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2020-08-29
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1/1
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such things as memories

Summary:

In volleyball, the past is gone. There are no such things as memories.

Or so Atsumu thought.

[Oikawa Tooru is the center of the universe]

Notes:

hello! this was a completely spontaneous fic based on this post. i've never written atsumu, but i have written plenty of iwaoi, so this is me using my comfort zone to venture out of it. i hope you'll enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

In volleyball, the past is gone. There are no such things as memories.

Or so he thought. 

Miya Atsumu’s rib cage threatens to burst open as he peels his gaze away from the other side of the court. The men in blue have their chests raised up, limbs anticipating victory just as much as the audience. 

Instead, he looks at Tobio. The setter’s eyes gleam with mirth and his lips are upturned in palpable excitement. He’s looking where everyone else is looking. Where Atsumu couldn’t bear to look on.

“He’s ruthless. More so than usual.” Tobio comments, finally making eye contact with his teammate. 

Atsumu swallows. Tries to, rather. His throat is dry from chasing the ball to the tune of the most talked about conductor in the room. 

“Yeah. He is.”

Oikawa Tooru has just scored his third service ace in a row. No-touch. As Atsumu takes his slow backward steps to occupy Tobio’s place on the bench, he observes the faces of all his teammates. 

Tobio holds every star from the past in his eyes. The referee blows the whistle to initiate the eight second timeframe within which the ball can be sent charging to the floor once more and the starry-eyed setter softly bends his knees to prepare to dive towards it if need be.

Shoyo is no different. All throughout the game he exchanged meaningful glances with Argentina’s starting setter, be it in the form of impressed eyebrow raises or teasing winks when one or the other scored. Even now with the ball in the air as Oikawa Tooru takes calculated steps towards his meticulous point of impact, Shoyo’s golden eyes are wide with concentration, but his mouth is slightly parted in a visible smile. 

The sight offends him, so just as Oikawa Tooru’s palm comes in contact with the rubber of the ball, Atsumu turns back around to the sound of a whip hitting cement, knowing fully well that they had just lost the lead they wracked their bones to gain, all in the hands of the talk of the town.

“He must be fucking kidding,” hisses Morisuke. Atsumu takes a seat right beside him and looks ahead to take in the look of frustration held by Motoya, who lays on the ground mere centimeters away from where Oikawa had launched the ball like a cannon during war.

“He’s not,” states Wakatoshi from his left. Atsumu snaps his head to look at him, and he’s all but breathless even though he’s been off the court for half the set. “Not when it comes to this.”

Atsumu loathes the sight of awe that plasters the visage of his third team member in a row. His blunt nails press into the skin of his thighs, breath having a hard time regaining despite the air that relieves his burning lungs. 

The crowd drowns the court with another wave of cheers, rhythmic claps and stomps interweaving through the crevices of each voice. The world spins between Oikawa Tooru’s fingers, and the air is made of the syllables of his name. The bodies of his opponents are a mere inconvenience rather than an actual threat. Every soul on this land is under his spell.

The one most transfixed of all comes in the form of a helping hand that tends to Atsumu’s ankles. 

“You don’t feel any pain, do you?” Hajime inquires with an even voice. He focuses on the feel of Atsumu’s joints beneath his fingers, looking at him afterwards in search of any signs of pain or discomfort. 

“Doesn’t hurt. Could use some ice, though.” 

With a nod, Hajime walks off  to get two ice packs from the cooler. He comes back to wrap them around Atsumu’s ankles and the setter intakes a sharp breath at the sudden coolness biting his skin. 

“Don’t look so down. We still have a chance of turning this around.” Says Hajime. He sits on the floor, right across Morisuke’s feet with shoulders hunched relaxedly and hands clasped loosely in front of him. “Hinata managed to get the ball up.”

Sure enough, the ball is in the air and Tobio is running to place himself under it as the spikers make their way to jump. Bokuto Koutaro shoots the rubber sphere between the arms of two blockers, and Argentina’s libero misses it by a fraction of an inch. There’s a delay in the cheers from the Japanese spectators, for they take a second to sigh in relief first. Morisuke’s fist pumps discreetly just as everyone celebrates not the earning of a point, but rather the momentary subduing of the twenty-seven year old boy wonder that is Oikawa Tooru.

Atsumu’s muscles slacken as his team slowly racks up points. They don't regain their lead on Argentina, but they don’t let the gap widen either. It’s a push and pull of points between red and blue and Oikawa Tooru is in the center of it all.

Soon, Wakatoshi and Motoya exchange places. Atsumu can see the smirk on Oikawa’s face. The universe just gained another planet that orbits him after all. 

