And maybe that’s why rationality was thrown out the window when he gleefully dragged you outside your apartment into the heavy rain. His gravity defying hair was now wet but he still gave you the same cheeky, boyish grin.
“Let’s kiss under the rain like in those movies," he said.
‘What a dork’
But you’re no better because rather than shutting this whole thing, you have work and Koutaro has a game tomorrow after all. You instead wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a loving kiss on his lips. Fulfilling his whims as water seeped into your clothes.
And of course, like the responsible adults you are, you both stayed under the pouring rain, chasing each other and doing other dorky shit he suggests. You can’t say no to your man at all, much to your own dismay.
So here you are now, six hours later bundled up in blankets with runny noses. You half heartedly glared at Bokuto as he whistled away. You laid on his arm while the other was draped on your waist. He was heavy, but his warmth makes up for it. Bokuto gave you a grin through his red cheeks, muttering something underneath his breath that made you shake your head.
You woke to the cold the way you always did. The draft biting at your shoulders first, then your arms, then creeping down to your feet. You blinked up at the ceiling for a moment before turning your head.
There he was.
Kageyama was on his side with his back to you, curled into a perfect burrito. He'd managed to swallow the entire duvet in his sleep, tucked under his chin, wrapped around his shoulders, cocooned around his legs with a thoroughness that, at any other hour, you might have found this cute, but it was so early and you were currently a popsicle.
A spare quilt was folded in the ottoman on top of your cabinet. You looked at it in the dim room then at the frost-bitten wasteland of the floor.
Nu uh
Reaching for the spare quilt felt like conceding defeat, and you were feeling too stubborn and too spiteful for that at three in the morning. Besides, Kageyama was right there, with muscles that can warm your very soul. But no, he remained unbothered while you slowly turned into something you could chip off at the eave of a roof.
You narrowed your eyes. Your dissatisfaction was palpable, yet entirely lost on your slumbering boyfriend. Taking a steadying breath, you raised your hands, wiggled your frozen fingers in the air l and pressed both palms flat against his bare nape.
Kageyama's spine went rigid. A strangled sound escaped him as he lurched forward so hard he nearly took himself off the edge of the mattress. He scrambled upright, twisting around to face you with his hair wrecked and his eyes wide and his expression cycling through confusion, alarm, and outrage in the span of about two seconds.
"What—" His voice came out rough with sleep. He stared at your hands, then at your face. "Why are your hands like that?"
"I'm cold," you said reasonably.
"They're ice," he hissed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
"Welllll," you drawled, "I'd be warmer if I had a share of that." You gestured pointedly at the mountain of duvet bunched around his waist. "Someone made that difficult."
Kageyama looked down at himself. Took a long moment to survey the situation then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Move over," he muttered.
He didn't apologize—it was three in the morning and he was Kageyama, so that wasn't happening. He lifted the edge of the duvet and held it open, you smiled and quickly dove in.
You pressed yourself into his side and he tucked the duvet around your shoulders, smoothing the edges down until you were fully sealed in. It was such a small thing but it made something in your chest go soft.
"You're still freezing," he said, though he didn't pull away when your toes brushed against his calf.
"Only if my human heater can do something about it."
He scoffed, yet his hand sought yours beneath the sheets, fingers interlacing. With a squeeze and the heavy weight of his leg over yours, he pulled you close, erasing the distance between you.
"Go to sleep”
You buried your face into the crook of his shoulder, inhaling deeply as your eyes drifted shut.
By tomorrow evening, he'd probably have stolen the blanket again. You'd wake up cold and he'd be a burrito and the cycle would continue because it always did, because some things about Kageyama Tobio were simply immovable facts of the universe.
But in the quiet of the present, his thumb was tracing mindless patterns across your knuckles. His heartbeat thrummed a grounding cadence against your cheek, and the stubborn chill had finally bled out of your body, replaced by his radiating warmth.
You found, very easily, that you didn't mind the coming cold at all.
The private gym smelled of industrial rubber, sweat, and the distinct, tangy scent of regret. Specifically yours, thinking it would be "fUn" or "MoTiVatInG" to let your boyfriend be your personal trainer.
"I’m done," you panted, sliding boneless off the bench, your muscles turning to overcooked noodles. "Hajime, you’re fired"
Iwaizumi looked at you unimpressed. "One set of leg extensions, move it"
"Hajime" You turned to face him, eyes wide and dead serious, a single bead of sweat tracing a path down your chin. "Are you serious? No mercy, even for your beloved?" You pouted, batting your eyelashes in a desperate attempt to manipulate your way out of the rack.
“Nice try”
"Ugh! But my legs are shaking!"
He sighs, squatting down to your level. You let out a breathe of relief thinking he's finally relenting but without a word, he closed the distance between you, hooking his hands under your legs and back, and hoisted you upward like you were a particularly uncooperative house cat.
Under any other circumstances, being manhandled by Iwaizumi would have been the undisputed highlight of your week—but right now, his arms was just leading you to your untimely demise.
"Hajime! Put me down!" you squawked, your feet dangling uselessly above the floor as he marched you toward the machine.
"Put me down—!"
And that he did. Directly into the seat, with a firmness that rattled your teeth.
"Hajime!"
"Adjust your back" he said, completely unruffled, reaching past you to set the weight.
"I physically cannot move that weight," you stated with arms cross. You find the weights daunting considering your current situation. "My quads are currently shit"
He leaned down then, both hands braced on the arms of the machine, and suddenly he was very close and very focused in that way that still, infuriatingly, made your brain go a little static-y. Why is your boyfriend so handsome? its stupid.
"Ten reps," he said, ignoring your plea. "With full range of motion."
"Or what?" you shot back, tilting your chin up. "What's the consequence, Hajime? A strongly worded look? I'm not afraid of you"
A beat of silence. Then the corner of his mouth pulled into something that was not quite a smile and was, frankly, worse.
"no sex for a month"
You blinked.
"...I'm sorry?"
"Not a touch," he said, standing up straight, crossing his arms. A small smirk was in his lips knowing what he'll utter next will work on you. "Not a kiss. I'll sleep on my side, you'll sleep on yours, and every morning you'll wake up thinking about what you could've had if you'd just done ten reps"
Your eye twitched. "You'd crack in less than a day"
"Do you really wanna gamble that?"
"A human rights violation—"
"Rep one" He tapped the weight stack. "Go"
"I hate you"
One
Two
"Higher" he said and it wasnt a request, you shot him a dirty look in return. "I am going higher, I'm going as high as I can—"
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
By eight, your whole body was shaking and you'd stopped forming coherent words, reduced to a string of sounds that were somewhere between a war cry and threaths. Iwaizumi hovered, close enough to catch if you dropped the weight, calling each rep in a low, steady voice that you hated because it made you feel butterflies.
"Two more, don't you dare stop"
"dOnT yOu dArE" you mocked in a huff. Nine. "I will end you —"
Ten.
The weights hit home with a crash you felt in your bones. You slumped forward, forehead nearly hitting the pad, chest heaving.
He placed a hand to your hair, patting the curls infuriatingly gently, fingers curling at the back of your head, tilting you up. He pressed a warm kiss to your forehead, a small smile in his lips.
"Good," he murmured against your skin. "I knew you had more in you."
"Im breaking up with you," you wheezed.
"You're not breaking up with me."
"Watch me, I'm leaving. I'm walking out that door."
"You can't walk. Your legs don't work, remember?" There was a glint in his eye that you would have called smug on anyone who isnt the love of your life. He held out the towel wrapped around his neck. "Go shower, then we're going home."
You huffed, giving him an are you for real look before raising your arms like a toddler.
Iwaizumi lets out a snort before scooping you up into his arms again. You chuckled, leaning in to pepper kisses over his cheeks and jaw as he carried you toward the locker rooms.
"Help me shower..?" you cooed, playfully nipping at his ear. "I really need help...."
He shifted his grip on you, his arms tightening. "Aye. I think we can arrange that."
The night was a blur of orange streetlights and smeared shadows. Without the frames perched on the bridge of your nose, the world had been reduced to a blurry photo taken in haste, but that was a small price to pay for the sake of costume accuracy.
"Careful," a calm, steady voice murmured at your side.
Before could even slip, a hand slid into yours. You stepped up onto the curb, your boot finding the concrete perfectly under his guidance.
"You really don't have to hold my hand the whole way, Keiji," you said, squinting toward a blob of light you assumed was a streetlamp. "I can probably manage."
"You nearly walked into someone two minutes ago," he reminded you. If you didn’t know him any better, you would have missed the airy, teasing lilt in his voice. "And there are children running about. It would be best to avoid collisions."
He adjusted his grip, his thumb resting comfortably against the back of your hand. Akaashi was the perfect navigator, being Bokuto's unofficial babysitter probably had something to do with it. While everyone else darted toward the next bowl of candy, he moved with a deliberate pace, his eyes scanning the sidewalk for uneven pavement or discarded wrappers that might cause a slip.
You let out a laugh, squeezing his hand as a teasing grin spread across your face. "You just wanted a reason to hold my hand, didn't you?"
"And what if I do?"
You whipped your head to look at him, your cheeks flushing. Even with your blurred sight, you could make out the sharp line of his sly smile.
~ although gn! osamu calls both of u ladies once so there's that.
You were frantically waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, face streaked with cocoa powder. You couldn't blame the thing, if your dorm was turned into a disaster zone like this, you'd be screaming too.
"I told ya the oven temp was too high!" you wheezed, hunching through the thick grey haze. Atsumu made a desperate run for the window, shoving it open, a soft groan of relief escaping him as cool air rushed in.
"The recipe said 150 degrees!" he shot back. "I figured if I cranked it to 500, it'd cook thrice as fast! It's basic math, [Name]-chan!"
"That was in Fahrenheit, you goddamn dumbass—"
"Ladies, ladies."
A cool, dry, and terrifyingly familiar voice cut clean through your argument.
Both of you spun around. Osamu stood in the doorway with his arms folded, taking a slow look at the wreckage of his kitchen. The counter had vanished beneath a layer of flour that looked like fresh snowfall. A small pot on the stove was belching smoke, something brown and bubbling inside it releasing a smell of burnt chocolate.
His gaze traveled from the egg shells and whites weeping down the counter's edge, to Atsumu's spatula, to your face.
"Most people," Osamu said evenly, "just buy a card."
"Osamu." Your eyes went wide. "You're early Suna swore he'd keep you at the arcade for at least another hour—"
"Suna pocketed the fancy jelly sticks you bribed him with and bailed forty minutes in," Osamu said, stepping into the disaster zone with the careful movements, wet socks sucks. "Gin kept losing at the arcade and folded not long after. Traitors, the lot of them."
He reached over and plucked the spatula cleanly out of his brother's hand without looking at him. Then dipped it into the brown sludge, and tasted it.
His expression remained blank as he turned to look at you.
"Salt," he said.
You blinked. "...What?"
"You used salt in the chocolate instead of sugar"
You turned and gave Atsumu a look that could wilt flowers. He, for his part, had picked up the white canister from the counter and was squinting at it with what appeared to be genuine philosophical confusion.
"I swore this was sugar," he muttered, to no one in particular.
Osamu looked at his twin. Then he looked at you.
Your hair had mostly escaped whatever it had been pulled into. There was a smear of cocoa across one cheek, a flour hand was imprinted in your dark apron, and you were staring at the scorched ruins of the stovetop with the specific, hollow exhaustion of someone who had tried very, very hard and had absolutely nothing to show for it except a ruined surprise.
Osamu's expression softened. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the cocoa from your cheek. You look at him, feeling guilty at the mess.
"Is it all ruined?" you whispered. "I wanted to make somethin' special. You're always the one feedin' me. I just thought, I could make something—"
"The cake?" Osamu said. "Yeah, absolute tragedy" You made a face at him, but he'd already leaned down and pressed a quiet kiss to your temple. "It is a miracle you survived baking with my brother"
"Im still here, ya know?"
Hearing his voice, Osamu straightened up and turned to Atsumu. "Bucket and a towel. If this place isn't spotless in twenty minutes, I'm telling Ma you were the one who broke her favorite vase" he stated flatly.
Atsumu went pale. He was already reaching for the cleaning supplies before Osamu had finished the sentence.
Osamu watched him scramble for exactly one second, then turned back to you. The flatness dropped off his face entirely. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"Happy six months," he said quietly.
You blinked. "You remembered?"
He gave you a look that said of course I did without saying anything at all.
Your chest stuttered, "I just you never make a big deal out of dates and stuff, I didn't know if you even—"
"I made a reservation," he said. "Nice place, too. Had it booked for two weeks."
You stared at him. Then you looked at the mess, then back at him.
"...Oh."
"Mm." His mouth twitched. "Was gonna surprise you, actually."
The groan that came out of you was mostly mortification. You dropped your face into your hands. "Osamu. I destroyed your kitchen trying to surprise you and you already had a whole plan—"
"Had," he agreed pleasantly.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
You didn't. That was the miserable part. You were standing in a flour-dusted, smoke-stained disaster of a kitchen with butter on your face and burnt chocolate on the stove, and he was looking at you like you'd done something wonderful.
He pulled your hands gently from your face. His thumb swept across your knuckles, once, before he let go.
"Hey," he said, quieter now. "You did all of this. For me." A pause. "I find it very sweet of you"
It was such a simple compliment, but it got your heart fluttering.
"but the chocolate had salt in it," you said weakly.
"I know" The corner of his mouth curved. "It would've been delicious if Atsumu didnt fuck it up." You slapped your mouth, to stop yourself from giggling.
He pulled you in, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, his chin dropping to the top of your head. You could feel the quiet rumble of his voice when he spoke.
"I'll cancel, we're stayin' in." He murmured "I'll make onigiri. You can sit on the counter and watch, and maybe," his chest shook slightly with something that was almost a laugh, "just watch."
Atsumu returned and gagged at the sight, dropping the bucket onto the floor with a loud, deliberate clank. He wrung out the towel with the energy of a man who had been deeply, personally wronged. "Infront of me, really?" he huffed.
"Ma is a phone call away, 'Tsumu," Osamu said, not moving an inch, chin still resting on top of your head.
Atsumu froze as the towel dripped onto the floor.
He swiftly turned back to the counter and scrubbed with renewed, vigorous purpose. Not another word out of him.
You laughed in Osamu's shoulder, finding the whole thing ridiculous, how much did their mother cherished that vase anyway? Osamu pulled back just enough to look at you, a rare unhurried smile still sitting on his face.
The pro player laid on his couch, a dazed look in his face. Practice was cancelled, friends doing their own thing, brother was busy and his lady was at work. There was nothing to do but rot in their living room, ignoring the laundry that needs folding and his messy wardrobe. In times like this, Atsumu tends to get to his own head and file through his memories like a film, laughing and smiling to himself at the moments he remembers. If he was in public, he’d look crazy.
And in doing so, Atsumu, through his sheer boredom, often remembers things. Oddly specific things.
He remembered Osamu calling his piss hair fugly during recess in their first year, tripping on his own feet during a run (suna had it filmed), getting splashed with mud by a car moving faster than the speed limit and you telling someone offhandedly, back when you were just a friend of a friend, that you liked men who can cook.
Atsumu’s smile dropped at the thought and a sudden unfair irritation for his brother formed at the pit of his stomach.
Atsumu huffed to himself with crossed arms, a scowl on his lips. He can cook, he counter argues to nobody. But looking back on it, most meals consist of you cooking and takeout (most of which was from onigiri miya btw).
With this he groaned, running his hand on his hair. But with sudden motivation, he stood up and march to the kitchen, a glint of determination in his eyes. Putting on a black ‘kiss the cook’ apron, he stared at the empty counter, thinking what he should make.
Onigiri? Yeah onigiri it is.
He rolled up his sleeves and exhaled slowly. If you were here, he was sure you’d already be leaning on the counter, eyes fixed on his arms, a teasing smile playing on your lips.
The thought made him chuckle.
He clapped his hand together and thought what filling should he make.
He’ll make the one you always buy at onigiri miya…how hard can it be?
———
“baby..what’s this..?”
You put on the best smile you can muster, poking the food her man made. Atsumu stared at her, arms crossed in his chest, a pout in his lips. “ya can laugh, y’know?”
He accidentally put too much filling that it dripped out of the molded rice. She gave him a chuckle, before taking a bite. The woman shrugged, placing the fork down and taking a stride towards her beloved.
“It's not bad, the taste was good” She sincerely stated, pressing a peck in his lips. Atsumu’s shaggy shoulders straightened back a bit.
The humid air of Rio de Janeiro clung to his skin, and for Hinata Shoyo, it was as heavy as the realization that he was truly alone on the other side of the world.
Standing on the sidewalk with a crumpled map and a stomach growling for something other than water, he felt the weight of the language barrier, the people were friendly but he wanted to crawl inside a cave everytime him and a local can't understand each other. He had his passion and his volleyball, but his Portuguese was a fractured mosaic of "obrigado" and frantic hand gestures. When he finally stumbled into a small, bustling lanchonete, he tried to order a simple pão de queijo (something he found very similar to Mochi Cheese Balls) but the words died in his throat, replaced by a shy, helpless smile.
You were leaning against the counter, watching the sunset-haired foreigner struggle with a mix of amusement and empathy. You didn't speak Japanese, but you recognized the universal look of someone lost.
