Work Text:
One
Heiwajima trudges into the locker room, a dull ache in his limbs that sits somewhere between just right and too much.
“Good work,” Hirugami tells him as he passes. “Not sure how you even got some of those digs.”
A faint smile curls Heiwajima’s lips, and he nods tiredly. “Not sure how I did either. I think Ushijima’s spike got even stronger over the off-season.” He huffs. “That or I’ve forgotten how damn hard he can hit them.”
Easy laughter escapes the captain, and with a knowing look in his eye, he reaches out and claps Heiwajima’s shoulder. “Probably a combination of both. Ushijima did mention trying a new training regimen this year, so maybe that made a difference.”
Heiwajima groans. “Did he even need a new one? He always comes back in better shape than the rest of us combined.”
They look across the locker room to where Ushijima is pulling off his sweat-soaked practice jersey in preparation for a shower, muscles bunching and flexing with the movement. Hirugami hums. “Maybe he decided that it wasn’t enough to be in better shape than the rest of us. Too low a bar or something.” He chuckles resignedly. “He never has been content with just being better than everyone else.”
Across the room, Ushijima grabs a towel from his locker and heads for the showers, mouth set in a thin line and brows pinched in thought. Probably going over today’s training, replaying botched serves and mishandled receives, though there were very few. (He was already good when he came to Schweiden, and he’s only gotten better since.)
Heiwajima shakes his head. “Gonna make the rest of us look bad,” he mutters, and Hirugami laughs again, loud enough to draw the attention of a few of their teammates, who watch them with curious eyes.
Still grinning, Hirugami waves a hand, brushing away their curiosity, and says, “True enough, though at least he won’t make us look as bad as he’ll make our opponents look.”
That pulls a smile out of Heiwajima, tired but genuine. “Fair point,” he concedes. “Would definitely rather be on his side of the net than opposite him.”
Hirugami nods, and Heiwajima makes his way to his own locker and then to the showers, groaning in relief when the hot water hits sore muscle. He takes his time, shaking out arms and legs and working for a minute at a knot in his thigh. He trains hard in the off-season, not as hard as Ushijima (though no one probably trains as hard as Ushijima), but training as an individual or in a small group is nothing compared to training with a full team, and the first few days of training camp always leave him wrung out and drained.
Eventually, he shuts the water off, shivering when the relatively cool air hits his skin, and he wraps a towel around his waist before heading back into the locker room. Most everyone is still there, milling around in various states of dress. Hoshiumi has his head and one arm in his shirt, but the other arm remains unclothed, forgotten in whatever story he is telling Kageyama that necessitates wild gestures and overdone sound effects. A few seats to their left, Saito stands in only his towel, one hip cocked as he delivers what appears to be a good (and most likely inappropriate) joke, if Sokolov’s riotous laughter is anything to go by. Only Ushijima seems on the verge of being ready to leave, seated in his stall and bent over as he meticulously laces his shoes.
Shaking his head at the intense look of concentration that still dominates Ushijima’s features, Heiwajima makes his way to his own locker and reaches for the deodorant he keeps on the top shelf.
A minute later, as he’s pulling his jeans on, Saito bounds over (mostly clothed now) and says, “How’d that date go, Toshi?”
Lips twisting, Heiwajima shrugs. “It was alright.” Saito’s mouth turns down. “We had fun,” Heiwajima continues before Saito can offer any unsolicited commentary or advice, “but there just wasn’t any spark there. For either of us,” he adds. “So enjoyable date but probably wouldn’t go out again.”
Saito huffs. “And I had such high hopes.”
A soft snort escapes Heiwajima, and he slides the button of his jeans through the hole. “Why? We hadn’t even met before last night. There was no reason to think this would go any better than all the other ones.”
Slumping against the locker beside Heiwajima’s, Saito hitches a shoulder. “She was your type.”
“My type?” Heiwajima repeats, equal parts dubious and bemused.
Saito nods eagerly. “Yeah. I mean at least based off of what you told us about her from her pictures. She seemed like the type you usually go for.”
Heiwajima grabs his shirt and tugs it over his head with a frown. “How do you know what type I usually go for?”
A cheshire grin pulls at Saito’s lips. “I know everyone’s type,” he drawls.
Settling the fabric around his waist, Heiwajima arches a brow. “Everyone’s?”
The nod he receives in response is confident, certain.
Heiwajima narrows his eyes. “Even Ushijima’s?” he asks with a healthy amount of disbelief.
Saito opens his mouth to quip a witty retort, but nothing comes out. Brows pulling together, he scans the room until he finds Ushijima standing in front of his own stall, rearranging the small scatter of things he keeps at the training facility.
His mouth closes, and the corners tug down. “Maybe not Ushijima’s,” he concedes. “At least not yet.”
Heiwajima’s brows draw together, and a question sits on the tip of his tongue, but before he can ask, he receives his answer.
“Hey Ushiwaka,” Saito hollers over the den of the room.
Ushijima turns and meets Saito’s glittering gaze, features set in the typical blank mask of seriousness that Heiwajima has grown accustomed to since meeting him.
“What’s your type?”
Heiwajima thinks he can see Ushijima’s lips quirk briefly down then back up. “My type?” he repeats. “My type of what?”
Saito laughs. “Your type of what. His type of what,” he says, turning to look at Heiwajima as if they’re sharing some joke.
