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Chapter Text

In middle school, Oikawa always practiced his serves when everyone else was gone, his swift arc of his arm florid and unhesitant, the thwack of the ball against the palm of his hand sure and loud. The sound rang across the empty gym as the ball landed with a hard thump across the net and onto the polished floor.

You watched him for a year, and he saw you watching him. In the early twilight glow he would sometimes observe you with a blank expression that soon morphed whenever you met his gaze, a faux-smile that did not reach his cold eyes.

“Tobio-chan,” he sang, “I wonder when you’ll have your growth spurt.” He paused and his eyes narrowed even as he smiled. “Perhaps never! That’d be nice, don’t you think?” Between his hands, the ball was turning around his nimble fingers. You watch the motion of the ball and do not answer; Oikawa would always click his tongue and announce how uncute and disastrous you were.

But one strange day, he grasped you hand and examined your fingertips.

“You need to cut your nails, Tobio,” he said disapprovingly, “You’re a blasted setter, aren’t you? It’s a distraction to have your nails so long. Although even if you do cut it, you’ll never be good as—“

“Shut it, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi shouted from across the gym, and he laughed lightly. His touch was warm when he released your hands. You felt empty.

That was the only advice you ever received from him.

we are kings in a wasted land

Tsukishima Kei x Kageyama Tobio

After the match with Seijoh, you dream that you are back in middle school again.

Teach me to serve, Oikawa-senpai, you would say in your high, underdeveloped tone and you would follow him across the gym. You are sometimes Oikawa and you see yourself, small and agile, your thin legs chasing your dream-Oikawa inside your mind. Oikawa-senpai! Oikawa-senpai!

Inside your head, Oikawa is a sneering shadow, and even in your hazy state you think, he had such a rotten personality.

He watches you chasing him, and he is always static, with his waggling fingers and his narrowed eyes: Tobio-chan, he would chirp inside your head. He repeats only your name and nothing more. You are never any closer to him.

“Majesty,” a voice drawls out from somewhere in the fog, “Not to disturb your highness’s nap, but it’s lunchtime. Or did you forget?”

And so this is how you awake yourself these days: Oikawa wears a brown blazer and a tie along with his easy smile. You are covered in black and wear a petulant scowl that scares everyone off. You are older; but unfortunately, so is he. I will not be seeing Oikawa-senpai today. I will not be seeing him serve. You open your eyes.

Above you, Tsukishima is hovering over you with a small scowl, his eyes very reluctant. His eyebrows twitch.

“Lunch,” Tsukishima repeats, and you register his black gakuran and his pale face, his glasses and cold eyes.

“Oh,” you say, and try to rub your eyes, but Tsukishima grabs your hands and gives you a look of full disdain that you falter for a moment.

“You’re hands are dirty,” Tsukishima says in a clipped voice, “Do you want to get your eyes infected? Get your bento and hurry up before Hinata comes over.”

You stand awkwardly and Tsukishima frees your hands. He watches you with narrowed eyes as you gather your lunchbox and your warm milk box that you had not opened yet. You meet his eyes.

“Okay,” you say, and Tsukishima does not say a word as he walks forth. You follow him down to the cloistered school grounds where no one comes, hidden from the public view with its gnarled vines and old, dropping trees.

Tsukishima’s lunchbox is always minimal and tidy: a scoopful of rice, a few fish slices with sweetly soaked peas and ginger. Wrapped in foil, there is also a small slice of strawberry shortcake, which Tsukishima takes his time to cut into small, delicate squares. His motions are neat as his divides them into small fractions, and there is after, an almost hesitation when he gives you a small toothpick impaled with one piece of that delicacies.

You do not like sweets, but you obligingly take it, pausing when Tsukishima sighs and comments, “You take everything so naturally like a king. Where are your manners?” He does not sound angry, but in the past, you were often wrong about other people.

You collect yourself with a scowl, holding the small stick between your fingers.

“Yeah, well, I was about to,” you mutter.

“About to what?”

“Thank you for—“

”Shhh, why are you so loud, idiot.”

“Me? Loud? Why you—mrrrpphh!”

Tsukishima’s hand is against your mouth and smothers your indignation. His twinkling eyes gently mock you.

“You’re too loud,” Tsukishima repeats, and makes a face as he releases you and looks down on it. “And you just slobbered all over my hand. Barbaric.”

You stare at his hand. With its thin fingers and pale skin, the sun glistening your saliva. In a quieter voice, you repeat, “I’m not loud.” You never say that you do not like the sweets Tsukishima offers you. You put the small piece of shortcake in your mouth. The sweetness spreads over your mouth, and it reminds you of a creamier, fluffier texture, years ago. You manage to swallow.

“Of course you’re not,” Tsukishima agrees, wiping away his hand on his uniform. “Not if your highness says so.”

You open your mouth, only to close it. Tsukishima observes you, his amber eyes carefully watching how you blink and look down at your bento. Yours is full of rice and generous slices of meat that is now cool and stiff.

“Kageyama?” he inquires, and you fiddle with your chopsticks and pick up a meat piece from the bottom of the pile. It should still be warm, you think.

“Here,” you say, and place it onto Tsukishima’s own lunchbox, upon the white rice, “You should start on your lunch first. Not your cake.”

“Thank you,” Tsukishima says, and amusement is laden all over his voice and perhaps even a sneer.

You both finish your lunches in relative silence after that. The wall against your back is cool and the ground is wet, but with Tsukishima, everything is silent and peaceful.

You stay there until the bell rings.

/

/

The last match in middle school, your eyes met with Oikawa as you were called out from the match and you walked forth towards the benchlines. You looked up out of the blue, and suddenly he was there in the bleachers, his new high school uniform glowing and his face impassive as he was watching the game. No, you thought, as your eyes met, perhaps he has just come to watch me.

It was a self-asserting, aggressive thought. Oikawa’s eyes were still the same; needlessly cold towards you, and even from far away you can see how Oikawa was staring back at you without a smile. You trudged to the sidelines and sat down. A towel covered your head and shame. The blaring shouts of your teammates roared around you. You gritted your teeth.

But I want to play, you thought then, but this is still not enough.

Oikawa never mentioned the match to you personally. But a year later, when you are in your black uniform and meet him again as enemies from different schools, he tilted his head and smirked. “Hello Tobio-chan. Are you still playing king to your team?” he crooned, and this is when you think, ah, he knew all along.

/

/

There are many things you do not know about your current teammates yet. The new first years are very eager to please, very wide-eyed as you toss Hinata a ball and he hits it across the net effortlessly. They whisper amongst themselves and clutch the ball with their untrimmed fingernails. You call up one of the boys who will become the setter and tell him sharply to buy a pedicure kit.

The boy blinks at you. “Pedicure?” he echoes, and you pause, trying to recall the exact words from someone years ago. A setter should always have his nails neat and squared, Tobio-chan. How else will you toss a ball?

“Your nails are too long,” you say awkwardly, and the boy inspects his nails dubiously, all the while nodding slowly because you are the older, wiser one. Also, you are a genius; that is what everyone is saying around him, save for his older teammates who laugh behind his back good-naturedly.

“King,” someone calls, and you snap your head up sharply, your eyes narrowing.

Tsukishima has warmed up and is coming over, his eyes flickering briefly to the younger boy, his new setter apprentice who is now observing his hand with a bigger frown. “Everyone is taking up position,” he says, and you wonder why the world stopped for a very short time when you heard that title. You are having too many old dreams lately. You wake up in the middle of the night, clouded in fog and nothingness. Only a figure hovers inside your misty world, unreachable and unattainable.

“Okay,” you say, and you look at your setter boy. “Cut them tonight.”

The boy nods. “Yes, captain,” he says, and you pause at that too. It is different, you remind yourself. You are different.

/

/

Later, when Hinata and Yamaguchi part ways and it is only the two of them, you say to Tsukishima, “Don’t call me that.”

Tsukishima is walking languidly, his headphones around his neck and looking straight ahead. When you speak, he turns his head a little and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. He is still taller than you, even after the last two years. Taller and lankier to the bones, he is always looking at you disdainfully amused.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he begins now, “Commoners can’t really understand you when you leave out both the subject and object of your sentence, Majesty.”

You frown at the ground and kick a small pebble in your way. The sun is about to set. You are older, you remind yourself. You are different, somehow, although in ways that you do not know yet.

“That. The title.” You stop and Tsukishima surprisingly stops along with you, his eyebrows raised. “It’s annoying, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been called that.”

“….I’ve always called you that,” Tsukishima says, a short pause passing between them, “I’ve never heard you say anything before now.”

“I did,” you say, with a fierce scowl this time, you eyes slowly focusing in on Tsukishima’s buttoned gakuran, his buttoned cuffs and pale neckline. “When we first met. I told you I didn’t like it.”

