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Daichi finds himself in front of the mirror in the club room once again.
It was like this every time—nothing ever changed. It wasn’t like Daichi was making a conscious effort to change, so why should he expect change?
He prods gently at the softness poking over his gym shorts waistband. He flexes his abs; the waistband loosens ever-so-slightly and the muscles under his fingers firm up, but the softness remains on top. Daichi fiddles with it some more, pinching enough to make the skin go tender and redden.
“...Daichi?”
Daichi whirls around, pulling his t-shirt down and brushing himself off. “Suga! Hey! I hadn’t realized you were still here.”
“I was just waiting to walk back with you.” Suga raises a brow and looks him up and down.
( Looks him up and down. Damn, everyone else sees it, too.)
“Uh, sorry. Thanks for waiting, you didn’t have to.”
“It’s no problem,” Suga says, but the narrowness of his eyes indicates otherwise. Daichi has a distinct feeling he’s being scrutinized.
The tender skin he was pinching before stings under Suga’s gaze.
It’s not until the door to the club room is locked and they’re walking home at a steady pace that Daichi starts to relax. He’s still acutely aware of his thighs brushing up against each other as he walks, though, and that’s something Suga’s thighs never do. Or anyone else on the team, for that matter.
“What was that about, back in the club room?” Suga asks after a while of silence—silence that Suga may have considered comfortable, but that Daichi found suffocating.
“Hm?”
“You know. With the mirror.” Suga’s eyes narrow again; he knows Daichi is full of shit.
“Oh, that.” Daichi laughs a bit too loud. “It was nothing.”
“Number eleven! Get your fatass in gear and run!”
Daichi knew crazy Coach Ukai didn’t mean much by that. He was an old man who didn’t tolerate giving less than one hundred percent at all times and he wasn’t afraid to make off-color comments. To be fair, Daichi was lagging behind while they were doing laps, and he deserved a little...encouragement to get going. He passed a single person, lost a little steam, and finished the laps in sixth place, behind both Suga and Asahi.
Cardio has never been Daichi’s favorite. Even though he was only a second-year, he could out-squat or out-bench anyone on the team while they did weight training; but, Daichi tended to be near the middle of the pack when it came to running and all that.
It probably was because of his weight. Ukai barely ever speaks to him—Daichi wasn’t even sure if he knew his name —so he just took the most superficial thing about Daichi to push him along.
That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though.
“Daichi! Let’s go to Sakanoshita, I’m starving!” Koushi calls, suddenly rushing down the street from behind him. His bag smacked against the handlebars of his bike as he stepped to a stop next to him.
Daichi grins as well as he can. “I’ll pass today. You go on.”
“Are you serious!? How are you not hungry?”
Daichi shrugs—at the last moment, he has to question whether or not that’s what a shrug looks like, it feels so unnatural on him. “I’m just not.”
(He was absolutely starving. Famished. There was no way Suga was hungrier than he was; there was no way anyone on earth was hungrier than he was. But he didn’t need any trashy snack food.)
“But that was the toughest practice we’ve had in, like...uh, well, this whole month has been tough, but Ukai was mean today!” Suga gesticulates wildly. “I was surprised Asahi was able to hold himself in that long.”
“Yeah. Honestly, I was proud of him.” Asahi had broken down to tears in the last ten minutes of practice. Suga had to run out with him and comfort him, assuring him that no, your talent isn’t completely lost because you get too scared, he’s, uh, totally making that up! Daichi had to cover for both of them, doing three times the work cleaning the gym than he usually had to do.
“C’mon, we deserve a treat.” Suga elbows him like usual, providing some nice, supportive physical abuse. “I’ll pay for your meat bun.”
“No, seriously, I’ll wait for dinner.”
Suga must have sensed something was wrong because he starts making some highball offers. “What if I threw in one of those fancy tuna onigiri, too? Completely on me.”
