Varuna

Apparently you do today, because there's currently nothing else to do in the Pitt.

The instant that thought crosses your mind you scrunch your nose with a hiss. Great. Now you’ve jinxed yourself. 

Who even decided that anyways? There’s no reason that making a simple observation about the world around you should spell bad luck for the next hours to come. It's so stupid.

Stupid sayings. Stupid jinxes. Stupid assumptions. Stupidly slow Pitt.

There’s no real reason you’re in such a sour mood right now. Well, maybe there is—but you told yourself this morning you wouldn’t let it bother you anymore after Dana decided to point out the newly forming wrinkles on your forehead.

“The hells the matter with you kid? You’ve been walking around with a stick up your ass all week.”

Her unexpected intrusion into the break room made you jump, causing you to whack your head into the top shelf of the refrigerator while fishing for the Red Bull you’d shoved in it a few shifts ago. 

A loud curse flew from your mouth and you turned to glare at her, palm already lifting to nurse the forming bruise on your scalp. 

“Good morning to you too, Dana.” The fridge door shuts with a loud clank. 

“Nothing good about this morning, but I get the feeling you already know that. What's the matter?” Her gruff voice was accompanied by its usual lilt of sarcasm. She looked certainly worse than you, but that’s not something you’d ever point out. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight behind her head, a faint sheen of unwashed grease evident. The grey scrub top she wore held quiet wrinkles, likely from the previous day’s shift. 

“It’s nothing, I'm fine. Just tired,” you lied. She knew you were lying, but you hoped she wouldn’t press the matter any further. Not because anything serious had happened. Quite the opposite in fact. Your week had been ruined for the stupidest and most embarrassingly trivial reason ever. 

She found purchase at the sink next to you, cleaning out a coffee mug that would soon be her morning’s savior. An unconvinced hum escaped her throat.

The tab of your Red Bull pulled up with a hiss and pop. “I think Langdon’s going out with the new nurse.” 

Dana stared at you. 

“I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response,” she finally said, voice thick with exhaustion. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as she walked out of the room, not forgetting to chastise you as the door shut behind her. 

That was three hours ago, and while you’d like to say you stuck to your word and forgot about the ordeal, there’s no point in lying to win a case against your own conscience. 

You hunch over the nurses’ station with an audible groan, wincing when your forehead bumps its cool surface. The knot on your head is just another gift from the universe to ruin your day, it seems. It's not like you have any real reason to be upset. As blurry as the lines of daily flirting and occasional shared drinks after shifts with your coworker are, getting jealous over Frank’s potential new girlfriend seems to be crossing them just a bit. 

Potential. 

The word echoes in your brain. 

Of course, you have no real proof. Just because she’s been on the majority of his cases as of late doesn’t mean that they’re fucking. It doesn’t even mean that they’re friends! At least, that's what Trinity had told you after you drunkenly pestered her for thirty minutes straight. Now she refuses to hear about Frank at all—not that she ever wanted to in the first place.

But still, the way he smiles and cracks jokes that were normally reserved for you every time she’s near makes your skin itch. And it’s obvious she’s into him with how much time she spends ogling him instead of doing her actual job—

If you weren’t directly in the center of the Pitt right now you might slap yourself. When did you get so antsy over Frank Langdon of all people? God, you sound like a pathetic teenage girl instead of the secure and competent senior resident that you actually are. 

The train of thought finally snaps you back to reality, and with a squeeze of your eyes you shove yourself back and out of the creaking swivel desk chair you’ve been sulking in the past few minutes. As you stand, you make a final promise to not let this bother you.

For real this time.

You almost made it another three hours without breaking that promise.

Almost.

It's just after lunch when your petty jealousy and baseless assumptions worm their way back into the forefront of your mind. You’re working on a protein bar you’d found hiding in your bag since who-knows-how-long, when a familiar voice drifts up behind you.

“Haven’t seen you all day. Don’t tell me you’re avoiding me or something.”

The chalky snack snags in your throat as you swallow. You glance at him briefly, swiping through the tablet in your hand with a little more fervor than necessary.

“No.”

Yes.

Frank’s eyes squint in that familiar way of his, and you hate how attractive you find it. He studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether or not to point out how weird you’re acting. 

“So I noticed we’re both off Thurs—”

“Welp, I've got a patient I need to check on. Or examine. Both. Crazy rash case.” 

His brows knit together watching you force your own foot into your mouth. Heat creeps up your neck, and instead you decide to shove down the last of your protein bar in one giant bite, nodding with an awkward smile and scurrying toward central six as fast as your sore feet can manage. 

You push through the glass door, brushing aside the curtain and forcing yourself to forget that absolute dumpster fire of a conversation that definitely just took a few years off your lifespan. 

The fifth patient you’d picked up within the hour presented with a mysterious onset rash. This was exactly the case you needed to pick you up in the afternoon—Something fun and challenging to distract yourself.

Except, standing in front of you is the poor new hire you’ve unjustly deemed an arch nemesis, patient chart in hand and smiling with her sickeningly sweet voice. 

“Oh, I was expecting Dr. Langdon.”

Today might be the day you lose your medical license. And catch your first ever felony. 

Clearing your throat does nothing to help the strain in your voice. “I’m the presenting physician. You should see that on the chart.”

Her smile grows even wider. “Oh, I know! I just caught him outside earlier and figured since he was nearby I'd get his attention first…”

She could tell you that the patient’s leg fell off and they were now in septic shock, and you’d still feel the urge to toss something at her head. 

You breathe, walking over to the portable computer in the corner of the room. “Did something happen?” 

Your ID badge slides across the computer’s scanner. The screen blinks to life instantly. 

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Patient Portal…  Log In Successful…

“Oh no, I just had a question about charting protocol.”

“I’m right here. Shoot.”

Your fingers dance across the keyboard instinctively, gaze flickering across the screen as she rambles about her struggles with the ‘unfamiliar system’. You beckon her behind you, tilting the screen her way. She watches in naive awe as you explain the inner workings of PTMC’s patient charting system with an amount of patience that is a genuine miracle. 

Your finger points to a highlighted box when she asks another question. The nurse—whose name you realize you still don’t know—thanks you sincerely, and you have to hold back another sigh as she dives into more rambling, hands twirling around her perfectly laid curls.

With that, you’re finally able to examine the patient—the job you would have liked to start five minutes ago—all the while nurse Bradshaw (you finally got a peek at her name badge) hovers like she’d like to take over your job. To your absolute disappointment, it takes about thirty seconds for you to diagnose the patient with an extreme case of hives. 

There goes your fun pick-me-up case.

You finish your examination with a sigh, typing a few final notes into the chart before excusing yourself. You make a mental note to yell at whoever is running triage for choosing to waste a bed on something that could’ve been taken care of with a strong antihistamine. 

As you’re debating whether or not to stoop low and cherry-pick your next case, a familiar voice coos beside you, along with something cold pressing against your neck that makes you yelp.

“Ow—”

You whip around instantly, only to be met once again with a perfect head of dark brown hair and intense blue eyes staring back at you. 

As well as… a can of Red Bull?

“Consider this a peace offering.” 

You stare up at Frank, hesitantly accepting the cold can offered to you. “Uh, thanks.”

You catch his confident facade deflate in real time, and Frank runs an uncertain hand through his hair. “Did I, uh, upset you?”

Sure, you figured he’d start asking questions sooner or later, but this was a lot sooner. Not to mention the fact that Frank Langdon pulls off the kicked-puppy look far too well for a physician in his thirties. It’s unfair, really.

You chew the inside of your mouth, suddenly finding the hallway floor, the nurses’ station, literally anything, half as interesting as his eyes. It’s not like you’d been planning to admit your jealousy directly to his face.