“You grabbed me by the shirt, rather,” Tsukishima says dryly, “Did you say that? I don’t really remember a lot of nonsensical things.”

You don’t meet his eyes. The sun is hovering just above Tsukishima’s head, slowly going down visibly. The light illuminates Tsukishima’s face and you cannot read his expression.

“No one calls me that anymore,” you try to explain, and it comes out weak, and you sound tired. You know that you do not sound like yourself; on normal days, you would shout at him and shake him by the sleeve or his neck and Tsukishima would smirk down at you. You should feel indignation and petulance, while Tsukishima should feel condescension towards you. But right now you are behind a week’s worth of sleep, and your mind is vague. You do not know what you want to say to your team or to Tsukishima.

You never had a team before. You had never had that 1 printed on the back of your shirt.

Tsukishima does not say anything to this, his face clearing out of any sneer he would have made, as he watches you frown. You are about to rub your hand against your cheek and eyes, but as you raise your hand up, Tsukishima stops you.

“I told you this too,” he says mildly, “But your hands are dirty. Don’t touch your eyes with them.” Tsukishima’s hand is cool and long, bigger than your own. You stare at your clasped hands, wonderingly.

“I washed them after practice,” you say slowly, and Tsukishima sees you looking down at your hand and his, and his fingers curl up. “They’re not dirty.”

“Even so.” Tsukishima does not say anything more about the matter, but he does not release your hand. You let out a breath. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” He steps forth, and you follow. With his other hand, Tsukishima brings it up to your forehead and tugs a small lock of your hair. You hear his smirk when he adds, “You’re also thinking too much in that tiny head of yours.”

You think now would be a good time to kick Tsukishima in the knees.

/

/

Oikawa is now in Tokyo. He told you this himself, surprisingly.

It was winter; you were about to enter your second year and the Karasuno gakuran is not so stifling anymore around your neck. You had run into Kunimi a week before in the sports store; he had nodded at you and you nodded tentatively back. He had asked you, so, how are you?

Good, you replied, and paused. You?

Kunimi had raised his eyebrows at that, but he also replied, Good. He added somewhat offhandedly, You look better.

You’re changing, people said. And this new you had been walking towards your house. That day was cold, you remember, because you were just a few feet away from your house, and a figure was standing in front of your front gate; when you walked up closer, you realized with a start that it was Oikawa. His ears were red and his cheeks burnt with the cold. He smiled at you.

“Tobio-chan,” he said, and you were frozen to your place, and the first thing you can think of was, “Oikawa-san. How did you know where I lived?”

Oikawa had scrunched his nose at that, as if reliving a painful memory. He sighed dramatically. “Don’t you remember?” he said, his tone alit and false, “Back in your tinier middle school days, you just had to watch me after practice so you could steal my serve form, and when I was locking the gym you followed me all the way to the clubhouse. It was dark,” he continued, when you just blinked at him, “And the world isn’t very kind to little boys out in the dark, Tobio-chan. So being the nice and caring senpai that I am, I walked you home all the time.” He bared his teeth at you, his eyes narrowing. “Don't you remember?”

He had always walked two feet ahead of you, his feet light and rapid. You had scurried to follow alongside him and he had never stopped for you. He did not talk to you then, did not talk to you after. Alone, you were breached in a cool silence.

You said slowly, “I think so.”

“It’s no use handing out kindness and concern to selfish little tyrants,” he sighed, and smiled a moment later. “So, Tobio-chan. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

Oikawa was still taller than you, better at his serves, cleaner in his forms. He was a captain and a setter that you have not quite surpassed yet. He was then watching you, with his curl of his lips and his blank eyes. You stared at his red cheeks and offered, “You just graduated.”

Oikawa looked taken aback. “Hm?”

“I—I mean,” you said, “My…senpais. They graduated today, too, so I thought—“ you stop and scratch you head roughly, your fingernails clipped and blunt as you rub your scalp. “Congratulations,” you said lamely, when Oikawa just continued to stare at you.

“It’s not very nice, hearing that from a disgustingly tall boy,” Oikawa said, but there was a twinkle in his eyes now. “But, okay. I’ll take that.”

He stepped forward; his face alit by the streetlights above you. He had a beautiful face, you had thought when you first saw him, but back then you did not think much of it. When you first saw him, you thought middle school was where everything would be great; but you soon found out it was only him, it had only been him who had shone.

“I’m going to Tokyo,” he said, his words accompanied by white breath. “I might be recruited for the Japan’s national team.”

You nodded, slowly. He was not smiling then; his face serious, his hands deep in his pockets, surveying you openly with his blank look. There was something hovering between you; what, you did not know.

(You always do not know. You are only good at understanding where the ball would come, where your enemies would unload the ball on the other side of the net. You are good with chasing objects around your eyes. You have never been good at anything else; that is why you have never been made captain in middle school, why you did not realize sooner that everyone had hated you. Only when the ball had echoed after your tossed the ball you felt the literal rift between you old teammates, and not before. Only with the fallen ball had you looked up to see Kunimi and Kindaichi, their stony faces lined with coldness. Only then did your heart clench, too late, always too late.)

“Are you coming?” Oikawa asked, and his smile was back. “Are you going to follow in my footsteps, Tobio-chan? Although you’ll never be good as Oikawa-san.”

You answered back, “I know.” You stopped. With your answer, Oikawa’s face changed into something difficult that you could not read. His smile ceased and once again, it was a thin, single line. He looked angry and exasperated, amused and resigned. His lips pursued and he looked at you, beyond you. He was always beyond you.

“….That’s what I always hated about you,” he said finally, but there was a certain fondness in his tone, “You’re too damn sincere, Tobio.” He lifted his foot; he walked closer towards you, and hesitated when he was only a step away. He smelled of soap and bread. He liked milk bread, you remembered.

“I’ll be waiting to crush you, Tobio-chan,” he said softly, and with that promise, he was gone.

You stood there for some time after that. Snow was falling.

You had not seen him since.

/

/

Tsukishima does not call you King, Highness, Majesty. He does not call you anything at all the next day. He shouts out to Hinata, or he gestures to Yamaguchi, but he does not spare a glance into your direction. You spin the ball between your hands harder. They cannot receive your serve across the net.

There is nothing that you have done wrong, you think, aggravated and angry inside; but there was a time when you thought that once, and you were wrong then. Perhaps you are wrong now.

In the locker rooms, you corner Tsukishima while he is about to don his shirt and snarl in a whisper, “If you have a problem with me, you should just say it.” Hinata looks into your direction a bit wary. You must have that scary look on your face, because Hinata meets your eyes and quickly looks away with a small eep. Only Tsukishima is unfazed.

“Problem?” he inquires, “I don’t have any problems.” He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to his open locker. “Do you mind? I’m getting dressed.”

You stand there, even as you take a step back and try to think. Tsukishima did not call you out for lunch today; you had slept throughout the entire lunch class bell and had only awoken when the teacher came. Your lunch box is now full of cold rice and stiff meat and eggrolls while Tsukishima’s own had been empty. He had eaten with Yamaguchi. You bite your lips.

Tsukishima does not look at you until he is all dressed, and you can count the ribs protruding on his torso, and how lean he is. He looks slightly disgruntled to see you still standing there, but you do not know how to make things right when Tsukishima would not tell him.

You ask, somewhat quietly, “Are we walking home together?”

Tsukishima frowns at you as if you are an idiot. You bristle inside. “Of course,” he says lazily, as if your face was not scrunched and your hands are not balled into fists. “Unless you had something else planned.”

You shake your head.

Across from them, Yamaguchi says cautiously, “Are you okay, Kageyama?”

You only know everything when it is too late, when the ball hits the floor and you whip around to see no one standing behind him. You let out a breath. “Yes,” you say, and look away. “Fine.”

/

/

In second year, their old upperclassmen descend upon the Karasuno gym with their new college friends, and everyone was saddled with shouts and hoots of reconciliation, all except for Tsukishima, who had only sighed. But even he had been ushered into a small flat outside school authority, and taken a drink.

“But it’s alcohol!” Hinata squealed, his eyes wide and starry. He grasped his cup like it was something holy. Almost like a volleyball.

“It’s beer,” Tanaka said brightly, “It’s not going to affect you much. Although, Sawamura-san, didn’t you also say you had vodk—“

“No, stop right there,” their former captain said firmly, and Tanaka groaned and took the beer, “I feel guilty serving this to you guys as it is.”

The beer was frothy and cool in the warm room, and after a glass (maybe two), your world around you felt hazy and dizzy, and you stared hard at the wall across you. You tilted you head and almost collided to the person next to you as you stumbled.

“Oh,” you heard a voice, “I think Kageyama may have had too much. Tsukishima, hold him, will you? Get him some fresh air.”

You felt your arms being lifted and your legs disoriented, as someone spoke into your ear. “Majesty, up. Get your legs moving.”

