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“Suga,” Kenma says, nudging Koushi’s arm slightly. “You seem distracted.”
They’re in the car, with Koushi in the driver’s seat and Kenma on his left. Kenma’s left hand is placed flat by his side, and even though it’s out of sight, Koushi knows it’s itching to slip slim fingers into the pocket they must be drumming on, and slide out the sleek, black device Kenma is almost always hiding behind. Koushi decides to let him. Time’s almost up, anyway.
Koushi glances at the golden irises, then back to the front. He’d already known they’d be watching him. He taps on the flesh between Kenma’s thumb and index finger, their hands still clasped together. “Go ahead.”
Immediately the phone is out. Kenma gives Koushi’s hand a light squeeze, then lets it go. “Who’s he?”
Koushi chuckles, reaching out to ruffle Kenma’s hair. Kenma’s eyebrows scrunch up slightly, and he swats at Koushi’s hand before it reaches its mark. Koushi changes tactics swiftly and pats Kenma’s shoulder instead, ignoring the wince in his expression.
“Honestly, I can never hide anything from you,” Koushi leans back into the leather seat, letting out an amused sigh. “Someone I’ve played against at when I was in Karasuno. Hinata might have mentioned him, the Grand King.”
Kenma hums, slow and understanding. He comments, “Looks flashy.”
Koushi’s grin widens. “Just the opposite of you, huh? Come on,” he reaches for Kenma’s backpack in the backseat and slings it over his shoulder, “We’ve to get going now.”
“Kenma, are you done?” Koushi calls. He rounds the corner. Fluffy, brown hair and a familiar ombre. Hunched over, handhelds out.
“Oh!” Oikawa looks up from his mint-and-white device. He’s wearing tortoiseshell glasses. It’s a refreshing look on him, Koushi decides, shields the world from his unnerving gaze. He smiles, saccharine sweet. “Who’s this?”
Kenma taps on his own black device, and flips it shut. He tucks his hair out from behind his ear—since when had it been otherwise? Koushi can’t seem to remember—and slips out of his seat, padding towards Koushi. “Let’s go, Suga.”
Then he shifts a bit to look at Oikawa, and Koushi can’t see the expression on Kenma’s face, but he thinks, just maybe, he can hear the tiniest fraction of a smile in Kenma’s voice, and he wonders—
“See you, Tooru.”
“Bye, Pudding-chan!”
—wonders what the great Oikawa could have done, to have prised such a prized jewel from Kozume Kenma in a few mere moments, to have gained his trust, no, his peace of mind, so—
Not easily, for with Kenma it is never easy.
The next time Koushi sees Oikawa, it’s in his room—granted, his and Kenma’s room, but his room nevertheless.
He’s lounging on Koushi’s chair, 3DS in hand, socked feet resting on Koushi’s desk. Worst of all, he’s wearing Koushi’s favourite hoodie, the one that’s two sizes too big for him and really comfy. It fits Oikawa perfectly. What the fuck, Koushi thinks weakly. He says, instead, “Kenma.”
Kenma, of course, knows what he’s talking about immediately. “He was lost and drenched.”
There’s a tiny pink plastic ribbon, embellished with little jewels, perched on the top left corner of Oikawa’s black wide-rimmed glasses. They sparkle a bit every time he bops his head to the battle music.
Oikawa wiggles a banana print-clad toe at him. Those are also Koushi’s. “Why, don’t want me here, Suga-chan?” He pouts. His lips look a little chapped and chewed on, none of the soft wet perfect from their previous encounter. “I’m hurt.”
Koushi unceremoniously picks up his calves and drops them onto the floor. “Please don’t call me that, Oikawa-san.” He dumps his book bag onto the spot Oikawa’s feet had previously occupied. “The last time we met, I thought you didn’t know who I was, let alone my name.”
Oikawa smiles, and it’s much too sunny. He lifts his feet, settling them back on top of Koushi’s book bag—the nerve of him, honestly!—and says, “Pudding-chan helped jog my memory a little, Suga-chan.”
In respond, Kenma just snorts and rolls over in his bed. Negative.
“Oh, fu—” Oikawa leaps out of his seat, clutching his handheld like it’s a lifeline. “Kenma!”
“Not my fault,” Kenma mumbles, his face rooted securely in his pillow. “You were distracted.”
“I was not!” Oikawa yelps indignantly, furiously tapping at his 3DS with his stylus. “Gengar’s going down!”
Then the room is silent, save for the battle music blaring from Oikawa’s 3DS, but it feels too blatantly loud. Koushi glances at Kenma. His lips are pursed. His usually gleaming eyes have lost their sheen in just a split second. The curtains are drawn.
“Hah!” Oikawa almost shouts, as if triumphant. But Koushi’s found that Oikawa isn’t one to miss things. It’s a little too empty. Too loud.
“I think,” Koushi pulls Oikawa up from his seat and shoves an umbrella into his hand. “It’s time to go. Come over again sometime, Oikawa-san.”
“That’s nice of you, Suga-chan,” Oikawa mumbles as Koushi aggressively ushers him through the doorway, but Koushi can tell, the way his eyes are trained on Kenma. Oikawa’s chewing his lips. “Boy problems?”
Koushi shrugs. He has an inkling of what’s going on. He reminds Oikawa, gently, “It would make Kenma happy, I think. Be safe.”
He watches as Oikawa’s eyes blink out of focus, then zero in onto Koushi’s own. He smiles, and it’s a small one, but Koushi thinks it might be a tad bit more of warm than sweet or sunny or bright.
