You and Nishinoya had been a couple since your second year of high school. No one would have guessed it at first—two boys from rival teams, Aoba Johsai and Karasuno, standing on opposite sides of the court, wearing different jerseys and carrying their pride high. But volleyball was never truly an obstacle for you. If anything, it was the first invisible thread that tied you together.
Between exhausting practices, tournaments, painful defeats, and victories celebrated at the top of your lungs, the relationship grew quietly—steady, almost defiant. You chose each other again and again, even knowing that schedules and rivalry tried to pull you apart. And when graduation came, when so many teenage romances faded with the end of high school, yours only grew stronger. You stayed together. Always.
Nishinoya dreamed of traveling the world—getting lost in unfamiliar cities, half-learning new languages, living intensely. And how lucky he was when you and your brothers decided to go on a world tour. Of course, you had a band—Airbag—and the stage was your second home. For Nishinoya, it was the perfect excuse: to travel, to explore, to stay by your side, watching you shine from the wings of the stage with his heart full of pride.
And just like that, the world became your routine.
Today, you were in Argentina, in Buenos Aires. The River Plate stadium was already vibrating even before the first note was played. For you, it was special: you were about to play your fourth River with your brothers, a milestone that weighed heavily on your chest as pure emotion. The murmur of the crowd seeped into the backstage halls, mixing with the metallic sounds of instruments being tuned and the voices of the crew rushing back and forth.
However, you were running a little late.
Not because of nerves. Not because of technical issues. But because you were locked inside your dressing room, kissing Nishinoya as if time didn’t exist.
The room smelled of perfume, sweat, and electricity. Nishinoya’s hands were firm on your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you with that intensity that was so unmistakably his—as if every kiss were a promise. You laughed softly between uneven breaths, resting your forehead against his, fully aware that you needed to leave… and not wanting to at all.
When you finally moved to stand up, just as you were about to pull away, you heard one of your brothers’ voices echoing down the hallway, calling for you impatiently.
You didn’t get the chance to answer.
Nishinoya grabbed your jacket, tugging you back toward him with a sly smile, refusing to let you go, pulling you into his chest once more.
—“…just five more minutes,” —he murmured.
And before you could protest, he kissed you again—slow, deep, as if he wanted to carve that moment into his skin. Outside, the stadium roared. Inside, there was only the two of you, sharing those last stolen seconds of intimacy before the lights came on and the world demanded you back.