Tsukishima drags you by the arm and hoisted you out of the door. Your feet were squeezed roughly into your sneakers; the taller boy pushed you as he opened the door, grunting, “At least make some effort to walk, highness.” You stumbled along and the cold air hits you. You breathe. Whiteness.

Tsukishima was behind you and soon besides you as you walked unsteadily along the outdoor apartment hallway, looking down at the streets below. Your head was dizzy.

“Just for later notice,” Tsukishima said, “Maybe you shouldn’t drink.”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” you snapped, and narrowed your eyes. You whirled around to face Tsukishima, his white face ghosted by the moonlight. He was predictably sneering.

“Of course you will,” he answered back, “Forgive me for giving you sound advice, your highness.”

You scowled. “How come you’re not drunk?” you said, “You had a drink too, I saw you.”

He shrugged. “I keep myself in check. Unlike some people.” He crossed his arms. “Get your mind functioning, it’s cold out. I don’t want to stand here longer than I have to.”

“Does the cold wake you up?”

Tsukishima grunted. “It’ll make you sober.”

You watched him then, this taller boy, whose face was just as hard to read as yet another person. But Tsukishima was not a setter; he was a person who had only just begun to play volleyball incessantly. He did not have the same careful blank look that you have often received; Tsukishima did not study you with hidden disdain but openly dismissed you. He was different, you reminded yourself that night. What you did not know was how so.

“What?” Tsukishima wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Kageyama, maybe Hinata is too much of an idiot to have told you this, but your staring creeps people out. Stop it.”

You blinked and averted your eyes. You looked again.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

This was what was easy about Tsukishima. He did not hide his feelings towards you; you knew then that he had once disliked you, and perhaps a year later he would grudgingly follow you. But he would never like you.

You should have let those feelings stayed.

You took a step forth; Tsukishima was still watching you warily, but he was pliant that night. Another step, and another, until you saw how brown Tsukishima’s eyes was, and how warm they might look one day.

(There were another set of brown eyes; they had always been cold and lacking. You had given up on that particular pair from the very start.)

You leaned out and kissed him. Your lips brushed; his lips were very dry.

Tsukishima did not move when you moved back, stumbling a little. He only stared at you, his eyes wide and mouth a little open. It was the first time you have seen Tsukishima look that surprised.

“What—“ he started, and laughed a little. “Good god.”

Terrible mistake, you were about to think, but Tsukishima grabbed you by the wrist and stopped you in your tracks.

“I didn’t know,” he began, his voice full of mirth, echoing in the night air, “that you thought of anything else besides volleyball.”

“I don’t,” you said, “usually.”

“Ah.” He did not let go, still, his grip only growing tighter and his lips curving higher. He leaned over and your lips touched again, only this time, Tsukishima opened his mouth and his tongue swiped over your closed lips, once. His breath was hot. You jerked slightly back, but he was still holding you.

“You—“ you sputtered, and Tsukishima laughed then, a little chuckle.

“You’re such a child.” But his eyes did not look hostile. His eyes curved along with his smile. Those were softer eyes, a softer look.

This is where you started; that dark hallway, his pale face. You only have your poor judgment to blame for.

Chapter Text

Oikawa was the best setter in Miyagi Prefecture; everyone knew this, and his title was uncontested throughout his high school years. Karasuno may have lost to Seijoh once and took revenge upon them, but you had not defeated Oikawa personally.

A two-age gap was too much when you were fifteen.

You are older now; that is, you are now Oikawa’s age when he took the best setter title, and now it is you who is called a genius. You are the star that you never had been in middle school. You can aim your tosses perfectly towards each of your teammates, and pull out their best spikes and curves. You are learning to observe people and see how they run, how they arc their balls.

I am taking your advice, you tell the Oikawa inside your mind. He only laughs.

It is that match at Seijoh. I am seventeen, you reminded yourself, even as you shook hands with Kindaichi at Interhigh. Kindaichi was even taller at seventeen, but he still had the pug faced look you remember back in middle school. He grunted at you but took your hand firmly, and you nodded a little to him. He nodded back grudgingly.

The game was fine; you had strategized with Hinata and Tsukishima the week before, and Yamaguchi confirmed your strategies. Your team had a strong second-year wing spiker, and your middle blocker positions were not weak enough to break on the first smash.

“Tsukishima, nice serve!”

The ball sailed through; Kindaichi returned it with a powerful blow; your left wing spiker caught it, threw the ball to you.

You tossed the ball instinctively to Hinata first, who smashed the ball before anyone could act. The ball went through.

“Yesssss!!!!” Hinata crowed, fisting into the air.

“It’s just one point, idiot,” you heard Tsukishima grumble.

The game proceeded, and all throughout, you could envision where your team would run, where they would await your ball. Your tosses were higher to Tsukishima, faster to Hinata, smoother to Yamaguchi. You felt Kunimi’s eyes observing you as you threw the ball again and again, and as your team ran up to meet your ball. Your fingers ached in the second half of the game.

Instinct, you would later think, but you jerked your head up towards the bleachers to see a familiar brown-head boy watching you. (He had, once. When you were vulnerable and angry, he had coolly observed you with his brown eyes and did not even bother to follow you to your walk of shame to the benches.)

Of course Oikawa was not there. You focused on the ball and threw to Tsukishima.

The match set went on. You only thought about the ball, but the older you, the Karasuno you, could feel your teammates shifting and changing positions. You could serve a powerful serve.

It was the team that brought your glory that no team before had ever offered you.

The ball did not pass Seijoh’s line. You watched the ball thump across the net, and your team shouted, ecstatic.

“Line up!” The whistle blew.

You walked up to Kindaichi, who was staring at you with a complicated expression on his face. His eyes were red, but he was not crying. He held out his hand first; you took it.

“You’re still a bastard,” he said to you roughly. You nod slowly.

Kindaichi sniffed, and looked away from you. “Oikawa-senpai’s been asking about you,” he said awkwardly, and it is here where it all started. You jerked at that a little. You stared at him.

Kindaichi went on, oblivious to your sudden attention. “He said…he didn’t say much. But he was asking if you were still a crappy setter.” Kindaichi shook his head a little. “I guess you’re not anymore,” he said, his last words very soft. You had to strain to hear him. “It was good, playing against you.” And at this Kindaichi looked a little shocked and abashed, as if regretting his choice of words. Before he could take them back, you intervened quickly, “Me too.” And you registered his shocked expression, and you thought about Oikawa.

This is when the dreams begin.

/

/

The walk makes you anxious, because Tsukishima is wearing his headphones and ignoring you in favor of looking ahead. Hinata and Yamaguchi are already gone, and for a moment you wish that there were at least Hinata to push over, because this silence is stifling. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets. The night air is balmy, and you wonder briefly if your mother would make you curry for dinner. You sneak a look at Tsukishima again. He is still facing forward. Until—

“Kageyama.”

You stop in your tracks. He stops too. “Huh?”

“Stop looking at me. Your looks are annoying.” There is a clipped edge to Tsukishima’s voice that was not there in the afternoon, and you are alert to this new, sharpened tone. Unfortunately, you do not know what it means.

“I—“ Tsukishima cuts you off.

“If you have something to say, say it.” With that Tsukishima pulls off his headphones roughly and waits, his eyes a little narrowed. He looks peeved, a little tired.

You cross your arms and look down at your feet. You think hard and offer, in a near-whisper, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have I?” This is all very Tsukishima, very airy and light. You cannot read anything in his tone, and his voice makes you hesitant a little before you go on, “Ever since I told you to stop calling me names. You’ve been acting weirder.”

“What are we, kindergarteners?” There is definite laughter in Tsukishima’s voice now as he asks you. “I obeyed your request, didn’t I? I’m not calling you by your honored title.”

“You’re not calling me anything,” you finally snarl, and from your feet to Tsukishima’s face, it is a slow, continuous line of your vision. Tsukishima’s face is unreadable, a different type of complication from Kindaichi’s. With his face, you draw a complete blank.

“….Am I supposed to?” Tsukishima says, and his voice is softer and a little deadly. You frown.

“Yes,” you say, “If you’re okay with everything. Are you?” And a sudden thought strikes you and you cock your head. “Was there something wrong with my tosses the other day?” That seems reasonable. It took a long time to perfect Tsukishima’s tosses last year when you two were still cool and cordial to each other, because Tsukishima’s spikes were delicate and logical, while your tosses were instinctive and relied on primitive instincts. You had to predict his every move, the flexibility of his hands and his quick, furtive glances for the right cues.

Tsukishima shakes his head a little and even laughs. His laughter sounds strained and weary. “No,” he answers, “No. That’s not it at all. Not everything’s about volleyball.” He cranes his head up against the night sky and closes his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he says. “You’re overreacting. For once in your life.”

You see him take off his glasses and rub his eyes. You say on instinct, “Your hands are dirty. You’re going to ruin your eyes.”

“So you can learn something from me after all,” Tsukishima mumbles, “How nice.” But he obligingly stops, and looks at you. Without his glasses, Tsukishima’s eyes are softer and rounder around the edges, and his gaze is very open. He looks almost wistful this way.

You hold out your hand, bite your lips when Tsukishima raises an eyebrow and steps away a little. “No one’s here,” you say aggressively, almost a challenge.

Tsukishima stares at your hand and then looks at you as he puts his glasses on, There is a silence that makes you wary and angry, your thoughts banging inside your head, there is something wrong, there is something wrong. You begin to retract your hand, but Tsukishima holds it at the last moment and links your fingers together.

He jerks your clasped hands, and your stumble forth, two steps, and Tsukishima is suddenly there, his brown eyes overwhelming you. Before you could draw back, however, his lips are upon you, mouth feather-light and closed, as he brushed your nose and lips. You open your mouth a little; Tsukishima tilts his head and draws out his tongue. It is warm and wet, sliding against your own tentatively.

When you break apart, you want to sputter and yank free of his grip, but Tsukishima holds you tight. His fingers dig into your palm.

“I—you—“ you say, but Tsukishima only laughs, and this laughter is his typical laugh, his mocking, almost carefree laugh.

“You said no one was watching,” he says, his voice careless and cruel, and there is a glint in his eyes.

He takes you home.

/

/

You stay awake the next day during lunchtime, but Tsukishima does not come.

You bite your lips. Your lunch box stays at the bottom of your bag and you let it grow cold.

/

/

On TV, you sometimes see Oikawa beaming at the cheering crowd, and he marches forth the courts. He is wearing the national uniform, on the center of the courts, and you see his agile fingers deftly tossing back the ball into whoever is closest. His eyes are bright on the screen, and you watch him.

His tosses are graceful and artful. You tighten your fingers around your curl knees and take a look at your daily regime. Perhaps more push-ups, you think, perhaps a longer running sprint.

Oikawa is older; you can see it in his height, in his eyes that are no longer so taunting and cold like an adolescent would have shown you. But perhaps it is because you are not in Oikawa’s line of vision on the screen; if you step into the TV frame and onto the courts that Oikawa is now standing on, mayhap Oikawa would turn his head and wrinkle his nose, his eyes once again reverting to childishness cruelty his jeering lilt as he calls out your name.

That does not matter anymore. What matters is that you will never catch up to him.

Your eyes hurt.

/

/

Your tosses are off, Hinata tells you the next day, almost angry. He does that sometimes, when he (mistakenly) thinks that you aren’t pulling out your best on your worst days. You think of getting angry, but he has a point because you have been consciously trying a new mental regime that wasn’t working, and therefore retaliate with a short nod and grip another ball. Hinata’s anger is replaced with worry.

“You’re weird today,” he says, frowning. “Are you coming down with the flu?”

“No,” you say. The ball is heavy between your hands. Tsukishima is practicing tossing the ball with the second year setter again, but he is in hearing range. He turns his head and frowns in your direction.

“Are you sick?” Tsukishima asks mildly, and you scowl at this and raise your voice.

“I am not,” you stress, and with a glare at Hinata, you gesture your hand roughly, “C’mon, I’ll throw you another.”

Hinata smiles, a little worryingly. He shoots a look at Tsukishima, but he is no longer paying attention.

/

/

The next day, it is Yamaguchi who finds you at lunchtime. He trips a little at your classroom entrance, and you watch him navigate among the chattering students to come over to your desk. You do not greet him by standing up.

“Did you—“ Yamaguchi looks worried, wringing his hands, as he shifts his eyes around, “—Did you fight with Tsukki?”

You think of your cold lunch (once again) and glare at your desk. “Why?” you say, and it comes out tight and angry, “Did he say anything?”

“Tsukki doesn’t work that way,” Yamaguchi says, his words stumbled and hurried, anxious to make things normal again. You look up. Yamaguchi watches you with a small frown, and even his offering of a smile does not comfort you. “He doesn’t talk about those things,” Yamaguchi tries to explain, “What’s wrong, Kageyama?”

You don’t answer to this. Nothing is wrong, you want to say, It’s just my dreams. Tsukishima is avoiding me. I don’t want to be the damn king to any court. I want to change.

You wonder if you can.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, and the words come out in a strained whisper.

Yamaguchi smiles at you, and his second effort is better than his first. “Sometimes it’s better to be direct with Tsukki,” he offers, “He’s not used to that.” He stops playing with his hands together to focus on you. “Maybe that’s why he likes you,” he adds, and at this your lips automatically curve down. You feel compelled to snap, “He doesn’t like me.” (He just likes to mock me and I let him.)

Before Yamaguchi can answer, the first bell rings that signals the end of lunchtime. You quickly cover your face with your arms and drop your head down to sleep. You hear Yamaguchi leave.

/

/

Middle school Kunimi had spoken to you once after their final match.

“We’re going to Seijoh,” he had said, and looked at you with a mixture of coolness and tiredness. His voice bespoke of irritation.

You were at the gym then, practicing and hitting many serves, all in a row. Around you, an army of balls scattered about, your dead subjects fit for a fallen king. You had never made the nationals; your middle school days ended with your disqualification at the finals. You held the ball in your hand tighter and glared at Kunimi.

“So?” you answered roughly. Kunimi’s eye twitched.

“So,” he said slowly, “I know you also received a recommendation. I’m telling you so that you won’t accept it.” He looked at you. “Will you?”

It wasn’t a threat; it was a statement of fact and you stared at your former teammate who had always been impassive to your tosses and who had never tried hard enough, who had always worn a little scowl whenever you shouted at him. For the first time then, you wondered if you had been in the wrong.

(You wondered if Oikawa would have done better and yanked out Kunimi’s potential; three months later, you would have your answer.)

“No,” you answered, and your hollow voice echoed around the silent gym walls.

Kunimi nodded a little and turned around. Before he did though, he added in a tired voice, “Grow up, Kageyama.” It was not a rebuke, but a piece of worldly advice from a former friend and teammate, whom you would now only see as enemies.

(A few years later, the same Kunimi would say softly, “You changed,” and you would jerk your head, wondering if this was a good thing; Kunimi must have seen this question on your face, because he had curled his lips a little that was not unfriendly, adding, “It’s not a bad thing, Tobio.” You had gaped at him, your first name sounding strange on his lips after so many years.)

/

/

In your dreams, the constant words of Oikawa Tooru are inside you, with his marred face, immobile and frozen, as he whispers you name. You are alone in a vast court. He laughs; he sing-songs, “Tobio-chan. You’re deluding yourself. You can’t change your skin that easily. Still a king to a lonely court, aren’t you?”

You wake up in those nights, sweating; you close you eyes and think, But Oikawa-san is never intentionally cruel.

(He is, a voice says, but in the end he had always helped you, had never refused you, save for his damn serves. He had never shown you his coveted serve.)

Nights in Miyagi are quiet; you wonder if Tokyo would be louder.

A letter came from K University the day before; the letter is deceptively innocent, sitting on his desk, yet unopened. You stare at it now, the thin envelope, wondering what offerings it would grant him, what doors it would open.

It is the university where Oikawa is.

/

/

“Captain,” the second year setter says, “I cut my nails.” He shows them to you, his clipped hands neat and trimmed, as he awaits your approval. “Do you think this is short enough?”

You study them longer than necessary, because you did not think that he would have taken your piece of advice to heart. But his hands are indeed, cut and therefore better for tossing a ball. You nod briskly. “It’s good,” you say, and the setter smiles, a little shyly. A few steps behind them, Tsukishima is waiting for the boy, his hands lazily playing with the ball. You see beyond the boy and at Tsukishima. He happens to look up; your eyes meet.

“Practice tossing with Hinata today,” you tell the boy, your eyes still upon him, “I’ll practice with Tsukishima.”

The setter nods, and you head over to Tsukishima, who is now frowning down at his ball. He must have heard, but he is feigning ignorance.

“C’mon,” you say to him, “I haven’t tossed to you in awhile.”

“Should you?” he answers back absent-mindedly. “Your second-in-command has been tossing to me well enough.”

“Second-in-what—“ you begin, and stop. You narrow your eyes; Tsukishima catches your look and smirks.

“Oh?” he inquires, “Am I not supposed to say such things too?” He has that faint trace of sneer on his face that is constant. You cannot read people, but a sneer of a dismissal is not ambivalent. Such a face is very clear-cut. Dislike, you remind yourself. Your hands feel cold.

“Never mind,” you say, and lower your eyes. You turn away. “I’ll tell Mizuhi to come back. I’ll toss to Hinata.”

Tsukishima opens his mouth to say something, closes it. His face is once again a blank. He too, lowers his eyes.

/

/

Ennoshita laughed a little when he gave you his jersey number.