It isn’t a joke though. Ushijima doesn’t joke. Heiwajima isn’t sure he even knows how to.
Saito seems to realize this, and his amused grin fades, slipping away until only confusion remains. He lifts a hand and scratches at the back of his head. “Your type of girl,” he explains, eyeing Ushijima curiously. “You know, the type of girl you usually go for. Or woman I should say.”
Ushijima blinks at him. “I do not have one.”
Saito’s brows lift, and a smirk takes shape on his lips, slow and pleased. “An equal opportunity guy,” he says. “I can respect that. Lots of ladies to love, so why limit yourself?”
There is a slight furrow between Ushijima’s thick brows. “I am not limiting myself.”
Saito snorts. “Well alright then.”
The furrow deepens. “Though that might depend on the perspective,” Ushijima continues, pensive. “It could also be said that I am limiting myself completely.”
Saito’s head cocks to the side. “Oh really now?” he says with a slow drawl that Heiwajima knows from experience means nothing but trouble. “Any reason for that? You worried you’ll waste energy with the ladies and won’t be able to play?”
Heiwajima thinks the expression on Ushijima’s face could now be firmly categorized as a frown or maybe even a scowl, though it is just as confused as it is frustrated, the man clearly struggling with Saito’s thinly-veiled innuendos.
“I am not worried about wasting energy,” Ushijima says. “My stamina is more than adequate.”
Someone sputters loudly, and a few choked coughs fill the air.
Saito whistles. “Confidence, Ushiwaka. I like it. So if stamina’s not the problem, what’s keeping you from going out with any of the lovely women that would probably kill for a chance to date our great ace?”
Some of the confusion clears from Ushijima’s face, comprehension taking its place as he nods in understanding. Then he says, “I do not go out with any of the women because I am not attracted to them. I am not attracted to any women.”
The delivery is straight-forward, blunt, typical Ushijima Wakatoshi, and in the wake of those words, the locker room is quiet enough that Heiwajima can hear the facility workers out on the court, taking down the nets and rearranging things for some event that evening.
After a moment, a throat clears, and Heiwajima turns to see Hirugami rising to his feet, clearly on the verge of some sort of captain’s speech about showing support and always being teammates, but Saito beats him to it.
“You should’ve just said that,” he tells Ushijima with a flippant wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t have wasted all my time asking the wrong questions.”
Ushijima tips his head and offers an apology that Saito quickly dismisses.
“So no ladies, just gentlemen?”
Ushijima nods.
A grin tugs at Saito’s lips. “I can work with that. What kind of man are you looking for? What’s your type? We can get you a boyfriend in no time.”
Ushijima actually does frown at that. “I do not need a boyfriend,” he says, and Saito scoffs.
“Oh, come on, buddy. It can’t be all volleyball all the time. You’ve got to do something else. Get some hobbies or work off some of that energy in other, more fun ways.”
“Saito,” Hirugami warns because, while they’re allowed to talk about dates and significant others, there is a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
Ushijima shakes his head again. “That is not necessary, Saito.”
“Maybe you think it’s not, but if you—”
“It is not necessary,” Ushijima interrupts, “because I already have a boyfriend. Therefore, I do not need to find another one.”
If the locker room was quiet before, it is absolutely silent now, a heavy stillness settling over them that makes Heiwajima roll his shoulders a few times to fight off the tension.
Ushijima has a boyfriend? Ushijima is not only attracted to men but has a specific man that he is romantically (sexually?) involved with?
Heiwajima reels at the mere idea. Not that he doesn’t think it’s possible (Ushijima being gay or Ushijima being gay and in a relationship), it’s just a lot of new information at once, and he’s struggling to process.
After several moments of tense silence, Ushijima turns to grab his coat from his locker. “Thank you for the offer though, Saito,” he says, frank but genuine. “If I had the need, I would value your help in such an endeavor, but as I already have a partner, I do not need the help.” And with that, he pulls his jacket on, swipes his wallet off the locker’s top shelf, and heads for the door, disappearing into the labyrinth of hallways that make up the training facility.
“Holy shit,” Hoshiumi finally says, “I had no idea Ushiwaka was gay.”
And everyone nods, visibly stunned by the news.
Two
The revelation of Ushijima’s sexuality and current relationship status come as a shock to Hirugami. It’s not that he’s surprised because he didn’t think Ushijima could be gay or he didn’t think Ushijima could be in a committed relationship. He just would’ve expected such a topic to come up earlier. After all, Kageyama-kun informed him of his personal relationship with MSBY’s spiker the first day he came to training camp, promising Hirugami that the romantic entanglement would not interfere with his playing and would actually probably result in him playing harder against MSBY than any of their other opponents.
Though maybe Kageyama only brought that up because most everyone in the volleyball circles of Japan already knew something more than friendship existed between him and Hinata Shouyou. Or maybe he only brought it up because he didn’t want the news to come as a shock later, possibly during a match against the Jackals.
“Or maybe he is just a different person than Ushijima-san,” his wife, Akari, tells him. “Maybe he told you simply because he wanted to or just as another part of his introduction.” She straightens and adopts the almost frown that often graces Kageyama’s features. “My name is Kageyama Tobio. I am a setter from the Miyagi prefecture. I played volleyball at Karasuno High School, where I met my partner, Hinata Shouyou, who plays for the MSBY Black Jackals and plans to take Ushijima’s place as the best ace in Japan.”
