The rooftop was always the third years’ spot. Other students rarely came up there, and even if they did, they tended to leave quickly once they saw the small circle of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball seniors occupying the space.

It was tradition at this point—Issei, Hanamaki, Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and now you.

The five of you sitting cross-legged or sprawled across the concrete benches, the steady hum of the schoolyard below a soft backdrop to the loud laughter above.

Hanamaki was the first to flop down, his bento clattering as he set it beside him. He stretched dramatically, the sun catching in his light brown hair as he tilted his head back.

“Finally. Freedom,” he groaned, earning a chuckle from Matsukawa, who sat down with much less effort, already unwrapping his chopsticks.

“Freedom? It’s just lunch,” Matsukawa deadpanned, though there was an amused curve to his lips as he popped a piece of tamagoyaki into his mouth.

Hanamaki pointed a chopstick at him like a weapon. “You wouldn’t understand, Issei. You live for this roof. You’d probably camp up here if the teachers let you.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Matsukawa said easily, leaning back on one arm and letting the breeze ruffle his hair.

Oikawa arrived with his usual flair, balancing his bento and a carton of strawberry milk like it was some kind of performance.

He dropped his bag with a soft thud, kneeling in the middle of the group as though he were its natural centerpiece. He gave you a quick grin before taking a sip of his drink, his legs folding gracefully under him.

“Honestly, we should be honored,” he said, after swallowing. “The schoolyard gets my dazzling presence during the day, and the rooftop gets it at lunch. What a blessing.”

Iwaizumi didn’t even hesitate—he reached over and smacked the back of Oikawa’s head. “Shut up and eat before I dump that milk on you.”

Oikawa yelped, clutching his carton like it was fragile treasure. “Rude!” But even as he complained, he sat down properly and began unpacking his bento.

You had already settled among them, unpacking your own lunch. The sun was warm against your back, but the breeze that cut across the rooftop kept the heat from being overwhelming.

It felt almost lazy, the way the third years sprawled and teased each other, but there was a familiarity to it—an ease that only came from years of shared time together.

Conversation bounced between them like a rally in practice.

Hanamaki cracked jokes at Oikawa’s expense, Matsukawa added dry commentary that made Hanamaki laugh even harder, and Iwaizumi alternated between keeping them in check and joining in on the teasing.

Oikawa, for all his dramatics, gave back as good as he got, tossing in snarky remarks and rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair.

Every so often, one of them included you in the current joke, Hanamaki nudging your shoulder conspiratorially, Matsukawa passing you a piece of his lunch wordlessly, or Iwaizumi shooting you a grin when Oikawa grew flustered.

It was effortless the way you fit into their rhythm, like the five of you had always been a unit.

At one point, Oikawa leaned back on his hands, gazing at the sky with a soft, thoughtful expression that broke briefly through his usual dramatics.

“It’s nice, you know? All of us up here. Just…this.” His voice had a rare sincerity to it, though of course, he quickly added with a smirk, “Though it is a little unfair that you all get to bask in my beauty this often.”

The chorus of groans and thrown bits of food that followed made him duck behind his bento box, laughing.

The moment passed in a rush of noise, but it lingered in the warmth of the group—the closeness of friends who had been through enough together to make even something as ordinary as lunch feel like its own tradition, untouchable and steady.