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Motoya has always been reliable. He doesn’t mind, being counted on the way the sun is counted on to emerge from the clouds after a particularly bad storm. No one pays him much attention, but if he disappeared, the world would probably end. That’s just how it is, and he thinks it’s okay.
He hears "Nice receive!” for the first time when he’s 6 years old.
Motoya notices things. His open face with the wide, easy smile is cause enough for people to brush him off, but he’s always been able to pick up on things with no second thought. The first time it happens is when he realizes Kiyoomi’s spikes have a particularly wicked spin on them, and then it becomes hard not to notice things. He knows when his mother’s coffee machine is broken, when his father has sat through traffic. He knows when Kiyoomi’s shoulder is feeling phantom pains again, when his wrists are stiff without reason.
It translates to the court. He’s constantly moving, constantly absorbing. He digs, and his movements flow into each other. He’s aware of everyone on the court, makes sure he’s never in the way, never a nuisance.
Motoya spurs others on, playing quietly.
He’ll take this to the grave, but when Motoya saw the Volleyball Monthly issue for the first time, he cried. His chest wracked with sobs, wet splotches dotting the text with the #1 in bold, large print. He allowed a warm, unfamiliar feeling to blossom in his chest, overflow and drown him until he realizes it’s pride.
At the All-Japan Youth Camp, Atsumu once said to him, “If you were a performer, you’d be one of those backup dancers.” He flashed one of his fox grins right after, immediately turning to Kiyoomi to continue blabbering about god knows what. Motoya doesn’t process this right away. He’s too busy trying not to laugh at Kiyoomi’s expression, eyebrows scrunched together in vague disgust.
He thinks about it later. Backup dancer, he decides, is a role that takes dedication and selflessness and reliability. Motoya doesn’t mind not being in the spotlight, and he moves on. Moving forward has become a constant. He doesn’t have time to dwell on insignificant things.
Motoya gets drunk for the first time when he’s 20. He’s out at an izakaya with the rest of his team, high on another win. He decides that Suna Rintarou’s shoulder is rather comfortable, that his hair is rather pretty in the dim yellow light. His head is buzzing pleasantly. His thoughts are hazy, slow. He lets go of the awareness that follows him in every other aspect of life, focuses all his attention on points of contact. His legs against the artificial material of the chair. His cheek, squished against Suna’s shoulder. He breathes in, lets out a giggle. Everything feels loose and easy, and he allows himself to stop the passing of time, just for a moment.
The lights in the stadium are harsh, but he doesn’t mind. His eyes and senses are reliable, his effort won’t fail him now. He smiles. Wide, open, happy. The number 19 is printed in white, bold across his chest. The 9, endings. The 1, new beginnings. At age 23, he has his whole life ahead of him.
Motoya’s not sure when he started falling in love with volleyball. He’s always loved easy, like the way everything mundane seems too bright and soft-edged in a Ghibli movie. He falls for the birdsong in the morning, filtering through his window. He falls for the soft glow of street lamps, and the way they cast harsh shadows across the pavement at night. He falls in love with the sound of a good storm, with the sun streaming through the clouds after. Although he falls in love easily, he doesn’t often fall hard. But volleyball is his pride and his home, and he’s never fallen as hard or as willingly as he does for it.
“Nice receive!” etches its way onto his bones, makes a home in the core of his being. The day others stop finding reliability in Motoya is the day he stops finding solace in volleyball. The day the sun runs out of fuel to burn.
That is to say, billions of years in the future, when reliability and volleyball and the very concept of Motoya no longer exist.
Not anytime soon.