Chapter Text
Oikawa rolls away from the TV with a low groan, splaying across the floor and glancing back at the screen with raw agony. The recorded image of Hinata Shouyou, unbothered by Oikawa’s distress, smashes the ball over the net for the umpteenth time.
And again, the Oikawa Tooru on the screen is half a step too late, the ball twisting over his wrists and pummels backward with an awkward curve to it.
Remote in hand Oikawa stops the video and the ball freezes on the screen, just a breath away from the ground.
They still didn’t lose. In that millisecond, they still didn’t…
Growling in frustration once again, Oikawa skips backward in the video and rubs his tired eyes with his free hand. Looking up at the screen, watching the players run backward, balls falling upwards, and landing in the hands of the players calms his heart somehow.
He restarts the recording after a while, rolling to his stomach and pulling his sketchbook to him to look at his notes. He analyses each and every play, over and over again – no longer out of curiosity or reflection, but out of sheer spite, a dark, murky feeling that comes in after dinner and stays with him late into the night, crawling up his spine and whispering ugly thoughts to him.
Look at that footwork…
Oikawa stops the video to scribble down a few words, turns a few pages, underlines a comment he made previously.
These could be useful for Yahaba. Not that he would ever share his notes with Yahaba, but still.
He turns his head back towards the screen, presses play, watches. Soon a mop of ashen hair catches his attention.
Refreshing-kun.
Karasuno’s number two walks over the edge of the court raises the ball in the air and sends it flying, serve skillfully aimed at Iwaizumi.
So not refreshing.
Oikawa’s eyes stay on the rival setter even after Iwaizumi received the ball. He watches him move, position himself, dive in seeking for the ball. Refreshing-kun is not exceptionally athletic. He is not remarkably fast or nimble, not strong or tall either. His footwork is average. His set up for the synchronized attack is elegant and clean, but not flawless. Rewatching, Oikawa can see it, read it from the way Refreshing-kun’s shoulders turn mid-air where he is going to set.
Oikawa realizes that they entered the last rally a fraction too late, focusing a little too intense on the shorter of Karasuno’s setters. He sees himself, falling over table and chairs, sending the ball across the court. It is a magnificent pass – astounding to look at. Yet, it hurts, and it is not only because of the still deep purple bruises on his side causing this pain. As an escape mechanism, Oikawa casts his eyes back on Refreshing-kun.
He looks a hint antsy, standing around the inactive quarter of the court and following the ball with his eyes.
Oikawa tries to imagine what kind of person could he really be.
A mood maker, for sure. Someone clever, maybe, or even studious, Oikawa thinks, envisaging the boy in Karasuno’s black gakuran, leaning on a desk surrounded by heaps of books. He seems to be the good guy, someone who would not break havoc… but then again, he did have some crazy moments on the court. The one thing Oikawa remembers clearly is his presence. That unsettling feeling emerging from deep in his stomach as Refreshing-kun walks onto the court, eyes unreadable as if he was constantly plotting something…
Whoops.
Refreshing-kun receives the block of Kindaichi right in his face on the screen, eliciting a curt, carefree laugh from Oikawa.
It’s adorable.
Petty as he gets, Oikawa jumps back in the video to rewatch the epic scene, sad that the teammate recording the match had only one hand camera, and not a professional crew ready to immortalize the precious moment from all possible angles. The face, oh the face of that pretty setter as he gets hit by the ball, is not properly captured for Oikawa’s needs, but the loud thud, followed by the painful ‘ugh’ of Refreshing-kun is clear on the recording, and it is priceless.
Oikawa replays it again and again, admiring the reflexes of Kyoutani to pick up the ball, and criticizing the aim of Kageyama’s spike along the way – and again and again, Kindaichi blocks the spike, and the ball connects with the forehead of Refreshing-kun each and every time. The setter stumbles back from the impact, accidentally making space for Hinata for his final, crucial run-up.
Finally, a sneeze obstructs Oikawa from stopping and replaying the video, and he hears with eyes squeezed shut and palms before his face the sound of the ball touching the floor the last time, followed by a decisive whistle, and the arena bursts out in cheers.
Oikawa looks up, freezing the video on the screen.
There, they lost.
