﹙♡⁠﹚ k͟a͟s͟s͟i͟e͟ ︵⠀⠀⊹

but whenever he looked back on those years, it’s not the cheers, the trophies or the losses he remembers most.

it’s the teammates, the friends.

it’s the you–shaped quiet that followed him home.

it’s the way you lingered after class, like you knew he’d still be in the gym.

he didn’t know how to answer your unspoken questions back then.

truth is, he never knew how to hold anything gently. he only truly knew how to break things, himself too.

and maybe that’s why you left so quietly after him.

he didn’t hear it from you — he was only nearing one week in argentina when hajime told him you left. he never did tell tooru where.

just that you were gone.

“moved out of the country.”, hajime had said, tone clipped in a way that meant don’t ask.

maybe he should’ve. maybe he should’ve begged to know which coast, what city, what timezone — but he didn’t. because he had no right to, not when he hadn’t even tried to stay in touch.

he told himself it was for the best, not everything was meant to stay.

but he would be lying if he said he didn’t think of you. a lot more than he’d like to admit.

in between time zones, in the silence after a match,

in the rain, when droplets would pitter patter on the umbrella he would share with you.

and suddenly you became a feeling more than a person. a memory that pulsed in the quiet moments.

he once saw the definition of lacuna — a missing piece — and you had popped into his mind.

suddenly, five years passed without you.

and his team was scheduled for an exhibition match in russia.

the wind cut against his coat and the airport signs blurred into unfamiliar alphabets. “cold as hell here.” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

but what he didn’t say — what he didn’t even want to admit — was that the cold made him think of you.

you’d never said where you were going. just up and disappeared. and now, five years later, he was in a country where the snow never really melted and the language wrapped around his tongue like spells he’d never learn to say right.

he didn’t expect anything.

you were long gone from his life, probably had your own life by now, maybe even someone else who knew how to hold things gently.

but then the night before the match, one of the staff mentioned a local school was lending a hand. just a few volunteers (some educators, coordinators, translators) to help with interviews and media prep.

he nodded. didn’t think much of it, it’s what he expects every time they get sent into a different country.

until he walked into the briefing room.

at first, he thought he was imagining it.

that maybe the jet lag was hitting harder than he thought.

because standing near the back with a clipboard, bundled in layers, hair shorter and neater — was you.

you, in the flesh. face devoid of warmth, full of professionalism. but still heartbreakingly familiar. still the same girl he’s never failed to fall for.

his breath stilled. and maybe time did too.

you looked at him like you’d seen a contradiction — hesitant and cautious.

“oikawa.”

he said your name back softly, like it might break.

you didn’t flinch. you didn’t smile.

he should’ve said more. anything.

but all he could do was stare, trying to match the person in front of him to the memory that had lived in his mind for half a decade.

it didn’t line up. you weren’t the same at all.

and he thinks that might be the worst part.

because for all these years, you’ve been frozen in time for him.

but you had changed — obviously, it’s been half a decade.

he wonders what broke you, and if it was him that did.

“your match,” you begin and he snaps out of his stupor immediately. “you played well.”

“thank you,” he manages, trying not to make it obvious that he was pleasantly surprised at the fact that you watched his game. “though i wish you could’ve seen me when i wasn’t out of breath.”

you laugh — but it’s distant and unfamiliar. it’s polite and done out of courtesy. it makes his insides cringe and he scrambles to find another topic.

“uh, how long have you been here?” he asks, voice softening. “in russia, i mean.”

“.. long enough.”

he wants to say that’s not an answer. but he also knows it’s the only one he’s going to get right now.

so he nods, pressing his hands into the pockets of his coat and tries not to show his trembling hands.

the silence stretches awkwardly. and it’s so weird — being awkward with you. it unsettles him more than he wants to admit.

you, of all people, were never awkward to be around. you were a constant — quiet, sure, but never tense like this.

he used to look forward to walking home with you, sitting beside you, bumping shoulders in the hallways without thinking twice.

but now you're standing right here, and he feels like he’s speaking to a stranger who wears your face.

you shift, glancing down at your clipboard, then back at him. “you should rest. there’s another match tomorrow, no?”

it’s not an outright dismissal. but it doesn’t sound like an invitation to stay either.

