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Konoha Akinori likes easy-to-read people; Akaashi Keiji is not one of them.
It hurts Konoha—mostly his pride—that even though he would like to be a good senpai, he has no idea what Akaashi thinks, feels or believes. The first-year setter never complains, no matter how tough practice gets or how long Bokuto keeps him after for extra spikes. He barely speaks, and even when he does his tone is measured, soft, and polite. Feelings—if he has them—never quite reach the surface.
Sometimes Konoha wonders whether Akaashi Keiji is human at all. His picture perfect face is always impassive and his mellow voice never hitches; he never shouts or cries. His hands never shake, beautiful fingers guiding the ball and setting it right where Konoha likes it, ready to spike. No matter the situation, be it a stressful practice match or one of Bokuto’s meltdowns, Akaashi’s composure never breaks. He is the stereotypical prince Konoha had once hoped to become: athletic, intelligent, handsome, and—unbeknownst to him—popular with the girls.
Sometimes Konoha wishes Akaashi was a cyborg.
No one should be this perfect by default.
Or this emotionless.
The first-year setter enters the gymnasium for his first-ever match in Nationals with the same level of interest as someone preparing to wash the dishes. He walks to the changing rooms without a glance spared at the other teams, the merchandise, or the crowds. He puts down his bag on a bench and starts changing wordlessly.
Konoha looks up from tying his shoes in order to observe Akaashi. The first-year setter looks completely unaffected by both Bokuto’s hype and the jitters some other players show. As if the atmosphere was but a gentle breeze passing by, Akaashi remains unaffected as their coach debriefs them one last time on their opponents and simply nods to acknowledge the decision that he will be the starting setter. It is when they move to their positions on the court from the formal line-up before the match that Konoha hears Akaashi letting out a shaky breath as they pass each other.
Almost as if he was nervous.
That can’t be, though. Cyborgs have no feelings, do they?
Konoha, having been on the same team with someone as whimsical as Bokuto for a year, had learned how individual mood swings can throw off the dynamic of the whole team. He feels a knot forming in the pit of his stomach—he cannot shrug his bad premonition that something is off.
He can never see through Akaashi’s stoic façade, but now he notices cracks in the mask. Akaashi’s glance flies from one teammate to the other as he chews on his lower lip. His hands fidget with the taping on his fingers. He is scuffing his shoes against the floor.
Konoha—as the good senpai, he wishes to be—wants to reach out to touch his shoulder and assure him that everything is going to be alright, when the sound of whistle tears into the air, signaling the start of the game.
*
The world—as Akaashi Keiji sees it—is full of liabilities, and Nationals is a timed bomb of possible disaster. Worst is, his views are based upon hours and hours of observation. Fukurodani is full of weaknesses that any opponent can quickly turn to their advantage. The main reason for Akaashi’s worries is their star player, Bokuto: with his weakness count of over fifty, his tab is the longest among all the teammates’ Akaashi has to keep in mind and consider during the match. There, just as they enter the court, he is already showing clear signs of weakness number six: his love to show off, followed in quick succession by weakness number eleven: his reckless way of doing acrobatics right before the match. What if he pulled a muscle? And there, Coach Yamiji’s second weakness rears its head: he is too soft on Bokuto.
Next to Akaashi, Washio shows signs of weakness four: he is cracking his fingers excessively to fight off his nervousness. Akaashi feels a little strict for including this as a weakness, but one time Washio cracked his fingers weirdly, which resulted with his hand in a cast for a week, so it definitely is.
Komi next to him is jumping excitedly to warm up, but really, his excitement in itself is a weakness—in the heat of the game, he tends to forget about his position and stays in the way of a back attack.
Konoha’s number one weakness is his vanity. His second is his competitiveness. The third is that he is a sore loser. He became an all-rounder in order to look good, yet he wants to be better at spiking than Bokuto and at receiving than Komi. Hearing “jack of all trades” makes him proud, but if someone adds “master of none” he deflates, and even if it is not as near spectacular as one of Bokuto’s meltdowns, it does affect the team.
The worst in Akaashi’s opinion, however, is himself.
Akaashi Keiji’s number one fear rears its ugly head, numbing his senses: what if Fukurodani loses because of him?
The thought feeds into his anxiety, growing it into one fat monster glaring him in the eye across the net.
It’s supposed to be his home ground; analyzing and evaluating things, measuring the possible outcomes, and choosing the option with the best chances of success … and still, he barely sees the opponent team; the blockers’ presence registers as some faint fear in the back of his head and his hand is guided by gut feeling more than clear decision making.
Every lost point weighs on his shoulder and every missed chance to score ties a new knot over his stomach until he wonders how his body is still able to stand upright when his insides have all contorted.
Time slips through his fingers. His legs take him from one side of the court to the other. Someone hands him a water bottle. Someone praises his deep focus.
Akaashi Keiji’s head is a whirlwind of thoughts.
Komi receives the ball and Bokuto calls for it. Bokuto has been playing well so far, but his last spike was blocked and he seems to be frustrated ever since. If he gets the ball now, the chance that he hurries into an attack without thinking is high. He might just smash it into the blockers again, which could lead to tragic results; a Bokuto meltdown is something Akaashi cannot handle at the moment when standing on the court and playing makes him feel deaf, blind, and numb at the same time. Konoha calls from the other side, but it is his weaker side, if he attempts a straight line shot it would probably go out of bounds.
Akaashi’s limbs move on their own, decisions slipping from his hands like spring water.
He doesn’t remember where he sent the last ball before the whistle sounds again, signaling the end of the game.
*
Konoha’s war cry melts in with the shouts and cheers of his teammates. The only one silent on their side of the net is Akaashi standing by the net, still in a setting position.
“Nice toss,” Konoha says walking up to him, yet still barely audible amidst all the noise.
Blinking as if woken from a hundred-year-sleep, Akaashi looks at him. “N-nice kill,” he replies. His voice is hesitant, his lips wobble, tears pool in his eyes. “We won,” he says, unbelieving. He is a wreck, crying from happiness and his nerves; clinging to Konoha’s jersey for support. “I thought … we would … Did it really happen? Did we really win?”
Konoha has watched him for months—but he sees Akaashi for the first time.
Standing on the court with tears rolling down his face so full of emotions—happiness and surprise mixed with relief and exhaustion—his sobs slowly turning into laughter, he could not be further detached from the image of a perfect prince.
And Konoha has to conclude, Akaashi is definitely no cyborg.
“You were great,” Konoha replies, patting his kouhai on the back.
“I … did what I could do and nothing more.”
“You don’t need to,” Konoha says with a smile. “But you can always lean on us a little more.”