riva!

“I’m not.” You said, lips wobbling even though you were trying to sound tough.

He tilted his head. “You kind of are.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re mean.”

“I’m Daichi.” He corrected instead, then stepped into the sandbox like he belonged there. “Can I help?”

You stared at him for a long second, then nodded slowly. His smile was wide and toothy, and you didn’t know it yet, but that smile would become one of your favorite things in the world.

“I’m building a castle.” You explained seriously, gesturing to the sad pile in front of you.

Daichi sat cross-legged beside you and squinted down at it. “It looks more like a mountain.”

You pouted.

“Okay, okay! Castle. Right.” He started scooping up handfuls of sand and packing them into lumpy towers. They were terrible, worse than yours and he kept knocking them over with his elbows. But he made you laugh.

When he managed to accidentally collapse one of your towers for the third time, he dropped his chin into his hands and sighed dramatically. “I’m really bad at this.”

“You’re terrible.” You agreed through a giggle, and that only made him grin harder.

“You know what would make it better?” He asked suddenly. “A moat. Castles always have moats.”

Together, you spent the next twenty minutes digging a crooked, shallow circle around your “castle” Daichi got sand in his socks and down the back of his shirt. You both ended up dirty and sun-warmed and happy.

When Koushi came running over to tell Daichi you were going home soon, you felt a little pang in your chest.

“Bye!” You said, waving your sandy hand.

“Bye!” He said, then paused. “You build really good castles.”

Your face lit up.

That was the very first time Daichi Sawamura made your heart feel a little bit bigger.

——————————————————————————

Skinned knees (ages 6 and 7)

“TAG! You’re it!”

“No fair, I wasn’t ready!”

Daichi bolted across the grass, arms pumping, sneakers kicking up dirt. He was fast, always had been, but the older kids had longer legs, and that meant he had to try harder to keep up. He liked that. It made him feel strong. Grown-up.

Until, of course, he didn’t see the root sticking up in the grass. His foot caught. His body pitched forward, and he hit the ground hard.

“DAICHI!” Koushi yelled.

“I’m fine!” He called back instantly, sitting up fast even though his knees burned and stung. His palms were scraped too, small pebbles sticking to the torn skin. It hurt.

But boys didn’t cry, right?

Still, his lip was trembling a little as he brushed at his knee. There was blood. Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach feel weird. He looked up and saw Sugawara running toward him, panic written all over his face.

And then he saw you, a small blur of pink and pigtails breaking into a run across the grass, your little shoes thudding hard. Daichi quickly looked down again.

“Daichi!” You called, breathless by the time you dropped to your knees beside him. “You’re bleeding!”

“‘M okay.” He mumbled.

But you were already digging into the tiny pink Hello Kitty pouch you carried everywhere. Out came a tissue, slightly crumpled but clean, and a bandaid decorated with sparkly stars.

You dabbed carefully at his knee, tongue peeking out in concentration. “You’re not okay.” You said matter-of-factly. “But it’s okay to cry, you know.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed.

“You’re allowed to cry.” You repeated gently, and then, without warning, you blew softly on his scraped knee.

Daichi blinked fast. He didn’t cry, not really, but his shoulders dropped, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit.

You peeled the bandaid and smoothed it over the cut with gentle fingers.

“There!” You said beaming up at him. “All better.”

And he looked at you like you’d just fixed the world.

——————————————————————————

The recital (ages 10 and 11)

Your heart was beating too fast.

You stood just off-stage, fingers twitching with nerves. The recital hall was bigger than you remembered. The polished black piano sat center stage like a challenge, and the rows of folding chairs were filled with strangers. Parents. Teachers. Judges.

Not your parents, though.

They wanted to come. They really did. But Koushi had a fever over 102, and your mom couldn’t leave his side. Your dad stayed too, and though you told them it was okay, your voice had cracked on the word.

You knew it wasn’t their fault but your stomach still twisted with disappointment as your name was called.

The walk to the piano felt miles long. You sat on the bench, placed your hands on the keys, and took a shaky breath.

You started to play. The first few notes were hesitant, your fingers stumbling, but muscle memory took over. You got lost in the melody, pouring your heart into the piece you’d practiced for weeks. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. When the final note faded, there was polite applause.

You stood, bowed, and left the stage with your hands trembling. Your throat burned. You weren’t going to cry, not here, not in front of everyone but it was close.

You stepped out into the hallway, wiping at your eyes before they could spill over.

“Hey.”

You jumped.

Daichi stood there, awkward in a button-up shirt that didn’t fit him quite right and jeans a little too long. His hair was combed for once. He held a crumpled bouquet of flowers, yellow daisies and baby’s breath tied together with a string.

Your mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Koushi said you had your recital. Your parents couldn’t come, so I… figured someone should.”

Your hands curled around the bouquet automatically. “You came?”

“I was a little late.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I saw the whole thing. You were amazing.”

You blinked fast. “I messed up at the start.”

“But you kept going. And you didn’t run offstage crying or throw the piano stool or anything. So, yeah. Amazing.”

You laughed, half-choked and half-sniffled. “That’s a bit dumb.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But I brought flowers.”

You stared at the yellow petals, heart warm and aching. The hallway was quiet now, just the two of you. You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thank you.”

Daichi looked at you, softer than usual. “Anytime.”

And somehow you knew he meant it.

——————————————————————————

Fever (ages 11 and 12)

It was supposed to be just a quick errand.

Koushi was stuck finishing an assignment, and Daichi had come home from the overnight school camp sick, like really sick. Fever, sore throat, barely-talking kind of sick. His mom called in to say he’d be home for at least two days. And with the teachers sending over homework, someone had to drop it off.

