Chapter Text
The lingering scent of popcorn and questionable life choices drifted from the cinema doors as the Karasuno volleyball team burst onto the bustling street, blinking in the harsh light like a group of moles who’d just been evicted from their burrow. They’d just endured “Starlight Serenade: A Love Beyond Constellations,” a cinematic masterpiece so sparkly and melodramatic, it threatened to give everyone diabetes and an existential crisis in one sitting1.
“No way, Tanaka! The brooding piano boy was obviously the main character!” Nishinoya’s voice cut through the urban hum, his arms flailing like he was trying to land a plane with semaphore. “He had all the angst, all the deep stares! The man invented staring at rain. If there was an Olympic event for tragic gazing, he’d have more gold than Usain Bolt!”
Tanaka, never one to retreat from a battle of wits (or lack thereof), jabbed a finger in Nishinoya’s chest. “Are you kidding me, Noya?! The sunshine boy was the heart of the whole thing! He brought joy! He made her smile! He probably cured her vitamin D deficiency just by existing!” Their loud, passionate argument bounced off nearby storefronts, drawing amused glances from passersby, some of whom were now reconsidering their own movie choices.
Sugawara, the team’s resident silver-haired sage and part-time therapist, chuckled, a warm, knowing smile on his face. “You know, I actually think the sunshine boy was the main character all along. He just… didn’t realize it until the very end. Like some people and their own plot relevance.” He cast a meaningful glance at the group, which everyone heroically ignored.
Kageyama, meanwhile, was staring off into the distance with the intensity of someone trying to remember if he’d left the stove on or if he’d ever actually had a personality arc. Hinata poked him in the side, nearly causing a volleyball-level collision. “Hey, Kageyama, you think you’d be the brooding piano boy or the sunshine guy?”
Kageyama grunted, eyes narrowing. “Neither. I’d be the one who sets up the dramatic scenes and then stands in the rain for no reason. Maybe I’d get a slow-motion montage if I’m lucky.”
Hinata grinned, bouncing on his toes. “So you’re the tragic side character with a mysterious past and a five-minute backstory episode?”
Tsukishima, who’d been listening with the air of someone forced to attend a mandatory seminar on the history of beige paint, rolled his eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “You two are both delusional. If this were an anime, you’d both be the comic relief. The only dramatic thing about you is your hair.”
Yamaguchi, clutching his scarf like it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning extra, whispered, “I think I’d be the background character. You know, the one who gets a name in the credits but no lines?”
Tanaka, ever the supportive teammate, clapped him on the back so hard Yamaguchi nearly joined the popcorn kernels in orbit. “Yamaguchi, you’re at least the guy who trips and spills juice on the main character in episode three. That’s prime meme material!”
Nishinoya leaned in, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry, Yamaguchi. Sometimes the background characters get spin-offs. Or at least a keychain.”
Hinata, undeterred by reality, piped up, “But what if we’re all just side characters in someone else’s story? Like… Tsukki’s?”
Tsukishima smirked, adjusting his headphones (which, let’s be honest, were probably just there to muffle the sound of Tanaka’s feelings). “Please. If this was my story, it’d be called ‘Sarcasm: A Journey in Eye-Rolling.’ It’d win awards for Most Unenthusiastic Protagonist.”
Sugawara laughed. “I’d watch that. It’d be a slice-of-life, but with more existential dread and fewer plot holes than this movie.”
A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees lining the street, catching the last rays of the setting sun. The air shimmered, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, almost imperceptible ding echoed in the distance. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long, dramatic shadows—because obviously, the universe knew the Karasuno team needed proper lighting for their group therapy session.
Yachi, ever the voice of reason and accidental narrator, appeared with a notebook in hand. “You guys are acting like you’re in an anime right now. All dramatic and moody. Next thing you know, you’ll be monologuing about friendship under a cherry blossom tree.” She paused, scanning the group. “Wait. You’re not, right?”
The group paused, looked at each other, and then collectively shrugged. “At least we’d get a cool opening theme,” Hinata said, already humming a suspiciously catchy tune.
