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Kitagawa Daiichi was a prestigious, private middle school with one of the best boys’ volleyball teams in Miyagi. They only accepted the best of the best. They only took the ones who had skill and potential lining every centimeter of their bones; the ones who had brilliant, burning sparks inside of them.
Hirayama Yoshito, the head coach of this volleyball club, was an analytical man. Every year, boys from all over Miyagi would try out for the club. Every year, Hirayama would see something in just a handful of them. Every year, that handful of boys would join the first-string team and the others would be sent elsewhere.
Hirayama Yoshito was a strict, perfectionist sort of man. He saw these boys with their freakish height and blinding talent, and he demanded perfection from the get-go. Never mind the fact that they were in junior high. Never mind that the eldest of these boys was maybe fifteen. Never mind that they were growing and changing with every second of every day. These boys could not give him perfection. He wanted it anyway.
These boys, these bright-eyed, joyful, determined boys, wanted to prove themselves. They wanted the glory, the fame, the love, that came with perfection. They wanted their coach to offer one of his rare, “good job” or a simple, “nice kill”. These boys wanted to be good.
They heard the whispers about their coach. They heard how his name was said with reverence and fear among spectators and announcers alike. These boys knew that Hirayama Yoshito used to be a volleyball god . He was on the Japan National Team for a decade, he competed overseas in the European league, and he had an Olympic medal underneath his belt. This man was who all of these boys dreamed of being.
So they trusted him. They thought he knew best; since he was once a volleyball god, Hirayama Yoshito must always be right. Hirayama never corrected their assumptions. In fact, he reveled in them. These boys saw him not as his coach, but as a god-like figure they could only hope to one day reach.
(This is, of course, not their fault. On the day of tryouts, Hirayama introduced himself to the group of young hopefuls like this: “My name is Hirayama Yoshito. I was on the Japanese Mens’ Volleyball team for nearly a decade. I competed overseas for three years, and I have won an Olympic Silver Medal. I will be coaching those of you who are accepted onto the first string team.”
To his students, it was made abundantly clear from day one: Hirayama is considered an Olympian, an international player, a volleyball god before he is ever considered their coach.)
Here’s the thing about Hirayama Yoshito:
He is an excellent volleyball player. No one on Earth can deny it; Hirayama has deadly serves and electric spikes and an inexplicable ability to read players. He can step onto a court full of strangers he has never met before, and within minutes he has dissected all of them. He can point out their strengths, their weaknesses, how long they have been playing, and even what position they started in.
Hirayama was raised by a man with a short temper and a heavy hand. His coaches were strict and traditional. He was taught from the very beginning that physical punishment is the only way a child will ever learn.
He is wrong.
Children will learn with gentle guidance and corrections. They do not need the threat of punishments in order to improve. If you teach them right, if you do your job properly, children will not need more than a nudge onto the right path, maybe a gentle push for the more stubborn ones. They will never need a beating so severe that you must drag them towards the path yourself.
Heavy hands and short tempers often do more harm than good. This is something Hirayama will never learn.
Sometimes, the adults in your life are wrong. They make the wrong choices and do the wrong actions and speak the wrong words. This is something that all members of the Kitagawa Daiichi Boys’ Volleyball Club learn only after they leave.
Here’s the thing about Hirayama Yoshito:
He is an excellent volleyball player; at one point, he was undoubtedly one of the best in Japan. However, no matter how good he is at volleyball, it is undeniable that Hirayama Yoshito is a horrible coach.
Kita-Ichi has good players. They always have and most likely always will. But there was a span of four or five years in which talent was bursting from the seams. This was a time-period where no one ever doubted Kita-Ichi’s potential. Spectators watched every match knowing that Kita-Ichi would win; the only team that ever left them guessing was Shiratorizawa. This four to five year time frame was kick-started by the enrollment of Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime.
The moment those two stepped onto court together, Hirayama knew. He knew that with the two of them, with their individual talents and their deep connection combined, Kitagawa Daiichi could make it. They could make it to the National stage, and he could make a name for himself once more.
