kozu-chan

[kozu-chan]

GIVE HIM TO ME PLEASEEEE

nanami definitely loves to manhandle you. at first it was instinct—just practical. moving you out of the way during missions, catching your wrist when you’re about to do something dumb, steadying you with a firm hand on your lower back. it’s just efficient, he told himself. just muscle memory from years of combat.

but then he started noticing things.

like how you always go a little quiet when he effortlessly lifts you off the couch to make room. how your breath catches when he grabs your waist and pulls you back against him without warning. how you don’t complain when he hooks an arm around your legs and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. in fact… you giggle. every single time.

and now? oh, he’s shameless with it.

pressing his palm to the back of your neck to guide you through crowds. pulling you into his lap without asking. adjusting your posture by nudging your thighs apart, or pushing between your shoulder blades with two fingers until you sit straight like he wants. he picks you up when you’re being bratty. pins you down when you’re squirming too much. drags you closer just because you’re sitting too far away.

he doesn’t say anything about it, but there’s always that little satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth whenever you melt into his hands. because he knows you like it. and the fact that you trust him enough to let him move you around like that?

yeah. it does something to him.

“you could’ve just asked, y’know,” you tease one day, after he catches you sneaking cookies before dinner and literally hoists you over his shoulder like you’re being arrested.

“i could have,” he agrees calmly, walking off with you dangling upside down, “but don’t you like this better?”

and god, the way you squeal when he slaps your ass once for good measure— he’s never going to stop.

[kozu-chan]

i love

huntrix

but thay are seals.

[kozu-chan]

yes.

OMG Concept Art of Rumi and Jinu on a date (while Gwi-Ma tries to ruin it)

This is from Scott Watanabe’s Instagram

Scott Watanabe is so good! All of his ideas and concept artworks for KPDH are amazing! He’s also one that gave us the concept art of Rumi’s parents btw. I hope he stays for the sequel.

[kozu-chan]

my man my man my man 🤭😋

iwaizumi hajime (31) athletic trainer

[kozu-chan]

Kpop Demon Hunters: A Universal Tale of Acceptance & Belonging

I've found myself neck deep in the KPDH sauce and I feel compelled to talk about how well this movie presents such relatable character conflicts within such an extraordinary narrative. All three of our trio suffer with insecurities around acceptance and belonging. The girls also provide a great representation of duality co-existing in self - you can be hard and soft, you can be sexy and goofy, capable and helpless, confident and insecure. No human being is one-dimensional, and that's what makes our heroes so endearing.

Whilst this movie focuses largely around Rumi, the story consciously peppers in enough references to Mira and Zoey's backstories that still allow them to have engaging and layered characterisation. I'd like to delve into these two a bit more. (I'm only going to base this on what was shown and not any additional content about scenes that were cut or BTS storyboards).

MIRA: The Importance of Found Family

Mira is presented as a non-conformist, the black sheep and "problem child" of her family. Mira possesses a very defiant sense of self, unapologetic and unwilling to compromise to the expectations of others. This attitude will illicit criticism - accusations of being selfish, stubborn, disobedient. Criticisms that were likely hedged at her from an early age. Lacking support from her own family, it's clear Mira highly values connection. But she questions whether she is deserving of it at all, as she feels to blame for driving others away. When her found family starts to fall apart, it exacerbates this paranoia, "I knew it was too good to be true". Mira is acutely aware that her personality may not be the most palatable (in her own words: "I'm kinda a difficult person. Overly blunt, short-fused, highly aggressive. My whole life, those things were a liability"), and feels incredibly lucky to have found acceptance in Huntrix.

Despite being prone to a cold, prickly exterior, Mira cares very deeply about those she loves. She's fiercely protective and loyal, because her found family have been so hard won. I think this has caused her to be extra mindful on how to read people. When people have kept their distance from you, you're forced to observe. To read. To interpret. With Rumi, when she detects something is wrong, she chooses to confront rather than avoid. She's clearly concerned but expressing it doesn't come naturally. (I love her body language when Rumi opens the door and she's trying to act cool and nonchalant about checking in). These are all attempts to help Rumi offload - which is an invitation of trust and mutual reliance - what real families would do. But when that is shut down and she's shut out, it's a form of rejection and she questions if her family feel the same way about her.

When Rumi says: "not everything is about your insecurities Mira" - this is particularly hurtful because Mira's desire to understand is borne out of compassion - what her own family never sought to do. So she's trying to extend that grace forward to those she loves. What does it mean to be true to yourself if the cost is losing those around you? Will anyone be capable of accepting you if you cannot make compromises on who you are?

ZOEY: The Burden of Positivity

Zoey grew up in the USA, which comes with an identity crisis that every immigrant child can resonate with. Your sense of belonging is severed in two, and you'll always feel othered no matter which side you lean towards. "I couldn't find my own place" - too American to be Korean, too Korean to be American.

"I felt like my thoughts, and my lyrics and all my notebooks were just useless and weird." Feeling ostracised and perhaps alienated, this led to Zoey's eagerness to please, a means to keep peace and levity with her bubbly, optimistic and positive energy. Someone agreeable and willing to cater themselves to others' preferences. When Rumi is still unable to sing 'Takedown' due to it's lyrics, Zoey immediately reassures and tries to remedy. When that doesn't work, she takes it pretty hard. Her lyrics are a form of self-expression, and it's the value she offers to the group. If they're no good than neither is she. Though this moment is dressed as a gag, I think it's criminally overlooked here that Zoey will internalise criticism harder than most because of that desire to please. Hiding her own vulnerabilities in the hopes that she can 'fix' things through sheer will alone. Translating setbacks as 'I didn't do my part', 'I could have done more'.

When Mira and Rumi argue, Zoey feels increasingly under pressure to mediate or pick a side - to be the glue that keeps them together. Being trapped in the middle is a helpless state she's found herself in her whole life. People pleasing is a coping mechanism for placating in the event that others will leave you behind. We see Zoey's tendency to seek approval because she's so worried that others find her larger than life personality too much to handle. "You're too much. And not enough. You'll never belong anywhere." And yet, all that effort and energy may still fail to salvage or solve. I also think it's incredibly fitting and heart-breaking that Zoey ends up being effectively left behind after Rumi and Mira surrender to their demons.

Stronger Together than Apart

The questions these characters allude to is: 'Why can't I have both? What can't I be both? Why do I have to pick and choose who I am? Why can't I be accepted for all of me? Be true to who I am without a greater cost?' This is literally fore-shadowed by Han the doctor who says "focusing on one part, leads to ignoring other parts, making your separated, isolated". "To treat the part, we must understand the whole". This applies to all three as individuals but also to the trio as a family unit.

Many of us can only start the process of self-acceptance when others embrace us with a sense of belonging. It's only then that you feel worthy of being accepted for who you are. When you find the right people - your quirks, your oddities, your uniqueness become traits to be celebrated rather than ones that bring you shame. The girls have also found validation through their fans, a whole community of people who champion them for who they are.

This movie is proof of wonderful story-telling because I found myself relating to all three girls on some level. Like Rumi, I'm someone who tends to keep things close to my chest, a tendency to hide and suffer in silence. Like Mira, I went against the grain by going down a career path that wasn't typical and I knew the judgement and criticism that would follow. Like Zoey, I totally sympathise with having your identity constantly called into question when you straddle two cultures, always feeling out of sorts no matter where you go.

I hope to god this movie gets follow-ups because they have managed to achieve so much with such little run time, and we are hungry for more.

[kozu-chan]

i would LOVEEEEE to see this animated

i love to imagine the kind of bilingual shenanigans that first happened when Zoey got to Korea and met the girls and was fully immersed in a country that's all in Korean

she grew up speaking Korean at home, but i can imagine English is what she spoke the most when just being out and about in Burbank so that's just what she was most comfortable with in more social situations that didn't involve her family

so when she first got to Korea and started hanging out with the girls, she'll be explaining something while very excited and just forget that they don't speak English. and she's just going on and on until she looks at their faces and the utter lack of comprehension she finds there is what makes her realize they aren't catching anything

or Mira will ask her a question and she responds completely in English without thinking about it and Mira's just like "Zoey. babes."

of course, after the multiple years of being in the group, it happens less and less (she still mainly raps in English bc she's just quicker at it with the added bonus of it sounding cool) but now she just does the thing where she forgets a word or a whole phrase in Korean and just says it in English

"hey, Mir, can you get me the (word in English) from my bathroom?"

"...get the what from your bathroom?"

"the (in English again)...uh, blow...hair."

"(in Korean) you mean the hair dryer?"

"(in Korean) YES, THE HAIR DRYER."

eventually they get to a point where Mira and Rumi have heard Zoey speak English enough to where they're just kinda able to figure out what she's saying based off context but they have no actual grasp of the words

she'll count in English bc it's just quicker for her

and all the USAmerican idioms that just don't translate well into another language

Rumi walks into the studio

"hey, Zoey, what's wrong?"

"it's this song, it's so frustrating. i feel like i'm running around like a headless chicken."

"headless...HUH?"

"running around like a headless chicken..."

"?!?"

"i can't figure out what to do next."

"oh...that's such a weird way to say that, what the hell?"

[kozu-chan]

yeah being a fan in this universe would actually be a wildddddd ride. and based on other content i've seen, i could DEFINITELY see the nepo baby vs. industry plant argument and i personally would be eating that shit UPPPPP. (i'm also gonna be honest and say i would 100000% fall for the saja boys' trap. jinu is just TOOOO fine and basically my type on paper to a tee)

You are a fan of internationally-acclaimed K-pop group Huntrix. They drop a new single to wild success and its debut performance is canceled without clear explanation. Huntrix's management says something about a medical condition with the lead singer.

At the same time a new boyband debuts with a song that tops all the charts. The boyband doesn't seem to have a management company. Or names. Maybe that doesn't matter because their sound IS catchy. Huntrix is completely out of the public eye except for two appearances alongside this new boyband where they are there exclusively to beef. It's maybe a PR stunt. It's maybe because Rumi is exes with one of the only two named members of the Saja Boys.

People start going missing at a rate 4x the national average. You probably wouldn't even know about this except that 3 of the missing people were big names on Stan Twitter so it's kind of a big deal. There are four different high-traction posts claiming all the recent missing people were Saja Boy fans. But that's like claiming all the recent missing people drank water and breathed air.

Rumi is still on medical leave but Huntrix management is saying Huntrix WILL be at the K-pop Awards. Someone on Twitter's uncle's friend works in a recording studio and he says Huntrix is debuting a song which tells the Saja Boys to die. The exes theory gets a lot of traction. Twitter tries to doxx Jinu to confirm the theory but no one can figure out who he is. Twitter tries to doxx the other Saja Boys to the same lack of success. One account said she had "a lead" but her Twitter has been silent for 72 hours since.

Rumi is back from medical leave for the K-pop Awards just in time to have a massive falling-out and break-up on stage. This probably devastated you but you don't really remember it. The Saja Boys invite everyone to a concert. A lot of people who went don't remember going, and you'd call that suspicious except you also went and don't remember going.

Somehow no one in the crowd of 10,000 thought to record the concert on their phone. Maybe there was a "no phones" rule but usually there are still leaks. No one has any video or photo evidence of this concert happening. However you all collectively remember hearing "What It Sounds Like" at the concert (before it debuted 4 days later from Huntrix's label.) This does not make a lot of sense because this was a Saja Boys concert, supposedly. Someone says they saw Zoey impale at least one of the Saja Boys. You would brush this off as a stupid rumor but 2-dozen other people are saying the same thing and you a little bit remember it too.

There's a lot of people saying "Let's wait for an official statement from the Saja Boys" on Twitter but they've been saying that for 2 weeks now and no one has seen or heard from them since the concert. There's a lot of people saying "Zoey killed them fr" which was a joke at first and now, is not not a joke, but it hits a little different.

Most of you are kinda over SB Twitter at this point so you kind of don't care anymore but there are a few remaining fans who've doubled down on the doxxing effort to figure out if they're okay. It's not going well. One person claims to have found Jinu's identity but everyone thinks she's stupid because that guy died literally 400 years ago. YES the royal court's painting of him looks identical and yes that guy was a singer too, but come on, the K-pop look is 90% make-up anyway.

[kozu-chan]

I'M IN LOVE

Spiderman AU 🕷

[kozu-chan]

i love how much of a gentleman he is <3

₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: nanami wakes up in a hospital - confused, dazed, and suddenly kissed by his attractive doctor. who turns out to be his wife that he can't remember. word count: 2.7k

nanami wakes to the sound of persistent beeping.

at first, he thinks it must be his alarm clock. but it can't be, he reasons, because it's not an uninterrupted noise. rather, it's flicking on and off in a consistent rhythm.

the next thing he notices is the smell. harsh disenfectants, a mix of citrus and bleach. it lacks the smell of his laundry detergent - sandalwood and bergamot - and now that he thinks about it, his sheets were never this itchy and dry.

when he forces open his eyes, they're immediately blinded by the flourscent lighting up ahead. his eyes blinking furiously against the white burst of light to adjust to his surroundings.

he realizes his regular suit has been replaced with a hospital gown, white and frumpy with printed blue squares. his feet are bare against the stale white sheets, the same shade of white as the walls enveloping the room. the darkness outside the window tells him that he must've woken up late at night. a quiet ticking clock on the wall confirms his suspicions - 10.28pm.

the beeping, it turns out, was his heart monitor. situated carefully next to a small bedside table with water and an untouched sandwich. there's a small note next to it, in beautiful cursive writing someone has written - 'feed yourself, kento!' - in black sharpie. examining the sandwich up closer, he can see it's turkey and pesto (his favorite).

to his left, there's a single chair with a cardigan draped over it (a cardigan certainly not belonging to him, nanami notes). on the seat, there's a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle and a pen resting carefully on top.

trying to get a closer look at the crossword, he sits up, nearly swearing out loud from the sharp pain shooting up his left side. his heart mointor goes wild, the silence of the room broken, when he instinctively pulls down his blanket to see a nasty gash along his side.

within a few seconds, he hears hurried footsteps down the hallway and the door slams open.

"you're awake." you say, relieved. you almost sound like you're about to cry, which he finds strange, but chalks it up to you being a very attentive doctor.

the next thing he notices is that you're really pretty. the kind of pretty that would have made him blush profusely in his 20s and stoically stare at from a distance in hopes that you'd make a move first. you smell like daisies and fresh rain; you smile at him so dazzingly that his words turn to mush.

you then suddenly rush towards him, tossing your clipboard onto the chair, before grabbing his face and kissing him. his mind short circuits at the sudden contact, face flushing red at the unsolicited kiss. his whole body is buzzing with electricity, your sticky lipgloss staining his lips, and he almost has to surpress his whine when you pull away looking confused.

