Work Text:
"Play volleyball with me."
Ushijima had always been very matter-of-fact. Whatever he wanted to say he said, no matter the circumstances. You remember that first day, the first time he had really paid you any mind at all besides acknowledging glances across the street. You were sitting outside, playing with your little wooden cars, causing all sorts of freak accidents and dramatic movie-esque collisions that you could. They should have hired you for sound design or scene choreographing with how into it you were. Only for you to be snapped out of your childish sadistic trance to see him standing right next to you, his father in tow, holding a volleyball firmly in his hands. Those eyes that were just a red tint off brown burned with a crimson determination. His father scratched at the back of his head, abashed.
"Play volleyball with me."
You stopped playing with your cars, gently smacking two of them together for the last time. You put four and one together and got three; you understood most of that sentence the other kid had just said. A huge, unrestrained smile plastered itself across your face as, finally, someone wanted to play with you.
"Okay."
“Left!”
"Ahh, Toshi… don't hit it so hard~ You made him cry!" The kid on the other side of the net was scrunched up on the floor holding himself tight as he tried to will the pain away that stung harshly. Ushijima, despite being still in junior high, could definitely hit a spike. Hard. Talking mad hard, like maybe a boulder hard. No one wanted to receive a boulder, especially not a kid. You sure didn't, and it was really nice getting to play on his side all the time. You had already endured enough of his fanatics for the sport already…
Ushijima simply grunted as he turned his back on the sobbing child, resting his stoic and unfazed gaze in your direction. He shrugged his shoulders before walking off to the side of the court. There probably wasn’t going to be anymore meaningful practice with a kid writhing in pain on the floor. You followed after him, sneaking a few glances back at the now whimpering kid being lifted by one of the youth coaches, probably to take him to the infirmary.
"You should really tone it down, Toshi. That looked like it really hurt…" You said this with a shaking sense of disapproval of his seriousness and sympathy for the other kids. Most of the kids already knew not to get in Ushijima's way, but still, sometimes they'd be stuck between listening to the coaches scold them for not trying or eating a boulder coming at the soft side of your arms. It was now obvious which was the worst option.
"Why should I lower myself to others' levels? Because it hurts them otherwise?"
Ushijima spoke without so much as a courtesy to see that you were not pleased with his behavior before or now. His words were filled with a confidence that made him sound unequivocally right. Yeah, it's not his fault he's really good at the game. He shouldn't have to stop being good because others aren't as good! You caught yourself nodding your head before you shook yourself out of it. No, that was not the attitude to have. This was a sport, so winning meant something, but shattering someone's arms was not victory; it was just brutal.
"You can hit softer and still win," you grumbled, looking back to where the ball had connected with a deafening smack of leather on bare skin. You could feel your arms growing red just at the thought.
"That doesn't stop you from doing jump serves," Ushijima replied. When you turned back to him, your face a mix of I've been caught and how dare you turn this on me, he gave a small, almost missable smirk. "Let's keep practicing."
"Okay." It wasn't like he needed it, but at least he wanted you to practice with him.
"Come to Shiratorizawa with me."
"Isn't that the really prestigious school where you either get in by merit or not at all?"
"Yes, like every private school."
"You know what I mean!!" You roughly placed your cup back onto the table, the water sloshing out the edges and down the side. The cool feeling contrasted with the growing heat in your ears. Ushijima hadn't changed in the slightest; still incredibly blunt and lacking in the fundamentals of understanding sarcasm. It made it difficult to have quirky, fun conversation with him, but perhaps you should have just realized by now that wasn't his character. You begrudgingly popped another fry in your mouth. "I meant like if I was gonna go I'd already be going. They'd have either scouted me or I'd be face first in seven different textbooks."
"You can get in if you serve like you do when you think no one is looking." He took a bite of his food, not caring to see that he had completely unraveled any sense of cool you had. The fry in your mouth was suddenly incredibly salty and it felt like it hardened and scraped as it slowly went down your throat.
"You…" He swallowed his bite and coolly looked up at your bewildered expression.
