Karasuno doesn't make it to Nationals in your third year.

Disappointment is such an empty word to describe what it feels like to look at the score after the final buzzer and realize this is it; this is where Karasuno's path gets cut short, at the preliminary finals.

Crushing as this defeat might feel, though, the old dark cloud of devastating frustration fails to descend upon you. In your final year of high school you've had an epiphany: you want to keep playing volleyball. That could have been obvious to anyone who has ever met you, but it still feels like a revelation when you realize that you don't want your path to end here. As immeasurably vital as the club has always been to you, it's dawned on you that you don't want to settle with your high school experience. You want to keep playing, you want to go to college and play in bigger leagues and maybe, maybe at the end of it all even go pro.

To get there you'll have to ascertain some priorities. Volleyball is still your everything but, thinking realistically, you know it's very unlikely that you'd get a scholarship just because of your playing. Especially since you've only made it to the third round of Nationals that one time, not to mention the inconvenience of your height.

(Ironically enough, you've gained another two centimeters at long last, but they're not going to do you much good.)

If you want to play volleyball in college, you'll actually have to get into university by, gasp, studying.

So to everyone's astonishment, you buckle up and start studying seriously. And to your own surprise, you actually manage to get decent grades on a regular basis. Your mother doesn't quite tear up, but it's a near thing.

(A couple of your teachers might have.)

"It won't be easy," Coach Ukai scoffs when you tell him about your plans. It's not a novelty for you: few people must check the average height of volleyball players as often and as obsessively as you do. You're all too aware that, the higher you attempt to climb, the harder it will be to get there.

This, you have always known: you will never reach easily the places that come so naturally for other people.

But as long as you can jump, you can soar.

"It never was", you remind him and he concedes the point with a nod. He regards you, a pensive look on his wrinkled face.

"Got the feeling you're going to be a hard one to replace."

It's the most heartfelt compliment you've ever got.

Graduation is a surprisingly tearful affair on some of your classmates' part: Inaba swears up and down that he is not crying, thank you very much, at the same time Tsuda has to hand him over some tissues to blow his nose. Sakai doesn't cry, not even when at the volleyball club the second and first years throw you a farewell party of sorts, but she hugs you and holds on tight for a long time.

"Don't be a stranger, moron," she hisses into your ear, her hands grabbing a fistful of your shirt.

"I won't," you promise, and then you both break apart and pretend the emotional moment did not happen. Some of your soon-to-be-former teammates have no such qualms: Chisuga, Takagaki and Okamoto are hugging it out in the middle of the court, yelling promises to keep seeing each other and pretty much freaking out the first years. You'd laugh, maybe, but then you find yourself pulled into the circle and nearly suffocated within an inch of your life.

Before you step out the gym, you take a last, long look around. It almost feels like it was a moment ago when you set a foot inside for the very first time, in wide-eyed awe of finding yourself so close to Karasuno's court.

At the same time, it's like it all happened a very long time ago to a whole different person.

A thousand memories are breathing between these walls, a thousand memories you'll put behind once you step out this gym for good. There'll be other gyms, other courts, but Karasuno's will be yours no longer.

University means getting used to living away from home in a whole different city, starting all over again with people who don't know the first thing about you, and feeling like a fish out of water most of the time.

As time goes by you start finding your footing: you no longer get lost on the way to your classrooms, you start remembering the names and faces of some of your classmates, and you even manage to talk to them and, wonder of wonders, you no longer burn the rice when it's your turn to cook.

Volleyball in college proves to be just as difficult as everyone has warned you. Pretty much everyone is taller and way more experienced at playing at the national stage than you are, so the odds aren't in your favor. Then again, they never were and you've never taken your place on the court as a given, but as a hard-earned right. And you're no longer fifteen and prone to fall into fits of despair if things don't go your way right off the bat.

Moving away to attend college in Sendai City comes with a small drawback: it's the town where your aunt and cousins live.

Genzo, who has somehow figured out that whoever used to be in your life is there no longer, takes it upon himself to help you out, regardless of your own opinion on the matter. He drags you to a party with some of his artsier friends and practically throws you in the way of a tall, lanky boy with curly hair and black-rimmed glasses. Within the first five minutes you find out that you have absolutely nothing in common except maybe for a lack of inclination to date girls. Genzo's is subtle as a sledgehammer, and it's horribly awkward and hilarious at the same time. The conversation stutters and dies as everyone around you sips cheap wine out of paper cups and listens to obscure music while partaking in heated arguments about some even more obscure philosophers.

The college crowd is definitely weird and this does not bode well for the next few years of your life.

"Do you want to make out?"

It's meant as a joke, and you're about to tell him as much when you see the startled look on his face. And yet, somehow you do end up making out, which is awfully uncomfortable at first because he's not quite the right height. He figures out how to position you so it's not hell on your neck and you let him take the lead because he seems like he has some idea of what he's doing. When his hands slide down your sides, though, your own shoot out to stop them before they can wander anywhere below your waist. He's quick to catch on and he keeps his hands above your waist and over your clothes.

It's… nice, you guess. Not earth-shattering or mind-blowing, but not awful either. You sort of get why there are boys in your class that go to parties just to make out with random girls.

It beats trying to dance to this infernal music, in any case.

You don't write down his number afterwards and you don't make much of an effort to commit his name to memory, much to Genzo's poorly disguised disappointment.

That night when you get home, you stare at the screen of your cell for a very long time before deleting a particular contact.

The first holidays you spend at home after going away make you feel strange and out of sorts. Your room, your house, and your neighborhood look exactly the same and yet, they don't feel the same.

"It's you who has changed, sweetie," your mother says, a wistful air about her as she regards you, as though she needed to relearn your features all over again. It's strange, because when you look at yourself in a mirror, you don't find your appearance that different and yet, something's not quite the same.

It becomes a bit easier when Sakai comes back home and she picks you up for a spin in the car, but even that has changed: what used to be an illicit pleasure, now it's allowed. Her sister has bought herself a new car and given the old one to her little sister, so your joyrides now lack the flavor of the forbidden.

Others have come back as well or they never left, and for some reason, it surprises you the amount of people willing to hang out with you and Sakai. You always had this idea of yourself as a bit of a loner, a fish out of water who was way too obsessed with volleyball to relate to people, but either that was way exaggerated on your part or you had the strange luck of finding a lot of people who didn't mind it at all.