“right,” the word barely makes it out of his tightening throat. “well… it was good to see you.”

tooru receives a tight-lipped smile from you — the kind that screams ‘this conversation’s over’. “you too.”

you turn to leave first.

he watches your figure recede, layered in wool, shadow and distance, and the moment you disappear through the staff exit, he exhales for the first time in minutes.

he should’ve said something more. you look good. i missed you. i thought of you more than i should have. literally anything.

but what good would it have done?

so he stands there, useless and rooted, as the door swings shut behind you.

five years. five years, and that was all he could manage — polite conversation and an aching throat.

you weren’t just distant — you were guarded. like you’d learned how to live without him, and now you were making sure he knew it.

tooru closes his eyes, leans back against the corridor wall.

it’s pathetic — how the cold floor feels steadier than his own thoughts.

he’d spent years memorizing every silence like it was his everything. you gave him a smile that didn’t even reach your eyes.

and still — he finds himself hoping. hoping for, at least, one more conversation. hoping he wasn’t too late.

he thought you’d be there when he slowed down. but by the time he did, you were already gone.

still, the next day, he catches himself looking for you.

in the stands, in the hallways, in the corners of the court.

and when the match ends with another win under their belts, he finds himself scanning the edge of the court, past staff and translators and journalists, searching for familiar eyes in unfamiliar cold.

but you’re not there. not even a glimpse of your brilliance.

he doesn’t ask about you, though he’s tempted. you probably had work. a meeting. a life.

then he hears it. just as he’s halfway down the hall, wiping sweat from his jaw.

“oikawa.” your voice, again. unmistakably so. but softer this time.

he turns and you’re there — clipboard tucked under your arm, scarf wound loosely. your eyes don’t seem as unreadable this time.

“you dropped this.” you say simply, holding out his id badge. he hadn’t even realized it was missing.

he accepts it with fumbling fingers, brushing against yours.

“thank you,” he says, and quickly, before you can turn away again — “do you have time later?”

you blink with a look of obvious surprise.

“just… ten minutes. a coffee. i won’t make it weird.”

you look at him, like you’re trying to read something in his face. then, finally. “…i’ll think about it.”

it’s more than he expected. more than he deserves for the long wait, probably.

but it’s enough to carry him through the rest of the evening — through team meetings, locker room chatter, the gentle thrum of adrenaline fading from his limbs.

he keeps glancing at the clock, like he’s seventeen and waiting to walk you home again.

then, just as he’s pulling his coat on near the back exit, he sees a familiar figure waiting by the doors. he exhales nervously — and it feels like the roles are reversed now. now he’s the one yearning and you’re the one waiting for him by the gates.

you don’t wave or smile when you lock eyes. just glanced at him once before saying, “there’s a coffee shop down the block. not fancy, but it’s warm.”

the cold bites at his cheeks, and for a while, neither of you speak. the silence is comfortable in theory — but not quite in practice.

he glances at you, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“i wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

“i wasn’t either,” you admit, staring straight ahead. “but i figured… it’s only ten minutes, right?”

he laughs softly. “yeah. just ten minutes.”

and maybe, if he’s lucky, it’ll be the first of many.

just before the café comes into view, you pause.

“you’re late, oikawa,” you murmur, almost like you’re saying it to the snow. “years late.”

tooru almost flinches. instead, he nods once in solemn understanding. “i know.”

“and i don’t trust you.”

“i know.” he says again, quieter.

you look at him. he’s older now, steadier in the way he stands — but still the same boy who once offered you the first bite of his food, the first sip of his drink, eyes on the sidewalk.

“but if you’re staying…”

your voice is barely above the wind. “you can try again tomorrow.”

he blinks, like he wasn’t expecting the chance. like you handed him sunlight in the middle of a snowstorm.

“tomorrow,” he echoes. “and the day after that?”

you start walking again, just to leave him behind a little.

