Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I like you.”

“Huh?”

Tooru blinks. Hard. Because in front of him, on the side of the school, under the big tree, of all places. The one who slipped a confession note into his shoe locker. Tooru had imagined a cute, shy girl, perhaps with a ribbon in her hair, soft eyes, and pink cheeks.

Instead, it’s Kageyama Tobio.

Scowling.

Of course.

“…I said I like you, Oikawa-senpai,” Tobio repeats, brows furrowed, like Tooru just asked him to calculate square roots in his head. He fidgets, a slight twitch of his fingers at his side, but otherwise stands rigid and uncomfortable.

Tooru stares. And stares some more. Out of all the confessions he’s gotten, and there have been many, thank you very much, never has he received one where the confessor looked like they were about to punch him.

“Tsk. What a lame confession! Why do you keep scowling at me?” Tooru snaps, crossing his arms. His pride returns quickly, like a reflex. “If you think telling me you like me is gonna make me teach you my jump serve, you’re dead wrong.”

“I didn’t confess ‘cause of that!” Tobio fires back immediately, voice too loud, shoulders stiff. His face is pink with embarrassment, though whether from frustration or honesty, Tooru can’t tell. “I just wanted to say it.”

And he leaves it at that.

Oh, how irritating. How unbelievably irritating.

“Well, too bad. Rejected! Sorry, not sorry,” Tooru says, plastering on his brightest, fakest smile. Hah. To think Tobio, of all people, likes him. He stands a little taller, chest puffed out.

But Tobio’s expression twitches barely, but Tooru catches it. Then Tobio nods, flat, like he’d been expecting rejection. “Thanks for hearing me out. That’s all I wanted to say anyway.”

And then he turns. Walks away.

Just like that.

…What the hell?

Tooru’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. His watch flashes the time at him. “Shit!” he hisses, bolting for the gym. He’s going to be late for practice: stupid Tobio and his ridiculous, lame confession.

-----

“Where were you, Shittykawa?”

The shout hits him the second he pushes through the gym doors.

“I was getting confessed to. Sorry, guess you wouldn’t know how that feels,” Tooru sing-songs, striding across the floor.

The smack to the back of his head is instant.

“Ow! Way to treat your star player, Iwa-chan.”

“Shut up and get on the court already,” Iwaizumi grumbles, tossing a ball toward him.

Tooru exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back. Volleyball will clear his head. Volleyball always clears his head.

Except why did it have to be Tobio, of all people?

The gym smells like resin and sweat. Shoes squeak as his teammates stretch across the court. Yahaba and Watari run through serve-receive drills on one side; Kunimi yawns as he lobs a warm-up toss to Kindaichi. Hanamaki and Matsukawa already have their usual rhythm going, tossing barbs at each other while setting cross-court.

“Focus!” Coach Irihata claps his hands sharply. “Let’s start with passing drills, quick.”

Tooru takes his position, tossing with Iwaizumi first. The ball slaps against his palms, rebounds with a sting, but his set flows smoothly as always, the ball arcing perfectly into Iwaizumi’s waiting hands. They run through quicks, tempo sets, and back sets. His body knows what to do.

But his mind?

Annoyingly, it’s still caught on a scowling face under a tree.

“Oi, Trashykawa, pay attention!” Iwaizumi snaps when Tooru lets one pass skim too close to his shoulder.

“I am paying attention,” Tooru bites back, forcing his focus forward.

Still, every toss feels heavier than it should.

-----

“Who confessed to you, Tooru?” Hanamaki elbows him in the ribs after practice, grin wide.

“Was she cute?” Matsukawa adds immediately, eyes glinting.

“Not at all,” Tooru scoffs and instantly regrets the image that flashes into his mind, dark brows furrowed, lips pressed tight, the exact opposite of cute.

“Ooh, mysterious,” Matsukawa sing-songs. “No fun if you don’t tell us.”

“Yeah, you’re acting all secretive. Suspicious.” Hanamaki nudges him again, and Tooru waves them off with an exaggerated scowl.

He lets them tease him until they split ways at the crossroads. The evening air is cool, heavy with the smell of asphalt still warmed from the sun: his head pounds, thoughts looping like a broken record. By the time he and Iwaizumi reach his house, the silence between them feels heavier than his gym bag.

Iwaizumi stops, giving him a long, pointed look. “So. Who was it? You never shut up about this stuff. Weird you’re being secretive now.”

Tooru hesitates. If it were anyone else, he’d never say. But this is Iwa-chan. “…It was Tobio-chan,” he admits, lips curling into a smirk he doesn’t feel. “Who knew he had a crush on me, huh? Even stupid Tobio-chan with volleyball brain can fall for my charms.”

Iwaizumi stares. Shrugs. “And? Did you reject him?”

“Of course I rejected him! It’s Tobio-chan. Why would I ever say yes?”

Another shrug. A glance that says, whatever you think you’re proving, it’s not working.

“You’ve always been weird about him,” Iwaizumi mutters. “First time you saw him, you said he was adorable. Then you couldn’t shut up about his genius. Sounds like maybe you’re the one who needs to figure stuff out.”

“What—no! That’s ridiculous,” Tooru protests, heat rising to his cheeks. “You should’ve seen his face when he confessed. Said ‘I like you’ with the dumbest scowl. Nothing adorable about it!”

“Mm-hm.” Iwaizumi’s smirk says he’s already done with this conversation. “Whatever you say. Figure it out, Trashykawa.”

And with that, he’s gone, slipping inside his house and leaving Tooru gaping on the sidewalk.

Tooru kicks at the pavement, muttering, “I do not—ugh!” The sound echoes, sharp in the quiet street.

But the words don’t chase the thoughts away. All week, they cling: Tobio’s voice, low and rough. That infuriating scowl. The audacity of confessing and then walking away like it meant nothing. And Iwaizumi’s stupid comment gnawed at the back of his head.
-----

By Friday, Tooru has had enough.

All week, it’s been the same: in class, on the court, lying awake at night. Tobio’s voice looping in his head. That scowl burned into his eyelids whenever he blinked the gall of confessing and then walking away like it was nothing. Iwaizumi’s smug “you’ve always been weird about him” gnawing like a mosquito bite he can’t scratch.

So here he is again under the big tree where it all started.

And of course Tobio is already there, leaning back against the trunk with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression carved into that permanent frown. The late afternoon light cuts sharply across his face, catching the dark of his eyes. He looks like he’s waiting for judgment.

It makes Tooru’s chest tighten. He hates that.

“So,” Tooru says grandly, planting his hands on his hips like he’s on stage. “I thought about your confession. Really thought about it. And I decided, why not? I’ll say yes. Let’s go out.”

Tobio blinks at him. Once. Twice. Like the words don’t compute.

Then: “No thanks.”

The silence slams down between them.

“What?!” Tooru’s voice cracks sharply. His hand flies up, finger stabbing the air at Tobio like he’s calling out a foul. “You’re the one who confessed to me!”

“I did.” Tobio’s voice is calm, maddeningly calm, though his ears are bright red. “But I just wanted to confess. Not to date you.”

Tooru gawks. Actually gawks, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Why would you confess if you didn’t want to date me?”

“I like you, Oikawa-senpai,” Tobio says, the words flat, no hesitation. “But I don’t want to date you.”

For a moment, Tooru can’t breathe.

Rude. Rude, rude, rude.

His jaw clicks shut, teeth grinding. His chest burns like he just took a serve to the sternum. People line up for the chance to confess their fan letters, shoe lockers stuffed with chocolates, and declarations under cherry blossoms. And this brat dares to reject him?

He laughs, sharp and hollow. “Unbelievable. Do you even know how many people would kill to hear me say yes?”

Tobio shrugs, shifting his weight. His eyes don’t meet Tooru’s, fixed somewhere over his shoulder, but there’s a flicker, something pained, maybe that disappears too quickly.

It stings. It stings worse than Tooru expects.

The wind rattles through the branches overhead, scattering a few leaves between them. For the first time in forever, Oikawa Tooru, the perfect setter, the boy with a smile sharp enough to cut, has no idea what to say.

Tobio turns without a word, footsteps crunching on gravel, shoulders hunched against the fading light. Within seconds, he’s gone, swallowed by the stairwell.

And Tooru is left alone, the echo of “I like you, but I don’t want to date you” reverberating in his chest like a ball bouncing against the walls of an empty gym.

He exhales hard, too fast, the sound catching in his throat. Crosses his arms tighter. “…Tch. Fine. Be that way.”

But when he lies in bed later, ceiling blank above him, it’s still there. The scowl. The rejection. The way Kageyama Tobio walked away like Tooru’s “yes” meant nothing at all.

And that, more than anything, drives him insane.

Chapter Text

He can't believe Oikawa actually agreed. Why? Why did he come back? Why say yes? Tobio leans against the wall, the concrete cool even through his uniform. His hands stay buried in his pockets until his knuckles throb. If he lets them loose, they'll tremble. It wasn't supposed to go this far. He only wanted to say it once.

I like you.

The words had burned holes in him until he let them out. They should've been enough.

But Oikawa saying yes, that wasn't part of the plan. That made it dangerous.

Tobio tips his head back, staring at the patch of sky caught between rooflines. Too bright. His eyes sting.

A pebble skitters when his shoe nudges it. Too loud. Everything feels too loud.

Oikawa's stupid face flickers in his head again, wide eyes, sharp mouth, like he couldn't believe Tobio would dare. Tobio's jaw clenches until his teeth squeak. He hates that he remembers the exact angle of Oikawa's eyebrows. He hates that he cared enough to look.

The paper in his pocket crinkles when he shifts.

The list. Folded to softness, ink pressed deep enough to ghost through. He doesn't take it out. He knows it by heart.

Confess to Oikawa-san.

Pet a cat.

Pet a dog.

Say sorry to Kunimi & Kindaichi.

Play volleyball again.

Go to the beach.

Have dinner with my family.

And the dumb one, Miwa, insisted on: Eat pancakes with lots of syrup. He can still hear her bossy tone from the night she'd shoved the pen at him.

He shoves it deeper and pushes off the wall.

-----

The hallway at the end of the day is busy, a shuffle of bags and chatter, but Tobio freezes when he spots Kindaichi coming the other way. His gut twists, the way it always does when he sees him. He should say something. He's been meaning to say something.

Kindaichi notices him, too. His steps hitch, then resume with an awkward steadiness. No wave, no smile. Just guarded eyes.

Tobio swallows, forces the words out. "…Kindaichi."

Kindaichi pauses, blinking. "…What?"

"I—" Tobio's fists clench at his sides. He stares at the floor, words sticking in his throat like dry bread. "About… before. At Kitagawa. I—"

The silence stretches. Kindaichi tilts his head, frowning.

"You what?"

"I was…" Tobio grits his teeth, forcing it out. "…wrong. I pushed too hard." The words sound flat, too clipped, like he's reading from a script. His chest tightens. He blurts the rest before he can choke: "…Sorry."

Kindaichi's expression flickers—surprise, then frustration. He shakes his head.

"You loved volleyball more than anyone," he says quietly. "It was all you ever cared about. And now you're at Seijoh, one of the best schools, and you're not even playing. I don't get it, Kageyama. It doesn't make sense."

The words hit harder than Tobio expects. His mouth opens, but no answer comes. He can't tell him the truth. He can't say anything.

So he scowls instead, mutters, "…None of your business," and brushes past.

Kindaichi doesn't call after him.

But the weight of it lingers, heavy and sharp, long after Tobio's footsteps fade down the hall.

-----

Miwa's already at the table when he gets in, a mug of ginger tea steaming under her chin. The house smells like old tatami and laundry detergent. She looks up without turning her head, pen still tapping against a notebook.

"You're late," she says, which is what she always says.

Tobio toes off his shoes. Drops his bag by the door, too heavy for how little is inside. "Detour."

Her eyes flick to his pocket. "You're sulking."

"I'm not."

"You are. You get that wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're in a mood." She mimics his scowl, exaggerated, until he mutters under his breath. "See? Exactly like that. What happened?"

He hesitates, jaw tight. The words hover—He said no. Then he said yes. I don't get it. His stomach knots. He isn't sure if it was pity, or a trick, or something worse.

"…Nothing," he mutters finally, pulling the paper free and laying it flat between them. The creases split a little in the middle, like even the paper is tired.

Miwa leans in, reading. She already knows what it says; she's the one who told him to write it, but she reads it anyway, as if it might change while she's looking. When she gets to one of the first lines, her mouth twists. "Confess to Oikawa— You actually did it?"

He shrugs. "Crossed it off."

"Okay." She exhales through her nose, small and shaky. "Okay. One down."

Tobio stares at the wood grain. The sunlight through the window lands in a thin strip across the table, right where their grandfather used to set warm barley tea and shogi boards. The light makes the scratches shine silver.

It's been two years, and the table still feels like it's waiting.

"Hey," Miwa says, gentler now. "You don't just write them. You're supposed to… You know." She circles a finger in the air like she's stirring soup. "Do them."

"I know." The word lands dull. He doesn't mean it to sound that way; it just comes out that way.

He remembers the night Miwa pressed the pen into his hand. You're shutting down, she'd said. Grandpa wouldn't want that. One point at a time, remember? He'd scowled, so she'd scribbled the first item herself: Eat pancakes with too much syrup. "Now you can't quit," she'd told him.

Because he remembers middle school, the spring he woke up dizzy every morning, the bruises that bloomed even when he didn't hit anything, the way the gym lights seemed too bright, the hospital smell, metal and lemon and something that lived in the back of his throat. The doctor's mouth was moving around the same word as before.

Relapse.

They said they'd try.

He begged them to let him finish the season. He didn't tell his team why he needed every ball perfect, why every mistake felt like a hand around his throat. He just demanded it. If the last games of his life were going to be played, they were going to be clean.

King.

Tyrant.

"Tobio," Miwa says, pressing the page with her palm. "Start small. Grandpa would've said that. 'One point at a time,' remember?"

His mouth twitches. Grandpa Kazuyo did say that. Every match on TV, every homework problem, every time Tobio got frustrated: One point at a time.

"Pet a cat," Miwa reads, tapping the words. "We can do that. This weekend, there's a cat café that recently opened nearby."

He makes a face. "Cats scratch. Animals don't like me."

"Good. You deserve to be humbled." She smirks, then adds, "And, uh, eat pancakes with lots of syrup."

"That's yours."

"It's ours," she corrects. "I'm supervising."

He snorts, which is almost a laugh if you're generous. Miwa's shoulders lower a fraction, like she's been holding herself up with wires, and someone just loosened them.

Their parents won't be home until late. They will try, later, with takeout and too many questions and a tired, guilty brightness that makes his skin itch. He doesn't hate them anymore. He's tired of hating. But sometimes being seen all at once hurts more than being missed.

