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Oikawa stared at his bedroom ceiling.
He stared at it akin to the way he usually stared at his laptop watching volleyball videos in the dead of the night; putting his utmost concentration into it. It was as if he and his ceiling were having some sort of stare-off competition, and he thought This is it. This is finally it. I’ve finally gone insane. He was so long gone that he could now communicate and interact with ceilings. He thought that madness engulfed him a long time ago, particularly that night before his major physics exam during his second year, but nope, if that was classified as insanity he didn’t have a clue what this was anymore.
The blue colour of the ceiling bore holes into his mind. He also didn’t know how long he’d been at it, he felt disconnected from the rest of the world, losing his sense of place and time. It was like he and his ceiling were the only ones on earth. (Which was his intended outcome when he decided to toss his bag unceremoniously across his room as soon as he entered, collapse onto the floor in a sad heap and just start to...stone.) It could have been a whole day and he still would have continued, oblivious. He didn’t know, and frankly he didn’t care, the only thought running through his mind:
We lost. We lost. We lost.
It repeated in his head like a broken record player stuck on loop.
Scenes from the match played throughout his mind and he couldn’t shut them out.
*
Oikawa’s entire body is screaming at him.
Everywhere hurts, his legs (knees especially) ache, his arms ache, his head aches; he’s pretty sure he’s not exaggerating when he says that breathing is also slowly becoming painful.
The overexertion and strenuous movement of his muscles has done numbers to his body. This has got to be the toughest match he’s ever been in.
The scores are neck and neck, way too close for Oikawa’s comfort, both teams refusing to back down after they’ve both come so far.
It could be anyone’s game at this point.
Oikawa positions himself in a ready stance, the ugly reminder that this very well may be the last match he’ll ever play in his high school life hitting him with full force.
“Bring it!” He hears Hanamaki roar, the words challenging Karasuno.
Oikawa inhales a deep breath and reminds himself to concentrate. His eyes follow every movement that the opposing members make, and when he sees Hinata yell and leap high into the air - no, fly - everything goes in slow motion.
Hinata, a determined expression on his face, spikes the ball with all his might and it manages to weave its way through the block Seijoh has tried to put up. Oikawa’s eyes widen when the ball is hurtling straight towards him.
He stretches his arms out in an attempt to receive the ball, but he has this sinking gut feeling that tells him it isn’t going to happen. The angle is off; the ball hits the side of his arm and rickets off immediately, spinning mid-air before falling onto the court with a deafening thump, thump, thump.
It’s a sound that Oikawa will never forget.
*
It was entirely his fault and his fault only. He was the one who couldn’t receive the ball in the end, even after countless years of rigorous training. It was as if all those hours of practice, all those diving drills, all those late nights at the gym suddenly meant nothing.
The images of the smiles of the Karasuno team as they lay in a pile that was supposed to be a massive group hug was permanently etched into his memory, slowing feeding off whatever sanity Oikawa had left.
He felt tears brimming in his eyes. They weren’t going to nationals.
His team wasn’t going to nationals.
He was their captain. He led them to this fate.
He couldn’t even begin to explain the sheer grief he was feeling. He wanted to cry but at the same time he wanted to punch the nearest wall. He wanted to spike a volleyball right into each member of Karasuno and wipe those triumphant grins off their faces. He wanted to win. He wanted his team to win, together.
I’m sorry.