He saw the desire brimming in Oikawa’s eyes. He saw how the boy, just twelve years old at the start of his first year, was full of this primal desire to win. Hirayama could see it, he could see how Oikawa tried and tried and never stopped trying . He was far from the best, no that boy still had a few gaps to fill, a few shoe laces to tighten, but Hirayama could see that one day, Oikawa Tooru would be a force of nature.
So he nurtured it. Hirayama took the blinding, brilliant boy with potential and perseverance and he pushed. He worked Oikawa to the bone. He made him practice tosses until his hands were raw, and even then he knew Oikawa wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied with himself.
One day, Hirayama off-handedly mentioned to Oikawa that having a jump-serve would make him more useful as a starter. Within the week, he found Oikawa staying late and practicing a deadly jump serve. He had given Oikawa the first shove towards the chasm of his potential, but Oikawa took the nosedive into it himself.
Iwaizumi was not neglected either. Hirayama saw how much power lived inside of that boy’s body. He saw it the way he won every arm-wrestling competition, in the strength behind each of Iwaizumi’s blocks. Hirayama knew that with time, that boy could become an absolute monster.
Hirayama would not wait for the ship of time to set sail. He would make that monster himself. He set Iwaizumi up on a training regimen that was down-right brutal. It would push him farther than anyone would think capable. It forced Iwaizumi to reach his pinnacle of strength before his body might be able to handle it.
Even with this brutal training regimen, he knew that Iwaizumi wouldn’t quit. One, he loved volleyball too much. Hirayama could see it in each and everyone of his spikes: there was a deep love for the sport and everything it had ever brought him. Two, if Iwaizumi left, Oikawa would be heart broken. Even when the two of them were in junior highschool, their love for each other ran deep. Where one went, the other followed. If Iwaizumi left volleyball, Oikawa’s heart would break, but he would follow behind him. Hirayama knew this. He knew that Iwaizumi knew this as well.
Iwaizumi stayed. He completed the hellish, brutal training regimen and came out twenty-times stronger than before. Oikawa followed right behind him, with a deadly jump-serve in the making, and the fantastic ability to bring out all of the potential in everyone of his teammates.
Two years later, Hirayama was hit with another influx of potential, not unlike what happened with Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Three of the first-years seemed to be more promising than most, and Hirayama kept a close eye on them.
The first was Kunimi Akira. At first, Hirayama wanted to immediately dismiss the boy. He was lazy and seemingly uninterested in everything that was happening. But Kunimi seemed to have almost perfect game sense; he almost always knew what would happen next, he was just too lazy to stop the ball.
The second was Kindaichi Yuutarou, an abnormally tall boy. He wasn’t very fast, something Hirayama may have to push for later, but he was tall. As long as Kindaichi received a high toss, he could hit over almost any blockers.
The third and final of the group was Kageyama Tobio, a prodigal setter from Akiyama Elementary school. That boy had talent woven into every single cell of his body . He had the drive too; Hirayama could see it in his eyes, he could see how he wanted to be the best. He could see how this boy (a tiny little thing really, he was at most 152 cm, maybe 154) was determined to win. Hirayama recognized that hunger; he saw it in his old photographs and every time he looked into Oikawa’s eyes.
These four were just what he needed to push the rest of the team to the National stage. They were what was missing in the matches against Shiratorizawa. All that Kita-Ichi needed was this last little push; the boat needed to be rocked a little, everyone needed to be a bit off-balance and then regain a better footing in order for them to win.
But the boat never started rocking on its own. For some reason, no one was incredibly disturbed by the influx of talent. Hirayama had been sure that Oikawa and Iwaizumi meeting face to face with prodigies would force them to work harder, to prove that even though they were good, even if they weren’t naturals. Instead, they were good senpais. They helped out with the basics of form and gave tips on spiking and receiving. Oikawa was occasionally upset with Kageyama over his natural genius, but these fits of jealousy were short-lived and lasted at most a day or two.