Miwa reaches across the table and takes the list, and she scribbles:

Get good grades (lol try).

He scowls at the "lol," and she grins like she's just won something.

"Start small," she says again.

His eyes flick to the middle of the list. Say sorry to Kunimi & Kindaichi. His jaw tightens. "I… kind of did," he mutters.

Miwa raises an eyebrow. "Kind of?"

"I said it," Tobio insists, shoulders hunching. "But… it didn't work. Didn't feel right." The memory stings—the way Kindaichi looked at him, confused, disappointed. Like Tobio's words were too small for the damage they'd done.

Miwa exhales softly. "Then it doesn't count yet."

Tobio glares at the page like he can burn a line through it just by staring. "…Yeah. Doesn't count."

-----

He doesn't plan to stop at the park. His feet just… turn.

The sky is sliding toward gold, air thick with the smell of wet asphalt and blooming weeds.

There's a kid there, orange hair like a warning cone, spring-loaded legs, a volleyball clutched like it might run away, the ball thumps-thumps against the wall and skitters off the line. The kid chases, slides, pops back up like gravity forgot him.

Tobio should keep walking.

"You!" the kid shouts, already sprinting over. "You're Kageyama Tobio, right? From Kitagawa Daiichi? It's me remember?! I'm going to defeat you!" the boy challenges, pointing at Tobio.

No breath control. No sense of personal space. A ridiculous amount of light in his eyes.

"…Who are you?" Tobio asks confusedly. The boy looked shocked and betrayed.

The kid deflates for exactly three seconds, then leans forward. "Hinata Shouyou! We played in middle school, your team crushed us!" He tilts his head, wary. "What school do you go to?"

"Aoba Johsai," Tobio answered, not knowing why he kept engaging with Hinata. He looks confused and tilts his head to one side.

"Are you guys good?" Hinata asks, which infuriates Tobio.

"Of course, we're good, great even, we are one of the top schools in the prefecture!" Tobio bristles.

Hinata looks amazed and maybe intimidated. "That's so cool! Hey, are you doing anything right now? Play a bit with me!"

"No," Tobio says, because that's the correct answer. He's out. He's done. The more distance he keeps, the easier it is to breathe. "Just one! I can't get the timing by myself. I'll chase everything, I swear.

Tobio's ears go hot. He looks away. "I said no."

Hinata rocks on his heels. He holds the ball out like an offering. "I'll owe you. Forever. I'll… I'll buy you a drink."

Tobio glances at the ball without meaning to. His palms tingle. He can feel the weight there already, the way leather sticks for half a second before you let it go exactly where it should be.

"...Fine," he mutters, and steals the ball out of Hinata's hands. "Once."

Hinata whoops like someone set off fireworks.

They don't have a net, so it's ugly and loud. Tobio underhands a tight toss, and Hinata sprints, jumps, and smacks it barehanded toward the chalk line. The ball skids, catches, and rockets into the chain-link fence with a clang that echoes in Tobio's ribs. His fingers recall the angles without prompting. He floats one higher, then lower, and then quickly to Hinata's right, so he has to adjust midair. Hinata misses twice, nails one so clean that Tobio's heart stutters, then slips and goes down on his butt laughing.

"Again!" Hinata says, already up. "Again, again—"

Tobio tosses. Again. Again. The rhythm crawls under his skin and makes a home there. For a minute, his chest doesn't feel like it's wrapped in wire. For a minute, he forgets to be careful.

They go until the sky turns the color of wet concrete and the streetlights pop on with a hum. Hinata shoves his hair out of his face, grinning, cheeks flushed and bright.

"You're really amazing," Hinata says, like it's the simplest truth in the world. "Maybe our teams can have a practice match together. That'd be sick!"

"I'm not on the team," Tobio admits, scowling down at the ball.

Hinata stops cold. "What? But you're the King—"

"Don't call me that!" Tobio snaps. "And it's none of your business, I'm just not."

Hinata blinks, then still smiles. "Okay. Thanks for tossing. I'll get better. I'll figure it out."

Kageyama swallows. The words stick. "You jump weird."

Hinata laughs, as if that's a compliment. "Yeah!"

"Work on your first step," Tobio mutters and hands the ball back.

Hinata nods thoughtfully, like he's been given a sacred commandment. "Okay! Hey, give me your number, let's play again sometime!" Tobio doesn't know why he gives him his number. He just does.

"See you, Kageyama!" Hinata jogs backward, waves, and Tobio watches him run until the orange disappears behind the trees.

Tobio stands alone. His palms buzz. His chest aches, not from running but something dangerous, something like wanting.

He presses his thumb into his palm until the feeling dulls, then heads home the long way.

-----

In his room, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the list out again. The paper has new sweat wrinkles. He smooths it with his palm.

A blue pen is stuck behind his ear. He doesn't remember putting it there.

He draws another neat line through Confess to Oikawa-san.

He hesitates, and below Miwa's joke, he adds: Teach someone volleyball. Hinata's face keeps flashing behind his eyes, stupid and bright and full of teeth. He doesn't cross it off. Not yet.

He circles Pet a cat, and Pet a dog, because Miwa will be insufferable if he doesn't.

He adds watch a pro game.

He stares at the words until the ink dries. His chest tightens; it loosens. Both at once.

One point at a time, Grandpa always said.

"Okay," he says to the empty room, because talking out loud makes it feel like a promise. "One at a time."

He folds the list and returns it to its original place. Then he lies down, stares at the ceiling, and lets the feeling of a perfect toss settle into his hands until sleep takes it away.

Chapter Text

Oikawa Tooru thrives under bright lights. The air in the gym is heavy, filled with sweat and resin. Tooru tilts his chin up, soaking in the noise like it’s his birthright. He tells himself this is where he belongs.

The gym buzzes with the sound of sneakers squeaking, the thud of balls against polished floor, and the crowd's roar. It’s Interhigh—his stage, his chance, his spotlight.

He grins as the referee signals for the first serve, tossing the ball from hand to hand like a magician about to unveil a trick. Every eye is on him as it should be.

And yet—

When he glances up into the stands, his smile stiffens.

Kageyama Tobio. Arms folded, posture stiff, scowl set deep. Sitting right there. Next to a kid with ridiculous orange hair bouncing in his seat like a rubber ball wound too tight. Who is that? Another school’s uniform. Tooru doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t care, but the way Tobio lets the brat chatter and tug on his sleeve makes Tooru’s stomach twist. Tobio, who does he think he is after rejecting him-

Tooru’s jaw tenses. He looks back down at the ball. Focus. This is not the time.

“Oi. Tooru.” Iwaizumi’s voice cuts sharply. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Oikawa sing-songs back, too quickly. He tosses the ball again and lets his grin widen, as if that makes it true.

The whistle blows. The game begins.

Their opponent is scrappy but nowhere near Seijoh’s level. Defense-heavy, but weak on offense, too rattled to return Tooru’s serves. Each toss from his hands is flawless, crisp, polished, and inevitable. They crushed the other school in straight sets.

The crowd roars. His teammates cheer. In Matsukawa, whoops, Hanamaki mimics Oikawa’s ridiculous toss with exaggerated flourishes until everyone laughs, and Iwaizumi smacks him between the shoulders. “Cut it out, Tooru. Don’t get cocky yet.”

“I’m never cocky,” Oikawa lies, teeth bright in the light. He basks in it, grin gleaming, the star of the show.

But when he looks up again, the glow falters. Tobio hasn’t left. The orange-haired brat is still there, tugging on his sleeve, chattering a mile a minute. And Tobio—stoic, stubborn Tobio—isn’t walking away. He’s listening.

Tooru’s smile wavers. His stomach twists.

By the time Seijoh reaches the third round, the gym’s energy has changed. Louder. Hungrier. The tension crackles sharper in the air. This time, it’s Karasuno across the net.

And they aren’t bad. Better than they have any right to be, really. The ace hits hard, the captain is steady, and the setter manages a decent rhythm. But the weak link is obvious. That little orange blur—Hinata, the name sticks. He jumps higher than seems human, but the sets can’t keep up. Too slow, too imprecise. He misses, crashes, and gets stuffed at the block. Again and again.

It should make Tooru smug. It does, a little, every time his serve smacks the floor untouched, every time Karasuno flounders against Seijoh’s tight defense. Hanamaki snickers on the sideline. Matsukawa mutters something about “baby birds trying to fly.” 

But each time Hinata leaps, something crawls under his skin. He can see the perfect toss that would meet that ridiculous jump. It flashes like déjà vu. And it’s not there because Tobio isn’t there.

The thought curdles his triumph.

Still, Seijoh crushes them in straight sets. The crowd roars, his teammates cheer, and Tooru basks in the glow he deserves. He flashes a smile so bright it could cut glass. The teams shake hands, and he makes sure to squeeze Hinata’s hand extra tight at the net. It makes the kid blink, startled, and Tooru basks in it like a petty king.

-----

After the tournament is over for the day, the team is in chaos.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki are already reenacting Hinata’s crash landings with exaggerated flops onto the benches. “Did you see his face? He’s like a goldfish gasping for air—”

“Shut up, he was fast,” Iwaizumi says, thwacking them both with a towel. “Give him a year or two and he’ll be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Hanamaki smirks. “That shrimp?”

“He jumped over your tragic block, Makki,” Matsukawa cackles.

Kunimi is already half-asleep, shoes untied, mumbling about how loud everyone is. Kindaichi keeps replaying the last point out loud, gesturing wildly like he still can’t believe they won.

Oikawa laughs with them, mask polished, smile perfect. He teases, he scolds, he joins the noise like it belongs to him. But his chest feels hollow.

Hinata’s leaps play back in his mind. Not because of the kid, really, but because of what was missing. The set that should have been there. The one Tobio could’ve given.

Why isn’t he playing?

Why quit when you had everything?

Tooru has clawed for every scrap of ground he owns, fought tooth and nail to prove he belongs on court. He’s worked until his knees screamed, until his shoulder burned, until people finally stopped comparing him to prodigies. He’s lived in the shadow of Ushijima, of geniuses like Tobio—people who volleyball seemed to choose without effort. And yet Tobio just… walked away?

Volleyball had never been a choice for him—it was survival. Work harder, train longer, polish sharper until no one could say he wasn’t enough. Tobio had talent in his bones, a game that bent itself to him without asking. And yet he’d walked away. Oikawa couldn’t decide if that made him furious or terrified.

It doesn’t make sense. It gnaws at him, sharp and restless.

“Iwa-chan,” he says suddenly, too sharp. “We’ll beat Shiratorizawa.”

Iwaizumi looks at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Yeah. But don’t spiral now. One match at a time.”

Tooru grins too widely. “Of course.”

“Dinner later,” Iwaizumi says, throwing him a look too sharp to ignore. “Don’t wander off.”

“Of course, Iwa-chan~,” Tooru says, perfect smile plastered on. But the walls feel too close, and the noise of celebration too loud.

So he slips out a side door.

The evening air is hot and damp, cicadas shrilling. He spots him immediately: Tobio, trying to cut across the courtyard unnoticed.

“Tobio-chan~,” Tooru calls, sing-song. He steps into his path, grin sharp. “Came to cheer me on? How sweet.”

Tobio stops dead, scowling in place. “No.”

“But you were watching.” Tooru tilts his head, savoring the way the words make Kageyama’s mouth twitch. “With that little friend of yours. Hinata, was it? Bouncy, isn’t he? Cute. Is that your type, Tobio-chan?”

Color climbs up Tobio’s ears. His scowl deepens, but his voice stays clipped. “None of your business.”

Tooru laughs, but it rings hollow. He leans in, voice pitched low. “Why’d you quit then? Hm? Still afraid of me?”

He waits for the snap, the bark, the sharp retort. But instead, Tobio freezes. His shoulders lock. His hands shove deeper into his pockets like he’s holding himself together.

“Drop it,” he mutters. That wasn’t the Tobio he knew—the boy who barked orders until his teammates hated him, who burned with the same desperation Oikawa recognized in himself. This Tobio looked cornered, like even anger cost too much.

The cicadas scream in the silence that follows. Tooru narrows his eyes. And that’s when he sees the edge of a folded paper peeking out of Tobio’s pocket. Worn, creased, and soft due to handling.

Curiosity sparks like a fuse. Before he can think better of it, Tooru’s hand darts out.

“Hey! Give it back!” Tobio lunges, but it's too late. The paper is already in Tooru’s grip. He unfolds it. The handwriting is cramped, pressed too hard. One of the lines almost knocks the air from his chest.

Confess to Oikawa-san.

His grin drops, and for a moment the world tilts. He skims further. Pet a cat. Pet a dog. Say sorry to Kunimi & Kindaichi. Play volleyball again. Go to the beach. Have dinner with my family. So ordinary, so blunt, it almost hurts. His own name on the list is like a brand.

“What…” Tooru’s voice comes out thin. “What is this?”

Tobio’s face is pale, eyes dark. “Give it back.”

Tooru swallows, and he tries for a smirk, but it feels brittle. “Is this a bucket list?”

He means to mock. He wants it to sound like a joke. But the word lands heavily.

Tobio looks away, jaw locked. “…It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Tooru’s hand trembles against the page. “Why would you—”

The silence stretches. Long enough that Tooru almost thinks Tobio won’t answer.

“Because I’m dying.”

The world drops out from under him. For a second, Tooru doesn’t breathe. The cicadas buzz louder, the courtyard tilts, and he can hear his own heartbeat slam against his ribs.

“Leukemia.” Tobio’s voice is flat, clipped, like it costs him to say. “I had it when I was little. It came back. They tried. It didn’t work. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s not going to get better.”

The gym noise in the distance, laughter, whistles, and the sound of shoes on concrete feel far away.

“I just…” Tobio’s throat works. “There are things I want to do. Before.”

Tooru stares down at the list again. The ink is smudged, pressed so hard it nearly tore the page. His own name, carved into the paper.

His throat burns. He bares his teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re an idiot, Tobio-chan.”

But his fingers shake around the paper, and the weight of the word dying presses harder than any loss he’s ever felt on the court.

Chapter Text

The weekend comes too fast.

The café is warmer than Tobio expected, heavy with the smell of coffee, milk, and something unmistakably animal. Wooden shelves climb the walls like ladders, lined with cat beds, hammocks, and towers. Cats lounge everywhere—on the counter, in baskets, stretched across cushions like royalty. A bell above the door jingles when they step inside, and half a dozen feline eyes narrow at him instantly.

“They know,” Tobio mutters under his breath.

“They always know,” Miwa says smugly, trading her shoes for slippers at the entrance. “Come on. This’ll be fun.”

