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No matter where Tooru stands on the court, he’s followed by six sets of eyes; and six sets of ears stand alert while six noses twitch in near rhythm. He’d flattened his ears and glared back his first year, but now he relishes the attention. Carnivores are decidedly stupid, weak to their instincts, and obsessed with herbivore flesh, the stag concludes.
A sneer, half-charming and half-predacious, curls his lips. He’s the only herbivore on the court, and they can’t tear their eyes from him; that leaves them open in places that hurt.
And Tooru is the king of hitting where it hurts.
“Nice serve.”
The words reverberate in Hajime’s throat, low and dark, little more than a gentle growl. A severe expression shadows the timber wolf’s features, and his eyes don’t meet Tooru’s—they’re fixed on the grizzly bear smiling warmly on the other side of the net.
Hajime has never been able to hide his competitive zeal from Tooru; they’ve known each other for far too long. Tooru reads Hajime’s tells—down to the twinge of his snout and the swish of his tail—with ease, no matter their subtlety, and Hajime returns the favor, much to the stag’s occasional pleasure and frequent annoyance. So he’s familiar enough with Hajime’s typical mannerisms to know that something about this particular bear pisses the wolf off.
Tooru snorts but doesn’t reply, ignoring the chorus of ‘nice serve’s that ripple across the court.
The ball fits perfectly in Tooru’s slender hands like it’s molded just for him. He rolls his neck. It’s set three, score 1:1. His limbs are loose and in perfect sync with his mind—it’s time for a killer server.
Smirking, Tooru spins the ball, letting it drop and catching it when it bounces back up. He breathes in, long and slow and deep, expression hardening and eyes narrowing.
The whistle blows.
Tooru tosses the ball high and lets muscle memory take over.
A whoosh of air rips through the gym, followed by the spine-tingling, satisfying sound of PVC squealing against the court’s waxed floor.
Silence follows. The six carnivores on the other side of the net are as still as statues, save for the shock slipping slowly over their stony countenances.
Then the spell breaks, and cheers erupt throughout the gymnasium.
Across the court, Cherryton’s gray wolf blocker blinks back his shock, his jaw on the floor. Beside him, the Bengal tiger wing spiker snarls and rips at his fur. The grizzly bear’s companionable smile doesn’t slip, but his small, dark eyes lose their amiable shine.
“That was new, right? He didn’t serve like that before?” the gray wolf whispers loudly.
“Obviously,” the Bengal tiger hisses, tail beating back and forth.
Tooru waves winsomely at his fans before returning his attention to the court. He’d love to claim that enviable raw talent and an unquenchable lust for carnivore tears are the reason he’s the first herbivore to grace the cover of Monthly Volleyball: Carnivore Cut; but the drab truth is that he’s simply methodical, dedicated, and obsessed, though there’s nothing simple about the tireless hours he’s spent honing his craft.
He’s worked obsessively to pluck out every last ounce of strength and skill he can from his delicate herbivore body. Genetics gave him a lankier frame than most deer, and he’s never taken that extra height for granted.
“Nice serve.” Hajime’s eyes twinkle, and a boyish grin tugs his cheeks. His canines peak past his lips.
Tooru doesn’t miss the way the wolf’s tail wags eagerly behind him.
Cherryton never recovers from its shock, allowing Aoba Johsai to steal the final set with relative ease. Cherryton’s bald eagle setter looks crushed, and its blockers wear defeat honorably. Glum acceptance replaces the Bengal tiger’s desperate fury, and he turns his attention to wrangling the team’s mongoose libero, who appears incapable of taking the loss with grace. Near the bench, Cherryton’s managers console a teary-eyed panther.
Tooru catches the taller manager’s eye, and the cheetah girl blushes. He offers her a wink, but his interest is reserved for the small angora goat beside her. How interesting, he muses. It’s not unheard of to see herbivores managing carnivore teams, but it is rare.
“It’s weird, right?” Takahiro cackles, hooking his head over Tooru’s shoulder.
“What’s weird?” Tooru snorts, brushing the hyena’s head away.
“You didn’t hear the rumors? They’re supposedly segregated.”
“Sports are always segregated.” Tooru shrugs when Takahiro’s expression wilts.
“I’m gonna ignore the fact that you said that because that’s not what I’m talkin’ about. Cherryton is segregated, like, even in class.”
Tooru’s brow pinches. “Aren’t they a progressive school?”
