Chapter Text
Tendou’s footsteps slapped against the linoleum like a second heartbeat, half a step behind Ushijima. His mouth moved faster than either of them.
“—and then I was like, ‘Sir, this is a Wendy’s,’ except it wasn’t a Wendy’s, it was that weird curry place down by the train station—you know, the one with the cat mascot that has human teeth? That one. And for some reason you were there, except you were made entirely out of tofu—like, jiggly tofu, not the firm kind—and every time someone spiked the ball you just sort of, like, exploded. But not in a gross way. Like, respectfully. Gracefully. Honestly it was kind of poetic, actually—”
Ushijima glanced sideways at him, nodding once. His expression was the same as always: unreadable. Calm. Gentle, maybe. It was hard to tell. His gaze lingered on Tendou’s face for a second longer than usual.
Tendou faltered.
He forced out a laugh and kept going, voice a little too loud, “So anyway I think my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Probably that I need more soy in my diet. Or that I’m emotionally dependent on you. Flip a coin.”
They turned the corner. Up ahead, a cluster of teammates filtered out of the gym doors, sweaty and half-dressed. Someone bumped shoulders with Tendou on the way past and muttered, not quietly, “Jesus. Does he ever shut up?”
Another boy laughed. Tendou didn’t catch who it was.
He kept walking. Didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t blink. Just smiled. Like always.
But he noticed the shift in Ushijima’s stride. The pause. The tiniest tilt of his head toward the noise. A blink. A look.
He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t. Ushijima hardly ever did.
But Tendou noticed.
He swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat. His grin widened. It felt wrong on his face, like a mask that had warped in the sun.
“Just a joke,” he said, offhanded. “Everyone’s so funny today.”
Ushijima made a soft, noncommittal sound—something like a hum, something like agreement. Or maybe just acknowledgment. The hallway echoed with the fluorescent buzz of lights overhead, the squeak of sneakers, the distant clatter of someone dropping their water bottle.
Tendou stuffed his hands in his pockets. His fingers curled tight inside the fabric.
“Anyway,” he said, stretching the word until it thinned, “tomorrow I’m bringing a Sharpie to practice. If I write ‘fragile’ on your forehead, maybe I’ll stop dreaming about you exploding.”
Ushijima didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Tendou stared at it too long.
“Not that I’m dreaming about you. That’s not what I meant. I dream about all sorts of people exploding. It’s not special or anything. Very normal.”
The silence between them thickened.
Then: “I don’t mind,” Ushijima said.
Tendou blinked.
“Don’t mind what?”
“Being in your dreams.”
A beat passed.
Tendou’s heart did a flip he hoped didn’t show on his face. He snorted, aiming for casual, and punched Ushijima’s arm with less force than usual.
“Careful, Wakatoshi,” he teased. “Say stuff like that and people might start thinking you have a personality.”
Ushijima blinked once, as if considering that. “Would that be bad?”
Tendou opened his mouth. Closed it again.
He didn’t have a follow-up.
That never happened.
The moment stretched. He felt—God, he didn’t know. Seen? Exposed? Like he’d wandered into the spotlight without realizing the curtains had lifted. Like maybe, just maybe, Ushijima had said it on purpose.
And that made it worse. So much worse.
He cleared his throat, scratched at the back of his neck, and turned the conversation into nonsense again.
“I should start charging rent. If you’re gonna show up in my REM cycles uninvited, I think I’m legally allowed to invoice you. Do you accept PayPay or is this more of a favors-and-blood-oaths kind of transaction?”
Ushijima nodded solemnly, like he was actually considering it.
And Tendou, still grinning, still talking, tried not to notice the ache in his chest.
Tendou’s dorm room was a disaster, but not in the traditional sense.
The bed was made. The floor was visible. His uniform hung on the back of his chair instead of the floor. But everything was loud. Neon posters. Piles of manga and notebooks stacked like modern art. String lights that didn’t match. A collection of keychains on the wall that jangled every time he brushed past them.
It was chaos disguised as order—just like him.
He collapsed face-first onto his mattress, groaning into his pillow. He didn’t move for a full minute. Not even to take off his shoes. The smell of sweat and wood polish clung to his skin from practice, and one of his kneepads was digging into his thigh, but he couldn’t make himself care.
“Ughhhhh,” he said aloud. No one responded.
He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
A beat.
Then: “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
He smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. Then again, just for good measure.
“Don’t mind being in your dreams,” he mimicked, in a deep monotone. “Okay, Prince Charming. Calm down before I die of emotional whiplash.”
He flopped onto his side and grabbed the closest pillow like a lifeline. Hugged it to his chest. His heart was still beating faster than it should’ve been, and not from practice.
It wasn’t like this was new. He’d had a crush on Ushijima since their first year. Two years of this shit. Two years of seeing him in the locker room and pretending not to look. Two years of listening to him talk and trying not to melt into the floor because his voice was so low and so serious and sometimes, if you were lucky, you got a little smile, just a twitch of his mouth, and it made you feel like you’d earned a rare achievement.
And Tendou? He was basically speedrunning the entire trophy list.
Except no one was playing this game but him.
He sat up, pushed the pillow away, and reached under his bed. A small box came out—plain, taped shut at the corners, the kind you could pretend was just full of receipts or batteries or whatever other boring stuff adults hoard.
It wasn’t.
Inside were folded-up letters. Pages. Napkins. Scraps. Bits of confessionals he’d written and never sent.
He pulled one out and unfolded it carefully, like it was a relic.
Dear Wakatoshi,
I think if I kissed you, I’d forget how to be annoying for at least a full thirty seconds. That’s gotta be worth something, right?
He stared at it. Snorted. Tossed it back in and picked out another.
Dear Ushiwaka,
I saw you tie your shoes the other day and I almost passed out. Not in a sexy way. In like a, “wow, I’m obsessed with you and even your boring habits make my chest feel weird” way. Anyway. Die about it.
That one went back too.
There were more. Some pages full of rambling, spiral thoughts. Some just doodles of volleyballs with hearts around them. One cursed monstrosity that was just a lovingly drawn diagram of Ushijima’s biceps with little arrows and notes like “rude” and “why does this hurt me.”
Tendou flopped backward again and let out another groan.
“I’m never sending any of these,” he muttered to the ceiling. “You hear that? I’m taking this whole box to the grave.”
The ceiling did not answer. Rude.
He sat up and threw the box back under the bed.
His fingers itched for his phone, but he forced himself not to pick it up. He’d made that mistake before. A dozen nearly-sent texts sat in his drafts. Stupid stuff. Friendly stuff. Dangerous stuff.
Hey. Can I come over?
Wanna walk with me tomorrow?
If I told you I wrote poems about your forearms would that be a crime or just a warning sign.
He couldn’t send them.
Not because Ushijima would freak out—he wouldn’t. That was the problem. He’d just… listen. Nod. Accept it. Say something logical and kind and devastating, like “I understand, but I don’t return your feelings.”
Tendou could live with rejection. He’d lived through worse.
But indifference? That would destroy him.
He flopped face-down again and screamed into his mattress.
Softly. Respectfully. Like a boy in love with a brick wall that was slowly, slowly, maybe, maybe starting to notice him back.
Eventually, he rolled over and grabbed his sketchpad.
He didn’t really draw anymore. Not seriously. But sometimes he just… needed to get stuff out.
He opened to a blank page and started sketching.
By the time he was done, there was a rough outline of a man—broad shoulders, soft eyes, hands big enough to cup the world in one palm. Next to him, a stick-figure version of Tendou with a tiny speech bubble that just said “kill me.”
He added a heart around them. Then crossed it out. Then circled it again.
Then sighed.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll actually talk to you like a normal person,” he muttered.
He wouldn’t.
But maybe.
The gym smelled like floor polish and sweat and competition.
Practice was halfway done and Tendou was running on autopilot—jump, swing, land, spin, reset. His body moved before his mind could catch up. Most days that was fine. Today, though, his brain was stuck in molasses, replaying yesterday’s incident like it was stuck on VHS and couldn’t stop rewinding.
“Don’t mind being in your dreams.”
Ushijima had said that. With his real mouth. Out loud. Without irony.
He’d joked. It was like seeing a statue wink at you.
Tendou nearly ran into Goshiki during a drill.
“Watch it!” Goshiki snapped, his hair bouncing like a rejected K-Pop audition.
“Sorry,” Tendou mumbled, only half-listening. He gave himself a little slap on the cheek. Focus. Get it together. He was acting like a lovesick anime girl, and not even a cool one. One of those useless side characters with a heart-patterned notebook and bad bangs.
“Focus, Tendou!” Coach barked.
“Yes sir,” he said automatically.
Ushijima spiked a ball so hard it echoed like a gunshot.
Tendou glanced over just in time to see him land, turn, and—look right at him.
It wasn’t just a glance. Not the usual polite scan of the team. His eyes found Tendou’s and held for a beat longer than they should have. His brows creased slightly, like he was thinking something through.
Tendou blinked. Looked away. Looked back. Ushijima was still looking. Not frowning. Not smiling. Just… looking.
Tendou’s knees nearly gave out.
He yanked his attention back to the drill. It was his turn to serve. He tossed the ball up, smacked it with too much power, and sent it flying into the net.
“Great,” he muttered. “I’m in love and I suck at volleyball now.”
Someone snorted behind him.
“You okay?” Semi asked, jogging past to grab the ball. “You’re usually annoying in a focused way. This is new.”
“Yeah, just tired,” Tendou lied.
Ushijima served next. Perfect form. No wasted motion. The ball cracked like a whip as it hit the floor on the other side of the net. Even the coach gave a quiet nod of approval.
Tendou watched the muscles in his back shift under his shirt and immediately regretted everything.
He needed to get it together. They were going into the qualifier soon. He couldn’t afford to spiral just because Wakatoshi “I’m Married to the Game” Ushijima had made a joke that sounded flirtatious if you were, say, a delusional idiot with a folder full of unsent love letters under his bed.
By the time practice ended, he’d half-convinced himself it didn’t mean anything.
Then Ushijima walked over to him.
Directly.
Not stopping to talk to Coach. Not grabbing his bag. Not even saying goodbye to the others. Just… beelining across the gym like he had a mission.
Tendou’s soul left his body.
“Hey,” he said, trying to act normal. Which meant: absolutely not normal at all. He was standing weird. Were his arms too long? What did people do with arms?
“Tendou,” Ushijima said. Voice low. Calm. Steady. His default setting.
“That’s me!” Tendou chirped, way too brightly. He coughed. “What’s up?”
Ushijima looked at him for a long moment.
“You seemed distracted today.”
Tendou blinked. “Uh. Yeah. I was thinking about—” He paused. Said the first thing that popped into his head. “Soup.”
Ushijima raised an eyebrow. Just slightly.
“What kind of soup?”
Tendou made a wheezing sound.
“You know. Soup soup. The… soup of life. The soup of volleyball. Broth-based enlightenment.”
Another beat of silence. Ushijima didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Slightly. Almost.
“Ah,” he said. Like Tendou had made perfect sense.
“You’re terrifying,” Tendou muttered.
Ushijima tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because you take me seriously,” he said. Then added, quieter: “No one ever does.”
Another silence.
Tendou didn’t mean to say that. But it was out there now. Dangling between them like a weird emotional balloon.
Ushijima studied him.
“I take you seriously because you are serious about the things you care about,” he said. Like it was obvious. “Even if you express them differently.”
Tendou’s throat went tight.
He tried to say something—something clever, something funny, something—but his mouth was dry.
“I—uh. Right. Yeah. Soup.”
Ushijima nodded, then turned to leave.
Tendou stood there, brain static, until Semi called his name from across the gym.
He blinked back into his body and wandered over to his bag.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Ushijima.
Just one word:
“Tomato.”
Tendou stared at it.
Then grinned so hard it hurt.