It isn’t, not at first. Every cat tries to ignore him. The fluffy white one with the curled tail leaps down the second he crouches near it. The orange tabby yawns in his face and rolls over so its back is toward him. The black one bats at Miwa’s fingers like she’s a beloved companion, then darts under a chair when Tobio reaches out.

“They hate me,” he says flatly, sitting back on his heels.

“No,” Miwa says, her voice infuriatingly patient. “You’re just bad at introductions. Try again.”

He does. And again. And again. A tortoiseshell narrows its eyes at him like he’s trespassing. A ginger kitten takes one sniff, sneezes, and bolts. A sleek gray one flicks its tail and struts away with such disdain that Tobio feels personally insulted.

“See?!” Tobio snaps, rubbing his palm where one had swatted him. “They hate me.”

“They’re testing you,” Miwa says, sipping her iced coffee with maddening calm. “Be patient.”

He grits his teeth and tries once more. This time it’s with a round, sleepy-looking tabby curled on a cushion—his hand hovers. The cat opens one eye. He expects another rejection, another disdainful flick of the tail.

But when he scratches gently under its chin, the cat’s head tilts up instead of away. Its eyes slide shut. A rusty purr starts, low and steady, vibrating against his fingers.

Tobio freezes. Then, carefully, he scratches a little deeper. The sound strengthens, stubborn and small, and something loosens in his chest. His mouth twitches. He didn’t know cats actually did this.

Miwa’s phone clicks. “Don’t scowl. You’ll scare her.”

“This is just my face,” Tobio mutters, but he eases his mouth anyway, almost without meaning to.

The tabby shifts, bumping its forehead against his knuckles. He swallows hard.

On the list, Pet a cat gets a neat line through it—the pen tip squeaks. The sound is stupidly satisfying.

Miwa exhales, the kind of sound she usually makes when a volleyball lands just inside the line. Her eyes soften in a way that makes Tobio’s chest twist. She looks proud, but her thumb is pressed tight against her coffee cup, whitening at the knuckle.

“You’re really doing it,” she says, voice light but wobbling at the edge. “Crossing things off like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Tobio mutters.

“I know.” She smiles, small and shaky, like she’s both glad and terrified. “That’s why I’m glad you wrote it down. Makes it harder to forget.”

She wipes at the corner of one eye like she’s just fixing her eyeliner. “Keep going,” she adds. “I’ll keep the evidence.”

The next morning, the kitchen smells like butter, sugar, and the cheap syrup Miwa bought specifically because she said the expensive stuff “tastes like trees.” She hums while she flips pancakes. The tune falters in places, like she keeps forgetting it and then finding it again.

When Tobio slides into his chair, he notices someone else already there. Their mother sits at the far end of the table, hands wrapped around a mug she hasn’t touched.

“Morning,” she says, too carefully.

“Morning,” Tobio replies, equally stiff. His voice sounds like hers, flat, clipped at the edges.

Miwa glances between them, then pours more syrup than necessary on Tobio’s stack. The pancakes gleam like lacquer.

“That’s too much,” Tobio says.

“Not enough,” Miwa says, and pours more.

Tobio frowns. “…That’s not how syrup works.”

Their mother’s laugh comes out more like a cough. “You two… haven’t changed.”

Miwa ignores her, leaning closer to Tobio. “Eat. Before it gets soggy.”

It’s too sweet. It’s ridiculous. But she watches him like there’s a buzzer he’s supposed to hit, so he keeps eating. By the third bite, it’s… fine. By the fifth, it’s good.

Silence stretches. Tobio’s fork scrapes his plate. His mother’s mug steams untouched. Finally, he blurts, “Do you want some?” and pushes his plate an inch in her direction before realizing how stupid it looks. She blinks at him like he’s spoken another language.

“I—no, thank you,” she says softly, folding her hands tighter around the mug. Her eyes dart to Miwa.

Miwa’s shoulders stiffen, and for once she doesn’t tease. She keeps her eyes on Tobio, waiting.

He hates how clumsy this feels, how he can dig perfect sets out of broken plays but can’t find the right words here. “They’re… not bad,” he mutters finally. “The pancakes.”

Something flickers across their mother’s face—surprise first, then a tiny smile that doesn’t quite hold. “I’m glad.”

It isn’t much. It isn’t enough. But Miwa’s shoulders ease, and she makes the check mark so big it takes up two lines. “Look at us,” she says, voice brighter than before. “Practically speedrunning life.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, weaker than usual. The syrup sticks to his tongue. It tastes like being a kid for five minutes. Their mother’s eyes linger on the list, uncertain, like she wants to ask but doesn’t know how. Tobio doesn’t volunteer anything. He chews. His mother looks away.

Eat pancakes with lots of syrup - crossed off.

-----

A few days later, the gym air is exactly as thick as Tobio remembers.

Resin and sweat. Whistles. Shoes squeaking. The lights are too hot and too bright, flattening the world into glare and shadow. He sits in the stands with his arms crossed. It’s not that he’s trying to look irritated; it’s just what his face does when he needs to hold everything in place.

“Whoa,” Hinata breathes next to him, practically vibrating out of his seat. “It’s huge in here. It’s like a spaceship. Do you think it’s like a spaceship? No, that’s dumb. It’s like a—like a—”

“Gym,” Tobio says.

Hinata bobs his head. “Right. Right, yeah. Gym.”

On the court, Oikawa tosses the ball from hand to hand like it’s a coin he’s already decided the outcome of. He grins. The whole gym tilts toward him.

Tobio presses his hands to his knees and feels the ache run up into his arms, all the way to his shoulders. Phantom weight. Phantom habit. He could close his eyes and set a perfect four right now without ever touching the ball.

Seijoh plays clean and sharp. Oikawa’s serve smacks the floor like punctuation. Tobio hates the part of him that recognizes perfection and keeps saying it anyway.

Hinata leans forward, eyes wide. “He’s amazing.”

Tobio doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch against his knees. Faster. Lower. No float. Aim for the right shoulder; he’s opening left. The thoughts scrape through his head like ice, and he clamps his jaw shut before they spill out.

Seijoh wins in straight sets. The crowd roars.

Hinata tugs Tobio’s sleeve, eyes blazing. “You’re strong, Kageyama. The best setter I’ve ever seen! But…” His gaze jumps to the court where Oikawa is still basking in cheers. “…that guy’s incredible too.”

Tobio exhales, jaw tight. “…I learned to serve and block from watching him. Back in middle school.” He shouldn’t have said it. Now the words won’t stop echoing in his head.

Hinata’s eyes go wide. “What?! So if you’re the King…” He grins, bouncing like he’s solved a riddle. “…then Oikawa must be the Grand King!”

Tobio scowls, heat prickling up the back of his neck. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? It’s perfect!” Hinata laughs, already turning it into a challenge. “I’ll beat the King and the Grand King both!”

Tobio doesn’t answer. His fists shove deeper into his pockets, but the words stick anyway. Grand King. He hates that it fits.

Hinata tugs his sleeve again, grin sharp. “Next time will be different. I’ll get better. I’ll beat you someday, Kageyama!”

Tobio doesn’t shake him off. “…Work on your first step. And your approach angle when you’re off-tempo.”

Hinata blinks, then lights up like Tobio just handed him fireworks. “Okay!”

That grin follows Tobio long after Hinata bounces away to join his team.

Tobio stays seated, scowl fixed in place, but his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the crowd. From the corner of Tobio’s eye, movement: Oikawa at the end of the court, looking directly at him. The smile seems like it was left out in the sun too long.

Tobio stands.

-----

The air is heavier. Louder. Hungrier. The gym tilts forward with every whistle.

This time, it’s Karasuno across the net.

Tobio sits higher in the stands, alone this time. Hinata is down on the court now, bouncing like a spring wound too tight. He’s fast, faster than anyone else there, but the ball keeps betraying him. Sets float too high, drift a beat late, and clip the tape. He crashes, misses, gets stuffed again and again.

Their setter’s toss is clean. The ball arcs steadily, textbook perfect, the kind of toss that makes sense for almost anyone else.

But not for Hinata.

Hinata rockets up, spring-loaded legs carrying him higher than anyone expects. His hand swipes too early, the ball skimming past his palm. It lands with a dull smack against Karasuno’s side of the court.

The whistle shrills. Point, Seijoh.

Karasuno’s setter claps his hands, steady, smiling encouragement. Hinata bounces back, unbothered, ready to try again.

Tobio’s jaw tightens. It isn’t Karasuno’s setter’s fault. He’s reliable and dependable, but Hinata’s jump is chaos. Ordinary sets can’t catch lightning.

Faster, Tobio thinks. Lower. Closer to the tape. No float. His fingers itch, useless against his knees.

On the other side of the net, Oikawa watches Hinata with sharp eyes, but his grin says he’s already decided the outcome.

Hinata soars again. The set arrives a breath late. The block swallows him whole.

The crowd roars.

Tobio exhales through his teeth. Hinata’s right. Next time will be different. But only if someone tosses the ball the way he needs.

Tobio’s fingers dig into his knees. Faster. Lower. Right shoulder—no, closer to the tape. He can see the perfect tosses, each one landing exactly where Hinata’s momentum should be. He can’t stop seeing them.

On the other side, Oikawa grins like the whole match is already his. Each serve slams the floor like punctuation. Each set of slots fits into his spiker’s hands. Perfect. Effortless. Infuriating.

Karasuno fights hard, but they’re outpaced. Seijoh takes it in straight sets. The roar of the crowd swallows everything.

When the teams clear out, Hinata spots him in the hallway anyway. He barrels over, still grinning, still sweaty.

“Kageyama! Did you see?!” Hinata pants, tugging at his sleeve again. “We lost, but I got one! I’ll do better next time! I’ll beat them!”

Before Tobio can answer, another voice cuts in. “So you’re the one who’s been helping him?”

A tall guy steps forward, gaze steady; beside him, a shorter upperclassman with kind eyes and a towel slung around his neck.

Hinata bounces in place. “Yeah! Kageyama showed me how to jump better and how to move for the ball. Timing and stuff! He’s amazing!”

Tobio freezes. Heat crawls up his neck. “…It wasn’t much.”

“It sounds like it was,” the kind-eyed one says warmly. “I’m Sugawara. This is our captain, Daichi. Thanks for looking out for him.”

Daichi dips his head in agreement. “Hinata’s raw, but he’s improving. He talks about you a lot. We appreciate it.”

Tobio’s scowl deepens, but his ears burn. “Work on your first step,” he mutters again, jerking his arm free.

Hinata grins like it’s a victory anyway.

Tobio bolts before they can say more. The hallway noise fades, but his chest still aches with something sharp and tight.

Outside, the evening air sticks to his skin. Cicadas scream from the trees like they’re all trying to be the loudest thing alive. He cuts toward the side gate, head down.

“Tobio-chan~.”

He stops. He doesn’t mean to; his feet mishear the court whistle as a command.

Tooru steps into his path like he owns it. He grins. It’s too sharp.

“Came to cheer me on?” he asks. “How sweet.”

“No.”

“But you were watching.” Oikawa tilts his head. “With that little friend of yours. Hinata, was it? Bouncy, isn’t he? Cute. Is that your type, Tobio-chan?”

Heat climbs up Tobio’s ears. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid like grab Oikawa’s collar and shake until the grin falls off.

“None of your business,” Tobio says.

Oikawa laughs. It sounds like glass. “Why’d you quit then? Hm? Still afraid of me?”

Everything in Tobio goes tight, then tighter. He can feel the edges of his teeth grind. His hands curl in his pockets until his nails bite his palms.

“Drop it,” he says.

A cicada launches into a new pitch. It fills the space where he doesn’t say anything else.

Oikawa’s eyes narrow. Don’t, Tobio thinks, but Oikawa moves anyway. His hand is faster than Tobio expects; it always has been. The paper slides out of Tobio’s pocket so easily that he feels a surge of stupid, childish betrayal, like Tooru just picked up a ball he tossed and spiked it through his hands.

“Hey!” Tobio’s voice comes out wrong, thin and sharp. “Give it back!”

Oikawa is already unfolding it. Tobio lunges. Tooru steps back. For a second, they’re doing that thing they always did—Oikawa taking, Tobio chasing—but there’s no court, no lines, and this isn’t a ball.

Oikawa’s eyes snag on the top line. His mouth stops moving.

Confess to Oikawa-san.

Tobio wants to laugh at his face. He wants to punch a wall. He wants to be anywhere else.

Oikawa reads lower. The list is stupid in the way that makes a chest hurt: Pet a cat. Pet a dog. Say sorry. Play volleyball again. Go to the beach. Have dinner with my family. Ordinary. Tobio wrote them because ordinary started to feel like a trick he couldn’t do anymore.

“What…” Oikawa says. “What is this?”

“Give it back,” Tobio says.

“Is this a bucket list?”

The word lands heavily between them. He almost says no to make Oikawa’s face do something different. He almost lies. But he’s tired, and his chest has been tight for months, and the truth is a stone he’s been holding in his mouth.

“…It’s nothing,” Tobio says. It sounds like a dare.

“It doesn’t look like nothing. Why would you—”

“Because I’m dying.”

The air goes quiet so quickly that he can hear the blood in his ears. Then the cicadas rush in again, too loud.

He stares at Oikawa’s collarbone because looking at his eyes is suddenly impossible. The words keep going because if he stops now, he might never be able to start again. “Leukemia. I had it when I was little. It came back. They tried. It didn’t work. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s not going to get better.”

Something flickers across Oikawa’s face, too fast to name. For one stupid second, Tobio wants him to make a joke, to roll his eyes, to call him dramatic so he can get mad and yell and feel like himself again.

He doesn’t.

“I just…” The next word sticks. Tobio shoves it out. “There are things I want to do. Before.”

Oikawa looks down at the list. The paper shakes in his hand, just a little. Tobio’s name on the paper would be easier. Oikawa is the one at the top.

Oikawa bares his teeth in something that wants to be a grin and fails. “You’re an idiot, Tobio-chan.”

“Yeah,” Tobio says, because that’s true from most angles.

Oikawa doesn’t hand the paper back for a full three breaths. When he finally does, Tobio takes it like it might fall apart if he isn’t careful.

He puts it back in his pocket. He doesn’t look at Oikawa again when he leaves.

Miwa doesn’t ask anything when he comes in. She glances away from the television, takes in his face, and turns off the TV. “He knows,” Tobio says.

She gets up and puts the kettle on like that’s the next point in the play. “You told him?”

“He took the list.”

Her mouth tightens. “Do you want me to beat him up?”

“No.” Tobio sits. The chair scrapes too loudly. “He’d deserve it, though.”

