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Zazie quits three days before Valentine’s Day. Even though it leaves him incredibly short-handed in the shop, Tendou can’t really be mad about it.
“Don’t you see, Satori!” Her eyes are bright. She’s got a backpack slung over her shoulder and a travel guide to Berlin in her hand. “It’s for love, so I have to do it! I knew you’d understand!”
He does, really. Knows that love is a mystifying thing; a blessing if you can find it. Water for a drowning man, like the sweetest chocolate on his tongue, yadda yadda.
He waves her off with a smile, and when the door closes behind her he drops his shoulders with a sigh, the monster’s grin wiped off his face for just a moment.
“Oh merde , what are we to do?”
The pile of heart shaped boxes stacked neatly on the counter doesn’t have an answer.
Things would have been fine if Émile weren’t also sick, calling him apologetically from the hospital waiting room where he was delirious with fever until his boyfriend took the line from him to carefully apologize. “I’m sorry, Satori!”
“It’ll be fine, get well soon!” The hazelnut filling wasn’t creamy enough and his ganache hadn’t set, so Tendou had been reasonably distracted.
“I told you he’d understand,” Tendou heard Émile mumble over the phone, before he hung up and looked at the wreck of his workshop, the first kiss of dawn seeping in, and cracked his neck.
But then Zazie needed to find her girlfriend in Berlin, and their shoestring staff of three was down to just him.
He's on his own with a mountain of orders to box and ship.
“The cheese sure stands alone, huh?” No answer from his cream that still looks fresh off the tree, and silence from his liquidy ganache.
Valentine’s day is around the corner and there are a dozen hotels that pipe his chocolates directly into the hands of the wayward romantics who flood Paris even in the cold and weary late winter, hoping for a little taste of desire in the City of Lights.
Tendou’s got hands that know how to love a miracle boy; they can make miracles for lovers, too.
He doesn’t really sleep. Not when he’s a whirlwind, dancing around his kitchen filling truffles and placing them delicately into boxes, tying and cutting neat little ribbons around them, and not when he’s beholden to the bell over the door either. A passerby’s eye catches on the bonbons in the window, the white chocolate ones with flecks of blueberries that he shaped into hearts because the court was where he first found love while wrapped in proud Shiratorizawa purple; they leave with those truffles, and a selection of chocolate squares and caramels topped with flaky maldon salt.
(One of his regulars - Jean, who stops by every other week for pralines to nibble while he sketches along the Seine - comes in, maybe a day and a half after Zazie leaves, takes one look at his face and steps back out; he returns five minutes later with a sandwich and coffee that he shoves at Tendou, because “You look like you’re on the brink of death, you understand?” and then he mans the counter for the only fifteen minutes Tendou has to rest that day, gamely upselling a group of tourists for half of the truffles in his display.
“Do you want a job?” Tendou asks when he sends him away with a complimentary caramel.
Jean shrugs. “I’m a student of life!” he exclaims, arms flung wide like he could wrap around the whole world. “I have no need for a job.”)
But despite the reprieve, he’s still exhausted. He naps between batches, resting on the cot in the narrow backroom that he’d promised Wakatoshi he wouldn’t use a lot. (He’s undersold how often he needs it on their long and meandering phone calls, though, but through the silence he gets the sense that he knows, anyway.)
It’s a lot like the Shiratorizawa days, he realizes while he yawns. Sneaking catnaps on the bus between Washijou’s lectures, falling asleep on Wakatoshi’s shoulder while reading manga late into the night. He used to fall asleep in the strangest places, especially while he was researching apprenticeships and calling chocolatiers and working on his French - and Dutch, just in case he needed to go to Belgium instead - and would pass out wherever he was studying. Sometimes in a storage bin, sometimes in Semi’s dorm, once - memorably - right on top of Goshiki, who didn’t move the whole time but blushed whenever Tendou so much looked at him for weeks.
But every time - no matter where he was - he’d wake up softly to Wakatoshi patting the side of his face and shaking his shoulder. “Is that an angel? Has my time come?” he’d say, and Wakatoshi would make that face - the one that looked like he was confused, but was really just pure amusement, in his straight-forward way - and say “No, it’s me, Ushijima Wakatoshi. You will be late for class,” like he always did.
And then he’d kiss his forehead, because buried inside Wakatoshi was a sap. Even if Tendou’s the one who had to leave paradise behind, he’s the one who fell in love with the monsters.
This wasn’t Shiratorizawa though; Wakatoshi was a million miles away, and all Tendou had was his phone alarm, and a bunch of apologies in his text history with his boyfriend because he was too busy for their daily call.
“Ain’t this a pain?” His stalwart friend, the face made out of water stains on the faded wallpaper in this glorified backroom, didn’t respond.
(“Pareidolia,” Wakatoshi had said, when Tendou mentioned the face that spooked him the first time he woke up from a nap.
“Pare-what?” he’d squawked, still half asleep.
“It’s when you see faces in random patterns.” His handsome face looked bashful on the phone screen. “Hoshiumi has an eclectic vocabulary.”
“Fancy little guy,” Tendou had whistled, and that was that.)