It’s a ghastly sight. Remnants of the past coil together into a rope that everyone tries to climb. A rope held by the setter in blue. Atsumu doesn’t miss the vigor with which Tobio makes his tosses, or the extra spring under Shoyo’s feet as he soars into the air just a little higher, for just a little longer than before. Atsumu doesn’t miss the extra millimeters in the stretch of Wakatoshi’s arm before he releases more stress than he’s ever built up in his limbs onto the ball, all in one go. Most of all, he doesn’t miss how Hajime leans forward a bit more with each dozen breaths. Every inch of him gives away his desire to be closer to the court. To be closer to the flames burning between the athletes’ feet. To be closer to the man made of gasoline.

In volleyball, the past is gone. There are no such things as memories.

All you need is right here. All you need are your muscles. 

That’s how it is for him. That’s how it should be for everyone else. That’s how it would have been if it weren’t for one Oikawa Tooru carving himself into every unknown corner of one’s mind, leaving the taste of him in their mouths like the taste of one’s own skin. 

“They’re getting caught up in the pace Argentina is setting for them.” Atsumu hears his coach say. Everything sounds as if he’s under water. “But, I feel like if it were any other way, they wouldn’t be performing as well.”

From the corner of his eyes he sees Hajime smile. He’s not sure the athletic trainer is conscious of it. Hajime follows the trajectory of the ball and holds his breath in excitement before a set, no matter the setter touching the ball. 

Maybe, Atsumu thinks begrudgingly, for Hajime, there are only memories. His volleyball doesn’t require muscles or the now. His volleyball is a path woven between walls painted in different shades of blue. 

 

“Why’d ya choose to become an athletic trainer, Haji-kun?”

“Well,” he fiddled with the roll of gauze in his hands. “I spent a lot of time back in school learning about injury prevention. I guess I began to enjoy it somewhere along the way.”

“Even more than playin’ volleyball?”

Hajime had to pause to think. He placed the gauze in the first-aid kit before simpering. “At the time I decided to study sports science, no. But I knew I wouldn’t enjoy it as much after high school. ”

 

The sudden realization makes Atsumu’s chest ache. He had always thought Hajime meant he wouldn’t enjoy pursuing volleyball professionally. It wasn’t a foreign concept, what with Osamu deciding the same thing for himself at the same point in their lives. However, as he watches his team’s athletic trainer spell all synonyms of joy with just the glimmer in his eyes, he knows that it was never about playing volleyball on a professional scale.

The referee blows the whistle. Atsumu snaps out of his reverie and views the scoreboard. Argentina is at match point. 

“You’re only two points behind. Just try to slow down. Don’t be hasty.” The coach instructs once all the team members form a circle around him. “By now you’ve gotten the hang of picking up Oikawa’s serves. It’s only about timing your dives properly to make receives. I won’t sub anyone out in the last minute.” 

None of the players who had just returned from the court speak. They hastily guzzle down water and shake out their limbs to release the tension in their muscles. 

The timeout ends and both sides of the crowd cheer for their respective teams. As the team walks back to the court, their coach rambles out a summary of his instructions. 

“Don’t be hasty! Move fast, but don't be hasty!” He hollers. “Aran, move closer to the back. Have Hinata make any dives if needed!”

Atsumu is back to watching. Painstakingly, each team spikes and receives. It’s Ojiro who manages to narrow the point gap, eliciting a burst of excitement from everyone in red. Hajime clenches his fist and shakes them in elation, shouting a “yes!” and jumping in his seat. Morisuke shouts, “once more! Once more!” like he’s one of the spectators. Even Kiyoomi breathes out a sigh of relief. 

“Nice serve!” Hajime says in his deep voice. Tobio flicks the ball in the air and takes his practiced steps. Argentina’s players watch with sharp concentration. 

Multiple people shout incoherently at once with the crowd when the ball bounces off Argentina’s captain’s arms, the velocity causing it to shoot towards the net. Atsumu is on the edge of his seat and his heart is in his throat. With no sets to their name, this is their final chance to turn the tides. His eyes are wide as they follow the course of the ball, which is eerily close to the corner of the net.

It’s going to go out. It won’t make it inbounds.  

A hand enters his vision now, belonging to Oikawa Tooru. The brunette stretches his body diagonally to get his fingers on the ball, and everyone in the room stops breathing as they watch it happen. 

He’s not going to make it. He can’t. Please. 

At the very least millisecond, he manages to make contact with the ball with the tips of his fingers. He flexes them to change the trajectory of the ball, making it land inbounds with a silent thud. Atsumu’s vision loses focus and his ears can only make out silence.

“Oh, shit!” Kiyoomi hisses, looking pained. Confused, Atsumu looks at him and then at their side of the court. Instead of defeat, worry laces everyone’s expressions, and one look at Argentina’s side of the court reveals why.