What was there to be jealous of, really?

Yes, you and Frank have a history of flirting during shifts. 

Yes, the two of you exchanged phone numbers and you text regularly. 

Yes, you go out to bars together after shifts and make plans every other weekend. 

But none of that actually means anything. Because you’ve been too terrified to ask that dreaded question. The risk of ruining the carefully crafted dance the two of you had perfected over the past months was far too great. You don’t need to look far to know that work relationships are more likely to sink than float when things get serious.

If the new girl caught his eye and he decided he was finally tired of you, then that was that. 

“I just didn’t know if I said or did anything lately.”

Your jaw tightens. You know better, you really do, but something snaps in you.

“Well,” you start, nail peeling the tab of the Red Bull with a quiet click, “You’ve just seemed so busy lately.”

Frank frowns. “Busy?”

You shrug, feeling oddly emboldened as the fizzy energy drink stings at the raw skin in your mouth. “You know, with Bradshaw.”

The confusion on his face makes your breath feel heavier.

“Bradshaw,” he repeats.

You shift slightly under his scrutinizing gaze, forcing yourself to not look away. “The new nurse,” you clarify.

Frank stares at you for a full three seconds, which is ample enough time for you to realize how absolutely stupid you sound right now. Then, he laughs. It's deep from his chest and he drags a hand down his face in disbelief. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters.

“What?” Your tone comes out slightly defensive, and you’re still trying to ignore the redness encroaching on your skin.

He looks back at you, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “You think I'm seeing Bradshaw?”

“Well why else would you two be so close lately?”

You think he’s going to laugh in your face again, but his head turns, and he calls out across the floor to the woman in question. She walks over with a cheerful smile, greeting the two of you.

“Say, where’d you tell me your husband was going fishing?” Frank asks casually, his grin growing in absolute delight as the realization dawns on your face.

Husband?

You look at her hands, perfectly polished with a cherry red, and adorning her left ring finger a shiny diamond resting snugly in a golden band.

You think you could die at this moment. In fact, you’re praying for it. And Frank knows it all too well. Disappointingly, you don’t collapse from a heart attack or stroke, so instead you opt to stare very intently at the drink in your hand. 

The two chat for a second longer before she heads off, wishing you both a good day. Frank turns to you once more, taking a step closer as he leans against the counter. 

“I’m flattered you’re so concerned about my relationship status. Any particular reason why?”

You don’t respond, refusing to meet his gaze. The worst and best part about Frank Langdon is that he hardly takes anything seriously. He might not be offended by the ridiculous misunderstanding you created, but he’s definitely never letting you live this down.

And suddenly, that stupid saying from earlier comes creeping back into your mind. 

“I thought you were an ass,” you mutter to yourself.

Frank cocks his head, leaning in to hear you better.

“I’ve been an ass,” you say louder, pinching the bridge of your nose. Apologies have never really been your forte. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. His hand twitches against the counter like he wants to touch you. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

Your head snaps up. His intense blue gaze already betrays the mischief brewing in that pretty head of his.

“Let me take you to Le Mont Thursday night.”

You take a gamble on making just one more assumption. This new one being that Frank Langdon is asking you out on a date, and you’d be utterly stupid to say no. 

an: varuna try to actually write one of the millions of drabble ideas she has stored away challenge go! I actually wrote the bulk of this last night at 4 in the morning after getting the idea off here. I genuinely cannot find the fic I was inspired by, but if you have any clues feel free to tag them! I really wanna get back to writing more short fics for other characters. :P

He wouldn’t consider himself superstitious, not really. Superstition would be touching the center of the gym doors’ metal frame before every away game. It would be exhaling exactly three times before every serve—no more, no less. Osamu forcing him and their mother to be Onigiri Miya’s first customers on opening day, because “that sets the tone for my restaurant’s future!” is superstitious. He’s really not that particular.

Simply put, Atsumu believes that if he can’t do better than he did the day before, he isn't improving. And if he isn’t improving, he isn’t trying. And if he isn’t trying, there’s no point in showing up in the first place.

Last practice he got twenty-four perfect sets in a row before Kotaro Bokuto stole the ball straight from his hands. “C’mon Tsum-Tsum, how many of those are you gonna do?” He whined, pouting like some toddler and not the twenty-three year old grown man he’s supposed to be. Atsumu didn’t set to him for the rest of practice out of spite, which caused him to complain even more. Coach Foster yelled at them both for that.

His eyes narrow as Kiyoomi Sakusa tosses the ball straight toward him. This will be a perfect set. It’s just high enough so that he has time to comfortably slide into position beneath it, and the spin isn’t too fast, which lets him set more precisely. 

If Atsumu had to pin someone as superstitious, it’s Sakusa. He was the first person Atsumu had met after being recruited onto MSBY’s roster, colliding with him after rounding a corner too quickly. The guy freaked out like Atsumu could have some deadly disease, and refused to talk to him for a week, which was weird as shit. Now he can’t go thirty minutes without pestering the guy. 

He can make out each hexagonal indentation on the volleyball’s surface as it catches the gym lights. In two seconds, it’ll kiss his fingertips and fly right where he wants it to go. It’s the perfect set.

 Atsumu licks his lips. The gym falls silent. 

“You’re here!” 

Goddamnit, Shoyo.

The obnoxious screech pierces his concentration, which makes him release the ball a second too late, and forces Sakusa to hang in the air for a second longer than either of them wanted him to. 

Twenty-four perfect sets.

Tennis shoes slam against the ground, energy jolting through his calves and up his spine. His blood boils. For the love of fuck—is it impossible to just have one day where his teammates act right? 

He whips his head around, immediately scanning the gym for Hinata and preplanning the insults he’s about to hurl at his stupid face. But instead of a familiar head of orange hair, his eyes land on someone else. They land on you. 

Today’s practice is supposed to be closed to the public on account that the season has ended. He’s positive you don’t work here, otherwise he’d recognize you. 

Actually he probably wouldn’t. He doesn’t care to remember people he doesn’t know, but you have a pretty smile so he’ll make an exception.

Hinata’s crossing the court in energetic strides, beaming as you peek through the gymnasium doors. Your face scrunches when he throws his arms over your shoulders and pulls you into a bear hug. That dude gets way too excited.

Back in high school, Osamu liked to joke that Atsumu would die alone solely for the fact that he dedicates all of his attention to volleyball. Which, first of all, is completely wrong. He enjoys plenty of things outside the sport. 

And second of all, it's not his fault that few things are actually worth his precious time. Why would he waste hours on pointless shit that ultimately gains him nothing? Why spend the afternoon watching Suna bust his ass every time he attempted a kickflip? Why waste money taking a girl he won’t speak to in two months on a date? If Atsumu is going to give his time and attention to something, it has to be worthwhile. 

He’s definitely been staring too long when he registers a ball colliding with the back of his head. Sakusa stands behind him with an unamused look. “Pay attention next time, idiot.” 

“Ow! I was paying attention, Omi!” He rubs the stinging skin on the nape of his neck, glaring at the dark haired man. What kind of creep assaults someone to get their attention?

But Sakusa is looking over at you now too, and Atsumu’s curiosity gets the best of him. “When’d Shoyo get a girlfriend?”

“He didn’t.”

Huh.

There’s no real reason why his next steps (jogs, technically. Or maybe running if he’s really being honest) are a beeline to you. Maybe he just doesn’t like not being the center of attention. Maybe he just wants to know what Shoyo said that’s making you laugh so hard.