Tendou sighed, and washed his face in the narrow bathroom sink. February 13th, somehow; another long and busy day ahead of him.
Another box of chocolates to pack. “Well come on then,” he sings to the sun still hidden behind the horizon. “Let’s get to it!”
He gets into a rhythm.
Making chocolate wasn’t really anything like volleyball. People try to get him to admit there’s some connection between the sport and his chocolates, but he hasn't found one yet.
On the court, he was part of something bigger. He had friends, and they accepted him - maybe they even liked him, too, but that was a bonus - and he could make teenagers curl in fear when they saw him. He had Wakatoshi’s quiet praise there, for a particularly skillful kill block or a shockingly good service ace.
But now? He is alone in the field but his chocolates speak for him. He has fans and customers who love him, and he thinks that the smiles his candy raises on their faces, their joy when it melts on their tongue and tastes like love and happiness and the faintest memory of paradise are just as welcoming as the arms of his friends. He’s a miracle worker of a different kind now, and he has the gift of Wakatoshi’s loud, abundant praise.
Well, he shrugs, as loud as his praise can be, anyway. Pictures on Instagram and careful reports back from his teammates on how the next season's chocolate faired - if Hoshiumi liked it, he knew they'd sell shockingly well; if Kageyama liked it, then he knew no one else would like them - and the tight, farewell hug at the airport whenever Tendou has to fly back to Paris.
He gets a text from Zazie around noon, chewing mints to stay awake. It’s a picture of her kissing someone in front of the Brandenburg gate, with the box of chocolates he snuck in her backpack in their hands and wide smiles across their faces.
He texts her back two thumbs up.
He understands love. Chocolate is all about romance and love; he loves what he does, and he loves Wakatoshi, and he loves being accepted by his friends. He loves all the parts of him other people find scary because he was the only one who could, for so long, until Wakatoshi came around and assured him that nothing about him was scary.
Émile sends him an apologetic voice message in the late afternoon, assuring him that he’d be well and rested by the 15th, after Tendou has sold yet another delicate box of bonbons to a delighted tourist who would feed them to his girlfriend that night, as the clock struck midnight on the most romantic day of the year.
Of course he understands love; how couldn't he when his veins run full of it? When he creates it, night after night? When Wakatoshi’s voice alone can pump his heart full of love?
But he didn’t think it would be so lonely like this, a whole continent away from him. They had video calls and letters and care packages, and knew they’d be long distance until Wakatoshi’s career ended and he found a place to settle, where Tendou could open a shop and sell chocolates in Japanese, or French, or English, or whatever he had to do to be by his side forever.
He locks the shop door and grants himself exactly half a glass of wine. Goshiki texts him a picture of the chocolates he mailed to him. Thank you Tendou!!!! He writes, below his selfie, as excited as he ever is. He’s lost the blush over the years but kept the bowl cut and puppy fat in his cheeks, and Tendou finds it within himself to text back a chain of mysterious emoji before cracking his knuckles and getting back into it.
The thing about volleyball is that it ends eventually. You can stretch out a rally by jumping high and diving fast and reaching out your arms as far as they’ll go, but it all comes to an end. The ball hits the floor, the match goes to Karasuno; you lose your shot and you tell your boyfriend to work hard to make everyone love volleyball as deeply as he does, because you want to save all your love for him.
Unlike volleyball, chocolate never ends. It’s always one more batch, one more filling, one more box that needs a few more truffles. Oh, a new technique! Another flavor! Here’s edible glitter to test, and here’s sweet bourbon to infuse. Everything is new and exciting. Always another experiment. Never need to stretch out your calves on the gym floor, or wipe away your friend’s tears when you can bring a smile to their face instead.
That means it’s midnight when Wakatoshi’s ringtone rings out above the light jazz Tendou plays on his speakers, startling him and sending a dark chocolate drizzle flying over a batch of caramel turtles.
He’ll sell them at a discount, it’ll be fine.
When he answers the phone, he’s still got one glove on. “Hi, Wakku-u-un!” he says, but his name trails off into a yawn.
Wakatoshi blinks. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Satori,” he rumbles.
Tendou glances at his clock. Oh. It’s after midnight. His shop will open in the morning. A wave of tiredness rushes over him and he rubs his eyes to stay awake. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Wakatoshi.”
It’s morning in Japan. He knows, of course, from the soft winter sun in the window of the kitchen in the Adlers’ sharehouse, and from the yogurt Wakatoshi’s eating; it's the brand he’s sponsored by. But he also knows this because he’s got the time difference imprinted in his bones, so he knows exactly when to text Wakatoshi before a match to wish him luck and when to call him after a loss.
“Did you get my gift?” Tendou made sure it arrived on the 13th, and Wakatoshi nods.
“I thought we could open ours together?” He holds up the small box Tendou sent him.
Tendou gasps. “Wakatoshi-kun! I didn’t think you’d get me anything!” he grins, suddenly awake even as exhaustion threatens to swell over him like a wave.