A hearty laugh escapes Hirugami, and he shakes his head. “You’ve got him down pretty well. I’m impressed.”
She offers a small curtsy. “Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
“Oh really?” he asks, leaning on the counter.
Nodding, she says, “What else would I do when you’re off at practice and the kids are at school?”
His lips quirk in a sly grin, and he reaches out to wrap an arm around her waist. “I thought you’d be working. You were so excited when they offered you a position. Or was that all an act?”
She grins to match him. “Not an act at all, but I do take breaks from time to time, and there’s nothing more relaxing than trying to imitate your teammates.”
“I’m sure,” he says and pulls her closer.
She comes easily but also lifts her hands to rest on his chest, preventing him from getting her any closer. He makes a discontent noise, and she shakes her head, still grinning.
“We were talking about Ushijima,” she says, “and the boyfriend he apparently has.”
Hirugami would much rather continue in the direction they were heading, taking advantage of the quiet apartment and their children’s early bedtime, but he knows the responsible choice is to finish the Ushijima conversation. He sighs, “Right, okay,” and takes a half-step back. “So he’s told the team he’s gay and has a boyfriend, but he didn’t say much else, and I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t want us to know anything else or if it wasn’t the right moment to tell us anything else or something else entirely.”
Features thoughtful, she places a hand on the counter and leans into it, head cocking to the side. “I would say he probably just didn’t feel the need to share anything else right then. Actually, he isn’t the type to share much of anything. Not because he doesn’t want to or because he’s too private,” she quickly adds. “He just doesn’t volunteer much personal information.”
Hirugami’s brow furrows.
“If you ask him a question about his family or his childhood or anything else, he’ll answer honestly,” she explains, “but he doesn’t volunteer that information. You have to ask. Which is probably why the boyfriend has never come up before. If no one outright asked him if he was dating anyone or who he would want to date, he probably didn’t see any reason to supply that information. There would be no point.”
One corner of his mouth tipping up, Hirugami shakes his head. “You really are brilliant.”
“I have my moments,” she concedes, and he tips forward to press a kiss to her cheek.
“So I shouldn’t be worried?” he asks. “Ushijima wasn’t keeping it a secret or anything?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Though if you’re worried about that, maybe we could…” She pauses for a moment, reflective. “Maybe we could invite them over for dinner or something,” she decides, “like we did after Nakamura got engaged. That way we can get to know Ushijima and his boyfriend a little better.”
Hirugami grins, wide and besotted. “The most brilliant,” he says, and she ducks her head, cheeks growing warm.
Laughing, he ducks his head, too, and that conversation ends there.
After practice the next day, he follows Ushijima out of the locker room before he can get too far and extends the invitation: dinner at the Hirugami household on Sunday night.
In response, Ushijima offers a polite nod. “Thank you, Hirugami-san. That is a kind gesture. However, my partner would not be able to accompany me, as he does not presently reside here.”
“Oh,” Hirugami says, and an intense curiosity fills him, a dozen questions coming to mind. “Is he back in Miyagi?”
Ushijima shakes his head. “He is in Paris.”
Hirugami blinks. “Paris,” he repeats. “As in Paris, France.”
“Yes.”
Now Hirugami just has more questions. Questions upon questions. “Is he French?” he asks, resting his hands on his hips as he watches Ushijima, intensely curious.
“No, he is Japanese.”
Not a surprise but not really a helpful response either. Hirugami hums. “What is he doing there? A study abroad? Work?”
“He trained at a culinary school,” Ushijima tells him. “Now, he works at a chocolate shop.”
That—
Hirugami doesn’t even know what to do with that knowledge. “He makes chocolates?” he asks, stunned, and Ushijima nods.
“Very good chocolates.”
Hirugami can only blink.
Does Ushijima break his ridiculously strict diet for his boyfriend’s chocolates? Does he take a break from the protein and veggies and whole grains to eat a couple fancy confections? Of course, Hirugami thinks. He wouldn’t be surprised if that is the one exception Ushijima is willing to make. They must be either very good chocolates or passable chocolates but made by Ushijima’s boyfriend and therefore good enough for him.
“I will bring some to share the next time he sends a box.”
Hirugami’s brows lift. “He sends them? From France?”
Ushijima nods. “He sends chocolates, and I send him the new mangas that have been published since the last time I sent a package.”
This is—
Hirugami has no idea what to say. This is a completely different side of Ushijima that he didn’t even know existed. He has a boyfriend who lives in Paris? Said boyfriend makes good chocolate and regularly sends some to Ushijima? Ushijima eats them despite his frequent comments about the health detriments of sugar? And he also sends said boyfriend manga that the boyfriend could probably order online himself?
“That’s cool,” Hirugami says because he doesn’t know what else to say. This entire conversation has only left him more and more intrigued, but he doesn’t want to keep asking questions like it’s some kind of interrogation. The goal here was to show Ushijima his acceptance and thereby the team’s acceptance. “I’d love to try one of his chocolates some time.”
The nod Ushijima gives is short and affirmative. “I will let him know to send extra when I speak with him this evening.”
Hirugami’s curiosity only increases, and he resists the urge to lean in like a child hearing gossip in the schoolyard. “Do you skype? Facetime?”