"...are you alright?" you question him, noticing your husband seems more quiet and stiff than usual.

nanami coughs awkwardly, attempting to calm his beating heart.

"i... i'm not sure how professional it is to kiss your patients, doctor." he says earnestly, but you (to his surprise) laughs him off.

"oh come on, nanami. you're acting like it's the first time." you quip, shaking your head sideways.

he's genuinely confused.

"is it not?"

you open your mouth again, ready to give him a sassy remark, but the words die in your mouth when you see that serious glint in his eyes.

lack of sleep before the mission. blunt force trauma to the head. submersion in freezing water for five minutes before geto could pull him out.

all things, logically speaking, which could result in temporary amnesia.

"you're... you're joking, right?" you trail off, hoping for even a flicker of amusment on his face. "please say you're joking."

his heart breaks at how desparate your tone becomes, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, he can't seem to find you amongst his memories.

"i-i'm sorry. do we... know each other?"

there's a beat of silence as his question hangs heavy in the air. you seem to swallow nervously, eyes shifting down to the floor as if you're lost in thought before you look back up at him with an unreadable look on your face.

"what'd you think?" you mumble quietly, raising your left hand. a diamond ring with rose details shines back at him, and suddenly nanami can feel the weight of a ring on his own left hand.

but before he can respond, a nurse is calling for you.

"I'll be back in a bit. just... eat something and rest, okay?"

nanami has so many questions he wants to ask you, his wife that he can't remember, but you're gone in an instant with an apologetic look.

what lingers is your smell, your perfume haunting the room for hours before he eventually falls back asleep.

his head plagued with questions.

==================

it's been three days since he's woken up.

so far, you've been in his room daily to monitor his vitals, ask him the usual questions (how have you been eating, any odd pain, do you need your sheets changed), and swap out the usual hospital food with his favorite foods. he suppresses the urge to ask how you know what he wants to eat so easily, and it becomes clear that you're putting in an effort to keep your distance from him.

you no longer smile wide and bright as you did the first time he saw you, your lips always pressed in a professional smile and your body never hovering closer than a few inches from him.

he misses you. there's an odd ache in his body when you're near, like he's trying to hold onto a ghost from his past that's too close and too far from him at the same time. he swears he still tastes your lipgloss when he anxiously licks his lips, which drives him even more insane.

he manages to get a few answers out of you during the routine checks. he asks anything, in hopes it'll spark his memories, but also because he can't stand the silence in the room.

the heavy tension as you avoid his gaze, whilst simultaneously staring at him from the corner of your eyes whenever you're in the room.

"where do we live?"

"fifteen minutes from ueno."

"how long till i get discharged?"

"depends on your vitals, but i'd say maybe another 36 hours."

"are you taking care of yourself?" nanami can't help but ask you that one day, when you look particularly tired and drained.

you give him a weary smile, nodding weakly.

"mostly. don't worry, our neighbours are keeping an eye on yuki."

his throat runs dry at that answer, his mind suddenly flashing with imaginations of a young girl the spitting image of you and nanami.

"yuki? is that... our daughter?" he asks carefully, his heart racing.

your eyes become so wide and you nearly choke on your spit.

"oh! uh... no. yuki's our cat. she's a really sweet, white cat we adopted from a shelter a few months back. she's two." you trail off, feeling guilty. "sorry, I forgot that you would've forgotten that yuki is our cat too."

nanami just quietly thanks you and doesn't press the subject further.

but the image of yours and his fictional daughter lingers.

true to your word, nanami gets his clean bill of health confirmed the next day and his belongings are returned to him in a meticulous manner. changing out of his hospital gown, his old clothes feel foreign against his skin.

staring at himself in the mirror, he traces every curve and dip on his face in an attempt to spark a memory. he knows his name. his friends. dreadfully, his work. but the past two years feels like a blank in his memory, ripped out pages of an incomplete sketchbook.

splashing water onto his face, he steps out the bathroom, feeling more on edge than ever. whilst waiting for you in the reception room, he can't help himself from nervously adjusting his cuff links and fiddling with his tie.

because he's going home. with you.

"ready?" you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you've changed out of the uniform he's gotten so used to seeing - now in a loose tank top with a cherry print on it and form fitting jeans. your lipgloss has become more sheer through out the day, and you're wearing less mascara than usual.

"you look beautiful." he comments, without really thinking it through. you seem embarrassed by the compliment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze.

"thank you."

he purses his lips because you're still avoiding his gaze. it doesn't feel right, even if he doesn't know you as well as you know him.

"please don't look away."

it's the first time he's addressed the fact that you've been avoiding looking at him directly, making you freeze in place.

"please." he nearly whispers it, and you can't find it in your heart to refuse him.

you take in a small breath, mustering up the courage to look at him square in the eyes.

"okay."

he wordlessly takes your bag from your shoulder, trailing behind you as you walk towards your car in the parking lot. he also refuses to let you open the car door by yourself, placing his spare hand on the ceiling so you won't bump your head as you sit down.

it's so routine, you almost forget that he doesn't remember anything.

and he stills sits in the seat next to you, not the back seat. and he switches the radio to the station he'd always listen to, without being prompted to.

"are you alright?" nanami questions, noticing how your eyes are becoming watery.

you're barely able to croak out that you're fine before pulling out of the driveway, your thoughts a complete mess on the drive home.

==================

"this is the living room.... we had a bit of an argument over what color to paint the walls but we eventually settled on sage green because it's calming. though-" you chuckle, mostly to yourself. "you always insisted it wasn't an argument because you'd always let me win."

it's strange, for nanami, getting a tour of his own house. but he dutifully follows behind you, nodding along to each of your descriptions, analysing every nook and cranny of the apartment.

the kitchen is sleek but homey. DIY tiles, vintage kitchenware, vase of sunflowers in the middle of the table.

the bathroom is small but clean. his aftershave and razor sits untouched next to your bottles of perfume and makeup brushes. a crinkled book settled by the bath tub tells him that you're a fan of reading in the bath.

the office room is busy but organized, stacked high with books and files belonging to him. there's a few odd artifacts here and there - souvenirs from travels abroad, you say - and he spots a photo frame with you hugging him from behind. the scenery says malaysia, but he can't make out the exact date of the photo.

"and this... is the bedroom." you wait for him to look around the room by himself, standing at the doorway awkwardly as you wait for the right thing to say.

it's nearly 11pm now, and you're so tired that you want nothing more than to curl up next to him and sleep.

but that would be highly inappropriate, you reason, given that he's a stranger now.

"i've already laid out your clothes for the night on the corner of the bed." you explain slowly. "i've already taken out my stuff for the night, so don't worry."

he spins around and stares at you, confused.

"but then where would you be sleeping?"

you shrug, trying to come off nonchalant.

"i figured you'd want to sleep alone on your first night. what with the temporary amnesia and all." even the word amnesia leaves a sour taste on your mouth as you admit it out loud. "i can sleep on the couch in the living room, it's fin-"

nanami shakes his head sideways immediately.

"nonesense. no lady should be sleeping on a sofa. i'll take the couch, you should take the bed."

"are you-"

"yes, i'm completely sure. i will not have you sleep outside in your own home." he replies sternly, the glint in his eyes oh so familiar. a warning sign that it's not up for debate, he's made up his mind.

"it's your home too." you respond quietly. but nanami catches it, and his stern look falls for a short second.

"i... i know, but... please. i couldn't bear the thought of you sleeping on a sofa after a hospital shift."

"okay."

after moving over a few pillows and a blanket for him to the sofa, and an awkward exchange of 'good nights', you shut the bedroom door behind you and crawl into bed.

suddenly, the bed feels too cold and empty. the blankets are overwhelmingly heavy and hot against your skin, and the ceiling fan seems to be louder than usual. the heaviness of the situation begins to set in and before you know it, you're crying.

salty tears streaking down your face, body shivering under the sheets as you grieve what you've lost.

two years of marriage - gone.

he tries to hide it, but whenver he looks at you, you feel it in your guts.

you're a stranger to him.

and now, you fear he may never remember you again.

it might've been twenty minutes. or a full hour, you're not sure.

but in the complete darkness, you can't tell the passage of time before you hear a soft knock on the door.

"it's nanami." he announces himself, as if you wouldn't know that it was him (if you were in a better mood, it'd probably make you laugh). "can i come in?"

wiping the tears from your face as fast as you can, you sit up to face the door.

"y-yes. come in."

even in the pitch darkness, you can imagine nanami's beautiful face scrunching up in worry, his figure slowly moving towards you in the dark.

"i heard you crying." he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice nearly threatens to break you again.

"i'm sorry, i should've been more quiet." you reply, as he sits down on the bed across from you.

"it's fine, i.... fuck, it's not fine."

you blink in surprise, knowing that it was rare to hear nanami swear.

"of course it's not fine, i can't imagine how painful this whole ordeal must be for you. you've been incredibly strong and brave to tolerate me this long. i am just amazed that i would've managed to land someone like you as my wife."

you want to respond, but all you can feel is the wave of sadness rushing over you again, his sweet words piercing your heart like daggers.

"i... i can't sleep." you whisper into the night. it feels easier to admit it when it's dark, and you can't see how intensely he'd be looking into your eyes, as if he's staring into your soul.

"could i stay with you?" nanami asks, before clarifying. "until you fall asleep."

"you can stay for as long as you want."

his weight leaves the mattress for a moment before he settles down next to you, his familiar cologne washing over your senses.

"can i... hug you?" he asks, voice so gentle, as if he's afraid you're going to break at any moment.

"yes please." you manage to get out, before you're full on sobbing again, staining his shirt with your tears. his arms are now around your back as he scoops you onto his chest, his rough fingers drawing soothing circles on your back. his lips find his way to the crown of your head, and he wishes nothing more but to take some of the pain away from you.

but he can't.

"i'm so, so sorry love." he whispers against your head, lips trembling. "i wish i could remember."

you don't respond, rather, you can't. he's hugging you in bed like everything's normal. he's speaking to you as if he's your nanami, your husband, the same nanami who would bring home pastries on his way back from work and take baths with you on nights you couldn't sleep.

eventually, you feel emptied out of your tears, your limbs finally feeling heavy. his steady heartbeat against your ears lulls you to sleep, your fingers naturally grasping his thin shirt, crinkling the fabric.

"don't leave." you whisper, half-asleep.

"i won't." he whispers back, hugging you closer.

that's the last confirmation you need before your breathing evens out and he's sure you're asleep, your chest rising and falling in regular rhythms.

and despite nanami's eyes begging to close, his mind feels wide awake and sleep won't come to him easily. his nerves are on fire as he hugs you closer to his frame.

looking at your face in the dark, the small green glow of the alarm clock carving shadows onto your face, he presses a small kiss to your forehead and swears to himself he'll remember.

he'll die trying if he has to.

a/n: second ever fic on this blog! i was feeling angsty/slow burn today so wanted to give the loss memory trope a try. seriously am a sucker for pining gentleman!nanami. apologies for any medical inaccuracies in this fic btw i'm not a med student/professional so i googled a few things and called it a day lmao. lowkey tempted to write a part 2 to this if this does well :)

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[kozu-chan]

oh they 100% do lmao

mattsun, makki, and oikawa start collecting labubus just to piss iwaizumi off.

[kozu-chan]

okay wait i NEED this dynamic in my life oh em GEEEEE

i feel like akaashi keiji has a genuine, unshakable, unironic love for tangled.

𐙚 he’s most likely dressed up as flynn for halloween and if he wants to switch it up, he’ll be rapunzel!

“why do you look better in that dress than i do?” you ask, smoothing down your navy blue vest.

“i dunno, maybe it’s a sign that it’s who i’m meant to be,” he sighs, looking out the window with longing, wind favoring his pretty black strands. he takes a deep breath, feeling familiar guitar strings play in his head.

“wrap it up, keiji, you’ll never be her.”

“GOD FORBID A GUY HAS A DREAM?!”

𐙚 he’s probably tried to convince you to get a pet chameleon.

he won’t tell you straight up, he’d just softly hint at you — primacy effect!

when you go to the bathroom, he’d sneak on your phone, search up pictures of chameleons, and leave it like that for you to come back to. when you do, he’ll just wait with patient eyes.

when you go to the pet store or just walk by it, he’d linger on a chameleon’s display window, whispering sweet promises to it.

“you’ll come home with me soon,” he giggles, tapping the window gently as he admires the little reptile.

finally caving in, you take him to the store once more and grant his wishes.

“you really want one, kei?” you smile.

he looks at you with wide eyes, literally sparkling as he nods so fast he might become a fan.

now at home, he’s cuddling with his new favorite friend.

“i think i’ll name youuu…. pashcal. you can’t beat the original, but you’re my special little boy,” he whispers to it, stroking its head lovingly with his fingertip.

𐙚 he’s most definitely sang “flower gleam and glow” when brushing your hair.

he has a gentle hold on your strands, weaving the brush through them softly. it’s his favorite pastime with you, especially if he needs to unwind after a long day. sometimes, he’d whisper (what he considers) sweet nothings.

“i promise i won’t cut off your hair and sell it,” he says with a genuine smile. you tense up a bit, fighting the urge to call the police, but you can’t interrupt this man’s happy time. thus, he keeps going, rubbing his toes together in his fuzzy socks happily.

on days when he’s exhausted, he’ll lay his head in his lap, silently asking for you to do the same to him. you give a small peck to his forehead before running your fingers through his hair, scratching and massaging his scalp the way he likes.

sometimes, he’ll look up at you with wide, sleepy eyes, signaling you to do something. getting the hint, you smile and sing his precious little song. after you do, he smiles and closes his eyes, melting into your touch.

𐙚 he love love loveees lanterns!!

for your one year anniversary, you took him to the park at night, candles and a small meal prepared on a soft blanket. there’s fairy lights on the trees surrounding you, illuminating your little spot. grabbing something from your bag, you tell him to close his eyes.

“no peeking, kei!” you giggle.

“i’m not, i’m not,” he chuckles.

“okay, open!”

his eyes see two paper lanterns in your hands, still unlit, but he noticed intricate patterns on the paper. his breath hitches, feeling his heart swell and eyes sting.

“you didn’t…”

“happy anniversary, kei,” you bashfully say, twisting your body left and right out of excitement. he takes one lantern into his hand, cheeks warm with tears. with your free hand, you cup his cheek and wipe them away.

“awh, don’t cry, baby,” you coo. he only feels more tears coming, dipping his head into your shoulder.

“i love you so much,” he sniffles. you smile and rub his back, kissing the side of his head.

“i love you, too.”

after a bit, you light up your lanterns and send them into the sky, hands intertwined. each anniversary, no matter which one it is or where you spend it, you’ll always end off the night with a pair of lanterns.

in bed, as the world grows quiet, you’re cuddled close to him, breathing in his faint, sweet vanilla as he kisses your head. every night, he whispers the same thing with more love in his heart than the day before.