“Thank you, Suga-chan.” He gestures to the umbrella and cocks his head a little. “See you, maybe.”
Koushi watches his back as he leaves. Maybe.
“Oh,” Oikawa says, when they see each other at a tournament in Akihabara. “I didn’t bring your things, Suga-chan.”
Kenma snorts. Koushi looks at him, then back at Oikawa. “Perhaps you could leave using that nickname for when we’re a little more well-acquainted, Oikawa-san.”
“Oh?” Oikawa asks coyly, batting his eyelashes. Koushi thinks he prefers the black glasses. “Are you making a move on me, Suga-chan?”
Koushi beams, a very Oikawa-esque beam. He picks things up relatively fast, if he can say so himself. “I’m suggesting you return my things, Oikawa-san.”
At this, Oikawa sticks out his tongue at Koushi and slips his arm around Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma makes a small noise of dissent. “Come on, Pudding-chan. It’ll be starting soon.”
Koushi exhales through his nose, a sort of precursor to a laugh, and heads over to the playing area. The competitors are settling into their seats. A number of people are milling around the area, presumably here to watch. Koushi feels a tap on his shoulder, and turns around.
“Hi,” a man, taller than him, with tanned skin and a shock of dark hair. His right hand is extended towards Koushi. “Sugawara-san, right? From Karasuno. I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, I used to be in Aoba Johsai.”
“Ah, Seijou’s ace!” Koushi says, taking his hand with a small chuckle. “I remember. It’s nice to see you. Suga-san is fine. I wasn’t aware that you knew my name, though.”
Iwaizumi’s grip is firm. His left hand makes a sheepish run through his hair. “Well,” he says, “Oikawa sort of mentioned you.”
Koushi quirks an eyebrow. They exchange small talk; Iwaizumi’s in Kyoto University, studying law— “Wow!” Koushi exclaims. “That must be a lot of work.”—and is here for an internship, while Oikawa’s in Chuo.
“On a volleyball scholarship, I assume,” Koushi says. Iwaizumi nods, but doesn’t elaborate further. It may just be his rocky exterior, but—Koushi doesn’t prompt.
The tournament begins. Kenma and Oikawa breeze through the first few rounds, just as Koushi expected them to. Then, Oikawa gets beaten down by Kumabe Daichi.
“Kumabe Daichi!” Oikawa shrieks later, squishing his cheeks between his palms in awe, when he joins Iwaizumi and Koushi in the spectators’ area. “Kumabe Daichi!”
“We heard you the first time,” Iwaizumi snorts. “Did you get his friend code?”
“Of course,” Oikawa says, already tapping at his 3DS. “I hope Pudding-chan plays him, it’ll be so exciting!”
Kenma does, in fact, get to play Kumabe Daichi.
“He was really tough,” Kenma says after the match, his gold eyes practically sparkling with adrenaline, despite his usual pensive expression. He clutches his seventy-two packs of TCG boosters tightly in his arms. “But I learnt a lot.”
“Did you get his friend code?” Koushi asks, shooting an amused glance at Oikawa.
“Yeah,” Kenma says. There’s a tiny bud of a smile on his face. “He asked for mine.”
Koushi laughs, and says, “Good for you.”
“Pudding-chan,” Oikawa says suddenly, rounding up on Kenma. “Why do you always have Gengar on your team? Isn’t it so limiting?”
Kenma starts a little. “Um,” he mumbles, lowering his head. “It’s important to me…”
Oikawa scrutinises Kenma carefully for a few moments, like he’s trying to figure something out. Kenma shifts uncomfortably. He stops when Iwaizumi bonks his head and tells him to “stop being creepy, Shittykawa.” The buzzing tension is relieved.
“Come on, let’s get some dinner…”
“Hey,” Daichi says, pointing to a figure at the reception, back facing them. “Doesn’t that person look familiar?”
Koushi scoffs. “I think you’re forgetting, Daichi. We’re in Akita, not Sendai.”
Daichi chuckles as well. “I suppose. Though more familiar faces than you’d ever see in the big city of Tokyo, eh?”
Koushi sniffs. “I think I’ve had a lot of luck.”
Daichi lets out a full-bellied laughter. Normally Koushi would consider that rather encouraging—considering it was just yesterday that Daichi was lying in a hospital bed, looking frail and weak (as frail and weak as Daichi could look) among the generic starched white sheets, freshly delivered from his appendectomy.
But as the stranger walks off (who ever wears a baseball cap indoors? Koushi is rather perturbed) he catches a glimpse of tortoiseshell rims.
Koushi steps forward hesitantly, calls out: “Oikawa-san?”
The figure freezes—actually freezes! It’s rather comical, actually—and turns his head slowly, just an inch. He’s wearing a mask, but Koushi knows he would recognise that shade of brown anywhere. He takes another step towards Oikawa—
And Oikawa breaks out into a run.
Koushi stops, bewildered. “Huh,” Daichi says, and starts walking towards the direction Oikawa took off in. Koushi raises his eyebrows.
“Come on, Suga,” Daichi says over his shoulder. “You wanted to say hi, right?”
They move forward, and around the corner—Oikawa is being fiercely reprimanded by a nurse.
“Oh, Sawamura-kun! Hello!” she says chirpily when she spots Daichi, and gives Koushi a pleasant nod. Koushi nods back. It’s a rather extreme change from the demeanour of just a few seconds ago.