“He would,” Miwa says, satisfied, and the kettle starts its low growl.

They don’t discuss it further. They don’t have to. She sets a mug in front of him and then sits sideways on her chair so their knees touch. The contact is small. It’s enough.

Tobio thinks Oikawa will avoid him for a while. That would be easier. He’s wrong.

The next afternoon, Oikawa is at their door when Tobio gets home, leaning against the frame like they’re the ones who invited him. He waves when he sees Tobio. He’s grinning too wide, like the grin is a bridge he’s building in a hurry so he doesn’t have to look down.

“Great timing, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says, reaching past him as if the house is his. “We have work to do.”

“No.” Tobio plants a hand on his chest. Oikawa keeps moving anyway, slipping sideways like a serve misread by half a step. “Get out.”

“Rude.” He flaps a list Tobio didn’t realize he’d stolen again until this second. It’s a copy of his list. Oikawa must’ve written it down from memory. The idea makes Tobio’s teeth hurt. “Item three: pet a dog. Excellent taste. Fortunately, my family’s dog is superior and will tolerate you for five minutes.”

Miwa is already at the kitchen door with her arms crossed, leaning there like she’s been watching a play. “He brought snacks,” she says, nodding toward the bag in Oikawa’s other hand. “He can stay.”

“Traitor,” Tobio tells her.

She shrugs. “One point at a time, remember?”

Tobio glares at Oikawa.

Oikawa beams back, undeterred.

“I’m not letting you do this alone,” Oikawa says, suddenly softer. No sing-song. No show. Just words. “So argue if you want. I’m still going to help.”

The words push at something behind Tobio’s ribs that he thought was calcified. It moves. It hurts.

“Fine,” Tobio says, because he can’t say anything else without his voice going weird. “But we do it my way.”

“Obviously,” Oikawa says, and grins like that was the plan the whole time.

He drops the snack bag on the table. It’s full of candy and sports drinks and a single banana, like he couldn’t remember if he was shopping for a child or a marathon. Miwa snorts. Tobio sits. The list is in front of them again, somehow heavier and less impossible at the same time.

Oikawa taps a blank space near the bottom. “Also, you’re missing something,” he says, and, without asking, writes: Smile in a photo without realizing it.

Tobio scowls. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is if I say it is,” Oikawa shoots back, smug. Oikawa looks pleased with himself, which is… normal. Annoying. Almost comforting.

Miwa crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. Her smile is sweet, but her tone cuts a little sharper. “Careful, Oikawa-kun. If you make my brother scowl more than he already does, I’ll break your pretty setter hands.”

Oikawa freezes, then recovers with a laugh. “Scary. You really are related.”

“Don’t test me.” She winks. It lands playfully in Tobio’s ears — just another Miwa joke — but the weight underneath makes Oikawa glance at her longer than he should.

Tobio groans and rolls his eyes. Miwa ruffles his hair before stealing one of Oikawa’s candy bars.

Oikawa beams like he’s won anyway. “Then it’s settled. We’ll keep working through the list together.”

He mutters, “Fine. But no more fake items.”

“No promises,” Oikawa says, grinning too widely.

Miwa laughs, lighter this time, and for once the sound doesn’t wobble.

Oikawa stretches like he owns the place, then snatches up one of the sports drinks. “You’ll see, Tobio-chan. I’ve got plans. Big ones. But for tonight…” He waves a hand toward the snack pile. “…we recover.”

Tobio should tell him to leave. He should rip the paper back, cross out what Oikawa wrote, and slam the door. Instead, he folds the list along its old lines and returns it to his pocket.

“Fine,” Tobio mutters. “But stop making things up.”

Oikawa’s grin softens at the edges, just a little. “No promises.”

The scowl stays on Tobio’s face, but the warmth in his chest lingers.

Chapter Text

By late July, the days blurred together under the weight of summer heat. The cicadas never shut up, the air pressed heavily against his skin, and staying indoors was the only way to feel remotely human. Tobio thought he was safe until Oikawa showed up at the door with too much energy for someone on break.

“Iwaizumi said I should leave you alone,” Oikawa announced brightly, leaning on the doorframe like he owned it. “So, naturally, I ignored him.”

“…Idiot,” Tobio muttered exasperated, but he still shoved his feet into his sneakers.

On the way into town, Oikawa detoured into the convenience store, humming as he swept an arm toward the drink cooler. “Fuel is essential for bucket-list journeys, Tobio-chan. Sports drinks, obviously.”

“You’re wasting time,” Tobio said, but he followed. The store air was cold enough that his skin prickled. A wall of magazines near the register displayed idols smiling like they didn’t know what heat was, and the fried chicken under the glass case smelled like it had been there since morning. He ignored all of it and let his feet carry him down the drink aisle.

His eyes flicked, automatically, to the milk shelf—green-cap cartons, the brand he always grabbed without thinking. Habit tugged. He didn’t move.

A beat. Oikawa didn’t look at him. He just opened the cooler and, without asking, took two sports drinks and two small green-cap cartons. He dropped all four into the basket and kept walking, as if it had nothing to do with anything.

Tobio blinked. He didn’t say thanks. He also didn’t point out the brand.

At the register, Oikawa pulled out a ridiculous coin purse shaped like a volleyball, paid, and swung the bag like a trophy. “Your bucket list awaits, Tobio-chan. You should be grateful your handsome senpai is such a devoted helper.”

Tobio glared. “Stop calling it that.”

“Calling what?” Oikawa tilts his head innocently, like he doesn’t already know. “Oh, the list? Your adorable little bucket list?”

Tobio stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. “You’re annoying.”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, Tobio-chan.”

They caught the bus to Oikawa’s neighborhood, the kind with cracked faux-leather seats and air-con that couldn’t keep up. Oikawa took the window. Tobio took the aisle and the plastic bag.

The bus rattled with a half-empty weariness: an old man dozing behind a newspaper, a pair of high school girls whispering about someone’s crush, a little kid kicking the back of the seat until her mom snapped at her. Heat pressed in anyway, the air conditioner making more noise than coolness.

He pulled out the milk without thinking and punctured the straw. Cold sweetness, faintly grassy, slid over his tongue. The first sip always tasted like mornings before practice and the stubborn thought that if he was strong enough, nothing could go wrong. It was stupid. It helped anyway.

“You still drink a ton of milk?” Oikawa asked, not looking away from the window.

“It’s good,” Tobio said.

“Mm.” Oikawa’s mouth twitched. “Right answer.” For a moment, their reflections sat side by side in the glass: Tobio straight-backed, carton in hand, Oikawa slouched like he owned the seat. The reflection smiled faintly, like it knew a secret the real one hadn’t said out loud. Tobio looked away first.

The bus rattled past the shuttered florist, the ramen place with its red lanterns already sweating in the heat, and the park where kids wielded water guns like small soldiers. Oikawa’s reflection in the window grinned at nothing; the real one went quiet.

Tobio didn’t ask what he was thinking. The straw made a soft hollow sound when the carton ran dry.

The walk from the bus stop to Oikawa’s house was short but felt longer with Oikawa humming beside him like he was the grand marshal of an invisible parade. By the time they reached the front gate, Tobio was already regretting agreeing to this.

The second the door slid open, chaos hit. His family’s dog, a fluffy, excitable mutt named Pochi, barrels into the entryway, barking and wagging like the entire world is his favorite toy.

“Pochi-chan, guest alert!” Oikawa announced grandly.

The mutt barked once, sharp and happy, then lunged straight for Tobio. He froze on the spot, staring down at the bundle of energy like it was a volleyball he didn’t know how to receive.

“Go on,” Oikawa prods, smirking. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“I’m not—” Tobio starts, but Pochi chooses that moment to leap. His paws hit Tobio’s chest, tongue swiping across his chin. Tobio stumbles back, sputtering.

Oikawa is already snapping photos, Pochi’s paws planted on Tobio’s chest, tongue swiping his chin.

“Delete those,” Tobio snaps, shoving the dog off.

“Too late,” Oikawa sing-songs, thumbs flying over his phone. “Already sent them to Miwa-chan.”

Tobio freezes mid-step. “…What?”

Oikawa beams, showing him the screen. Miwa-chan: Finally, Tobio looks cute for once—three knife emojis followed by a heart.

“Why are you two in contact?” Tobio demands, ears hot.

“Because,” Oikawa says sweetly, “I promised her I’d provide photographic evidence whenever she isn’t around to supervise. It’s called accountability, Tobio-chan.”

“That’s not—” Tobio cuts himself off, grinding his teeth. “You’re both annoying.”

Oikawa grins wider. “She likes me.”

Pochi, having declared victory, flopped belly-up in the entryway like a rug. Tobio crouched, awkward, hand hovering. He scratched behind one ear. The mutt sighed like a small engine and leaned harder. A tail thumped the floor in a steady, forgiving rhythm.

The fur was softer than he expected—warm, alive, grounding. Tobio’s shoulders, tight since they left the bus, dropped a fraction. He scratched again, and Pochi huffed like they’d reached an agreement.

On the list, Pet a dog earned a heavy line through it.

“Smile,” Oikawa instructed, aiming his camera again.

“No.”

“You are,” Oikawa said smugly. “In your soul.”

“Shut up.”

They shed shoes and the worst of the heat. The Oikawa house smelled like cool rice and laundry soap. From down the hall, a TV murmured; someone laughed. A framed schedule near the shoe cabinet had gold star stickers by “watering plants” and “trash day” in a child’s handwriting.

“New chore system?” Tobio asked before he could stop himself.

“My sister’s kid,” Oikawa said, rolling his eyes. “He’s eight, tyrannical, and Pochi’s union representative.”

Pochi sneezed as if in agreement and then followed Tobio like a satellite.

“Next item,” Oikawa said, clapping once with fake ceremony. He produced—of all things—a math workbook. “We attack your grades.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He planted himself in the doorway, barring escape with all six feet of theatrical stubbornness. “You can’t be the tragic genius setter and the tragic failing student. Pick one.”

“I’m not failing. And it’s summer.”

“Summer homework exists.” Oikawa shoved the workbook against Tobio’s chest. “We’re fixing it. Now.”

The “study session” devolved almost immediately. Oikawa dictated formulas like they were volleyball plays. Tobio scowled at the slope-intercept form as if it had personally insulted him.

“Why is m slope? Why not s or something?” Tobio demanded.

“Because math is a language of suffering,” Oikawa said primly. “Now, tell me: if this line passes through—”

“That’s too many numbers.”

“That’s literally two numbers.”

Oikawa leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the mess Tobio called work. His breath brushed Tobio’s ear. Tobio jerked away on instinct; Oikawa pretended not to notice and tapped the mistake again.

“You skipped a negative,” Oikawa said. “Again.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Pochi put his chin on Tobio’s knee and stared up with wide approval as if to say: learning is good.

“Fine,” Tobio muttered, correcting it. The pencil squeaked across the page. The second problem still fought back. The third obeyed. He got exactly two right out of five.

Oikawa clapped like they’d won nationals. “Break.”

“That was terrible.”

“It was!” Oikawa agreed cheerfully, unscrewing a sports drink. “But you didn’t throw the pencil. Improvement.” Oikawa flopped across the tatami like he’d just finished a marathon. Pochi immediately claimed his stomach as a pillow, tail wagging against the workbook. Tobio scowled, but the corner of his mouth twitched when Oikawa mock-groaned under the dog’s weight. Tobio didn’t mention the tiny bloom of relief in his chest that someone else was insisting he try.

“Roof?” Oikawa said suddenly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s cooler,” Oikawa lied, already heading for the narrow staircase.

It wasn’t cooler, but at least there is a breeze. The neighborhood spread below like a hot map: laundry swaying, a kid hopping from shadow to shadow, a bike bell somewhere. They sat on warm tile, backs against the low wall. Oikawa tossed a grape candy at Tobio; it bounced off his shoulder.

“Coordination,” Oikawa sighed. “Tragic.”

Tobio caught the second one. “You’re worse.”

“For the record,” Oikawa said, head tilted back against the sky, “Iwaizumi told me to leave you alone.”

“You mentioned.” Tobio frowned. “Why?”

Oikawa hesitated just long enough to betray that it wasn’t nothing. “Because he thinks you’ve been… off. Quieter than usual. Said me messing with you wouldn’t help.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, though his eyes flicked toward Tobio briefly. “He’s annoyingly perceptive like that. Good senpai material.”

The words hung there a second too long, heavy in the heat. Tobio didn’t answer, jaw set.

“I ignored him,” Oikawa said quickly, grin snapping back into place, “because I’m excellent at volleyball and terrible at obedience.” He cracked the candy between his teeth. “Also, because Miwa-chan threatened to break my fingers if I slacked.”

“Good,” Tobio muttered, softer this time. “She would.”

They didn’t talk for a while. They didn’t need to. The breeze lifted sweat from their necks; a kite somewhere bobbed stubbornly against the too-blue sky.

Oikawa squinted sideways. “You’re thinking about the list.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he said, too sure. “We’ll keep going. Even if it’s slow.”

Tobio’s jaw worked. He focused on the horizon line, where the city blurred into the sky. “One point at a time,” he said finally.

Oikawa turned his face away like he’d been smiling too hard and needed to rest. “Yeah.”

A bead of sweat slid down Tobio’s temple. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then realized Oikawa had quietly set another green-cap carton between them. He didn’t comment, just poked the straw through. The milk was warm from Oikawa’s bag but familiar anyway. He drank, not looking at him.

Dinner happened by accident. Oikawa’s mom called them down; Tobio glanced at his phone and realized time had slipped. Dinner at the Oikawas’ table is warmer than Tobio expects. The smell of miso and grilled fish fills the house, the kind of hominess he never quite gets in his own kitchen, even when his parents try.

Oikawa’s mom fusses from the moment he sits down, piling rice into his bowl, pushing side dishes closer. “You’re so thin,” she says, frowning softly. “Are you eating enough at home, Tobio-kun?”

Tobio stiffens, chopsticks hovering uselessly. “I eat.” His chopsticks hovered; he hated how visible he felt.

A warm hand patted his arm before he could fold inward. “My son eats like a show-off,” she said, directing a look at Oikawa. “He talks like one, too.”

Oikawa clasped a hand to his chest, wounded. “Mother.”

“You heard me.”

Oikawa pivoted instantly, beam bright. “He’s shy, Mom. He eats like a horse when no one’s looking. Don’t you, Tobio-chan?”

Tobio glares at him, but Oikawa keeps smiling, leaning into the lie so smoothly that his mom laughs and lets it go. Tobio found a rhythm—fish, rice, pickles, miso, repeat—mechanical until it softened into something tangible. The scrutiny pricked at first, and then it didn’t sting quite as much. It annoyed him how grateful he was.