“…we’ll see.” the small smile on your face gives him hope.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiepocalypse .

you never exchanged numbers, never wrote letters or kept in touch. it was like the moment summer ended, you both quietly agreed to place it all on pause. and still, every time the season rolled around again, it picked up exactly where it left off — the late-night walks, half-melted popsicles, matching tan lines.

he’d tell you the dumbest jokes he learned during the time you were apart. you’d dare him to do cartwheels down the beach and laugh until your stomach hurt.

you met him when you were eight. the inn had just been painted that summer, all white and yellow like a lemon meringue pie, and you were eating a dripping cone of vanilla ice cream when you tripped over your own sandals near the boardwalk.

“woah—! careful.” a boy caught your arm before you could fall, steadying you with both hands. he had chocolate eyes and a missing tooth. he looked your age, maybe a little older, and grinned like he’d just done something heroic.

you blinked up at him before frowning down at your ice cream. “.. my ice cream’s melting.”

he glanced down at the melted ice cream threatened to drip down on your wrist and then offered you his own cone — slightly eaten, but still cold and sweet. “trade?”

that was how it started. just two kids, sitting on the curb with their feet dusty from sand, talking about crabs and sharks.

as thanks for the ice cream, you taught him how to build a sandcastle with tunnels that didn’t cave in. when it rained, you kicked and danced — and when your parents called, you raced each other up and down the slippery deck, soaked and breathless, with wide smiles on your faces.

you didn’t really know it then, but something about that week sunk its teeth into your memory. not just the ocean breeze or the taste of saltwater forcing itself into your lungs, but him.

and by the time you left that year, your heart ached in a way you couldn’t name.

you didn’t even ask if he’d be back next summer. you had too much pride for that — so you just hoped. and the next year, when you returned, he was there. waving from the same patch of sand and under the same umbrella like no time had passed at all.

you must’ve been thirteen when you realized it was a crush, the fifth summer you met him.

that summer, he was taller. not by much, but enough that you noticed. his hair had lightened from the sun, and his voice cracked once or twice when he got too excited telling stories, though he tried to play it off every time.

he still teased you relentlessly, still kicked up sand when he ran ahead, still laughed like the world was ending and it didn’t matter at all. but now, when he smiled at you, it did something strange to your ribs. made them feel a little too tight.

that very same summer, you started watching him a little differently — like when he ran ahead to chase the tide and you found yourself staring at his back a second too long, or when he ruffled his hait to dry with a towel and your stomach flipped for no good reason at all.

and when he smiled at you it felt like the sun had turned its attention just on you.

you tried to play it cool. rolled your eyes more, teased him back harder. but he caught you staring once, during a lull in conversation as you sat side by side, feet buried in the sand.

“what?” he asked, tilting his head.

you blinked and looked away. “nothing. your face is just weird.”

he barked a laugh, nudged your shoulder with his. “hey, i take offense to that! it’s the only one i’ve got.”

and you wanted to say — i missed it. but you didn’t, because your pride was bigger than your longing.

so instead you shrugged, kicked a bit of sand at his ankle, and changed the subject to something forgettable.

the thing is — with koushi, it was always easy to pretend. easy to laugh off the ache, to let the words die on your tongue.

you never needed to say i like you when it was already there in the way you chased after him without hesitation, in the way he always waited just a little longer than necessary for you to catch up.

summer after summer, the years blurred together and baby fat disappeared. you learned how to flirt by accident and he learned how to make you flustered on purpose.

but you never crossed that fine line.

it always ended the same way — the last week of august, goodbyes at dusk, promises with no real weight behind them.