Sakusa is yelling at him again about getting distracted, which doesn’t even dignify with a response. (His mother would be so proud of him for being mature!) He barely manages to catch the tail-end of your conversation just as Hinata is introducing you to Bokuto.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You offer the taller man your hand and give him your name. Bokuto shakes your hand vigorously while shamelessly praising how beautiful you are. Atsumu rolls his eyes. 

Right on cue, Bokuto drops your hand to clap Atsumu’s shoulder, forcefully pulling him closer to the forming group. “Hey, hey, Tsum-Tsum! Come meet Shoyo’s friend!” 

With a shit-eating smirk, he introduces himself a bit more enthusiastically than he normally would. “Atsumu Miya. Nice to meet ya.”

You cock your head and squint at him like there’s something written on his forehead. His smile falters. Atsumu has never cared one way or another what people think of him, so he’s a little pissed off that he’s suddenly hyperaware of himself.

Your face lights up, “Oh! I met your brother.” 

Now, his smile is wiped clean. “Huh?” Goddamnit, Osamu. 

“Sorry, I was trying to figure out why you look so familiar.” You say like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and then move on like he’s just asked you the time. 

Hinata grins, “We bumped into each other at Osamu’s! She’s an old friend from high school—”

Atsumu has a bad habit of immediately checking out when people are talking. Which, in his defense, he really does try to stick it out solely for the fact that he’s interested in you. But by the time Hinata is on his second consecutive minute of yapping, Atsumu can’t pretend he actually gives a shit anymore. Truthfully, he’s still seething over the fact that his stupid twin brother got to meet you first. 

He pays attention to the important pieces—what he thinks is important, anyway. You just moved here, you’re looking for a job, your perfume smells like vanilla. Clearly that’s everything he needs to know. 

“—So I remembered that Coach is looking for a new manager, and I convinced her to stop by and apply.”

“Yer applying?” he blurts out suddenly.

There’s a lull in the conversation and your face morphs somewhere between dread and exhaustion. Your mouth opens, clamoring for a way to redirect the conversation from your personal life. Hinata clearly either doesn’t care, or doesn’t notice. “Osamu and I already agreed you'd be perfect! You have the experience, and plus you said you don’t hate Osaka that much anymore—”

Atsumu has to stifle a laugh as he watches the strain in your jaw form. You look like you’re three seconds away from physically making Hinata shut up. “That is not what I said— and it’s a lot more complicated than that—”

Bokuto gasps like he’s been personally insulted, “You hate Osaka?” his face falls, horrified, and then snaps back instantly. “Wait, never mind— This is the perfect opportunity! You’ll love us. We’re great. I’m great!”

Atsumu snorts before he can stop himself, which makes you glance at him. He wants to make a joke, either at your expense or his teammates’, but Sakusa sneaks up behind him before he can think of something funny enough. See? Creepy.

“You’re going to scare her off,” he rasps, digging a cloth mask from his jacket pocket and sliding it over his nose. 

“Now look who’s gettin’ distracted?” Atsumu snickers, elbowing his side. Sakusa scowls and swats aggressively at his arm. Clearly the man doesn’t appreciate humor. 

Hinata attempts to defend himself, though it's not convincing at all. “I’m trying to be encouraging!” 

Sakusa pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the opportunity to point out how overbearing he’s being. “Not everyone wants to work for people they just met.”

Atsumu scrunches his nose. Isn’t that all jobs? 

You clear your throat, which makes the three of them remember that you are in fact still here. “I appreciate it, but I'm not applying.” 

“Oh, come on! You shouldn't be scared,” Hinata squeezes your shoulder, which is probably his attempt at reassuring you. He keeps talking even as you open your mouth to object. Of course he does. The guy could probably hold a conversation with a brick wall. 

Bokuto barrels right after him with an enthusiastic grin. “You’ll get to hang out with us like, every day. It’s basically not even a job!” 

Why he thinks that’s a good selling point is beyond Atsumu. Sakusa cuts in with a dry scoff, “Do you even know what a manager does, Bokuto?” 

The man twitches, and his dumbfounded face makes it obvious he’s actually trying to think for once. “Course I do! She’ll be like our second coach.” 

Trying and succeeding are clearly two very different things. Maybe he’d be more surprised if it were anyone else, but asking his teammates for critical thinking is like asking Coach to end practice early on Friday nights. 

Hinata runs a hand through his hair, “I thought it was administrative?” 

You open your mouth again, and Atsumu catches the movement from the corner of his eye. He’s pretty sure this is the third time you’ve tried to say something. Maybe fourth. Hard to keep track when someone keeps talking over you every two seconds.

“It is,” Atsumu says flatly.

Bokuto deflates a little. “Oh.”

“You’re forcing her into a position and you can’t even tell her what she’ll be doing?” Sakusa folds his arms, dark eyes failing to hide his scrutiny. 

“We aren’t forcing her,” Hinata quickly insists. “She can do whatever she wants to.”

You clear your throat. “Guys, this really isn’t necessary—”

Finally.

Hinata starts talking again, arguing with Sakusa on the self-explanatory duties of a manager.

Nevermind.

There’s a growing feeling in Atsumu’s chest that twists every time he watches you try and fail to get a hold of the conversation. Not pity or anger—just irritation. At the pointlessness of this conversation, at the fact he couldn’t get his sets, at how oblivious his friends are. He exhales sharp through his nose.

“How about you ask her that, instead of yappin’ and wastin’ our practice time?” His voice comes out a bit sharper than he intended, but god, he really wants this conversation to be over.

The group actually shuts up, miraculously. 

Atsumu shifts his gaze to you. “What do you want?” 

It was supposed to be a simple question, a blatantly obvious one that he figured you had been trying to answer from the get-go. But you look like he’s just asked you the meaning of life, and now he’s trying to stop himself from taking his impatience out on you, too.

Your lips pull into a tight line, and just as he thinks you’re finally going to respond, Coach Foster’s voice echoes across the gym. This is starting to become funny, really.

“Are ya’ll trying to piss me off right now?”

The coach’s voice shoots an instinctive chill down Atsumu’s spine. “Just cause the season’s wrapped up don’t mean you can stand around doing jack shit!”

The squeaks of volleyballs and tennis shoes against Taraflex flooring fades to a halt. His other teammates—the ones who were actually training—turn to spectate the commotion. Someone lets out an amused whistle that says, ‘Yeah, you guys are in trouble.’

Coach Foster doesn’t notice you initially, too preoccupied with trying to wrap his head around why four of his best players are actively slacking off. Bokuto jumps to get ahead of the impending lecture, stabbing a thumb in your direction. “We were just meeting Shoyo's friend!”

The older man’s shoulders squeeze when he spots you. You’re not fully paying attention, eyes trained on the floor as you chew the skin inside of your mouth. Coach straightens, his face visibly relaxing. 

Foster grumbles under his breath. “Hinata, you know better than to invite people to closed practice.”

He bows quickly, clapping his hands together. “Sorry coach, it was a spur of the moment thing.” 

Foster rolls his eyes. Hinata’s only saving grace is his earnest approach to everything in life. Atsumu thinks he’s full of shit.

“Remember you mentioned that we’re down a manager? She’s thinking of applying!” And now we’re back to this.

You’re standing straight now, chin held high as coach turns his attention to you. He looks down his nose at you with a huff.  “What’s your name?”

You give it to him, extending your hand with a smile.

“Samson Foster,” He returns. “I'm head coach here. What experience do you have in sports?” 

“None. I have a BBA in marketing.” 

“She was a men’s volleyball manager in high school!” Hinata triangulates as if it’s the most renowned piece of knowledge yet. 

“That doesn’t count,” you and Coach fire back simultaneously. Foster grins, and Hinata throws back his head with a groan.

Foster eyes you down silently, but you don’t look away. With a flick of his wrist, he glances at his watch. “I got fifteen minutes for ya. Take it or leave it.”