“So,” he said, “It’s yours now.” He paused and with his usual benign smile, watched patiently as you held the number imprinted on the back of the shirt, your hands trembling a little. He laughed again at how wide-eyed you must have been. You stroked the straight number reverently, as you unconsciously blurted out, “I never had this. Captaincy. I always wanted it.” You stopped, holding your breath a little, your hands were a little unsteady. Ennoshita smiled at you, his eyes wise and a little older, as he nodded and looked around. Everyone else had gone; only you two were left in the old and musty clubhouse, the odor of adolescent pervading every corner.

“It’s not always easy being captain,” Ennoshita said calmly, “You have to lead the team, rile them up when they’re down and lead them when they’re rowdy. You’re the one that has to burden the losses and failures. You’re going to feel,” he paused, and started again, “sometimes you’re going to feel that everything is your fault.” He said the last part in a softer voice, and you understood his hidden meaning; Karasuno did not make it to the nationals that year, losing a set match with Shiratorizawa. You watched Ennoshita’s face contort, but it was only for a second, and the older boy soon regained his composure and smiled at you. “But all the victories and the euphoria,” he continued softly, “They’ll all be yours too. Remember that.”

You frowned. “Euphoria?” you questioned, and this time your former captain laughed a little, his previous painful expression gone.

“Elation,” he explained, “Happiness. Really, Kageyama, you have to get your grades up this year. Captaincy isn’t only about the team.” His smile froze at his last line, as his eyes bored into your own. You meet his eyes and held them. “You’ll make a good captain,” he said evenly, his voice firm with each syllable, “I can’t think of anyone else who can take us to the next nationals.”

It sounded sacred, an oath in the cold night that would carry you out through your last year. The world enclosed upon you as you nodded solemnly. The jersey hung between your hands.

/

/

This time after practice, it is Tsukishima who blocks your path and announces, curt, “We’re going home.”

His eyes are set and hold a certain calculated gaze that you have not seen before. You are in the middle of buttoning your shirt; your gaze is fixated at your locker wall as you reply, “I have plans.” You sound exhausted even in your ringing ears.

There is a splitting silence after your last line, as Tsukishima is left there in his spot, and Hinata and Yamaguchi trade glances. You continue to button your shirt. The second and first years have already gone, and it must be a good thing, you surmise, because they all have not seen an angry Tsukishima Kei. You can feel his irk brimming to his cold eyes that are now directed at you.

“You never have plans after,” Tsukishima says, his voice deceptively light.

“I do today,” you say back, in his same composed tone. Yamaguchi burps out a small, “Ohhh,” almost a moan.

“Excuse me,” Hinata interrupts, his voice wavering but persistent, “But are you two fighting? Kageyama-kun?”

“No,” you reply, already irritated. “Go home, idiot.”

“Yes, go home, Hinata,” Tsukishima echoes, without looking at the shorter boy. He is glaring at you, still in his spot. “Yamaguchi, take him home.”

“Hinata,” Yamaguchi automatically says, tugging Hinata by the sleeve, “Let’s go.”

The clubroom is cold and silent after they leave; with them, they took away the nervous tittering and replaced it with an icy standstill that you were not willing to break. You reach out for your gakuran next.

Tsukishima says sharply, “I already told you once. You shouldn’t think so much with that tiny brain of yours.” He sounds frustrated as he chooses his words with his logical consistency that you had never had and therefore never bothered with. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” you say. Tsukishima makes a sound that is almost a growl. “And stop insulting me.”

“Is that another one of your commands, then?” That was a clear jeer, and you turn to Tsukishima as you are mechanically buttoning up. Tsukishima is exasperated, furious, wary as he meets your eyes; when he does, his lips curl. It is an ugly look on him; it looks fake.

You say your next words almost with a sigh, because the only reason you have for your openness is your tired state of mind. You say, “I don’t know why I kissed you.”

Tsukishima does not say anything for a moment. He presses his lips together and he looks almost angry. The next moment however, he too, looks worn as he closes his eyes briefly. He opens them, does not look at you. He looks beyond you.

“Oh?” He does not offer anything more. You do not care to explain yourself as you finish dressing up. Tsukishima still waits for you. You grab your bag and Tsukishima turns away.

You walk together towards your house, a foot apart. Later, you realize that Tsukishima had headed over to the front of your house, as was his routine.

/

/

On that weekend, you do not get a call from Tsukishima.

You still go out, and head over to the park where you would often go with the taller boy when the weather was nice, with your volleyball in tow. You would practice tossing to him, and he would direct you his preferences. A little lower, a little faster, a little less accurate, king, it’s very annoying when you do that. Do what? Make your tosses so stable.

Those are the voices that dominate your head as you walk towards the park. It is almost empty, but as you walk closer, you see a tall figure leaning against the railing bars. You walk faster, your heart instinctively stopping for a brief second, even thought the person’s hair is not Tsukishima’s light yellow.

It is wavy and light brown, stylized and fine, even from afar.

You slow your last steps deliberately, but the person has already spotted you, and he turns to you, a smile upon his face. Older, and off-screen, he is not that different from the last time that you have seen him. He has a playful glint in his eyes that you have never quite been able to figure out. In your dreams he is unmoving and almost a monster with his cold leer. But here, under the bright sun and face-to-face—

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says, cocking his head and wagging one foot. He leans against the railings as he observes you with your volleyball and your wide eyes. He offers you a bland smirk. “You seem so eager to see me. Have you been waiting for Oikawa-san to come back?”

There is no answer that you can give him. You just stare and stare at him, this monster in your dreams, this blockade you must overcome. After a beat, you can only say his name.

“Oikawa-san,” you say, and that is all that you need to say, all that you ever needed to convey to him.

Chapter Text

In middle school, you had thought Oikawa had hated you. You were slow, but you were not stupid enough to dismiss his eyes whenever they landed on your form or the way you tossed the ball across the net. He was so fake, you concluded. You didn’t care enough back then—as long as he was a good setter, as long as he had something you wanted, it didn’t matter.

Kindaichi had said, Oikawa-san asked about you.

And here was Oikawa now in full view. He is older, you think. Perhaps he is broader around the shoulders, his smile more natural, his eyes twinkling. You stare at him and say his name.

“Yes, yes,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to straighten himself out. “Long time, no see, Tobio-chan. I heard you had a match with Seijoh the other day.” His smile grows bigger as you are still rooted to the spot. “Don't look so gobsmacked. Did you miss me?” He pouts when you don’t answer and continue to stare at him, your mouth a little open. “You’re still no fun, Tobio,” he sighs. He rubs the side of his head absent-mindedly. “It’s not easy to take a day off and head over to Miyagi on such a short notice, you know.”

You try to move your mouth and say something. I’ve seen your matches, you want to begin. Your serves are faster. You’ll ruin your legs that way. You toss the ball with such ease, to so many different people. How is your team? Who is your ace?

“Why are you here?” you ask instead, and with that, you suddenly feel aggravated, confused, petulant. You take a step forward. Oikawa’s smile falls off. “Oikawa-san,” you say again. “What are you doing here?”

Oikawa seems to study you intently after your question. He does not flounder his words yet; he does not try to open his mouth for an excuse. He is timing his answer, wondering whether to tell a lie or the truth. You see nothing in Oikawa’s face when he finally replies in a flat tone, “Why, Tobio. I guess I missed my disgustingly cute koukai.”

You take a small breath inside your mouth, hold the air within your chest. You feel full.

/

/

When you serve the ball, you make sure that you are closing your eyes. You take a deep breath and your mind is black and wanting.

I need a service ace, you think.

The whistle blows; you wait for a few seconds more and this is when you open your eyes to toss the ball in the air, jump at the ball with ferocious power. You slam the ball across the net.

You had learned your ritual from Oikawa, the way he would always still for a good moment before hitting his serves. Everything you learned from him, they were all over his shoulder.

But the power of his serves, that you had not quite managed to overcome.

/

/

On a whim, you had once told Tsukishima, “You’re like Oikawa-san sometimes.”

It was the end of practice, and you were busy tossing balls to Hinata and did not think Tsukishima would wait for you. But he had, and with Yamaguchi, they were walking, an uneasy silence weighing upon them, which Hinata had broken by announcing, “We have our midterms tomorrow!”

Oh. You had forgotten and groaned, your head up at the dark sky, as if willing a deity to magically change the days for you. Yamaguchi made a sympathetic sound, but Tsukishima was all business as he said, “Well, brilliant observation. Anything new you’d like to add to that mixture?”

You jerked your head to the road and shared a look with Hinata, a rare moment of comradeship trespassing between you two as Hinata looked up at you, whimpering, “What are we going to do?”

“I dunno, idiot,” you replied harshly, but Hinata seemed to find solace in your rudeness, as he gave you a wicked grin and announced, “At least we can fail together!”

“That’s very touching,” you heard Tsukishima mutter behind you, “Seeing as his highness really has no one else to share his misery with. It seems as if he really has no one else, doesn’t he?”

You paused then, and Hinata had stopped alongside with you, an uneasy frown coming up his face. You turned around and saw Tsukishima’s white face illuminated by the streetlights. Tsukishima stopped, and looked at you.

It was so hard to read Tsukishima in the very early days of your new relationship. His face was always a very resolute blank and his lips always a mocking curve that stirred you inside, reminding you of another smile, years ago.

“What?” Tsukishima said, and his face crumbled a little.

He was tired, you could have guessed later, if you only had given it much thought in the first place. You and Hinata had been practicing for a few hours even after practice had ended, and yet Tsukishima had still waited with Yamaguchi. But then again, these were the early days and this was your memory lane. You remember thinking with irk that Tsukishima was a huge jerk and you, a bigger idiot.

You told him flatly about your small comparison with Oikawa.

There was a silence after your line, as Yamaguchi gaped at you and Hinata stammered, “Er, Kageyama, I don’t think that’s the best remark ever…?” Your eyes had been only for Tsukishima, who did not react to your statement at all, When he finally spoke, you were surprised to hear weariness lacing his words.
“I do try,” he had only said. And offered a wry smile.

/

/

You sit together with Oikawa on the park benches, where no one passes by. You irrationally wish that someone would, at least, to break off the awkward silence between the two of you. Oikawa has taken out a milk bread, and is now tearing out the wrapper and chewing on it thoughtfully as he watches a small flock of birds gathering around the park sandbox. He offers you a bite. You shake your head.

Silence.

Oikawa is a live, breathing being next to you. On the screen, he is alit and fierce, his eyes constantly on the ball as he positions himself. He is an able blocker, a great spiker, an unsurpassable server. You clench your hands into fists.

“Is the season over?” You finally ask. Even as you say this, you know it’s not true, but there must be some reason why Oikawa is here in Miyagi instead of the sweating Tokyo stadiums. There must be a reason why he is sitting next to you.

Oikawa sighs, and drapes himself against the bench rest. He turns his head towards you. “Try again,” he intones in a flat voice, “Or do you want Oikawa-san to lose, you blasted kid?”

You are about to open your mouth, perhaps to say, no, that’s not it at all, I have watched your every game, I know how your serves are improving with each match, it is exhilarating, but more than that it is terrifying. You try to move your mouth and fumble for the right words.

“Your serves are better,” you finally offer lamely. Oikawa just looks at you, a raised eyebrow, until he breaks it off with a snort.

“You watch my matches?” he says, and waves you off without an answer. “Never mind, of course you should. And then you have the idiocy to ask if I’m out for the season. What did I expect out of you, Tobio.” But he says this almost fondly, with much sarcasm. It makes you insides warm up.

“Oikawa-san,” you begin again, uncertainly, “Why….why are you here?”

Oikawa sighs dramatically, but this time, you are ready.

“You’re repeating yourself. I said—“

“You don’t,” you cut in, and this takes Oikawa by surprise, you think, as he narrows his eyes at you and try to open his mouth again. You plunge forward. “Oikawa-san, you don’t mean half of the things you say to me. You wouldn’t miss me.” You don’t even like me, you want to say to him. But you swallow that down.

Oikawa presses his lips together now, and cocks his head. “Why, Tobio-chan,” he says, but there lacks any mirth in his voice, “I didn’t know how far you’ve grown.”

You blink.

Oikawa shrugs at your questioning gaze. “You can read me better,” he says, “Is that such a good thing? I have no idea. Isn’t this nice, how you can confuse Oikawa-san now?” He gives off a short laugh with you stay silent. “Tobio, this is my hometown. I don’t need a reason for coming here.”

“Even after two years?” you finally return, and your voice is flat, you eyes unwavering. Oikawa twists his lips at your expression. You do not know what face you are making.

“Even after two years,” he repeats softly, and laughs a little. “I didn’t know this was going to be an inquisition,” he exclaims, and finally stands up. He pauses and jerks his head to the empty playground park. “Come on,” he says brightly, “I have a few hours to kill before I meet Iwa-chan, so considered yourself honored.”

You frown. “What—“ you begin, but this time it is Oikawa who cuts you off.

“I’ll send you some tosses,” he says airily, and you think you misheard him. “See how your spikes deteriorated and—urgh, Tobio, don’t smile like that, it’s very unbecoming.”

/

/

In middle school, you stayed until everyone else had gone, watching Oikawa with his serves, as the ball basket slowly dwindled. Oikawa never missed hitting the serve on the other side of the net, and the empty bottles which he lined up all hit against the ball perfectly. You stayed behind, your legs crossed, as you saw him hit the again and again.

There was only silence in those days, except for—

“Oi, Tobio,” he had said, wrinkling his nose and looking down at you. You stared up at him.

“If you’re going to just stare at me, might as well as be of some use,” he muttered, half to himself. He gestured his hand to you, looking a little irritated. “Come on, up. I’ll send you some tosses, you can work on your spikes.”

You scrambled up to your feet. Oikawa did not take his eyes off you, his mouth puckering up. It looked as if he was about to laugh, but he did not seem amused.

“You’re too devoted, Tobio,” he commented, “Don’t let that ruin you one day.”

/

/

“Okay, then,” Oikawa produces a volleyball out of his duffel bag and languidly turns it around between his hands. He smirks at you as you position yourself. “Ready, Tobio?”

You nod.

Oikawa stops twirling the ball and closes his eyes, briefly. For one crazy moment, you think that Oikawa would hand you over a serve instead, but his eyes, when they open, are not hostile and cold. He focuses on your hands and raises his arms. He tosses the ball.

You jump, and your hand naturally hits the ball perfectly, and the ball whizzes past Oikawa and arcs powerfully. Even as you smack the ball, you can hear yourself thinking how perfectly the ball came at you, how gracefully he controlled you.

You stumble back a little, and the ball bounces across the park grounds, rolling away.

Oikawa follows the ball with his eyes. You can’t read anything out of it. But you are too overwhelmed with your emotions to think about it much. You blurt out, “Oikawa-san.”

He turns to you. He smile is faint.

You gulp and move your mouth. “Again?”

He doesn’t say anything immediately. His eyes are older; they lack the cold hostility and desperation you might have seen when you were younger, but they hold a new tiredness and resignation as they study you. You do not know what you prefer more.

“Again,” he agrees softly.

You hit the balls that Oikawa sends you, again and again, and each time, Oikawa follows the ball; where you have hit it, where the ball goes, where you run to the ball is. He is watching you, and you feel this, each time, as Oikawa tosses the ball and you understand that Oikawa is adjusting his tosses to you for each toss.

Soon, you are panting lightly, and Oikawa too, is forming a small sweat on his face, but he does not tell you to leave. So you do not tell him to stop.

/

/

Tsukishima kisses the way he would bite, but he was never the one to initiate those same kisses he indulged in so desperately once you started them.

You would drag him away sometimes, after practice, and he would follow, his face masked. There would be no one else and yet still, your face would burn as your hand intertwined into his. His fingers were longer than yours, but not by much; you had once pointed this out and Tsukishima retorted back with a sneer, “But look at our feet.” He had flexed one foot at you and you flushed. He laughed at your face.

Tsukishima licks your lips first, as if asking permission for entrance, and when you open your mouth, his tongue sneaks in, hot and probing. He grasps you by the shoulders as you are somehow situated against the wall. You close your eyes, sometimes peeking to see how Tsukishima looks when he is busy ravishing you.

His eyelashes are long.

“Close your eyes,” he would murmur inside your mouth, and you would close them again, wondering how the other boy knew you were looking.

He would sometimes grasp the back of your neck, and tease small strokes vertically, and you would open your mouth wider; this was your tickling point, you have learned. Tsukishima rubbed the side of your waist, traced your rubs above your shirt, kissed you until you were out of breath and panting. You closed your eyes throughout.

You had never said his name.

Thinking back now, you wonder if that was the problem.

/

/

The sun is about to set when you finish, when Oikawa finally waves a hand at you, and you lower your hands.

“Enough,” Oikawa wheezes, but he is wearing a faint grin as you walk over to him. His shirt is drenched, as is yours, and the last rays of the sun hit Oikawa’s brown hair that is shines. “I missed Iwa-chan’s appointment. He’s going to kill me.” He mock scowls at you. “All because of you, you know. You should be grateful—Oikawa-san doesn’t give out his tosses for anyone.”

You nod, and on second thought, form a proper bow.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay there for a moment and straighten yourself up. Oikawa has a peculiar look on his face as he hesitates, and nods at you a little.

“…You’re welcome,” he says and looks at the ball nestled between his hands. “I really hate to say anything nice to you, Tobio, but you’ve gotten better. No wonder Kindaichi wasn’t as mad when I called him about the match.” He laughs a little. “I’ll probably see you soon, won’t I?”

