✿ 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒂 ✿

See, your moms are best friends. They grew up together, living only a few houses away from each other. They got married around the same time, too. The double pregnancy was unplanned but the icing on the cake, according to them. 

Mrs. Miya had her twins, while you were born a whole two months after them. And though your mothers had both moved out of their childhood houses, the homes they built for their fledgling families were a mere few streets away from each other. 

Rarely did a day go by when you didn’t see the Miyas. Diaper changes were done side by side and you had more than your fair share of baths as infants with the boys. They took their first steps in your living room, too. (Atsumu tripped and fell on top of you, who had been sitting and minding your own business on the carpet nearby. According to your mother, you retaliated with swift and immediate justice in the form of a babydoll swung at his head. Osamu, apparently, refused to attempt walking for another week after witnessing your brutality.)

You went to the same kindergarten as the twins, too. Whenever they’d try and trick the teacher by swapping places, you’d correct them. And tell their mother later that same day. Atsumu pulled your pigtails more than he should’ve gotten away with and Osamu helped himself to half your lunch nearly every day. They were nuisances, no doubt about it, but you were always there. Matching their attitudes, chasing after them on bikes halfway through elementary school, knocking them on the back of their heads whenever they tried to hide their homework from their mother. 

There was no escaping the Miya twins. And they couldn’t get rid of you, either. They were your best friends. 

Until you had to move away right before middle school started.

“Just tell yer dad ya don’t wanna go!” Twelve year old Atsumu announces, spinning a volleyball on one finger. It’s a trick you know he’s only picked up recently, and you also know he’s been doing it nonstop since Michiko told him it made him look really athletic. 

“Stay with yer mom, or somethin’.” Osamu agrees with his brother. He’s laying across the park bench, sprawled on his back. You’d asked them to meet you at the same playground you’ve been going to since before you could talk. It’s wedged between your two houses, and made for an easy halfway meeting point growing up. 

“Apparently, the judge says I have to go with my dad.” It’s pitiful, the way you sniffle and close in on yourself. Since Osamu is taking up the whole bench, you’ve been forced to sit on the edge of the playset, on the lowest level, maybe half a dozen feet from where he lays. Atsumu is standing to your left, making a triangle out of the three of you while you break the news about your impending departure. “Something about him bein’ more capable of caring for me, or whatever.” 

You’d overheard your mom talking to Mrs. Miya on the phone a few nights earlier. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but there was a waver in your mother’s voice that cracked something deep in your chest and kept you frozen around the corner from the kitchen, out of sight but well within earshot. 

The divorce was messy. You knew that much without needing to hear it from your mother. Your final year of elementary school was disrupted by innumerable court hearings to arrange custody and division of property. The house was inherited from a relative on your mother’s side, so it was hers to keep. Which suited your father fine—considering he wanted to move to Tokyo for his new promotion. 

You’d been crying while you listened to your mom talk about how primary custody was given to your father. Something about him having a stable job while she was only a housewife. Something about her not being able to provide necessary funds to support you. 

As if she wasn’t your mother and your whole life hadn’t been lived in Hyogo. 

“Well, that’s stupid.” Atsumu huffed, dropping the volleyball into the palm of his hand. You glared at him for his unimaginative response. He tossed the ball into the air once before lobbing it in Osamu’s direction. It caught his twin by surprise, landing with a decent amount of force on his stomach and folding him in half. 

“‘Tsumu, you jerk!” Osamu shouted, rolling off the bench and winding his arm back with the volleyball clutched in his hand, fully intending to retaliate. Atsumu braced for impact, twisted his body away from his brother while you watched on boredly, neither impressed nor surprised. 

“Ya gotta say somethin’ ‘t her, too!” Atsumu defended his actions, jumping slightly as the volleyball slammed into his back with a heavy thud. 

“Guys!” You yelled to get their attention. Atsumu froze from where he was scrambling to get the ball to return fire that he himself had started. Osamu sat back down on the bench, eyes slightly wide as he watched the way you chewed on your lip and toyed with your fingers. Rarely, did you ever yell at them. Call them names, or pinch their arms, or threaten to tell their mother—those were your go to moves to get them in line. 

Yelling meant something different. Something bigger. 

“I’m leaving in a week.” You confess, voice quieter now that the twins weren’t on the verge of derailing the conversation with a fight you’d inevitably have to break up. “Dad wants me to have a few days to settle before middle school starts.” 

They’re silent for maybe three seconds. Four, tops. 

And then they’re talking over each other. Scrambling to come up with excuses for why you can’t leave them. 

“Who’s supposed ‘t tell me when I got food on my face?” Osamu questions like his messy eating is a life or death scenario. 

“Or when I forget my homework, who am I supposed ‘t ask for help!” Atsumu has his hands on his hips, a distraught expression on his face as he paces the distance between your perch on the playground and Osamu’s bench. “‘Samu don’t let me copy!”

“Doesn’t let you,” You correct his grammar. You do it mindlessly, voice quiet and weak as you struggle to keep back your tears. You’ve always corrected him, like a habit you stubbornly refuse to break. Except now, you’re lacking your usual air of smug authority. There’s not one part of you that wants to leave the twins, or your mother, or even Hyogo as a whole. 

“Or that! Who’s gonna tell me when I’m speakin’ wrong!” 

“You could just l-learn on your own,” You suggest, trying for a joke that comes out way more pitiful than intended when you break up your sentence with a voice crack and punctuate it with a sniffle. Your eyes are starting to burn with unshed tears, and your nailbeds you’d been picking at nervously suddenly go blurry. 

Osamu calls your name, but it sounds distant. You don’t remember him standing from the bench, but between one complaint from Atsumu at the next, he’s in front of you and pulling you to your feet. He’s crushing you in a hug before you know it, and it’s seconds before his twin joins in. You’re in the middle of a Miya hug-sandwich, and there’s at least six dozen photos in your mother’s photo albums of the three of you in that exact pose. 

“Promise you’ll come back when ya can?” Atsumu whispers into your hair. You do him a favor and don’t point out the fact that his voice is painfully tight and you think he’s about to join you in crying. 

You know you have no control of when you’ll come back. From what you can tell, your dad seems pretty much ready to go scorched earth on Hyogo. Part of you already resents him for taking you to the city, and you haven’t even left yet.

But you can’t exactly imagine a life where the Miyas aren’t in your life, headache that they might be. 

“Swear it.” 

You squeeze them a little tighter. 

You spend four years in Tokyo. 

You don’t hate all of it, even if you tell your father that you do. 

Your middle school isn’t awful and the people in it can actually be kinda nice. You’re teased by the boys about your Kansai dialect, the slow drawl that drags out more syllables than probably necessary. By your final year of middle school, you’re able to hide your accent decently well, unless you’re tired or worked up. 

You don’t go back to Hyogo. Mom comes to visit in the city. Once a month, she takes time off work—from the job she got at the local bakery in town you’re only a little bitter she didn’t have before custody arrangements were decided—and stays in Tokyo. You show her around the city and she shares tidbits about the life you left behind. 

The twins are still playing volleyball. Their mother sent them to camp. Everyone from the neighborhood misses you.

You cling to the stories she shares, even if they sting a little. 

Tokyo isn’t all bad. 

But it’s not Hyogo. 

You start high school in Tokyo, too. You can’t say anything horrible about that, either. But you’ve all but stopped talking to your father. Most conversations end in him badmouthing your mother, or Hyogo, or complaining about how you seem so ungrateful for the opportunities available to you in the city.  

He’s changed since you were little. You think he wishes you were still a toddler that blindly believed whatever he told you. You’ve started to hate him, even though you still love him. 

It’s when your first year of high school draws to a close that things finally come to a head. 

Your mom had just left after visiting for a week straight. What started as a comment from him about how much happier you seem with her than with him exploded into an argument about dragging you away from your life, your friends. You’d stormed off to your room and sobbed into your pillow. 

An hour later, your father was at your door, quietly suggesting you live with your mother for the remainder of high school. 

It wasn’t like he was giving up on you. More so giving in to what you had wanted all along. 

Lawyers were involved soon after. Custody agreements were changed, school transfer papers were submitted, boxes were packed. With the new school term starting so soon, it was a whirlwind of upending your life for a second time. 

Only, now you were moving back home instead of away. 

Your first night back with your mother is a celebration. 

You’re far from surprised when the Miyas are on your doorstep for dinner. Mrs. Miya sweeps you up into a hug before the door is even all the way open, and you feel your heart bursting at the seams with how much you’ve missed her and the way she dotes on you. 

The closest thing I’ll get to a daughter, she always called you. 

“Yer so big!” She gasps, holding you at arms length in the entryway. A smile threatens to crack her face in two as she inspects you, chatting away with your mom about how well you’ve grown into yourself since the last time she’d seen you. 

It takes a moment, but she finally pulls away from you to venture further into the house. The way she trails after your mother, talking about dinner, is so familiar your head almost spins. Behind her, her sons step into the house the same way they have a million times before. 

Except, you haven’t seen them in four years. 

You’ve grown up in your time away. The last time you’d seen the twins, you’d been twelve and still letting your mother choose your haircut. 

They’d clearly grown up, too. You’ve seen pictures, but nothing could compare to how they looked standing in front of you. What you remember being skinny not-quite middle schoolers are now two broad shouldered, taller than you’d have guessed, men. 

“God, you two have gotten big.” You grin, standing on the top of the genkan step. But even with the higher ground, they’re still taller than you. “Why aren’t you still twelve and measuring your height against mine every weekend?”

“Yer talkin’ all weird.” Atsumu accuses, waving his fingers in your face as if he could summon your guilt to the surface. His hair is blond now. You had thought you’d hate it when your mother had told you, but he surprisingly wears it well. It fits him, you think. Osamu’s hair is dyed, too, a lighter brown than what his natural color is. “What, a few years in the city and suddenly it’s like ya never grew up here?”

“Couldn’t ya have waited five minutes before ya started insultin’ her?” Osamu digs an elbow into his brother’s ribs, and you know what’s going to happen next. You’ve seen it played out countless times growing up. 

Osamu tossed the first elbow, so Atsumu retaliated with a harsh shove that would’ve sent his brother crashing sideways into the shoe rack, if he hadn’t anticipated the blow. They’re snapping insults like they wouldn’t kill for the other, and you can’t help the grin that twists your lips at the familiar sight. 

Atsumu’s reaching to grab Osamu by the collar of his shirt when you launch yourself at them, flying from the top step of the genkan to wrap an arm around each of their shoulders for a three-way hug. 

“You morons haven’t changed at all, have you?” You ask, a warmth in your chest burning so bright you might get sick on it. You’ve waited so long to be able to come back here, to be with your twins again, and it feels like the same as always. Like four years and countless miles haven’t separated you. 