Tapping the counter, you caught his eye and pointed to the basket of cheese bread, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. When his face lit up with a frantic nod, you laughed—a bright sound that seemed to bridge the gap between you both instantly.
"Pão de queijo," you said slowly, handing him a warm bag. "Pão. De. Queijo."
He repeated it carefully, the syllables clashing against his Japanese accent. "Pao... de... kesho?"
You smiled. Eh, progress was progress. The man beamed like the sun at your thumbs-up, already reaching for his wallet.
———
From that afternoon on, the lanchonete became his unofficial classroom, and you became his teacher. Hinata would arrive after grueling beach practices with flushed cheeks and the same beaming smile, sand still dusting his calves, carrying a worn notebook. In exchange for lessons, he taught you Japanese words for the things surrounding you—umi for the ocean that roared nearby, fuyu for the winter he missed back home, hoshi for the stars that emerged on nights when you stayed too late talking.
The lessons evolved past simple greetings quickly. Hinata began bringing his volleyball to the shop, using the ball as a physical bridge for his stories. You'd watch him move through the cramped space, noting the way his body remembered things his tongue couldn't quite grasp. It was endearing to see that volleyball was his first language.
And soon enough, he was woven into your everyday routine. It was in the way your fingers lingered when you handed him his plate. It was in how he would purposely "forget" the word for beautiful just so he could hear you say bonito while looking him in the eye. He wasn't the brightest student. English made his head spin and kanji left him frustrated. But now, when it comes to you, he seemed perfectly content to be the slowest student in the world if it meant another hour in your company.
One evening, as the shop was closing, Hinata looked up from his notebook, his face more serious than usual. He had been scribbling furiously for twenty minutes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and locked his eyes on yours.
"V-você quer... ir.. à praia?" he tried, then winced, shaking his head. The words weren't coming out right. Instead, he pointed to his heart, then to you, then toward the door where moonlight spilled across the street. "Eu... você... junto?"
Speaking in english, you leaned over the counter, a cheeky grin spreading across your face. "Are you trying to ask me on a date, Shoyo?"
He didn't understand all the words, but he understood the warmth in your voice. With red cheeks, he stepped closer, invading your personal space with the same fearlessness he used at the net.
"s-sim"
You reached across the counter, pulled him in by his shirt, and gave him an answer that required absolutely no vocabulary at all.
When you pulled apart, he was dazed, his eyes wide and sparkling. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven.
“Que tal essa resposta?” you mused.
"Gostei muito," he murmured against your lips, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Again... por favor?"
Kita had learned his meticulous ways from his grandmother. She had built her life upon routine, each habit stacked carefully onto the last until her world ran like clockwork. Yet, for all her precision, she never lost her sense of whimsy.
Before she cleaned, she always performed the same ritual. She would walk to the turntable, place a record down with reverent care, and lower the needle. As the opening notes emerged, she’d hum along, letting the melody become as much a part of her work as the cloth in her hands. Inevitably, that same cloth would be abandoned as she pulled her grandson into the center of the living room, bending low to waltz with him across the wooden floors.
Naturally, Shinsuke carried that tradition into his adulthood.
One afternoon, as dust motes drifted through shafts of golden light, a familiar tune began to dance through the air. He found himself pausing, the cloth in his hand forgotten, as the first few bars of his grandmother’s favorite song pulled him away from his chores.
You were humming without realizing it, lost between the melody and the motion of your own hands. Your sqeak when an arm closed around your waist and pulled you back into the warmth of him.
"Dance with me."
There is a gentle assumption that of course you would, because why wouldn't you? Because when has there ever been a better reason to stop what you're doing than this?
You pulled back from him with a small smile, fingers pinching the hem of your pants by the index with your pinky up. You gave a low dainty, ridiculous curtsy.
He laughed and your heart fluttered at the sound. Kita returned the gesture with equal gravity of ridiculousness, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other at the small of his back, bowing from the waist like he was presenting himself at court.
"Shall we?" he said.
He took your hand the same way his grandmother had once taken his. His other hand found the small of your back, and then you were moving, the two of you swayed and twirled, your feet finding the rhythm without either of you having to think about it.
The house was quiet around you, save for the soft music and the rhythmic scuff of your feet against the floor.
It would be a while before you returned to your chores. The laundry sat where you'd left it and the dust would resettle by morning. Somewhere in the house, something that needed doing was being quietly, mutually ignored and for a man who kept his world running to the minute, that was its own kind of declaration, you wouldn't have it any other way.