* ☆ *
Sugawara greets the old lady with a well-practiced jovial smile. She is one of the regulars, returning every Tuesday night to buy cat food and strawberry flavored pocky. Sugawara smiles as he scans in her purchase, bags it and hands it over – and as he watches the lady walk out of the shop, he tries to imagine what life she could be living, that necessitates for her to buy cat food at exactly 11 pm on every Tuesday night.
“You’re still here,” he hears then. Dragging his eyes back to the front of the counter, he sees Daichi, onigiri in hand, and disapproval clear on his face.
“Hello,” Sugawara says, scanning the onigiri for him. “Anything else?”
“No, I just wanted… a midnight snack,” Daichi says, scratching his nape nervously.
He’s still bad at lying.
“I see,” Sugawara says instead. “It will be 115 yen.”
Daichi hands him the money, suspiciously avoiding eye contact.
“So… how long ‘til you close?” he asks.
So awkward.
“Well, the shop closes in five minutes,” Sugawara replies nonchalantly, handing Daichi back his change. “Though I suppose you meant when I will finish,” followed by a silent nod from Daichi, “then the answer is in 20 minutes or so. Gotta close up the shop and change out of this,” Sugawara points at his vibrant uniform tee.
“I see,” Daichi nods again. “I’ll wait for you then.”
This much is to be expected, right?
“Don’t,” Sugawara says, leaning over the counter to pat his friend’s shoulder. “I know you feel guilty for getting me this job, Daichi, but please don’t. I’m fine.”
“You can’t be fine,” Daichi remarks, hands squeezing around the wrapping of his onigiri. “You’re overworking yourself.”
Not everyone’s blessed with two parents with steady incomes.
Sugawara sighs, shaking his head softly. He takes a quick look around the store, and once he confirmed that no other customer is in, he steps out of the counter closing the cashier.
There are things he cannot say to Daichi, this much he knows. Like, how while Daichi’s dad owns the shopping mall by the station, Sugawara’s dad has left when he was five to never hear from him again. Or while Daichi’s mom is the owner of a beauty salon, Sugawara’s mom is simply a hairdresser working there. Sugawara feels it to be unfair, pointing out their differences when Daichi already feels so guilty for getting him this job.
I need money.
It is not something he could ever say to Daichi. Not with a straight face, not without hurting his friend. Because Daichi knows, and he would make up fake debts so he can pay Sugawara back for something he never owed. Because that would hurt Sugawara more than the pain in his back or nausea he feels on days he does not sleep.
“I’m fine,” he says instead, firmly, looking straight in the eyes of Daichi. “I decided to do this, and I do it for myself.”
There are so many feelings in Daichi’s eyes, from genuine concern to slight panic, Sugawara almost smiles at it.
He cares way too much.
“At least don’t come in for morning practice.”
“Then I will fall behind. Can’t have Kageyama best me in everything, can I?”
“At this rate, you will kill yourself. You’re up early for practice, study earnestly, and work after the afternoon practice. When do you get home, midnight? When do you have time for showers, eating, or doing your homework? Or sleep?”
“Sleep is overrated,” Suga says, offhanded comment accompanied with a carefree grin. Now, if only his dark circles would not sell his secrets, it would be perfect. He could walk away from this conversation with a smile on his face, punching Daichi in the back for good measure and for worrying too much.
But Daichi is never far from the truth.
Sugawara is tired.
He is tired of doing his best but never being the best in anything. He is tired of waking up early, of buying new shoelaces, let alone the pair of new shoes he will have to eventually buy, as the soles of his volleyball shoes are threatening to fall off any moment now, and that is not a condition he can take them to the nationals. He is tired of the teachers’ nagging, of the amount of totally irrelevant and unnecessary homework they give out, of the weeks that just pass by his head without him really noticing. He is tired of work too, of the slacker university student who always arrives half an hour late to his shift and would not do any cleaning. He is tired of receiving his paycheck and seeing it dissolve into thin air sooner than he could take a good look at it.
But he has an aim.
Even if he lost his position as the starting setter, he wants to be an integral part of Karasuno’s team.
And he wants to go to university, someplace decent.
But he would never, ever burden his mom with the school fees, or the money he needs for a new pair of his shoes.