“see you next year.”, he’d say, smiling like it never hurt.

and you’d echo it back, even when you already knew you’d spend the next ten months wondering what it would’ve felt like to ki — er.. to do couple–y things with him.

but you didn’t. you never let the thought linger too long. because if you said it out loud, it might break whatever delicate thing you had — this yearly ritual built on tide, sand, time and unspoken understanding.

it was easier this way. to leave him with a wave and a grin, to store him in the same place you kept your seashells and sun-bleached memories. leave it as it is, just a summer thing.

and then, one year — he wasn’t there.

you were sort of patient at first. as patient as one pre-teen girl could be. you waited and scoured the beach for a flash of silver hair or that familiar laugh carried on the wind. maybe he was just late. maybe his family pushed the trip back a week.

you sat in your usual meeting spot every morning anyway.

but the summer came and went, and he never showed. the umbrella spot was still empty and untouched.

you didn’t cry. you just shut the door quietly on that chapter of your life, and told yourself it was fine. it was just a summer thing — just a boy.

and most people outgrow summer, don’t they?

if your family noticed how glum you were that summer break, they never asked or said anything to your face. your parents would just cast you an understanding look with a face full of pity.

the next summer, your family vacationed somewhere else. a bigger city, nicer beaches, better weather.

you smiled through it, laughed when appropriate. but nothing stuck the same way.

you busied yourself with other things instead. made new friends, kissed someone else at a party during your last year of high school. it was messy and unfamiliar and didn’t feel like anything at all — not in the way summer with him did.

you stopped going to the beach after that.

not because you were bitter, of course. life just got busy. college happened — then internships, group projects, part-time jobs. people outgrew summer, after all.

and anyway, he had ruined the ocean for you a little. no other shoreline ever felt right.

years passed. you almost forgot what the waves sounded like against the shore, what sand felt like when it clung between your fingers, and his face turned blurry in your memories. you forgot it all — almost.

one day, your boss cheerfully announced a company retreat. a week-long “team building getaway” at some coastal town you hadn’t heard of in years.

and when you saw the name on the itinerary, your stomach dropped.

the same place. the same stretch of sand and waves.

you told yourself it was fine. it’s just a beach. it doesn’t mean anything.

but when you stepped off the bus, suitcase in hand and heart pounding in your throat (maybe it was bile threatening to pour out), the air smelled exactly the same. full of salt and memory.

and for the first time in a long while, you felt like a young child again.

as your coworkers chattered beside you, shuffling toward the inn where you'd all be staying, you caught sight of the boardwalk.

still the same weathered white and yellow.

you wandered off during the first break, waving at your closer coworkers as you did.

you didn’t go far — just down the boardwalk, past the ice cream stand that had changed owners but not colors, past the souvenir shop still cluttered with seashell keychains and sun-printed towels.

you walked slow, cautious, like the place might vanish if you blinked too hard.

the umbrella — that old, beat-up one with its faded red stripes — was still there.

... and under it, so was he.

older now. taller than you remember. no more baby fat, no more missing teeth. at first you thought maybe you were hallucinating. or it was just someone who looked like him.

but he had the same soft eyes. and the very same half-lopsided grin when he saw you.

you couldn’t help but freeze — despite the humid air and the sunlight surrounding you.

koushi stood up, brushing sand from his jeans. “hey.” he greeted, a little breathless. like he couldn’t believe it either. “took you long enough.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. looking like a fish out of water in a beach seemed fitting.

he laughed — a tad deeper and freer than you remember, but still so achingly familiar.

“what? no ‘your face looks weird’ this time around?”

and gosh, you nearly cried.

“you .. you jerk — where have you been?”

his smile softened, and the wind tousled his hair just like it used to.

“life happened,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t ache to say. “school stuff. family stuff. we stopped coming for a while. i didn’t think you’d still…”

he trailed off, and his voice cracked, even if just barely.

you didn’t answer right away — couldn’t, with everything in your chest swelling too tight. so instead, you crossed the last few steps between you and punched his shoulder.

“you made me wait the whole summer.” you muttered.

he rubbed his arm, but he was beaming like you told him that he won the lottery. “you waited?”

you rolled your eyes, heat rushing to your face. “...pshh, no.”

he laughed again, brighter this time. “still such a terrible liar.”

“so,” you exhaled nervously, staring out at the ocean and squinting as the wind grew more apparent. “what now? we pretend we’re still fifteen? trade popsicles and build sandcastles?”

he didn’t answer right away.

when you turned to look, he was already watching you — with a look that seemed far too soft and affectionate for years of seperation.