So, Koushi looked at you. "Please?"

You grumbled a little, but truthfully? You didn’t mind.

You arrived at the Sawamuras’ place after school, your backpack heavier than usual and the plastic folder of assignments crumpling slightly in your grip. Daichi’s mom answered the door, soft-eyed and frazzled, thanking you a little too many times as she let you in.

“He’s upstairs.” She said. “Been sleeping most of the day, but maybe hearing a friend’s voice will help.”

You didn’t correct her. You weren’t sure what to call it friendship didn’t feel like enough anymore. But it was easier that way. Koushi surely was Daichi’s friend but you weren’t exactly sure what you were to him.

Daichi’s room was warm and dim when you pushed the door open gently.

He looked… awful. His face was flushed, dark hair stuck to his forehead, mouth slightly parted as he breathed raggedly through a stuffed-up nose. A cold cloth lay half-slid off his head, and the blanket was tangled around his legs.

You set your bag down quietly and crossed over to the bed. “Hey.” You whispered. “It’s me.”

No response.

You bit your lip, then climbed into the chair by his bedside. You picked up the fallen cloth and stood to re-wet it from the bowl on the nightstand, wringing it out and gently placing it back across his forehead.

Still nothing.

You sighed, then leaned your chin into your hand and began to talk. About school. About your teachers. About how Koushi nearly got detention for talking back to the gym coach. You told him about the vending machine that swallowed your money and about how your lunch had tasted weird but not bad, and how the clouds looked like mashed potatoes that day.

At some point, you looked down and realized he’d turned his face slightly toward your voice.

You reached for his hand. It was warm too warm, but he didn’t let go.

You stayed there, fingers wrapped around his and words spilling quietly into the air. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until Daichi muttered something under his breath.

You froze.

“What was that?”

He twitched slightly. A soft, strained sound left him. “...’m sorry…”

You frowned, leaning closer. “Daichi?”

His eyes stayed closed, breath shallow. Then, barely above a whisper,your name. Just your name, drifting out like an anchor in a fever dream. Your heart climbed right into your throat.

“I’m here.” You whispered back instinctively. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t reply again. But his hand never let go and you swore he held on tighter for a moment.

——————————————————————————

The quiet thread (quiet moments over the years)

You weren’t quite sure when it started to feel like something more.

There wasn’t a single moment, but a series of them, threaded together like tiny lights on a string, warm and blinking and easy to miss unless you really looked.

At his matches, you were always in the front row. Screaming his name when he served, clapping until your palms stung. You learned the game slowly, enough to keep up. Enough to see the way his eyes found you first when he landed a good spike. Always you.

At movie nights with the team, he always saved you a seat. Never said it outright, but it was always there, the spot beside him, the bowl of popcorn between you, the way he’d tilt the box of juice toward you first before taking one himself.

Once, Nishinoya tried to take your usual seat as a joke. Daichi didn’t even say anything, just gave him a look. That was all it took.

Noya grinned. “Okay, okay, got it. ‘Princess’ seat.’”

You rolled your eyes.

Daichi didn’t say a word.

But he smiled when you sat beside him anyway.

On rainy days, he’d offer his umbrella before you could ask. “You can give it back tomorrow.” He’d say, rubbing the back of his neck while the rain soaked his shoulders. You gave it back the next day every time. And somehow… it always smelled like him after.

When your cat died, he walked three blocks to your house even though it was a school night. Said he brought homework from Koushi but he never opened the folder. He just sat with you, quiet, legs crossed on your bedroom floor as you cried. When he finally left that night, your pillow smelled like his hoodie.

There was nothing romantic about it. Not yet. It wasn’t flirting. It was more. It was trust, built soft and slow. It was knowing that you could fall asleep in the middle of a movie night and wake up with a blanket over your shoulders and Daichi’s jacket folded beneath your head. It was brushing hands accidentally in the popcorn bowl and not pulling away. It was watching him laugh and not knowing why it made your chest ache.

It was all the things neither of you had words for. Not yet, but something was coming.

And somewhere in the space between childhood and whatever came next, the two of you had become each other’s safest place.

——————————————————————————

What it feels like (ages 15 and 16)

You never knew that watching someone get confessed to could hurt.

It was spring, and the hallways smelled like too many flowers and teenage hope. First-years were already rushing to get their chocolates ready for Valentine’s Day, and second-years were just starting to get bold with handwritten letters and awkward hallway meetups.

Daichi was tall and broad-shouldered by then Captain material, dependable and easy to talk to, with a smile that made even the teachers melt.

You saw it happen again and again: a girl standing with her hands clenched around a ribbon-tied box, red-cheeked and trembling. And Daichi, polite as ever, bowing his head with that apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I’m really sorry. Thank you, though.”

And the girl would wilt a little, whisper it was okay, then rush away.

He never accepted. Not once.

And you didn’t know why it twisted your stomach the way it did. Why your heart sped up every time someone even looked at him like that. Why you caught yourself searching his face for a reaction he never gave. Why part of you felt strangely relieved when he turned them all down.

It made no sense. He wasn’t yours. He never had been. Still, every time he smiled at someone else, even just to say “no”, something inside you clenched like a fist.

You didn’t have a word for it back then. But it lived in you, quiet and constant. A dull, aching gravity.

——————————————————————————

The fight (ages 16 and 17)

It started with a name you’d gotten tired of hearing. Kento Takagi. He was a second-year, he was tall, annoying, way too smug. The first time he asked you out, you were polite. The second time, you were firm.

The third time, you ignored him completely. By the sixth time, you were one deep breath away from shoving your school shoe directly into his face.