Oikawa’s dad asks about school, and Oikawa launches into a dramatic retelling of their last match, waving his chopsticks like a baton. His mom interrupts to scold him for exaggerating, his nephew snickers at every chance, and Tobio sits there, quietly taking it all in.

He thought about how Miwa had poured too much syrup on his pancakes, how their mother’s mug steamed untouched at the end of the table, how silence filled the gaps whenever Miwa wasn’t around to keep them moving. This was the opposite. It was noisy, ordinary, alive. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he kept eating.

It reminded him of things that shouldn’t matter but did anyway—the way Miwa insisted on syrup until the plate gleamed, the way Hinata tugged his sleeve without permission—loud, ordinary things that knocked the sharp edges off the day. For a moment, he almost forgot how heavy his chest felt most mornings.

Later, when they walk back toward the station, Oikawa nudges his shoulder. “See? Not so scary.”

Tobio muttered, “Your mom talks too much.”

“Yeah, well.” Oikawa grinned sideways, the kind that crinkled the corner of his eyes. “She likes you. That’s rare.”

Tobio didn’t answer, but he also didn’t pull away. The silence between them wasn’t as heavy as usual.

Then, out of nowhere, Oikawa whipped out his copy of the list, shaking it dramatically in front of Tobio’s face like a victory banner. “Next item: say sorry to Kunimi and Kindaichi!”

Tobio scowled, snatching at the paper, but Oikawa held it just out of reach. “They don’t care,” Tobio muttered.

“They do,” Oikawa countered, his grin knife-sharp but his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

-----

A few days later, after Seijoh’s summer practice, the gym glowed with late light. Dust motes drifted. The thud of balls had dwindled to a scatter; someone’s laugh echoed from the far end. Kunimi and Kindaichi were packing their bags by the side doors.

Oikawa herded Tobio toward them like he was lining up a serve. “You have something to say, don’t you, Tobio-chan?”

Tobio’s throat tightens. Kunimi raises an eyebrow. Kindaichi’s mouth pressed thin, his hand fidgeting against his bag strap.

The words wanted to stick again, just like before, in the hallway weeks ago. He remembered standing there, fists clenched, blurting out a half-formed sorry while Kindaichi’s voice cracked: “You loved volleyball more than anyone… and now you’re not even playing.” Tobio had walked away then, scowling, choking on everything he couldn’t say.

Not this time.

“I was wrong,” Tobio said, slower, forcing himself to look at them instead of the floor. His chest ached, but he made himself keep going. “At Kitagawa. I pushed too hard. I thought… if everything was perfect, then maybe—” His jaw tightened. He forced the rest out. “—then maybe I wouldn’t mess it up. But I hurt you. I didn’t trust you. That wasn’t fair. I’m… sorry.”

The silence stretched long enough for Tobio’s pulse to thunder in his ears. Kunimi’s bag strap creaked in his hand. Kindaichi’s jaw clenched, unclenched.

Kindaichi blinked rapidly, shoulders stiff. “Back then… it felt like we weren’t even your teammates—just tools. Every mistake was—” His voice cracked the same way it had in Tobio’s memory, but this time he caught himself, swallowed. “It hurt. A lot.”

Tobio’s throat burned. “I know.” The words were gravelly, heavy, but real. “It’s not enough. But I wanted you to hear it.”

Kunimi sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess… you’ve changed a little.” His tone was flat as always, but his eyes softened a fraction.

Kindaichi shifts, then blurts, not unkindly, “Why aren’t you on a team now? I mean… you—” He stops, searching Tobio’s face. “You’re you.”

Tobio’s mouth works. He finds the smallest part of the truth he can carry. “Couldn’t make it work,” he says. Not a lie. Not the whole thing. “So I’m… doing other stuff.”

Kunimi’s gaze flicked over him—too pale under the summer tan, the way he stood a little carefully, the tired tucked behind the scowl. Kindaichi’s lips pressed together; something settled in his eyes like a puzzle piece he didn’t want to admit fit.

“…Okay,” Kindaichi said quietly. His voice wavered, but steadied. “Got it. And… thank you for apologizing. We’re sorry too. We might’ve made it work if we’d actually talked to you.”

Kunimi nodded once, a tiny concession. “Yeah.”

The words pressed heavily in the air but didn’t crush him this time. Tobio stood there, fists loose now instead of clenched, hearing sincerity—not forgiveness, not yet. But acknowledgment. Those things were real then. And different now. Something unknotted under Tobio’s sternum—not all the way, but enough that he could breathe into the space.

“There’s no need,” he said finally. “It’s the past. I think… It’s time to move on. I’ll—” He almost said I’ll do better next time, but there wasn’t a team, and there wasn’t a next time. He swallowed the words. “Good luck. This year.”

Kindaichi’s shoulders straightened. “You too,” he said, like he believed there was a you in there that still applied.

From behind, Oikawa stayed quiet for once. No teasing, no smug grin. Just watching, like he’d finally realized Tobio was braver than he gave him credit for.

On the list: Say sorry to Kunimi & Kindaichi — crossed off.

They left the gym into the air that felt like the bottom of a pool. Oikawa walked with his hands behind his head, humming something triumphant under his breath.

“You didn’t make a speech,” Tobio said.

“I’m capable of restraint,” Oikawa sniffed. “Occasionally.”

“Mm.”

They cut through the school courtyard, where the last sun lit the edge of the field in orange. The air buzzed thick with cicadas. Oikawa nudged him toward the bleachers and plopped down like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Milk?” Oikawa offered, tossing him a carton without looking. Tobio caught it. Their hands didn’t touch. It still felt like something almost did.

“You did well,” Oikawa said, eyes on the field.

Tobio poked the straw into the carton. The seal crack sounded loud. “They were right.”

“They were,” Oikawa agreed. “And you were too.”

“…About what?”

“That perfection is a trap.” He was quiet for a beat. “Sometimes good enough is a way through.”

The words settled. Tobio drank, letting the cool sweetness coat his mouth. Tobio thought about Hinata, flinging himself at the net like an accusation. About the ordinary sets that bounced off him like rain. About the way he could see the right toss so clearly that it made his hands ache. He took a drink and said nothing.

“Tomorrow,” Oikawa said suddenly, like he was starting a new drill, “we’re working on your grades again.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He pointed at him without looking. “You actually got two problems right. We capitalize on momentum.”

“That’s not how momentum works,” Tobio said, because someone had to be annoying on purpose.

“Tragic,” Oikawa said, unbothered. “Also, give me your phone, I need to look at your camera roll. I’m auditing.”

“Why?”

“To identify opportunities for candid smiles,” Oikawa said, deadly serious. “For the list.”

“That’s not a real item.”

“It is if I say it is.”

Tobio scowled, which only made Oikawa grin wider. Tobio looked away, jaw tight, trying to ignore the swooping in his chest—the irritating, weightless rush that felt too much like losing control of a set.

-----

When the evening quiet settles, Tobio sits at his desk, the folded paper open in front of him. The list is messy now, with ink smudged in places and creases worn soft from too much handling. He read it like it might rearrange itself if he stared hard enough.

Pet a cat — crossed.

Eat pancakes with too much syrup — crossed.

Pet a dog — crossed.

Say sorry to Kunimi & Kindaichi — crossed.

His pen hovers over Get good grades. The words glare back at him, underlined twice, like they’re laughing. He presses the nib down, hard enough to dot the page, but doesn’t cross it out. Not yet.

His eyes snag on the addition at the bottom, the one Oikawa wrote in bold, dramatic strokes: Smile in a photo without realizing it.

He should erase it. He didn’t. He smoothed the page with his palm and folded the paper along its old lines, his thumb lingering in the middle crease as if he could iron a day into something flat and manageable.

His phone buzzed. A message from Miwa: Pochi is a saint. Also, you look cute. Also, eat fruit sometimes that isn’t a sports drink.

A second message popped up. From Oikawa, predictably: a blurry photo of Pochi mid-pounce, Tobio halfway to a grin he would deny in court. A sticker slapped on the corner read PROGRESS with sparkles.

He typed 'delete that,' then didn’t send it. He put the phone face down instead.

One point at a time.

He tucked the list away. Tomorrow would come with more heat and more cicadas and, probably, Oikawa at the door again like an unwanted alarm. It would also come with the ordinary things he was trying to hold onto: Pochi’s ridiculous tail, a math problem that finally clicked, Hinata’s text about another match, the green-cap milk that tasted like mornings, the way dinner at someone else’s house felt like sitting in a warm draft.

It wasn’t a cure. It was a movement.

He turned off the light. In the dark, the hum of summer filled the gaps. He let it.

Chapter Text

Summer afternoons stick to your skin, the kind of heat that drives people inside glowing arcades. The place smells like dust, neon, and fried food; it's the kind of smell that clings to your clothes and your hair, no matter how briefly you step inside. Tooru hasn’t set foot in one since middle school, but here he is now, dragging Tobio in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“This is stupid,” Tobio mutters the second the automatic doors whoosh shut. His scowl deepens at the flashing lights and the squeal of a racing game.

“Correction,” Tooru says smoothly. “This is youth.”

He presses a hundred-yen coin into Tobio’s palm before he can argue. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it: beat me at air hockey.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Too late, you’re already holding the coin,” Tooru interrupts, sliding the puck onto the table.

Tobio sighs, resigned, but the corner of his mouth twitches as he slots the coin in.

It’s not close. Tobio’s reflexes are unfair. Every shot Tooru sends screaming toward his goal gets blocked and ricochets back at double speed. The sound of plastic against plastic rings sharp as laughter. Tooru’s hair clings to his forehead, sweat trickling down his temple. Tobio looks maddeningly calm, eyes tracking each move like a computer.

By the fourth goal, Tooru throws his arms up dramatically. “Cheating! I call foul! Who let you have hands that fast?”

Tobio mutters, “…It’s not cheating. Just physics.”

“Ugh, insufferable. What do you know about physics?” Tooru groans, making a face. But when Tobio’s mouth twitches—barely, almost not at all—Tooru’s grin sharpens.

He’s getting to him.

They drift through the arcade after that. Tooru makes a show of trying everything, and Tobio trails after like a tether pulled too tight—basketball shootouts, rhythm games, and even the claw machines.

At one claw machine, Tooru presses his face against the glass. “That one,” he says, pointing at a tiny cat keychain with a perpetual frown. “It looks exactly like you when you’re mad.”

Tobio flushes. “…It doesn’t.”

“It does.” Tooru slides coins in with a flourish. Of course, his aim is terrible. The claw pinches air, again and again. By the fifth attempt, Tobio elbows him aside, muttering under his breath. His long fingers are precise; he lines it up, hits the timing, and the claw snags the plush on the first try.

He drops it into Tooru’s hand without meeting his eyes.

Tooru beams. “You’re adorable when you’re tsundere, Tobio-chan.”

“Shut up,” Tobio says, but his ears are red. The cat plush dangles from Tooru’s hand like a trophy.

They emerge into the early evening, air thick but cooler now, the sky flushed in watercolor oranges. The smell of frying batter from a nearby stall curls through the street. Tooru buys takoyaki before Tobio can object, getting two trays and extra sauce.

He pops one in his mouth and immediately hisses. “Hot, hot, ow!”

“Idiot,” Tobio mutters, blowing carefully on his before eating.

“I suffer for my art,” Tooru mumbles around a burned tongue.

They end up on a small footbridge over the river, the arcade’s neon reflecting in the ripples below. Tooru leans on the railing until his shoulder brushes Tobio’s. The air smells faintly of algae and the start of night.

They eat in companionable silence, the city’s hum is steady beneath them, bikes clattering over asphalt, trains sighing somewhere overhead, cicadas humming like static. For once, Tobio doesn’t look like he wants to escape. His shoulders are relaxed, his hair damp against his forehead.

Then Tooru pulls out his phone, scrolls through it, and smirks. “Miwa says thank you for the arcade pictures. She also says you look constipated when you’re focusing on the claw machine.”

Tobio stiffens. “…Why are you still texting my sister?”

“Because I promised her I’d send proof, remember.” He wiggles his phone. “She’s my ally now.”

Tobio glares, cheeks heating.

Tooru only grins wider. “Double the trouble, double the supervision. You’ll thank us later.”

“You know,” he says softly, “you don’t always have to carry that scowl. It won’t kill you to laugh once in a while.”

Tobio shoots him a sharp look. “I laugh.”

“When? In your dreams?”

But then Tooru remembers one of the additions on the list: Smile in a photo without realizing it. He doesn’t mention it. Instead, he pulls out his phone again and snaps a picture mid-scowl.

“Delete that,” Tobio warns.

“Nope,” Tooru chirps. “One day, I’ll get you smiling without realizing it. That’s a promise.”

For a heartbeat, the neon catches in Tobio’s eyes, turning them soft at the edges. It isn’t a smile, but it’s something close. And Tooru thinks maybe, for once, he’s managed to make the world feel a little lighter for him.

The next day, Tooru is still scrolling through arcade photos during water break. He swipes through his camera roll: Tobio with the cat plush, Tobio scowling during an air hockey match, Tobio concentrating on the claw machine.

“You’re spacing out,” Iwaizumi says, thwacking him with a stray ball. “Who are you daydreaming about? Some poor girl you’re stringing along again?”

“Rude!” Tooru gasps. “Iwa-chan, I’m a romantic, not a criminal!”

“Then why’ve you been smiling at your phone all practice?” Matsukawa drawls. Hanamaki leans over to peek.

Tooru shoves it into his pocket, too late. A photo of Tobio, awkwardly holding Pochi, flashes across the screen. His expression is caught between scowl and surprise, ears red.

Hanamaki whistles. “Ohhh, it’s not a girl.”

“Scandalous,” Matsukawa says. “Our captain’s gone domestic.”

Iwaizumi squints. “You’ve been sneaking off a lot lately. What’s this about, really?”

Tooru scoffs, tossing the next ball a little too sharply. “It’s… complicated.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t drop it. “Then what is it, Tooru?”

And that’s the question. Tooru doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He doesn’t understand why he dragged Tobio to an arcade with no excuse at all. He doesn’t know why the list matters to him when it should only matter to Tobio. All he knows is that he’s already thinking about what to do next.

The gym thrums back to life around them—sneakers squeaking, the dry slap of balls against palms, Coach’s whistle slicing the heat. Tooru sits on the edge of the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, his phone face-down on his thigh, as if it might start talking if he lets it.

“Domestic and secretive,” Hanamaki says, tapping the locked screen with a grin. “Do we need to split Pochi’s custody in the divorce?”

“I’m keeping Pochi,” Matsukawa says. “Oikawa gets the plants.”