“Ya expected this idiot t’ grow up any?” Osamu asks, gesturing towards his brother with one hand while the other returns your hug. Atsumu is stiffer, slower to react to the embrace. You hope it’s just because he doesn’t want to be so close to his brother he was actively trying to strangle ten seconds earlier and has nothing to do with you. 

He does react, soon enough. Squeezing you so tight he lifts your feet off the ground, too. It’s the same hug he’d give you when you were children and he was extra excited about something. Usually, it’d come out when you’d agree to toss him volleyballs to set to Osamu or promise not to tell his mother about the newest stupid thing he did. 

When you’re finally set back on the ground, you waste no time by slipping further into the house. You trust them to follow you, because how many times have they trailed after you in this exact same way? 

You throw a smile over your shoulder as you walk, not surprised in the slightest when you see them only a handful of paces behind you. 

You’re practically drunk off the feeling of everything sliding into place the way it had been before you left. 

“C’mon, I need you two to carry the heavy boxes up to my room before dinner’s ready.”

Atsumu Miya is irrevocably, irreversibly, undeniably screwed. 

You’re so stupidly pretty. 

And as much as Osamu claims, he’s not a total moron. He’d expected you to look different than you had when you were twelve. What he hadn’t expected was just how stunning four years and time away in Tokyo had made you look. 

He’d seen pictures from your mom over the years. He’d known you’d grown up, grown prettier. Part of him thinks he was just wishing it was really good lighting. Now that he knows that you naturally look that good, all the time, he thinks he might turn to mush. 

No way that Osamu doesn’t catch on within three days. Three hours, if he’s lucky. 

His mind had melted the moment he saw you standing on the top step of the genkan at your mother’s house, like you’d never left. Thankfully, his mom had you occupied long enough to let him pull himself together. It also helped that Osamu picked a fight after one sentence left his mouth. 

But then you had smiled and hugged him and his mind was scattered once more.

He’s starting to think he might’ve had a crush on you before you left. He hadn’t thought he did, back then, but it did take him weeks longer than Osamu to adjust to your absence. He never really quite accepted the fact you were living in Tokyo. 

And now you’re back. And he’s really starting to hate the idea of you attending his school in a few days. 

What if you think Suna’s cuter than he is?

It’s not a thought that had bothered him until approximately thirty minutes ago. The moment your front door swung open and you chastised him for growing up, the same way you always told him off for improper grammar or being a dick to your classmates, Atsumu realized you were going to be trouble.

It doesn’t help that he’s sitting stiffly on the edge of your bed, Osamu having disappeared back downstairs to help your mothers with the cooking. 

“I can’t believe this room is exactly the same as I remember.” You flash him a smile over your shoulder while you put clothes away. Atsumu feels his heart squeeze in his chest in a way he doesn’t like at how happy you look. 

“Yeah, ya still got all yer weird shit,” He nods, because that comment falls past his lips way easier than anything that he really wants to say, like ‘can’t even tell ya how much I missed ya’ or ‘please don’t tell me ya got a fancy Tokyo boyfriend waitin’ on ya’. 

“You’ll never catch me saying this, ever again, but I’ve seriously missed even your dumb comments.” You smile at him again and Atsumu thinks he might have to leave the country. You’re so pretty that it hurts. It makes his brain fuzzy and awkward and he hates the feeling so much. 

“Seriously, why are ya talkin’ like that?” He doesn’t hate it, the way your words sound different. But it’s not the you he remembers, and he thinks if he’s going to cling to his sanity he needs to think of you like the twelve year old dork you were the last time he saw you in person. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug, and instantly there’s a shift in your voice so obvious even he can pick up on. You’re quieter now, more melancholic, with a frown weighing on your pretty lips. It has him listening just that much closer to your every word, like he’s some lovesick fool. “Made it easier to fit in, I guess. And then before I realized how different I sounded from when I lived here, it already was just a habit.”

And that makes him pause. He thinks about you for a moment, all alone at some fancy school your father picked out for you. Thinks about how you probably nervously introduced yourself, always trying to make the best out of any situation. He thinks about how someone probably made fun of the way you spoke, and suddenly there’s a tight knot of anger working its way up his throat. 

He needs to swallow once, twice, before he’s able to talk without cursing out people he doesn’t even know actually exist. 

“Well, I ain’t stoppin’ my friends from teasin’ ya for soundin’ all fancy and shit.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word.” You correct, like you always did. Like no time had passed, and you’re still the same annoying brat that thought you could beat proper grammar into his thick skull. Your easy grin is back, and he thinks being told he’s wrong is a small price to pay for you to stop thinking about Tokyo jerks. “And I grew up with you and ‘Samu. A little teasing won’t scare me away.”

You smile at him a little too knowingly and Atsumu feels the fear of god in a way that he hasn’t since he broke Osamu’s science fair project the night before it was due and you were just mad enough at him to tattle. 

“Ya gotta promise me ya won’t date any of my friends.” Atsumu blurts without thinking. It’s how he does most of his talking, anyways, but he’s particularly embarrassed about this instance, because now he’s floundering for a response while you’re looking at him curiously. “They’re dumb. And idiots.”

“Those mean the same thing,” You snort, returning to folding your laundry with practised ease. He can’t help but watch you closely, hands clenched in fists in his lap, like he’s never once sprawled across that very same bed and demanded that you let him talk about volleyball practice for hours. “And don’t worry about me. If they’re anything like you and ‘Samu, I’ll pass.” 

You poke your tongue out at him, teasing. His heart stops in his chest instantly. He knows he definitely shouldn’t feel this type of way about you, especially considering you’ve been gone for four years and now you’re back and treating him the same way you had when he was twelve. 

This is bad. Horrible. You’ve been back in his life for less than an hour and he’s already imagining having to fight half his team if they try anything with you. 

“Promise me.” He’s demanding without thinking, which is bad, because if you’re anything like you were before you left, you’ll see right through him. You’ll see that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin, alone in your bedroom with you. You’ll see that he’s just itching to get ahead of the curve and tell every lowlife, grubby, moron at Inarizaki High that you’re too good for them and he’s known you since you were in diapers. Before you were even born, actually. 

“What?” You ask, head tilted to the side in an adorable way that makes him consider jumping out the window to escape the feeling building in his chest. He’s a coward, fine. 

“Pinky promise me ya won’t. Even if they try to be charmin’, yeah?” He backs up his words, mentally begging that you won’t call him on his possessiveness. He doesn’t think it’s too far from what he was like before you left, though. He remembers the stories his mom used to tell him about how he and Osamu would fight over who got to fill the role of prince when you were all toddlers and playing ‘save the princess from the dragon’. (It got to the point that your mothers had to get involved, keeping a running list of who’s turn it was to be the prince and who had to be the dragon. You, always, were the princess.)

He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but he lifts his hand and extends a pinky in your direction, like you’re five again. He thinks you’re probably going to call him an idiot, but you don’t. Instead, you set the sweatshirt you’d been folding down and move to stand in front of him. 

“Fine.” You hum, voice gentle in a way he never realized he’s missed so much. When you wrap your pinky around his, he has to make a conscious effort to not blush like a fool. 

It’s at this very unfortunate moment that Osamu makes his return, flinging open the door and strolling through it like he’s never stopped coming in. Atsumu swears his brother can see right through him. 

“What’re you two doin’?” Osamu, the jackass, questions in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything beyond the smug teasing it is. Astumu has half a mind to put him in a headlock for being so obvious, but that would mean fully outing himself to you. 

“‘Tsumu’s making me promise I won’t flirt with your friends.” You still have your pinky wrapped around his, and Atsumu will be the last one to remind you of the fact. You’re half turned to look at Osamu, and he feels like he’s ten years old again and jealous every time you’d watch someone else at his volleyball matches. Despite all the changes, one thing has apparently stayed the same. 

Atsumu needs you looking at him, all the time.

“Let her meet Sunarin before ya make her agree to that.” Osamu is grinning so smugly Atsumu swears his brother must already know what he’s thinking and how he’s absolutely obsessed with you already. 

He feels his soul leave his body when you look at him again, curious grin on your perfect lips, head tilted adorably to the side, and pinky still wrapped tight around his. He’s not going to make it to dinner.

“Sunarin?” You ask, and the sound of his friend’s name on your tongue is like one of Atsumu’s recently realized worst nightmare. Part of him thinks you’re doing it all on purpose. 

“No! Ya already pinky promised me.” Atsumu can’t help the way he practically shouts in your face. For added measure, he waves your conjoined hands in the air to remind you of the commitment you just made. “‘Samu’s just an extra. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout him. Or Suna.” 

You roll your eyes at him and he practically preens, because you at least decided to lay some of your attention on him, even if it’s in the form of utter annoyance. And he’s starting to realize that he wants you to keep looking at him, always, even if it makes him seem a little pathetic. 

Despite the way Atsumu’s plotting to keep you close forever, you drop his hand and retreat back a step, leaning against your bed a foot away from where he’s sitting. He frowns at the distance like it personally offends him, which in his lovesick mind, it does. 

God, he’s already admitting to be lovesick. 

“Moron.” Osamu coughs into his fist like he’s actually hiding anything, and Atsumu contemplates murder. You must have some special Miya twin sense, an innate quality, because you glare at him the same way you always do when you realize a fight’s about to break out between the brothers. Astumu holds his hands up like he’s ever been innocent a day in his life. 

“He’s startin’ with me, ain’t ya hear him?” He defends, gesturing wildly between himself and Osamu, who’s leaning against your doorframe and looking rather unimpressed. 

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu beams, royally screwed and eternally grateful that he got to hear you call him by his nickname. 

Osamu, of course, has to ruin it. 

“Dinner’s ready. Ma told me to come get you both.”

“Can’t ya, I dunno, fix yer skirt or somethin’?”

“What’s wrong with my skirt?” 

“I can see yer legs.” 

You stare blankly at Atsumu, blinking, trying to figure out what exactly the problem is. Osamu is looking at his brother, too, and you share a glance that proves neither of you understand what’s happening. 

“Uh,” You look at your skirt, again, and decide that you’re not the crazy one in the situation. “That’s what happens when you wear skirts, ‘Tsumu.” 

Osamu snorts, leaving his brother behind as he trails ahead of the two of you down the street. Like the routine had never changed, the twins had come to your house to walk you to school. With the first day of your second year—and your first day ever at Inarizaki—you were glad they had shown up without any begging on your part.

“Besides,” You turn away from Atsumu to follow after the other Miya, leaving the three of you to walk in a line until Osamu takes pity on you and lets you catch up. “The skirt on my old uniform was shorter.”

Atsumu makes a noise like he’s choking, and you twist around to find him trailing after you with his palms covering his face and head tilted towards the sky. You shoot him a curious look, but he doesn’t see, so you direct your attention to Osamu. The more reasonable Miya had stopped walking, turning around on the sidewalk to wait for you. 

“Get a fuckin’ grip, ya moron.” Osamu directs at his brother. Neither one of them is actually looking at you, steadfastly refusing to clue you in to what they could possibly be talking about. 

“You’re both so annoying,” You roll your eyes and catch up to Osamu, falling in step beside him and leaving Atsumu to be the odd one out and third person on a sidewalk. He’s still making incomprehensible noises as he walks, but you’re tuning him out as you chat with Osamu about your plan for the day. 

You have to go to the front office as soon as you get to the school in order to pick up your schedule and student ID. From there, they’ll walk you to your class and try to introduce you to someone they know, if you’re not in their homeroom. You’ll all meet up for lunch, obviously, and after school you’ll stay to watch their practice and meet the team. 

The moment the office clerk hands you a paper copy of your schedule, Atsumu snatches it out of your grasp. You barely had enough time to even read your own name at the top of the paper, let alone your homeroom teacher. 

Atsumu keeps the paper closer as he reads it, a furrow between his dark brows. You frown, deciding just to wait out his nonsense. Osamu, predictably, is far less patient. Instead of letting his brother just read out what’s written, he starts shoving at his arm to get your schedule for himself. 

Typical. You decide you’re absolutely not going to break up any fights between them if they’re just going to be ridiculous. 

“Ha!” Atsumu shouts, grinning so wide you already know you should be prepared for trouble. “I win! Yer in my homeroom.” 

“That’s a win only for you.” Osamu yanks your schedule out of his twin’s hand so he could better see it. Atsumu must be satisfied with what he’s already seen, because he lets the paper go without any fuss. And by the smug look on his face, you know Osamu is right. This is a win only for Atsumu. “Actually, might be yer loss, too. Ain’t Suna in yer homeroom?”

“Oh, the mysterious Sunarin I’ve been forbidden from talking to?” You grin, teasingly, and sidle up to Osamu to peer at your own schedule for the first time. Atsumu makes a sound like he’s choking, again, the high energy he’d been riding since figuring out you were in his class evaporating from his twin’s observation and your comment. 

“Shit.” Atsumu groans, defeated for just a moment before grabbing you by the shoulders so you’re forced to face him. Osamu’s warning for him to be careful with you goes ignored and Atsumu tugs you close, his face inches from yours with wide eyes seemingly staring into your soul. You falter, just for a moment, at the sudden proximity. “Remember yer promise, alright? Ain’t no flirtin’ with Suna’s grimy ass.” 

“You callin’ other people grimy is just wrong.” Osamu mutters, still studying your schedule. Beyond his initial warning to his twin, he seems wholly uninterested in the interaction playing out before him. 

“Would you relax, ‘Tsumu?” You huff, prying his hands from your shoulders. The distance you force between the two of you feels like miles, despite only being a handful of inches. You breathe a little easier, though it makes your stomach twist and you’re suddenly unable to look at the blond without flushing. “I won’t hit on him. Swear it. Now, can I go to class?” 

Osamu flicks his attention to you, finally, at your tight tone. You almost sound irritated, and he’s clocked it immediately. Great. Now you can’t look at either twin without feeling like you’re revealing something you didn’t know you were hiding. 

“Leave ‘er alone, dumbass.” Osamu cuts in, folding your schedule and finally handing it over to you. Atsumu goes to argue against his brother’s name calling, but you stride off without bothering to stick around and hear despite not having a clue of where to go. 

You hear a quick argument, a bit of a scuffle, both boys launching a ‘great, look what you did!’ at each other before they catch up. They’re still shoving at each other, being obnoxious and taking up too much space in the hallway, so you suck it up and level both of them with the same glare you’d been giving them since you were children and they were embarrassing you in public. 

They fall in line relatively quickly. 

As you walk, Atsumu and Osamu give you a quick tour of the school. They point out places you needed to know—where you can find the bathrooms, cafeteria, and Osamu’s homeroom—but also random corners with sweet memories such as this is where I put ‘Samu in a headlock and that’s where ‘Tsumu got horribly rejected by this girl he liked last year. 

By the time you reach your homeroom, you don’t think you actually remember where the cafeteria is after all the other information they overloaded you with. 

“And you can sit next to me!” Atsumu beams, flinging open the door to your shared homeroom after effectively shooing Osamu off down the hallway. 

“What, giving away my seat now, Atsumu?” 

There’s a new voice in the conversation, a lazy deep drawl that catches your attention immediately—espeically with the way Atsumu groans like he just got told he can’t open his christmas presents yet. 

“Suna! Ya don’t own the seat.” Atsumu stomps further into the room, and you try to stifle the giggle at how much he looks like a tantruming toddler. But despite how he’s embarrassing, you roll your eyes and follow him in. Some things never change.

“Neither do you,” The boy, Suna, counters. He’s leaning back into the chair you’re certain that Atsumu just tried to offer up to you. He’s lazily scrolling through his phone, dark eyes not even lifting from the device as Atsumu slaps his hands on the desk and leans forward. 

“It’s the first day,” Atsumu is whining, and you might’ve found it more irritating than it was if he wasn’t your irritating mess. But affection has built up over time and now you find yourself not even blinking at how Atsumu, volleyball prodigy and bulk of a man, has himself draped over someone else’s desk while he begs. “That seat ain’t assigned to you!”

“Ain’t isn’t a word, dummy.” You correct, taunting, and enjoying Atsumu’s sharp inhale without even looking at you.

“Sunarin.” Atsumu hisses through clenched teeth, his gaze darting to you briefly before pinning on his friend. You raise a brow, mildly entertained by how Atsumu is being completely iced out. “Bro. I need this seat. Ya can, I dunno, can’t ya sit in front of me?” 

“Don’t bother.” Suna finally lifts his attention to Atsumu, a smug grin on his face. “‘Samu already texted me.”

You don’t know what that means, but Atsumu apparently does. You watch on silently as his face pales, your own expression twisting in confusion. Atsumu raises a hand, finger pointed threateningly at Suna, but all weight of the action is lost by his fish out of water gaping. 

“I’ll sit in front of you, ‘Tsumu.” You roll your eyes, dropping your bag on the hook of the desk diagonally in front of Suna’s. By the time you settle into your seat and twist sideways to face the boys, they’re locked in the middle of a heated, silent conversation. 

Well, Atsumu’s look is heated. Suna’s grin is still plastered across his face. You turn back around, absolutely not wanting to get involved in whatever they have going on. 

“And if you try and bother me,” You toss casually over your shoulder towards Atsumu, who’s defeatedly slumping into the desk directly behind you. “I’ll move halfway across the room. Don’t try to argue, either, because you know I will. Remember fourth grade?”

Atsumu had opened his mouth to protest, but snapped his jaw shut at the reminder that you are a woman of your word. He’d pouted for a month when you had moved away from his desk—for only one day, mind you—back in elementary school. In your defense, he had it coming. After three paper airplanes tossed at you and a vicious tug to your ponytail, you’d made the mature decision to abandon him instead of doing what you really wanted—sock him on the mouth.

Instead of arguing, Atsumu turns his glare on Suna, who already has gone back to playing on his phone. 

“Yer ruinin’ my plans, ya jerk.” Atsumu mumbles, and you can hear the pout in his words even while you have your back to him. Without knowing, the corners of your lips curve upwards, no permission granted or asked for. 

“You don’t even have plans.” Suna fires back, words dripping with amusement at his friend’s sour mood. You snort, and immediately feel Atsumu’s stare pinned to the back of your head. 

Sighing, you relent and turn to face him once more. Your earlier assessment of his pout was more than correct; the drama queen has even gone so far as to slump deep in his chair, body folded over the top of his desk. He looks pathetic and you realize you think it’s rather adorable. 

At that jarring thought, you slide your attention over to Suna before your cheeks have the chance to darken with color. He’s hunched over his phone, still smirking at his prior teasing. He’s cute enough, you think. Dark hair to match his narrow eyes, a decent build from playing volleyball. Tall, too. Enough that you can tell even while he’s sitting down. 

You kind of get why Osamu told you to wait until you saw him to promise that you won’t flirt with him. 

Atsumu’s head connects with the desk with a concerningly loud thud. 

“Playing it cool, I see.” Suna teases. And while you don’t get what he means, your attention is back on Atsumu. His earlier excitement at having you in his homeroom has all but disappeared now that you’re actually there. 

“Shuddup, Suna!” He shoots up in his seat, straightening. You raise a brow in question, but when all he does is fight Suna’s smug grin with a glare of his own, you roll your eyes and move the conversation along. 

“Hey, ‘Tsumu,” Your gentle voice snatches his attention immediately. It’s almost comical how fast he snaps his head in your direction, wide brown eyes looking at you expectantly. Suna certainly thinks it’s funny, chuckling while typing on his phone, mumbling something that sounds like ‘I’m texting ‘Samu about this’ under his breath. You ignore him, giving Atsumu your focus like a puppy needing attention. “I’ll keep my promise.”

You extend your pinky towards him, one corner of your mouth curved skyward. Atsumu leans closer, eyes going wider, somehow, as your words hit him. 

“Thank god.” He whispers, more to himself than anything as he wraps his pinky around yours. A repeat performance of the promise you made that you wouldn’t flirt with his friends. And now you’ve met Sunarin, so you know what you’re promising to leave alone. 

You like blonds better, anyways. 

Just like in elementary school, you’re once more forced to attend the twins’ volleyball practices. 

Except now, the rule isn’t imposed by your parents. Now, you’re old enough to walk home on your own. Now, you have free will to leave school without a lecture from your mother. 

But now? Now Atsumu is the one forcing you to stay for practice. 

“C’mon! Just meet the team.” Atsumu has both hands on your shoulders from behind, gently nudging—read: pushing—you in the direction of the volleyball gym. You’ve long since given up on arguing with him about it, but you do get a bit of a kick letting him work himself up like this. “Ya ain’t gotta be so annoyin’ ‘bout it.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” You correct, like typical. Twisting out of his hold, you turn to face him with your arms crossed, an unimpressed look from you halting him in his tracks. “And you calling me annoying is just crazy. I already said I’d go, and you’re the one herding me like a dog.” 

It’s at this moment, when Atsumu is still gaping at you for calling him out, that Suna comes up behind him. You watch, finally unable to keep your smile at bay, as Suna claps him on the shoulder hard enough that he rocks forward with the movement, almost stumbling into you. 

