Chapter Text
You are Tendou Satori and you must have angered the gods somehow.
The first leg of your 18-hour flight was delayed, and while the airport administrator in Paris has been really kind and helpful, your rearranged travel spanned well over two days with long hours spent in transit. You find nothing to criticize in the shower of your transit airport – but it grants little refreshment when sleep is so scarce. The chair you’d spent 4 hours on in transit trying to sleep was far from comfortable, and you couldn’t rest much afterward either as you were found by the most excitable flight attendant on the plane who checked on you every hour or so to ask whether you would like snacks, drinks, or duty-free perfume.
You arrive sleep-deprived and exhausted beyond belief – the long train ride and the subsequent fifteen minutes spent with a chit-chatty taxi driver doesn’t make your state any better.
Due to the delays you barely have the time to drop your luggage off at your mom’s place before you sit back in the taxi and head to the gymnasium. You miss the first four sets entirely, and by the time you arrive, the Jackals have already gotten close to winning the fifth.
It doesn’t stop you from rooting for the Adlers, though. On the contrary.
The sound of shoes squeaking, the ball’s heavy thud against the flooring, the cheers of the spectators – it’s like a siren’s song drawing you in and you walk up to the very edge of the seats, squeezing yourself against the railing, searching for Wakatoshi on the court.
You catch him mid-air and there is no exhaustion that could stop you from appreciating this sight: his form is ever so beautiful: as if he was floating in the air and time stopped around him for a moment. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for the spike. He has perfected the technique he was so insecure about, you realize, as he smashes the ball down with incredible power, sending chills down your spine at the same time.
You have no lingering desire to step on the court. You don’t feel the urge to reclaim your high school paradise. You found your new calling, after all, and it took you to the other side of the planet – burdening you with this after-travel fatigue now, which makes your muscles scream in pain and your eyelids heavy as lead. You never regretted a second of it – making sweets is art and science at the same time, the amalgamation of virtues you possess and ones you're still learning: creativity and curiosity on one end, patience on the other. It keeps your brain occupied for long enough not to miss home – but every now and then you find an article about Japanese volleyball phenomenon Ushijima Wakatoshi and you crave the closeness you've once had: entering his dorm room, flopping on his bed, glancing at him from that underside angle which makes Wakatoshi's jaw look so sharp as if he was not even human anymore but a marble statue from the Louvre.
You don’t expect the longing to happen, not when Wakatoshi is right before your eyes in the flesh, playing on the very same court you played together in high school. Yet, as Hinata Shouyou picks up Wakatoshi’s spike, a feeling that knocks the air out of your lungs rushes you and leaves you breathless.
Parallels flash before your eyes, of another match with these two facing off, years ago.
That burning, fierce presence that demands the toss has not changed one bit. Fakes or decoys don’t work when Wakatoshi gets in the zone like that – when he decides to take on the entire opposing team by himself, or challenge a player on the opposite side of the court to a one-on-one battle, his presence cancels everyone else’s.
Opening your mouth to shout, you feel almost homesick.
Your voice gets muffled by the sound of the crazed crowd – only the pain in your dry throat signals that you are, indeed, screaming at the top of your lungs.
You want Wakatoshi to hear you.
Back in high school, it was easier. You stood by his side on the court or you watched him from the sides waiting for your time to switch with the libero and your voice always reached him. You could see it in the way his shoulders moved, the way his back arched into the jump. Almost as if he was proud, having you there cheering for him.
Like a time capsule unearthed in an inopportune moment, thoughts you had buried deep and long ago resurface all at once. Memories of rare lazy afternoons when you had no practice so you hit up Wakatoshi in his room, quiet nights where you hummed impromptu tunes as Wakatoshi turned the pages of the Jump he borrowed from you, and cozy mornings when you found yourself flush against the back of Wakatoshi, limbs tangled together because he never woke you up after you snoozed off in his bed – they all spill out in front of your hazy, tired eyes, like shiny glass beads, each encapsulating a moment you cherish deeply.
Back in high school, Wakatoshi was always in arms reach.
In a way, he still is – the one who’d grown hesitant to grab his arm is you.
How many times did you try to call him this year? And how many times did you actually pick up the phone?
When did your fingers stop itching to send a message to Wakatoshi when something amusing happened? When was it that you managed to convince yourself that it’s better if you don’t bother him with every little thing?
It’s not the distance that stands between you – it’s the concept of adulthood, a bunch of dull grey social norms you never thought could mold you, and yet here you are, watching your best friend whom you didn’t call in almost a month now.
You want Wakatoshi to hear you.
You have so many stories to tell.
The ball lands in Adlers territory, ending the match, and you watch Wakatoshi shake hands with Hinata.
You can’t help but wonder if it was a mistake, keeping your relationship vague – hiding behind innocent touches and longing gazes, but never crossing that imaginary line. You know you can blame it on fatigue, but your mind wanders onto the lands of what-ifs, and you imagine greeting your best friend with the best kiss, fresh from France.
*
You are Miya Atsumu.
You sit at the counter of your brother’s restaurant after closing hours. You have offered to help him select the new seasonal flavors for the menu because you are that good of a brother – and also because of free food – and even though you came here to have fun you feel seriously attacked right now.
The whole thing started with ‘Samu saying, “You've been sighing a lot lately,” and you nodded. Practice’s been tiring. New players joined, old ones left, and you still haven’t managed to get used to the new balls. Your new serve has not come along as easily as you had hoped for, either.
“You know what’s your problem?” ‘Samu asked then, and you, unsuspectingly, made eye contact.
It was a mistake.
‘Samu, the dramatic bastard, took a moment to savor his win before he delivered the final blow. “You always want what you can’t have.”
This happened seconds ago, and you feel sour even without the bite of umeboshi onigiri in your mouth. You swallow and give ‘Samu a look.
He raises a brow.
You scoff.
“Nah, don’t brush this off,” ‘Samu says, hitting your hand away from the jar he keeps his fatty tuna in.
You shrug. Sure. You’re a greedy beast, you admit it. You take pride in it, even. It’s greed (and spite, and an unhealthy amount of jealousy) that propels you forward. So naturally, you seek out things you don’t have: better grasp on the ball, sharper aim of your serves.
It’s obvious though that ‘Samu’s not thinking about your insatiable nature when it comes to volleyball. So you think about the times you borrowed his clothes and his snacks – hazy memories of 'Samu shouting something about how puddings are not borrowable resurface – and you make an unimpressed face.
“You know very well that I’m not talking about how you always stole my pudding back in high school," 'Samu says as if he could read your thoughts. You're about eighty percent sure that's not possible, though the slim chance that twin telepathy exists has always frightened you.
"It’s not even about my favorite hoodie that you took when you moved out,” he adds.
Rationally speaking, there's no doubt he noticed – he wore that hoodie almost every day – still, you were somewhat hoping he would never bring it up. You consider yourselves good siblings. Good siblings forgive each other – even if they keep tabs on each and everything the other did, for strategic purposes.
“‘Tsumu,” he pokes you in the shoulder. “I’m talking about people.”
“People?” you ask. You think you don’t deserve this.
Sure, you’ve asked when the new rice comes.
You love rice and Kita-san’s is the best. It has little to no connection to the feelings you've developed for your high school volleyball club’s captain when he showed his caring side, though.
You don’t think you dwell on childhood crushes and you find it unfair for ‘Samu to rub it in your face.
“You know what I’m talking about,” ‘Samu says.
“I don’t,” you argue.
In fact, you do.
You keep thinking about Kita-san every now and then. Eating your brother's rice balls, you wonder how his rice farming goes. Walking past your old school on your way to visit your parents, you reminisce about the good ol' days, when life was easier, even if it didn't seem so.
You think you deal well but in fact, you kept the note Kita-san left you that one time you developed a fever during volleyball practice.
It's all crumpled and faded, but you swear to yourself you can still make out the words.
And so, you keep feeding yourself lies.
You gain a new crush roughly every twenty minutes or so, and you collect them with the excitement of a child collecting stickers. You spend long train rides letting your thoughts roam free, wondering about what-ifs and least likely scenarios.
In big crowds, your eyes wander, following people who resemble that old classmate of yours whose hair turned ruby in the setting sun. When Bokkun goes rogue, your thoughts are with Aran whose presence you learned to appreciate too late and whose company you miss enormously. You remember that boy from cram school from time to time – his name long-forgotten – who blushed fervently around you.
You think of old teammates and rivals, and you think you can deal. That you have your act together.
Your brother disagrees.
“You’re doing it again,” ‘Samu has the nerve to say.
You look ‘Samu in the eye, stare him down. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t even flinch. Living together for the past twenty-two years and growing up together works against you now.
“I’m not telling you what to do, you’re an adult,” ‘Samu continues, turning away from you to pack something away. “But is he really worth it?”
There’s a prickly feeling under your skin as if invisible fingers tugged at it to uncover all the things you hid inside.
“Who?” you ask. Sadly, you know the answer before ‘Samu can open his mouth.
Really, he should not open his mouth.
Yet he does.
“Sakusa.”
“What? No. I don’t have a crush on Sakusa.”
“Don’t you?” ‘Samu raises a brow. He makes that half-smile he learned from Suna that makes him extremely punchable. If you were not afraid to knock over the jar of fatty tuna between the two of you, you would probably try to smack it off his face.
Sure, ‘Samu can toss a ball, and it’s maddening how adequately he does it, too, but he doesn’t have the soul of a setter. He can’t possibly understand the connection between a setter and their players. There is nothing wrong with being fascinated by your wing spiker, especially when you get to play with a character so unique…
You scoff again, rising from your seat, wrapping your scarf around your neck.
“Will you come to the game?” you ask as a goodbye.
“We’ll see,” ‘Samu responds.
You step out into the chill night, a sneeze probing your nose.
You’re ninety percent sure it’s Sakusa trash-talking you.
**
You are Sakusa Kiyoomi.
You are aware of your shortcomings. You know that you catch colds easily and that your flexibility comes with a price: your muscles can tear if you don’t warm them up properly. You know that you can be stupidly stubborn, though you never think it to be stupid. You also know that you can be blunt and that you have difficulties with social subtleties. You know that your sense of humor is comprised solely of irony and sarcasm. You know that your left ear is slightly bigger than your right.
You are aware of your shortcomings – and even if you wanted to forget about them for a second, Motoya keeps reminding you.
“You’re staring again,” he hums, hanging over the back of the bench with the carefree attitude of someone who doesn’t have a game in ten minutes or so.
“So what?” you ask back. “It’s not like he would notice.”
“Alright, that’s fair,” Motoya laughs, patting the bench as he straightens. “ He won’t notice. But what about your teammates?”
“What about them?”
“They might.”
You sigh, stretching your shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be leaving soon?” you ask. “Let me warm up.”
Motoya smiles. You wonder what kind of higher deity he bribed to look so kind and helpful when all he does is broadcast your fears to the world and watch you burn.
“You really can’t do things midway,” he teases. “How long has it been, this little crush of yours?”
You glance over the court, watching the Adlers group together for a meeting.
You were in middle school when you first met Ushijima Wakatoshi.
Middle school boys were exceptionally rowdy, going days without a bath and taking pride in deep diving for boogers. Wakatoshi, in comparison, had his own handkerchief and used it to dry his hands off. He was also an incredibly talented player. The seeds of passion had already taken root in you for volleyball, and meeting Wakatoshi set it all ablaze.
You hear Motoya chuckle. You let him be.
Be it someone with an extra change of gym shirts or a bottle of hand sanitizer at hand, you have fallen for countless people in the past as if your heart was awarding careful planning and preparedness.
You fall in love easily, so what of it. Others do, too.
Plus, it’s not like you act on it.
You could count on one hand the number of times Motoya managed to make you watch one of his favorite Korean dramas but not the times you felt like tearing your face off watching the same characters run and shout and scream and cry over mundane things like love.
Such a waste of time and energy.
“Say,” Motoya leans close, the smile on his face slowly morphing into something more evil. “How about your teammates? Anybody caught your eye yet?”
You stifle a sigh, stretching your arms far above your head.
Contrary to your bad first impression, you did consider Hinata. Since high school, you’ve become more flexible in your judgment, and Hinata has proved many times that he also changed. He is not the over-excited kid anymore who caught a cold leaving his team to lose. You see how he carries himself, what he eats, how he trains everyday. You find it admirable. Yet your thoughts don’t linger enough on him for you to admit it as a crush, for he also has his moments of goofiness, and mainly because as soon as you’d start to think about it, Atsumu does something dumb, stupid or humiliating which draws your attention away.
“No one,” you reply and feel the relief as Motoya, instead of pushing further, waves and walks up towards the bleachers. You look after him until he disappears through the gymnasium door, then you sink down to the ground to continue your regimen.
You hear Hinata’s excited voice above your head as you relax your wrists against the ground, but your eyes wander off to the other side of the net.
Feelings are like autumn leaves in your eyes. Fleeting, they come and go.
Only this one crush persists.
Wakatoshi is a simple man, some say; in your eyes he is clean. Like a sleek modern building of pure white walls and tall glass windows in the neighborhood of old and dusty rowhouses, roofs battered up and leaking, your find your gaze drawn to him, lingering.
He is a perfectly imperfect human being. He doesn’t do things on purpose, he just happens to be the kind of person who is prepared for any and all occasions. He carries sports cream, cooling spray, and a proper first aid kit, he always has an extra hand towel in his bag. He cleans the neck of the bottle before he drinks from what he buys from the vending machine.
He puts a nasty, nasty spin on his serves.
You like Wakatoshi for his straightforward approach to life and volleyball and so, though you know you would never act on it, you allow yourself to crush on him.
And so, your eyes wander off once again and you let them linger.
You’re aware of your shortcomings, and you’ve come to accept that there are things you cannot change.
***
You are Ushijima Wakatoshi and you were born lucky.
You know this as an undeniable fact, even when life humbles you from time to time.
You know you are lucky because your father stood up for you to use your left hand back when you were a child and he greets you with a big smile and an even bigger hug when you visit him. He tells you over and over that he watches all your matches and takes you to his favorite restaurant. He gives you a few tips and tricks and encourages you to switch things up.
You know because your mother, though showing no signs of interest in it, has always supported your passion for volleyball from the shadows, feeding you balanced meals and buying you the best equipment possible. She doesn’t often visit your matches, and she may deny ever watching them when broadcasted, but she buys a bigger television before the world championship, and you find her secret stash of video recordings over the New Year.
And because the first thing Tendou does is call you when he reads an article about you.
“Did I catch you awake? Or were you sleeping?” he asks in a chipper tone, and your heart gives out a small, familiar feeling. Tendou has this charm, even from ten thousand kilometers away. It feels as if he was with you in the room.
You sit on your bed, fan whirring in the background, and it doesn’t feel that different from high school when Tendou would sit beside you and lean over your shoulder to point out his favorite parts in the manga he lent you.
You can almost smell his scent, lingering around you.
He can sense you’re troubled, even through the phone. He has no visual clue, he can’t read your body he would usually do. His guess is right, still, based on the tiniest hesitation you voice.
“Something got you down, Wakatoshi-kun?”
“There was a kid,” you say. “Yesterday he told me he thinks volleyball is boring.”
Tendou’s laugh rings in your ear.
He tells you you are not good enough – yet. He reassures you and fires you up in his unique, very Tendou way. There is encouragement in his voice, but just as much challenge, too, and you know he baits you into it – knowing him for over nine years has made you almost as good at reading him as he reads others – but you are just as ready to take it up.
“You have to go out there and beat all the bigger, badder foreign teams left and right!” he says.
“Hrm,” you smirk to yourself. “I think I can do that.”
“Ha! I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that,” Tendou says.
You hear his smile. You long to see it.
As Tendou asks about your visit to your father, you lean back on your bed, covering your eyes with your arm.
You are Ushijima Wakatoshi and your best friend is Tendou Satori.
You are the luckiest person on Earth.
****
You are Tendou Satori, standing by the side of the court, watching the silent tragedy that unfolds before your eyes.
Wakatoshi is drinking by the bench, towel around his neck, looking mesmerizing as ever. Behind him, on the other side of the net, a tall, curly-haired player stands with slightly hunched back, hands in the pockets of his jersey, and a longing in his eyes very much like your own.
He watches Wakatoshi.
You can’t find your voice – rather, you feel as if someone stuffed an invisible, stinky towel down your throat. You shift your weight from one leg to the other. The curly player moves, taking out a mask from his pocket, covering his face. His eyes stay glued on Wakatoshi – and yours on him, waiting.
That’s how you notice the blonde guy – the opposing team’s setter – standing in the spiker’s shadow. He stands with his shoulders lax and his back slightly thrown back, yet there is nothing nonchalant about him. If anything, his expression looks tortured. His lips part, hesitantly. You see his mouth move, but whether he speaks or not, his voice doesn’t reach you.
Your gaze flies back to the spiker, and, following his unwavering gaze, back to Wakatoshi.
Wakatoshi dries the sweat off his temples, unaware of the attention the spiker pays to him, and when he raises his head, your eyes meet. Wakatoshi stares at you unmoving for a while, as if he was contemplating the reality of the situation before he raises an arm and waves at you.
A smile tugs at your lips. You wave back.
You are Tendou Satori and you are watching the world’s most unfortunate love triangle.
*****