Chapter Text
the other half—age 7
Only hours after burying their grandmother, Tobio’s grandfather tells him and Miwa a story about soulmates.
“The Greeks used to believe humans were originally created as a double, with two heads,” he begins, tweaking Tobio’s ear to illustrate the location of the second head, “four arms, and four legs!”
Miwa laughs at the image; Tobio bats his grandfather’s hand away, eyes drawn to the bright yellow band around his ring finger. Their grandmother had worn an identical band, but they’d buried it with her—Tobio had spotted it on her finger as she laid there, pale and still, in the glossy wooden box his father had called a coffin. Why does his grandfather still wear his, if its pair is boxed up and buried?
“But the gods feared their power,” Kageyama Kazuyo continues dramatically, “and so they split them apart, into the humans we are now.”
Miwa gasps. Tobio grabs his grandfather’s hand, twisting it so he can see the ring better.
“Tobio,” his grandfather says patiently, “can I have my hand back?”
“Why do you still wear it?” It is definitely the same ring, tarnished and nicked—Kazuyo refuses to take it off even when the three of them are playing volleyball.
Kazuyo gently extracts his hand from Tobio’s grip. “I’m not done with my story,” he says gently, “but I’ll answer in a moment, okay?”
“Why?” Tobio doesn’t understand. Why wear it anymore, when they’d buried its pair? What was it for anymore, without its other half?
“Tobio.”
“Shh!” Miwa hisses, swatting him; he swats her right back, absently. “I’m trying to listen to Grandpa’s story!”
But his mind is stuck on the why. “I don’t understand,” he tries to explain, but Miwa just frowns.
“Because,” Kazuyo begins, sighing, “even in death, your grandmother is still that person to me. The Greeks would have called her my other half—the one I would have been bound with into one whole, had the gods not intervened—but everyone has different words for it, I suppose. Soulmates, you could say.”
“But she’s not here anymore,” Tobio points out. “It’s alone.” He means the ring. But his grandfather’s face falls anyway.
“You’re right, Tobio,” he admits. “But I am still here.”
“I don’t understand,” Tobio says again, but Miwa just pouts, and his grandfather just sighs again, and his father comes over to lead him and Miwa away, with quiet scoldings of Leave your grandfather alone, now and He has had a long, sad day. Tobio still doesn’t understand—the why? still hasn’t been answered—but his father finally allows him to take the stiff, itchy suit off, and that alone makes up for the confusion, at least for a little while.
(It isn’t until he meets Hinata Shouyou, eight years later, that he begins to understand.)
bright yellow band—age 12–13
“Happy Birthday, Tobio.”
It isn’t his birthday, not yet—the clock still ticks steadily towards 12 a.m.; the calendar still reads December 21st. But Kazuyo had told Tobio he wanted to give him something before the family gathering tomorrow—something between just the two of them—and he’d let Tobio stay up late, drinking mug after mug of hot chocolate and watching clips his grandfather has saved of a V.League team called the Schweiden Alders, so Tobio can’t complain.
“It’s not my birthday,” he says, though, pointing at the clock. Just in case his grandfather doesn’t know.
Kazuyo smiles. “I know. But I just wanted to tell you again, before tomorrow.”
Tobio sips his hot chocolate. His tongue is all scratchy, rough from burning himself on the stuff.
“I wanted to give you something,” Kazuyo continues.
“Presents are tomorrow,” Tobio says.
“I know.” Kazuyo’s always been patient with him. It’s a tone of voice Tobio has never heard him use with anyone else. Heavy with love. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of your mother, though—she’d get worried about me, and we can’t have that.” He winks, which Tobio knows means he’s supposed to keep this a secret. Or that he’s part of a secret. A conspirator.
“Why would it make her worried?”
“I wanted to give you this.”
Kazuyo hands him a bright yellow band on a silver chain. A quick glance at his grandfather’s hand confirms that the finger this ring usually sits on is bare, a thin strip of pale skin the only indication it was ever there at all.
“Why?” The chain pools in Tobio’s hand. It’s cool to the touch.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
“You said you did,” Tobio says. “At the funeral, a long time ago. You said even if the pair was buried, you still needed it, because Grandma would never stop being your other half.”
“And I still believe that.” Kazuyo sighs. “It’s hard to explain. You’re young. When you get to be my age—when you find your soulmate—then maybe you’ll understand a bit better. But I meant what I said at the funeral, even though I’m surprised you still remember it. Vise of a mind you’ve got there, you know that?”
Kazuyo ruffles his hair, and Tobio leans into the comforting touch, still staring at the band and its chain.