“Heard that, ‘Samu?” Suna calls out, and you glance over your shoulder to see Osamu snickering in the open doorway of the gym. You can hear the sound of sneakers squeaking inside; clearly, there’s more of the team already in there practicing. “‘Tsumu’s like a dog.” 

“D’ya bark, too?” Osamu asks, smug as ever. There’s no part of you that’s surprised when Atsumu storms past you and towards his brother, shouting expletives and crude names as he goes. The impending brawl spills into the gym, and you share an amused look with Suna before the two of you trail after him. 

The chaos is still happening by the time you cross into the gym. They’ve earned a hefty crowd—most of the team, you think. They’re rolling on the ground, grappling and trying to get the other into a headlock or some other body hold so they can claim victory. 

Honestly, they’ve been doing this since they learned to walk. It’s far from a new sight to you. 

“Can I have that ball, please?” You ask one of the other team members sweetly. Your tone is at complete odds to the insults the twins are lobbing at one another, and the boy you’re talking to—a first year, maybe—only blinks at you for a moment before tossing over the volleyball in his arms, a pink flush burning the tips of his ears. “Thank you.”

You pass the ball between your hands. Once, twice. Just to get a feel of the weight of it. Honestly, you haven’t touched a volleyball since you left. Then, you toss it into the air, only a few feet above your head. 

Just to spike it directly into the twins. 

You think you hit Atsumu, but you can’t be sure. As the ball goes ricocheting across the gym, silence reigns. The twins freeze mid-brawl. Half the team sucks in a breath, and you think they probably assume the twins will turn their ridiculous bickering on you. Suna pulls his phone from his pocket, lifting it, and you realize a beat later that he’s recording. 

“Knock it off!” You hiss to the boys, ignoring the audience. This is nothing new, and honestly rather tame compared to some of the arguments you’ve been forced to break apart throughout your friendship with them. You just hadn’t been expecting to have to do it on your first day at Inarizaki. “You’re both embarrassing me. You two look so stupid right now.”

“He started it!” Atsumu argues, gesturing broadly towards his brother while the other hand rubs awkwardly at his side where the ball connected. He looks a little ridiculous—they both do—what with the way they’re still crouched on the ground but no longer wrestling. 

“Ya were bein’ lame!” Osamu narrows his eyes at his twin, which is just ammunition 

“Miya.” It doesn’t matter which one he’s talking to, because they both respond to the call of their surname. “Is this the mysterious childhood friend we’ve been hearing about?”

Osamu supplies your name, which is helpful, as he and his twin push themselves to stand. Atsumu glares at him, and you can’t possibly guess what about that pisses him off besides the fact that Atsumu wanted to be the one to introduce you, not his brother. 

“Oh! I remember ya’, actually.” The third year you vaguely remember to be Aran snaps his fingers in recognition. “You’d come to our practices in elementary school, right?” 

“My mom didn’t want me to walk home alone.” You fill in the blanks, feeling only slightly out of place with everyone’s attention on you. It’s more awkward than you anticipated, meeting an entire volleyball team of guys and knowing they’ve all heard of you. Still, you offer a smile. “I remember the twins annoying the hell out of you.” 

“True.” Aran laughs, deep and in good natures. Atsumu whips his head to stare at him like something about his senior making conversation with you offended him. “My condolences for having to put up with them all the time. I couldn’t imagine.” 

“Hey!” Atsumu huffs, maintaining his loud and obnoxious demeanor. It makes a smile crack on your lips, though you try to hide it with an eye roll. 

“Wow, Aran.” Osamu shakes his head, hands on his hips like he’s disappointed. These are the Miya twins you remembered, ones who would argue and fight and then in the next breath team up to torment someone else. The fact that it’s Aran of all people is just a nice nostalgic touch.

“We ain’t bring her ‘round just you ya could flirt.” Waving a careless arm in your direction, Atsumu talks like you aren’t there. It’s enough to irritate you in the same endearing way as always, and something burns just beneath the skin of your cheeks.

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” You correct out of nature, rolling your eyes at his blatant possessiveness. It’s all a distraction from the warmth bubbling up in you, though you’re the only one that needs distracting and you’re not falling for it.  “I’m going to work on my homework over there. Come get me when you’re done, alright?”

You’re half a step in the direction of the bleachers when Atsumu gasps as if he’s scandalized. 

“Ya ain’t gonna watch me?” He exclaims, dramatic and whiny and why are you forcing a grin from your lips. 

“Still not a word!” You toss over your shoulder, not giving into his antics. Sometimes, you feel like a parent dishing out tough love—he needs to suffer so that he’ll learn. Even though you know Atsumu will never learn.

“Ya don’t want her t’watch yer ass play.” Osamu comforts his twins, and you know even with your back to him that he’s going to do nothing but rile Atsumu up. “Ya’d just embarrass yerself.”

“You jerk—!”

“Miya!”

Weeks pass, and Atsumu doesn’t get any less horribly down bad. 

Which is crazy, because there’s no way you haven’t noticed.  

He’s desperate for any glimmer of attention from you. He carries your bag and tugs on your hair in class. He walks you to and from school and trips you when you walk across his living room. 

Atsumu doesn’t know how to like you without being obnoxious. 

He hates it. He feels like he’s twelve again, and Osamu is eating him alive for it. The longer this goes on, this one sided affection where he worships the ground you walk on and you still only see him as the same snot nosed brat that cried when you threatened to tell his mom on him, his frustration grows. 

He’s struggling in practice, when you’re across the gym barely even paying attention to him. He’s zoning out in class, when you’re sitting in front of him with a pen cap caught between your teeth. He’s arguing with Osamu and Suna more, when their comments about how in love with you he is get too frequent and annoying. 

He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t want to, but he’s close to snapping. 

And Atsumu Miya is very good at putting his foot in his mouth. 

Weeks pass, and you start to see Atsumu more… softly. 

Which is crazy, because you once punched him in the face in elementary school when he chased you around his backyard with a worm. 

You still see that side of Atsumu, and honestly you would be worried if you didn’t. You missed that annoying boy when you were away in Tokyo and you’re glad you still get to see him now. It sounds unlikely, but you do like his childish side. 

But now Atsumu has grown up, and the way he teases you for taking so long to get ready in the morning has something unfamiliar stirring in your chest.

There’s no grand moment when you realize you like him more than a friend. Maybe it was one of the times he grabbed your bag from your shoulder and slung it over his own to carry it for you. Or when he called your name obnoxiously across the gym during practice to get you to watch one of hundreds of identical sets you’ve seen him perform. 

You don’t know, but suddenly one day, you do.

Suddenly, it’s hard to focus in class with the heavy weight of his attention on the back of your head. You can’t get any homework done during practice when you have the opportunity to freely steal glances at his athletic form from he trains. You can’t fight the giggles of amusement when he says something ridiculous just to spite his brother.

You realize that you really, really like Atsumu. 

And you don’t exactly know what to do with those feelings.

It happens on a Friday.

The Inarizaki boys volleyball practice has just ended, and you realized you left a book you needed for your homework in your classroom. You made Atsumu promise to wait for you to walk home, since Osamu said he was going to Suna’s after practice instead.

You hear it when you make it back to the gym to meet back up with Atsumu.

When you hear your name, your footsteps falter but don’t freeze. The few boys that still remain inside the gym are talking about you—and Atsumu is one of them. 

“You got a crush on her or somethin’?” One of the boys asks. Over the sound of your heart swelling with hope for Atsumu’s answer, you don’t recognize the owner of the voice, but you think it might be one of the first years you don’t know very well. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter when you hear Atsumu’s response, his voice unmistakable.

“No! She’s so annoyin’! Always bossin’ me around and correctin’ my grammar. I hate it. She’s the last person on Earth I’d have a crush on. Rather have extra homework and never play volleyball again than kiss her. Ain’t no chance.” 

And maybe if you didn’t feel like you were doused in an ice bath at his harsh words, you would have recognized he was a little too defensive.

You stutter to a halt in the doorway to the gym, eyes wide in shock and already watery. You didn’t care that he didn’t return your feelings, but you had never expected him to be so mean towards you. 

One of the first years he’s gossiping with sees you first, and he goes so pale it’s like you’re a ghost.

It’s then that Atsumu turns, rotating in place with dread already lumped in the pit of his stomach. He knows his luck, how terrible it is, and how this is exactly something that would happen to you. 

He’s not prepared for the sight of you standing there, already crying.

“I—” You stammer, and the single syllable is like a punch to his gut. “I’m sorry.”

You turn and leave, then, with shaky hands and tears streaming. At first, Atsumu doesn’t move. Fear and regret have him rooted to his place. He can’t believe he was so stupid to say what he did. Complete and utter bullshit, he knows. Nothing that spilled from his mouth was even close to the truth.

He’s made you cry before, sure, but it was always from childhood taunts or roughhousing that he took too far when you were both younger. This is different. It feels almost intentional, even though he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it in the slightest, but his teammates were teasing him about how he acts around you, and he just wanted to shut them up. 

He didn’t mean it, but he still said it.

You have a minute-long headstart on Atsumu by the time he finally gets over his shock at his own stupidity and chases after you. 

He’s running, gym and school bags crashing awkwardly against him with his brash movements. None of it matters, though, because he needs to get to you. He doesn’t know what he’ll say, if you’ll even let him say anything, but he promised your mom he’d always make sure you got home from school safely and he’s not about to break her trust, too. 

When he gets within six feet, you acknowledge his presence with one harsh word bitten through the air that has him freezing up. Again. 

“Don’t.” You order, and for once, Atsumu listens. 

Maybe it’s the way he can tell you’re still crying. Maybe it’s the shock that he actually hurt your feelings by lying about how much you mean to him. Maybe it’s because self sabotage seemed easier than admitting you made him weak.

He doesn’t know which of those reasons stall his approach, but he slows down. Like a coward, he walks behind you without saying a word. 

It’s awkward as hell. You’re ten feet in front of Atsumu, refusing to look at him, denying him the chance to walk with you, trying your absolute hardest to keep him from hearing your shaky inhales. 

He still hears them, and each one is like a knife to his lungs.

“Don’t worry about coming over this weekend, Atsumu.” 

You called him Atsumu. He’s so fucked. 

It’s a miracle Osamu isn’t there, because his brother would kick his ass. And Atsumu would let him, honestly. He would deserve it, would deserve worse for the crime of making you cry. He ran his mouth to try and save face in front of first years he doesn’t actually care about. He can’t justify what he did, and he can’t even find the words to tell you that he actually loves you.

He doesn’t know how to fix this, and he can’t think of someone who would help him after the way he ran his mouth about you. 

So he walks home, silently behind you.

You don’t look back once.

The silence that grows between you and Atsumu feels like a living, breathing thing. 

You don’t know how to live in Hyogo and not spend time with him. He’s always been a part of your life, whether you wanted him there or not, but now he’s gone. 

You don’t answer his texts. You move seats in homeroom. You don’t go to his house for weekly dinner, and you hide in your room like a coward when he delivers something to yours from his mother. 

He hurt you, and you’ve decided that the easiest route out is utter silence. It puts a strain on your friendships with Osamu and Suna, but they both assure you that they know Atsumu is in the wrong. You still love him, so you make them promise not to cut him out because of you.

You don’t stop thinking about what he said about you, though. 

She’s so annoyin’! Always bossin’ me around and correctin’ my grammar. I hate it. She’s the last person on Earth I’d have a crush on. Rather have extra homework and never play volleyball again than kiss her. Ain’t no chance.

You think about it too much, probably. Turning his words over in your mind late at night, thinking over every interaction since you’ve been back. You try to remember if you ever saw him annoyed with you, and when you come up empty you worry that everything you do annoys him. 

You’re embarrassed, really. 

Try as you might to keep it from happening, your sadness leaks into your everyday life. You know you’re moping around, but you can’t help it. You’re miserable and overthinking everything, so you decide to go into self imposed isolation.  

You spend all your lunches in the library, and don’t let Osamu join you. It’s the cowardly way out, you know, but that beats having to see Atsumu and pretend like you don’t still hear him calling you annoying. 

“Is this seat taken?”

You’re snapped from your spiralling thoughts by the unfamiliar voice approaching you. You think you might recognize the boy smiling at you, might recall that he’s someone from Osamu’s homeroom, you don’t know. All you can process is that he seems nice, and cute, and he’s not connected to the Miyas’ inner circle or the Inarizaki volleyball team. 

Which is really the only requirement you need, lately.

“No,” You shake your head, sitting up a little straighter. The library table you’ve claimed is small, so it’s clear that he came over to talk to you. Honestly, it makes you a little nervous. “You’re welcome to sit there.”

“I’m Kimura,” He introduces himself, flashing a boyish grin as he settles into the chair opposite you. There’s no skip of your heart when he smiles at you, and you hate that fact. If you had it your way, you’d be moving on from Atsumu. And yet. “But you can call me Koji, if you want.” 

“Alright, Koji.” You try a smile of your own, hoping it doesn’t look too forced. You offer him your name, and he shakes his head and chuckles lowly.

“Trust me, I know who you are.” He tells you, pulling his own lunch box from his bag with smooth movements. His eyes move over you assessingly, lips pulled up in the corner with a grin that borders on flirty. “No way I’m gonna miss when a pretty girl transfers in from Tokyo.” 

You flush at outwardly being complimented. You don’t think it’s him that’s making you flustered more than the context of the situation, but you try and convince yourself that you are. 

“Did you need something?” You wince at your own words and how awkward they feel on your tongue. You’re usually not so quiet, but the mess with Atsumu has thrown you off so deeply you struggle to remember what normal looks like for you.

“I’d like to get to know you better.” Koji gets straight to the point, an attractive smile pinning you to your place. You almost choke on a bite of your lunch, but manage to swallow quickly and avoid further embarrassment. 

“Me?” You’re confused, and it’s obvious. You’ve talked to him before, and save for the handful of times you’ve visited Osamu’s homeroom to bother him, you don’t typically see him around, either. 

Or maybe he was looking at you, but you were too busy chasing after Atsumu to notice. 

“Yes, you.” He laughs. You only blink at him, still trying to piece together how the conversation got here so fast. He must notice the look on your face, because he elaborates in a more serious voice. “I’ve seen you around. You’re always with the Miya twins, right?”

“Right.” Your lunch turns to ash on your tongue at the mention of the boys you never thought you’d be able to escape. And even while not talking to one half of the inseparable duo, you can’t get away from the belief that you could not exist without them, and them without you. “We grew up together. They… they were my best friends.”

Your gaze drops to the library table. Saying it out loud stings a lot more than you had expected it to. 

“Were?” Kimura picks up on your word choice. Panic fills you at the implication that you’ll never be as close with the Miyas again because you can’t get over the feelings you harbor for Atsumu. You’ve already run out of excuses to give your mother about why you don’t want to spend any time with the twins like you used to. 

“It’s complicated right now.” You settle on the diplomatic answer. The easy one. And maybe the cowardly response, but you can’t dissect the complicated knot of emotions wrapped around Atsumu while Kimura is sitting across from you and… flirting? Is that what he’s doing? “But it’ll be fine.”

“Well, while they’re out of the picture,” Kimura says quickly enough that you can’t fully wrap your head around how much you dislike his word choice. He’s pairing it with his charming smile, and you’re too distracted to notice. “You and I can get to know each other more.”

“That’s…” Your brows knit together, sorting through the thoughts swirling around you. It almost makes you feel dizzy, and part of you just wants to step back and regroup. But you can’t do that. You can’t spend the rest of your life moping over Atsumu when he made it incredibly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you. “Yeah, alright.”

“Perfect.”

Atsumu Miya is already having a shit day when stumbles into a conversation he was never meant to hear. 

If he’s honest with himself, every day since you started ignoring him has been shit. A few weeks have already gone by and he hates himself a little bit more each day. It didn’t help any when rumors started flying about you spending time with that slime bag Koji Kimura. 

Osamu told him deserved to suffer for his stupid comments, and Atsumu didn’t even have it in him to argue. 

Classes have just ended, and Atsumu has some time to kill before practice. He doesn’t want to search out Suna or his brother, but he does anyway because his alternative is to mope alone in an empty classroom. 

And maybe he should’ve chosen the classroom. 

He’s coming up the stairs when he hears a pair of voices talking. He doesn’t stop to listen, but his attention latches onto them without meaning to when it’s the only sound drifting down the staircase. 

“Y’know that girl Atsumu was all over?” One of the voices asks, and Atsumu himself stalls on the steps. It’s a miracle he didn’t trip, really, when it’s so obvious the voices are talking about him. And more importantly, talking about you. “The one from Tokyo?”

“What about her?” A second voice responds. Something about them is familiar to Atsumu, and as he grips the railing in a fist so tight his knuckles turn white he tries to attach names to the jerks he’s eavesdropping on. 

“I’m gettin’ her to fall in love with me.” Koji Kimura. There’s no way it’s anyone else besides that bastard, and Atsumu feels both dread and anger boil up inside him. He doesn’t like Kimura on the principle that Kimura is getting close with you, but now he’s starting to hate him for the way he’s talking about you. “That asshole Atsumu Miya doesn’t get to have everything.”

Atsumu doesn’t give a shit about what Kinura has to say about him. But his skin crawls with the realization that you’re being used because of him. 

“Do you even like her, man?” The second voice asks, and Atsumu finds himself holding his breath for the response. He tells himself he’ll back off if Kimura actually has feelings for you, that he’ll cut his losses and mourn forever how badly he fucked up by hurting you.

But that’s not what happens. 

“Nah,” Kimura replies, laughing. He sounds like a dick, and Atsumu has reached the limit on his control. Taking the steps two at a time, he stomps onto the landing where the two are loitering, though Kimura is still talking. “But she’s not bad to look at, so maybe I’ll—”

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, or else I’ll close it for ya.” Atsumu takes pride in the way both boys jump at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t really know who the guy next to Kimura is, but he thinks he’s another jerk from Osamu’s homeroom. Atsumu doesn’t really care, either, because he’s a few snapped threads of control away from launching himself at Kimura. 

“Atsumu,” Kimura glances at his friend, anxious. But he clears his throat and offers Atsumu a look that he thinks is supposed to mean he’s invited into their conspiring. It’s only working to piss him off more, really. “Relax, buddy. We were just talkin’!”

“You don’t get t’talk ‘bout her.” Atsumu feels his anger mounting, manifesting itself in the way his hands clench into fists and his jaw clenches so tight he’s practically hissing through his teeth. He’s thinking of you, and how much he loves you, and how you don’t deserve any more hurt after the bullshit he pulled. 

“Look,” Kimura sighs, almost like he’s bored by the fact that Atsumu isn’t falling for his schtick. Atsumu is starting to realize he really hates this guy. “She doesn’t want anything to do with ya. Snooze ya lose, or whatever. But I’ll make sure to give her your regards when I go to her house—”

Atsumu doesn’t wait for him to finish his thought before his fist connects with Kimura’s jaw, erasing his smug grin in seconds. 

What ensues is less of a fight more of a beating, because Atsumu lands hit after hit while Kimura flails his arms in uselessly wide arcs and struggles to keep his footing. But Atsumu doesn’t care that it’s an uneven fight, because he’s not about to stand there and let anyone talk shit about you. 

And maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, and he’s going to prove to you that he fucked up once and won’t make the same mistake twice. 

Right after he lays Kimura out flat. 

“Ain’t no chance I’ll let ya go near her!” 

Atsumu knows, in some distant part of his mind, that he sounds like some shitty boyfriend in those dumb shojo mangas you enjoy so much, but he doesn’t care. He gets in a few more punches before he’s pried off of Kimura, a hissed ‘are you fucking stupid?’ ringing in his ear. Atsumu has enough sense to look over his shoulder to see who’s tugging him back from the fight he wants to continue before biting back with his own sharp words. 

It’s Aran. And he’s not surprised to see Kita just behind him. 

Suddenly, the anger deflates from Atsumu. He’s conscious of the crowd that gathered, of how Kimura actually managed a few hits. There’s no way his eye doesn’t darken with a bruise and he can taste the blood from his split lip. Not to mention the torn skin on his knuckles from his own thrown punches. 

Kimura looks worse, though. And that’s enough for him. 

He’s still pissed about what Kimura said. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it, really, because he’s been defending your honor since some kid took your favorite stuffed animal at the playground when you were three and he stomped over, pushed the kid, and got the plush back. 

But he lets Aran drag him away from the crowd. He passes by Suna and his brother, and Atsumu can’t get himself to look at either one of them. They can see right through him anyways, he knows. 

“You need to fix this.” Aran drops his arm and wheels around on him, all imposing senior and firm glares. Atsumu nods, hard stare fixed on a scuff mark beneath their feet. He doesn’t ask what Aran means, because the root of all this has one name. Yours. “And I think you know what you need to do.”

He does, and he nods again. 

Kita steps forward, and Atsumu tenses when his shoes come into his avoidant line of sight. He’s not afraid of Kita, but he respects him too much to bear the disappointment. And Atsumu knows that his actions, the brutish fighting, have earned Kita’s ire. 

“Go home, Atsumu.” Kita’s voice is softer than he expected, but he’s not stupid enough to miss the edge of discipline in his tone. 