One afternoon, some of the former members of the Karasuno volleyball club have piled into Sakai's car and are chattering about, predictably enough, volleyball. Not all of them have kept on playing, but they are all still avid fans who will never run out of something to say on the subject. You're so engrossed in an argument with Chisuga about the JT Thunders that you don't even realize where you are until Sakai takes a turn in a familiar road and Takagaki pipes up:

"Hey, isn't this where Tsukishima-senpai lived? You know, the tall, blonde one. My mom gave him a lift one time after she picked me up from practice, I think she knows his mother or something. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's that house over there."

"Is it?" you manage to say, mustering all the nonchalance you can. Sakai's gaze catches yours in the rearview mirror but she doesn't call you out on your bullshit.

She's way too used to it.

It's at another dreadful college party where you meet him.

At first glance, he doesn't impress you at all. He's sort of tall and lanky with fiery red hair he likes to mess with, and that wouldn't be bad at all if it weren't for the crowd of girls around him, hanging on his every word. Why are they all so fascinated, it's anyone's guess: the guy seems capable of spouting out cheesy lines a dozen a minute. It's a good thing that you're not interested in dating girls, because you'll never understand them at all.

A while later, you find him unsuccessfully hiding behind an armchair from his admirers, his tomato-red face buried in his hands.

"Please, get them away from me. I think they're gonna mob me and I've run out of things to say."

It's incredibly lame and for some stupid reason, you find it endearing enough that you go looking for him after you've chased off his fangirls. Turns out he's not into obscure music or philosophers with unpronounceable names so that's a step up already. Both of you drink far more than you should and you end up leaning against each other for support, as he talks and talks and talks. He's studying Biology, he's an Aquarius born on Valentine's Day (yes, for real), he has a cat, he misses his best friend more than he misses his family because he's found out he can't quite function without her, he loves hamburgers and hates peppers. You probably talk a bit as well even though you don't have much recollection of it, except when you mention volleyball and he narrows his eyes at you.

"Oh, so you're one of those sports club types. I used to hate those guys. I bet you have like, a six pack and girls are all over you."

His tone is so serious and accusing that you burst into hysterical laughter, and you almost fall sideways but he manages to catch you by wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders.

"What club did you go to?" you manage to hiccup once you've more or less regained your breath. He glares at you.

"The best club there is: the go-home club."

It must be the alcohol, but you find that hilarious. He holds onto you so you don't fall, and he's warm and comfortable pressing against you. From up close, his eyes look red. That's kind of cool, you think, and apparently you also blurt it out because he blushes, which you find cute.

And which you also blurt out, great.

You half-expect him to push you away, shouting 'no homo' or something of the sort, but instead his eyes widen and he pulls closer.

"Really?"

He sounds so serious that you laugh as you nod, and the surprise on his face is somewhat adorable (that much, at least, you manage to keep to yourself.)

For the second time in your life, you find yourself making out with a near stranger at a party and a part of you wonders if this will become a habit or what. Then you stop thinking for a moment or two, because he's nowhere as smooth as the guy your cousin introduced you to: his kisses are wet and messy and sort of awkward and yet, you find that you like it. Maybe enough to do it again sometime.

The next time you see each other is at a Biology class and it's all kinds of awkward, with the way his face flames up and he begins stammering when the girl next to him asks him where he knows you from.

You two end up exchanging numbers, though, and start something that can't quite be called dating, but you hang out and every now and then you hook up. The two of you have very little, if anything, in common: while you have an obsession with volleyball and hang posters of well-known players on your walls, he has an unhealthy addiction to dating sim games and collects figurines of girls with impossibly large breasts. But you're not that interested in sharing your whole life with him so for now, it's okay. He doesn't seem very interested in starting an actual relationship either: he has also left behind an awkward story with someone he never quite managed to date.

"I can't call it dating if we never went anywhere, can I? All we did was laze around and make out. That's not a relationship, right? I mean, it was nothing short of a miracle if I even got a reply to any of the texts I always sent. You're supposed to text your boyfriend back, aren't you?"

You confess that your experience in that area is very limited, but Akiteru did reply to your texts… at least, until it was all over.

In the couple of months the two of you don't quite date, you learn other tidbits about the so-called ex: they're still in high school, the laziest person alive, and they're also the younger sibling of one of his closest friends and he's terrified of said friend ever finding out. In exchange, you share bits and pieces of your own history: it sounds terribly dull when put into words, although he tells you it would make for a good shoujo manga storyline, as though that were supposed to cheer you up.

He's weird like that.

Weird enough that he looks horrified when he finally slips up and uses a male pronoun to refer to his ex. You roll your eyes.

"I've kinda figured it out, you know. And it's not like I'm going to freak out at that, am I?"

"Well, no," he agrees sheepishly, still quite red in the face. "But I'm so used to being careful…"

Your non-relationship is put on hold, sort of, when his best friend shows up out of the blue and takes up camp on his couch and you finally manage to catch the eye of one of the coaches and they begin to let you play in practice matches every now and then. Your schedules turn hectic as the year progresses and you see each other less and less, but you don't stress too much about it.

The more you get to play volleyball, the less you think of anything else.

A cryptic text saying you two need to talk leads you to a nearby café where you watch him tear a napkin apart as he stammers that he's had a lot of fun with you, and it's not like he doesn't like you, but the sort-of-ex has showed up.

"And I don't think you'll get this part, because you don't know him, but it's kind of incredible that he took a train all the way here just to see me. I mean, he doesn't do that sort of effort like, ever, unless it's something related to his club. And, well, he says he misses me, well, he sort of said that, he's not that talkative but I get what he meant. And, well… I feel really shitty for springing this up on you, but…"

He rambles on some more, making it the most awkward break up ever.

Can it be called a break up if you've never dated?

You end up pressing a hand against his mouth to shut him up as you tell him that it's okay, you get it and no, he's not a shitty person for wanting someone else, he's been upfront about it and you promise that you won't hold this against him. He looks doubtful, but finally he lets the break up come to a conclusion and you part on sort of friendly terms.

(Or at least, non-vicious ones.)

When you get home, you're expecting it to finally hit you, the chest-splitting ache you remember from the last time, but you don't even feel even a pang. Maybe college relationships are different, if you can even call what you had a relationship.

When you call Sakai later that day, you tell her your non-boyfriend has ended your non-relationship because his non-ex showed up.

"That's a lot of negatives in your life," she says after a moment. "Well, if you feel like crying while we eat ice-cream and paint our nails, I can share my own not-that-romantic disasters with you, what do you say?"

Neither of your ends up crying after all, and she hasn't thrown anyone down the stairs as of late, so you guess this is what they call growing up.

In the following months, volleyball swallows you whole. Even the times you don't get to play, you're still mesmerized by the game, so different from the high school stage. These are not mere school children looking for some fun: here and now, everyone is as fiercely serious about this as you are. Here and now, you're no longer the overly intense weirdo, surrounded as you are by people who live and breathe volleyball.

This is every bit as hard as everyone warned you about, but you find it all the more riveting for it.

However, at university you can't dismiss your lessons just as easily as you did at high school, so even though you still feel like you breath volleyball, you actually have to show up for lectures, pay meticulous attention, and study. The word deserves to be underlined three times, because you've never known what studying meant until now.

To your own surprise, you find you kind of like it. Not the long hours sitting at the library, that's for sure, but the content of your lessons manages to catch your attention and you find yourself thinking that hey, this is also something you'd like to do.

After you retire from volleyball many years from now, of course.

Economy is kind of tight, so despite your hectic schedule you need to find yourself a part-time job. Aunt Chiosa gets you one at a store an old friend of hers owns, selling photography equipment of which you don't know the first thing about. Your aunt's friend assures you that you'll be quick to learn and a mousy girl gets tasked with teaching you. It's a bit hard at first because she never raises her voice above a whisper and rarely if ever makes eye-contact, but eventually Yuki-san manages to guide your way through the store.

Juggling volleyball, lectures, and work, the rest of your first year and most of your second pass in a blur. Some days you're exhausted beyond words, and yet every now and then a bunch of your teammates or your study group will insist on dragging you to their outings. More than socializing, you specialize in falling asleep in the oddest of places and situations, but you try to make a bit of an effort every now and then.

All in all, your life has become a whirlwind that leaves little room for anything else and yet, there are still nights that find you staring at the ceiling, the widescreen of your mind showing memories that won't be kept at bay. You refuse to name the gnawing feeling those memories leave in its wake, even when you catch yourself fighting the temptation to look for a number no longer in your contact list.

News of Karasuno still reaches your ears even if you no longer live there, but as time goes by, they seem to take a turn for the worse. Coach Ukai must retire due to his health and no one seems to be able to fill his shoes, so the team's reputation begins to fall into obscurity.

It's stupid to care so much when it's no longer your team, but the first time you hear the words 'fallen crows,' you really feel like putting your first through that asshole's face.

Third time's the charm, they say, so of course it does not hold true in your case.

You don't pay him much mind at first, just another one of the many regular customers at the shop. It's him who approaches you one day and asks whether you play volleyball. Dumbfounded, you nod and a grin lights up his face.

"I knew you looked familiar. I saw you at the last match, you subbed in for Fujimaki, didn't you? The way you got past that block… it was really something, you know? It took my breath away."

The mystery is solved when he tells you that he works as a sports photographer who covers the university league, so he knows all there's to know of every single team.

Including you, it seems.

"You used to be Karasuno's Small Giant, right? I'd heard of you, but your jumps are even more unbelievable in person."

It's not the first compliment someone's ever paid you, but there's something in the gleam in his eyes and the earnestness in his smile that suffuses your skin with warmth, and you find yourself leaning over the counter to chase after that feeling.

From that moment on, he always stops by to chat with you for a bit when he comes to the store, a most welcome distraction from everyday tedium. He gets to see all the matches you miss so he always bears riveting news and sometimes, you need to be reminded that you're supposed to be working and not flailing about volleyball.

If you get the impression that he's stopping by more often than before, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, until the day that Yuki-san, without looking up from the boxes she's sorting, says under her breath:

"I think he's coming onto you."

You can only gape as she goes on about her business as though nothing strange had come to pass.

Yuki-san might look mousy, but her gaze is piercing: just a week after that conversation, he asks you out. At first, he goes about it in a very roundabout way, and when he seems to realize that you're every bit as thick as you look, he takes a blunter approach. Still reeling with surprise, you blurt out 'yes.' You find that you like the way he smiles at you, his whole face lighting up, the spark in his eyes as he regards you.

If it reminds you of another warm smile with gleaming, crinkled eyes, you push that thought out of your head.

This time, you might get to tentatively call him your boyfriend. He asks you out on actual dates, which to your immense relief don't resemble the ones depicted in shoujo mangas at all: mostly, you go to volleyball matches, the movies, or out for food. He doesn't hold your hand or kiss you in public (thank all the deities you don't believe in), but he tells you about his past and holds you tight when he spends the night, his longer limbs wrapping all over you, his breath warm on the back of your neck. His touch and laughter chase away the last shadows of loneliness clinging to you like an overgrown sweatshirt and he insists on introducing you to his friends, which leaves you no other choice but to let him meet Sakai when she pops in for a visit.

She seems to approve of him.

So to speak.

"It's nice to meet you," she tells him, all eerie smiles. "I'm glad you don't look like the sort I'll have to throw down the stairs."

He sends an alarmed look your way and you can barely hold in manic laughter at the panic in his eyes.

"It's just an old joke," you try to reassure him, but he still looks a bit wary around her.

It's nice and comfortable while it lasts and for a moment, you fool yourself believing it could be this easy.

This being your life, the illusion goes up in flames pretty quickly.

At first, you sort of tune him out when he starts hinting at going through the whole meet-the-parents thing and moving the relationship to the next level and whatnot, until you realize in horror that he's serious. You find yourself flooded with sudden panic and stepping on the brakes so hard and fast that even you get whiplashed.

He does not take it well.

(Under-fucking-statement of the century.)

Perhaps the ending of your two prior entanglements (one in amicable terms; the other just fading into heart-breaking nothingness) has given you a misguided idea of what a break up actually looks like.

It's all kinds of awful.

His parting shot before slamming the door on his way out will thunder in your ears long after he's gone.

"You know what? I'm pretty sure I love you, see, but there's a lot of shit in your past that you need to deal with before inflicting it on anyone else."

That night and for many more to follow, the widescreen of your mind won't show any pleasant memories.

One day out of the blue, Chisuga sends you a text that only says check yr email doofus and when you do, the subject reads: check what I found at karasuno!. All the email reads is think he might be shorter than u, and you frown until you see the attached picture.

It's a picture taken of a poster stuck to some shop's window – you can even see the electric fans they sell in the background. The image is slightly out of focus, but you can still make out the figure of a boy clad in the all-too familiar black and orange ensemble, his hand reaching for the sky as he soars in midair. In blurry crimson letters you manage to read:

THE CROWS HEAD BACK TO THE NATIONAL SKIES

On the other side of the poster it reads:

THE SMALL GIANT RETURNS

You stare at the screen for a long time, steamrolled by a thousand memories. If you close your eyes, you can almost believe you're back there: the faint echo of cheers ringing in your ears, a trace of Air Salompas scent burning in your nose, the feeling of polished wood underneath your feet and the smooth leather against your fingertips.

