— wakatoshi’s old teammates accidentally expose the truth about the “retriever zone” on national tv, and now the internet won’t shut up about how he used volleyballs as guided missiles to protect his fiancée.
ts!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | fluff | request
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there were three people you could always count on to ruin ushijima’s carefully cultivated “calm, professional athlete” reputation: tendō, semi, and shirabu.
and unfortunately, all three of them were invited to the same live interview.
you’d been watching from the couch, freshly showered and wrapped in ushijima’s ridiculously oversized adlers hoodie, sipping tea like a woman awaiting the explosion of a nuclear bomb she personally helped design.
the host smiled brightly at the trio. “so, gentlemen—what was ushijima like back in high school?”
the camera zoomed in on tendō’s grin, a grin that screamed oh i’m about to cause problems.
“well,” tendō began, “he was… protective.”
“protective,” semi repeated, snickering.
shirabu adjusted his mic. “that’s an understatement.”
“protective how?” the host asked, curious.
the three exchanged glances. tendō leaned forward like he was sharing a dark secret. “have you ever heard of the retriever zone?”
the host blinked. “the what?”
“the retriever zone,” semi said ominously, like it was a war crime.
the studio went silent.
and somewhere across tokyo, you groaned into your hands.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
tendō, of course, went on to explain the entire saga in painstaking, dramatic detail.
“he declared y/n his ‘official ball retriever,’ right?” tendō said, waving his hands. “but then he—get this—wouldn’t let her actually retrieve anything!”
“he used volleyballs as weapons,” semi added. “like actual missiles. anyone who went near her got sniped.”
“and i mean sniped,” shirabu emphasized, looking directly at the camera. “like, you could feel the wind from the spike before you even saw the ball.”
the host’s eyes widened. “you’re joking.”
“oh no,” tendō said solemnly. “we have footage.”
“FOOTAGE?!”
and before anyone could stop them, tendō was holding up his phone to the camera like a proud mother showing baby pictures.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
cut to: grainy old video from shiratorizawa’s gym, timestamped 2012.
you were standing by the bench, handing ushijima a towel, smiling.
goshiki dashed past in the background.
WHAM.
the volleyball blurred through the frame like a bullet, goshiki dove to the floor, and tendō’s voice from behind the camera yelled, “THE RETRIEVER ZONE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM!”
the studio burst into chaos.
the host covered her mouth, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.
“this can’t be real!” she gasped.
“oh, it’s real,” semi said smugly. “the retriever zone was law. you entered, you died.”
“wakatoshi had zero chill,” tendō added fondly. “man was more trigger-happy than a sniper in an action movie.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the end of the segment, the internet had exploded.
clips flooded every platform within minutes.
#RetrieverZone trended number one in japan.
people were editing dramatic music over the slow-motion footage of ushijima’s spikes like it was a national geographic documentary about territorial animals.
tweets like:
@ creamatoes: “imagine getting body-checked by a volleyball just for standing near ushijima’s gf.”
@ teelovr: “he’s not blocking balls, he’s blocking competition.”
@ beetwos:“y/n is living every wattpad girl’s dream and every bystander’s nightmare.”
the adlers’ social media manager, poor soul, was having a meltdown.
you, however, couldn’t stop laughing.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
“wakatoshi,” you wheezed, scrolling through your feed. “someone edited your spikes to the avengers soundtrack.”
he blinked at you, freshly home from practice, hair still damp. “which one?”
“the dramatic one. with violins. every time you hit the ball, it goes dun dun DUNNNN—”
he didn’t even flinch. “that’s accurate.”
“accurate?! baby, they’re making memes of you. there’s fanart. there’s a subreddit called ‘men who would die in the retriever zone.’”
“that seems correct.”
you threw a pillow at him, giggling. “you’re unbelievable.”
he caught it effortlessly. “you’re laughing.”
“i’m dying!”
“you’re smiling.”
“because you’re ridiculous.”
“because i love you.”
and that shut you right up.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the second interview—because of course there was a second interview—was even worse.
the network had smelled gold and decided to run a live “proof special.”
tendō, semi, and shirabu stood in a studio gym, grinning like villains, with a literal net set up behind them. ushijima, already there for a press event, had been tricked into participating.
you sat in the front row beside the announcer, heart doing somersaults.
“so, ushijima,” the host said, microphone in hand. “rumor has it you used to, uh, ‘defend your girlfriend’s honor’ with volleyballs. care to comment?”
he stared into the camera, deadly serious. “she is my fiancée now.”
the audience screamed.
tendō hollered, “AND HE’S STILL JUST AS SCARY!”
semi yelled, “RETELL THE LEGEND, CAPTAIN!”
shirabu muttered under his breath, “this is going to end in a lawsuit.”
the host, losing it, pointed toward you. “would you like to see the retriever zone in action?”
you buried your face in your hands. “oh my god.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the demonstration
tendō and semi decided to “test the perimeter.”
“for science,” tendō said.
“for trauma,” shirabu muttered.
tendō took one step toward you—
SMACK.
the ball whizzed past his shoulder, brushing a strand of his hair.
the audience gasped.
semi tried next—
WHAM.
the volleyball ricocheted off the wall behind him, bounced off the floor, and landed neatly in ushijima’s hand again like it was trained.
the host nearly fainted.
the audience went feral.
tendō lay on the floor, cackling. “HE’S STILL GOT IT! THE ZONE LIVES ON!”
“of course it does,” ushijima said, walking over to you, calm and collected despite the hysteria. “some things don’t change.”
you could practically hear the collective swoon of a million viewers as he pressed a kiss to your temple right there, live on national tv.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
within hours, the internet combusted again.
the clip of him catching the ball one-handed and kissing you afterward had gone viral in thirty countries.
people were editing fake movie trailers titled “the retriever zone: based on a true love story.”
there were fancams of you and ushijima set to love songs. someone made fanart of tendō wearing a helmet labeled retriever survivor.
and under every post, thousands of comments:
@ unih8r: “he’s not just serving balls, he’s serving loyalty.”
@ baldby30: “this man’s reflexes are powered by devotion.”
@ ynfanclub: “every spike says ‘touch my girl and perish.’”
ushijima, completely unfazed, read one aloud. “this one says i have sniper instincts.”
“that’s because you do!” you laughed. “you’re like if cupid joined the military.”
he tilted his head, thinking. “that’s accurate.”
“no, baby, it’s not—”
“you were my target,” he said simply, “and i never missed.”
your brain short-circuited. “you can’t just say things like that on a thursday afternoon.”
