Chapter Text
When he’s younger, Tooru often dreams of being taken away by aliens. He never recalls the details, only the strange sensation of floating inside a glowing, egg-shaped pod, then being gently disassembled like a wind-up toy, laid out on a cold operating table and surrounded by tiny green figures. It’s never quite a nightmare. There’s no pain, no fear, only a curious weightlessness, as if being taken apart is a quiet release from something heavier than flesh and bone. He finds a strange comfort in the gaze of those otherworldly beings, their eyes tracing every inch of him, peering deep within. He likes being their subject, feeling somehow chosen, extraordinary.
When he wakes up, Tooru goes back to being ordinary.
The dream shifts once he becomes captain of his volleyball team. Now, he’s no longer just an object on a table, he’s a teammate. The aliens invite him to set for their intergalactic squad. Since they are not much taller than he is, the net hangs low, and every serve he sends arcs perfectly through the air.
On the distant planet where they’ve taken him, there are no adults. Yet sometimes, his mother and sister appear in the bleachers, cheering. Occasionally his father flickers into view, his face shifting unexpectedly between his own and Tooru’s coach’s. Sometimes Hajime plays for his team, taking the ace position. Sometimes he stands across the net, playing for Earth.
“I’d rather team up with aliens in a match that decides humanity’s fate than listen to you whine one more second about how I betrayed you in one of your dumb dreams,” his best friend says when Tooru demands he choose a side.
The truth is, the only thing Tooru loves more than playing volleyball is playing volleyball with Hajime. It’s not that he dislikes spending time with his family, but grown-ups are so boring . Always tired from work, always worrying. Being the youngest, Tooru thinks it’s his role to keep spirits alive. A family, he believes, is like a volleyball team. Everyone plays a part. His coach often says morale matters as much – if not more –than skill. To be a good captain, Tooru must learn to manage the moods of both the kids and the adults.
“Tooru, how many times have I told you not to play with that ball in the living room?” his mother calls from the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. She slips off her shoes and peels off her socks, cracking open a fresh bottle of umeshu. She settles in front of a drama she’s seen a thousand times, using it as background noise while carefully painting her toenails. She looks worn down. Best not to get in her way.
Tooru bends to retrieve his ball and straightens with a little mock salute that never fails to make her smile. Then he slides open the veranda door, slips on his sneakers, and steps out into the courtyard to practice some more.
Oikawa Miho works the front desk at a small hotel by day, hostess bar by night. When she was younger, she dreamed of becoming a singer. She was even scouted by a talent agency. But before her career could take off, she was swept off her feet by an actor from that same agency. Oikawa Noboru, already somewhat famous for his angelic looks rather than acting talent, was love at first sight. They married quickly, and began a family with the same half-hearted enthusiasm that marked their careers: good intentions, but no endurance. The marriage fell apart fast. Noboru left a few years after Tooru was born, never filing for divorce, just moving to a town nearby. A few months ago, he showed up again, handing over divorce papers, ready to start fresh with a younger actress. That was the first time Tooru had seen him in years.
Needless to say, the atmosphere at home has been anything but cheerful.
So when Tooru hears his sister's heels clicking across the hardwood, he doesn’t feel guilty slipping to the veranda door to listen.
“Where are you going this late?” their mother asks, though her tone says she already knows.
“Why? You never cared before,” Chiharu snaps, the tension crackling fast, a family talent.
“I’m sure Endo-kun’s had a long day. Let the poor boy rest,” Miho says with a sneer. “You’ll see him at school tomorrow.”
“I’m staying over. I’ll go straight to class in the morning,” Chiharu replies, not slowing down.
“No. I told you already, you can’t spend the night at his place.” Miho’s voice drops, final. She sets down her glass and moves toward her daughter, who’s already pulling on her shoes.
“I’m eighteen. I can do what I want,” his sister retorts, hand on the door.
“Chiharu, we’ve been over this. If you want to date that delinquent and move in with him, you can do that later. But while you live in my house, you follow my rules.”