Atsumu is already looking at you when you glance at him. There’s a look on your face that he can’t quite place. Maybe that’s why he instinctively nods, because now you can finally answer for yourself.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “let's do an interview.”

Foster grunts, turning on his heel decisively. “Follow me. You four,” he jabs a wrinkled finger at the boys, “get back to practice before I take all of ya off the startin’ lineup.” 

Sakusa is already long gone, and neither Hinata nor Bokuto have to be told twice, because the two are sprinting back onto the court like their tails are on fire. Atsumu lets out a heavy sigh. He watches your back for a moment as you trail behind Coach, ignoring the weird feeling in his shoulders. 

You spin around suddenly when coach Foster isn’t looking, eyes scanning for someone, and then falling on Atsumu. You half-grin and he mouths back to you, “You got this.”

Atsumu grabs his water bottle from the bench, gulping down as much as he can and wiping his mouth with the bottom of his shirt before jogging back to the court. 

Atsumu isn’t superstitious, and he doesn’t care about people or things that aren't worth his time. But he decides, for just today, that he can forget about beating his personal record and setting the perfect tone for practice, because he’s met you.

Sendai, April 2008

You never really understood the hype around boys when you were young. When all of your friends would giggle and whisper about their crushes and hopes of future relationships, you’d only smile politely and nod in false agreement. When they’d urge you to confess your own secret crushes, you’d chuckle nervously and play at shyness a little too enthusiastically. The girls at your middle school lunch table would poke and prod, urging you to admit which boy in homeroom you thought was the cutest. Eventually, you found yourself lying to satiate their burning curiosity. “Oh, Kimura is really nice to me.”

While everyone else seemed so enamored with romance, you couldn't help but feel indifferent. It wasn’t that you didn’t like boys—truthfully, you had never put too much thought into who you liked, gender aside—but you just couldn't wrap your head around why everyone thought love was so important.

Your parents had been highschool sweethearts, married as soon as your father secured a job that allowed your mother to stay at home and take care of their future children.  She seemed happy with that arrangement. She was happy to do the majority of house work. Happy to take you to and from school every day. Happy to make dinner every night. You never really saw her do anything that wasn’t taking care of you or your father. 

Not that he was absent. You love your father—he’s amazing. He did everything he could to make sure your family was stable and successful. He had usually already left for work when your mom woke you up for school, and you wouldn’t see him until around 6 p.m., when he’d trudge through the door and throw his heavy coat on the console table in the hall. On Fridays, he’d come home with a bouquet of flowers for your mother and your favorite candy. He wasn’t around as often as maybe you’d have liked, but when he was there he made it count. 

Security, stability, comfort. Maybe that was why everyone cared so much about love. But even then, you already had those things now, so why worry about it? 

In your second year of middle school, Takashi Kimura confessed his feelings for you. He had done it right before lunch, when you were fishing through your locker for the bento your mother had sent you off with. Had it been any other time, and had your friends not been standing right next to you when he confessed, you really would have rejected him. 

But he stood there with a box of chocolates shoved right in front of your nose, and practically your entire school was standing in view to watch the exchange, so you managed the most genuine smile you could and kissed him on the cheek. He was ecstatic, and you had become famous for being the first girl in your friend group to get a boyfriend. 

That afternoon, you were laying on Iwaizumi’s bed and lazily flipping through his Godzilla comics. He and Tooru were sitting on the floor, taking turns trying to beat the newest game he had bought for his DS. Every time you glanced over and caught Tooru’s toothy grin, a weird weight festered in your stomach, and you thought about Kimura’s confession. 

“I’m dating Kimura now,” you blurted suddenly, surprising yourself.

Tooru’s head snapped up instantly, practically dropping the DS and looking at you like you had just admitted to killing his cat. Iwaizumi took a second longer to process the news, too preoccupied with snatching his game back and yelling at Tooru. He turned to you with a confused look. “Takashi?”

“Yeah,” you said blankly.

“You don’t like him though,” Iwaizumi said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, before returning his attention to the game. 

You thought for a moment. “Well, he’s nice. And I told my friends I did.”

Tooru’s head switched between the two of you, bewildered at how casually the matter was being discussed. He picked his jaw off the floor after finally seeming to find words. He jumped to his feet with a thud and pointed a tiny finger at you. “Why would you tell them that? You have to dump him!”

You blinked. Maybe you had told them because you knew they’d want to know, but you didn’t expect Tooru to be so defensive about it. “How come?”

His brows pulled together, face growing a faint red as he tried to think of any justifiable reason for you to break up with your first boyfriend of six hours. “Kimura’s on the soccer team, and he’s gonna want you to go to his practices and watch his games all the time! You can’t!”

Iwaizumi chimed in, kicking Tooru in the back of the knee and sending the boy flat on his butt with a yelp. “Idiot, she should break up with him because she doesn’t like him.”

He shot the boy a nasty look, contemplating some form of retaliation before deciding that the situation at hand was far more important. They argued back and forth for a few minutes, and in that time you silently went back to reading Iwaizumi’s comic. Iwaizumi was right, you knew that. But part of you liked having the attention. Of your friends. Of Kimura. Of Tooru. 

You could find yourself growing to like Kimura. Maybe even love him. And if you loved him, then maybe you could finally understand what was so special about being in a relationship.

Kimura broke up with you a month later, and proved Tooru right. You had refused to give up going to Tooru and Iwaizumi’s volleyball practices and games for his own soccer matches, which made him claim that you were “cheating” on him. In hindsight, the impulsive and narrow-minded thinking of a fourteen year old boy really wasn’t something to bother yourself with. 

Despite this, you still cried the entire day afterwards. You skipped the boys’ practice that day, too embarrassed to have to admit to your best friends why exactly your first relationship had ended. And partially too proud to tell Tooru that he was actually right about something.

Your mother had just finished comforting you when the house phone rang out from the kitchen. With a gentle smile, she unwrapped your arms from her waist and padded across linoleum tile.

“Hello darling… Yes, she’s alright… Oh, that's mighty sweet of you!... Of course you can speak to her.”

You peeked your nose from the scruffy fabric of the couch cushion, eyes following her at the sound of your name. She turned to you, covering the speaker end of the phone with her palm, “It’s Tooru.”

You were across the house in seconds, socks slipping against the floor and wiping your nose with your shirt sleeve. Your mother laughed, reminding you to keep it brief as she handed the phone to you.

“Hello?”

“You didn’t come to watch us today.” Even over the phone you could imagine the pout across his face.

You swallowed. “I’m sorry…” 

“Is it because Kimura broke up with you?” He said with careless candor that only a child could manage. 

“Wha— how’d you know?”

“Cause he was being a real jerk at dismissal so Iwa-chan threw his shoe at him.”

“What?!” Your shriek was loud enough to alert your mother, who had barreled back through the doorway with her eyebrows practically touching. You winced, mouthing a silent apology.

“Yeah well he deserved it. Don’t feel bad, now you’ll have more time to hang out with us!”

You didn’t have time to give your opinion on the matter, because he was already begging you to come over to set for him. You agreed with barely any hesitation.

Magically, in the way that only Tooru Oikawa could achieve, the weight of your first ever break-up disappeared after less than four hours. And maybe you still didn’t understand why relationships and boys were so hyped up by all of your friends, but you didn’t really care to figure that out anymore. You slammed the phone back into its holder on the wall with an eager grin, voice ringing out as you told your mother you’d be leaving.

You had everything you needed, anyways. 

No matter how long you stay here, you can never find the same place twice. Which is nice, in a way. But also after the fifth time you ask a stranger for directions on a street you swear you’ve walked before, it gets a little old. 