“Yeah, but one of their students got devoured, and they still haven’t found the carnivore that did it. So it’s weird that they gotta goat managing a carnivore team, and even weirder that she’s all chummy with them.”
“Should herbivores avoid carnivores, Makki?”
Tooru raises an eyebrow. He knows Takahiro doesn’t mean anything by the comment. Still, stirring the pot is endlessly entertaining, and Tooru enjoys toying with carnivores off-court just as much as he does on-court. He’s also been warned against spending time with carnivores—much less playing physical sports with them—too many times to count. A lifetime of annoyances have sharpened Tooru’s tongue, leaving him ready and eager to lash out at the slightest provocation.
The hyena grimaces, tail drooping. “C’mon. That’s not what I—”
“Oi, line up,” Hajime barks across the court, glaring daggers at Takahiro before shooting Tooru an equally withering look.
“Iwa-chan!” Tooru feigns a gasp as if he’s affronted by the wolf’s aggressive tone. Hajime’s scowl deepens, and the stag snickers. “Coming, coming!”
Tooru’s performative demeanor doesn’t betray the tempestuous vortex of thoughts Takahiro’s comment inspired: he beams and smirks and waggles his fingers after blowing a kiss into the stands. He keeps his scent in check and his posture calculated, a fluid blend between the perfect, demure herbivore people expect him to be and the ambitious powerhouse setter people have come to admire.
Behind the charming smile, he grits his teeth, and beneath soft herbivore flesh, his blood hums, eclectic. He fights tremors out of his knees and keeps his breath even. Disgust and irritation consume him like a flash fire devouring brittle birch.
He doesn’t have time to worry about other herbivores. He barely has time to worry about his own safety. All that matters is volleyball—and being damn good at it. He’s relentless, tireless in that pursuit.
So why can’t his loathsome herbivore body get the memo?
Revulsion turns Tooru’s stomach and claws its way into his chest—not for the devourer but for himself.
He’d thought he was past this fear. He’s spent nearly as many hours practicing his serves as he has practicing indifference and ignoring instinct. But it seems that no matter how hard he trains, he can’t cull the fear that arises from the realization that there’s a chance, no matter how small, that he just faced and defeated Cherryton’s devourer.
In herbivore sports, teams shake hands after matches, Tooru remembers. He’s never been more grateful for the post-game contact ban in carnivore sports. His hand burns at the thought of touching any of Cherryton’s players.
“Thank you very much!” Sixteen carnivores and their deer captain bow to their friends, families, and fans, then make haste to clear the court.
Tooru leaves his team to rest in the hall and sneaks off toward the restroom. A splash of water and a cursory pep talk ought to be enough to clear his nerves before the next game.
“Oikawa.”
A deep voice rumbles behind Tooru, and a behemoth shadow falls over the stag.
“What’s with this timing?” Tooru grits out under his breath, turning begrudgingly to face his least favorite carnivore.
Shiratorizawa’s southpaw brown bear blots out the hall’s pallid fluorescent light.
“Fancy seeing you here, Ushiwaka,” Tooru spits through a smile.
“You’re surprised?” The bear frowns, misinterpreting Tooru’s sarcasm. “Our semi-final match is today. I wish you well.”
“You seriously piss me off.” Tooru doesn’t bother hiding his sneer. Being cornered by a carnivore is always irritating, but being cornered by Wakatoshi might just take the ‘how to piss off Tooru without trying’ cake. “I can’t wait to return the favor when we make it to nationals.”
“Only one team can go.”
Tooru snorts loudly through his nose. His ears twitch back. His fur puffs up, and he holds his head high, chin tucked, as he continues to glare up at Wakatoshi. “I know.”
“I see.” Wakatoshi nods. “We’ll accept any challenge, but know this, Oikawa—today, you will be reminded that you chose the wrong path. Shiratorizawa would have welcomed you, but you’ve allowed yourself to be distracted by worthless pride.”
Tooru sees red and then white. Shiratorizawa would not have welcomed him, no matter how much Wakatoshi insists to the contrary. It irks Tooru ceaselessly that the stoic southpaw genuinely believes that hard work and a change of attitude would have been enough for the stag to overcome Shiratorizawa’s blatant biases.
“Miracle booooy, whatcha doin’?”
A maned wolf with lanky stilt-like legs and russet fur appears behind Wakatoshi. Tooru forces the sneer from his face but doesn’t offer Satori a smile—he’s never liked the wolf-like creature with its Chesire grin and vulpine cunning. His personality is befuddling at best, and his guess blocking is beyond infuriating.
“Oh, Mister Milk Bread,” Satori greets. “You’re so small; I didn’t see you there.”
Tooru is by no means short. In fact, he’s tall for a herbivore and towers over plenty of carnivores. Satori only has a couple of centimeters on Tooru, but he has a sadistic streak and isn’t afraid to draw attention to his height advantage.
“See you on the court.” Wakatoshi turns and strides down the hall with Satori on his heels.
“Bye-bye!” Satori waves, gazing back at Tooru through hooded eyes.
Tooru watches water whirl in the sink before it washes away down the drain. He grips the basin on either side, his heart racing and breath short. First nerves, then irritation. Panting on the court is a product of battle; panting alone in the restroom is a sign of weakness.
The door bangs open behind Tooru. He flinches but doesn’t turn. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of brown and a bear-sized shadow. A frustrated scream builds in his chest.
“Haven’t you bothered me enough?” he snaps, whirling around.
“I had a feeling you had a mouth on you,” the bear remarks.
Tooru freezes. The bear blocking the exit isn’t Wakatoshi; it’s the impossibly tall grizzly from Cherryton.
“What?” Tooru splutters, blinking in confusion. There is no way this stranger just openly insulted him. Then again, maybe he’s sore from losing.
“I said, I had a feeling you had a mouth on you,” the bear repeats, stepping into the restroom and letting the door swing shut behind him.
“Are all bears this rude?” Tooru snaps.
The grizzly laughs and rubs the back of his head. If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. His expression is eerily neutral, almost friendly. “Not at all,” he replies. “I was just making an observation.”
“Well, go observe somewhere else. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were here to devour me.”
The baseless accusation slips from Tooru’s lips with ease, and he regrets it instantly.
Ire flashes in the bear’s small, dark eyes. His shoulders tense, and his massive hands ball at his sides.
He’s supposed to reel back from Tooru, hastily apologize, and flee. He’s not supposed to shake with rage and bare his teeth.
He’s not supposed to crowd Tooru back against the sink, not supposed to lean over him and breath hot against Tooru’s face, and he’s most definitely not supposed to whisper, “Don’t tempt me.”
A hysterical laugh belts out of Tooru. He stomps a foot and snorts, rocking his head back. His horns connect with the mirror, and he lurches as shattered glass rains behind him, clinking into the sink and clattering onto the floor.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I might.” The bear smiles wide, his lips pulling back to reveal long canines. “You know, I know a deer just like you. He’s a real pain in the ass. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to shut him up for good.”
Fear sings through Tooru’s body, and his knees wobble uncontrollably. The sink digging into his back is his only support. Every herbivore is forced to contemplate their mortality at some point in their lives, but this fear is different. It’s molten and frigid, burning through him and freezing him in place.
Today, Oikawa Tooru may be devoured.
The bear yawns wide, eyes gleaming. Drool trails from his gaping maw.
Today, Oikawa Tooru will be devoured.
The realization races unbidden through Tooru’s mind. It’s such an absurd thought; he wants to giggle—but it’s plausible, possible. Carnivores aren’t supposed to devour herbivores, but they do. And one did at Cherryton. So why not here? Why not now? Why not Tooru?
Tooru stares into the bear’s mouth, feels the heat of his breath, and trembles. Struggling is futile: he’s caged in and no match against a bear, even with his prized horns.
Today is the day that Oikawa Tooru—
“Tooru!”
Paralyzed by fear, Tooru doesn’t respond to the shout. The voice is familiar, and it’s followed by a blood-curdling snarl.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Hackles raised and fangs bared, Hajime forces himself bodily between the bear and Tooru. His deep baritone growl fills the restroom and bounces off the walls, electrifying the air.
“Just congratulating your setter on the win.” The bear shrugs. His infuriatingly friendly smile resurfaces, but his eyes retain their rapacious sheen as he wipes drool away with the back of his hand.
Hajime presses back against Tooru, and Tooru’s hands knot in Hajime’s jersey. Rough vibrations ripple through the wolf’s body, and his fur stands on end. Tooru’s never seen Hajime this puffed up, nor has he felt—much less heard—him growl this aggressively.