“Hara-san,” Daichi greets. “Oikawa-san. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Oh, you know each other?” Nurse Hara says. “I would’ve thought a friend of Sawamura-kun would know better than to run along hospital corridors! I’d better not catch you doing that again, Oikawa-kun! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to do my rounds…”
Nurse Hara bids them a swift goodbye, and goes on her way.
“Well,” Daichi says with a light chuckle, scratching his head, “I guess I should leave you two alone as well. See you, Suga.”
“Why are you here?” Koushi asks, after Daichi has walked out of sight, and shut the door to his ward.
Oikawa sighs and takes off his mask. His lips have been thoroughly gnawed on. He pulls his baseball cap over his face, slumping into the back of the generic plastic chair. It musses his hair up. Koushi leans back as well, resisting the urge to smooth the locks back into place. He places his hands on his lap.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Koushi says, after a beat too long of silence.
“It’s okay,” Oikawa sits up. The cap drops into his waiting palms. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. I injured my knee. I’m here—I come here twice every week—for physical therapy.”
Koushi blinks. “All the way out here in Akita?”
Oikawa doesn’t answer, instead sighs and pushes his hair back, fitting the cap back onto his head again, but the way his lids twitch and his mouth quirks just a tad is enough for Koushi. Koushi catches a slight bit, just a tiny glimpse, of—
A young boy, broken.
“Hey.”
Koushi jolts. It’s Kuroo. “Catch a break?”
Koushi accepts the mustard-coloured squeeze bottle offered to him gratefully. It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed, throughout middle school and high school, and now university. “Yeah, I’m just doing some stuff with the cheer squad.”
Kuroo scrunches up his face as he wipes the sweat off it with the towel hanging around his neck. He’s towering over Koushi. It’s kind of annoying. “Aren’t those always the same?”
“Yeah,” Koushi sighs and rolls his eyes, lowering his voice. “Motomiya wanted to make some ‘adjustments’.”
“Its fine the way it is,” Kuroo says, flaring his nostrils in distaste. “Just because he’s the new cheer captain…”
Then, after a long pause of thorough consideration and inner turmoil: “Hey Suga… did you… have you noticed anything… different about Kenma lately?”
Oh heck no. Koushi will not play the middleman. “For example?” he asks, dangerous undertone laced under his voice, a tad too sweet.
Kuroo pouts in dismay. “Sugaaaaa,” he whines, both hands grabbing on to Suga’s bicep. “Please Suga, I think he’s avoiding me and I don’t know what to doooo!”
In response, Koushi whacks him on the head.
“Settle it yourself,” Koushi says, walking away. But he’s not entirely heartless, so, “he’s coming after practice. I’ll let you borrow him for a while.”
“Osu!” Kuroo shouts and bows—ninety degrees, no less—and Koushi turns back to kick him on the butt.
It is well into the night when Koushi ends up wandering aimlessly around Shibuya. He’s blessedly showered, dressed in a faculty shirt and gym shorts he’d had enough sense to chuck into his training bag before practice, with his school volleyball jacket tied around his waist.
The breeze is refreshing. Muffled, grainy music flood his ears from all sides, fluorescent signs glare at him from every corner of his eyes. But he isn’t looking for that tonight.
In the dimly-lit darkness he manages to spot a small ramen place in between what looks like a massage parlour and a tattoo shop. He makes his way towards the battered entrance and ducks under the blue cloth hanging over the entrance.
An old, weathered voice greets him with a soft konnichiwa. Japanese pop from the golden ages and the delicious smell of pork bone broth waft over and tingle his senses instantly. He takes a seat at the counter, and smiles up at the obaa-san, placing his order. She beams cheerfully. “Coming right up, young man!”
He can hear the faint, but familiar bassline of Mayonaka no Door thrumming through the crackling radio, and he thinks back to the older – younger – days of patches of golden light shining through the leaves, of a cool summer breeze, of eating out of watermelon halves with spoons.
“Suga-chan.” There is a clank of plastic against wood and the ruffling of cloth as someone slides onto the stool next to his. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Tight leather pants, Cole Haan oxfords and a turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up. Oikawa is rather impeccably dressed for being in such a small establishment. Koushi says as much.
“Ah-ah, Suga-chan,” Oikawa holds up a finger and winks. Koushi winces. “I’d hardly call an establishment with such fantastic ramen small.”
“All right,” Koushi says. A bowl of steaming ramen is placed in front of him. He thanks the obaa-san and digs in heartily. “Please don’t call me Suga-chan.”
Oikawa sniffs and digs into his ramen as well, all slow chewing and small sips.
“So,” Koushi asks casually, reaching for the chili oil and pouring a few drops into his ramen. “What are you here for?”
“Why of course, to have dinner with you, Suga-chan!” Oikawa says, batting his eyelashes shamelessly. Did he apply mascara? Is that eyeliner, and a slight glimmer Koushi spots? “I’ve been wanting to see you.”
Koushi snorts. “I can’t say the same for myself.”
Oikawa chuckles, uncharacteristically subdued for such a lively being. “Truthfully,” he admits, swirling his broth thoughtfully, “I was here for a night out, but well. I’m not really feeling it.”
“Hmm.” Koushi rests his cheek on his elbow, looking at Oikawa. Taking him in. He’s pleasing to the eyes, Koushi admits, with his smoky eyes and plump lips, his styled hair and sensual dressing, but tonight he just looks sort of… forlorn.