Just as he would never, ever tell Daichi that he feels like falling apart sometimes.
Because it is his decision.
“I want you to take care of yourself, Suga,” Daichi says, his voice strict for once. “We need you on the team, fresh and fit.”
It’s empowering.
“I will,” Sugawara nods.
On Sunday, when he has no work or schoolwork, that is.
He will rest then.
* ☆ *
Quarter to midnight finds Oikawa on the floor with his back against the wall, head tipped back and looking at the little fluorescent stars he stuck on the ceiling of his room in elementary school. In his hands is the atrocious-looking ukulele he bought back at the end of middle school in spite of all the opposition and reasoning Iwaizumi threw at him back then, which he found while throwing a fit and kicking around just a moment ago, its body painted neon pink and shaped like an alien face.
No matter what Iwa-chan says, it looks cool.
He runs his fingers across the strings, painfully out of tune.
“Getting a ball in the face,” he whispers, trying to find a rhythm. “Oh, you have a game to ace…”
Sugawara, was it?
Oikawa thought the guy would be a pushover initially. Someone who was robbed of his starter place by Kageyama, an average guy overshadowed by a genius. Nothing special.
Oh.
He thinks Sugawara is somewhat interesting now.
Was it the guts to jump in that synchronized attack against Shiratorizawa, even though he was blocked just before? Or was it the quick set he sent at Kageyama, surprising Seijou as a whole? Was it his refreshing tone, or his viciously placed serves?
Was it the delightful cheer he did for that quirky pinch setter?
Oikawa grumbles low, like a volcano slowly awakening from a thousand-year slumber, and pulls at the strings again.
“It’s not your smile, it’s not your face,” he sings.
He’s pretty.
“Shit.”
Antsy, he gets up from the floor, walking around the room. His eyes fly to the screen, frame still frozen at the moment of their loss. Sugawara, a small, blurry figure on the screen, cheers with his hands up in the sky, blob of ashen blond hair drawing Oikawa’s attention towards him like a friggin’ magnet.
“Shit,” Oikawa says again, frustrated, reaching for his keys and purse.
Realizing interest is not something he planned for this late hour and he is unsure of how to deal with it. Milk bread, on the other hand, has proven to be able to calm him many times, and a walk in the late October chill air might also be of help.
On his way out, he grabs the ukulele. The plan forming in his head is simple: go to a convenience store, grab a prepacked milk bread roll, go to the neighboring playground, hide under the slide, and play on his ukulele until his thoughts of Sugawara disappear.
* ☆ *
Sugawara checks the money in the cashier, notes down the closing amount next to the opening one, and prints a receipt of all purchases of the day to double-check if everything is good. Working with money makes him a little queasy; the thought of wrongly returned change, let alone losing a few bills makes him nervous. Still, the job at the convenience store is paying decent, and he gets the benefit of taking the unsold snacks home on their expiry date. He walks to the front door to close whistling a little tune, glancing happily over the snack bar. He will have a feast today.
He reaches the door, keys clacking in his hand when a customer opens it from the other side with so much momentum to the movement that Sugawara is nearly swept away.
“Sorry, we are closed for today,” he starts saying, speaking over the sound of the bell greeting the customer.
“Oh, is that so?” asks the customer, pouting.
There is something in his voice that makes Sugawara look up to face him square on. The chiseled jawline, the perfect pointy nose, the heavy eyelashes over those pretty brown eyes are all too familiar.
Oikawa Tooru.
“Yeah, I was just about to lock the door,” he says, lifting his keys up meaningfully. He feels too tired to face the Grand King of Seijou now, so he hopes that the other will not recognize him.
Not that he is any memorable, really…
“Sugawara!” Oikawa exclaims, shattering Suga’s naïve hopes to get over with this quickly. He grabs Sugawara’s lifted arm fervently, giving his heart skip.
Surprised and a little shocked, Sugawara forces a jovial smile on his face.
“Oikawa?”
“I…!” Oikawa says, but he retreats upon seeing the pointed look Sugawara is giving him. “Sorry,” he lets Sugawara’s arm go. “I was just excited to see you suddenly.”