You were standing just outside the school gates, trying to pack your books into your bag, when he approached again. “Come on, just one date.” He said, reaching for your wrist when you turned away. “You’re not even giving me a chance-”

“Let go.” You snapped.

That’s when you heard the sharp voice from behind you.

“She said let go.”

You turned. Sugawara got there first, stepping between you and Kento like a calm wall of sunshine and thinly veiled menace. “You’ve asked her enough times. She’s not interested. Take the hint.”

You could’ve hugged him.

But it was Daichi who arrived seconds later, face unreadable, steps deliberate.

Kento scoffed. “Seriously? You’ve got two bodyguards now?”

And that was when he grabbed your arm again. That was his mistake.

Daichi shoved between you before you could react, his hand closing around Kento’s wrist like steel. “Are you deaf?” His voice low and cold, “She told you to let go.”

Kento sneered. “What’s it to you? You her boyfriend or something?”

It happened too fast. Daichi’s fist swung clean and hard - crack - straight into Kento’s jaw. The other boy stumbled backward, clutching his face, spitting curses and blood.

“DAICHI!” Sugawara shouted.

Your heart dropped. “What- ?!”

And then the teachers were there, and everything blurred, raised voices, hands pulling them apart, Kento wailing about “assault” and Daichi just standing there, jaw clenched, breathing hard, knuckles bleeding.

——————————————————————————

The walk home (later that day)

Daichi got detention. Of course he did.

One week. After school. Report filed, parents notified.

You waited for him anyway.

You sat on the stone steps just outside the gym, watching the sun dip low behind the school roof. You weren’t sure if he’d even want you there after what happened, but your legs stayed glued to the steps.

He came out just as the light started to fade.

“Hey.” You said.

He paused. “You waited?”

“Duh.” You muttered, standing. “Who else is gonna yell at you for punching a guy like an idiot?”

A smile tugged at his mouth, tired and faint. He didn’t say anything else.

You walked side by side in silence for a while, the wind tugging at your sleeves, leaves skittering across the sidewalk. His hand hovered just a few inches from yours, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of it.

You didn’t move away.

When you finally reached your street, you caught the way he flexed his fingers, bruised and red, still split at the knuckles.

“Come here.” You said quietly, turning into your driveway instead. “Let me clean that.”

He didn’t argue. You sat him down at the kitchen counter and pulled out the first aid box. He sat obediently, arm resting on the table, watching as you opened the kit with practiced hands.

The light in the kitchen was soft, gold and humming. You dipped a cotton ball into antiseptic, glancing at him before pressing it gently to the raw skin. “This is probably going to sting.”

“I’ve had worse.” He muttered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t like thinking about him getting hurt. You worked slowly, carefully, dabbing at the scrapes and cuts, the silence between you thick with things unsaid.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said finally, voice too soft. “I could’ve handled it.”

Daichi didn’t look away from you. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Your chest tightened. “Still…”

He shook his head slightly. “I don’t care if I got detention. I’d do it again.”

Your fingers paused over the edge of a bandage. The weight of the moment pressed between you. You wrapped the gauze slowly, smoothing it flat over his knuckles. Your hands lingered on his, thumbs grazing gently across his skin.

He wasn’t looking away. Neither were you. You could feel his breath, short and uneven. His hand turned slightly, palm brushing yours.

“Daichi…” You whispered.

His eyes dropped to your lips. Your heart stopped. He leaned in-

-and then pulled back, sharp and sudden.

His chair scraped softly against the tile. “Thanks.” He said, voice too stiff. “For… patching me up.”

You sat frozen, heart pounding, mouth still parted like a question. He didn’t look at you again as he stood to leave.

And just like that, the moment passed, too big, too heavy, too much for two people still pretending they didn’t already belong to each other.

——————————————————————————

Realization (ages 16 and 17)

You didn’t realize it all at once.

It crept in slowly, quietly, like a song you’d heard too many times to really hear until one day, it cracked you wide open.

It was in the way he laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that made your stomach flutter.

It was the way he always noticed when something was off. The way he handed you your favorite drink without being asked. The way he texted you before every exam: You’ve got this. I believe in you.

It was the way he looked at you after matches, chest still heaving, sweat dripping down his temple but his eyes always found you in the crowd first. Always you.

It was in the small things. Because that’s where Daichi always lived.

And one night, alone in your room, scrolling through the blurry picture Suga had taken of you and Daichi at the last team festival, him smiling wide, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, you felt it all at once.

You loved him.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It just was. And it hurt. Because he had never said anything. He had pulled away from you that night with bruised knuckles and trembling silence. And despite everything you thought you saw in his eyes, he had never crossed the line.

Not once.

So maybe… he really did just see you as Koushi’s little sister. Someone he’d always protected. Someone who had always been around. Familiar. Comfortable.

You told yourself it was fine. That you understood. But the ache in your chest said otherwise.

——————————————————————————

The confession (and it’s not his)

His name was Riku Yamamoto.

He was sweet. Polite. Sat next to you in art class and smelled like peppermint and clean laundry. He made you laugh with his bad puns, and once stayed behind to help you carry paints back to the storage room.

And then one day, after class, heart in his hands, he confessed.

You blinked at him for a long second. “Wait, me?”

Riku flushed. “Yeah. I know it’s kind of sudden, and you probably don’t see me that way, but I just… I thought I’d try. One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You hesitated. Then you said yes. Not because you didn’t love Daichi. But because he didn’t love you back and, maybe, if someone else looked at you like that, like you were the one they’d been hoping for, maybe it would be enough to forget the feeling of being invisible to the only boy who had ever mattered.

Daichi didn’t find out from you. He found out from Koushi.