“I don’t have plants,” Tooru says. “Plants die.”

“Exactly,” Hanamaki murmurs.

Iwaizumi doesn’t laugh. He crouches, forearms resting on his knees, leveling Tooru with that steady, unamused look that always finds the truth. “You’ve been… different,” he says. “Focused, but not on us. If you’re messing with Kageyama again, don’t. Kid’s been off.”

Tooru feels the tiniest flinch pass through him before he can help it. He aims for flippant and lands near quiet. “I’m not messing with him.”

“You sure?” Iwaizumi asks, softer now. “Because whatever this is—don’t make it a game.”

A beat of silence stretches. Tooru’s throat works, and he tips his head toward the ceiling. “It’s not a game,” he says. He hopes it sounds like the truth, because it is. “He has a list.”

Matsukawa’s eyebrows rise. “A list?”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki says. “Like a hit list, or—”

“Bucket,” Tooru says, the word dropping heavier than he means it to. He shouldn’t have said it; he can feel the air change around him. “Stuff he wants to do. I’m… helping.”

The teasing pauses—but not out of pity. Just confusion.

Hanamaki blinks. “Why does he need a list for that? He’s, like… sixteen. Just do the things.”

Matsukawa hums. “Maybe it’s a therapy thing. Or a burnout thing.”

Tooru doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens; his thumb presses against the towel hem until it hurts.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says finally, breaking the silence. “Then help him right.” He nudges the phone back toward Tooru’s hand with two fingers. “And help yourself by telling us when you’re bailing. We still need our setter’s brain in practice.”

Tooru huffs—relief, gratitude, something prickly that doesn’t want to be named. “Possessive.”

“Efficient,” Iwaizumi corrects, standing. “Rotation drills in two.”

Hanamaki tries for light again. “If this turns into you planning picnics, invite us. I look great in gingham.”

“You look great, shut up,” Iwaizumi says, already walking.

They drift back onto the court. Tooru palms a ball and tosses a perfect, lazy arc to Matsukawa without looking, the throw you only make when you’ve lived in a gym long enough to navigate by sound.

His mind doesn’t leave the bench. It skims the photo he didn’t delete: Tobio’s ears red, Pochi mid-wriggle, that almost-smile he swears he can see if he zooms in.

Coach’s whistle. They line up. Tooru feeds the first ball cleanly and quickly, and every set after that lands like punctuation. His hands do what they’ve always done.

His head is already elsewhere, assembling the next ordinary miracle: a train time, a convenience store stop for green-cap milk, a place by the river where the wind actually moves.

He tells himself it’s logistics.

He knows better.

A few days later, Tooru finds Tobio at the community gym after pestering him to hang out. When the younger person admits that he’s training with Hinata, Tooru expects a disaster—and is not disappointed. Upon arrival, Hinata is bouncing beside him like a ball that’s been dropped and refuses to stop rolling.

“Kageyama! Show me again!” Hinata begs. “The timing—I keep messing it up!”

Tobio scowls but tosses him another ball, correcting his footwork in clipped mutters. “Left first. Don’t cross over. You’re too far under the ball.”

Hinata leaps, mistimes it, and crashes back down with a squeak. “Argh! Again!”

Something twists in Tooru’s chest as he watches Hinata glow under every clipped word Tobio gives him. His tone is harsh, his instructions abrupt, but Hinata soaks them up like sunshine anyway.

Tooru leans against the wall, half-smiling. “So this is retirement? Coaching your own personal chaos gremlin?”

Tobio glares, breathing a little too fast. “He asked for help.”

Hinata pipes up, “He’s the best! Even if he yells a lot!”

“I do not—” Tobio starts, but Hinata’s laughter drowns him out.

“That’s cheating, Tobio-chan,” Tooru cuts in. “You said you weren’t going to play, but here you are, coaching your little kouhai.”

“It’s not cheating,” Tobio mutters. He tosses another ball. “He needed help.”

Hinata grins. “Ohhh, senpai rivalry! I’m not his kouhai, though—I’m older than him!”

Tooru nearly chokes. “Older—?! How is that worse?!”

Tobio just mutters, “…Idiots. Both of you.”

The session devolves into chaos. Hinata begs, “Faster! Toss faster!” Tobio snaps, “Your approach is sloppy, dumbass!” Hinata shouts back, “Dumb Kageyama!” and Tobio growls, “Dumbass Hinata!” The insults fly, but the rhythm builds.

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the waxed floor fills the gym—syncopated with their shouting, with the beat of effort that only volleyball can make. It’s messy, raw, alive. And somewhere in the middle of it, Tooru feels the familiar pulse of competition claw its way up his spine.

Every toss sharper, every jump higher. For the first time in ages, Tobio’s eyes spark like they used to on the court. He’s alive in the argument, alive in volleyball again, even if he’d never admit it.

And yet.

Tooru’s grin fades just a fraction when he catches the sound of Tobio’s breathing. It’s too sharp, too loud in the space between Hinata’s shouts. His hand lingers on his knee between rallies—just long enough for Tooru to notice. He hides it under a scowl, barking orders like he’s just impatient. But Tooru knows better.

He always knows better.

“Pathetic,” Tooru calls out when Hinata trips on his landing. “You’re a terrible teacher, Tobio-chan. Maybe he needs a real setter to demonstrate.”

Tobio whips him a glare, still catching his breath. “Shut up. He’s improving.”

Hinata nods furiously, grinning at both of them. “Yeah! I'm improving! My senpais also said so.”

Tooru smirks, masking the tightness in his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll still beat you next time, Tobio-chan. And your apprentice.”

“Not happening,” Tobio mutters, tossing another ball with precision that makes Hinata’s eyes light up.

Hinata beams. “Yeah! If I keep training with him, I’ll be unstoppable!”

Tobio’s ears go pink. “…Shut up. You can’t even land right.”

But even as he scowls, Tooru notices the way Tobio adjusts each toss with surgical precision, setting the ball exactly where Hinata can meet it. Serious. Intent. Alive. He’s teaching with his whole body, even when the words leaving his mouth are “dumbass.”

Tooru leans back against the wall, arms crossed, grin plastered on, but his stomach twists. This is what Tobio looks like when he burns bright. But Tooru can see the edges already fraying—the breaths too shallow, the pauses too long. He doesn’t say anything, not yet. He watches, knowing and hating that every spark costs Tobio more than it should.

The drill ends when Hinata finally flops onto the floor, drenched in sweat and wheezing with laughter. “Kageyama! You’re scary when you focus! I swear you could set a bomb with that face!”

“Maybe I should,” Tobio mutters, but there’s a small, tired smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. The gym’s overhead lights buzz faintly, catching on the sheen of sweat at his temple. He looks wrecked, but at peace in a way Tooru hasn’t seen in months.

“You two are terrifying,” Tooru says lightly. “But also—kind of beautiful.”

Hinata gasps. “Did you just call us beautiful?”

“Don’t push it,” Tooru says, smirking. But his eyes stay on Tobio, and the smirk falters for half a breath.

That night, teaching someone volleyball is crossed off the list. Tobio mutters that Hinata will be “a work in progress forever,” but his scowl is softer than usual.

That weekend, Tooru waves two train tickets under Tobio’s nose. “Red Falcons game — Osaka.”

Tobio blinks. “…Osaka? That’s four hours away.”

“Which is why,” Tooru says smugly, “you’re bringing your textbooks. Study session, Tobio-chan. Efficiency!”

On the train, Tooru pokes him every time he dozes off. “Quadratic equations, Tobio-chan. They matter.”

“…Why do you care?” Tobio mutters finally, eyes narrowing. “About my studying. About any of this.”

Tooru opens his mouth to say something flippant, but the words die on his tongue. The truth isn’t simple enough to laugh off. He tips his head toward the window instead, watching the blur of fields and telephone wires slide past in silver streaks.

“…Because I want to,” he says at last. It isn’t enough, not really, but it’s the only piece of the truth he can manage right now.

Tobio frowns at him, searching, but when no more words come, he looks away first. The train rattles over a bridge, and for a heartbeat, their reflections sit side by side in the glass—two silhouettes with the same set to their shoulders, both staring toward something distant. The silence stretches all the way to Osaka.

By the time they arrive, evening heat has started to pool between the tall buildings, the air thick with street smoke and stadium energy. Vendors sell grilled squid on sticks, kids wear Red Falcons jerseys two sizes too big, and the hum of excitement feels electric against Tooru’s skin. He can taste it the way competition lives in the air like ozone before a storm.

The arena in Osaka is a wall of noise. The Red Falcons move like machines built for flight—perfect timing, perfect force. Jose Blanco paces the sideline, his voice cutting sharp commands that slice through the roar of the crowd.

Tobio’s hands curl against his knees, phantom-setting every toss. His jaw tightens. His eyes are bright, hungry. For the first time in months, Tooru sees what Tobio could have been, what he still is, beneath it all. The lights glint on the curve of his cheek, and for a moment, Tooru can see him back on a court of his own: commanding, fierce, alive.

He’s seen that expression before under the gym lights at Kitagawa, that perfect focus that makes every toss a prayer answered. It hits Tooru like a wave of nostalgia and envy all at once.

“Don’t look so tragic,” Tooru says, but his voice comes out too careful. “You’ll get wrinkles before I do.”

Tobio doesn’t answer. He keeps watching, memorizing every angle as if it were oxygen.

“He’s good,” Tobio says, meaning Blanco’s setter. “Perfect.”

“Perfection’s a trap,” Tooru says softly, echoing his own words from days ago. “But he’s close, huh?”

Tobio nods absently, eyes still on the game. For once, the ache on his face isn’t from loss; it’s longing. It’s the part of him that still dreams of something bigger, even if he’s convinced himself he can’t reach for it anymore.

And Tooru, sitting beside him, recognizes that look too well. The wanting. The fear of wanting. The pursuit of something you love can feel like both salvation and punishment.

After the game, Tooru drags him down toward the tunnel. “Come on. Time to meet a legend.”

Blanco emerges from the locker area, still sharp-eyed even off-court. His face softens when he sees Tooru. “Tooru,” he greets warmly, clasping his shoulder. “You’ve been keeping up?”

“Always,” Tooru says, grin sharp but eyes gleaming.

Blanco chuckles, then notices Tobio hovering awkwardly. “And who’s this?”

Tooru smirks. “A kouhai. Stubborn, but promising.”

Tobio bows awkwardly. “Kageyama.”

Blanco’s gaze lingers, curious but kind. “A setter, hm? I can tell from the way you watch the court. Setters carry more than the ball. They carry everyone else, too. Don’t forget—your worth isn’t just measured in points, but in how much better you make the people beside you.”

Tobio stiffens. The words sink deep anyway. “…Yeah,” he mutters.

Blanco pats Tooru’s shoulder again. “You pick good company, Tooru.”

After Blanco leaves, Tobio shoots Tooru a sideways look. “…You’ve known him a long time.”

“For a while now,” Tooru admits, pride leaking into his voice. “Whenever I wasn’t sure if volleyball was worth it—if I was worth it—I went to him. He’s the reason I’m a setter. I’ve been following him my whole life.”

Tobio goes quiet, his face set in that careful, unreadable way he uses when something lands deeper than he wants to show. He doesn’t say anything else. Tooru doesn’t push.

When the train doors slide shut, Osaka’s lights smear into color across the window. Tooru watches Tobio’s reflection more than the city—the pale outline, the jaw set a little too tight, the way his eyes don’t quite settle. Tooru can guess the shape of the thoughts anyway. Tobio used to want arenas like this: crowds, banners, the weight of a ball that mattered. You can see it in the way his fingers flex, like they’re still chasing the perfect toss. He buried that want somewhere between diagnosis and recovery, but tonight, Tooru can feel it stirring again—fragile, unwilling, alive.

Tooru lets his headphones dangle from his neck and tips his head against the seat, watching the dark outside peel past. He can feel the future tugging at his sleeve—the one where professional gyms smell like resin and thunder, where he finally chases the version of himself he’s been building since he was a kid. He doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t have to. The knowledge sits between them like a third passenger.

Tobio’s shoulders stay squared, his hand curled over the folded paper in his pocket like it’s armor. Tooru notices. He always notices. He doesn’t ask. Not yet.

When they leave the station, the crowd noise has thinned, replaced by the hollow echo of the night. Outside, the streets are a wash of light and movement—vendors calling out, train bells fading, the air still humid but alive.

They stop at a vending machine. Tooru drops coins in and presses the button for green-cap milk without looking. “For the road,” he says, passing it over.

Tobio takes it and drinks halfway before glancing up. The city glows on his face, gold and silver, and for a moment, it looks like he already belongs somewhere farther away.

That night, watching a pro game is crossed off the list.

Later, Tooru lies awake, staring at the glow of his phone. Photos crowd the screen—arcade lights, milk cartons, Pochi mid-pounce, Tobio mid-glare. He tells himself it’s just part of the project. Just the list. Just a distraction.

The excuse feels thinner every day.

Because somewhere between helping and caring, he’s stopped keeping count. Because he can’t stop noticing—the way Tobio’s laugh catches like it’s learning how, the way he still looks at the court like it’s home—and he’s not sure he wants to stop.

Chapter Text

Summer was running out. In a few days, classes start again, and Tobio will be trapped back in uniform and routine. Which is why Tooru insists this is the perfect time for a beach trip. However, Tooru knows that he will bother the younger even with school back on, finding ways to spend time together.

Morning light spills through the curtains in thin lines. The sky outside is clear and blue already, which makes him more excited for this trip, and he can’t wait to see Tobio cross this outing off his list. He is already halfway through stuffing sunscreen, towels, and three different kinds of snacks into his bag when his mother taps at the doorframe.

“Beach day?” she asks, eyes sweeping the chaos. “You’re awfully noisy for this early in the morning.”

“I’m preparing,” Tooru insists, tucking sparklers into his bag like contraband.

Her gaze sharpens. “For Kageyama-kun again?”

His grin feels flimsy, and he looks down, continuing to stuff his backpack with anything he thinks they will need. “He’s my kouhai, Mom. You know me, the generous senpai.”

She doesn’t smile and looks at him thoughtfully. “You care about him.”

Something in his chest clenches. He wants to lie. Instead, he says quietly, “Yeah. More than I meant to.”

His mother’s face softens, the way it does when he tries to hide an injury and she knows better. “Then don’t run from it. Be kind—to him, and to yourself.” She presses a travel pack of tissues into his palm like a talisman.

Tooru stares at the tissues for a moment after she leaves. They crinkle faintly in his hands, small, ordinary things that somehow feel too heavy. His room is bright and loud with summer, but a part of him can’t shake the ache that time is moving faster than he can catch it. Maybe that is why he keeps packing and repacking the same bag, as if getting ready harder could make the day last longer.

But running is exactly what Tooru feels like doing when the weight in his chest gets too heavy, which is why, fifteen minutes later, he is texting Iwaizumi.

Tooru: emergency support request
Tooru: beach trip with Tobio & his sister
Tooru: Please come before I spiral

The reply comes fast.

Iwaizumi: Send me the time. I’m in.

Tooru figures that even now, Iwaizumi is the one person who doesn’t need context. Tooru stares at the message a second longer, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. If anyone can keep him from overthinking himself into the ground, it is Iwaizumi.

At the station, Miwa is easy to spot—tote bag, folded blanket, the aura of someone who has remembered everything he hasn’t. Tobio stands beside her in a plain hoodie and cap, glaring at the departure board like it is a rival setter.

Next to him stands Hinata, bright and restless as ever, sunburn waiting to happen, a sports drink in one hand, a volleyball keychain swinging off his bag. His grin looks like it could power the train itself.

Tooru slows a step, surprised. He hadn’t expected Hinata to come along. The sight of him standing there beside Tobio, easy, familiar, close, sparks something small and mean in his chest before he can shove it down. Of course, Tobio has invited him; Hinata has that kind of gravity. People are drawn to his energy the way sunflowers turn to the light. Still, it makes something restless in Tooru’s ribs flicker and burn.

“Good morning, Miwa-chan~ and Chibi-chan.” Tooru sings, then turns to Tobio while Hinata squawks at him for the nickname. “And good morning to my favorite grump. Why are you wearing a hoodie? You know we're going to the beach, right?”

“Don’t call me that, and it's comfortable, shut up,” Tobio mutters.

“Too late. Nickname privileges are nonrefundable. Don’t be grumpy, Tobio-chan. It's supposed to be a fun day. Look at me, I look perfect for the beach.” He spreads his arms, a white linen shirt half-unbuttoned, swim trunks patterned with palm fronds, flip-flops slapping against the platform, and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

Tobio’s gaze flicks over him once, quick, assessing, and immediately snaps away. His ears turn faintly pink.

“My outfit is fine, it’ll be cold on the train…” Tobio mumbles, looking embarrassed.

Tooru leans closer, smirking. “What, shy all of a sudden? You act like we’re eloping.”

Miwa rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, stop flirting with my brother.”

Tooru gapes at Miwa, and any rebuttal he can think of evaporates. Thankfully, Iwaizumi appears at the edge of the platform with perfect timing, as always.

Iwaizumi approaches them, steady as ever. Miwa extends a hand with a small smile. “Thanks for coming. You’re the one who keeps him in one piece, right?”

“Full-time job,” Iwaizumi replies. They shake hands, falling into an easy camaraderie that makes Tooru both smug and nervous, but also fills the air with a comforting sense of unity.

“Whoa, it’s the Seijoh ace!” Hinata blurts, eyes wide.

Iwaizumi blinks, then barks a laugh. “Hinata, right? I remember you from Interhigh—good game. Didn’t expect to see you here. How’d you end up knowing Tobio?”

“Oh! We train together sometimes,” Hinata says eagerly. “He helps me with drills and serve receives when our schedules match. He’s intense about it, but that is better for me!”

Tooru snorts. “Intense is an understatement, and Tobio-chan is not a very great teacher. I’ve seen their training, two little monsters screaming at volleyballs.”

Hinata laughs, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah! Like, if I mess up a toss, he’ll make me redo it until my arms fall off. And then he’ll go, ‘Again!’ like some drill sergeant.”

“I don’t sound like that,” Tobio mutters, glaring at him. “And I don’t yell a lot.”

“You totally do,” Hinata says, grinning. “But he’s really good at explaining stuff, so it’s worth it.”

Miwa raises an eyebrow. “He yelled at me for not holding chopsticks right once.”

“Because you weren’t!” Tobio says defensively, and everyone, including Tooru, bursts out laughing.

Hinata chimes in, voice bubbling with excitement. “Oh! One time, Kageyama said, ‘If I can’t set perfectly, I’d rather break my fingers trying.’ I thought that was so cool!”

Tooru snorts and looks at Tobio fondly. “That’s the lamest cool thing I’ve ever heard.”

Miwa is already laughing and hugs Tobio to her side. “That sounds exactly like him.”

Tobio avoids everyone's gaze, ears turning pinker with every exchange. Taking pity on him, Tooru leans closer. “Sorry about dragging Iwa-chan along at the last minute,” he says. “Guess he missed me too much.”

Tobio shrugs. “I like Iwaizumi-senpai. He takes care of his underclassmen.”

“If you like Iwaizumi so much,” Tooru mutters, “why’d you confess to me?”

The silence bristles. Then Tooru lunges forward, pinching Tobio’s cheeks with both hands. “Hey, you brat, I take care of my underclassmen, too!”

“Does this look like you’re taking care of an underclassman?!” Tobio yelps, swatting at him.
They end up with each other’s cheeks in hand, glaring nose-to-nose, until Miwa hisses, “Public space. Act like adults.”

Tobio sticks his tongue out at her the moment he wriggles free. “Says the one acting like our mom.”

Tooru doubles over laughing while Iwaizumi groans, “You’re both children.”

Hinata shakes his head, grinning. “You guys are impossible.” He slings his bag higher as the station chime sounds. “C’mon, train’s here.”

Tooru blinks, half-offended. Getting scolded for immaturity by Hinata Shoyo of all people has to be some cosmic joke. Still, it makes him laugh, maybe because Hinata is right. If even a ball of chaos thinks he is acting childish, then yeah, perhaps he is. But it feels good to laugh like this again. It feels like summer.

They file aboard, the group spreading across two rows of seats. The hum of conversation fills the carriage, the rhythmic clatter of wheels, the faint murmur all around. Miwa shares rice crackers; Hinata points out seagulls as if they were rare wildlife. Tooru catches himself watching Tobio’s reflection in the window, sunlight catching in his eyes.

At one point, Tobio falls asleep against the window, the sun glazing his skin in gold. His face looks softer like that, unguarded. Tooru’s fingers twitch before he forces them to stay in his lap. Iwaizumi catches his glance and gives him that quiet look, knowing one that says, Don’t make it harder on yourself. Tooru smiles without humor and turns back to the passing coast.

By the time the train curves along the coastline and the sea bursts into view, endless blue under a bright sky, Tooru’s heart feels too full for words. He hadn’t realized how much he needed the ocean until it hit him all at once.

The beach smells of salt and boardwalk food, with sand that’s warm but not scalding. They claim a patch with a crooked umbrella and a blanket. Pochi would’ve loved it, Tooru thinks, before Miwa pegs him in the back with a beach ball.

“Game,” Tooru declares, twirling the ball in his hands. “Iwa-chan and Miwa-chan versus me and Tobio-chan. Winner gets the good melon soda.”

“Say your prayers,” Miwa says, cracking her knuckles.

“Hey, what about me?” Hinata pipes up. “I wanna play!”

Tooru laughs. “Perfect. You’re with Iwa-chan and Miwa—Team Sunshine Explosion.”

Hinata pumps his fist. “I like that name!”

“Of course you do,” Tooru sighs dramatically and looks to Tobio, who is already eyeing their opponents. “Alright, Tobio-chan. It’s you and me against the forces of chaos.”

The game is chaotic and messy. Tooru cheats outrageously, arguing lines, faking calls, and selling dives, and Miwa matches him lie for lie. Iwaizumi, with steady hands, rolls his eyes at their banter, while Tobio cuts sharply and precisely, even in the sand.

Hinata dives for every ball like his life depends on it, sending sprays of sand everywhere, shouting things like “Mine, mine, mine!” even when it isn’t. “That was totally in!” he yells once, mid-laugh, and Tobio yells back, “It hit the line, dumbass!” half out of reflex, half because arguing with Hinata comes naturally.

The sound of Hinata’s laughter, Tobio’s annoyed bark, and Iwaizumi’s steady calls fills the air like something Tooru didn’t realize he’d been starving for. It isn’t a competition, not really. It is joy disguised as rivalry, and for a while, it almost makes him forget why the air around Tobio always feels fragile.

Once, when Tooru faceplants trying to save a ball, Tobio actually laughs out loud.

“You are not supposed to laugh at me, Tobio, I'm your teammate,” he exclaims, grinning at him.

They lost by a single point. Miwa drinks the soda with exaggerated triumph, and Hinata raises his arms in victory like they’ve just won nationals.

“Rematch!” Tooru demands, still grinning through sand-streaked hair. He sees Hinata gloating at his win over Tobio, while the younger one looks annoyed every second.

“After lunch,” Iwaizumi says firmly. “You’ll collapse otherwise.”

“Let me have my drama, Iwa-chan!” Tooru groans, but he is too happy to keep up the act.

Lunch consists of conbini rice balls, chips, and overly sweet tea. Miwa rations water like a coach, Iwaizumi lectures Tooru about stretching, and Tobio sits quietly between them, eating and listening. He looks more at ease than Tooru has seen him in months.

Hinata sprawls beside them, towel draped over his head like a lazy sunburned ghost. “Man, Kageyama, why do you always have that scary look on your face? Smile a little,” he teases.

“I am not,” Tobio says flatly.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Hinata replies, then turns his grin toward Tooru. “You’re pretty fun for an old guy, Oikawa-san.”

“Old guy?!” Tooru clutches his chest in mock horror. “You wound me!”

“Statistically, you’re ancient compared to us,” Miwa says sweetly, sipping her tea.

“Excuse me?” Tooru points at her. “You’re older than all of us!”

Miwa blinks innocently. “I’m aging gracefully. You’re just dramatic.”

“Traitors, every one of you,” Tooru mutters, earning another round of laughter. Even Tobio cracks a small smile, hiding it behind his drink.

Tooru looks at him, at the curve of that almost-smile, the sunlight flickering off the rim of his cup, and thinks that if he could bottle that sight, he would. If joy has a temperature, it is this moment: warm, gentle, fleeting.

Hinata suddenly perks up, the towel slipping off his shoulder. “Kageyama told me you guys went to a Red Falcons game! That’s so cool—I’m so jealous!”

Tooru pauses mid-sip of tea, lowering the can slowly. The sea breeze carries the smell of salt and grilled squid from a nearby stall, and for a moment, even the waves seem to hush. “Ah,” he says after a beat, grinning. “You heard about that, huh?”

“He told me you had front-row seats!” Hinata says, voice bubbling with disbelief. “I’ve always wanted to see a professional match live, all of them! That’s like a dream!”

“It was fun,” Tooru says easily, leaning back on his hands. “The energy was insane. Tobio was so serious the whole time—he didn’t blink once. I think he forgot to breathe.”

“Shut up,” Tobio mutters from under his hood, but his ears are pink. “It was a good game.”

Hinata laughs, kicking up a little spray of sand. “He told me every player was amazing! I should watch a pro game too. Maybe it’ll help me for Spring High—it's coming up soon, and we’ve been training like crazy!”

“Spring High, huh?” Iwaizumi says, smiling as he reaches for another rice ball. “Karasuno ready for it?”

“Of course!” Hinata says proudly. “Better than ever! My senpais keep saying how much I’ve improved, and everyone’s fired up. Our receives are cleaner, our tempo attacks are faster this year, we’re really aiming high!”

“That’s good,” Miwa says warmly, brushing sand off her knees. “You sound like you really love it.”

“I do!” Hinata grins, sunlight flashing off his teeth. “Volleyball’s everything. And man, hearing about that Red Falcons match just made me wanna play more.”

Iwaizumi blinks, then frowns slightly. “Hold up, did you two seriously go to a Red Falcons game together?”

Tooru freezes mid-chew, glancing at Tobio, who looks equally caught off guard. “...Yeah?” Tooru says, finally, drawing the word out like a confession. “It was kind of spontaneous.”

Iwaizumi stares. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I was going to!” Tooru protests quickly, raising both hands. “You know how it is, timing, trains, fate intervening, et cetera.”

“Fate,” Iwaizumi repeats dryly. “Sure.” But there is the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Unbelievable.”

Miwa hides a smile behind her drink. “I can’t believe you two went all the way to Osaka just for a volleyball game.”

“Correction,” Tooru says, recovering his grin. “For inspiration. It’s called research, Miwa-chan.”

Hinata leans forward eagerly. “Wait—so what was it like? Were they really that good? Kageyama’s so bad at describing stuff—he says, ‘they’re good.’”

“Hey!” Tobio shoots back immediately, scowling, which only makes Hinata grin wider.

“Better,” Tooru says. “You could feel it in the air, every rally like thunder. Blanco reads the court like a mind reader. The coordination was insane.”

Tobio adds quietly, “They were perfect.” The way he says it makes Tooru glance over softly, almost reverently, like he is remembering every movement. His hands twitch against his knees, maybe imagining a toss.

Hinata whistles. “Man, now I’m jealous for real. You’re living the dream!”

“Jealous?” Tooru echoes, smirking. “Just train harder, Chibi-chan. Maybe one day you’ll be on that court, and I’ll be the one watching.”

Hinata puffs his chest out. “Oh, I’ll get there! But first, we’re totally beating Seijoh at Spring High. Just wait.”

“Ha!” Tooru leans in with mock menace, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “Bold claim, sunshine boy. You’d better back it up.”

“Bring it on!” Hinata shoots back, laughter bursting between them. The sound mingles with the crash of waves and a gull’s distant cry, sunlight catching on the rim of his drink.

“You two are ridiculous,” Miwa says, shaking her head but smiling anyway.
Beside her, Iwaizumi gives Tooru a look that lands somewhere between fond and suspicious. “A Red Falcons game, huh?” he mutters, low enough that only Tooru can hear. “We’re talking about that later.”

Tooru winces, but he is smiling. “You’re just mad I didn’t bring you a souvenir.”

“Damn right,” Iwaizumi says, but his tone is gentler now. The tension slips back into ease.

Across the blanket, Tobio has gone quiet again, gaze turned toward the sea, hoodie hood fluttering in the wind. Tooru follows his line of sight and wonders if he is thinking about the match, about the sound of the crowd, about wanting something he has convinced himself he can’t chase anymore.

Tooru wants to reach out, to nudge him, to say something stupid enough to make him look up again, but the wind carries Hinata’s laugh, and Tobio’s shoulders relax just a little. Maybe that is enough.

The sunlight is soft now, afternoon shadows stretching long across the sand. For a rare moment, everything feels easy, like the noise in his head has quieted.

When Miwa ducks away to toss empty bottles, Iwaizumi catches Tooru’s shoulder and pulls him a step aside.

