Chapter Text
“Ushijima, what is this?” Semi asks.
Ushijima doesn’t answer.
Semi waits a few seconds for the music to quiet down a little – the violins finish their high melody and shift into a softer cadence – then leans forward past Tendou’s feet, several bags of chips, and half a cooler of water and repeats themself, louder.
The driver in question turns down the volume with a small black knob on the left side of the dashboard, but doesn’t shift his gaze from the road. “This is a road trip.”
Semi groans and sits back in their seat. Tendou laughs and reaches a hand up, waiting for a high five. Ushijima doesn’t pay attention to either of them.
“I know this is a road trip,” Semi says. “It was my idea.”
“What? Excuse me!” Tendou twists in his seat, effectively displacing one of the bags of chips. (Yamagata grabs it before it can fall into the front, and embraces it as though it’s a large stuffed bear instead of a plastic bag half-full of fried potatoes.) “The trip was definitely my idea. I texted you two weeks ago asking, like, what if we went on a road trip!”
“But that was only because you heard me and Shirabu talking about my aunt in Kagoshima that has a really cool house!”
“You were talking to him about it because I asked you in math that morning whether you had any family in Okinawa!”
“Actually,” Ushijima says from the front, coming to a stop at a light, “it was my idea.”
Offended yelling breaks out from the back.
“It’s true, though,” Reon remarks from the passenger seat. “This started when Wakatoshi mentioned that he has his license.”
“Oh,” Tendou says.
“Yeah,” Semi says. Then, they add, “But that doesn’t explain what this violin garbage is.”
“This is a track from the movie ‘Howl’s Moving Castle,’” Ushijima informs him, starting to move forward again. “It is an excellent movie with excellent music.”
“Is that what we’ve been listening to all morning?” Semi wants to know.
“No. We were listening to the Akira soundtrack earlier. Also, a few tracks from Bleach, One Piece, and Fullmetal Alchemist.”
There is a moment of silence as Semi pinches the bridge of their nose. Then: “So, is all you have on your phone … anime soundtracks?” They turn to Tendou. “Did you do this?”
Tendou holds up his hands in surrender, nearly hitting Yamagata in the face in the process. (The libero, luckily for both of them, is skilled at ducking.) “Hey, I didn’t think he had nothing else on his phone when he gave him those.”
“There isn’t nothing else on my phone,” Ushijima says.
Semi raises an eyebrow, then remembers the front seat can’t see them, and says, “Oh, yeah?”
Ushijima glances at Reon, who takes the phone from its place in between their seats and scrolls through the music library. “I’m mostly seeing soundtracks,” he admits. “Actually, I’m only seeing soundtracks. Wakatoshi, are you sure there’s more on here?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Another few seconds pass. Tendou takes a selfie with the back of Ushijima’s head. “Oh, wait, here’s something. An American group, I think. Something called Owl City?”
Reon taps the phone, and the classical music is replaced by something more electronic and upbeat, with a man’s voice singing softly about fireflies.
“Bokuto told me about this band,” Ushijima explains. “They’re very good.”
For a moment, the car is quiet – nothing is audible over the music except for the dull roar of the air conditioner and the crunch of Yamagata snacking.
Then Semi says, very slowly, “All the music you have on your phone is anime soundtracks and Owl City.”
“Yes,” Ushijima replies.
“Okay, that’s it – give me the aux cord.”
Reon and Ushijima share a look, then Ushijima shrugs and Reon hands the cord back. Semi connects it to their phone and starts scrolling through their music library.
“Wait, what?” Tendou exclaims. His feet – now settled back into their usual position on the back of Ushijima’s seat – give a distressed wiggle. “You just gave it to him! Just like that! How come Semi gets to have the aux cord?”
“Because I have better music than you,” Semi replies, not looking up from their phone.
“Not true.”
“Dude, like half of your music is anime soundtracks and audio tracks from meme videos.”
“And what’s wrong with that? You guys all like anime soundtracks and meme videos, right?”
“I’m ambivalent,” Ushijima says.
“Anime soundtracks and meme videos are okay sometimes, but I think there should be some variety,” Reon contributes.
“Semi literally already has the aux cord, Satori,” Yamagata tells Tendou, elbowing him in the stomach for emphasis. “Give it up. Nobody wants to hear Libera Me from Hell twenty times in a row.”
Tendou gasps overdramatically, like a character in a sopap opera who just learned he was in love with his sister. “Who said I was going to play Libera Me from Hell twenty times in a row?”
“You did,” Semi replies. “Last week.”
