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Tobio’s head pounds.
Between him and the court there is a glass screen, frosted and tempered, unbreakable even when met with all of his grief. A dull ache takes over, spreads all over him, lights him up like a Christmas tree, and still, nothing changes. He has played through sprained, practically broken fingers, has weathered loss after loss, has moved countries and learned new languages, and still –
It's the semifinals of the 2024 VNL, and his ankle throbs.
His third Olympics seems to be nothing but a fading dream now, escaping from his grip as tears stream down his face.
Tobio hides his face in the crook of his elbow.
The artificial white light of the bathroom reflects off the white of the walls, and the white of the sink, and the white of the floor. It makes Tobio wince, this white-against-white, a place so perfectly well cleaned you’d be hard pressed to believe two professional volleyball players share it. His eyes dart all over the small space, not daring to look at his reflection in the mirror.
Tobio hops on one foot towards the shower, turning the faucet on and waiting for cold-to-turn-hot. He refused Hinata’s help earlier, and he’d refuse it now again, except that his ankle throbs, pulsates alongside his heartbeat, and he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see the after-effect of a bad landing.
He starts to undo the laces of his sneakers, tries to ignore the way that his hands shake as he pulls off the shoe, tries to ignore how the flesh around his ankle is three times its normal size, how it looks like a tennis ball was inserted underneath his skin, right above his foot.
It doesn’t matter, really.
It’s the one of the most common injuries in all of volleyball, in every single sporting competition.
They beat Slovenia, three sets to zero, and advanced to the finals. The Monster Generation has once again proven themselves on the global stage, once more reminding the world that Volleyball is not about strength or height, but technique, and strategy, and love, and – and, and, and.
He wants to play, and still, it doesn’t matter.
He wants to play, and, still, his ankle throbs.
When the tempered glass of the shower box starts to go foggy, Tobio stares at his reflection in the mirror. His skin is milk-pale, and underneath his eyes are not valleys nor depressions, but rather a puffy amount of skin, red and rimmed with the aftertaste of salt tears, shed and unshed. His hair is glued to his skin, strands of jet black plastered against his forehead with sweat. He should have showered before, sure, but he wanted to see the game, and he wanted, he wanted, he wants –.
There are blooming bruises on his elbows and knees, just the right shade of purple-and-yellow-and-red, that which has been, is, and will be, all scattered in the right places it dares to with comfort call home. It’d be odd, he thinks, if they weren’t there, and his entire body just looked like his face, pristine and spotless, without even the wrinkles Oikawa-san promised he’d have at this point.
Tobio drags his body underneath the shower head, where water comes out in a warm jet pressured against his hair. It’s comfortable, here, where he does not have to hide, and if asked upon can say that the water underneath his eyes is not from crying but from showering, and the sound of water hitting the ground is loud enough to muffle the wrecked, broken sobs that escape his lips every time he tries to breathe.
He can barely stand on his own, his good leg already complaining when having to hold the weight of a 1,89m tall adult man, with the muscle mass of a pro athlete. The parts of his body which he can reach are scrubbed raw, as though this will serve as the rainwater that falls outside, as though this will rub his body clean. Perhaps if he scrubs hard enough, diligently enough, the drain will filter away his injury, too.
His skin is red and tender as he walks out of the shower, and, still, his ankle throbs.
It hurts, like a dull, everlasting feeling, thunder rumblings underneath his swollen skin.
“If he gets mad at me, you have to tell him this was your idea!”
“Yes, yes, Sho-kun, don’t worry about that now. Just let me deal with him.”
Tobio hears them before he hears anything else, hushed (as much as its humanly possible for Hinata) whispering from behind the bathroom door. He recognizes the voices perfectly. It only makes him curl into himself more, closing his eyes tightly as though they will magically disappear if he just doesn’t see it.
(That which you cannot see, cannot hurt you, or something like that).
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. He can hear shuffling footsteps distancing themselves, and then the sound of the room’s door being closed.