It was after practice, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, everyone sprawled out in the gym, sweat and laughter hanging thick in the air. Koushi was chatting absentmindedly about weekend plans, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand.

“Yeah, I think [Y/N]’s got a date with that Yamamoto kid.” He said casually, wiping his forehead.

Daichi froze. “What?”

Koushi looked up. “Huh? Oh, Riku. You know, from Class 2-C? She said he asked her out and she figured, why not.”

The air shifted. Daichi’s grip on his towel tightened.

“Oh.” He said, flat and hollow.

Koushi paused, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Daichi lied. “Fine.”

But he wasn’t. Something cold and sick settled deep in his chest, and it didn’t move.

You didn’t hear from him for two days. No texts. No calls. Not even a glance when you passed in the hallway. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But by the second day, your chest was too tight to ignore it anymore.

You cornered him after practice, outside the locker room, where the hallway was dim and empty.

“Daichi.” You said, breathless. “Why are you avoiding me?”

He turned, slowly, sweat still clinging to his hairline. “I’m not.”

“You are. You haven’t talked to me in two days.”

He shrugged, expression unreadable. “Been busy.”

“With what? Pretending I don’t exist?”

He flinched,just barely, but you caught it.

“You’re mad.” You said. “Why?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” Your voice cracked. “Just say it, Daichi! If you’re upset, then say it! Why have you been avoiding me since Koushi told you that I was going on a date?!”

And then it hit like thunder, loud and raw, shoving out of him before he could stop it. “Because I- ”

But he stopped.

Your breath hitched. “Because you what?”

Daichi stared at you, chest rising and falling. And then- Nothing. Silence. He looked down, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He reached for you instinctively. “Wait- ”

You stepped back. “No.” You said. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to get jealous and act like you care and then say nothing.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I’ve spent years loving you, Daichi.” You whispered. “And I thought… maybe you felt something too. But you never said anything. You just left me hanging. And now I finally say yes to someone else, and now you care?”

He looked shattered.

You shook your head, blinking hard. “I’m not doing this anymore.” You said as you turned and walked away.

Daichi stood frozen in the hallway long after you were gone, gutted and ghost-silent, realizing too late that maybe the biggest mistake he’d ever made was thinking silence would keep you safe.

——————————————————————————

The fallout (ages 16 and 17)

Daichi was a mess.

He went through practice like a ghost, movements tight, eyes distant. He forgot to bring his lunch two days in a row. He barely spoke unless someone asked him a direct question. When he did speak, it was flat, empty, like someone else had taken up residence in his chest.

He still couldn’t believe it. He’d hurt you. You, the one person he’d sworn to never hurt. And he’d done it not with his fists, not with his voice, but with his silence. It was almost worse.

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Sugawara said, finally slamming his bento box down during lunch break.

Daichi blinked across the bench. “Huh?”

“You’re miserable. [Y/N]’s miserable. Everyone within a 10-meter radius of you two is miserable. And I’m tired of being the only emotionally functioning person in this hellhole.”

“I- ” Daichi started.

“No. Shut up and listen to me.”

Sugawara leaned forward, voice dropping low, expression dead serious.

“I’ve known you my whole life. You’ve been my best friend since we were basically in diapers. And I knew. I knew you were in love with her before you did.”

Daichi stared, color draining from his face.

“You used to look at her like she was the whole damn world. Still do, honestly. But the second someone else looked at her that way? You freaked. You got scared. And instead of saying something, you broke her heart.”

Daichi swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to- ”

“I know.” Sugawara said gently. “That’s the problem.”

A beat of silence.

Then Suga sighed, raking a hand through his hair before adding with brutal softness, “You’re my best friend, Daichi. I trust you. But if you make her cry again…” He leaned in, all warmth gone. “I’ll make sure you never have kids.”

Daichi choked. “Jesus- ”

“I mean it.”

“I know, that’s what makes it worse.”

“Now go fix it.” Suga said, softening again. “Before someone else does.”

——————————————————————————

Not him

Riku was kind. He held your hand when you let him. He smiled when he looked at you. He paid attention. He didn’t try to be anything other than himself. He was… safe

But he wasn’t Daichi. He didn’t notice the way you only ever half-laughed. He didn’t know that you hated sour candy but kept a pack in your bag because Daichi liked it.

He didn’t know that the piano pieces you played the most were the ones Daichi had once said made him feel like flying.

And it wasn’t fair to either of you.

So one quiet afternoon after class, you sat on the bleachers behind the school and looked at Riku’s warm, patient face and whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, sad but understanding. “I figured.”

“No hard feelings?”

He shook his head. “You don’t forget someone like him. I wouldn’t want to compete with that either.”

You laughed, choked and wet and when he hugged you goodbye, you didn’t cry. Because the only person who could make you cry like that… was the one who already had.

——————————————————————————

The doorstep

It was three days after you ended things with Riku when the knock came at your door. You opened it and froze.

Daichi stood there on your porch, rain misting through his hair, his hoodie clinging slightly to his shoulders like he’d run here even though the walk wasn’t far.

His eyes were wide. Nervous. He looked wrecked.

“Hey….” He said, breathless. “Can I… talk to you?”

You nodded, heart pounding. He stepped in, water dripping from his sleeves. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, shifting like he couldn’t figure out how to stand still.

“I heard you broke up with Riku.”

You blinked. “How- ?”

“Suga.” He admitted. Of course.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “If you came to say I shouldn’t have- ”

“No.” He said immediately, almost desperately. “No. That’s not why I came.” He inhaled like it hurt. “I came because I should’ve said something. A long time ago. And I’m scared if I don’t say it now, I’ll never get another chance.”