“why not? it’s true.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next day, adlers practice was delayed because ushijima’s locker had been covered in heart-shaped post-it notes from fans reading things like ‘please spike me next’ and ‘retriever zone me, daddy.’ (these are my tweets, sorry y’all)
tendō sent you a photo. “look what you’ve unleashed.”
semi texted: “he’s trending higher than the olympics.”
shirabu just sent: “i hate it here.”
you, meanwhile, were curled up in ushijima’s hoodie again, scrolling through memes and trying not to scream every time someone called you ‘mrs. retriever zone’.
ushijima sat beside you, quiet, steady warmth radiating off him.
when he noticed you grinning at a compilation titled “reasons ushijima wakatoshi is the final boss of love,” he leaned over, curious. “what are they saying now?”
you turned the phone so he could see.
the video flashed through clips of him spiking, glaring, standing in front of you, kissing your forehead—and the final caption read:
“he doesn’t block volleyballs. he blocks the entire population from touching his girl.”
he hummed softly, wrapping an arm around you. “accurate.”
you laughed, half-exasperated, half-in-love. “you’re impossible.”
he smiled against your hair. “and you’re mine.”
and that—between the memes, the interviews, and the chaos of it all—was still the truest thing of all.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
when ushijima kissed you that night, soft and slow, his hand cradling your jaw like you were made of glass, you thought about how the world saw him now—this quiet storm of a man who launched volleyballs like bullets, who turned protection into poetry, who could make a stadium scream and still look at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered.
and you realized: they could meme him all they wanted, turn him into a joke, a legend, a trending tag—
but no one would ever understand that when he said safe,
what he really meant was mine, always mine, in every lifetime.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: i barely get any sleep these days. i got 2 hours today.
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how did trying to wrestle with your 6'3, buff boyfriend end up with you in a full nelson?
"f-fuck!" you scream, hips bucking against ushijima's hands. "ah- wakatoshi, y-your fingers are too big!" you moan, tears brimming your eyes from the pleasure of his long fingers curling inside of you.
he shushes your before pressing a kiss into your neck, "sh baby, you can take it." he whispers, lifting his head up and pushing his tongue into your mouth. it's hard to kiss him back when the only thing on your pretty little head is the intrusion of his fingers inside of your cunt. he almost chuckles into the kiss when you weakly stick your tongue out, trying to match the pace of his.
he pulls away from you and laps at your neck again, speeding up his fingers brutal pace. "oh my goddd," you slur, "m'gunna cum— feels so good!" you moan, throwing your head back, giving ushijima more space to craft love bites all over your skin.
"i know, touch yourself for me baby." you nod, bringing your hand to your clit and rubbing harsh circles into it, desperate for your release.
you bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut, "mphhh, i'm gunna cum, m cumming toshi." you pant. "cum for me, please." ushijima grins, curling his fingers straight into your gspot. you cry out, white spots filling your vision as your pushed over the edge on your boyfriend's fingers.
"ah, so pretty for me." ushijima smiles, pulling out his fingers and pressing a kiss into your temple. your still panting and trying to recollect your breath. "my gorgeous girl."
a/n: huge credits to @emmyrosee!! she has such good dad!aus and those are 100% what inspired me to write this. the portions about post game interviews were heavily inspired by this fic by @miyaz6ki so credits there alsoooo
if u can't tell this is a dad!au, and there's multiple characters involved in this. it's mainly just headcannon style, but of course i got carried away and wrote paragraphs for some as well. i do not, in fact, have any children, so if things are inaccurate, i sincerely apologize. enjoy :3
part 2 is right here!!
wakatoshi ushijima:
this man quite literally views his daughter as the center of the universe. he loves her so incredibly much, and he’d give up literally anything for her. when she was born, that was the first time you’d ever seen him cry. but for him, seeing his little girl, so small and precious, knowing that he’d get to raise her and watch her grow up brought him to tears.
he was also very protective over her, not even telling the media he had a daughter until she was 3 years old.
he just carried her after a game to his press conference, sat her down on his lap, and acted like he hadn’t just broken the internet. An interviewer asked him, “wakatoshi-san, whose daughter is that?” and fully straight faced, he just answered, “mine. she’s 3 years old. i trust you all will manage your volume around her.” about a hundred cameras went off at the same time, and he immediately gently covered the little girl’s eyes, making her giggle straight into the mic. “peek-a-boo, dada?” and you, sitting at the side, watched everyone’s hearts completely melt at your daughter’s comment. wakatoshi, of course, was involved in this reaction, and he replied back to his daughter right away. “yeah, sweetheart. we can play peek-a-boo.”
your daughter stole the show the rest of the night. she was a talkative girl, and the mic picked up everything she said. “wakatoshi, about that spike you hit in the 4th set, just walk me through what was going on in your head.” “It was a crucial point. I think it definetly impacted the momentum of our team-” “mo… moo-me-tu?” your husband melted once again. “momentum, sweetheart. Mo-men-tum,” he corrected gently, sounding out each syllable. he cleared his throat, remembering where he was. “apologies. as I was saying, it was a turning point for the team-” “dada, i sleepy,” your daughter yawned, and you glanced at wakatoshi, raising a thumb up in a silent question of whether he was okay to keep holding her. he nodded immediately, adjusting her so her head was resting on his chest and his hand was gently stroking her hair.
you doubted a single interviewer was actually fully focused throughout that whole interview. the media would go insane in a couple hours as well, you were sure. but you also knew wakatoshi wouldn’t care, so long as he had his daughter with him.
tooru oikawa:
he is the definition of a girl dad. he’s always loved having conversations with your daughter, even when all she could do was eat, sleep, and cry.
but as she got older, she got so talkative. and it was all tooru’s fault. because this man would respond to even her most incomprehensible babbles, nodding as though it were the most precious wisdom coming straight from a prophet. and so, now that she could actually form complete sentences at the ripe age of 4 years old, the two of them would have conversations all day long.
“dada, i want a unicorn.” “i’ll ask your uncle hajime. i think he knows where to find them. what type of unicorn do you want, princess?” she paused for a moment, brow furrowing as she thought. “pink. fluffy. and big as you, dada!” she giggled wildly as tooru gasped in mock outrage. “as big as me? impossible.” he picked her up, tickling her and planting tons of kisses on her head. "the unicorn has to be smaller than me, okay, darling?" still laughing loudly from the tickles, your daughter nodded immediately with a grin that matched her father's one perfectly. the same grin you'd fallen for all those years ago, now on the little girl that you and tooru loved most in the world.
tooru also spoils her. a lot. one day, she'd gone up to you while tooru was taking a nap, looked up with those big brown eyes of hers, and asked, "mama, can i have ch-chocolate?" no. the answer was no, and she knew that. "sorry, sweetheart, remember the rule? only one piece a day, and you already had in the morning." but she only pouted and added, "but dada said i could." and boy do you hear that phrase a lot now. you couldn't even be mad at your husband though because he wasn't unreasonable or careless about taking care of your daughter. he simply gave into her puppy eyes just a little bit easier than you did.
tooru also brings his daughter to his games, but it's more rare than she actually joins him during the press conferences. because again, this girl will talk nonstop. once he brought her to a press conference, and within minutes, she was talking to the reporters, asking them about their favorite colors, foods, puppy breeds, the most random, adorable topics.
but as talkative as she is, she's also incredibly hardworking, focused, and dedicated to whatever she sets her mind on. she's silly and funny, but if you tell her to complete a worksheet, she's doing it right away. doesn't that sound just like someone you know?