When you open your eyes the screen has gone dark and in your faint reflection, you catch your smile, the one that has always felt like a dare.

The chanting of the crowd reverberates within the gym's walls and thunders in your ears, a compact mass of white-and-violet engulfing any vestige of black-and-orange; the concentrated scent of teenage boys and Air Salompas; the pounding of your heart, the squeaky sounds of rubber soles on wooden floors; the very air charged with electricity right before the first whistle:

Memories, you find, can carry quite a tangible punch to the chest.

It's not like you planned on coming here, it just… sort of happens. All these years of living in Sendai, you've managed to resist the pull to come to a high school match.

The past was best left in the past.

(Or so they say.)

This year wasn't supposed to be different. There are still lectures to go to, exams to study for, practice and matches of your own. High school is supposed to be well behind you; Karasuno's fate is no longer your concern.

You could tell yourself a plausible excuse. This is, after all, the last chance to check out Shiratorizawa's ace before he rocks the waters next year in the university league: he's already made it to sub-19 Japan's team; he's sure to become something impressive.

And sure, your eyes find him at once, his height and the air of quiet confidence all great players wear like a cloak setting him apart. But your gaze slides off him like water on oil, drawn by the pack of black-and-orange on the court, so few compared to Shiratorizawa's numbers. Among them, a mop of orange as bright as their uniforms stands out, belonging to a short boy jumping up and down on the spot.

You blink, and then you blink again.

Nostalgia isn't playing tricks on your eyes: a number 10 is emblazoned in stark white on his jersey.

The Small Giant returns…?

When the whistle blows to signal the beginning of the game, everything else melts away, past and present, and there's only the thrill of the ball soaring and scoring. The Karasuno players seem terrified at first, prone to mistakes and hesitation, and you begin muttering under your breath c'mon, c'mon.

These boys are crows, not doves.

When their black wings spread at long last, they flock to attack and devour.

Mesmerized, you watch as this new iteration of Karasuno fights tooth and nail to conquer the National skies once more. They're vastly different from your Karasuno and yet, with the way they all jump for the attack, changing tactics and evolving with each play, you can still hear the echo of Coach Ukai's shouting to attack, always attack.

Shiratorizawa is a well-oiled canon, but Karasuno has become a moving target capable of slipping through the cracks. You can admire Ushijima's perfect form and powerful spikes, but they don't take your breath away like Karasuno's plays do. The synchronized attacks; the cleverness of their blocks, building the pressure on Shiratorizawa, if not yet blocking them entirely; the crazy reflexes of their tiny libero. Karasuno has become once again the sort of team that could defeat everyone and go to Tokyo.

Nothing can prepare you, though, for the strange wonder of a quick so fast it's a blur: the screech of rubber soles on the wooden floor, a flash of orange, a cannonball painted red-white-green, the sharp intake of breath of the crowd as it hits the other side.

The Small Giant returns…

You didn't think about it, because it was silly and high school was like a million years ago. If you had thought about it, though, maybe you would've pictured another short boy trying to make his way through a wall with wipes and block outs, technique and stubbornness making up for a lack of strength.

(Like another – shorter, red-haired – version of yourself.)

That's not Karasuno's current number 10.

Karasuno's current number 10 jumps, and when he jumps he soars, and somehow, the ball flies towards his open palm and stops right there.

(That setter is something else, too.)

Five sets, and your life seems to get a few years shorter with each point taken by Shiratorizawa. Your fingers hold onto the handrail so tight you can no longer feel them, your whole world limited to the white lines drawn on the wooden floor below, the thud of the ball setting the beat of your heart, your entire body vibrating with the chanting of the crowd and a single, absurd thought spelled in neon letters:

I wanna play. I want to get down there and feel the leather against my fingertips, I want to spike the ball that scores a point.

The final buzzer reverberates in the gym as an eerie silence engulfs the white-and-violet compact mass on the stands. You don't look at them: you can very well imagine their incredulity and, when it sinks in, their blistering disappointment. Your gaze remains glued to the crows below, the grins splitting up their faces, the tears running down their cheeks.

The Small Giant returns and the crows head back to the National skies.

A piercing squeal on your left both makes you flinch and draws your eye. For the first time, you catch sight of the Karasuno supporters on the stands, as a blonde girl with short hair smothers a tinier blonde and shrieks with, you suppose, joy.

Huh. You didn't even notice them there.

You blink. Is that Coach Ukai…? Wow: he does look old.

Ingrained reflexes make you fall into an instant bow as soon as he greets you with a nod. Maybe you're no longer his pupil, but his dark eyes can still instill that good old fear.

You don't have much time to ponder on that, because as soon as your gaze leaves Ukai-san, it meets a pair of honey-colored eyes you've seen only in dreams.

Oh.

If this were a movie, you'd be disgusted at the cliché.

Because this is not a movie but your life, you freeze up, and surely your jaw also drops and your eyes widen and you look as undignified as you can, why not.

He looks… the same, you guess. And not the same, in a way you can't quite pinpoint.

This is stupid. You're not fifteen anymore, overridden by hormones and insecurity; you're not sixteen, heart-broken and confused. You've moved on. The tune has changed; this is no longer the soundtrack of your movie.

(At least, he looks every bit as gobsmacked as you feel: small comforts and all that.)

Like a familiar tune your feet fall into rhythm without you even noticing, when he raises a hand to wave at you like a moron, so do you.

(Like a moron, too.)

When the girl with short, blonde hair elbows him and points at the Karauno team lining up below, you take your chance to escape.

Much later, you get your hands on the Karasuno's lineup and you finally learn the name of Karasuno's current number 10.

Another name pops up.

Tsukishima Kei.

The image of the tall, blonde middle blocker with glasses who managed to block Ushijima is hard to reconcile to that of a small – but not short at all – boy you caught glimpses of every now and then.

It makes you feel very old.

There's a lot of staring at the computer screen, and then at your phone, and then at the computer screen again.

The Facebook invitation seems to be mocking your indecisiveness.

There's no harm in it, right? You'd get to see your old teammates again, find out what those people you've fallen out of touch have been up to, get to relive some of your best memories. All nice and good.

There's so much you've left behind, though, enclosed within the walls of Karasuno's gym, that you're not sure you're ready to face yet.

When will you be, then?

The phone vibrates in your hand and you startle, almost falling off the bed. SAKAI read the bright letters on the screen and you sigh, and then you want to kick yourself for sighing. She greets you with a familiar hey, dumbass, comforting like an old blanket around your shoulders. Somewhere along the line, her voice has started to sound like home; somewhere along the line you've both lost part of your razor sharp edges and this has become an easy comfort.

Or at least it feels that way until she asks you why you haven't accepted the invite yet, moron.

"Everyone keeps asking me about it, from Chisuga to Ogawa, like I had the direct line to your brain or something." You recall somewhat guiltily the messages from Chisuga, Takagaki, and even Ishida-san flooding your inbox.

You mumble something, trying to stall for time, but it's not like she can't see right through it.

"Dumbass, if this is because you have yet to get over that we didn't make it to number one of Japan back in high school, then let me tell you this: you're the stupidest guy to have ever lived. News to no one, but well, someone had to say it."

"Thanks, I love you too. And no, that's not… that's not it. It's just…"

Your voice falters because you don't know how to put it into words.

"It's a lot," you finish somewhat lamely.

She hums, and you're sure she's pulling on one of her wiry curls.

"If this is about confronting that you were quite the emo teen at times back then, well, I think it's time you own up to it and anyway, I'm gonna be there. At least you're not the one remembered for throwing a guy down the stairs, you know."

"Well, he was a jerk, anyway," you say because you still stand by that opinion, thank you very much.

There is a pause longer than the former captain of the Karasuno basketball team deserves. She clicks her tongue.

"This is not because the jerkass confirmed he'd go, is it? Because in that case, I'll kick your ass, and then his, and then yours again."

It takes a moment for the full meaning of her words to sink in.

"Ehhh…" you reply eloquently as you rush to check this new information and there it is: one Tsukishima Akiteru has confirmed that he'll go to the reunion for all the former members of Karasuno's Volleyball Club.

"…no, it's not that at all, Sakai," you say, as the cursor hovers indecisively.

"You know what? You're right, it'd be stupid not to go. I'll see you there."

Is this moving forward or taking a step backwards, you wonder.

Oh, well. Surely you've made stupider, more regrettable choices.

…right?

If anyone asks (please, let no one ever ask), your intentions were more than pure, they were pristine.

No one would ever believe it if they could hear your moaning when his thigh finds its way between yours, but you really, really hope no one is listening in right now.

You'd never live it down.

Also, it occurs to you that it might not be quite legal for two so-called adults to get frisky on school grounds.

Any concern over possible legal repercussions goes up in flames as he begins to rub his thigh against you and it leaves you panting, as your mouth chases after his; your fingers searching for more skin underneath his shirt.

Rewind:

You have no ulterior motives when you accept the invitation to the Alumni reunion. Really.. Just a tinge of curiosity to see what has become of your old teammates, those that fell through the cracks of online communication these past few years. Maybe, if you are feeling at the top of your social ability, you might even strike up a conversation with some of the new kids on the team.

Why you feel the need to change your outfit three times before getting out the door is no one's business but your own.

When you first step into the gym and at first glance the crowd looks unfamiliar and foreboding, you feel once more like the awkward kid who never quite knew what to do at birthday parties unless there was a volleyball to play with.

It's stupid and you know it, but you still find yourself wavering by the door like an idiot, tugging down the hem of your T-shirt. (Honestly, why did you have to pick one of the tighter ones that'll keep riding up and bothering you all night?) Your gaze scans the crowd in search of a familiar face, a buffer to keep away the awkwardness of making small talk with strangers. You don't see Sakai, Chisuga, or Takagaki anywhere, though.

Hell, even Ogawa would do.

What your searching gaze finds, instead, is a pair of honey-colored eyes already locked on you.

Time does not stop. The lights do not dim; the buzz of conversations doesn't fade; your heartbeat does not stutter. The world keeps spinning on, indifferent to the glint of gold in his hair under the fluorescent lights, regardless of his unrelenting gaze that still makes you stop and stare.

A game of spot the differences ensues, the actual image before your eyes competing against the ghost of a memory. Sharper angles on his face; a slightly different haircut; a centimeter or so more, perhaps. Gone is the gangly awkwardness of a boy grown too much too fast and that plaid button-down over a band T-shirt is probably the most formal you've ever seen him – but then, when have you ever seen him in anything but the school uniform or gym clothes?

His eyes look very much the same, though, and these last few years have done nothing to erase the shape of his mouth or his hands from your mind.

He's staring as well, he's been staring for a long time with a deer-caught-in-headlights sort of look and you wonder what he's seeing, what he's waiting for.

What does he expect, you wonder, after all this time.

You don't even know what you expect.

Right after the bridges were set ablaze, a part of you hoped never to see him again; another part of you wanted nothing else but to shake him for answers. Once the bridges were reduced to ashes, a part of you wondered if you didn't owe him at least one I'm sorry.

For the longest time, you tried not to think of him at all.

Right here and now, though, you think hey, he looks good and raise a hand to wave and smile at him like the awkward moron you are. You're in good company, at least, because he waves and smiles right back and you realize that, whatever shape this first encounter might take, you don't want it to happen before the eyes of a crowd. With a tilt of your head you point towards the door and he follows you at once, as though it'd always been that simple.

Outside, shadows stretch and draw dancing shapes over his face, his familiar features turned alien and fey-like in the flickering light. Only a few steps separate the two of you: the distance measured in time, however, feels vast. A distance made of all that's been left unsaid, all the questions left unasked, the doubts never once spoken out loud.

"Hey," you say, ever so eloquent.

"Hey," he says back, and up until this moment you were sure you didn't recall what his voice sounded like, and now you wonder how you could ever think that you'd forget it. "How… How've you been?"

He rubs the back of his head, a sheepish look on his face, as though he realizes how stilted he sounds, and you feel a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, because despite the shadows and the years in between and the long silences, you feel once more on familiar ground.

The warmth that begins to spread through your skin is also familiar.

Dangerously so.

"Eh, well, studying a lot, believe it or not." His eyebrows shoot up, a smirk pulling at his lips and you roll your eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know, you'd have to see it to believe it, you're not the first to say so. Eh, well, I've been playing too–"

"I know. I mean," he hastens to add when you gawk, "I've heard so. You're good. I mean, your team. You got into quarterfinals last tournament, right?"

"Well, we could've done better…"

He rolls his eyes and your grimace turns into a sheepish smile.

(Some things don't change that much.)

It's easier, then, for words to come out. Where he's been living, what you're studying, have you kept in touch with anyone; hey, Karasuno's gotten good again, I've seen your little brother play, can't believe he's grown into such a lamp post; don't tell me about it, he can look down on me now.

You'd forgotten how easy it could be.

The buzz of chatter and occasional screeching noise coming from the gym through the door ajar keeps engulfing your voices. It annoys you enough to start stepping away from it and once again, Akiteru easily follows. Neither of you looks at where your steps take you, too absorbed by a talk that veers towards, what else, volleyball.

Every now and then, pinpricks of heat burn on your skin when his arm brushes against yours; every time you have to tilt up your face to meet his gaze, you catch a smile on his lips and a gleam in his eyes to rival the moonlight shine on his hair, and if Sakai could hear you she'd kick you.

A part of you kind of feels like kicking yourself.

It doesn't stop you from oh-so-casually brushing your shoulder against him every now and then, warmth seeping through cloth and spreading over your skin.

A sudden roar of laughter warns you of the arrival of a group of latecomers and you swerve into a shadowed path to get out of their sights, your hand on Akiteru's elbow. He lets you guide him out of the way, a tacit agreement to avoid anyone familiar for the time being. His voice drops into a whisper that makes you lean towards him to listen. You still have to tilt up your head to meet his eyes, and if he dares to laugh about it you're gonna punch him.

Probably.

(Probably not.)

After another turn you find yourselves by the stairs that lead to the clubroom. Both of you stop on your tracks, your gazes climbing up to the door of a room once as familiar to you as your own bedroom.

"Wonder if it's locked. Do you think Kato's poster is still hanging there?"

You glance at his profile drawn by moonlight, at his faraway gaze lost in memory. You give him a nudge

"Let's check it out."

"What? No, I didn't mean–"

You ignore his protests, making your way up the stairs, and you give him a crooked smile over your shoulder, the one that's always felt like a dare.

With a put upon sigh he follows, but you know that gleam in his eyes all too well to be fooled.

The door is unlocked and stepping through the threshold is like walking backwards in time. The smell hits you first – a smell never pleasant, but comfortingly familiar. The same lockers, the same metal shelves and, at first glance, the very same poster with girls in bikini that Kato hung up all those years ago. Then you realize it's another poster with different girls, but so similar to the one you remember that you wonder if it's something intrinsic to this clubroom: maybe the posters just pop up on their own, sprouting from the very walls soaked in teenage hormones.

The room might look the same, but it feels so much smaller.

"Is it me or does it seem smaller?"

Akiteru's whisper startles you and you whip around to look at him.

He's much, much closer than you expected. Face half drawn in shadows, half alight by a moonbeam filtering through the dusty windows: he's not looking at anywhere but you, and a shiver crawls down your spine as your heart begins to race.

This can't be a figment of your imagination, right?

Your feet waver, caught between taking a step forward or a step backwards; gracelessly you stumble and his hands dart out to grab your shoulders.

"Whoa, careful there," he says, and as his mouth begins to curve into a grin you know he's gonna crack a joke at your expense, but when you wet your lips he freezes up, his hold on your shoulders tightening. His pupils are blown wide in this half-light, gaze now stuck on your mouth, his own lips slightly parted, a hitch in his breath that matches your heartbeat.

It's a stalemate that could last forever, but you are no longer a bumbling sixteen-year-old and your hands shoot up to hold the sides of his face. His eyes widen and he might've stopped breathing altogether, his skin oh-so-warm under your fingertips, and you give him a moment, and then another one, plenty of time for him to stop you before your hands pull his head down and you surge up to kiss him.

There are millions of words printed on numberless books, rivers of ink and an ocean of melodies describing what this or that kiss feels like, but there's only one thought in your head when you kiss Akiteru again after all these years:

Kissing him feels like coming home.

When he kisses you back, it's not hesitant, it's not gentle: it's a storm unfolding, his touch burning a brand on your shoulders, his body pushing against yours until the back of your head hits a locker and the pain is a distant echo because everything is now ablaze. Hands searching desperately for another inch of heated skin, your mouth chasing after his; you tug on the hairs on the back of his head to pull him closer and moan shamelessly when you feel his tongue sliding against your neck. All caution thrown to the wind, your hands squeeze his ass to pull him closer and a burst of laughter escapes from your lips at his gasp and his wide-eyed gaze, as though he has just now realized that you are not sixteen anymore.

And then his hands cradle your face as though it were something precious, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheekbones, his lips parted, a look of wonder in his molten eyes. Something in your chest seizes painfully, the very air burning through your lungs when his touch becomes the gentlest graze of his lips on your temple, your forehead, your nose, your chin.

You fucking sadist, you'd like to snap at him but you can't, pinned by his gaze and his hands and the softness of his touch.

This, you realize, this is the reason why this was such a terrible idea from the get go; because you should've moved on but you haven't, or maybe you did and you were pulled back in without warning.

You should've known better; you're no stranger to the pain that comes with a fall.

When his lips once again find your own, your hands grasp handfuls of his shirt to pull him even closer.

You might fall, but first you'll soar.

The return to the gym happens in a daze, still blindsided as you are by the supernova in the shape of a fifteen-year-old middle blocker. Your biggest fan the current Coach Ukai called him, and you ought to believe him, given how a promise of playing volleyball at the park turned his eyes into fireworks.

Akiteru is still laughing at you, but you're sure that Hinata Shoyou's bursts of enthusiasm are enough to dazzle anyone and maybe even feed a small power plant.

"Stop laughing," you snap at him, which of course makes him chortle. It should be annoying, and you're kind of annoyed because it's not, because the mischievous sparkle in his gaze does things to your stomach that it really shouldn't, because you're supposed to be older and wiser now.

His hand brushes against yours, a barely there caress, invisible to all the eyes in the gym but burning against your skin and, well.

Maybe growing older and wiser is to say fuck it to needless concerns.

His lips pull into a grin and you know he's going to mock you, and then his face drains of all color and he gulps.

"Hello, there, Tsukishima-senpai. Long time no see. Oh, hi to you too, moron. Been looking for you."

Sakai's tone sounds very, very casual; her best poker face in place. Akiteru begins to take a step backwards; without thinking, you grab his arm to stop him. Sakai's eyebrows raise only a millimeter or two, she needs to say nothing else.

Well, it's not like she wasn't going to figure it out, right?

A part of you braces for impact, an impact that doesn't come. There's a snort and then she points at somewhere over her shoulder and you see that your old team has laid claim to a barricade of chairs.

"We're all over there, if you wanna come over. Ogawa's taken to calling us the old gang: please, please do not indulge him. It makes me feel… well, old."

"Maybe it's not so much that you feel old…"

"Shut up, asshole, you're three months older than me."

The punch to your shoulder carries the comforting weight of familiarity and in the glance you two exchange there goes a whole different conversation:

are you okay?

yeah, I'm ok.

you'd better be, moron.

With one last nod, she flounces off to the group in the far end of the gym, and your gaze catches Chisuga's, who looks pretty much the same except for a very dubious, Justin Timberlake-like haircut. He waves, beckoning you over, and then there's a holler from, you're pretty sure, Kato-san:

"EH, IS THAT LAMP POST OVER THERE TSUKISHIMA? C'MERE!"

One last glance is all you two manage to exchange before you find yourselves engulfed by a sea of old teammates; a cacophony of greetings and those friendly insulting nicknames you'd half-forgotten already; a shower of pats on the back that threaten to dislocate a shoulder and, the worst horror of all, someone shamelessly ruffling your hair.

"Hey, I think you might've grown a full centimeter and everything!"

That earns Ogawa a kick to the shin but without any force to it: the mockery, after all this time, rings more fond than biting.

This, too, you had half-forgotten.

Besides the rush of victory, the acidic ache of defeat, the pain of training until your muscles gave out, Karasuno had also meant this: a team of people who have seen you at your very worst, and almost at your very best, and ended up being fond of you despite it all.

Then there's catching up with people you've barely thought of in these past few years but who can still talk to you as though they'd seen you only yesterday; hollering of old camp songs (until Coach Ukai – the old one – makes you all cower with just one glare) and a lot of reminiscing of things you'd thought forgotten but appear as defined as Blu-Ray before your eyes when someone brings them up. The other alumni and most of the current Karasuno team keep their distance, staring at the lot of you wide-eyed, and only the very brave dare to approach.

(It's perhaps fortunate that your biggest fan isn't one of them. They'd never let you live it down.)

As the evening draws to a close, your gaze wanders away from the loud crowd surrounding you and it lingers on the walls, the stage, the wooden floor that's seen you fall so many times.

Like a mirage, for an instant everyone and everything else dissolves and you see the gym as it was back then, the net proudly stretched before you, a wall you once feared you'd never overcome. Like a mirage, too, you can almost see the shadow of that sixteen-year-old boy you once were, the frustration and anger that hung from his shoulders like a cloak made of concrete, the storm brewing in his eyes, his fingers stretching for the sky even as his feet were still stuck to the ground. A shadow of a boy made of memory, nostalgia, and regret; a boy that is you no longer.

Just like this is no longer your gym, your school, your team.

It was good while it lasted is what people say, but your time at Karasuno wasn't what you'd call good.

It was terrible, it was fantastic, and it was unforgettable.

And now it's over.

As the voices of your former teammates filter into your ears again, as your shoulder bumps into Sakai's, as your gaze meets Akiteru's and he flashes you a tentative smile, you realize it's not sadness that you feel.

The reverie is broken by the phone vibrating in your pocket.

To your surprise it's neither your mother (she willingly forgets you don't have a curfew anymore) nor a college teammate to discuss a new strategy (who else on your team would reply to that on a Friday night), but an unknown number.

so about coffee tomorrow after hinatakun's done with you: y/n? know a great cafe close by

When you glance up he's trying – and failing – so hard not to look at you that your lips twitch, but you take mercy on him and the pink tips of his ears and you type an answer at once. He startles and, ever so smooth, almost drops his phone pulling it out of his pocket. As his eyes scan your message a smile dawns on his face and lights up his eyes and there's again that feeling, when you miss a step but you haven't quite caught on, and the entire world tilts before the fall, and this time when he types a response his gaze never tears away from you.

(The message arrives full of typos and probably so does your reply.)

It's not sadness what you feel, as you save again an old contact to your list, as Okamoto wraps an arm around your shoulders in a bout of sentimentality, with Sakai's laughter ringing in your ears, and Chisuga and Takagaki never-ending commentary, as Nogushi-san scolds Kato like in the old days, as Coach Ukai shakes his head at the lot of you.

It's not sadness because now you know that a part of you will forever remain within these walls where you breathed and lived for volleyball; a part of you will carry pieces of this place and of the people that shared it with you wherever you go.

epilogue

From downstairs come the grunts and shrieks of bloodthirsty dinosaurs and running-for-their-lives humans: the Tsukishima family owns a brand new Blu-Ray player and it's been playing Jurassic World probably non-stop since the school holidays began. Akiteru might roll his eyes but he doesn't complain: Kei-chan is much more amenable to your presence in their house after a marathon of dinosaur movies. Not that he's hostile to you, but his eyes narrow and follow you around as though you were going to run off with the silverware (do they even own silverware?) or, far more likely, his brother.

(Akiteru is adamant that his little brother does not suspect a thing and you're equally adamant that he's deluded.

"He's too young to think of such things."

"…how old do you think I was the first time you got your hands on–?"

"He. Is. Much. Too. Young"

You don't bring it up again but oh, that kid so knows.)

To be fair, it's likely that Kei-chan's glares aren't so much because of you but because of the small red-headed supernova that tends to show up with his setter in tow whenever you happen to come by. Hinata-kun always claims that "he was in the neighborhood" (a blatant lie, because you know for a fact he lives in the opposite direction.) His setter – because from the sound of it, Hinata so owns him – always looks like he has a stomach ache at those words, and Kei-chan resembles his favorite raptor as the kids manage to give it the slip in the kitchen scene.

(Not that you'd ever call him Kei-chan to his face: you call him Tsukishima-kun whereas you call his older brother Akiteru and yeah, like he wouldn't suspect a thing, sure.)

Hinata-kun's appearances are so timely that at first you narrow your eyes at Akiteru, but he's not that good an actor so you begin to suspect Freckles, who always widens his eyes way too much to be entirely innocent.

Today, though, you've managed to make it all the way to Akiteru's bedroom without being waylaid by a red-headed ball of energy, so either Freckles hasn't ratted you out yet or Hinata-kun's gotten held up by something else. It's a nice reprieve. You do like the kid – it's hard not to – but you never believed that someone existed whose passion for volleyball and sheer stubbornness could grind yours to the ground. For all of his star-struck adoration, he shows you no mercy, and you're starting to wonder if you really have anything to show this kid, whose drive and hunger for victory seem to surpass even your own.

Akiteru, the asshole, laughs and has the gall to call you an old man whenever you can't keep up with the kid. As if anyone human could.

(Hinata-kun's setter so does not count.)

It's not like Akiteru minds the lack of interruptions from the younger generation. Sprawled on his bed you can draw him closer and kiss him, tender and unhurried. It's odd at times, finding yourself back in this room, necking like teenagers all over again.

So many memories entrenched on these walls – on this bed – and yet, you feel so different from back then. Your recollections are all of urgency and frenzy, of a flame that always threatened to turn into ash and there's still some of that, but it's easier to thread your fingers softly through his hair, to place light kisses on his jaw when you know you have the time. If you want to take things further you don't have to risk it, a couple of rooms away from his family or your mom: nowadays there's always Sendai, where you fear no interruptions, no prying eyes, where your stuff becomes more and more entangled as you spend more time at each other's place than your own.

It's easier, too, to feel warm content seeping through your skin when you know this is not all there is, when you know later this evening you'll go to play volleyball with his friends and next week he'll go to see you play at a match.

It's easier to let him cradle your face and gaze at you as though you were something precious when you know it's not wishful thinking.

That doesn't mean a whine won't escape your lips when he suddenly decides to stop kissing your neck and scrambles away from you.

"Akiteru, what the hell?" you blurt out as he gets up from the bed.

"I just remembered something, wait there."

You get up on your elbows and frown as you watch him look for something in one of his drawers, and he literally lets out an "aha!" when he finds whatever it is, the giant dork. You'd find it more endearing if he didn't just go and flung it at your head.

At least you manage to catch it before it hits your forehead and you stare at the small object in your hand, dumbfounded. Tentatively, as though approaching a feral wildcat, or as though he were afraid of breaking something fragile, Akiteru makes his way back and perches on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I found it the other day, while I was looking for… well, never mind. I didn't even remember that I had it. I figured that I had thrown it away but I guess I just… well, I just couldn't."

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, and your fingers stop fiddling with the round, black plastic button, so familiar to the touch because for three years of your life you've manipulated buttons identical to this one.

Identical, too, to the one missing from Akiteru's gakuran on his graduation day.

"It's not like I expected I'd get the chance to give it to you but, well… you're here, now. And it's… It's always been yours, after all. I'm just… I'm just sorry it took me this long, I guess."

His tone tries, and fails, to go for casual as his hands close into fists on his knees, his honey-colored eyes wide in… apprehension? Uncertainty?

"You idiot," and you're not sure whether you mean him or yourself before you drop the button on the duvet so you have both hands free to grab him by the back of his neck and his shoulders to pull him closer.

"You idiot," you repeat between kisses as his hands hold onto your hips hard enough to leave bruises and you end up straddling him. "You moron."

"Well, but you already knew that," he breathes on your ear, before his lips slide down the line of your neck and yes, you did know that, just as you know you're just as much of an idiot.

You've both been idiots for quite some time.

Somewhere distant you hear a doorbell that you ignore in favor of sneaking a hand underneath Akiteru's shirt, but the "SORRY FOR THE INTRUSION!" in a squeaky, familiar voice and the following "OH YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME" from Kei-chan are a little more noticeable.

It does cross you mind checking whether Akiteru's locked the door, but then his tongue is on your neck and oh well, surely his brother wouldn't let one of his friends barge in–

Yeah, you think, when Akiteru unceremoniously lets you drop to the floor after it opens, sure he would have had the presence of mind for that, how could you ever doubt him.

Kei-chan and Hinata-kun stand in the doorstep, gaping; the setter hovering behind the latter; Freckles trying to look over the shoulder of his lamp post of a friend. There's a beat, and then another one, as they take in the scene: Akiteru's gone so red he's turned into Charmaleon and you try your best to look like yes, the floor is exactly the place you were meant to be. Hinata-kun dissolves into a bundle of apologies as his setter seems intent on strangling him from behind; Kei-chan looks like there's no facepalm strong enough for this and what sounds suspiciously like snickering can be heard from behind him.

Freckles likes to court death, it'd seem.

"I'm afraid I can't play with you right now, Hinata-kun," you say once the air's returned to your lungs, and you try to push down your shirt without making it obvious why it rode up in the first place. "I'm… I'm helping Akiteru clean up his room," you add because hell, anything you say is going to sound stupid and improbable anyway.

Then again, Hinata-kun might not be the most attentive person to anything not volleyball-related, because not a shadow of a doubt crosses his face as he apologizes again. His setter bows behind him and thankfully drags him away by the collar of his shirt, Hinata-kun squeaking Kageyama, you're strangling me! down the hallway.

Kageyama might not be a flatterer like Hinata-kun, but he does have his uses.

That leaves Akiteru and his little brother in a staring stalemate, because Freckles has taken another step backwards and is hiding his snickers in his elbow, smart kid. Akiteru opens his mouth, closes it, and gives you a pleading look.

Before you can open your mouth and dig yourselves further, Kei-chan closes his eyes a moment and shakes his head slightly.

"Let's just not talk about it. It's… fine," he says, as though someone was wrenching the words with forceps, "but let's not talk about it, thank you very much."

Akiteru's shoulders relax infinitesimally as he nods so hard his head might fall off.

(Who is the eldest brother again?)

"Sure! No problem!"

Kei-chan waves a hand as if to dispel the image before him, but as he turns to leave he spats over his shoulder:

"And lock the door!"

The door slams behind him, muffling the following "shut up, Yamaguchi, stop laughing" and whatever response the kid might've given.

This time, you double check the door's locked.

Akiteru's bent forward, his hands covering his face, his shoulders shaking. You sink down on the mattress by his side and rest your chin on his shoulder, your arms wrapping around his waist.

It hits you that he's laughing.

"Oh my god, I really have to stop giving that kid psychological trauma," he gasps, borderline hysterical, and you roll your eyes.

"I'm sure he'll live. And anyway, next time he'll do a better job at blocking Hinata-kun at the door."

He uncovers his face and tilts his head to give you a look, his eyebrows rising, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Is it possible that the living legend, the infamous Small Giant of Karasuno, wants to avoid his biggest fan?"

There are a number of ways you could respond, like pushing him off the bed or flipping him, but instead you widen your eyes in mock innocence as you give him your trademark crooked smile, the one he's never been able to resist.

"Why, and here I thought you were my biggest fan, from what you screamed the last time we–"

You expect a rebuke, maybe some eye-rolling, but you should've known better: Akiteru's always had a knack for subverting your expectations. Instead, he turns in your embrace and his hands cradle your face gently. The gaze in his eyes softens, a smile full of something that makes your breath catch and your arms tighten around him.

"You're not wrong about that," he breathes right over your lips, before capturing them in a kiss.

It's not always going to be this easy. You know this now, the way you couldn't have known at sixteen. Cuts deep enough to bleed leave scars; silences can bruise; bridges may burn; hurtful memories linger like ghosts.

Now, though, you also know that burnt bridges can be rebuilt; new memories be written with the trace of fingertips on skin; distances breached with a glance, a smile, a word. There's no going back in time but the future remains limitless, if you only dare to make the jump and reach for it.

You find yourself quite eager for the challenge.