You froze. He looked at you then, all soft vulnerability and breaking open.

“I’ve been in love with you since I was eight and you made me those stupid flower crowns at the park.” He said, voice cracking. “I didn’t even know what that meant back then, I just knew that when you smiled at me, I felt like the sun was coming up inside my chest.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve always been more than just Suga’s little sister to me. You’ve been my best friend, my safe place, my home. And I was an idiot for thinking that staying quiet was somehow protecting you. I thought if I kept things the same, if I stayed in that ‘safe’ space, you’d never leave. But I hurt you instead.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.

He shifted, eyes wide and panicked. “I- I don’t know if you can forgive me. I get it if you’re done. I just- ” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just had to tell you. Because I meant it. Every time I looked at you I couldn’t pull my eyes away because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I didn’t know how to say it then, but I do now, and- ”

“Daichi.” You whispered.

He froze mid-ramble. “What- ?”

“Just shut up.” You stepped forward and kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Certain. And he melted.

Your hands slid up to cup his jaw, his cheeks cold from the rain. His fingers trembled as they touched your waist, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you smiled.

“Welcome home.” You whispered.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob at once and held you like he’d never let go again.

Later that night, curled up beside him on the couch, the soft glow of the TV washing over your skin, Daichi whispered. “I was so scared you’d moved on.”

“I tried.” You murmured into his shoulder. “Didn’t work.”

He chuckled. “Good.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “What about Suga?”

“I already got the threat.” He said, deadpan. “Something about not having kids?”

You grinned. “Sounds like him.”

Daichi leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Worth it.”

You sighed into his chest. It had taken you years but you were here now. No more almosts. No more silence. Just the two of you, finally.

—————————————————————————

When Suga finds out

The moment you told Koushi, you were terrified. Not because you thought he’d be mad. You knew your brother, he’d probably suspected it for years.

But because Daichi, the captain of Karasuno’s volleyball team, defender of justice and protector of your heart, had gone completely pale.

“Okay, okay.” You whispered, gripping his hand. “He’s not going to kill you.”

“I don’t know.” Daichi muttered. “He did threaten to neuter me.”

“Okay, valid.”

So naturally, when you finally told him one evening after dinner, it went exactly as expected and also, somehow, worse.

You sat him down in the living room. Daichi looked like he was preparing for a firing squad. You reached for his hand and took a deep breath.

“Koushi.” You said gently. “We have something to tell you.”

He blinked.

Daichi cleared his throat. “I… I’m dating your sister.”

A beat. Koushi saw the opportunity of his life and he was going to milk it. His eyes narrowed, slowly, like a cat sensing prey.

“My best friend.” He said. “My lifelong best friend.”

Daichi nodded, bracing. “Yes.”

“My sister.” Koushi added. “Who I have known since she was a literal embryo.”

“Correct.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Betrayal. My blood. My captain. You’ve conspired under my very nose!”

“Oh my god.” You groaned. “Koushi, please.”

“I leave you two alone for five seconds and suddenly there’s hand holding in my house? Kissing under my roof?”

Daichi was already hiding behind a throw pillow. But then Koushi dropped the act, grinning so wide it made your eyes sting.

“Took you long enough.” He said, eyes kind. “God. You’ve been making heart eyes at each other since grade school.”

You blinked. “You’re not… mad?”

“Please.” He scoffed. “You think I’d have let just anyone get close to you like that? I’ve been waiting for you idiots to figure it out.”

You exhaled, relief slumping your shoulders.

Then he added with a smirk, “But I swear, if I walk in on you making out, I will bleach my eyeballs.”

He did in in fact, end up walking in on you making out.

To be fair, you thought he was out with the team. And Daichi thought the coast was clear.

So when he kissed you against the kitchen counter, slow and thorough you tugged at the hem of his shirt, and he whispered something that made your knees weak-

“OH MY GOD- ”

You both leapt apart like guilty teenagers caught red-handed.

Koushi’s face was scarlet. “I eat there! The counter!”

Daichi was already halfway behind the fridge door.

You covered your face. “Koushi, we weren’t- ”

“You had your tongue in his soul, [Y/N]!”

“Koushi!”

Daichi wheezed. “I’m sorry-”

“You’re dead to me, Sawamura! Dead!”

——————————————————————————

Graduation day (ages 17 and 18)

Karasuno’s gym was buzzing with laughter and soft music, the crowd a sea of uniforms and proud parents. You were practically vibrating with excitement, your camera hanging from your neck, phone fully charged.

You spotted them immediately.

Daichi, sharp in his black gakuran, shoulders broad, smile wide and Koushi, looking radiant as ever, waving his arms dramatically from a distance.

You ran toward them and threw your arms around Daichi first, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “You did it!”

He laughed, wrapping you up tight. “We did it.”

You pulled back only to be immediately seized by your brother.

“Betrayed.” Koushi said, loud and overdramatic. “I’m also graduating, and yet you run to him first? My own kin? Have you no shame?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “You’ll live.”

“Will I?”

“You got three flower bouquets, and I saw someone slip you their number.”

“Okay, I’ll live.”

Daichi chuckled, eyes fond as he watched the two of you bicker. Then he slipped his hand into yours, just like he always had. Only now, it meant something.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. You didn’t say it, but he felt it anyway. I’m proud of you.

That night, you sat together on the roof of Daichi’s house, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the stars just starting to peek out. He was quiet beside you, his hand warm over yours.

“So….” You said softly. “What now?”

He smiled. “Police academy starts in a few weeks.”

You nodded. “You’re going to be amazing.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got one more year.” You said. “And then… music school, maybe. I want to teach. Or compose. Maybe both.”