“nah,” he shook his head, voice softer now. “i was kinda hoping we could finally do all the things we didn’t do back then.”

your breath seemed to get caught in the wind. “like…?”

his lips curved, sly and knowing. “like take you out. hold your hand on purpose. maybe finally call you when it’s not summer. if i’m not years too late, that is.” he looks down at your hand, causing you to look over, too. your ring finger was bare.

“…well,” you murmured, smiling despite trying not to. this wide smile of yours, it just broke out, you suppose. “took you long enough.”

he laughed, quiet and disbelieving, and then — just before he leaned in, he hesitated, gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “just like the wind.”

you blinked. “oh my days.” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “did you quote the wind rises right before kissing me?”

he grinned, unrepentant. “maybe.”

“such a sap.”

“only for you, maybe.”

and then, slowly, carefully — he leaned in again.

and this time, you didn’t let pride or fear get in the way.

his lips were soft, and his hand found yours like it belonged there.

the years melted, the ache dissolved, the salt-tanged wind carried everything else away.

and for the first time in forever, you didn’t have to wait for next summer.

he was here. and this time, he was staying with you — summer or otherwise.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiepocalypse .

maybe it wasn’t. maybe he just looked at everyone like that and you’re feeding into your hopes too much again.

but there were moments. small, almost forgettable ones —where you swore he lingered.

when your eyes met in the middle of a noisy gym class and he didn’t look away first.

when he waited by the school gate one rainy day, umbrella in hand, just to ask if you had an umbrella. and he’d share his when you didn’t.

he never really said anything. and you never had the courage to ask.

.. you wanted to. you almost did. but it’s hard to ask someone to stay when the whole world is already waiting for them.

in a night with a full moon, you’d still search for the star that is oikawa tooru.

you never meant to stay behind so late after classes. club activities can really make you lose track of the time. but you decide you can kill two birds with one stone and give iwaizumi back the notebook you borrowed, since the gym that they use was on the way to the school gates, anyway.

your fingers curl around the gym’s doorframe, pushing lightly to take a peek inside. there was only a star inside. the others must’ve been getting ready to head home.

oikawa tooru had a volleyball in hand, bouncing off and back to him and you want to believe that he had some sort of string attached to it — but you knew that’s just how hardworking oikawa is.

you push the door open wider, wide enough to walk in and walk toward him despite the fact that you were here for iwaizumi (that’s what you told yourself).

“you’re still here,” he said your name without looking, catching the next ball off a rebound. you blinked, caught off guard by the fact that he knew it was you from your footsteps alone. “and you’re still practicing.”

he smiled faintly, like he was amused by both your answers. then he turned to face you.

his hair was damp from sweat, some strands clinging to his forehead. there was a sharpness in his eyes that softened when they met yours — or maybe it was a trick your mind played on you.

“are you here to see me?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes before he had to chance to notice how your chest clenched at the thought.

“i’m returning iwaizumi’s notebook.” you didn’t say that you could’ve just handed it over in class. or that it’s been in your bag for three days and you’d passed by him twice today alone. you didn’t say you kind of hoped oikawa would be here.

he raised an eyebrow. “iwa–chan’s not here.”

you knew that. but you shrugged anyway, letting your bag slip off your shoulder, fingers finding the spiral edge of the notebook. “guess i’ll just leave it with you, then.”

he stepped forward to take it, and you have to pretend like your heart didn’t just threaten to jump from your chest to your throat.

he looked down at the notebook, flipping to a random page. “your handwriting’s cute.” he said offhandedly, like he was waiting for a chance to compliment you.

you snorted. “that’s not my handwriting. it’s iwaizumi’s.”

“...oh, right.” he looked up and grinned, all boyish charm and summer warmth. “well. i’m sure it would be, if it was.” you rolled your eyes, but no amount of eyerolling could stop your stomach from flipping like a pancake.

the gym lights hummed gently above you, casting soft shadows over the polished floor. someone down the hall called out, distant, maybe from the track team. the sky was bruising at the edges, slipping slowly toward dusk.

“you really like it here, huh?” you asked, nodding toward the volleyball still resting in his hands. he glanced down, then tossed it lightly once, catching it with ease. “i do.”

you waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. he just turned the ball over in his hands, thumbs brushing against the worn surface. “i have to keep practicing.” he added, quieter this time. his voice was fragile.

that answer didn’t surprise you. but his tone did. at least, enough to not know what to say in response.

he passed the ball to one hand and leaned back against the wall. just enough to relax, not enough to lose composure. “what about you?” he asked. “you always hang around after club hours like this?”

“not always,” you replied. “just when it feels like… the day shouldn’t end yet.”

he blinked at that, and for once, didn’t have something witty to throw back. his smile softened into something gentler. something that felt almost real compared to the usual dazzling smile he threw for the others.

“you say weird things sometimes.” he said eventually.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

he laughed at your jokingly offended tone, shaking his head. “hey, i didn’t mean it like that! in fact, i think i like it.” you felt your breath catch, just a little.

but he pushed off the wall a moment later, the weight of the conversation shifting again. back to normal, back to something more friendly and safe.

“you walking home?” he asked, already making his way to the door. “yeah.”

“then let’s go,” he was already holding the door open for you. “before i end up shooting another hundred tosses and forget what a real milkbread looks like.”

you were both, what, sixteen? — young enough to think moments like that could mean something, old enough to feel embarrassed about wanting them to.

it wasn’t a long walk. ten minutes at most, if you didn’t count the part where he slowed down a little near the vending machines, just to say he was craving something cold.

you watched him buy a canned coffee and grumble that it wasn’t sweet enough, then drink it anyway. you didn’t say anything about how he tilted the can toward you without looking, offering you the first sip.

could’ve been for poison testing for all you know, but it was those little moments that got you to like him so much. it was so easy to confuse kindness for affection. attention for meaning.

but it was also easy to fall in love. and you did. over and over again, in the quiet between his sentences. in how he never held your hand, but never let you fall behind.

you told yourself that it wasn’t love. it was just a passing crush, a silly infatuation. but then summer passed. then autumn, and you were still glancing at the gym when you walked home.

it was never about grand gestures. it was the moments in between — the casual way he greeted you in the hallway, the soft good luck before your club competitions, the way he said your name in a way that sounded like it belonged somewhere in his mouth. like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

and maybe he really didn’t. you thought that was the hardest part. because you noticed everything, and he never noticed the way you noticed.

but still, you stayed close. too close to let go, too far to be anything more. some days you swore he was reaching for you. other days, you wondered if you were just in the way. it hurt.

because how could you say something, when he never said anything at all?

once, he looked at you like he was gonna say something. you raised a brow, “you have something you wanna say?” he looked mildly surprised before giving you a smile. “yeah, i’m kinda failing chemistry.” and that was it.

you never told him how you felt.

not even when sixteen turned into seventeen, and seventeen into eighteen.

not even on graduation day, when he smiled at you the same way he smiled at everyone else, and your heart broke quietly under your uniform when it sinks in — he was willing to leave those things unsaid.

in the five long years you’d grown to love him for all his imperfections — this was an imperfection of his that you found hard to love. all those quiet moments, the lingering, the teasing, and in the end he had never admitted that he liked you. because to everyone and you — oikawa loves you like a sunset, a love that only grows with time.

but maybe to tooru, liking you isn’t something he can fit into his schedule. he’d already made plans to move to another country and have his volleyball career take off there. to have his moment to shine, like the true star he is.

and you? you barely thought about your future. all you really wanted was to live comfortably, no matter what your line of work is.

you left not long after he did.

he went to argentina to purse his dream career, you went to russia to get away from everything. because oikawa tooru was the kind of person you didn’t mean to write your life around — until you looked back and found him in every chapter.

now, you teach languages — japanese to russians, russian to the occasional japanese expat. it’s quiet, steady work. you’re comfortable — but not rich in any sense of the word.

you have your own apartment, your own money, everything here is nothing but your own. but as the snow drifts past your window, soft and slow, you start to realize — maybe you never had a joy that was truly your own.

compared to your life in japan, russia was cold and distant.