Tooru winces. He doesn’t understand why his mother keeps saying it that way. If there’s one thing sure to ignite Chiharu, it’s ultimatums. She’d throw herself off a cliff if it looked like a challenge.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t live here!” comes the inevitable reply.
Tooru lets his ball hang in the air, catches it with a clean bump, only half-listening to the on-going argument.
He actually likes Endo. He lends him his old consoles and teaches him clever ways to cheat on homework. Sure, Endo can be a jerk. Sometimes when angry at his sister, he goes silent for hours like he's a sulking child. And yes, he drinks too much at parties, which drives Chiharu crazy. But honestly, his mom has no right to complain. She can’t even make it through her night shift without knocking back half a bottle of umeshu first.
That gives Tooru an idea. Measuring the distance, he flicks the ball into the air and sends it sailing through the open veranda door. It arcs smoothly, then crashes onto the coffee table, toppling the glass and the plum wine bottle. The bottle smashes, spilling wine onto the floor. Somehow, the glass stays upright.
“Tooru!”
He bends to grab a shard, but his mom’s voice calls from the hallway.
“Stop! You’ll cut yourself. I told you: ball stays outside.”
She grabs the broom and dustpan, gives him a playful whack on the head with it, and crouches to sweep up the mess.
“Sorry… the ball slipped,” Tooru mumbles, flashing a sheepish grin.
Chiharu watches from the hall, frowning, but the tension eases. While his mother cleans, Tooru slips her wallet from her coat pocket.
“I’ll go buy you a new bottle at the store!” he calls as he bolts with the cash. Miho pats her side, puzzled by the sudden lightness of her coat.
Grabbing Chiharu’s arm, Tooru pulls her out the door, slipping on his shoes in a rush.
“Oh, and since minors can’t buy alcohol, I’m taking nee-chan as backup!” he calls, grinning.
“Tooru– wait– ”
The door shuts behind them, muffling their mother’s protests. Tooru leads the way down the street, skipping. Chiharu lets herself be dragged, silent, hand gripping her bag’s strap.
“The store’s not that way,” she points out.
“I thought we were going to see En-chan,” Tooru says breezily, not turning.
“If we go back without the umeshu…”
“Pfft. The lady at the store loves me. As long as I call her ‘onee-san’, she doesn’t care if I’m with an adult. I’ll get the bottle, you just make sure you’re home before Mom leaves for work.”
Chiharu slows, her expression softening.
“Tooru,” she says.
He turns around. The streetlamp above them buzzes faintly. She crouches to his level, forcing him to meet her gaze.
They’ve never been really been close. As kids, they fought constantly, scrapping for the little energy their mother had left at the end of each day. Chiharu’s always been a bit jealous of him. Smart, athletic, adored by adults, using his baby face shamelessly to defuse tension with a joke or a grin. She knows how sharp, how calculating he really is. She knows it’s not normal, for a kid his age.
And yet…
“Tooru. Once the divorce goes through, Mom’s going to give up the house. She’s moving back to Natori to take care of Grandma. But I’m staying here. With Endo.”
He nods, heart pounding. He knows that.
“I know you want to stay in Sendai too. To keep playing with your team. You want to be at Kitagawa Daiichi, with your best friend, right?” she says.
Another nod. Then a pause.
“Do you... do you want to try staying with me and Endo?” she asks, tentative. “It won’t be fancy. I don’t even know if I can convince Mom. But–”
Tooru jumps at her before she even finishes, throwing his arms around her shoulders.
_____
A snippet of conversation floats through the kitchen door.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“What? You’re always saying you love that kid.”
“I don’t have anything against him, but you know we don’t need this right now.”
“Tooru can take care of himself, don’t worry.”
“He’s twelve! You think we have space, or money, to raise a twelve-year-old? We’re already expecting a–”
A pause. Then the gentle clink of glass on tile.
“–What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to keep it.”
Tooru hears the shift in tone, the way voices lower not out of calm, but out of calculation. He knows the sound of a storm before it starts, so he slips on his sneakers, humming softly as he opens the front door.
