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(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)
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The gym is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.
You spot him immediately.
Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.
You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.
“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.
He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”
“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”
Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.
“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”
He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”
You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”
That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.
You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.
“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”
“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”
The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.
You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.
You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”
But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.
“I love you.”
His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”
You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”
Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”
You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”
You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.
You freeze.
His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.
His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.
His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.
“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.
Then he kisses you.
Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.
Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.
He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.
In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.
There’s just you.
And it’s enough.