Another knock, this one stronger, more insistent.
“Tobio-chan, I don’t care if you’re naked, I will come in!” Oikawa Tooru’s voice is as high pitched and annoying as ever. If Tobio could, he would wrap himself in the comfort of this sound and hold it until he drowns.
“Go away.” He says, instead.
“Tobio,” Oikawa-san says, and now his voice is low, and soft, the way it gets when it’s late at night and the lights are off, and there’s no one else alive in the entirety of the world. “Baby. Please. Open the door.”
“I don’t – Go away.” Tobio manages to say. It’s so hard to say no to Tooru when he asks.
“Tobio – “
“I don’t want you to see me like this, okay? Just. Just please. Please go away.” It’s a pitiful thing, the sound that comes out of his lips, the way his skin burns, the way his body curls into itself and his ankle throbs, and throbs, and throbs. A droplet of water from his still-wet hair falls down the length of his neck.
“What are you saying? That’s just more reason for me to see you, Tobio-chan. Unlock the door.”
Tobio feels his eyes burn, and he blinks repeatedly to make the feeling go away, so that his throat does not close in on itself, that his heart doesn’t race, that his stupid ankle just stops hurting, please, please. He holds onto the sink, knuckles whitening as he lifts himself up, placing a hand against the white wall (white-on-white-on-white and his head hurts and pounds) as he unlocks the door.
He knows intimately what Oikawa Tooru looks like. The way his hair looks like when it is wet, the exact shade of his chocolate brown eyes, the way he looks when he’s grumpy, and needy, the way he looks when he wants. He has memorized each nook and crevice of the man in front of him, has committed his image to the marrow of the marrow of his bone, and still – this is something he has never seen.
The way his brows are furrowed, the way his hair is sticking wildly into different directions. The way his eyes are the reflection of nothing but worry, and longing, and, and and –
“What? Stop looking at me like that.” Tobio says. He can feel his cheeks warming up at the sight of his boyfriend, and he has to wield himself not to shut the door right back in his face.
“Looking at you like wh – Tobio-chan! Don’t be aggravating right now. Get off the bathroom.” Somehow, Oikawa manages to speak this in a way that is both a demand and a plea. “Do you want your dearest Oikawa-senpai to carry you? I thought we’d wait for the wedding for that, but if you – ”
“As if I’m marrying you.” Tobio huffs out, though there’s no bite to it. He puts his hand on Oikawa’s chest, beckoning him to move out of the way so he can move towards the bed. The doctor said he needed to put his ankle up. He should –
“Wait and see, Tobio-chan, wait and see!” Oikawa says, but he’s not moving. No, instead of moving, he is putting his arms around Tobio’s waist. He’s not carrying him, but he is helping him. Tobio should refuse him, but the warmth of his body feels too much like what he has been missing for him to find the strength to. “Don’t be stubborn.”
Tobio looks away from him, half tempted to actually move away as well, except… Well. It’s not like he can do much. And it’s not like he wants to do much, here, with Oikawa’s shampoo so near him, with his calloused-yet-soft hands reaching out, placatingly, calmingly, almost tenderly.
“Let me help you, Tobio.” He whispers.
And, somehow, with words alone, Oikawa Tooru manages to unknot each and every inch of Tobio’s body, quietly and endlessly removing from within him the state of panic that had been installed, bringing in an ushering of… not quite peace but something close to it.
Tobio lets him guide them towards his bed, pointing out which one it is with his head. He sits with his back against the wall, and watches as Oikawa piles on three different pillows on top of each other (two of which were directly stolen from Hinata’s bed – which serves him right for going along with Tooru’s charade anyway), and then pats the top of the pile so Tobio will rest his foot there.
Silence lingers between them as Oikawa settles on the other side of the bed, pressing his lips to Tobio’s temple in a feather-like kiss, and Tobio… Tobio…
Tobio breaks.