"Yes, I saw you. I left my jacket on the sidelines and just happened to catch you. I don't get why you don't serve like that all the time." Your inner cheek was making real quick acquaintance with your teeth. By the end of this conversation, you were sure, despite the bloody mess they'd be, the two would know everything there was to know. They'd ask how the family was, were the kids that left a few years ago doing alright, what was their opinion on the local tax brackets… You really wished you weren't that well acquainted with Ushijima that he knew what you wanted to hold back. Well, technically you had held it back and he just broke through your walls like all it took was a forgotten jacket and convenient timing. Guess it did, actually.
"I don't think even with that I'd make it…" You weren't lying. Shiratorizawa was a powerhouse of a school. They wouldn't take just any kid that could serve a scary jump serve. It wasn't like you were bad at the other parts of the game, but you weren't amazing. You weren't going to spike like Ushijima, or receive like that kid from Chidoriyama, or set like Oikawa—
"You will."
"Okay." If he wanted you to try, you'd try, and if he believed in you, that was enough to make up for your own.
"Set it a bit tighter."
"Toshi, we've been at this for like three hours now… Can we go home?" Your body felt like it had been dragged through several continents worth of swampland. Every piece of clothing clung to your body in ways that were not comfortable to you or anyone who would happen to see you like this. Your arms were burning from constantly being above your head for hours now. The rest of the team had gone home but Ushijima wanted to keep going. You didn't know what he had on the coach but there was very little reason other than blackmail that he'd willingly give the gymnasium keys to first years.
"Fine. One more, then we can go," he replied, already tossing the ball into the air above you. You watched as it flew and began to fall as you contemplated just letting it fall right on your face. Perhaps the impact with your nose could set it enough that he could hit it and you'd be done. Then, because you took a ball to the face, you wouldn't have to walk home and he'd either call your parents to pick you up or he'd unceremoniously drag you back. Probably the latter. The toss was fast and tight, just like he wanted, and the ball slammed into the ground on the other side of the net.
"Was that better?" He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to expose his midriff. You snuck a glance before he turned to face you, his eyes catching yours and showing no sign of being tired or really ready to stop. God, did he ever slow down? It felt like he was going to tell you to do it again, and again, and again, until he deemed you had done it right enough times. His face held no expression towards you.
"No."
"Okay." You picked up a stray ball and threw it to him, beckoning him to try again. You'd get it right eventually.
“Take my jacket.”
“Huh?”
“You’re cold.” Ushijima shoved his jacket into your chest, not waiting for you to take a hold of it before releasing it from his grip. It nearly fell to the ground before you frantically clutched it in your hands, the smooth fabric balling up in your fists. He was right, you were cold, but it was your fault for thinking you’d be fine without yours. Dunking your head under a stream of cold water and then walking into full blast air conditioning sent your whole body into a stringent emergency protocol. You had to be warm, had to maintain that perfect homeostasis otherwise you would die. Each part of your body roll called out as they engaged the required action to ensure the proper body heat was being generated: shivering. Why did you leave your jacket on the bus?!
You extended the jacket back to him, but he had already started walking away towards where the team would be watching the rest of the matches. Standing there, arm awkwardly holding out his jacket, in the middle of a hallway with people scattered around you. You felt like you were in some hopeless romantic comedy and this was supposed to be the moment people both laughed at the helplessness and cooed at the small intimacy shared between the two main characters. Any moment, you’d walk into the room, wearing his jacket, and everyone would just know he was yours and you were his. And yet, you’d spend the next hour and half beating around the bush until it just clicked and you were a happy, full-fledged, never-going-to-have-problems-ever-despite-all-the-communication-problems-you-obviously-had-before couple!! Everyone would leave nice, five star reviews on your IMDb page. Maybe you’d win best lead, even.
But you weren’t in a romantic comedy. You were just hopeless.
“Okay.” You shrugged his jacket on as you muttered to yourself, the sleeves falling past your fingertips and the bottom of it tickling just above the middle of your thighs. It smelled and felt like him. He never asked for it back and it eventually ended up piled under things in your closet, but you knew it was there. Festering.
“If you have no intention of playing seriously, then quit.”
“Is that what you want me to do? You want me to quit because I don’t find it fun to constantly crush people?” Your fists were held tightly together, the skin over your knuckles beginning to split open from the tension. Your tongue barely held back venom as you stared at the ground, tears threatening to fall. Ushijima stood there, barely affected by any of what continued to happen. No one stood a chance. How long had it been since they hadn’t won? How many times had you watched as the opposing team stopped caring, stopped trying, stopped thinking it was even worth the effort to play if Shiratorizawa was their opponent. There’s only so much of an illusion hope can construct before it shatters and all that’s left is the harsh reality.
You aren’t good enough. You never had a chance at all. You lose.
“I want you to quit if you’re not going to take it seriously,” he reiterated with the same stoic, no underlying intentions, just straight up what he thought, tone. His gaze was probably harsh and you didn’t want to meet it, but he placed a hand down on your shoulder, halting the shakes rumbling through your body. “You shouldn’t play for a team if you’re not going to put in your all.”
You felt the world come to a halt. Play for a team. Play for a team. Play for a team. Did he not know? Did he not remember? Did he not care? This had never been for anyone else. You didn’t come here for Shiratorizawa, the prestige, the notoriety, the potential for the future. You didn’t stay after practice for hours on end to get better for the team. You didn’t master your serves and improve other aspects of your play for the team. You didn’t continue to put yourself through a grueling balancing act of school, volleyball, and mentally keeping yourself together for the team. You didn’t continue to serve ace after ace against teams that could barely set up a proper attack, watching them grow increasingly mentally exhausted and defeated, for the team.
I don’t play for the team, I play for you. Do you still want me to do that? is what you wanted to say, but you didn’t. You stared into his stupid, dumb olive eyes and watched as a gentle breeze swept his gross, ugly olive colored hair with it. You internally screamed as you traced down his sculpted face, saw how his rough but soft-looking lips moved as he spoke in that aggravating but entrancing low, rumble of a voice. His broad shoulders melted into defined arms, one that led right down to his calloused, strong grip on your shoulder which showed he could easily push you up against the wall and do whatever he wanted to and you’d gladly welcome him to do just tha—
“Think about it, quitting. You should stay if you’re uncertain.” He let go of your shoulder and walked past you.
“Okay.” You walked back into the gymnasium, hoping the coach would still be there. He was. You told him you’d like to be pulled off the regulars roster and be put in a pinch server position. He was confused. But, he eventually reluctantly agreed when you told him how you just didn’t feel adequate enough to support Ushijima as a regular.
“Ushijima. Do you want to win?”
“Yes. Why would you ask that inane question?”
“Okay.” You walked over to the coach, asking if he’d put you in for the rest of the set. The score was already in your favor at 16-7, but that wasn’t enough of a lead. You nodded your head when he asked if you wanted to replace the current server. The whistle indicating the timeout was over pulled everyone back onto the court, including you. The ball felt nice in your hands as it bounced against the tips of your fingers, back and forth rhythmically, and the court. Content with the feeling, you caught the ball in your hands and turned around to face the net. You noted how everyone seemed to look at you, willing you to serve exactly as they wanted.
Serve an ace. And then another. And another. And another…
You glanced over to Ushijima, his gaze fixated elsewhere beyond the net. You felt the ball grow heavy in your hand before the whistle rang out. Your eyes followed the motion the referee gave, felt your arm dip low before it lifted up and the ball rose out of your hand and into the air. Your body seemed to move on its own, as if by instinct or forced, beat-into-you habit, before you sprung into the air as your arms moved to give you as much momentum as possible. Your hand snapped back next to your head as you locked onto the ball, watching, feeling, knowing, where it fell in the air. One smack, two smack. One cheer, two cheer. One point, two point. Eight point, last point.
Ushijima wins.
“Why did you ask if I wanted to win?”
“I wanted to know if that was what you wanted from me. Nothing else.” Your feet left the floor as Ushijima grabbed you by the collar of your jersey. You felt the sharp pain in your back as he roughly collided you with the wall, the throbbing in your head as it snapped back and fell forward. You felt his heat, the smell of sweat and sports deodorant on him, the way his breath pulsed over your face in a heavy rhythm. It was sweet with the smell of the energy drinks they had, a strange contrast to the bitter feeling hanging over the two of you. You didn’t want to fight, not now, not ever. You were tired so you closed your eyes and let your body go limp in his arms.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I did,” you replied weakly.
“What is wrong with you? Do you only care about winning for me?!” You laughed, softly at first before it quickly bubbled over into a complete fit. Did he still not get it? The fist connected with your face but you didn’t care. It hurt, it hurt a lot. Not just your face, though.
“Ushijima! What the fuck are you doing?!” You didn’t really know who said that, but you felt your body slump down onto the ground and someone lifted your face up by your chin. “Let’s get you some ice for this, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“No.”
“So you’re just going to keep this to yourself and keep hoping he notices you’d do anything for him?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t think that’s working out too well. How’s your face?”
“No complaints.” A long sigh followed.
“Look, he’s not gonna catch your drift any time soon. I think you should just drop it, find someone else.”
“Perhaps.”
“‘Perhaps’? This is really unhealthy, it’s not good for you at all.”
“Okay, I’ll do something.”
“Here’s your jacket back.”
“Oh, you had it? I got a replacement a long time ago.”
“Yeah, sorry. I guess I forgot about it.” You hadn’t. It had called to you, reminding you that you had a reason to randomly show up at his house, no matter the circumstances. You had a nagging feeling that jackets were somehow important, life-changing objects.
“I’m sorry for hitting you back at the tournament.”
“It’s alright, I think there’s a lot of things we need to talk about, if you’d mind the trouble right now.”
“Okay. Let’s talk.”
“Hey, Toshi, do you want me to come to your games this week?”
“If you have the time, sure.” He still wasn’t very expressive, even after all the years. You leaned on his desk and put your face in your hands, your eyes flicking up and down his form. When he finally met your gaze you gave him a warm, caring smile.
“It’s your last Spring tournament, isn’t it? Of course I’d have time.” He took a bite from his food, giving you a small, raised eyebrow.
“It could have been your last one too if you hadn’t quit.” Your teeth made cozy with your cheek for a bit as you contemplated what to respond with. He was right; you would be on the same court one last time if you hadn’t quit back then after the whole hey I’ve really only been playing volleyball because of you and I’m not sure what my feelings are for you but this doesn’t feel right the way it is incident. It had been, for a lack of a better word: utterly, completely, absolutely, without a doubt, awkward. You let out a small huff of air as you tilted your head and reached down to grab your lunch from your bag.
“Well, it still is my last, my last one where I get to watch my dearest Toshi play,” you said, slyly catching how he tried to remain completely stoic despite the obvious way you laced your words with a stark sweetness. He had taken the whole thing in… a stride. Not exactly one that could be described as effortless or even mildly confident, which was uncharacteristic of him. The awkwardness of the moment kind of got washed away quickly by the fact that he was almost as clueless about the whole feelings thing as you were. It was like the two of you had been in the same line, expecting that eventually you’d be able to get what you both wanted at the end of the whole thing— some emotional reciprocacy for you and a close, almost intimate partner (in volleyball) for him— only to find out you had no idea what the line actually was for and you were thrusted right on to an emotional ride you would never have stood in line for. You would always remember his response after you practically threw up all your feelings after trying to return his jacket right on his doorstep.
“You’re quitting?” You were sure your soul manifested and then ascended through at least five different planes of existence so your grief could take corporeal form and scream into the void. Of all the things to mention first, of course it was going to be that. At least the rest of the conversation was more pertinent than quitting the volleyball team.
“Then, I’d like it if you’d come see me play.” And somehow, that ride ended up here. For a while it was kind of weird; you weren’t sure he had even thought about someone in the way you were asking him to. It took a few months of slowly introducing him to the ideas, getting him to recognize the feelings he had already had— apparently, he punched you because he was concerned that you had changed a lot suddenly— and the ones he was starting to have, and at times get him to say what he actually did hold back. Turns out the big lug did have some things he didn’t say out loud, like how he really liked it when you let him rest his head in your lap after practice. Or how he liked being the small spoon sometimes. Or how he enjoyed how big his jacket was on you (he gave it back after washing it). But, you wouldn’t tell anyone those things. You’d just smile and say ‘Yeah, that’s him, my big, dumb, volleyball-addicted boyfriend. Isn’t he cute?’
“Okay, I will, for you.”