eunoia

You’ve seen it yourself—the anxious buzz that surrounds campus whenever entrance exam season rolls around, the way the local hotels get all that more busy every January. The truth of the matter is that students from all over Miyagi flock to Shiratorizawa just for the chance to attend. 

Shiratorizawa is a prestigious school. It only takes the best of the best. 

All that to say, with the high school being so picky about who gets to wear its colors, you’d like to argue that everyone could be considered a bit of a local celebrity in their own right. After all, you’re always brushing shoulders with rich kids and geniuses and athletes who’ll probably go pro. Even the most boring kid at Shiratorizawa is excellent in some way. 

So, you think, seething silently, it would be really awesome if people could switch it up and stop confessing to the same guy!

“You’re killing your mochi,” Tendou observes, peering over your shoulder.

You blink and look down at your hand where you’ve crushed the snack—sticky, sweet red bean paste stuck between your fingers. “It was always like that.” 

Tendou just digs around in his bag and hands you a wet wipe. “Like the milk bread from last week? Or the onigiri from the week before?”

You shove the remains of the rice cake in your mouth and viciously scrub your hands clean, eyes flicking back up to glare at the two students standing at the other end of the hall. “The cafeteria had it on discount.” 

Tendou follows your gaze to where the last member of your little trio stands, patiently waiting for a blushing girl to hand over the chocolates she’s got behind her back and say her piece. You know her; she’s that cute soccer captain from Class 3-B. You’ve seen her around at tournaments, cheering loudly whenever Ushijima scores, and you rip the wet wipe apart in your hands because you also know exactly what she’s about to say. 

“I like you, Waka-kun! Please go out with me!”

Tendou exaggerates a wince at that and sneaks a glance back at you. Your eye twitches slightly at the nickname but you stay your hand. Your mochi will be the only casualty this afternoon. 

(A pity. He’d been hoping for something more drastic. He’s still got that bet going with Semi and Tendou’s been looking forward to cashing in that win for weeks now.) 

It’s a bit difficult to hear exactly what Ushijima says—between the three of you, he’s always been the quiet one—but that doesn’t stop you from craning your head to listen anyway. If you concentrate, you can just make out that familiar rumble of his voice as he bows his head politely to the poor girl. 

“I am sorry, but I cannot reciprocate your feelings.” 

It’s not like his response is anything new—it’s all part of the same script that he follows each time another confession comes up (“I appreciate your efforts… thank you for your support…” and so on and so forth), but that doesn’t stop the small sigh of relief that escapes you anyway. 

At least the worst part of this whole song and dance is over. All that’s left is for him to excuse himself from the heartbroken captain and make his way back to where the two of you are waiting. Then the three of you will walk back to your dorms together and yeah, it’ll be awkward for a second but Tendou will go and say something stupid and it’ll be shocking enough to distract you from the lingering jealousy that curls in your chest. 

What’s important is that the moment will pass and you’ll be able to put this all behind you. That’s how it’s always been, and so long as Ushijima keeps turning down confessions, how it will always be. In fact, you’re already turning back to Tendou, ready to change the subject in anticipation when he shakes his head and jabs his finger back where Ushijima is still standing at the end of the hall. 

“He’s still talking.”

You whirl around and watch in horror as for the first time ever, Ushijima deviates from that perfectly practiced script and says something new. 

“I cannot reciprocate your feelings because I have someone in mind already.”

For all intents and purposes, Ushijima might as well have just set off a bomb. Faintly, a part of you registers that he and the soccer captain are still talking, but they might as well be speaking a different language for all you care. You’re not listening anymore. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears as you turn those three words over and over again in your head.

‘Someone in mind.’ 

Ushijima has feelings for someone. He’s been turning down confessions, not just because he doesn’t reciprocate, but because his heart’s already taken. By someone else. Someone who isn’t you. 

You’re going to be sick. You might actually throw up. 