Kageyama, despite his own internal drama, couldn’t help but watch Hinata. The way he bounced, the sheer, unadulterated joy that seemed to radiate from him. Every step Hinata took was a burst of energy, every word a high-pitched exclamation. He was pure, unadulterated sunshine, a vibrant splash of orange in a world of muted tones. Kageyama imagined grand, sweeping scenes where Hinata, bathed in golden light, delivered a heartfelt speech that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. He saw Hinata at the center of every dramatic moment, the catalyst for every important event, the bright flame around which all others orbited. Kageyama, in this imagined narrative, was merely a crucial supporting character, the stoic genius who helped the true hero achieve their dreams, forever in their shadow1.
He sighed, dramatically, as only a true anime side character could.
Hinata, meanwhile, was busy imagining Kageyama as the classic dark horse protagonist, initially misunderstood, perhaps even a bit intimidating, but ultimately possessing a hidden kindness and immense talent that would slowly reveal itself to the world. “Kageyama,” he said, “if you were the main character, would you at least get a redemption arc? Or just more screen time for glaring?”
Kageyama grunted. “I’d get a redemption arc, but only after a tragic flashback episode. Maybe set in a rainstorm. With extra piano music.”
Tanaka, unable to resist, interjected. “I’d watch that. As long as there’s a training montage. And maybe a beach episode.”
Nishinoya, eyes wide, added, “And don’t forget the filler arc where everyone turns into cats. That’s essential.”
Tsukishima, who had been quietly observing the chaos, finally spoke up. “You’re all missing the point. The real main character is the friend we made along the way: existential dread.”
Yamaguchi, ever the optimist, nodded. “I mean, at least existential dread gets a consistent cameo in every episode.”
Sugawara, looking at his teammates with the kind of fond exasperation reserved for sitcom dads and kindergarten teachers, said, “You know, maybe we’re all main characters. Or maybe the real main character is the movie ticket stub we lost in the theater.”
The group wandered down the street, their conversation growing more absurd with every step.
Tanaka: “What if the real main character is the popcorn vendor? He saw everything. He knows all our secrets.”
Nishinoya: “Or the janitor! He’s the only one who survives every movie. That’s main character energy.”
Tsukishima: “I’m pretty sure the main character is whoever gets the most dramatic lighting. So, right now, it’s that streetlamp.”
Hinata, squinting at the lamp: “Wow. It really does have a mysterious aura. Do you think it has a tragic backstory?”
Yamaguchi, deadpan: “Probably lost its twin bulb in a tragic electrical accident.”
Sugawara: “Let’s have a moment of silence for the lost bulb.”
They all stood in silence for a moment, because if there’s one thing Karasuno knows how to do, it’s commit to a bit.
As the group meandered toward the nearest convenience store—because nothing says “post-movie analysis” like discount ice cream—Tsukishima sighed. “You know, if we spent half as much time practicing as we do arguing about fictional main characters, we’d probably win nationals.”
Tanaka, mouth already full of ice cream, mumbled, “But then who would debate the true meaning of narrative structure?”
Nishinoya, licking his cone, added, “And who would mourn the tragic fate of the supporting cast? I mean, what about the best friend who never gets the girl?”
Hinata, eyes wide, gasped. “Wait, what if we’re all just the best friend? No one’s the main character. We’re just… ensemble cast members!”
Yamaguchi, with a sudden burst of confidence, declared, “I’m okay with that. At least ensemble cast members get group merch.”
Sugawara, ever the diplomat, concluded, “Maybe being the main character is overrated anyway. Too much pressure. I’d rather have a solid B-plot and a killer theme song.”
As the Karasuno team sat on the curb, slurping their ice cream and basking in the glow of a streetlamp that definitely had a tragic backstory, they came to a profound, if slightly sticky, realization.
“Maybe,” Hinata said, “the real main character is the friends we made along the way.”
Tsukishima groaned. “That’s it. I’m leaving. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the spin-off series where I don’t have to listen to this.”
Yachi, scribbling in her notebook, looked up with a grin. “You know, you guys would make a great anime, you four especially. Or at least a decent after-school special.”
Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Kageyama and Hinata exchanged a confusing look before bursting into giggles. "Yeah, sure", Hinata managed say between laughs.
The streetlights flickered, the invisible orchestra swelled, and for one shining, melodramatic moment, the Karasuno team looked less like a bunch of volleyball players and more like the cast of a romance anime, a friend group where friends soon start to fall in love.
This would be the perfect time to cue the opening song.
CUE OPENING SONG