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A ball hits the floor, and something breaks.
When the whistle blows Tooru doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t throw a tantrum like he would have a few months ago, does nothing, really. He just grins. Grabs the crooked smile that was already crawling onto his face when that last spike shot right past his arms and pushes it, stretches it across his whole face.
This is it.
“Shōyō, that was fucking amazing!”
Karasuno’s libero is screaming, and then all of them are, the benched players running onto the court and throwing their arms around their teammates, and Tobio has an odd twist to his lips that Tooru wishes he could have missed.
Shōyō. It tastes bitter in his mouth. He’s known the name ever since their first practice match against Karasuno, a handful of letters and a little twist of fate, a final chain to keep him tied to everything but first place.
And now he’s smiling through the bitterness of that bright name, of Tobio’s own smile and the two missing points on their side of the scorecard.
This is it.
“Ahh, Tobio-chan. You just had to do that, didn’t you? Right when we wanted to lose the least.” His hand fists around the strings of the net.
Tobio says nothing, but turns around and stares at the ball like it’s a goddamn trophy, and Tooru wants to throttle him. Doesn't want to listen to the voice that tells him the shadow that passes over Tobio's face shouldn't be there.
“Don’t disappoint me now, Tobio-chan. I’d be really mad~”
Tobio looks at him, hesitation in the way his eyes can’t seem to settle on his face and the thin line of his lips. Then the whistle blows again and suddenly it all passes in a blur, a bow, "Thanks for the match", a firm handshake, “We’ll meet up in the changing room in fifteen”, and he's out in the hallway, people passing him by, some patting his back, and when did he even stop walking? He can see Karasuno's #10 sprinting down the corridor before him, Tobio a little further ahead, and, ah, that's right.
They lost.
"So this is it, huh?"
A firm hand pushes against his back and he's walking again, his body a vessel to echoes of this is it, muscles too loose and at the same time so tense he fears his bones will crack with the next step. But the hand on his back is relentless, an anchor that grounds him until it disappears when they reach the bathroom and Tooru catches sight of himself in the mirror.
"It's not your fault."
Tooru almost laughs. Of course now, of all times, Iwaizumi's voice is gentle. Did he think that Tooru hadn’t seen this coming? That he hadn’t looked at little first year Tobio with his hands barely big enough to hold the volleyball, staring at him with eyes so bright and clear, and wanted to turn around and run away without looking back?
"Did you see Tobio-chan's face? I've never seen him so happy before. I don't want to see him so happy."
"It's not your fault," Iwaizumi says again, "Oikawa. Stop blaming yourself."
But no, of course Iwaizumi was there through all of it. He was there to stop Tooru from hitting Tobio and making himself hate the sport he loved with all his heart, he was there when Tooru received the best setter award and could feel Tobio’s eyes on him the entire time, he was there to let Tooru grab his hand and dig blunt nails into his flesh when they watched their former teammates abandon Tobio in the middle of a game.
He was there, and that’s what makes Tooru's voice waver when he says, “Isn’t it unfair?”
Isn’t it unfair? He smiles at the mirror, all cracked and dirty, and hates the way it looks genuine. Practice makes perfect, and yet—
“Isn’t it unfair that they won without any dirty tricks? Hey, Iwa-chan,” he says, and turns around, “isn’t it unfair?”
He doesn’t expect it.
And something slams into him like a ton of bricks when he sees Iwaizumi standing there, hands in his pockets as if he’s back in the dressing room at Aoba Jōsai waiting for Tooru to finish changing, but eyes glistening with something that reaches deep into his ribcage and squeezes his heart dry.
“Unfair,” Iwaizumi echoes. “Maybe. Kageyama is a genius.” He takes a slow step forward, and Tooru wants to reach out and wipe away the tear running down his face when Iwaizumi doesn’t. “You’re not, Oikawa. You’re not a genius.” It almost sounds like a compliment. “Don’t blame yourself.”
The skin of Iwaizumi’s cheek is smooth against Tooru's calloused hand, still aching from the game, or maybe the memory of countless practise hours before that.
“You’re really ugly when you cry.”
The tap behind him has a leak. Like a preposterous soundtrack it drips an irregular rhythm to the deconstruction of their dreams.
“You’re really ugly when you don’t,” Iwaizumi answers, and doesn’t move away when Tooru drags his thumb over the shadows below his eyes.
“It’s unfair.”
His voice doesn’t shake this time, and something breaks a little more, a little sharper. He’s always been aware of that injustice, a thought lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, a malignant needle, reminding him that no matter how hard he tried practice would one day fall short of natural talent. Iwaizumi has known, probably, felt it himself, and yet neither of them has ever admitted it. It felt too much like giving up. Too much like losing.
“That’s why I keep saying,” Iwaizumi says, hisses against Tooru's palm, “don’t blame yourself, dumbass.”
He wonders if the tap is dripping faster, or if it’s just his own reality that comes crashing down around him in the tears rolling down Iwaizumi’s face.
“Who else is there, Iwa-chan? Who else is there to blame? Fate? The fact that Tobio didn’t go to Aoba Jōsai? That Shrimpy-chan turned up out of fucking nowhere and took one spike to smash his dictatorship into pieces? That I—”
He rips his hand away from Iwaizumi’s face and turns back to the sink and his own empty reflection and turns up the tap as far as it will go.
“Ah. I guess sometimes the best don’t win. Right, Iwa-chan?”
It hurts when Iwaizumi’s knuckles dig into his shoulder. Tooru leans his head against the mirror and lets the coldness of it seep into his skin, a reminder of simpler times, when all Tooru had to worry about was his mother’s reprimanding voice while she pressed an ice pack to his head when he came home with a big bruise, and Iwaizumi’s pout and shove when he said I told you to be careful.
He's lost count of how many times Iwaizumi has hit him, and his mouth stretches into a smile, a secret only shared with himself. “You're so violent, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi kicks at his foot, and something in Tooru's chest comes loose, very quietly, and Tooru carefully stores it away. A keepsake, maybe a memory, of something intangible and yet perfectly real.
Iwaizumi probably knows that, like every other thing about Tooru, because he says, “Better now?”
“What time is it?” Tooru says in lieu of an answer. Iwaizumi steps closer, or at least Tooru thinks he does, because he can feel heat against his back that doesn’t come from his own exhaustion, and fingers dancing down his shoulder blades until they fade away somewhere around his waist.
“Three minutes left.”
The faucet is still running, and it’s with a frigid air of finality that he turns it off.
“Thanks,” Tooru says into the empty sink.
In here, no one calls him talented. In here, there’s only himself, and Iwaizumi, who is probably as much a part of him as Tobio isn’t. Tooru drags his hands over his face and feels them come away wet, and a cruel satisfaction roils in his stomach.
“Now you’ve done it, Tobio-chan.”
He leans back, a fleeting brush of his arm against Iwaizumi behind him, and when Tooru's eyes find his in the mirror he can see them cloud over before he catches himself.
“What did—” Iwaizumi stops, and then frowns and steps away. A grin pulls on the lines of Tooru's lips again, softer than he’s used to, but it’s nice, a pinch of sweetness to mellow out the bitterness of a dead-end.
“I’m not going to hit him. I’m not you, after all.”
“Don’t take any chances, dumbass Oikawa. I will hit you again.”
“How mean!” He whirls around and grabs Iwaizumi’s wrist, “I can’t turn up in front of the team sporting a blue eye. They’d laugh at me.”
Iwaizumi sniffs, and looks away. “Get going. You look ridiculous either way.” He drags the thumb of his other hand over Tooru's wrist, and Tooru knows. Has always known, about the softness of Iwaizumi’s harsh words, and the concern in his insults. Toss and spike, in perfect sync. And if that’s not enough then Tooru just has to tighten his fingers around that strong wrist and fight a little stronger, lose a little better.
Their coach is waiting next to the door outside the changing room, back straight and hands crossed behind him. “Great match, guys, really. You gave it your all.” He nods at them, ever-trusting. “You got this, Oikawa?”