He drags the broken skin of his knuckles across the blood from his split lip while following his captain’s orders. 

He doesn’t make it far before he’s intercepted by the disciplinary committee.

It’s hard to ignore Atsumu Miya when he’s sitting on your front porch. 

It’s even harder to ignore him when your mother is knocking on your doorframe, letting you know he’s there and she wants you to talk to him. She won’t listen to any arguments against it, because Atsumu has been a son she never had since the day he was born. 

So you find yourself stepping onto the porch, the front door closing softly behind you to offer some illusion of privacy from your mother’s inevitable eavesdropping. Honestly, she’s probably already on the phone with Mrs. Miya.

Atsumu looks like shit, but you’re not surprised. Osamu and Suna had both texted you warnings, filling you in with what they knew about what happened. He’s sitting on the top step of the porch, face held in his hands. He doesn’t even turn to look at you, and you thought you’d be annoyed by that but somehow it’s making it easier for you to keep your breathing even. 

“How long have you been waiting here?” You ask, trying to keep your voice devoid of any of the emotion you’ve been drowning in lately. You stay standing by the front door, like if you keep the distance between the two of you it’ll keep you from getting hurt again. 

“Dunno.” Atsumu shrugs, lifting his head but still not turning around. You want to see his face, want to see the extent of the damage Suna already told you about, but that would make everything too real. “Ten minutes, maybe?” 

You sigh, gaze cutting to the side. With arms crossed tightly as if to protect yourself, you take a step towards him. 

“You could have knocked.” It’s like you’re chastising him, and honestly? He deserves it. You hate the way he was talking about you, and now you hate the way he’s getting in trouble because of you.

“I was goin’ to. Once I figured out what I wanted to say.” He sounds so pathetic, you feel like you have to hear him out. Not that you weren’t going to already, but you’re not looking at the same overly confident Atsumu Miya that you grew up with. He’s not the one you feel in love with without even realizing. 

“And?” You lower yourself down onto the step next to him. He glances at you, then, and you see the bruise on his eye, the cut lip. He’s gotten worse injuries from fighting with Osamu, honestly, but you hate it so much more because he got them because of you. 

“And yer ma saw me before I decided.”

You snort, unable to hold the response back. It doesn’t make you smile, though, and you prop your chin in your palm, elbow resting on your knee. You don’t look at Atsumu because it’s easier to tell that way, and you hate that there’s any discomfort between the two of you. 

It was always supposed to be you and Atsumu and Osamu against the world. Now your stomach is in knots just sitting next to him and you don’t know what he’s thinking anymore. 

But maybe after what you overheard him saying about you, you never really did know what he was thinking. 

“What are you doing here, Atsumu? Don’t you have practice?” You sigh, watching as a handful of elementary students race past your house on bikes. The sight twinges on your nostalgia, and you feel the corners of your lips curve up with a smile for the briefest of seconds. 

“Got suspended.” 

“For the fight?” The question draws a huff of amusement from Atsumu, and from the corner of your eye you watch as he drags his hands down his face. The action gives you a glimpse of his knuckles, and the split skin across them is glaringly obvious. 

“Ya heard about that already?” He asks, glancing at you quickly. 

“Suna texted. Said you were protecting my honor. I told him I couldn’t think of a reason why you’d defend me after the way you talked about me.” The words roll off your tongue, pointed and poisoned to jab at the raw wound Atsumu opened between the two of you. You see him wince and a bolt of satisfaction runs through despite the ache. 

“Don’t talk ‘bout yerself like that.” He chastises, like he has any right to do so. 

“Should I leave it to you?” You’re getting bitter, and it’s obvious. A humorless huff leaves him, shaking his shoulders in one movement. He’s quiet, at first, and you know this is all serious because Atsumu Miya is never quiet. It softens something in, even if you don’t want it to. 

“‘Samu told me I was bein’ a dickhead. Kita said I disappointed him. Somehow, that hurt worse.” He explains. You know how much his captain means to him, even if he doesn’t act like it. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he secretly respects someone and still acts like a defiant brat around them. “Not as much as it hurt seein’ ya cry and knowin’ it’s my fault, though. I deserved that. And probably a lot more.”

“Probably.” You agree. You’re not going to baby him. Not once did you ever do so while growing up, and now is certainly not the time to start. You lean back, pressing your palms to the wood of the porch behind you, giving yourself the chance to study his profile without letting him look at you. Not unless he turns around and makes the effort, and you don’t think he’s pulled himself together enough to do so yet. “Why’d you come here, Atsumu? Afraid of what your ma’ll do when she sees the state of you?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, voice casual. You know it’s probably not the truth, that he probably is worried about how his mother is going to tear him a new one for fighting at school and getting suspended, but you don’t call him on it just yet. “She’ll just try and get me to say I regret it and apologize t’ the slimy bastard. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Ain’t isn’t a—sorry.” You cut yourself off, biting your tongue. You never really had realized how often you corrected his grammar until you heard him call it annoying. Call you annoying. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for. You’re right. And for all the shit I gave you, I like you bein’ right.” He confesses, sitting up a little taller. 

“Sure could’ve fooled me.” You mimic his position, sitting tall against him. He nods, agreeing with you, and you blink at his easy agreement. You don’t like this version of Atsumu, quiet and meek. Even if you’re upset with him. 

“I’m really sorry, ya know. I was a jerk and outta line. I think I was just overcompensatin’ when the guys asked me if I liked ya.” He still can’t look at you, and you would worry that it means he’s not being honest if it was anyone but Atsumu. You know what he looks like when he’s lying to your face. He can’t do it, not even when you were kids. He fidgets and squirms, sweats and turns red. The Atsumu sitting beside you is still and steady; honest. “Like if I convinced them that I didn’t like ya that way I could convince myself that I wasn’t head over fuckin’ heels for ya. I shouldn’t have said shit, ‘cause it was nothin’ but lies. I really, really do like ya.”

There’s a moment or three that pass in silence, save for the birds chirping and children playing nearby. You’re staring at the side of his face, heart hammering in your chest. This isn’t how you thought your day would go when you woke up this morning, with some declaration of love from Atsumu Miya on your front porch, fresh from fighting a guy you don’t even really care about just because he overheard him talking poorly about you. 

He’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t want him to be any different.

“You’re a hypocrite.” You sigh, keeping the expression on your face as neutral as possible. 

“I know.”

“And a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,”

“And you really hurt me.” When you turn to face him, he finally turns, too. Neither one of you talks for a moment, too busy scanning each other’s faces for the answer both of you already know lives there. 

“I thought the world was endin’ when I realized ya were cryin’ and it was my fault.” His voice is quiet, just barely cracking above a whisper. 

“It was your fault.” You won’t go easy on him. Never have before and certainly won’t know. 

“Ya don’t have t’forgive me.” He looks away again, but you don’t. “I just wanted t’see ya. I’ve missed ya. And I want ya back, even if we’re just friends.” 

Just friends is funny, considering he just confessed the feelings he held for you. 

“You’re the worst.” You sigh, propping an elbow on your knee and pressing your chin in your palm, turned to face him. “But I think I love you, too.”

Atsumu freezes. You don’t even think he’s breathing at the moment. It makes a grin crack through the frown you’ve been wearing since the start of the conversation. 

“Yer lyin’.” He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. It makes you roll your eyes, but you see the flush starting to burn up his neck and threaten to eat him alive. Really, it’s the only thing keeping you from losing your mind on him entirely. “Did ‘Samu tell ya to say that?”

“No,” You snort, leaning closer towards him. “Honestly, he’d probably tell me never to admit it and let you suffer.”

“Probably.”

“Is that all you have to say?” You’re teasing him how, and you think he’s starting to understand when his ears turn red, too. Part of you wants to see how long you could drag this out, just to mess with him, but you’d only be prolonging your own misery, too.  

“No. But I’m freakin’ out and I don’t really know what t’say.” He shakes his head, sitting up straight. His hands are curled in fists in his lap, like you could see the stings that are barely holding him together. You roll your eyes, reaching out to set one hand over his with a smile curving your lips. 

“You could start by looking at me?” You tease, careful of the broken skin on his knuckles while you slip your hand into his, palms brushing and fingers interlacing. Atsumu shakes his head, almost comically fast. 

“I think I’ll try t’kiss ya.”

“Try.” You knock your shoulder against his. There’s a grin on your lips that only stretches when you see how wide his eyes get, head finally whipping sideways to face you. 

“Fuck, okay.” He nods, blushing. 

His hand that isn’t holding yours finds home on your jaw, tugging you towards him while leaning forward himself, like he can’t possibly wait any longer. His lips are warm against yours, if not a bit hesitant. But they barely brush yours before you jerk back, eyes wide in worry. 

“Wait, ‘Tsumu,” You hiss, your own free hand cupping his cheek to brush your thumb over the swollen split in his lip from his fight with Kimura. It looks sensitive, and you don’t want to hurt him by kissing over his injury. “Doesn’t your lip hurt?”

“Worth it.” He drops his forehead against yours, fingertips digging in tighter against your jaw. Not enough to hurt, but just the right amount of pressure to remind you of their placement and what his heart is racing to do. “Ain’t let that bastard keep me from kissin’ ya any longer.” 

“Ain’t isn’t a word.” 

“Jus’ c’mere,” He groans, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m dyin’, can’t ya see?”

You take pity and close the distance between the two of you. The kiss lights you up and burns through every nerve ending throughout your body. You can’t believe this is your first time kissing him with how right it feels, like you’ve been with him forever. And you have, in a way,  but now it’s something more and you think he could eat you alive and you’d thank him for it. 

But you do remember you’re on your front porch and that your mother is just inside, probably watching through the window while on the phone gossiping with Mrs. Miya. 

You part first, giggling when Atsumu chases your lips like he’s desperate. And you’ve always entertained his nonsense, so you let him have one, two, four more pecks before you set a hand on his chest and push him back. 

But you’re both smiling so wide it’s impossible to ruin the moment. 

“For the record,” He pants, like he’s incapable of catching his breath after that kiss despite being an incredible athlete. Honestly, it’s a relief to know you’re not the only one completely laid flat by his touch. “I know I love ya.”

You roll your eyes. He’s still as competitive and obnoxious, even in this moment. You love it.

“Shut up, ‘Tsumu.”  

bonus scene 

Spring Nationals did not go the way Inarizaki had hoped. 

It was a good match with even better effort from every player, no matter the team. You had sat in the stands, pretending you didn’t know Atsumu when he shushed the audience and screamed his name when he made a set. Osamu has already accused you of having favorites earlier in the tournament, and Atsumu didn’t even give you time to respond before arguing with his twin that of course he was your favorite. He was your boyfriend. 