tetsuro kuroo:
if there's one thing tetsuro loves doing with his daughter, it's playing games.
as soon as she could play rock paper scissors, tic tac toe, and chopsticks, they were playing those nonstops.
you knew your husband was competitive, but you didn't expect him to make your daughter just as competitive as well.
not all their games are competitive, though. you'd often see the two of them, tetsuro awkwardly hunched over her dollhouse or castle as they dressed up all of her little dolls and decorated her houses. and you were certain it was the most wholesome thing you'd ever seen.
tetsuro also loves impressing his daughter and getting to do things for her. for example, one evening, after you'd tucked her in already and were about to go to sleep, tetsuro asked you, very genuinely, "can i practice doing your hair? i want to be able to do it for her. properly."
and so you spent that night teaching him how to brush, tie, and braid, and you swore you hadn't seen him that focused since high school.
the next day, when your daughter asked you to do her hair for her, as you always did, tetsuro immediately perked up and looked you in the eye, communicating just through that look. you smiled and told your daughter, "sweetheart, what if daddy did your hair? would you be alright with that? he's been practicing a lot." she thought over it for a moment before responding with a happy, "okay!"
when she sat down in front of tetsuro, you could see his hands shake slightly as he brushed through her hair. this guy was nervous.
once he was done, though, your daughter loved it. "i love it, dada! but mama still does it better," she declared, to which he responded, "i know, princess. your mama's the best."
she hummed in thought before reaching out, wrapping her tiny hand around just 2 of his fingers. "can we go play fashion dress up now? pretty please?"
daichi sawamura:
the best dad out there. hands down. partially because he's had so much experience parenting the karasuno boys volleyball team.
but with his own daughter, he's the type of dad who's so protective and so proud of his little girl.
if the slightest thing happens to her, even something as small as a bug bite, he's so prepared. so imagine his complete breakdown the first time she got a fever.
his daughter's and wife's safeties are the most important things in the world to him, and he'd give anything to just see the two of them laughing and smiling.
he's also so proud of his daughter. always. she could hand him a paper with just 6 different colored scribbles, and he'd stare at it with pure admiration. "you wanna become an artist, huh, sweetheart? this looks beautiful."
he once brought her to the station just to show her off to the other officers there. and the others loved her so much. and she loved them too.
"dada, so many friends here!" she announced, earning her a collective "awwww" from literally everyone in the station.
and in a few minutes, she's been offered pens, paper, snacks, badges, whatever they had with them that could entertain her.
meanwhile, daichi was just telling stories after stories about his daughter, eyes lighting up as he talked about her hobbies, her stories, and the things she loved doing.
daichi hates having to work late shifts at the precinct because it means he often doesn't get to tuck his daughter in. but every evening, even if she's already asleep, he makes sure to come in, fix her blanket, and give her a kiss on the forehead.
one evening though, he comes in after a long, late night shift to find her still awake, reading a book using the light of her little night light.
"sweetheart.. it's so late, why are you still up?"
"i wanted to wait for you, dada. mama... mama said you'd be home late. 'm sorry for staying up..."
daichi felt himself actually melt. "no, no, it's okay. it's all good. that's very sweet of you, darling. does mama know you're awake?"
she looked down, clearly ashamed. "n-no... it was supposed to be a surprise.."
daichi slowly sat down on her bed, gently pulling her into his arms. "aww, sweetheart.. it's okay. i think it's a very, very sweet surprise. you just made daddy's day," he started, stroking her hair tenderly. "but we don't lie to mama, okay? and we also don't read books with this little light on. it hurts your eyes."
she nodded, fully burying her face in his chest. "mmkay, dada. 'm sleepy now... i love you.." "i love you more. goodnight."
sure, he'd always had experience being a leader and captain, and his everyday job was to protect those around him. but every day with you and his daughter taught him something new, and every day he'd swear to do everything he could to keep his two girls happy.
words that stuck with you like a chewed gum to a desk.
you were a transfer student, it was your first week at shiratorizowa and it had started off quite good. you joined the women's volleyball team, made some new friends. settled in to your classes. all was going well.
until, you bumped into him.
your head was a tiny bit in the clouds as you left the gym. yes you should've checked before you opened the door, but you were too busy talking to your new teammates. your face met a firm chest, "oops- sorr" "dont stand in my way."
the fuck?
you look up to a new face, a handsome face, an irritating face. he stared back at you, expression blank. why was he just so rude? "excuse me?"
instead of saying anything, he turned his head and walked away. you seethed.. you faced your teammates, "who is that?" your finger pointed to the awful mystery man.
the girls around you beamed, "oh him? that's ushijima wakatoshi!! he's soooo good at volleyball, he's also the team captain, total hunk."
he was now a VIP member of your shit list.
𐙚⋆.˚
that was not the last time you would run into your new found enemy. you came to realize you had a class with him, more so shared study hall hours. even outside of school you couldn't get away from him. finding him in the snack aisle of your local Lawsons.
"ugh stalker much?" you hissed as soon as you saw him.
"who are you" he said plainly.
you rolled your eyes, "the girl you were so rude to a few days ago? recall?" you sneered as you grabbed your snacks and turned the corner, leaving him in the dust.
you sat there at the check out in peace for a millisecond before he found his way to you.
"I dont know who you are or what you're even talking about." he said, he sounded honest. which made you even more frustrated.
"im y/n," you turned around after checking out. "just stay away from me.. wakatoshi.." your words burned with fire as you left the store.
hopefully now you will see so so so much less of him.
'𐙚⋆.˚
standing in the gym near ungodly hours, of course he was here. you were going to attempt to get some solo reps in while no one was here. but of course he was.
"oh," he said as he turned to face you, "you hate me, want me to leave?" was he joking?
you cocked your head to the side.
"are you serious?"
he took his serving stance again, "no im not serious." he said before jumping high up in the air and serving the ball to the perfect corner where he had placed a cone.
you let out a deep breath. "okay how about this.. if I can dig 3 out of 5 of your serves I get the gym right now." the light flickered above you two, reminding you how late it was.
"sure." he said, he stood there and watched you jog to the bench and put your gear on. your stuff placed next to his. he watched from a far. once you were ready you jogged over to the other side of the net.
"ready?" he questioned, you shook your head mentally prepping yourself from the ball of fire about to come barreling towards you.he served, you received.
"your going easy on me?"
he didn't answer, you saw fire. "you think I can't handle your serves?" you questioned very loudly. stomping forward to the net that separated you.
he didn't say anything yet again, he just stared.
"take me seriously." you demanded to a brick wall, turning around and setting yourself again.
and so he did, after that he served straight heat at you 4 times in a row. you only digged one of them.
you sat near your bags frustrated and quiet. he broke the silence as you took off your knee pads.
"that was good practice thank you."
"practice?" heat radiated off your body. to you this was a serious competition.
he sat next to you, taking a drink from your water bottle. this was the closest you have been to him. everything about him set you on fire. you always thought it was a bad thing.