You were supposed to head home two weeks ago. Supposed to. But now you’re the owner of a small townhome on the outskirts of the city and a concerningly large inheritance. You don’t complain though, because it means you get a few more weeks of grace from the unforgiving jaws of unemployment. 

Not that you have any free time. No—your hours are spent meeting with lawyers, accountants, and tax advisors. Everyday it's something new: ‘Please sign off on this thirty-thousand word document saying you agree to the terms of your inheritance.’ You sign. ‘Please don’t forget to contact this official to declare dual residency.’ You call. ‘Make sure to arrive at this time in order to meet the house inspectors.’ You wake up at 7 a.m. because apparently that's an appropriate time to conduct a house inspection. 

Despite this, your old home doesn’t seem to want to leave you alone. Who would have thought that moving to the other side of the country wasn't enough?  First, your landlord calls, reminding you of your lease expiring soon, and not so subtly implying he wants you to move out. You had thought about it after getting laid off, but now the choice seems a bit more daunting. 

Then, like some cruel joke—because the universe hasn't had enough of those in the past six months—Iwaizumi texts you, offering condolences about your aunt. Apparently your mom had mentioned it to him in passing. Good to know they were still talking.

Soon after, Makki and Mattsun are texting you for the same reason. Makki implies that Tooru is worried about you, and you cry again for the first time in five weeks. Yes, you’re counting. If it wouldn’t give you bad karma for the rest of this life and the next, you’d curse your aunt for being such a huge inconvenience. 

For all of your complaining, you had to admit it was nice to finally have an excuse to leave home. Every day spent walking past the life you tried to leave behind was harder than before, especially with how your parents seemed to be taking the sudden change harder than you were.

“I just can't believe he would do that! There has to be more to the story.”

“Well, did you ever talk to him?”

“I saw Tooru at the grocery store last week, he looks so handsome! Why don’t you reach out?”

You knew they were coming from a place of good intentions. They watched the three of you grow up together, and like it or not, they saw him as part of the family. It's hard to just forget about all of the holidays, summer breaks, sleep overs, and impromptu volleyball practices held in your back yard. You had asked the boys one time why it always had to be your house, and the only excuse they had was, “Cause we can use your mom’s clothesline as a net!”

Thinking about it too hard only makes you want to start crying again, and you swore that off after finally blocking Iwaizumi’s number. 

There is something you miss about home—the only thing—and that's being able to sleep in your own bed. Here, there are no soft comforters and mountains of pillows. You don't have any warm string lights hanging above the bed. And you also don't have a tv in your room. (Your aunt's room). A third-world problem, yes, but the thick silence that suffocates the house is starting to get to you, and you don't think you can take one more night of staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the random creaks and groans that paralyze you in fear. 

There’s also the uncanny shift of sleeping alone at night in an unfamiliar bed. You’d never admit this to anyone, but you still find yourself searching for warmth in the middle of the night. A heavy feeling sits in your chest every time you roll over and remember he’s not sleeping next to you. It's pathetic, really. 

A friend had once told you, “You get six months to cry and hate him and hate yourself and go insane, but after that you have to get over yourself.”  Blunt advice, sure, but you had to admit she had a point. 

Does it really count though? You spent half of your existence on earth orbiting Tooru. He was your sun. When he smiled and looked at you with those gentle eyes that you swore held a sea of stars, you melted. When he convinced his coach to let you sit on the bench during practices instead of the second floor of the gym, you swooned. When he practically forced you to apply to be team manager because, “Then you can see this pretty face even more often!” You obliged.

Iwaizumi hit him for that, but he didn't disagree. And if Iwaizumi agrees with Tooru on something, then it has to be right. 

You stare at the dark wood ceiling above you, trying not to admit how much you miss them. You wonder if Iwaizumi hates you for leaving him, too. You wonder if Makki and Mattsun feel angry that you never even said goodbye. The radiator grumbles from its corner of the house, giving an answer you already knew deep down.

If Tooru was the sun, then Iwaizumi had to be the moon. And that would make you earth, probably. That dynamic was always something that made you feel small. Watching the two of them shine so brightly was captivating, but you’d be lying if you said you never compared yourself to them. They were talented, and smart, and worked hard for what they wanted. The two of them had goals, and they did everything in their power to achieve them. You on the other hand were just there. 

The house makes another unsettling noise, and you roll over in bed.

Sure, you did okay in school, and people liked you. It wasn’t like you were socially inept or an idiot. But where others shone, you simply existed. You didn’t do things because you wanted to, you did them because you could. You didn’t get a marketing degree because you were interested in it, you did it because it was easy, and because you wanted to follow Tooru.

Maybe that's where your problem started. You were so content watching Oikawa and Iwaizumi, it made you feel just a bit better about your own lack of talent. 

The realization sends you tossing off the covers and stomping into the kitchen—as if that will distract you from anything. 

You had never really wanted for anything before. Tooru once asked you why you had never joined a club in school, and all you could answer was: “I’m just not really interested in anything.” He gave you a weird look that you almost missed. Spending your life trying to understand every facet of his greatness was a blessing and a curse in that way. You spent the rest of that day wondering if he had finally realized how ordinary you were. 

The kitchen floor is freezing, and you’re left wishing you had grabbed your slippers before leaving bed. If anything, it's a blessing that shortly distracts you from the rambling warzone that is your mind right now. 

The oven clock burns a bright green 3:12 a.m. into the dark kitchen. You stare, and your stomach growls. With a huff, you plunder through the pantry to find something that can satiate you until you’re able to get groceries in the morning. To your dismay, the only truly edible foods are a jar of grape jelly and a half empty jar of peanut butter. Late night PB-Js it is, then.

You twist the lid of the jelly off a bit harder than you had intended, and it slips from your hand, clattering to the counter and sending sticky grape jam flying everywhere. Including onto a white envelope you hadn’t noticed before.

“Shit.” You mutter, licking your thumb and fumbling to grab the envelope before the jelly soaks through. You flick some of it off into the sink, and simultaneously reach for a damp towel, gently dabbing at the paper.

You let out a frustrated sigh once you realize it's not coming out anytime soon. Flipping it over, you notice an unfamiliar handwriting that spells out your name. You freeze.

It's obvious who the letter is from, but you can't find it in yourself to deal with reading the damn thing tonight.

You prop it gently on the window sill, and return to cleaning the counter. At least this was a good distraction from the mess you had made of your life.  

---

The next morning you wake up early, intending on making good on the promise you had made to yourself about getting groceries. 

The neighbourhood your aunt lived in wasn’t too far from the city. Far enough that if you really wanted to, you could ignore the world spinning on with or without you, but still close enough to welcome you back with open arms once you decided to be a functioning adult again. 

Another reason to like Osaka more than Sendai.

You had barely made it halfway off the train before your phone rang. Reaching into your jacket pocket, you hesitantly peek at the caller id. Please don’t be another lawyer.

A smile finds your face as a picture of your mom lights up the screen.

“Hello?”

“Goodmorning, sweetheart!” Her singsong voice rings out eagerly—far too eager for this hour. “I just wanted to check in– see how things are going down there!”

You side step past a group of teenagers blocking a crosswalk. “Oh, yeah. Things are well. I’m out for groceries right now.” It comes out a lot less convincing than you’d like. Regardless, she doesn’t seem to notice it. 

“Good for you! Make sure to pick up lots of healthy foods, you don't need to stock pile on junk.” You can’t help but pinch your nose.

“I know, mama.” You let out a chuckle. “I’ve been living on my own for years, have some faith in me.”

“Well, I'm just worried! You’re probably so used to living with Tooru now-”

“Mom!” 