“Tendou,” you say slowly. “Does Ushijima have a girlfriend?”

Tendou stares at you for a long time, his sharp sweeping gaze studying you with such focus, you can’t help but suddenly remember that he’s known for his otherworldly intuition, the one that lets him predict a move before you make it. The one that makes him such a monstrous opponent on the court. 

It’s unnerving, seeing it turned on you all of a sudden. You’ve got half the mind to backtrack when he blinks and something clicks, some kind of understanding that dawns on him and leaves a strange sort of giddiness in his eyes when he realizes you’re serious. “Hmm. Dunnoooo. It would explain a lot, though, wouldn’t it? Some kinda secret girlfriend.”

“...I see.”

“...You’re making a really scary face right now,” Tendou says, poking at your side. “See, this is why Semi assigned us jail bail days.”

You shoot him a look, wriggling away from his relentless attack. “What? What the hell does that even mean?”

“Goshiki thinks you’re going to go to jail. He wouldn’t stop crying till Semi set up a schedule to make sure someone’s always gonna bail you out.” Tendou pauses and squints at you. “You weren’t supposed to know that part. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

You wrinkle your nose, briefly distracted by the admittedly hilarious vision of Goshiki wailing at poor Semi during practice, before you shake it off. “I’m not going to jail!”

“Never hurts to be prepared,” he chirps. 

You don’t bother dignifying that with a response, simply huffing when he laughs at you. Whatever. Your efforts are best spent elsewhere anyway, like in turning your attention down the hall to dig for whatever scraps of information you can get. 

You see, the thing that always shocks people the most about your unorthodox friendship is when you tell them that, between the two of you, Ushijima has always been the one to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

Of course, no one ever believes you. They’ll pause and their eyes will flick between the two of you standing side by side—the loud, eccentric manager and the taciturn statue beside her. But it makes perfect sense to you. Ushijima is blunt and never minces his words—it’s why you’ve had to come to his defense more than once on the playground back in primary school. Ushijima believes in saying what you mean and doing what you say. He sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Is it really that unbelievable that he would be this honest about his feelings too? 

Perhaps your insight is because of your proximity to him: having grown up side by side, you know him in the same way you know that the sun will rise and set, and that hayashi rice is delicious. You can see it even now, that imperceptible shift as the tension leaves him, the way his shoulders relax and drop ever so slightly when he looks up and sees that you’re still waiting. 

You’ve known Ushijima Wakatoshi since childhood. You can read him better than anyone else. This very skill that you take such pride in is how you know that, despite your wishful thinking, Ushijima has never suddenly fallen head over heels in love with you the way you have with him. You would’ve noticed the change otherwise. 

So how could you have missed this? This apparent secret girlfriend of his, these feelings that he’s kept to himself all this time. He’s always with you or Tendou—so when did he find the time to fall in love without you? 

Perhaps you just don’t know him as well as you thought. 

Tendou blows a raspberry at the sight of your sulking. “Eh? What’s wrong with you? Not like you to give up so easily.” He pokes at your side again, exaggerating a sigh. “I thought you liked to win?” 

You tense at that. While you might not have known Tendou since childhood like you have with Ushijima, the two of you have been friends long enough for you to realize when he’s up to something. It doesn’t take a genius to see through him, especially when he’s sporting that cheshire grin of his. 

He’s teasing you. Goading you. 

The worst part is that it’s working. Tendou’s right—you know it, and he knows you know it. You do like to win. It’s what makes you such a good manager, and it’s why Coach Washijo keeps you on the team even when your competitive nature has been a subject of debate between the two of you. 

(“When I said look for weaknesses in our opponents, I meant physical ones—volleyball related ones—not that their libero was bullied in middle school!”)

Hah…fine. You can admit that Tendou has a point, even if he’s making it up for his own hidden agenda. You can’t give up this easily, not when you have something worth fighting for, right? So maybe Ushijima has feelings for someone, some kind of secret girlfriend—that’s fine! Everything’s fine! You’ve got a plan.