You couldn’t have been more proud of how he, and his teammates, played. But in the end, Karasuno High pulled out the win. 

It was a slow process to accept the loss. But, as the matches continued, the mood of the team improved. They started interacting with the other teams, started enjoying the matches that were still playing. 

It was how you ended up talking with some of the Karasuno boys. 

“This is my adorable little fan, Kageyama, from the Youth Intensives.” Atsumu introduced you to one of Karasuno’s first years. If you remember correctly from the match, he was the setter—the one with the insane quick attack that you couldn’t even follow from the stands. “He really looks up to me.”

Kageyama blinked at you, then at Atsumu, like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on. 

“The first time you spoke to me, you called me a goody-two shoes.” Kageyama said, his tone utterly confused. He wasn’t accusing, exactly, but you could tell he was trying to remind your boyfriend that looking up to wasn’t the relationship they had.

“You did not.” You hiss at Atsumu, digging an elbow into Atsumu’s side. He winces, but rolls his eyes at the boy from Karasuno like he’s the one inconvenienced and not the one going around being annoying by calling others stupid names.  

“Great, Kageyama. Beat my team at Nationals and get me in trouble with the missus.” Atsumu huffs, dramatic as always. He swings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, and you roll your eyes at his posturing. 

Kageyama, apparently, misreads the situation. 

“You’re married?!” He exclaims, eyes going wide. A few of the other Karasuno players start snickering at their setter’s reaction, which leads you to believe that this kind of obliviousness is typical of him. 

“No, we’re not.” You hurry to clear up any misunderstanding. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, you feel your face start to flush at the implication, the idea, of marrying Atsumu. You don’t think it sounds so bad, honestly.

“Not yet.” Atsumu corrects, adding on that one word that makes your flush burn out of your control. “Her ma says I gotta wait ‘til we graduate.”

“Wait, you’ve talked to my mom about marrying me?” Your mind gets stuck on that detail, admittedly, twisting out from under his arm to face him. You want to see if he’s being serious, and you’re not as surprised as you thought you would be to find that he is.

“Course I did. She’d kill me if I proposed without askin’.” He’s grinning, which makes your stomach fill with butterflies. But you’re saved from stumbling out a response when Suna lifts his head up from his phone, smug grin turning his lips up.

“Was this before or after she stopped talking to you for three months because you loudly said you thought she was annoying?”

“Thank ya for bringin’ that up, Suna.” Atsumu says through gritted teeth. It’s been long enough that you’ve found humor in how badly he self-destructed when faced with his feelings for you, but clearly Atsumu doesn’t feel the same way. Especially when he’s at the end of the joke. “I’ll kick yer ass later for it.”

“No, you won’t.” You tell him, rolling your eyes. 

“Might.” He counters, and you pin him with a glare. He holds up against you for a few seconds, but he quickly crumbles. You knew he would. “Ugh. Fine. Won’t.”

“You’re so whipped.” Osamu snorts. Some things will never change, you think, and most importantly one of those things will be how much the twins like to antagonize each other. 

“Shut up, jackass!” Atsumu huffs, drawing the attention of more of both Inarizaki and Karasuno players. You catch Kita’s eye, and he gives you a gentle smile before closing the distance between himself to the twins to straighten them out. 

“You two’ll never grow up, huh?” You sigh, watching the impending argument build.

The air in Elbaf carries the weight of centuries. It tastes like pine needles, frozen brine, and the kind of ancient, bone-deep magic that makes the skin on your arms prickle.

You are sitting at the base of the Great Yggdrasil, the colossal tree that serves as the heart of the giants’ land, your hand tucked securely into Luffy’s.

Luffy is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s been staring at the shifting murals carved into the bark for hours—stories of the Sun God, Nika, told in broad, sweeping strokes of history that predate the World Government’s erasure.

"It’s weird, isn’t it?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "The stories. They make him sound like he’s supposed to be everything. But even he couldn't save her."

You follow his gaze to a panel that is worn smooth by time. It depicts a figure—Nika—cradling a woman whose body seems to be dissolving into stardust. Her name, according to the local lore you’ve been reading, was Europa.

"The myth says he tried everything," you whisper, feeling the cold wind of Elbaf tug at your hair. "The clouds, the stars, even his own essence. He wanted to make her whole again."

Luffy sighs, a sound that feels too heavy for his chest. He pulls you closer, his warmth—that constant, solar heat that radiates from him—seeping into your bones.

"He was a god who could change the shape of the world, but he couldn't fix the one thing that actually mattered. That’s gotta be the loneliest feeling in the universe."

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the forest floor, the stories of the giants begin to blur with your own reality.

You feel a strange, rhythmic thrumming in the ground, as if the tree itself is breathing.

In the mythology of this place, Europa wasn't just a lover; she was the anchor to Nika’s chaotic, liberating spirit. When a jealous deity—a shadow that sought to dim the light of the world—split her in two, the legend says Nika’s laughter died for the first time.

He tried to replace her heart with a piece of a lightning-struck cloud, but it drifted away, formless. He tried to give her a piece of his own burning light, but she was too fragile to contain the intensity of a god.

"He felt like he was failing her," you muse, leaning your head against Luffy’s shoulder. "Every moment he spent with her after that was just a countdown. He knew she was fading."

Luffy turns his head, his dark eyes searching yours. There’s a raw vulnerability there—the kind he rarely shows anyone but you. "If I were him," he says, his voice barely a rasp, "I would have burned the whole world down to keep her heart beating."

"You wouldn't have had to," you tell him softly. "Because you wouldn't have let them take her in the first place."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He is thinking about the fragility of things. He is thinking about how, even with all the power in the world, there are voids you cannot fill.

The legends continue. Distraught by Nika’s grief, and perhaps weary of the shadow-god’s cruelty, a primordial existence—something older than the sun itself—intervened.

The story goes that they couldn't undo the damage, but they could preserve the connection. They took the two broken pieces of Europa and the essence of the grieving God and cast them into the sky.

One became the Sun. The other became the Moon.

"They were cursed to chase each other forever," Luffy says, recounting the final stanza of the epic. "Always in the same sky, but never truly holding one another. Until the eclipse."

"Once a year," you recite, the words feeling like a prayer. "The moment where the moon covers the sun. The only time they are allowed to be one again. A brief, fleeting union before the cycle forces them apart."

Luffy stands up, pulling you to your feet. The transition is seamless, his movements fluid and purposeful.

He leads you toward a clearing where the canopy opens up to reveal the vast, star-strewn expanse of the Elbaf sky.

"I don't like that ending," Luffy declares, his brow furrowing. "It’s a tragedy. Why would the god let them do that? Why not just stay together?"

"Maybe because the distance is what keeps the world turning," you suggest, though it feels like a hollow comfort.

Luffy shakes his head, his grip on your hand tightening. "No. That’s just stories people tell to make themselves feel better about being apart. If we were stars, I’d stop the orbit. I’d freeze the sky in place."

As you stand in the clearing, the world begins to change. The temperature plummets, the birds go silent, and the shadows grow impossibly long. It is the night of the Elbaf Eclipse—the night the legends come to life.

There is an eerie, cosmic alignment occurring above. The moon begins its slow crawl over the edge of the sun.

You watch as the light dims, the world bathed in an unnatural, silvery violet glow. It is beautiful and terrifying, a celestial reenactment of a heartbreak that transcends time.

"Do you feel it?" Luffy asks.

You do. You feel a strange sense of longing that isn't yours—a desperate, aching desire for touch that feels like it’s being pulled out of the ether.

You look at Luffy, and for a split second, his silhouette seems to shimmer. The golden aura that usually dances around him flares, mimicking the corona of the sun eclipsed by the moon.

You realize then that this isn't just a story for Luffy. He is identifying with the ache. He understands the struggle of holding onto something that is constantly being pulled away by the gravity of existence.

"Luffy," you say, your voice barely audible over the sudden, rushing wind.

He turns to you, and his expression is unreadable. The light of the eclipse hits his face, turning his skin into polished bronze. He looks like a deity carved from the very history you were reading about. He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch scorching and gentle all at once.

"I won't let us be like them," he vows. The bravado is gone, replaced by a terrifying, absolute certainty. "I don't care about the sky or the cycles or the gods who think they can dictate how long we get. If the world tries to split us, I’ll fold the world itself."

The sky reaches the moment of totality. The sun is completely obscured by the moon, a black iris rimmed with fire.

The world stands still. It feels as though the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see if the ancient lovers will finally break the rules.

In that silence, you lean into Luffy. You aren't thinking about the mythology anymore. You are thinking about the warmth of his chest, the sound of his heart—a steady, rhythmic drum that tells you he is here, he is whole, and he is yours.

He kisses you, and it isn't the kiss of a boy who is just learning about love; it’s the kiss of someone who has defied gravity. It is possessive and desperate, a claim staked against the cosmos.

For a moment, the ache of the legend fades. The tragedy of Europa and Nika feels like a distant, irrelevant ghost. You aren't chasing each other through an orbit. You aren't waiting for a yearly alignment.

You are grounded, here, in the present, under the shadow of the great tree.

When the light finally begins to break again, the sun creeping out from behind the moon, the world rushes back in—the sound of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a giant.

Luffy pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He’s breathless, his eyes wide and bright, reflecting the returning light.

"See?" he whispers. "The sun comes back. The moon stays. They don't leave."

"They have to," you remind him gently, though you feel the tears pricking your eyes. "It’s their path."

Luffy shakes his head, a stubborn, crooked grin spreading across his face. "Not for us. We write our own path. Let the gods have their eclipses. I’d rather have the sunrise with you every day."

You walk back toward the village as the sky returns to its normal color. The weight of the Elbaf legends feels lighter now, the tragedy stripped of its power.

You look at Luffy, watching the way he strides forward, completely unafraid of the vastness of the sea or the cruelty of fate.

He grabs your hand again, interlacing his fingers with yours. His grip is firm, undeniable. He isn't a cloud, and he isn't a fading myth. He is solid. He is the person who would fight the gods to keep his heart beating, and you are the reason he would do it.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, casting a glance at you.

"Just that I’m glad we aren't stars," you say.

Luffy laughs—a loud, boisterous sound that echoes through the trees, chasing away the last of the silence. "Yeah. Being a star sounds boring. Way too much distance. I like it better this way."

He pulls you closer, tucking you into his side as you walk.

"Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if we ever do become stars, I’ll just make sure we’re binary ones. The kind that spin around each other so fast they turn into one giant, burning ball of light. No room for anyone else to get in between."

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It’s a ridiculous, Luffy-esque solution to a cosmic problem, but as you look up at the expansive, uncaring sky, you realize you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"I'd like that," you say.

