“You know I wouldn’t want some random person ruining your wedding photos.” Meian finally turns to face Adriah who now holds a look of pity for him.

He’s also rather tired of these conversations and the pitiful looks followed with words that are meant to make him feel better but do the exact opposite. He is quite aware of his ripe age of twenty-nine, reminded weekly by his mother’s offhand remarks of never being a grandmother. Adriah knows of his exasperation and says nothing, gives him a rather unconvincing nod, and then makes his way over to his now wife.

It’s not like Meian is lacking options in the dating pool; he is a professional athlete after all. It’s more so the dating pool is lacking substance. The blossoming marriage his teammate has and the few weddings he’s attended lately remind him of what he’s actually looking for: a partnership. Anyone can cheer for him courtside. Anyone can latch onto his arm for an indulgent evening of champagne and networking. Meian wants someone to brush his teeth with, walk down the grocery aisles with while he pushes the cart. He wants to share a life with someone. He wants a photo album, not snapshots for an article.

Finding love at an older age is much harder than it used to be. He knows what he wants, has a curated list of likes, dislikes, and deal breakers. Having gained a couple years of life experience under his belt has made Meian more self-assured in his desires as he’s already made all the mistakes. So the pool becomes shallow and just like many other things, Meian is tired of wading in the water.

Meian’s been tired since eight in the morning when he saw Atsumu, Bokuto, and Hinata early for practice and already peppering balls across the court. He remembers how it feels to be young and consumed by volleyball just like them – living it, sticking to it like hot skin and leather seats.

Tremendously aware that he’s not as young as he used to be, Meian is glad that he has teammates to remind him of his passion for the sport. The rookie years are long behind him but he’s promised himself that he will keep playing until the game is no longer fun. It is. It’s still fun, but just a little more exhausting. Rather than feeling like oak, like the foundation that a captain should be, Meian feels like bamboo. Swaying in the wind, his will bends at the eighth lap when there are still two more to go. He’s not quite sure when he started feeling this way. A guess of his is that it’s been a culmination of things: his mother’s reminders, the recent weddings, the lousy dates. It feels like he’s lost his shadow. Life is all the same, but there’s a piece of him missing.

So when he passes by a figure in the convenience store, he convinces himself he’s hallucinating. You’re just a mirage, he reasons, even though  you look exactly like he remembers. Meian has to rub the weariness from his eyes. It’s the way your smile crooks to the right and the way your fingers play with the edge of your wallet while you talk to the clerk because you could never keep still.

Then you laugh. You’re real he realizes,  because in the seven years he hasn’t seen you, his mind has never been able to emulate the sonorous warmth of your giggles.

He’s tried.

And he’s failed. Many, many times.

Suddenly, with a fond aching in his chest, Meian is consciously aware of the weight of gravity like an itchy tag scratching the back of his neck. It beckons his feet forward, draws him toward you. Meian calls your name and you circle back with question in your eyes until they fall on him. An appraisal, your lips turn quickly back into that lopsided smile.

“Shugo.” It sounds breathless, bound by surprise and Meian reads mirth laced with it. He’s happy you call him by his first name, like seven years have not passed since you’d seen him.

You completely forego your change and Meian inwardly laughs at the way the clerk shrugs and leaves it on the counter. He hopes it wasn’t a lot but the thought is fleeting when he watches you step towards him. It reminds him to reciprocate, something he failed to do before, and he eagerly walks his way to embrace you with a familiarity that never quite left him.

“Oh wow,” You laugh in disbelief. “I can’t believe it!”

He chuckles too. How can he not when you, the only ex he ever misses, stands before him. “Me neither.”

You let go of the hug before he does but your hands push at his shoulders. Meian takes the chance to leave his around your waist because he’s not ready to let go. Not just yet. Not when you’ve finally back into his arms.

You give him a once over and admire what time has done to his physicality. “Volleyball has been good to you.”

“Tell that to my shoulders.” He finally lets go to lift up his left sleeve, revealing athletic tape underneath. Meian rolls his arm back to stretch and watches as your face contorts in worry. It pinches his heart at the thought that you might even worry about him in the slightest bit.

“Just getting old you know?” He says to you before you can voice your concern. The smirk across his face sends the message that he’s joking and you fall for it.

“Oh shut up.” You giggle into your hand. His eyes soften at the old habit he really wishes you broke. He always told you how much he loved seeing you smile. His hands make fists to fight the urge to slap the offending appendage like he used to. “If you’re old then I’m old and I refuse to believe it.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-two.” Meian’s flirting. He knows this. You know this too with the way you immediately stopped your tittering to pout and glare at him at the same time. That’s new. You’d never done that before but it’s adorable.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Not just saying it. You look exactly how I remember.”

Perfect. Beautiful. The words are on the tip of his tongue, patiently waiting to dive into the air in hopes it lands straight into your heart. Things are different now, he has to remind himself. He can’t say words like that so brazenly anymore.

“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Bashfulness follows your words because you stick your tongue out at him. You toe with a crack in the tiles and trade the plastic bag in your right hand to your left. A loaf of bread and fruit peek out with two prepackaged bentos.

“What are you doing here?”

You take a glance at your goods, “We’re making fruit sandwiches tomorrow.”

“For your students!” Meian’s overeager because he knows how much you wanted to be a teacher.

“Yup!’ You nod, enthused, and his chest swelss knowing you’ve achieved your passion. You left him to pursue it, because his dreams were hindering yours. Even though it hurt him before, he can’t help but twist his memory with nostalgic bliss. Seeing you now, he knows you made the right choice. It suits you. “It’s a fun project for a math lesson.”

The two bentos though are what bug him. “Are you on your way to have dinner with your boyfriend?”

Meian made sure to check for a ring on your finger. Without finding one, he can only confirm you don’t have a different kind of significant other only by asking. Though he is not confident enough to be so upfront about it. His feet feel listless waiting for your answer until you fold over and begin convulsing in laughter. You’re slapping your knee and the infectious nature of it all makes him chuckle, if not only out of nervousness.

“Here I thought you’d grown to be this cool, suave guy.” You finally tell him after you recollect yourself. “But that’s how you’re going to ask me if I’m dating?”

The thought makes you laugh again and it makes Meian laugh too, earnestly this time. “You caught me. A little embarrassing now that I think about it.”

“Just a little.” Cheeky. “But it’s cute.”

Why does he feel so happy being called cute? Who calls a six foot five pro athlete cute?

“But no, I’m not dating. I’ve got a pretty busy day tomorrow so one bento is for dinner and the other is for breakfast.” As if suddenly remembering, you take a glance at your watch. “Speaking of which, I do have to get home now.”

“Give me your number?” It blurts out quickly like a hook trying to reel you back in, “Please? I’d love to catch up with you.”

In those seconds he’s waiting for an answer, Meian feels anxious, excited, restless, eager. A cocktail of emotions, but he realizes, he doesn’t feel tired.

“Hello?”

Meian can’t help but smile at the sound of your voice.Texts have been swapped but nothing beats actually speaking to you. “Hey.”

“What can I do for you, Shugo?”

There’s his name again. He short circuits like a quick flicker of light.

“I—“ He starts until he realizes that he’s not quite sure why he called you to begin with. He just knew he had to the moment he started his day, planned it all out so that he could. “You told me your break is at 12:30 right? I ran practice a little longer so I could call you.”

Meian wants to blame his winded words on the squat jumps he just finished completing not even ten minutes ago. But this breathlessness feels different. Like walking a fine, tight rope – a singular focus on you, everything about you, and the way your breath hitches that he forgets his own.

There’s a screech of a chair from your side of the phone, “You’re calling me during your break?”

It’s the way you sound bewildered that has Meian reeling. Shit, he really fucked up now. He used to do this all the time back then, only think about his needs and put them before yours. “Fuck. You’re busy aren’t you? I just figured I would call you since I was free. I just wanted to hear your voice, I think.”

Silence follows and the ache in his chest develops. Words fly out of his mouth in stammers hoping that somehow he could relieve the pressure. “Fuck, sorry if that made you uncomfortable. Shit, fuck. It’s just easy to talk to you like that since we dated you know? But fuck, that doesn’t make it okay.”

A stillness.

“Say something, won’t you?”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Shugo.” And just like that, warmth blooms and replaces fear. “I’ve missed yours too.”

“Nice.” He’s grinning and happy none of his teammates are present to witness it.

“You just surprised me is all. You’d never call me while you were at practice before.”

“Yeah, I don’t—“ Meian plays with the edges of his locker. The cold metal chills his overheated skin. “I don’t know why I never did.”

“It’s okay.” There’s scuffling through the phone and Meian presses a button to increase the volume. “I like that you’re calling me now.”

You don’t see him, but he hopes you can hear how comfortable he is now. How with just a couple of words, you’ve eased his anxiety. “So how’s your day been? How are the kids?”

“They behaved today. How about your kids, Mr. Team Captain?”

Meian kicks his feet underneath him as he gives out a gravelly chuckle. The shit-eating grin of his makes his cheeks hurt and the warmth in his stomach travels to his head and makes him woozy, but he can’t help it at all. Nor does he mind it either. “Kids were kind of mad that they had to eat lunch an hour later.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was worth it.”

Just like that, Meian feels nineteen again, lying on his belly in his childhood bedroom. It’s where he spent hours talking to you and dreaming up the future to the sound of your breath when you’d fall asleep. He feels impossibly light and invincible.

Meian wonders how he even lived without you for seven years. Now that he’s seen you again, it takes all of him to not latch onto your side. His love feels like yolk. With just the sound of your laughter and a pinprick of your touch does the richness finally ebb out; it oozes ever so slowly, but irreversible all the same.

“Shugo,” you softly uttered and Meian remembers shuddering like ice running down his back. Just from the tone, he knew he wouldn’t like where this conversation was going. His heart was caught in his throat at the anticipation of your next words. “I don’t think we should keep seeing each other.”

“Be clear.” Meian wanted to take the words back right after he said them, but like an arrow, the trajectory could not be changed. “Say what you actually want.”

You flinched at his tone. You hadn’t gotten used to him yet, this newer version he was finding within himself. Admittedly, he was dorky when he met you with limbs he hadn’t grown into yet, but he had matured into a confident man thanks to pro volleyball. He learned how to carry himself in a room and became a man you could rely on. Somehow, that only solidified your choice even further.

“We should break up.”

Meian snarled at the floor of your shared apartment of two years. You had moved in with him when you were both twenty, in the middle of his rookie years and your college ones. He’d built his life here, revolving around you and your futures. The bed you shared was bought by one of his first wins as part of the starting lineup. Your books laid a mess along with sports magazines that he featured in. This was your future. Why were you throwing this all away?

“And for what reason?” He couldn’t stop himself from being so gruff because he felt like he was losing everything.

You paused and Meian could tell you really wished he hadn’t asked, but he had to know. “I don’t want this future for me.”

You really knew how to break his heart. And as if he released a dam, words flowed freely from your mouth.

“I promised myself I’d never let anyone get in the way of my dreams. I want to be a teacher and I want to do it the right way. That means pouring my heart out for those kids and I can’t do that with you. Not when I’m worrying for you, waiting up for you, not when my life revolves around you.”

It was clear then, how this future had been his all along. As you stood on the rug he bought, sat on furniture he chose, and he owned a phone filled with unread messages from you that he was always too busy (truthfully more annoyed than anything) to even acknowledge. He understood that it was only right to let you go.

Meian has absolutely no idea what he’s doing outside your home, a place he’s never even been to until now – at midnight even. With the look on your face, you’re equally just as perplexed as he is. He feels as though the last few hours have been a fever dream. His mind, running on instinct, called you hoping you’d pick up, hoping you were free, hoping you’d let him see you. It’s only been four days since you’ve reunited, but he knows regardless, that you’re the answer.

You must have heard the desperation in his voice because slight hesitation was replaced by a worried sigh and an uttering of your address.

Meian’s been feeling rather helpless and he knows that it’s neither new nor profound, but the silence of his home that once brought him comfort after a long day no longer suffices. Instead, the quiet mocks him as a perfect medium for self-destructive thoughts. You calm his storm. You, by just being, by just acknowledging his existence, alleviate this heavy weight he’s accumulated upon his shoulders. Meian ignores the way you widen your door for him to come inside and instead, takes shaky steps to lean his cheek against the top of your head while his large hands softly trace the curve of your sides.

In an instant, Meian feels at peace. All his worries, all the negativity within him, seem frivolous at your touch.

Your hands find the expanse of his back without hesitation. It makes him grateful that he hasn’t scared you away with his unorthodox tendencies. Your doodling fingers accompanied with the steady chirping of crickets brings him a calmness that Meian’s been missing lately.

Time passes unknowingly, content with staying in place, because just like his worries, the world drifts away in your arms. You on the other hand, don’t find that idea appealing with the way you try and push up his elbows.

“Come on,” a gentle pat, “I need to close the door.”

Meian doesn’t want to let go. He slinks even further when you turn around, pulling your back against his chest. When you lock the door, you tap at his arm again and turn in his embrace. He refuses to make eye contact in fear of what you’d read in them, instead, diverting his head into the crook of your neck, finding shelter in the scent of your hair.

With a sigh, “You want to talk about it?”

Your voice tastes tannin. It leaves his mouth dry and stomach warm, exactly like wine.

He takes a minute to respond, “I’m tired.”

“So why don’t you go lay down on my couch?”

“No,” This, he’s certain. “Just want to hold you.”

It doesn’t sound like much, but for Meian, it’s everything. It’s all he needs. When you nod your head in return, Meian indulges even further – holds you tighter that the muscles in his arms feel like they could burst. Eventually Meian feels the sway of your footsteps that, in the darkness, leads him to your couch. He topples over you in graceless movements. Though his legs hang off the edge, the proximity of you against him makes it the coziest he’s ever been. It allows him to be enveloped in your scent that suddenly reminds him of home. Realizing now that he’d lost his sense of place, in your presence, he feels like he’s found something long forgotten. Like a key locking into place.

“Our team lost.” Meian finally admits. “Our fourth time in a row. The team was looking at me during our post-game meeting and I don’t know.”

It takes a shaky breath for him to continue. “I just felt like shit. A shit captain. A shit volleyball player. And I know they needed someone to tell them it’s going to be okay. But so do I. It doesn’t feel okay. It feels like shit and I just want someone to tell me it will be okay again.”

There’s a tightness at his chest. This time it’s warm because it’s you pulling him in. “It’s going to be okay. I’m so proud of you, you know? I’m really proud to see the man you’ve become.”

It’s the kiss you place at his temple that makes Meian want to break down.

“Fuck,” He turns his face towards you. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and he clarifies, “Now I just remember how shit of a boyfriend I was too. Fuck, you’re too good to me. Sorry I wasn’t enough for you.”

You freeze under him. He knows you’re not ready for this, and to be honest, he isn’t either. Meian wants nothing else but to find comfort in your arms. Everything feels so familiar, but not enough. Like he’s caught halfway between a nightmare and a dream. He lifts himself up onto his elbows, one on each side of you as he straddles your smaller frame in the darkness. Eyes find yours quickly with the help of the moonlight from a crack in the curtains of your balcony and you hold them. It’s hypnotic the way he can’t blink under your gaze and the way his breathing has timed itself to match yours. Your expression is a perfect mixture of turmoil and longing that most likely mimics his own. Without even thinking, Meian brings a palm to cup your cheek in the only way he knows how to soothe you. When you reach for his hand, a soft caress into his touch with fear still apparent on your face, Meian sees you. He sees how you forego your own worries in preference of him.

“I’m different now.” He promises. “I saw you in that convenience store and I fell in love with you. Like I never stopped.”

He hopes the warmth of his words envelope you just as much as his palm. “I want to prove it to you. Give me another chance and I promise I’ll show you. I’ll be enough.”

“Okay.” Your voice is soft, a whisper in the wind, but it’s all the confirmation Meian needs.

In the darkness, where there are no shadows, you finally feel like his partner.

Meian is still tired after practice, but the thought of coming home to you revitalizes him. It was an impulse decision, moving in just one month after getting together, but it was the best choice he’s ever made. There’s a growing scrapbook on the coffee table and two toothbrushes in the bathroom sink. The boys make fun of the way he immediately cuts off practice at 6pm on the dot. Where he would linger, he now prefers to rush home to more important things.

so when he catches you at the hallway during the after party all alone, really at your most vulnerable as you quietly wipe away your tears with wobbly lips while making sure your makeup isn't ruined in the process, he waltzes over with his hands tucked into his pockets, stands in front of you a little too close for your usual liking, and you cry even harder. you don't have the energy to make another snarky remark to him 一 in fact, you haven't spoken a word to him since seeing him in his million dollar suit when he'd entered the venue without his rumoured plus one, no gifts for the newly-wed (a clear sign telling them to go to hell), and without his usual smug face too, for some reason.

when your tissue decides it isn't able to catch all your tears in time he then presses a hand to your nape forward. his touch is warm, so gentle, and your forehead rests on his right shoulder softly. you don't bother moving and he keeps you there like that, until your sobs have turned into sniffles and you've got an arm wrapped around his waist for some support.

it's when you wrap the other arm around him that he only speaks.

"i'll marry you."

you hear laughter echo in the quiet hallway as the other guests have the time of their lives in the room just behind the wall you're leaning against. is this a mockery? is he fucking mocking me? you've just about had it up to here with him. you want to scream at this man. you want to hit him. you want to punch him.

but your dress is tight so you hook an offensive thumb into the belt loop of his expensive dress pants instead, getting ready to threaten him, until he speaks again.

"so what they're doing this in the plaza hotel?" he scoffs, and your hold on his belt loop significantly loosens. his own around your nape, however, tightens and he presses your body anymore closer to him. you can feel his heartbeat pound in his chest, against your own, as he rambles on and on like the boastful boy you'd met in grade school despite being the ceo of a million dollar company.

"i'll marry you at the beach. new fucking york can kiss my ass, we're going to mykonos." you stifle a laugh at that. "he won't even be fucking invited because he's not ruining it for you, and he's gonna have to hear about our wedding from his mother-in-law."

you're full on giggling at him now as he continues to list out all the things he's gonna be making sure your ex pays for for the evil shit he'd pulled tonight.

"so? what do you say?"

he asks after a pause. when he tilts his head down to look at you he finds out you're already staring at him. wide, glossy eyes gazes into his own and he softens up when you hug him even tighter.

a hand brushes your hair out of the way. you close your eyes and smile. he swipes a thumb on the apple of your cheek.

"we can't lose to them now, can we?"

#gojo satoru he's so annoying, miya atsumu, haitani ran, haitani rindou, baji keisuke, kuroo tetsuro, hanma shuuji