Archive of Our Own

The decision shouldn’t be this difficult.

That’s probably what Iwaizumi would say to him if he was also standing in this cramped pastry aisle of the Waseda Market, a different brand of milk bread in each hand. Oikawa weighs them carefully, checks the expiration date, and considers other things like density or grams of sugar. Not like these things actually matter, anyways. When he gets back to his dorm, he’s planning on ripping through the plastic like a savage. 

He’s craving something sweet and knows neither will compare to his neechan’s. This purchase is simply a byproduct of missing his home.

“Takeru would probably like this one,” Oikawa says to no one in particular as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and feels around for his cellphone. He wants to take a picture of the small bear logo holding a piece of bread on the front and send it to his nephew, maybe teach him what the word meta means. You can never miss an opportunity to be the cool, smart uncle. 

“Here we go —“ his elbow connects with something sturdy. It’s not enough to hurt, but Oikawa immediately jumps back to apologize.

“Sorry,” the stranger beats him to it. When he looks up, Oikawa realizes it’s not a stranger at all.

It’s Wakatoshi. Ushijima, Oikawa quickly, subconsciously, corrects himself. 

It’s Ushijima, wearing his Waseda volleyball quarter-zip, grown-out bangs messily pressed against his forehead, tip of his nose colored pink, brows furrowed in the way they do when something unexpected happens — like someone knocking into you by accident.

It’s Ushijima who lifts his olive eyes and does a one-over of Oikawa’s face as they stand in this narrow aisle, Ushijima who says nothing of acknowledgment towards his rival of eight years, teammate for eight months, semi-civil friend for the past eight weeks. No, Ushijima doesn’t do anything of that sort.

“Have a good night," he says instead, sounding ever-so-polite as he bows his head and picks up a loaf of milk break for himself before turning to head to the registers.

Oikawa blinks.

“The fuck?” Finally, he processes the entire encounter and wails when Ushijima is out of sight.

“What — did he — no — he must have,” Oikawa sputters and takes out his phone, nearly dropping it with how quickly he’s moving, and opens up the camera, no — no, I don’t want a picture of the freakin’ bread shelves right now — and he’s looking at himself in the camera app.

Clad in an oversized beige hoodie and fresh-out-of-the-shower hair, Oikawa doesn’t think he looks that different. Sure, the lighting inside of the market isn’t exactly flattering, but his skincare routine is meant to minimize his pores. And despite his natural inclination to see the worst of Ushijima (a behavior he’s learning to curb as of recently), there’s no way that he would ever blatantly ignore Oikawa like that. 

Which must mean: “Did he not recognize me?” 

Oikawa blinks again.

“Is it because of my glasses?”

“Iwa-chan, I’m serious! Waka-chan looked me straight in the face and had no reaction whatsoever. He totally didn’t know it was me, and I think it’s because I was wearing spectacles.”

“Oikawa, I seriously doubt that. Also, don’t call them spectacles. You sound like a pretentious asshole.”

He pouts, but Iwaizumi is right. He'll drop the word from his vocabulary. Anyways, “Why is that so hard to believe that he wouldn't recognize me?”

“Because Ushijima isn’t — Makki, get a load of this.”

Oikawa watches as a pink blur walks into the frame and greets him with his signature peace sign (nothing special about it, Makki just does it a lot). Oikawa waves in return, knowing Matsukawa will join the conversation in .8 seconds now that Hanamaki is there. When he eventually does, the three start laughing.

“Guys, really!”

“Oikawa, I always knew you were an idiot. I didn’t think you were a dumbass.”

“Well, Wakatoshi-kun is the one who’s dumb for not recognizing me.”

“Wakatoshi-kun?” Matsukawa chimes in.

Somehow, it’s worse getting ganged up on via wifi, and Wakeda’s signal isn’t even that strong.

“You guys are blurry as shit, but I can still tell you’re exchanging those dumb looks.” Oikawa scowls.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa move out of the screen, leaving Iwaizumi’s semi-amused, semi-concerned expression to come into semi-clear view. 

“We’re just joking Oikawa. Maybe Ushijima was joking too, trying to get you all worked up.”

“Joking? As if he has a sense of humor.”

Iwaizumi hums as his lips pull into a smile, one that Oikawa can’t help but mirror.

“So, how’s that going anyways?”

“How’s what going?” 

“You and Ushijima - you two…” Iwaizumi’s voice trails off as he glances behind him, most likely receiving some urging from the other two in the room, “are… friends ?” 

Oikawa doesn’t really know what to say to that.

Friendship, for Oikawa, has something that's always come easily to him. He has plenty of people he would consider friends, at least, on the surface.

But as he gets older, he’s found that it’s maintaining them that proves itself to be difficult. As he gets older, he’s found that he’s not exactly interested in making new friends.

Maybe his standards are simply too high. After all, with someone like Iwaizumi always at his side, how could anyone else hold a candle to their absolute loyalty and trust, to their commitment towards growth? And what about Hanamaki’s endless charm, the way he empathizes with Oikawa about things they sometimes feel too insecure to touch? And Matsukawa, with his calm demeanor and ability to anchor all three of them. Friends, new, real ones, are something Oikawa isn’t on the market for. 

And then he thinks about Ushijima, wonders how he fits into that picture, why he wants to place him there at all. He thinks about Ushijima’s respect for him, the one he confessed to in the locker room months ago.

He thinks about the way Ushijima accepts Oikawa’s shortcomings since they’ve been at university together, and tells Oikawa how those shortcomings are a part of his strengths.

It's a nice thought, sure, a good change that reflects both of their growth as people.

But sometimes, Oikawa thinks about those shortcomings in comparison to Ushijima and how that mentality, those grudges, will always come to haunt him. Sometimes it feels like he’s just waiting for them to sprout from the ground and grab him by the ankles, drag him back down into the dirt where he belongs. He thinks about middle school and inter-high and losing, being lost in the concrete walls of what it means to go against Shiratorizawa. 

Despite his efforts to demolish those barriers, to be the kind of person who forgives Ushijima, to the kind of person who forgives himself, Oikawa struggles.

And other times, as of recently, he thinks about when it’s a little too late at night and Takeru sends him a really funny video, Oikawa will walk down to Ushijima’s room and show him. Even though Ushijima doesn’t always laugh, he doesn’t kick Oikawa out of his dorm either.  Not once — not even when he spends hours showing him videos of dogs, volleyball plays, or people making milk bread.

He clears his throat.

“I guess,” Oikawa starts, “we’re something like that, sure.”

“Maybe more than that?” Matsukawa yells from somewhere in the back.

“No.” Oikawa frowns. “We’re friends-ish. Friends adjacent, perhaps.”

The phrase is so ridiculous that they all burst out into laughter. The sound helps Oikawa feel a little less alone, like the distance between Tokyo and Sendai isn’t that bad.

“Well, that works. Gotta say I’m proud of you Shittykawa. You're getting less shitty as the days go by.” 

Oikawa smiles and runs his hand down his face.

“Iwa-chan, you can’t ever just tell me you miss me like a normal person, can you?”

“No, he can’t.” Hanamaki abruptly barrels back onto the screen.

“But I miss you a lot and Issei and Hajime suck ass, so when I get back to my apartment can we watch the newest episode of Sk8 the Infinity ?”

“Yes! Okay, I’m gonna shower and then I’ll call you after.”

I want to win.

I want to be friends.

They’d said it at the same time in the locker room, after a particularly grueling and embarrassing loss against Osaaka University. 

Oikawa hadn’t expected Ushijima to say that. He’d expected him to say the same thing as him, to bring it all back to winning, like it always had for the past eight years. Because wasn’t that what their relationship was rooted in?

I want to win, too, Ushijima said, his voice carrying itself with the same confidence, but something else with it as well. An edge of vulnerability that Oikawa had never noticed before, and one that Ushijima wasn’t aware he possessed. 

The words had escaped Ushijima before he knew what he truly meant, but it wasn’t something he wanted to take back either.

I want to win as teammates.

I want to win as friends.

I want to win with you.

And Oikawa remembers thinking, the smallest part of him that he would ever allow to nurture this thought, that it sounded like the truth. 

Quietly, Ushijima thought that it almost sounded like a confession from his own lips, too.

Oikawa aggressively punches in the numbers 3728 into the pin pad and swings the door open.

“Ushiwaka!”

“Oikawa.” Ushijima looks up from his desk where The Principles of Food and Agricultural Markets lies wide open. It’s nearly 10:30 on a Friday night and of course, Ushijima is studying like the diligent student he is. Also, they have a training camp and community volunteering with local elementary schools this weekend.

“Is something wrong? Usually you at least knock.” He’s frowning, but most likely because Oikawa has broken his concentration and not because he’s upset that Oikawa has burst in completely unannounced.

“Yes, something is wrong.” Oikawa sits down on the edge of his bed like he’s done more often than he’d ever admit to. This time, he isn’t wearing his glasses.

Slowly, Ushijima turns in his seat to face him, both hands resting atop his desk chair, fingers curling against the wood.

“Are you okay? I bought some milk bread if you’d like some,” he motions to the loaf sitting on top of his fridge

Oikawa glares.

“I know you bought milk bread, I was — wait, you don’t even like milk bread!” 

“I don’t. It's not great for you.”

“Then why do you have some!?”

“Because last time you were in my room, you complained for thirty minutes that I had nothing for you to eat. You called me a bad host,” Ushijima reminds him, as though he wasn’t mildly offended when it happened (as though Oikawa wasn’t purposely trying to rile him up to begin with). “So, I bought something I knew you would eat, because my mother taught me to be a good host.”

Oikawa isn’t entirely sure if he wants to roll his eyes or apologize to Ushijima for pointing out his lackluster hosting skills. Somehow, the combination of the two actions doesn’t feel like the right answer. In learning more about Ushijima the past two months, strictly in the context of friendship, he’s realized that the man is sickeningly endearing. Oikawa feels ill at the sheer thought of it.

“Okay, well…thank you,” he huffs, regathering his bearings as to why he stormed here in the first place. When he looks at the milk bread, he remembers the exact reason. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me..."

“I didn’t interrupt you.”

“There you go again!” Oikawa glowers. “As I was saying: you completely ignored me at the supermarket earlier!” 

He relays the story of them bumping into each other, how Ushijima had looked him straight in the face and made no acknowledgement of their life-long affair (yes, that’s what he called it, which only made Ushijima tilt his head).

“Do I look that different with my glasses on?” 

“Yes. I barely recognized you.”

“Really!? Do I look bad in them? I just, you’ve known my face since we were eleven.” Oikawa rambles but then notices Ushijima lower his head and that his shoulders are slightly shaking. “You’re laughing. Why are you laughing?”

“Of course I recognized you, Oikawa.” Ushijima exhales and looks up at him, his lips pulled into the smallest of smiles that Oikawa has come to recognize these past few months. Oikawa restrains himself from pointing it out, even in a teasing manner.

“Then why did you pretend like you didn’t!? That’s rude, Waka-chan.”

“It was Matsukawa-san’s idea.”

“Matsukawa? My Mattsun? Matsukawa Issei, age 20, 188 centimeters, graduate from Aoba Johsai, and student at Tohoku University? That one?”

Ushijima nods and has the nerve to look appreciative of Oikawa’s very specific description.

“Yes, when I went home last weekend to pick up some of my belongings, I ran into him and Reon Ohira, age 20, graduate from Shiratorizawa.” (Ushijima doesn’t know Reon’s height. He’ll have to text him later and ask.)

Oikawa scowls because clearly, Ushijima is mocking him.

Ushijima looks confused, and decides to further clarify (which may or may not frustrate Oikawa even more). “As you know, Reon also attends Tohoku and they are friends.”

“And Mattsun gave you what? This great idea about pretending not to know me?”

“Yes. He asked me how you were and I said that you’d been doing well. And that despite our rather rocky start at the beginning of the season, we were working together fine and that you were very calm and put-together for being the first-year starting setter.”

Suddenly, Ushijima sounds unsure.

It’s not the first time Oikawa has heard him like this either. It reminds him of their conversation in the locker room, or any conversation that might suggest they’re, well, friends.

“And then he said that during your conversations you had seemed somewhat stressed, and that playing a harmless joke on you might help loosen you up. ”

Oikawa narrows his eyes at the wing spiker, gauging to see how much of this is truth. It must be. After all, only Matsukawa could find a way to get under his skin from Sendai. But it would be a lie to say that Oikawa isn’t mildly entertained. At the very least, he’s flattered. He leans in and rests his elbows on his knees as he observes Ushijima’s neutral expression.

“Oh? And do you enjoy loosening me up, Ushiwaka-chan?”

He doesn’t mean it to come out as flirtatious as it sounds, but if Ushijima wants to be friends, this comes with the territory. After all, he more or less flirts with all of his friends. Besides, watching Ushijima shift in embarrassment is his form of payback.

Victory is the passing thought when he sees the tips of Ushijima’s ears turn pink. Before he can respond though, Oikawa takes something close to pity and lets out a loud laugh as he lays back onto the bed.

“I guess you got me," he grumbles and stares up at the ceiling. Briefly, he allows himself to wonder why it had bothered him so much in the first place: being ignored, especially by Ushijima of all people. He shoves the idea down to the ground and buries it.

“Didn’t know you were capable of making jokes, Waka-chan!” Oikawa cheerfully jabs at him.

Ushijima turns back to his textbook and Oikawa can see the shadow of his head shake.

“I cannot believe you really thought I didn’t know you simply because you were wearing glasses.” Ushijima’s voice sounds soft; Oikawa pictures that he’s smiling. “As if I would ever not be able to recognize you.”

This is the beginning of a busy summer. 

Ushijima looks at the calendar on his phone, eyes skimming over the blue bars that stretch through the week that read volleyball practice. Every other weekend has a blue bar that says the same thing, with the addition of volleyball volunteer hours. This is how he finds himself in this gymnasium surrounded by elementary students.

It’s his first summer truly away from Miyagi and he never imagined he would be spending it in Tokyo surrounded by children. It's not a bad thing, just not what he was expecting.

Ushijima hadn't thought he'd be the type to miss things, like spiking Shirabu's sets or digging Reon's spikes, but the longing that pools in his gut tells him that his first year at university has changed him.

The thought swims around the corners of his mind, trying to find somewhere to anchor itself. Before it gets a chance to dock, a familiar voice rings in his ears.

“Ushiwaka-chan!”

He pulls his attention away from his phone and looks up, meeting Oikawa’s petulant gaze. Whenever he sees Oikawa making that expression at him, the one where his mouth is pushed to the side of his face in a small pout, Ushijima has to resist the urge to reach out and tug at his lips or pinch his cheeks. If Tendou had ever made a face that ridiculous towards him, that's most likely what he would do then. He has never actually done that to Tendou, but he might. 

“Were you texting someone? A lover, perhaps?” 

Ushijima frowns.

He never understands why Oikawa assumes that he’s in communication with a partner; he never understands why Oikawa would even think that he has a partner in the first place. But he was teased similarly in high school by his other friends like Taichi and Semi whenever he would text Sakusa, so he assumes it’s something similar.

“No, just looking at my calendar.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he leans in, invading Ushijima's personal space the way he's come to do quite frequently within the past few weeks. It's not that Ushijima minds, but it makes more difficult to not do the tugging, pinching thing when Oikawa's face is right there.

“Got a hot date?”

“No, but during our week off at the end of next month, I will be going to Miyagi because Semi Eita and his band will be playing his first live show.” He says, observing Oikawa’s expression. 

The conclusion is that Oikawa looks like he’s about to scowl, and Ushijima is right. Oikawa scowls, and he can’t help the way his own lips pull into a somewhat satisfied smirk, which makes the setter scowl even more.

Predictable isn’t exactly a word he would use to describe Oikawa. No, not at all. However, there are some things about him that don’t surprise him at all. In a year full of change — a new city, a new team — Ushijima had never imagined that Oikawa would be the most familiar thing to him.

He would have never imagined that Oikawa would remind him of home.

“Interesting,” Oikawa’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “I’m going back that week too.”

There’s a strange pull in Ushijima’s chest, one that tugs at him whenever he thinks of asking Oikawa something. He never feels this way about other people, not that he ever asks for a lot to begin with. Yet with the setter, there’s always a lingering concern that Ushijima won’t get what he wants — and that within itself is strange as well: to think that in becoming friends with Oikawa he’d want anything from him at all. 

Ushijima doesn’t understand why he’s so nervous.

“You should come to Semi’s concert," the words leave his mouth in a rush.

If Ushijima isn’t mistaken, Oikawa looks surprised. 

“Sure.” There’s an abnormal gentleness in Oikawa’s voice that neither of them expect — or comment on — and it’s instantly replaced by his normal, cheeky demeanor.

“A concert with Ushiwaka-chan!? Who would have thought we would see the day. I didn’t even know you liked music!” He hollers as he walks back to the court because the kids’ water break is over. 

Ushijima watches Oikawa leave and, unbeknownst to himself, releases a deep exhale.

_____________________________________

Oikawa remembers the first time he set a volleyball.

It felt a lot different from spiking one, which was something Iwaizumi had seemed to find a lot more pleasure and accomplishment in. With setting, it was the way his fingertips could dictate such control during a game. Honestly, it wasn’t something he’d fully understood though until he watched Blanco in the match between Argentina and Japan. Like most things, it's easier to understand them in hindsight.

It’s a silly thing to admit (even though Oikawa talks about it constantly to Ushijima, because he nods and listens and doesn't tease him like others might), but there’s a part of him that hopes he can have that same effect on a player one day, too. Right now, that player is Itachi.

When the nine year old complains he wants to skip the setting drill and only do spikes, Oikawa frowns.

“But Itachi, setting is so much cooler!” He whines in return, patience running thin. 

All these years Oikawa has thought he’s liked children, but maybe he just likes Takeru. 

“Setting is lame!”

Or, perhaps, Itachi is a little bratty.

Oikawa, despite his better judgment, continues to argue with this fourth grader. He’s too tired to get legitimately upset, but also too passionate about volleyball to give up. Not like he child is paying attention to him anyways, because now Itachi is beaming from head to toe at Ushijima’s sudden presence. 

“Ushijima-senpai, I want to spike! It’s cooler!” He repeats himself, borderline wailing.

Oikawa and Ushijima exchange looks, and if his irritation wasn't obvious before, it must be evident now because Oikawa feels a vein tensing in his forehead.

“But Itachi," Ushijima glances down, "Oikawa-senpai is teaching you one of the most valuable parts in volleyball.” His voice is even and ever-patient. Oikawa watches as Ushijima lowers all 189.5 centimeters of himself so he can come eye to eye with Itachi.

“Spiking might be cooler, but who’s the one that brings the ball to your hand? Who is the person that gifts you the opportunity to score for your team?” Ushijima asks as he brings his finger to tap lightly against Itachi’s palm, before using that same finger to point right at Oikawa.

“The setter does.”

Ushijima has to call Goshiki and tell him he disagrees. 

There’s no singular moment that strikes him down with adoration. Yes, his breath is taken away, but not in the euphoric sense that Goshiki had described it.

But there is something, Ushijima notices, that begins to simmer in the deepest parts of him. He hadn’t exactly noticed it at first — the way that warmth spread throughout his muscles whenever Oikawa drew near. It’s summertime and anything close to a heat flash can be blamed on the sun, but this is different. He's not bursting at the seams like Goshiki said he would; it's far from it.

This might be worse, Ushijima thinks, the uncertainty that weighs him down whenever Oikawa draws near, the way it inhibits his senses, disables him from thought. 

Whatever effect Oikawa has on Ushijima melts him down to his bones and fills his lungs with a longing he can’t escape. Sometimes he can’t breathe, his blood running warm and cold.

Sometimes, being with Oikawa feels like he’s bowing before the sun. His pride melts to humility.

Maybe he won’t call his kohai after all. Maybe Goshiki is not wrong.

Maybe, for now, he’ll just keep this to himself. 

“And he’s really good with children. It’s absurd, the weirdest thing I have ever seen! You would think that kids would be scared of him, but they’re not. They love him!”

“Huh, yeah. Like you do?”

“Makki, stop that.”

“All I’m saying is I called you to talk about the beef between Adam and Reki, and instead you have been talking about Ushijima for the past...I don’t know, ten, fifteen minutes? Not that I mind, I’m just trying to make a point here.”

“Your point being?”

“That you love him. Duh.”

“Makki!”

“Okay, fine! Not love, but obviously you’ve been enjoying being his friend.”

“Is that a crime?! It’s not like I have you all here to hang out with instead.”

“It’s not like there aren’t fifty thousand students that go there and you’ve decided to spend every waking moment with Ushijima.”

Oikawa glares at Hanamaki through his screen. 

“I don’t like Ushiwaka, okay? Besides, that enemies to lovers trope doesn’t happen in real life,” he says dismissively. He’s watched enough dramas to declare that it’s the most unrealistic, right after a student falling in love with their very attractive teacher and having that work out somehow. If Mizoguchi had paid Oikawa an ounce of special attention, he and Makki would not be having this current conversation.

“You two aren’t enemies though.”

“Well no, but I used to hate him! I still might, you never know!”

“Oh, Tooru…” Hanamaki drawls in the way he does whenever he’s about to subtly dig into him. "You're too focused right now on the past, and it's fucking you all up dude. You have to take a step back and look at the bigger picture."

"What does that even mean in this context?" Oikawa pulls his lips into a pout, reminiscent of a child who’s about to be scolded.

“Well, okay. Let's start here. Hate is such a funny word, right? Because we associate that to be the opposite of love. However,” Hanamaki makes a show by clearing his throat, “it’s not the opposite of love. Want to know what the opposite of love is?” —A rhetorical question — “Apathy. Not caring about something at all. Because at that point, you don’t attach any kind of emotional response to it. And I must tell you, there’s never been a day in your life where you didn’t give a damn about Ushijima, whether it was trying to beat him or something else.”

Hanamaki looks straight at Oikawa, expression firm until his lips break into a lopsided grin. 

Oikawa snorts and looks down. One day they'll just talk about anime, and not about the inner workings of their heart. Maybe their next facetime date.

“Wow. Didn't know you were majoring in philosophy, Makki.” 

“Mhm. Learned that from the great philosopher, Matsukawa Issei, 367 BC." Hanamaki takes a hit from a blunt off-screen. "Plato thought he was a real dick.”

Nobuyuki Kai is intelligent, level-headed, and was in Ushijima’s Introductory to Arboriculture class. Outside of Waseda’s volleyball team, Ushijima considers him to be one of his closest friends at the university. It’s easy talking to Kai; he doesn’t overthink what he’s saying or read too much into his expression. This is the kind of friendship Ushijima is familiar with: peaceful, where it doesn’t feel like his insides are getting all stirred up by an invisible hand.

Kai is also around for the summer for an internship at Okuma Garden and on the days Ushijima is free, Kai swings by his dorm to catch up.

“If you go to Chuo City, you can visit the Hamarikyu Gardens,” he says from behind and leans over the back of Ushijima’s chair to point at the screen. 

“The Black Pine there actually change color in the autumn, mostly red. It looks really nice with the pond. The whole park has been through quite a bit since the Meiji Restoration. It’s actually burned twice, during the Kanto earthquake and the Tokyo air raid,” Kai informs as he places his elbow on Ushijima’s shoulder to get a better look at the computer.

“But now it’s a national historic site. It’s a forty-minute train ride from the Waseda station to Tsukijishijo.” He points at the small train icon not too far from the dropped pin.

Kai turns his head to look at Ushijima, their faces only inches apart.

“You thinking about going, Wakatoshi?”

“Maybe.” Ushijima leans back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest, absorbing all the information Kai has given him about Hamarikyu. It would be nice to go, he thinks, and explore different parts of Tokyo besides Waseda’s immediate outskirts. The thought of going with a friend flickers across his mind, the thought of inviting —

“I’ll tell you what. Next time I’m around, I will take you to any garden you want and even list off all the genus and species!” Kai pats his arm and offers a friendly grin as he turns to face Ushijima while now leaning against his desk.

Ushijima smiles. “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

"Good friend, and a good tour guide!" Kai pats Ushijima's shoulder.

Ushijima huffs a laugh. He's about to ask him if it’s near any restaurants, possibly a bakery of some sort, until there’s a knock on his door and it’s swinging wide open. 

“Ushiwa —” the familiar voice fades out.

Ushijima turns his head and looks at Oikawa as Kai drops his hand from his shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you had company,” he says, lips pulled into a taut smile that Ushijima hasn’t seen in a while. It’s the smile that Oikawa used to greet him with when they were in high school before and after every game. The handsome, fake one that hid his ever-growing disdain. He’d been on the receiving end of it for over eight years; Ushijima could identify that smile in a line-up of lips alone.

“It’s okay, you weren’t interrupting anything.” Ushijima pushes his chair out further to stand and introduce Kai as his classmate, but Oikawa is already turning his back.

“Since you’re busy I won’t bother. Bye!” And he departs without so much of a glance behind his shoulder.

There’s a beat of uneasy silence and Ushijima’s stomach does that thing where it flips and then flips again. Goshiki did describe something like that happening.

“He’s the setter on the team, right? A friend of yours?” Kai asks, wearing a polite smile.

The word friend hangs heavy in the air and once again, his confidence falters.

“Yes,” he says with little conviction, “a friend.”

No, no, no, no.  

Oikawa is looking over the edge of a spiral. 

He recognizes the feeling immediately because it hits him like a freight train at rush hour. The tightening of his chest, the constriction of his throat, the displeasure curling in his fingers, and the bitterness that dries out his mouth: jealousy. He should call Matsukawa to anchor him.

There's no time though. It’s an ugly emotion, he knows, but it’s one that always seizes him without mercy. 

You shouldn’t be jealous of your friends, you should be happy for him when there’s an extremely attractive man leaning against his desk, and Ushijima is your friend, so why are you —

He doesn’t register the fact that he’s outside until he almost gets flagged down by a student biker. Maybe he deserves it, he thinks when he snaps back into his surroundings, especially for being so rude when he left. His mother would have him by the ear if she saw his petty outburst. Iwaizumi would too. And maybe Oikawa wants to get struck down anyways, because there’s no way — no way at all — that a possessiveness over Ushijima is growing inside of him. 

“I don’t like Wakatoshi,” Oikawa says to himself. He would scream if he didn’t think the man was capable of teleporting behind him at this most inopportune, vulnerable moment. 

And he doesn’t, because there’s no fucking way. That’s a valid reason, isn’t it? He just needs to not think about it.

So he doesn't.

He doesn’t think about it the next couple of days when he attends his summer class on macroeconomics, or when he grabs lunch and dinner with Yamazaki. Doesn’t think about it when he’s underneath Yamazaki either.

But Oikawa would be lying if he said he didn’t have to resist the urge to just barge into Ushijima’s room uninvited and show him the newest video that Takeru sent him, or talk about his 15 step plan to get Itachi to love setters and become one in the future. It’s a little frustrating, especially since Ushijima technically didn’t do anything wrong. Oikawa knows he can’t even complain about it to his friends because they’ll tease him endlessly. The last thing he needs is Iwaizumi to make a terrible dad joke about denial and a river.

“And I’m out of milk bread,” he whines. Between this and the Ushijima thing, Oikawa is one more minor inconvenience from absolutely losing it.

He lifts the empty plastic and crushes it with a curled fist, cursing for not tossing it earlier and giving himself false hope. It’s too late to swing by the market now and buy some, and he’s too lazy to walk back to the cafeteria to get a snack. If only he wasn’t mad at Ushijima for some unknown reason, then he could go there and finish the milk bread that basically belongs to him!

“I — nnngh — " a knock on the door cuts off his whining.

Oikawa frowns and opens it, half-expecting to see Yamazaki and half-ready to tell him he’s too tired to do anything tonight. Somehow, he never predicted that it would be Ushijima at his door, holding a small, potted plant. 

“Waka-chan?” He tilts his head and doesn’t move, doesn’t think he can. No, he's afraid if he blinks he'll realize this is some strange fantasy. That pot is much too small for Ushijima.

“Oikawa,” comes his regular greeting. No matter what nickname he throws at him, he can always expect a stern Oikawa in return.

“I brought you this growing spathiphyllum.” He blurts out and abruptly thrusts the hand holding the potted plant in front of him, close enough that it nearly knocks into Oikawa’s chest. 

“A — thank you? Sorry Ushiwaka, could you repeat that though? Maybe in Japanese?”

A small divot furrows between Ushijima’s brows and olive eyes seemingly narrow in concentration. Does he not know the normal name of this plant? Why is Ushijima bringing him a plant in the first place?

“I… this is a Peace Lily. I was at the market earlier and got one for you…” his voice trails off and suddenly, he looks small. The feeling registers in Oikawa’s chest, seeing Ushijima like this. 

Maybe it’s something he would have liked years ago when he wore white and blue and his rival wore purple. But now that they both wear red, now that they’re here together, now that they’re friends — he hates this feeling. He absolutely hates it. 

“I bought this for you because you seemed upset when I saw you last, and I’ve read that plants can have positive psychological effects, so I thought this might help.”

That's the fastest he has ever heard Ushijima talk.

And now there’s a different tightening in Oikawa’s chest. The feeling he’s been trying so hard to suppress for some time is carving itself into his sternum, planting itself in his ribs and blooming in the intercostal space. There’s a part of him that thinks maybe this is a seed that has been lying in wait, with roots deeper than Oikawa has ever even realized. Now that it’s seen the sun, it can’t help but flourish.

He smiles.

“Thanks Wakatoshi-kun,” Oikawa says as he runs a thumb over a sprouting leaf, “I think you’re right. I feel better already.”

A friendship with Oikawa feels like setting a new personal record.

Cutting down those extra twenty seconds, extra thirty, soon you’re shaved down a minute. It’s a freeing accomplishment, a lightness in his chest. Whenever the chestnut-haired setter comes around, the air always seems fresher. Ushijima finds that as the days pass his lungs adjust to the change in pressure, that he can breathe more freely. 

A friendship with Oikawa is full of a lot of laughter and prodding questions and learning. The more Oikawa asks him about his childhood, the more Oikawa collects information about him. Ushijima can’t tell what Oikawa is looking for, but there’s a part of him that worries, secretly, about what he will find.

What Ushijima learns, after nights of late talks, is that he doesn’t give Oikawa enough credit. That he never has. Not when he was in Aoba Johsai, and his own insignificant pride had blinded him to the true power Oikawa held, outside of his setting abilities. Not now, when he assumed Oikawa was searching for something to hold against him. 

He learns that Oikawa is looking, yes, trying to find something, but almost something to help.

Oikawa asks him hard questions. Asks him about his dad. Asks him about his first love. Asks him what he thinks his life would have looked like without volleyball. Oikawa tells him that he's happy for him because despite everything, Ushijima will always have volleyball and he is certain of that. Ushijima asks Oikawa about his friendships. His sister. Takeru. How his knee is. About his dream to travel across South America. Ushijima tells him that he's always admired him, in fewer, less eloquent words than he would have liked. But it's true. To hold this much ambition not only for yourself, but others as well. It's nothing short of admirable, Oikawa.

After a pause that lasts too long, Oikawa ends up laughing.

“I would have never guessed that you have emotions, Ushiwaka!” he is splayed on Ushijia’s dormitory bed, eating the third loaf of milk bread that Ushijima has bought him in the past two weeks.

“I am human,” he mumbles from where he sits at the edge of his mattress. Oikawa has a habit of occupying all the space Ushijima has to offer, physically and mentally.

At least he is always careful not to get any crumbs onto his sheets, to clean up after himself as if he’d never been in Ushijima’s dorm at all.

“Wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re human,” he teases. Yes, a friendship with Oikawa looks a lot like this, too. “But, I will say, I just didn’t expect all of this from you,” Oikawa admits.

“Expect what?”

“That you would be...such a good listener, I guess. A good friend.” He sounds shy, almost embarrassed to admit this. Ushijima looks at him carefully because he feels the same, perhaps surprised is a good way to describe it, but Oikawa has always been better at putting things into words. 

He had never expected Oikawa’s hand to press between his shoulder blades after a winning spike, wearing a smile so bright that it made Ushijima want to look away. He never thought that Oikawa would wait for him after practice to grab groceries together before they head back to the dorm. 

He never thought that after a conversation where Ushijima admits he misses home, Oikawa would treat him to Hayashi rice. It’s run by an obaasan. She feeds anyone who misses a distant place. Don’t know if she’ll have enough rice to feed you, but she’ll try.

The memory stirs something within him.

“Is that what we are?” Ushijima asks, his question quiet, barely audible over the twentieth video Oikawa plays that night.

Friends?

He receives no response in return. Oikawa just makes himself more comfortable in his bed, turning onto his side and extending his arm so Ushijima can see his phone.

“I’m going to teach Itachi to do this quick this weekend. Practice it with me tomorrow afternoon.”

A friendship with Oikawa, Ushijima learns, is sometimes hearing things he doesn’t think would bother him, but do. 

Sometimes it’s Tedamori asking Oikawa who was the person that he kicked out of his room the other night. He says something about how Oikawa is cold-hearted, how he “hits it and quits it” (which Ushijima has to text Semi to find out what that means), and how he never allows anyone to stay over. 

Ushijima thinks about the one time, after a game so particularly draining and with volunteering early the next morning, Oikawa hadn’t woken him after he’d fallen asleep on his bed; how he woke up hours later in the dark with a pillow placed under his head and saw the setter lying on a futon on his floor.

A friendship with Oikawa is watching his ears turn a light shade of pink as he scoffs in disdain, says something about how volleyball is his top priority but once in a while he likes to have fun. They’re in university, after all. 

These parts don’t feel like a rush of fresh air. They feel like a sharp exhale, a staggered breath. Hearing about escapades, never from Oikawa’s own lips, feel like empty spaces digging themselves up again, opening concerns that Ushijima isn’t even aware he had. 

He thinks about Tendou, Reon, and Shirabu. Thinks about his other friends and wonders if these holes exist in those relationships, because this feeling is far from familiar. 

One night, when Oikawa attends a party that Ushijima declines an invitation to, he thinks about whether or not Oikawa will bring someone home.

Inhibition escapes him, and he allows himself to wonder if Oikawa would ever go home with him if he asked.

The moment Goshiki described arrives.

“I see,” Ushijima mumbles to no one but himself as he tends to the plants on his window sill, buds slowly opening in the moonlight, realization flowering in his ribcage.

“This is different.”

 

 

 

Ushiwaka (10:14 PM): 

I found this video of a Japanese-French baker making milk bread

I think you would enjoy it

An hour after the text is received, Oikawa’s thumb lingers over the play button. In the midst of loud music and chatter, he watches a three minute video of a pâtissier using the Tangzhong method to knead one of the fluffiest loafs of milk bread he has ever seen. 

He watches in fascination, the methodology more interesting than whatever Tedamori had been trying to speak to him about earlier. When the video ends, he looks at his messages with Ushijima. They are all short texts to confirm plans, ask where the other is, figure out what time they should do individual practice. 

This is the first text, Oikawa realizes, that Ushijima has sent him just because.

“Oikawa! Do you want another drink? Have another drink!” Yamazaki’s voice cuts through his scattered thoughts, a clear path to distraction. 

The baseball player, former volleyball wing spiker, walks over and wraps a strong arm around Oikawa’s waist to pull him close. Oikawa smells the fourth beer on his lips. A sloppy kiss is placed on his cheek.

“You going to come back to my room later?” Yamizaki's breath is warm against Oikawa’s ear.

It takes a second for Yamizaki’s words to register.

There are moments, few and far between since he’s graduated from high school, where he feels like he’s an outsider watching a scene. Maturing and therapy have taught him how to watch his thoughts simply pass by, how to anchor himself when he feels the ground starting to shake underneath him. While the world shifts in this moment, in a way that Oikawa can’t control, there’s not the similar fear that accompanies it. 

And in another moment he watches as the earth stays still below him, and he realizes that maybe he's the one who's changing, and maybe some else is too. 

Something is sprouting, colored with shades of olive, spreading through thin lines and blossoming through the same concrete cracks that used to confine him. Not anymore, maybe. Not right now.

“Not tonight.” Oikawa pulls away with feigned regret as he comes out of his thoughts.

“I’m actually not feeling too well, so I might just go back to my room. I’ll text you.” He squeezes Yamizaki’s arm as he says it, quick to make his escape before the questions can arise. 

Oikawa’s walk from the party back to his dorm is brief, but spans over years. 

It’s sifting through the thick thorns of middle school, falling to his knees and looking up at the incontestable wall in front of him. It’s the darkness of a forest while navigating high school — the numbers two, three, and four the only source of light he has to make it out. It’s a sprawling field before him when he steps onto Waseda, fields beyond the horizon, open plains for him to explore and take.

“Oikawa? Are you okay? It is late.” Ushijima rubs his eyes when he opens his door.

He stares at his outstretched hand curled into a fist, unaware of when his feet even brought him back into the present. Oikawa takes in the sight of a tired but attentive Ushijima, watches the concern slowly fill the few creases of his face, the care hidden in his small frown. 

With the bludgering force truth usually holds, often unexpected and uninvited, realization settles in his gut.

“Yeah, I’m fine - sorry if I woke you up.” Oikawa hardly recognizes his own voice, wary and subdued.

“But you’re the one who sent me that video, and there are eight more where he makes pastries from all around the world! So, I expect you to watch them with me tomorrow morning at breakfast.” He snaps, getting ahold of himself.

Ushijima, perhaps ailed with fatigue and delirium, simply nods and laughs.

“Okay, we can watch them tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, 9:30 am.”

“9:30 am.”

"After our 8 am run."

"Yes, after our 8 am run."

“Alright, well. I’ll stop interrupting your much needed beauty sleep, Wakatoshi.”

“Thank you.” Olive eyes meet hazel. “Good night, Tooru.”

When Oikawa lies down in his bed later, the feeling inside of his chest blooms.

Takeru comes to visit Oikawa in Tokyo for the weekend to see the Skytree, and then has the nerve of a ten year old to challenge his uncle to a volleyball match. Moreover, he has — what Oikawa calls it when he sees Ushijima once they enter the gym — the colossal gaul to think he can actually beat him.

It’s a little difficult to play a volleyball game when you have three people, especially when you have a child hell-bent on defeating you and your “former archnemesis and newly appointed, healthy rival” (Matsukawa, 2021), on the same team on the other side of the court. 

Receiving, setting, and spiking was obviously not meant for one person. 

But it’s the way he sees Takeru’s face light up as he sets the ball high enough for Ushijima to slam a perfect spike against Oikawa. It’s the way Takeru looks down at his own hands with a smile so excited and runs across the net to shove his palm into Oikawa’s face, all the while yelling oji-san, did you see my set? All of it, every piece of it, plants itself firmly in his memories.

The last rally has Oikawa and Takeru on the same side of the court, where his nephew pulls off his first c-set. When the ball connects with his uncle’s hand, Takeru cheers. Ushijima bends his knees for the receive and extends his arms a little too far out. The ball ricochets out of bounds. 

Screaming in victory, that if he can beat college kids he can beat every other ten year old, Takeru sprints around the gymnasium off the high of always being on the winning team. 

“Did you flub that last receive on purpose?” Oikawa asks Ushijima later that night over udon.

The steam coming from Ushijima’s bowl obscures a forming smile.

“I would never.”

On the train ride home to Miyagi, Ushijima lets Oikawa have the window seat. 

It’s barely five-thirty am and Ushijima can feel the heaviness that rests underneath his eyes. 

Oikawa, however, is unwavering with his enthusiasm to be back home for a week. He’s listing off his plans: bowling with Iwaizumi, visiting the planetarium in Sendai, and definitely going to his favorite bakery. 

Ushijima listens until he doesn’t, until he’s waking up with his cheek pressed against the cotton fabric of Oikawa’s shoulder.

He jolts up, ready to apologize.

Oikawa says nothing, just taps his finger against the glass. When Ushijima’s eyes come to focus, he watches the sky melt from blues to orange, he watches lips part into a faint smile.

“Look,” Oikawa whispers, the quietest Ushijima has ever heard him. “The sun's rising.”

Oikawa nearly punches Iwaizumi in the jaw out of excitement when he finds out that Matsukawa and Hanamaki are together (like, actually together). 

“For how long?”

“Since the start of summer. So, over three months now?”

“Why wouldn’t you just tell me? Makki, we facetime every week!”

“Correction, we used to facetime every week before you started ignoring my calls. Now I’m three episodes behind on Sk8. ”

“I’m not ignoring you! I’ve just been busy.”

“Sure, we're all busy. What’ve you been doing? Who have you been spending time with?”

“Makki, don’t change the subject. I’m insulted. I just - how could - you didn’t - Iwa-chan!?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I only found out they weren’t joking about dating like last week. You know how dumb these two are.”

“Well, that’s rude Iwa-chan!” Hanamaki looks affronted, but he then snaps his attention to the front of the bakery. He waves the hand not holding a profiterole to the people entering. “Look, our boyfriends made it.” 

Matsukawa, Reon, and Ushijima walk towards them. 

Oikawa scoffs and decides to ignore Hanamaki’s little jab. However, he does pull out the seat next to him and forcibly drags Ushijima down into it, his fingers clutching the other man’s sleeve as he accusingly points at his friends.

“Waka-chan, these two have been canoodling and they haven’t told me!” 

"Canoodling?"

"We're engaged," Matsukawa smirks. Oikawa just groans.

Ushijima blinks and looks at Matsukawa and Hanamaki, both of who are wearing large grins. He nods.

“Ah, congratulations. I wish you both happiness and success in marriage.” 

Oikawa lets out an annoyed, exasperated sigh. “Wakatoshi, that’s not -”

“Your blessing means the world to us!” Hanamaki interrupts, much too loudly for this bakery as he leans over, engulfing the man into an embrace, “Thank you!”

It’s colder in Sendai than it is in Tokyo. 

Oikawa feels a tinge of regret that he didn’t grab a jacket before he head out tonight and only has a knit sweater on. Autumn is the strange time of year when the weather is more of a temperamental lover than he is. Arriving fifteen minutes earlier to the Sendai Astronomical Observatory than the time he had told Ushijima was not his best idea. 

He thinks about just going inside and texting Ushijima that they are changing their meeting spot, but before he can pull out his cellphone there’s a familiar force in front of him. Ushijima’s also only wearing a sweater, and by the shiver that Oikawa catches, he must feel the same.

“You’re late, Ushiwaka-chan!”

“I believe we are both early,” he looks down at his watch.

“Well, I’m cold!” Oikawa complains as he places his hand in the divot between Ushijima’s shoulder blades and pushes him inside of the observatory, half out of frustration, half out of excitement. 

Originally, Oikawa had planned to come alone. However, in the spur of moment, he decided to ask Ushijima if he wanted to come (don’t ask why). To his surprise (and relief), he’d said yes.

The Hitomi Telescope has reopened, which allows people to see even magnitude seventeen stars. Oikawa has always had an affinity for astronomy, one that has continued to evolve as he’s grown older. From a fascination with extraterrestrials when he was young, to studying the story of Orihime and Hikoboshi in high school, and attending every Tanabata since then, his love for the universe hasn't dwindled.

As he leads Ushijima through the observatory, he explains everything he knows about the constellations Lyra and Aquila, and the stars of Vega and Altair. Oikawa’s knowledge has breached from speculation, mythology, to now the scientific. He tells Ushijima about the two hundred billion stars that comprise the Milky Way and how it spans over a hundred thousand light-years in time. 

“And it’s so interesting to think that a single light-year is thirty-seven thousand, two hundred human years; to know that time passes on different planes of existence and things are changing before our eyes...” When Oikawa turns to look at Ushijima, he finds him staring.

“Even when we can’t really see it happening,” he finishes, words heavy in his throat. 

The entire time Oikawa has been talking, Ushijima had at least been giving him nods or hums of approval, attentive to every word he’d been saying. But now, molten olive eyes seem distant, almost galaxies away, as he continues to look at Oikawa in a way that he’s never seen before. 

Stars are dying and expanding before their eyes, right now, becoming something entirely new. It’s taken years for them to notice.

“Are you listening to me, Wakatoshi?” Oikawa frowns, his shoulder knocking into his. 

Ushjima remains still, silent, and underneath it all, Oikawa thinks, he almost looks...

“Yes,” the words are soft, “you're fascinating.”

He can't help the way his jaw drops open at Ushijima's words, the way he feels his face warm when Ushijima turns his face away with a furious blush spreading across his own cheeks.

A staggered exhale. “I mean — your knowledge of the universe. It's fascinating.”

Oikawa looks down and bites his lip, tries not to laugh out loud because it'll also expose his own rosy cheeks.

"Anyways..the Hitomi Telescope was launched in 2016," he says as evenly as he can muster, reaching out so his fingers curl against Ushijima's sleeve as he leads him around the rest of the observatory.

Later that night, Oikawa confesses to Iwaizumi that Ushijima might be more than a friend.

Not a galaxy away, just somewhere else in Miyagi, Ushijima confides the same information to Tendou.

“Ushiwaka, do you even like rock music?”

“Not particularly. It is very loud.”

“So you’re just a good friend, then?”

“I hope so.” Ushijima shrugs as he looks around the small, packed venue. 

It’s full of plenty of familiar faces. He’d spent the first half of the night catching up with Shirabu and Goshiki. There are people from Seijoh here that Oikawa had invited to the concert as well. But the entire night, Ushijima could not help but use Oikawa as a reference point. 

Every song played was dictated by how far Oikawa was from him. By the eighth song, they found themselves sitting in a crowded back corner on high stools, knees touching, arms pressed together, and a stranger on both of their sides.

Maybe it’s the loud bass blaring over the speakers, or the way he catches Tendou and Hanamaki side-eying them from across the venue, but every strum rings heavy in his chest. 

“Are you as good a friend to everyone else as you are to me?” Oikawa asks. When Ushijima looks over, his expression seems almost bored.

“What do you mean?” He frowns. “I believe I treat all of my friends well. As of recently, I consider you to be a close friend, Oikawa,” he states.

Not even Ushijima can deny how much time they’ve been spending together, or how every little thing reminds him of Oikawa, how he wants to bring him everywhere and anywhere he would like to go.

“Just a close friend?”

The question catches him off guard. An answer lodges itself somewhere in his throat, his bluntness sure to betray him. It’s difficult to see the expression Oikawa wears in this light. He can’t help but be frustrated by that fact.

Ushijima runs through all the possible answers he could offer in return, omissions of the truth, little white lies. You're fascinating, he thinks again and again and how he gave himself away. He thinks about it's the only answer, the only truth he knows.

“No.” The word claws itself out from Ushijima. “Not just a close friend.”

Oikawa, for all the ways Ushijima has learned that he’s able to hide from him and the rest of the world, is unable to conceal the surprise that flickers across his face. He leans back as though the one-syllable has knocked the air out of him. Ushijima watches Oikawa’s fingers tightening his grip around his beer. He makes a sound, maybe it’s a swear, but he’s smiling and shaking his head. 

Ushijima watches like he has been for all these years, except this time he won’t let the change go unnoticed. 

The same feeling that stirred inside of him in the locker room, four months ago, reemerges. 

I want to be friends.

That was the truth at the time, and he hadn’t known what it actually meant. Now, Ushijima sees that he had wanted things to change. He didn’t want to be the two high schoolers with resentment in their chests across the net, not when something else was begging to be born. 

At the time he didn't know this was kind of change he really ached for.

But now he does. Now he knows he doesn’t want to be just friends.

He had expected some kind of reaction from Oikawa, but instead his eyes are peeled on the stage. His expression seems amused, guarded, one that Ushijima has never been able to completely read.

Ushijima sighs and Oikawa seems to pick up on his sudden irritation.

“Wakatoshi, you want some friendly advice? When you - “

“No, Tooru. I don’t want friendly advice.” Ushijima interrupts him with vigor neither of them expects, but friendly advice isn’t what he wants at all. 

What he wants is in front of him, has been rooted inside of him for a long time now, twisting and growing in various ways, only to flourish at this very moment. 

Oikawa pouts, actually pouts, and Ushijima is compelled to stop him before he opens his mouth.

He leans in and presses his lips against Oikawa’s, gentle at first, a silent question that rings louder than anything else at this concert. The answer is fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, until the kiss is a little more insistent, a little more demanding — until Ushijima is lost in nothing else but this song playing against Oikawa’s lips. 

“You interrupted me. You never interrupt me,” Oikawa whispers against his mouth, eyes closed and cheeks flushed.

Ushijima can’t help but smile, can’t help but trail his lips along Oikawa’s jaw, press a kiss against the side of his neck.

“Things have changed.” Ushijima’s eyes trace his face. “Are you mad?”

“Am I mad that my archnemesis turned close friend kissed me? No.” Oikawa is breathless, but pulling him in once again, “Not at all.”

Oikawa kisses Ushijima until their lips are swollen, until Iwaizumi yells at them to get a room, until Semi is on stage and dedicates a song to them about falling in love, until Ushijima finally asks him on a date to the Hamarikyu Garden.

Becoming friends with Ushijima, Oikawa thinks, wouldn’t have come naturally. 

“No, I really didn’t like you.”

“I know.”

“No, like I really, really didn’t like you.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you get it, I really hated you.”

“I understand.”

Becoming more than friends with Ushijima, Oikawa learns, is perhaps the most natural progression in the world.

After all, how could it not come naturally when instinct alone has Ushijima grinding into him in such a way that Wakatoshi spills from Oikawa's lips over and over again? How could it be anything but innate when all Oikawa has to do is run his fingers along his back to get the man in front of him to melt?

It can’t be anything but natural, nothing else at all.

The entire thing makes Oikawa feel so stupid and so dumb and so drunkenly in love. To have a person exist in his sphere that carves out the space in him and fills you with passion. A passionate rivalry, a passionate adoration. A space that can be filled with tears and frustrations, laughter and jokes. A space now occupied by Wakatoshi, even though he’s always been there, here, in different shapes and forms. He's a galaxy inside of Oikawa's own, dying and being reborn faster than he could have ever understood.

Seeing Ushijima like this, eyes closed and lips parted, his face only centimeters away, makes Oikawa think how they could never just be friends. The breadth of space Ushijima’s presence alone left too large of a void to fill with anything else but. 

Seeing Ushijima like this, jaw slack under his fingertips, soft kisses against the palm of his hand, makes Oikawa think that rivalry and loss, teammates and friendship, were all simply a pathway of growth. Even now, here at this moment, the feeling in his chest continues to bloom and expand into a universe he would have never been able to see all at once.

“But I don’t hate you anymore,” Oikawa says from underneath Ushijima’s embrace sometime later. 

Oikawa feels Ushijima chuckle where his face is buried at the crook of his neck. The sound is cute, too cute for someone who looks like Ushijima, and Oikawa just wants to hear it again and again. 

“Actually though, maybe it’s a good thing I used to hate you.” Oikawa sits up in the bed and leans against the wall. Ushijima readjusts so that his head rests in his lap, while Oikawa runs his fingers back through his hair.

“Is that so?” 

“Yes! Have you heard of the great philosopher, Hanamaki Takahiro?”

Ushijima hums. “I have. He actually wants to facetime me later.”

“Well, he once said — wait, what? Why are you facetiming Makki later? ...Wakatoshi, stop laughing.”