A pang of guilt instinctively washes over you. Sucking your teeth, you start again. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to yell.”

“It’s alright… I’m sorry for bringing him up. I promise I’ll stop doing that!” Her voice is almost instantly back to its usual warm lilt. You smile again.

The rest of the conversation is spent hearing about how your father is doing, and how the dogs are starting to become too much to keep up with for their old age. Your mom makes a snide comment about how she makes it farther than he does on their morning walks, which makes you laugh. 

By the time you make it to the market, she's finally finished updating you on the happenings of your hometown. She ends the phone call reminding you to take care of yourself and how much she loves you, and you’re left feeling slightly better than you did leaving the house.

Thankfully, the market isn’t too busy for a Tuesday morning. You spend a few hours hopping from stall to store, grabbing produce here and meat there. Occasionally, you 

find yourself griping over prices, which makes you feel like you’re 42 instead of 22. 

By the time you finish checking everything off your mental list, your stomach is screaming at you. You debate going home and actually cooking all of the things you just bought, but an aromatic smell wafting from an onigiri shop across the street immediately shuts that idea down.  

You take a quick glance to either side of the road before scurrying across the street. Shuffling your bags to one arm, you reach out to grab the glass door’s handle. The door opens on its own, and before you have time to react, a man steps out, talking behind his back as he stumbles into you. 

“Oh– shoot, I'm so sorry!”

He instinctively reaches out, grabbing your forearm to steady you. There's an awkward pause and you blink, orienting yourself. He’s only slightly taller than you, with short orange hair and matching eyes. For some reason, you think you’ve seen him before.

“That was entirely my fault, I should have been paying attention!” He bows quickly, already crouching to gather the groceries you hadn't realized slipped from your hands. “I’m really sorry. Please forgive me.”

You open your mouth to reassure him, but a deeper voice calls out from inside the shop. “Yer kiddin’, Hinata! Don’t go mowin’ down my customers!” 

The former gawks, spinning around to shoot back, “I didn’t mean to! Honest!” You can't help but ponder his name. Hinata. Where on earth had you heard that before?

“That damn small fry pisses me off.” 

“Don’t be mad cause you’re jealous, Shittykawa.”

“I am not! y/n, tell iwa-chan to stop being mean to me!”

You realize you’re staring when he clears his throat, holding out the bag of groceries and smiling awkwardly. “Uh, here.”

You take it with a sheepish nod. “You’re… Shoyo Hinata, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah. Have we met?”

“Not uh– not really.” You cringe. “Sorry. I was team manager at Aoba Johsai.”

His eyes light up instantly at the team’s name. “No way! Wait, the Aoba Johsai? Where The Great King played?!”

You can’t help but chuckle at the nickname. “If you mean Oikawa, yes. He talked about you. A lot.”

“The Great King talked about me?!” He gawks, and you hear the man from earlier call out again.

“Hinata! Quit hoverin’ in my door! Come back in if you two are gonna talk.”

He jumps. “Oh! Right, sorry!” Hinata turns back to you with this unsettling grin on his face, like he’s just got the best idea of his life. “I’m really sorry again about bumping into you. Let me buy you lunch to make up for it!” 

“Oh, that's really not necessary–” 

“Nonsense! Plus, you can tell me about Seijoh!”

You try to argue with him, but before you can even open your mouth, he's got an arm slung around your shoulder and you’re being guided inside the building. Which, you realize, looks a lot bigger on the inside than outside. It's got a nice modern feel to it, with mostly black and silver furniture, and soft white walls. In the corner hangs an old black jersey that reads “Miya” and the number 11 underneath it. 

The man who had been yelling earlier—the store owner, you realize—stands behind the counter with his back facing the two of you. “Osamu, you can put whatever she orders on my tab! And I’ll get another tarako!”

Hinata takes a seat at the bar, and you reluctantly slide onto a stool next to him, setting your grocery bags beside you. Osamu turns, eyes flickering between the two of you before he crosses his arms. “Yer tab, huh?”

Hinata beams like it's the best day of his life. You glance at Osamu, and then the menu above his head. “I guess I'll have miso pork, please.” He gives you a decided nod, and turns back to start preparing the food.

“So,” Hinata starts, and you focus your gaze back on him. “The Great King really talked about me?”

You huff a laugh. “More like complained, really.”

“That still counts!” He grins. “Man, it's so lucky we ran into each other.“

You furrow your brows a bit. Hinata stops himself short suddenly, “Wait, I forgot to ask for your name!”

You give it to him, and laugh when he apologizes once again for being rude. Only once you’ve thoroughly assured him does he finally drop the matter. 

“So you were there during all of the matches, then?”

“Unfortunately,” you deadpan. “Oikawa practically forced me to be team manager so…” 

He laughs, loud. It startles you a bit, and you can't help but wonder what he's got to be so happy about. “That’s so cool! Well, maybe not for you. We always gave our team managers a hard time, they really put up with a lot.” 

“Tell me about it.” You mutter. 

Osamu returns with your food, and Hinata takes the opportunity to introduce the two of you. “This is Osamu, he’s the brother of one of my teammates. And he owns this place!”

Osamu gives you a smile, leaning on the countertop. “Nice to meet ya.” 

He’s a handsome guy, you think. A lot taller than Hinata, but still young looking. You imagine he can't be much older than either of you, if at all. 

“Say, what are you doing in Osaka?” Hinata quips, taking a bite of his food and groaning like a starved man. 

“Hinata, I just freakin fed ya. Calm down.” Osamu gripes at his lack of manners.

“I can't help it! Your cooking is so good!”

You laugh at the two, taking a bite of your own onigiri. If you weren't more composed, you probably would have had the same reaction as the boy. “Holy shit– this is really good.”

Osamu laughs, a satisfied smirk on his face. “I’d be concerned if it wasn’t.” 

You notice Hinata is still waiting for your answer to his question, and you swallow. “I just moved down here. Well– not moved, but I inherited a house.”

Hinata’s eyes widen. “Woah! That's huge.” 

“Yeah. Also wildly inconvenient.” You shrug, looking around you for a napkin dispenser.

Osamu notices your eyes and passes a few napkins across the bar, not before shooting you a sideways look. “Yer callin’ a free house inconvenient?” 

“Well– it's more so the circumstances that are inconvenient. I got laid off a while back, so I'm kinda stuck down here with nothing better to do.” You pause before taking another bite, desperate to change the subject. “Anyways, you mentioned a teammate. So you’re still playing?” 

Hinata’s eyes light up, and you catch Osamu making a face, almost like he knows what's about to ensue. “Absolutely! I’m a wing spiker for the MSBY Black Jackals!”

The team name eludes you, and your first impression is how much of a mouthful it sounds to say. “Sorry, I haven’t really kept up with volleyball since high school.” It’s technically not a lie, but you don’t feel like explaining the details to him. 

“No worries!” Then, “Wait– you were a team manager.”

You nod slowly, giving him another weird look as you chew. You really need to work on your poker face.

He seems to notice how dumb the observation sounds, so he quickly continues. “You have to come to one of our practices! We’re short a manager right now, you could totally apply!”

You blink. “I don’t think being manager for my high school volleyball team really translates well in terms of job experience.” 

Hinata waves you off, as if what you said is the farthest thing from the truth. “Sure it does! What was your last job?” 

“Uh, I was on a marketing team for a small company–”

“Perfect! That's totally what we need!”

Osamu cuts in, now wiping down the countertop. “I don't really think that's how hirin’ works.”

Hinata rolls his eyes, ignoring the brunette. “Come on, at least stop by tomorrow’s practice. You can meet everybody and have a chance to decide if you like us or not!”