“You’re a little off again today,” Iwaizumi says quietly. Not accusing, just steady, like he always is. “You look like you’re carrying too much again.”

Tooru tries for a grin, but it comes out thin. “Different good, right?”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow.

The sand shifts under Tooru’s sandals. For once, he doesn’t have the energy to spin a joke. “…It’s him. Tobio.”

“Yeah. I figured.” Iwaizumi’s gaze flicks toward the blanket, where Tobio sits under the umbrella, hoodie up despite the heat, Hinata talking beside him. His shoulders look too thin for the wind. “Is he okay? I’ve been wondering for a while now.”

The question hangs heavy between them.

Tooru’s grin falters entirely. His throat tightens. “…No,” he says finally, voice low. Not the whole truth, but enough. “That’s why.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw works, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he claps Tooru’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “Then stop panicking about what’s next and just… be here now. You’ve always cared too much—that’s not new. But if this is making you show up, don’t run from it.”

The pressure in his chest eases slightly. Tooru huffs, softer than usual. “…That’s why I asked you to come. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in it, and you’re the only one who keeps me from going under.”

Iwaizumi sighs, fond and exasperated. “Yeah, yeah. Someone’s gotta keep you in one piece.”

Tooru lets himself lean into the steadiness, just for a moment, before Miwa returns and Tobio calls out impatiently from under the umbrella.

By the time the sun begins to sink, they are wrung out from the day, skin warm from swimming, hair stiff with salt, laughter still caught in the air. They spend hours chasing waves and lobbing a ball across the shallows until their arms ache and the light turns honey-soft. Now, the world feels slower, quieter, the edges of the day melting into gold.

The beach is quiet by the time the sun dips below the horizon. Sparklers hiss in their hands, filling the dusk with small, stubborn stars. Miwa draws hearts in the air until Tobio shoves her shoulder. Tooru snaps a picture mid-glare, texting it to her, only to receive one back instantly—Tobio, caught off guard, sparks of light scattered across his eyes. The sight makes Tooru’s chest squeeze tight.

“I’ll grab warm drinks before Tooru starts whining,” Iwaizumi says, already standing.

Miwa rises too, brushing sand off her shorts. “I’ll help.” She turns, pointing at Hinata. “You. With me.”

“Eh? Why me?” Hinata asks, halfway through lighting another sparkler.

“Because if I leave you here, you’ll accidentally set something on fire,” she says sweetly, tugging him up by the wrist.

“Hey—wait! I wouldn’t—okay, maybe I would—” Hinata yelps as she drags him toward the boardwalk.

They disappear with Iwaizumi and Miwa trading easy barbs like old friends, leaving behind a neat silence that is somehow louder than the gulls. Tooru watches them go, pretending not to look too pleased. He has spent the last ten minutes shooting increasingly pointed glances at Miwa and Iwaizumi—small, obvious ones, the kind that say go on, take the hint. Finally, it seems, they have. The moment they are out of sight, he exhales softly, the air suddenly lighter.

Tooru pulls a small tin from his bag and sets it on the sand. “Time capsule,” he announces. “Letters inside, buried here, and we’ll dig them up after I win the Olympics.”

Tobio gives him a flat look. “That’s dumb.”

“Correct. Participate in my dumbness.” Tooru hands him an envelope.

Tobio doesn’t move, squints at him. “Why the Olympics?”

The question isn’t mocking, just curious, quiet. The wind carries it away almost as soon as he says it.

Tooru’s smile falters for half a breath before he shrugs. “Because that’s the farthest dream I’ve got,” he says. “The kind that’s too big to say out loud unless you make a joke out of it.” Then he taps the tin with his thumb, recovering his usual bravado. “And I like the idea of future me being smug about it.”

Tobio’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “You’re already smug.”

“Consistency is key.” Tooru hands him an envelope. “Now write, or I’ll start composing your letter for you. It begins with ‘Dear Future Oikawa-san, I was wrong and you were amazing…”

“Give that to me!” Tobio growls, snatching the paper out of his hands. His ears burn pink as Tooru dissolves into laughter, clutching his stomach. “You’re impossible,” Tobio mutters, but he keeps the envelope anyway, holding it like it might bite him.

They write back-to-back against the dune, the surf whispering close by. Tooru scribbles fast and messily, bragging about medals and cities and flights. But near the bottom, his pen slows, letters curving smaller: When I win, I hope you’ll still be there to see it.

Tobio writes slower, deliberate strokes, like every word has to pass a test first. When they seal the envelopes, Tooru tucks them into the tin alongside the arcade cat keychain and the Red Falcons ticket. Tobio hesitates, then adds his own folded stub, cleanly creased.

He looks at it for a moment before murmuring, almost to himself, “So this is why you told me to bring it.”

Tooru blinks, glancing over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Tobio says quickly, tucking the stub beside his letter.

Together, they bury the tin beneath, the sand cool and damp against their fingers.

“Coordinates saved,” Tooru says, tapping his phone. “Future us will thank me.”

Tobio sits back on the slope, hoodie pulled over his head, arms looped around his knees. The horizon bruises purple and gold.

“After the Olympics,” Tooru adds, grinning, “we’ll come back and dig it up.”

Tobio’s voice comes small, almost swallowed by the waves. “What if I can’t?”

The words hit like a fist. Tooru’s pulse spikes, panic clawing its way up his throat. “Then I’ll drag you back myself. Don’t underestimate me.”

Tobio blinks, startled—caught in the promise. The waves roar, the sparklers hiss and die beside them. The night has turned beautiful in that fragile, breath-held way. The air smells of salt and burnt fireworks, and the horizon paints both of them in a lovely color. The tide keeps whispering closer, brushing over their buried footprints. And in the quiet between the waves, Tooru can’t stop looking at him.

Tobio’s profile is outlined in the faint glow of the moon, his lashes casting shadows, his hood slipping back just enough for the wind to catch in his hair. It isn’t just that he is beautiful; it is that he is real. Here. Breathing. Laughing sometimes, even when it hurts. Every time Tooru looks at him, he sees something fragile but stubborn, like the last spark of a fire refusing to go out.

He has tried to ignore this thing between them, the way his chest tightens every time Tobio smiles or stumbles or crosses another item off that list, because wanting something when you know it might end feels reckless. Because the future is uncertain, and Tooru hates not knowing. But somewhere between the laughter and the long silences, he stops being afraid of what he feels and starts being scared of pretending he doesn’t.

And Tooru leans in before he can lose his nerve.

The kiss is clumsy, brief—but real. Salt on their lips, warmth sparking where their shoulders press together. When they pull apart, Tobio’s face is pink beneath his hood, eyes wide and dark.

Tobio’s throat works before he finally speaks. “…This isn’t fair.”

Tooru’s grin falters. “What do you mean?”

He says, barely above the surf, “There’s a time limit.” Tobio’s fingers dig into his sleeves. His voice is rough, low like he hates every word. “I don’t want to… drag you into something that’s just going to hurt later.”

The air goes sharp in Tooru’s lungs. He wants to argue, to shout that he doesn’t care, but the truth trembles in his chest, unsteady and afraid. He is terrified of futures that don’t include this moment.

He reaches out anyway, brushing sand off Tobio’s sleeve before letting his hand linger there. “Too late,” Tooru says, quieter now. Not cocky, not teasing. Just real. “I already decided.”

Tobio turns to look at him, eyes shining in the half-light—raw and uncertain. “You’ll regret it.”

“Maybe,” Tooru admits, his smile shaky but stubborn. “But not as much as I’d regret walking away now.”
They sit like that for a long time, the tide whispering closer, the night folding around them. Tobio tilts his head against his knees, hood slipping just enough for Tooru to see the curve of his cheek. His breathing is steadily slow and even—as if, for once, he isn’t fighting to hold himself up.

The moon climbs higher, tracing silver over the water. Waves unfurl and retreat in rhythm with Tooru’s heartbeat, and he finds himself counting them, matching breath for breath. The wind has cooled, carrying the faint sweetness of grilled food from the boardwalk, the ocean salt sharp in his nose. When Tobio’s shoulder brushes his, Tooru doesn’t move away. He tilts slightly closer until their sides press together, just enough to feel the rise and fall of each other’s breathing.

“You always talk about the future,” Tobio says after a long pause, voice low and unguarded. “Olympics, medals, traveling. Like you’ve already seen it all.”

Tooru smiles faintly. “That’s because I have to. If I stop imagining it, it feels like it’ll disappear.” He hesitates. “But lately… I think I started picturing it differently.”

Tobio’s head turns toward him, shadows softening his expression. “How?”

“It’s stupid.”

“You’re always stupid,” Tobio mutters, but it is gentle this time. Encouraging.

Tooru’s breath catches. “Fine. I started picturing you there, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy; it shimmers. The kind that fills the air when something fragile and true is finally spoken aloud. The waves draw closer, licking at the edges of the sand like they want to listen too.

Tooru memorizes it. The sound of the surf, the sting of salt air, the fragile weight of quiet that belongs only to them. He wants to bottle it deeper than any time capsule somewhere the future can’t touch.

Tobio mutters, “Idiot.” But his voice has softened. He doesn’t move away.

Tooru stares at the horizon for a while before speaking again, his voice quieter than the waves. “You know, I’ve been thinking about… that day. When you confessed to me.”

Tobio’s head lifts slightly, eyes flicking toward him. The moonlight catches on his lashes.

“I was awful,” Tooru admits with a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “You told me you liked me, and I acted like it was a joke. Then I came back days later to say yes because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And you—you just looked at me and said no. Like it didn’t even matter.”

Tobio’s fingers tense slightly against the sand, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t get it back then,” Tooru goes on, voice softer now, almost carried away by the tide. “You weren’t playing around. You were just… saying what you felt. And I laughed it off because I didn’t know what to do with it. Because if I’d taken it seriously, it would’ve scared me.”

He turns slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something between a smile and a wince. “You know what’s funny? Even after you said no, I kept thinking about it. About you. About how you looked when you said it, like you were already bracing for me to hurt you.”

Tobio’s gaze drops to the sand. “I wasn’t—” he starts, but Tooru cuts in gently.

“You were,” he says, not accusing, just honest. “And you were right to. I did hurt you. I was so wrapped up in my own pride that I didn’t realize I was lucky you even liked me at all.”

The waves hiss against the shore, soft and steady.

Tooru inhales slowly, the salt air sharp in his lungs. “So yeah,” he says finally, turning to face him fully. “That’s me saying it again. But this time I mean it. No pride, no stupid competition. Just… me.”

He smiles faintly. “I’m saying yes again. Not because I want the last word, or because it’s easy. I’m saying yes because I finally know what it feels like to care.”

The waves lap closer, swallowing the space between their words. Tobio’s throat works, but no sound comes out. He just stares at Tooru, eyes darker than the sea, until he finally whispers, “You’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Tooru murmurs, smile tugging broader, gentler. “But I’m your idiot this time.”

So Tooru leans a little closer, shoulder brushing shoulder again, and lets the silence between them say what words can’t.

When the next wave rolls high enough to wet their feet, Tooru chuckles softly. “Guess that’s the ocean’s way of telling us to stop being serious.”

Tobio huffs, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You talk too much.”

“Someone has to,” Tooru says lightly. “Otherwise you’d just sit here pretending you don’t feel anything.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, but his voice is quiet when he says, “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Tooru says, smiling at the horizon. “But you’re still here.”

He doesn’t expect the slight sound that comes next—Tobio’s laugh, breathless and real. It catches Tooru completely off guard. In the flicker of moonlight, it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. For a moment, all he can think is that if the world ended here, it wouldn’t be such a bad place to stop.

For the first time, Tooru isn’t dreaming about medals or stages or applause. He is terrified of what comes next—but in that moment, with the sea salt, the buried tin, and Tobio’s warmth pressed against his side, he knows what he wants to fight for, even if the clock is already ticking.

He thinks: if time is a match, then let it burn. Let it burn bright enough that even the future remembers.

By the time Miwa, Iwaizumi, and Hinata return, the sparklers are gone, and the tide has crept higher up the sand.

“You two look weird,” Miwa says, flopping onto the blanket.

“We don’t,” Tobio scowls.

“You do,” she shoots back, lips twitching.

Beside her, Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers on the way Tooru keeps fidgeting with his hoodie hem and the way Tobio’s cheeks are still pink even in the dark.

“…Uh-huh,” Iwaizumi mutters finally. “Right.”

Tooru shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Tobio mutters something into his collar.

Miwa hums, smug. “I’ll find out,” she warns, reaching for a soda.

“Find out what?” Hinata asks around a mouthful of chips, crumbs dusting his chin. “Did something happen? You both look super suspicious.”

Tooru’s head whips toward him. “Nothing happened!” he says too quickly.

“Definitely nothing,” Tobio mutters, cheeks redder now than before.

Hinata squints between them, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. You guys are acting weird.”

“Eat your snack, Hinata,” Iwaizumi says dryly, but there is laughter behind it.

Hinata shrugs and plops down beside them, humming as he chews, totally oblivious to the tension still clinging to the air. His bright voice fills the quiet again, talking about waves and sandcastles and how he swears he saw a crab doing push-ups. As the noise returns—Hinata’s chatter, Miwa’s teasing, the low hum of Iwaizumi’s sigh—Tooru leans back on his hands, gaze drifting to Tobio beside him. The younger boy is staring out at the sea, the last threads of light tangled in his hair, his half-finished soda resting in the sand.

“So,” Tooru says after a moment, keeping his voice low enough that only Tobio can hear, “why was this on your list, anyway? ‘Go to the beach’ seems kind of… ordinary for you.”

“I used to come here with my grandpa,” he says quietly. “Before… you know.” His voice softens, almost lost under the waves.

“We’d sit and watch the water until it got dark. He always listened, no matter what I talked about.” His fingers trace the rim of the can, sand clinging to his knuckles. “It’s just something I wanted to do again.”

Tooru’s chest tightens. He wants to say something light, something clever, but all he manages is a quiet, “You really are sentimental, huh?”

“Shut up,” Tobio mutters, but there isn’t any bite to it.

Tooru smiles, soft and real. “Guess I’ll allow it. It’s a good item. Worth crossing off.”

Tobio’s lips twitch, just slightly. “Yeah. It was.”

Tooru stays where he is, shoulder pressed against Tobio’s, pretending not to notice the heat still on his own cheeks. For a heartbeat, Miwa catches his eye, and they both see the same thing: Tobio, cheeks pink, eyes bright, looking almost content.

The tide whispers in again, and Tooru lets it. He wants the sea to remember this, to steal the shape of their laughter and fold it somewhere safe. Later, when the days get harder and distance stretches long, he’d have this night promise buried under salt and starlight.

On the list: Go to the beach — crossed off.