A few months into the season, Hirayama was met with a startling realization. The boat would not start rocking in smooth waters; instead, Hirayama was going to have to sail it into the storm himself.
As the captain of the Kitagawa Daiichi Boys’ Volleyball Club, it was not uncommon for Tooru to meet privately with Coach Hirayama to discuss club matters. At this point, it no longer surprised him when he was asked to stay late. He told Iwaizumi to head home without him, knowing that these meetings could sometimes take a while.
“I wonder what this one’s about…” Tooru mumbled to himself as he made his way towards Coach Hirayama’s office. The last meeting he had with him was about a week ago, and it was for the Coach to approve Tooru’s new warm-up plan. He had spent an entire weekend on his first draft and Coach Hirayama had scrapped almost all of it, claiming that “it wasn’t difficult enough”. The new plan was approved though, so Tooru was unsure what this meeting could be about. Maybe something regarding drills?
He approached the Coach’s door and knocked. “Come in, Oikawa,” Coach Hirayama said from the other side. Tooru entered, said his greetings, and waited for Coach’s permission to sit. Once he received it, Tooru kneeled on the floor in front of Coach Hirayama’s desk. The desk was lower to the ground, but Coach had to sit on a stool to comfortably reach it, forcing Oikawa to look up to meet his gaze. He was currently finishing up paperwork and forced Tooru to wait a few minutes before permitting him to speak.
“You asked to see me, sir?” Tooru asked. He kept his tone measured and polite; the first time he had a meeting with Coach Hirayama it was made very clear that anything less than that would not be accepted. He would not make that mistake again.
“What are your opinions on that Kageyama boy?” Tooru was a little surprised by the question. He hesitated a moment before answering.
“Tobio-chan is… interesting. He is very talented and skillful, a prodigy even,” There was a noticeable hint of bitterness to his tone, “But he’s shy and not the best at communication. This causes him to have rifts between his teammates while on the court and can mess up the flow of the game. With time and a little bit of guidance, I’m sure we can fix these issues. I wouldn't worry too much about it sir.”
Tooru was sure that the Coach was asking about Tobio-chan because he was thinking about removing him from the team. It was the only reason that made sense. As insecure as Tobio sometimes made him feel, he was also slowly becoming like a little brother to Tooru and he didn’t want to see his dreams crushed. He didn’t know if his heart could take the pouty, teary-eyed expression Tobio would make if he was kicked off.
“ I’m not worried about it, but you should be.” Coach Hirayama had put down his pen and was now staring directly at Tooru. Tooru was surprised by this statement. “Kageyama will one day surpass you. There is no way for you to stop it. He is a genius and you simply are not.”
Tooru could feel his heart break with every single word that passed the Coach’s lips. He wanted to beg and plead for him to stop. He wanted to cover his ears and shout “La-la-la-can’t hear you! I’m not listening!” like he was seven years old again and being told to come inside for dinner. He knew that this was the truth; he knew that one day, Tobio would surpass him and everyone else. Coach Hirayama didn’t have to point it out to him.
“Do what you must to stake your claim,” Coach Hirayama continued on as if Tooru’s world wasn’t beginning to crack at the seams right in front of him. “When Kageyama surpasses you, I will replace you. Only the victorious can stay on the court.”
Victory. Their school motto. It wasn’t a difficult concept to understand; there were those who won and those who didn’t. Kitagawa Daiichi was not a school for those who didn’t. Cargo that was deemed unnecessary would be left off of the boat to keep it from sinking beneath the waves. Tooru could not be the unnecessary cargo. He could not be left behind.
“I understand sir,” Tooru said, his voice quiet and grave.
“Good. You are free to go, Oikawa.” Tooru nodded in understanding. He stood up and bowed before leaving the room. He sighed as he closed the door behind him, taking care not to shut it too quickly.
He knew what he had to do. Tooru needed a weapon; he needed something that would put him above Tobio, something that could keep him on the court for longer. His jump serve was still in the beginning stages, but if he could perfect it, Coach Hirayama would have no choice but to keep him on the court.