"whatever, we both have games tomorrow, im going home. its best if you do too." you said whilst sitting up and grabbing your stuff. slipping sweats on over your shorts and putting on your hoodie.
he didn't answer, he just sat there. you decided to just leave without him, not like you were going to wait for him anyway.
𐙚⋆.˚
your game day approached rapidly. your nerves stood on end, you were unable to settle your anxiety after last nights session with ushiwaka. you ran into him at class and during your study hall. his eyes seemed to track you everywhere you went. it was throwing you off.
hours passed and you were halfway through your gam. your team wasn't playing well and you were thrown into to save something. you never got subbed from the time you were played till the very end. everything you did wasn't enough to get the win in the end. frustrated after your loss your team made their way to the locker room. you calmed down and changed into sweats to leave the facility.
you mood went straight back to its frustrated state after seeing him waiting outside the locker room. you didn't say anything, you just turned your head and walked to the entrance to leave.
"im sorry you lost, you played well.." he said as he followed you.
"just go away," you said "go back to not knowing who I am."
"I can't."
"yes you can, leave me alone." your frustration grew as he followed you.
"your all I think about. since you bumped into me, since you yelled at me in the grocery store," "I didnt yell.."" "it doesn't matter, I like you y/n. If I could take back all the things Ive said and done, I would. I want to get to know you."
"your hilarious, all we've both done to each other is bicker and you want more of that?" you said facing him. why was he saying this all of a sudden? was it a dare?
"yes I want to get to know you, have I not made that clear?"
"you haven't.. you just stare at me and ugH! leave me alone"
"ill see you tomorrow," he called out. you turned to face him, "you wish ushiwaka." you said walking away.
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(high school au, light crack, humor, established relationship)
│ some rivalries do not survive outside the gym
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
you’re late.
not disastrously so, but enough that you can already see them through the café window when you slow to a stop outside. oikawa is leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out far enough that iwaizumi has clearly kicked him once already. his mouth is moving a mile a minute, hands gesturing dramatically as he talks. iwaizumi sits across from him, arms crossed, staring at the tabletop with the long-suffering patience of someone who has accepted his fate.
you exhale slowly.
“you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” you murmur.
ushijima, walking beside you, shakes his head. “you asked me to meet them.”
“i know. i just—” you hesitate, then shake it off. “never mind. come on.”
you push the door open, ushijima close behind you.
the bell above the door chimes.
oikawa looks up first.
his expression shifts in real time.
confusion. recognition. disbelief.
then absolute offense.
“…why,” he says slowly, standing halfway out of his chair, finger already lifting, “are you here.”
ushijima blinks. “hello.”
iwaizumi turns, following oikawa’s gaze.
and immediately groans.
“oh,” he says. “of course.”
oikawa spins on him. “DO NOT ‘OF COURSE’ THIS.”
you step fully inside now, ushijima at your side. the difference between them is almost funny. oikawa all sharp angles and noise, ushijima solid and still, gaze steady as he takes in the cramped café with polite curiosity.
“hi,” you say. “sorry we’re late.”
oikawa ignores you completely, eyes locked on ushijima. “why are you following her.”
“I am not following her,” ushijima replies calmly.
“THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE.”
“because,” you cut in, before this can escalate any further, “he’s my boyfriend.”
the word hangs there.
iwaizumi closes his eyes.
oikawa freezes.
“…your what.”
“boyfriend,” you repeat. “this is ushijima.”
ushijima inclines his head politely. “it’s nice to meet you.”
the silence that follows is so thick you could drown in it.
iwaizumi opens one eye, looks between you and ushijima, then lets out a slow breath. “yeah. no. that makes sense.”
oikawa’s head snaps toward him. “HAJIME.”
“don’t yell at me,” iwaizumi says. “i’m processing.”
ushijima glances at him. “you are iwaizumi hajime.”
iwaizumi nods. “yeah.”
ushijima nods back. “you are a reliable blocker.”
iwaizumi blinks. “…thanks?”
oikawa looks like he’s about to pass away.
“THIS,” he says, gesturing wildly between all of you, “IS NOT HAPPENING.”
you pull out a chair, sitting down before your knees give out from laughing. ushijima moves with you, sitting beside you without hesitation.
oikawa stares. “you brought him.”
“yes.”
“ON PURPOSE.”
“yes.”
“WE ARE RIVALS,” oikawa insists. “WE ARE NEMESES. WE ARE—”
“mostly just opponents,” ushijima says mildly.
the café goes quiet again.
iwaizumi presses his lips together. hard.
oikawa points. “NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. DO NOT REDUCE THIS.”
ushijima frowns slightly, thoughtful. “i respect you as a setter. your precision is admirable. your communication with your hitters is effective.”
“…why are you complimenting him,” iwaizumi whispers.
“because it is true,” ushijima replies.
oikawa stares at him, wounded. “YOU DON’T EVEN HATE ME.”
ushijima tilts his head. “i do not.”
that’s it.
that’s the kill shot.
oikawa slumps back into his chair dramatically, one arm flung over his face. “this is worse than losing.”
iwaizumi snorts. “told you. you’re the only one beefing.”
you lean toward ushijima, murmuring, “i told you he was dramatic.”
ushijima nods. “this exceeds expectations.”
oikawa peeks at him from under his arm. “…what does that mean.”
“i believed our rivalry was limited to volleyball,” ushijima says. “i see now that it is more personal for you.”
iwaizumi loses it.
full-on laughter, shoulders shaking as he drops his head to the table.
oikawa sits up, outraged. “STOP BEING CALM. I CAN’T FIGHT THAT.”
ushijima considers this. “i can try to be louder.”
“DON’T YOU DARE.”
you laugh, resting your cheek briefly against ushijima’s shoulder. his arm shifts, instinctive, settling around you without thinking.
oikawa sees it.
and groans.
“this is humiliating,” he mutters.
iwaizumi wipes at his eyes. “yeah. but kind of deserved.”
ushijima looks at you quietly. “did the meeting go as you hoped.”
SYNOPSIS: A documentary tries to define his legacy. Somewhere between interviews and old footage, it becomes something else—an attempt to understand the one relationship no one could quite name.
WORD COUNT: 6.2k
The camera lens was unforgiving in its stillness.
It sat on its tripod like a silent judge, red recording light blinking softly in the dimmed studio lighting. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper archives, perhaps, or the weight of a life already being catalogued for posterity.
You sat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, back straight, the way one sits when they know they are being measured.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said gently from behind the camera. Her voice was kind, professional. “We can start with something simple. How did you first meet Wakatoshi-kun?”
You almost smiled at the honorific. Even years later, people still spoke of him with that slight deference.
The question was simple on the surface. But nothing about Ushijima Wakatoshi had ever been simple once you let him into your life.
You exhaled slowly.
“It was during his third year at Shiratorizawa,” you began, voice quiet but steady. “I wasn’t anyone important. Just… there.”