“Your makeup is beautiful,” Koushi comments. Oikawa lifts his head, as if he’s surprised—as if saying, you noticed?—and that strikes Koushi as a tad bit sad. “You should teach me sometime.”
“Oh, Suga-chan is envious of my magnificent skills, is he?” It brings the too-shiny grin back onto Oikawa’s face. “Of course I’ll be willing to teach my lovely, patriotic subject!”
Koushi lets out a small laugh. “I’m not humouring you, Oikawa,” he says, placing his hand on Oikawa’s elbow. He gazes straight into Oikawa’s eyes. “I do want to learn. Truly.”
Stunned. Oikawa is stunned.
“All right then,” he says quietly, recovering himself. “All right. I’ll teach you sometime.”
He smiles at Koushi, a real smile, and through the lovely deep brown, Koushi can tell that his eyes are twinkling – not too much, just a little – with gratefulness. Koushi smiles back, brimming wide and happy.
When Koushi arrives back home, he sees Kenma.
It’s not a good sign.
He sees Kenma, hunched over his desktop, aggressively punching keys on his keyboard. He’s playing an obscure shooting game. He has his closed-back headphones on, but Koushi can still hear the music blaring from the sides of Kenma’s head. His 3DS has been carelessly discarded onto his bed, along with his PSP, the background music of a Pokémon centre droning on, an annoying chiptune.
He shifts a foot forward, only to find himself stepping on a stray stylus. The Gengar keychain hanging from it stares at him dauntingly.
Koushi’s not close to Kenma like Kuroo and Kenma are or like him and Daichi and Asahi are but, a year of living with Kenma is, essentially: a year of noticing, a year of clever guessing, a year of familiarising himself with the elusive tango of Kenma’s nuances. He’s not yet discovered all of them—he doesn’t know if he will, ever—but as of this very instant, Koushi can conclude that these are, in fact, extremely bad signs.
“Kenma?” he treads carefully—in more ways than one. “You okay?”
Koushi knows Kenma can hear him. It’s a wonder how he does it, with his headphones on. Kenma ignores him.
Koushi knows how to get a reaction out of Kenma. It’s a dance that’s more familiar than he would like it to be. He thinks Kenma probably knows that too.
“How was dinner today?” Koushi says, in the lightest possible tone he can manage. Kenma doesn’t budge.
“How was your dinner?” he fires back. There’s a bite to his voice, but it’s still subdued.
“It was pretty nice, I suppose,” Koushi says. “I chanced upon Oikawa.”
“Have a happy life with him,” Kenma says, crawling under his covers from his desk chair. The 3DS wobbles and falls to the ground with a clatter. Koushi reaches for it and the PSP, slots the stylus in place, and saves before turning the 3DS off. He places both devices onto Kenma’s desk gently.
“Did Kuroo upset you?” Koushi wheels his desk chair beside Kenma’s bed and sits down, his chest facing the back of the chair, and places his arms on the headrest.
For a long moment, nothing can be heard from the lumpy pile of blankets.
“No,” Kenma’s muffled voice is soft, and slightly shaky, but there is a pulsing steadiness, sureness, from within. Koushi is heartbroken. “It’s not his fault. Don’t blame him.”
“Okay. But don’t blame yourself, either.” Koushi hums, and buries his face in his arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
A long, drawn-out sigh. The black-and-yellow top of Kenma’s head slowly emerges, followed by the rest of his body. His eyes are dull, and glazed over.
“I think,” Koushi says softly, “Kuroo’s been rather busy recently, hasn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Kenma says. He doesn’t sigh but Koushi thinks he detects a whiff of defeated frustration in his manner. “He’s just signed up for some research programme, with the Misaki Marine Biological Station.”
“Mm,” Koushi hums, attempting to nod into his arms. “You do want to make up with him, right.”
It’s not a question. Koushi knows he does, and Kenma knows it too. Kenma knows a lot of things, about himself, and about everything and everyone around him. Sometimes he just doesn’t want to accept these things.
“Seek him out,” Koushi says. “Have a proper talk with him. This isn’t something that meaningful glances and subtle gestures, isn’t something assumptions can solve, Kenma. I think you know that.”
Kenma breathes out a sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Koushi says, rising from his seat. He rolls his chair back to his desk, and gathers his toiletries for a shower. “Do it soon.”
“This is pretty nice,” Koushi remarks, toeing off his trainers at the genkan. “Homey.”
“I should let you know, Suga-chan,” Oikawa says with a flourish, throwing his book bag on the desk and flopping onto his bed. His aim is immaculate. “Not even Iwa-chan, my best friend of fourteen years, has stepped into this room. This is Oikawa-sama’s holy ground. You should be honoured.”
“Oh, I am,” Koushi says lightly, his eyes roaming across the room.
Starch white sheets, pale ivory walls, and light wood panels. The walls are plastered with cut-outs from volleyball magazines, and two Pokémon posters. A yellowing world map with little pinpricks of colours in several places. Post-it notes lined up neatly in front of the desk, and several charts and study sheets above them.
On the right side of the single bed, on a bedside table, are haphazardly arranged frames of Oikawa and Iwaizumi, Oikawa and what Koushi assumes is his family, Oikawa and the Seijou team, and Oikawa and the Seijou third years. On the left side is a precariously-balanced stack of books. Koushi gleans textbooks of which titles he can recognise, volleyball magazines and technical books, and six volumes of: The Complete Guide of Pokémon, one for each region.
(These, Koushi notes, look fairly less battered than the rest.)
