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‘Ultimately, the decision is yours,’ Coach says, leaning against a cage of volleyballs, his large build appearing somewhat out of place in the cramped equipment storeroom. Futakuchi is perceptive enough to realise that everything in Coach’s expectant gaze, his self-assured smile, really just means otherwise, but he also knows better to voice that sentiment aloud. Coach proceeds to rest a large, calloused hand onto Futakuchi’s shoulder—he probably means for it to be comforting, but somehow Futakuchi finds himself itching to shrug the unexpected weight off.
He should’ve seen this coming, of course, right from the terrible moment Moniwa had told him, with tired resignation and a haggardness which for once had nothing to do with captainly duties and troublesome kouhais, ‘I won’t be around for the spring tournament.’ And in a way he has seen it coming—his keenness and uncanny grasp of whatever situation he’s in was probably what landed him captaincy to begin with—but there are some things you can never mentally prepare yourself for.
Losing at Interhigh, for one. People—who’ve theretofore been constants in your life—leaving you. Your captain abandoning you for good, and you having to fill his shoes. Futakuchi thinks about Moniwa and his particular brand of earnestness, thinks about a quiet and unassuming strength that he can never hope to emulate.
‘Did you consider Obara,’ Futakuchi blurts out, the palpable uncertainty in his voice at once foreign and unwelcome.
Coach frowns, although he looks less displeased than surprised. ‘Obara’s a hard worker,’ Coach says with obvious struggle as he tries to justify his choice without having to put a player down in front of his fellow teammate. ‘But certain leadership skills can’t be picked up by diligence alone. Moniwa and I both think that your confidence and your understanding of your teammates would put you in a better position to lead them.’
Futakuchi doesn’t tell him that his supposed confidence and perceptiveness have never been intended for things as grand as captaincy—he’s mostly used them to make jibes at the expense of others, and the only times these qualities have been useful was when he'd wanted to rile up opposing team members, and even that might be pushing it.
Coach leans back against the cage, seemingly pleased with what he probably perceives to be a tactful and convincing answer. ‘So? Are you ready to step up to this?'
Futakuchi runs through the remaining candidates in his mind—Aone barely speaks, so he’s out of the question. Fukiage—too easily riled up. Onagawa—always anxious and jittery about something. With a sinking heart, Futakuchi realises—I’m the best we have to offer.
And because Futakuchi has always been acutely self-aware, he understands enough to know that it’s not really a nice realisation to have. It’s not a nice realisation at all.
‘You won’t be completely alone, you know,’ Coach supplements, eager to get the conversation over and done with. Not that Futakuchi can blame him—the man’s used to screaming at boys and getting them to run laps around the court, not hold tactful conversations about delicate issues in cramped equipments storerooms. ‘You’ll get to decide on the vice-captain. Moniwa and I think Obara will fit the role—but your say is still final.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ Futakuchi says eventually, after a slight pause, and because Coach has obviously already made up his mind, the lingering hesitance in Futakuchi’s voice, and all other associated signs of reluctance, are completely lost on him.
Coach beams at Futakuchi, barely bothering to hide his relief. ‘Good! We’ll discuss the details next week.’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘congratulations, Futakuchi.’
In a way, Futakuchi supposes he’s had his share of fun. Second year has mostly been kind to him—second year is where you are old and seasoned enough to walk around with a vague sense of self-entitlement and pick at your kouhais without much fear of retribution, but also young enough to—with some luck—shrug off most responsibilities associated with being an upperclassman.
It’s a distant memory now, but Futakuchi remembers a time when he’d actually desired captaincy with all the foolish naivete of a first year. Second year saw Futakuchi shedding his rose-tinted perception of what it means to be a captain; it did not take Futakuchi long to realise that being a captain mostly involved handling thankless and banal tasks such as containing your rowdy kouhais (which, admittedly, included Futakuchi most of the time), collecting club forms, and organising troublesome events such as club fairs. Surprisingly, the knowledge did not take away a single shred of respect he’d felt towards Moniwa—if anything, he’s always harboured a sort of deep respect toward Moniwa, although most of the time it is possibly too deep to actually surface at all—but it did have him shuddering and thinking: I wouldn’t want that sort of responsibility, ever.