Your foot shakes against the barstool legs. God, he's persistent. You wrack your brain for any plausible excuse to turn him down, and fail. Shit. Hinata stares at you expectantly, almost like a panting dog.

You know you have nothing better to do, and worse comes to worse, you can leave and not speak to him again after tomorrow. You sigh, “Alright.”

Hinata cheers like a little kid, and you can't help but laugh. 

But Iwaizumi’s face said it all. You’d know that look from anywhere. You grew up with it. 

“I don’t know what he was fucking thinking. But I told him if he didn’t tell you, I would.” His brows furrowed, lip drawn into a tight, thin line. ‘So, here I am now,’ you thought he’d say. 

Your first instinct was to laugh. Not cry or scream. But laugh. Because it was just so absurd. Three years of middle school, three years of high school, and now three years of dating. And he chose now to throw it away. Like he just woke up one morning and decided, ‘I think I'm done here.’

Iwaizumi kept talking, but you stopped listening. He was angry. Probably more so than you were, given how long it took him to finally shut up. And when you finally brought yourself back into the present, you realized he was staring at you—expecting you to say something.

“What?” you blinked. 

His face scrunched, and you noticed the room got impossibly warmer. He called your name, “Are you okay?”

That also made you laugh, because in what world would someone think to ask, ‘Are you okay?’ after telling said person their boyfriend and best friend of almost ten years just cheated on them. 

“I’m genuinely sorry I had to be the one to tell you this. I don’t know if he was ever planning on it, but it's been a week now and—”

“A week?” you choked. The corners of your eyes stung.

He nodded slowly, like he was struggling to understand where the disconnect was coming from. And you couldn't blame him, really. It wasn't like he had the easiest job in the world currently. 

But also, you really had no room for empathy in your heart right now. Because your entire life—the same one that hadn’t changed in a decade—was now crumbling before you. How silly to think the universe would allow you any more complacency. 

“I think you should talk to him. He’s not going to be happy with me, but I really couldn't give a shit.” 

You nodded, a small ‘Yeah.’ barely squeaking past your chapped lips. And say what, exactly? 

But you couldn't really bring yourself to say anything else. Partially because the room was starting to spin, and because you suddenly lost your ability to breathe properly. But also because there wasn't anything to say. 

So you left. Ignoring Iwaizumi as he yelled after you, ignoring the overwhelming urge to call Tooru, ignoring the churning in your stomach that was definitely your breakfast about to force its way up your throat. 

You wanted to be mad at Tooru, but instead you were only mad at yourself. Because you should’ve seen this coming. You should have known that your relationship was spiraling to a head like this. 

In middle school, you were placed in homeroom between two annoying boys who couldn't stop arguing—One with soft, perfect, milky brown locks, and another who’d constantly shoot perturbed looks over your head, ones that never quite reached his kind eyes, and aiming directly at the former, like they could pierce through his overly-handsome face. You only managed a week in that class before the two decided for you that you’d forever be a part of their life. 

In highschool, you spent all of your afternoons the exact same way—waiting patiently on the second floor of the giant gymnasium, looking down at the volleyballs that flew back and forth—at the talented setter who somehow always knew exactly what decisions to make in order to bring out the best in the players around him. 

As an adult, you spent the first four years of your freedom following after the boy who’d taken over your entire life. And now, here you were, impulsively deciding to leave, without waiting to see when he’d notice you stopped walking behind him. 

As you climbed into your beat up car, the same one Tooru had teased you about replacing for years, you began planning how you’d make your exit. Despite all the times you’d suggested moving in together, you were currently beyond grateful he would always decline. 

Which, the more you thought about, was impossibly stupid. You were there seven days out of the week. Your toothbrushes sat beside one another. You had half of your wardrobe in the bottom of his closet. You slept next to him almost every night. You took his jerseys to be dry cleaned on your way to work.

In practice, the two of you already lived together. It made you wonder if he was just afraid of the finality of it.

The door to his apartment pushed open with a familiar creak, and you were immediately greeted by the sweet smell of air freshener you had bought for him. The apartment was cold. You didn't even bother turning on the overhead lights—It wasn't like you needed them, anyways. 

Looking back, it's funny how quickly you were able to pack your things. Despite everything, there was only so much of you that occupied his space. Selfcare products, clothes, your contacts, your toothbrush. A stranger walking past wouldn’t think twice of assuming he lived alone. 

You stood silently in the middle of his living room, watching the slow and stagnant life of the city below. A sentimental part of you—the one that held no qualms against the passive life you lived for the past 22 years—felt a tug to stay. 

With a helpless sigh that snagged against the painful pit in your chest, you turned away from the world outside. The door was still open, the familiar hallway of the complex staring back at you patiently, like it wouldn’t judge you if you changed your mind. 

But you didn’t. The door slammed shut with a loud click, a framed picture from your anniversary watching your back.

You almost forgot how annoying the elevators in your building were. They took too long, and as they crept their way up each story, there was a more likely than not chance of a sudden panic-inducing rattle to shake the entire metal cage. When you first moved in, it scared you shitless. Now, you barely noticed it. You wouldn't mind if today was the day the shitbox finally gave out. 

It would be embarrassing to admit you forgot the exact number of your apartment. Oddly enough, your feet took you straight there. Up to the sixth floor, take a right immediately, then walk until the second corridor, then a left, and it was the 5th door on the left. 

Thumbing your keychain, you unlocked the door with less agency than you had all day. You dropped your bags as soon as you entered, kicking them into the wall with a defeated huff. There was no point in going through them now.

Warm evening sunlight cascaded through a giant window, blanketing the room in tired, golden haze. The couch stood perfectly undisturbed, throw pillows laid comfortably on its plush surface. You couldn't remember the last time you had spent more than a night or two at your own apartment. 

The only benefit not living in your own home had, was the lack of dishes. You instinctively trudged to the kitchen, a pit in your stomach. The fridge stared back at you with a low hum as you opened it, its empty shelves mocking you. Of course, you had no need to buy groceries. You didn't live here.

You scoffed, the first audible sound from your mouth since Iwaizumi had delivered the devastating news of your now ex-relationship. Shutting the door a lot harder than was necessary, you hunched yourself over the island counter and pulled out your phone. You had to eat something, and if a cold delivery was your only option, you’d gladly take it.

Before you could even think about typing in your passcode or what take out you’d order, you were bombarded by a wall of notifications. Ones that ranged from obscure apps you never used, to texts you had yet to read. Some from Iwaizumi, some from your old Seijoh groupchat. But three stood out like a sore thumb. 

7:45 a.m.  Tooru: Babe did I leave my knee pads in the dryer?

7:53 a.m. Tooru: Nevermind. Got them.

4:30 p.m. Tooru: Drive safe from work. I love you.

You stared at the messages for far too long, rereading the last text over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your thumb hovered shakily. Then, a text bubble appeared on the screen. 

You practically dropped your phone like it was molten lava. He was typing. He probably knew what Iwaizumi had done. 

You failed to wet your lips, mouth dry. Staring like a deer in headlights, you waited for a message to come through. 

Nothing came. 

Everything you had been holding back that day finally reared its ugly head. A choked sob clawed its way from your throat. And then you grabbed your phone again, cursing yourself when you couldn't swipe out of the app fast enough. You were so, so, pathetic. 

Crying while trying to order a fucking pizza. You couldn't even see the damn screen, and you kept pulling away to wipe your eyes every ten seconds. Finally, a message notification. You swiped it away. Another one came. You swiped it away. 

It was like fucking rapid fire. Your phone rang, Tooru’s face lighting up your screen. You cried louder, yelling at the phone to shut the fuck up. You just wanted a damn pizza, why was that so hard? 