“Do you not do any pleasure reading, Oikawa?” Koushi asks, amused.
“Oh, Suga-chan,” Oikawa says distractedly. He has gotten off the bed and is seated on the floor, roughly pulling things out of a drawer. “I can read you. Like a book. What could be more pleasurable than that?”
“Hm.” Koushi walks over to Oikawa and peers over his shoulder. “Your literature must not be very good then.”
Oikawa scoffs. “I’ll have you know,” he whips his head around, narrowing his eyes, and points at Koushi’s nose. “I got the best marks in my class for the elective last semester.”
“Is that so,” Koushi says, studying his nails disinterestedly. “I got the best in the cohort.”
“Hmph!” Oikawa turns away, continuing to rummage through the drawer. “Todai and their elites.”
Koushi pats Oikawa’s back in mock consolation and then leaves it there. Oikawa’s back is warm and sturdy, reassuring. Koushi presses into Oikawa as he settles onto the ground beside him.
“Come on, Suga-chan. Let’s get started,” Oikawa says, brandishing a blue tube like a weapon. “Wash your face.”
Oikawa lends Koushi a pair of slippers, and they trek over to the communal bathroom to cleanse and moisturise their skin. Oikawa’s skin is not flawless, and Koushi finds that rather lovely. His bare face is much too endearing. They go back to Oikawa’s room, and he waves another tube in Koushi’s face.
“Primer, foundation, concealer, powder, cheeks, eyebrows, eyes, lips,” Oikawa chants firmly, like it’s a line out of the bible. “Get that in your head.”
It goes like this: Oikawa demonstrates on himself, chatting and explaining to Koushi as he goes. Then Koushi repeats it on his own face. Oikawa supervises, and tells Koushi if he’s doing anything wrong. It all goes rather well. Koushi is a natural, although according to Oikawa his blending “sucks like shit, Suga-chan!” That is, until they reach the eyeliner.
“Stop blinking, Suga-chan!” Oikawa reprimands, crossing his arms. “Don’t be afraid of the eyeliner!”
“I’ll stab myself in the eye,” Koushi protests weakly. Oikawa doesn’t budge.
“No, no, Suga-chan!” Oikawa grabs the eyeliner from Koushi’s hands. He sounds a mix of horrified and frustrated. “That’s too far away! You’re supposed to do it on the waterline!”
“I can’t!” Koushi whines. He reaches to cover his face, but then remembers, and squeezes his arms instead. “I’ll go blind.”
Oikawa huffs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you this time,” he says grudgingly. “Come here.”
Koushi stifles a grin and moves towards Oikawa. Oikawa shifts so his thighs are apart, forming a “V” outside Koushi’s legs, and sits on his calves.
Oikawa draws a hand around Koushi’s nape. His fingers are tangled a little in Koushi’s hair, and his thumb settles over Koushi’s ear gently. “Hold still,” Oikawa says softly, and was his voice ever this deep? Koushi swallows unconsciously. He sees Oikawa’s eyes flicker, tracking the slight bob of his Adam’s apple, before focusing back to Koushi’s eyelid. The brush draws closer. Koushi instinctively flinches.
Koushi feels Oikawa’s grip on his neck go a little firmer, his legs shift closer. Koushi’s knees are pressing against Oikawa’s inner thighs. “Suga,” he says, meeting Koushi’s gaze head-on. “You can trust me. I won’t stab you in the eye. I won’t draw stupid things on your face. Trust me, Suga.”
Koushi nods, unwittingly. Oikawa nods back, a final confirmation. He positions the brush onto Koushi’s waterline, and draws with steady, sure strokes.
“Finally!” Oikawa falls onto his backside after both of Koushi’s eyes are done. They both heave a sigh of relief. “Quick, now the mascara!”
They proceed. After the eyes are done, Oikawa instructs Koushi to swipe some lipstick over his lips. Koushi overshoots by a little. Oikawa helps him dab it off with a tissue. It feels unfamiliar, but natural at the same time. Oikawa’s lashes are lovely up close. There is a mole at the side of his temple, close to his hairline, that Koushi hadn’t noticed before.
“And we’re done!” Oikawa says, pride overflowing from his voice like glistening golden honey. “You look lovely, Suga-chan.”
Koushi grabs a mirror and puts his face close to Oikawa’s. “Hmm,” he says contemplatively, staring at their faces through the mirror. “I still have a long way to go, I think. But I like it.”
As Koushi draws back to clean up, he notices Oikawa’s cheeks are a little pinker than before.
“Want to go out for dinner later?” Koushi asks, keeping his tone casual. “My treat, as a thank you.”
This makes Oikawa flush even more. “Of course, Suga-chan,” he quips. “I would never pass up the chance to spend more time with you.”
Koushi smiles sweetly, peering at Oikawa through his eyelashes. “Neither would I.”
Oikawa’s jaw drops. “That’s unfair, Suga-chan!” he wails. Koushi laughs, and hooks his pinkie around Oikawa’s. The cleaning they get done is minimal.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” Koushi says, as they are packing their bags after training. “I shouldn’t have done that. Kenma wasn’t prepared.”
Kuroo looks up from his foul-smelling training gear, startled. “Uh, no,” he says. “I asked you to. I’m sorry.”
“Kenma will be coming to watch practice one of these days,” Koushi continues briskly, zipping up his bag, as though Kuroo hadn’t spoken. “And then after that, you two are going to go somewhere and talk it out. Kenma’s already agreed.”
