in which suna rintaro shows up to his sister's new apartment, but you’re the only one home to deal with it
featuring: suna rintaro x gn!reader
suna rintaro is your best friend's brother, meaning you've known him for as long as you can remember.
long enough that, if you really tried, you're sure you could count the exact number of 'be more careful's he's ever muttered bandaging your scraped knees in the sunas' backyard.
which also means he might still have that awful video from your first year of high school --- the one of you sobbing through the saddest movie you'd ever seen and clinging onto his sister like life depended on it.
and naturally, it means that in all your years of knowing him, he's always been just out of reach, always just two years superior.
suna rintaro, who stands in front of you now, plucking candy from the bowl you and his sister left out in your new shared kitchen.
"hey, y/n," he drawls from the counter as you step inside your home, exhausted from a long day of classes and very much not expecting company.
startled, your first instinct is to whip out your phone:
---
rikaa<3: oh my brother said he’s gonna drop off some stuff from home, i js gave him the apt code
rikaa<3: u prob won’t run into him tho
rikaa<3: nvm ur already there LOL lmk ;p
---
you dislike all three of her messages as you slip off your shoes and shuffle over to the surprise intruder. "rintaro..! it's been awhile, how are you?"
"i'm doing well." he glances up at you briefly before gesturing towards your new apartment. "i see thing 1 and thing 2 are still getting into trouble together."
you roll your eyes, but relent a small smile at the familiar nickname. "if by getting in trouble, you mean your sister and i are living together, then yes. yes, we are."
"figures." the brunette chuckles, making it a point to unlock his phone, but not resume whatever scrolling you assume he's been up to. neither does he attempt to move at all from against your kitchen counter.
instead, he stares.
meeting his gaze, you find yourself scanning the boy, briefly. in the last few years, it had become increasingly clear that rintaro was not your favorite suna --- you were practically inseparable from his sister, still receiving birthday gifts from his mom, and prone to cracking years-old inside jokes with his dad.
but rintaro?
you'd always figured it was unrealistic to keep in touch with any friend's brother, and you had to admit that by your teens, it was simply easier to ignore his presence than confront the way you felt whenever he set foot into rika's room, all long limbs and mischievous eyes. still, it's clear that in the months you hadn’t seen him --- too busy adjusting to adulting, school, and a move into your first real apartment, albeit with his sister --- that he's been taking care of himself. for a lack of better words, he looks grown.
guess that’s what pro sports do to you, you think.
unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that he absolutely does not own the kitchen counter he's so leisurely propped against right now.
as if reading your thoughts, the brunette smirks. "want one?" he picks up a wrapped candy from the bowl and tosses it to you.
"...these are mine."
raising his palms in surrender, rintaro watches as you return the treat back to the bowl, eyes narrowing in light amusement. "so...how's life been, college student?”
you purse your lips, trying to remember how long it's been since you've seen his face this clearly. "it’s fine, not like it's my first year...i guess i've been a bit busy lately...” then to dissipate the awkwardness of your ramble: “um, how are your parents?”
"they’re well," he hums, “you’ve probably seen them more than i have these days, with the move and all.” he waves a dismissive hand, as if to physically change the subject. "enough of that. how was korea?"
you pause.
now, you'd be lying if you said you were unlike all other students your age and never checked story views on instagram, but either way, your recent visit to korea --- courtesy of the latest three day weekend --- was, without a doubt, a trip worth posting about. more importantly, and you could never tell rika, but you had most definitely been tracking her older brother in your views.
but with good reason!
at first, you thought nothing of the older suna heart-ing your stories --- just intermittently, and reserved for photos of you hanging out with his sister, or even his mom for the occasional girls’ night.
but you couldn't deny how your heart skipped a beat the first time rintaro pressed like on one of your cuter selfies. then again for a spontaneous ‘ootd!’ and most recently for a particularly nice solo, in korea.
still, you never expected him to actually remember the things you uploaded on social media, let alone bring them up.
you blink, caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment and something slightly warmer.
"oh yeah, you saw that?"
rintaro shrugs, unbothered, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "hard to miss. you post a lot."
"doesn't mean you have to watch everything." or like it. you suddenly remember a rather specific picture you'd posted: a shot of you against the dark skyline, eyes half lidded and clothes blurring as you spun around in a sort of confidence one could only identify as liquor. you remember how your equally tipsy friend had insisted you put it out for the world to see.
"i don't have to," the brunette replies, finally slipping his phone into his pocket and opting to direct his entire body towards you instead. "guess i'm just a fan."
in a sudden wave of horror, you realize how provocative the story had been.
rintaro had liked it just an hour after you hit post.
"korea was nice," you mumble, heat rising on your face. "fun." yet again, suna rintaro succeeds in making you feel small.
"seemed like it," his gaze lingers on you, a little more focused than before. "you looked happy, y/n."
something in your chest tightens at that. you always knew he was attentive, but when was the last time this attention was directed towards you?
silence falls again, and this time it stretches.
you hate that your heart is beating faster than it should. this is just rintaro. rika's annoying older brother. the same guy who used to snicker when you lost a video game, who dragged his feet walking you and his sister to the convenience store, who'd barge into the latter's room during sleepovers just to steal your snacks.
rintaro --- who always made sure to offer a rematch, who, no matter how begrudgingly, never forgot to pull out his own wallet for your late night indulgences. who had once told you you had 'good taste' in between bites of your favorite candy.
the one who left oddly casual likes on your instagram stories to this day, reminding you that he was there. that he always has been there.
and it's like he reads your mind again. "you still cry at movies?" he asks, face now directed towards the communal tv in your living room.
you scoff. "excuse me? that was like one time."
"mmm," his lips twitch. "pretty sure i recorded you one time. i've seen you do it, like, five."
you step closer without thinking, narrowing your eyes. "you keeping count?"
he doesn't step back, flashing a smile. "someone has to."
it hits you then. how much taller he feels when you’re just a few inches away, how his presence fills the space in your home. broader shoulders. slower movements. the same calm, observant gaze, but heavier somehow. a little less boyish, and significantly more sincere. you're hit with the vague scent of cologne, and you can't help but wonder when he traded in mrs. suna's choice of detergent --- a soft, familiar scent that still clung onto rika's clothes --- for something this intoxicating.
rintaro's not a kid anymore.
but neither are you.
"you've changed," you murmer.
he tilts his head. "yeah?"
you nod, increasingly aware of the tremble in your voice, your hands, and the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure you out too. "a little."
he hums. "you too."
you laugh, trying to shake off the tension. "hopefully for the better."
"probably," his voice dips, quieter now.
your breath hitches.
"so i'm guessing you do still cry at movies?" he asks, but it comes out softer than you expect.
you groan, not missing the way his mouth twitches at the sound. "and i'm guessing if you're mentioning this again...you still have that video, don't you?"
"maaaybe." he drags a slow finger across his cheek in mock tears.
"rintaro---"
"relax." a faint smile. "i'm not showing anyone."
"you better not."
"i wouldn't." he pauses, then adds, "i always thought it was kinda cute." he looks at you, and there's something you can't decipher in his eyes, like he's testing the waters, ready to retreat at any moment.
"...that's one way to say i was a crybaby."
"and still are?"
you open to your mouth to argue, but stop.
"depends," you admit.
"on?"
"the situation."
rintaro studies you for a moment, like he's weighing something. then quietly, "what about now?"
your heart skips a beat. "what about now?"
at last, he pushes himself from against the counter, arms folding loosely as he lowers his face to level with yours. "you look like you might."
you let out a small breath, half-laugh, half-something else. "i'm not going to cry in my own kitchen, rintaro."
"good," his gaze softens lightly. "would've been embarrassing."
"oh, shut up. i'm not a kid anymore."
"i know."
a beat passes before he turns to reach into the candy bowl, then hesitates back towards you.
"...can i have one?"
you blink. "you've already had, like, ten."
"yeah, but those were stolen."
"and this is different how?"
he holds your gaze, that same undecipherable weirdness settling into his expression once again. "this time, i'm asking you."
it shouldn't feel like more than it is. but it does.
you swallow, then reach into the bowl yourself, picking out a piece and holding it out to him.
"here."
his fingers brush against yours --- neither pulls away. you watch as rintaro glances down at your hand, then back up at you, his face still dangerously close. "thanks," he breathes.
he takes the candy just to put it in his pocket.
caught in the moment, you inhale a shaky breath, delirious on what you'll say next.
"so are you gonna kiss me?"
and for the first time in your life, you watch rintaro's resolve crumble.
his lips are softer than you expected. more hesitant. more careful. just slightly more restrained than the one time you’d allowed yourself to imagine kissing him at 16 --- right after he’d hugged you ‘goodbye’ at graduation and mere hours before you vowed to eradicate this silly little crush in his absence, once and for all.
up until just half an hour ago, you would’ve sworn you succeeded.
in the present, rintaro’s hands cup your cheeks, warm, and calloused just enough to make your breath catch.
your own arms slide around his neck, tugging him closer, and he exhales sharply in response. up close, you catch the faint flush on his cheeks, and you pull him in just a little more --- enough to feel him unravel all over again.
when his mouth finally lets go of yours, you find yourself staring up at a pair of blown pupils, completely breathless.
"y/n, i--"
beep! beep! beep! beep!
his eyes widen.
beeeep!
"i'm homee!" your best friend calls from the door, saving you just enough time to scramble off of her brother and pat down your clothes. head spinning, you listen to the sound of rika's footsteps --- "oh." --- and then the silence which follows in their stop. "what are you still doing here?"
"just about to leave," rintaro sighs from next to you. "uh, the groceries and mom's food are all in the fridge."
you watch as he rolls his shoulders back, once, then twice, before slipping his hands into his pockets, and finally, start towards the exit.
holding open the door, rintaro makes one last scan of your house. "nice place," he says, and you make a mental note of the slight pant in his voice as he eyes you one final time across the counter. "think i'll drop by more often."
"just don't steal our candy!" you call back.
the smile he returns is utterly fond.
click!
"what a weirdo," rika mutters, too busy scoping the new contents of your fridge to notice your goodbye. she pokes her head out just a moment later, tossing you a fresh yakult in a gesture that feels oddly familiar. "he didn't cause you any trouble, did he?"
you shake your head, heart beating still a little too fast.
"no, he didn't."
you wonder when exactly suna rintaro stopped being just your best friend's brother.
the boy looks down at you from outside your door with a small grin, “hi.”
yet your eyes remain wide as you stare back at him, “what are you doing here?”
and he only shrugs, “wanted to stop by, just wanted to see you.”
you don’t miss the slur to his words.
“are you drunk?”
he blinks before a smirk appears on his lips, “i’m not drunk.”
but by the sound of his voice, you know he’s lying.
“you know i don’t like you being drunk,” you sigh.
“i know, i know,” he rolls his eyes. “you hate alcohol, you’re a party pooper we get it.”
“i am not a party pooper,” you retort. “i just don’t like playing babysitter for when my friends drink too much.”
“i’m not drunk,” he instantly scoffs.
yeah, okay.
“anyway,” you sigh, “why are you here?”
and he only shrugs, “just wanted to see you, that’s all.”
“but,” you hesitated, treading carefully given your history, “you never just want to see me.”
he quirks a brow at your words, the flush in his cheeks finally coming to light. “of course i do,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Can I request headcanons where Lads men accidentally overhear Non MC Reader telling MC that you do like him but it's definitely unrequited please? - 🌕 anon
Didn't Mean for You to Hear That
Setup: After a casual hangout, out and about, you confide in MC privately; however, a certain someone overheard your conversation.
Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
The hangout starts lively, ending with an impromptu street food crawl through the buzzing heart of the city.
Zayne tags along at first reluctantly, but you coax a few smiles from him between skewers of grilled dumplings and fried lotus.
As the others peel off, you and MC slip into a quiet promenade garden hidden behind a noodle stall.
You find a bench beside a koi pond. The lantern light makes the water ripple like stardust.
You exhale slowly.
"Zayne’s incredible. But I know I’m not the one he turns to when he’s tired. I’m just someone he patches up and sends on their way."
MC frowns.
"You think he lingers around everyone that long after stitching them up?"
You shrug.
"He’s just kind. And I’m lucky to be part of his routine. That’s all."
Beyond a swath of night-blooming lilies, Zayne stands still, the shadows cloaking him.
Routine?
He swallows hard.
You think I bring coffee to everyone who comes in with a paper cut?
He grips the bench post. The urge to step out wars with his instinct to stay silent.
The next time you’re scheduled for a check-in, the appointment’s changed. Zayne greets you with your favourite coffee already in hand.
He meets your eyes.
"I don’t keep you around because it’s convenient. I want you here."
During the examination, his touch is softer. His fingers linger just a second longer. He doesn’t ask why your pulse is fast.
After a tense supply run, the group winds up at a rooftop bar on the edge of N019, half-abandoned, still somehow fully powered, with static-ridden speakers and sputtering neon signs.
Sylus is the one who suggested the place. You think nothing of it, even as he looms near the edge, watching more than speaking.
You and MC eventually find yourselves pressed against the rusted railing, stargazing beyond the blinking skyline. You murmur,
"I like him. Really like him. But let’s be real, guys like Sylus don’t destroy kingdoms for someone like me."
MC replies without missing a beat.
"He lights fires just by breathing next to you."
You laugh.
"That’s just who he is. Dangerous. Beautiful. Temporary."
By the stairwell, cloaked in shadow, Sylus stills. The word lands with venom.
Temporary?
His jaw tightens.
You think I wouldn’t tear the city down if you asked me to stay?
He says nothing. He walks away into the dark before his voice could betray him.
Days later, your inbox pings with an untraceable message.
It opens with static, then a haunting jazz loop. Then his voice:
"You’re not temporary. Don’t ever say that again."
After that, Sylus returns to acting the same, but never quite leaves the room you’re in. Never let you walk ahead alone.
The group got a rare aligned break to watch the planet rise from a sky-high station platform on Skyhaven.
Caleb brings cinnamon cocoa, wrapped pastries, and a blanket "for everyone" that he keeps folding just over your side.
After the others leave, you and MC linger on the transparent glass stairs overlooking the clouds.
You hug your knees and whisper,
"You know… he was my high school crush... still kind of is. But now he’s a Colonel. I’m just a classmate from before."
MC side-eyes you.
"He just sacrificed the last cookie to you like it was a noble death. That doesn’t feel casual."
You laugh weakly.
"It’s nostalgia. He remembers the past, not... me now."
Caleb stands a level above, half-hidden near the lift. He doesn’t move.
Still your crush? And you think I only see who you were?
His hands clench around the edge of the railing. Images flash: your hand wrapped around a toy plane, your voice calling his name, your eyes today, wiser, more tired, more beautiful.
That night, you find a model plane on your bed. Not new. One he saved. Painted again.
A tiny banner reads:
"Some flights take longer to come back around. But I never stopped tracking yours."
The next morning, he waits at the mess hall like always. This time, the seat beside him is saved with a second thermos.
When you sit, he doesn’t bring it up.
But when you break your cookie and hand him half, he says,
"Save me the wing, yeah? You always liked the middle."
Group hangout begins with indie bookstore hopping, laughter over mismatched recommendations, and ends at a quiet tea house with soft jazz and steamed windows.
The group splits off. You and MC take a detour through a neon-lit park on the way home, arms full of pastries and warm drinks.
Xavier claims he needs to catch the train before rush hour and ducks out early.
You and MC settle on a bench under a humming streetlamp. The hum feels like a secret keeper.
You sigh:
"I like Xavier, but he doesn’t like me like that. He’s sweet, but
I’m not the one he loses sleep over."
MC leans in, trying to read your expression.
"He zones out whenever you talk. That has to count for something."
You smile weakly.
"I think I make him comfortable, not... curious."
Behind you, half-concealed by a park pillar, Xavier stands frozen.
You think I sleep easily because of you? I haven’t slept in weeks.
His breath hitches. So many nights he stayed up replaying your laugh, every shared glance. But he’d convinced himself you didn’t notice.
Later, he sends you a meme over text, with a comment that sounds light but holds tension beneath.
The next time you stop by the tea shop, the barista hands you your favourite order, already paid for.
"By someone with blue eyes and a weirdly specific smile," the barista told you.
That night, Xavier watches your name flash on his screen and locks his phone before he can say too much.
The day winds down with the group meandering through an open-air mural alley by the shore, where art stalls display driftwood paintings and watercolor skies.
Rafayel is in his element, pointing out brushstrokes, teasing meanings behind abstract pieces, gifting you a souvenir sea-glass charm.
When the group splits to grab food, you and MC stay back near a quiet stone bench by the surf.
The ocean laps gently against the dock pylons below. You sigh, leaning forward.
"He’s so beautiful it hurts," you admit.
"But he’d never see me that way. I’m not special."
MC laughs under her breath.
"You’re literally the only person he painted in conversation tonight."
You shake your head.
"That’s just Rafayel. Intense. Fleeting. He loves everything for a moment."
Around the corner, hidden near the faded staircase to the tide-walk, Rafayel leans against a mural with crossed arms.
Fleeting?
The word slices deep.
He bites his tongue, staring out at the sea.
You think I’m not serious about you? I memorised your laugh before I even knew your name.
That night, he doesn’t go home. He sketches by the sea, haunted by the truth you believe.
The next morning, a small framed canvas leans against your door. It’s the view you had from the bench, painted in aching detail.
Behind it, a card:
"Some things don’t need to be said aloud. But I’ll still show you. – R."
When you see him again, he doesn’t bring it up. But he stands a little closer and asks questions with his eyes instead of words.
Not that I believe any of them would do this, but say that the LADS did the “current girlfriend” prank on Non-MC (or something similar); and instead of getting upset or possessive, we just have this silent acceptance, like a part of us always believed our relationship with them was temporary. Cue intense backtracking, reassurance, and possible begging for forgiveness
Temporary, Until Proven Otherwise
Setup: It started as a harmless bet, one that spread through Linkon faster than common sense. A trending prank calling your partner your “current girlfriend” was supposed to be funny, a bit of teasing, a spark for laughter. But for the men who loved you, the joke landed wrong. They’d each expected a roll of your eyes or that soft pout you wore when you were pretending to be annoyed. What they got instead was quiet acceptance, a calm so sharp it hurt. And that silence, more than anything, made them realize how deeply they’d taken your heart for granted.
Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
It started off innocently enough, a small reunion with a few of his old college friends at a quiet bar overlooking Linkon’s cityscape.
It had been months since Caleb had seen them, and they’d immediately fallen back into their old habits of teasing and laughter.
“Come on, Cal,” one of them joked, elbowing him lightly.
“You’ve been too uptight. You used to have a sense of humor before the military drained it out of you.”
Caleb smirked, swirling his drink.
“You mistake discipline for dullness.”
“Sure,” Gideon chimed in with a grin.
“Then humor us. You’ve gotta try this trend. Call her your current girlfriend in front of everyone. Let’s see how long that ice-cold composure holds.”
He snorted.
“What are you, twelve?”
“Pretty much,” Gideon said without shame.
“Come on, man, for old times’ sake. You used to pull pranks better than any of us.”
Caleb rolled his eyes but chuckled.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Still, he couldn’t quite shake the playful thought. It had been a long time since he’d seen that look on your face, half exasperation, half fondness.
Maybe, just maybe, this could lighten things up.
When you arrived a few minutes later, joining them with a polite smile and a wave, Caleb stood from his seat and gestured toward you with casual ease.
“Ah, there she is,” he said, tone deceptively smooth.
“My current girlfriend. The one keeping me halfway sane these days.”
His friends burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the open balcony. It was supposed to be harmless.
But your expression faltered.
Just barely.
A flicker of hurt passed through your eyes before you covered it with a soft, practiced smile.
“Current, huh?” you repeated lightly.
“Guess that makes me an interim assignment. How very on-brand for you, Colonel.”
The laughter faded almost instantly. Caleb’s heart dropped.
“Hey,” he started, but you were already taking a polite step back.
“I’ll go order another round,” you said gently, voice steady but distant.
“You can finish the joke without me.”
You walked off before he could say another word.
Another one of Caleb's friends winced.
“…Wow. Didn’t think she’d take it like that.”
Caleb exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
The temperature of the night air seemed to shift, gravity pressing heavier around their table, the kind of tension his evol mirrored without his consent.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“Neither did I.”
He didn’t even bother with goodbyes.
He just grabbed his coat and followed you out onto the quieter terrace, the city lights reflecting in your eyes when you finally turned to face him.
“You think that was funny?” you asked, voice even, though your hands were gripping the railing.
“No,” he said instantly.
“It was supposed to be stupid. I let them talk me into it.”
You gave a small, humorless laugh.
“You, of all people, letting someone talk you into something?”
Caleb grimaced.
“Yeah. I forgot what it’s like to be around idiots who think teasing equals affection.”
You didn’t respond, just looked out toward the skyline.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching.
He finally said, quieter this time,
“You’re not current, you know. You never were. You’re the only thing that’s ever felt steady.”
That made you glance at him, surprise softening your features.
He took a step closer, voice low.
“If I could erase that word from your mind, I would. But since I can’t, I’ll prove it every day until you stop believing it.”
You blinked, caught between disbelief and the flicker of warmth in his tone.
“You’re terrible at jokes, Caleb.”
He smiled faintly.
“Then I’ll stick to promises.”
The following day after that night, when you returned home, the smell of something warm and familiar filled the air.
Caleb had beaten you there, sleeves rolled up as he finished plating your favorite dinner.
A small envelope and a new, cute plushie of your favorite animal rested beside the table setting, his handwriting neat and precise:
Permanent reservation. No expiration.
It was supposed to be a lighthearted lunch break at Skyhaven.
Simone, Tara, and a few Hunters Association techs were lounging near the café’s terrace, gossiping and scrolling through their feeds.
“Come on, Xavier,” Tara laughed, nudging his arm.
“You never play along with these trends. You’d sound adorable if you said it. You know she’d melt.”
He chuckled softly.
“The current girlfriend prank? That’s juvenile.”
“Then prove us wrong,” Simone teased, waving a pair of coupons to his favorite hotpot restaurant.
“One line, Starboy. That’s all it takes. The meal’s yours.”
He sighed, eyes flicking toward the engineering bay where you stood, calibrating a new stabilizer with your usual focus.
“This feels ridiculous,” he murmured, but he took the bait anyway.
When you approached to hand him a diagnostic report, he smiled faintly and said,
“Ah, perfect timing. Everyone, this is my current girlfriend. She’s the reason the world still has light.”
The table erupted in laughter, the kind that comes too quickly, too loud.
You didn’t laugh.
You blinked once, twice, then smiled gently, an expression that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Current girlfriend, huh?” you echoed.
“Guess even starlight shifts eventually.”
Simone’s grin faltered. Tara’s phone slowly lowered from where she’d been recording.
You placed the report on the table and added softly,
“It’s fine, Xavier. I never expected to keep up with the stars forever.”
When you turned and walked away, the golden warmth of the terrace dimmed. The faint glow that usually followed him flickered out.
The silence that followed was heavy, smothering.
Tara cleared her throat.
“That… did not go how I thought it would.”
Xavier’s jaw clenched. The air around him shimmered faintly with his evol, threads of light fracturing like shards of glass.
“No,” he said quietly.
“It didn’t.”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping the ground, and strode after you. Every step left faint motes of light behind, fading as quickly as they formed.
He found you on the observation deck, leaning against the rail, eyes fixed on the skyline.
The sunset made your hair glow like molten gold.
“You always did take pranks too literally,” you murmured when he stopped beside you.
He exhaled through his nose.
“You think I meant it?”
You shrugged, gaze distant.
“I think some people outgrow their constellations. Maybe I was one you’ll pass by.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re the reason I stopped chasing everything that wasn’t real.”
That made you glance at him, a hint of disbelief flickering through your eyes.
“Then why joke like that?”
He looked pained.
“Because I forgot how easily my words can burn when I don’t guard them. Because for a second, I wanted to see you smile,and instead, I dimmed you.”
The silence stretched. Then, his voice softened further.
“You’re not current, moonlight. You’re constant. My fixed point.”
Your breath hitched at the old nickname.
The one he hadn’t used since the night he first told you he loved you.
When you didn’t respond, he stepped closer, close enough that the faint hum of his evol wrapped you both in warmth.
“If it takes a lifetime, I’ll keep proving that.”
You turned, meeting his gaze. For a long heartbeat, the light in his eyes mirrored yours.
Later that evening, a small box appeared on your workbench, a plate of lemon tarts, carefully remade by hand, a couple of coupons to his favorite hotpot restaurant, and a folded note.
To my constant.
Even stars need somewhere to come home to.
When you looked up, he was watching from the hallway, hands tucked into his pockets, the faintest, most tentative smile on his face.
Rafayel had been the first to laugh when Thomas mentioned the trend.
He was painting in his studio, sleeves rolled up, streaks of crimson and gold smudged across his skin.
“Come on, Mr Rafayel,” Thomas goaded.
“You’ve got the perfect muse for it. Just say the line. ‘This is my current girlfriend.’ I want to see her reaction.”
Rafayel chuckled, brushing a streak of paint across the canvas.
“You really think she’d fall for something that trivial? She knows I adore her. Still…”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“A little mischief never hurt anyone.”
He didn’t think twice about it. He rarely did when it came to humor.
When you walked in, balancing a tray of freshly brewed coffee and a stack of exhibition notes, he turned to you with that trademark grin,the one that could melt crowds and infuriate critics.
“Ah, perfect timing,” he drawled.
“Everyone, this is my current girlfriend. I figured I should at least introduce her before I trade her in for a new muse next season.”
Thomas snorted. The studio assistants chuckled.
But you didn’t.
Your smile wavered, just barely.
The coffee tray clinked softly as you set it down, your movements careful, precise.
“Next season, huh?” you murmured, tone steady but eyes dulling.
“Guess that’s the life of a muse—temporary inspiration.”
His grin faltered.
He opened his mouth, but you were already turning away, quietly excusing yourself to check the drying racks.
The laughter faded. Thomas scratched the back of his neck.
“Uh, maybe that wasn’t—”
“I know,” Rafayel cut in, voice low.
The lightness was gone, replaced by something weightier. He wiped his hands on a cloth and stared at the paint-streaked floor.
“I know.”
For the first time in a long while, his studio felt cold.
He found you later in the adjacent room, arranging finished pieces with your usual care. The hum of the dehumidifier filled the silence between you.
“You really think I’d trade you in?” he said softly, leaning against the doorway.
You didn’t turn around.
“You joke about love a lot, Rafayel. Sometimes it feels like that’s all it is…a performance.”
He stepped closer, the scent of paint and rose oil trailing behind him.
“Maybe I use laughter to hide the truth. Maybe I make light of things because I’m afraid they’re too real.”
You finally faced him, brow furrowed.
“And what’s the truth?”
“That I’m a fool,” he admitted, voice steady but low.
“Because I thought being dramatic would keep things bright between us, but instead, I made you believe you were disposable.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
He crossed the distance, paint-stained fingers brushing your cheek with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“You’re not a muse, sweetheart. You’re the reason I still see color when I wake up.”
You blinked rapidly, torn between disbelief and the ache in your chest.
“You shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”
“I don’t say them easily,” he whispered.
“I just finally mean them.”
When you softened just enough for him to pull you into his arms, he exhaled shakily, the last of his bravado fading with the brush of your forehead against his chest.
Later into the next day, you found a small note on your work table, pressed between two paintbrushes and a tiny glass jar of dried roses.
For the muse who stayed long after the painting dried.
Dinner tonight?
No pranks. Just me.
It started as a harmless joke. Or so they said.
A few mischievous interns had been whispering about the “current-girlfriend” trend all morning, trying to see who could get the most stoic doctor in the hospital to play along.
Zayne ignored them until the promise of freshly baked macrons and his favorite milk tea entered the conversation.
“Come on, Dr. Zayne,” one of the interns teased,
“You barely react to anything outside the OR. Humor us for once. Just call her your current girlfriend in front of everyone, see how she reacts.”
He should have said no. He knew he should have said no.
But the laughter, the sweets, and the harmless tone of it all dulled his better judgment.
When you walked into the staff lounge with a patient file tucked under your arm, Zayne cleared his throat and forced a small smile.
“Oh, perfect timing,” he said, glancing between you and the group.
“This is my current girlfriend. She keeps me in check.”
The interns laughed, one nearly choking on his coffee. It was supposed to be funny.
But you just froze.
Not in surprise, not in embarrassment, but in that quiet way he had seen in patients who had already accepted their diagnosis.
You smiled, soft, small, practiced.
“Current, huh?” you repeated lightly.
“I guess that makes sense. Everyone’s got an expiration date somewhere.”
The room fell silent.
Your tone wasn’t bitter, just calm, like you were acknowledging a truth you had known all along. You handed him the file without meeting his eyes.
“I’ll go update my charts,” you said.
“Wouldn’t want your current girlfriend to mess it up.”
The door clicked shut behind you.
Laughter died instantly. The air in the room dropped several degrees.
Frost formed along the edge of Zayne’s water bottle, a crystalline sheen creeping up the metal.
One of the interns swallowed hard.
“Uh, Doctor Zayne?”
Zayne’s eyes were sharp enough to pierce through bone. His evol stirred beneath his skin, an instinctive surge of cold fury that rolled through the lounge like a winter storm.
“Which one of you thought this was a good idea again?”
His voice was quiet, too quiet. The kind of calm that preceded blizzards.
No one answered. No one met his gaze.
He didn’t wait for an apology.
He was already gone, footsteps echoing against the sterile tiles as the temperature slowly began to rise behind him.
He found you in the supply room, arms crossed loosely as you pretended to sort boxes of gauze.
“Hey,” he started, his voice low, uncertain.
You didn’t look up.
“It’s fine, Doctor Zayne. I know it was a joke.”
“That’s not,” he stopped himself.
“It wasn’t supposed to sound like that.”
You turned, finally meeting his gaze. Your smile was faint but tired.
“It’s okay. I always figured you’d move on eventually. You don’t owe me permanence.”
The words hit harder than any scalpel slip.
He took a step closer, shaking his head.
“Don’t say that. You’re not, this isn’t temporary. You’re not temporary.”
Your brows lifted slightly.
“Then why did it sound so easy when you said it?”
Zayne’s throat tightened. He reached out, fingertips brushing your wrist.
“Because I’m an idiot. Because I forgot how words sound when they leave a coward’s mouth.”
That drew a breath of laughter from you, soft and unsteady.
He exhaled shakily.
“I don’t want a current anything. You know me, I plan for the long-term. I see you there, in all of it. So if I ever sound like I don’t, hit me over the head with a stethoscope.”
You smiled then, just a little, eyes glistening.
“That’s a dangerous request, Dr. Snowie.”
“I’ll risk it,” he murmured.
When you finally let him pull you into a quiet hug, his heart steadied for the first time all day.
The scent of antiseptic and your shampoo filled his senses, grounding him in a truth that wasn’t fleeting.
Later that afternoon, a delivery arrived at your station, a small tray of chocolate éclairs, strawberry mochi, and a note written in Zayne’s neat handwriting:
For my not-so-current girlfriend.
Permanent position already filled, if you’ll have me.
When you glanced toward the observation window, he was there, leaning casually against the wall, pretending to read a chart.
But his smile, when your eyes met his, was soft and full of apology, and this time, it held no expiration date.
The twins, Luke and Kieran, had been up to something all morning. Sylus knew that look, the shared grin that meant chaos was coming.
They’d cornered him in his office, coffee in hand and mischief in their voices.
“Boss,” Luke started, trying to sound innocent.
“You’ve been all serious lately. When’s the last time you made boss lady blush?”
Kieran grinned.
“Yeah, it’s been ages since she gave you that look—y’know, the one right before she starts railing into you for being impossible. We miss that expression.”
Sylus leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey glass in his hand, smirk curving.
“You two are fishing for entertainment again, huh?”
“Come on, boss,” Luke pressed.
“It’s just a prank. Call her your current girlfriend in front of everyone. She’ll flip, you’ll tease her, and we’ll all laugh. Easy win.”
He snorted, exhaling smoke.
“You idiots really don’t know when to quit.”
But the idea lingered.
The memory of your exasperated face, cheeks puffed, brows knit, trying to look stern when you were too cute to pull it off, sparked something in him.
It had been weeks since he’d seen it. Work had been heavy, and you’d been quieter than usual.
“…Fine,” he muttered, placing his glass of whiskey.
“But you two are paying for lunch if she stabs me.”
When you walked into the Onychinus control room, holopad in hand, the twins straightened in anticipation. Sylus didn’t even look up from his monitor when he spoke.
“Ah, there she is,” he drawled, voice lazy and sharp as a knife.
“My current girlfriend, don’t mind the rest of them, sweetheart, they’re just jealous I get to see that frown up close.”
Luke barely stifled a snort. Kieran bit his knuckle, shoulders shaking.
But you didn’t frown.
You froze mid-step, eyes flickering toward him before lowering to the floor.
The humor drained from your face, replaced by something still, something that made the twins stop laughing instantly.
“Current?” you asked softly. The word fell like glass breaking.
“Right. Guess even the strongest things have… limits.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut air.
Sylus blinked, thrown off.
You placed the holopad on his desk without looking at him.
“Excuse me, boss,” you said quietly.
“I’ll handle the next report remotely.”
You left before anyone could speak.
Luke opened his mouth, but the words died when the lights flickered.
The air around Sylus crackled, his evol leaking through his restraint. Energy hummed low, violent, static crawling over the room.
“Get. Out,” Sylus said, voice soft, dangerous. It wasn’t a shout…it didn’t need to be.
The twins scrambled, mumbling apologies as they disappeared through the door.
He sat there for a long moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood.
The words replayed in his mind, how soft they’d sounded leaving your lips, how final.
Damn it.
He found you outside the HQ balcony, arms crossed as you stared at the city below.
The neon lights painted your face in shades of violet and blue.
“You really think I meant that?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t look at him.
“You joke about everything, Sylus. I figured… maybe I was just another thing to laugh about.”
He stepped closer, the hum of his evol following him like a heartbeat.
“You think I’d waste a joke on something I actually care about?”
You turned then, eyes sharp but wet.
“Then why say it?”
“Because I’m a damn idiot,” he said flatly.
“And because it’s been too long since I saw you glare at me like I’m the worst man alive. Guess I forgot not every reaction’s worth chasing.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself.
“You think that’s an excuse?”
“No,” he admitted, hands sliding into his pockets.
“It’s an apology wrapped in bad humor. You know me.”
When he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch was steady, warm.
“You’re not current, sweetheart. You’re carved into the foundation.”
You let out a shaky laugh, half a sigh.
“You really know how to ruin a bad mood.”
“That’s my job,” he murmured, grin faint but real.
Later into the night, when you returned to your desk, there was a small black envelope waiting, a sleek Onychinus seal stamped in red wax.
Beside it sat a giant money bouquet arranged with red roses, crisp bills folded into petals, and a soft card tucked among them.
Inside the envelope were vouchers for your favorite café and a handwritten note that simply read:
I don’t do temporary.
Dinner’s on me. No pranks this time.
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.
starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4
genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers
wc: 8.9k
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.
[hajime]: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again.
[hajime]: 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’s grin softened 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?”
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 café, 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.”
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 sharply 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.
(timeskip era, angst / comfort)
Includes Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, Hanamaki, Kyotani, Kunimi, and Kindaichi.
│ after the noise fades, all that’s left is the choice to stay
this is the series finale of Sticks and Stones and The Weight of Words
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
Oikawa Tōru
You hear the door before you see him.
It’s late — not unusual for him — but this time, the rhythm is different. No cheerful hum, no phone call echoing through the entryway, no muttered joke in Spanish under his breath. Just the sound of keys, the soft thud of a suitcase, and silence.
When you finally turn, he’s standing there. Still dressed from travel, hair messy, posture tired. The usual glow he carries after a match — the one that makes him seem almost untouchable — isn’t there tonight.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You hesitate. “Hi.”
He closes the door behind him, takes a slow breath. “You’re still up.”
You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He nods, eyes darting around the room. It’s tidy, quiet — your phone face-down on the table, a blanket folded neatly on the couch. Everything in its place. Everything that used to be his too.
“I didn’t think you’d—” he starts, then stops. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake.”
“You didn’t say you were coming back.”
“I didn’t plan to,” he admits, voice small. “I just… couldn’t stay there anymore.”
He drops his bag by the door, rubbing a hand over his face. For once, he looks his age. Not the charming, practiced version that the cameras love — just Tōru, human and uncertain.
“I had a bad flight,” he says quickly, as if to fill the quiet. “Too much time to think.”
You nod, but don’t speak. You’ve learned that letting him talk first usually tells you more than asking.
“I saw this edit someone made,” he continues, a dry laugh slipping out. “Clips from matches, interviews, even old practice footage. They called it The King of the Court Returns.” His smile fades. “It had millions of views.”
You don’t move. He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, voice lower. “And all I could think about was how you used to show me that stuff. You’d laugh at the comments, roll your eyes at the dramatic ones. You’d tease me until I stopped taking it so seriously.”
He exhales shakily. “Now I just watch them alone.”
You blink hard. “That was your choice.”
“I know.” He takes a few steps closer, slow, deliberate. “And I hate that it was. You were trying to love me, and I made it sound like a problem.”
Your voice is quiet but sharp. “You called me insecure.”
He nods once. “I did. Because I was scared. You saw me too clearly, and I didn’t know how to handle that. It’s easier to be adored by strangers — they don’t notice when I’m tired, or selfish, or… wrong.”
You study him, unsure whether to speak or let him unravel. He beats you to it.
“I kept thinking love meant being seen as perfect,” he says softly. “But you never asked for that. You just wanted me to be honest. And I couldn’t do it.”
His eyes flick toward the floor. “You stopped teasing me after that night. You stopped joking about the fans, stopped laughing when I bragged. And I thought — I thought maybe that was better. But it wasn’t. The quiet started feeling like punishment, and I deserved it.”
He looks up again, voice trembling. “You were always there, and I still made you feel small. I made you think your love wasn’t strong enough to hold me. But it was. I was just too proud to admit I needed it.”
You exhale slowly, the tension between you sharp and heavy. “You hurt me, Tōru.”
“I know.” His hands tighten at his sides. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me tonight. I just needed to tell you that I see it now. Every time I look at a crowd, every time someone screams my name — it’s not what I want anymore.”
He hesitates, the next words quieter, rougher. “I don’t want the version of me that everyone else loves. I just want the one you used to talk to.”
You stand there for a moment, unsure what to do with the ache spreading in your chest. He steps closer again, barely a foot between you now.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “You were never jealous. You were right to feel what you felt. I just— I was terrified that if you stopped admiring me, you’d stop loving me. I didn’t understand that those weren’t the same thing.”
Something in his tone breaks you a little — not the words themselves, but the way he says them, stripped of all that easy Oikawa polish. Just raw, shaky truth.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “Running yourself into the ground and expecting me to wait in the silence you leave behind.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “That’s why I came back.” He swallows, voice catching. “Not because the season ended. Because I realized it didn’t matter if I won. It just didn’t mean anything without you there to see it.”
You take a slow breath. “And what happens next time?”
He smiles faintly, eyes wet. “Then I’ll call before you have to.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head, but it’s not bitter anymore. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably,” he murmurs. “But I’m here. And I’m not leaving again until you tell me to.”
For the first time in months, he doesn’t reach for charm or reassurance. He just stands there — messy, tired, honest — and waits.
When you finally step forward, he exhales like he’s been underwater for years. You rest your forehead against his chest, and he wraps his arms around you carefully, holding on as though he’s afraid the world might see and take it away again.
He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “You were right,” he whispers. “The world loves me. But none of them sound like you.”
Iwaizumi Hajime
He knocks before he uses his key.
It’s early — the kind of quiet morning that still smells like rain. You haven’t changed much since the funeral. The house is tidy, muted, calm in a way that feels heavy. You don’t expect him to show up. You don’t expect anything anymore.
When you open the door, he’s standing there with a small paper bag in one hand and a cup carrier in the other. “Hey,” he says softly. “Brought breakfast.”
You blink, unsure what to do with him. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s kind of the point.”
He looks the same — hoodie, joggers, hair damp from an early workout — but something in his eyes has changed. The usual confidence, the easy steadiness, it’s still there, but it’s quieter now. Careful.
He steps inside when you move aside, setting the coffee on the counter. “Didn’t know what you liked, so I got a few things.”
You force a small smile. “You remember what I drink.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours. “Guess I do.”
For a while, it’s just the sound of the coffee machine and the rain tapping against the window. He doesn’t fill the space with talk this time. He just moves quietly, methodically — setting down napkins, plates, like he’s giving himself something to do that isn’t staring at the evidence of what he missed.
Finally, he says, “You could’ve called me.”
You look down at your hands. “You were busy.”
He winces at the words — the same ones you used that night when you didn’t tell him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I was. But I shouldn’t have been.”
You shrug, voice brittle. “It’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded, voice low. “You didn’t tell me because I made you think I couldn’t handle it. Because I told you your bad days were exhausting.”
You go still, throat tightening.
He continues before you can stop him. “You weren’t exhausting. I was just tired of feeling useless. I didn’t know how to sit still with you when you were hurting, so I made it sound like the problem was you. And then you believed me.”
You swallow hard, trying to breathe around the lump in your chest. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
He exhales, and the sound is shaky. “You never bother me. I said that once and you stopped talking to me when it mattered most.” His eyes flick toward the folded paper on the table — the funeral program, still lying there. “You went through all of that by yourself because of me. I don’t know how to make that okay.”
You blink, tears burning, and whisper, “You can’t.”
He nods once, voice rough. “I know.”
For a while, neither of you move. The coffee’s gone cold, the rain softens to a mist, and he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, breathing slow.
Then he looks at you again — eyes tired but steady. “I’m not gonna try to fix it,” he says. “I just want you to know that next time you need to fall apart, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll sit right here and let it happen.”
You bite your lip, your chest aching. “You can’t fix everything, Hajime.”
He lets out a quiet laugh — the kind that sounds more like an exhale. “Yeah. I figured that out too late.”
You take a step closer, slow and uncertain. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to,” he says simply. “Even if it’s just to sit. I want to be here when it’s quiet again.”
That’s all it takes. Something in you finally cracks. You reach for him before you can think, fingers clutching the front of his hoodie, and he’s already moving — arms wrapping around you, one hand sliding to the back of your head.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. He just holds you, the weight of his arms steady, grounding.
When you finally speak, it’s muffled against his chest. “I thought if I stayed still, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I thought quiet meant peace. But it just meant you were hurting where I couldn’t see.”
You nod, a tear sliding down your cheek, and he pulls you closer. “You’re allowed to need me,” he murmurs. “You always were.”
The coffee’s gone cold by the time you both sit on the couch, but neither of you move to pour new cups. The rain keeps tapping against the glass, slow and steady, like a rhythm you can finally breathe with again.
Matsukawa Issei
he shows up at your place on a tuesday. no warning, no text — just knocks until you open the door, standing there with one hand shoved in his pocket and the other holding a crumpled paper bag.
“brought snacks,” he says, lifting the bag a little. “and an apology.”
you raise a brow. “you’re leading with that now?”
“figure it’s safer,” he says, stepping inside when you don’t stop him.
the apartment smells faintly like coffee and detergent. you’re barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts. he notices but doesn’t say anything.
he drops the bag on the counter — chips, candy, some random drink he probably grabbed without thinking — and turns to face you.
for a second, he looks like he might joke again, lips twitching. but then he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “look,” he starts. “I said something stupid. like… top-tier stupid.”
you blink. “that’s one way to put it.”
“yeah.” he huffs a laugh, soft, awkward. “I thought I was being funny. I wasn’t. and it took me way too long to realize you stopped talking to me because of it.”
you cross your arms. “you make it sound like I was giving you the silent treatment.”
he shakes his head. “nah. you just stopped trusting me with the parts of you that matter. and that’s worse.”
you don’t say anything. he glances down, hands stuffed in his pockets, the usual easy posture gone.
“I made it sound like your feelings were some kind of… inconvenience,” he says slowly. “and the worst part is, I didn’t even mean it. I was just too damn lazy to be serious for once.”
you sigh. “yeah. it felt lazy.”
“it was.” he meets your eyes then — steady, open. “I liked that we were easy. I didn’t wanna ruin that by saying the wrong thing. so I said nothing. or worse, said the wrong thing anyway.”
there’s a pause. not tense, just honest.
you lean back against the counter. “you can’t just say sorry and think that fixes it.”
“good,” he says quietly. “because I don’t think it does.”
you look at him — really look at him — and realize how much effort it’s taking for him to stand there and not make a joke.
“you didn’t deserve that,” he says finally. “you opened up, and I acted like it was something to laugh at. I don’t want to be that guy. not with you.”
you swallow hard, voice smaller than you mean it to be. “then who do you want to be?”
he grins — small, careful. “the one who listens next time.”
the tension breaks, quiet and human. he reaches for the paper bag, pulls out a pack of your favorite chips, and sets it between you.
“so,” he says, tone lighter now, “you gonna let me hang out while we pretend I’m not bad at feelings?”
you snort, shaking your head. “you’re hopeless.”
“yeah,” he says, smiling this time. “but I’m trying.”
and for once, you believe him.
Hanamaki Takahiro
it’s two weeks before you see him again.
not because you’re avoiding him, exactly — life just keeps moving. work, errands, the kind of days that blur into each other until even anger starts to fade around the edges.
you don’t expect him to knock.
when you open the door, he’s standing there holding a folded envelope, expression sheepish. his hair’s a little damp, like he got caught in the rain, and there’s that nervous smile that used to come before a joke. but this time, he doesn’t say anything funny.
“hey,” he says softly. “can i come in?”
you hesitate for a second, then step aside.
he toes off his shoes and stands awkwardly in your living room, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. finally, he holds out the envelope toward you.
“this is for you.”
you blink, not taking it. “what is it?”
“my first paycheck,” he says. “from the new job.”
you stare at him, startled. “you— you got a job?”
he nods quickly, almost like he’s afraid you’ll laugh. “yeah. it’s just part-time right now, nothing huge, but… I wanted to show you I’m trying.”
you look down at the envelope in his hands — the corner crinkled, a faint smudge of ink near his thumb. “why are you giving it to me?”
his throat works as he swallows. “because… i owe you. for everything. dinners, rent, gas, all the times you didn’t make me feel like crap about it.” he exhales, a shaky sound that breaks halfway. “i don’t want to keep taking without giving anything back.”
“makki—”
“just let me say this, okay?” he cuts in gently. “i was comfortable. too comfortable. i told myself it was love when really, i was scared. scared to try and fail. scared to find out that without you, i couldn’t keep myself standing.”
his voice drops quieter. “and when you walked out that night, i realized i’d built my whole sense of worth around the way you looked at me. it’s not fair to you. it’s not who i want to be.”
you’re silent for a long moment. he shifts his weight, eyes flicking down.
“i got the job last week,” he says. “it’s not much, but it’s mine. i’ve been saving, and i wanted you to have this. not as payback — i know you’d never ask me to — but because i needed to show you that i’m doing something.”
he offers the envelope again, tentative. you shake your head, stepping closer.
“i don’t want your paycheck, takahiro.”
his eyes widen. “but—”
“i just wanted effort,” you say softly. “and you’re already giving me that.”
the tension in his shoulders deflates. “so… you’re not mad?”
you smile faintly. “i was never mad. i was hurt. and tired. but not mad.”
he laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i deserved that.”
you take the envelope from him anyway — not to keep, but to hold. “this means more than you think.”
his eyes soften. “you mean more than i knew how to show.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “you could’ve just said that instead of making me pay for dinner.”
he grins — that same crooked, familiar grin — and for the first time, it feels like warmth again. “yeah, i probably should’ve led with that.”
you huff out a laugh and step closer until your forehead nearly touches his. he’s still holding the edge of the envelope, like he’s not sure if it’s safe to let go.
“keep it,” you murmur. “use it for something that makes you happy.”
“you make me happy,” he says without thinking, and you feel him stiffen like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
you laugh, quiet and small. “then spend it on something for us.”
his smile grows, slow and genuine. “deal.”
he tucks the envelope back into his jacket, and when he looks at you again, his eyes are a little glassy but bright. “thank you. for not giving up on me.”
you reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “just don’t make me pay next time.”
he grins. “you got it, babe.”
“and not because I can handle it,” you add.
his thumb brushes over your knuckles, soft and certain. “no,” he says quietly. “because I want to.”
Kyōtani Kentarō
it takes him a while to show up again.
not because he’s avoiding you — at least not on purpose — but because he doesn’t know how to walk back into something he broke with his own hands. he’s not good at this part. at softness. at anything that doesn’t start with defense.
when he finally knocks, it’s late. the kind of hour that feels too heavy for small talk. he doesn’t wait for you to invite him in, just hovers in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows.
“can i—” he starts, voice low, rougher than usual. “just talk for a sec?”
you nod, moving aside.
he doesn’t sit. he just stands near the couch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s fighting with himself. “i’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like an idiot,” he mutters. “still working on that part.”
you stay quiet, waiting.
“that night,” he says after a long pause, “i said a lot of shit i didn’t mean. about you… and your jokes, and how you try to help.” his voice cracks on the word help. “you were just trying to make things better, and i acted like you were the problem.”
you swallow, heart twisting. “you were angry.”
“yeah,” he says quickly. “but that doesn’t make it okay.” he runs a hand over his face, pacing again, then stops himself with a frustrated sigh. “i’m not good at… talking. or listening. or— whatever it is normal people do when they’re mad. i shut down, and i drag everyone down with me.”
you look at him, and he finally meets your eyes. “you don’t drag everyone down,” you say softly.
he shakes his head. “i do. especially you.”
he starts pacing again, rubbing the back of his neck. “you used to joke around, you know? fill the room up with all that noise. and i didn’t get how good that was until it stopped. the house got too damn quiet, and for the first time, it wasn’t peaceful. it just—” he exhales sharply, the next word barely a whisper. “hurt.”
the words hang in the air, heavy and raw.
“i scared you,” he says finally. “i didn’t mean to, but i did. and that’s the part i can’t get out of my head.”
you don’t move, just study him — the tension in his jaw, the faint shake in his hands. “i wasn’t scared of you,” you say carefully. “i was scared of what it was turning me into.”
he goes still.
you continue, voice quiet. “i started walking softer. talking less. waiting to see what kind of mood you were in before I spoke. i hated it, but i didn’t know how to stop.”
his breath catches. “you shouldn’t have to do that.”
“i know.”
he nods, hands flexing at his sides. “i can’t fix all of that overnight,” he says finally. “but i’m trying. i started seeing someone — like, a counselor. team doctor hooked me up with her. she’s been helping me figure out what to do when i start to—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “blow up.”
you blink, surprised. “you’re going to therapy?”
“yeah,” he says, rubbing his neck again, eyes darting away. “it’s weird as hell. but i’m doing it.”
you don’t realize you’re smiling until his eyes flick back to you. “that’s… really good, kentarō.”
“don’t make it weird,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches — the faintest hint of a grin.
you take a slow step toward him. “you really mean it?”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “i can’t stand the way it felt when you stopped laughing.”
for a moment, neither of you move. then, tentatively, he reaches for your hand. his palm is warm, calloused, hesitant.
“i can’t promise i’ll never screw up again,” he says, voice low. “but i’ll never talk to you like that again. not ever.”
you squeeze his hand gently. “i know.”
his thumb brushes over your knuckles, small and deliberate. “you can still make stupid jokes,” he murmurs.
you laugh, watery but real. “wow. permission granted?”
he smiles for real this time — lopsided and shy. “yeah. i kinda missed it.”
you huff a soft laugh, leaning into him, and for the first time in weeks, the silence doesn’t feel sharp anymore. it feels like space — a place where something new could start.
Kunimi Akira
it’s quiet when he knocks — not awkward, not cold, just that soft, in-between quiet that feels like holding your breath.
he doesn’t say anything when you open the door. he’s standing there in a hoodie and jeans, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable. the same look he’s always worn, but now you can tell there’s something fragile underneath it.
“hey,” he says finally, voice low.
you cross your arms. “hey.”
he shifts, looking past you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come in. “can we talk?”
you think about saying no. about letting him stand there and feel the weight of the same silence he gave you. but you step aside instead.
he walks in slowly, glancing around like the room’s changed since the last time he was here — maybe it has.
you wait for him to speak, but he just stands there, staring at the floor. it takes a moment before the words finally come out.
“i keep thinking about what i said,” he murmurs. “about how you ‘always want too much.’”
your chest tightens, but you don’t respond.
“i was wrong,” he says quickly. “you weren’t asking for too much. you were asking for… effort. for me to actually show up. and i didn’t. i kept calling it ‘peace’ when really, it was just me being lazy.”
he laughs softly, bitter. “i thought I was easy to be with because I didn’t make a fuss. turns out I was just making it easy for you to feel alone.”
you glance up at him then, and he meets your eyes for the first time all night.
“i don’t want to be that guy anymore,” he says. “the one who just… sits back and watches things fall apart because it’s more comfortable than trying.”
he takes a step closer, hands still in his pockets, voice quieter. “you were right. i did stop caring about doing things together. not because i didn’t want to — because i thought we didn’t need to. i thought you’d always be there, even if i didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
you blink hard. “i wasn’t going anywhere.”
“yeah,” he says. “and that’s exactly why i took you for granted.”
the words hang heavy between you.
“i don’t expect things to just go back,” he adds. “but i want to start trying. i want to go out again. do the small stuff you always asked for. the bookstore, the café, those stupid day trips you’d plan and i’d roll my eyes at.” his mouth twitches faintly. “i’ll even sit through a movie if it means i get to actually look at you instead of my phone.”
you exhale a soft laugh, despite yourself. “that’s a big sacrifice, akira.”
he shrugs, eyes flicking to yours again. “yeah, well. i owe you a few.”
you study him for a moment, the edges of your frustration softening. “why now?”
he hesitates, then says, “because i finally realized that ‘quiet’ isn’t peace when it means losing you.”
that hits something deep.
he steps closer, close enough that you can see the way his thumb moves restlessly inside his pocket. “you’re not too much,” he says. “you never were. i just gave too little.”
you breathe out slowly, tension slipping from your shoulders. “you really mean that?”
he nods once, firm. “yeah. and i’ll prove it.”
you tilt your head, lips twitching. “you planning our next date already?”
“mm.” he smiles faintly. “maybe. depends on if you’ll let me take you out again.”
you cross your arms, pretending to think. “you’ll have to try pretty hard.”
“good,” he says quietly. “i want to.”
for the first time in a long time, his voice sounds like something steady — not flat, not tired, just real.
you nod, the smallest smile pulling at your mouth. “alright then. surprise me.”
he grins — not big, not showy, just soft and sure. “yeah. i can do that.”
and when he reaches for your hand before he leaves, his fingers are hesitant but warm — the kind of touch that feels like a promise kept.
Kindaichi Yūtarō
you wake up before him.
the apartment is still, sunlight bleeding weakly through the curtains. you move quietly, careful not to make noise as you set a mug under the coffee maker and lean against the counter, waiting.
behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of sheets. then a voice — low, rough with sleep.
“you’re up early.”
you glance over your shoulder. he’s sitting up on the couch, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded. you’d fallen asleep apart again — him at his desk, you in bed. somehow, he must’ve come out here after.
“couldn’t sleep,” you say softly.
he rubs his face, blinking slowly. “you’ve been like that a lot lately.”
you hum. “yeah.”
it’s quiet again. the sound of coffee dripping fills the room, steady and mechanical.
you reach for your mug when it’s done, but his voice stops you.
“can we talk?”
you freeze. it’s not like him to ask.
he’s standing now, the morning light hitting him in pieces — a tired figure surrounded by the very quiet he once said he wanted. his hands twitch at his sides before he shoves them into the pockets of his hoodie.
“i’ve been… thinking,” he starts slowly. “about the other night. about what i said.”
you turn, leaning against the counter, guarded.
“i didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” he continues. “you were just trying to help. i know that now.”
you don’t say anything.
“i told you you make things harder,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “but that wasn’t true. what i meant— what i was too stupid to say— is that you make me see things. that’s what makes it hard.”
your brows knit. “see what?”
“me,” he admits, voice cracking on the word. “how lazy i’ve been. how comfortable i got just… letting you do everything. and i told myself it was fine because you made it look easy. but it wasn’t fair. i didn’t help, and then i made you feel bad for trying.”
you stare at him for a long moment. the smell of coffee lingers in the air, warm but heavy.
“i just wanted to make things easier for you,” you whisper.
“i know,” he says, stepping closer. “and i made you believe that doing that was wrong. that you were too much when you were the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”
he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “i don’t know why i said it. i think i was tired. maybe i was embarrassed that you were doing everything i should’ve been doing. i just— i took it out on you.”
you swallow hard. “it hurt.”
“i know,” he murmurs. “and i hate that i didn’t notice how quiet you got after. the way you move around now, like you’re trying not to take up space.”
he takes another step forward, close enough that his voice softens. “you don’t have to do that anymore. you don’t have to make it easier for me. i’ll meet you halfway this time.”
you blink fast, throat tight. “and if it’s hard?”
he gives a small, tired smile. “then we’ll be tired together.”
something in your chest breaks a little — the quiet ache of relief settling where hurt used to sit.
“you’re really trying?” you ask softly.
he nods. “i started cleaning last night. did laundry, too.”
your lips twitch. “that why you used the wrong detergent?”
his ears pink. “it smelled nice.”
you laugh, small but real, and his eyes flick up — hopeful, almost boyish.
he steps closer, brushing his thumb over your hand. “i’m sorry,” he says again, quieter. “for making you think your effort was something to resent. it never was.”
you take his hand, the warmth grounding. “you really did make it harder,” you tease gently.
he smiles faintly. “yeah. i’ve got that effect.”
the two of you stand there for a while, the coffee cooling on the counter, sunlight creeping across the floor. for once, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy — it feels alive.
when he finally speaks again, his voice is steady. “you don’t have to fix everything, you know.”
you smile. “then i guess we’re both learning.”
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
this is the series finale of Sticks and Stones and The Weight of Words
romaincrisis
snowghoul
titsay
pixelskylines
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