“We do,” Tooru says, and Iwaizumi adds, “Thanks, coach,” when Tooru presses down the handle.
They’re the last ones, everyone else either sitting on the benches or leaning against the lockers. And it’s no surprise, but it still twists his insides when Kindaichi lifts his head and Tooru can see another echo of this is it in the red rims of his eyes, less desperate than his own, but still there.
“We almost went looking for you,” Kindaichi says, voice too quiet for him, at the same time as Hanamaki says, “We’ve been waiting.”
He sees Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchange a look, before Matsukawa rests a hand on Kindaichi’s shoulder. There’s understanding in the arch of his brow, and Tooru remembers when he was appointed captain and the others looked at him with a mix of uneasiness and expectation, questioning whispers following him even to his quiet places. But looking at the team now, his team, worn down and defeated, he can see nothing but gratitude. Iwaizumi steps up beside him, and he can feel the ghost of his warmth from before lingering on his skin.
“Almost thought you’d bail out on buying us dinner,” Matsukawa grins, and it’s a little strained, and Tooru's heart swells.
“Still going for the gyōza ramen? How about,” he says, and raises his voice just so, and it’s with that simple action that all of their eyes snap to attention, “we double the servings today?”
It’s almost funny, to watch Kindaichi’s face light up before his eyebrows draw back together and his features settle somewhere between hope and despondency. Then, “You’re the best.”
He makes a peace sign and can almost feel Iwaizumi rolling his eyes beside him, and his heart swells a little more. “Of course I am! What kind of captain would I be to let my team fall apart from lack of nutrients~?”
There’s a murmur of laughs, before—
“Nothing’s going to let your team fall apart.” It’s a quiet comment, like everything Kunimi does. But it resonates in Tooru's chest, louder than Karasuno’s roaring cheers, louder still than the crackling of his own loss.
He reaches out and ruffles Kunimi’s hair, and Kunimi, who is so much bigger than his attitude lets on, merely diverts his eyes and lets it happen. Tooru had meant for his words to be a veil for a rawer, more fearful truth, but Kunimi had pulled it aside without batting an eyelash, and he should have expected it, really. Kunimi will probably make a great captain when his time comes.
“That’s so cheesy, Kunimi-chan!” And then, more quietly, “What would I do without you guys?” He smiles and hopes it looks as genuine as the ones on that far, far away court shouldn’t have.
“Win—” Kyoutani starts to say, from somewhere in the back, voice muffled by the towel slung over his head, before Yahaba elbows him and Tooru catches a hiss of, “You don’t win alone,” and he knows they’re going to be just fine.
It’s with an emotion more poignant than dejection but softer than grief that he claps his hands and announces, “Last one to get to the restaurant has to pay for drinks!”
And like little kids everyone starts to scuttle away, some tripping over their feet in exhaustion, and—and Tooru remembers that that’s what they are. A bunch of high school kids, with aspirations bigger than themselves pulling them forward in a constant frenzy, until they trip and fall, and grit their teeth as they get up to continue running. And he forgets himself, sometimes, until he hears how nasal his voice can get, or watches fear flash over Tobio’s face when his toss is too high, or sees Iwaizumi clench his fists until his fingers turn white. He’s not doing that right now, only stands there, still by his side, and Tooru wonders how long it’s been like that. How long it will be like that.
“You’ve been a great captain, you know. Everyone trusts you.”
“Open praise from you? My, are you sure you didn’t hit your head when—”
Iwaizumi takes a step forward and Tooru can’t see his face, only the line of his back, the one that feels like home no matter which court they’re on. “Shut up. I’m being serious.”
“You’re too good to me, Iwa-chan.” His toes curl. “Too good to me,” he repeats, because his voice shouldn’t waver. Not when Iwaizumi is right there in front of him, with their bags packed and a chapter finished, but with something like eternity beneath their feet when Iwaizumi takes another step forward.
“Just good enough,” Iwaizumi says without turning around, and hoists his bag higher up on his shoulder. “Dumbass.” Tooru hears a door open, and he starts walking.
A ball hits the floor, and something breaks, but nothing shatters.