“you’re my dream come true.”

[kozu-chan]

KIYOOMI SUPREMACY >>>>

guys my age ━━━ sakusa kiyoomi

27. lunch date ♡

"Hey hey hey!" You turn your focus to Bokuto, racing towards you with his hands raised. "Tell Omi-san to take a risk with his spikes."

You laugh at his comment, flashing a smile at Sakusa. "Oh, please. Kiyoomi taking a risk? You're asking a lot there, Bo."

Sakusa raises a hand to his chest, furrowing his eyebrows. "Wow, I'm offended. Actually... I'm not, you're right."

Another loud laugh escapes you at his switch up, going to hand him a bento box you prepared. You pause, pulling it back over towards you with your lips tugged into a smirk. "You can get your lunch after you take a risk with your spikes...whatever that means." Sakusa squints his eyes at you to see if you're lying, sighing as you back up towards the wall. "Go take some risks, pussy." You wave your fingers at him, watching as he backs away from you with a scowl.

"How are you?" Bokuto's question catches you off guard, his gaze not leaving you since he came over. He tries to read your body language, but can't figure out what you're feeling.

You hum a little, trying your hardest not to look over to your friend(?) in the corner. "Um... I'm okay. I'm keeping up with schoolwork. I was going to stay after eating to do some work but I don't want to make people uncomfortable. I'm going to eat outside with Kiyoomi, once he's ready."

Bokuto's hair drops a little as you speak, the light in his eyes flickering. "Who would you make uncomfortable?"

You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows and stealing a glance at the court. "Oh... Wait, I thought Miya or Hirano would've... I've cut my friend group off for treating me like shit." You make sure to keep your voice low, avoiding being overheard by others.

Bokuto gasps, straightening his posture and placing his hands on his hips. "You don't mean us too, right?"

You rapidly shake your head, quick to correct him, "No, no. No, just Kaede, Mei and Hirano." You watch as Bokuto lets out a sigh of relief. "I just... Yeah, I'm tired. I have enough on my plate as is. I don't need friends who call me a whore or say I'll never be in a steady relationship. People are already talking enough shit about me online, I don't need my friends starting rumours about me. Sorry, I'm rambling, I just...yeah, it's a lot."

Bokuto lightly pats your shoulder with a wide smile. "Don't worry, you'll always have me and Keiji."

You thank him quietly, turning your attention to the court when you hear bickering between Miya and Sakusa. Muttering a curse, you start stepping closer to make out what they're saying. You catch your name being said a few times by either of them, the anxiety building in your chest.

"How the fuck is it my fault? What have I done? I never said anythin'," Miya snaps, holding the ball underneath his arm. "I have to be involved and take sides, just like you. He's my boyfriend, Kiyoomi. Ya can't expect me to stay neutral."

"I don't expect you to be neutral, I expect you to be respectful. I'm not standing here calling Akio a dick for everything he's said about y/n," Sakusa argues, not responding to your presence by his side.

A scoff comes from Miya's side, Hirano standing with his arms crossed over his chest. "Did I say anything wrong? Spread lies? I don't think so. You got really weird when we joked about you guys getting married."

Your jaw drops at his statement, feeling the white, hot rage returning. "Maybe because we've been together, what... two months? Three if you include the few weeks before summer. I think it's too early to talk about that. Also, I don't want to get married. Not until I finish my bachelor's degree. I'd die from stress, fuck planning a wedding."

"It takes time and discussions too," Sakusa adds on, taking the bento box you'd prepared him.

"I never said it didn't. I said you get scared of it," Hirano corrects, raising a finger and pointing it at you.

"Because I'm a twenty year old university student, I don't have that kind of time. It's nice to-"

"If you don't have that kind of time, why are you in a relationship with Sakusa?"

"Because he also doesn't have the time to think about that!" you yell, emotions getting the better of you. "What right do you have poking your nose in my relationship? I have never tried to shit talk you to Miya. I've been respectful of Kaede and Iichi's-"

"Yeah right," Hirano scoffs, cutting you off. "Says the girl who went around saying Iichi tried it on with her."

"Because he did! No man touches a woman's knee unless he's trying it on with her!" You take in a deep breath, shaking your head. "I'm not doing this. I'm sorry for causing a scene, I thought I could coexist. However, clearly that causes more harm than anything." You offer Sakusa and Bokuto an apologetic smile, spinning around walking away as fast as possible.

Sakusa sighs, looking between Miya and Hirano. At first, he's unsure of who to scold. But when Hirano opens his mouth to speak, Sakusa cuts him off. "When I saw you and told you she was coming in today, I thought you could act a lot more mature. I think it is extremely shitty that you would stoop so low as to invalidate her harassment." He turns to Miya, sighing. "I get that you need to stand up for him because he's your boyfriend, I understand that. But I expected more from you. Both of you disgust me." Sakusa turns on his heels, bento box in hand, and follows you from the court. He can hear Atsumu start speaking and prays it's him scolding Hirano.

You're halfway towards the exit by the time Sakusa exits the gym, calling after you to get you to stop. You hesitate, pausing before turning to face him. "I'm sorry-"

"What? That wasn't your fault. They started that, don't apologise," he cuts you off, raising his hand. "Let's eat this outside."

masterlist. previous | next

summary. sakusa kiyoomi, middle blocker for the famous msby black jackals, is known for his clean reputation, never drawing attention to himself through scandals. ever since joining the jackals, he's kept himself out of the headlines unless over something good. that is until he drinks a little too much and finds himself in the news for going home with someone he doesn't know.

taglist (CLOSED). @kawoala @kozu-chan @mayyhaps @jayathelostdragon @vi0let-writes @lavender-pink-socks @kodzumicyy @alcyneus @fi-chanwrites @mdmraz @uhsakusa @sophiahearttss @jnfectedz @ascebel @glads-stuff @freakypickle @anonymity-222 @aldebrana @shozuken @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @followingmysunsposts @v3nusplanetofluv @wakashudou @sexylexy12 @nanasrkives @cloudtato @yuminako @soobinsbreadscrumbs @lover-no-lover61 @bloodb3nders @meikstv @sugacor3 @darling-eos @iheartamora @xerophyides @xiaoquanquans @oneanabillion @kitasricefarm @pookalicious-hq @idexmids @hantas-left-elbow @mo072806 @satanscornchip @faesix @lerrainesstuff @i7ghoul @goonforgeto @moonshoon @neuviloved @snoowply

[kozu-chan]

GIVE HIM TO ME (i wanna spend the rest of my life with him)

Sleeping with trueform!Sukuna (not like that pervert) is like sleeping with a human(?) heater.

The man loves to hold and cuddle with you which would, on paper be amazing and nice and so so cute but when you're dating a literal curse its the opposite. He grips onto you with all four arms so you can barely move, practically LAYS on top of you so can barely breathe-

its a fun time.

But one thing you must not even attempt to do WHATSOEVER is move from the bed. Even if you need to go piss. Even if you want a glass of water, because that man will legitimately teleport to wherever you are.

For instance, one night you were craving a sweet snack and you couldn't sleep without having one so you ended up in the kitchen.

Obviously.

But while you browsing the cabinets for a snack you felt this giant source of heat at your back.

Instantly, you knew who it was but you made no move to acknowledge it. Maybe if you were still enough he'll just go away-

"Woman." A voice grunts.

You made no move to respond.

"I know you can hear me. It is futile to pretend."

Keeplookingkeeplookingkeeplooking-

Your thoughts are promptly interrupted when you feel yourself being spun around by strong hands.

You're left facing what seems to be a large wall of tattooed muscle, as you look up you see several red eyes glaring at you with no real malice in them.

"Why did you leave our bed. It is late." Sukuna grumbles.

"I was just craving a snack," You reply exasperated, "there was no reason for you to wake up, I wasn't even going to take that long."

"That doesn't matter, I noticed your absence immediately and I don't like it. Return to our chambers at once."

"I will, just gimme a min I really want these cheese puffs." you say finally finding a snack you like. However your joy is promptly interrupted by one of Sukuna's four arms grabbing the jar out of your hands while he grabs you in one of his other arms.

You don't even question his behaviour at this point. It's more effort that its worth and just just want to eat your food and sleep.

Sukuna carries you back to your bedroom before promptly dumping you on the bed and making his way to lay back down to sleep.

"Can I have my cheese puffs now?" you ask.

The only response you get is a grunt and the jar shoved into your arms and an arm wrapped around your waist.

He misses you so bad its not even funny.

A/N: I've been in a sort of writing funk so I've just been writing drabbles atm but I hope to get a oneshot out at some point soon!

Also I was eating cheese puffs the whole time whilst writing this hence that being the food choice

[kozu-chan]

he's such a gentleman and i don't think i could live without him

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ when you’re too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chest—calm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this is ridiculous i’m warning you

nanami doesn’t even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: “ken, i can’t—i think i have a fever, and she won’t stop crying unless i’m holding her.”

your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the baby’s red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.

nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.

“i’ll take her.”

you blink. “you… you have three meetings today.”

“and now i have three meetings with a baby,” he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.

you can’t even protest properly before he’s kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice — warm and low, as if he’s de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.

“there we go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. “we’ll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.”

ten minutes later, he’s at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like she’s a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. she’s wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore you’d never put on her — but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and he’s not here to pick battles today.

diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.

“don’t let the interns try to hold her,” you wheeze weakly from the hallway.

“i would rather die,” he replies without missing a beat.

as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, “no loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.”

cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.

the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always uses—

except this time, there’s a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.

“moving into Q3,” he says, clicking to the next slide, “we’re forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocation—”

the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.

nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, “correct. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.”

silence.

well—almost silence.

from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, “is that a—?”

nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.

“yes. she’s here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.”

no one questions it.

she doesn’t cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like it’s her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.

someone tries to make eye contact and smile at her—

she beams and throws her toy at them.

nanami takes back the toy and sighs, “don’t encourage her. she’ll never stop.”

the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like he’s been doing this his whole life.

he wraps up right on time.

“any further questions?”

dead silence.

even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.

—

back home, it’s late afternoon when the door creaks open.

you’re still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.

nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable… except there’s a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.

the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. she’s drooling slightly. he hasn’t removed the headband.

“she was very well-behaved,” he says quietly. “arguably more professional than half the team.”

you laugh — or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.

he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “how are you feeling?”

“like death.” he nods and kisses your cheek.

you glance over at the baby. “how was she, really?”

“chatty,” he says, straight-faced. “opinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.”

he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“efficient,” he corrects.

then, after a beat—

“also… she now technically works in accounting.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs.

“someone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. that’s more than my latest intern did today.”

you laugh again, properly this time.

he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesn’t stir — not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.

you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:

papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and he’d still be home in time to fold the laundry.

[kozu-chan]

i LOVEEEEE how slow burn this is and how you write him the way i see him showing affection

everybody wants to love you

kageyama tobio x fem reader

childhood bffs to loves, growing pains and all

— bday fic w my fav trope for my fav boy i lorb him sm

Monsoon season has eased into a gentle lull.

The cicada song goes lazy in the drizzle, the metal fan working overtime to propel a stream of sticky, suffocating wind in your face, through your hair. Everything moves languidly in the heat, each second coaxed honey-slow into the next as the summer rainy season settles over Miyagi.

On the TV drones a broadcast where they show a map of the prefecture, tracing the path of the next storm in red-blue whorls. It won’t quit until next week. Lying stomach-down and doing nothing on the hardwood floor, you hope it never will.

The doorbell rings. You don’t get up to answer it.

Your mom might be calling you to shove all the boxes with your things from Tochigi to the side, shuffling some of the cardboard away with her house slippers, but becoming one with the floor is your only mission. It’s a noble cause for a five year old like you.

Your mother calls again; you don’t respond, but you hope she can feel the gravity of your eye roll. She talks quietly to someone in the genkan, and then the stranger slips off their wet shoes with a squeak— sounds like rainboots and— pads down the hall.

You close your eyes, listen to the hiss of the rain and the empty lull of the cicadas and the hollow wheeze of a ball being bounced against the floorboards…but you don’t have a ball.

“Do you like volleyball?”

( And this is where it all begins. )

You crane your neck and turn your face towards the ceiling. The boy standing above you is haloed in a starburst of lamplight; he’s all round cheeks and bowl cut bangs that hang over his eyes. He brushes his hair (it’s dark like the ink from your mom’s fancy pen) away from his eyes (they’re dark blue).

Well, they’re more than just dark blue, but you haven’t learned enough words to really describe it, so.

You don’t know what kind of face you make, but judging by the face he makes, it must not be pretty. “No. I hate exercise.”

“You don’t have to run around,” he tells you. It’s under-breath and quiet. He talks strangely like all the other people in the neighborhood with their smudgy consonants and pitched vowels. “Setters don’t move a lot.”

You slide your attention back to the broadcast. The weatherman is almost finished; after this, the sports game your dad wants you to record for his mentor’s son will start. “I don’t even know what that is.”

He settles down on the floor next to you, cradling the volleyball in the hollow of his crisscrossed legs; without a word, he watches you watch the athletes jog around.

“Stop looking at me.”

“You said you don’t like volleyball.”

“I don’t, my dad’s friend does,” you say, pushing the tape recorder. Your jaw begins to ache, molars gritting. “Leave me alone.”

Your mom walks by, floorboards protesting under her and the laundry basket’s weight. The whole house is like this; it’s old, and creaky, and smells kinda stale. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was haunted.

She says, “Play nice with Tobio. He’s staying until his parents are back from work.”

That’s not until nightfall, which means you have to put up with the strange volleyball boy for hours. What if he makes you get up from the floor to run laps around the living room?

You shudder.

Tobio straightens and his ball rolls across the floor. He points to a man on the screen, but it’s hard to distinguish because they all look like tiny, walking stick men. “That’s my favorite player.”

“What’s so special about him?”

He shuffles closer, repositioning to lay on his stomach like you, whispering, “His spike point is super high. My grandpa heard that he’s still growing too.”

You don’t know what to say first. What even is a spike point? Why couldn’t his grandpa watch him instead? When will this bowl cut nerd leave you alone?

The whistle blows sharply, and Tobio’s so-called favorite player tosses up the ball. It’s too fast to track— you can only hear the echo of the impact and the spectators’ noise.

Woah.

“That’s called a service ace. He’s cool, right?” Tobio asks. His feet make a slow thump-thump beat against the floor that matches the rhythm of your pulse.

You nod, eyes hunting the ball as it goes up again, trying to catch the movement and make it tangible. “I guess.”

He reaches to claw at his volleyball, small fingers reeling it back in front of him. It looks right in his hands, a key sliding home.

“I’m gonna be just like him one day.”

ー

There’s a singular ribbon of light slipping its deft fingers in the line between your drawn curtains. When it flickers, you know that the light is coming from your neighbor and not an early dawn.

You stumble out of bed, careful to land your feet without sound, and skitter to the window. Throwing the curtains apart, you’re met directly with Tobio’s beams; they sear white-gold starbursts behind your eyelids that linger for a while.

You pick up your light, switching the button on and off.

Tobio messages: You’re up.

You woke me up, you send. Too bright.

Graciously, he angles his light away. Sorry.

What do you want — and you aren’t quite sure what his name is in your little firefly language— TO-B-IO?

He makes a face, all pucker with no sour bite. You want to laugh at his duckbill-pursed lips and press your thumbs between his furrowed brows, smooth out the wrinkles in his skin.

What the heck is TO-B-IO?

Name.

It’s supposed to be like this — he flickers his beam in a pattern that you assume must be his name. It’s easy to do after you learn it, like second nature.

Tobio.

You mouth the syllables with every pulse of your thumb on the flashlight’s button because for some reason, the shape of his name feels so right against your tongue in the way a volleyball looks so right in his hands.

Yeah, that’s better. He turns off his light and gives you a thumbs up; illuminated by only the moon, Tobio is all silvery and chromatic. You wonder if all boys sparkle like shining knights.

The moonbeam shifts away with the approach of a cloud, and you raise your flashlight again.

Mine’s like this — you show him, blinking the light. Got it, Tobio?

He shoots your name back in photons, little pulses of light that have you grinning excitedly. Tobio can’t really do the same; it’s awkward and stilted, almost half-assed. He has dimples, which almost makes up for it.

You seriously gotta fix your smile, you flicker. He dials the intensity of his light all the way up and shoots the beam right into your face.

ー

You come to the conclusion that Tobio is really freaky about volleyball.

He demands that you toss the ball to him on the one day the rain breaks, right when you’re about to step outside in a pair of eye-scalding Hello Kitty sandals, clutching a net and mason jar. Your mom has to come down to the genkan and wrestle away your beetle catching gear because she feels bad for Tobio.

( You feel bad for him too— kind of. Even if his parents are at work more than they are at home, at least he still has you to come to. )

After that, you throw more balls than you swing bug nets, and Tobio’s arms look like cooked lobster shells from how many times he’s received them. Although, sometimes it’s just sunburn.

You ask him once about why he can’t just go somewhere else to play; he says that he usually does, but the nearby kid’s gym is closed until the owners can fix the roof that leaked during one of the summer storms.

Plus, he adds, my grandpa’s helping Miwa with her volleyball stuff most of the time. And you’re okay at tossing.

It’s then that you’re introduced to the Kageyama family, sans Mom-geyama and Dad-geyama. You see them in passing like far-off ships from the porthole of your window sometimes; Tobio gets his eyes from his mom and hair from his dad.

So tonight, like all other nights when the kid’s gym closes early and Tobio’s parents overstay their time at the izakaya with their coworkers, Kageyama Kazuyo-san is in charge of his grandkids, and by the same token, you too.

( Your mom lets you stay at over on Friday nights, and Friday nights only. )

“Kageyama Kazuyo-san.” You toddle up to the old man; his knees crack and his beard bristles with a smile when he crouches down to meet you, and you can tell that Tobio did not get his smile from his grandpa. “What school did you go to?”

“Ah, that was so long ago,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san sighs. He cradles his chin between his thumb and forefinger, the skin on his knuckles gnarled and splattered with liver spots. “Why do you ask?”

You twist your hands behind your back, mouth shifting. “Tobio wants to go to your school because he said it’s a volleyball big-house or something, but he’s not telling me which one.”

The old man hums and scratches his beard; it makes a funny sound that tickles your ears. You lean in when he shields his mouth with a hand. “He might be embarrassed because he probably forgot the name.”

“Yeah, he’s a super idiot. Inoue-sensei made him stand at the back of the classroom ‘cause he keeps falling asleep. Oh, did you know that I’m the smartest in kindergarten?”

When Tobio’s grandpa laughs, it’s with his head tucked down and his shoulders shaking and— Tobio does that too, when you trip over your own jump rope during recess.

“I’ll tell you the secret,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san says. He rocks back on his haunches with a tired groan, knees creaking with relief; he crosses his hands over them, wrist in palm. “But only if you stop saying Kageyama Kazuyo-san. It makes me sound like an old monk.”

The words fly out before you can catch them with your hands, which freeze halfway around your mouth. “But you are old, Grandpa-yama.”

He regards you with narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth, bent frame unfurling after a moment. Grandpa-yama has long legs; it takes him a while to stand straight with minimal protest from his creaky knees.

“The name,” he declares, forcing his shoulders back and chest forward with his hands balled and propped on his waist like some manga hero, “is Shiratorizawa.” He curls back into his normal old man posture. “Now, go to bed, it’s late.”

You settle next to Tobio on the floor of his room. He’s sleeping already, body furled fetal with his knees and arms held tight against his chest— the blanket of his futon is kicked to the side, and he’s half-laying on your own.

Tobio insisted on the roll-out mattresses for reasons unknown. He has his own bed, the frame towering over you on the floor. The shadow it casts reaches all the way to the door.

He shifts, just close enough that you can smell his mint toothpaste (you tried it earlier and gagged at the spiciness) and see his brows furrowing. Tobio makes a small, displeased sound when you tug your blanket from under him.

“Psst. I bet you forgot that your grandpa’s school was called Shiratorizawa,” you whisper.

His eyes don’t open, but his nose crinkles like the crushed paper in Inoue-sensei’s trash bin. “Shut up.”

“That’s a bad word, Tobio.”

He just yanks the blanket his way until you’re both huddled under it.

ー

Primary school rushes towards you at a speed you hadn’t expected.

Winter thaws and eases to a close; the ice that had built up under the eaves melts away with a slow drip, feeding the bushes that line the outer wall of your house. They’re budding now, little blue-tipped blooms that’ll surely burst come summertime.

Armed with your mother’s old randoseru (because the new ones at the big store in Sendai made you cringe at the price), you march the short distance to the gate of Tobio’s house and ring the bell.

You don’t really know how to read his last name on the nameplate; the characters are too complicated for a simpleton child like you, and even if you weren’t a simpleton, you’d still be too lazy to look up the meaning.

He’s just always been Tobio. You’ve never really seen the need to know the meaning of his family’s name until now, because according to your mother, surnames are so important that she made you practice writing real kanji and hid all your hiragana books last night.

A girl— Miwa, since Tobio said that his mom was leaving early and coming home late today, like all days— breathes life into the intercom. The feed sparks. “Good morning, who’s this? Wha— Tobio, don’t run out like that!”

The door swings wide and Tobio stumbles out, a dark blue randoseru hanging from his shoulders. You don’t miss how the leather shines with novelty; you close your fists tighter around the worn straps of your own bag.

When he grabs the bars of the gate that’s very much taller than he is to close it, you spring on him.

“How do you read your last name again? I only know it’s Kageyama, but like— which kage does it mean?”

Tobio latches the gate with a metallic snick. “Shadow or something.” And then he squints at the placard. “It’s not that hard to read.”

“It is,” you insist, scrutinizing the engraved characters. Kageyama Tobio— shadow, mountain, to fly, hero— it fits, you think. You jolt the wrong way when his fingers tug at your sleeve, jerking your nose into the nameplate. “Ow….”

Tobio mutters an apology and slides an arm out of his backpack strap to grab tissues; you eye him with your palm clasping your nose. There’s a weird flex in the big pocket of his randoseru, the seams stretching to accommodate—

“Tobio,” you tell him, “you know they probably have volleyballs at school, right?”

He huffs, scooping the ball out underhand and sending it over the gate. You hear it bump against some garden supplies with a shallow clatter. “They won’t feel the same as mine.”

The tissues he offers you are creased all over in their little plastic pack. You take one nonetheless and dab at your nose; it isn’t bleeding, which is good, but you sniffle just to make him feel bad. “A volleyball is a volleyball.”

His face pinches in on itself, puckering like the mouth of a drawstring bag. You resist the want to pull his face out of the expression with your fingers; Tobio angles away to fumble with a map before you can reach up.

He points down the street, eyes fixed on his paper. “My sister said to keep walking until we get to the…lamp with the cat and then turn right.” He frowns. “There’s a cat lamp?”

You shrug, reeling him by the arm along the sidewalk. The asphalt is still damp at this time of day, and loose rocks grit against the soles of your new shoes. Tobio grunts when he stumbles over a small pothole, tugging your wrist.

The lamp with the cat is, in fact, a streetlight hosting a number of lost pet posters. There must be at least fifteen dogs and cats and hamsters that your neighbors are looking for, though the hamsters are good as dead by now.

Tobio grunts to get your attention— walk all the way down until we get to the konbini; turn left. No, if you buy something, we’ll be late.

You turn to him pleadingly. “The entrance ceremony isn’t that important, right? It’ll be fine if we’re late.” Tobio just keeps looking on and on, eyebrows lax in exasperation. You groan, “I’ll buy milk too.”

The aircon breathes ice down your neck when Tobio tows you into the convenience store; he speeds straight to the vending machine, deliberating between two brands with a squint. You wander off to pick up an onigiri, grabbing the first one you see off the shelf.

When you come back, Tobio’s still trying to weigh his choice of milk box.

“What’s taking so long?” you mutter, digging around your pocket for spare change. You slip a coin into the machine’s slot, nudging Tobio out of the way.

You jam two buttons at the same time, and one of the boxes comes racketing down with a dull clatter. He kneels to grab it while you put in a few more coins for your own.

“This one isn’t healthy,” Tobio scowls, slipping your peach milk into his randoseru for safekeeping until lunchtime. He punches the sharp end of the straw into the hole in his box. “Too much sugar.”

You waltz to the counter, absently dumping a stack of coins for your onigiri. You unravel the plastic covering, digging your teeth into the rice ball; salty ikura bursts under your tongue. “I’m not a sports freak like you, Tobio.”

He grunts and hooks his fingers into your sleeve, pulling you towards the door. His nails are short and neat, skin still soft; the heat blooming from his palm bleeds into your skin.

You move closer to him without a second thought. Tobio is shorter than you are and you have to tilt sideways to accommodate him, but you don’t like walking with a lean, so you wrap your palm around his to fix it.

He keeps his words to his chest, easing into a silence only filled by the grit-gravel crunching under your shoes. It isn’t until after the opening ceremony does he slip away, drawn like a moth to the flame at the sight of a volleyball in the ball-bin during recess.

ー

Three summers pass in all but the blink of an eye.

Tobio’s not as tall as you yet, but he’s still the tallest boy in your year. You’ve gotten lucky time and time again to share a classroom, a desk next to him; that way, you always have him to whisper to and he’ll always have you to give him hints on the multiplication worksheet.

You’ve been twined by the hand since that spring day at the beginning of year one. The other girls in your class tease you endlessly, little snide comments about how you’re Tobio’s girlfriend and you are always gonna be my love, itsuka darekato—

You don’t really care. They become white noise when he stretches his arm across the aisle to tap your wrist for help; it’s lunchtime, and you’re halfway through a bite of your rice ball while your girl friends giggle.

“Hitano-sensei didn’t explain this well,” he mutters, brows angled together. “Mixing words and numbers is stupid.”

Tobio, though lonely more often than not, finds solace in the junior volleyball club. He’s learned some choice words from the bigger kids— not that you really care. To you, he sounds cooler.

You set down your lunch, chair scraping along the floorboards. “Underline the important stuff only.” Tobio begins to draw under every character. “Er…maybe just the numbers, it’s easier if you just take the numbers out first.”

You can hear them teasing you with that Utada song in the back of the classroom, off-beat and terribly out of tune.

Always be inside my heart, itsumo anata dake no basho ga arukaraaaaa…

You study Tobio instead. You’ve learned that in concentration, he tends to stick out his tongue, pinch his brows, and pout. It’s endearing; you find yourself leaning closer, close enough to see his lashes flutter and eyes dart around.

You’re just trying to get a better look at his eraser-bitten paper, that’s all. Really, that’s all.

ー

Valentine’s Day is a nuisance.

You can’t quite grasp where it all went horribly wrong. Before, in the lower years, everyone wrestled in the playground together with no qualms; now, the girls and boys have broken up into cliques, and the boys are the only ones who still wrestle. The girls flutter about in the shade and by the swings instead.

Tobio and you are the only ones who have yet to separate.

“Have you given anyone chocolates?”

You turn to meet the expecting faces of your friends. Akari, the one who asked, slips her gaze past the curve of your shoulder— you know that she’s looking at Tobio.

He’s been steadily growing, and before long, he might be taller than you. But that hasn’t happened yet, and you hope that it won’t for a long time.

If Tobio shot up above the rest of your year, the number of crushes on him would skyrocket. You don’t think you can handle more than one girl— your friend nonetheless— chasing his affections.

Akari’s looking at Tobio with so much love sickness that you can practically see the hearts in her eyes. Your face prunes like a plum forgotten in the sun. “No way.”

The group breaks into white-noise chatter.

Well, I’m giving sweets to Sato-kun — I hope Katogawa reads the love letter I put in his locker — Nakamura-kun already said that he can’t wait to give me flowers on White Day — Whaaat, you’re lucky Nana, Himura-san rejected me…

“I’m confessing to Tobio after school,” Akari says. The noise falls flat.

You blurt, “You can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s not like he’s your boyfriend.”

It’s not like he’s your boyfriend either.

“Because,” you sputter, shooting a glance over your shoulder. The boy in question is spinning one of the school volleyballs, hands running over the cracks and crevices in the sun-beaten leather.

“Because what?”

You have a lot of things waiting to dart off your tongue: because you’ve never talked to him before, so why should you get to call him Tobio, because you don’t know him like I do, because volleyball has always been his first love and I’m pretty sure that he’s not interested in girls or romance for any of the matter, because I’m his best friend, because—

“He has practice after school,” you tell her instead. The rest gets caught wriggling between your teeth. “At our neighborhood’s volleyball club. They have a match next week.”

Akari doesn’t budge. “Well, chocolates will make him excited for his game!”

You scramble for anything else. “He doesn’t like chocolate. Plus, he already has a girlfriend.”

Someone— it might be Ichiko— almost shouts, but the sound is caught in the hollow of her slack jaw. “Who?”

“Volleyball.” You say it with as much nonchalance as you can muster and play with the skin next to your nail that’s beginning to peel in strips.

Pain blooms hot and red, aching under your skin when you pull it too far back. Tobio’s going to be mad that you’re messing with your fingers again, and then he’ll let you borrow his hand lotion and give you his nail clipper and tell you to cut the skin before it gets too long and starts bleeding— you know this because he does it every time, without fail.

Ichiko laughs at your remark and Akari isn’t far off. She says, “It’s probably just something he does for fun, you can’t be serious.”

“Don’t cry when I say that I told you so.”

Secretly, you hope that Akari will heed your warning. She doesn’t, and Tobio gives a whole box of chocolates to your mom because the only sweets he’s ever really liked were the milk-flavored popsicles from the konbini.

You don’t see Akari’s face for two days. It takes her three more to be able to meet your eyes, and another to open her mouth.

ー

“I’m going to Okinawa.”

You try not to let your words wilt like old kelp. Tobio’s spoon stills, hovering over the marinated egg he always nabs when you bring pork curry for lunch; you knew that he might get upset. You’ve spent every summer together since you were five, him trying a new milk flavor for every volleyball you tossed his way.

Tobio lowers his makeshift plate— the lid of your bento. “Okinawa? Up north?”

“It’s actually down south,” you correct, and you readjust your grip on your chopsticks for the fifth time. There’s a little crescent divot in the wood from your fidgeting habit; you run your nail over the dip and it slots right into place.

Tobio tucks his mouth in, holds it between his teeth. When he lets go, he runs his tongue over his lips lightning-quick. “You aren’t coming to Kita-iichi with me?”

“What?” You push the side of your chopsticks into a soft potato and it falls into halves. Tobio looks for some far horizon just past your temple. The distance bleeding into the edges of his eyes is maddening. “It’s just vacation.”

“Oh.” He slips back into normal function, spooning the curry egg into his mouth. As he chews, he pushes around the loose grains of rice on your bento’s lid. “But you are going to Kita-iichi, right?”

You snort and bridge the short distance of your desk to poke his cheek with the butt end of your chopsticks. “Obviously, ‘cause it’s closest to home.” You nudge him again, and he does nothing to stop it. “Why? Want me to walk to a different school? The next junior high is an hour away, you know, and I—”

Tobio scowls, cuts your sentence in the middle with, “And you hate exercise.” The tail end of his sentence gets warbled by the other half of the potato you had split between your chopsticks.

“I was going to eat that, Tobio.”

“Sorry.” He isn’t. You give him the other half of the potato anyway.

ー

One of Tobio’s teammates— Kindaichi, you think his name is— looks at you with something akin to awe on the days you’re able to stay for practice.

“You should come to practice more often,” says Tobio’s teammate Kindaichi’s friend, Kunimi. It’s lunchtime, and he beelined down the aisle of desks the moment Tobio ran off to get something from the vending machine. “Hell, come to all our games too.”

“I’m busy,” you tell him, shuffling away your literature papers. “Senior high entrance exams are coming up. Plus, I’m not interested in you.”

Kunimi’s laugh is low and lazy, almost blasé. “The only thing I’m interested in is when Kageyama plays nicer every time you’re there. It’s like he’s practically in love with you.”

“What?”

The boy in question rounds the door frame with two milk boxes in hand, gliding across the length of the classroom with his head bent to look at his phone. Kunimi skitters away in the opposite direction before your best friend can spot him.

Tobio pokes your drink— banana flavored this time— with the straw first before he does his. When he passes it over, you can still detect the barest heat from his skin lingering on the box.

“Didn’t get the scholarship to Shiratorizawa,” he grumbles. His milk box slowly sinks in on itself the longer he sulks, inhaling the dairy with a vengeance. “Guess I’m taking the test with you.”

You start going through the possibilities in a millisecond— Tobio learns better with flashcards and volleyball terminology, he needs to summarize better, there’s no way he’s going to get through the English portion of the exam without falling asleep. Maybe you’ll bribe him to push through, he’s been wanting to work on his digs for a while.

“My mom’s making curry tomorrow. I’ll have flashcards ready then.”

Tobio is still frowning (pouting is the better word) when he rests his shoulder against yours. You wonder if his teammates have ever seen him like this.

ー

“I’m cold.”

Spring is coming later than the last. There’s still a good, solid centimeter of snow waiting to thaw on the shingled roof, a layer of frost still clinging to the placard on your gate.

You shift under the covers until Tobio’s eyes are lined up with yours. You study the furrow of his brow, how his eyelashes make the barest flutter as he awaits your response.

He still drags down an extra futon when you’re over. You sink your fingers into your blanket and step over to his bed— the real one, with the frame and mattress and dark blue sheets.

It bounces when you flop down on it with loose, sleepy limbs.

“C’mon,” you mumble, rolling onto your stomach and lifting a corner of the blanket, “sleeping down there’s bad for your back.”

Tobio clambers over with deliberate, smooth movements, like he’s trying not to waste energy. When he lies down, it’s not with your ungracious attitude but with a gentle slide that makes his warmth wash over you in waves.

He holds you in his gaze, brows low over his eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned— there’s melancholy tucked in there, the blue dusk that lingers after the sun has melted behind the mountains.

Should you even be doing this? He’s a boy, you’re in the same bed, but he’s also your best friend who falls asleep with you every Friday night. What if you aren’t supposed to do this? What if they— whoever they are— take you away from him?

You pull the covers up to your chin and Tobio threads his arms around your frame. You find that all your worryings are just that— worries, empty promises of something that couldn’t possibly happen because he’s here.

Tobio guides your head to press against his sternum, wordless. You can feel the weight of what he wants to say though, pressing against your ear, knotted around your waist. You card through the crow-feather strands at his nape and a shudder rips a wavelength down his spine.

“You okay?”

His ribcage spreads around a gasp for air, spine flexing when he lets his breath out all at once. You trace a nondescript shape around a knot in his shoulder, and he wraps a knee around your own, wordless. You think about what Kunimi said.

An eternity doesn’t do the minute before he starts speaking justice; the seconds go viscous all while sprinting past you.

“Kazuyo died.”

Oh.

You wrap him tighter in your arms. You can hear his heart kissing the underside of his ribs— the rhythm is stable, slow and assured.

“I pulled out an extra chair yesterday, watching the game,” he rumbles like a storm resting in the horizon, “I forgot until Miwa sat there and asked me who was leading the set.”

With your mouth dry, tongue like cardboard: “Are you okay?”

The cricket song fills what he doesn’t say with harmonics. You shift until the negative space between your bodies is airtight, filled to the brim with the scent of clothesline wind and salonpas. It’s the sharp, minty smell of a gym that has you shuddering, tears staining thundercloud spots into his shirt.

“I’ll be okay—” You pinch his shoulder and Tobio huffs out a small, not really laugh. “You should ask yourself that.”

( One day, but not today. )

“I’m being serious,” and you don’t sound very serious with your voice muffled in his chest, caught by the tail under the lump in your throat. “Always here for you.”

The compass point of his nose kisses the crown of your head when he cranes down to murmur— I know. You’re sinking deeper into the lined-dried sheets, wading through a pool of the gentle, honeyed warmth that comes from being cocooned in your best friend’s arms.

“I miss Kazuyo too,” you speak again, cheek flush to the worn, pilled cotton of his shirt. Tobio smiles that smile with his mouth pressed in a line; you can feel the shape of it against your hair. “I think he’s proud of you, though.”

I’m proud of you too goes unsaid.

Tobio’s chuckle is shaky, stained with a butchered inhale— I know.

He always knows. The thought of pressing the truth between his lungs, into the atriums of his heart anyway still unspools in your stomach.

ー

You get into Shiratorizawa. Tobio does not.

You think that he’s already accepted it, walking away from the results board with his hands jammed firmly in his pockets and shoulders set straight. Still, you chase his shadow, prying your fingers between the gaps and slipping into his pocket.

His hands are cold to the touch; he lets you press your palm to his, reeling in the heat you offer him so readily, so willingly. You’re thoughtless in your pursuit, driven only by instinct and a need to hoard every moment you can get with him.

“It’s good.”

You almost miss it from how dampened his voice is. There are cracks in it, a swallow mid-way through a vowel, a pinch to his lip, tongue pocketed in cheek.

“What do you mean?” you ask, breath going cloudy around the corners of your mouth. You shrug your scarf higher until the wool tickles the tip of your nose.

He looks down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, following his own steps like he can’t really believe he’s still here. When he speaks, it’s stilted and butchered like he’s choosing his words so very carefully. “You’re smart. You can get anywhere with that.”

You draw your brows together, frowning. Tobio gives no resistance when you pull your tangled-up hands from his coat and plunge them into your own pocket. He sags with the movement though, shoulder tilting to accommodate the height difference.

“But getting anywhere doesn’t really mean much if you aren’t there. Plus, volleyball goes places too.”

You hear his smile more than you see it. It’s a light scoff that gets washed under the sound of traffic, an upstep in his gait, a rustle between his elbow and side when he clasps your fingers tighter. Tobio ducks his chin into the scarf that he borrowed from you— he never remembers to take his own— and clears his throat.

Can he smell your detergent on the wool? Once, you left a sweater in his room; he handed it back cleaned and folded properly as per the washing instructions. You pressed it to your face until near-suffocation, drowning in the scent of clothesline wind and citrus soap.

You tilt into him, arm to arm, tendrils of body heat knitting together until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, “What’s your backup school? If it’s public, then we’ll have already taken the standard exam.”

He’s hesitant, too caught up in watching his steps pad against the concrete. Your eyes trace the path down his profile from the slope of his forehead, along the gentle swell of his wind-bitten cheeks, off the cliff point of his nose. At the end of your journey is his cupid’s bow, half-buried under his scarf.

The yearning hits you full-force then, to see the purse of his mouth, the bowed line of his lips. Tobio is pouting, and you’ve only been able to catch glimpses of it through a window, across the playground, down the hall. You try not to think about Tobio hiding it from you.

“You should,” Tobio lifts his head up, running his tongue over his lips. You almost chastise him for doing so because he’ll end up using the chapstick that he bought for you last winter; he knows that you’ve been saving it in your left inside pocket. His hand slips away, leaving a phantom warmth in your palm, “We should go to different schools.”

Did he really just say that?

You can hear how dry his mouth is when he speaks again. “I’m going to Karasuno for volleyball.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“No,” he refuses, taking in a shaky breath, “you’re going to Shiratorizawa.”

The frown that folds over your face is deep-set, betrayed. “You can’t decide that for me.”

Tobio starts with your name— and you’ve never known a sound so fulfilling than when he says it— sneakers grinding against the sidewalk when he pivots to grab your shoulders. The clouds steaming from the corners of his mouth are synced to the harsh rise and fall of his chest. “You’re throwing everything away by not going to Shiratorizawa.”

( He sounds like he’s in pain. )

There’s so much in you that wants to combat him; that you don’t care about Shiratorizawa; that throwing away everything means throwing him away because ever since you were five years old, Kageyama Tobio has been your everything and for god’s sake, you might even lov—

But like Valentine’s Day in third grade, turning around to answer Akari over the chatter of the playground, the well of what you want to say dries up the moment you pry your mouth open.

“Fine.” You lock the remains behind the pearled gates of your teeth, tear your gaze away to hide your tears behind a guise of defiance. Your voice splinters when you say it again— fine.

The walk back home is silent.

Your curtains don’t glow with flashlit fireflies in the night.

Pork curry with eggs doesn’t fill you up during lunch anymore. The vending machine at the konbini is always a few coins short and a strawberry milk too heavy.

Spring comes, and the cherry blossoms bloom too early for the opening ceremony at Shiratorizawa.

ー

from: tobi !! subject: untitled Don’t be late for your opening ceremony.

to: tobi !! re: subject: untitled (draft) so u want me back now or wha| (draft) idec abt shiratorizawa| (draft) my mom made pork curry| was late anyway. not sorry

from: tobi !! subject: Volleyball Training camp. A team from Tokyo came over to play with us. Hinata likes their setter.

to: tobi !! re: subject: Volleyball (๑•ૅㅁ•๑) ??

from: tobi !! subject: untitled haircut (miwa) kinesio tape salonpas protein powder

to: tobi !! re: subject: untitled im not ur grocery list ….my mom wants peach milk

to: tobi !! subject: interhigh haruko wtvr gl on semis. iwa and oikawa r troublesum.

from: tobi !! re: subject: interhigh haruko wtvr Haruko is in the spring. We’ll try that one if Interhigh doesn’t work out. Thank you.

from: tobi !! subject: English What does it mean when a sentence is partially inverted in past tense?

to: tobi !! re: subject: English (draft) idek what that is TT it means ur an idiot

to: tobi !! subject: shoulnt even care but i hate this school so u better beat them

from: tobi !! re: subject: shoulnt even care but Are you mad at me or something? You don’t have to go to the game but at least stop being mad. It’s bad for your heart.

to: tobi !! subject: toboke bakageyama stupid tobio ur so dumb smtimes i hate it >:/ and mom needs ikura onigiri from konbini on cat lamp street the brand w blue stripes.

from: tobi !! re: subject: toboke bakageyama Stupid Tobio also got peach milk for your mom as a surprise. She likes it, right?

ー

The sky opens up and in the patter of the raindrops, you think you can hear cicadas.

But that’s impossible; cicadas only come out in the summer, and it’s winter now. The mid-December chill has long wrapped its talons around the old wooden beams of your home, frosted over the corners of the windows and dripped from the eaves with icicles.

Your new heater sits over the ring of dust left by the metal fan from last summer; it hums with the winter storm outside. The day hasn’t gotten so cold that the rain will turn to snow. You hear the cicadas sing again.

( A better part of you knows that the hymn is just the heater’s hum. You still pretend that it is summer regardless. )

The doorbell rings and you don’t get up. Your mother is definitely calling you from the laundry room to greet your guests, but you only move to slide the short distance from the couch to under the kotatsu, feigning sleep.

Getting your feet warm again is the only thing you care about right now.

( Has this happened before? )

The cicada choirs cease their hum when the thunder gets too loud. Tobio— because you know that the footsteps are Tobio’s, he walks with the same caution and purpose from the court— pads over. When he crouches down, his knees crack, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Stupid Tobio,” he mutters. You can see his dumb little pout in your mind. “Not that stupid, I can be smart sometimes.”

You nearly stop pretending when you feel a cool hand on your forehead. But Tobio sighs in the absence of your response, clothes rustling with movement— he’s pulling the edge of the kotatsu’s blanket higher over your shoulder.

The cuff of his sweater brushes against the swell of your cheek; it’s damp, and you can smell petrichor on the threadbare fabric.

He ran up to the cat lamp konbini and back for you in the rain. He’s soaking wet and here he is, pulling up your blanket and checking if you’re sick or not.

“Can’t even work a kotatsu properly,” Tobio continues, cranking up the temperature until you’re sure that you’ve begun to sweat under the covers. “You’re the stupid one.”

He sets down something by your head, floorboards creaking as he stands, unfurls his spine, walks away. You crack your eyes open to a sliver.

It’s the peach milk.

The thing about Tobio is this: he doesn’t just ask if you could share your food or help him with a problem. He skates around what he really wants in hopes that you’ll be the one to pick apart the things he can’t express.

In this breadcrumb-trail language, pulling up the blanket and running errands in the rain is tantamount to I miss you.