there were no sounds of hajime throwing things at a screaming tooru, no laughter from takahiro or issei, no friendly chats with the first years from your third year.

you sigh as you take your gaze off of the window, turning back to the tv in front of you. you blew the steam off of the hot choco you made, curling up on the couch even more — if that was even possible.

the heater hums gently in the background, its warmth never quite reaching your fingertips. outside, russia stays wrapped in white, like the whole country is asleep under a heavy quilt.

you sip slowly, eyes half-lidded as the television drones on. something dubbed, probably. you don’t know. you like the background noise. the stillness used to bother you, now you’ve made a home out of it.

you almost flip the channel — some international game, probably. not your thing. but then..

“number seventeen, setter — oikawa tooru.”

your thumb freezes on the remote.

it’s his voice that gets you first. not his face. the clip cuts to a brief player interview, his usual grin still sitting on his lips, that practiced charm so familiar it nearly knocks the air out of you.

“we’re honored to be playing against russia’s national team.” he says, speaking in halting but careful english. you blink. because you can’t believe it. not because you didn’t think he would make it, just .. you didn’t think you’d see him again. you’re careful to avoid any news and mentions about any oikawa.

he’s wearing a new, unfamiliar jersey — ca san juan. but his face is still the same, if not a little sharper now. his hair a little shorter, there’s a comfortable confidence in the way he speaks now that wasn’t there before.

you don’t even realize your mug is trembling slightly in your hand. it’s been five years.

and yet, he’s still finding ways into your quiet life — unintentionally, too, just like back then.

back then, it was in the way he sat one row ahead of you but always turned around to ask for a pen. and now it’s through your television, in a country half the world away from home.

you place the mug down, carefully. because your hands don’t feel like they’re entirely yours anymore. on screen, the game starts. he jogs onto the court with a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before — not the boyish hunger of your schooldays, not even the pressure-heavy gleam of nationals. this was different. lighter, freer even.

you wonder if he knows you’re watching.

no. of course he doesn’t. he’s here to win, to play. to keep chasing that fire he’s always had in his lungs.

but your eyes stay locked on the screen anyway, like you’re trying to memorize him again — this new version of him, older and steadier, but still so unmistakably tooru.

he sets the ball — and it’s a perfect toss. the spike lands clean. you catch yourself smiling before you can stop it.

some things don’t change. not even after five years. you want to lean into the moment and say ‘i’m proud of you, tooru’.

you look down. your hot chocolate has gone cold. maybe you’ve gone cold, too.

as the match continues, you feel something melt again. like maybe joy isn’t always loud or bright. maybe it can be something quiet, something that never left.

there are things neither of you ever said. words that sat on the tips of your tongues and dissolved with time. it wasn’t silence out of fear — not entirely. maybe it was the quiet, shared belief that there would always be more time.

but life moved faster than both of you knew how to catch it, and now here you are, two people on opposite ends of the world, still holding onto sentences that never found their way out.

and it makes you wonder, briefly, if he remembers you at all. and worse — if he ever thought of you the way you thought of him.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiepocalypse .

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ   i do not write canon x canon, only canon x reader. ⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  i do not write male readers, only fem & ambiguous.⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  i appreciate longer & more detailed requests for inspiration! though, a simple idea (ex. the song undressed by sombr w/ char.) is fine too, don’t worry!⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  i write what i want to write, so there is a chance that i reject your request — don’t take it to heart, i probably just don’t write for the character.⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  i have a list of characters that i write for. if your fav isn’t there, i’m sorry!⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  don’t be afraid to ask me about your request — if i don’t reply to it immediately with a no, there’s a chance that it’s on my ‘to write’ list.⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  i write mainly for the characters during their highschool days or growing, but i’m not against having the occasional fic where they’re in their timeskip! just no smut.⠀؛ ଓ

⠀⠀ ࣪⠀⠀𓏵⠀⠀ ׅ  you can slide into my asks even for the stupidest thoughts that aren’t for request. i like interacting with people ♡⠀؛ ଓ

꒰♡꒱ send me a dream of yours — i’ll write what i envision.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀─── happy requesting!

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀ inbox : open.