Archive of Our Own

Picture this: you love a boy.

It’s easier said than done, a tide that recedes as soon as your feet have touched it. You’ve done this before, have done this a hundred times in a hundred little ways. You’ve watched the curl of a hand, the curve of a nose. You’ve swallowed a smile and moved your body, as careful to avoid receiving touch as to avoid giving it.

The thing is, you have loved so many times before, in ways big and small, and it has never been enough. It has never been enough for you to touch a wrist, extend a hand. You smile and they shrink back.

“Can I play too?” you have asked a dozen times and what have you gotten but your innocence ground to dust?

So it doesn’t matter, is what you tell yourself.

It doesn’t matter that his hair is the color of an olive orchard or that his eyes remind you of coins, warm and worn at the edges. He never smiles and his hand feels like a brand against your shoulder.

He touches you and maybe that’s why you can’t shake it. No one has ever touched you before, willingly.

“Your name is Satori?” he asks and offers a hand without recoil.

You meet his eyes and it doesn’t repulse him; he sees the brightness of them, the wild, wide-eyed mania that has disquieted almost every person who has never taken the moment to know you. He’s afraid, you think. He must be afraid, you expect.

“Yeah,” you say and you offer a smile built of teflon, the kind of metal that glances off all your little hurts. “Tendou Satori.”

“My name is Wakatoshi,” he says and when you take his hand, he curls his fingers around your own. “We will be playing together.”

“Wakatoshi-kun,” you say, just to say his name out loud. You like the feel of it in your mouth, the shape of the Japanese on your tongue.

Wakatoshi-kun, you say out loud to yourself that night, a secret between you and the empty bunk bed above you. Wakatoshi-kun. Wakatoshi.

He is all things good — the anchor in rocky waters, the line pulled taut when you’re hanging off the cliff’s edge, the compass pointed north, the first swallow of breath when your head crests above the surface of the ocean. But no one can hold starlight in their hands, and yours are covered in bandages anyway.

You expect to play side-by-side, separately and in search of a similar goal. You will be allowed on a team of others, but never a part of the team itself. A player, but not a participant. When you are on court, it will be because they need you to be, not because they want you there.

That’s okay. Not being asked at all is the worse hurt.

That’s your anticipation, anyway, and why would you expect anything else?

You’re startled the first time he turns to you. It’s an afternoon practice, after classes have ended. The coach has said to warm up.

“Satori. Will you be my partner?” he asks and he doesn’t even know the way he threads your heart.

It’s a joke, you think. It must be a joke, a little meanness because no one has ever thought to be kind. But he stares at you, waiting patiently, and it occurs to you that he has never made a joke before. He’s not created for humor, so how can he laugh at your expense?

“Your partner?” you ask in return.

“It is better to warm up in pairs,” he explains to you, and it is clear that there is nothing mean here. Maybe he doesn’t know how to be, although that would be an impossible thing. (Wouldn’t that be an impossible thing?)

“And you want me to…do that with you?” you ask, clarifying. You have to be absolutely sure. “You want to warm up with me?”

“Yes,” he says and nods.

“Oh,” you say and something in you squeezes (everything in you squeezes). “All right then. Partners!”

So you’re partners. It isn’t a joke. You press the soles of your shoes together and stretch forward. He takes your hands and doesn’t hesitate once. You help him balance, one hand on his shoulder, as you both wobble on one leg, the other bent behind you. He presses his hand to the middle of your back so you can stretch easier as you bend down toward the ground. You hold your breath, swallow your shiver. He doesn’t notice and you hope he never will.

You expect it to come to an end; for him to eventually decide otherwise. There’s no reason for him to stay, no reason for him to choose you each time. But every day he looks toward you and every day you let him.

You stretch side-by-side and run next to one another. Sometimes there is a volleyball between you and other times there isn’t.

You develop a silent language, a quiet language. You have never had anyone to share your words with before, and now you don’t have to.

The first time you play in a game together, he looks at you seconds before he deflects a ball your way. You are there by instinct, the razor’s edge of a guess.

You slam the ball down and the libero across from you misses. It’s your point—yours and his.

“Good hit,” he says to you, his hand clasped on your shoulder.

Your eyes go wide and your heart squeezes in your chest, moments before everyone else on your team engulfs you in their arms.

Your rooms are next to each other, either by a stroke of good fortune or the terrible humor of the fates. It shouldn’t mean anything. A glance when you walk past, a morning greeting on the way to breakfast. Maybe one evening you stop him at his door before he goes in, and ask him a question. You aren’t trying to do or be anything. You’re partners on the court and that is more than you ever could have dreamed.

But it doesn’t work out that way and you’re never sure why.

The first time there’s a knock on your door, you think you’ve misheard it. You ignore it, engrossed in your manga, but then it comes again. A gentle, but firm knock.

You open it, expecting it to be the coach, or maybe one of your other teammates. Maybe it’s Semi, who is a person you thought you hated and turns out you like. There is something about mirrors, and you think he might be one; warped, but the same.

Anyway, you open it, but it isn't Semi. It isn’t even the coach.

“Satori,” he says. He’s wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt and it’s clear that he has just come from the shower. His hair is dark, combed neatly and sticking to the back of his neck. There’s a slight rivulet of water tracing down his skin you can’t seem to keep your eyes from.

“Wakatoshi-kun!” you say and your voice is bright, to hide your nerves. “Did you get lost?”

“No,” he says. “I am across the hallway. It would be difficult to get lost.”

“So it would!” you say and your laugh is a little more nervous than you would like for it to be. You doubt he’ll notice, which is a relief. “What can I help you for?”

He frowns then, a slight thing that just wrinkles the space between his brows. It’s so sweet you could kiss it. You let him take his time instead.

“You are always reading,” he says.

“Eh?” You hadn’t known he was paying attention. That makes something in you feel terribly scared.

“You often have a book in your hand,” he says, ignorant to your inner turmoil. “You are an avid reader.”

“I guess—sure! I like to read. A lot of manga though,” you say, recovering. “Like now!”

You hold up your manga.

“It’s Shonen Jump,” you say. “The latest. I like a few of the stories, been reading them since I was a kid. Some of them are new though. I don’t know what’s happening in them really, but I like reading it anyway. Like an adventure someone is in the middle of and then you look through and you join them for a little but then you pop right back out! Easy that way, right? I like that sort of thing.”

He stares at you intently and suddenly the words die in your mouth. You’re doing it again; you’re talking too much.

“Sorry, I—”

“I do not know,” he says. “I do not read much. But I think reading is admirable. I need…to be more creative.”

“Eh?”

“It is something a teacher said to me,” he says. “She said I should do something creative.”

“Like…read manga?” you ask, clarifying.

“She said that was acceptable,” he says and nods.

Something about all of this is so absurd, you almost laugh. You don’t though. That would be mean, and he seems so earnest.

“I have plenty of manga for you then, Wakatoshi-kun,” you say. “Do you want to come in and look through them?”

It’s bold of you to ask, but suddenly you’re feeling bold. He looks at you again—doesn’t stop looking at you, really—and something wriggles in the pit of your stomach. You don’t look away, though. You’ve never learned how.

After a moment, he nods. His expression lightens, and you think: maybe he’s trying to smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “I would appreciate that very much.”

You open the door to your room and stand aside and let Ushijima Wakatoshi walk in.

You don’t know then that you’ve opened a door you cannot close; that you’ve started something that cannot again be stopped. That is the first time he comes into your room, but it will not be the last.

He will come back again, for another manga, and another book, and then you will ask him to come watch a movie with you and he will agree. He will come to your room when he needs something, and when he is bored, and when he wants to talk about volleyball.

Sometimes he will come to your room with no reason prepared at all and you will both sit on your bed—squeezed together side-by-side—and sometimes you will read the same manga together. He will quietly turn the page of the book on your lap and you will listen to the rapid thump of your loudly aching heart.

You win together. It is difficult to lose, with a monster on your team. It is him—always him. Everything is built around him, everything is built to serve him. Ushijima Ushijima Ushijima.

No one holds animosity because you are all built for him, but he is built to serve you too. That is the meaning of teamwork, you find. It is not always even, but it is equal. There is a kind of fervor here, a hero worship that borders on idolatry. He hates that, which you know, because he tells you.

“You’re our cannon,” you say to him. “Our ace. Our miracle boy.”

He sits next to you on your cramped little bed, his shoulder pressed against yours. He seems suddenly sheepish, or shy, and you can’t figure out why.

“I am not a miracle,” he says eventually. “I am just a person who is good at volleyball.”

Maybe, you think. Maybe he is just that.

But maybe he isn’t.

Maybe he is your miracle, even if he isn’t meant for you, and if he doesn’t know that by now, you won’t be the one to tell him.

One year turns to two turns to three. You have never been so uncomplicatedly happy before. You don’t trust it. A part of you is always tense, always waiting for the next worst thing—waiting for the other shoe to drop. You aren’t a person who is allowed happiness, even if you are a person who is predisposed to being happy.

So what do you do with all of this?

What do you do with a paradise made of people who love you despite yourself?

You do not know how you will leave it, but you know that one day you will need to. Do you have other dreams? Do you have a future other than this?

“I’m going to start a band,” Semi says to you one day over fresh, hot takoyaki that you’ve both gotten from the street market, and you laugh so hard you drop one of the octopus balls.

“Serves you right, asshole,” he says to you, but he’s smiling too. “What are you going to do, then? Volleyball?”

“No,” you say. “That’s not really meant for me.”

Paradise can be a fleeting thing. It makes it no less wonderful for all of that.

“What else then?” he asks. “Can you sing?”

You make a face.

“You don’t remember karaoke night?”

“Do not join my band,” he warns and you laugh again.

You shake your head, your tall mane of bright red hair. Some strands fall loose around your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe something. Maybe nothing.”

Semi snorts and eats his takoyaki ball.

“Whatever you do, do it far away from me.”

At another time, this would have hurt you. Now it just makes you laugh; glow with warmth. This is your friend and he is making you laugh. What joy could be greater than this?

“I’ll find something,” you say, like a promise. “And when I do, I’ll make sure I annoy you from there too.”

He rolls his eyes, but you see the curve up at the corner of his mouth.

You lose to Karasuno. It’s…unexpected. After years of winning and almost winning, you expect to make it to the top again, but your wings are clipped before you can get there. Is it disappointment you feel, or relief? If you fly together, you fall together too, and there’s a comfort in that.

The first years take it the worst, and the second years take it hard too.

“There’s always next year, eh?” you say and clap Goshiki on the shoulders. Your heart is crushed, same as them, but you’ve borne so much good fortune that you can’t bring yourself to cry over one hard-earned misstep. “Remember everything we taught you. Don’t embarrass us! If you do, I’ll come back and make your bangs look like Shirabu’s.”

Shirabu gives you a dirty look, but his eyes are bloodshot and Semi pulls him into a hug.

It’s grief and disappointment and underneath it all, well-earned pride. It’s easy to be sad, but difficult to be bitter. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. That’s volleyball.

“We weren’t unlucky,” you say to Wakatoshi later. “We were never going to win, were we?”

“We were the most qualified team,” Wakatoshi says to you. “We should have won.”

But you wonder if that’s right. You look at two little crows with steel in their wings and the sky in their eyes. They look like children and play like monsters. Like recognizes like. They’ve made you sad, but you strangely love them anyway.

“I like them,” you say to Wakatoshi. “They have the kind of hunger you can’t just make. Were they born with it, do you think?”

Wakatoshi looks irritated, but that’s just because the orange-haired one grates on him. He confessed this to you one day in your bedroom and it had made you laugh for ten minutes straight.

“If they do not win after all of this, it would be a disappointment,” he says.

“I think they’ll win,” you say. Then, smiling, you tilt your head. “Well, I hope they do.”

They throw a party in the dorms. What is the school going to do, kick them out? They lost nationals. Their season is over and they’ll be graduating soon. So when Semi says, “Fuck it, let’s party!” everyone cheers, even Reon, and he usually has a better head on his shoulders about these things.

They get food, they get booze, they get little party hats courtesy of you and Yamagata. Wakatoshi looks perplexed by them, but then you reach up and pull the string under his chin and he looks so cute you nearly die on the spot. You laugh and give him a quick, fleeting kiss on the cheek, and dance away to get a cup of something that tastes like battery acid from Semi.

You see him in glimpses through the night; you make sure to keep him in your line of vision, but never close enough to let your guard down. He wears the hat the entire time and something in you wants to lay on the ground and never get back up.

That’s no fun and anyway people keep handing you drinks. You’re a fun drunk, you realize. People love you like this.

“Drunk karaoke!” you shout and there are equal parts groaning and cheering.

“I said you couldn’t join my band!” Semi shouts back at you from where he’s half-slumped against Shirabu.

“I’m making my own band!” you say. And then—and then. God, why not? You’re three cups of juice in. Your limbs feel light and your smile feels bright and there’s music in your head. “Wakatoshi-kun will join it! Won’t you, Wakatoshi-kun!”

Wakatoshi-kun does not look like he wants to join your band. Luckily, he’s drunk too.

“Yes,” he says to the room and everyone gasps. He finishes his drink and gets up. “I will be in a band with Satori.”

You’re both bad at singing sober and you’re especially bad at singing drunk. Wakatoshi can’t hold a tune and you laugh your way through so much of the song that Semi and Reon throw empty paper cups at you. Shirabu looks like he wants you dead, and Goshiki is whining with his hands covering his ears.

It’s so, so funny.

You slump against Wakatoshi after you’ve both been booed off the stage—(well, you have been booed, he has been politely asked to never sing again)—and after a moment, he puts his arm around your back to help steady you. You could stay here forever, leaning into your best friend’s arms.

But that’s dangerous and you’re drunk, not stupid.

“Hey,” you say to him conspiratorially. “Let’s go to my room!”

Wakatoshi frowns a little, his sweet, confused frown, and then nods.

“Yes,” he says. “I would like to go to your room too.”

Okay, you think, as you take his large, firm hand and drag him across the common room, down the hall, and toward your room.

Maybe you’re a little stupid.

You lay on the floor, drunk. That makes this all so much funnier.

“Hey,” you say to him. “Are those stars up there?”

You’re on the (mostly) clean linoleum floor in your dormitory bedroom. You and Wakatoshi lay next to each other, like two legs of a starfish. His shoulder presses against yours; the tops of your heads brush together.

There is space between your hands, but only just. All it would take is a single movement to close it entirely.

Wakatoshi looks up and contemplates the question deeply.

“Satori,” he says.

“Yes, Wakatoshi-kun,” you say.

“That is your ceiling.”

You look at the space above you and—well, he’s right. You’re indoors. There is nothing up there but white paint and cobwebs.

Something about this is terribly funny to you. It’s possible you’ve had too much to drink.

You start laughing.

You start laughing and—god, once you start, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake from it, your chest quakes. You laugh so hard your stomach starts to ache. You laugh and you laugh and—

You laugh only until you feel his hand slip into yours.

Then you stop laughing.

You turn your head and he turns his.

You look at one another quietly, drunkenly, and it is just you two on the cold, somewhat clean ground, but it feels like you’re seeing stars.

(You shouldn’t, you think.

He’s a canon, an ace, a miracle. He’s a prince and princes aren’t meant for monsters like you.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, though.

Because you might be a monster, but the prince has chosen to lay with you on the floor of your bedroom all the same.)

“Wakatoshi,” you say, carefully. Softly.

“Satori,” he says and his reply is so sweet and reverent, it almost makes you cry.

If you don’t do it, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

This is what you think, in the seconds before.

Maybe it will be worth seeing the disgust in his eyes; maybe it will be worth feeling him recoil.

To have this is better than to never have it at all.

It’s selfish, you think. Perhaps the most selfish you have ever been, and you have lived your entire life being selfish, in your own selfish ways. That should sway you, but it doesn’t.

You know that if you let it go now, you know you will never get a chance again. And you can’t take that risk. You cannot live the rest of your life without knowing.

So you do the unthinkable. You do what no monsters are ever allowed the opportunity to do.

You reach forward and you kiss the prince.

His mouth is warm against yours, firm and soft. He tastes like alcohol and sugar, which is funny, because he doesn’t like sugar. You do, though. You love sweet things, and always have.

He fits against you, and you find that surprising—almost shocking. His mouth fits against yours and when he opens it, you can feel his warmth on your tongue.

You kiss him and your head spins. You think this will be the last of it; he will take your obsession and run.

He doesn’t. His eyes widen and for a moment you think: finally. Finally he has seen you for who you truly are—what you truly are. A monster undeserving of love. Something to shrink back from; a creature to fear. A selfish, unlovable, terrifying thing.

But that isn’t it at all.

His fingertips brush your jaw and he leans closer to you, his warm breath coasting over your cheek.

“I have never kissed anyone before,” he says.

Before you can feel mortified, before you can skewer yourself through with the sharp edge of your guilt, he thumbs your bottom lip.

He leans forward, his eyes fluttering shut, and kisses you back.

You are made from nightmares, not dreams, so you think you will wake up one day soon. What other ending is there for someone like you?

He will kiss you once and he will smile at you the next day, forgive you for acting on impulse, and never think of it again. That’s okay, because you will think of it constantly. You will think of it every day for the rest of your life.

It isn’t because he’s cruel, it’s because you are not cut from the same cloth. It is a fleeting, hazy, drunk moment for you both and you will hold it in the palms of your hands like unearthed gold and he will think of it fondly some day—years from now, when he’s old and has been given everything this life has to offer—as a thing that once, briefly happened.

How can one person be so wrong, so often?

“Wakatoshi-kun,” you say to him the next morning, surprised when you open the door at the knock and find him standing there. Your brows furrow; there’s a brief pang of concern that sits in your belly. Perhaps it’s fear. Or maybe it’s guilt. “Are you all right?”

His hair is neatly combed and he is wearing a nice, light sweater with freshly ironed jeans. If he is suffering from a night of drink, there is no indication of it.

“Yes, it is morning,” he says to you. “I am hungry. Are you not hungry?”

“Well—yes, now that you mention it,” you say, surprised and confused. “I guess it is time for breakfast!”

“It is,” he agrees. He nods and takes a step back. “I will wait while you change.”

You pause, waiting for the catch—but there is no catch, of course. Ushijima Wakatoshi has never made something difficult when he can make it easy instead. He is forthright and straightforward and honest; he never says something he does not mean.

You love him so much, you think it might kill you. You love him so much, you think you might one day let it.

“All right,” you say and give him a smile. “I’ll just be a minute!”

You try to close the door, but he stops you.

“Satori,” he says and you go so very still.

“Wakatoshi?”

He stares at you intently, looks at you the way he sometimes does. It pins you in place, roots your feet to the ground. It ripples through every part of you, until you feel as though you will vibrate apart.

You open your mouth to say something—you do not know what—and then you feel fingertips on your face. A firm, calloused palm at your cheek, fingers brushing against the loose fringe of your messy hair.

He leans forward and kisses you.

Your eyes close before you can tell them to wait. Your heart tumbles in your chest.

He kisses you and you open your mouth. You feel the brush of his tongue, the slide of his hand as it moves around to cup the back of your neck.

You gasp into his mouth and his other hand presses against the bone of your hip. You have two seconds to make a decision and you take those seconds for all they offer.

You wind your arms around his broad, athlete’s shoulders and pull him into your room.

“We can eat breakfast later,” you whisper into his mouth and close the door behind him.

Picture this: you love a boy.

He is a boy you cannot hold; a boy who is not meant to be kept. It is a boy with the sprawled wings of an eagle, not meant to be tethered to a monster with bright, red eyes and talons for claws. He allows himself to be anyway, and you can’t understand why.

But maybe it is not meant for you to understand. Maybe it is only meant for you to appreciate, until you have to set him free.

“I’m leaving,” you tell him, finally. You exhale and look to the powder blue sky and you expect relief. “I got an apprenticeship in France. Chocolate-making! What do you think, Wakatoshi-kun? Do you think I’d be good at making chocolate?”

He looks at you thoughtfully.

“I think you would be good at anything you set your mind to, Satori,” he says. He has never said a false thing, so you know he means it. That hurts in its own way. You’ve never known what to do with the weight of belief.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” you deflect with a too-bright smile. Inside, you’re already hurt to let him go. Inside, you know you were never meant to keep him anyway. “Maybe call sometimes? Ahh no, you’ll probably be too busy. A big volleyball star like you! Maybe they’ll interview you one day and you can tell them—oh, I had a friend once. A best friend! His name was Tendou Satori. I wonder what happened to him. I hope he’s doing well in France, making chocolates.”

He frowns at you and you think: oh. You’ve overstepped. He doesn’t want to think about you at all.

The frown lasts so long that it breaks your heart, a bit. But you’re a monster and monsters swallow pieces of the things they’ve broken. Your smile becomes a little brighter, a little more brittle.

“Well, anyway—”

“When will be a good time?” he asks you.

You don’t understand. “Eh?”

“To visit,” he says. “I have breaks in my schedule, but I do not want to impose. If you tell me when it will be good, I will come then.”

And you still don’t understand—what he’s saying, certainly not what he’s offering.

“Wakatoshi, you—”

“I have always wanted to visit France,” he says, explaining. Then, with a small smile, “I would like to taste your chocolates, Satori.”

And you could cry. You don’t, but you could. It’s been building inside you, you see. Little by little, death by a hundred little cuts. You’ve held so much of other people’s unkindness in the cage of your heart, but the most unkind you have been has been to yourself.

“Yeah?” you ask and you’re mortified to find your voice shaking. “You wanna come visit me? You…want to stay friends?”

There’s that frown again, sweet and briefly confused.

“We are partners, are we not?” he asks. He touches your jaw. “Would you like to stop?”

And you think: no. That has never been my intention or my wish. The thought has never once crossed my mind. I have wanted to keep you to myself, chain you to me. Bind you so that you can never leave. I am selfish, Wakatoshi, and you deserve someone who is giving. If you let me, I would swallow you whole. If you let me, I will never let anyone else have a single piece of you.

“No,” you say, in response. Simple and sweet. Your throat burns. “I don’t want to stop.”

He watches you closely and then slowly, gently, his confusion fades. His mouth—always so stern, always so flat—curves up gently at the corners.

“Good,” he says. “I don’t want that either.”

You get only a single chance to swallow the last of your fears, the stubborn ashes of your remaining doubts. He does not let you be unkind to yourself for one moment more.

Ushijima Wakatoshi presses his palm against the side of your neck. Then he leans forward and kisses you.

Picture this: you love a boy. And he—he loves you too.

He loves you when you are together, side-by-side—two wild, flying things, talons and teeth on a court made from dreams. He loves you when you are tangled on your small, cramped bed—his arm around your middle, your back pressed against his chest, his mouth ghosting over the nape of your neck. He loves you when you gasp his name in the middle of the night, when you arc into his touch, and leave hungry fingerprints in return. He loves you when you make him eat chocolate for breakfast, and he loves you when you make him listen to music he almost certainly hates, and he loves you when you curl your fingers into the soft neckline of his sweater and pull him close, just outside of security—a kiss goodbye, a kiss to take you across entire continents and oceans.

He loves you at a distance, at phone calls taken in the middle of the night, and too early in the morning, and across flights that are too long to bear. He loves you when you fight, and he loves you when you don’t, and when he stands on that podium, under all of those bright, gleaming lights—tall and proud, with the devotion of a country on his back and gold slipped around his neck—he looks for you in the audience and when he catches your eyes—you know that he loves you even then.

Eventually, it stops being shocking for you—that someone like Ushijima Wakatoshi could love someone like Tendou Satori.

Eventually, you realize all you have ever had to do is love him just as much—just as uncomplicatedly—back.

Oh, you think. Maybe even monsters are meant to be loved.

Maybe monsters can let themselves be loved, too.