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“You’re quiet today.”
Aone just tilts his head, the sarcastic little shit.
Futakuchi huffs, pulling aimlessly at the knot of his tie. “Shut up,” he grumbles, the irony of which is not lost on him. Something about his friend’s silence feels more deliberate than usual though.
Aone adjusts his grip on the handlebar and shrugs.
Were it anyone else, Futakuchi would have pushed harder. More out of stubbornness than anything. With Aone, he makes a show of narrowing his eyes and asking, “Do you have to take a shit?”
The woman across them clears her throat, askance.
Aone shakes his head and shuffles around until his chest is flanked by Futakuchi’s right shoulder. His mouth settles into a line, a quiet hum of satisfaction spilling over.
“Dude,” Futakuchi says, stifling a laugh. It’s still too loud if the glare from the man on the phone several feet from them is anything to go by. “That’s not gonna work. Shoulda stopped growing like eight centimeters ago if you wanted it to.” Futakuchi doesn’t shy away, though. He stands a little taller and moves just a little bit closer so he can nudge Aone’s ribcage with his elbow.
Aone doesn’t quite smile, but the slight bob of his head appeases Futakuchi for the time being.
“Oh!” Futakuchi pats around his uniform and pulls out a scrap of paper from his pocket. He holds it up to Aone’s face, close enough that he may or may not be able to smell the coffee stains. If Aone bears any judgment, he keeps it to himself. “I figured out what was wrong with your circuit.”
Aone grunts—a mix of surprise and gratitude that settles warmly with the cereal Futakuchi had for breakfast. He flexes his hand twice before reaching for Futakuchi’s frankly crude schematics.
“You would have figured it out eventually,” Futakuchi assures him.
Aone nods appreciatively, folding it straight down the middle before pocketing it in his blazer.
“You forgot to add a bypass capacitor,” Futakuchi continues. Really, that mistake saves him the trouble of accidentally using a polarized one incorrectly and causing an explosion. Futakuchi wasn’t so lucky. “It’d also be good to add a diode across that amplifier to prevent reverse current, but this is pretty low power anyway.”
You learn very quickly, in a technical school, that trial and error is just as invaluable as understanding theory. Sometimes, there’s a lot of error.
Call him chaotic, but Futakuchi thinks that’s the fun part. It’s all the times you get hit by your own serve while trying to learn a new one. It’s teaching new dogs old tricks and wondering how long you have to play dead for it to take a hint.
In any case, Futakuchi has sharp eyes. He always volunteers to look over Aone’s work, but that just makes it fair when he asks, “Can you help me with the soldering for mine?”
See, Aone has steady hands—always pulling him back from unsuspecting staircases, or lamp posts on the way home, or Koganegawa. He embodies the control that Futakuchi chooses not to have.
Eventually, the conversation lulls and devolves into rant on the absurdity of five-toe socks. Futakuchi has always been loud enough for both of them. Yesterday, it was the impracticality of paper straws. The day before that, it had been his little sister using up the last of his coffee for some art project.
In the middle of Futakuchi’s sock crisis, Aone’s phone pings three times.
Normally, Aone would wait to get off the train before even considering pulling his phone out. Today, Aone checks it with his brows furrowed and his mouth barely curled into a grimace.
Futakuchi waits a beat to see if Aone might tilt his phone ever so slightly so Futakuchi can see. So Futakuchi can help. When he doesn’t, Futakuchi simply takes a deep breath and continues to fill the silence.
The club room is surprisingly empty when they get there.
He doesn’t think much of it, tugging off his tie and carelessly tossing it into his locker.
Aone lingers a little by the doorway before following suit.
Futakuchi makes quick work of the rest of his uniform—a routine that takes no more than fifty-three seconds. “Do you think everyone’s early or late?” he asks Aone, voice muffled by the shirt being pulled over his head.
Aone finishes folding his uniform, shuts his locker, and hums back thoughtfully.
“You’re probably right.”
Aone turns out to be wrong.
As they’re approaching the gym, Koganegawa rushes up to Futakuchi and almost sends both of them tumbling down the steps. Aone barely manages to pull him out of the way. Undeterred, Koganegawa folds himself in half with an exclamation of “Captain!” directed at Futakuchi’s stomach more than anything.
Now, Futakuchi is distantly aware that his underclassmen don’t hate him. Some may even respect him. None of them have ever shown such an unapologetic display without reason. He doesn’t trust it for a second.
Beside him, Aone’s shoulders shake faintly with amusement.
Koganegawa straightens himself out eventually, clearly unable to stand being the shortest person in the room for extended periods of time. He takes a deep breath and starts, “I just wanted to say—”
Futakuchi sees the ball coming and tells himself that no warning could have come early enough for the way it nails the back of Koganegawa’s head anyway. (Just because Koganegawa is being nice to him doesn't mean he has to return the favor.)
From the other end of the gym, Sakunami shouts, “Sorry! I was practicing my serve!”
When he took over as captain, Futakuchi anticipated a lot of things: clashing with Koganegawa in every sense of the word, filling in paperwork at Nametsu's beck and call, actually having to remember everyone's names. Sakunami has been a wild card ever since the third years retired—a dark horse in the team's race to give Futakuchi his first gray hair.
“You’re a libero!” Koganegawa whines.
“You’re a dumbass!” Sakunami bites back.
To his credit, Koganegawa only lets out a little squawk of protest before trudging back to the other first years.
Futakuchi turns to Aone. "That was weird, right?" Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Sakunami deliver a solid jab to Koganegawa's stomach.
Aone shrugs, nodding toward an unoccupied section of the gym where they can warm up.
“You’re supposed to help me out here,” Futakuchi grumbles. Still, he drags his feet over with a scowl and gets started on his stretches.
Morning practice goes smoothly, for the most part.
Sakunami continues practicing his serves—seriously, what—and hits three more people who try to talk to Futakuchi.
“As your captain,” Futakuchi starts, eyes narrowed. “I’d say work on your aim, but something tells me you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Sakunami grins. “Just trying something new, captain.”
“G’morning,” Onagawa greets from the entrance, an entire fifteen minutes before practice has to end. No one takes Futakuchi seriously around here. “Sorry I’m late. I had to check like three different konbini for the cup noodles I wanted.”
Futakuchi drags a hand over his face and sighs. “Whatever. You’re on Koganegawa duty today, Pantalons.”
Onagawa pulls a face, turns on his heels, and immediately sprints off in the other direction. Koganegawa squawks in offense and runs after him. Futakuchi is generous enough to consider that his warm up.
“That goes for this afternoon, too!” Futakuchi calls out. And then, just a little quieter, “Class starts in half an hour!”
“Look at you, acting all captain-like.”
He groans, turning to glare at their manager. “Stop buttering me up for your stupid forms, Nametsu.”
“Actually, Aone already took care of everything for you,” she tells him with a roll of her eyes. “You’re not doing a bad job, you know? And you’re not doing any of this alone.”
Futakuchi bristles, heat crawling up his neck as he looks away. The first years seem to have made a game out of intercepting Sakunami’s serves and stowing the balls away. “Yeah, yeah. Help me take down the net, will you?”
“Have you guys seen Aone? He was—”
Fukiage slams his locker shut. “Futakuchi-senpai!”
“—helping some of the first years with their sports tape...” Futakuchi looks between Fukiage and Obara, cautiously toeing off his shoes. He takes an unassuming step toward them. “What are you two doing?”
There’s a beat of silence before Obara blurts out, “Someone confessed to Fukiage on our way back here.”
Fukiage splutters. “That’s—”
Obara pats Fukiage on the shoulder. “There’s no need to be shy about it. We’re all good looking men here.”
“Right,” Futakuchi says absently. “Right. I should—”
“Get changed, of course!” Obara nods vigorously. Fukiage grunts in agreement. “We’ll get out of your hair. See you this afternoon, captain!”
Why does it feel like he’s forgotten something important?
If one more person tells Futakuchi to have a good day, he’s going to find a ladder to walk under just to spite them.
“Futakuchi-kun!”
He bangs his head against his desk, the growing pile of sour gummies crinkling under his face. “My dentist is gonna hate me,” Futakuchi mutters to himself. “What the hell is going on today?” Did he miss the memo on some romantic holiday?
Futakuchi sighs and pulls himself back up. He offers her a small smile and feels the traces of gelatin in the grooves of his teeth. “Sorry. I’ve had a really weird day.”
“I-I got this for you,” she stammers out, holding out a pack of even more sour gummies. These ones are heart-shaped. “Uhm. I watch your matches sometimes. I think you’re really cool. B-Bye!”
She’s gone before Futakuchi can even think to respond.
He blinks once, twice, then opens his fourth pack of the hour. At least she didn’t wish him a good day. Can’t look a gift bear in the mouth or whatever the English saying is. He scarfs down two handfuls, catches Aone staring, and pauses mid-chew to ask, “You want some?”
Aone purses his lips.
“You can have the orange ones,” he decides for Aone, already sifting through the rest of the pack. “There’s always too many of those.”
By the end of their last workshop, the citric acid is bubbling violently in Futakuchi’s stomach.
“You almost done?”
Aone grunts softly, carefully wiping down a coping saw.
Futakuchi sighs and hauls himself up the workbench across Aone’s. “You gotta stop volunteering to do this stuff. We’ve got a team to run now, you know?”
Aone hangs the tool on the wall, grabs the next one in line, and shrugs.
“You know what? Give me that,” Futakuchi tells him, extending his arm expectantly. He needs to burn some of the energy festering inside him and sitting around isn’t helping. “Captain’s orders.”
Aone stops for a moment, then picks up where he left off.
Futakuchi throws his hands up in the air. “How long could it possibly take to clean off a wrench? You’re killing me.”
Aone sets the wrench down with a single speck of dust left and looks Futakuchi in the eye. If Futakuchi wants him to stop, then he will. He smiles with no teeth and a brand of stubbornness reserved for his best friend.
“You’re a menace,” Futakuchi hisses.
Aone folds his hands on the table and tips his chin toward the wrench—a challenge.
There is a single moment of peace. Then Futakuchi lunges for the wrench, wipes it down the front of his pants, and sacrifices his blazer on the way to deposit it back in its toolbox. It clicks shut, and Futakuchi releases a heavy sigh.
Aone unceremoniously drops Futakuchi’s blazer over his head and has the audacity to pick up the power drill after.
“Hey, remember that thing we do sometimes?” Futakuchi asks, tapping his foot impatiently. “Volleyball? Ring any bells?”
Aone clicks his tongue and plows on.
When it’s finally over, Futakuchi swears he can see his reflection in the wood.
“Just because someone decided to polish the entire workshop doesn’t mean I can’t make a quick detour,” Futakuchi says, slotting two coins down a vending machine.
Aone fishes his own coin out of his pocket and fiddles with it as he looks over his options.
The vending machine whirrs for two full beats before dispensing Futakuchi’s milk carton. It’s going to be hell once the drink catches up to the sour gummies from earlier. Nothing he hasn’t experienced before. He pulls the straw off the back and stabs through the foil lining.
Aone turns to him with a raised eyebrow.
Futakuchi takes a long, defensive slurp. “I’m not trying to get taller,” he grumbles, straw still sitting between his lips. “Leave me alone. Are you getting anything or not?”
Aone thinks long and hard before shaking his head.
Futakuchi, always the considerate friend, says, “We can try a different machine if you want.”
Unfortunately, Aone actually takes him up on the offer.
“Just tell me what you're looking for.”
Aone blinks at him and shrugs, turning back to the machine as if anything has changed in the last five minutes.
Futakuchi grinds his teeth on the straw of his drink. The carton sits snugly in his fist, having been empty four vending machines ago. “Give me something to work with here,” he begs. “We really need to—”
Aone's ringtone is the intro to Hatsune Miku’s Anamanaguchi on loop—something Futakuchi had set a few months ago as a joke and didn't think would bear any consequences. Aone’s own mother calls Futakuchi when she needs to reach him.
“Must be important,” Futakuchi comments. He raises his fist and gestures in the direction of the trash. “I’m gonna get rid of this while you deal with that.” Futakuchi makes his way to the other end of the hallway and drops his chewed out straw into the plastics bin. He lifts the corners of the milk carton, flattens it, and chucks it into the other bin.
Aone is still staring down the machine when he gets back.
When Aone doesn’t move to pick up or put down the call, Futakuchi sighs and starts turning over his pockets for some spare change. “I need another drink for this.”
Aone’s eyes light up. He nods to himself, determined, and finally slots in his coin.
Futakuchi almost cries out in relief until he sees Aone pull out a familiar carton of milk. He narrows his gaze. “You better not have—”
Aone smiles, presses the drink into his hands, and walks off in the direction of the club room.
“Are you kidding me?! Now you want to practice?” Futakuchi shouts after him. “After all that, you’re not even gonna buy anything for yourself?”
Some days, he thinks he ended wars in a past life to end up with Aone Takanobu as his best friend. Days like this, with milk slowly curdling in his stomach, he thinks he might have been the one to start them in the first place.
“Do we need to talk?” Futakuchi asks, throwing Aone a roll of sports tape. “I feel like we need to talk.”
Aone tosses it into his locker and shrugs.
“I mean, what was that back at the workshop?” Futakuchi presses on, crossing his arms over his chest. “With the vending machines, too. Why are you trying to ditch practice? Are you worried about the third years actually leaving soon?”
Aone shakes his head.
Futakuchi hesitates. “I’m worried, too.”
Aone’s eyes widen a fraction, just a second before he averts his gaze. Futakuchi can’t tell what that means right now.
“But I’m trying my best,” Futakuchi continues. Maybe that’s not always obvious to everyone. “You better not back out on me now. There’s no one I’d rather do this with.”
Aone nods tentatively.
Futakuchi frowns. “Unless this really is just about the vending machine not having the right shit. In which case, I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re letting me talk out of my ass for nothing.”
Aone points to the gym.
“Alright, alright,” Futakuchi says, raising his hands over his head. He nudges his locker shut with a shoulder. “I can take a hint. I hope you have a good excuse ready for coach.”
Aone chuckles and starts heading off to the gym.
Futakuchi takes that as a hard maybe, closing the door behind them. “We’re so late,” he laments as he falls into step with Aone. Nametsu is going to have his head. “No one’s ever gonna take me seriously now.”
Aone kicks the side of Futakuchi’s shoe and catches him by the elbow when he trips.
Futakuchi glares at him, yanking his arm away. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”
Aone opens his mouth.
“Don’t answer that.”
It’s suspiciously quiet as they approach the gym.
Futakuchi falters in his step, turning to Aone. “Did coach say he was busy today? Did everyone ditch practice when they realized I wasn’t coming?”
Aone rolls his eyes and tugs him the rest of the way there.
“Ow!” Futakuchi yelps, stumbling over the steps. “Isn’t your whole schtick being a gentle giant?”
Aone lets out an indignant huff. He nods toward the rest of the gym, Futakuchi following his gaze up to the large banner hanging off the balcony. There’s an assortment of streamers cascading down the railing.
Coach Oiwake clears his throat, bringing Futakuchi’s attention down to the court where Fukiage and Koganegawa appear to be fighting over a little white box.
The rest of the team is gathered around a small pile of more boxes and paper bags. Even the third years are around. Sasaya has a single cone of ice cream and an armful of balloons. Moniwa is wearing a teal party hat that matches Aoba Johsai’s color more than theirs. Kamasaki is... holding a frosted lemon cake?
Sakunami pulls at the string of a party popper and sends everyone into a chorus of greetings.
Futakuchi furrows his brows, checks behind him, and looks back at the team. “Did I forget someone’s birthday?”
“Yeah, dumbass,” Kamasaki says, plucking the candle off the cake in his hands and chucking it at Futakuchi. “Yours.”
Futakuchi catches it and traces a finger around the 2. “I’m sixteen, actually.”
“It’s your jersey number,” Moniwa points out. He looks more tired than Futakuchi remembers him being as captain. “And you’re seventeen now.”
Nametsu groans. “We were all worried for nothing.”
Aone nudges him with an elbow while everyone is distracted by their frustration. “Happy birthday,” he whispers. Then, even quieter, “Sorry. I hope you had a good day.”
Huh, Futakuchi thinks. Guess I’ll have to find that ladder.