"Good," he replies, and he squeezes your hand, anchoring you to the earth, to the moment, and to him.

The story of Nika and Europa will continue to be told in the halls of Elbaf, a cautionary tale of love and loss for generations to come.

But as you walk into the night, hand in hand, you know that your story is not written in the stars. It is written in the dirt of the path you tread, in the calloused skin of your hands, and in the promise that no matter what the world demands, you will choose to remain exactly where you are: together.

The night air is cold, but you are wrapped in a warmth that refuses to dim. And as the stars begin to peer through the canopy, they look less like distant, lonely entities and more like witnesses—not to a tragedy, but to the small, quiet victory of a boy who refused to let his love become just another myth.

You aren't a sun or a moon. You are two people, finding your way home, and for now, that is more than enough to silence the gods. . . .

And now, she's here. At this bar just because you said you would be here. Dressed up because she knew you would see her. Wearing a pretty pink lip gloss because she wanted to see it smeared across your mouth. She is here, and she is staring at you, and you are staring at Kuroo. 

Kuroo. 

He has an arm around you like he owns you. His nose is pressed into the side of your face and he keeps leaving wet, sloppy kisses on your cheek like he's some kind of poorly trained dog. And you're there, giggling, smiling, leaning into his touch when you should find it repulsive. 

Yeah, Kiyoko hates you. She hates Kuroo, too. She hates everyone here. 

Kiyoko stares at the two of you like you're the scene of a murder, mouth agape in horror, eyes unblinking. She stares like she can't force herself to look away. Even though it makes her sick to see it. Even though it makes every breath she takes feel wood is splintering in her chest. She can't look away. 

She keeps asking herself why, but she knows why. Kuroo is simple. She is complicated. Kuroo speaks of you loudly. She speaks of you in whispers. Kuroo can slobber all over you and mark you like you're his territory and do it so everyone can see it. Kiyoko would hold your hand under the table and hope that no one would notice. 

Her thoughts make her tongue taste bitter. Kiyoko stands there and she wonders why you even bothered. She wonders why you kissed her and why you told her you could see the world in her eyes and why you made her feel like this if you were just going to turn around and be with Kuroo.

Fucking Kuroo. 

He raises a finger to the bottom of your chin, lifts it up, and kisses you. You kiss him back. Kiyoko thinks it would be less painful if she got shot. 

You don't even see her. You don't raise your head to look in her direction. You don't look across the bar and lock eyes with her. Kiyoko stands there, and all you see is Kuroo. She can't see anyone but you, and you can't see anyone but him. 

Kiyoko leaves the bar, unsure if she had been standing there for a minute or an hour. She leaves the bar and she chokes back a sob and she thinks to herself, she'll never speak to you again. She'll never have anything to do with you again. 

he’d gone home that night, buried his face into his pillow, and kicked his legs like a victorian maiden who had just been perceived by a duke. he fully expected a text by 8:00 pm. a tearful confession by 8:30 pm. perhaps a marriage proposal by next tuesday.

instead, you showed up to school the next morning, aggressively yawning, and used that exact textbook as a makeshift shield against the morning sun while sitting on the brick wall outside the gym.

kuroo watched you from five feet away, his soul slowly evaporating from his body like rubbing alcohol left out in the sun. you didn’t even open the book. you just used the heavy-weight cover to fan yourself when the humidity hit. the actual love of his life was using his bleeding-heart declaration of eternal devotion to circulate lukewarm morning air onto her collarbones.

“you look like you’re tracking a gazelle,” kenma murmured from beside him, eyes glued to a handheld screen. “and not in a cool, predator way. more like a very sad, hungry dog.”

“she didn’t read it,” kuroo whispered, his voice cracking like a dry twig. “kenma. the paper density alone should have changed the gravitational pull of the textbook. how did she not feel the shift in equilibrium?”

“maybe she just hates chemistry.”

“impossible,” kuroo hissed, clutching his chest. “i’m chemistry.”

phase two required a complete lack of subtlety. if you wouldn’t stumble upon his heart by accident, he would simply have to leave breadcrumbs.

the next afternoon, you opened your locker to find a small, neon-pink post-it note stuck directly onto the metal grated vents. written in shaky, black sharpie was a clue that looked less like a romantic hint and more like a ransom note from a criminal who specialized in stem subjects:

‘the elements of life are carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. but the element of my life is currently trapped on page 142. look closer, or i will literally spontaneously combust on the cafeteria floor.’

you blinked at the sticky note. you reached out, peeled it off, and stared at it for a solid three minutes. kuroo, who was hiding behind the corner of the hallway with his face pressed so hard against the brickwork that his nose was flattened, held his breath. this was it. the catalyst. the moment you would pull out the textbook, flip to page 142, and realize that he was completely, utterly, and devastatingly yours.

instead, you let out a soft snort, muttered, “yaku must have lost a bet to standard level science,” and stuck the pink note onto the front of your binder because you liked the shade of neon.

from behind the wall, kuroo felt his knees give way. he slid down the bricks until he was sitting flat on the linoleum, a hand dramatically draped over his eyes. his heart was performing a full, aggressive drum solo against his sternum, furious at the rejection it hadn’t even technically received yet.

by day three, the desperation had reached a critical mass. kuroo tetsurō was a man possessed by a singular, burning directive: make the prettiest girl in the third-year corridor realize that he wanted to hold her hand until their joints turned to dust. he couldn’t function. he missed three consecutive serves in practice because he kept visualizing the exact layout of page 142 and wondering if he should have used a highlighter.

“if you don’t fix whatever is rotting your brain, i’m going to set your shoes on fire,” yaku warned during evening clean-up, leaning heavily on a broom. “you’ve been staring at that volleyball like it owes you alimony.”

“it’s an intellectual standoff,” kuroo said, his voice hollow as he rolled a ball between his palms. “a battle of wits. she’s testing my resolve, yaku. she’s checking to see if my devotion can withstand the vacuum of her absolute oblivion.”

“she doesn’t know you left a note, does she?” kenma called out from the bench, not looking up.

kuroo threw himself backward onto the polished gym floor, starfish-ing beneath the bright fluorescent lights. “i made it so obvious! i used neon! i referenced atomic structures! what else does she want from me? a billboard? a sky-writer? should i tattoo the chemical equation for dopamine onto my forehead?”

the next morning, he forfeited all remaining scraps of his dignity. if poetry wouldn’t work, and clues wouldn’t work, then raw, unadulterated public exposure would have to suffice.

you walked down the science wing at 7:50 am, holding a half-eaten convenience store bun, only to find a small crowd of second-years hovering around your locker. they were whispering, giggling behind their hands, and pointing at the metal door.

as you approached, the crowd parted like the red sea, revealing the monstrosity kuroo had unleashed upon the school infrastructure.

there, stuck entirely to the center of your locker with roughly four entire rolls of heavy-duty, industrial neon green painter’s tape, was the original, beautiful, cream-colored love letter. it was trapped beneath a lattice of green adhesive so thick it looked like it could withstand a category five hurricane. and slapped right on top of the whole mess was a giant piece of cardboard ripped from an old volleyball equipment box, featuring a frantic, jagged scrawl:

“please for the love of god notice my affection. page 142 was an innervation of my entire soul. i’m begging you to interact with this literature.”

you stood frozen, your bun halfway to your mouth.

from the far end of the hall, leaning against a drinking fountain with his arms crossed in a position he clearly thought looked casual but actually made him look like he was suffering from severe muscle spasms, was kuroo. his signature bedhead seemed even more chaotic than usual, a few strands sticking straight up like frantic antennae. his face was completely flushed, a deep, dark crimson that started at the tips of his ears and pooled all the way down into the collar of his school uniform.

you looked from the neon green monstrosity on your locker, to the heavy-grade paper trapped underneath, and then finally down the hall at him.

the silence stretched. a second-year student cleared their throat nervously.

slowly, you walked over to the locker. instead of tearing the cardboard off, you carefully slipped your fingers under the edge of the painter’s tape, working at the thick adhesive until you managed to pull the cream-colored letter out from its bright green cage. it was a bit crinkled at the borders, but the elegant, sweeping ink was fully intact.

you flipped to the back, your eyes scanning the dense, beautiful paragraphs where he had written about how your presence made his brain short-circuit like a faulty capacitor. you read the lines where he confessed, with terrifying honesty, that he spent his biology lectures drawing the exact curve of your shoulder blades in the margins of his notebook.

your chest did something strange—a sudden, warm domain expansion that felt remarkably like a small firework detonating right behind your ribs. your face grew hot, the heat spreading rapidly across your cheeks as the sheer weight of his ridiculous, beautiful, overwhelming feelings hit you full-force.

you folded the paper carefully, tucked it into your blazer pocket, and began marching down the hallway straight toward him.

kuroo’s eyes widened. the cool, leaning posture evaporated instantly. he straightened up so fast his spine made an audible clicking sound, his hands dropping to his sides like a soldier caught off guard. “uh. hey. so. the tape is entirely bio-degradable, if you were worried about the school property damage—”

you stopped right in front of him, reached out, and grabbed the lapels of his uniform jacket, tugging him downward so he was forced to bend his absurdly tall frame until his face was level with yours.

“you absolute menace,” you breathed, your voice a mix of a breathless laugh and total disbelief. “you could have just told me you liked me during lunch. you didn’t need to sacrifice a perfectly good moving box.”

kuroo stared at you, his eyes auditing your lips and then back up to your eyes, his brain completely liquefying under the proximity. up close, you could see the tiny, frantic flutter of the pulse point in his throat.

“but the prose,” he squeaked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal before he cleared his throat and tried to recover his usual low drawl. “the prose was exquisite. i compared you to a stable isotope. that’s high praise coming from a guy who fails literature.”

“it was incredibly dramatic,” you agreed, your thumbs brushing against the fabric of his blazer. “and it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever read. even if it was buried under three pounds of adhesive.”

kuroo’s expression softened, the frantic, manic energy draining out of him all at once, replaced by something so profoundly tender and vulnerable it made your stomach do a backflip. he reached up, his large, warm hand covering yours where you held his lapels, his thumb gently smoothing over your knuckles.

“so,” he whispered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his nerves, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “does this mean the experiment was a success? are we experiencing a mutual reaction?”

“we are,” you said, letting go of his jacket only to slide your fingers into his, locking your hand with his large, calloused one. “but you’re still helping me scrape that green tape off my locker before the vice principal sees it.”

kuroo let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed down the corridor, squeezing your hand so tightly it felt like he never intended to let go, his chest swelling with enough joy to lift a house off its foundations.

n: my beloved @ryomenlettuce asked for this, huehuehue.. it’s from my scrapped ideas 

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.