Archive of Our Own

You’re eighteen when you think things will change. You’re in college now, you reason, things should be different — they should be better. You’ve left the misery and monotony of high school behind, and now you’re different: a little older and maybe a little wiser. You’re cooler now than you were then; certainly, things would be different. But as you watch your friends flirt, and be flirted with, as you watch those silly, fleeting high school dates become marked with the sincerity and vague maturities of college, that same, familiar black hole consumes the stars of your confidence, and you find that things aren’t so different, after all.

You’re twenty-one when you realize that loneliness and yearning are old friends. They’re not as striking now, well-worn with age and time, but they’re there. They’re always there. You have your days, just as those who struggle always do, but you no longer feel immature, or awkward, or weird. You just feel fine. You watch as your friends do things you’ve never done, love people in a way you’ve never felt, but jealousy no longer pricks the back of your eyes or creeps up your throat as it had in your teens. Despite it all, though, you still yearn.

You yearn for a time in which you can have a relationship, one where you can go on dates, one where you can hug and kiss someone who makes you feel whole. You yearn for a time when you can come home to someone, when you can feel safe with someone. You yearn for love and comfort. You’re twenty-one and you’ve grown into yourself, you’ve come to terms with longing and loneliness, but the black hole still swirls. The stars are still dim.

You’re twenty-two when a new neighbor moves in across the hall from you. You’re new to the city, living on your own, and lacking friends in the area, so you keep an eye out for them — eager to meet someone new.

You meet Bokuto Koutarou on a Wednesday evening. You’re just getting back from work, miserable after a long day, when he comes bounding up to the elevator doors, urging you to keep them open. When you stick your hand out, stopping them in their tracks to allow him to slip inside, he shoots you a grin that nearly blinds you.

“Whew,” he huffs, smile never faltering, “Thanks! These elevators take forever sometimes.”

He sees that the button for his floor has already been pushed, and his excitement only seems to grow. “You live on 10 too? I’m Bokuto, I just moved in!”

You tell him your name, bowing politely, and he repeats it like he’s eager to taste it on his tongue, to remember it. And for the first time all day, you smile.

You fall into an easy friendship with Bokuto after that. He comes to your apartment on Saturdays, sitting at your kitchen island and excitedly telling you about his week as you cook dinner for the two of you. Some weekends you go over to his place, where you watch movies until you’re nearly too tired to move.

He’s beautiful, and kind, and so, so warm, that you find your friendship has begun to morph into affection, into love. You cringe, that familiar black hole looming in the back of your mind. Your stars are flickering where his own seem to be distractingly bright. How could any of this work?

You’re halfway to twenty-three when you and Bokuto rush beneath an awning, soaking wet from the rain. You’d been out for a quick dinner, squeezed in between his practices and your own work schedule when the sky had opened up, pouring down on you as you made your way home. It’s fun and light and you’re positive you’ve never felt this way before. You don’t even care that your hair is ruined. As your chest shakes with a giggle, hands fiddling with the fabric of your shirt as you try to get it to stop clinging, Bokuto catches your attention.

He’s staring at you, taking you in as if you’re the only person on the sidewalk, the only person in the world. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips and back again as he says, “I really like you.”

His confession is earnest and so gentle that you feel your eyes start to water, your mouth hanging open in disbelief. This sort of thing only happened in movies, only happened to your friends — not to you. Never to you.

You laugh mirthlessly. “Very funny, Kou.”

“I’m not kidding.” Bokuto’s expression becomes gravely serious as he takes your face in his hands. “I like you, I’ve liked you for months.”

You have no choice but to believe him. Bokuto’s never been one for lies and playing with people’s feelings, least of all yours. So you bring your shaking hands up to meet his, your fingers circling his wrists, “I like you too, Koutarou. I think I always have.”

He beams at you then, and slowly leans in, voice just above a whisper as he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod fervently, “Please.”

It’s your first kiss. It’s clumsy and awkward and a little wet from the rain, but it’s beautiful. Bokuto’s lips are warm and soft against yours, and he doesn’t seem to mind that you’re inexperienced. When he pulls away, you feel as if you can’t breathe, like the air has been forced from your lungs. You fear it may never return, not when Bokuto’s looking at you like that, not when his thumbs have begun to caress your cheeks.

One date turns into two, turns into three, each one marked with a new kiss (or two, or three). The two go hand in hand, and suddenly kissing doesn’t seem so foreign, dating becomes more familiar.

It’s tough at first, though, navigating a relationship. You’re vulnerable and hesitant, but just like your first kiss, Bokuto takes it all in stride. He helps you, he coaxes you out of your shell, and suddenly loneliness and yearning are strangers instead of old friends. You want to cry as he pecks your shoulders, your nose, anywhere he can reach, really — places that only the sun has kissed before. You want to cry as he bundles you in his sweatshirts, as he naps with you, and holds your hand. He shares his light with you so effortlessly, and the black hole that had been plaguing your mind for years has moved to new galaxies, now lost to the cosmos. Your stars begin to glow again.

You’re twenty-four when you race down the steps at the Sendai City Gymnasium, pride thrumming deep in your chest. You squeeze through the crowd, weaving between bodies as you blindly make your way onto the court. You wonder if this is what Bokuto felt like on the day you met, trying to catch an elevator on the brink of closing.

Bokuto calls your name and your feet only pick up speed at the sound. When you see him, standing with his arms and feet spread wide, you only have one choice. Just like the movies that made your heart clench all those years ago, you launch yourself into his arms. Bokuto lifts you into the air with ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he was made to do it (and maybe he was). He’s sweaty, you can feel it on the surface of his skin and seeping through his jersey, but you don’t care.

He laughs when you squeeze his neck in your arms, peppering kisses all over your face as he yells over the crowd, “We did it, baby, we did it!”

“I’m proud of you, Kou, so proud.”

At your words, Bokuto places you back on your feet and pulls you into a tender kiss, not caring if the press is around, not caring that he can hear Atsumu and Hinata off in the distance, whooping and hollering. He only cares about you.

When he pulls away, he presses his sweaty forehead into yours, and whispers three words reserved just for you, “I love you.”

You whisper them back because you’ve never been more sure of anything in your life, “I love you too.”

Loving Bokuto is everything you’ve always wanted, everything you’ve always dreamed of, and for once in your life, you feel lucky that you waited. Instead of feeling cursed by the universe, feeling destined to be alone — you feel blessed.