Clearly, there’s only one reasonable thing left to do. You can’t spend the rest of your life burying your infatuation, hoping you won’t accidentally let it slip out some day. You need to be brave and rip off the bandaid, find out the truth so you can move on. You need to confront your feelings. You’ll do it— you’ll really make a move this time.

As it turns out, it’s much easier to break into Ushijima’s room than it is to confess that you’ve been in love with him for the past year. 

The door unlocks easily with a satisfying click! and you dart in, slamming the door behind you. The hallway was clear the last time you checked, but you don’t want to push your luck. For some reason, you have a feeling that the disciplinary committee won’t take “it’s not breaking-and-entering if I had a key” as a valid defense. 

You slip the spare key back in your blazer, tucking it safely in your pocket as you wander around, peering curiously at every nook and cranny.  

Ushijima’s room is just as neat as you remember it: textbooks organized alphabetically on his bookshelf, a few pictures on his desk, his volleyball tucked in the corner of his bed where it meets the wall. If you’re being honest, it’s always been a little too empty for your tastes: a little too minimalist, a little too boring. Though you suppose that this technically could be considered an improvement from when you were both children. At least there are pictures now. 

You still remember visiting his home for the first time, wide-eyed and eager to finally see what the inside of such a grand estate would look like: something like over a dozen places to hide in hide-and-seek, a bedroom the size of your living room back home, even a swimming pool. With how large the place was, surely there must’ve been a room dedicated to volleyball—no, an entire court in there somewhere!

You also remember being disappointed when you walked in and there was decidedly no secret indoor volleyball court that he’d been hiding. You’d been right about the size of his bedroom, but it just reminded you of one of those sample rooms in those fancy magazines your mom read from time to time. A little too pretty. A little too lonely. 

You’d never said anything about it, chalking the whole thing up as one of his quirks, something from his more traditional upbringing, but you did start bringing stuff over from your room to leave at his. Nothing huge—just some plushies you’d won in crane games, a few toys from gachapons, a couple drawings you’d doodled in class—but you’d sneak them in in a bulging bag and scatter them around his room when he wasn’t looking.

In hindsight, you probably weren’t very inconspicuous, being clumsy and loud and eight, but if Ushijima ever had a problem with you decorating his room, he never said anything. Every time you came back, all your baubles were still there, exactly where you left them. 

Some of them are here in his door room now. Your heart does a funny flip at the sight of those cheap gachapon figures sitting on his bookshelf. It’s been years since you first bought them, and yet none of them show any signs of standard wear and tear. It’s like they’ve been handled gently all their lives.   

You jump as your phone chimes loudly with your reminder that training’s about to start. 

Right. No more reminiscing. You need to focus on what you’re here for: the secret girlfriend. 

Realistically, you’ve only got an hour before someone’s bound to walk in. You’ve timed it perfectly—you know Ushijima’s just finished class and he’s got training next. As the manager, you don’t technically need to be there for that, so your absence shouldn’t be that suspicious. And since Tendou needs to be at training too, there’s no chance you’ll be interrupted by him either. It’s the perfect plan.  

You waste no time digging through the bookshelf, rifling through textbook after textbook, drawer after drawer. Embarrassingly enough, you’re a little uncertain what to look for since you’ve never really had any admirers yourself. For whatever reason, no one’s ever really confessed to you. 

It used to sting when you were younger but you’ve since learned to shrug it off. It’s not like you were an outcast during things like Valentine’s Day. Thoughtful as he is, Ushijima always bought you something. Plus, you’ve read plenty of shoujo manga before. Surely that’s pretty much the same thing.  

To no one's surprise, Ushijima isn’t hiding any love letters in his math textbook. You kick at the ground when your search through his drawers comes up empty too. There’s not that many places left to look. Even though Ushijima lucked out this year and got his own private room, the dorm rooms still aren’t anything luxurious. There’s really only the closet left (which ended up just being a collection of his uniforms—boring) and whatever he keeps in the storage units. 

You eye the tiny space under his desk and sigh. Well, you’re already here. No sense in doing half the job.

You shrug off your white blazer, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on Ushijima’s bed, and wriggle into that cramped spot underneath the desk. It’s tight and distinctly uncomfortable—you swear you can feel something digging into your shoulder and your leg—and you’re briefly granted a moment of clarity as you contemplate if any part of this, this whole adventure, is genuinely insane. 

You’re this close to giving up, to swallowing your pride and pretending like you didn’t just spend half an hour searching for something that apparently—doesn’t exist—until you catch sight of something in your periphery. 

There! Right there, under his desk, there’s an old box neatly tucked away in one of the dorm shelving units. At first glance, it doesn’t look like anything special, just one of those cheap plastic containers from Daiso. You and Tendou have one too—you know Tendou’s using his to keep all his Jump magazines in one place, while yours is home to a collection of your favorite guilty pleasure: romantasy manga. So unfortunately, it’s not the groundbreaking find you were looking for. You’re ready to move on, already squirming to move out of the uncomfortable position you’ve squashed yourself in except—

Except that worthless plastic container—it has Ushijima’s name on it. He’s written it down himself. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere—you’ve seen it before, scattered around his home. His old volleyball. His first sketchbook. His father’s novels. You know better than anyone that he only does that with the things he treasures most. And if that's the case… what could possibly be in the box? 

It has to be the evidence you were looking for. Something incriminating, like trinkets that belong to his secret girlfriend. There can be no other explanation for why he would need an entire container to store something so special to him. 

You did it. You found what you were looking for. 

So why aren’t you satisfied? 

You heave a great sigh and reluctantly pull your gaze away from the familiar scrawl of Ushijima’s handwriting, crawling back out from under the desk. Should you really even be doing this? Using the spare key that Ushijima trusted you with to rummage through his stuff—is this really the right way to go about things? What would Tendou say?

He’d say to listen for anyone outside the door before you open the box, your brain supplies helpfully. 

You shake your head, absentmindedly swatting at the air as if batting the temptation away. If Tendou of all people would be encouraging you, that should be all the reason you need not to do it then. 

Besides, you know it's not right. You know it’s none of your business who Ushijima dates or who he has feelings for. You’re just his childhood best friend— no more, no less. In fact, what you should really do is just clean up the mess you’ve made before someone notices and pretend like you never even saw the box. 

You swallow and move to stand, to gather the papers you’d scattered all over his table in your frenzy, when your eyes catch the framed photo sitting by his lamp. It’s an old photo; one your mother snapped back from a time when the two of you were still the same height. 

You’d been coming home from your first summer festival together, dressed in your matching yukatas. The two of you had spent the night hand in hand as you eagerly dragged him from stall to stall, chattering away. By the time the festival came to a close, you were dead on your feet, sluggishly letting Ushijima guide you back home. 

You’d felt bad about it at the time, the kind of worry that comes with thinking you’re being a nuisance, the kind of nonsensical, childish guilt that you’d failed him as his (self-proclaimed) senior. You’d wanted to impress him, to show him something as cool as volleyball, but here you were hours later, so tired that you could barely muster another word, let alone figure out how to get home. 

Kids that age are fickle. You know without a doubt that he must’ve been exhausted too, running after you all night. It would’ve been all too easy for him to excuse himself and go home early. You would’ve understood if he did. There was certainly no expectation for him to walk you all the way back home, especially since his house was much closer to the festival than yours. 

But because he’s Ushijima—kind, gentle, dependable Ushijima—the thought of leaving you behind had never even crossed his mind. He’d just taken your hand and matched your snail’s pace, slowly maneuvering you through those crowded, winding streets. And then when you’d nearly tripped over your own two feet, he’d simply stopped and offered you his back. Your mother had opened the door to find him standing there with you wrapped around him, dozing off with your face tucked in the crook of his neck, and snapped the photo without hesitation. 

You pick up the picture and softly trace the borders of the frame. It’s an old photo and yet—it’s in perfect condition. There’s not even a smudge on the glass.

You don’t want to lose him.

The thought comes to you unbidden, that ache in your chest growing heavier as you gingerly set the picture back down where it used to be. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? You’re just his childhood friend—no more, no less, but god—you don't want to be. 

You don’t want to lose him, not to someone else— never to someone else—but the truth is half the jealousy you feel every week is just envy. Envy, because even though you might seethe quietly at the audacity some of these admirers have, using affectionate nicknames and professing their love when they don’t even know him, at least they can confess. Unlike you, they’ve got nothing to lose. Unlike you, they’re not bound by this invisible boundary that they can’t cross. 

The truth is you wouldn’t be able to bear it, even though you knew it was only a matter of time before your luck ran out. The only thing worse than someone else having his heart would be you taking the gamble and losing it all. 

You glance back at the photo, at the way Ushijima held you so easily even then, as if it was second nature to have you by his side. He wasn’t looking at the camera either, you realize. He was always looking at you. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides and then you’re looking back only once to check the door before you throw yourself back under the table, reaching in, twisting your arm in an awkward angle to snatch up the box and drag it back out to the center of the room. 

The white plastic stares at you accusingly as you trail your hand across the lid and huff out a laugh. There’s not even a layer of dust. Typical. You really shouldn’t be surprised—Ushijima has always been diligent about taking care of the things he loves. 

The things he loves. You curl your fingers around the corner, digging them into the space where the lid meets the container. It’s a bad idea. All of this. Even if you were successful in your impromptu investigation, what would be the point? It’s not like you could confront him about it—you can’t without explaining how you found out to begin with.

You should put it away. Once you open it, there really will be no more going back. 

But you would finally know the truth.

Your eyes flick back to that picture of the two of you and you pause only a moment before you give in and finally rip that damn lid off.

…

Oh. 

It’s you. 

It’s all you. 

You’d been bracing yourself for the worst—love letters, pictures, gifts too precious to keep out on display—but all that’s staring back at you in that stupid, worthless plastic tub is a lifetime of memories you’d almost forgotten about. 

There are the notes that you used to pass to him during lectures, back when the two of you were still lucky enough to be in the same class, safely tucked away in a plastic sheet and organized by year. Your little doodles are still there, ink smudged slightly on the paper but in otherwise pristine condition. Behind them are the messy, half finished polaroids you snapped of the two of you, with handwritten dates for each one. Bottles, wrappers from the late night konbini runs. 

And there, in the center of it all, is the flower you gave him at recess, the Japanese camellia you shoved into his hands when you made him promise to play with you forever. 

He kept it. He kept all of it, this collection of trinkets, and pieced it together into this haphazard mosaic of the story most precious to him: the story of the two of you. 

You carefully reach in and cup the camellia in your hand, tenderly running your thumb over the dried petals. It’s smaller than you remember. When you first snatched it from your neighbor’s garden, clambering over that fence while she hollered at you, you’d been giddy with your stolen prize. You didn’t have the words for it back then, didn’t understand the dizzying, overwhelming affection you felt for your best friend. But instinctively, some part of you recognized that with those pretty, pink petals that seemed to spill past your fingertips, your gift could do all the talking for you. 

You know better now. Perhaps even back then, that too, was love. 

You smile wistfully. You needed two hands to hold it back then. Where did the time go?

“Nice flower. What’re you doing in Wakatoshi’s room?” Tendou chirps as he leans over you. 

You yelp and shove the flower back in the box, slamming the lid back on top. “Tendou! God— nothing! I’m just waiting for him to be done with class!” 