_____
A narrow courtyard stretches behind a row of modest homes. Hajime stands beneath the open sky, the volleyball resting against his hip. From a nearby window, the smell of grilled mackerel drifts out into the dusk. He studies the ball in his hands, picturing the arc he wants. The soft push, the perfect toss, the jump. He tosses it high and swings his arms back.
A voice screeches over the fence:
“Guess who’s invited for dinner at your place again!”
Hajime doesn’t miss a beat. Mid-air, he adjusts and spikes the ball hard toward the voice.
“Go eat at your own house, idiot! It's the third time this week,” he barks, already annoyed. It’s a Thursday.
Tooru pouts, rubbing the lump already forming on his head.
“Ouch. Why would I eat at my place when Iwa-san is always so thrilled to treat me to her delicious cooking? It’s not my fault your own mother prefers me over her actual son!”
“That’s just because you bribe her with compliments,” Hajime mutters, rolling his eyes. “You need to eat at your place tomorrow. Your sister’s going to worry.”
“She’s already got her hands full,” Tooru says with a huff, catching the ball and sending it flying again.
The ball smacks against the concrete wall and bounces back.
“Are you seriously jealous of your three-month-old nephew?” Hajime says as he picks up the ball.
“Me? Jealous of that–” Tooru searches for the most offensive insult he can think of, “that thing that does nothing but cry and puke all day long? Since when do you make jokes, Hajime?”
They keep the ball in the air between them. The rhythm of the game softens the conversation.
“I mean, he woke us up three times last night. Three! Chiharu hasn’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks.” Tooru grumbles. “And still, he’s the golden boy. She spends entire evenings just watching him drool!”
“Just because your sister loves her baby – your nephew, by the way – doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you,” Hajime says, kicking the ball back to him.
“Of course she loves me,” Tooru scoffs. “I’m a perfect little brother.”
Hajime gives him a look, the one that tells him he won't get away with his usual deflection. The silence stretches thin, taut like a rubber band. Tooru’s the first to crack.
“It’s not about love. Not really. It’s about rank,” he mutters, voice low. “If you’re not number one, you might as well be last. Either way, you’re disposable.”
The ball thuds to the ground. Hajime doesn’t move to catch it. He just frowns, looking at his best friend like he doesn’t understand him at all, which is no surprise.
That’s what everyone loves about Hajime. It’s what he loves about Hajime. He always knows what’s right. Always knows what to do, how to act. He's a natural. He doesn’t have to twist himself into a thousand shapes to show only the good parts.
Tooru had to learn. Had to practice the right lines, the right smile. It doesn’t come to him easily. Not like it does for people like Hajime. In the end, staying isn’t about strength, it’s about being someone others don’t want to let go.
His smile flickers, falters, reforms. He searches for something clever, something disarming.
“But Hajime-kun wouldn’t get it,” he says, voice teasing. “He’s never been the favorite. Even Iwa-san likes me better than you, and you’re her only child!”
The ball hits him square in the forehead.
“Ouch, don’t be so jealous, Hajime! You can be my number one if you want– Ow!”
Thud. Tap. Thud. More shouting.
Thud. Tap. Laughter.
Hajime’s mother calls them for dinner.
Tooru stays the night.
_____
Behind the kitchen door, whispers unravel into raised voices. It’s almost a ritual by now, one he no longer flinches at.
We don’t have room. We don’t have the money.
He’s my little brother, for god’s sake.
We already have a child.
Tooru knows that if he asked, his mother would take him back. No apology needed, just one of his practiced smiles, and the door would open. She still calls once a week. Just to make sure they’re breathing, eating, going to school. She sends Chiharu money when Tooru tells her they've been eating combini food for a week straight. But she won’t speak to her daughter, not since the day she announced that she was staying in Sendai with her boyfriend. Neither of them has called the other since. Neither willing to fold first. Too much pride...
But Tooru, he’s close now. He can feel it. Since starting junior high, he’s improved. His serves are sharper. His instincts quicker. This could be the year. They might finally beat Shiratorizawa.
They’re so close. He can’t leave now.
_____
The next morning, he leaves the lunch money untouched on the counter. Instead, he turns to Hajime - but he's not allowed to call him that anymore – with wide, terrified eyes, and says:
“I swear, Iwa-chan, this yakuza-looking guy cornered me and demanded all my money! At first, I was terrified. But then he said it was for his sick daughter, she’s in the hospital. He had no choice but to turn to a life of crime for her. So I wanted to help–”
He strings it along, piling absurdity on top of absurdity, until Hajime sighs and hands over half his lunch just to shut him up. Yuda and Matsukawa chip in too and buy him a strawberry melon pan. As long as Tooru keeps the nonsense – hidden nemesis and numerous alien abductions – flowing with enough charm, no one asks why he never brings lunch.
Eventually, he doesn’t even need the stories anymore. The girls in his class start to notice that he lives off leftovers and sweets. They come by the gym to watch him practice. One offers to make him bento, saying she always makes too much. The others start offering too, quick and bashful.
Soon, there’s enough food to bring home for dinner.
Ever since Tooru started borrowing his sister’s skincare products in secret – following a routine he copied from one of her magazine – his fan club has grown. That same magazine gives him an idea, and he auditions for a sportswear campaign. Youth model. He expects rejection at first, he’s just a kid with no experience, but they say yes. Sports brands are always scouting for young talents that they might sponsor one day. And Tooru – tall for his age, polite, bright-eyed, charming with adults – checks every box.
Almost overnight, he earns enough to stop begging Chiharu and Endo for money at every turn. The shoots only come after school, after practice. Exhausting, but worth it if it means he gets to stay with the team, if it means he gets to keep playing. He doesn’t get to complain. After all, he wanted this.
It's worth it. He repeats it like a mantra, his forehead pressed against the inside of his locker after a long, brutal practice match, eyes resting on his captain’s jersey without really seeing it.
“What, you're gonna apply to your own fan club now?”
Hajime’s voice breaks through the quiet, unimpressed.
Tooru startles, glances up as Hajime changes beside him.
“What was that, Iwa-chan?”
“You’ve been staring at your own jersey and smiling like a creep all day. Is that, like, your default expression now that you’re famous?”
“Um, rude ?” Tooru gasps. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to lead such a wonderful team to yet another glorious victory!”
The words come easily, he hadn’t even realized what kind of expression his face was stuck in. Anyone else would have bought the act – he makes it just dramatic enough to get a few eye-rolls – but Hajime doesn't. He just finishes packing his bag and walks past Tooru, flicking him lightly on the forehead.
“Come on, idiot. We’ll grab something sweet on the way home.”
Warmth blooms unexpectedly in Tooru’s chest, rising up his throat and flooding his cheeks.
Of course it’s worth it.
If it means he gets to keep playing with them–
If it means he still gets to be Hajime’s partner–
Then it’s all worth it.
_____
They make it to the finals, only to lose without taking a single set from Shiratorizawa. Ushijima Wakatoshi is a wall: 170 pounds of immovable muscle and stone-faced arrogance, staring down at him as Tooru throws himself at his feet, trying to catch a spike that slams into the floor at nearly 60 miles per hour.
He embodies everything Tooru despises. Brute strength. Unfeeling. Unshakable. Deaf to strategy, immune to precision. The unbothered confidence of a predator born at the top of the food chain.
When Ushijima pulls him aside and informs him, coolly, that he’ll soon hit the ceiling of his potential with his current team, something inside Tooru snaps.
He sees red.
He’ll beat Shiratorizawa with his own team. With his own hands. Even if it’s the last thing he ever does.
_____
Tooru waits patiently for the right moment to set his plan in motion. It comes on a morning laced with frost, when the rooftops shimmer with cold light, and condensation fogs the windows. The TV casts a blue glow over the dark living room. Endo is sitting on the couch, watching a muted police drama. A cigarette dangles from his lips as he pats his jacket in search of a lighter.
“Looking for this, En-chan?” Tooru chirps cheerfully, waving a bright pink lighter between two fingers.
Before Endo can respond, Tooru leans down, lighting the cigarette still hanging from his mouth.
“Chiharu wouldn’t be too happy if she caught you smoking inside,” he adds, voice low. “I thought you promised to step outside, for Takeru’s sake?”
Endo doesn’t react. His eyes are bloodshot, fixed on something just above the television.
“I’ll open the windows before they’re back,” he mutters at last, dragging deep from the cigarette. “She won’t even notice.”
He exhales smoke without looking at Tooru, who’s still standing slightly too close, watching him from above like a blade poised to fall.
“You planning to leave the windows open all day?” Tooru asks innocently, checking the time. “It’s cold out. Kinda dangerous. And don’t you have work soon? Actually– you’re already late.”
It’s not even a gamble. Tooru knows he lost his job at the supermarket weeks ago. Endo barely pretends anymore, leaving the house long after eight, sometimes even later than Tooru. His sister, who heads out at six sharp every morning, still hasn’t noticed.
Ignoring the flicker of threat in Endo’s eyes, Tooru presses on mercilessly.
“Ah, but that’s the thing, you can’t be late for a job you already lost, can you? So where have you been spending your days, I wonder? You’re never home when I get back.”
He hums thoughtfully, then drops onto the couch beside him. Leaning in again, he whispers, secretive:
“Does it have something to do with this lighter? I found it in the bathroom. There was a cigarette butt in the bin too. Had lipstick on it.”
Tooru feels more than sees the way the body beside him tightens. They both know that if there’s one thing Chiharu hates more than the smell of cigarettes, it’s the feeling of lipstick. She's always biting her lips, a habit she got from her mother.
It’s not the only proof he has, but it’s the most damning.
“Oh! Maybe that’s why you don’t want me around anymore,” he continues, light and teasing. “You don’t want me telling Chiharu that you’re cheating on–”
He doesn’t register the blow at first, just his head whipping sideways, cheek burning.
He freezes for a second, stunned. Then, white-hot anger crashes over everything else.
He lunges, swinging back hard, but Endo catches his wrist with one hand and grabs the collar of his t-shirt with the other.
The contact sobers them both. They rise from the couch, locked at eye level now, faces drawn tight with fury.
“Sure you want to keep disrespect me like that?” Endo growls. “Forgetting whose roof you live under?”
The grip on his wrist digs in, painful now. Tooru realizes he’s losing control of the situation. That won’t do. He has a plan. He has to stick to it.
He clears his voice of heat and lets something sugary slip in, brittle and bright, like he’s speaking to a toddler.
“Now, now,” he coos, “why would I tell her anything? I need you two to stay happily together, don’t I? So I can keep living here.”
He raises both hands in mock surrender. Endo doesn’t let go of his collar.
“You won’t tell her,” he says flatly, but it hangs in the air like a question.
“Of course I won’t!” Tooru replies, too fast, too bright. “As long as you don’t do it again. But that’s only because I need a place to stay. If you were to throw me out... Well, then I’d have no reason to cover for you. Would I?”
Endo stills. A flicker of understanding passes over his face. Good. Finally. Tooru doesn’t let the opening slip.
“That’s why you need to get your shit together ans stop being so sloppy,” he snaps, voice stripped of sweetness. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got my own money now. I’m barely here anyway. Just dump your new girlfriend. Find a job. Don’t make me clean up after you again, because next time I will ruin your life. And stop smoking so much, it doesn’t cover the smell of perfume.”
“Watch your fucking tone,” Endo spits, but the threat’s empty now. They both know it.
Endo may be a sorry excuse of a boyfriend, too cowardly and broke to even propose properly, but he still loves Chiharu. He has far more to lose than Tooru does. It would almost be enough to soothe his guilt, if Tooru weren’t all too aware that he would probably betray his sister either way.
“Where’s the money coming from?” Endo mutters after a pause.
Tooru stiffens slightly, smile faltering.
“What money?”
“You said you’ve got your own money now. And you don't come begging for it anymore. What, did daddy suddenly remember you exist?”
Tooru’s expression goes cold. He jerks his arm free.
“I got a job, and I kept it. Maybe you should try that sometime.”
A dangerous flicker sparks in Endo’s eyes.
“A job? You’re not even sixteen.”
“I model,” Tooru replies sharply. “For a sports magazine.”
And just like that, he decides that the conversation’s over. He moves to step around him, but Endo lets out a hoarse, joyless laugh.
“Ha, well, you did get your sister’s good genes,” he says, voice strange.
“What?”
A terrible smile curls on Endo’s lips.
“Nothing. I just think it’s funny, how you act like you’re so above me. Above all of us. But in truth you’re just as desperate. Just as pathetic. Makes you a little less annoying, I guess.”
Tooru narrows his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that we’re similar, you and I, aren’t we?” Endo says, suddenly far too close, looming. “So desperate to prove something, to be someone.”
A hand lands on his shoulder, warm and casual. Tooru jerks away from it, stumbling back a few steps.
“We’re nothing alike,” he spits – cheeks hot – and runs.
Dry, red eyes follow him out the door.
_____
We’re nothing alike, he tells himself the next morning, staring into the mirror. Brown curls falling artfully across his forehead. Skin so immaculate it looks retouched, the result of a rigorous skincare routine followed with military precision.
Endo shaves his head. And though he’s not unattractive, he looks older than he is. His eyes are always narrowed by exhaustion and the other substances he numbs himself with on weekends.
We’re nothing alike, he thinks again when three girls corner him after literature class. They wish him luck for his next match, cheeks flushed, hands trembling as they pass him hand-stitched charms.
We’re nothing alike, triumphant, when he scores the match-winning point. A bold setter dump no one saw coming. Applause rises around him in a crash of cheers and whistles, the sound pouring over him like heat.
He’s going to be a professional athlete. He’s going to play for the national team. That’s his path – written cleanly, clearly, like the lines on the court. Endo is just a twenty-year-old teenage dad stuck in a losing streak. He’s too soft for pretty faces. He never thinks about what comes next. That’s how Takeru happened. That’s how Tooru happened, how he got what he wanted, in the end.
Tooru has everything under control. Every step, every word carefully measured.
They’re nothing alike.
Not even close.
_____
Oikawa Tooru does not shy away from the gaze of others. Quite the opposite: he craves it, seeks it out. Everything in the way he stands, laughs, speaks, calls out for their eyes. His high cheekbones. His soft hair, carefully styled. His manicured hands. His height. His legs, stretching on endlessly. The provocative flick of his wrist as he snaps the ball across the net. The curve of his smile when he knows he’s being watched, worshipped, hated.
There’s something worth winning in their gaze. Fear or admiration, disgust or desire. All of them, weaknesses to exploit. All of them, reasons to exist. On the court, a second’s hesitation might cost them the game, a single glance in his direction might win it. Tooru is keenly aware that his presence – how he is seen by his teammates, by his rivals – defines his worth on the court.
But in Kageyama Tobio’s eyes, age twelve, Tooru sees no fear. No disgust. No desire. Not even admiration. In those wide, blue eyes, there’s only hunger. A raw, voracious appetite. The kind that swallows everything in its path. When Kageyama watches him from the edge of the court, he’s not thinking about the elegance of Tooru’s serve, the precision of his sets, the years of experience – and the handful of centimeters – that still separate them. He’s not intimidated by the practiced ease of his smile, or the captain’s number printed on his back.
In short, Kageyama Tobio is a idiot. An idiot who can watch his senior – his captain, the brain of his team – practice his serve, and think, without a shred of doubt: once I surpass him, I’ll be the best setter in the prefecture.
It’s written all over his face, plain and unguarded. Kageyama Tobio will become the best setter in the prefecture, perhaps even in the country. He believes it. And that belief, stripped of arrogance, makes him bigger, taller.
Tooru avoids his gaze, just like he dodges his questions. When Kageyama comes hounding him after practice with hungry eyes and a bottomless stomach, Tooru discovers a natural talent for improvisation.
“Oikawa-senpai, please teach me how to do a proper serve toss!”
“What’s that, Tobio-chan? You want to hear my personal motto?” he replies, throwing a peace sign.
Or:
“Senpai, that last save, can you show me how you-”
“If you’re hoping to become an official member of my fanclub,” Tooru interrupts, gesturing lazily toward the team managers, “you’ll have to submit an application through those lovely ladies over there.”
And then:
“Oikawa-san, how do you land a quick like that?”
“Sorry, Tobio-chan,” he beams, “can’t hear you over Iwa-chan’s yelling. Maybe ask him next time? He’s about as dense as a concrete wall. You two would make a wonderful pair.”
And yet, Kageyama doesn’t waver. He absorbs each deflection like gravity swallows light, undeterred, insatiable. Denser than a black hole, and twice as voracious. It doesn’t matter if Tooru ignores him or openly scorns him. The relentless blue of his eyes drinks his every move, dissects every detail.
He’s twelve, with a god-awful fringe and the social grace of a sea cucumber, but he’s a prodigy, and his small frame casts a long, heavy shadow under the floodlights of the practice court.
Tooru is fourteen, captain of his team, a front-runner for the title of best setter in the prefecture. When he overhears the coach and his assistant discussing his replacement, he doesn’t flinch.
It isn’t really a surprise. He’d let the ball roll near their bench on purpose, after all. Bent down to retrieve it with just the right tilt of his head, so an ear could catch the low thread of their voices.
Kageyama is impressive, they say. The way the ball obeys him already, the unnatural speed of his improvement. It’s inevitable. Sooner or later, he’ll take the setter’s position. Sooner or later, he’ll catch up. Tooru feels it like a breath on his neck: a boy behind him gaining ground, fast.
And then someone will have to choose. Between a captain who’s led his team to loss after loss against Shiratorizawa, and a prodigy with sharp eyes and a sharper hunger. A boy who doesn’t smile unless the ball is in his hands. Who plays like joy is nothing more than motion made perfect.
Kageyama still has everything. The drive. The belief. The time. Tooru has already started bargaining with the clock.
How much time is left? How many sets? How many quiet breakdowns, how many irreversible choices, before he fails again, and all of it – every lie, every sacrifice – comes to nothing?
He no longer walks home with Hajime. Not since he convinced the coach to give him a spare set of keys. Now he spends his evenings beneath the cold gym lights, serving the ball again and again.
How many more? he wonders. How much time do I have left?
Then, he clenches his jaw.
No. I won’t lose again. I won’t.
I won’t lose. His breath short, his legs trembling, palms slick with sweat as the sun sinks below the horizon. The hushed awe of the other first-years when Kageyama lands his first perfect setter dump. I won’t lose. A note scrawled on the back of a shopping list, left waiting on the kitchen table: Curry’s in the fridge. Heat up a bowl and go to bed! Guilt blooming in his throat at the sight of his sister’s messy handwriting.
I won’t lose. The ball brushes his fingers a second too late. The set arcs too high, just out of reach of the spiker, who barely grazes it. The moment slows to a crawl. The ball hangs in midair, then drops, limp, on their side of the net. Every eye turns to him.
“Kageyama, give it a try.”
The blood roars in his ears. He doesn’t register stepping back. Doesn’t register the sound of skin meeting skin as his hand meets Kageyama’s.
I won’t lose. I won’t lose. I won’t lose.
A prayer now, tight and bruised and breathless. Curled into the hollow of his chest as he sits on the bench. He doesn’t notice Hajime’s worried glances. Doesn’t hear his teammates’ quiet "don’t mind"s. Doesn’t even register the referee’s final whistle. Only the ringing in his ears, and his coach’s silence.