“No, I said I was going to play it twenty-three times in a row. Or as many times as you wusses can stand it.”
Semi rolls their eyes. “Yeah, like that’s better.”
“Wait, I think I’m missing something here,” Reon says, twisting around to look at Tendou. “What is Libera Me from Hell?”
“It’s a track from the end of Gurren –” Ushijima starts to explain, before he’s interrupted by a strange noise from between the two front seats – almost like a fart, except louder and distinctively more disgusting.
“Ah,” Ushijima says. “That must be my phone.”
“Can you make it do that again?” Semi asks, their goal of compiling the perfect road trip playlist momentarily forgotten. “I want to Snapchat it.”
“It happens when Bokuto texts me,” Ushijima explains. “I can’t just make it happen of its own –”
He’s interrupted by another fart noise.
“Fuck, I wasn’t ready,” Semi complains.
“The text says: hey dude how far out are you,” Reon reads. “Followed by, dude, and then, bro, then, brooooooo, then bro my dude my bro my bruh, followed by a string of muscle emoji. All of these are from Bokuto.”
Tendou stifles a giggle.
“Please inform him that we will arrive in an hour and fifty-seven minutes, barring any major complications.”
“Sure,” Reon says.
“You couldn’t just say two hours?” Semi asks.
“I want to be as precise as possible,” Ushijima replies.
“Then you should report it in how many repetitions of Libera Me from Hell it would take for us to get there,” Tendou says.
“For the last time, we are not playing Libera Me from Hell on repeat,” Semi shoots back, glaring at him.
Tendou makes a grab for the aux cord. Semi opens their window and holds the phone aloft, causing Tendou to attempt to climb them like a sullen silver-haired tree.
“So, Wakatoshi, remind me how you know these Tokyo guys,” Yamagata says, ignoring the rapidly escalating chaos off to his left. “I don’t think you ever said.”
“We met them when we went to the spring nationals,” Reon explains. “Wakatoshi and Bokuto got scouted to the same school, I think.”
Ushijima nods. “Bokuto is an interesting person. And a most admirable ace.”
“And a great memer!” Tendou (now resigned to not gaining aux control) adds, bouncing a little in his seat.
Semi eyes their best friend. “That’s not a good thing.”
Tendou shoves them in the shoulder. “Shut up, Eita, you like a rare Pepe as much as I do.”
“I do not.” Semi shoves him back.
“I fucking – I caught you crying of laughter at that cookie monster video once.” Tendou raises one leg in the vague direction of Semi’s face.
Yamagata grabs Semi’s phone and hits play, causing some kind of weird alternative rock song to echo through the car. Ushijima nods his approval, then slowly turns the music up.
“Hey, Wakatoshi,” Semi says, half an hour and six tracks later.
“Yes?” Ushijima turns down the music a few notches. (It wasn’t something he recognized, but then, none of the music Semi’s played so far has been something he recognized.)
“How far did you say we have to go to Tokyo?”
Ushijima glances at his phone, navigation app open. “An hour and twenty-five minutes. Why?”
Semi leans back in their seat, frowning, then sighs and admits, “I have to pee.”
“Really?” Yamagata asks. “Already? We’ve barely been driving for two and a half hours.”
“Yes, already,” Semi snaps. “I’m well hydrated!”
“You mean, you have a bladder the size of a fucking garbanzo bean,” Tendou corrects him, grinning. He folds his arms behind his head, effectively placing his elbow in close proximity to Semi’s face.
“We can stop at the next service area,” Ushijima says. “I should probably get gas.”
Semi turns on Ushijima, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t get gas before we left?”
Ushijima shrugs.
“It’s a good thing Reon is helping navigate,” Yamagata remarks. He grabs his chip bag (already half empty) and starts munching again.
Ushijima shifts into the right lane, then asks, “What do you mean?”
“We’d definitely all die, otherwise,” Semi explains.
There’s a moment of confused silence from the driver’s seat. Then: “Do you not think I’m a good driver?”
“You’re a great driver, Wakatoshi,” Tendou says. “But you probably should’ve gotten gas before we left.”
Ushijima shrugs again. “We can get gas now. Reon, could you text Bokuto that we’ll be slightly later than I said originally? And tell me when the next service area is, because I may have missed the sign.”
Semi rolls their eyes and glances at Yamagata, as though to say, you see what I’m talking about? Yamagata just offers them a chip.
Getting gas is rather more difficult than it should be.
For one thing, Ushijima doesn’t have a credit card (how, Semi asks, to which Yamagata jokes that their captain is basically living in the fifteenth century), so he has to collect yen from the rest of the car and bring it up to the store attendant, which takes approximately ten times longer than just paying by card would. For another, Semi gets distracted on the way to the bathroom by a shelf of souvenir dolls with oddly constipated expressions and decides to document them all on their Snapchat story (there’s no way they needed to take pictures of all twelve of them, Reon remarks, to which Tendou replies, dude, it’s art). And for a third, Ushijima decides, just as Semi returns from the bathroom, that he should probably go as well, prompting the entire car to up and go – except for Tendou, who claims to have a bladder of steel, and Semi, who wants to guard the aux cord.
As soon as Yamagata gets up – taking his bag of chips with him – Tendou opens all the windows and sprawls across the backseat, putting his head on the right side of the seat and sticking his legs up through the left window.
“Dude, that’s gross,” Semi says from outside the car, not looking up from their (still connected to the aux cord) phone.
“You’re gross,” Tendou retaliates. He sticks his foot out as far as it will go, pointing his toes in the direction of Semi’s face.
“Oh, my God!” Semi takes a step back in disgust. Their phone momentarily disconnects – but before Tendou can make a steal, they save the cord and wind it around their wrist.
“Dammit,” Tendou curses.
Semi just smirks, and takes a photo of the offending foot so that they can transform it into a masterpiece in Snapchat.
For a couple of minutes, there’s silence – Semi determinedly working on their Snapchat art and Tendou, equally determinedly, attempting to beat a song in Love Live. But then, after losing at the same place for the fifth time, Tendou retracts his legs, rolls over onto his stomach, and says,
“Hey, Semi?”
“What.”
“I miss Wakatoshi.”
Semi rolls their eyes, sends the completed Snapchat (Tendou’s foot has now been transformed into a surprisingly accurate representation of Goshiki’s face after he hits a spike), and only then deigns to look at their friend.
“Didn’t you just see them, like, five minutes ago?” they ask.
“Yeah, but I miss him,” Tendou whines.
“You’re going to see him again in literally two minutes. Or less.”
“Two minutes is such a long time! I have to go without seeing his face, Eita. His face.”
Semi opens up Twitter and settles in for a couple minutes of mental hell. “Yes. I’m aware that he has a nice face.”
“Such a nice face.” Tendou flails about in the car dramatically, as though trying to express just how nice a face it is through interpretive dance. “With his big dark eyes, and how they light up when he smiles … He has such a good smile. Like, I’d go to war for that smile. And don’t even get me started on his ass ...”
“You know, I thought this would get better once you guys started dating,” Semi remarks. “But it’s only gotten worse.”
“What’s gotten worse?” Ushijima asks, approaching from the other side of the parking lot. Yamagata and Reon are following a few steps behind.
“That one. Talking about you. All the time.” Semi points at Tendou, who looks up at the sound of Ushijima’s voice.
“Wakatoshi!” Tendou exclaims. “I missed you!” He flips back onto his back, then starts to sit up - but midway through his maneuvering, Semi pulls the door open, causing Tendou to tumble out onto the pavement. His reflexes save him from a concussion, though - he ends up with his palms braced on the ground, back arched, grinning up at his s.o.
Ushijima examines him for a moment, then holds out his hand. Tendou takes it. Ushijima pulls him up, then motions for him to get out of the car - like a civilized person this time, as opposed to like Draco Malfoy from A Very Potter Musical.
“Please text Bokuto that we will be ten minutes later than our last updated arrival time,” Ushijima informs the rest of the car. And proceeds to lead Tendou back in the direction of the service area.
Semi sighs and returns to scrolling Twitter.
Tokyo is a chaotic mess of a city.
It’s an unplanned city, a mixed media city, a splotches of mismatched color on an already painted canvas city. It’s been torn down by fire, war, and earthquake, but it just keeps growing – new buildings sprouting up from the ashes of the old and new people flocking in to fill those buildings, like a whole new kind of biological succession. It’s impossible to describe in maps or guidebooks, impossible to describe in anything but colors and sounds and people, spilling up streets and through alleys and over bridges as fluidly as water moving across the ocean. No district is ever quite the same twice – you’re more likely to find a new billboard, or restaurant, or display of expertly scrawled graffiti than you are to find everything the same as when you left it.
All five occupants of the car have been to Tokyo before, for nationals and college visits and sightseeing, but they’ve never seen this Tokyo, the Tokyo of a sunny spring day a week after their graduation. And they’ve never seen Tokyo from the windows of a five-seat four-door Honda, clattering through the streets much less smoothly than any electric train. Ushijima turns down the music, Tendou and Semi manage to stop bickering for a few minutes, and Yamagata even lays off the chips to stare out the windows, each passenger hoping to be the one to spot the most interesting passerby, or sign, or anything.
“There’s so much construction,” Reon says, pointing at the fourth scaffolding they’ve passed in as many blocks.
“We’re going through Shinjuku,” Ushijima explains. He slows the car to stop at a light, consults the maps app on his phone, then continues, “Kuroo says the turnover for buildings in this district is one to two years.”
“Kuroo’s an expert on architecture?” Tendou asks.
Ushijima presses the gas again, carefully turning to avoid a couple of kids on bicycles. “I don’t know that he’s an expert. But he took a class on it this past year, and he seems to have enjoyed it. He said he’d show us around, once we drop our stuff off at his apartment.”
“Wait, Kuroo’s apartment?” Semi leans forward. “I thought we were staying with Bokuto?”
“Kuroo lives in a more central location, and has a bigger living room,” Reon explains. “But Bokuto will likely also be there.”
The backseat gives a collective oh.
After fifteen more minutes, five more instances of construction, and three billboards advertising anime Tendou recognizes, they arrive at Kuroo’s apartment. Or, they find the block that Kuroo’s apartment is on, let Reon out to go up and alert the owner of the apartment in question know they’ve arrived, then drive around for another ten minutes looking for parking.
“How come he gets to go?” Tendou complains.
“He’s more reliable,” Ushijima replies. “And you’re in the middle of the backseat.”
Tendou frowns. “Are you saying that you trust him more than me?”
“I.” Ushijima pauses, considering. “Um.”
Semi sniggers. “Nice one, Wakatoshi.”
“Guys, let him park,” Yamagata says. “I think there’s a space on the other side of the street – Wakatoshi, how good are you at parallel parking?”
“I have never tried it,” Ushijima admits.
Tendou gasps, and Semi’s sniggering morphs into full-on laughter.
But Ushijima goes on, “I do, however, understand the theory. You fit the car into a small space between other cars on the street. It’s not unlike maneuvering around a block when you spike.”
For a moment, the car is silent.
Then, Yamagata says, “Um, I hate to tell you this, but it’s definitely very unlike maneuvering around a block when you spike.”
Regardless of whether or not the skill is related to volleyball, Ushijima does eventually manage to parallel park, between a tiny Mitsubishi and a banged-up red Toyota. Semi even gets a couple of good Snapchat videos of the car rolling back and forth in the exact same small arc multiple times in a row as Ushijima's brow furrows with genuine focus.
When Ushijima finally turns the engine off, the members of the backseat tumble out to find Reon standing on the sidewalk next to the car, accompanied by a tall, lanky guy with ridiculous bedhead and a slightly less tall, decidedly less lanky guy with an equally ridiculous silver dye job. Ushijima fiddles with the dashboard for a moment, rolling up the windows, then follows them out.
“Ushiwaka!” the less lanky one crows. He wastes no time upon seeing Ushijima, quickly pulling Shiratorizawa’s former captain into a hug.
“Hello, Bokuto,” Ushijima says, slightly muffled by his friend’s beefy arms. And then, glancing up, he adds, “Hello, Kuroo.”
“Hey.” Kuroo raises one hand to wave.
Bokuto releases Ushijima – but only partially, still keeping one arm firmly encircling Ushijima’s shoulders. “Oh, hey, Tendou!” he exclaims, finally noticing the other occupants of the car.
“Hey!” Tendou grins, then points at his two backseat-mates in turn. “The cool one’s Yamagata, and the pissed-looking one is Semi.”
Yamagata throws up a peace sign at his descriptor. Semi frowns. “Pissed-looking?”
“You aren’t really doing much to contradict it, dude,” Kuroo tells them.
“Semi is nonbinary,” Ushijima adds, still held captive by Bokuto’s arm. “They/them pronouns.”
“Oh! Sure.” Kuroo nods, and Bokuto follows suit. Semi shoots a thank you glance at Ushijima, followed by a you still suck glance at Tendou.
“So, let’s get this show on the road!” Bokuto exclaims. He releases Ushijima (who seems somewhat nonplussed about the whole experience) all the way and pops the trunk of the car, then starts loading bags onto his arms and shoulders, like an easily excitable airport trolley.
“Um, do you want any help?” Tendou asks.
“In a moment!” Bokuto continues loading, until he’s singlehandedly responsible for approximately half the car’s baggage, then says, “Okay, now.”
Everyone else takes one bag each. Ushijima closes the truck and, after a pointed gesture from Reon, locks the car, and the party heads across the street and into Kuroo’s apartment building. They get through the two sets of double-doors with no small amount of difficulty (Bokuto somehow still manages to hold the door for everyone, despite the eight bags he’s carrying) and cram into the elevator – a tight, somewhat uncomfortable, but ultimately successful ordeal.
After thirty unbearably slow seconds, the group reaches Kuroo’s floor. He leads them to an unassuming, vaguely yellow door with two signs (one reading KUROO and the other featuring a badly drawn sketch of a cat), then kicks it open. They all follow him in, except for Bokuto, who dropped one of his bags in the elevator and has to go back for it. Inside is a surprisingly large, even more surprisingly clean living room with a long, leather couch and matching loveseat, a low circular coffee table, and a dark red rug close in shade to Tendou’s hair. A piano sits on one side of the room, covered in framed pictures, notebooks, and ceramic cat figurines of all shapes and sizes. The walls are mostly bare, except for a calligraphy painting of a Buddhist shrine with several cats perched on its roof.
“My mom’s a bit obsessed,” Kuroo says apologetically, pointing at the cats with his pointy chin.
Bokuto laughs. “Sure, bro. Like you didn’t buy half of those.”
Kuroo glares at him, then heads into the kitchen. The five recent Shiratorizawa graduates approach the center of the living room one by one, then stand there like kids in a game of Statues in the Park, not entirely sure what to do with themselves or their bags.
It’s only once Ushijima comes in that the loveseat starts to talk.
Or, more accurately, the loveseat’s occupant stirs, emerging partway from his small mountain of pillows and blankets to demand, “What the fuck.”
Upon examination, it’s not hard to recognize Oikawa Tooru – dressed in a Star Trek shirt and alien boxers, but with curls somehow undisturbed by their traumatic close encounter with static electricity.
“Kuroo offered his place as a stop on our road trip,” Ushijima offers as explanation for their presence.
Oikawa sits up all the way, expression seemingly having a hard time deciding between enormously offended and marginally terrified. “They let you drive?”
“I’m the only one of us with a license.”
Oikawa sinks back into the cushions, shaking his head slowly. “I fear for all of you. Except, not really, because you’re all assholes. Actually, I hope you get hit by a bus, and –”
“Oikawa, what’re you doing here?” Tendou interrupts.
“I. Um.” The former best setter of his prefecture goes red as a stoplight. Yamagata, Tendou, and Reon all drop their bags and sink into the couch while they await his response. “I was. Uh. Visiting a college in the area.”
“Didn’t you get scouted by a school in Kanto?” Ushijima asks.
Before Oikawa can stutter out another answer, Bokuto bursts in. “Ushijima! Did I not tell you? Oikawa’s dating me and Kuroo! Or.” He stops, drops all eight of his bags – they thump on the rug like a small, muted thunderstorm – then says, “Me and Kuroo are dating Oikawa? I’m dating Oikawa and Kuroo? I’m not really sure how you say it.”
Oikawa buries himself in pillows with a groan.
Bokuto pats him on the shoulder – or, well, pats the pillow closest to his shoulder. “C’mon, dude, he would’ve found out eventually.”
“The correct way to put it would be, Oikawa, Kuroo, and I are in a polyamorous relationship,” Kuroo says, emerging from the kitchen with a package of dried seaweed, which he offers to his guests. Yamagata takes a large handful almost immediately.
“Oh, cool!” Bokuto holds up his hand up for a high five.
Tendou slaps it, as its intended recipient (Kuroo) looks on with no small amount of amusement. “Good for you guys!”
“Cool, whatever,” Semi says, face buried in their phone.
“I hope you have a long and prosperous relationship,” Ushijima informs the trio.
“Wakatoshi, that’s kinda weird,” Yamagata says around his seaweed.
“Hey, let them be happy,” Reon chides him. He offers a high five of his own.
Kuroo actually slaps it this time, then says, “So, are you guys ready for some sightseeing?”
“Absolutely,” Reon replies.
“Sure,” Ushijima says.
“Yeah!” Tendou exclaims.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Semi asks. “I have to pee.”
“Dude,” Tendou says.
“What,” Semi says.
“You literally just went.”
“That was, like, two hours ago.”
“An hour and a half ago.”
“That’s a long time!”
“Yeah, if you have a tiny bladder –”
“Guys,” Kuroo interrupts, pointing. “The bathroom is that way.”
Once Semi has peed, Yamagata has taken half of Kuroo’s snack supply, and Oikawa has been bodily thrown over Bokuto’s shoulder and shaken a few times (which Oikawa vainly pretends he doesn’t enjoy), the Shiratorizawa gang (plus the two Tokyo captains and whatever Oikawa is) set out to see the city.
Most of the Shiratorizawa gang have already seen Tokyo Tower and most of the famous memorials and shrines, so Kuroo (the group’s self-proclaimed tour guide) instead brings them to Tokyo National Gymnasium, a stadium that, Kuroo explains, was built to house competitions when Japan hosted the Summer Olympics in 1964. The building is enormous, with a long, twisted ceiling that stretches the length of the space, entirely held up by steel trusses. When the group walks into the large gym, it feels oddly like walking into the ocean – becoming a mere fragment of a vast body, pulled in different directions by powerful currents.
They stand still for a long moment, looking out on the massive arena, then follow Kuroo towards a staircase going up into the stands.
“See, this building is cool because Tange Kenzo – that’s the architect – was inspired by this other group of architects called the Metabolists,” Kuroo says as they walk. “They had all these ideas about, like, how architecture should reflect the needs of people, and about emphasizing structure, and –”
“Bro, that’s really cool and all,” Bokuto interrupts him, “but what about volleyball? You said there’d be volleyball.”
“Volleyball?” Oikawa takes out one earbud and looks up at Kuroo inquisitively.
Kuroo gapes at his two boyfriends, appalled that they aren’t as wowed by his architectural fun facts as he is, then admits, “Well, there have been a few volleyball tournaments held in the small gym. But most of the games during the 1964 Olympics were either at these courts in the Komazawa Olympic Park or a gym in Yokohama.”
The entire group stops and stares at him, as though he just announced that the world was going to be taken over by aliens in five days’ time. (Or, well, most of the group stops and stares – Oikawa goes back to playing on his phone, and Semi gets out their own to do a Snapchat slow zoom on Tendou’s unblinking glare.)
“We were promised volleyball,” Ushijima says.
“Volleyball! Volleyball!” Bokuto starts to chant, draping one arm around Ushijima’s shoulders.
Soon, the whole group has joined in, chanting loudly enough that other people in the building (who appear to be setting up for an event of some sort) start to glance their way, clearly wondering what the hell these disrespectful teenagers think they’re doing.
Kuroo holds up his hands – in surrender or prayer, it isn’t clear. “So, you guys don’t want to see one of the coolest buildings of the twentieth century, but you’re willing to trek across town to look at a volleyball court that’s probably barely indistinguishable from the courts at your own high schools?”
The remainder of the group cheers its assent. Kuroo shakes his head slowly, then starts walking back down to the ground floor.
Reon falls into step with Kuroo, then pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll look up directions,” he says.
The courts at Komazawa Olympic Park are, it turns out, closed to the public.
At that point, though, the majority of the group (or, at least, the most vocal members of the group) is so focused on volleyball that they give up on sightseeing and instead start up a game of their own on a run-down court in a nearby park. After no small amount of arguing, the teams shape up to be Oikawa, Bokuto, Tendou, and Yamagata against Ushijima, Kuroo, Semi, and Reon. The game goes about as well as you would expect – that is to say, it stays in a deuce for hours, all members of both teams playing as though this is a national championship.
Oikawa’s team (self-titled “UF-Hoes”) ends up victorious by the skin of their teeth, taking their final point against Ushijima’s team (self-titled “Volleyball”) with a back attack from Bokuto that sends the ball glancing off the side of Kuroo’s block to land just inside the court. Everyone makes a mad dash for a nearby water fountain down the path – everyone except Oikawa and Ushijima, who stand on either side of the net, facing each other.
For a moment, there’s silence, disturbed only by the sounds increasingly distant victorious whooping. Then, Oikawa raises one hand, index finger coming to point at Ushijima like the trigger of a pistol.
“I beat you,” he says.
“Your team beat my team,” Ushijima corrects him. “Bokuto is a powerful spiker. And I have been practicing against Tendou’s blocks and Yamagata’s receives for years, but that does not make them any less –”
“Hey. Shut up.” The corners of Oikawa’s mouth rise until he’s smirking, like a James Bond villain about to reveal his entire plan. “I beat you.”
Ushijima considers him – standing in an empty volleyball court, the sky behind him inked in violet and magenta by the slowly setting sun. A breeze chooses that moment to ruffle the leaves in the trees and muss Oikawa’s perfectly styled hair, as though nature itself is attempting to make the scene as dramatic as possible.