“I’m surprised you even know who I am,” Sugawara replies, collecting himself quickly and pushing the key in the lock. “If you don’t mind, I really have to close the store now.”
“Well, but of course,” Oikawa steps out of his way politely, with the barely concealed excitement of a little kid. It reminds Sugawara of the kindergarteners living in his neighborhood. “Then, I’ll wait until you close up?” Oikawa motions towards the bench in front of the convenience store.
Sugawara blinks at him confused.
Oikawa blinks back. Once. Twice. Then he proceeds to turn red as a tomato.
“I mean… since I have met you… we could, you know, chat?” he stutters.
“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure why we would do so,” Sugawara says.
First Daichi, now Oikawa – people really wanted to wait on him closing the goddamn store. Though he finally managed to send Daichi home, ushering him out of the store telling him he sounds like some good mother hen when he worries so much, Oikawa is a different, more intriguing case. Apart from what he has seen on the court, Sugawara barely knows Oikawa – yet for Oikawa to be ‘excited to see him’, let alone wanting to wait for him to close the store… Sugawara has not felt this lost in a while.
“Well,” Oikawa says, glancing away awkwardly. “It’s not like we would meet in school or we would have any more matches against each other.”
Sugawara is about to cut in and say that they could still organize a practice match – feeling eager to please the rival setter for some unknown reason – but he stops himself just in time. Unlike him, who still has the Nationals before him, Oikawa graduated from his club. He looks at the pout on Oikawa’s lips, so childish yet–
Irresistible.
“True,” he says finally and stifles a helpless sigh.
The bashful smile that appears on Oikawa’s face kills him good.
“I will be outside waiting then!” Sugawara hears, and the faint scent of shampoo reaches him with the flowing air as Oikawa turns on his heels and the door closes behind him.
Sugawara does not think of himself as a weak man – he is good at keeping his gay in check, surrounded by sweaty boys every day, often in some state of undress – but looking through the glass door now at the back of Oikawa skipping towards the bench moves something in him.
It could be fatigue, finally hitting him.
It could be the reawakening of a fleeting crush.
Either way, his heart beats wildly in his chest as he grabs his bag and closes the store, and his mind is so fuzzy he almost forgets to pack snacks.
* ☆ *
The idea to buy milk bread in the middle of the night turned out to be a terrible, yet terrific idea when Oikawa bumped into the subject of his newfound affection on the doorstep of the convenience store. Terrible, because he blabbered like a stupid idiot in front of Sugawara – terrific, because Sugawara actually agreed to Oikawa waiting for him, and so now he gets to walk beside him.
While it was not that obvious from across the net, walking side-by-side now Oikawa gets to notice their height difference. Sugawara is a good ten centimeters shorter, meaning that Oikawa can easily see the playful cowlick on the top of Sugawara’s head which bounces up and down with each step.
Oh, he did not plan to meet Sugawara, and yet once he met him, all he wanted was to prolong contact. And here they are, walking side-by-side, their hands brushing together accidentally on occasion – and Sugawara never pulls away or steps farther. It fills Oikawa with all kinds of stuffy feelings he barely has a name for, yet they send his heart in overdrive. Breathing comes hard as if he climbed up a mountain running.
They talk, casually, about things they are both into – volleyball, mostly.
Sugawara looks pretty under the pale yellow light of the lamp posts, with his soft, untamable hair. His long lashes cast a shadow, mercifully hiding his dark circles from the eyes of the onlooker except for when he looks up, hazel eyes a little bloodshot, lids a little puffy. He is talking in a soothing, albeit a tired voice.
Oikawa walks him to his bus stop, eyes never once leaving his frame.
He looks beautiful. Exhausted, but breathtaking. And Oikawa Tooru, aged eighteen and three months, gets a new goal – apart from becoming the number one volleyball player in Japan and the world, naturally – namely to get Sugawara a good rest.
Waving bye as the last bus takes Sugawara away, Oikawa plops down on the bench in the bus stop, opening his bag to take his ukulele out. Its glossy neon pink paint reflects the light of the lamp above Oikawa as if its alien face was smirking at him judgingly.
So what if he is in love?
His fingers find the strings, hitting a chord way off tune.
He has a plan.
* ☆ *