Tendou squints his eyes, staring at you and the plastic box that you’re currently trying to discreetly kick back under Ushijima’s desk. 

“Eh? It’s already 5. Class was over an hour ago. You missed practice—you never miss practice. Washijo thought something happened to you. Goshiki wanted to search the nearest holding cell.”

The box makes an unhappy thud when you shove it again and it ends up wedged between the desk and the shelf. There’s a brief lull in conversation when you and Tendou pause to stare. You cough loudly and stand up, dusting yourself off. “You know how it is. I just lost track of time.”

“...This is about today’s confession, isn’t it,” he says slowly, inching closer. 

“No!” you blurt, throwing your hands in his face. “I mean— why would it be? Hah! Wakatoshi gets confessions all the time! It’s no big deal—” 

Tendou easily dodges your attempt to blind him and just gives you a satisfied, impish grin. “So you’re not trashing his room to find his secret girlfriend’s stuff?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” you sniff. Tendou just waggles his eyebrows and you narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Hang on. Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here? Don’t you guys still have training?”

Tendou yawns and throws his hands behind his head. “I left early cause I had a feeling you were gonna do something stupid.”

“And you wanted to help me?”

“And I wanted to be there to see it,” Tendou corrects.

You take a deep breath and bravely resist the urge to just grab him and stretch him like taffy. “Thanks.”

“Ehhh, don’t look so mad! You should be glad I’m here~”

“And why’s that?” You force out. 

Tendou gleefully waves his phone in front of your face. “How else would you know that Ushijima just sent me a text. He says he’s coming over to find us.”

Your head shoots up so fast you nearly smack Tendou in the face. “How much time do I have?”

Tendou checks his empty wrist. “Probably like ten minutes.”

You let out a particularly creative string of curses as you frantically sort through the mess, shoving books back on shelves and papers back in drawers. 

(Tendou plops himself down, gangly limbs draped over Ushijima’s chair, and rests his head in his hand as he watches you fuss over the pile of clothing you’d made when you tore through Ushijima’s wardrobe. 

He wonders if you can see it—you, in a room that only you have the spare key to; a room with the trinkets that you bought for Ushijima as a child; a room he decorated with your favorite colors. If you’ve noticed the way that Ushijima always brings his jacket to the gym, even when he’s going to be playing, because you get cold easily. If you’ve ever caught how, instinctively, whenever someone confesses to him, the first place he always looks is toward you. 

Though, given that you’re here in his room frantically trying to cover up the minor crime you’ve just committed, probably not. 

Ah well, he thinks, idly scrolling through all the other messages Ushijima’s sent about you. She’ll figure it out eventually. It’s only a matter of time.)

author's notes: so. this was in fact supposed to be a short 2k piece that would give me a break from working on Without Apology. as you can see it did not end up being 2k. anyways. I had a lot of fun working on this piece and even though it was supposed to be mostly comedy, I think I slipped and accidentally wrote something really earnest. I’m sure you will make fun of me for this later Liya.

I think ushijima really shines in these “dense x guy who’s been in love since he was six” tropes because he’s very much an “acts of service” kinda guy. In that sense, reader’s right—if he was in love, it would be really obvious because there would be special treatment. She just doesn’t realize she’s getting special treatment because it’s just how Ushijima has been for as long as she can remember.

I also think it’s really funny that this is supposed to be an ushijima fic and then I basically only had him appear in the beginning and say like 10 words. And then none of those words were directed at reader lol. It’s just like real Haikyuu.

Anyways. My beautiful wonderful beta readers. Thank you to @sun-snatcher for reading like 5k words about a guy you don’t even know and hyping me up anyway. And of course, a big thank you @yuechihua for being so thorough with your edits.I know you absolutely despise ushijima so it means a lot that you would sit down and read 4.9k words of fic dedicated to my beast. I love you hehe!

As always, if you enjoyed, let me know :3c

Tag list: @syynon, @takeyourhands