Chapter Text
Ever since joining Aoba Jōhsai in your second year of high school, you made it your unstoppable mission to avoid getting caught in the snares of your school's band. You had made that mistake last year in your old school—before they expelled you—and the term 'Band Geek' clouded your better judgment like fog until the Spring, where the fresh air reminded you it was your chance to start anew—that's what your Aunt said at least.
For the first half of your year at Seijō, you flew relatively under the radar. Maybe a few dress-code violations here and there, but you nonetheless maintained your status as 'The New Girl' who was expelled from her old school for whatever heinous crime they decided you committed at 15.
But you didn't mind the fear and stigma that now surrounded you.
You preferred it over 'Band Geek' anyway.
By the time Autumn rolled around, you were halfway through your 2nd Year and halfway there to getting expelled.
Turns out, Seijō wasn't a school that often took in teenagers with a bad record. Unbeknownst to you, a team of students had been tracking you like sniffer dogs, many of whom were girls you somehow scared off the second you showed up. They reported every absence, catalogued your 'punkish' appearance, and documented every foul word that slipped from your silentest of breaths.
Naturally, you didn't take this lightly and confronted the rapidly rising numbers of your 'little' entourage. However, this only resulted in a series of suspensions spanning till the end of your 2nd Year.
Before you knew it, you were shopping with your Aunt for Aoba Jōhsai's senior uniform, one you planned on tearing apart by the time April rolled around and you were officially a 3rd Year student.
Unbeknownst to you, the school had plans set in motion, plans you'd rather be expelled over than commit to.
In a shocking turn of events, the school was made aware of the little hobby you were so desperately trying to conceal. Over Spring break, someone from your fan club deemed your undeniable ability to play the guitar relevant enough to mention to the school, and how you liked to practice in one of the music rooms after hours. What baffled you even more was the fact that you were completely allowed to do so—you even had your own set of keys—yet people were so desperate to get rid of you, they presumed you were plotting their demise through musical torture.
Aoba Jōhsai: The Circus.
Next thing you knew, you were stuck in band practice after school.
But, somehow, it only got worse. As if to mock you, to belittle you into submission, you weren't allowed to so much as look at a guitar—no. The only instrument they trusted you not to vandalise, like you did with many of their desks in the past, were the cymbals.
If Aoba Jōhsai was a circus, you were the clown.
It was an utter mockery—a testament to the skills they didn't want you sharing with you adoring classmates. The cymbals were the loudest and least dignified instrument you could play and needless to say you were pissed. But still, you were under the constant threat of expulsion. The marching band was said to be the fine thread that held your school life dangling above the pit of expulsion and homelessness that was also said to be your future. They called it rehabilitation, you called it humiliation. But deep down, you weren't sure what scared you more—playing the cymbals or getting kicked out for good. And after a string of brutal motivation from your Aunt, it was decided that marching band was life and will be till you graduate.
"E-excuse me," a girl from the brass section whispered to you one day, "you might have to— um— play a little louder at the match tomorrow."
Half-asleep, you froggishly blinked at her unfamiliar face. You were still caught in the haze of last night's performance with your newfound (and overage) bandmates—the performance that ended with you sneaking back home as the birds started singing.
You furled your lower lip and let your eyes drift toward her sheet music, scribbled with anxious annotations. "Right," you hummed blankly, "And you might have to learn the difference between a major and a minor key before tomorrow."
You grinned, but she didn't smile back.
So much for trying to make friends.
No matter how forgettable she was, she was right. If you wanted to prove your worth to Seijō, you needed to show proof you were at least capable of clanging two bronze plates together with the slightest hint of ambition toward becoming a 'nicer student.'
And so, when match day came, you played louder than ever.
Over the cacophony of clarinets and the rumbling of drums and the marching of footsteps, the cymbals were the stars. Unexpectedly, you were smiling. Despite loathing the situation—all eyes on you in your silly band uniform—you felt the same electricity you felt whenever you were onstage, performing to a blare of blinding lights. When students looked at you now, there was no fear or detest, only pure excitement for the match to come.
Then, your conductor, a girl you only knew by face, gave the signal to transition to the next symphony, The Players' March.
The beat changed. The tension shifted.
The crowd, once just a blur of Seijō uniforms, erupted like flames from gasoline.
At once, everyone surged forward to catch a glimpse of what they knew was to come. Nevertheless, you remained focused and followed the music—cymbals crashing on cue until you could not deny that something was off.
It wasn't until you saw them, the players and their uniforms, that you realised this wasn't any ordinary match. This was the match, and their first one of the school year nonetheless.
The volleyball team entered the court.
And with them—him.
Tall and perfectly irritating to the eyes. Tōru Oikawa jogged in behind the rest of the team, like he wanted to make an entrance, like he needed to. And God, he did.
For the third time since entering the court, he ran a slender hand through his hair and grinned at the crowd, more specifically at a group of girls you recognised as his fan club. When he did that effortless wave to the girls, they crumbled into a cry of hysterical chants you could hear over the orchestra. To drown out their joy, you clanged harder, channelling every fibre of your existence into the rounded plates rumbling the floor beneath. You shut your eyes and pretended it was a guitar in your hands with people cheering for you as you squeezed every concern into one final bang—
CRASH.
Someone gasped as the number concluded, the sound ricocheting off the gym walls like lightning.
When you opened your eyes, Tōru Oikawa was frozen dead ahead of you, his posture cat-like and shaken from the proximity of the bang. He was in the middle of that disgustingly lovely smile of his when his dull eyes slowly shifted your way and stayed there for an angry while.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he ran a set of trembling fingers through his hazelnut hair and joined the rest of his team as they began to prepare for their warm-ups.
You were dumbfounded to say the least.
Not once had you ever spoken to Oikawa, let alone made eye contact with the golden boy. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. You cursed yourself for not doing anything in that moment, flashing a smug smirk or a righteous laugh, something to show Oikawa you didn't care about him as much as everyone else did. It would've been the ultimate power move against the most popular boy in Seijō.
But instead, you opted to stare at him like a fish out of water, helplessly watching as he drifted away in a dreamlike state.
You looked to the girl from the brass section for a reaction, but she was too busy watching him feign an unbothered expression.
Little did you know, you had embarrassed Tōru Oikawa and he was about to make you pay for it.
By the time you joined the rest of the band in your designated area, Seijō was knee-deep in warm-ups and Oikawa was stretching to the skies, preparing. You wished you had a poker face like his, as you were still aghast at your inaction. From the back row, you silently made vows like Hamlet to do something next time you're face-to-face.
Your gaze then shifted to his fan club, squeezed together at the front of the top row. "What made him so likeable anyway?" you wondered. Was it that chick-flick face of his? His tall and slender frame? Or maybe how kind he was to all the girls?
Stretching his languid figure to the ceiling, he flexed his fingers as he caught the ball and prepared to do a practice serve. He did one final check around the bleachers—eyes dull amidst the pre-game chants—and locked onto you.
A beat passed.
He didn't smile, or smirk, or wave. Just looked and before you knew it, he had already served.
When you found the ball, it was arched unnaturally high, bending over the sidelines and everywhere it wasn't supposed to go. The volleyball suddenly slammed into the centre of your face, pausing momentarily before dropping to your feet the same way your heart and stomach did.
Pride thrown off-kilter, your face grew hot and your eyes couldn't help but water slightly.
It took serious concentration to ignore the gasps, the laughs, the cheers—all to stop yourself from crying out in pain.
You bit your lip. Was he truly that petty? You swallowed the lump in your throat. Petty to the point where he would humiliate you in front of the entire school? When you searched for him through swimming vision, his widening smirk confirmed he was truly that petty. "Oops!" he mouthed unapologetically. Posing a remorseful demeanour, he turned his back on you and continued stretching. Then, something snapped within you. Your shame turned to rage as you grabbed the idle ball and gripped it till you thought it would burst. Your feet—moving on instinct alone—marched you from the bleachers and onto the court until you reached Tōru Oikawa.
He turned around, surprised to see a band uniform so close up. Your nose was red and your cheeks were pink, yet you looked like you could murder him on the spot. Oikawa suddenly flinched as you pushed the ball flush against his body, your sharp nails still digging into it as you glared at him with bloodlust in your eyes.
You were so close to him that he could witness every fierce and fascinating detail for the first time: those permanently frowning eyebrows, the irritated twitch on your lips, the fire burning behind your stinging eyes.
Whatever words you said to him then were lost in the ocean of a moment he shared with you.
He was distraught, dumbfounded, and helplessly looking for a lifeboat in the depths of your eyes.
He stammered a little, his bottom lip quivering in hesitation until he found it—his saving grace.
"Hey... Rockstar," His eyes stopped widening and he finally smiled, ready to savour the moment. "Your nose is bleeding."
When you finally let go of the volleyball, he breathed a laugh and watched you smack a hand under your nose. "Try not to fall for me so hard next time, okay?" he whispered loud enough for the court to hear.
Blood trickled down your backhand and you were suddenly aware of the tremendous situation you were in—the silence of the gym, its distant murmurs, the faint ringing in your ears.
Your mind was in a turbulent battle of shamelessness and shame as you started storming toward the exit.
Amidst the chaos and the strong stench of iron, you had but one thought racing through your spinning head: Tōru Oikawa.
That smug little smile. His stupidly perfect aim.
That ridiculous face.
You weren't going to forget it.
Not today, not tomorrow, not until you had your revenge.
You were going to make it even—one way or another.