He kept calling, and you kept declining. All to the point where you couldn't even have five seconds before it was ringing again. You gave up, turned the thing off, and threw it across the room with a screech that sounded like a dying animal.

Finally, there was only silence. The dull hum of your appliances. A faint thump from one of your neighbours. But somehow, it all made it so, impossibly worse. You had nothing left to distract you from everything. Nothing left to do.

You crumbled into yourself.

Osaka, September 2017

Your aunt died at the end of August, which is how you ended up in Osaka.

You aren’t necessarily sad about it. Sure, you’d met her here and there, at family reunions and short vacations as a kid. But truthfully she wasn’t that big of a part in your life. It makes you feel guilty. Because here you are, sitting next to your entire bloodline as they cry and give touching speeches, and you can’t stop thinking about whether you packed enough clothes for the trip. Thank god no one can read your mind. 

The ceremony is nice, you think—not that you’d have any idea of whether or not she’d approve of it. You sit close enough to notice the intricate wood grain of her casket, and the way the candles sitting either side of it flicker impatiently. The pew creaks beneath you every time you shift, which doesn't help the throbbing in your lower back that's begging to be stretched out. To make things worse, the new dress you bought last minute is rubbing your skin raw. 

You really shouldn't be complaining. A woman just died, after all. Your aunt died, you remind yourself. You cringe. When the hell did you turn into such a piece of shit?

You’re not even paying attention to whoever’s speaking, because instead you’re busy justifying to yourself why you aren't a bad person for not caring. Well, you do care—just not right now. That makes it even worse, and now you’re apologizing to your aunt as if her ghost is standing over your shoulder and judging you. She probably is.

The service isn’t as long as you thought it would be. The worst part are the estranged cousins and distant relatives that come to speak to you, reminiscing and grabbing your arm while saying, ‘You’ve changed so much!’. Every once in a while you lean over to your dad, discreetly asking him to remind you of their names. Half the time, he doesn't even know himself. 

You keep waiting for an “appropriate” time to slip out, but it never seems to come. To make matters worse, your father informs you on short notice that you’re required to be present at the probate meeting. Why the actual fuck would you need to be there?!

To inherit her fucking house, apparently. 

an: guys I was SO FUCKING EXCITED to start writing this !!! my old haikyuu obsession came and fucking knocked me into the new year, so I had to write about my two sexy setter boyfriends duh. I don't know how long this will be, so i'm hesitant to call it a slow burn, but I have soooooooo many ideas!! This was partially inspired by 1keshi's White Noise. It's an Atsumu x reader fic, and I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, recommend you read it if you love Atsumu. updates might be slow, because college is abt to start again and ofc I find inspiration at the worse possible time. regardless I hope you all enjoy <3

You had been looking forward to winter all year long, and now that it was finally here, you saw no reason to hold back.

So, the day after Thanksgiving you hauled ass to the local store and picked up nearly every cute decoration you could find. Justifying every purchase with a, “But this would look so adorable in that one spot…” or, “We don't have anything to fill the space in that room…”

By the time you checked out and barely managed to cram everything into your car, the sun was already setting. The drive home was filled with classic Christmas songs and your own bubbling excitement as you imagined how the house would look covered in red and green. 

You practically tumbled through the front door, arms full of shopping bags. “Katsuki! Can you help me?”

“Where the hell have you been?” You heard your boyfriend’s voice as he rounded the corner of the foyer. “I’ve been calling you-”

Katsuki Bakugo had never once in his life had any reason to deny you. Anything you asked for, it was yours. If you needed something, he made it happen.

This, apparently, was the exception.

“Absolutely not.”

“Wha-”

“Return all of that.”

“Katsu!” you whined, dropping the bags at your feet and giving him the most offended look you could muster. Frankly, you were offended.

“I’m not doing that shit.”

“It’s our first Christmas together, and you’re telling me you don’t want to decorate?!”

“Its not even December yet, woman!”

“Kats, you know I love Christmas. I tell you that all the time!”

“Yeah, I figured that meant a big tree or some lights on the porch.” He shot back. “Not Santa’s workshop exploding in my living room.”

“This isn’t even that much. Don’t you at least want to help me put up the tree?”

“I don't even own a tree, woman.”

Forget being offended, at this point you felt full on betrayed.

“What?!”

“I never decorate, babe. There's no point when I gotta tear it all down three weeks later.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “I’m dating the Grinch.” Now you were genuinely rethinking your relationship.

“Oh calm down, it's not that big of a deal!”

“How could you say that!?”

“The same way I said that you're not puttin’ that shit up!”

You huffed, eyeing him sideways. There was no way in hell he was being serious right now. “...Alright. Fine.”

Katsuki sighed in relief, “Thank god.”

While you didn’t really think the matter was worth starting a fight over, something about it still stung. Christmas was the one time of year you had to relax and be openly excited. You could be giddy about wanting things to feel warm and special without feeling childish. Apparently that wasn’t happening this year.

With a huff, you shoved your precious cargo into the dining room, telling yourself it would be something to deal with later. You dramatically sulked beside him.. If you couldn't get what you wanted, you could at least be a pain in the ass and make him feel bad about it. 

Katsuki rolled his eyes at your dramatics. Before you could even make it halfway past the stairwell, he slipped behind you and scooped you up by the waist, spinning you through the air. Clearly an attempt to distract you. (Annoyingly, it worked).

“Come on babe,” he said with a smug look. “You know I'd do anything for ya. I love you.”

You giggled as he wrapped your legs around his waist, parading you through your shared home. “I know, Katsu. I love you too.”

❆　　*　.　　　　❅·❆　　　　·　　　　　　　　　*

That night, you were curled up in bed. Warm and comfortable as you waited for him to finish brushing his teeth. When Katsuki finally joined you, he crawled in behind you and pulled you tight against his chest.

He’d been thinking about it all evening. About how excited you looked when you came home. About how fast he had shut you down.

“Do ya seriously wanna go all out for our first Christmas?” He asked quietly.

You were hesitant before answering, “It's fine, Katsu. It's your home too, I want you to be comfortable.”

“Tch.” He buried his face into your neck, peppering gentle kisses to your shoulder. “I care more about seein’ you happy than being comfortable.”

You turned over to face him, cupping his cheek and pressing a soft kiss to his nose. “I promise it's okay, Kats.”

He studied your face in silence.

“If you say so.”

❆　　*　.　　　　❅·❆　　　　·　　　　　　　　　*

You woke up freezing.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you turned with a stretch to find Katsuki’s side of the bed empty. That was weird. He typically slept in with you on the weekends.

You slipped into the hallway and grabbed a throw blanket, wrapping it around your shoulders as you padded into the hallway. You started to call his name when you heard the faintest yelling outside.

As you got closer to the front of the house, it only got louder. Walking to your front door you peered out the window.

Your jaw hit the floor.

There, outside in the freezing snow, wearing a hoodie that was definitely too thin, was Katsuki– hauling a ridiculously large, and real, Christmas tree out the back of his truck. 

You threw open the door and tossed your blanket aside, too excited to care about the cold.

“Katsuki! No way!”

Startled by your voice, he turned just in time to get smacked in the face by a branch. “Shit!”

You laughed, watching as he carried the tree up the steps and into your home, needles flying everywhere.

“Don’t say shit.” He barked.

“I thought you weren’t doing Christmas?”

“I’m not. You are.” He grumbled.

You only grinned like a kid on Christmas and bounced behind him, excited to start decorating. 

Turns out this Christmas wouldn’t be so bad afterall. 

an: MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS! I know it's basically new year's but I still wanted to post something Christmas themed for the year! happy holidays to all who celebrate and I hope everyone has a great winter season with their family <3