His handsome brow furrows. “I did. It’s been delivered to your apartment.” He takes another spoonful of his yogurt, careful and portioned, and the sight of it warms Tendou, even as his stomach grumbles and he looks at the mess of his work table with only a little bit of dread.
“Stay with me while I clean up?”
Wakatoshi nods, and Tendou carefully rests his phone against the wall so he can keep his face in sight. He cleans and packs a few remaining boxes while Wakatoshi tells him about his day and about the practice match the day before.
“I think we’re ready,” Wakatoshi says, and he means they’ll win. Tendou can’t wait.
Wakatoshi’s still by his side, headphones in his ear as he locks the door and walks the meandering blocks to his apartment. It’s dark, and there are some partygoers crowding parts of the streets. Tendou nods at couples he sees kissing on corners and along the waterfront.
It’s a long walk back, but time passes quickly with Wakatoshi. It takes him back to their quiet understanding in a gym that smelled like air salonpas and rubber, his soft voice and Wakatoshi’s softer agreement.
He tells him about how Zazie’s chosen love, and how Émile’s getting better.
“You must have been busy,” Wakatoshi observes, and it makes Tendou laugh loud enough to wake the crows.
“More than busy. But it’s worth it. I understand.” He hums as he gets to the door of his apartment, turning the key and walking up the nearly endless stairs to his flat.
“What do you understand, Satori?”
“Love, Wakatoshi!” There’s a small package in front of his door; Marguerite, his neighbor, must have intercepted it for him. She’s got four identical cats, but Tendou thought there’d only been one who was very vocal until Wakatoshi visited and an army of them flocked to him like he was made of catnip.
“I understand that love is something worth sacrificing for,” Tendou elaborates, once he’s poured a tall glass of celebratory Calpis he buys every so often, and is seated at his small table by the window where he grows herbs thanks to Wakatoshi’s careful guidance. “It’s always worth it, don’t you know?”
“I do know, Satori,” Wakatoshi is always careful in his honesty, knowing they can harm or heal. He doles it out, straightforward and artless, because there’s a truth he needs to tell. He doesn’t say anything more or anything less than is necessary, and trusts Tendou follows.
Even sleep deprived and in desperate need of a shower, because he still smells like cocoa and hazelnuts and raspberries, Tendou knows Wakatoshi loves him back in the same way he does; sacrifice after sacrifice, for a distant future together.
It’s full circle. They fell in love with volleyball. They found each other. They fell in love with each other, first on the court and then off, and then - much like the final point always comes, the final spike or the final mistimed block - there’s an inevitable eternity together.
Volleyball is nothing like chocolate, but it's a lot like love.
Wakatoshi’s retirement, Tendou’s quiet shop somewhere in the world. A lot of unknowns, but nothing he needs to experiment with. A formula that works.
Wakatoshi coughs, and Tendou realizes he’s been staring at his phone for minutes, a stupid little smile on his face. He thinks he can see a blush through the tiny screen, so at least he’s not the only one flustered.
“Together?” Tendou says, reaching for a knife to slice at the tape. Wakatoshi nods, pulling his gift close.
After a few moments of mystery and fiddling with the packaging, Tendou sees what’s inside. And he laughs, loud enough that one of Marguerite's cats, or maybe all of them, start meowing and pacing on the other side of the wall.
Wakatoshi, too, is looking down at the box on the table in front of him, a bemused smile on his face. He’s been in the kitchen long enough that Hoshiumi and a young player he doesn’t recognize are both staring at him as his shoulders shake in quiet, brilliant laughter.
Tendou’s got a laugh loud enough to fill Wakatoshi’s silent one.
In front of both of them, separated by miles and mountain ranges and seas and deserts and a whole host of other things, while they wait for an inevitable future to creep up onto them and wrap around the two of them like a blanket, is the same object.
An issue of Shounen Jump, the one released the week they got together. The night it came out, Tendou curled up against Wakatoshi’s side in his narrow single bed; he’d learned that Wakatoshi ran hot, which was perfect for Tendou’s freezing hands, and that he loved to wrap one of his big arms around Tendou’s waist and hold him tight, like he was afraid he’d ever leave. Tendou read the dialogue out loud, using different voices and explaining the context, and Wakatoshi narrated the ad copy in the same voice he’d use years later to advertise his favorite yogurt.
Nostalgic. “You sap!” Tendou accuses, and when Wakatoshi looks up at him again, the smile across his face is wide and wonderful.
“I told you I understood, Satori,” he says.
Love is a promise. Endings and beginnings. Things that change and things that always stay the same.
That night, after they hang up, Tendou falls asleep thumbing through the magazine. He reads the dialogue out loud and leaves space for a voice a million miles away to read the ad copy, and he passes into dreams during one of those silences. He’ll wake up to his alarm and walk to his shop, whistling in the dawnlight, and winking at tired lovebirds seeking out coffee and a pastry in line with him.
That morning, Ushijima explains to Hoshiumi that there’s a shampoo that makes hair thick and shiny, and that a particular brand of instant curry is the spiciest on the market, even as his teammate stares at him with wide, suspicious eyes, wondering if it’s slander. There’s a man a world away who needs him to do it; fill the gaps, until they can be together again.