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The dull thump the ball makes collided with a floor behind his back is a surprise, his arms freezing in the position for a receive that just didn't...happen. He looks behind his back in a shock, almost curiously, his eyes following the ball as it spins towards the wall, so painfully painfully slow. The whistle is incisive yet somehow too quiet in his ears; the cheers Karasuno are making seem distant, almost far away, even though the team is just on the other side of the court. Oikawa barely hears them.
All he hears is the pulsating heartbeat in his ears, and the echoing sound the ball made on his skin, the sound so wrong it makes him physically sick. It hits him, then, as he raises his head and his eyes meet Tobio's, – he knows this is the end. Game over. His eyes slowly drift to look at the scoring table, – at big bald numbers that have such a small gap between them. So small, yet so impossibly impossibly big. There is so much of the difference these two points make.
He looks at Tobio again, the boy who is standing on the other side of the net and looking back, his gaze lacking any bits of mockery or triumphal happiness. Oikawa wants to scream as Kageyama reaches out with his hand to show respect, the hand that grew so much from what he remembers from Junior High. It's almost as big as his is, now, yet somehow it feels much bigger. Firmer, now. He doesn't want to shake it.
Doesn't want Tobio to know how much his own palm is trembling, doesn't want him to know how defeated and crushed he feels.
But Kageyama's hand is distant warmth on his cold skin, the hold firm and long fingers tight around his palm. He wants to break them.
But his own grip is far too weak, he feels as if he doesn't have any bits of his strength left. Tobio says nothing and everything at the same time, because his eyes always made it so obvious, gave everything away...He was always obvious. Easy to read. Yet Oikawa wants to pretend this time he understood nothing.
And then, just like this, their final line-up is over, but they take another moment to bow deeply to the viewers, people who came here to support them, people he let down. He can't make himself look at them. He's terrified to meet their disappointed gazes. The applause he hears from the tribunes make the lump in his throat grow, his gut tightening as his eyes are burning, yet he doesn't let the tears fall. The clapping feels suffocating, wrong, almost as if they are celebrating his another fail. They were so close.
He messed it up.
Nevertheless, he bows, as low as he possibly can, because no matter what he is grateful; because he won't have another chance to.
They are heading back to the dressing room and he can feel Iwaizumi's gaze burning holes in his back, but he can't turn his head to meet it, because, he knows, once he does, it will confirm everything is over. They are over. Seijou is. He isn't ready.
He knows he has to be strong for the team, knows he has to be a good captain, knows this is the end and he has to say something, something like 'You all fought well' or 'You guys were amazing out there', but all that is stuck in his throat are words of apologies, because he was the one to mess it up. He almost chuckles at the brutal irony, his words to Karasuno echoing in his mind and clawing their way down his throat. “You can't learn receive over night,” he said, back then. And yet here he is: unable to receive a ball even though he waited for it. He had to practise his receives, he thinks. Had to put some of the time he spent on his new serves, - serves that didn't quite work, - into receiving. But he didn't.
He turns to his team, then, finally looking at them. There are hundreds words of regret and apology on his mind, yet his lips part and no sound comes out, the all-consuming pressing guilt crushing upon him and stopping syllables from forming.
“I am sorry,” he wants to say. But the words are stuck, his throat squeezing so hard and painful he can barely breathe. “I am sorry,” - is everything he can think of. “I am sorry.”
But then he finally meets Iwaizumi's gaze, it's by accident, by pure habit, and somehow it's full of determination just like usual. He almost wants to ask Iwaizumi why, why isn't he blaming him, but the eye-contact is broken, because Hajime is bowing his head, bending low just like the rest of the team does.
“Thank you, Oikawa-san,” he can distantly register Kindaichi's trembling voice, he thinks he can hear Kunimi saying the same, he is almost positive Mad-dog-chan is bowing, too. Oikawa has so many questions, and yet all he can do is stay motionless and stare, stare as his team is bowing to him, even though he is the reason they lost, he is the one who messed it up, he is the reason it all ended.
The lump in his throat is painful, burning as the air is trying to come out of his lungs in sharp cut exhalations. He can feel his lip trembling dangerously as his eyes itch worse than they ever did, just before the view of his team blurs together in a mess of colours.
He wants to ask why, but his throat doesn't let him, and then there is a warm firm hand on his shoulder, just like the usual. Oikawa raises his head to look at Iwaizumi, the blur of his white and turquoise uniform blending together even more because he realizes this is the last time he will ever see it on his friend. The last time he will wear it.
“I am sorry,” he can finally hear himself say, but the words come out ragged and raspy, barely audible. Though not for Iwaizumi, because the punch comes right after, pulling Oikawa out of his own personal hell to finally look Hajime in the eye. “Iwa-chan...”
“Shut up, you fucking idiot,” Iwaizumi's words are just as hoarse as his own, yet sure and steady, “We wouldn't get this far without you.”
He looks up again, meeting Iwaizumi's eyes – solid and confident. He can feel another hand on his shoulder and he sees Matsukawa, who looks just as sure as Iwaizumi does, no blame or anger in his eyes. Only tears.
They are all crying, he distantly notices as they all are drawing up closer to each other in the last time they are here together and as a team. His team.