Kuroo does a double take. “Kenma?” he says, his jaw dropping. “Coming to watch practice?”
“If you mess this up I swear I’ll beat you up,” Koushi warns, slamming his locker door shut with a bang. He arranges an angelic, dazzling beam on his face. “So don’t.”
Kuroo gulps. “Yes, sir!” he says, saluting Koushi. Koushi punches him in the gut, leaving him recoiling in pain.
They exit the sports hall together in silence. The sky is a lovely shade of Prussian blue. The evening air at this time is crisp and cool, and a mild breeze wraps itself around Koushi’s shoulders like a light, billowing shawl. Kuroo is pensive.
“Thanks, Suga,” Kuroo finally says. Koushi knows his thoughts are raw, but the road leading to them is a well-worn path, and they are genuine. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a really good friend.”
“It’s not like I did anything that noble,” Koushi says with a nonchalant shrug. He adjusts the strap of the sports bag on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drive you to your dorm.”
“Thanks again, Suga,” Kuroo says, swinging his arm around Koushi’s shoulders. “Hey, so I heard you’ve been going on dates with someone…”
“Shut your mouth or I’ll punch you again.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Kenma!” Oikawa practically leaps from his seat, Iwaizumi making a face at him, a few paces behind. He’s wearing the black frames today. Koushi likes looking at the sparkles in the jewels on the plastic ribbon. “You’re here! Come on, let’s go to the competitors’ area!”
“Actually,” Koushi says with a smile, stepping in front of Kenma. “I’ll be accompanying you to the competitors’ area today.”
“I’m commentating,” Kenma offers softly. His head is bowed.
“Hey,” Oikawa says, frowning. He takes a step towards Kenma. “Kenma, are you okay—”
Kenma lifts his head, and sweeps the curtain of hair away from his face. His eyes are bright, and they glisten with excitement. Anticipation. It seems like his whole body is shaking—from nervousness, from adrenaline, from pleasure, all mixed together in a mishmash of emotions. He’s biting his lips, evidently trying to hiding the smile bubbling up from inside of him.
Oikawa stops, a gradual beam blossoming on his face. Koushi allows himself to admire it for a while, as if he’s watching the sakura blooming in spring.
“Okay,” Oikawa says. “You’re good.”
“He’s perfectly fine,” Koushi says, giving Kenma’s shoulder a hearty slap. He ignores the pained mewl Kenma lets out, and puts a hand on Oikawa’s arm. “Come on Oikawa, let’s get to the competitors’ area.”
As they walk away, Kenma mouths “O-I-KA-WA-SAN” at him. Koushi sticks his tongue out at him and turns away before the grin on his face can show. Kenma probably knows it’s there already, though.
They’re sorted into groups, and he and Oikawa are separated.
“Let’s see each other at the finals, Suga-chan,” Oikawa says. There is a glint in his eye, and his gaze is electric. Koushi feels himself charging up.
“I would expect no less from you, Oikawa,” Koushi says. Two hundred percent ready. “Don’t mind if I go ahead.”
Oikawa looks a little affronted at that, and declares it his mission to win this tournament. Koushi just smiles, and they part with the emcee calling for the competitors to take their seats.
Koushi comes out the top of his group. So does Oikawa. They meet in the semi-finals.
“How unfortunate, Suga-chan,” Oikawa says, looking slightly remorseful, “that we had to meet here instead of at the next stage.”
“I’d like to get this over with quick, Oikawa,” Koushi says with a sunny smile. “I have to save my energy for the real battle.”
“On the other hand I,” Oikawa says with a predatory smirk, “am looking forward to a battle so exciting that my next match will seem like a walk in the park.”
“Oh, I’m sure the first round of the next regionals will be like a walk in a park for you,” Koushi retorts, his smile unflinching. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
They take their seats, and put on their headphones. Kenma has been doing an absolutely terrific job commentating so far, as Koushi knew he would.
“So on the right, we have Oikawa Tooru-san, also known as Daiou,” the other commentator, Nozaki, says. “And on the left, we have Sugawara Koushi-san, also known as Indomitable.”
“Yes, as we can see from team preview, Oikawa-san’s team comprises of Garchomp, Sylveon, Moltres, Manectric, Ferrathorn, and Gyarados,” Kenma says. His voice is slightly soft, but the transition is steady and there are slight ebbs and flows, as compared to his usual monotone. “On Sugawara-san’s team are Charizard, Gengar, which is one of my favourite Pokémon, Aggron, Sawk, Staraptor, and Weavile.”
“A rather unique team, isn’t it?” Nozaki says. “We hardly see Aggron, Sawk, and Staraptor used, though they’re all Pokémon with a lot of potential. Speaking of which, Oikawa-san is a familiar face, but Sugawara-san seems new, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, this is Sugawara-san’s first time participating in a tournament,” Kenma says, a hint of pride in his voice. “For a first-timer, making it to the semi-finals is rather impressive. We look forward to his performance in future tournaments.”
“I thought you said you would win for me, Oikawa,” Koushi says, teasing. “I’m disappointed.”
The quartet are in a nearby izakaya, celebrating Koushi and Oikawa’s wins—or lack thereof. Oikawa had taken the first and third battles over Koushi, and proceeded to the final.
“Hush, Suga-chan,” Oikawa demands, taking a gulp of his sake. His cheeks are already flushed. Koushi wouldn’t have pegged Oikawa as a light drinker before this. It’s rather cute. “It was Kosuge Ryosuke! In the flesh!”