“Your grandmother’s still my other half, that’s never going to change. But I don’t need a ring to remind myself of it. Especially not where I’m going.”
Tobio blinks. “Where are you going?”
“Hopefully nowhere soon, kid. But when you get to be my age, there’s really only one place to go.”
Tobio doesn’t like the thought of his grandfather leaving. But Kazuyo doesn’t give him the chance to speak.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I want you to have it. When you find that other half … give it to them, alright? Until then, it’s just something to remember me by, yes?”
“I can’t forget you,” Tobio points out, “you’re always around.”
Tobio looks at him for the first time tonight, and Kazuyo smiles. “Right.” There’s something off about the smile, though. Something Tobio wants to label as sad, but isn’t sure about.
“Let’s go up to bed, you’ve been awake long enough.”
loss—age 13
Tobio does not have words to describe this feeling.
challenger—age 14
It is his first game without his grandfather in the stands.
It is his first game without his grandfather, and all of his nerves feel like they are on fire. He is hyper aware of every single set of eyes from every corner of the gymnasium; the spectators’ gazes feel like lasers on his skin. His coach’s voice sounds like it is coming from a long way off as they run the team through warm-up, and he excuses himself to go to the washroom halfway through, hoping a splash of cold water might do something to quell the feeling of burning from the inside out.
This is an important tournament. There are students and coaches alike in the stands— scouts in the stands—taking note of promising players to invite to their schools. There are scouts from Shiratorizawa Academy in the stands, and Tobio needs them to recognize him, to remember him. To see him as his grandfather always did—at his best.
But his heart feels as if it might burst under the pressure, and the cool water is doing nothing to help. He grips the porcelain basin of the sink, white-knuckled, and tries to breathe. To impress the scouts, he has to play. And not only play, but perform well. Perfectly. And it will be difficult, if every breath continues feeling like the effort of it is ripping his throat raw.
Tears burn behind his eyes.
(It is not the first time he has ever had a panic attack, but his mom and dad call them his “tantrums.” Little episodes, put on for attention. They’re both barely home, after all, so they don’t know these “episodes” happen even when the house is empty, when there is no one around to perform for.)
He recognizes the signs of himself hurtling towards the brink—the brink that, if he goes over, will make it impossible to perform for the scouts. And he has to. He has to get into Shiratorizawa Academy, like his grandfather always wanted him to. He has to make his grandfather proud.
Just before he tips over the point of no return, he is interrupted.
“You’re from Kitagawa Daiichi!”
It is another volleyball player—Tobio thinks he recognizes the ugly green jersey from the team they are scheduled to play first … Yukigaoka?—one who can’t be more than 125 centimetres and whose hunched posture is making him seem even shorter. Even so, he’s loud, and he’s pointing an accusatory finger at Tobio, face screwed up in anger.
It is enough to make Tobio forget the impending episode; for a moment, at least. “Excuse me?”
“Kitagawa Daiichi!” The kid gestures to his jacket. “We’re playing you first!”
“… Okay?”
He seems unimpressed by Tobio’s lack of response. “And we’re here to win!”
Tobio doesn’t mean to laugh. But between the pressure in his chest and his surprise, it slips out. “I hope the rest of your team is taller, then,” he says. “Do you understand how critical height is to volleyball? What are you, one-twenty-two?”
“One-twenty-seven,” he spits back, “and even if I was only one-twenty, I’d still beat you.”
Tobio laughs again, though this time it’s intentional. Who does this kid think he is?
“You wanna know why?” he says, eyes blazing.
“Why?”
“Because I can fly.”
Tobio recognizes this for the challenge it is. And as he scoffs and leaves the kid in the washroom to return to warm-ups—as the whistle blows to commence the game and the scouts in the stands start taking their notes—Tobio isn’t thinking of them or his grandfather or getting into Shiratorizawa Academy anymore. Instead, he is thinking of how the kid’s eyes blazed, how determinedly he declared, I can fly, and how quickly he’s moving on the other side of the court. And for the first time since his grandfather died—for the first time in a long time—he has fun playing volleyball.
They win, and Tobio rubs it in the kid’s face, and he promises they’ll meet again for a rematch.
Tobio really, really hopes he’s right.
failure, part I—age 14
Kitagawa Daiichi makes it to the final, and Tobio’s teammates abandon him.
He forgets what was ever so fun about volleyball. Losing isn’t fun. This—this isn’t fun.
failure, part II—age 15
He is rejected from Shiratorizawa Academy, and apologizes to his grandfather’s grave.
his other half—age 15
He meets Hinata Shouyou—properly, this time—and all of his grandfather’s words about soulmates and other halves come back to him at once.
At first, they did not get along. Hinata is loud. Obnoxious. Bright. His mouth runs a mile a minute, and his ego is ten times his size. But despite it all, Tobio’s skin doesn’t feel like it’s on fire when he’s around Hinata, and his voice doesn’t make his ears bleed.
Instead of a forest fire, Hinata is a gentle warmth. If Tobio was better with words, he thinks it’s a distinction he could write poetry about. Hinata is just different. Like the sun. (Appropriate, given his name.) When they are on the court together, all Tobio can think about—instead of abandonment and king and lonely is the throne—is the warm weight of Hinata at his back, his loud whoops and jumps and thwacks of the ball. Always, impossibly, there.
When Tobio regresses into old habits—shouting, clawing desperately for control—on the anniversary of his grandfather’s death, this team doesn’t shun him. They don’t leave him. Instead, Hinata interrupts his meltdown—bringing him back from the brink again—with a shitty crown made out of towels, and calls him King like it’s something to be proud of.
Volleyball is fun again, with him. With this team.
Which makes the eventual loss at Nationals so much worse. He wanted to make it, and not just for the sake of making it—not solely to prove something—but because this team has felt like a team. A family. He doesn’t want to stop playing with them. But the season ends anyway.
Hinata, sick as he is, walks home with him that last day, talking a mile a minute about the game, about volleyball, about how next year, we’ll win for sure. By the time he gets to his house, Tobio isn’t sad anymore. He’s excited. For Nationals next year. To keep playing with Hinata.
Is this what his grandfather meant, by having a soulmate?
(The yellow band on its chain rests heavy around his neck, and he thinks about giving it to Hinata someday.)
puzzles—age 17
By his third year, Tobio thought he had it figured out.
His relationships with the other third-years are simple. Yamaguchi comes to him for advice, to talk to him about Hinata, or to apologize on Tsukishima’s behalf with a smirk (the latter happens more frequently than the two former). Tsukishima offers half-hearted insults that Tobio is beginning to believe are almost affectionate, if Yamaguchi’s word is anything to go by, pushes his buttons, and is, in general, an asshole. Yachi—she has been encouraging them to call her Hitoka, but Tobio still can’t quite manage to form a habit of it—is sweet, checking in on him, driving them places, letting him talk to her about V.League teams and prospects after high school and hold her hands, sometimes, when it all gets a bit much. And Hinata—Hinata is the sun, simply put. Tobio isn’t poetic enough to come up with anything more. He is annoying, and stupid, and egotistical, but Tobio knows most people would say the same about himself. And besides, Hinata isn’t just those things. He’s funny—dare Tobio admit it—, and amazing at volleyball, and the best competitor Tobio has ever had. Being around Hinata for only a few minutes can render the worst of Tobio’s episodes bearable—and the worst thing about it all is, Tobio doesn’t even think Hinata notices he’s doing it. Doesn’t notice how much of an effect he has—not only on Tobio, but on the rest of them, too.
But that is just how they all fit together, puzzle pieces of a greater whole. Tobio may not understand where he fits in their lives, but he understands how they fit in his, and it is comfortable. Safe.
Then Tsukishima calls him at 5 a.m., desperate for help, and everything Tobio thought he understood about their dynamic changes.
He relearns how to act around Tsukishima in a matter of hours, and impresses even himself. With the change, though—with the new act—comes new … can he call them feelings? Maybe they aren’t quite that. Maybe Tobio is making this something it’s not. But he doesn’t have a better word for what changed. All he knows is that, sitting in that truck in the hospital’s parking lot at 6 a.m., with Tsukishima hurt and crying, changes something, fundamentally, about how Tobio feels about him. How afterwards, he spends sleepless nights waiting for a text or a phone call or anything from Tsukishima like he’d promised.
Objectively, he knows Tsukishima is alright. But he had said he’d text and he hasn’t yet, and Tobio does not understand what he has done wrong.
Tsukishima returning to volleyball practices is a rude awakening for Tobio, because it is obvious Tsukishima has no trouble falling back into their old dynamics. Sneers, scowls, insults—what used to spur Tobio’s competitiveness now only curdle his stomach. But he sneers and scowls right back, but that’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it?
Maybe not. Because Yamaguchi, Hinata, and Tsukishima all seem so much closer now, and Tobio rarely sees them outside of volleyball anymore, and he works to keep the growing panic that this is a repeat of what happened in his last year at Kitagawa Daiichi at bay.
What am I doing wrong?
Tobio thought he had this puzzle all figured out. But then Tsukishima had messed up all the pieces, and Tobio isn’t even sure if there is a place in it for him, anymore.