“We typically use facetime,” Ushijima replies, lifting a hand to wave when Hoshiumi passes by with an exuberant farewell. “Though if he is unable to step away from work, we will talk on the phone in the traditional way, so he can move around.”
Hirugami nods. “How often do you get to talk?”
“Every day, unless we have particularly full schedules,” Ushijima says, hand returning to the pocket of his jacket. “Even then we will try to find some time.”
Good grief, Hirugami thinks. Not only is Ushijima a boyfriend, he appears to be a very good one: sending his boyfriend mangas, calling him almost every day, finding time despite the often hectic schedule of a professional athlete.
It’s surprising.
Or maybe it isn’t.
When Ushijima cares about something, he is willing to devote most if not all of his time to it. That’s how he approaches volleyball, so it’s no surprise that that’s how he approaches his relationship.
“That’s good,” Hirugami says when he realizes it has been quiet for too long. “I’m sure it’s hard to connect with the time difference and such busy schedules, but you make it work.”
Ushijima nods, “We do,” and with that, he excuses himself, needing to get home so he can eat within the right recovery window.
Still trying to wrap his head around a boyfriend that lives in Paris and makes chocolate, Hirugami watches Ushijima go, only realizing he never even learned the boyfriend’s name long after Ushijima has disappeared. Akari would be disappointed.
Three
Since the shocking revelation that Ushijima is not only gay but in a relationship, Saito has had nothing but questions, though he keeps most of them to himself because Hirugami sent everyone (minus Ushijima) a strongly worded text about respecting his privacy and showing support.
But he shouldn’t have to keep all of them to himself, right? After all, asking questions in order to better get to know Ushijima’s boyfriend is a great way to show support, is it not? It definitely is.
Thus, one day after practice, Saito sidles up to Ushijima, all casual. “So, Ushijima, my friend, how’s the man?”
Behind the back line, Ushijima tosses the ball up, takes a few quick steps, and slams it home, sending it rocketing over the net and into the opposite corner, just barely in. “The man?” he asks, turning to Saito with the blank look he has yet to learn how to parse. Is Ushijima confused? Annoyed? Frustrated? “Who is the man?”
A cheerful laugh escapes Saito, and he grabs another ball from the cart, throwing it to Ushijima for another serve. “The man is your man,” he tells him. “As in your boyfriend. The fancy chocolate-making chef that lives in Paris, who I’m not actually sure is real because who actually has a chocolate chef boyfriend that lives in Paris?”
Mouth set in a thin line, Ushijima spins the ball in his hand. “Why would you think he is not real? He is very real.”
Saito shrugs and rests a hand on the ball cart’s edge, conscious to not put too much weight on it lest he send it rolling across the floor and find himself sprawled on the ground with no support. “He lives in Paris and makes fancy chocolates. Sounds a little fake.”
Ushijima’s thick brows pull together. “There is nothing fake about living in Paris or making chocolates.”
Sighing the sigh of all those faced with Ushijima’s inability to recognize a joke, Saito says, “No, I know. Paris is a real place, and people do make chocolates there. It just sounds like something you’d read about in a romance book or see in a TV show or a movie or something, you know? The mysterious, chocolate-making boyfriend in Paris. It sounds a little too perfect for real life.”
Ushijima hums and bounces the ball a few times. Down, smack, back up. Down, smack, back up. “Yes, it does sound like something from a book or movie,” he concedes, “but it is not. He does live in Paris, and he does make chocolate.”
Saito nods because, even if it does sound like something straight out of a romcom, he doesn’t exactly have enough information to determine the truthfulness (or untruthfulness) of Ushijima’s story. “I believe you,” he says. “So how’s he doing?”
Ushijima tosses the ball into the air, bounds forward, and serves it cross court, a booming shot that rings through the mostly empty gym. “He is doing very well,” he says when his feet have returned to the parquet flooring. “He attempted a new chocolate with matcha powder, and it turned out well, so he is planning to send some with the next package.”
Saito fetches another ball from the cart and passes it to Ushijima. “Sounds delicious.”
“I have no doubt it is,” Ushijima replies before lobbing the ball into the air and landing another nasty serve on the opposing side.
Saito hums. “Say, Ushi, how did you and the boyfriend even meet? If he’s all the way over in Paris, how’d you manage to get together?”
Ushijima lifts a hand for another ball, and Saito sends one his way. “We met before he went to Paris.”
“What? Was it just a random meeting? Like you saw him at a park or a restaurant and thought, ‘I got to talk to him’?”
Ushijima shakes his head and completes another serve, deadly accurate and painfully fast. Saito winces for the opponents, past and present, that have to attempt to receive that. “We met in high school,” Ushijima says.
An intrigued noise escapes Saito. “So high school friends later turned lovers?”
Ushijima’s brows pinch. In distaste or confusion, Saito isn’t certain. “I suppose it could be said like that.”
Saito laughs. “Your entire life is a romance flick, Ushiwaka. I never would’ve guessed it.”
The furrow in Ushijima’s brow only deepens, and he holds a hand up for another ball.
“When’d you finally get together?” Saito asks, bouncing another ball into Ushijima’s waiting hand. “When you were back home during an offseason and realized he was the love of your life? Did you confess first? Did he?”
Ushijima spins the ball in his hand, round and round and round. “It was in third year, and he would probably claim he confessed first.”
There’s a story there, Saito knows it, but one thing at a time. “So his third year. That means you’ve been together what? Two years? Three?”