“Fuck off,” he snarls. “He’s mine.”
“Easy,” the bear laughs, raising his hands. “I think you’ve confused my intentions.” He gives Hajime a smug look and steps back. “Let’s leave this misunderstanding behind us.”
The bear’s eyes flicker over Tooru, and Hajime growls again.
“Best of luck against Shiratorizawa.” With a wave, the bear leaves, hunching to fit his massive frame through the door.
The second the door swings shut, Hajime is on Tooru, sniffing every inch of him, eyes half-crazed.
“Iwa-chan!”
A shrill giggle escapes Tooru as Hajime’s hands slide up his sides. The wolf’s sniffing doesn’t cease, though. Hajime inspects Tooru’s arms, carefully assesses his hands, tests each finger; he presses his snout to Tooru’s neck, huffing his scent and reading his pheromones.
“Are you okay?” Hajime pulls back. “Did he hurt you?”
“Are you serious, Iwa-chan?” Tooru snorts, pressing a hand to Hajime’s chest weakly. Their proximity has a disorienting effect on Tooru’s senses, but he doesn’t want to push the wolf away. He’s never been afraid of Hajime; his heart flutters for a different reason. “You just sniffed me all over; you’d know if I was hurt.”
“Answer the damn question, Shittykawa.” Hajime’s hands rest on Tooru’s hips, and a scowl furrows his brow.
“I’m fine… now,” Tooru mutters softly, refusing to meet Hajime’s gaze.
“You shouldn’t wander off alone.”
“I can go wherever I want, thanks. Maybe carnivores should stop cornering me.”
“Idiot,” Hajime grumbles, releasing Tooru.
“Iwa-chan! You’re so hurtful. I almost got devoured just now. You should be nicer to me.”
“Knock it off. I wouldn’t let a tasteless bag of bones like you get devoured.”
“Excuse you?!”
“Boss!” Kentarou barks, banging the restroom door open.
Tooru flinches, and Hajime’s scowl deepens.
“Coach is looking for you.” The painted wolf’s eyes flit between his captain and vice-captain. “And that one,” he adds, jerking his head toward Tooru.
“Seriously, Mad Dog?” Tooru tuts. “I have a name.”
“Maybe he’d show you respect if you stopped calling him that.” Hajime looks like he’d like to smack Tooru, but he settles for prodding the stag in the chest.
“He should respect me regardless.” Tooru pouts, trudging after his teammates.
“This isn’t the end,” Hajime hisses through clenched teeth, eyes red-rimmed and teary, head bowed and tail limp.
“Next time,” Tooru agrees, stifling a sniffle. “We still have the qualifiers.”
Tooru pointedly ignores Wakatoshi’s heavy gaze from across the court. He’s had enough interactions with bears to last him through the end of the year, and hearing another lecture on how he “should have gone to Shiratorizawa” is the last thing he needs right now.
Losing to Wakatoshi is never surprising, but it’s always disappointing and brutally so. The sets were close. but the game wasn’t.
Tooru can’t help but wonder if losing 1:2 would feel as bad as losing 0:2 does.
Wiping his eyes, Tooru straightens. He’s the Great King, and deer don’t look regal with their heads bowed.
“Iwa-chan? Iwaaa-chan?”
“What?” Hajime stops to look back at Tooru. The amber light of a streetlamp frames the stocky wolf. A gray hood shadows his face, and he buries his hands deep in his pockets. Behind him, his tail sways with a lazy rhythm.
“What was that back there?”
“Back where?”
“You know, the whole ‘he’s mine’ thing.”
Tooru steps under the lamplight with Hajime. The wolf is ever so slightly shorter than him, and that pleases him endlessly.
Hajime’s eyes widen for a split second, then he scowls, turning his face away and hiding it behind a hand.
“Aww, is Iwa-chan shy?” Tooru pokes at Hajime and cackles. “He is, isn’t he?”
“Shut up, Trashykawa.” Hajime huffs the words, but there’s very little growl behind them.
“C’mon, what was that, though? You don’t think of me as your prey, do you? That’s naughty, Iwa-chan.”
“Rex-almighty,” Hajime curses, stalking away from Tooru down the road. Jogging to catch up, Tooru misses what he grumbles under his breath.
“What was that?” he probes.
“I said, it’s not like that.”
“Mmm, what is it like, then?”
“It’s just… you’re just…” Hajime’s tail tucks slightly, and he whines in frustration. “We’re a team. We look out for each other.”