He looked at you like the stars were in your skin.

“I’ll be cheering for you.” He said.

You glanced sideways. “Long-distance okay with you?”

“Only if you promise to send me songs.” He said. “And let me visit you on weekends.”

“Deal.”

You were quiet for a while, the breeze soft around you.

Then Daichi added, voice barely above a whisper. “I want a future with you, you know.”

You looked at him, heart stuttering.

“Not just dating. I mean… life. You. Me. Someday.” He kissed your temple. “I already wasted years of our lives because I was too scared to say something, I plan on spending the rest with you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Good.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “Because I do too.”

He leaned in, kissed you slow and sweet and everything, the years of near misses, quiet heartbreak, ache and waiting,clicked into place.

it all starts with the undeniable fact that tendō satori would rather chew glass than admit he has a crush on you.

seriously. if you asked him to, he’d probably gnaw down on a lightbulb while maintaining eye contact just to prove how much he doesn’t like you.

‘don’t like her. nope. not at all. totally chill. completely normal.’

this is what tendō’s brain sounds like whenever you so much as exist in a five-foot radius. it’s a constant, unconvincing chant, like a guy trying to ward off vampires with a garlic knot.

the problem is, his denial isn’t smooth. it’s not the cool, mysterious, “i-don’t-care” kind. no, tendō’s version is the “stares at you like a raccoon in a 7-eleven parking lot and then immediately looks away like he just saw god” kind.

take today, for example. you’re sitting on the bleachers, swinging your legs idly while the volleyball team is wrapping up practice. your hair catches the light. tendō’s brain short-circuits.

‘oh my god her hair looks like ramen noodles in a commercial. i want to eat it. wait no. can’t say that. brain, shut up. shut. up. do not compare her to food. but like… if she was food, she’d be the good kind. like, top shelf. not that discount cup ramen, no no, the fancy imported kind. spicy miso. oh god. stop.’

“hey, tendō, ball!” semi calls, because there’s a literal volleyball flying toward his head while he’s busy staring at you like a lovesick ghost.

he catches it—barely—then throws it back with a manic grin that’s supposed to look casual but mostly looks like he’s possessed.

‘cool. smooth. nailed it. she definitely didn’t notice me almost getting decapitated because i was watching her legs. nope. not obvious at all. totally fine.’

except you do notice. because recently, you woke up with the world’s strangest headache, and then you realized you could hear people’s thoughts.

which is great, except tendō’s brain is like walking into a clown car packed with fireworks.

‘look at her smile. jesus christ. it should be illegal. someone should arrest her. officer, she’s too pretty. god, i’d let her spit in my drink and i’d say thank you. wait, no. ew. okay but… not ew. like… yum? no, ew. oh my god, brain. stop.’

you nearly choke on your water bottle when that one comes through.

“you good?” tendō asks, jogging past your spot on the bleachers. his grin is crooked, teasing, like he’s about to roast you for sport.

meanwhile, his brain is screaming, ‘say something funny. make her laugh. girls like funny guys. tell her she looks like a baked potato. no, bad. BAD. do not call her a potato. compliment. COMPLIMENT. uh. uh. nice… ankles?’

you bite back a laugh so hard your chest hurts.

“yeah,” you manage, voice strangled. “totally good.”

part of you wants to test this newfound power. because tendō clearly likes you—his brain is practically a karaoke machine playing “i want her” on loop—but outwardly, he acts like you’re just his favorite classmate to mess with.

so when he sits next to you, sweat still clinging to his forehead from practice, you decide to prod him a little.

“you almost got hit by the ball earlier,” you say, casual.

“nah,” tendō waves it off, too smug, “i totally had that under control.”

‘LIE. BIG FAT LIE. i would’ve died. she would’ve cried at my funeral. maybe brought flowers. i wonder what kind of flowers she’d bring. sunflowers? she looks like a sunflower girl. oh, that’d be so cute. god, i wanna die. actually no, i wanna live forever if it means she keeps smiling at me like that.’

you blink, heat crawling up your neck. this is… a lot.

he snaps his fingers in front of your face. “earth to space cadet. what’s going on in that little head of yours?”

if only he knew.

‘her eyes are so pretty. like, dangerous pretty. like, i-would-fall-off-a-building-if-she-told-me-to pretty. i’d let her stomp on me. why am i like this. stop. STOP. she’s just a friend. a… gorgeous… radiant… friend. oh god.’

you press your lips together to keep from laughing, because the irony is killing you. tendō is the loudest guy you know, unfiltered and dramatic, but when it comes to you? he’s practically writing fanfiction in his brain and lying to your face about it.

“nothing,” you answer, trying to keep a straight face. “just… zoning out.”

‘cute. she’s cute. everything she does is cute. i hate her. i mean, i love—WAIT NO. i don’t. i don’t love her. nope. wrong. delete. control alt delete. feelings not found.’

you almost snort water out your nose.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that’s the thing about tendō—he’s in deep. like, challenge deep deep. and he doesn’t even know how obvious it is.

when you pass him your water bottle after practice, his fingers brush yours.

‘holy mother of volleyball. contact. finger contact. write this down. i’ll remember this for the rest of my life. should i keep this bottle forever? is that weird? that’s weird. but like… romantic weird. i could build a shrine. oh god. NO. bad. bad brain.’

you can’t help it—you laugh out loud this time.

“what?” he asks, eyes narrowing like you’ve just caught him doing something illegal.

“nothing,” you say again, too fast.