Whoever stays on court longer is the victor. They are better, they are worthy. Tooru would not lose to Tobio, he could not afford to lose to a genius.
Iwaizumi had already left. He was the one with the keys to the gym. His parents were gone on business trips and his sister lived in Tokyo, so no one would question why he was getting home so late. If a perfect jump serve was what it took, then Tooru would have the best goddamn jump serve in all of Miyagi--no, all of Japan.
Oikawa Tooru would be victorious, even if he had to ruin himself in the process.
Oikawa had been acting differently ever since his meeting with Coach Hirayama. Hajime was well versed in most aspects regarding Oikawa (he was his best friend after all), but this obsessiveness was new to him. Sure, Oikawa would stay late and practice his serves occasionally, and sure, Oikawa would spend hours dissecting a volleyball game to find just one more weakness in the teams. But those things happened intermediately, and seldom twice in the same week.
Now, Oikawa would spend hours after practice trying to perfect his already powerful jump serve. He would watch every single game that he could get his hands on, and analyze every second of each one. Hajime was watching the beginning of his best friend’s unraveling and he had no idea how to stop it.
He didn’t understand it either. Oikawa didn’t need to be perfect at everything; that’s why there are six people on the court. It was one of the first things the two of them had ever learned. It was said to them by one of their instructors at the rec center, right before their first-ever practice game.
It was something that Hajime had never forgotten. That simple phrase had helped through so much; just knowing that five other people on the court had your back always calmed him. Yet, as Hajime watched Oikawa throughout their practice match with Shiratorizawa, he kept getting the feeling that this was something Oikawa had forgotten. He had to watch as his best friend made mistake after mistake, piling more and more stress upon himself until he finally broke.
“Oikawa, switch out with Kageyama,” Coach Hirayama called out. Hajime turned towards the bench and saw a very happy and nervous Kageyama with a number one paddle in hand. He glanced at Oikawa’s expression and saw nothing but defeat. They won the game. Oikawa never got switched back in.
Afterward, Hajime found Oikawa in the gym, practicing his jump serve. He saw how he was tearing himself apart over something he couldn’t control. Oikawa was a habitual person by nature; Hajime knew that if he didn’t try to get it through his thick skull now, then Oikawa would never learn that this wasn’t the answer. Self-destruction was not a path he wanted to see his best friend go down.
Hajime gave Oikawa a solid headbutt and good scolding before dragging his ass back home. Their walks were usually filled with mindless chatter-- Oikawa talking about his day and girls and a new movie he wanted to see, Hajime chiming in whenever he felt like it-- but their walk tonight was silent. At least, for the first five minutes.
“Do you think Tobio-chan is better than me?” Oikawa asked. Hajime looked over at him, surprised by the question.
“Who gave you that idea?” They both knew that Oikawa meant something more along the lines of: “Someone told me Kageyama is better than me and now I’m worried about it.” Which would explain his behavior over the last few weeks. Hajime was more than willing to give whoever put that idea into Oikawa’s head a very thorough talking-to.
“It was no one, Iwa-chan. Don’t worry about it.” Oikawa was giving him that sickly sweet smile and using that annoyingly fake tone of voice which meant Hajime should definitely worry about it.
“Stop lying Oikawa.” Hajime had stopped in the middle of the street, grabbing onto Oikawa’s arm so he couldn’t run away.
“I’m not lying Iwa-chan! It’s really not that important! And let go of me you brute, my arm will bruise!” Hajime didn’t let go but loosened his grip a fraction.
“Just tell me who it was, shittykawa!” Oikawa rolled his eyes at him.
“Must you be so vulgar Iwa? Honestly, it’s not that important just forget--,”
“Tooru,” That got Oikawa’s attention. Hajime never used first names unless he was being serious. “Who told you that?” His voice was calm and measured, his tone hiding all of the fury that lived inside of him. Oikawa looked into his eyes for a few seconds before turning away.
“Coach Hirayama,” Oikawa said. He then yanked his arm out of Hajime’s grip and continued walking. Hajime stood frozen for a second in shock, before running after Oikawa.
“Coach Hirayama told you that! Why?!” He knew Oikawa wasn’t lying, he would never lie about something like this. Oikawa never admitted it out loud (or even to himself), but he practically worshipped the ground Hirayama Yoshito walked on. Hajime could see it in his eyes every time Oikawa looked at Coach Hirayama. He could see the deep love and respect for the man, he could see how Oikawa ached to prove himself to him.
“It doesn’t matter why Hajime, just drop it already.” Hajime did drop it, if only because of Oikawa’s use of his first name. They both only used first names in the most serious of conversations, meaning that this was something Oikawa was serious about.
Hajime never brought it up again, but he did watch Oikawa’s interactions with Kageyama a little closer. He made sure Oikawa never stayed too late; that he never worked himself to the point of collapse. Hajime would not allow Oikawa to destroy himself. Not while he could prevent it.
At first, Akira was excited to be working with a player as amazing as Coach Hirayama. Volleyball was one of the few things he has ever been truly interested in, and to be coached by a volleyball god was practically a dream come true. It was one of the few things in life that Akira wanted. He was usually apathetic towards everything, never truly caring about the results of his and others’ choices. Yet this, this chance to be coached and get better and maybe enjoy something for once; this was an opportunity he fought for.
However, as time passed, Akira grew to like Coach Hirayama less and less. He was strict and pushy. He was always staring at Akira with that calculating gaze of his, and it felt like he was being torn apart to his very core. Yet, he still admired Coach Hirayama. He was still someone Akira looked up to.
Until his second year of junior high school.
At the start of his second year, Coach Hirayama was considering him for the starting line-up. Akira would be swapped in periodically during practice games, sometimes with Kageyama as the setter, sometimes not. It was hard, grueling work more often than not and it left Akira exhausted after each practice.
But he was improving. Slowly, but steadily, his spikes were getting better. He has always been able to see what was happening on the court easily, but now it was like a movie he had seen before played in his head every game. When Akira was trying, he could often predict exactly what the opposing team’s next moves were.
He was good. He knew that he was good, everyone else knew that he was good, and even the coaches occasionally admitted that he was good. Akira had a high chance of ending up on the starting lineup that year and everyone knew it.
But Coach Hirayama wanted more; Akira could see it in his eyes. Every time he spiked a ball with a little less than his full strength, every time he waited for a split-second longer before moving, Coach Hirayama’s frown would deepen a fraction. His eyes would narrow slightly. He never called Akira out on it mid-game, but he would always lecture him afterward.
“If you want to be on the starting line-up Akira, you have to go all out.”
Akira didn’t hate a lot of things, he was merely apathetic towards most of them, yet he was starting to despise the phrase “go all out”. Yes, volleyball was one of the few things he put effort into, but Akira was still a lazy person by nature. Why should he “go all out” for something he didn’t need to? His eighty-five percent effort towards volleyball was more than enough to win. He didn’t need to give Coach Hirayama anymore.
After one of their practice matches against Shiratorizawa (which they lost, like usual), Coach Hirayama made it very clear that he thought differently. “Kunimi,” He called for Akira as he was helping with packing up the court. Akira quickly jogged over to him, knowing that the other man despised tardiness.
“Yes sir?” He asked. He stood tall, shoulders back and chin held high. Akira looked at the tip of Coach Hirayama’s nose instead of directly into his eyes.
(Direct eye contact with Coach Hirayama always made him nervous. His gaze was probing and intimidating and always left Akira stumbling over his words.)
“Your playing today was pitiful.” Ah, ‘pitiful’. Another one of his most hated words. “You put minimal effort into your movements. Everything you did was lazy.”
Akira really should have expected the backhand that followed, but it still took him by surprise. The impact left him reeling, his cheek stinging from the force of it. The backhand echoed throughout the gym, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.
It was not uncommon for Hirayama-san to hit his students. By the time he had entered his second year, Akira had been on the receiving end several times. He knew that some of the first years had already had a taste of their coach’s punishments.