“You’re Oikawa Tooru,” Kenma interjects, softly as always. “You can beat him.”
“Aw, Kenma-chan! You did great today as well, with the commentating!” Oikawa gurgles unrestrainedly. “Thank you for your support and belief in the great Oikawa-sama! Let me buy you a drink!”
“Okay,” Kenma says, uncharacteristically letting Oikawa swing his arm around his shoulders and walk him towards the counter. He sends a very obvious glance Iwaizumi’s way, and Koushi raises an eyebrow in trepidation. Iwaizumi lets out a small cough. Kenma never lets Oikawa call him “Kenma-chan”.
“You know,” Iwaizumi says, gazing at Oikawa with a sort of melancholic fondness Koushi hadn’t known he was able to possess. He cuts straight to the chase. “I love Oikawa.”
“Oh,” Koushi says, startled. “I—um, I didn’t know that.”
Iwaizumi breathes a hollow laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “But he does.”
“Oh.” Koushi can’t find it in him to say anything else. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi sighs, rubbing his eyes. He sounds broken. “And I know that it’s not my business—I have no right—but Oikawa likes you. A lot. I don’t know if he loves you. But he really, likes you a lot.”
“Oh,”Koushi stills. His fists clench on the thighs of his jeans.
“Do you,” Iwaizumi hesitates. “Do you like Oikawa?”
It feels as if there’s a big lump in his throat Koushi can’t swallow. It’s hard to breathe. His tongue feels like stone in his mouth.
Iwaizumi chuckles, and places a few bills on the table. “Think about it,” he says, and makes to leave. “Tell Oikawa work cropped up. Have a good night.”
And Iwaizumi is gone like the wind, leaving behind fluttering curtains and the jingle of a bell in his wake. Koushi sits in silence, stunned.
“Hey,” Kenma returns alone, juggling four beers in his arms. “Had a good talk?”
Koushi’s throat feels dry. He grabs a mug, and chugs down half its contents. “Yeah,” he says, feeling lightheaded, “yeah. Where’s Oikawa?”
“Throwing up in the bathroom,” Kenma replies nonchalantly, sipping on his own mug. “Iwaizumi-san left?”
“Yeah,” Koushi says. He feels some of the cheer from earlier on seep back into him again. He snorts. “Is it okay to leave him there?”
Kenma studies Koushi carefully for a long moment before he answers. “Yeah. He’ll be fine.”
Later that night in his dorm room, staring up at the ceiling from his bed, when Koushi realises that he likes—does he dare say love?—Oikawa, it’s not a world-shattering or jaw-dropping or dumbfounding or flabbergasting realisation.
He just thinks, oh. Oh.
The countless sleepless nights thinking of Oikawa’s cipher, of his beauty, of his brilliance. Of holding him, kissing him, nuzzling his neck. Twining their fingers together and never letting go. The way he knows what Oikawa’s thinking, the way Oikawa knows what he’s thinking. Of waking up next to him. Of ending the day beside him.
Something like—grocery shopping. Cooking. Spring cleaning. Bus and train rides. Stolen moments in the emergency stairs, between the serene side streets of busy, bustling Tokyo, in the safety of a home they’ve made together.
Something like—hey, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
“So, how was it, Kenma?” Koushi asks cheerfully, with a fidgeting Kuroo in tow. They’ve joined Kenma in the bleachers, after waving off the first years’ enthusiastic offers to lock up. The lights are dim, but Kenma’s eyes are crystal clear.
“I think you should set a little higher to Number Five,” Kenma says, cutting straight to the chase. “He would be able to make use of his power more efficiently. Wait, let me make a note…”
“Would you really not like to join the club, even as an analyst?” Koushi is dancing to a well-worn tune. “You’d be really great.”
“No,” Kenma says, scribbling down something on a notepad. “I really would not. Kuroo was very distracted today.”
Kuroo, unusually quiet on the other side of Koushi, splutters. Kenma rips the piece of paper from the notepad, and hands it to Koushi. Koushi stands up, and stretches. “Well, that’s my cue to leave! Have a good talk.”
Kenma doesn’t return that night. It’s a good sign. Before he turns in, Koushi sends a goodnight text to Kenma. He replies with a simple, thank you. Koushi smiles.
“Suga-chan,” Oikawa sounds, frankly, bewildered. “What are you doing here?”
A few of the other members of the cheer squad are whispering behind them. Oikawa is—was?—pretty renown in the scene, after all.
Koushi keeps his gaze fixed to his shoes as he grabs Oikawa’s arm, and leads him to a more secluded waiting area just outside the stands. He sighs. “Look, Oikawa. When I said I didn’t want you to come, I meant it.”
Oikawa cocks his head, furrows his eyebrows. Gnaws on his lips. They are chapped. “But you were—refreshing. The indomitable setter.”
Koushi takes a step towards the wall and slowly sinks down to a squat. He exhales through his nose, lolls his head and leans it against the wall. Lets his eyelids flutter close. Mutters, “I guess I’m just tired. Or something.”
There’s a pause before Oikawa settles on the ground beside him. He’s probably wrinkling his nose or something. Koushi can tell, even through the dark of his eyelids. There are blurry shapes swimming around, little dots and patterns. They remind him of bubbles, of oil spills. “Tired of being strong?”
Koushi lets a small snort escape. “I’m not really, you know. I’m fallible.”