‘she’s laughing at me. she knows. oh no. she knows. does she know? nah. she doesn’t. she can’t. unless… SHE CAN READ MINDS. imagine. nah. impossible. right?’

you freeze.

uh oh.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

tendō is very good at lying to everyone except himself.

and unfortunately for him, his brain is a 24/7 radio station of unhinged thoughts—thoughts that you can now hear in real time.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the downfall starts small.

you’re hanging out in the gym after practice again, him leaning back on the bench like a scarecrow that got misplaced indoors, you sitting next to him scrolling on your phone.

he stretches, his shirt riding up just a little, and you catch the flicker of his brain going:

‘oh my god, if she looked at me right now and said “nice abs,” i’d pass away on the spot. not that i have abs. but like. i do. a little. okay fine i don’t. but she’d be too nice to say that. god, she’s so nice. i want to marry her. wait, no. not marry. kiss. okay marry too. but like. KISS first.’

you cough, hard, choking on nothing.

“what?” he asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“nothing,” you wheeze.

but tendō’s brain won’t shut up.

‘imagine if she sat on my lap right now. no. no no no. BAD. but like… good? no. stop. i’m normal. normal guy thoughts. normal teammate thoughts. but her thighs look so soft. OH MY GOD.’

you grip your phone like it’s a lifeline. this is so much worse than you expected.

because here’s the thing: tendō doesn’t just like you. he likes you in that catastrophic, dramatic way that makes everything into a life-or-death scenario. and now that you can hear it, you realize he’s been in emotional freefall this whole time.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

days pass like this. you try to ignore it, but it’s like trying to ignore a marching band in your living room.

when you offer him some of your chips:

‘she’s feeding me. she’s literally feeding me. i’m her baby bird. i’d die for her. oh god, i’d let her spit these chips into my mouth. WAIT. ew. but like… hot? no. oh my god. hormones are killing me.’

when you laugh at his dumb jokes:

‘she thinks i’m funny. holy crap. i could die happy right now. bury me in her laugh. carve “he died making her giggle” on my tombstone. god, her smile. i’d lick the floor if it meant she’d smile at me like that again.’

when you accidentally brush his arm:

‘touch. skin touch. she touched me. skin-to-skin contact. we basically held hands. this is second base. this is marriage. i should buy a suit.’

you’ve had enough.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it all comes to a head on a tuesday afternoon. practice ends, everyone else leaves, and tendō plops down next to you on the bleachers like always.

“soooo,” he drawls, smirking, “when are you finally gonna admit you like me?”

you snap your head toward him so fast you almost get whiplash.

“…what?”

he grins wider, like a cat about to push a vase off the counter. “c’mon. i’ve seen the way you look at me.”

meanwhile, his brain is shrieking:

‘please say yes. please please please. oh god, if she says no i’ll die. i’ll literally shrivel up like a raisin. but if she says yes—holy crap. i could kiss her. i could actually kiss her. imagine her lips. soft. warm. oh my god. don’t get a boner. don’t get a boner. holy sh—’

you slam your hand over your face. “you absolute idiot.”

“what?” tendō blinks, faux-innocent.

“you’ve been in denial this whole time, and now you’re—”

‘she knows. SHE KNOWS. oh god. wait. does she know everything? like… everything everything? like the spit thing? and the lap thing? oh my god, kill me now. dig a hole. bury me alive.’

you groan. “yes, satori. i know. i’ve been hearing your thoughts for weeks.”

he freezes. completely freezes.

like a video paused mid-frame. mouth open. eyes wide. limbs all locked up.

“…what.”

“yeah.” you glare at him, deadpan. “you’re not as subtle as you think, genius.”

there’s a long silence. then:

“HA!” tendō bursts out laughing, doubling over, clutching his stomach. “oh my god, that’s amazing. you’ve been listening to my brain this whole time? no wonder you’ve been looking at me like you’re about to commit homicide.”

‘she knows. she knows i want to kiss her stupid pretty lips and hold her and maybe—NO, TOO PERVERTED. but also yes. oh my god. what do i do? do i kiss her? she probably doesn’t want me to. oh, but she’s so close. her mouth. her face. her everything. i’m losing it.’

you groan again, drop your phone on the bench, and before he can spiral any further, you grab him by the collar and smash your lips onto his.

he yelps into the kiss, then immediately melts, all six feet of him folding down toward you like a poorly constructed lawn chair.

his brain is on fire:

‘HOLY SHIT. HOLY SHIT. THIS IS HAPPENING. SHE’S KISSING ME. TENDŌ SATORI, YOU LUCKY BASTARD. don’t screw this up. lips soft. so soft. oh god, tongue? no, too soon. okay maybe. oh my god. she tastes like chips. perfect. perfect girl. marrying her tomorrow. calling my mom. oh god.’

you pull back, breathless, glaring at him again. “there. happy?”

tendō stares at you like he just witnessed a miracle. then, with the goofiest grin you’ve ever seen, he says, “do it again.”

‘best day of my life. she kissed me. do it again do it again do it again. i’ll never ask for anything else. oh my god, i’m so in love with her. i’m screwed. completely screwed. this is it. she’s it. oh my god.’

you roll your eyes, but you kiss him again anyway. because honestly? you’re screwed too.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

and just like that, tendō finally stops pretending.

well, not really. because every time you hold his hand or brush his hair back, his brain still screams things like ‘oh my god we’re basically married’ and ‘she’s the hottest thing alive’ and ‘i would let her stomp on my chest with heels.’

but at least now, he’s yours.

and you’ve accepted that living with telepathy means living with a constant stream of tendō’s ridiculous, perverted, lovesick thoughts.