You frown. Then you understand. “I got an offer from K University,” you blurt out, but Oikawa doesn’t seem surprised. He even nods a little.

“That’s to be expected, I think.” He shifts his foot a little, and his stare is somewhere beyond you. “Are you coming, then?”

You stare at him looking farther out, where you do not think you will ever reach him. You want to tell him about the dreams, your desperation sometimes. You want to ask him what it was like in middle school, when he was already great, and how he saw you as, a runt who might one day become better. In his words; to you at least, such aspirations were impossible.

You know that you are a late bloomer. You had always loved volleyball and played blindly without consequences. That once led you to break off with your teammates; the months following your last year in junior high had been quiet and sullen, but you had used that time to perfect your serves, to make your only chance of an ace greater. Alone in the gym, you hit the ball again and again, knowing that whoever was in your team in high school, they would not lose because of your weak serves.

But now, in high school, when you believe you have matured as a human being, there are now doubts that follow you, human fallacies, you think, that had not bothered you before. You are beginning to understand human interaction that happens without a ball and a net, and this scares you. It scares you enough that Oikawa appears in front of you, mockingly offering you help.

“I…don’t know,” you say slowly, and Oikawa raises an eyebrow at this.

“Why, Tobio-chan,” he says lightly, “I thought your whole life was trying to follow in my footsteps.”

Oikawa is so hard to read, if at all. You ask for answers and he never grants them to you except in barbs and riddles. He would belittle you for your troubles, mock you for your faults. But, you realize now, as you stare at the older boy in front of you, he has never refused you. Save for his serve, he had, in the end, granted your incessant wishes.

“Would you want me to?” you ask, and you had never questioned Oikawa’s wishes, his thoughts and preferences. You wonder if understanding Oikawa Tooru’s answers would help you to understand that he was not a monster enwrapped in fog. You wonder what would stop distorting your dreams.

Oikawa is still staring at something behind you, and with a smile he answers, “I was the one who recommended you to the coach. What do you think about that, Tobio-chan?”

Before you can register this in, Oikawa goes on, “You don't have to glare at me so, megane-kun. God, aren’t Karasuno’s middle blockers just so awfully terrifying?”

You whirl around.

Tsukishima is standing a few feet behind you. He meets your eyes.

/

/

Tsukishima is wearing an expression unlike what you have never seen before. He cocks his head slightly, and says in a flat voice, “Great king.” He says this with a twist of his lips, and you are taken aback at how blatant the dislike is smeared over the nickname Hinata had once given to Oikawa.

Oikawa is unfazed by this, however, as you stand there, looking at Tsukishima with a small smile that does not reach his eyes.

“He’s been there for some time,” he says to you now, without taking his eyes off at Tsukishima, “Tobio, you really need to work on your reflexes.”

You don’t try to reply to this, your eyes boring into Tsukishima’s own. He does not offer you anything to go on, only meets your stare calmly.

“I guess you had other plans for today,” Tsukishima finally says to you, now completely ignoring Oikawa, “Although I’d thought it would have been with Hinata.”

You shake your head a little. “I—“

“Never mind,” Tsukishima cuts in, “Are you done, then?”

“We are,” Oikawa replies for you, too cheerful that you know immediately it is fake and dangerous. “I’ll be seeing you soon then, Tobio. Megane-kun.” His smile that had been offered at you grows sharper when directed at Tsukishima, and you see a familiar, hostile glint in his eyes as he does so. Tsukishima is unfazed, however, and he matches that sharp grin with a small smirk of his own. It does not look friendly.

Chapter Text

The walk home is dark and silent. 

Tsukishima walks in front of you, and you look at his back as he takes measured steps. You think you should say something. But it is Tsukishima who first opens his mouth.

“So,” Tsukishima says. He stops, and you stop along with him. “The other day. When you said you didn’t want to kiss me, was it because of the Great King?” His voice is devoid of jest, but it was light enough for you to pretend that it was a fairly innocent question. But you know that it is not, and you know why Tsukishima is purposefully using that voice. You curl your hands into fists.

“No,” you say, and it doesn’t matter if your tone sounds angry and fierce, does it? You were not a person to hide your emotions and hoard them. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice.” Tsukishima turns around and you finally meet his eyes. The moon is up and bright today; the day had gone by. Tsukishima’s face is illuminated by the moonlight, and his face is contorted into a sneer. “I’m asking you a sensible question. Why did you kiss me?”

You look at him. You begin, “It’s not because of Oikawa-san.”

“Bravo,” Tsukishima says dryly. “I figured that out a moment ago.”

“It’s not because…” you trail off. Tsukishima waits for you to speak.

Why did you? You were drunk, you could say to him, I was drunk and cold and did not know what to do with my year. I was about to become captain and I never had that before. I was drunk and you were warm and your eyes reminded me of—

Well. No, it didn’t.

“I—” you try to say again, but this time Tsukishima cuts you off.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” Tsukishima brings his hands to his face and rubs his cheek. He looks tired. The poison seeps out of him, and you in turn, feel indignant that Tsukishima cannot understand. “I don't think I really want to know, anyways.”

“No,” you begin hotly, and take a step forward with your eyes narrowed. Tsukishima looks at your scowl. “You idiot, you’re getting this all wrong.”

“Am I?” Tsukishima ventures out. Now he sounds peeved.
“Maybe you should enlighten me then. You’ve been staring off into space for the past few days. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“…I knew you would,” you mutter, after an embarrassing silence, “You’re not Hinata.”

“That’s not really a compliment, is it?” Tsukishima interjects, but you wave him off.

“I—I sometimes think,” you say, and your voice is pitched high and awkward, and good god, why is this so hard to say? You shake you head a little and avert your eyes. “I sometimes have these dreams,” you say rapidly, hoping the mumbling of your words would blot out your message, “After our match with Seijoh. I can’t sleep.”

“…Dreams about Seijoh?” Tsukishima asks.

“About middle school.” And here you take a breath and pause. The night is still; the alleyways are quiet and foreboding. Briefly you wonder if Tokyo would be bustling with so many people that you would lose this sense of peacefulness and stillness. You hang your head.

“I sometimes think…” and you search for the right words, the right way to approach this, “That maybe I haven’t changed. Maybe I’m—”

“That you’re still the dictator to the court,” Tsukishima offers, and when you look up, he is wearing a wry smile. His eyes turn soft. Perhaps it is just what you want to see. “You think that you’re still the aggressive king that made you team lose a match?”

“I didn’t lose that match!” you say angrily, “We wouldn’t have scored as many points as we had if I didn’t—” You stop and take a breath. Tsukishima is covering his hand with his mouth, laughing silently.

“I don’t think you changed much, if you say such things,” Tsukishima observes, “But, regardless.” Tsukishima’s eyes glint. “Is this because you were made captain? That you feel some obligation to this team?”

“…I was never made captain,” you whisper, and finally, the whole thing becomes very trite when you say the words, they seem inconsequential and laughable, but you plunge on. “I didn’t really care about the team. I did, but not like this.”

“That’s what you have a vice-captain for, isn’t it?” Tsukishima says lightly, but he takes a step forth, towards you. He raises his hand and touches the side of your cheek, feather-light. He raises an eyebrow “You just have to make the cues and take care of your younger setter,” he says, “I can do the rest.”

You blink.

Tsukishima shrugs, looking miffed. It is to hide his embarrassment, you think, the way his cheeks sprout a faint blush. “I think that’s what Ennoshita senpai wanted when he named you captain and—” he gestures to himself, “Vice-captain. I thought he wanted us to rip each other apart at first. I was wrong.” He looks at you. A smile on Tsukishima’s face is rare and foreign as it is beautiful. “Wasn’t I?” he asks you. It’s an approval for confirmation. You want to duck your head but Tsukishima prevents you from doing this, his fingers grasping your chin lightly and pulling your face closer to his.

“I—yeah,” you sputter. You are looking into his brown eyes. They twinkle mischievously. You frown on instinct.

“Did anyone tell you that you look hideous when you frown?” Tsukishima asks.

“I do not—” you sputter, and soon quiet down when he brings his face closer to yours, his eyes ever so close, his breath warm on your face.

“You do,” he informs you, and with that, his lips press against yours.

You close your eyes.

/

/

Next day at lunch, Tsukishima waits for you outside the classroom when you head out, your lunchbox in hand. He raises an eyebrow.

“Not sleeping today, I see,” he comments. You shrug.

“I slept last night,” you mutter and with a quick turn of the head and a glare, you say, “And why are you here? I thought you had lunch with Yamaguchi.”

“Only a few times,” Tsukishima says, a hint of a smirk coming up on his face, “Why? Were you jealous?”

You scowl at him and he laughs a little.

Tsukishima’s lunch, is as always, minimal and orderly, but your lunch today is only consisting of rice balls. Tsukishima makes a face as you take a big bite of the soft rice and chew on it. “Is that it?” he asks, and shakes his head. You are once again in the quiet backdrop of the school grounds. He picks up his chopsticks and picks up a piece of egg roll and waves it in front of you. “Hurry up and chew.”

You obey and he puts the soft and sweet egg inside your mouth with a small face. You decide to accept that as fondness.

“So,” Tsukishima says, and his tone puts you on some instinctive guard, “When you have those dreams. Do you dream about the Great King?”

You take your time with the egg roll. Your heart thuds as you swallow, and Tsukishima is waiting for your answer patiently.

“I thought we covered that last night,” you manage to say. Tsukishima picks up another piece of egg roll and puts it in his mouth.

“I was too busy trying to comfort your insecurities as captain,” he says. “But then I got around to thinking….who were you in middle school?” He raises an eyebrow at you. “You learned your serves and blocking from him. You wanted to be a setter. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connections.”

You answer this question with a question. “Why?” you say, a smirk forming on your face. You echo his words. “Jealous?”

Tsukishima studies your face intently, until you feel your smirk fall off and you are at a standstill. You twitch your eyebrows.

“Maybe,” Tsukishima says after a minute. You stare at him. Tsukishima doesn’t even look abashed at this sudden declaration.

“Oi,” you stammer, and you shake your head a little, “I didn’t mean—you aren’t supposed to answer that, you idiot.”

“Who’s calling who an idiot,” Tsukishima says, looking awkward himself. He turns his eyes to his lunchbox. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“He’s a great setter,” you mumble, and you pick at your rice ball with your finger. “He’ll always be a great setter.”

“I didn’t know you had self-esteem issues,” Tsukishima comments.

“I don’t. He’s just….” You pause. You bite your lips.

“Hm.” Tsukishima doesn’t offer to elaborate on this, and you hold your silence as well. But you hesitate. No, that didn’t come out right, that wasn’t what Tsukishima wanted to hear. You think harder.

“I wasn’t thinking of Oikawa-san when I kissed you,” you finally manage, “if that was what you were going on about.”

“I wasn’t,” Tsukishima says dryly, but his eyes flash for a moment, and all you can do is nod and pretend you haven’t seen it.

“Okay, then,” you say a little aggressively, and frown at him, daring him to add anything further.

Tsukishima meets your eyes. “Who knew,” he says, half to himself, “that you could actually follow social conventions sometimes.”

/

/

Practice goes well.

The second year setter’s form is more fluid as he tosses the ball over to Hinata, and Hinata reciprocates with a clean hit, landing the ball on the other side of the net. At this newfound success, the boy turns his head and grins at you unguardedly across the net. Hinata lands on the floor with the thump and whoops.

“We might beat you today, you know!” he says. The team is currently playing a three by three match. It was a good choice making Hinata pair up with the other setter, you think absentmindedly, even as you scowl at the shorter boy.

“Shut up, idiot, the game isn’t over yet,” you return shortly. Behind you back, you make a small sign towards your left, and Tsukishima raises an eyebrow to indicate that he had seen.

Yamaguchi serves on the other side. You wait for the ball to hover in mid-air, and just when it is about to fall, you grasp the ball between the tips of your fingers and throw the ball to Tsukishima. Tsukishima slams the ball towards the other side.

“You won’t win if your blocking is disastrous,” Tsukishima comments smugly, and you can hear Hinata grind his teeth.

You roll your eyes.

When practice is over, the setter comes up to you and hesitates. “Captain,” he says, and fumbles his vision around before they settle on you, nervous but resolute. “I—would you teach me how to serve?”

Teach me how to serve, Oikawa-senpai.

You wonder, even years later, why Oikawa had denied you this.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say—how easy it is, can’t you see? you imagine yourself say to Oikawa, why couldn’t you give me this?—and nod again at the younger boy’s stricken face. “Okay, but before our warm-ups start. We needed another jump serve player anyways.”

“Thank you!” the boy bellows, and with a deep bow he disturbs you. It’s not a big deal, you think a little sourly, it’s not supposed to be a big deal.

Your eyes meet Tsukishima’s and he returns your baffled look with a smirk.

/

/

You end up going over to Tsukishima’s house to finish up your homework. Or at least, that’s what Tsukishima offered up as an excuse when Hinata and Yamaguchi parted ways.

“Okkkkay,” Hinata had said, raising an eyebrow, “So did you two make up?”

Tsukishima sighed derisively and you scowled. “None of your business,” you said, terse. A few years of hearing you speak and Hinata had grown immune to both your verbal attacks and Tsukishima’s condescension. He merely rolled his eyes and waved a cursory goodbye.

But in his room stuffed full of dinosaur dolls and stacks of CDs, you can’t help but twitch your eyebrows.

“Er,” you try to say, but Tsukishima soon covers your lips with his mouth, as he grasps the back of your neck lightly, running his long fingers to find your pulse. You shiver.

He feels this and you feel him smile against your mouth, as he curls his fingers around your neck and presses his thumb lightly on the lump of your throat.

“No choking,” you say, as soon you break apart. A small thread connects your lips to his. “Also, I thought we were going to study.”

“We are,” Tsukishima murmurs. Closer up, his eyes glint strangely. His glasses are in the way. You raise your hand up to tap the frame lightly. You hook your fingers under both the temples of the glasses and pull it out of Tsukishima’s eyes. He waits for you, his lips curling slightly.

“After?” you question. Without his glasses, Tsukishima’s eyes are a very light and you can see how long his eyelashes are.

“After,” he agrees. He leans towards you again. His breath is hot.

You set the glasses on the floor and quickly move up your fingers towards Tsukishima’s shirt. You grip the collar until you are sure that it is satisfactorily wrinkled, and wince as Tsukishima bites your tongue lightly in warning. You press yourself against the wall; he follows you until you are cornered and you have no choice but press up alongside him as Tsukishima moves away from your lips to trail small, feathery kisses on the side of your ear, your cheek, your neckline. Each kiss echoes inside the room. They make your ears ring. You feel yourself heating up.

“I think,” Tsukishima says, as he kisses your collarbones and worry the bone between his teeth; you shiver and arch up, trying to coax him into not leaving a mark nonverbally, not that you think he would listen, “that you wouldn’t know half of the things that the Great King wanted to say to you.”

“Say what?” you gasp, when he bites down particularly hard. “And don’t—don’t bite, you idiot, it’s going to leave a mark.”

“Wear your jersey,” Tsukishima says dismissively, and he smiles up at you, his face so close. This is such a strange angle, you think, your eyes quickly averting, as he resumes his activities. He moves on to take off your shirt. Your raise your arms. “He talks in such a roundabout way. Why though, I have no idea. He’s putting too much faith in your intelligence.”

You tug off your shirt and meet his smug face with a dark scowl. You tug at Tsukishima’s own donned shirt and register his words a moment later. “What is that supposed to mean?” you snap. “You talk nonsense half the time too, you know.” You narrow you eyes at him. “You both have the same—” You stop. Tsukishima studies you.

“We both have?” he repeats. He does not take off his shirt and suddenly you feel naked and cold. You suppress a shiver; Tsukishima notices this and traces a finger across your shoulders lightly.

“You have a rotten personality,” you tell him flatly. He raises an eyebrow.

“Ah,” he says, after a pause. “That’s what you meant.”

“Well, what do you think I wanted to say?” you say, in your aggressive tone. You tug at his shirt again, and this time he obeys you with a small face, tugging off his uniform and revealing pale skin.

“I don’t know,” Tsukishima replies, somewhat wryly, “I thought it would be something more profound. Maybe I overestimate your intelligence sometimes.”

 Before you could retort to that, his lips are upon you again.

His hands are cold as he rubs them alongside your protruding ribs, and as he swallows your gasps as he rubs himself slowly against you. Your head is curiously white.

Later, you can’t think about what he had said.

/

/

“Or maybe he meant to,” Tsukishima mutters, after your shirts and pants are both disheveled and your hair is matted with sweat. You lie haphazardly across his bed and peer at him through your eyelashes. You feel so tired and do not feel like getting up, not to mention continuing a pointless conversation.

“Hmm?” you grumble. You burrow your nose into Tsukishima’s pillow. It smells of clean soap and lavender. Tsukishima snorts at you and rubs your head lightly, twirling a lock of your hair.

“Nothing,” he says, “I’m just glad that your crisis was so short-lived.”

You promise yourself that you will throttle him come morning. Right now, it feels like closing your eyes seems like the better option. You feel a pair of arms wrap around you, and you feel your head lean against Tsukishima’s chest. He too, smells of clean soap.

That night, you dream of an inconsequential match. You are a freshman; you wear the black jersey of Karasuno. You do not meet Oikawa.