, but I'm a quick learner."

You smiled. "We'll see, Mr. Prestigious."

"Adam," you said, passing him in the hallway of your house. "So Seijoh."

Adam looked up from his PSP, disinterested. He was a little bit taller than you, which irked you some. His black locks were clipped short, and his mouth was set in an annoyed frown. His eyes seemingly glared at you, and you wondered why he always looked so unnecessarily aggressive around you.

It kind of made you want to punch him.

"And what about it?" His voice was monotonous.

"I heard you asked for it," you said. Your emotions threatened to bubble up in your throat, but you forced them down in exchange for a question. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?" Adam sneered. Vicious. "Are you jealous?"

"Yeah," you said incredulously. Your voice was close to breaking. "I wanted to go to Seijoh."

Adam turned off his PSP—a sign that things were getting serious. Adam almost never turned off his game. He tilted his head, looking at you with such disbelief that it made you feel like the offender. 

"What's it like being the favorite child?" he asked.

You went quiet. "The favorite child? You're the favorite child here. You get to choose where you want to go, Adam, for Christ's sake. You asked for it, too, and Mom let you go. That's what—that's what astounds me, really."

"Yeah," he said. "I did. She always lets me do what I want."

You looked at him. He just proved your point. You didn't know what he wanted you to say. "I never get to do what I want. Mom basically controls my life, and you think that I'm the favorite child?"

"She pays attention to you, that's what it is," Adam said. "We always go to your piano recitals, and we go to your friends' volleyball games. Mom knows all the names of your friends, and she knows what you do all the time."

"Gee," you said sarcastically, "sounds like love to me."

Adam furrowed his brows. "And what about me? What things has Mom done for me?"

You answered that easily. "She lets you play volleyball. You took an interest in it after Oikawa became a setter. She does so much for you by letting you have your freedom to do whatever you want. You just say, 'I'm going out,' and she doesn't even question it. You asked for a PSP once, and she bought it for you on the day of."

"She doesn't even know who I hang out with after school, and she seldom asks how my day goes." Adam scoffed. "All she does is tell me to watch my tongue. I don't get any punishments, but I don't get any rewards, either. I feel like I'm a house cat instead of a son. You're her only child, it seems."

"No," you said weakly. "She cares about you."

"Maybe, but not as much as she does you," Adam said. "You're always in the spotlight, Nee-chan. You're the pride of the Suzuki family. You're the perfect pianist—as reluctant as you are. The first-born. The daughter who our Mom brags about all the time to her distant family."

Your shoulders slackened. "I'm a puppet. You claim this is love and care, but is love and care supposed to be this restricting? I feel like I'm just an extension of my mother—a person who my mother wanted to be growing up as a child—"

"There you go again," Adam said, throwing his hands up in the air. You and he were really about to have a full-blown argument in the hallway. "'My mother' this, 'my mother' that. Whenever you get angry, you start to call her your mother instead of our mother."

"It's just a slip of the tongue," you protested.

"No," he corrected. "It's habit."

You swallowed thickly. You had never thought about Adam. It made you feel self-centered and absorbed. Guilt welled in a pit at the bottom of your stomach, swirling and sulking. Adam, the overlooked child. Adam, the one tucked away. Adam, your only brother.

"She refers to you as her child alone, and you refer to her as your mother alone—it's as if I do not exist. In her eyes and yours, there is only each other." Adam looked at you. "So where does that leave me?"

"Adam, you're family," you said. "Adam, she loves you. She lets you have everything in the world. She doesn't restrict you and force you to play instruments that you do not want—"

"What if I want her to restrict me?" Adam questioned. "What if I want her to force me to play instruments and force opportunities down my throat? What if I want her to do that because all I've ever wanted was her love and attention that she fed to you? To me, what she shows to you is love."

You paused. 

"Our mother thinks giving me a PSP is enough to suffice for attention," Adam said. "Our mother may love me, but she doesn't love me in the way that she loves you. I've always been jealous of you, Nee-chan. You're loved."

You felt compelled to apologize to Adam. You never noticed, and you were sorry. You were guilty of pushing him away and thinking nothing more of him than a person who lived under the same roof as you. There were forty million words you wanted to say to Adam, but none of them would do. 

You might have hated your brother as he was annoying at times, but you should have been more conscious. Adam just looked so sad, and no one was allowed to make him sad but you. 

"Nee-chan—no, [Y/N]—you're loved by so many people," Adam said enviously. "Every time I think I'm catching up to you, you're moving faster and faster away. At first I thought Mom wanted me to live up to you, but then I realized that she might not expect me to live up to you at all. You're too much for me."

"Adam," you said. "I'm sorry."

Adam and you were raised under the same roof but with different rules. Somehow, you and he had different upbringings. Adam looked at you with torn eyes—with jealousy, admiration, and fear. You looked at him with the same jealousy, but you cared for him, too. He was still the dumb little brother who played with remotes like a PSP.

It made you think that maybe you were meant to go to Karasuno just as he was meant to go to Seijoh. It made you wonder if this was what Oikawa felt when he looked at Kageyama. It provoked every uncomfortable thought in you that you had tried to hide before. 

Adam was not the main character. He didn't have the resolve to reach for the role, either.

"I—" Adam's voice seemed to leave him. He looked down. Although he didn't say it, you knew that he was sorry. "I know how much you wanted to go to Seijoh, too. I just really, really wish I was you."

"It's okay," you said. "You don't need to be sad for wanting our mom's attention."

Adam never went to America. It was just you. He still learned the language anyway. You had always wondered why. He used your old English books, and you never questioned it. Maybe—just maybe—he was striving for you or to be you. The lines blurred. You didn't know which was which, and you doubted he knew as well.

"Mom doesn't care about which school I go to, and I've talked like this to her before. I've garnered her pity, but I don't think I've garnered her love." Adam looked away. "I don't know how you do it, and I don't know if I'll be able to be like you at all."

"Why not go to Dad, then?"

"I never visited Dad, too, because—well—it feels like he is more your dad than mine. I don't think I'll be able to forge the same connection that you have with him."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to tell you at first because I knew you wouldn't understand," Adam said. "You've never felt the way that I've felt, and I've never felt the way that you've felt."

Suddenly, you felt as if you were facing Oikawa once more.

You didn't have the experience he had. You didn't know what it was like to constantly be second place and be discontent with it. Adam was the same. He was constantly put to the side because of you. You thought that you were the one being disregarded.

Perhaps you were being disregarded but in a different way. Your mother had little regard for your feelings. She was desperate to draw out the talent that you never had.

You didn't want Adam to feel the same way. Your stupid, annoying little brother didn't deserve any of this. He felt unloved, out of all things, and you missed it. You missed Kageyama's slow spiral away from his innocent doe-eyed self as well. His new nickname 'the King of the Court' probably haunted Kageyama wherever he went. 

Maybe you needed to say I love you more often.

"Want me to slice you some apples?" you asked.

Chapter Text

A text from Kuroo.

You look like a Radium Carbon Cobalt Oxygen Nitrogen.

For the longest time, you stared at the text with disbelief. What the fuck was this nerd trying to say next? You set your phone on the table, sitting back in your chair. Your mind was baffled.

Sighing, you pulled out your Chemistry book from the sad heap of cloth you called your school bag. It was a rather thick book that likely promised murder if it ever connected with someone's head.

You flipped to the periodic table of elements and quickly sought out each element he was trying to spell.

"Raccoon," you said after finding out. "A raccoon."

Just as you were about to text Kuroo to tell him to shut up, Kuroo's caller ID flashed on your phone screen, and you had half a mind to decline out of spite. Every girl loved it when a boy called them a raccoon. 

You answered the phone. 

"Hey, Suzuki," he sang. "Play music for me."

"Do you listen to any other music other than classical?" you asked lazily. "You're such a dork, dude."

Kuroo had the audacity to sound offended over the phone. "I live for and breathe classical music, Suzuki. It's my entire life. I have a poster of Beethoven on my wall, and I have a bust of Mozart on my desk. I ask the school to play Chopin over the speakers every day at lunch, and my outfits are all classical music sheets taped together—"

Every sentence that came out of his mouth grew wilder and wilder, so you cut him off. "Nice try being funny, Kuroo."

"Did it work?"

You wiped the rising smile off your face quickly. "No."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"No, it didn't," you protested. "You're not funny at all. Your puns suck." You pursed your lips and sighed. "All right. It might have worked a little bit, but your puns still suck."

Kuroo laughed triumphantly. If you were with him face-to-face, you knew that his laugh would sound rich and throaty. However, you and he were separated by kilometers of distance. His laugh right now sounded washed-down and staticky, but it was familiar to you, and you'd recognize his laugh any day.

"Why did the two pianists have a good marriage?" Kuroo asked.

You stared at the phone on your desk. Where there had been a photo-less contact was now a photo Kuroo had taken of himself as a joke. Before he deleted it (because he was rather insecure about his bedhead, you quickly found out), you managed to save it. He didn't know, though.

"Why?"

"Because they were always in"—Kuroo paused for dramatic effect—"a-chord." You could almost see the grin on his face.

You made a face. "I regret teaching you piano theory."

"I guess you could say I'm a treble-maker."

"Die. Go to jail. Don't talk to me ever again." You crossed your arms childishly as if he could see it. You remembered that the only way to communicate to Kuroo was vocally. "Where's the block button again?"

"Very funny," Kuroo said. "Aren't you the one failing Mod. Japanese Literature?"

"I joke once, and you suddenly have to come for me like that," you grumbled.

Kuroo snickered. "I know this second-year who's super advanced in that sort of stuff. A second-year, Suzuki. Step up your game, maybe. If only you'd stop calling me so often, then maybe you'll finally have a passing grade—"

"I have a passing grade," you felt compelled to point out. You leaned back in your seat. "It's just not good enough for this program I'm applying for in college. And, Kuroo, you're always the one who calls first."

"Yeah, I'm hurt about that." You heard Kuroo softly placing his hand over his clothed chest—a wounded gesture on his part. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for uglies like you."

You were quiet.

He was quiet.

You hung up on him.

At once, your phone started vibrating on the table, and Kuroo's caller ID flashed once again across your screen. You stared at it warily before sighing in reluctance. You leaned forward and accepted his call.

"Oh, thank God." Kuroo's voice broke through almost immediately. "I was about to start kowtowing on my side of the line."

”How would I be able to see it, smart guy?” you asked.

"Don't act cute, Suzuki."

You flushed hotly. You weren't cute. You were the farthest thing from cute. You were something akin to Luke Skywalker or the wampa that attacked the said boy. Luke Skywalker wasn't cute—at least, not after that wampa attack, he wasn't. Luke Skywalker was very cute in that black suit of his in the sixth movie, though.

Kuroo's words had the ability to make you unbelievably provoked beyond recognition or flattered to the point where you felt compelled to say a few nice words back here and there.

"You know what's not cute?" you asked rhetorically. You could already see Kuroo's mouth opening to respond sarcastically. "You calling me at midnight just for me to play the piano. What happened to my sleep?"

"What about my insomnia?"

You made a face. "After you master your theory and learn how to read music, you can start practicing the piano by yourself. Then you can fall asleep at the piano. There. Insomnia solved."

"Wow," Kuroo said. "You should be a therapist."

"I'll hang up on you again," you said.

"Bet," Kuroo said.

You did.

"Zacco-chan," you cooed, peering into the glass fishbowl that Oikawa kept him in.

The fish that you and Iwaizumi had bought from the Koinobori was living healthily in the Oikawa household. He was very buoyant, bouncing and prancing in the water carefree. It was mostly Takeru who took care of the fish nowadays, as Oikawa was busy with his studies and his sport and his older siblings were off to college.

Mrs. Oikawa peeked her head from the kitchen area. She spotted you in your Karasuno uniform and gave you a small wave. You gave her a cheerful wave back.

Oikawa arguably got his good looks from his mother. His mother had smooth brown hair that was curled to the side. Her eyes mimicked that of Oikawa's—soft and gentle. She held the same straight nose and sharp jawline with the familiar fragility of Oikawa's pretty boy features.

She fully supported Oikawa's volleyball career, which only spurred Oikawa on. Not only that, but she'd always been there to bandage you up after a rough exploration with Iwaizumi, and she held your hand when the incoming calluses on your palm started to burn.

"How's your third year at Karasuno, [Y/N]-chan?" Mrs. Oikawa asked. "How's Adam?"

That was right.

You were a third-year now. As much as you wanted to deny it, you were growing up. You checked your emails every day for the early admission responses. You desperately wanted to get into this program in America that your father recommended. You made all of the requirements, but you didn't know if you had the personality for the application.

Being a third-year was exhausting. The future was ahead of you, and everyone was racing. It was student vs. student. All you wanted to do was live in the moment with your friends and not think about anything else. You would kill to be forever fifteen where your most current concern was the upcoming piano recital and what you were going to do for the math test next period.

Adam went to Seijoh, as promised.

You grew to be less mad at your brother and gave neutral answers when Oikawa and Iwaizumi asked what had happened. Karasuno wasn't so bad to attend. You had friends, and you had Yoshida and Sugawara. They could never replace Oikawa and Iwaizumi, though, but you didn't complain—as you still saw them whenever you had time.

"Pretty good," you said. "Adam's enjoying Seijoh, too."

Oikawa ran down the stairs upon hearing your voice.

His brown hair flopped with each step he took down the staircase, and his mouth was stretched wide open into a charming smile that everyone at his school seemed to love. You even saw him garnering the attention of girls from other schools.

"[Y/N]-chan!" he greeted you, and Mrs. Oikawa gave him a look that obviously meant he should lower his voice. Oikawa bowed apologetically and briefly to his mother before prancing over to you.

He was prettier now. As each day passed, Oikawa seemed to only grow prettier. It was as if there was a small garden of flowers inside of him that were being tended to by a very kind gardener. This very kind gardener might have been Oikawa Tooru's skincare routine or his lucky gene pool.

"Where's my hug?" he asked, spreading his arms out.

You gave him a hug, and you pulled back. "Why'd you call me here?"

"I just wanted to see my favorite girl," Oikawa openly teased. He ruffled your head with ease (as his height was ever-growing, so it seemed), and you noted how different it was to how Iwaizumi ruffled your head. Oikawa touched you with gentleness and care, while Iwaizumi borderline manhandled you—and in return, you would fight him like a feral dog.

Oikawa was all words and volume. He spoke with such clarity, and you hung on to every word he said. You mused over how Oikawa's voice seemed to jump and skip over syllables like a dancer and how soft his voice became when it came to you compared to the whines he would give Iwaizumi.

You made a face.

"You look so displeased," Oikawa said, letting go of you, and your arms fell to your sides naturally. "That hurt my feelings."

"Right," you said. You turned your head to look at Mrs. Oikawa. She looked at Oikawa, then at you. She smiled and shook her head. Mrs. Oikawa went back into the kitchen. Just as you were about to bid goodbye to Mrs. Oikawa, Oikawa's voice broke you out of your trance.

"I wanted to tell you something, actually," Oikawa said.

His voice was void of cheer, which was odd. Oikawa was a jokester and seldom took anything seriously other than volleyball. He had only been this serious when you and Iwaizumi pretended that it wasn't his birthday a few years ago, and he really did believe that you and Iwaizumi forgot about it. If he was this serious when talking with you right now, then it could only be about volleyball. Any quip you had was blocked in your throat. 

You glanced at Zacco. He stared at you.

Don't look at me, Zacco seemed to say.

Oikawa and you sat down on the couch. It was big enough for you to cross your legs on. You snatched a pillow and clutched it in front of you like a stuffed animal. You settled your chin on the pillow, looking at Oikawa.

His long lashes dusted the tops of his cheeks. There was a mix of uncertainty and anxiousness mixed with his features. His brows were furrowed and his mouth was set in a grim frown. Oikawa really, really was exceedingly pretty. Birds chirped outside as Oikawa ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft sigh.

You ever wondered if Oikawa would grow out his hair. His brown bangs were swept to the side, adding to his flair, and a lock of hair was evidently sticking out—reminding you of an antenna of sorts. He'd look good with longer hair, but you wouldn't mind if he ever decided to cut his hair short.

"What's wrong?" you asked.

"Blanco will be going back to Argentina soon," Oikawa said. 

José Blanco—Oikawa's mentor and idol. 

Oikawa had plans to go international, you knew, but that was in the far future. Japan was too small for Oikawa Tooru. Oikawa Tooru, no matter how hard he tried, would never make it to Nationals. He had to go bigger. He had to make it internationally.

The sky was so heavy on Oikawa Tooru's back. He wanted to fly. Everyone wanted to fly. But Oikawa was deeply rooted into the ground. There were plants that grew near his feet and intertwined themselves with his arms and his legs. It was too dangerous for a king to leave his castle.

But Oikawa was no king.

"I think I'll be following him," Oikawa said. "I want—I want to follow him."

You asked, "when?"

"After high school."

Your mouth went dry. After high school was too soon—too close. You couldn't help but feel a sense of abandonment. Iwaizumi was reaching for America, and Oikawa was going to Argentina. 

Where would that leave you?

You were tethered to your homeland that wasn't even technically your homeland. Your mother kept you here, stationed you here. As you watched your friends take off on their dreams and hopes, you began to wonder if it was time for you to do the same. There was no greater joy than to explore the marvels of the sky.

"I wanted to tell you," Oikawa said. "Before anyone else."

"Have you told Iwa?"

"Of course. That's a given."

Before anyone else, head-ass. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had this strong bond between them that you couldn't find anywhere else. It broke your heart thinking about anything that would tear them apart. If they ever had to fight for something, would one let the other have it?

You found yourself happy for Oikawa. Whatever dregs of jealousy you had left were long gone, as you were learning that Oikawa's journey was not your journey to make as well. You could see Oikawa playing for an Argentine club. He had a bigger future outside of the country, and you were excited for him.

Genuine happiness fluttered in your gut.

Oikawa could play international volleyball! Oikawa could play Argentine volleyball! Oikawa didn't need Japan! You wanted everyone to look at Oikawa and to see what they were missing. In a way, Oikawa was just as unfortunate as you—he happened to be born in a prefecture with all sorts of volleyball monsters.

It was harder to shine if there were other stars in competition. It made you want to snuff out every source of light out there just so the world could see Oikawa Tooru, who shined not like the stars but rather like the moon.

"Tooru," you said, and his brown eyes widened. "This is great!"

"Really?" Oikawa asked. "You think I should go for it?"

"Yes!" you affirmed. You leaned forward. "This is such a good opportunity for you. I want to see you on TV, Oikawa. I want your autograph, so I can sell it for an overpriced amount, too!"

Oikawa chuckled and shook his head. "I'll be throwing away my citizenship—"

"So what?" You tilted your head. "This is your passion. This is your dream, Oikawa. With your skills, I'm sure that any club over in Argentina will accept you. You're an amazing setter."

"I'm still thinking about it, though," Oikawa said.

"Then think. You have a few months to go." You took the pillow that you were holding and bashed it against Oikawa harshly without warning. You felt sappy—too sappy. "You have my full support no matter what you do."

Oikawa, suffocated by your pillow, toppled back into the couch. He easily pushed away your pillow and gave you a smile. The pillow had turned his hair unruly, and he looked like he had just woken up; however, he still managed to look as pleasing as ever. He was easy on the eyes no matter where he was.

He felt conflicted, out of all things.

As much as he wanted you to beg him to stay in Japan, Oikawa felt relieved that he had your support. He wanted you to say that you needed him in your life, and he wanted you to say his name a million times over every day like a prayer and a mantra rolled into one.

But you pushed him forward. You weren't the type to latch onto him and hold him back. You were weakly cutting away at the plants that roped Oikawa to the ground. You were determined to make Oikawa fly.

He didn't have wings. He had been trying to change this part of him for a long time. It hadn't been working, and in the end, he could only feel and taste the defeat of the earthy ground. Perhaps it was time to accept that this was who he is, because you perfectly accepted him for who he was. 

He was ready to work with what he had and let the branches extend, reach, and grow in front of him.

"What—you won't have a cliché airport scene with me where I'm about to leave and you're chasing after me?" Oikawa asked.

You snorted. "As if Japanese security would even let me past."

Oikawa's heart stung. "You could co—"

The words died in his throat. His face flushed red as he sat back. He wished that the couch would envelop him, and he'd sink far, far away from this conversation. You stared at him dubiously, and Oikawa let out a nervous laugh.

"You could go and wear a disguise," Oikawa said. 

You could come with me, he wanted to say.

He'd give anything in the world to finally tell you what he wanted to say. Though it sounded simple in words, it was far more complicated than that. Oikawa joked around easily, telling you how eager he was for your wedding with him and teased you endlessly. 

But when it came to a real confession with his real feelings, he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Oikawa would choke up, and the words that you loved so much would never leave the welling pit in his stomach. Love was so stupid, but it was the only thing that mattered to Oikawa. He hated how bad he was at telling you, and he hoped that you were good at reading intentions as good as you were at sheet music.

If he couldn't overcome this fear of telling you his real feelings, then you and he would never end up together.

Oikawa wanted the happy ending. Oikawa wanted the crackling fire of the Star Wars rebellion on Endor after the hard fight. He wanted the love that Han Solo and Leia shared—the banter, the words, the everything. He wanted to feel the burning sensation of breathing and the burning sensation of loving you.

You were everything to him.

He wanted to be so in love with you that he didn't have to use words for you to realize what he felt for you. He then decided that your future boyfriend must have saved the world to end up this lucky to be with you. All he could hope for was that he would work hard to be that person.

"What should my number be?" Oikawa said. 

I'll do whatever you want me to.

Eventually he'd learn what to say.  When he was with you, the words he never meant seemed to leave his mouth, and he was grateful that you never took them to heart. But he feared that one day, he'd say the words that he had always meant to say, and you'd brush them off without paying it any more attention.

"What's José Blanco's number on his jersey again?" you asked. "Thirteen? Go with that."

"Okay," Oikawa said. "Anything for you."

Okay. I lo—

"[Y/N]!" your mother called for you from the breakfast table. "You got a letter."

You rolled down the stairs with such an inane amount of speed that Adam received a headache from just looking at you. Adam went back to playing on his PSP while watching Star Wars. He wasn't a big fan of Star Wars to begin with, but since it was the only interesting DVD available, he was forced to watch Darth Vader die sadly once more.

Anxiety ran up your legs and body. Your hands shook as you ambled toward the breakfast table with the same grace of a newborn fawn. You nervously peeked over your mother's shoulder.

Was it a college letter? A college acceptance letter? No, with your luck, it was a college rejection letter.  You nearly smacked your own head. You ought to stop thinking in a negative manner before it got the better of you. You were good enough for an acceptance. You had charisma—whatever that meant.

Iwaizumi told you that you had charisma, and that meant it was a good thing.

Your mother, who was waiting for her tea to cool down, held a brown envelope in her hand with your name and address hastily scrawled on it with black pen.

"It's not a college letter?" you asked dubiously. Your nerves flooded out of you immediately.

There was another address written—a sender's address—in the same handwriting and pen. You studied it briefly before recognizing the sender's name.

"Kuroo Tetsurou?" your mother took the words from your mouth. "That's the boy whom you play the piano for."

"It seems so," you said. "May I see it?"

Your mother passed you the envelope. She picked up her tea and blew on it lightly. "It's addressed to you anyway, [Y/N]. Show me what he says later, okay? During dinner. Be sure to practice the piano after and wash the dishes."

Out of habit, you nearly asked her about Adam. However, you bit your tongue and accepted your fate. The envelope was dry and slightly thick in your hands. You wondered what he had sent you. When he had asked for your address, did that imply that he wanted to be pen pals? You and he already texted often.

He was always the one reaching out first, you noticed.

"Kuroo seems like a nice boy," your mother said. You could tell that she still harbored her partiality toward Wakatoshi, though. "He encourages you to play the piano, too. Do you like playing for him?"

You nodded. "He seems to enjoy it, too. I'm even teaching him a little bit of music theory now."

What about you caught Kuroo's eye?

Your first thought was how you looked.

As Tendo had said before, your features were uniquely you; however, he could have just been calling you ugly. Taste and type in significant others was up to the beholder though. While you might not be Tendo's type, you could very well be Kuroo's type. 

What was strange to you was how Kuroo had taken two years out of his life to text you, and he didn't ask to meet up at all. Maybe it was the distance between you and he, but if he was interested in you because of your looks, you felt as if the conversation with him would flow differently.

Your second thought was your piano music.

When you had met Kuroo, he was loitering near one of the vents so he could listen to classical music. This resolution was flawed purely because Kuroo wouldn't have been able to differentiate between your music and the other recitalists' music.

After walking back to your room, deep in thought, you threw yourself on your desk chair.

The envelope stared at you, and you stared at it. If envelopes could talk, there was no doubt that it would beckon you to open it and see its contents. Iwaizumi was at least 90% of your impulse control, and if he were here, he'd tell you to leave it alone, or he'd tell you to open it and suffer the consequences.

Considering that Kuroo has pranked and provoked you before, you would assume that this was no exception. However, just for the sake of curiosity, you let bygones be bygones and tore up the letter to see what was inside.

Curiosity was a terrible vice, but at times it could be a kind virtue.

Immediately, a folded sheet of paper tumbled out. You picked it up gently, expecting it to say 'you got tricked!' or something of the like. To your surprise, it was a music sheet to a song you had played when you were younger. It was your first competition's song piece. You chuckled wryly at the title.

Placing the sheet aside, you picked up the envelope and fished out another folded piece of paper. You opened it up, and it revealed a periodic table with certain elements highlighted.

Tantalum Xenon Sulfur

Taxes.

You hated Kuroo Tetsurou. He wasted money on postage for this? You couldn't believe him; you couldn't believe the audacity of men in general, in fact. 

There was a final folded piece of paper in the envelope. 

It was ripped straight from a notebook—how romantic of Kuroo, you thought—and you found yourself staring at Kuroo's handwriting. You hadn't had the chance to admire his handwriting on the envelope, but this notebook paper was filled top to bottom with Kuroo's messy black scrawls that resembled hieroglyphs.

A letter. 

The black pen was smudged here and there, and there were a few words—and some sentences—that he entirely crossed out. There were doodles of half-assed cats in the margins that spoke in little speech bubbles that held a remarkable amount of swear words and chemistry puns.

You gazed at the way Kuroo wrote your name. It was written with such care and in a different manner than the rest of the letter. Your name, [Y/N] Suzuki, was written with loops and languid strokes that was undoubtedly the textbook definition of meticulous.

You began to read the letter eagerly. Saying it started off with a bang would be entirely incorrect. It started off like a rickety train that was so close to going off the tracks.

[Y/N] Suzuki,

I'm writing this with a pen that is about to run out of ink.

Long story short, my dad said I ought to stop using my phone so much—look at what you did to me! You've made me so phone-obsessed that Kenma has started to notice. So I started thinking of ways to communicate to you without using my phone. My first thought was pigeon mail, but after some trial and error, it didn't exactly work out as planned.

Oh, and along with this letter are two sheets of paper—the periodic table of elements and a music sheet. I have a feeling that you're going to be something along the lines of a tax evader in the future, so the periodic table is reminding you to do your taxes.

Veering into the direction of the music sheet, I put this in here for you to play for me. You're like a radio to me, you see. I can't sleep without your music playing. Don't tell anyone this, but I feel bad that I make you play at midnight. So what you should do as an alternative is play me a song, record it on a DVD, and send it to me. Wouldn't that be handy?

Everyone says music is food for the soul, anyway.

You know, for someone who has a face like yours, you're surprisingly skilled at the piano. I have a feeling I'm going to get slapped for that joke. I'm apologizing ahead of time. I am sorry.

On the subject of the piano, I'm grateful that you're teaching me. I swear, one of these days, I'll teach you all the Chemistry knowledge I know—if your brain can even handle that much information.

Understanding that you and I have some sort of chemistry together, you really should come to Tokyo. You should also not fail your Mod. Japanese literature class while you're at it. I expect a letter back from you, Suzuki. If I don't get one back, I think I'll drive over to the Miyagi countryside and write it myself because I'll be so lonely.

Kuroo Tetsurou

This letter just gave you a very nice hug and then hung you from upside down to rot. Kuroo was very good at provoking you, and you gave him the reactions that he always wanted. You were rather lucky that there was a screen that divided you and him half of the time, because if he were to see your reactions in real time, you wouldn't know what to do.

You had Kuroo's address, too. Sending him a letter wouldn't be impossible. You'd have to burn your music on a DVD, which Semi could help with the next time you saw him.

Pen pals.

You had never been a pen pal with someone.

Kuroo Tetsurou—the unpredictable boy. Kuroo Tetsurou, the one whom you played music for. When you played the piano for him, you found yourself liking the instrument more and more. His compliments fed your starved ego, and something told you that he genuinely liked your music.

When you had played all your old songs for him, you were bitten with memories of hating yourself and what you played. When you were younger, you played, penitent because of how passionless you were toward it. Instead of music, you were sharing your words written on paper with him now.

Your phone vibrated.

A text.

From Kuroo, you thought as you set the letter down. You scrambled over to your phone, which was on the desk. You fumbled with your phone, ready to respond to Kuroo's text with a witty remark. The phone was cold in your hand.

However, you were left shocked as it was an unknown number that had texted you. The sender flashed across your screen as you hastily read what had been sent.

Hello. I am Akaashi Keiji.

Another text came.

Kuroo Tetsurou said you needed a Modern Japanese Literature tutor.

And then another.

Do you have a date, time, and place in mind?

Chapter Text

"It's really warm outside, isn't it?" you asked Akaashi awkwardly.

Akaashi wore what might as well have been a dumpster fire. He donned a t-shirt that read 'Setter dog' on the back with a rather shitty graphic of said animal. The only reason why he was able to pull off such an atrocious shirt choice was because he was absurdly pretty.

He had long, dark lashes that framed his eyes and similarly colored hair that curled at the ends. His skin was peach albeit somewhat tanned from outdoor exercise, and he was of a lean-muscled build—fitting for a volleyball player. The last you had seen him was a year ago, but it seemed that he already changed significantly.

You and he sat across from each other at a small cafe that was overlooked by the large, pretty buildings of Tokyo. If one blinked, one wouldn't have noticed the ornate flowers that sat on the sills and the metal garden chairs and tables that decorated the outside. The food wasn't spectacular, but you were here for tutoring.

Deciding not to impose on your tutor, you arranged to go to Tokyo through a train. Your mother, knowing your declining grade in said class, encouraged this and sent you off with money (as you didn't have an allowance, and your school didn't allow outside jobs).

"Suzuki-san," Akaashi started. 

"Just call me [Y/N]," you said.

You couldn't believe that Kuroo had sent one of his friends to help you with a class that you were struggling in. You didn't know if it was because he was genuinely worried for you or because he was mocking you so much that it involved helping you.

Akaashi looked mildly uncomfortable before he forced out your name. "[Y/N]—"

You felt bad. "If it's better for you to say my last name, then you can do it. Sorry."

He looked relieved. "Suzuki-san, your literature skills aren't bad, but this requires a lot of memorization. You're a pianist, right? It's just like that. If memorization doesn't help, I'd rather have you understand the piece, and when the test comes, you can easily fill it out."

"Okay," you said glumly. "You're a second-year, aren't you? This is embarrassing."

"How so?" Akaashi asked. He was reviewing your failed tests with agility. His fingers were slim and nimble, like Oikawa's—a true pianist's hand. It was obvious that he took great care over his fingers, occasionally rubbing them out of habit from time to time. His pretty eyes flickered up to you every now and then.

"I'm a third-year, and you're tutoring me." You made a face. "Kuroo must be having a field day with this."

"I'm good with literature so I do not mind," Akaashi said. "Everyone needs help sometimes. Bokuto-san often needs help and encouragement."

"How much are you charging again?" you asked.

Akaashi shrugged. "Free. I might be inadequate to your school's literature curriculum—so success isn't really guaranteed—and it was a favor for pain-in-the-ass-Kuroo-san."

You leaned forward. "You're so nice and polite to your upperclassmen."

"Most of my friends are upperclassmen," Akaashi said matter-of-factly. "A good portion of them are in the volleyball club as well."

A jock, you thought. A pretty boy jock.

His finger slid across the top of your paper. He eyed your name for a brief second before setting it down. "You spelled your name wrong here."

"I was going to fail it anyway," you said dryly.

You were really, totally, and truly not Akaashi's type. You were a halfhearted girl with the wits of a rabbit and the heart of a lion who forgot how to hunt. Your appearance wasn't his type either, and the way you responded to situations wasn't very favorable in his eyes.

Judging by your calloused hands and the thin line of dirt underneath your fingernails, Akaashi figured that you weren't very conscious about your pianist side. Rejecting piano went too far—perhaps you just weren't fond of it. However, he noticed the way you picked up your pencil, and your hand lightly tapping against your knee. He noticed the small apprehension that your hands had that indicated that you were forever tied to the instrument.

He had half a mind to look up conversation starters though he was sure that the conversation would be for naught. He was only doing this because the Nekoma third-year Kuroo had asked him for this small favor. Akaashi knew that if you were a book, you'd be an action book or a choose-your-own-adventure book.

You might have been Kuroo's type, in all honesty. 

Akaashi wasn't sure what Kuroo's type, but he had this specific keen interest in you that even Akaashi couldn't deny. Usually Kuroo didn't bat an eyelash at girls; he was far too absorbed in Chemistry or whatever assholes like him did. Akaashi had to wonder what was so different about you that made Kuroo lean toward you.

You didn't even attend Nekoma. You attended Karasuno High School—some school in the Miyagi Prefecture. He had heard of it, surely, but he didn't know where. 

Akaashi didn't expect for you to be the human equivalent of a double dog dare.

"Suzuki-san, for this one, you have to refer back to a different piece of work," Akaashi said, pointing to a new worksheet. "You're mixing up two different poets."

"Oh, sorry," you said in English.

He watched as you poured yourself over various literature textbooks and worksheets. You were working hard, but he wondered what for. Akaashi considered himself good at reading people, and you were an open book. You didn't bother to hide anything—but he felt that unconsciously, you hid a little part of yourself away from the world.

"Fuck," you said out loud as you started erasing a mistake. Then your paper ripped. 

Yeah, he wasn't really interested in finding out what the hidden part was.

"I came to Japan for you to have a better opportunity," your mother said. "There are plenty of good universities here for you to apply to, [Y/N]. Adam, surely, is staying in Japan."

"I'm applying to Japanese universities, too," you defended. "I'm just thinking about America."

Your mother took a sip of her tea. "What are you going to do once you get there? What are you planning on majoring in?"

"That's only if I get in, Mom," you said.

All you wanted was a cup of water before you went to sleep. Instead, you were greeted with your mother seated at the breakfast table with pamphlets spread throughout the table. She was searching through the various colleges that you had applied to, and a growing sense of dread sunk in your stomach.

This growing sense of dread was called the fear of growing up, and you were very afraid. When you were younger, you believed that growing up was optional. But with everyone else running in the race, the small, competitive part in you started to boil with unbelievable rage.

You wanted to get ahead.

"Have you made a definitive decision yet, though?" your mother asked. "I implore you to do so once you get your acceptance email from the program. You can't dwell on it too much or else you'll end up torn apart."

"Sounds hot," you said.

"What?"

"Nothing." You grimaced. Kuroo must have been rubbing off on you.

Your mother sighed. "It's your choice if you want to leave or not. All I ask is that you choose what you think is more fitting toward your future."

"I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up," you confessed. "There are so many options."

There was a small part of you that could read through your mother. She typically kept this strange iron wall up that no matter what you tried, it wouldn't tumble down. She wouldn't bring it down for you, and she wouldn't bring it down for Adam.

You could see—well, maybe you were hallucinating—that she wanted you to stay with her in Japan. You noticed it in the way she romanticized the bright lights of Tokyo and the opportunities of the universities. You noticed how she picked at the littlest of details when it came to America.

But instead, she said, "wherever you go, you will be successful."

You lived and breathed in the forest of your mother. You always had. You were roaming in a very large forest, and you were looking for a clearing—a way out. Forests were beautiful and teeming with life, but you wanted to leave. You wanted to leave the protection of the canopy and venture down dangerous pathways.

Never once by your mother were you raised to be subtle. She taught you to be powerful, outstanding, and brilliant. It made you wonder if staying in a country that was foreign and familiar at the same time was really what you needed.

Before you could think ahead, though, you'd need to be accepted into the program you applied to first.

Do you really love me? you wanted to ask your mother.

Did your mother really love you, or did she just love the idea—the thought—of you? She seemed to project a part of herself onto you, and you were only an arm or a leg of hers to use. That was what you felt like. That was what you knew.

You had known this your entire life, but as you had been struggling to find a passion, you never paid much heed to your mother. Your mother was a stagnant constant in your life that would never go away. You felt the need to pick at the parts of you that made you a completely different person and peel yourself away from your mother.

You wanted to be your own person outside your mother who seemed to love a damned instrument more than you.

Undaunted, you were moving forward into the future while hating the past. You refused to be compliant.

You wanted to know what the future held. You wanted to be confident in yourself and in your decisions without relying on your mother. You wanted to hug your past dearly and to love it fiercely. You wanted to be an individual, not an extension of your mother. You wanted greater and grander opportunities.

You wanted, you wanted, you wanted, you wanted—

Fate and destiny are the same thing, [Y/N], Wakatoshi had told you all those years ago.

Fate was what would happen if you didn't soar for your goals. Destiny was what would happen once you did. You were going to take chances and build upon it. Destiny doesn't come to those who sit around. Destiny would come to you—and you would make sure of it.

Maybe to talented people like Wakatoshi, fate and destiny were the same thing. People blessed with skills didn't have to work as hard as people born without. 

When you were younger you worked hard on your language skills. There was simplicity in your struggle. Occasionally, you'd forget a word or two or you'd start slipping back into English. Your Japanese had only been a household language for you in America, but when you moved, it was fundamental.

How would you make everyone understand everything?

It felt that you had to play the piano to communicate with your mother. But you wholeheartedly believed that competitions were for racehorses, not for students. Competitions were lame. Competitions were for kids desperate for their parents' approval, anyway.

You went back up to your bedroom without a cup of water.

A box tucked away underneath your bed caught your eye.

Normally, your eyes would have skipped over it any day. You didn't know what made today any different. You strode over to your bed and pulled it out. The box was heavy in your hands. It had been under your bed for quite a few years, and you always thought there was something different in it each time.

At first, you had thought it was jewelry, but the other day you had thought it was a collection of mismatched socks that Iwaizumi brought over, saying that you had left them at his house.

You pried the top open.

Pictures. Photos. Snapshots of memories from your childhood captured in thin paper.

There were two discarded disposable cameras sitting to the side, and piles of photographs that were sitting in the middle. Tentatively, you pulled out a good few and surfed through it. Your thumb and forefinger flicked past each photo as you were hit with nostalgia.

Most of the photos were blurry and poorly taken. You couldn't blame the girl who took them—she never cared for how perfect things had looked in the moment. However, you wished that she had been more careful when taking photos. You wanted a glimpse at the past that you both hated yet missed.

There was a photo of Oikawa, you, and Iwaizumi. There was a photo of the fireflies that Wakatoshi had snared for you when you were sick. There was a photo of the Kitagawa First gymnasium at night. There was a photo of you dirty from rolling all over the ground because you were practicing your receives.

Photos of sunrises and of sunsets. Photos of creepy bugs that gave you shivers down your spine. Photos of blurry pavements and trees galore. Photos of what could have been Iwaizumi's crooked grin but also Wakatoshi's wide smile when he spiked a ball perfectly. Photos of Oikawa's perfect pillow tent that was soon knocked down by baby Takeru.

Below all the photos was a comic book. 

This was the comic book Oikawa had bought for you when it was Iwaizumi's birthday. You had slept over at his house, and he said that it was imported from America. You read this book every night for the next week or so, and it actually helped you with your English significantly.

Your phone beside you pinged..

You picked it up absentmindedly and without looking at the sender. Only one person would text in the middle of the night like this. You were used to this routine.

Kuroo—you started to text into the subject box. However, Kuroo sent something first.

Vanadium Iodine Oxygen Lithium Nitrogen.

You didn't bother to pull out your Chemistry book. You had stopped attempting to translate the elements out of spite and weariness. If Kuroo was so dedicated to this act, he'd translate them for you. 

And what does this mean? you asked.

Violin, Kuroo responded. Do you play?

No, you said.

Oh, okay.

Silence filled the conversation, neither side was texting. You were already pretty tired from your mother asking you about your future. You didn't want that to impact your conversation with Kuroo, and you hadn't a clue what to talk about.

Did you get my letter? you weakly asked.

A while ago, you had met up with Semi to burn your DVD. He complimented your music. You told him not to lie to you. He said he wasn't lying. You had loaded your music onto the DVD and sent it on its way to Kuroo. Your letter had been short and brief and you hadn't given it much thought other than hoping that Kuroo wouldn't drag you for the spelling errors.

Kuroo immediately started texting, as you could see the text bubble emerge in the corner. You stared at the mesmerizing pattern for the longest time before reading his new text.

You sound a lot more confident playing in this DVD, Kuroo texted. I like it.

Is that supposed to be a compliment? You started to put away the photos into the box. You came across a certain photo of you accidentally throwing your net over Oikawa's head and him being absolutely furious. You laughed to yourself as you tucked it away quietly.

Anything that comes out of a pretty boy's mouth can be considered a compliment. If Kuroo were speaking to you in real life, you were sure that his tone would have sounded matter-of-factly.

Oh, please, you texted. You hastily shoved the box underneath your bed and called it a day. Anything that comes out of a pretty boy's mouth is a lie. People only believe them because they're pretty.

Kuroo then spammed you with a plethora of emojis that you didn't know existed prior to this given moment in time.

You sent a rather ominous smiley face. 

Oxygen Potassium, he texted. That means OK if you didn't know.

I knew what that was.

Don't lie to yourself.

As you and he conversed more, Kuroo told you about his day and what he was up to. He told you about his friends and his classmates, jokes he found funny during class, and other miscellaneous things that no one would typically remember. 

Eventually, you had settled on your bed with the covers over your body, snug. What your mother had said to you was intruding into your thoughts, leading you to have vague responses to Kuroo's extravagant story about his and his friend Yaku's meeting. You were not surprised to hear that Kuroo had become Nekoma's volleyball captain—he certainly had the endeavor and the charisma for it.

You just hoped he wouldn't prod at the first-years too often.

Kuroo must have noticed your lack of enthusiasm and asked, are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?

In all honesty, you were touched that he noticed. Oh, no, I'm not tired.

Then is something bothering you?

It's nothing big, you replied. Keep telling me about this first-year of yours. Lev, was it? Sounds hot. Sounds foreign. Does his name mean anything?

Don't change the subject.

You felt reprimanded. Why the hell not?

Because what's happening now seems bad for you.

Your throat went dry. Kuroo Tetsurou really was an enigma. He was an enigma in the way that he provoked you too often and in the way he sent elements of the periodic table in everyday conversation like it was normal. He was an enigma in the way you were unsure if he really cared for you or not.

Would Kuroo tease you? No, he sounded way too serious right now for that. You were unable to figure him out. He neither hid his emotions like Oikawa nor was an open book like Sugawara. He was simply unpredictable.

Just future stuff, you replied. College. Jobs. Japan.

That can be tricky. Since you're in college preparatory classes, you have some work cut out for you.

Yeah. You added a monkey emoji, and then a dinosaur emoji. I'm thinking about applying for this program in America, though. It looks interesting.

I think you should do it.

Kuroo's response had been so immediate that you wondered if he already knew about your hesitations. You hoped that he was being sympathetic to your situation and not encouraging you because he felt like it. But deep inside you, you could tell that he was being genuine.

Just as you were about to type out a response that you'd be pulling straight from out of your ass, Kuroo typed out another response quicker.

This is just for me, personally, but I think you'd make a great pianist.

You, a pianist? You had to laugh. While you enjoyed playing the piano for Kuroo, you couldn't see yourself as a pianist in the future. It was your past that tethered you back to your mother and the cold keys of the lonely piano in the piano room. You liked the piano, but did you like it so much that you'd make it into a career?

Thank you, you said instead. 

Not just a pianist—a great pianist. It made you wonder that if Kuroo could love your music so much, then could you? Could you grow to love the very keys that you played on? Would you learn to love listening to your music, even if you had no grand passion for it, even if you hated how you played before?

You wanted to love your younger self, but when you reflected back to the past, all you could feel was embarrassment and confusion—and something along the lines of insecurity.

You know what'll cheer you up?

What?

I have a surprise.

Just as you had rolled your eyes and were about to text him to stop being annoying, Kuroo's caller ID had flashed across the screen in your hands, shocking you. You didn't know if you were mentally prepared to talk to the boy, and apprehension filled your gut.

However, before you even could think a coherent thought, your thumb—presumably habitually—pressed the accept button, and you silently cursed yourself. You took a deep breath as a feeble attempt to try and catch up to what Kuroo was about to tell you.

Sometimes Kuroo was too fast for you.

Instead of his voice, you heard piano music.

It wasn't your piano music. Your piano music was experienced and steady. It wasn't a professional's piano music. Their music was fast and smooth, if not even better than yours. This piano music was apprehensive, as if the fingers were too shy to confidently press on the cold keys. This piano music was from a beginner's hand.

Soft swearing accompanied each mistake like family. There would be a pause, then tired sigh. The music was rough and patchy. Its tempo was off, and the music's volume would increase at odd times—likely when the player grew frustrated.

But it was music.

Kuroo was playing music for you.

It wasn't very good.

But he was trying his best!

You held the phone close to your ear, and you snuggled deeper into your sheets as his rickety piano playing blared into your ears. It was unpleasant to hear and probably even more unpleasant to play—but you appreciated the sentiment very much.

The music peeled your eyes awake and seemingly made it permanent. Kuroo's music made it physically impossible for a musician such as yourself to fall asleep so readily. You listened to a note played moderately late after much thinking and an incorrect chord played so confidently. You heard him whisper to himself the ordering of the notes.

"F, G, A, B," he said under his breath, unknowing that you could hear every word. "A, C, E, G? Ye—Yeah, that seems right."

Slowly, as the night seemed to fade away, Kuroo's god-awful piano music filled your room. It was hard to sound unpleasant on the piano, as there was no tuning or something similar. But Kuroo's piano music lacked a sort of pattern and rhythm that most pieces held, and you supposed that was a part of his charm.

His unpredictable music. His unpredictable self. 

Although Kuroo wasn't the best at playing, he seemed like he enjoyed playing it. For his heart and yours, you'd pretend that you enjoyed it. He wasn't as experienced as you were, you remembered, so you were in no place to judge how shitty his music was.

Even though his music was unsteady, you found it lulling you to sleep.

All the mistakes and the swears were familiar—as familiar mistakes and swears could be, of course. There was a careful, rickety precision that came with his music that made it uniquely Kuroo's. It was terrible poetry of a song; it was one that poets would consider an abomination and throw away upon spitting it out on paper.

But you liked it. It grew on you like mold.

Kuroo did an excellent job of portraying what he wanted to say through music—something you struggled to accomplish. His broken lullaby was strangely addicting, and it seemingly whispered sweet-nothings in your ear.

You fell asleep.

"Oujiyama is so funny sometimes, don't you think?" you asked Sugawara as you were staring out the window from the second floor, watching the said second-year flail over his arms.

The second-year was participating in PE with the rest of his class. You watched as a classmate of his tossed him a ball, and the ball bounced directly off of Oujiyama's shining head in a perfect parabola. Sugawara, who was next to you, snickered at the sight of the second-years arguing.

"I hear he likes Kiyoko," Sugawara said loosely. "But then again, who doesn't like Kiyoko?"

"Kiyoko is so pretty," you complained.

"You're pretty, too," Sugawara said.

You snorted and leaned against someone's unoccupied desk while your eyes followed Oujiyama around below. "I know, dude. Kiyoko is just so gorgeous, though. Do you know that I'd pay for her to talk to me? Fifty yen per word, Sugawara. Fifty. Yen."

"Kiyoko thinks you're cool."

You nearly fell. "Really?"

"Why do you look so excited?" Sugawara asked. His face was bright. "She's seen you around sometimes, like with your friends. Also, you're friends with me—which, by the way, makes you automatically cool."

That was really lame of Sugawara to say, you thought, and you laughed to yourself. Sugawara always made the corniest jokes while simultaneously being the only boy in Karasuno who could catch up to your humor. He understood you. That made you give him mad respect.

In all honesty, you liked watching Oujiyama. He was free comedy in human form, and he remarkably reminded you of Oikawa. Although you saw Oikawa frequently, you missed going to school with him. He always said shit or started shit. Iwaizumi never let any shit slide. They made school life fun for you.

School was so much better when you had someone you wanted to see.

"You make the worst jokes," you told him.

Sugawara looked slightly wounded, and guilt pang your heart. He quickly recovered, and you took back any remorse you had felt. Sugawara shot you a quick grin and said, "I dare you to do better, [Y/N]. Tell me a joke."

Looking at him incredulously for a moment, you said without hesitation, "your face."

"Jesus Christ."

"Sorry!" you apologized rapidly. Being near Oikawa and Kuroo made you rapid fire insults like a war machine. At this point, they had stripped you of any filter, and whatever you said was out of your control. "It's a habit."

Sugawara laughed. "You're good."

You decided to change the subject before the conversation grew awkward. "Being a third-year is so exciting, isn't it? Hey, and you're finally on the line-up for volleyball—something you've always wanted, right?"

"Yeah," Sugawara said. His brown eyes looked a little less bright. "I'm excited for the new year to start and everything, too, but there's this really good setter first-year on our team."

"Oh, please, if you're worried about him taking your spot, don't fret," you said. "He's just a first-year—"

You cut yourself off. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had just been first-years when you entered Kitagawa First with them, and they managed to snag positions on the starting lineup. It wasn't impossible. You didn't want to feed Sugawara false hope, but you didn't want to bring whatever hope he had left down.

"He's extremely talented," Sugawara confessed. "I don't think I can compete. Of course, I'll be understanding if they choose to replace me with him on the lineup—right after he works on his teamwork skills."

"Teamwork skills?" you repeated. "Isn't that one of the essentials of volleyball?"

"Basically," Sugawara said. "This guy lacks it. Mind you, he's not exactly the friendly type either. He seems nice enough, but his skill in volleyball, [Y/N]. You should've seen it. It's mind-boggling."

"Ah, well," you said. "I'll look forward to it."

Sugawara had been waiting for nearly three years for this moment, only for it to be taken away by some first-year. You wondered if this was what the Kitagawa First third-years felt like when Oikawa and Iwaizumi assumed their spots during their first-year. Back then, you had thought little to nothing of it because you were friends with the first-years.

But now that you saw it from the third-year perspective, you couldn't help but hold prejudice toward the first-year. Did he understand at all how much Sugawara had waited? Sugawara might not have had the most skill, but he had experience—and more importantly, he was a team-player.

"How's Mr. Takeda?" you asked. "He carries your guys' club."

"Oh, you know," Sugawara said. "Making phone calls and fumbling out and about."

"I miss him," you said. "Was very fond of his glasses. Do you have any new players other than that setter? I know you guys are in desperate need of players."

"We have a mean middle blocker and a boy who can jump insanely high." Sugawara chuckled—more to himself, so it seemed. "The boy has a natural sense of athletics, I swear. I could ramble on and on about him."

"Sounds scary," you said. "Say, do you think I'd beat him in a fight?"

"He's short, though," Sugawara said.

"Okay," you said. "Would I be able to beat him in a fight?"

Sugawara said, "my money's on you."

You were touched. You made a triumphant face, but before you could convey your gratitude to the grandfather-haired boy, the second-years who had been playing PE below you lost control of the ball. The ball came careening toward the window that you and Sugawara were standing by. 

The ball, thankfully, bounced off the glass with no harm. 

However, you flinched. In a fit of a high school girl's rage, you opened the window and leaned on the sill. Upon seeing Oujiyama with the ball in his hands, all your anger had disappeared. You waved a hand toward Oujiyama and a giggle crossed your lips.

"Hey, king," you sang.

Oujiyama looked up at you from his PE class. He groaned. "Not you again, Suzuki-san! I told you—I'm not into you."

"Whoa, that's a little self-absorbed of you, isn't it?" you asked slyly. "Second-years are cute, but I don't date dumb boys."

"I'll throw this ball at you on purpose next time."

With such a smile pulled at your lips that made you look borderline conniving, Sugawara couldn't stop looking at you. His throat ran dry, and as much as he tried, he couldn't seem to pry his eyes off of the way you leaned forward so recklessly that you could fall out the window any second. He noticed your hand movements and the awkwardness of your piano fingers.

You made another snarky remark, and Oujiyama expressed his vehement dislike for you. The words seemed to flow so easily out of you, and Sugawara clung onto every single syllable. He sat back, looking over you for what he swore would be the last time.

Huh, Sugawara thought. [Y/N] is kind of cute.

Chapter Text

You stared at Kageyama.

He stared at you.

"I thought you went to Seijoh," you and he said at the exact same time.

Sugawara ultimately decided to introduce you to his fellow teammates. After much begging on your part (and you told Sugawara that you'd intimidate this skilled first-year that stole his spot on the lineup), Sugawara finally let you accompany him to the gym after school with your piano bag hastily swung over your shoulder.

Who knew that the ancient Karasuno gym would be the place you'd see Oikawa Tooru's bane of existence Kageyama Tobio next? You seriously thought that Kageyama would look into Seijoh, as that was where most Kitagawa First students went.

What made Kageyama Tobio choose Karasuno?

"Adam went to Seijoh," Kageyama said as if it explained his confusion.

"He did," you said. "I went to Karasuno. Don't you remember Oikawa and Iwaizumi having a fight with me during your first year of middle school?"

Kageyama said, "no."

Huh. This book must not have covered that part in extensive detail during your childhood chapters.

You, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi had a small falling out after they discovered that you were going to the former volleyball powerhouse high school named Karasuno High. It wasn't anything major, as you and them made up soon after when they realized they didn't have much time left with you.

Kageyama looked sharper. The little first-year you had thought was adorable in almost all aspects was gone. The boy who stood before you was all jagged lines and crooked edges. Sugawara said that he had lacked teamwork skills, and judging by the Kitagawa First game you saw with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, you knew that Sugawara wasn't a liar.

He was remarkably taller, too. His black hair grew out, evenly splitting into bangs that barely touched his eyes, and his fair skin was taut over the muscles hiding underneath. Despite being the youngest of the first-years, Kageyama looked the most mature. Oikawa could learn a thing or two from him.

In short, if you saw Kageyama walking down the street, you'd immediately turn the other way.

The other players were practicing and stretching at the moment, save for a tall blond with thick, black glasses that stood with a brown-haired boy whose hair flopped this way and that messily. There was another boy—a small one—that was bouncing up and down excitedly. He must have been new as well.

You noted that Nishinoya and Asahi were nowhere to be seen. Sugawara did tell you most of the drama that went on during the volleyball club when you and he were in homeroom, and to your knowledge, Nishinoya was on suspension and Asahi was skipping club practices—which was uncharacteristically rebellious of him.

Sugawara, who was next to you, had his mouth wide open. "You two know each other?"

And you were torn.

Sugawara had waited years for his position on the court, and someone more talented, more skilled, more proficient had swooped in and taken his spot. Your perspective had shifted, and you were unsure if you could choose one boy and stick with it. 

You saw Kageyama as a little brother of yours—and if he knew this fact, you would get deeply embarrassed. He held more potential than Sugawara, so keeping him on the court would benefit the team. However, it was technically Sugawara's spot. Sugawara was a good friend of yours—one whom you had even harbored romantic feelings for during your first and second year of high school. 

If you had to side with one, it would—and you said this with much thinking and guilt—be Kageyama Tobio.

"Middle school," you explained to Sugawara quickly. "I know a lot of volleyball boys, surprisingly. Yoshida is my saving grace. The day he starts taking an interest in volleyball is the day I will lower myself into my own grave."

"With what?" Sugawara asked, simply to humor you.

"A crane—once I learn how to hijack one."

Kageyama said, "you still look like a first-year."

"In high school?"

"Middle school."

A forced smile broke across your features. The urge to reprimand your underclassman was crawling through your veins. You had never understood Oikawa's pain until now. You were a beautiful seventeen-year-old—almost eighteen, actually. Hell be damned if you were sent back to middle school, which were arguably the worst years of your life.

Sugawara laughed, and you flushed terribly. How dare he make fun of you, too! As if he didn't look like he belonged in a retirement home half of the time with his shitty hair color!

As Kageyama went to begin his drills, Sugawara introduced each new player to you.

Tsukishima Kei was the tall blond with thick glasses. He had a slim build, and it seemed all his protein was funneled toward his height. He wore a fitted sweater that barely cuffed his wrists due to his extreme length. Tsukishima had an unpleasant smile and a look that told you that he wanted to be anywhere but here.

He placed a hand on his hip. You sized him up.

It was then you came to the conclusion that you would be able to brutally attack Tsukishima Kei, but at the cost of your own mental health. Something told you that words out of his mouth would hurt more than anything.

"Suzuki-san," Tsukishima greeted you after you told him that there was no need to refer to you as an upperclassman. When it came to you, the bare minimum of honorifics sufficed. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," you said. "So, do you like volleyball?"

"Well, I'm in the club for a reason," Tsukishima deadpanned. 

"So you like it."

"I never said that."

You cast a glance to Sugawara, who only shrugged in response. That must mean that Tsukishima was like this normally. You wondered how he was raised for him to turn out like this. Did the hospital send him back to his family broken? Tsukishima was—and you were generous—in need of a small attitude check.

After dismissing yourself from Tsukishima, you followed Sugawara to the other side of the gym to where Tanaka Ryunosuke was animatedly chatting with a small boy who stood even shorter than Sugawara—who was often targeted on the volleyball court because of his smaller stature.

Tanaka Ryunosuke, much like you, admired Kiyoko Shimizu and that fact alone has kept your friendship with him alive through thick and thin. Tanaka was a second-year with a lean-muscular build and a buzzcut. His hair was shaped in a widow's peak, and there were nicks of a razor dotting the back of his head from messy shaves. 

You remembered that when he was a first-year, his hair was atrocious. It was something along the lines of blond, fuzzy hair that looked like pollen or a q-tip. You didn't remember it all too well for your own mental health and Tanaka's dignity.

Tanaka's brows were furrowed downward, enhancing the threatening features of his face. His nose was scrunched as he laughed at something the small boy had said. For someone as delinquent-looking as him, Tanaka had remarkably straight white teeth.

"Suzuki!" Tanaka hollered, roughly patting your back with eagerness. You swore you felt your heart jump out of his chest when he did so. "This is Hinata Shoyo. Hinata, this is your upperclassman—Suzuki [Y/N]."

Hinata Shoyo was a little below average in height—but extremely short for a volleyball player.

He barely looked like a teenager. He was a middle schooler, at least. Perhaps an elementary schooler? You remember Wakatoshi being around his height in elementary school before he sprouted like a beanstalk.

Hinata Shoyo was a fountain of sticks that bounced around giddily. His bright orange hair reminded you of the orange popsicle you once spilled on Iwaizumi during a hot summer's day, and his eyes were wide and brown. If anything, Hinata Shoyo reminded you of Kageyama Tobio from middle school—before he garnered the nickname King of the Court.

The boy held a volleyball close to his chest with two hands, as if attempting to absorb it into his body. You thought of Oikawa. Hinata Shoyo was a mix of every passionate person you knew, and he might've been the most passionate person you've met so far. That passion would take him far.

He had been attempting to palm a volleyball with his small hands, but his efforts were in vain.

"Suzuki-se—" Hinata started.

"You can just call me whatever you want," you said quickly. "I respond to almost anything."

Hinata didn't hesitate. "Okay, [Y/N]! Are you a manager, too? With Kiyoko? I didn't know that we could have two managers on a team."

"No, I'm not a manager," you said. 

"Then why are you here?"

Why were you here? That seemed to be the question of the millennium. Why were you here, in this gym, on this planet, in this universe? You doubted Hinata Shoyo was into philosophical questions such as that, and you doubted that he had ever even questioned his place in the universe.

Only people discontent with what they had questioned all the parallels, all the patterns, all the parameters of the universe. They attempted to craft the universe into something that suited them. It was selfish, yes, but was it so selfish to squeeze the world of its dregs because one was starving?

"I wanted to meet the first-years," you said truthfully. "I grew up around volleyball environments, so it's not so strange to see me pop in here every once and awhile."

Hinata's eyes shone. Your heart pang. He was too innocent. "Lucky!" he called you. "Do you play volleyball?"

"No," you said. "Not in a club, at least. Are you going to be the libero?"

Hinata shook his head, his orange locks bouncing. "The ace!"

Suddenly, you thought of Wakatoshi and his obsession with being the ace from when he was a child. You smiled and noted Hinata's obvious lack of stature. However, a handicap was all the more reason to try hard, right? You would never be the person who'd diminish one's passions. 

"Go for it." You nodded. "There are other cool positions, though."

"Not as cool as the ace!"

"I like middle blockers," you said, thinking of Tendo and Kuroo. "The ones I know are funny."

Sugawara made a face right next to you. "Not all middle blockers have the same personality. Which middle blockers do you know that are not in Karasuno?"

You couldn't outwardly say Nekoma and saying Shiratorizawa was subjecting yourself into an entire lifetime of investigation. You weren't one for satisfactory reactions or interactions. You'd prefer for them to find out in a more calm and controlled environment where they wouldn't overreact.

Avoiding the question, you tugged on Sugawara's sleeve. "Who's that one? The one with the brown hair?"

"That's Yamaguchi," Sugawara said. "Tsukishima's friend."

Yamaguchi stood to the side, collecting the balls that were being served by a few second-years that were also on the Karasuno VBC. You couldn't remember their names. He had a scrawny build that was the farthest thing from attractive and long brown hair that resembled a dry mop.

He was a ball boy at the moment, and he looked somewhat busy. A ball that he was carrying had fallen, and he awkwardly stooped low to pick it up. You wondered if it would be worth interrupting his session to introduce yourself properly. 

Sugawara watched on as Kageyama Tobio approached you once again, and you and he began talking casually.

Kageyama had a harder time conveying what he wanted and communicating—which was an essential part in volleyball. However, he was just as passionate about it as any other typical player you knew.

It seemed Kageyama conversed with you easier because you had gone to the same middle school as he did. If not for that, Sugawara would have been convinced that Kageyama was incapable of talking about anything except for volleyball. He overheard the conversation and picked up words such as "Aoba Johsai," "Iwaizumi-san," and "Adam."

Aoba Johsai was a powerhouse volleyball school. So maybe Kageyama really was incapable of leaving volleyball out of the conversation. Sugawara had to pity you. 

Sugawara caught a glimpse of an eye roll coming from you.

At first he had thought that Kageyama was boring you, but then Sugawara saw that you had laughed at something Kageyama had said. You ruffled Kageyama's hair affectionately and with familiarity that Sugawara couldn't help but feel that someone had shaken your head like a snow globe one too many times.

He wondered why you were so familiar with Kageyama—a good excuse could be that he was your underclassman back in middle school and saw him as your younger brother of sorts.

Sugawara patiently waited for you to finish your conversation with Kageyama. 

He still needed to introduce you to Yamaguchi—wait. Why weren't you ceasing conversation? Normally you kept conversation short. When in class, you'd say a funny thing or two, and Sugawara would reciprocate. Then, you would return to whatever you were doing.

Well, sure, you and Kageyama didn't have the connection that Sugawara and you had. You and Sugawara were classmates—and Sugawara might even consider you a friend to him. You were catching up with Kageyama, as it had been a while since you last talked to him, so it did make sense you were talking to him so much.

But you already talked to Kageyama.

So why did you need to talk to him more?

Sugawara knew these thoughts were troubling—if not borderline toxic. He was caught in between watching you enjoy his friends' company and wanting a conversation with you again. He really did like talking to you, and he liked your humor. There were just so many things likable about you.

Talking with you felt like he was talking to a mirror. He was talking to a more clear, more defined version of himself that seemed to have her life together, if not already piecing it together. 

He wanted to have a conversation with you. He wanted to hold a conversation like you did with Kageyama. Sugawara wondered why he had felt like this, as you had held lengthy conversations with him before.

Something didn't settle right in Sugawara's gut.

"Thanks for meeting up with me, Waka-chan," you said. "I know you're on a tight schedule and all that, so I really appreciate you making time for me."

Wakatoshi only nodded. He was wearing his Shiratorizawa track suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. Wakatoshi was made of straight lines and boxy shapes—as one would expect out of a good athlete. There was something so deep about his features that made you wonder if there was anything concerning or bouncing around in that empty head of his.

You had asked to meet up with him outside of the Shiratorizawa gates after school. You knew Wakatoshi was solely focused on volleyball these days, and he scarcely took breaks. In fact, you hadn't been able to meet up with him at all until late in the afternoon, when the sun was beginning its descent.

He stood awkwardly to your side; he always did that. Perhaps it was out of habit from when he escorted you through the festivals. Perhaps it was because he felt the most comfortable there.

"How is Adam?" he asked.

"Good," you said. "He's going to Seijoh."

"Why did he choose to go to Aoba Johsai instead of Karasuno?" Wakatoshi asked. His eyes seemed to plainly tell you that he was doing his best to connect the dots. "You go to Karasuno."

You shrugged. "Money."

"He should have come to Shiratorizawa."

"Great," you said. "Calm down. Just because we've gotten a nice influx of money recently doesn't mean we're going to invest in such a prestigious school such as Shiratorizawa. That's a pie-in-the-sky idea."

"Why would there be a pie in the sky?"

You ignored that remark. "How's your father? You've been keeping in touch with him, right? Ms. Ushijima says you do."

"He is okay," Wakatoshi said. "He is in California right now. He's drafting up a book or a collected study on exercise and muscle treatment. I intend to visit him soon."

California. America. Someone was flashing the signs in your face, and you were too afraid to tell them that you had received it loud and clear. If you even got accepted into the program that you applied to, you'd have to quickly make the decision to see if you had the courage to even go.

You'd been to America plenty of times. Temporarily. Going there for higher education seemed a lot more permanent than just visiting your father, your friend, and your piano teacher. You were sure that when you were in college, you would neither play the piano so much nor would you have a teacher.

The sunset before you was as beautiful as ever. 

Only Miyagi held a sight like this. The clouds seemed to circle over you and Wakatoshi like abnormally large halos. The sky's expanse over you and he was a dark shade of blue that bled into a lighter hue the more one's eyes traveled down. The light blue contrasted the orange smudges of the sun setting that surrounded the edge of the earth, giving the sunset its final look.

The golden hour of the sun did Wakatoshi's skin justice. His skin seemed to burn brightly like gold underneath the sun, and you wondered if some people like him were really born as stars in a human body.

The Miyagi sunset made you want to be a mantis shrimp. While it was an odd wish, mantis shrimps were capable of seeing different and more colors. You wanted to see all sorts of colors when gazing at the sunset, and you wouldn't mind having to be a shrimp to do so.

You felt compelled to make more conversation because the reason why you had met up with Wakatoshi was, to put it in simpler terms, stupid.

This decision was impulsive. Reckless, even—if one wanted to be dramatic about Wakatoshi's rigorous athletic schedule. This decision was enacted purely out of a 'little love.' You had wanted to do it because you showed a little interest in it.

"Do you remember," you started, "when my mom bought you your own house slippers for my house when you were a child?"

"Yes," Wakatoshi said. 

As the years had flown by, Wakatoshi's presence in your house was still prevalent. You had watched as the slippers that collected near the front of the door had grown bigger and bigger. Sometimes the design changed, sometimes the design stayed the same for a few years before changing again. 

When Wakatoshi finally went to high school, his slippers sat neatly near the corner of the door. It remained unmoved for the most part as the other slippers, namely belonging to you and Adam, were haphazardly thrown around, indicating its constant use.

You'd say that his house slippers were collecting dust, but you found your mother keeping them clean when she thought no one was looking. She dusted them off frequently and gave a longing stare toward them, which was odd because in the end, they were just a pair of slippers.

"Here," you said, pressing a 500 yen coin into Wakatoshi's palm.

"What?" Wakatoshi could only muster out as he stared at the metallic circle in his calloused palm. 

When Wakatoshi was a child, he insisted on paying for his first pair of house slippers that your mother had bought for him. She'd refuse his money, which led to the boy hiding the 500 yen coin around the house. He didn't hide them in very good places because eventually you found them and returned them.

However, one day, Wakatoshi had hid the 500 yen coin so well that even your mother couldn't find it. It was then that Wakatoshi had decided that he would let your mother buy more house slippers that would correspond with his correct foot size without insisting that he had to pay for it.

The other day, you were going through your old belongings out of sheer boredom (and procrastination).

Eventually, you had stumbled over your old house slippers. You wondered why your mother had kept them. The only reason she'd keep around Sailor Moon slippers that had outgrown you was for your brother to use as hand-me-downs. Unfortunately, Adam's shoe size was growing rapidly, and you were concerned that your mother had adopted a cryptic instead of a legitimate child at this point.

You played with the slippers briefly before a silver coin had tumbled out.

500 yen—the last coin from years ago.

"House slipper money," you explained. "I finally found it. I had to wash it, though. Leaving it in a house slipper for far too long can do numbers on the stench of a coin."

Wakatoshi grinned. It was strangely uncharacteristic of him to do so if the subject didn't involve volleyball. It was an almost animalistic grin. Something along the lines of feral and competitive.

The coin in Wakatoshi's hand glimmered under the light. He curled his fist in response, tight and unyielding. His clipped fingernails pressed against his calloused hand. If he were to unclench his fist, there'd be little red moons in its stead on his palm. The coin was strangely warm.

His fist was the size of his heart.

He knew this through and through and often studied his fist. As far as Wakatoshi knew, his heart was love. It was a silly concept, and it wasn't one he grasped so easily before. There was love in this little 500 yen coin that you found from years ago, and there was love in the action you had done to meet up with him despite a busy schedule.

Wakatoshi hoped that you could read actions as easily as you could words.

Fluent in both English and Japanese, one could say that you were the complete opposite of Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi hardly conveyed any words and picked apart sayings in a literal sense. There were other differences that struck you and he apart even more so, but he still held out hope. Opposites did attract, yes?

He wanted to give his heart to you.

While this fist couldn't amount to what emotions he felt for you, he felt as if he wanted you to have this little bit of love anyway. It was all he could give away to you, and he'd really only ever give it to you.

His heart was pure love; his heart was you. His heart was yours. He wanted to give it to you—its rightful owner—but he didn't know how. How would he be able to open his mouth and tell you what he wanted to say? He was so bad with words, and he wanted you to know that you mattered to him.

It was then Wakatoshi held out his fist to you.

Instead of fist-bumping it, as one typically should have, you let Wakatoshi's fist hit your open palm. Your face twisted into confusion and then to embarrassment—which Wakatoshi found cute. You awkwardly held his fist in your hands, feeling the weight of it, feeling the weight of his extreme practices.

"Don't give me back the yen," you said, glowering at your tall friend. "That defeats the whole purpose of this visit, smart guy."

"I'm not," he said, and he was content.

This, in a way, was giving his heart to you. You held it so gently in your hands, and Wakatoshi couldn't help but feel that you'd handle his love in a similar manner. He trusted you with it, just like how he had trusted you from the moment you urged him into your household.

You began thinking.

Was Wakatoshi more than a friend? Did he want to become more than 'childhood friends'? Tendo had said so, but Tendo had a way with words that you had a tendency to distrust. It always lingered in the back of your mind about how affectionate—well, as affectionate as Wakatoshi could get—Wakatoshi was with you.

He treated you different, Tendo had said. You had dismissed it so readily. But there was bubbling anxiety inside of you that told you that Tendo was correct.

And did childhood friends hold each other's fists so gently? Did childhood friends cradle each other’s calloused, clenched hand with such tenderness that one couldn’t call it love? Did childhood friends simply hold hands for the hell of it? For the thrill of it?

There was no doubt that Wakatoshi treated you differently from the others, but he had always treated you like this.

You would have thought that if Wakatoshi were to gain some sort of affection toward you, you would catch on to the difference of actions. You'd notice how he'd stare longer at you or how he'd offer to carry your bags out of the middle of nowhere. You'd notice how he wanted to keep conversation going.

After all, that is what you did with Sugawara.

However, Wakatoshi had always been like that. He had always helped you out when you were in need, when you were little kids. There was no difference in how he treated you, and rather he just treated you differently from every other person.

That was what made you confused.

Even if Wakatoshi had feelings for you, what would happen to the years of childhood friendship that you had with him? All the years built up would eventually lead to romance? Was that what your Wakatoshi wanted? You had thought that Wakatoshi only wanted volleyball in his life.

You really, really liked your connection with Wakatoshi. Would him confessing to you sever it? You were so apprehensive toward it—you were scared of looking into the future, looking into opportunities. You were constantly looking at the past.

In the end, you didn’t know if Wakatoshi loved you, and you didn’t want to know.

Barium Sodium Sodium Sulfur.

You ignored Kuroo's text.

You make me go Barium Sodium Sodium Sulfur, the next text said. A trail of emojis soon followed after that. You looked at the emojis once and decided that you didn't have the mental capacity to even register anything after a certain emoji that looked like an alien.

Americium Erbium Iodine Calcium Nitrogen.

Another text.

Hydrogen Oxygen Oxygen Potassium Erbium Sulfur.

Kuroo had sent these texts so frequently that you began to cease translating them. They weren't worth your time, and they held nothing of substance anyway. He sent words without context like 'Ireland' or 'helicopters,' and you knew that he was doing this purely to annoy the living shit out of you.

I know you see this, Kuroo had texted five minutes after. I can tell if you've read the text, dumbass. You forgot to turn off your receipts, and I'm beginning to think that you don't even know how.

You're so persistent, you know that? you texted back then, your face flushing hotly after Kuroo noted your incompetence with technology. You're like a dog.

It was then you swore you heard a chuckle—Kuroo's chuckle. There are some cute and kind dogs out there.

You're the dog that makes it on the news for nearly killing a man.

Well, woof woof, then.

You rolled your eyes. You remembered that Kuroo was very fond of dogs, which was odd. His school's mascot was cats, but you supposed that not everyone had to live up to their school's theme. Maybe it was a glitch in the simulation.

People typically thought that there was something new each day. Each day was worth living for because of this 'something new.' But you found your days repetitive and riddled with patterns. Strangely, you enjoyed this continuous pattern. You'd wake up with the burning urge to murder, and you'd fall asleep texting Kuroo.

You'd wake up to a plethora of text messages from him that you missed the night before when your fatigue overtook you against your own will. It made you feel sought out for. You would smile, too—not that you would ever tell Kuroo that.

I bet you were one of those annoying kids, you deducted. I bet you got into trouble a lot. If I talked to my mother the way you talked to me, I wouldn't be allowed out of the house ever.

Kuroo's response surprised you.

Actually, I was a little shy.

No way.

It took volleyball to break me out of my shell, Kuroo explained. I didn't want to do anything without someone there with me, but eventually, I learned how to be more extraverted. 

You couldn't believe Kuroo. He had to be playing with you, but something told you otherwise. Oh my God.

Yeah, it was a little embarrassing, but it is how it is, Kuroo said. I was close with my mom, too, before we left for Tokyo and she left the picture. I guess that had a big factor in it.

I'm sorry, you said.

Don't be, Kuroo replied.

You bit your lip. Then you fingers flew across your keyboard. Just before you were about to send the text, Kuroo's caller ID flashed in front of you. You nearly flinched.

Kuroo had to stop surprising you like that. If he wanted you to play the piano for him, it was already too early in the morning (2 AM). Your mother would be something along the lines of angry and would never let you have your phone again. Additionally, you were already tucked into bed with your head resting comfortably on your pillow.

Taking a deep breath in, you answered the call.

"Sorry," you said.

"I told you to not be," Kuroo said. "You're such a loser for apologizing so much."

"Die."

"That's more like it."

You sneezed. Kuroo blessed you. You thanked him. "I don't know. I kind of get what you were saying about your childhood. Looking back at my personal childhood, I feel embarrassed, too."

"Really?" Kuroo sounded incredulous, and you rolled your eyes. What did Kuroo Tetsurou know about your childhood anyway? Kuroo shifted on his side of the phone. "How so?"

For a moment, you hesitated. "I—I dislike who I was before. I was a terrible pianist. I played without passion, and piano was like a chore to me. I didn't find it particularly interesting. But I enjoy it now—thanks to you."

You wouldn't consider Kuroo a romantic hero. You wouldn't go so far as to say that he rescued you. He reassured you, maybe. People might find Kuroo Tetsurou dreamy or the perfect boy, but you knew him as a Chemistry nerd with too much time on his hands. He was the kid with a strange liking toward dogs and classical music.

Kuroo wasn't a Romeo type character. He was the sort of boy who made you wonder why the sky was blue or why the economy was rapidly spiraling downward. He was the boy who wouldn't lie to you, even if his lies would save the world.

"Don't say that," Kuroo said. "Your music was good—ah, well, I'm sure your music was good. You're  not giving yourself enough credit, passion or not."

You felt reprimanded. "I don't need pity. I'm just stating facts."

Kuroo was silent, and you wondered if you had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

It wasn't like you were screaming for attention. You were torn between wanting validation and being unsure if you were deserving of validation in the first place. You couldn't bring yourself to embrace the girl in your past who you saw as a despicable, passionless monster.

No matter how much you tried, you could only see that the girl was unloved and passionless. You were growing from it, and you wanted to grow away from it—but your past seemed to branch onto you and latch itself tightly. Its roots were deeply embedded in you, and you wanted to change it.

It made you feel that if you had been trying to change something for quite some time, and it wasn't working, then maybe it was time to learn how to accept who you were.

You just needed help.

"I know my opinion doesn't matter," Kuroo said, unknowing of how much his opinion really did matter to you.

It was because of him you found kindling of a great joy for an instrument you previously hated. Kuroo Tetsurou felt like another day to you; you loved the familiarity of his texts and his phone calls at night. It wasn't easy going through life. People were constantly questioning your credibility, but Kuroo was not one of them.

There was more quiet that followed. Kuroo must have been counting the words in his head, and you were thinking far too much to even spit out a word or two. You, personally, had never been to purgatory, but you imagined that this is what it would be like.

You said, "no—"

"I know my opinion doesn't matter," Kuroo repeated, "but for what it's worth—I really like your music."

Chapter Text

"I think I'm dying, [Y/N]-chan."

"You're not dying."

"I see the light. I'm walking toward it. Grandma? Is that you?"

"Fine, then. Die."

Oikawa and you were at the doctor's office. Oikawa had your mother—along with Iwaizumi's mother—listed as an emergency contact. After much arguing with the doctors, you were able to come in your mother's stead after Oikawa had called you and told you that he was going to die in approximately five minutes if you didn't come to his rescue.

His leg was laid out in front of him as he was sprawled across the bed dramatically. His forearm rested against his forehead, and his honey-brown eyes slid to your figure. You were seated in one of the chairs lined up against the wall, flipping a magazine furiously.

"What are you so mad for, [Y/N]-chan?" Oikawa asked, jovial about your anger. He seemed all-too-happy for a boy with a newly healed sprained ankle. "Worried for my safety?"

"This is your last appointment with the doctor regarding your ankle," you said, lifting your head up. "Your ankle's fine."

Oikawa pouted. "You ought to be more kinder to a wounded man."

"I don't see why I have to accompany you to these sort of irrelevant doctor appointments," you pointed out. "If anything, I'm the wounded one here."

You were right. Oikawa had overextended himself earlier this month to the point of spraining his ankle. He had a series of doctor appointments to tend to said ankle. This was quite old news. 

However, when Oikawa called you and told you he was dying, you assumed the worst and thought he had further injured his ankle. As it turned out, he wanted you to accompany him during his last appointment. This appointment would judge whether or not the doctor would give him the okay to play again—or at least attend a few practice matches.

Oikawa was the captain of the volleyball team, after all. Aoba Johsai couldn't keep him as a benchwarmer for long.

"You care about me," Oikawa cooed. 

"How's your girlfriend?" you immediately snapped.

Oikawa flushed hotly. He had enough energy to sit up on the bed, which was strange for a man who claimed he was wounded a few seconds prior. You stared at him dubiously as Oikawa retorted, "shut up, [Y/N]-chan. Where's your boyfriend?"

"I'm saving myself," you said defensively.

"Oh, really? For who?"

"Obi-wan Kenobi," you said. "Go back to bed. Sick men don't talk."

Oikawa snickered. "You're so independent. No wonder you haven't found anyone—"

"I said sick men don't talk," you countered, throwing the magazine at Oikawa's head. The pages of the magazine fluttered like a butterfly as it narrowly missed the brunet. You swore colorfully, and Oikawa only laughed.

Due to Oikawa's hectic schedule that orbited around volleyball, girlfriends left as soon as they came. You knew that Oikawa was popular at Seijoh, and you knew that he somehow garnered the attention of girls from other schools as well. People wanted attention, and Oikawa simply didn't have that in his cards.

Of course, he still made time to hang out with you and Iwaizumi occasionally—and that shocked you. If he could make time for you, then he could easily make time for his girlfriends as well. You and Iwaizumi were not his girlfriends, though. You and Iwaizumi were his best friends, and you supposed that put you in a different category from the rest.

Iwaizumi wasn't romantically focused at the moment either. He was studying hard for America—for California, for Irvine. With your boys flying away from Japan and away from you, you wondered if it was time for you to fly away, too.

The doctor soon came in, obviously wondering why Oikawa was holding a crumpled magazine and your figure was slumped in your chair. She shook her head and handed Oikawa a doctor's note, saying that light practice was permitted as long as he did proper stretching beforehand.

Oikawa shot a triumphant grin and signaled you an OK.

When you and Oikawa ambled out of the doctor's office, he held his hand over his eyes as a temporary visor. The sun wasn't as brutal as it was most days, but Oikawa was always one for exaggeration.

His Aoba Johsai track jacket was folded over his forearm, and you carried both your bag and his—out of courtesy for the wounded man. Oikawa traded you his jacket for his back, and you asked him if you could wear his jacket—since it was cold. After much teasing, Oikawa said yes.

"You should take me to Seijoh," Oikawa joked. "I need a guide dog."

"Okay," you said.

"Come on, [Y/N]-chan—what."

Oikawa's eyes were painted with some surprise, as if he hadn't been expecting such a compliant response. A few stray locks of brown hair fell over his forehead, and he combed his hair back hastily with a singular hand. You wondered if he would grow his bangs out, as they always had been a major hit with his audience.

You looked at him, amused. "I said I'll take you there. What if you get run over by a car? Can't leave an old man alone, can I?"

"I told you I was wounded," Oikawa corrected. "Not old."

To be honest, you wanted to check up on your brother, Adam Suzuki.

Your bratty, younger brother who seemed to have everything that you didn't and seemed to lack everything that you had. Recently, he seemed like he was up to no good. The last time he acted like this, it was when he went behind your mother's back to purchase a limited edition item that he soon forgot about a week later.

Technically, without a pass, outside students weren't allowed in. With Oikawa at your side, you had a free pass to enter the campus and fool around as you wished.

Additionally, going to Seijoh meant that you'd see Iwaizumi—probably the only man you'd ever respect in your life. Pestering him often made your day, especially back in middle school. Would Iwaizumi be pleasantly surprised to see you or endlessly annoyed?

Aoba Johsai was an extraordinarily large school, as it did house some of the wealthiest kids in Miyagi. A private school such as Aoba Johsai often produced many successful students, including students that eventually studied abroad. The uniform wasn't half-bad, either. Oikawa wore his with prim and proper prestige whereas Iwaizumi looked as if a tornado had dressed him.

Shiratorizawa Academy was similar to Aoba Johsai in the way that they both were costly; however, Shiratorizawa Academy offered dorms, and it was leagues more difficult to get in. It offered scholarships, both academic and athletic, as well as charging a grand tuition. You at least hoped the cafeteria food was worth it.

Every time you stepped foot on campus, you were awed by the architecture of the buildings. Karasuno was a little beat-down and ancient in terms of infrastructure so seeing Aoba Johsai's buildings was a slap to the face.

Students swarmed the campus. A few girls paused to indiscreetly look at Oikawa, who paid them no mind as he chatted away about how Iwaizumi ought to eat more milk bread to grow taller. It was already somewhat late in the afternoon, and Oikawa's practice would soon be over.

"We're having a practice match right now," Oikawa explained as he led you to the gym where volleyball practices were held.

"And Seijoh is missing their captain?" you retorted. "That's really classy of you, rich kid."

"And Karasuno is missing their favorite girl," Oikawa said. "We requested a practice match with your school. Did you know that Tobio-chan is in your school's volleyball club?"

You nearly smacked Oikawa. "You requested a practice match with Karasuno?"

Slight anxiousness racked your body. You hadn't told anyone from the Karasuno VBC that you knew Oikawa or Iwaizumi—or Kuroo, Wakatoshi, or Akaashi, for that matter. The thing you hated most was reactions and confrontations. It was like awkwardly sitting with a birthday cake in front of you while everyone sang to you—what were you supposed to do or say?

Without a doubt, the club would recognize you on the spot. You needed to craft a plan, an excuse—no. There was nothing wrong with being friends with other people. You didn't need to give them an excuse. After all, the truth would suffice—you were here for Adam, and you simply knew a good portion of the Seijoh boys because you went to middle school with them.

"What's wrong, [Y/N]-chan?" Oikawa raised a brow that only irked you off the more you looked at it. "I did this for you—for us. I'm always so busy with Takeru, and you and Iwa-chan are always so busy with studies."

"Sure," you said dryly. "What's your real motive, huh, pretty boy?"

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah, pretty stupid," you snapped. You quickly jumped to a likely conclusion. "I'm guessing this is because you want to gauge Tob—Kageyama's skills, don't you? I already told you, Shitty-kawa, that this competitiveness of yours will get to your head."

Oikawa pouted. "I just want to see how our cute little underclassman is doing—and destroy him! His sets are so good, so perfect, [Y/N]-chan. I can't even begin to compare; it's been so long since I've seen his sets up close!"

"He's not on the starting lineup because he's a first-year, Oikawa," you said. "Your plan is dumb."

"Joke's on you—I requested Kageyama to be the setter throughout the entire practice match!"

"You requested him, and you didn't even show up to your own practice match?" you exclaimed. The rising thought of Sugawara bubbled in your mind before you pushed it down. "You won't even get to see him play because you were at the doctor's office!"

"What do you mean?" Oikawa asked. You must have lost track of time because you and Oikawa were standing outside of the gym doors. The brunet motioned to the doors, promptly opening them for you. "We're right here—just in time, I might add."

"How punctual."

Oikawa let you in first, like a true gentleman, only to grab your (well, his—technically) track jacket. You shrugged yourself out of it, glaring at him, and you watched him put it on himself. He handed you his school bag as if you were a personal assistant to him.

Self-centered prick.

Apparently this self-centered prick was the center of attention for the Seijoh girls. He was the resident popular kid, and you hoped that high school wouldn't be the peak of his life. Oikawa walked in, and the girls who were on the second-floor immediately spotted his tall figure with ease.

You trailed behind him, watching as the girls shouted his name for his attention. Oikawa gave them a humble wave, which didn't fit his personality at all. 

"Don't get jealous, [Y/N]-chan," Oikawa teased.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, hotshot."

It seemed both of the teams were taking a timeout, as the Karasuno volleyball club was huddled around Mr. Takeda and the Seijoh volleyball club was huddled around Coach Irihata, who noticed Oikawa's flamboyant entrance. Iwaizumi, with a towel around his neck, rolled his eyes.

"Oikawa, glad you're back," Coach Irihata said. He noticed you behind Oikawa. "Suzuki, good to see you, too."

Upon hearing your name, Iwaizumi slid his eyes to you. You shot him a happy grin. Iwaizumi nodded in greeting and took a sip of his water bottle. Mad Dog was nowhere to be seen, and you figured that he was still out of play for a while. Sometimes, you'd drop by Aoba Johsai, and you'd see the second-year tailing Iwaizumi in true dog-like fashion.

Adam Suzuki was right next to Iwaizumi, looking unimpressed by you. His eyes were starry when he looked at Oikawa, but they were immediately muddied when it came to you—which made you somewhat jealous. Adam flipped you off.

"How's the ankle?" Coach Irihata asked Oikawa.

Oikawa signaled him an OK. "Just perfect. I should be able to play regular games now."

Just after Coach Irihata reprimanded Oikawa and told him to stretch, Oikawa patted you on the back enthusiastically. You told him that you were going to sit on the Karasuno side to avoid much suspicion (and hopefully get to talk to Kiyoko—but you kept this detail to yourself). Oikawa told you not to miss him too much. 

Iwaizumi gave you a fist-bump. You and he didn't need to say much unlike you and Oikawa. After all, you and Iwaizumi still met up for his English lessons. You planned to watch a movie with Iwaizumi soon as a little break from his grueling studies. It would be an American movie, which would improve his auditory skills.

When you ambled over to the Karasuno side, you were bombarded with questions, most of which you ignored.

Questions spewed from the mouths of Tanaka and Hinata. You wondered how they even had enough breath to force out the words like that. Daichi moreover looked confused but minded his own business; Tsukishima and Yamaguchi looked like they could care less. Sugawara only smiled.

You explained that you went to middle school with them and that you and the boys were childhood friends. 

"Is that why you were looking at them so intently in the magazine—Volleyball Monthly?" Sugawara asked, putting his hands on his hips. The smile on his face was purely amusement. "I figured you had a crush on Oikawa or something. You looked so focused."

You flushed furiously. "I was staring out of annoyance. Stupid-kawa gave me that magazine first thing in the morning; I hadn't even brushed my teeth yet when he stopped by my house."

Daichi took the explanation fairly well and finished the rest of his water while Sugawara continued to talk to you. Kageyama and Hinata were having their own separate conversation. Kageyama casually mentioned that he learned how to block and serve by just watching Oikawa.

Suddenly, Hinata exclaimed, "if you're the king, then that would make Oikawa-san the Great King!"

"Don't let him hear that," you said.

Sugawara didn't exactly know why he felt the way he did.

What he felt was purely irrational and was likely spouting from nowhere. You were just the girl who sat behind him that clicked her pen too many times that it annoyed the living shit out of Yoshida. You were just the girl who often forgot Japanese words so you'd say them in English before frantically looking up the correct Japanese word on your cell phone.

Sugawara noted a Seijoh boy's stare. This Seijoh boy wore a one on his practice jersey and donned spiky dark hair that couldn't possibly be combed down with hair gel. He must have been the vice-captain, as Oikawa—the one who was struggling to put on his respective jersey (number thirteen)—was the captain.

The Seijoh boy noted Sugawara's stare and quickly looked away. 

You had your back turned to the Seijoh boy, so you didn't notice the stare. Instead, you were rambling to Sugawara about your younger brother and how he was so obviously up to something, and you were oh-so determined to find out what. Sugawara appreciated your rants, but he wondered if you talked like this to anyone else.

No doubt you did, obviously. Sugawara, out of nowhere, felt dark and gloomy. He knew that you knew other volleyball players thought you were hesitant to name names, but he never would have expected that you knew star players. He felt as if he were losing and losing and losing. Was this what it felt like to be moving backwards?

Not only did Sugawara have to surrender his starting setter spot to a talented first-year, he also felt as if he were pitted against Oikawa and the other Seijoh boy, too.

Sugawara didn't know what competition he had gotten himself into, but he knew that it wouldn't be a very clean one.

"Holy shit," you said.

In front of you was an acceptance email.

You got accepted into the program you had been so stressed about over. You stared at the emblem of the school you applied to and then noted words such as 'congratulations,' '[Y/N] [L/N],' and 'welcome.' All were positive words in the English vernacular! 

Your heart bumbled in your chest. Your hands shook. You were overwhelmed with such an emotion that words neither English nor Japanese started to tumble from your open mouth.

Accepted! Accepted! Accepted!

Oh, how happy you were for yourself! You always knew you were a bad bitch. This email was your key into America. You had done it. Now that the doors were wide open, you had more selections to choose from when you were going to college. The paths were slowly showing themselves.

If you really wanted to, you could join Iwaizumi in America. If you really wanted to, you could live with your father in America. If you really wanted to, you could eat churros every day with Diba. If you really wanted to, you could learn everything in the world!

A part of you knew that you were qualified to get into the program despite your doubts. You weren't the egotistical type, but you had this underlying feeling that this program was meant for you. After all, you were a musician with a knack for defying all the odds, and you had enough personality to go around.

You left your room a mess as you rushed down the stairs in your slippery socks, nearly killing yourself in the process. Your computer was in your hands and almost fell apart due to your excitement. You had worked so hard and it finally paid off.

Your mother, who was sitting at the breakfast table, noticed your jubilant self.

She set down her mug and said, "[Y/N], you're making so much noise—"

"I got in," you said softly. "I got in," you said again. "I got in," you said but louder.

Mary Suzuki brightened up. She reached out to grab another sugar cube from her container. "Congratulations, [Y/N]. I always knew you were brilliant enough for this program. I'd be surprised if you didn't get in."

"Thank you," you said.

"Are you going to wait for your entrance exams for Japan universities?" your mother asked. She took a sip of her mug, letting the sugar sift through. "I'm sure you will make it into those as well."

"We'll see," you said, setting the computer down. "I'm just really happy right now."

"Even if you do get into the Japan universities," your mother said, "I urge you to go wherever you deem suitable. I think a Japanese university would be nice, considering you grew up here, but America isn't half-bad, either."

You sat down across from her. "I don't know if I'll be going to America for college, though. It's just satisfying to see an acceptance email for a program I studied hard for."

"Do whatever you please," your mother said. "You make the decision. I'll make your favorite dinner tonight, and then I'll invite over the Ushijimas—they'll be excited to hear the news. They did watch you grow up, too."

You mulled the thought of this American program in your head. 

Of course, you weren't fully set on this program. This was only a path among many others. It would be wise to wait until you were accepted into other Japanese universities and then choose from there. There were other programs abroad that you had been accepted to as well.

You just—you just wanted to feel happy. Even if it was for a fleeting moment such as this one.

Waiting for an email had been nerve-wracking, and you were proud of yourself for getting the worst of it over with. You were [Y/N] Suzuki-[L/N], and not many others went by the same name as you. You were uniquely yourself, and the program liked that. You wanted this moment to be immortalized.

Looking to the future was hard. Looking at change was hard. This was a small step toward your liberation. When you applied, you weren't applying as an extension of Mary Suzuki, you had been applying as yourself.

It might have been so insignificant, but to you, it meant the world.

"I'm—I'm proud of you." Your mother's words had shocked you, to say the least. Your mother hesitated slightly before adding, "[Y/N]. I'm proud of you, baby."

Tears sprouted in your eyes. The bridge of your nose tickled. Your heart burned.

These actions were so, so small. But you couldn't remember the last time your mother had expressed her pride for you. You knew that your mother was proud of you, no matter what you did. You had known this ever since you talked with Adam. 

However, to hear these words coming from her mouth, to hear Mary Suzuki refer to you with endearment, to hear your mother, in a way, say that she loved you made you feel an emotion unlike any other. This emotion couldn't have been described in words—both English and Japanese. You simply felt as if you had been engulfed in a warm hug that you had been robbed of for a very long time.

There was a sun that was supposed to rise every morning and a moon that was supposed to take its place every night. Good things only happened to you if you took them. You believed that love was a practice, and your mother did not practice it enough. This, today, right now—you had been thrown off.

You loved Mary Suzuki, you realized.

You couldn't read her mind, but you wished you could. You wanted to split open her brain and know every little thing she thought about you. You wanted to know if she loved you in the way you loved her, and you wanted to know what parts of you she hated about you so you could change. You wanted to know everything about your mother because she knew everything about you.

She made you believe that you had the potential to be as good or better than them all.

Because you were brilliant, she said. She always said you had been brilliant. When she said you were brilliant, did she mean you were a genius or that you were bright? Were you a talented and accomplished young girl or a vivid, intense ball of light that could feel no semblance of fear?

And when she called you brilliant, did she mean that she loved you?

In the end, you didn't know if you were crying because you had gotten accepted or if you were crying because your mother for a moment had shown you a glimpse of her true love.

When supper came around the corner, the Ushijimas—namely Wakatoshi's mother and grandmother—praised you for your work ethic. Wakatoshi was absent since he stayed at the Shiratorizawa dorms. You saw no need to tell him just yet, as there was still a chance that you wouldn't end up going to America.

Your mother served your favorite, which made you extremely polite for the rest of the meal out of gratitude. Adam rolled his eyes at your fake kindness. You stepped on his foot underneath the table, to which he responded by saying that he was an athlete and you could have permanently fractured his foot. You said you didn't care.

You had been so proud of your accomplishment that you printed the acceptance email and taped it to the refrigerator.

The neighbors weren't hesitant at all when it came to complimenting you, either. America, they exclaimed, wow, you must be so smart! You replied that it wasn't much.

Adam gave you a reluctant congratulations. You told him that he played well during the Karasuno and Seijoh practice match. He nearly smacked you because he didn't even play during the match at all. You could tell that Adam was proud of you, too, even if he didn't show it as much as the neighbors or the Ushijimas.

You wondered if he was just glad that you'd be out of the house.

Oikawa came to your house that night.

It was unprompted but a perfect coincidence. He had no idea about your acceptance into an American program. Instead, he went to your house because he felt like it, so it seemed. Oikawa noted the bright lights behind you and the chatters between your mother and Adam. By then, the neighbors and the Ushijimas had retired to their respective houses, leaving you and your family to clean up the mess.

He was standing outside of your door in a hideously layered outfit. You tried to focus your attention on his face so you'd feel better about him as a person. His hands were shoved in his pockets. He had his trademark lovable grin on his face.

"Let's go look for aliens," he said.

"Okay," you said.

Since your mother was in a rather good mood, she let you after you asked her twice.

Mary Suzuki only warned you to be home soon. She told you that aliens weren't real and that you should've grown out of it by now, but you paid her no mind. Instead, you ran up the stairs and grabbed a bag—which you stuffed with a throw blanket—before running out of the house.

Night had already fallen over Japan. In America, it might've been daytime with the lovely sun, but you and Oikawa were left with the moon for now. He loved the moon anyway, and you did, too.

Growing up, the Miyagi night sky was your planetarium. You never grew tired of looking at it. Looking at it with another person such as Oikawa felt exciting. It wasn't often he took you out to look for aliens, as he preferred to do it with Iwaizumi or by himself. He claimed that the aliens would take you because you looked like one.

When you were younger, you'd be annoyed by this fact. Now, you didn't particularly care for it, but strangely you couldn't help being excited when Oikawa invited you out.

He told you that there was an alien sighting in another country that you couldn't pronounce even if you practiced all day. He said that he had done the calculations, and therefore it would be visible in Japan in approximately ten minutes. He would be taking you to the hill beyond the forest—as that was where the best view of the sky was.

Now was not the time to be nostalgic for a hill.

However, this was the hill that watched you and all your endeavors. This hill watched you apologize to Oikawa, play around with Iwaizumi, and yearn for Sugawara. This hill—out of everything in the world—knew your secrets through and through.

You asked if Oikawa had a telescope.

He said he did not.

You called him unprepared and marched ahead of him. What sort of alien-spotter didn't bring a telescope? Oikawa laughed and asked for you to wait up for him. He jogged up to you, and you told him to die. 

All the neighbors could see was a teenage boy and girl bantering over the littlest of subjects. Even in the dark night with only lampposts to light the path, they could see that the boy was having the time of his life. He seemed to shine brighter than the moon itself, which was just a reflection of the sun's light, in the end.

Upon reaching the hill, you spread out a blanket for you to sit on.

Oikawa made himself at home, and you shooed him out. Oikawa pouted and you reluctantly let him back on the blanket. You and he sat up on the blanket, gazing at the night sky.

The last time you had been out here with Oikawa was back in middle school—it might have actually been your first year of middle school. Now that you and he were third-years in high school, all you could feel was this overwhelming feeling of sadness. This feeling of sadness could be considered a result of changes happening in your life.

All you wanted was for your life to be frozen right now, in this very second. You wanted to feel the aftermath of being accepted into a program forever. You wanted to feel apprehensive for the future at the same time wallowing in the past. You wanted to have Oikawa beside you as he pulled you out of your celebrating household to do something trivial and childish.

As a child, you wondered if you'd ever have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or someone to keep you company on your worst days—and you half-hoped that it would be Obi-wan Kenobi. As a girl on the edge of your teenage years and adulthood, you knew that your friendships and platonic love you had now would suffice for it.

You loved everything so much; you just didn't know how to give it.

To you, love was small. You had little loves all over the place now. You loved this; you loved now; you loved today. Until this moment, you hadn't really known who you were and who you wanted to be.

Love felt like the lasting warmth of a dog’s long nap on the wooden floorboards. Love felt like struggling to stay awake for your friend as they texted you about something they were excited about in the middle of the night. Love felt like explaining a new cuisine to your friend who had never had it before and was excited to hear about something new.

As you stared up at the night sky, looking for something that even remotely looked like extraterrestrial proof that aliens existed, Oikawa snorted.

"You look stupid," he said.

"I know."

Oikawa's heart pang. You didn't look stupid. Well, maybe just a little bit—but not to him. He wanted to summon up the courage to take back his words.

He wanted to tell you the truth but saying words that he really meant had never been his forte when it came to you. All he was good for was sugared words that meant nothing. He wanted to give you the truth. He wanted to give you the bare-boned, brittle, and disgusting truth that he loved you.

Oikawa loved you in the way he loved Earth. He had this feeling that if he were ever abducted by aliens, he'd look back at Earth from his place among the stars with this vibrant, living connection. Oikawa knew that he'd want to go back.

But you and he were not above Earth. You and he had smaller matters that didn't involve world-changing decisions or mankind triumphs. You and he were kids on the brink of college, deciding if it was okay to change how things were for the sake of advancement.

He was just so scared of saying the truth.

He knew that if you came in the middle of the night and knocked on his window, asking for him to drop everything and come with him, he would. Oikawa was forever in the pursuit of perfection to the point where it destroyed himself in the process, but he wouldn't mind if it meant following you around until you and he reached the ends of the earth.

"Do you think aliens have existential crises like we do?" The words left Oikawa's mouth before he could even process what he said.

Immediate embarrassment slammed into him like a truck. His cheeks felt warm with shame, and he opened his mouth to quickly blabber an excuse to you.

He just wanted to know if there was anyone out there who felt the same intense emotions as he did. Was there an alien out there with such grand love for another alien that they'd do anything for their happiness? If not, he'd be the first—and Oikawa would gladly be the first.

And sure, there were probably all sorts of aliens on all sorts of planets out there, but why would he visit them if he was with you on this planet?

"I don't know," you answered with the painful truth. "What do you think they have problems about in their little alien language?"

"Taxes, maybe."

"Oh, taxes, for sure," you said. You turned to look at Oikawa, and your cheeks warmed when you realized that he had already been staring at you. "Do you even know how to do them?"

Oikawa snorted and rolled back to look at the sky. "I'll find out eventually."

He had to look away from you. By the way you looked at him made him feel like you and he were the only creatures on this planet. He drowned out everything else, and the world collapsed around him. All he wanted to feel and know was that he mattered to you.

And for a woman so defeated when it came to passion, you were living a life far better than anyone Oikawa knew.

Oikawa glanced at the hand that was holding you up as you sat. Your fingers were splayed out carelessly and could have been easily broken. Pianist fingers, he thought. You paid no attention to him as you tried to squint your eyes to get a better view of the night sky that lacked the aliens you and he so desperately sought.

Slowly, Oikawa etched his hand close to yours. Just as the warmth of his hand whispered over yours, he yanked his hand away and clenched it into a fist. Oikawa looked bitterly at what could have been.

"Wait!" you exclaimed, sitting further up. Oikawa flinched. You pointed at the sky. "Did you see that? Did you see that just now? I think it might've been an alien, Tooru!"

His name on your lips always made his heart pitter-patter.

"Of course," he said thickly. "I think it might've been your real family coming to pick you up."

"I hate you."

And I love you, Oikawa thought.

"And I love you," Oikawa said.

Chapter Text

So, Kuroo's text read, I'm in Miyagi right  now.

No, you're not. You were in near disbelief. What was Kuroo doing in the Miyagi Prefecture out of all places? You wouldn't put it past him to simply be playing with your thoughts, but then again—Kuroo's tone implied otherwise.

Kuroo's reply was sarcastic, to say the least. Okay, God.

What are you even doing here? you asked.

I'm not here for you, if that's what you're asking.

Shut up, ugly, you shot back. You promptly pocketed your phone, ignoring the barrage of texts coming from Kuroo—likely asking for you to come back and text him.

You and he would frequently send letters back and forth as much as you and he would text. Sometimes your mother grew irked by the amount of money you spent on postage, but you paid it to mind. It was well worth the debate with your city boy. Conversation with Kuroo was diverse and made you feel as if every single word was unique to him only.

Kuroo boasted about the city and its infrastructure. He took photos of skyscrapers and buildings and crosswalks. He told you that the city was loud and annoying at times, but in a way, it was better than anything he had ever known. Kuroo stated that it was much more livable than your countryside prefecture.

He was wrong, you believed.

You told him about the expansive fields of Miyagi and how friendly all the people were. You had your own fair share of cities in Miyagi, but nothing beat the summer festivals and the purchasable fish at the Koinobori. Once, you had sent him photos of the gorgeous flower fields and ripe fruit, telling him that Tokyo paled in comparison.

Tokyo had its bright city lights, and Miyagi had its wide constellations.

Begrudgingly, you turned your phone on and ignored Kuroo's texts of Chemistry blabber.

I'll be able to see the Miyagi stars that you praise so much over letter. You say that you can see constellations in the Miyagi Prefecture? Can't wait to see the stars, American girl.

Trust me, benchwarmer. It's better than your city lights.

I'm the captain.

Okay, ballboy.

You wondered what Kuroo was doing in Miyagi, but you didn't wonder too hard. Curiosity could get you into all sorts of trouble. Namely, the police or some secret service for the government. Both were troubling, but nothing you couldn't handle.

When you arrived at school later that day, you noticed Sugawara was unusually excited. The teenage boy was always sunshine-happy, but today was marked differently from the rest of the days. You could tell. Sugawara's leg bounced up and down in class, and he chatted like a true schoolboy to Yoshida and you.

Amused, you leaned forward in your school desk, settling your cheek in your palm as Sugawara teased Yoshida for the cowlick in his hair. Yoshida self-consciously patted it down. Sugawara came for you next, noting how tired you looked. You were mentally exhausted from taking a metaphorical beating (courtesy to Kuroo Tetsurou, the ever-so-handsome Nekoma team captain). 

Sugawara was so continuously happy throughout the entire day that Yoshida and you kept casting each other side glances every now and then.

"What's wrong, Negative Nelly?" Sugawara prodded your head as if you were a haywire sixth grader's experiment. "Did one of your American rappers die again?"

You, with your head woefully placed on your desk, let out a muffled response: "No."

"She's just mad that she 'failed' her test in Modern Japanese Literature," Yoshida piped up with a hint of a snicker on his face. He had relentlessly mocked you for the entire year for your piss-poor grade in the class. Little did he know that you managed to obtain a tutor, and your grades were slowly climbing back up.

You shot your head back up to glare at Yoshida. "I didn't fail it. I'm doing better!"

"Whatever."

"I bet you only act like this because I'm the only girl who'll talk to you," you said.

Yoshida threw a piece of paper at you that pathetically fluttered in the opposite direction, swinging in little moons before hitting the ground. "Shut up. Kiyoko-san talked to me yesterday. She asked me to take something to one of the teachers."

"And you're proud of that?"

"She doesn't talk to you at all."

"Oh my God. Go foul someone already, Yoshida."

Yoshida made a face. "You always have to have the last say, don't you, Suzuki? Always quick to violence and quips. You don't play a single sport, do you?"

"I'll wring your neck for sport, if that's what you'd like."

Sugawara laughed. "You guys are always so hostile toward each other. Just relax. You know, in the future, Yoshida will become a world-class soccer player, and [Y/N] will become a—a movie director or something. Then we'll all laugh about it in the end!"

"Movie director?" you questioned. "Where did that come from, Mr. Education Major?"

"Off the top of my head."

"Okay, Grandpa."

"It's called stress, [Y/N]—"

Sugawara, you, and Yoshida kept up the conversation as if you three were second-years who believed they had all the time in the world together instead of third-years on the cusp of adulthood. Things like these moments didn't exactly last forever, which was strange and such a cold truth that even you couldn't bear to listen to.

Yoshida and Sugawara were probably never going to leave Miyagi, nevertheless the country. You had big plans, but you were afraid that they were so big that you couldn't even swallow them. Were you so ready to leave everything you knew behind?

Of course, you wanted to be someone, but to reach that goal, did you have to leave your kingdom? Your condensed little neighborhood tucked in the heart of the Miyagi Prefecture? Did you have to leave your world? Was the person whom you wanted to be outside of Japan?

And if you would leave, you'd be leaving your mother and brother behind. Were you ready to reach the clearing that was beyond the forest? 

You felt so many things, but none of them were real enough for you. You wanted tangible and genuine. You wanted your future to be malleable in your hands, gooey and waxy from the warmth of your hands. You wanted to be able to sculpt it as you wished and mold it as you saw fit.

"Damn, Koshi," Yoshida said. "What's got you all chipper today?"

Sugawara leaned forward to you and Yoshida as if it were a secret. For emphasis, Yoshida and you leaned forward to hear Sugawara's precious words. Sugawara said, "we're getting our groove back guys."

"Who's we?" Yoshida immediately questioned loudly, leaning back. He didn't look very amused.

"The volleyball club," Sugawara replied. "We've got ourselves a practice match with one of our rivals from back in the day. Back when we were good. And we're improving, too. We're getting better."

But you say that every year, you wanted to say. However, there was something nudging the back of your head that told you otherwise. This year could be different. This year could change Sugawara's life.

A rival team, too. 

If you weren't wrong, then Nekoma is an old-time rival of Karasuno—if what Kuroo was saying was correct. You weren't daft. Kuroo was in Miyagi for a reason, and the few things that got Kuroo out of bed were Chemistry, dogs, you (occasionally), and volleyball. Kuroo must have commuted all the way to Miyagi for—

For a practice match or a minor training camp.

Kuroo was being all dodgy then, but you had him figured out. You were Jedi Master [Y/N]! There was nothing that could stop you. You were a Jedi, born to equal the dark side.

You were, and had grown up as, Luke Skywalker although you were starting to feel like Anakin Skywalker. It was easier to see yourself in Anakin's footsteps nowadays. Anakin Skywalker wasn't a good person, per se, but he had his own struggles that were far more complex and intricate than Luke's. 

Your struggles mimicked that of Anakin attempting to swat away the itching, dark voice of the Sith in his mind rather than Luke fighting something tangible and real and right in front of his very eyes.

"What's the name of this rival team?" you asked, albeit you felt as if you could predict the exact words that would come out of Sugawara's mouth.

Sugawara paused. His voice came from the back of his mouth with a low, flat pitch—a perfect Japanese accent. "Nekoma High School from Tokyo. Why?"

You swallowed thickly. "Curiosity."

Curiosity killed the cat; however, satisfaction brought it back.

As the day dragged on, you wondered if you should ever bring yourself to ask Sugawara to see if you could tag along to see the practice match. You felt guilty, as you tagged along often without contributing anything to the volleyball team. You had no part in volleyball; you were neither a manager nor a player.

He seemed excited that the Nekoma team was coming over. Karasuno has, since you've been a high school student, had a constant losing streak in terms of practice matches. While they weren't bad, they weren't excellent, either. Nothing about them caught their eye, but Sugawara could be right—this year could be different.

Sugawara seemed to have this insane profound hope in him that you struggled to see in yourself. Perhaps that was what you liked so much about him. 

Recently, he'd been throwing you glances every now and then. You were studying and doing your best in school, as the time to apply to universities was drawing near. Sugawara wanted to do something excited or something blatantly disobedient—just for old time's sake—you assumed.

You didn't have time.

When you caught him glancing at you and asked him about it, Sugawara said nothing and turned his head back around—leaving you somewhat annoyed.

Boys, you thought bitterly.

The day ended with Sugawara nearly jumping out of the classroom, and Yoshida watched as a trail of dust followed the teenage boy's escape. You and Yoshida were left dumbfounded.

"Someone's excited," Yoshida remarked.

"Oh please," you said, packing up your materials. Kuroo flashed across your mind. "I might follow him."

Yoshida raised a brow. "Really now? Are you sure you don't have a crush on him or something?"

Your face heated furiously. "Is that the best you can do?"

"You sound embarrassed!" Yoshida taunted. "I'm right. I never miss."

"Can you miss this?" you asked, throwing your pencil case at him and hitting his forehead. Yoshida rubbed his forehead and caught your pencil case. "I don't have a crush on Sugawara, you dumb shit. I just want to see that rival team he keeps mentioning."

"These words..." Yoshida trailed off. He clenched his fist and held it over his heart. He looked pained—or constipated. "They hurt, Suzuki. One of these days, I'll be in a nursing home, about to die, and you'll regr—"

"Bye, loser."

"Wait! Suzuki! Your pencil case."

You gathered your supplies—including the pencil case that Yoshida tossed you—and promptly left the classroom. You checked in with your club, saying that you'd be a little bit late, as you had something to tend to. Your club, used to your antics, reluctantly took your excuse with disappointed looks.

Before crossing school buildings, you paused, checking left and right. You clutched your school bag closer to you, on the lookout for the Nekoma team. You passed a few first-years in the outside hallway, and you noted their bubbling excitement as they went to their clubs.

When you were a first-year, were you that excited?

As much as you regretted half of the actions you did during your first year of high school (as they were cringe-worthy and near inexcusable how many times you've attempted to prank Sugawara in a piss-poor excuse to hide your budding feelings for the man), you couldn't help but feel nostalgic for the past.

You wanted to move forward and connect. But the world was scary and daunting, and you were unsure if Jedi Master [Y/N] was ready for such a task.

The world was filled with the enormities of the people whom you hated—or whom you loved so much that you thought you hated.

You were apprehensive, about the future and about the Nekoma team. You knew of the Nekoma team, as Kuroo talked about them often like a proud father. He boasted of Kenma's analytical skills and Yaku's persistence. You hoped he boasted about you to them. You hoped he mentioned that you were the hottest woman he had ever met.

Before you was the ancient hall of Karasuno—one that hosted the small giant back in the old days. The exterior looked as if it were on its last breath, ready to crumble over and collapse any time soon. Its poles were rusted and dirt clambered up the walls.

The squeaking of shoes against a clean floor. The breaths and pants of worn out boys from doing practice laps. The shouts and calls for the ball to come to them.

Every sound you heard was beyond the metal doors of the gymnasium—a gymnasium that didn't exactly feel like home to you, but you'd visited it far too many times to call it stranger. The metal doors were partly open, leaving a small crack for fresh air to flow into the gymnasium.

"Kuroo-san," a higher pitched voice said—presumably a first-year of the Nekoma team from inside the gymnasium, "where are the water bottles?"

"Uh, ask that manager over there," a deeper voice replied. Kuroo.

"Yeah, but"—the first-year paused and went down a notch, barely audible—"she's a..."

"Huh?" Kuroo questioned, and you had to slap your hand over your mouth to prevent a giggle. Kuroo sounded genuinely confused. "She's a what? Dude, you're too quiet."

The first-year whispered, "she's a girl."

"Oh, boo-hoo," Kuroo said. "If this is how you'll act around Karasuno's manager, how will you act if we get a pretty manager of our own? Go talk to her."

You raised your hand against the metal door to pull it open so you could reveal yourself in true dramatic fashion. However, you paused once your fingers curled around the side of the door. 

Kuroo seemed to be exactly how he portrayed himself online. 

Just by the conversation, you could tell that he was snarky, friendly, and admirable. The first-year trusted him enough, and Kuroo seemed to be transparent, which was odd because all he did was lie and trick you online. Kuroo was plainly exposing himself for you. He loved volleyball. He loved dogs. He loved beaches.

Your hand fell to your side, and you settled for simply peaking through the sliver of the door crack. You must have looked like a stalker of some sorts to any outside party.

But your apprehensiveness trumped over your fear of being perceived as insane.

Interacting online with Kuroo brought out the best in you. It gave you time to think before you answered, it allowed you to sound educated, and it created leeway for more conversations without sounding flat or out of place. It was a tiny, eensy-weensy, little bit of you that you poured into your electronic device—it was called, well, the best in you.

Was this who you were in real life? Was the person whom you presented to Kuroo through a small screen really you? Would the [Y/N] that Kuroo know be as mean and as witty as the [Y/N] whom you knew?

Would Kuroo be disappointed in the person he saw before him? 

Your eyes scanned the gym.

You noted that Karasuno had a new man with them—some blond freak of a man, with piercings and a look that warned you to stay away. He looked like the man who owned a convenience store nearby, and in fact, he looked so much like the man that you wouldn't be surprised if he was that man.

The man was dressed in a tracksuit, akin to a coach's. You then chalked it up to Karasuno hiring a new volleyball coach—a new official volleyball coach. Ordinarily, it was Daichi—the team captain—who instructed his underclassmen.

Right across from the Karasuno team—who was easy for you to spot because of the first-year Hinata's bright, flaming orange hair—was the Nekoma team, a little less rowdy. Kiyoko passed the team, nodding at a Nekoma second-year who seemed absolutely smitten with her already.

Kuroo stood tall in the middle, laughing at a joke Kenma said—although knowing Kenma, it probably wasn't a joke, but rather simply him being unintentionally funny. He stuck out easily, even if you hadn't seen him in two years or in person at all.

He outgrew a small hunch, his shoulders far more square, broad, and open now. His bed head was as tacky as ever, a dollop of his dark hair falling over an eye of his (like some poorly cut bangs) that could only be annoying while playing volleyball. His skin was taut over his muscles, emphasizing how much he had grown into his charming physique.

And he smiled with his teeth. Yeah. He smiled with his teeth.

Kuroo was handsome. It astonished you how he managed to scare girls away by opening his mouth in science class. You? You were gorgeous. God sent you down here to wreak havoc based on looks alone. There was not a single flaw to be held. You were the most beautiful specimen to ever grace this earth.

But even the most beautiful specimen who had ever graced this earth had to question her looks. 

What if Kuroo didn't like you?

And as obvious as it was, you weren't tied to volleyball as everyone else was. You had no reason to be here other than wanting to be here. You wanted to see Sugawara's reaction to you knowing the conniving captain of Nekoma. You wanted to laugh alongside Kuroo while meeting his friends. But all you did was want.

Volleyball wasn't your thing. Volleyball was what your friends did. It only came up in conversation when someone mentioned it, and you would go, 'Oh, my friends play that sport for their school team' or when it came on TV, and someone (Oikawa or Iwaizumi—on a bad day, both) crashed at your house to watch it with Adam, a volleyball player.

And it was okay that volleyball wasn't your passion. You had other passions. You had the urge to eat at ungodly hours, and the urge to bother Adam as you stood at his doorway when he was trying to play a game and pretend you didn't exist. You liked to cook (only sometimes) and play the piano (recently, you've started to learn pop songs; your mother didn't seem to mind).

But these boys had individuality. They were in a clearing that was past the forest and the trees and the dense plants. They had found their calling that made them outshine the rest and clung to it, creating their own persona. Meanwhile, who were you outside of your own mother?

There was nothing for you in this gymnasium except for a bunch of volleyball-crazed boys with no room left in their mind except for the sport they played.

Your practice was elsewhere. It was not here.

Maybe you would make it on time to your club meeting.

You tore your eyes away from the door and began your walk to the other side of the school where your club meeting was held, pretending that you were the cat who was killed by curiosity, but this time, there was no satisfaction for your own revival.

"I think you should go to America," the Itachiyama girl said, flipping through the clothing rack at the outlet you and she were in. 

"I think you should wear this," you replied, randomly pulling out a skirt to hold it against your friend. "It compliments your black, wavy hair that you treasure so much."

The Itachiyama girl—finally named Aranyani—rolled her eyes. She self-consciously brushed that aforementioned hair over her shoulder and let the waves hit the small of her back. Her thimble hands sorted through the hangers, not minding your sarcasm at all.

After the Shiratorizawa camp, you and her exchanged phone numbers and remained good friends. You and she shared a tight bond throughout the years and hung out frequently.

You put the skirt back. "Be like that, then, Yani-chan."

Yani nodded her head. "It'd be nice to do something you want without a parent breathing over your back. Like, for example, you could—gah, well, I'm not too sure—buy alcohol."

"Yippee," you said.

"Is your mother like, against it?" Yani asked. "I don't see why she would be against you moving to America if she encouraged you to apply in the first place. Oh, wait, was it your father who helped you apply?"

"Ah, well, no," you said. "It was my father, yeah, but my mother isn't against my going to America. Ultimately, she said, it was my choice. But I can tell she wants me to stay."

Yani snorted. "Why would you stay? There's nothing for you here."

"My friends. You." You added, "my family."

"They'll still be here when you're gone," Yani pointed out. "When you're twenty-two, then it's a different story. You can always come back home, if that's what you really want after you go to the States."

You eyed her wearily. "You really want me gone out of your life, huh."

"More like I wish I was you," Yani said. "You get to go to America, [Y/N]-chan. That's exciting. America may not be the best country—I mean, name one election they haven't interfered in—but it's a chance to go elsewhere. You'd be stupid not to take the opportunity."

Shaking your head, you said, "Yani-chan, you're so cool."

She scoffed. "It's not that. You have a choice, obviously. I just think that it'd be a waste of your talents if you chose not to go. I might be mad at you, too, but I like spending time with you."

"I knew it," you said immediately. "You're madly in love with me."

Yani hit the back of your head. "No, dumbass. You're given—no, that's not the right word—you worked hard for these choices, and I know you well enough for me to say that you deserve this. What's holding you back?"

A bit of everything was holding you back, if you were honest. Everyone seemed to move forward to readily. Oikawa was going to Argentina—overseas—and albeit it was earlier than expected, you were told that he started his citizenship transfer already. Iwaizumi was still studying hard, only looking forward into the future.

Wakatoshi already had a set future in front of him; it was obvious by his plays that he was meant for something more than just high school volleyball. Sugawara was your favorite education major, and you could already tell that he'd be great with kids.

Were they so ready to leave you behind?

You had an opportunity to leap forward as well, but you didn't want to leave this. Not now. Not yet. You were born with the unfortunate talent of recognizing the moments that would soon become the good old days.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I don't think I'm ready to leave my mother just yet."

"Are you serious? Up and at 'em, girl," Yani said incredulously. "I'd immediately jump at the chance to get away from my own mother. She's a hellish monster who thinks she can set up her daughter with the friendly boy next door no problem."

"Is he cute?"

"Who cares if he's cute?" Yani sounded stressed and upset. To be fair, if you were in her spot where your mother had arranged a marriage for you, you'd be reasonably irked as well—and with your temper, you might have been explosively angry. "I want to be able to find my own cute, friendly boy without my mother in the way."

You didn't know what to say. Instead you nodded and swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry. That must really suck."

"Well, duh," Yani said, furiously combing through the racks of clothes with such intensity that a worker paused for a moment out of concern before wisely electing to help a different customer. "I'm mad because I can't seem to escape her greedy little hands. I want to be myself."

I feel the same way, you wanted to say, but the situation was different.

Everyone's experience was unique in the world. Yani's experience might have been cousins with your experience, but you figured that Yani's issues ran deeper into her blood and had more troublesome roots in the traditional area of arranged marriages.

"What I want is so frustratingly simple"—Yani was now tearing through the clothing rack—"but it seems I have to do the most to achieve it."

The forest of your mother was grand and held secrets that you would never know. Yet you wanted magic. In the hands of the universe, who were you except for a beggar?

You wondered if wanting was a sin. If you wanted and wanted, would you ever become satisfied with your own life? Perhaps you had been wanting for far too long, and it was time to focus on what you already had. But you felt and you knew that you were not a bad person for wanting to be free.

Your mother had done so much for you. She moved to Japan with you and Adam, and moreover, she was alone in the world. She was the one who woke up and killed the spider in the bathroom. She was the one who fixed Adam's bicycle and taught him how to do it for future reference.

Mary Suzuki, you knew, was always thinking, and you didn't know if she was thinking of you or anything else.

Did Yani's mother think about Yani? Of course she does, you thought. She's the one who arranged a marriage for Yani, after all. It might have not been good thinking, but at least Yani knew what her mother wanted.

Yani's boundless support toward your future astounded you. Because Yani was not able to hold the future you had—even though she envied it so much—she gave you her genuine advice, leaving no room for jealousy or sabotage. 

Maybe this friendship could be a model for future romantic ones, but it was far too early for you to be thinking about romantic love.

You were meant for something bigger and more holy. You were going to live forever.

"Anyway," Yani said, switching topics as she showed you a hideous dress, "what do you think of this dress? It's really not my style, but I think I could pull it off no problem."

Yani and you were in Tokyo at the moment, shopping and wasting money on useless materials that you'd likely never use again. It was convenient to meet up with Yani on days that you were already visiting Tokyo for Akaashi. If your mother knew that you left early from home not to catch up on studying but instead hanging out with a friend, she'd skin you alive.

Later on, when Yani and you parted ways, you began to head to the coffee shop you and Akaashi chose as your designated tutoring place.

Surely you were inflating your own ego when you said this, but you were definitely getting better at Japanese literature. It took many sessions, but you finally caught on to what Akaashi was teaching you.

You were starting to look forward to these sessions more and more, often conversing with the reluctant Akaashi who seemed to want to be anywhere but with you. It was understandable, to say the least. Kuroo pulled a favor for you—so kind!—and Akaashi was getting nothing out of it.

Today Akaashi wore a navy blue shirt with a cartoon tiger on it. His fashion sense was deteriorating. His messy black hair curled at the ends, giving him the look of a vintage high school American boy or a middle-aged woman who spends her time leisurely window-shopping at Home Goods.

You made a face. He asked why. You said nothing.

Akaashi Keiji had this sort of pretty privilege that allowed him to wear whatever he wished and style his hair however he wished and he'd still miraculously look like a model.

He and you sat at a table outside, with your homework spread out across the table and the pretty boy helping himself to the onigiri he had bought along the way. You were scribbling away at your homework, trying to remember what the answer was and combing through the script to see if you could simply reword the question to make it seem like the answer.

For a split second, you looked up at Akaashi, who had a rice grain sitting nicely on the dimple of his cheek as he had a book cracked open for him to read. He had an uncapped pen and was hastily scrawling words on the margin of the book.

He reads for fun, you thought dryly, and he has a rice grain on his cheek. Should I tell him?

Akaashi noticed your gaze and quirked a brow. He paused his writings. "What's wrong, Suzuki-san?"

You motioned to your own cheek. He took the cue and wiped the grain off.  You sighed and leaned back in your chair. Your eyes fell to your pencil scratches on the paper. "Are you still set on calling me by my last name?"

"Do you have a reason why I shouldn't?"

"Not really," you said. "But I wouldn't mind if you called me by my first name. I'll still call you Akaashi, though, if that's what you want. It doesn't have to go both ways."

Akaashi pursed his lips. He looked back down at his book and flipped the page. His eyes skimmed the words up and down and his pen started dancing around the margins of the book again. "I'll just go with Suzuki, then."

"Fine by me," you said. After a pause, you opened your mouth again. "What book are you reading?"

"Do your work."

You bristled at his cold remark. You began listing off attributes. "Mean. Rude. Cold. Unfeeling. Terrible. Emotionless. Blunt. Cheeky."

Akaashi's eyes flickered up to you. "Are you describing yourself?"

You stared at him. "See? Cheeky."

The boy across from you sighed. He closed his book and showed you the title. "It's an English book from the 1800s. I happen to like literature outside of school. This is a Japanese translation, of course. Not everyone is fluent in English like you."

His words stung somewhat. "Oh, okay," you said. "I—I think I know that book."

Akaashi briefly scanned you in a blink of a second. Words came from his mouth quickly. "Sorry. It's a really nice book. It's a romance novel set in Europe."

"Why're you writing in it?"

"I'm annotating," Akaashi responded. "It's where I comment or highlight parts that I find important and parts that I really like. It's sort of like my own personal footnote."

You nodded. "That's really cool, Akaashi."

Pregnant silence followed, and just as you were about to resume your homework, Akaashi spoke up. "Would you like to annotate a page? I'd like to see your—your thought process."

It seemed like an excuse to break the awkward quietness that seemed to fall sporadically during your sessions with him. While there were lengthy conversations at times, it always seemed to fall back to this rickety, uncertain beat that seemed like a ping-pong match between two inexperienced players.

He looked a little nervous. Akaashi seldom made the first move in conversation, as he was very calm and composed. He didn't seem like the explosive type, unlike his friend Bokuto—whom you met briefly a few years ago. He must have been the perfect piece to Bokuto's puzzle but not yours.

Not all personalities automatically lined up at first, you knew. Not everyone was going to be like you and Kuroo. However, you were determined to be friends with your Modern Japanese Literature tutor. Maybe he'd go easier on you.

You took the open book and pen from him. 

You stared at the Japanese.

"What do I say?" you asked him. You looked over the page that was presented to you. There was none of Akaashi's annotations. It was purely the author's own words.

Akaashi didn't move. Instead, he intensely stared at the book and pen in your hands as if he regretted giving them to you in the first place. "Anything you want."

Hesitantly, you flipped to the previous page. "May I see what you wrote so I know what to—"

Akaashi uncharacteristically cut you off. "You develop your own opinions with your own annotations. That's the whole point. You create opinions based on the author's words. Taking someone else's opinion would be like tainting and infecting your own."

His words were blunt. Akaashi was neither a kiss-ass nor a suck-up, but he retained his cold politeness. You knew that he could be kind—somewhere underneath his pretty eyes and romantic lips—but not to you. For some reason, he didn't seem to like you.

"Ouch," you said. You flipped the page back to the one you had been looking at prior.

"I think," Akaashi said, "annotating is an intimate work of art. It's personal and uniquely yours, so sorry if I'm harsh."

Akaashi watched as his pen in your hand started to doodle along the margins of his book. He didn't know why he was so compelled to give you something of his. The cap on the end of his pen was dancing in familiar short-cut strokes. It almost sounded like music—but if he ever said that out loud, you might have considered him insane.

You looked determined, he noted. Did he scare you that much? You were older than him by a year or so—maybe by less. He was respectful, or at least he tried to be respectful, anyway.

You sneezed. 

Is someone talking about you, Suzuki [Y/N]? Akaashi wondered. Was there someone out there who was talking about you or thinking about—

Well, there was him. 

He technically was thinking about you. Whether his thoughts were good or not was up for debate. All that mattered was that some of the thoughts in his cloudy, murky head were about you. You and the dirt underneath your fingernails. You and that face you made when you didn't understand something. You and that little bit of food in your teeth when you laughed at a joke that you made.

Akaashi didn't know why he wanted you to write in his book either. Maybe because he felt bad for being a little rude to you. Your writing would be in pen, too, which meant he couldn't remove it. He might have something he would want to say, and there would be no room to write.

But he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Annoyed? Just a little bit. But not angry. Never angry.

Whatever.

Maybe, around you, he could stop thinking so much. Thinking brought on headaches, and headaches called for pain medicine. Pain medicine meant money, and nobody wanted to talk about money except for capitalists, business majors, and those who think they know what they're doing.

Akaashi would be lying if he said he didn't want to see what you wrote in his book.

Dipping your head to look at your fancy recital shoes, you felt overwhelming sadness wash over you. Grief weighed on your shoulders in a similar manner to how Atlas had to carry the world on his shoulders.

It was ironic how the sun shone over your head, its rays beating your back over and over again. The sky was painted with a brilliant hue of blue, and the clouds were clotted over the canvas. It was a pleasant day for climbing rocks or any other outdoor activity, but it wasn't fitting for a dreary event such as this.

You wore a black dress that fell to your knees—and you had worn this exact dress to a recital a few months ago. You carried Oikawa's black umbrella that you forced him to bring for you over your head. It provided you ample shade that did nothing to stop the sun's heat, but you figured it was the thought that counted.

Iwaizumi was standing next to you, wearing a tailored black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and growing muscles that never ceased to amaze you.

There was a small hole in Oikawa's backyard that you and Iwaizumi were standing in front of—courtesy of Oikawa Takeru, who gladly dug you a hole with his plastic shovel from when he was a babe. There was nothing in the hole.  It was just a dirt hole, and right next to it was a sad heap of dirt and mangled grass.

It was a Monday, to top it all off.

A horrible Monday. The day that most would consider the start of the week, often bypassing Sunday. Monday was the start of business days and school and everything hellish.

Oikawa opened the door to his backyard. Takeru was shouting something after him. You and Iwaizumi watched as Oikawa was held back by the hem of his black dress shirt by his bratty bald nephew.

"No, Takeru, you can't join us!" Oikawa snapped. "This is for adults. Calm, mature, funny adults!"

"You aren't any of these things, Uncle Tooru!" Takeru whined.

"I said funny!" Oikawa said furiously. "Let me go, Takeru! [Y/N]-chan and Iwa-chan are waiting for me! Stop embarrassing me and go play inside with your dolls."

Mrs. Oikawa joined in. She harbored Oikawa's trademark grin and eyes. She looked at you and Iwaizumi, gave a brief wave, and then looked down at Takeru. 

She planted her hands on her hips and said, "Takeru-chan, come inside. Oikawa and his friends need to do something, and then, if you ask nicely, maybe they'll let you join them."

Takeru, albeit reluctantly, let go of Oikawa's shirt. Oikawa tucked in his dress shirt with a firm, annoyed pout. His brows were quirked, as if he expected an apology from his nephew. However, Oikawa decided that it wasn't worth his time and decided to join you and Iwaizumi near the hole.

Mrs. Oikawa closed the door, and promptly after, Takeru's small head poked through the window over, adamantly watching you, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa.

He, like Iwaizumi, wore formal attire—a black dress shirt and proper pants. He also wore dress shoes which were so tacky that you avoided looking at them so you could think better of Oikawa as a human being.

Oikawa was a little more leaner than Iwaizumi but taller. Oikawa fit perfectly into his shirt and pants whereas Iwaizumi had his sleeves cuffed hidden underneath his suit, as it was a secret only you and Iwaizumi knew.

The light brunet held a plastic container in his hands—a Tupperware. It was as large as your hand. You eyed it warily. Iwaizumi eyed it with disappointment. Oikawa looked up at you and Iwaizumi from the Tupperware. He noticed your exasperated faces and made a face.

"What?" he questioned. He shook the Tupperware around, eliciting a horrified reaction from you. "What's wrong?"

"Seriously?" Iwaizumi crossed his arms. "A plastic container? Is that the best you could do?"

Oikawa looked hurt. "You're so mean, Iwa-chan! I'm not going to use a plastic bag or a paper towel. This is proper. This plastic container actually cost money, you know."

"You disgust me sometimes," Iwaizumi said. "This is so stupid. Why are we even doing this anyway?"

You shot your head to look at Iwaizumi. "Hey. It's not stupid. This is mandatory, Iwa."

Iwaizumi looked almost amused—and delighted—in your reaction. "If you say so, Suzuki. Though, I can't see what's so mandatory and not-stupid about burying a dead fish."

Zacco the fish.

After living an unusually long life for a goldfish, Zacco died under the care of Oikawa Takeru whom no one blamed except for Oikawa. Takeru complained that old age took away Zacco's life whereas Oikawa thought otherwise. It horrified Oikawa to see the beloved fish whom he took care of as a child bubble up, dead, on the surface of the water.

He died on a Sunday. Oikawa kept him in a "safe place"—which, apparently, was a Tupperware out of all things—until the next day. You urged Oikawa and Iwaizumi to dress their best at the funeral, as your child (and Oikawa's) had died. It was every parents' worst fear to see their child die before them.

Iwaizumi told you that it would happen eventually, so you blocked Iwaizumi from your mind temporarily until he apologized.

Zacco's lifeless golden body was flopped inside the Tupperware. After Oikawa had shaken it around, his fins were close to falling off and he looked more like a heap of guts than anything. Iwaizumi had the right to be disgusted by it. This was not the child that you and he adopted.

Some part of you felt a longing toward your fishy friend. It was nostalgic, almost, to see him go after being with him for so long. He was only a small part in your life, but you were all he had known.

You only had one lifetime with Zacco, and this was it.

"My baby," you mourned, a hand tentatively going over your mouth.

Iwaizumi and you observed Oikawa as he lowered the Tupperware into hole. Oikawa crouched, patting the dirt over the Tupperware and the hole. Your fish—Oikawa's fish, Iwaizumi's fish—was now in the ground, gone. Perhaps not six feet below, but for a fish, it was quite some ways down.

And when you said goodbye, you died a little.

"I hope he's partying it up in fishy heaven," Oikawa said, wiping the dirt off his hands on his nice dress pants. Iwaizumi winced. Mrs. Oikawa would definitely come after Oikawa for such a reckless move. Oikawa stood up and ambled over next to you. 

You shifted your umbrella over Oikawa's head, shading you and him effectively.

Mrs. Oikawa, from inside the house, peeked through the window next to Takeru. She saw Oikawa, you, and Iwaizumi standing side by side over the pitiful hole that Takeru had dug. No words, no eulogy was said—or needed, in fact. There was only a comfortable quiet for what was lost and for what had yet to come.

Oikawa's mother knew that the three kids she had watched over were growing up—far too soon for her to be comfortable with. The boys were only growing strong, both physically and mentally, and you—well, she was proud of you, most of all—because you were exceeding the young woman Oikawa's mother had thought you would be.

The loud love Oikawa held for you and Iwaizumi could be quiet at times, but it didn't make it any less magnanimous. Deep down, Mrs. Oikawa wished that the days would keep running like a movie reel, clicking and clicking and clicking.

How she would pay to see you kids never grow up and never learn.

Oikawa must have said something stupid again. Iwaizumi turned his head sharply and barked something at him. You giggled at Oikawa, who flushed a bright red. 

Ah, so it must have been something stupid and embarrassing.

Mrs. Oikawa looked at Takeru for a moment. Takeru's eyes were wide open, and she could read them easily like a book. Takeru wanted what Oikawa had. He looked up to his uncle albeit making fun of him at times. But in the end, Oikawa was truly fortunate to have friends that he held so dearly.

When Mrs. Oikawa looked back, Iwaizumi was holding Oikawa by the collar, and Oikawa was pulling your arm desperately. The umbrella was on the ground, forgotten, as you were trying to escape Oikawa's grasp.

And she laughed.

It was your last time visiting America.

You could always choose to come back to study, but you weren't too sure about it just yet. You had to bide your time and wait—after all, that was what you were good at.

You were playing piano for Diba again.

It didn't feel like the last time you'd see Diba ever. It didn't feel final. You lacked a satisfactory ending with her. You still felt as if there were many more years of playing and talking to come. There was still a future, right? A future where things never changed or progressed, a future where it was the same life you lived over and over again—

Well, that couldn't exactly be called a future.

If you didn't end up moving to Japan, would you be like Diba? Would you have grown up by her side and acted like her, too? Would you be a completely different person than you were right now? There was no other person in the world whom you'd rather be by than Diba.

You felt like you were bursting.

As you played the piano, softly and contently, you could hear Diba lulling to sleep right next to you. The piano bench that could once fit both you and Diba now was too small. Diba was hanging off of the edge, her legs outstretched to the side as her head was draped heavily on your shoulder.

Sure, you were passionless. You existed, but you didn't live. You had all the time in the world to find out what you loved, and if you didn't have time, you'd make more. You didn't need a big passion, really. You were just unfortunate enough to grow up next to children who found what they were willing to live for.

You still hadn't tried all the ice cream flavors in the world. You still needed to learn how to play the trombone so you could wake Adam up in the middle of the night. There were still so many adventures you and Iwaizumi could go on—surfing on California beaches, you had promised him, I've always wanted to try it—and so many constellations that you and Oikawa could see.

Wakatoshi and you had hayashi rice to make at home (there were far too many vegetables in your refrigerator for your liking), and you still had to ride a horse with him, even if you ended up not going to Shiratorizawa Academy like he had hoped.

Little passions.

Maybe you could go on with living.

Diba hummed along beside you, her voice lilting and pausing every now and then. Her sighs began to sound more like soft purrs—snoring. The sound coming from the piano was flexible and so, so soft. It was so warm and so accepting.

Your fingers tapped the keys, and you were happy—the most important part. Even if you weren't good at it, you were still allowed to enjoy what made you happy. It was unfortunate that kids your age were born with this unspeakable, great, grand talent, but in the end, hard work trumps natural gift.

And hard work vs. natural gifts didn't matter to you. You were satisfied with this piano. You may not have been satisfied with this environment in America, but you had found this odd kindling of joy when playing. It was strange and it wasn't like anything you had imagined at all.

Passion was fire and movement, you thought.

But passion must have been different for all sorts of people.

Passion could taste like dripping honey or sweet fruits. Passion could be the languid strokes of paint on paper. Passion could be cheap gold or counterfeit money that looks like the real deal but is sadly a phony. 

Your passion was quiet and content. A lullaby that mothers sang to their children to sleep. Imperfect. You were a tornado, and you loved yourself for it—and hopefully in the future, you could learn to love the messy trail you left behind as well.

But for now, you'll bask in the weather after the storm.

Butterflies fluttered in your chest. You felt in love, and you felt loved. You were a mantle of power. This mantle of power made mistakes and felt anxious. This mantle of power was a teenage girl incarnate, but a mantle of power nonetheless. This mantle of power felt all emotions despite being meant for something more than mortal.

Diba—your American counterpart.