Time moves through mercury. The air, the people, every atom in the room goes stagnant. 

Turns out, Oikawa Tooru has the ability to stop time.

And it’s Iwaizumi Hajime who commences it again. 

Atsumu rises to the surface of an ocean from deep within. He can suddenly hear the chants of encouragement for the setter who hit his head on the metal pole when dumping the ball inbounds. The volume dwindles from confusion as Argentina’s crowd watches the opponent’s athletic trainer run to their setter faster than any athlete on the court has run over the span of the entire match. Every player, coach, and staff member takes in the scene with wide eyes and surprise-induced silence. 

Hajime reaches Oikawa before the medics and even his own teammates do. Even from afar Atsumu can perceive the panic that leaks out of him as he crouches down to be leveled with his childhood friend, grayish green eyes filled with fear and care and so much love that Atsumu skin burns with the need to avert his gaze.

Oikawa has his eyes squeezed shut and mouth pressed into a tight line. His hands are clenched and his body completely stiff as if he’s too afraid to move and feel the full brunt of the impact with the post. Hajime says something to him and even though Atsumu can’t hear him he knows his voice is soft. Soft like the “I’ll call you after practice”s and the “be sure to stretch properly, idiot”s he’d pretend not to hear him mumble through the phone right before hanging up with the most pleasantly dazed look on his face. 

Atsumu’s teammates begin walking off the court. Nobody speaks of the loss, still occupied with the interaction between their trainer and his best friend half a court away. 

“It sounded pretty bad. The blow, I mean.” Shoyo murmurs to no one in particular.

“That last play was very reckless of him.” Ushijima comments.

“Oikawa-san wouldn’t be here today if he weren’t reckless, though.” Kageyama responds. 

 

“I spent a lot of time back in school learning about injury prevention.”

 

Atsumu snorts bitterly. “So, that’s why.”

His teammates all look to him quizzically. 

“What?” Kiyoomi questions, cocking his head to one side.

Shaking his head, he smiles and looks back to the center of everyone’s attention -- the center of the universe. 

Hajime is helping Oikawa to his feet. A woman from the medical team is beside them. The athletic trainer guides Oikawa to his team’s bench, where everyone creates space for the injured athlete without a word. Nobody seems to question their opponent’s presence, and from the way the captain smirks and gets swatted away by Oikawa after making a comment, Atsumu knows why his presence doesn’t confuse them one bit.

The trainer returns moments later, but not before giving Oikawa’s hand a light squeeze and caressing the back of his head. He says something, to which the setter nods, letting go of his hand and being engulfed into the circle of smug teammates.

“Is he okay?” Shoyo asks as soon as he’s within earshot. Nobody comments on his actions either. Not even the coach.

“Yeah. He doesn’t seem to have a concussion. Thankfully most of the force fell on his shoulder.” He responds. Everyone looks relieved.

The loss doesn’t seem to bother anyone. Or rather, it doesn’t occupy anyone’s mind until their coach asks them to gather to reflect on the game. It’s a short speech; something to be elaborated after everyone has had a chance to change out of their sweaty clothes and recovered from the tiring few sets. 

 

Soon enough, they begin to leave the gymnasium. Everyone converses among themselves, discussing their performance on the court and the upcoming challengers. Tobio and Shoyo walk directly ahead of him. They bicker about something seemingly pointless -- as they always do.

“You okay?” 

Atsumu’s heart leaps in his chest at the familiar voice. He turns towards the sound and feels warmth rise up his neck.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not bummed over the loss, are you? We still have plenty of matches to go.” Assures Hajime. He’s carrying a first-aid box. Atsumu recognizes it from their practices.

“‘Course not, Haji-kun! We’re just gettin’ started.” 

The trainer pats his shoulder. “That’s right.” His touch is strong. Firm. 

It hurts. Even only carrying minimal force, it hurts.

Ojiro catches up with them. He stretches his arms as he points his chin towards the Karasuno duo and Shiratorizawa’s former ace, “they look happy.”

Hajime chuckles. “They’ve been looking forward to this match. Especially Kageyama and Ushijima.”

“And you.” Aran adds. Atsumu purposefully stares ahead but he knows that Aran is smirking teasingly. 

“And me.” comes confirmation from Hajime. “Lots of history behind this game, you could say.”

In volleyball, the past is gone. There are no such things as memories.

Or so he thought, until he faced the boy who could etch time into bones and ingrain the past into bloodstreams. 

Or so he thought, until he met Oikawa Tooru. 

 

Notes:

i'd love to hear your thoughts c: find me on twitter @bluekeiji!

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