Of course, Futakuchi thinks wryly, slamming his locker shut, that’s all in the past now. Futakuchi has never been a firm believer of karma, or things like fate for that matter, but he does think that the irony is too sick and too pronounced for him to gloss over. He removes his new uniform from its plastic wrapper and puts it on, taking care not to let his eyes and his mind linger too long on the number 2 emblazoned boldly at the front, and everything it entails.
The shirt is stiff and starchy, chafes at his neck, and fits him all wrong. Slowly, Futakuchi makes his way to the courts, where everyone has already gathered.
Silence falls upon the entire court as the first and second years spot Futakuchi entering the court, and it just makes him even more uneasy. Futakuchi half expects someone to make a snarky, smart-ass remark to break the tension, until he realises that that has traditionally always been his job. Obara—who has been briefed on his role a week ago, and who has reacted with far greater enthusiasm than Futakuchi had—springs up at the sight of Futakuchi, and joins him to face the team. He’s positively vibrating with a mix of nervous energy and a sort of edgy excitement; Futakuchi feels his energy practically sap away just by looking at him.
Eleven pairs of eyes fix themselves on Futakuchi.
Futakuchi feels his unease slowly burgeoning into something unbecoming and embarrassing, something that feels terribly like nervousness. He swallows and thinks, for the umpteenth time since three weeks ago, about what Moniwa might’ve done, and tries to recall whatever he can of Moniwa’s initiation speech. Ah crap, it’s been so long.
‘Alright, everyone,’ Futakuchi begins in a tone that is not quite his but not as similar to Moniwa’s as he’d prefer, ‘as you all know, I’ve been appointed the role of your new captain. I know the third years have stepped down, but I don’t think anyone should slack off because of that. If anything, I hope to bring Datekou to greater heights, especially in light of the Spring Tournament that’s around the corner.’ The speech is turning out to be every bit as excruciating as he’d imagined. Greater heights, Futakuchi thinks somewhat hysterically to himself, and resists the wild urge to break into laughter. How lame can he get? He clears his throat and tries not to wince visibly as he ploughs through the climax of his speech—‘Let’s rebuild the iron wall together, and show Karasuno and Seijou and Shiratorizawa what we’re made of!’
By some small miracle, it works. Everyone becomes all fired up, and his last words are practically swallowed by the sound of his teammates clapping and cheering and chanting ‘da-te-kou, da-te-kou, da-te-kou’. Next to him, Obara looks embarrassingly close to tears.
Throughout the rest of the practice, Futakuchi doesn’t crack a single joke—he barely dares to even smile—in light of his attempt to emulate Moniwa’s perpetually fretful and distressed persona as much as possible. Which is not difficult, given that trying to exact reasonable control over eleven rowdy boys turns out to be a lot harder and involves a lot more frantic yelling and than expected. There’s also a nagging worry that seems to have taken permanent residence at the back of his mind—everything’s fine, he tries to tell himself, although each reassurance is met with an equally compelling belief that trouble is just lurking around the corner. Suddenly, Futakuchi thinks that Moniwa’s permanent look of worry and distress doesn’t seem so comical anymore.
By the time practice rolls to an end, Futakuchi feels like a washed-out old rag, hung out in the sun and left to shrivel up and dry. His torture lasts beyond the training session itself; he has to stay back with Obara to discuss admin matters with Coach. Futakuchi thinks about how the rest of the team would probably be on their merry way to the convenience store down the road for their usual round of ice-cream and chips, and wilts a little inside.
Obara shoots him a sympathetic glance when they’re the only ones left in the changing room some time later.
‘This job sure is tough, huh,’ Obara says, but he the corner of his mouth is curled in the grin he’s been carrying the whole day, and the pride in his voice is unmistakeable.
Futakuchi, exhausted and still feeling the lingering stress from the day’s training, almost lets slip a cutting remark, but stops himself in time; Obara doesn’t deserve that. He gives a noncommittal grunt instead, and changes out of his shirt in a swift motion, relishing the feel of cool air against his neck, now that the irritatingly starchy collar is no longer rubbing against it.
Obara’s features rearranges themselves into something more serious. ‘You know,’ he begins, working his teeth into his lower lip as he looks at Futakuchi with a thoughtful expression. ‘You don’t… you know you’re allowed to… smile and crack jokes even as a captain, right?’
Futakuchi stills.
‘It’s easier this way,’ he admits eventually, and because he is tired he allows his frustration to bleed into his voice, and does not care to dress his vulnerability up with smug expressions and clever, biting words. It’s not like he wants to do it. There are roles he has to fill and roles he can’t fill; unfortunately, these roles don’t happen to be mutually exclusive.
Obara opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but thinks better of it and smiles wryly at Futakuchi instead. Together, they make their way to the school gates, and that’s when Futakuchi sees the group of three people huddling close to the exit; it’s late at night and he can’t really tell properly, but Futakuchi can count the number of people from his school tall enough to rival the lamppost with just the fingers from both hands, and even amidst the darkness he can still make out a distinct Aone-shaped blob.
‘What is this,’ Futakuchi says as soon as they are within earshot of the rest of the second years. ‘Do I get a procession of lowly servants to go with my new title, too?’
‘We waited thirty minutes for you in the freezing cold,’ Onagawa says, looking mostly unamused. He shakes his head vigorously, sending showers of half-melted snow flying everywhere. ‘Snack’s on you tonight.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Futakuchi protests, but the rest of them have already began to troop out of the gate in a single file.
Futakuchi catches up with them, and falls into step with Aone. Futakuchi contemplates striking a conversation, but he’s already shouted himself hoarse during practice, and talking to Aone really just means talking at Aone, i.e. a tedious exercise in conducting monologues.
To his surprise, Aone ends up being the one initiating a conversation.
‘I did ten more practice sets than usual today,’ Aone says slowly, looking down at Futakuchi with an expression that an outsider might peg as appropriate for a funeral, but Futakuchi knows Aone well enough to interpret it as his earnest and intense look. ‘Because of your speech.'
Futakuchi blinks. ‘Oh. That’s—that’s great, Aone.’
‘Spring tournament,’ Aone continues, lifting his gaze to look at the distance, serious expression never leaving his face, and it is testament to their two years of firm, albeit strange friendship that Futakuchi picks up a bestseller between the two words. For a moment Futakuchi expects him to continue, but Aone seems to have exhausted all his words, and they lapse back into silence.
They’re almost near the convenience store when a yell of ‘hey, Captain!’ snaps his out of his reverie; he looks up, only to see a few snowballs sailing straight into his face, and then everything after is just wet cold wet cold and did they honestly just start a snowball fight?
‘What the hell,’ Futakuchi says, half coughing as he spits snow out from his mouth. He wipes his eyes dry in time to see the gleeful faces of the perpetrators, and—more alarmingly—a second onslaught of snowballs hurtling his way. Cursing, Futakuchi ducks behind Aone, who doesn’t seem to mind the prospect of being used as a human shield.
‘You need to chill, Futakuchi,’ Fukiage calls out. ‘Loosen up a little.’
‘Pull that stick out from your ass,’ Onagawa supplements somewhat graphically.
‘You’re the captain of a high school volleyball team,’ Obara says, joining in the fray like the traitorous traitor Futakuchi always knew he was, ‘not the president of the fucking country.’
‘Is this a rebellion, you peasants,’ Futakuchi yells back, although whatever impressive effect he’d been aiming for is somewhat mitigated by him poking his head out from between Aone’s waist and his outstretched arms. Obara tries to retaliate by hurling a snowball at him, but his aim is horrifically off and the snowball falls squarely onto Aone’s face instead.
‘Oh,’ Futakuchi hears Aone whisper under his breath. ‘This is on.’
Half an hour later, all of them are soaked through to every last layer of clothing, breathless, and sprawled unceremoniously on the ground outside the convenience store.
‘The store’s gonna close if we don’t make our way there like, now,’ Fukiage drawls, but makes no actual concerted effort to unpeel himself from the ground.
‘I’m more worried about hypothermia,’ Obara says, and follows his statement with a violent sneeze, as if to prove his point.
‘I can’t feel my butt,’ Onagawa complains. ‘Can someone touch my butt for me so I can check if I’m still able to feel it?’
‘Pathetic wimps,’ Futakuchi spits out, although his syllables lack their usual causticity.
‘Those are pretty big words for someone who spent half the snowball fight hiding behind Aone,’ Obara retorts.
‘I wasn’t hiding behind Aone,’ Futakuchi says, defensively. He turns to his side. ‘Aone, tell them I wasn’t. Hey—Aone?’
No response, save for gentle snoring.
‘Oh my god, he fell asleep,’ Futakuchi says, propping himself up on one arm, and groans.
‘Wake him up,’ Fukiage says, helpfully.
Futakuchi blanches. ‘Are you kidding me? The last time we tried to wake him it took us seven alarms blaring into his ears at the same time, and I almost got my front teeth punched out.’
‘Then we’ll just have to stay here for a little longer,’ Obara hums.
It doesn’t seem like a bad idea. Futakuchi flops back onto the ground.
‘Moniwa would’ve tried waking Aone up,’ Futakuchi remarks after a brief period of silence, more to himself than anyone else. In response, a snowball sails gracefully through the air and lands on his face.
‘What was that for,’ Futakuchi hisses as he tries to wipe the snow away.
‘You know what it was for,’ Onagawa’s says, a few feet away from Futakuchi.
‘We’ll listen to you ’cause you’re our captain,’ Fukiage adds. ‘Not ’cause you’re the ghost of Moniwa Kaname.’
‘That’s just creepy,’ Futakuchi retorts.
‘Moniwa spoke to each of us right before he left,’ Fukiage continues. ‘He wanted to make sure we would be okay with you becoming captain.’
Futakuchi swallows, suddenly unable to speak.
‘We all said yes, you know? And that was even before you started acting like a ninety-year-old virgin with a stick in your butthole,’ Onagawa says.
‘Oh,’ Futakuchi says, not quite trusting himself to speak. He laughs, but it comes out kind of shaky. ‘Well. That’s...’
Just then, the owner of the convenience store makes her way out, looming impressively in front of them and casting a long shadow across Futakuchi’s body. ‘Hey, all of you! Get up from the ground! You’re affecting my business!’
‘Time to go,’ Onagawa says, standing up quickly. Next to him, Obara and Fukiage have already started to walk away from the road.
‘You’re leaving me here to wake Aone up?’ Futakuchi says, unable to keep the hysteria from his voice.
‘Being a captain sure is tough, huh,’ Onagawa says, and gives him a consoling pat on his shoulder before quickly slipping away into the night.
From: Moniwa
To: Futakuchi
How was your first day at training? Sorry I couldn’t make it, I had an interview.
From: Futakuchi
To: Moniwa
p good, coach was pleased. we (the 2nd yrs) almost got arrested for trespassing on public property after training though, lol
From: Moniwa
To: Futakuchi
Nice to hear that training went well. Please don’t tell me about the trespassing incident, I don’t think I want to know.
From: Moniwa
To: Futakuchi
If you ever need help (regarding ONLY training related stuff), feel free to approach me.
From: Futakuchi
To: Moniwa
everything’s good! just that the new shirt is rly itchy and uncomfortable lol
and im a little new at the captain thing??
From: Moniwa
To: Futakuchi
I had the same problem, it’ll go away after a few washes. Also, it took me a while to get used to the post too, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.
We'll be going back to visit you guys next week.
From: Futakuch
To: Moniwa
that’s rly good to hear…
btw
thanks moniwa
From: Moniwa
To: Futakuchi
You’re welcome, Captain.