“No, Suga, I’m fine,” Daichi nearly snaps. When Suga backs up immediately with his hands raised, he hangs his head and murmurs, “Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Suga stops walking his bike and puts his arm out in front of Daichi to make him stop, too. Daichi presses against his arm, but he won’t let up. “Is this about what Ukai said? He called you fat during the laps, didn’t he?”
Daichi grinds his heel into the pavement and finds the courage to meet Suga’s knife-like gaze. “Even if it were, he was telling the truth. I am one of the heavier guys on the team. I should get faster if I want to be a better player, and that starts with not having two dinners.”
His lips screw up, but Suga’s stare doesn’t falter. “Daichi, you realize you’re one of the heavier guys because you’re the most muscular, right? And that being more average in terms of speed isn’t a bad thing?”
Daichi’s eyes dart to the side. “Fine. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to improve.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Suga grabs Daichi’s shoulder when he finally breaks eye contact.
“Look, you’re not the type of guy to get hung up on one insult from an old curmudgeon, which tells me you’ve been concerned about this beforehand.”
“So what?” Daichi crosses his arms, then releases them when Suga cocks a brow—that’s his tell that he’s getting defensive.
Suga’s eyes finally soften and the gaze turns to something more empathetic. “I think you already know this, but for you, weight loss isn’t something that will help you improve. The only way you can support your current muscle mass is to keep eating. Hell, I’ll put in more hours doing cardio with you if that’s what you want to do, but don’t—” Suga sucks in a breath and gestures to Daichi’s body up and down. “Don’t change this by accident. If old Ukai won’t admit it, I will. You and your receives are the backbone of the team, even though you’re a second-year, so you need to be in tip-top shape all the time, which means maintaining your current caloric intake.”
Daichi isn’t quite sure how to follow that up other than with a denial, which he knows Suga would just deny in return, so he only breathes out and holds Suga’s gaze.
Suga smacks his back—hard. “Now, c’mon. It’s not every day that I offer to pay for your fancy tuna onigiri.”
It was 5:30 AM.
It was 5:30 in the morning, they were standing in front of the bus waiting for Takeda, Hinata forgot his warmup jacket, and Kageyama was being loud about it.
“Dumbass!” Kageyama looks ready to punch Hinata. “I can’t believe you forgot part of your uniform!”
“Sorry! I was rushing and I left it on the kitchen counter!”
“We’re all supposed to look the same! That’s why we have a warmup! And you ruined it!”
“Oh yeah?” Hinata seems to search for an insult in return. “Well...your hair looks dumb! Did you even comb it before you left your house? So careless!”
“ Your hair looks dumb!”
“Alright, let’s calm down here, it’s not a big deal either way,” Suga placates cooly.
He looks to Daichi for support, to which Daichi simply replies, “It’s too early for me to deal with this.”
Thanks to some sharp words from Tanaka and some softer words from Suga, the duo had quieted to angry muttering. But it didn’t take long for Hinata to start feeling the chill of early-morning air.
“Are you freaking shivering? ”
“No!”
(He was.)
“Liar, you totally are! Your muscles are gonna be useless in the game today!”
Daichi finally can’t take it any longer. “Hinata, c’mere.”
Hinata snaps up from his futile argument to scamper over to his captain. His teeth were literally chattering.
Daichi starts peeling off his own jacket, draping it over Hinata’s shoulders and rubbing them vigorously. “Kageyama’s right. You’ll be struggling in the game if your muscles are shot from shivering.”
Hinata immediately begins to take it off. “But, Daichi-san—”
“I’ll be fine.” And that was true; he had his...insulating layer, as he had been calling it recently.
“O-Okay.” Hinata bows sharply and shouts, “Thank you!”
Daichi squints his eyes—ouch, so early in the morning. “Hush. You’re welcome.”
Hinata scampers back off, wrapping all the excess fabric around himself like swaddling cloth. Daichi's jacket was massive on him; was it that Hinata was too small, or that Daichi was too big?
“Stupid, can’t even wear a jacket right, it’s massive on you.”
“You’re just mad the captain didn’t offer his jacket to you! ”
“Why would he need to offer it to me? I remembered mine!”
Christ, they were loud. At least the larger jacket would keep Hinata warm. That jacket was honestly getting too tight at the chest for him.
And now Daichi had goosebumps, but it’s not like anyone else’s jacket would fit him.
Training camp was fun. It would be even more fun if he could actually lose weight during it like the other guys tend to. Of course, Daichi never did, and it was probably because of the damn barbecue.
Daichi liked to eat. That wasn’t a secret. Daichi tried not to make it a personality trait, though, since he didn’t really want people making comments on it. His mom used to joke about him being a member of the clean plate club and honestly, she probably meant well, but there’s truth in jest, correct?
Barbecues are a good way to show off how much you like to eat.
Daichi was tired—no, exhausted—and he deserved all the food his body was craving. He tells himself this over and over again as he finishes off another onigiri, another slab of meat, another heap of vegetables.
“You’re eating less than normal,” Suga comments as they sit on the grassy hill. Suga’s plate was half-empty, and the way he held his petite, flat stomach was an indication of his unbelievable fullness. Daichi’s stomach, on the other hand, folded into valleys in their position of knees-against-chest.
Daichi shrugs. “I dunno, it’s a barbecue and there are a bunch of other teams here. I don’t want to be a glutton.”
Suga cocks his head. “There’s plenty of food, though.”
“I know.”
“...Your barbecue performance from last year is eclipsing this year’s.”
(Honestly, Daichi is just amazed by how many ways Suga can describe him as a pig.)
“What if I said I’m just not hungry?”
He honest-to-God laughs at him, as if Daichi’s the one being unreasonable. “Daichi, you’re eating your chopstick. Get some food. Or here, have the rest of mine.”
Sure enough, he was gnawing on the bamboo.
Weigh-ins for the Nationals booklet are today. They would go according to their jersey number, which meant Daichi would go first. Naturally.
All the third-years were in the nurse’s office together. Suga was messing around with Asahi, joking about how Asahi choked up when they went out to eat last night and just decided to have what Suga was having, which ended up being ridiculously spicy and “hellfire.”
Daichi barely ate when they went out. Both Suga and Asahi commented on how strange that was and Asahi offered him the hellfire to eat, but Daichi declined. It was stupid, honestly, because it wasn’t like eating less the night before the weigh-in would make much difference.
But here he is. His toes squirm against the rubber mat of the scale.
Daichi looks up, away from the little digital screen that would soon disappoint him. Instead, he focuses on the small water stain on the ceiling. That’s an issue. Maybe he should tell someone—
“Seventy-point-one,” the nurse announces aloud.
Daichi looks at her for at least three seconds. That was...more than he thought it would be.
It’s muscle mass. It’s just muscle mass. You’ve worked out so hard recently to prepare for Nationals, it’s all muscle mass.
Two claps sound out behind him. “Alright, move it, Captain, my turn.” Suga nudges him off towards Asahi.
Asahi nods at him while Daichi tries to figure out what expression he’s supposed to wear in this situation. His nervous energy might be getting to Asahi; he’s shifting, rubbing his thumbs together.
Daichi puts on a smile and pokes him. “You’re nervous?”
“No!” Asahi pouts, eyes skirting around, clearly nervous. “Why would you say that? Why would I even be nervous?”
Daichi raises his brow and directly refutes his own thoughts, saying, “It’s just a weigh-in, Asahi. You’ll be alright.”
Asahi’s expression relaxes into something more neutral—clarification. “It’s not about the weigh-in. I have to do more serve receives with Nishinoya tonight, and if he gets half of them or more, I have to buy him meat buns and popsicles for the week.”
(Why did Daichi assume Asahi was nervous about the weigh-in?)
“Oh.” Daichi grins. “Well, you’ll just have to give him some good serves then.”
Asahi frowns, seeing that this was improvised and poorly-thought-out advice. “Duh.”
(Asahi ended up weighing five-point-two kilos more than Daichi. Though he was taller, Daichi found small comfort in that.)
(His mood changed when he saw the whole team’s measurements looking over papers with Kiyoko. It didn’t take a genius to see he had the highest BMI of anyone on the team.)
He notices himself again when they’re switching uniform colors at nationals. Everyone notices.
They’re all together on the court. Everyone is changing, no one is singling him out, and yet all eyes are on him. They all have to be. He looks so different than everyone else, how could they not? Everyone up in the balconies—Nekoma in the stands—They all have to be watching as his refrigerator chest with its soft covering is exposed to the harsh fluorescent gym lights.
His fingers tease at the hem of the standard uniform; he’ll move to pull it up, but then has to jerk it back down again with clenched, jerky fingers. He should just get it over with at this point. He could stand behind Asahi, but he’s technically wider than—
“Daichi, you didn’t forget your alternate, did you?” Suga asks with genuine concern in his eyes. “I don’t think there are any spare number-ones.”
“No, no, I…” He raises the balled-up orange uniform he had hidden in his hand.
Suga rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy, it looks like we’ll have to suffer and see Sawamura Daichi’s big, muscly chest.”
Everyone laughs.
Daichi’s heart clenches and sinks down through his stomach, tearing away at himself all the while. Big . Suga called him big. It was true, Daichi was hoping for a moment that it was all in his mind, but he was wrong.
Suga doesn’t notice Daichi ripping apart next to him and continues, “Hold on tight to your masculinity, boys, just the slightest sight of your Captain’s pecs will make your balls retract out of inferiority.”
The laugh rises to a roar. Tanaka slaps his back.
...Was that a compliment? Suga was calling him masculine?
Suga looks at him dead-on—Daichi probably didn’t react properly. “Um. Sorry, maybe that went a little too far.”
“Wha—wasthatacompliment?”
Suga gapes, then begins to laugh again. “Who are you, Asahi? You questioning your strengths now?”
“My strengths?”
“C’mon, don’t be coy,” Suga laughs, then quiets. “You—wait. Daichi, we’re talking about your Adonis chest.”
“Daichi-san, I would kill to have your body!” Nishinoya suddenly yells from where he was slapping Tanaka with his standard uniform. “If I had a chest like yours, I could bump it against Tanaka and knock him out! All the time!”
Daichi snorts reflexively by envisioning that.
“See what we’re talking about?” Suga elbows him; maybe it’s a bit more gentle than his standard attack. “Now, go on. Don’t be shy. If you’re really worried you’ll hurt my feelings by showing off those pectorals, then I’ll close my eyes.”
And Daichi doesn’t have the heart to tell him that yes, he really would prefer for everyone to close their eyes.
It wasn’t for another few years into his adulthood that Daichi decided he liked the way he looked. Or, that wasn’t quite right, he wasn’t there yet. Maybe he decided he liked the way he was built.
He lay in bed with Sugawara—er, Koushi, really. They had gotten casual with each other once they finally opened their eyes and realized they were completely and totally in love with one another.
Koushi would do this incredible thing. The light would come in from the blinds at an incredible angle at this hour and Koushi would take his incredible fingers to trace incredible patterns on Daichi’s bare chest. They’d catch on little scars, little moles, little pockmarks and impurities until they would come to rest squarely on Daichi’s torso.
He’d breathe in and Koushi’s hand would rise. He’d breathe out and Koushi’s hand would fall. It would repeat, again and again, until Koushi would replace his hand with his head, and suddenly Daichi was pillowing him with the soft-outer-layer he’d come to hate over his high school years.
Koushi, incredibly, made his imperfections irreplaceable. And Daichi had finally come to know what it meant to find satisfaction with himself.