“You beat me,” Ushijima says.
“Hell yeah I did!” Oikawa exclaims, grin turning delighted. He races over to the water fountain, then catches sight of Kuroo and Bokuto stretching nearby and hooks one arm around each of their shoulders. “Hey, guys, Ushijima said he’d pay for dinner!”
“Did he?” Kuroo asks. He glances at the former captain in question, lumbering up behind Oikawa with their volleyball in one hand.
Ushijima just shrugs.
Ushijima does not, in fact, pay for dinner. Or, well, he pays for Oikawa’s dinner – and each of the other members of Team Volleyball pays for the dinner of one of the members of Team UF-Hoes. This seems like a fair solution to most parties, except for Kuroo, who ends up paying for four separate entrees (all Bokuto’s dinner.)
“Are you sure you don’t want us to pitch in?” Reon asks, watching Kuroo dig through his wallet for change.
“No, I’ve got it,” Kuroo replies, shaking his head. “That ridiculous owl already owes me, like, five thousand yen, so this is nothing, really.”
“If you’re sure.” Reon grabs his own plate of udon and heads to the back of the small restaurant, where the rest of their party is already taking up several tables and scaring away potential customers.
Before taking a seat, Reon stops a few steps away to survey the scene. The table is entirely covered with plastic dishes, soda cups, and, somehow, already several spills. Ushijima’s sitting on one end, calmly eating rice. Tendou has one arm around Ushijima’s shoulders (he seems to be a popular target of physical displays of affection today) and is gesturing the middle finger of the other animatedly at Semi. Oikawa is perched in Bokuto’s lap, and both of them are apparently eating from three dishes at once. Yamagata has already finished one order of dumplings and is getting ready to go back for more.
Sure, they didn’t really have lunch between the driving, the failed sightseeing, and the volleyball, but Reon isn’t sure that calls for this level of chaos – some of the best young volleyball players in the country have been transformed into a pack of hungry wolves, unable to act in a remotely civilized manner until they fill their stomachs.
Reon decides to prioritize his sanity. He sits down at a small table on the opposite side of the restaurant and takes out his phone.
Unfortunately, he can’t pretend he doesn’t know the rest of the group for long – within the time it takes him to eat most of his udon, they’ve all finished practically clearing the restaurant out of rice and are gearing up to walk over to Shinjuku, a nearby shopping and entertainment district. Reon sighs and looks longingly at his game of Tetris (he’d almost gotten a new high score) before discarding his dishes and following his friends out.
The sky is already growing dark overhead, but the city is lit up by the glittering neon lights of bright windows and shops and advertisements. The Shiratorizawa crew (and hangers-on) take up the entire width of the sidewalk in Shinjuku, causing schoolkids and businessmen alike to move out of the way as Tendou points out billboards for anime he recognizes and Bokuto points out which street vendors sell good food (all of them, according to Bokuto). Kuroo reminds him that they literally just ate, and Yamagata goes in to buy five of whatever the food is anyway.
They aren’t aiming to spend a lot of money, so they mostly stick to window-shopping, oohing and aahing at the elaborate displays in the department stores and specialty shops. But at one point, when Tendou is explaining why Bleach, in his opinion, has really gone down the drain plot-wise recently (to Bokuto’s interest and Semi’s annoyance), Reon realizes that their group only has seven instead of their original eight.
He does an internal headcount – Bokuto, Kuroo, Oikawa, Tendou, Semi, Yamagata … Wait.
“Guys, where’s Wakatoshi?” Reon asks.
The group stops – first in the middle of the street, then moving to stand against the wall of an office building, so that they aren’t blocking traffic.
“Well, he isn’t making out with Tendou, because Tendou’s here,” Yamagata says. (Tendou makes a face.) “And I don’t think he’s on the next street.”
“You never know,” Reon replies. “He does walk ridiculously fast.”
“Maybe he had to go to the bathroom?” Semi suggests.
“No, dude, I think that’s just you,” Tendou tells him.
Semi frowns, then says, “Well, I do have to go to the bathroom.”
“There might be one in that cafe!” Bokuto points across the street at a coffeeshop, next to souvenir store advertising ten T-shirts for a thousand yen.
They cross the street to check it out. Semi goes to the bathroom, then Tendou and Bokuto decide they might as well go, too.
As Tendou’s emerging from the café back out onto the street, he hears a shout: “Hey, found him!”