Ushijima blinks at him. “It has been almost seven years.”
Saito nearly loses the precarious balance he has on the cart’s edge, and he clings to the fabric-encased metal so as not to fall flat on his ass, wobbling slightly. “Seven years?” he repeats, startled. “Seven—Oh shit! Ushiwaka, I thought you meant his third year of school—university—but you meant your third year of high school. Holy shit!
“You guys have been together since high school,” he continues, shock thick in the words. “That’s insane, man. That’s—I take it back,” he says, and Ushijima lifts a single brow in question. “You aren’t like the couples in the movies. You’re like a fairytale, an honest to god fairytale. Holy shit, Ushiwaka, you guys are high school sweethearts.”
Ushijima stares. “You are surprised by this.”
“I’m—” Saito shakes his head. “That’s not a good enough word. I’m way beyond surprised at this point. I’m like the people at the end of the movie when they find out that it was the best friend who killed the new love interest and not the crazy ex-boyfriend. I’m—Dude,” he says, still reeling, “Ushiwaka, you’re dating your high school boyfriend. You’ve been together for seven years—seven years! I’m not even sure I have friendships that have lasted that long.”
Mouth set in a thin line, Ushijima bounces the ball a few times. “He is my best friend,” he says simply.
Saito snorts. “Yeah, I guess he’d have to be for you guys to have lasted this long. Seriously, that’s crazy. Your high school boyfriend. Ushijima Wakatoshi, Schweiden’s standout ace, the savior of Japanese volleyball, the destroyer of every blocker and libero’s dreams, is still dating his high school boyfriend.”
Ushijima’s lips tip into a frown. “You say that as though it is not a good thing. Long term commitment to one partner can be very good, and it is something I value.”
Saito flaps a hand. “Oh no, no. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just crazy that you’ve managed to stay together this long, especially since you’ve got volleyball keeping you busy and he’s off in Paris making chocolate.”
Ushijima palms the ball, long fingers stretched wide over the blue and yellow material. “Our relationship is very important to me,” he says. “He is very important to me. I will not allow our different career paths to interfere with that.”
The words are straight-forward and blunt, said like one says the sky is blue or the sun rises in the east, a fact of life and not simply an opinion. Saito would almost call it romantic were it not for his firm belief that Ushijima isn’t capable of romance.
Or he thought he wasn’t...
Yet Ushijima is in a romantic relationship that has lasted seven years. From Japan to France. Through culinary school and the beginnings of a professional volleyball career. He has a boyfriend who sends him handmade chocolates and an outlook on their relationship that seems more mature and settled than that of people twice his age. Time and distance are insignificant to him, mere inconveniences that he can overcome with enough dedication and what Saito supposes has to be love. Ushijima didn’t say those exact words, but you don’t stay with someone you don’t love for seven years.
“Well shit, Ushiwaka,” he says. “You just have to be the best at everything, don’t you?”
Ushijima frowns. “I do not believe relationships are something you can be the best at. They are not a competition.”
There’s something practiced in those words, something that suggests repetition and reminders, and Saito wants to find out why, but Ushijima chooses that moment to finally serve the ball he has been holding. It zips across the court, thwacks against the ground, and rebounds off the far wall.
He nods in satisfaction. Then, he turns to Saito, says, “Thank you for your assistance,” and heads across the floor to recover the served balls, leaving Saito in his wake with more questions than answers.
Four
Hoshiumi is dubious about Ushijima’s supposed relationship. Not that he thinks it’s not possible for Ushijima to be in a relationship. It’s just a little unbelievable, especially as he learns more about said relationship.
It’s with a guy. (He doesn’t find that unbelievable. He just finds it a little unbelievable that no one—literally no one—even knew Ushijima was attracted to men.)
Said guy currently lives in Paris where he works as a chocolatier. (Nothing about that is believable. Who has a chocolate-making boyfriend in Paris?)
Said guy has also been Ushijima’s boyfriend since high school. (This is possibly the most unbelievable of all. How did socially awkward, volleyball obsessed, teenage Ushijima Wakatoshi manage to get a boyfriend? And how has socially awkward, volleyball obsessed, adult Ushijima Wakatoshi managed to keep that boyfriend?)
Hoshiumi’s not saying it’s impossible, but it is unbelievable.
Even when evidence is provided in the form of handmade chocolates, express shipped from France.
“You do not have to eat one,” Ushijima tells him after Hoshiumi spends too long staring at the deep purple box and accompanying white ribbon. “I will understand if you do not wish to stray from your diet.”
Hoshiumi snorts. The only one unwilling to make exceptions to their diet plan is Ushijima, though even he apparently makes many an exception when his chef boyfriend sends new chocolates. “No, no, I’m definitely going to eat one. Probably a couple actually.”
Lips just barely curled in a satisfied grin, Ushijima holds the box a little closer. “You may have a couple. He made three for everyone, though no one is expected to eat three if they do not like them.”
Hoshiumi glances at the teammates who have already chosen (and eaten) their sweets and who now lick the creamy chocolate from their fingers with looks of pure bliss. Yeah, he doesn’t think anyone’ll give up a single one of their three precious chocolates.
“I’m taking my three,” he tells Ushijima. “I’m not letting anyone else poach on my chocolate territory.”
Ushijima nods in approval, a proud quirk on his lips, and Hoshiumi surveys the chocolates, careful in his selection.
“Say, Ushijima,” he comments, “you and the chocolate boyfriend met in high school, right?”
A soft huff escapes Ushijima. “We did.”
Humming, Hoshiumi plucks a chocolate from the box, green swirls gracing the top to signal the matcha cream filling that Saito’s been impatiently awaiting since Ushijima mentioned it. “How’d you meet him? Were you in the same class? Were you roommates? Shiratorizawa has dorms, right?”
“It does,” Ushijima replies, “but we were not roommates. Luckily.”
Pulling his gaze away from the impressive chocolates, Hoshiumi arches a brow. “I think most people would say it was unlucky not to be roomed with their boyfriend.”
“Most people would rethink that very quickly after enough nights of little sleep.”
A few lockers down, someone chokes. Kageyama, Hoshiumi would guess based on the distance between them.
His brow arches higher. “What are you suggesting, Ushijima-san?”
“That he has very poor sleep habits, and they have only slightly improved since we finished school,” Ushijima replies, quick and easy, boring.
Hoshiumi’s mouth turns down, and he lifts another chocolate from the box: dark with raspberry filling. “So not your roommate then. Classmate?”
Ushijima shakes his head. “He was in the class below mine, though he could have easily been in class four or five.”
“Yeah? Did he just not want to go to university?”
“No,” Ushijima says with a frown. “Too much time sitting around and listening to other people talk, he said.”
Hoshiumi huffs. He can understand that. He would often lose focus when a teacher droned on for too long, lost in thought about new plays he wanted to try and different methods for getting past blockers. “So not a roommate and not a classmate,” he says, eyeing Ushijima curiously. “How’d you meet him then?”
Ushijima blinks at him. “He was on the volleyball team.”
Oh, that is—Oh.
Suddenly, it all makes sense.
Ushijima’s boyfriend was on the volleyball team. Which means he would have understood Ushijima’s obsession with the sport. Which also means he probably wouldn’t have been upset when Ushijima prioritized it over everything else. After all, he still would’ve been able to see his boyfriend at practice. He wasn’t like the poor boyfriends and girlfriends who got locked out of the gym by a coach that wanted his team to focus for ‘one goddamn minute’.
And Ushijima’s boyfriend was on the Shiratorizawa volleyball team. Which means he would have been very good at volleyball. Very, very good. And it wouldn’t surprise Hoshiumi at all if that was part of the appeal for Ushijima. After all, Ushijima seems to dislike nothing more than people who can’t hold their own on the court. Hell, maybe that was—
“Hoshiumi.”
A voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns to see Hirugami frowning at him, eyes flitting from Ushijima to the box of chocolates to Hoshiumi. Hoshiumi’s not sure if the captain’s more upset about him asking Ushijima personal questions (something he had told the team to limit, so as not to overwhelm Ushijima with their nosiness) or about him holding up the chocolates.
Sighing, Hoshiumi plucks his final chocolate from the box (creamy milk and praline) and lets Ushijima move down the line. He’ll ask him more questions later. When they’re far away from the captain and his disappointed eyebrows.
Five
Kageyama is almost certain he knows who Ushijima’s mysterious boyfriend is.
Obviously, he can’t be certain, not without asking Ushijima, but he’s pretty damn sure. After all, how many people could fit the description: high school friend turned boyfriend, chocolatier in Paris, and former volleyball player himself? Kageyama can think of only one.
“Do you want to stick around?” he asks Ushijima after practice one day. He’s got a couple things he wants to work on and perfect before proposing them to the coach, but he also has a couple questions that he thinks Ushijima would be more likely to answer in a one-on-one setting than in front of the whole team.
Ushijima looks to where the rest of their team files off the court then back to Kageyama. “Yes,” he decides, and Kageyama nods in quiet victory.
They do actually practice. First, because Kageyama really does have some things he wants to work on, and second, because it’s less suspicious if he doesn’t just jump right into it.
They go over a few attacks, testing different angles and tosses, discussing what went right or wrong and then trying again, and Kageyama falls into the comfortable rhythm of it. Ushijima throws it to him (sometimes well and sometimes not because nothing is ever perfect in a game); Kageyama sets it (always well because that’s his job); and Ushijima spikes it home, rotating between straights, cross courts, and even a couple feints that Kageyama thinks would fake out just about any blocker.
After one particularly good set and spike, Kageyama grabs another ball from the cart but doesn’t give it to Ushijima yet. “So your boyfriend played volleyball, too,” he says—asks?—because he can’t come up with a better way to broach the subject. They’re playing volleyball. The boyfriend played volleyball. That’s enough of a connection.
Ushijima’s mouth turns down, though he doesn’t seem upset just confused. “He did.”
“For Shiratorizawa?”
Ushijima nods, and Kageyama bounces the ball a couple times.
“But he doesn’t play anymore.” Another non-question.
“No.”
“Instead he lives in Paris and makes chocolate.”
“Yes.”
“And he sends some to you.”
Ushijima’s brows pinch. “Kageyama,” he begins, “these are all facts you are already aware of. Do you also not believe they are true?”
Cheeks heating, Kageyama bounces the ball again, but it lands on his foot and shoots off across the floor, bumbling along. Ushijima looks at it then at Kageyama.
“You appear embarrassed,” he comments. “Is it because you do not believe the things I have said about my boyfriend?”
God, Kageyama wishes he could go back to the days when he thought Ushijima didn’t understand others. (He has learned that the problem isn’t that Ushijima doesn’t understand others. He does. He’s too observant to not. Instead, the problem is that Ushijima states these observations with no reticence or uncertainty, as if everyone wants to be told when they looked embarrassed or upset or—one horrific time—aroused.)
“No,” Kageyama splutters, mourning the loss of the ball as his hands hang limply at his sides.
Ushijima frowns. “Why do you not believe the things I have said? Do you also believe such things are not possible outside of a movie or book?”
Kageyama splutters more aggressively. “What? No, I don’t think that. Does someone think that? Who thinks that?”
“Saito,” Ushijima says. “Several weeks ago, he told me that having a boyfriend in Paris who makes chocolates is something that only happens in the movies. Then, he proceeded to tell me that maintaining a relationship since high school is something that only happens in fairy tales.”
Kageyama flounders.
“Though you have maintained a relationship since high school as well,” Ushijima continues, frown intensifying. “I would think that you of all people would understand that such things are possible.”
Red-cheeked, Kageyama desperately wants to flap his hands in protest, but that feels too much like something Hinata would do, so he doesn’t.
“Unless you have not maintained the relationship,” Ushijima says with an awkward look that Kageyama thinks is meant to convey sympathy.
He gives in to the urge to flap a hand. “No, no, I’ve maintained it. We’re still dating. Hinata and I, we’re still—yes.”
Ushijima nods (approvingly?). “I thought you were. And since you are, I do not understand how you struggle to believe I have also had a relationship for so long.”
Kageyama regrets ever bringing this up. “No, I believe you,” he says. “I know it’s possible to date for that long. I just—” didn’t think it was possible for you to date someone for that long.
Ushijima blinks once, twice, and it’s unnerving. “You just what?”
Kageyama wonders if it’s possible to go find a new team. Maybe Hinata can connect him with someone in Brazil, or maybe Oikawa can hook him up with something in Argentina.
“I just…uh…wanted to know what position he played,” he finally blurts, grimacing even as the question passes his lips.
Ushijima hums in understanding, though Kageyama has no idea what he’s understanding.
“He was a middle blocker,” Ushijima says, “and he was very good.”
Well, that’s two more points in favor of Kageyama’s hypothesis.
“If he was so good, why didn’t he keep playing?”
Kageyama won’t stop playing until he absolutely has to, until his body gives up and decides it can’t handle the stress anymore.
Ushijima looks away, eyes surveying the court, unseeing. “In high school, he told me it was because he wanted to travel. He wanted to go to France and learn how to make the fancy chocolates he would see on the internet or in anime. Later, he told me it was also because he didn’t want to play for any other team.”
Kageyama frowns. “What? If he couldn’t play on the best team, he didn’t want to play for any team?”
Eyes flitting back to Kageyama for an instant, Ushijima gives him an indiscernible look. “No,” he says, flat. “If he couldn’t play with us, he didn’t want to play with anyone.”
The words send a frisson of shame through Kageyama, and he ducks his head. “Right. That’s—makes sense.”
Ushijima nods. “Indeed.”
Warmth returning to his cheeks, Kageyama fiddles with the hem of his shorts.
“If you believe the things I have said,” Ushijima begins, “then why are you asking questions you already have the answers to?”
Kageyama’s fingers clench in the fabric. “I was just…”
Ushijima waits for him to continue, features blank and eyes focused, but Kageyama doesn’t know how to say ‘I’m pretty sure I know who your boyfriend is, but I’m not certain because you guys would be an…interesting couple’ without sounding like a dick (at least that’s what Hinata said he would sound like when they talked about this last night).
“Was he in your year?” Kageyama finally asks.
The look Ushijima gives him lets him know he’s not fooled by the redirection, but he still says, “He was.”
Kageyama nods, a step closer to being certain he knows the boyfriend’s identity.
With the pinched brow look Kageyama has learned means he’s thinking, Ushijima approaches the ball cart and grabs one out, long fingers stretching over the material. “Is this an attempt to determine his identity without directly asking?”
Damn it.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
Why can’t Ushijima be as unobservant as they had all assumed in high school? Why can’t he just keep his embarrassing observations to himself?
Ushijima takes his silence as an answer. “I am not sure what additional detail I could provide to make it clear.”
Kageyama almost blurts that he could just give the boyfriend’s name, but that feels a bit like cheating.
“He attended Shiratorizawa. He was in my year. He played volleyball. He was a middle blocker. I suppose I could add that he has red hair and that his blocking methods rely on intuition, which can be dangerous for most people, but his guesses are rarely wrong.”
That’s two more points in favor of Kageyama’s hypothesis.
“Is that enough detail?” Ushijima asks, and from anyone else, such a question would convey annoyance or frustration, but from him, it just conveys genuine curiosity.
Kageyama’s flush deepens. “Yeah, I—” Well, maybe it couldn’t hurt to ask one more. “He was the one who sang through the whole game, right? The one who annoyed everyone?” He winces as soon as the words come out, but he can’t take them back.
Ushijima huffs, and when Kageyama looks at him, he’s smiling, a small curl of the lips that’s part-amusement and part-pride. Not upset by the comment then. “He is very good at frustrating opponents,” Ushijima says. “Whether it’s through his blocking or his words. I was often glad that he was on my team. For many reasons.”