Shiratorizawa Academy – Three Years Earlier
The late autumn wind cut across the school grounds, carrying the sharp scent of damp grass and distant rain. You had been sitting on the stone steps near the gymnasium, sketchbook balanced on your knees, when the heavy doors slammed open.
Ushijima Wakatoshi stepped out first, as he always did. His shoulders squared with an expression that remained unreadable, a volleyball bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. His teammates spilled out behind him in a loud, chaotic wave of voices and laughter. Tendou’s teasing rose above the rest, followed by Semi’s dry retort and Reon’s calm mediation.
But Ushijima didn’t join them.
His gaze swept the courtyard once, then landed on you.
He changed direction without a word.
The others noticed. Of course they did. Tendou’s grin sharpened with curiosity, but he didn’t call out. They had learned by then that when Ushijima moved with purpose, it was better not to interrupt.
He stopped a few feet away from where you sat.
“You’re here again,” he said. Not a question. Just observation.
You looked up, pencil still in hand. “I am.”
A comfortable beat of silence passed between you, it was natural between you. The kind of silence most people found awkward with him.
Ushijima nodded once, then lowered himself onto the step below yours, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed your knee. He didn’t ask what you were drawing. You didn’t offer an explanation.
The two of you simply existed there, side by side, as the sky slowly bruised into evening.
That was how it started.
No grand meeting. No dramatic collision of fates.
Just two people who learned they could sit in silence and not feel the need to fill it.
Back to Present – Studio
The interviewer leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
“Many of Ushijima’s former teammates have described him as… difficult to get close to. That he doesn’t open up easily. Would you agree with that assessment?”
You let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no real humor in it.
“He doesn’t open up to people,” you said carefully, echoing the words you knew they had heard from others. “Not in the ways most people expect.”
You paused, eyes drifting somewhere far away.
“But he does open up. Just… not with words.”
Cut.
Past – Shiratorizawa, Winter
The gym lights were still on long after practice had officially ended.
You had brought him an onigiri wrapped in convenience store plastic. It was nothing special, just something to eat because you knew he sometimes forgot when he was deep in training mode.
Ushijima accepted it without thanks, unwrapping it methodically. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
Then, without looking at you, he spoke.
“My left hand feels slower today.”
It was such a small sentence. To anyone else, it might have sounded like nothing. But you understood what it meant coming from him.
You tilted your head. “The serve or the spike approach?”
“Approach.” He took another bite. “The timing is off by a fraction.”
You nodded. No dramatic solutions. No coddling.
“Try shifting your weight a little earlier on the plant foot tomorrow. You always favor your right side when you’re tired.”
He considered your words for a long moment, then gave a single, decisive nod.
That was all.
But the next day, after practice, he found you again on the same steps.
He didn’t say “thank you.” He never did.
He simply sat closer than usual.
Present Day
One of the producers asked the question you had been dreading.
“Were you two… dating?”
The studio felt smaller suddenly. The lights are hotter.
You stared at the camera for a long time.
The silence stretched.
Finally, you answered, voice barely above a whisper:
“We never defined it.”
You could almost hear the collective lean-in from the crew.
You continued, eyes lowered.
“I was just… there. And he let me stay. That was enough for a long time.”
Present – Studio
A former Shiratorizawa teammate, probably Semi or Reon, appeared on screen during the edited footage they showed you later. His voice was thoughtful, almost cautious.
“Ushijima… he’s not the type to talk about feelings. Hell, he barely talks about anything that isn’t volleyball. Most of us respected him, but getting close to him? That was rare.”
The interviewer’s voice cut in gently: “Did anyone manage it?”
The teammate gave a small shrug. “Not really. He kept everyone at arm’s length.”
Cut.
You sat straighter in your chair when they asked for your response.
“He does open up,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Just not in ways most people notice.”
Past – Shiratorizawa Academy, Late Autumn
The stone steps outside the gym had become your unspoken meeting place.
That afternoon, the air carried the sharp bite of the coming winter. Dry leaves skittered across the ground as the wind picked up. You sat with your back against the cold wall, knees drawn up, a half-finished drawing of the gym’s roofline in your lap.
Ushijima appeared without warning, as he often did. His practice jacket was zipped halfway, dark hair still damp with sweat despite the chill. He carried the faint scent of rubber court and clean soap.
He stopped in front of you for half a second, then lowered himself onto the step below, broad shoulders filling the space. His volleyball bag landed beside him with a dull thud.
Neither of you spoke for several minutes.
You continued shading the shadows under the eaves. He stared straight ahead, elbows resting on his knees, large hands loosely clasped.
After a while, he broke the silence.
“The wind today affected the ball’s path more than expected.”
You hummed softly, not looking up from your sketch. “It was stronger during the second half of practice, right? I noticed it pushing the serves wide.”
Ushijima turned his head slightly toward you. His olive-green eyes studied your face for a moment, then returned to the horizon.
“Yes,” he confirmed simply.
That was it.
No explanation needed. No lengthy discussion. You watched from the sidelines again today. Not because you were a manager or a fan club member, but because you simply showed up. And somehow, that had become enough for him to expect your presence.
When the cold started seeping through your uniform, you rubbed your hands together. Without a word, Ushijima shifted closer, his shoulder now lightly pressing against your leg. The warmth from his body cut through the chill.
You didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect it.
The silence that followed felt heavier than usual, but comfortable. Like two people breathing in the same rhythm.
Present – Studio
The interviewer leaned in. “So your relationship was… quiet?”
You gave a small nod.
“Very quiet. We didn’t need to fill every moment with conversation. He liked that, I think. Most people try to pull words out of him. I never did.”
A faint, bittersweet smile touched your lips.
“I just accepted what he gave. And he gave more than most people realized.”
Past – Winter, After a Match
The roar of the crowd still echoed in the hallways of the gymnasium long after the final whistle.
Shiratorizawa had won, as expected. Ushijima’s spikes had been merciless, each one landing like a verdict.
You waited near the exit like always, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed against the cold. Players trickled out in groups, loud and triumphant. Tendou spotted you first and flashed a dramatic wink, but he didn’t stop to tease.
Ushijima came out last.
His eyes scanned the hallway once before locking onto you. Something in his posture eased for a fraction that no one else would notice.
He walked straight to you.
Without stopping, he placed his bag down and stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him from the match. His breathing was still slightly elevated, chest rising and falling under his jacket.
You looked up at him.
“Good game,” you said softly. “That last spike in the fourth set… it was perfect.”
He nodded once. Then, after a beat:
“I looked for you before the final serve.”
Your heart stuttered, but you kept your voice even. “I was there. Third row from the front, left side.”
“I know.”
He didn’t say anything more. He simply stayed there, letting the noise of his celebrating teammates fade into the background. For a few precious minutes, it was just the two of you in that quiet corner of the hallway.
When he finally picked up his bag again, he spoke one last time before leaving.
“Tomorrow. Same steps?”
You smiled faintly. “Same steps.”
Present – Studio
One of the crew members asked gently, “Did it ever feel like more than friendship?”
You paused, fingers tightening slightly in your lap.
“It felt like everything,” you answered honestly. “But we never called it anything. No labels. No promises.”
Your gaze drifted to the floor.
“And for a while… that was enough.”
Present – Studio
The lighting felt warmer now, or maybe it was just the memories surfacing. The interviewer flipped a page on her notes.
“During his rise to the professional league, Ushijima became even more focused. Many people around him said he lived and breathed volleyball. Was there anyone who could pull him out of that mindset?”
You looked directly at the camera this time.
“I never tried to pull him out,” you said. “I just stood beside him in it.”
Past – Spring, Shiratorizawa Third Year
Cherry blossoms drifted across the school courtyard like pale pink snow. Practice had ended late again. The team was exhausted but buzzing with quiet confidence knowing that nationals were approaching.
You waited on the usual steps, a small bento box balanced on your knees. Nothing fancy. Just rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables you had prepared quickly after class.
Ushijima emerged from the gym doors, towel around his neck. His eyes found you immediately. He walked over with that steady, powerful stride and sat beside you this time. On the same level, shoulders almost touching.
You opened the bento and handed him the chopsticks first.
He accepted it without question and began eating. After a few bites, he spoke.
“My spike timing improved this week.”
You nodded, watching the blossoms catch in his dark hair. “I saw. You were reading the blockers better. Less predictable.”
He ate in silence for a while longer. Then, unexpectedly:
“My father called yesterday. He wants me to consider moving to Tokyo sooner for the pro team scouting.”
Your chopsticks paused mid-air for half a second before you continued eating.
“And what do you think?” you asked calmly.
Ushijima stared at the falling petals. “It is the correct path. Stronger competition. Better facilities.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
Instead, you simply said, “Then that’s what you should do.”
He turned his head to look at you fully. Those intense olive eyes studied your face like he was memorizing it. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the cherry trees.
When he finished the bento, he closed the box neatly and set it aside. Then he did something rare… he stayed even after finishing.
His hand rested on the stone between you. Not quite touching yours, but close enough that you could feel the warmth.
You slid your fingers over until they brushed his. He didn’t pull away. He never did with you.
Present – Studio
A soft chuckle came from the interviewer. “It sounds like you two were very close.”
You gave a small, pained smile.
“We were. He would finish every important match and look for me first in the stands. Not his coach. Not his teammates. Me. I became the constant he returned to.”
You paused, throat tightening slightly.
“He shared things with me he never told anyone else. Small things. How a certain serve felt off. How the pressure from expectations sat on his shoulders. He didn’t complain. He just stated facts. And I listened.”
Past – Summer, Before Nationals
The night air was thick and humid. The team had won another practice match, but Ushijima had stayed behind in the gym long after everyone left. You found him there, alone under the dimmed lights, practicing his approach over and over.
You sat on the bench near the court, watching silently.
When he finally stopped, sweat dripping down his face, he walked over and dropped down beside you. His breathing was heavy.
“I keep thinking about the future,” he said suddenly. His voice was low, almost rough. “Volleyball is everything. But sometimes… there is space for other things.”
Your heart clenched. You turned to him.
“Like what?” you whispered.
He looked at you for a long time. The words seemed to hover on his tongue, but he never released them.
Instead, he reached out and gently fixed a strand of hair that had stuck to your cheek from the humidity. His calloused fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.
“You,” he said simply.
No grand confession. No “I like you.” Just that one word, you, delivered like an undeniable fact.
You felt your eyes sting, but you smiled and leaned your head lightly against his broad shoulder. He allowed it. The gym lights hummed above you as the two of you sat in the quiet afterglow of his hard work.
No labels. No promises.
Just the steady beat of his heart next to yours.
Present – Studio
The interviewer asked carefully, “Did you ever wonder where you stood with him?”
You let out a slow breath.
“Every day. But I stayed anyway. Because being important to Ushijima Wakatoshi… that was already more than most people ever got.”
Your voice grew quieter.
“I thought it would be enough forever.”
Present – Studio
The mood in the room had shifted. The interviewer’s voice softened, sensing the weight behind your answers.
“There came a point when Ushijima made a major career decision. By turning pro and moving to the Sendai Frogs initially, then the national team path. How did that affect your… connection?”
You stared at your hands for a long moment. The camera kept rolling.
“It forced us to face what we never named,” you replied.
Past – Late Summer, After Nationals
The celebration had died down hours ago. Shiratorizawa had taken the championship again, and the team party was loud and chaotic. But Ushijima had slipped away early.
You found him on the rooftop of the school building, the city lights glittering below. The night breeze carried the last remnants of summer heat.
He stood at the railing, broad back straight, gazing out at nothing in particular. When he heard your footsteps, he didn’t turn around right away.
You stopped beside him, close enough that your arm brushed his.
“Congratulations,” you said softly. “You were incredible out there.”
He gave a single nod. Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke in that steady, matter-of-fact tone:
“I’ve decided. I’m going pro. The offer from the Sendai Frogs is the most logical choice. Stronger training environment. Better path to the national team.”
Your chest tightened. You had known this day would come, the rumors had been swirling for weeks. Still, hearing him say it so plainly hurt.
“That’s… good,” you managed. “It’s what you’ve been working toward.”
Ushijima finally turned to look at you. His expression was calm, almost peaceful, as if the decision had already settled perfectly in his mind.
“Yes. It is the correct decision.”
The silence that followed felt different this time. Heavier.
You swallowed hard, staring at the city lights instead of him.
“And where does that leave us?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your voice was quieter than you wanted.
He blinked once, as if the question surprised him.
“You can visit when you want,” he said simply. “Tokyo isn’t far.”
That wasn’t what you meant. Not even close.
Your hands gripped the railing until your knuckles turned white. The words you had held back for so long finally pushed forward.
“Wakatoshi… What am I to you?”
The question hung in the warm night air.
Ushijima looked at you directly, those intense olive eyes steady and honest. He didn’t hesitate.
“You are important.”
Important.
Not “I need you.”
Not “Stay with me.”
Not “I love you.”
Just… important.
You felt something crack inside your chest. The breeze suddenly felt colder.
“I see,” you whispered.
He reached out and placed a large, warm hand on your shoulder. A rare gesture of comfort from him. “This is the best path for my career. You understand that.”
You did understand. That was the problem. You had always understood him better than anyone.
But for once, you wished he would understand you.
Present – Studio
The interviewer waited patiently as you gathered yourself.
“Did you tell him how you felt?” she asked.
You shook your head slowly.
“No. Not then. I realized at that moment that I didn’t know where I stood in his life. And he… he didn’t see why that mattered.”
Your voice cracked just slightly.
“He thought ‘important’ was enough. For him, it was the highest thing he could say.”
Past – Two Weeks Later
The train station was crowded with students and salarymen. Ushijima stood on the platform in his casual clothes, bag slung over his shoulder, ready for his first official meeting with the pro team staff in Sendai.
You had come to see him off.
He turned to you as the train approached, expression unchanged from any other day.
“I will call when I settle in,” he said.
You nodded, forcing a small smile. The crack in your chest had widened into a chasm.
The train doors opened. He stepped toward them, then paused.
For a second, you thought he might say something more. Something that would change everything.
Instead, he simply said, “Take care.”
And he boarded.
You stood on the platform until the train disappeared from view. He never looked back.
That night, you packed your own things quietly. No dramatic goodbye. No angry letter.
Just a quiet finality.
You left for a different city the next morning.
He didn’t stop you.
Because in his mind, if it was your decision, he would respect it.
Present – Studio
You looked straight into the camera, eyes tired but clear.
“I left because staying would have hurt more. He never said what I needed to hear… and I couldn’t keep pretending it was enough.”
The room had grown quieter. Even the crew seemed to sense the shift as the interview moved into heavier territory.
The interviewer spoke carefully. “After he turned pro, the two of you… drifted apart?”
You gave a slow nod, eyes distant.
“Not with shouting or fighting. It was quieter than that.”
Past – Autumn, One Month After He Left
Your new apartment in a different prefecture felt too empty. The boxes were still half-unpacked, the walls bare. You had taken a simple job and tried to build something new, but every quiet moment pulled your thoughts back to him.
Your phone lit up with a rare message.
Wakatoshi: Practice went well today. The team’s coordination is improving. How are you?
You stared at the screen for a long time. The words were typical Ushijima, always factual and direct. No mention of missing you. No question about why you had suddenly left without a proper goodbye.
You typed back with trembling fingers.
You: I’m okay. Settling in. Glad practice is going well.
That was the last real conversation for a while.
He continued sending occasional updates. Just short and straightforward texts about matches, training, and small observations about the pro environment. You replied every time, keeping the tone light, never mentioning the growing distance or the ache in your chest.
But the silences between messages stretched longer.
Present – Studio
“He never asked me to stay,” you said, voice low. “And I never explained why I left. We both just… accepted it.”
The interviewer nodded sympathetically. “Did he try to reach out more?”
You shook your head.
“Not in the way I hoped. He respected my decision completely. That’s who he is.”
Past – Winter, Three Months Later
The snow fell heavily outside your window as you watched a recorded match on your laptop. Ushijima dominated the court as always. With his powerful spikes, unshakeable focus. He was always the ace the team relied on.
After the match, the camera caught him scanning the stands for a moment. The same habit. Looking for someone who was no longer there.
Your phone buzzed.
Wakatoshi: We won. The spike in the third set worked as planned.
You didn’t reply for two days.
When you finally did, it was short.
You: Congratulations. You looked strong out there.
No more late-night thoughts shared. No more quiet evenings on the steps. The comfortable silence that once connected you now felt like a wall.
One evening, you sat on your bed and typed a longer message. Containing everything you had held back.
Wakatoshi, I left because I realized I was waiting for something you might never say. I was important, but I needed to know if I was more. I’m sorry for disappearing like this.
Your thumb hovered over send for a long minute… then you deleted it.
Instead, you sent nothing.
Two weeks later, you changed your number. Not out of anger, but out of the need for a clean break. A quiet finality.
He never chased after you. He simply continued his path, as steady and unwavering as always.
Because if leaving was your decision, he would respect it.
Present – Studio
You took a slow, shaky breath as the camera focused on your face.
“I left without a big scene. No fight. No closure. Just… gone. And he let me go. Not because he didn’t care, but because he believed respecting my choice was the right thing.”
Your eyes glistened under the studio lights.
“He never stopped me. And that silence hurt more than anything he could have said.”
The interviewer gave you a moment before asking gently, “Do you regret how it ended?”
You hesitated longer this time, the pause stretching.
“He never said what I needed to hear,” you whispered. “And I never gave him the chance to learn how.”
Past – One Year Later
You saw him on television more often now. Called the rising star of the pro league, the powerful opposite hitter everyone talked about. Ushijima Wakatoshi, the man who spoke little but dominated everything.
Sometimes, late at night, you wondered if he ever thought about those quiet moments on the steps, or the way your hand had brushed his, or the single word “you” he had given you under the gym lights.
But life moved forward.
You built new routines. New people entered your life, though none ever felt quite right.
And somewhere across the country, Ushijima kept playing. Still strong, focused, and unchanging. The fracture had become a canyon.
Present – Documentary Studio
The set looked different for Ushijima’s session.
Warmer lighting, a single chair centered in the frame. He sat with perfect posture, wearing a simple black team jacket, hands resting calmly on his thighs. The camera loved him. All because of his sharp features, broad shoulders, and that unreadable intensity never wavered.
He had answered every question so far with his usual precision: short, factual responses about his career, training philosophy, and key matches. No embellishment. No emotion.
Until now.
The interviewer leaned forward, tone shifting.
“We’ve spoken with several people from your past. One person in particular was mentioned often. Someone important during your Shiratorizawa years. She appeared in earlier interviews but preferred to remain vague about your relationship. May I ask… who was Reader to you?”
The room fell completely silent.
Ushijima didn’t move at first. His olive-green eyes stared straight into the camera for a long, heavy pause. Five seconds. Ten. The kind of silence that made the crew exchange uneasy glances.
Then, in his deep, steady voice:
“She was the person I chose.”
The words landed like a spike hitting the court. The interviewer blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Could you… elaborate?”
Ushijima took another long breath. For the first time in the entire interview, his gaze softened, just slightly.
“I do not speak many words. Most people find this difficult. But with her… I did not need to. She understood without explanation. She sat with me in silence. She saw my plays before I made them. She was there after every match. Not because she had to be. Because she chose to be.”
He paused again, as if searching for the right words. Something he rarely did.
“I never called her my partner. I never said romantic things. But every day, I chose to be near her. I looked for her first. I told her things I told no one else. When she left, I respected her decision. I thought… that was correct.”
His large hands tightened almost imperceptibly on his thighs.
“To me, choosing someone every day was love. I believed it was obvious. I did not know it needed to be said.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ushijima looked directly into the camera again, his voice quieter but firm.
“If she is watching this… I was wrong. You were more than important. You were the only person I ever chose above volleyball.”
Cut to black.
Later – Your Apartment
The documentary had aired.
You sat alone in the dim glow of your screen, knees drawn to your chest, watching the final episode. When Ushijima’s interview segment began, you had expected his usual short answers.
You were not prepared for this.
His deep voice filled your small room. Those simple, devastating words “She was the person I chose.” echoed in your ears.
Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.
All those quiet moments rushed back at once: the stone steps at Shiratorizawa, his shoulder warm against yours in the cold, the single word “you” under the gym lights, the way he always looked for you first.
He had loved you.
In his own way, the only way he knew how, he had loved you deeply.
And you had left because you never heard it spoken.
Too late.
The screen faded to black on his final words. You sat there in the dark, chest aching with a bittersweet pain that felt both crushing and healing at the same time.
Everything was recontextualized.
Every silence. Every glance. Every choice.
He had chosen you.
And you had never truly known until now.
Three Weeks Later
Your phone had been quiet for years. Then one message changed everything.
Unknown Number: This is Ushijima Wakatoshi. I received your new contact from the documentary staff. I watched the full series. If you are willing, I would like to meet.
There are things I need to say clearly this time.
You stared at the message for nearly an hour before replying with a single line.
You: Okay. When and where?
He chose a small, quiet café in Tokyo on a weekday morning. It was early enough that the usual crowd hadn’t arrived yet. Neutral ground. No pressure.
When you walked in, he was already there.
Ushijima sat by the window, shoulders filling the chair, wearing a simple dark sweater. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, but his posture was the same. The moment he saw you, he stood up immediately.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he said your name. Just your name. But the way he said it made your throat tighten.
You sat across from him. Two cups of coffee were already on the table. Black for him. The way you liked it for you.
“I watched the interview,” you started, voice barely above a whisper. “What you said…”
Ushijima nodded once. He looked at you directly, those intense olive eyes holding yours without flinching.
“I was wrong,” he said plainly. No excuses. No softening. “I thought my actions were enough. Choosing to be with you every day, looking for you first, sharing my thoughts with only you. I believed that expressed everything. I did not understand that you needed the words.”
He paused, hands resting calmly on the table.
“I love you.”
The words came out steady and certain, like a spike he had practiced a thousand times. Simple. Honest. Devastating in their directness.
Your breath caught.
“I loved you then,” he continued. “I love you now. When you left, I respected your decision because I thought it was what you wanted. But after the documentary… I realized I had never given you a reason to stay.”
Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t try to hide them.
“I waited so long to hear that,” you whispered. “I thought I was just… convenient. Important, but not enough.”
Ushijima’s brow furrowed slightly, the closest he came to pain.
“You were never convenient. You were the only person who made the world quieter. With you, I did not have to be the ace or the future of Japanese volleyball. I could just be… me.”
He reached across the table slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn’t, he covered your hand with his. Large, warm, calloused from years of spiking. The same hand that once brushed hair from your cheek under gym lights.
“I cannot change the years we lost,” he said. “But if you will allow it, I want to choose you again. Properly this time. Every day. With words when you need them.”
The café faded around you. All that existed was the steady rhythm of his voice and the warmth of his hand.
You turned your palm up and laced your fingers through his. “I never stopped choosing you either,” you admitted, voice thick with emotion. “Even when it hurts.”
A small, rare smile touched Ushijima’s lips. The smile was barely there, but real.
“Then we start again,” he said simply. “No unspoken things this time.”
You nodded, squeezing his hand.
Outside, the city moved on as usual. But inside that small café, two people who had once let silence define them finally gave it language.
Not perfect. Not without scars. But hopeful. And this time, chosen out loud.
Two Years Later
The stadium was alive with thunderous applause. Flags waved in waves of red and white as the final whistle echoed through the massive arena. Japan had won another grueling international match, and once again, Ushijima Wakatoshi stood at the center of it all.
His final spike in the fifth set had been devastating. With a powerful, decisive strike that left the opposing blockers frozen. The crowd chanted his name, but his focus remained sharp, unbroken.
You sat in your familiar seat: third row, left side of the court. The same position you had occupied since his high school days. Only this time, you weren’t hidden in the shadows or watching from a distance. You wore his national team jacket openly over your shoulders, the fabric still carrying his scent.
People had noticed. Of course they had. Cameras had panned toward you multiple times during the match. Social media was already buzzing with new photos and speculation, but none of that mattered tonight.
The players lined up for their final bow. Ushijima moved with them, tall and composed, but his eyes weren’t on the crowd or his teammates.
They were on you.
Even across the glowing court, his gaze found you instantly. That subtle shift in his posture. The slight relaxation of his broad shoulders told you everything. He gave one firm, deliberate nod in your direction before straightening again. A private acknowledgment in the middle of thousands of screaming fans.
Your heart swelled the same way it had on those quiet Shiratorizawa steps years ago.
The corridor outside the locker rooms was quieter now, though the distant roar of the crowd still vibrated through the walls. Staff members moved efficiently, and a few teammates offered you polite nods as they passed. They had grown used to seeing you here.
You leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, watching the door.
When Ushijima finally emerged, he looked exactly as you remembered from every important match. His hair damp from the shower, team jacket zipped halfway, and duffel bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. His presence filled the hallway.
His olive-green eyes locked onto you immediately. Without hesitation, he walked straight toward you, ignoring the lingering reporters and crew. He stopped just inches away, towering over you in that familiar, comforting way.
“You came,” he said, voice deep and steady. There was a quiet warmth beneath the words now. Something he had learned to let show.
“I promised I would,” you replied softly, smiling up at him. “You were incredible out there, Wakatoshi. That last spike… the timing, the power. It was perfect. The blockers had no chance.”
He nodded once, accepting the praise with the same seriousness he gave everything. But then he added something more, words he now gave freely.
“I saw you before the serve. Knowing you were watching made it easier. I wanted to end it cleanly for you.”
Your breath caught. Even after two years of rebuilding, his honest declarations still made heat rise to your cheeks.
He reached out with one large hand and gently adjusted the jacket on your shoulders, making sure it covered you against the post-match chill. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly along your arm in a touch that was both protective and tender.
“The press is waiting outside,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “They will take many photos again. Are you comfortable with that?”
You slipped your hand into his without thinking. His fingers closed around yours immediately. The gesture was warm and sure. “Let them,” you said. “I’m not hiding anymore. This is us now.”
A rare, small smile touched his lips. It was subtle, barely curving the edges of his mouth, but it was real and meant only for you. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, right there in the open hallway where anyone could see. No hesitation. No shame.
“Come home with me,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to hear everything you thought about the match. Every detail. And then… I just want you close.”
You nodded, squeezing his hand. “I’d like that.”
As you walked together toward the exit, hand in hand, the flashes of cameras greeted you. Reporters called out questions, but Ushijima ignored them all, his focus entirely on you. He kept his grip steady, guiding you through the crowd with quiet protectiveness. The world saw it now. What had once been unspoken was finally visible.
In the car ride back to his apartment, the city lights blurred past the windows. Ushijima drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. It was a simple touch, but it spoke volumes.
“You are here,” he said quietly after a while, echoing the same words from years ago, but now filled with deep contentment. “Every important match… you are here.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered, placing your hand over his. “No more quiet fractures. No more wondering where I stand. We say it now.”
He glanced at you at a red light, eyes soft in the glow.
“I love you,” he said plainly, like it was the most natural fact in the world. “I chose you then. I choose you every day now.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, but they were happy ones. You leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder as the light turned green.
“I love you too, Wakatoshi.”
The apartment was warm when you arrived. He made tea the way you liked it while you curled up on the couch. Later, as you talked through the match. Conveying every one of your honest thoughts and the small observations only you would notice. He listened intently, occasionally nodding or adding his own insights.
When conversation faded, he simply pulled you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you. The silence that settled between you was the same comfortable one from years ago… but now it carried no uncertainty. No unspoken pain.
Just peace.
And love, finally spoken out loud for the world, and each other to see.