‘best girlfriend ever. world’s prettiest girl. i’m gonna die happy. oh my god. she just licked her lips. do it again.’

you sigh.

you’re never going to know peace again.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: will upload while absolutely breaking down, sadly not a dance break, i quit dance club.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

he thinks about you in measurements.

not meters, not kilograms—no, those are for volleyball, for spikes, for wins. when it comes to you, ushijima wakatoshi thinks in juice boxes.

how many you’ve given him this week (three, one apple, two grape). how many you smiled while handing over (all three). how many seconds your fingers brushed against his when you passed it to him (approx. 2.4, 3.1, and a record-breaking 4.7 seconds).

he catalogues these things like a scholar, like a monk recording divine scripture. he doesn’t think it’s strange. if anything, he thinks it’s responsible. no one just gives someone juice boxes casually. no—these are signs, messages, coded confessions disguised in foil-wrapped fruit concentrate.

his teammates think he’s staring off into space before practice. he’s not. he’s analyzing.

apple = health, beginnings.

grape = sweetness, abundance.

orange = joy.

you are courting him through juice symbolism, and he must respond in kind.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the first attempt doesn’t go well.

you’re outside the gym, waiting with your usual carton ready for him. ushijima approaches, calm as always, though inside his head it’s a hurricane of theory.

‘if i give her the same flavor she gave me, it means i reciprocate. if i give her a different one, it means i want variety in our relationship. if i give her all of them at once, it means marriage.’

he hands you… three juice boxes at once. stacked in his giant palm like an offering.

you laugh. actually laugh, bright and surprised. “wakatoshi, are you… are you bribing me?”

he blinks. “no. this is an answer.”

“an answer?”

“to what you said.”

“…i didn’t say anything?”

“you did. with juice.”

you stare at him for a moment, straw halfway to your mouth. and then you laugh again, that sound that rattles his ribs worse than any jump serve.

“you’re ridiculous.”

he doesn’t know what part is ridiculous. he only knows you took the juice boxes.

victory.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

later that night, he lies flat on his back, scrolling through his phone with terrifying concentration.

juice box wedding ideas|

juice-themed proposal|

how many juice boxes equal a lifelong commitment|

he stares at a pinterest board full of children’s birthday parties. themed balloons, tables decorated with apple juice and animal straws. he saves fifteen photos.

he imagines you there, smiling at him from across the room, both of you holding juice boxes like champagne flutes.

“to us,” he would say, clinking your straws together.

romantic. perfect. inevitable.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

but no. he cannot confess in clichés. no flowers, no chocolates, no scripted i like you. those are weak, fragile things. his feelings are not fragile. his feelings are carton-pressed and shelf-stable for up to two years.

his confession must be juice.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the plan strikes him mid-practice. the moment the whistle blows, he runs—not jogs, not walks, but runs—to the convenience store. he buys thirty cartons. the cashier raises an eyebrow. he does not explain.

back in his room, he empties his gym bag and starts arranging. he builds. stacks. balances. thirty cartons into the shape of a small, rectangular tower.

when he steps back, it looks ridiculous. it looks like something a kindergartener would make at recess. but to him, it’s a cathedral. a shrine. a love letter.

he rehearses what to say.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next day, you’re waiting again, swinging your legs on the bleachers. he lugs the bag over, muscles straining—not from weight (he could carry triple this), but from intensity.

he sets the bag down. unzips.

one by one, he starts pulling juice boxes and stacking them at your feet.

you looked at him, confused. “uh… are you… building something?”

“yes.”

“…a fort?”

“a representation.”

by the tenth box, people are staring. by the twentieth, tendō is openly cackling in the corner. by the thirtieth, you’re hiding your face in your hands, giggling.

“wakatoshi, what is this?”

he straightens, looks down at you with the gravity of a man about to deliver state secrets.

“this is how i feel about you.”

“thirty juice boxes?”

“endless,” he corrects firmly. “this is only the beginning.”

you laugh so hard you almost fall off the bleachers. “you’re confessing with juice?”

he nods once, solemn. “yes.”

“why?”

“because it is the most important thing between us. it is what you gave me. it is what i keep. it is what we are.”

the gym is so quiet you can hear a stray ball bounce in the distance. he holds your gaze, unshakable, immovable.

“you are my juice box,” he declares.

you wheeze. “that’s the worst pick-up line i’ve ever heard.”

“it’s not a line,” he says, unwavering. “it’s the truth.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

and that’s the thing. he’s not joking. not playing it off as some weird bit. he’s serious, deadpan, like he’s explaining volleyball strategy.

that’s what makes it hit you square in the chest.

because while everyone else might bring flowers, chocolates, whispered i like yous… here he is, kneeling beside a thirty-box tower, telling you you’re his juice box like it’s the most sacred vow he’s ever taken.

it’s ridiculous. it’s funny. it’s overwhelming.

and it’s him.

you cover your face, laughing into your palms, but your heart is loud in your ears.

“…you’re unbelievable.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch. just waits.

finally, you reach forward, pluck a single carton from the top of the tower. poke the straw in.

“then i guess,” you say, sipping, smiling up at him with your cheeks flushed, “we’re drinking to us.”

the gym erupts with tendō’s howling laughter, goshiki screeching, chaos everywhere.

tendō is in the background, screaming: “THEY’RE JUICE-MARRIED!!”

ushijima doesn’t argue. he only takes another box out of his bag, presses it into your free hand, and says, without a hint of irony:

“this one’s for our honeymoon.”

ushijima doesn’t hear any of the ruckus behind him.

he only sees you. holding his juice. smiling like the sun itself.

his chest feels so full he wonders if it’s possible to actually combust.

and when you hand him the straw so he can take a sip too, it’s better than any victory, any trophy, any championship.

it’s everything.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: rewatched all terrifier movies and i loved how art was human in the first one.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)