Work Text:
Yachi Hitoka
She panics just as easily at eighteen as she did at fifteen.
You don’t know why you let her lace your fingers together under the desk in study hall. Her hand is trembling, yours is sweaty, and the whole thing feels more like a dare than a choice. She whispers, “Is this okay?” like she’s asking for permission to exist.
You nod, but it’s not really an answer.
Her kindness is too soft, too fragile, and when she kisses you on the cheek after exams, all you can think is how much it feels like pity. She deserves someone who can look her in the eye and say something more than “yeah.”
You don’t call it breaking up — because you were never really together.
Kageyama Tobio
He’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to an equal, a lover.
Every toss is a confession. Every spike is an answer. It should be enough, and maybe it is, because the first time you press your mouth to his after practice, he only blinks at you, wide-eyed, before shoving an energy bar into your hands.
“Eat. Idiot,” he mutters.
You never kiss again. But it doesn’t matter, because when you’re on the court, when the set arcs high and perfect, it feels like the purest intimacy you’ll ever know.
Maybe that’s why you don’t want to ruin it.
Yamaguchi Tadashi
It happens at a party. Too much soda, too much music, too many people shouting things they don’t mean.
He leans in close, freckles sharp in the dim light, and you let him. The kiss is clumsy, sweet, over before it even starts. He laughs nervously. You laugh too, because that’s easier than honesty.
You could have tried again. But you don’t, for reasons you don’t fully understand at the time.
The next day on the court, he cheers for you louder than anyone else, voice hoarse, face split with a grin that isn’t for you alone.
That’s when you realize it never will be.
Kenma Kozume
Your friendship is measured in quiet hours: screens glowing, controllers clicking, silence stretching comfortable and unbroken.
When he leans into you one summer night, half-asleep, you let him stay there. It’s warm, soft, easy.
He murmurs your name once, not quite a question, not quite a plea. You don’t answer.
The truth is, you like the calm he brings. You like the steady pulse of his presence. But affection isn’t the same as fire, and what you have with Kenma is more like static than a spark.
So you stay friends. And it’s enough.
Haiba Lev
Lev is bold, shameless, and endlessly dramatic. He drapes himself over your shoulders, demands selfies, insists that you’d make the perfect couple.
You laugh along. Sometimes, you even let him kiss you. It’s loud and messy, all teeth and angles.
But Lev likes the idea of you more than the reality. The “Hinata who’s small but fierce, Hinata who soars like the sun.” You see it in his eyes — admiration dressed as affection.
It’s not love. It’s a story he’s telling himself.
Eventually, he finds himself a new story. You don’t mind.
Ushijima Wakatoshi
Your matches are brutal, beautiful things. He sees you — really sees you — in a way most people never manage to.
That recognition is intoxicating. Maybe that’s why you let it happen. A kiss, heavy and certain, after one of the longest games of your life.
But the truth is, your feelings toward him are built on respect, on the desperate need to prove yourself. Admiration, not affection.
When it ends, there’s no heartbreak. Only the knowledge that you’ll always chase his shadow, but never his heart.
Oikawa Tōru
He flirts with you like it’s a sport of its own. Smiles too wide, touches that linger, whispers that make your ears burn.
You give in once, twice, enough times to see what all the fuss is about. He’s good at it, of course. Oikawa’s good at everything when he wants to be.
But when he looks at you afterward, his eyes are already elsewhere, planning, calculating, shining for someone who isn’t you.
You were a distraction. A story to tell later.
You don’t mind being a story — but you mind not being remembered.
Sakusa Kiyoomi
On the MSBY team, he’s the one who keeps his distance. Until he doesn’t.
It starts with shared water bottles, ends with stolen kisses in the locker room when no one’s looking. His mouth is firm, clean, precise. Yours is hungry.
It should work. You both want simplicity. But Sakusa keeps the walls up, and you can’t stand being fenced in.
One day, he pulls back mid-kiss, frowns, and mutters, “This isn’t it.”
You know he’s right.
Atsumu Miya
Being with him is like setting yourself on fire and daring the world to watch.
Every laugh, every kiss, every touch is a spark. You crash together, messy and loud, and for a while, it feels like flying.
But flames burn out fast. You both want too much, too soon, too recklessly. The fun sours into arguments, slammed doors, words you regret.
When it ends, it ends explosively. He yells. You yell louder. Neither of you apologize.
And yet, when you see him across the court, grin sharp and golden, you can’t help but smile back.
Kuroo Tetsurō
He’s steady. Warm. Clever in ways that make you laugh, patient in ways that make you ache.
You fall into it without noticing — long talks, meals shared, his hand brushing yours as if it belongs there.
You think, for a while, that maybe this could be it.
But one night, when he looks at you with something close to devotion, you realize you’re chasing security, not love. You’re trying to anchor yourself in someone else’s calm.
It isn’t fair to him.
So you pull away. He lets you go, smiling that easy, tired smile.
The Last — And Maybe The First
Kageyama Tobio
You told yourself once that you didn’t want to ruin what you had. That volleyball was enough. That the intimacy of the court was greater than anything else.
You lied.
Because the truth is: every toss, every spike, every set between you was already love. Every time his eyes found yours midair, every time you landed and felt the echo of his hands, you were already his.
You never said it. He never said it. Maybe you never needed to.
But when you think about who you loved — really loved — it’s only ever been him.
Always him.