But it always happened in private. Hirayama-san would ask to speak to someone in his office after practice, which was code for “you fucked up and I’m going to punish you for it”. The punishment wasn’t always a backhand; sometimes it was just a more intense workout routine, sometimes it was more chores around the gym, and once he made a kid run laps until he passed out from sheer exhaustion. But all of these things took place in private, where no one else could see.
This was the first time that anyone had been so explicitly punished in front of everyone else. He could tell that it shocked some of the first years, and even some of the third years looked nervous.
“I’m expecting better from you Kunimi. Do not disappoint me again.” Hirayama-san said as he walked away from where Akira was standing. Akira cautiously raised a shaking hand to his cheek. It still stung from the impact.
At that moment, Akira started to lose interest in the one thing he loved. Volleyball. Not just the game itself, but everything that came along with it. Standing on the court beside his teammates. Feeling the ball on his fingertips and feeling the pure joy that came with a strong, sharp spike. The taste of victory and the salty tears it left on your cheeks. The weight of defeat and the drive, the push, that comes after and makes you want to do better, to be better.
At that moment, the moment the back of Hirayama-san’s hand hit his cheek for everyone to see, Akira began to lose all love that he had ever held for volleyball.
By the middle of his second year, Tobio is achingly familiar with the workings of Kita-Ichi’s Boys’ Volleyball Club. They are nothing like his elementary school team, which was full of gentle tones and encouraging hands. Here, the words of his coach are harsh and critical; his hands are heavy and his nails leave marks whenever Tobio is gripped too tightly. Here, victory is prized above all else.
Here, victory is synonymous with perfection. The victorious ones are perfect; the perfect ones are victorious. Coach Hirayama demands perfection. He wants Tobio’s sets to be perfect for every single spiker and perfect; he wants untouchable serves that can get point after point after point.
If Tobio does not meet Coach Hirayama’s standard of perfection, he is reprimanded, and then forced to meet it. If his serves are out of bounds, he has to do fifty inbound serves in a row before he can leave. If his sets are off for the spiker, he has to practice with the water bottles for at least thirty minutes.
A few times, Tobio had wondered if he could even meet Coach Hirayama’s seemingly impossible standards. He was only a child after all. But he knew that if he failed to meet the standard of perfection, then Tobio would be left behind. He had seen it happen over and over again; someone would fuck up one time too many during a practice game and be benched. If they didn’t get better, if they didn’t fix what needed to be fixed, Coach Hirayama would write them off as a lost cause and send them down to the second-string team.
Tobio couldn’t be left behind again. It had already happened to him too much. His parents left him over and over again, always saying they’ll be home for his birthday or golden week, and then never making it back in time. His sister had left volleyball (and him) for a job in Tokyo. He can count the number of times they’ve spoken in the last year on one hand. His grandfather was there but… he didn’t have much time left. He hadn’t told Tobio this yet, but it was obvious.
Volleyball was the only stable thing he had left. It was steady and secure and comforting. Even if his parents left him, even if his sister never called back, even if his grandfather was on death’s door, Tobio has volleyball. If he loses volleyball, he has nothing.
So he meets the impossible standards of perfection. He pushes himself until his nails are chipped and his palms are bleeding. He practices and practices and practices until he has forgotten his own name, until all he can think is: your serves are a little off, try hitting with a different part of your hand, dumbass -- Kunimi likes lower tosses idiot -- Kindaichi can hit higher, give him a slightly higher toss, moron--
It’s backbreaking work that leaves him exhausted on the best of days and feeling like a decaying corpse on the worse. But, it’s what he has. It’s what he loves. Volleyball is such an ingrained part of his soul that Tobio is sure who he’d be without it. Every day, he gives it his all. Every day, Tobio carves out a piece of himself and puts it into this wonderful, grueling sport that he adores.
It’s still not enough for Coach Hirayama. He demanded more from Tobio, he wanted faster, stronger, better. And Tobio, he tries to give it to him. He tries to give more, to rip apart his body and soul just a little bit more so that he can fit Coach Hirayama’s ever-increasing standard of perfection. Sometimes, he can reach. Other times, it grazes the edge of his fingers tips before he is sent tumbling back down to earth.
When he misses the standard, when his tosses fall short and his serves go out of bounds, he is called into Coach Hirayama’s office. He is called a disappointment, a failure, someone who can never live up to the standard that Oikawa-san left behind. Sometimes, he is slapped. Sometimes, he is forced to run laps until he pukes. But no matter what, he is called a disappointment and a failure every single time.
Tobio endures. Volleyball is the last safe thing he has left. He will make it, his love will survive, and he will eventually thrive. Tobio will be perfect; he will be victorious. He will stay on the court as long as possible.
He will not be left behind again.
Contrary to popular belief, Yuutarou did not initially hate Kageyama. Sure, he was intimidated by him (who wouldn't be, honestly) but he never started hating him until their third year of junior high. Sometime during the middle of the year, it was like a switch had been flipped. The awkward, intense setter that he almost considered a friend became an arrogant, pushy jerk with no compassion for his teammates. He started giving Yuutarou tosses that were too high and too fast and just expected him to hit them.
As far as he knew, Coach Hirayama never scolded Kageyama on his tosses. But he also never told Yuutarou to hit them. It was almost like Coach Hirayama was letting them figure out this entire mess for themselves like he wanted them to magically start working together.
Yuutarou was not opposed to the idea of a slightly higher toss,--he knew that his jump apex could be a bit higher,-- but Kageyama was just such an asshole about the way he asked that it made Yuutarou refuse to do it on principle. And it was like Kageyama had no understanding of how his tone was coming across to other people. Yuutarou tried to bring it up to him, he tried to ask Kageyama to be a little nicer, but it never worked. He was still an asshole.
Finally, he just couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand the impossible tosses and arrogant tone and the sheer audacity that Kageyama sometimes had. He knew that Kunimi felt the same way.
So, in the middle of one of their games, the two of them asked for Kageyama to be benched. Coach Hirayama didn’t initially agree, but then Yuutarou refused to hit one of Kageyama's tosses, and he quickly caved afterwards.
They lost that game. It was their last middle school game, and they lost. Coach Hirayama everyone punished for it (twenty laps around the gym, followed by an intense cardio routine) but Yuutarou couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision. He only did what he had to do.
(Here is something important to note:
Hirayama saw the change in Kageyama. He is not blind, nor is he an idiot. He saw how Kageyama’s awkward intensity soured into pure arrogance and ambition. He saw how this boy seemed to crumble before his very eyes; how he began to demand from others the exact thing he demanded from himself: perfection.
Hirayama saw this behavior. He saw it began to fracture the team, how it created space between the setter and his spikers. He saw how their players became sloppier, how the energy on the court became tenser.
He saw it and did not stop it. After all, sometimes the boat needs a little rocking for their players to regain better footing. He figured that this was the choppy waters needed to propel them into success. This was just a rough patch. The boys would work through it themselves, and if they did not, then they would learn their lesson in due time.
This was one of the stupidest decisions Hirayama Yoshito would ever make.)
Do not blame these boys for their choices. They were young and impressionable and in love with a sport that was trying its hardest not to love them back. They were mistreated and misled. They were dragged down a bad path by a man whose hands have always been too harsh. They were given the simple goal of “victory” but never taught how to safely reach it.
Thankfully, the ship of time keeps sailing. All of them eventually graduated; they moved onto different schools, better schools. Schools in which volleyball was allowed to love them back, where it wasn’t a curse, but an enjoyment. Schools that prioritized the health of their children over the glory of victory.
Over time, these boys fell back in love with volleyball, even if they hadn’t they fell out of it. They were gently led back onto the right path by the hands of their coaches and teammates. Eventually, all of them realize one very important fact:
Victor is not synonymous with perfection. Sometimes they overlap, sometimes they do not. They can each exist without the other.
(This is something Hirayama Yoshito never actually learns.)