His eyes start to fill up with ugly tears, and he has to look away, he has to go away otherwise it will get worse, otherwise his ankle will throb even harder than it already is, and Oikawa – it’s not – Oikawa will – it’s just not…
“It’s not fair.” He cries out, then, trying to control himself, his erractic breathing, his breaking heart, his throbbing ankle. “The Olympics are next month, Tooru, it’s not – ”
“It’s fine, Tobio. It’s going to be fine.”
“No! It’s not fine! You don’t get it, it’s not – ”
“What part do I not get, Tobio, not going to the Olympics or dealing with career threatening injuries? Hm?” Oikawa snaps. It’s not unkind. It’s not particularly kind, either. At Tobio’s silent admission, he continues. “Listen, I get it. I do. But… It’s an ankle sprain. You’re at the height of your career. You’re healthy. You – Stupid, little Tobio-chan, you are a brilliant setter, with a third Olympics at 27 or without.”
“I don’t want you to compliment me.” Tobio mumbles. There are still tears streaming down his face, and snot down his nose. He still hasn’t looked back at Oikawa. He’s not sure if he wants to see the look in his face. “I just want to play.”
“I know, baby. I know.” Oikawa touches his chin softly, and turns his face so that Tobio is facing him. Tobio blinks a couple of times, trying to see him through the tears. “If you rest properly, and even if you don’t… I promise you, Tobio, you will play again. It’s not the end.”
Tobio closes his eyes, and hides his face on the crook of Oikawa’s neck.
Though Japan played beautifully, the reigning champions of the VNL and the Olympics still manage to take gold. The French players celebrate their third medal in three years, and, though Tobio did not play the final match, he also has a medal around his neck.
Outside, it is raining. The wind howls wildly; thunder rumbles, low and deep, a noise to the silent flares of lightning, accompanied by the pitter patter of rain, constant, showering the streets of Lodz, Poland. If Tobio were to guess, it won’t take long for Atsumu or Hinata to suggest going outside. Had they won (and had his ankle not been injured), he would not think twice.
Tobio is sitting on the bench when a hand presses against his eyes, covering his sight. He doesn’t even need to hear the voice to know who it is, such is the way he has become accustomed to the other’s touch.
“Tooru.” Tobio says, half amusedly. “Stop. Let me see.”
“Come with me, Tobio-chan. And close your eyes. I’m taking my hands off but I want your eyes closed!” Oikawa singsongs. Tobio huffs indignantly, but still keeps his eyes closed as Tooru took his hands off his eyes and moved one of them towards his waist, to help him up and through.
The walk is not particularly long, or so Oikawa tells him, and he can slowly hear the crowd distancing itself (or, rather, them distancing themselves from the crowd). The sound of the rain gets louder, and – and. Tobio can suddenly feel the wind hitting his face, sharp and cold against his cheeks and he opens his eyes, suddenly, only to see Oikawa leading them towards the rain.
“Tooru.”
“Eyes closed, Tobio-chan!” He can already feel the droplets of water against his head.
“Tooru.”
“What did your grandfather used to say? Rain cleanses everything. Tobio. You’re going to play against Argentina, do you hear me? At the Olympics. You’re going to rest and you’re going to face me, and I am going to obliterate you. Promise me.”
“I – ”
“I know what the doctor said. Three weeks of rest. Then you’ll see. That’s plenty of time, Tobio-chan. Promise me you’ll take good care of yourself, and you’ll play against me.”
The rain washes over them, thoroughly soaked now, standing shoulder to shoulder and face-to-face in the middle of the pouring rain, their bodies starting to quiver and shake from the water and the wind.
“You’re so stupid. You think I wouldn’t take care of myself without this?”
“No, I just want you to really take care. Who knows when we’ll face each other again in the Olympic stage, Tobio-chan! I want to obliterate you.”
“I promise to get well in three weeks and not give Argentina a chance, Tooru!”
On July 31st, 2024, Japan beats Argentina 3 sets to 0 in the 2024 Paris Olympics. Kageyama Tobio marks his return to volleyball after an ankle injury in the VNL semifinals.