Tooru falls into step beside Hajime. He thumbs one of his horns idly and considers the sentiment.
“Sure,” he agrees after a moment, “but I think you’d start a lot of rumors if anyone caught you calling a first-year yours.”
Much to Tooru’s surprise, Hajime doesn’t take the bait; the wolf broods silently, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tooru is about to open his mouth to stir the pot further when Hajime stops abruptly, turning to face him with anguished eyes.
“Why do you trust me so implicitly?”
“Seriously?” Tooru snorts and rolls his eyes. “Because I know you’d never hurt me. What kind of a question—”
“But I have,” Hajime interrupts, eyes flickering toward Tooru’s knee.
“Not in a way that matters.”
“It’s messed up that you think like that.”
“No,” Tooru snaps. “It’s messed up that you can’t accept that I’m fine; you’re the one that’s hung up on stupid shit.”
“Rex, do you even hear yourself? Carnivores are dangerous, Tooru. I’ve hurt you; that guy was gonna hurt you. There’s no telling who’ll try something next.”
“Hajime, you never tried. It was an accident—you didn’t mean to!”
“That just makes it worse!”
“Why do you care so much?” Tooru stomps in frustration, his voice rising to match Hajime’s.
“Because, against all instinct and reason, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Tooru’s heart pounds against his ribs, and his chest tightens. They’ve had this fight before, but Hajime’s words have never carried this much weight or emotion—and the tension between them has never been this palpable.
“Why?” Tooru asks again, his mouth impossibly dry.
“B-because,” Hajime splutters, starting to pace. “Because you’re the only animal I care about in this shitty world. And it’s infuriating how careless you are with your safety. You work yourself to death, and then you put yourself in dangerous situations. It drives me fucking crazy. I’m not always going to be around to protect you.”
Hajime stops abruptly in front of Tooru. His eyes swim with distress, and his hand curls around his snout, hiding his fangs.
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I know, but…” Hajime hunches, eyes squeezing shut like Tooru’s callus words cause physical pain.
Maybe they do.
“I’m gonna work harder,” Tooru interrupts, grabbing Hajime by the front of his jacket.
“W-what?” Hajime’s hand drops to his side, and he gapes at Tooru.
“I’m gonna get as good at protecting myself as you are.”
“You’re turning this into a competition?”
“Take it or leave it, Iwa-chan.”
A feral grin splits Hajime’s face, and Tooru’s heart skips a beat. Hajime fangs gleam, bright in the low light of the street. Even in the shadow of his hood, his eyes shine. Behind him, his tail swishes with a decisive flick.
“You’re on, Loserkawa.”
Tooru can hear the deep vibration of Hajime’s words in his throat. He’s known for some time that Hajime’s voice is all growl, but he’s still fascinated by the discovery years later.
A dangerous desire bursts in Tooru’s chest and lights his nerves on fire. Hajime is so close, and his grin sets Tooru’s soul ablaze. The feelings he holds for his oldest friend transcend instinct.
Tooru surges forward without forethought.
Their lips collide, and Tooru kisses Hajime so hard he thinks his heart may burst. Hajime stands frozen, a gentle whine on his lips.
A sudden rush of doubt clouds Tooru’s mind—Hajime isn’t kissing him back. Disoriented, he pulls back.
He doesn’t get far.
Hajime chases Tooru’s lips, returning the kiss, tail wagging furiously behind him. “Dumbass deer,” he growls against Tooru’s mouth, his large, warm hands coming up to cup Tooru’s face.
A half-hearted ‘Iwa-chan’ dies in Tooru’s throat. He kisses him back and buries his fingers in Hajime’s soft undercoat. The streetlamp overhead flickers, buzzing along with Tooru’s nerves.
He can’t think of a better remedy for a shitty day.
Chest heaving, Hajime pulls back. He presses his forehead to Tooru’s and wraps his arms around the stag’s waist. Tooru’s skin prickles where Hajime touches him, and he shivers.
“Tooru,” Hajime murmurs. His voice is husky and itches something deep in Tooru. “If one of us is a born devourer, it’s you.”
Tooru inhales sharply, letting the words roll over him one at a time. He lets them sink in, lets his delight bloom like roses in his chest, before he replies, “Naturally.”
Lips curled and heart on fire, Tooru wraps his arms around Hajime’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss.