Chapter Text
“I said no, and that’s final!” Hyūga’s face is red with anger.
Kiyoshi looks so crushed, and Izuki wants to comfort him, really. But he should’ve known.
There’s no use in trying to change Hyūga’s mind. Izuki knows, because he has done so through talks and shouting matches and things being thrown and silences that Hyūga never broke first. Because he’s tried and tried, and it just led to their friendship wilting into the ghost of a flower that smelled like the slowly forgotten summers of childhood.
Kiyoshi should’ve known, but then again, Kiyoshi doesn’t know Hyūga like he does.
No one will ever know Hyūga Junpei like Izuki Shun does.
A few weeks later, Kiyoshi gives up on Hyūga. Izuki nods contritely when he hears this.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and is a little surprised at himself at how empty he sounds. His voice comes out as dead as he feels, learning Hyūga refused. He doesn’t know why – it just… seems hopeless.
“That’s all right,” Kiyoshi says with a little bit of that spark back in his eyes. “We have enough people for a team and that’s really what matters.”
Izuki finds himself smiling. “I guess it is.” He doesn’t even try to make a pun, caught up in his thoughts.
Why can’t I get over you?
The brown-haired girl Hyūga used to train with back in the old days goes to their school. Aida Riko, Izuki remembers. She must know quite a lot about basketball – or any sport, really. And she has that useful Scan ability Hyūga mentioned a couple of times.
Maybe she can coach us. We do need a coach, after all.
He voices this thought to Koganei first, who hums and haws, mostly about Riko’s gender. Izuki and Tsuchida scold him soundly for having apprehension about a female coach and somehow get him to agree. Mitobe is all for the idea, assenting quickly with a series of rapid nods; Kiyoshi is delighted, clapping him on the back and praising him to the high heavens.
“Izuki, you’re really intelligent,” he exclaims. “You’re going to be the best point guard.”
Izuki grins.
“I suppose I made a good point,” he jokes tentatively, not wanting to put them off with his puns. Despite what most people think, he makes them wilfully and can stop if he wants to. His friends are just – were just, seeing as they aren’t on speaking terms anymore – fun to annoy.
Instead of the usual bristly response to shut up, though, the guys in front of him all laugh loudly.
“That was good!” Koganei howls. Tsuchida and Kiyoshi crush him from both sides. Mitobe smiles and gives him a thumbs-up. Now Izuki never laughs at his own jokes… but somehow, he can’t help laughing with them.
Never mind that even this laughter can’t help fill that unseen void in his heart.
“I will only coach a team that wants to be the best in Japan!” Aida Riko declares loftily when Izuki goes to ask her if she’ll be their coach.
And hell, she’s right. No one should waste their time on a team that is just playing for the heck of it.
Kiyoshi wants it. You can see it in the fire in his eyes, burning like infernos every time ‘basketball’ is mentioned. You can see it in the way he plays, strong and solid, a calm storm determined to cover the clear sky of the basketball court.
Izuki knows the acrid taste of defeat on his tongue, the feeling of not being good enough, the smell of victory being snatched away from right under his nose. He knows the slipperiness of sweat mixed with tears and the dread and the fear. He knows the feeling of asking himself, Am I good enough? and coming up with the terrifying answer of, Maybe not. And he knows the desire to be the best. He is a hungry eagle, starved of victory, for whom small wins will not suffice.
No, Izuki Shun is going to be one of the best in Japan.
But for that, he needs a team who wants the same. And the problem is: he doesn’t know if they do. However, when you don’t know… the best thing to do is find out.
So he asks them one day after a rag-tag practice, “Do you guys want to be the best in Japan?”
Mitobe’s eyes shine immediately. Izuki doesn’t need a translation to know his new friend’s passion for basketball, to know that if Mitobe’s going to shoot, he will aim for the top and nowhere lower.
Tsuchida nods. “Of course I do,” he says firmly. “What’s the point of half-assing anything?”
Kiyoshi, he doesn’t even need to ask. Izuki and he just nod at each other wordlessly.
But Koganei looks doubtfully up at him. “Do you even think that we can?” he asks quietly, as if it is dangerous to even broach the topic of being the country’s best.
Izuki claps him on the back and tells him, “If you want it enough.”
Koganei doesn’t want it yet, because it still seems like an impossible dream to him. But with every practice, with every shot he makes and every three-pointer he manages successfully, it starts becoming less of an impossible dream and more of a distant one.
Distance can be travelled, though, and Izuki knows how easily it’s crossed when one wants like one never has.
“I know why you won’t accept us,” Izuki tells Riko one day after class.
She looks up suspiciously at him. “Why?”
“It’s because of Hyūga. He quit; that’s why you hate quitters.”
Riko’s eyes widen. “How did you—”
Izuki smiles bitterly. “I’m his best friend and teammate - or was,” he corrects himself. “I went through every one of those matches, same as him. I gave my best and more, same as him. One of us quit; one of us didn’t.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not doing it.”
Izuki shrugs. “I’m just saying. I’ve loved basket since I was eight, and I’m not going to stop now. If Hyūga gives up, that's his loss. But I’m not going to give up what I love more than anything. And I won’t stop for anything less than the best. Just… consider us. We’ll ask you again next week.”
Riko stares after him for a bit: he can feel her eyes on his back. He can’t help smiling to himself; he’s managed to do exactly what Kiyoshi – that cunning fox – asked him to.
He’s got her interested.
They march up to Riko a week after she questioned their desire to win and beg her to coach them again, this time on bended knee. She smiles with a dark glint in her eyes and says, “I want you to go on the rooftop and shout it out at assembly tomorrow.”
The newly-formed Seirin Basketball Club doesn’t even think twice before nodding as fast as their heads will go.
“Izuki Shun! Class 1-C! I swear that I, along with my teammates, will net a national basketball trophy and become the best in Japan!”
Izuki smiles as he steps down from the railing and back in place. He’s proud of the pun, even if it wasn’t very clear; obscure puns are the best, and it feels amazing to shout it all out.
The others are quick about theirs as well, Koganei shouting in Mitobe’s stead. Kiyoshi looks slightly woozy when he steps down, and Izuki has to steady him so he won’t fall over. Riko smiles wickedly and brings them in for a huddle once they’re all done.
“First order of business,” she says with a grin, “run unless you want detention.”
That’s when the vice-principal bursts onto the rooftop, and everyone stands frozen – including Riko herself, who seems to not be taking her own advice.
“It was my idea,” she says defensively, quivering on the spot. “So just give me detention.”
“Me too,” Izuki speaks up before he can think. “I forced them to; I’m the captain. We sort of kidnapped them up here.” He gestures to the pile of rope conveniently lying in the corner of the building. It doesn’t occur to him to hesitate in taking the fall for Kiyoshi – it feels natural. It’s the least he can do, after everything Kiyoshi has done for him.
“Detention for the both of you after class today!” screams the vice principal, his lip quivering. “Now get your ungrateful behinds down to your lessons!”
Kiyoshi gives him a grateful smile as they head downstairs to class.
“You didn’t have to,” he says. Izuki just laughs.
“You’re my friend.”
Kiyoshi’s eyes positively light up. “We’ll talk more at lunch, Shun,” he promises brightly and skips off to his seat.
First names already? Izuki can’t help but smile.
“See you… Teppei,” he replies and settles down on his own. It’ll be a bit difficult for him especially, but it wouldn’t do to Shun first names after all.
Oh, that was a good one!
The detention is overseen by Izuki’s ancient literature teacher, Takeda-sensei, who is quiet, docile, and never scolds anyone for talking. Plus, he has a soft spot for Izuki, who exploits this quite happily.
He and Riko manage to draft two plays and discuss six strategies – mostly ones Izuki has come up with previously but never been listened to about, or ones Riko has seen in NBA games – by the time the hour’s up. She snickers at most of his puns and doesn’t even tell him once to shut up, just whacks him with her clipboard at the particularly bad ones.
They look up at Takeda-sensei, and that’s when they realise: they need a club advisor who will let them do what they need to without trying to do any advising (which defeats the purpose, but they aren’t allowed to just not have an advisor).
Riko points at Takeda-sensei, who looks up mildly and blinks.
“Yes, children? Is there anything you would like?” he asks, voice quivering.
They exchange glances and grin like crazy.
“Takeda-sensei…” Izuki starts, using his teacher’s-pet voice, “Aida-san and I are actually starting a basketball club. Of course it wouldn’t interfere with our studies”—here he widens his eyes and shakes his head—“but we need an advisor and were wondering if you would help?”
Takeda-sensei smiles. “Surely, Izuki-kun. Are there any forms that need signing?”
“Not that I know of?” Izuki glances at Riko, who shakes her head. “No, there aren’t. We thought of having practice in the morning from five to eight and evening from four to eight-thirty, if that’s all right?”
Takeda looks a little doubtful. “I’m old,” he states. “It would be difficult for me to stay here so long, but I can try.”
“Thank you, sensei!” Izuki and Riko chorus.
When they, along with Kiyoshi (who’s very proud of their success and shows it through a giant hug), report this news to the principals, the vice-principal doesn’t look too pleased, but the principal practically forces him to grant approval for them to use the spare gym. Hoops will be ordered, says the principal.
Izuki, Kiyoshi, and Riko exchange gleeful smiles.
Finally, their basketball dream is getting closer. Finally, it’s all coming together.
Riko’s training menus are downright amazing - she’s a genius, and the last piece they needed for everything to fall in place. Now the only problem is the team itself; Kiyoshi is too soft on them. If they’re ever going to win, they need a captain who’ll go all out.
Izuki holds back the thought that he knows is emerging in his brain, the image of a confident boy bellowing out instructions to players who roll their eyes at him. This team would be perfect for him – but no. This is not the time to be sad about Hyūga.
Someone has to step up, Riko tells them after practice one day. Kiyoshi doesn’t mind being criticised as a captain – he seems to realise it’s not his forte and is very gracious about it.
“I vote Mitobe,” Izuki puts in. “He’s calm and collected, and mature, too. The speaking thing is fixed by Koganei’s translations, and we can understand him most of the time anyway.” However, Mitobe shakes his head, offering a pale-faced frown.
“He says he doesn’t think he can be a captain!” Koga says quickly. “And I don’t think I can either.”
“Count me out,” Tsuchida says. “I’m not captain material.”
“Well, we can’t go and make Coach our captain, or we’d have done that by now,” Izuki comments with a sigh. Riko hums thoughtfully.
“Actually, Izuki-kun, what about you?” she proposes, and he blinks.
“What do you mean, me?”
Kiyoshi smiles. “It’s a good idea! You’re calm and collected too, Shun, and you’re serious when you need to be.”
“Kiyoshi’s right. Izuki, you’re our best choice,” Tsuchida assents. Koganei and Mitobe nod in unison.
What – I can’t be a captain! I’m just… just me!
“But I’ve only ever been a vice-captain before!” he starts defensively. “I’m not good at decision-making—”
“My ass you aren’t,” Kiyoshi cuts in hotly, a fierce face in place of his normal calm demeanour. “Who was the one to change his pass at the last second so your team would win in that two-on-two today? Who was the one to so quickly lie that he was the captain so that he’d be in detention rather than me? Who is our control tower and our point guard?”
Izuki flushes harder at the praise. “Teppei, I—”
“I agree, it’s a good choice,” Riko says. “Izuki-kun, you are Seirin High Basketball Team’s new captain, starting now!”
Izuki swallows. “Why do you all think I can do this?”
Then Kiyoshi turns to him with steel in his eyes (that must be how he got nicknamed Iron Heart - he seriously never backs down!) and asks him very clearly, “Why don’t you?”
Why don’t I think I can be captain?
“Because nobody thought I could be until now.”
It slips out unbidden, one of the many insecurities he hides behind a facade of puns and his ‘cool’ look. He covers his mouth instantly, wishing he had never said anything, a furious pink tinting his face.
Two skinny arms wrap around him suddenly, and Izuki turns with surprise to see that the hugger is the brown-haired boy to his right.
“Koga…” he trails off, slightly uncomfortable, but the next words blow that out of the water.
“We believe in you, Itzuki,” Koganei says very seriously. “So you better believe in yourself!”
The discomfort vanishes to be replaced with awe and even a little burst of confidence. Something releases in Izuki’s chest, and he finds himself smiling softly as Koga lets go of him.
Maybe… with these guys with him… with this team who believes in him so much…
Maybe he can be a captain.
Izuki smirks at his team and then assumes a serious expression.
“Fine, I’ll do it. But if I’m going to be a captain,” he snaps with a stern face, “I’m going to be the best one you can get. So first order! All of you get your asses home, you shouldn’t be here this late, and we will meet back here at five o’clock sharp tomorrow morning!”
“Yes, Captain!” they all chorus loudly, and Kiyoshi’s voice resonates the strongest. His grin stretches from ear to ear, and his infectious happiness makes Izuki happy, too.
They continue on. Izuki watches Hyūga - still awfully blond - and notices him throwing a few longing glances at the basketball gym, then walking away hurriedly.
He bites back the call that tries desperately to escape his lips and turns to go inside the gym.
The team he’s got is pretty amazing, if he does say so himself. Kiyoshi, of course, is an Uncrowned King, so what else would one expect? Tsuchida is excellent at rebounding and gets every shot, even beating Kiyoshi at it. Mitobe is a stellar defender who’s extremely tough to get past. And Koganei, despite having started basketball just this year, shows a certain aptitude for shooting threes. Izuki thinks he can easily get on Hyūga’s level if he tries hard enough.
Izuki’s noticed a few changes in himself. His reaction time is much quicker, for one, and he’s able to match with Kiyoshi almost. His Eagle Eye has gotten much stronger as well, playing against a person of Kiyoshi’s calibre - he’s been practicing in gym class too, watching people intently with his Eye and predicting the way they’re about to move. He can now zero in on their movements almost a full second before they’re made, and his focus is so much sharper than before.
And Hyūga? Well, they don’t even talk in class anymore. Hyūga is a constant presence in the back of Izuki’s mind, as is to be expected, but it’s more of a shadow of the boy he used to be than anything.
Izuki doesn’t miss the constant berating or being told to die. But he does miss his best friend. He misses the person that encouraged him to continue basketball, the person that he laughed over homework with, the person whom he helped in passing math. He misses the dedicated, tenacious basketball idiot that Hyūga used to be.
That’s what surprises him most, really. That he actually feels the loss of the guy, after all that happened. That he actually still loves him.
He tells Kiyoshi so one day, careful and controlled like he always is and yet much more open than he’s ever been. They’ve taken to eating together on the rooftop, and Izuki finds it so easy to trust Kiyoshi that he tells him everything.
“Our team was horrid. I tried and Hyūga tried, but two players weren’t enough to carry the whole team,” he starts. “That’s why he quit; we’d lost every match that year and he just blamed himself.”
Kiyoshi hums. “Why didn’t you?”
Izuki shrugs. “I blamed myself, but I didn’t think quitting would help. I just decided I’d get a new team in high school and… be better this time, fix everything I’d gone wrong with previously. But Hyūga, he just – he wouldn’t come back to it. We fought, we shouted at each other, and the things he told me… they hurt. He knew, of course, he knew exactly where to hit… we’d been friends since we were little kids, so we knew each other’s weak spots too well.”
He stares at his shoes, dangling off the rooftop, suddenly cold despite the day’s fiery heat.
“What did he say?” asks Kiyoshi quietly.
Izuki exhales. “He blamed me for everything, and told me my puns were annoying. He said I was a slacker, that I was always so busy with my jokes that I didn’t take basketball seriously. He said if I’d tried harder, been faster, stronger, better … we would’ve won,” he explains clinically. It really doesn’t hurt anymore, but it did then. He just hid the pain behind a pun like always and soldiered on.
“Then he said he wished I would just shut up and stop pestering him to get back into basketball because I was the reason he quit. All our old friends sided with him. Well, they were his friends, actually. No one wanted to be the friend of the nerdy kid who made dumb puns.”
“They’re not dumb!” Kiyoshi starts indignantly.
Izuki laughs. “Some are.”
Kiyoshi shakes his head. “Go on,” he concedes.
“Hyūga then told me he wished I’d die, after all the falling out and everything – though he’s said that a lot of times, so it’s okay, really,” he starts to frantically calm Kiyoshi when he sees tears forming in the bigger boy’s eyes.
Kiyoshi sniffles. “That’s not fair at all,” he exclaims through his tears. “No friend should ever say that! Izuki, you shouldn’t die. You’re amazing, and Hyūga is stupid for not realising that.”
“You really think so?” Izuki gazes up at the blazing afternoon sun.
Kiyoshi squeezes his hand. “I do. You’re the best.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I just have one question.”
“Hm?”
“Why’d you come to Seirin if you knew there was no basketball?”
Izuki smiles. “After everything… I still loved Hyūga. I knew he needed someone, so I tagged along. He and I were tentative friends; I’d just sort of make sure he was doing okay. That kind of broke when I started hanging around you guys more.”
Kiyoshi looks stricken. “I’m so sorry – you should be with him more—”
That’s when the truth comes out of Izuki’s mouth.
“Without you, I would just be sad and drifting! Hyūga wasn’t treating me right, and you made me see that! I’m glad I’m here with you now, because you do care, and it feels amazing. And – and I don’t regret that Hyūga didn’t join, and I don’t regret that we don’t talk so much anymore. Sure, I miss him; he was my best friend. But I feel like I have something way better with you guys,” he finishes fiercely, looking into earnest brown eyes.
There’s a pause, and then—
“I’m glad I could make you happy, Shun,” Kiyoshi whispers, smiling.
The uncomfortable sadness that he feels when he thinks about Hyūga vanishes to be replaced by a warmth brighter and stronger than any sunshine, and Izuki’s heart starts to come alive a little more.
The Inter-High is upon them all of a sudden.
As promised, they play and give it their all. Seirin is a powerhouse, slamming through each round with extreme determination. They’ve trained constantly for weeks on end, and it’s starting to pay off. And it’s even better because they don’t have a proper shooting guard and they’ve still gotten this far. The possibility for consistent threes is nearly eliminated, and still Seirin wins game after game after game.
Then Kirisaki Daīchi happens, and Kiyoshi’s injured. Izuki saw everything with his eyes, but who was going to believe the word of a no-name school against a big one like Kirisaki?
They don’t have a sub, but Kirisaki seems willing to sit one of their players out and finish the match. Seirin wins, but they have to drop out. There’s no choice – the next match is versus Senshinkan, assuming they even qualify anymore. They’re short a player, and who could go up against a King of Tokyo with just four on the court?
Izuki sees a flash of bleach blond leaving the stands, and then, more than anything, he wants to curse Hyūga for leaving him to do the job he was never fit for.
But he finds himself pulling it together, gathering the team around Kiyoshi, handling the situation in a scarily calm manner.
Because they're relying on him. He sees it in the way Koganei looks to him with fear in his eyes, with the way Mitobe steps back to let him lead, with the way Tsuchida stays close to him.
Because they're relying on him, he has to stay strong for them.
Because he's their captain, he has to be strong for them.
Fingers run carefully through slick blond locks. The boy stares into the mirror and sighs at his reflection; it does, indeed, look awful.
He removes his glasses, picks up the scissors, and takes some hair in his hands. The scissors plough through the bleached strands, slicing them off cleanly. He doesn’t stop till he’s cut it all off, leaving short, spiky hair like he used to have.
Things started going awry when I bleached it.
He picks up the bottle of black dye, mixing the solutions, and applies it to his hair immediately with a brush.
I’m still scared. I’m still angry. I’m still guilty. But at least I can go back to my old self on the outside.
Twenty minutes pass in the blink of an eye, and he gets up to rinse his hair. He washes it thoroughly, applying shampoo three times and making sure every last particle of bottle blond is gone, revealing soft brown hair.
He straightens, hair sopping wet and dripping down his face, looking resolutely into the mirror once more.
If you’re listening, God, this is my prayer.
My prayer to make things right, at least a little bit.
Kiyoshi’s injury is worse than they’d thought.
Izuki sees the lie in his eyes as he laughs that he’s fine. It makes him want to break something.
He says instead, when everyone’s gone, “Are you going to lie to me, too?”
It’s guilting, and it’s wrong, but it works. Sadness sparks in Kiyoshi’s eyes.
“Shun, I – I just – I don’t want them to worry.”
“You’ll make them worry more when you don’t play three months after the injury.”
Kiyoshi exhales. “You’re telling them.”
Izuki nods. “I’m telling them. How long?”
“If I go for rehab? Six months to a year. I’ll be able to play in the Winter Cup next year, but no more basketball after that for me, ever.”
“And the other option?” Because there has to be another way. Because Kiyoshi cannot be deprived of his lifeblood, because Izuki won’t let that happen.
Kiyoshi sighs. “Two years in America for treatment. I won’t be able to play with you guys.”
Izuki takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes.
He pushes them back and asks, “No other way?”
“No other way,” Kiyoshi confirms.
Then light footsteps enter, and Izuki realises Riko’s been listening all this time.
“Teppei-kun,” she starts, “we aren’t going to be selfish about this.”
Izuki knows what she’s saying, and he agrees.
“You have to go to America,” Riko continues. “Basketball is your life. It’s better that you continue to play it forever than ruin your legs now just to play with us.”
Then Kiyoshi’s fists clench in the covers and he roars, “BASKET DOESN’T MATTER IF I DON’T HAVE YOU GUYS WITH ME!”
The intensity of this raging wave of emotion that flows out of him takes Izuki by surprise.
Basket doesn’t matter… if he doesn’t have us?
“You’re an idiot,” he tells Kiyoshi. “Riko is right.”
The girl in question has slipped out, murmuring, “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
“But I know you’re going to do what you want,” Izuki continues, looking deep into Kiyoshi’s eyes. “So… I’ll see you in the Winter Cup. And that”—here he grins—“we’re going to win like never before.”
Kiyoshi nods and smiles. “Thank you, Shun.”
It’s more than just thanking him for that promise. It’s thanking him for understanding.
“Any time, Teppei.” Izuki smiles, and means it.
Summer comes and goes. The Winter Cup qualifiers come and go. Seirin doesn’t participate; how can they with just four players?
Izuki bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from thinking about how things would be different if they’d had Hyūga.
Seirin doesn’t waste their time. They train, and train, and train, and then they train some more. And then some more until they’re running themselves into the ground and Riko has to threaten them to stop with a knife.
Izuki works on his speed. He’s getting faster now, zipping across the court like he’s on wheels. It feels like flying.
Koganei’s threes are getting excellent. He’s been attempting to emulate Ray Allen, but failing each time. Izuki remembers another person, another summer of trying to perfect Ray Allen’s shooting form.
Another time that Hyūga Junpei gave up.
But this time is different. This time is different because Koganei won’t stop giving it his bloody all. Because what used to be pictures of cats and selfies on his phone has turned into video after video of basketball games.
Because Koganei doesn’t back down, and that gives Izuki hope.
Then one fine day he’s shooting, and his hand doesn’t even tremble during the release. The ball lands in the basket, barely grazing the rim, and Koganei stares at his hands in shock.
“I did it,” he whispers as if it’s so surprising.
“I’m proud of you. That took a lot of balls,” Izuki says, clapping him on the back and grinning.
The rest of the team stops momentarily to let out half-groans and half-snickers – they can never decide which when it comes to their crazy captain and his crazy puns.
But Riko, like always, settles for a nice solid whack with her clipboard and yells at the rest to get a move on – with a proud smile on her face, nevertheless.
Koganei’s move works sometimes, and sometimes it doesn’t. His form is… off, slightly, by something Izuki can’t pinpoint. He adds his own little quirks into the shot too, ending up with a strange mix of Ray Allen’s form and a regular one. Sure, it isn’t an exact copy of Allen – Koganei does not yet have the technical skill for that.
But it’s something, and that something is pretty amazing.
Izuki bumps into Hyūga a couple of times around the neighbourhood, when he’s practising with his Eagle Eye or doing exercises to improve his reaction time. Hyūga – dark-haired again, someone must have told him he looks awful – always seems as if he wants to say something. He never does.
Izuki is glad for it.
He doesn’t have the energy to fix this relationship anymore. He’s done trying with Hyūga Junpei.
(He ignores the little voice that says ‘ but it isn’t complete without him’ and leashes his emotions even tighter than before.)
He visits Kiyoshi often during his rehab. Kiyoshi always reassures him that it’s going fine, but Izuki makes sure to double-check with the doctors. And thankfully, Kiyoshi is right, most of the time.
Kiyoshi always wants to protect everybody, but you can’t lie to an eagle’s eye.
Hey, that rhymed! He’ll have to put it down on paper later.
“So, what are you guys planning for next year?” Kiyoshi asks.
Izuki shrugs. “Train. Make sure we get good grades for the team.”
Kiyoshi grabs his hand. “Do your best to win the Inter-High,” he says. “For me.”
Another person, another time his hand had been clutched and he’d been asked to win.
Izuki laughs, trying to shake off the memory.
“What do you think we’re going to do, try to lose?”
The end of the year rolls around all too soon. Exam results turn up, and Riko is first overall. She’s very pleased about it and won’t stop rubbing it in Izuki’s face (he came second). He personally doesn’t mind but pretends to get irritated just to make her laugh.
The others do fairly well too. Tsuchida is thirtieth, Mitobe around the sixties, and Koganei hovers at one hundred and one out of three hundred, which is pretty decent; it means they can all stay in the club.
It’s been a year since Hyūga turned down Kiyoshi’s offer. One year of playing together, one year of cheerful camaraderie and fraternity built tightly around the sport they all love. One year of friendship that feels like it’s lasted for decades already.
One year of something that resembles a family more than a group of cronies, really.