He doesn't call his name again.
That night, he ignores Hajime's scolding. He leaves his sister’s messages unopened. He stays on the court long after darkness settles outside. He serves the ball until his knee throbs, until his palm burns raw. He sees nothing. Hears nothing. There’s only him. The net, like a wall blotting out the sky. And the crack of the ball slamming into the floor beyond it. Twenty times. Thirty. A hundred. Until he stops counting, struggling to catch his breath.
Then– a shadow to his left.
When he looks up, Kageyama Tobio is standing there. Speaking. But Tooru can't hear a word he says.
He’s taller. Taller than Tooru. Taller than the net. He looks down at him with that same unblinking gaze.
A predator born at the top of the food chain. The coaches murmuring softly among themselves. His red, red eyes.
Tooru moves before he can think. A flicker of instinct, raw and clumsy. Desperation scraping under his ribs. A cry rips out of him, unshaped, half-shouted.
“Get away from me!”
Then the back of his hand strikes Kageyama’s cheek.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, eyes wide.
“Kageyama!”
The shout jolts Tooru back into himself. He hadn’t even noticed Hajime’s presence until now. He watches him rush over to the younger boy, crouching down beside him. Kageyama doesn’t react right away. He brings a tentative hand to his flushed cheek, blinking slowly. His eyes – no longer red, but a parched kind of blue – glint with something glassy.
To his credit, Kageyama doesn’t start crying. Not quite. But he sniffles, sharp and loud, like he’s holding back tears.
But Hajime was never one to hold back. Once he’s made sure Kageyama's not seriously hurt, he turns around with a look of disbelief, and Tooru knows exactly what’s coming.
“What the hell was that, Oikawa?!”
Tooru barely registers the words. His gaze is locked on his own hand, still trembling.
(Bronzed skin pulled taut over a too-wide grin. I mean that we’re similar, you and I, aren’t we? )
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but it comes out too thin.
“You were benched today to help you cool off, you idiot! Where the hell is your self-control?”
Hajime moves ro step between him and Kageyama like a barrier, like Tooru is something dangerous, unstable. This gesture alone hits harder than his words. Tooru swallows it down, throat tight. When he speaks again, his voice comes out strained.
“Self-control? At my level, I can’t even dream of beating Shiratorizawa,” he says. “So tell me, how exactly am I supposed to–”
He doesn’t even get the chance to finish. In a flash, Hajime crosses the space between them and grabs him by the collar, fists clenched tight.
“I, I, I,” he shouts. “All you ever talk about is yourself–”
For a moment, it looks like Hajime might actually hit him. He even pulls back slightly, fury pulsing through his shoulders. But then–
“Ah.”
They both turn around at the same time.
Kageyama’s nose is bleeding. Badly. He looks just as surprised as they do, pressing his hand awkwardly to his face as blood spills over his upper lip and begins to trail toward his chin.
“Shit. Kageyama.”
Hajime’s anger evaporates in an instant. He releases Tooru’s collar without thinking, the sudden movement making Tooru stumble a step back. But Hajime’s already leaning toward Kageyama, scanning his face.
“We need to get you to the infirmary. Just in case.”
Tooru watches from where he’s still standing, frozen. He wants to tell them that the nurse is has probably already left at this hour - she was, the the last time he tried the infirmary as such an hour – but he can't get the words out. He feels stuck, heavy, like his limbs belong to someone else.
“Iwaizumi-san,” Kageyama murmurs, the first word he’s spoken since.
“Don’t talk. Just. Come on,” Hajime cuts in, voice low with focus, the way it usually gets when he’s calculating a play. He places a steadying hand on Kageyama's shoulder, guiding him toward the door, but before they go, he turns back one last time.
“You,” he growls, pointing a sharp finger at Tooru. “Stay here. And clean all this up.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Kageyama glances back once, wide-eyed and uncertain, before letting himself be led away.
Tooru watches them go. He stays there.