“Wakatoshi?” Tendou shouts back.
“Stop shouting!” calls the barista at the café.
The rest of the group files out, to discover that Kuroo has, in fact, found Ushijima – he’s in the souvenir shop next door, buying no less than ten T-shirts, all with strange slogans.
“Ten T-shirts?” Tendou asks, as Ushijima folds the offending objects all neatly and stuffs them into his backpack.
“For the team,” Ushijima explains. “I thought I would take advantage of the deal and get our kouhai presents.”
Tendou looks from the T-shirts to Ushijima, then back to the T-shirts. “And who is the ‘My Dad Went To Tokyo And All He Bought Me Was This T-shirt shirt for?”
“Goshiki.”
Tendou stares for a second, then starts to laugh, giggles quickly escalating to full-on laughter. Ushijima, now finished stuffing his backpack, looks at his s.o., slightly confused but mostly just appreciating the sight.
“I love you,” Tendou says, still laughing.
Ushijima smiles, soft and warm as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter day. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and takes Tendou’s hand. They walk out to join the others before Yamagata can accuse them of sneaking off to make out (there will, after all, be ample time to make out later.)
“Ushiwaka.”
The voice crashes through the dark room like a strike of lightning illuminating a dark forest. Four of the houseguests currently occupying the Kuroos’ living room – Semi and Reon sharing the couch, Ushijima and Tendou sprawled on an air mattress in the center of the room – turn and stare at the doorway to the kitchen, which now hosts a tall, slender silhouette with its hands on its hips, chin raised in what they can only assume is a fiendish smirk.
“What the hell, Oikawa,” Semi stage-whispers. “You could’ve woken up Yamagata.” They point at the loveseat, upon which Yamagata has already conked out, curled up under a blanket embroidered with cats.
“Don’t care,” Oikawa replies, still at full volume. He comes all the way into the room and plops down on the air mattress, directly in between Ushijima and Tendou. Tendou tries to pull him off, but to no avail – the setter is firmly entrenched in his position, as though set in concrete.
“So, Ushiwaka,” he continues, turning to stare at the ace in question. “Truth or dare?”
“What?” Tendou asks.
“Seriously?” Semi demands. “Are you eight years old?”
“It’s a great game,” Oikawa defends himself, holding out one hand to ward off future attacks from Tendou. “We play it at all of our Seijoh parties.”
“Man, no wonder you could never beat us,” Tendou says. “You’re team full of elementary schoolers.”
Oikawa opens his mouth to retaliate, but before he can get out a scathing comment, Ushijima says, “Wait, I’m confused. What is this game?”
“Truth or Dare,” Reon repeats, sitting up on his side of the couch. “Everyone takes turns either answering a question truthfully or doing weird shit that their friends come up with.”
“Oh, shit, are we playing Truth or Dare?” asks a new, even louder voice. Bokuto comes in, lifts up Oikawa and sets him down on the rug next to the air mattress, and settles down next to him. “I love Truth or Dare!”
“See?” Semi says, to nobody in particular. “Eight year olds.”
Tendou sighs and resumes his former position (sprawled on the air mattress with his head on Ushijima’s chest), now unhindered by Oikawa. “I’m not playing,” he announces.
“I will play,” Ushijima says. Tendou glares at him, but it has little effect in the dark room.
“Nobody’s playing anything.” This time, Kuroo is the new arrival from the kitchen – but he remains standing in the doorway, one hand on his hip and the other held up at his chin to stifle a yawn. “You guys are being loud, and my mom is trying to sleep. She has to get up at six, you know.”
“What?” Oikawa protests.
Kuroo glares at him. “Shhhh. What did I just say.”
“Not even a little Truth or Dare?”
“Not even a little.”
“Not even one question?”
“Not even one question.”
Oikawa tries to argue his case further, but before he can get very far, Kuroo crosses the room in two long strides, kneels down, and kisses him full on the mouth.
There is a brief pause, in which Semi really, really wishes the lights were on so that he could document the look on his former rival’s face.
And then, Oikawa stands up, blows a raspberry at the rest of the room, and swaggers out, like a kid who was just told that he could eat dessert before dinner. Kuroo and Bokuto follow him out – but just before going into the kitchen, Bokuto turns and says, “Goodnight, everyone!”
“Bo,” Kuroo says.
“Sorry. Goodnight, everyone,” Bokuto repeats in a loud whisper. “Sleep tight.”
For a long moment, everything is quiet.
Then Reon asks, “So, Semi. Truth or dare?”
Tendou throws a pillow at him.