Later, he slides his legs alongside yours under the kotatsu. You take a peek— he’s wearing the pajamas you always keep for him in the topmost drawer of your wardrobe.

“I know you’re awake.” Talk to me.

You shut your eyes tighter and feign a sleepy grumble, scooting away.

Tobio sighs. “I’m gonna drink your milk, it’s getting warm.”

“You’re a meanie.” Say sorry.

“And who’s the one ignoring me for a year?”

This is certainly a bruise to your pride, being made to apologize before he does. But then again, you’re equally as guilty for the ongoing feud with your best friend, opting for prickly exchanges and stiff greetings when you both happen to leave the house at the same time.

You huff and shuffle forward, resting your temple on his thighs, wreathing his waist with the cage of your arms. Tobio doesn’t seem to mind being held captive— instead, he maneuvers so that the sliver of space between you and his solar plexus is infinitesimal.

Here, you can feel every breath he takes. It’s more…intimate than it should be, but those worms of thought are banished by Tobio’s hand resting on your head. He’s warm, a lot warmer than the kotatsu.

“We’re going to Nationals,” he says to fill the silence. “Do you…want to go to the temple together on New Year’s? For good luck.”

“Yea.” It comes out before you can think. “I miss being with you.”

Tobio’s fingers slide tentatively from your crown to your temple, then lower until his palm cups your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth. You swallow when you look to catch your best friend (more than, please, more than) slowly turning pink.

You had forgotten that he has dimples. The little dip in his cheek is still there when he suppresses his smile, all the same.

Everything thaws.

You might be seeing spring.

— 7.2k words later,, haii,, if u read thru all the yap abt tobio then ur legally obligated to reblog with tags!! /hj but pretty pls give me ur thoughts i will eat them all for breakfast lunch dinner and dessert <3

© mawaaru 2024 :: do not repost, plagiarize, translate, modify, or use ANY works to train ai

[kozu-chan]

this might just be my favorite oikawa fic of all time 🤭🤭

miss second place

oikawa tooru is always first — in volleyball, in school, and in everyone’s hearts. she’s second, but fiercely competitive and determined to keep up. their rivalry is electric, but beneath the teasing and tension, something deeper stirs.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers

wc: 8.9k

author's note: i'll consider this as one of my personal faves since academic rivals is one of my favorite tropes and this was so longggg but i hope you guys will enjoy it <333

the clock flashes 7:48 p.m. in angry red digits—mocking, almost. this is well past the hour anyone with a shred of sanity would still be in school, let alone buried under a mountain of paperwork.

the student council room glows in soft lamplight, golden and too calm for the storm in your head. folders are splayed out in organized chaos, pages fluttering as you scrawl in tight, no-nonsense lines. your pen moves like a weapon.

then—like clockwork, or a curse—the door slides open.

"still slaving away, miss second place?"

oikawa tooru’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and irritating, like expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. you don’t have to look to know the exact smirk on his face. you can feel it.

your pen freezes.

"get out, tooru."

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. he sinks into the seat across from you like he owns the place, his seijoh jacket barely hanging off one shoulder, hair damp and tousled just right—like some overachieving drama prince straight from practice. even now, a faint sheen of sweat clings to his neck in a way that makes you want to look away and stare all at once.

you hate him. you really do.

"this room is for student council members only," you snap, eyes still on your paper.

"good thing i’m special." he props his chin on one hand, lashes fluttering in mock innocence. "joint authority, remember? besides, aren’t you tired of playing president all alone? i came to keep you company."

you finally glance up, and yes—there it is. that grin. the one that says he knows exactly how far under your skin he is.

"you’re not helping. and your definition of 'company' feels more like pest control."

"then it’s working." he leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse twitch. "wouldn’t want you to collapse from overwork before i get the chance to beat you on next week’s midterms."

you don’t hesitate—you grab the nearest piece of scrap paper, crumple it, and peg it at his annoyingly symmetrical face. it hits him square on the cheek, and he jerks back with a dramatic flinch like you’ve stabbed him.

"get out, pretty boy, or i’m telling hajime you’re still here after hours."

that gets a reaction. he presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply—emotionally, theatrically.

"that hurts, prez," he says, lips curling into a mock pout. "using my best friend against me? i thought we had something special."

"we do. it’s called mutual disdain."

he grins wider, as if that’s exactly what he wanted you to say. "funny. that’s my favorite love language."

as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the desk. you glance down, thumb flicking the screen open.

iwaizumi hajime: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again also tell him to shower before he starts flirting, he smells like gym socks and ego

your brow twitches.

"speak of the devil," you mutter, holding the screen up so oikawa can see. "your handler says it’s bedtime."

oikawa squints at the message, then gasps—actual, audible gasp.

"rude. gym socks?" he whines, sniffing his sleeve like that’ll help his case. "i smell like victory. and maybe just a hint of mango body wash."

"you smell like someone who thinks cologne is a substitute for personality."

"you wound me again." he sprawls back in the chair like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance. "first the paper attack, now this? one day, you’ll admit you’re obsessed with me, and i’ll pretend to be surprised."

"when hell freezes over."

"can’t wait, miss number two."

he winks, and it takes everything in you not to launch a stapler this time.

she remembered the first time he called her number two.

she was six, standing next to the gold-framed board of top test scores in the elementary school hallway. his name was at the top—bold, smug, infuriating. hers was right beneath.

oikawa had turned to her with a dazzling smile and said, "you’re pretty smart, number two."

so she’d kicked him in the shin.

he cried. she got detention. balance, briefly, was restored.

but he kept calling her that. every year, every test, every time she pushed herself just a little harder—he was always a step ahead, always grinning like he knew. like it was some private joke only he was in on.

and now here he was, still grinning across a student council desk stacked with forms and expectations, like he hadn’t haunted her entire academic life.

"still holding onto that nickname, prez?"

his voice yanked her back to the present.

you glare.

"you mean the one that got you kicked in the leg? yeah, fond memories."

"worth it," he says, leaning back like he’s proud of the scar you definitely didn’t leave. "you gave yourself a villain origin story, and i got a fan for life."

"delusional. impressive, but delusional."

"comes with the genius territory."

you chuck another crumpled paper at his head. he dodges—barely—and laughs like he’s won anyway.

you hate that sound.

you really hate how much you don’t.

it wasn’t always like this. or maybe it always was.

another memory surfaces before you can stop it—middle school, kitagawa daiichi, the golden age of bad haircuts and worse attitudes.

he’d just been named volleyball captain. you’d just topped the midterms for the first time in years. for once, your name was above his on the results board. you still remembered the silence when he walked up to check the list, eyebrows raised.

"look at that," he’d said, mock-shocked. "the earth’s off its axis."

you’d smirked. "guess it was bound to happen. number one fits me better anyway."

he opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, iwaizumi’s firm voice cut through the tension.

"enough, tooru." iwaizumi stepped between you two, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "you’ve been going at this since elementary school. if you don’t stop, i’m telling coach to bench you."

oikawa scowled, but iwaizumi’s stare didn’t waver.

you exchanged a brief look with iwaizumi—part gratitude, part shared exhaustion.

oikawa sighed dramatically, but the edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. then he looked at you—really looked at you—and smiled, slow and unreadable.

"wear it while you can," he said quietly.

you’d thought about that moment more than you’d admit. not just the words, but the way he’d said them. like it wasn’t war anymore—like it was something closer, messier.

but of course, at the finals of your third year, oikawa was number one again—snatching the top spot effortlessly and infuriatingly like it was always meant to be his.

.and the rivalry didn’t stop there.

it followed you into high school like a shadow you couldn’t shake. he went all in on volleyball with iwaizumi at his side, carving out his name on the court with that same relentless brilliance that always kept him just one step ahead.

and you? you went for student council. naturally. there were fewer scoreboards, but the stakes were still high-recommendations, university prospects, the unspoken war for who would stand tallest by the end of it all.

by third year, the stage was set.

he was the captain of the seijoh volleyball team. you were the student council president.

two crowns. two thrones.

two people still acting like the world might stop turning if the other one ever admitted defeat.

and yet, somehow, despite all the years and fights and thrown stationery, oikawa tooru kept finding excuses to wander into your territory.

like now—his jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from practice, that smug glint in his eyes making itself comfortable across the desk from you.

"you’re really going to keep pretending i don’t make your evenings more exciting?" he stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual. "i bet the paperwork misses me when i’m gone."

you give him a flat look. "i bet your team does too. shouldn’t you be terrorizing first-years or something?"

"they’re fine." he leans in, eyes dancing. "besides, this is way more fun. watching you pretend you don’t enjoy the company."

you toss another crumpled paper at his head. he doesn’t even flinch this time.

and still—he doesn’t leave.

"you know," oikawa says, tapping his fingers against your desk, "you’ve never denied having a crush on me. statistically speaking, silence is admissi—"

the door slides open.

"knew it."

iwaizumi stands there with a look that could flatten a first-year.

"my gut told me you weren’t home yet and i was right." he steps fully into the room, arms crossed. "why am i not surprised you’re harassing the student council president after hours again?"

"harassing?" oikawa gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "i was keeping her company! she's lonely—"

iwaizumi walks over and grabs him by the collar.

"no, she’s busy. you’re the lonely one."

"rude!" oikawa protests, letting himself get hauled up like a sack of potatoes. "at least let me say goodbye!"

iwaizumi ignores him completely, nods politely in your direction.

"sorry. won’t happen again."

you raise an eyebrow.

"it will."

iwaizumi sighs. "yeah. i know."

oikawa, being physically dragged out of the room like some overgrown cat, turns his head with a grin and calls out:

"goodnight, number two~!"

you chuck a pen at the closing door. it bounces harmlessly off the frame.

you don’t miss the way your lips twitch—just barely—before you shake your head and dive back into your paperwork.

oikawa trudged down the hallway, iwaizumi’s grip still firm on his collar.

"you really don’t know when to quit, do you?" iwaizumi muttered, voice low but steady.

oikawa shrugged, flashing that trademark grin. "where’s the fun in quitting? besides, she was actually... tolerating me tonight."

iwaizumi scoffed. "tolerating you is the bare minimum. you’re lucky she didn’t throw a stapler."

oikawa laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "true. i’ll take it as a win."

they slowed near the exit. iwaizumi glanced over, eyebrows raised.

"you’re really still hung up on her, huh?"

oikawa’s grin faltered just a bit, eyes darkening with something more complicated. "yeah."

iwaizumi shook his head, a rare softness in his voice. "just don’t mess it up, crappykawa."

oikawa smirked again but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as they stepped out into the cool night.

the next afternoon, you stood just outside the gym doors, clipboard in hand, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. you needed to watch their practice—study their form, their movements, everything—so you could finalize the program for the upcoming school festival. it wasn’t like you wanted an excuse to see oikawa again, but if you did, this was as good as any.

oikawa was in the center of the court, barking orders with that usual mix of charm and command. iwaizumi was by his side, steady as ever.

the moment oikawa spotted you by the bleachers, his whole aura shifted—like a dog finally spotting its owner after a long day. his usual confident grin softened into something warmer, and his eyes locked onto you with unmistakable recognition.

iwaizumi, noticing this change, let out a long, exasperated sigh. he glanced sideways at oikawa, who was already weaving through the players and heading straight toward you without a second thought.

iwaizumi muttered under his breath: "here we go again."

“oi, miss number two, you’re here to watch me?” oikawa called out with a cheeky grin as he closed the distance.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “tooru, where’s the form? i’ve told you so many times to get it to me for the festival.”

he scratched the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish smile. “well, you see... i haven’t finished it yet?”

your patience snapped. “are you serious, tooru? i reminded you all last week.”

he held up his hands in mock surrender. “i’ll give it to you personally—later. or tomorrow.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s exactly what i’m trying to avoid. i don’t want to deal with you more than i have to.”

“promise, i’ll give it to you.” oikawa said, his grin softening just enough to sound sincere.

you let out a long sigh, feeling like you’d run out of options. it took every ounce of patience not to strangle seijoh’s volleyball captain right here in front of his teammates.

“i’m dead serious, tooru.” you warned, eyes locking with his. “this is the last time i’m asking.”

“not gonna stay to see my greatness?” he teased, voice dripping with mock confidence as you reached the door, already turning to leave.

“heck no,” you shot back without missing a beat, pushing the door open with a smirk.

as you stepped out of the gym, the cool air hit your face, a welcome relief from the noisy chaos inside. just behind you, iwaizumi barely held back a grin as he grabbed a volleyball and flung it straight at oikawa.

“stupid,” he snapped, voice low but amused, “you already finished the form last week.”

oikawa caught the ball with an exaggerated wince, clutching his chest dramatically. “that hurts, iwa-chan,” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “and besides, it’s kind of cute to see her reaction.”

iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing another ball and launching it at him without hesitation. “yeah, well, quit wasting time and give it to her already.”

oikawa dodged the second ball with a laugh, shaking his head. “fine, fine. next time, i swear.”

iwaizumi’s glare softened just a little as he watched his friend, then glanced after you, who was already walking away, clipboard pressed to your chest.

from the sidelines, hanamaki and matsukawa leaned casually against the gym wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with amused grins.

hanamaki nudged matsukawa, smirking. “so this is what it feels like to watch a romcom with a slow burn,” he said, eyes following oikawa’s playful dodges and iwaizumi’s half-exasperated throws.

matsukawa chuckled, shaking his head. “yeah, all the teasing, the back-and-forth… i swear, if they had a soundtrack right now, it’d be some dramatic love theme playing nonstop.”

hanamaki laughed softly. “and you just know they’re both secretly enjoying every second of it, even if they’d never admit it.”

matsukawa’s grin widened. “at this rate, the whole school’s waiting for them to actually drop the act and say what’s really going on.”

they shared a glance, silent agreement passing between them, like two longtime spectators watching a match far more interesting than any volleyball game on the court.

“slow burn or not,” hanamaki said with a sigh, “this is definitely one for the books.”

as dusk settled over the school, the student council room lay bathed in the soft glow of fading daylight. the usual hum of activity had long since faded, replaced by a stillness that felt almost sacred. papers were strewn across the desk, pens resting where they had been abandoned. and there, slumped over the wood, you were fast asleep—exhaustion having finally claimed you.

outside the sliding door, oikawa stood quietly, the folded form clutched carefully in his hands. the room was unusually silent, heavier than usual, and for a moment he hesitated. but then, with slow deliberate steps, he pushed the door open, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.

he found you exactly as he’d expected—head resting on your folded arms, chest rising and falling in steady, tired rhythm. something softened in his usually mischievous grin. without a word, he shrugged off his seijoh jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders. the fabric settled warmly around you, a quiet shield against the chill of the evening.

unseen by oikawa, hanamaki and matsukawa lingered just beyond the doorframe, having followed him silently. hanamaki’s eyes widened in surprise as he whispered, “did you just see that? tooru put his jacket on her.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “he’s got layers, huh? who knew?”

before they could say more, iwaizumi appeared, arms crossed and wearing his trademark disapproving glare. “cut it out, you two. give them some space,” he ordered, tugging them gently away.

back inside, oikawa carefully placed the folded form on the desk beside you. he lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the peaceful lines of your face. then, with a faint, almost shy smile, he quietly stepped out, sliding the door softly behind him.

the sound of the door clicking shut stirred you from your sleep. you blinked blearily, the room still dim but quiet once again. then, a soft warmth caught your attention—a weight across your shoulders that wasn’t there before.

you lifted your hands, fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of oikawa’s jacket wrapped gently around you. a slow smile spread over your tired face, the silent gesture lingering in your mind as you reached out to the neatly folded papers beside you.

the rivalry, the teasing, the endless back-and-forth—it all melted away in that moment, replaced by something quieter, something real.

and for once, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the hardest battles led to the sweetest victories.

midterms season finally arrived—the unavoidable trial before the school festival’s bright chaos. you barely remembered what a full night’s sleep felt like, caught between finalizing festival preparations and cramming for exams. exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, but beneath it all, a quiet confidence simmered.

this time, you told yourself, it would be different.

you were pumped, ready to finally see your name soaring above oikawa’s on the class rankings—a victory long overdue. every sleepless night, every rushed note had been worth it. today, you thought, today would be the day the score finally tipped in your favor.

well, that was what you thought.

now, here you were—standing in front of the cold, unforgiving bulletin board, eyes scanning the list you’d been waiting for. your heart sank the moment you saw it: your name, again, just below oikawa’s.

but what stung the most wasn’t that you’d lost—no, it was the margin. one point.

one. single. damn. point.

a flush of frustration and disbelief rushed through you, hot and sharp. you had pushed yourself harder than ever this time. late nights, skipped meals, endless revisions—all for this? to fall short by a fraction that felt like a cruel joke?

you clenched your fists, the bitterness bubbling beneath the surface. how did he do it again? how did he always manage to stay one step ahead, grinning like he owned the game?

the weight of the rivalry pressed down on you heavier than ever. and in that moment, the silent promise you’d made years ago—to beat him, no matter what—felt more urgent, more necessary, than ever.

fuck.

from behind you, the murmur of students drifted over—mostly girls, their voices bright with excitement and praise.

“oikawa’s number one again! no surprise there.” “he’s amazing, isn’t he?” “i heard he stayed up all night studying for this!”

their words stung sharper than you expected, a chorus of admiration that only deepened the ache of coming in second—again.

you forced yourself to breathe, to steady the storm inside. but the familiar voice cutting through the noise was unmistakable.

“hey, number two,” oikawa’s teasing drawl came from just behind you, his grin smug as ever.

and just like that, the tension that had been building snapped into something sharper, more combustible.

“don’t talk to me, oikawa,” you said sharply, your voice low but slicing through the chatter like a razor.

without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and strode away, each step heavy with the weight of frustration and bitter disappointment. behind you, oikawa stood frozen for a moment, his usual cocky smirk fading into a flicker of confusion.

hanamaki appeared beside him, arms crossed and wearing an amused yet knowing grin. “i guess the prez finally broke down, huh?” he said quietly, nudging oikawa with an elbow.

oikawa ran a hand through his tousled hair, his grin slowly returning but tinged with something softer, almost reluctant.

“yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “maybe this time, it’s not just a game to her.”

just then, iwaizumi and matsukawa joined the group, having caught up after following the scene. iwaizumi’s usual stern gaze softened as he looked at his two friends.

“you’ve been pushing her for years, tooru,” iwaizumi said, arms crossed, voice steady. “maybe now she’s finally pushing back.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile on his lips. “she’s tougher than she looks. and she’s not someone you just toy with.”

oikawa’s eyes flickered back toward the direction you’d gone, narrowing thoughtfully. “for me, it’s never been just a game. it’s how i make sure she always notices me.”

hanamaki shook his head with a chuckle. “you’ve been poking the bear for so long, tooru. you might finally find out what happens when she fights back.”

iwaizumi added, “you might want to be ready for that. she’s not the same girl you knew in middle school.”

there was a pause before hanamaki nudged oikawa again, a teasing grin on his face. “because you should’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

oikawa’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure, a mixture of admiration, respect, and something almost like awe settling into his eyes. “i don’t know if i’m ready for that,” he confessed quietly.

but even as he said it, the weight of the rivalry hung heavy in the air—an unspoken truth between them all. a fragile line between competition, irritation… and something far more complicated.

instead of heading to practice like he usually did, oikawa found himself walking toward the student council room, a strange pull guiding his steps. the hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. when he pushed open the door, you weren’t there.

he frowned, then glanced at the small window near the ceiling. without hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the rooftop—because he knew you.

he knew that when the weight of everything got too much, this was where you’d retreat. where you could breathe, away from deadlines, expectations, and the constant pressure to be perfect.

when he reached the rooftop, he found you sitting alone, legs drawn up to your chest, eyes staring off into the distance like you were somewhere far away.

for a moment, oikawa just watched, the usual confident grin replaced by something softer—almost protective. he wasn’t sure if you wanted company, but he wasn’t about to leave you here alone. not today.

“leave me alone, oikawa,” you said without looking up, but you knew it was him.

he froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—because you usually called him tooru, not by his last name.

the shift in tone, the distance in your voice—it hit him harder than he expected. for once, he wasn’t sure how to break through the wall you’d put up.

“are you—”

he barely got the words out before you cut him off, sharper this time.

“i said leave me alone, tooru.”

you finally looked up at him then, eyes tired, voice strained—not angry, but worn down, like something in you had finally snapped under the pressure.

and oikawa—he wasn’t used to that tone from you. not the teasing, not the competitive spark. just… exhaustion. disappointment.

for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words died in his throat.

you stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open—because he was just standing there, still looking at you like you were supposed to be fine. like you could keep doing this. like you hadn’t been breaking little by little.

“you know what’s worse than losing to you?” you said, voice trembling at the edges. “it’s how easy you make it look. like you don’t even try. like you don’t lose sleep. like you’re not terrified of not being enough.”

oikawa blinked, stunned silent.

you looked away, laughing bitterly. “you walk around like everything falls into place for you. and maybe it does, maybe it always will—but i have to fight for every little thing. i have to be perfect or it's not enough. i have to keep up or i’m a disappointment.”

your hands curled tightly into fists.

“so yeah. maybe i get annoyed when you call me number two. maybe i’m tired of always coming in second to you. maybe i’m just—” you swallowed hard, voice dropping, “—tired. of being not enough.”

you didn’t mention the way your parents' voices echoed in your head when you saw the results. you didn’t say how silence at home cut deeper than any scolding. you didn’t say how that one point wasn’t just a number—it was everything they’d use to remind you you weren’t quite there yet.

you just sat there, all of it pressing down on your shoulders like stone, unable to look at him anymore. afraid that if you did, the whole damn dam would burst.

“so tooru,” you muttered, each word sharper than the last, “if you’re just going to stand there to make fun of me…”

your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, jaw clenched as you finished, “just leave me alone.”

you didn’t even have the strength to look at him as the words left your mouth.

oikawa stood there, frozen. every instinct in him screamed to pull you into a hug, to tell you he wasn’t here to tease you, that he never meant to push you this far.

but he knew better.

this wasn’t the moment for that—not when you were breaking, not when the weight you carried wasn’t his to fix.

so, for once, oikawa tooru said nothing.

he stepped back.

and left.

the days leading up to the festival were unusually quiet. for once, no one barged into the council room with a smug grin and half-finished forms. no teasing voice echoing down the halls, no smug remarks about “miss number two.”

just silence.

just… peace.

and it was unbearable.

at first, it was a relief—you had time to breathe, to focus, to finalize the logistics of the festival without anyone pestering you. but the silence kept stretching. and it started to feel less like peace and more like absence.

you hadn’t seen oikawa since that day on the rooftop. no smirks, no casual visits, no fake apologies to buy himself more time on deadlines. he wasn’t even showing up to drop off paperwork anymore. it was always iwaizumi now. and while you appreciated iwaizumi’s quiet efficiency, the lack of chaos—the lack of him—gnawed at you.

and maybe, just maybe, you regretted it.

not the part where you said what you felt. but the part where you pushed him away like it was all his fault. because deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

you were tired. you were under pressure. and he’d just happened to be standing too close when everything finally boiled over.

so now the silence didn’t feel like peace anymore. it felt like distance. and maybe, just maybe… that hurt more.

on the other hand, oikawa wasn’t doing much better.

he tried—god, he really did. he showed up to practice on time, yelled at his team to run blocking drills again and again, even flashed his usual smile at underclassmen when they passed by the gym. but it was hollow, all of it. like watching a performance after the actor forgot his lines.

he hadn’t seen you since the rooftop and he hated how much he noticed.

every time he walked past the student council room, his eyes would flicker to the door, just in case. every time someone mentioned the festival, he half-expected your voice to cut in and scold him about paperwork, about deadlines, about how he was being irresponsible again.

but it never came and the silence started to echo.

his teammates were the first to catch on.

“you’ve been setting like a demon,” matsukawa groaned after taking a ball straight to the chest. “and not in a cool, cinematic way. in a ‘tooru’s got trauma’ kind of way.”

“did you two fight?” hanamaki asked, handing him a water bottle like he was ready to stage an intervention. “or did she finally punch you in the ego like we always hoped?”

oikawa didn’t answer. he just took the water bottle and drained half of it in one go, muttering something about increasing practice intensity.

but they weren’t wrong.

he was more irritable, more tightly wound. the usual charm that masked his stress was cracking around the edges.

iwaizumi, always the most observant, cornered him after practice. they sat on the bench outside the gym, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon.

“you want to see her, don’t you?”

oikawa didn’t look up. he just ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “of course i do. but…” he exhaled slowly, voice quieter, “she told me to leave her alone. and she meant it. i know she did.”

iwaizumi studied him for a moment before replying. “you’re not as good at backing off as you think.”

“yeah, well,” oikawa muttered, giving a weak smile, “turns out i’m even worse at staying away.”

silence settled between them for a few moments.

“you think i’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“always have,” iwaizumi said dryly. “but this time, it’s not because you’re stupid. it’s because you think not showing up is what she needs, when what she probably needed was for you to just be real with her.”

oikawa looked over, eyes flickering with something sharp.

“you think i don’t want to be real with her?” he said, frustrated. “you think i haven’t wanted to tell her everything since—” he cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. “but i never know how. with her, it’s always been this game. this rivalry. it’s the only way i knew how to stay close.”

matsukawa, who had wandered over quietly behind them, chimed in, “you could’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

hanamaki followed soon after, tossing a towel at his captain. “maybe if you stopped flirting with sarcasm and actually said something genuine for once, you wouldn’t look like a kicked puppy every time someone says her name.”

“shut up,” oikawa grumbled, but the towel stayed draped on his lap, unmoved.

he leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky as it deepened from orange to dusky purple.

“i screwed it up, didn’t i?” he said softly.

iwaizumi didn’t say no. instead, he stood up, clapped a hand on oikawa’s shoulder, and said, “not yet. but if you keep doing nothing, you will.”

and with that, the rest of the team walked back into the gym, leaving oikawa alone with his thoughts, a half-empty water bottle, and the hollow ache of wanting someone who asked him to leave.

two days before the festival, the student council room buzzed with low conversation and rustling papers. you were buried in a stack of checklists when the door slid open with a quiet thunk.

“knock knock,” iwaizumi said, holding a folder in one hand and a slightly apologetic look in the other.

you looked up, immediately straightening in your seat. “hey, hajime.”

“here’s the paperwork for the volleyball booth,” he said, placing it gently on your desk. “updated layout, activity proposal, and the final sign-ups. all signed and stamped.”

you blinked. “he actually finished it?”

iwaizumi nodded, then hesitated. “yeah. he did. few days ago, actually. i’ve just been delivering it.”

your hand paused mid-reach over the papers, fingers hovering. “…oh.”

for a few seconds, the room was too quiet.

then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you asked—softly, almost too casually,

“how’s… oikawa doing?”

iwaizumi looked at you for a moment, unreadable. not judging, not surprised. just watching.

“same as usual on the outside,” he said finally. “but quieter. doesn’t talk as much unless it’s volleyball. hasn’t been teasing the first years. or us. which is how we know something’s off.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a line.

“he hasn’t come by.”

“he’s giving you space,” iwaizumi said. then, after a beat: “and it’s killing him.”

your eyes dropped back to the folder. the clean signatures. the neat organization. it wasn’t like oikawa to be so tidy. it wasn’t like him to be distant, either.

and even though some part of you still felt the sting from midterms, another part—a bigger part—missed the way he filled the room with noise.

you cleared your throat. “thanks for the update.”

iwaizumi nodded, already heading for the door.

but just before he left, he paused, looked back, and said, “if you’re still mad, that’s fine. but if you’re not… maybe let him know.”

you looked down at the folder on your desk, running your fingers along its edges, thoughts swirling like an untamed storm. hajime was halfway to the door when you called out quietly—almost too quietly.

"iwa."

he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

you swallowed, eyes still fixed on the paper. "i'm not… really mad at him."

the words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting on your chest for days.

"i was frustrated. overwhelmed. with everything. the festival, midterms, and…" you exhaled, shutting your eyes for a moment. "it wasn’t about him. not really. i just… took it out on him. and i hate that i did."

iwaizumi stepped back into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. he didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you with that quiet, grounded calm he always carried.

"he knows," he said simply.

your eyes flicked up to meet his. "what?"

"tooru. he knows it wasn’t really about him," iwaizumi said, walking closer. "he gets it. probably more than he lets on. you think he doesn't notice when someone’s under pressure? he does. especially when it’s you."

you let out a shaky breath, blinking faster now. “he must think i hate him.”

iwaizumi’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “he’d let you kick him in the shin and still ask if you wanted his last milk bread. you think he’s scared of you being angry?”

“…i did kick him once,” you muttered.

“he still brings it up,” iwaizumi said dryly, a trace of amusement in his voice. “point is, he’s not mad either. he’s just waiting. giving you time. because, you know…” he paused, shrugging a little. “he cares.”

you sat back in your chair, heart squeezing at that.

you weren’t ready to face tooru yet—not completely. but knowing he understood, knowing he was waiting…

it softened something in you.

"thanks, hajime."

iwaizumi nodded, then turned for the door again.

this time, before stepping out, he added without looking back, “just don’t take too long. he’s unbearable when he’s love-sick.”

you blinked. “love-sick? impossible. this is oikawa tooru we’re talking about.”

iwaizumi let out a soft snort. “yeah, well. apparently it’s a condition reserved exclusively for you.”

your breath caught just a little at that. but iwaizumi didn’t linger—he slid the door open and stepped out, leaving you with a folder full of finalized volleyball booth forms, a heart that beat a little too loud in your chest, and the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

when the next day arrived, it was your job to make sure everything was in place—from the booths to the decorations, from the schedules to the last-minute details. the entire school buzzed with energy, but you moved through the halls with a sharp, watchful eye, checking and double-checking every corner of aoba johsai.

you stopped in front of the classroom assigned to the volleyball club. their booth was set up like a cozy cafe, the sweet scent of cakes and fresh breads wafting through the door. colorful signs and neatly arranged pastries made it look inviting—and, knowing oikawa, probably perfectly planned to attract as many visitors as possible.

“iwa, i’ll be ba—” oikawa’s voice stopped abruptly as the door swung open and he caught sight of you standing there.

his usual confident grin flickered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something unreadable.

you met his eyes without hesitation, your clipboard lowered by your side as the buzz of the festival preparations faded into the background—just for a moment.

“hi prez, iwa’s inside if you want to check the booth,” oikawa called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

before you could say anything, he was practically sprinting down the hall, leaving a faint trail of his usual confident energy behind him—but this time, tinged with something like nervous excitement.

from the side, you caught the familiar voices of his teammates chuckling.

“he’s hopeless,” hanamaki muttered, shaking his head.

“always running away when it counts,” matsukawa added with a grin.

iwaizumi just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s tooru for you.”

you stepped into the classroom, taking in the cozy setup. the tables were neatly arranged with trays of cakes and breads, decorated with colorful signs and cute little details that only oikawa could come up with. the volleyball club members were bustling quietly, making final adjustments and sharing quick smiles.

everything was in place—ready for the festival.

you let out a small breath of relief. it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough for now.

as you scanned the menu, your eyes caught a particular cake that hadn’t been on the original list they’d given you.

“hey, haji,” you called softly, “did you add a new cake to the menu?”

iwaizumi glanced over your shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “oh, the strawberry cheesecake? that was tooru’s last-minute addition. said he knew you liked it.”

you couldn’t suppress a small smile, a mix of annoyance, flattery, and something softer swirling inside you.

“everything looks good. i’ll swing by again tomorrow to check on things. good luck,” you said, patting iwaizumi’s shoulder before turning to leave.

unbeknownst to you, oikawa had been quietly lurking in the back, slipping in through the other door just in time to catch your entire conversation. his eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something more vulnerable.

just then, hanamaki and matsukawa appeared around the corner, grinning as they noticed oikawa caught off guard.

“look at captain,” hanamaki teased, nudging matsukawa. “caught red-handed.”

matsukawa laughed softly. “he’s hopeless, but you gotta admit, it’s kind of sweet.”

iwaizumi shook his head, a smirk on his face. “yeah, and now he’s stuck with us watching his every move.”

oikawa shot them all a playful glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. beneath the teasing, there was an unspoken hope—that maybe, just maybe, she noticed the little things after all.

the day of the festival came with bright skies, loud chatter, and students from different schools pouring in through the gates. the energy was high, the booths alive with color and movement. everything was in place and no major disasters were happening—no missing materials, no last-minute emergencies, no clubs on the brink of combustion. for once, things were smooth.

you could actually breathe.

you allowed yourself to think—just for today—this might actually be a success.

as promised, you made your way to the volleyball team’s booth. it was buzzing with activity, a line stretching outside the classroom door. inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hung in the air, warm and inviting. students sat at desks turned café tables, enjoying cakes, drinks, and breads with cute handwritten menus propped up in front of them.

when it was finally your turn, you scanned the menu only to frown slightly.

“strawberry cheesecake’s sold out already?” you asked.

hanamaki, who was manning the small counter for now, gave you a cheeky grin. “sold out in the first hour. some girl bought two whole slices just because tooru made it.”

you rolled your eyes. of course.

“fine. i’ll just get the milk bread,” you muttered, fishing out your ticket stub to pay.

before hanamaki could ring it up, oikawa appeared from behind the divider with a tray. “make that one milk bread,” he said, carefully placing the warm pastry down, “and one iced choco.”

you blinked. “i didn’t order a drink.”

“but you like it with milk bread,” oikawa said with a soft grin. “iced choco, three cubes of ice, no whip, no syrup—just the way you like it.”

your lips parted slightly in surprise, caught off guard by the memory he held onto so casually. before you could speak, he added, “on the house. it’s festival day, after all.”

from the side, matsukawa leaned toward hanamaki and whispered, loud enough for you both to hear, “and the captain strikes again with his signature move—attention to detail.”

hanamaki fake-gasped. “devastating. truly swoon-worthy.”

oikawa shot them both a glare, but his gaze flicked back to you, a little more unsure now. “i mean, only if… you want it.”

you stared at the tray for a moment. then, with a soft sigh, you took it from his hands.

“thanks… tooru.”

and just like that, his smile returned—easy, bright, and just a little shy around the edges.

when the night had long fallen over aoba johsai, the warmth of the festival fading into the cool hush of a late autumn breeze. students gathered around the bonfire in the courtyard below, laughing, dancing, soaking in the final moments of what would be their last school festival. you should’ve been down there too, smiling with them, celebrating a job well done.

but instead, you were on the rooftop—your usual place of quiet, a little peace above the noise. it had been your biggest undertaking as student council president, and now that it was done, the adrenaline had left you all at once. the silence wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. you let it.

the door creaked open behind you.

you didn’t even need to look.

“oh. you’re here,” oikawa’s voice broke the stillness, a little softer than usual.

you turned slightly, surprised to see him holding a white pastry box, tied with a neat ribbon—turquoise, like your school color.

“i come bearing gifts,” he said with an awkward little smile. “not to bribe you. well… maybe a little.”

he handed it over. curious, you undid the ribbon and opened the lid.

a whole strawberry cheesecake. not a slice. not a portion. a full, homemade cake.

“you made this?” you blinked, brows raised.

“kind of.” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away for a second. “i had help. but most of it’s me. i remembered you liked it, so…”

you stared at the cake, then back at him. your lips tugged into a small, exasperated smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

he gave a tiny, nervous laugh, stepping beside you to look out over the bonfire-lit courtyard. for a moment, you both just stood there, watching the flicker of the crowd below. no teasing. no snark.

then he spoke again—quieter this time. “i wanted to tell you something.”

you turned your head slightly, his profile silhouetted by the soft lights coming from below.

“this might sound… stupid, and honestly, i probably should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered. “but i like you.”

you froze.

his voice didn’t waver—but it was gentler than you'd ever heard it.

“i’ve liked you for a while now. probably since you started beating me in rankings,” he added, with a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “you’re smart. and annoying. and really, really good at making me want to try harder.”

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. the words landed somewhere deep in your chest.

“i’m not asking for anything. i know you’ve got a lot going on,” he said quickly. “but i just… i didn’t want to end high school without telling you. no pressure. take your time, or don’t say anything. i’ll be okay.”

you looked at him, really looked at him—his stupidly pretty eyes, the nervous line of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the railing like it was keeping him steady.

and for the first time in weeks, your heart wasn’t tangled in frustration.

it was warm. uncertain, but warm.

“okay,” you whispered.

you didn’t need to say anything else.

he smiled, and it was softer than any expression you’d ever seen on him.

maybe it wasn’t the beginning of something.

but maybe, just maybe, it could be.

oikawa’s confession stuck with you for weeks.

he didn’t bring it up again—not once. he didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t even hint. he went back to being his usual self: annoying, dramatic, always flashing you that ridiculous grin whenever you passed by. and yet… somehow it felt different now. like there was a second meaning hidden under his usual antics. a quiet kind of hope he carried behind every smirk and every stolen glance.

but his presence started to thin.

with the spring qualifiers looming closer, the third-years of the volleyball team were drowning in practice. late nights, early mornings, extra laps, countless drills. it felt like the whole team moved like a single heartbeat—driven and relentless. tooru, especially, seemed to be running on nothing but sheer will and obsession. and just like that, he became harder and harder to catch.

then the match against karasuno happened.

the result hit like a brick to the chest. aoba johsai lost. after everything—they lost. and with that, their journey as third-years was over.

you didn’t go to the game.

you wanted to, but duties piled up and the nerves clawed too sharp in your stomach. but when the final score came in, when you saw the hushed disappointment written across the school’s group chat, the ache bloomed deep in your chest. not because they lost—because you knew how hard they worked. especially him.

so you went to the gym that evening, hours after the game had ended.

it was dimly lit, with only a few lights turned on above the court. you stepped inside quietly, heart hammering in your chest.

the third-years were still there.

iwaizumi sat on the bench, towel around his neck, staring blankly ahead. matsukawa was on the floor, lying on his back with an arm covering his face. hanamaki was tossing a volleyball up and down without really looking at it. sawauchi and yuda were leaning against the wall in silence. shido sat by the door, legs stretched out and eyes shut like he was trying to block the world out.

and oikawa was in the center of the court, kneeling beside a ball, head bowed. still.

none of them noticed you right away.

not until your footsteps echoed.

iwaizumi looked up first. "hey," he said, voice hoarse.

"thought i’d check in," you said gently, eyes sweeping over them. "i figured you’d all still be here."

matsukawa let out a dry chuckle. “we don’t know what else to do.”

hanamaki offered you a half-hearted smile. “hey prez. sorry you had to see us like this.”

you shook your head, walking slowly across the court. “no. you don’t have to apologize. you all did your best.”

oikawa hadn’t moved.

your eyes landed on him, and something in your chest twisted.

“tooru,” you said softly.

his head lifted slightly at your voice, eyes dull with exhaustion and something heavier. pain, maybe. disappointment. loss.

you knelt in front of him, lowering yourself to his level.

“you played great,” you murmured. “all of you did.”

he shook his head, voice barely audible. “it wasn’t enough.”

you reached out and gently placed your hand over his, squeezing. “it mattered. to all of us. to me.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment the weight in his eyes cracked just a little.

“you came,” he whispered.

“of course i did.”

from the bench, hanamaki cleared his throat. “i swear to god if you cry, i’m leaving.”

“shut up,” oikawa muttered, his voice cracking anyway.

matsukawa smirked. “don’t act tough, we’ve all cried already.”

iwaizumi stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “c’mon. let’s go get something to eat. my treat. we’re not dying here in this gym.”

as the others got up slowly, gathering their bags and their broken spirits, oikawa remained where he was for a second longer.

as the gym slowly emptied, one by one, the third-years dragged their bags over tired shoulders and shuffled toward the exit. the sharp echo of footsteps and the soft scrape of shoes against polished floorboards filled the space before fading into the distant hum of the overhead lights.

iwaizumi gave you a subtle nod as he passed, the kind that said take care of him, a quiet trust passed between you without words.

hanamaki and matsukawa lingered by the door for a moment, exchanging glances full of knowing amusement and concern. hanamaki smirked and whispered something to matsukawa, who snorted softly. you caught the words—rom-com timing—and it made you smile despite the heaviness hanging in the air.

sawauchi, shido, and yuda trailed after them, their footsteps gentle and respectful, fading down the hallway until it was just you and oikawa left in the cavernous gym.

he hadn’t moved from the center of the court. the dim lighting cast long shadows over his hunched frame, kneeling on the hardwood with one hand curled lightly around a scuffed volleyball as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

his back was tense, shoulders tight as if carrying the weight of disappointment itself. his gaze was fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin, strained line that barely contained everything he wasn’t saying.

you crouched beside him again, this time closer—close enough to feel the slight tremor in his breath, the faint pulse of his wrist beneath your fingertips.

“tooru,” you said softly, barely louder than the quiet hum of the empty gym.

he didn’t look up. didn’t even flinch.

“i know this isn’t what you wanted,” you whispered, voice steady but tender. “and i know how much you gave—how much you always give.”

his fingers twitched. slow and uncertain, you reached out, letting your hand cover his. the warmth of your skin was a small lifeline in the vast silence.

“you don’t have to smile right now. you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt—not with me.”

his breath hitched slightly. “it’s just—i tried so hard. i really tried.”

you squeezed his hand, slow and reassuring. “i know.”

his voice cracked like a fragile thread. “i wanted to make it. for us. for iwa-chan. for the team. for—”

“for you,” you finished gently, your voice catching with the weight of the moment. “and you did. you made something incredible.”

finally, his eyes met yours.

they were rimmed red, eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from him before. his face was a map of heartache and stubborn pride, and your chest tightened as empathy and something deeper welled up inside you.

“i lost.”

“you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in just a little, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “you gave everything. that’s not losing, tooru.”

his breath hitched again, eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of truth to hold onto. and for once, he didn’t have a witty comeback or a sharp retort—just silence.

and so you closed the distance.

your lips pressed to his—soft, tentative, trembling slightly with all the words you hadn’t spoken, all the feelings you’d kept locked away. for a heartbeat, he froze, caught off guard by the gentle weight of your kiss.

then he melted into it, his hand lifting to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into the strands of your hair like he never wanted to let go.

the gym around you faded—no cheers, no confetti, no grand finale. just the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts finding each other in the dark.

when you pulled away, his eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the moment again.

you smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“no pressure, right?”

a soft, raw laugh escaped him. “right.”

“good,” you murmured. “but next time, let me cheer for you before the game.”

“deal,” he breathed, voice thick with something like hope.

and this time, he leaned in first.

bonus scene.

hidden just outside the gym door, hanamaki, matsukawa, and iwaizumi leaned casually against the wall, trying to keep their expressions neutral—but the amusement and relief were obvious in their eyes.

hanamaki was the first to break the silence, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “finally. about time those two stopped dancing around each other like it’s some kind of complicated volleyball drill.”

matsukawa chuckled, nudging iwaizumi with a grin. “guess that means we can officially retire from matchmaking duty, huh?”

iwaizumi gave a tired but genuine smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, i can finally live in peace… at least until the next disaster.”

hanamaki smirked knowingly. “don’t get too comfortable, hajime. now that they’re official, you’re basically their go-to therapist for all the drama.”

matsukawa laughed, crossing his arms. “and oikawa? he’s probably gonna come back swinging with ten times the teasing. no way he’s letting this slide quietly.”

iwaizumi sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “i’m doomed.”

they shared a look, the quiet camaraderie between them filling the space. then, breaking through the muffled sounds from inside the gym, came your sharp, amused voice.

“hey! i can hear you, you know!”

hanamaki’s grin faltered for a moment. “oh, busted.”

matsukawa laughed openly. “guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”

iwaizumi threw his hands up, chuckling. “and here i thought i was done with the chaos.”

the three exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling between them as the gym’s silence returned. footsteps echoed softly inside, and through it all hung the unmistakable warmth of something finally falling into place—something worth waiting for.

[kozu-chan]

yeah <3