Relief fills Kageyama. Definitely not upset, maybe even understanding.
“Is more detail needed?” Ushijima asks, and Kageyama thinks for a moment before shaking his head. That’s all the information he needs. Ushijima nods. “Shall we continue?” he asks, holding up the ball.
With a quiet laugh, more huff than anything, Kageyama nods. “Yeah, let’s work on the quick feint.”
Ushijima grins.
Plus One
Still beaming with victory, Romero steps out of the locker room and into the crowded hallway, grin widening as the post-win chaos washes over him.
A few meters away, he spots Hirugami’s small children running circles around him and his wife, chanting a victory song Romero thinks they may have made up themselves. Further down the hall, Hoshiumi seems just as enthused as the kids, despite a five-set match, voice going a mile a minute and arms waving wildly as he recounts something to the other Hirugami, the captain’s younger brother.
About halfway down the echoing hall, Romero spots Kageyama and is unsurprised when he discovers Hinata Shouyou already at his partner’s side, grin wide despite the loss. There’s another man with them, and Romero’s brow furrows curiously, taking in the unfamiliar figure that seems very familiar with the freak duo power couple. He’s tall and lanky with deep red hair and saucer-wide eyes, and he seems to have captured their attention completely, long fingers whirling through the air to paint pictures Romero doesn’t understand.
The furrow in his brow deepens. Maybe the man is related to Hinata? The hair’s a different shade of red, but red hair’s uncommon enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a relation there. Or maybe he’s a friend? Some high school buddy or someone they’ve met in their travels. It’s possible. Hinata seems to make friends wherever he goes.
“Excuse me,” a voice behind him says, and it startles Romero out of his musings. He turns to find Ushijima with a polite but bland look on his face, waiting for him to move.
“Oh,” Romero says, sheepish when he realizes he’s blocking the locker room exit. “Sorry Ushiwaka. Got distracted.”
Ushijima nods. In agreement or acknowledgement, Romero isn’t sure. “May I pass?” he asks, and Romero scuttles to the side.
“Yeah, sorry. I will—” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating…nothing in particular, just a promise to get out of Ushijima’s way. “Sorry,” he says again.
Ushijima steps out of the locker room. “It was only a minor inconvenience, Romero. There is no need for more apologies.”
How Ushijima manages to sound both reassuring and condescending at the same time, Romero will never know.
“Right,” he says. “Yes, no, I know—I just. I will go now. I—yes,” he finishes lamely, and Ushijima offers him a goodbye before heading into the throng of people.
On the way, Hirugami’s youngest, Koushi, bumps into him and nearly topples over, saved at the last minute when Ushijima wraps a gentle but massive hand around his arm. Eyes wide, little Koushi looks up at him and apologizes, mouth moving clumsily around the words. Then he scurries back to his parents and hides behind their legs, though he does peek out and watch Ushijima continue on with the look most kids wear around the ace: awe, amazement, and a little intimidation.
Ushijima is nearly through the crowd when a boisterous voice cuts through the air.
“Waka-kun!”
If the intensely familiar address wasn’t already enough to catch Romero’s attention, the evident affection in the name would be.
Fascinated, he watches as the red-headed man previously talking to Kageyama and Hinata steps around them, darts forward, and flings himself at Ushijima, arms extended and grin pulling almost painfully at his lips, and Ushijima—Romero blinks—Ushijima catches him, long limbs and all, and pulls him even closer.
Romero’s eyes go wide.
Laughing delightedly, the still unnamed man locks his legs around Ushijima’s waist and his arms around his shoulders, face ducking to press against his neck. Ushijima just lets him. He lets him.
After a moment, the man pulls back, still grinning, and brings a hand up to cradle Ushijima’s cheek. Then he ducks down once more.
Except this time—
Holy shit.
This time, he’s pressing their mouths together in a comfortable kiss. It isn’t dirty or deep, just their closed mouths pressing together, but it still feels startlingly intimate. Though that might just be because this is Ushijima and Romero never expected to see him kissing anyone, let alone his boyfriend of seven—seven!—years.
The kiss doesn’t last long, likely cut short by their audience’s unignorable presence, and the boyfriend pulls back, saying something that makes Ushijima laugh. Laugh! He actually laughs! Romero could count the number of times he’s heard Ushijima laugh on one hand, maybe even on one finger. The boyfriend says something else, and a fond smile replaces the laugh, Ushijima’s head tilted up just a bit to look at him.
“Never seen him so happy,” a voice comments, and Romero turns to see Nakamura watching. “He didn’t even look that happy after we won the division.”
Still clinging to Ushijima like a koala bear, the boyfriend runs a hand through Ushijima’s hair and says something that leaves Ushijima looking sheepish. He replies in what looks like a mumble, and the boyfriend laughs, almost cackles, leaning back and forcing Ushijima to adjust his stance so they don’t both topple to the ground.
“More important than volleyball, I guess,” Romero says.
Nakamura huffs, and they watch as the boyfriend finally returns to his own two feet, unwinding from around Ushijima and landing on his toes with a catlike air about him. When he’s settled on the ground once more, he reaches for Ushijima’s hand and twines their fingers together.
“Yeah,” Nakamura says, watching them head down the hall, the boyfriend on Ushijima’s right and Kageyama on his left, Hinata bouncing along beside him. “I guess there really is something more important than volleyball for him.”