Koushi feels a palm slip into his, a little sweaty, but warm against his own. So Oikawa gets nervous as well. It’s something he must’ve known, in his mind, but to translate it into real life—what can he say, Oikawa hides it well.
Oikawa’s voice is soft, gentle, when he speaks next. He’s rubbing circles on the back of Koushi’s palm. “Don’t keep to yourself, Suga-chan.”
“Ah, god,” Koushi runs his other hand through his hair, grips it tight. His words are almost a sob. “I just—I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Why not?” Oikawa doesn’t sound quizzical, but coaxing, and Koushi is so grateful for him.
“It’s pathetic, you know?” Koushi opens his eyes, attempts a smile. Oikawa frowns at this, and reaches out to smooth it back into a neutral expression. “I tried really hard—granted, not as hard as you probably would’ve—but I didn’t even make it to the bench.”
Oikawa is all solemn and sharp and unwavering. There is a fierce glint in his eyes. “Don’t apologise for trying, Suga. Trying hard—working hard—is never pathetic.”
He takes a breath, lets it out. Grasps both of Koushi’s hands tight. “Promise me,” he continues. He is meeting Koushi’s gaze straight on. It scares Koushi a little, but it makes him feel safe. Protected. “Promise me that you will never try as hard as I would.”
“I’ll try,” a hiccup escapes Koushi—he can’t help it, “not to try. As hard as you would.”
Oikawa levels him with a steady gaze, and Koushi’s heart skips a beat. But then he bites his lip, and the sides of his eyes his eyes crinkle—and that has got to be the most beautiful thing Koushi has ever seen.
“Suga-chan,” Oikawa says through helpless giggles bursting out from walls of teeth and lips. “We were having a moment there!”
“Sorry,” Koushi says. “I couldn’t help it.”
At this, Oikawa’s giggles grow into a bellowing laughter, and it takes Koushi’s breath away. If only Oikawa could laugh like this, smile like this, all the time.
Oikawa stands up, pulls Koushi up with him. Their hands are still clasping each other’s. “Come on,” Oikawa says, breathless. “Let’s go back.”
“All right,” Koushi says, a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe, just maybe, he can allow himself to hope. “I will get to play, though. Soon. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You called him.” Oikawa’s voice is flat. Koushi looks away. His face is unbearably hot, and his heartbeat pounds loud and fast in his ears. He can’t seem to meet Oikawa’s eyes, but he thinks he knows—no, he does know—what the dark, flashing brown must be telling him.
“Oikawa. I said, what the fuck are you doing,” Iwaizumi growls. His eyes are rimmed with red, puffy with haggardness. But if Oikawa chooses to ignore that, god—why would he ignore that?
Oikawa stays silent, sullen. Fuming, biding. Smoke, smoke, smoke.
“I thought I wouldn’t need to sock you again,” Iwaizumi says, wiping his nose with his sleeve. His eyebrows are furrowed. “We’re not fifteen any more, Oikawa.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mutters, petulant. Stubborn.
“What the fuck do I not understand,” Iwaizumi demands, stepping closer. His hands are balled into fists, clenched so hard his knuckles are a bone white. “Tell me, so I can understand it.”
Oikawa remains infuriatingly quiet. Long, tension-filled seconds pass. When Iwaizumi next speaks, his voice is low, and raspy.
“Oikawa,” he chokes out. “Don’t you know how much it pains me to see you like this?”
“Is that why you got that job here, in Tokyo?” Oikawa snarls, like a wounded tiger. “So you could check on me?”
“For fuck’s sake, of course not…” Iwaizumi closes his eyes in a moment of inner turmoil. Then, something in him steels, and he says: “Fine. If that’s what you want. Suga-san, please set for me.”
“W-why?” Koushi stutters, body frozen in place.
Iwaizumi joins Koushi on his side of the court. “Oikawa’s going to receive my spikes.”
“Are you sure—is that—” Koushi falters when Oikawa speaks.
“Just do it, Suga-chan,” he says, with a voice like ice.
Koushi contemplates Iwaizumi and Oikawa for a while. Their eyes are like titanium, solid and sure. He takes a deep breath, and tosses a ball from the trolley to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi throws the ball up, Koushi sets, and—
BAM!
The ball falls straight into Oikawa’s waiting receive with a resounding smack, like a red hot firecracker. Koushi winces. Already, flushed splotches are forming on Oikawa’s milky arms.
“Good sound!” Iwaizumi yells roughly. “One more!”
They continue, over and over again, in this fashion. Toss, receive, set, spike! Toss, receive, set, spike! Oikawa receives, and falls, and gets up, but he does not flinch even once. Koushi is in awe, yet saddened, by his amazing fortitude.
“One more!” Iwaizumi keeps calling. “One more!”
It is around one o’clock in the morning when Iwaizumi finally ends the session. He heads over to Oikawa, ducking under the net, and pulls him up onto his feet. “How’s your knee?”
“It’s fine,” Oikawa says, looking away. It is a weak attempt at not giving in, and all of them know it.
“It’s not,” Iwaizumi deadpans. “Come on, let’s cool down and go shower. I’ll drive you back to your dorm.”
When Koushi emerges from the showers, Iwaizumi is already sitting on the bench, a towel hanging around his neck, droplets of water dripping from his hair. He motions for Koushi to sit down beside him. Evidently, Oikawa is taking his time.
“Hey, Suga-san,” Iwaizumi says, with a sigh that’s something like forlorn. “I’ll let you off this time, but the next time…”
He sighs again, and musses up his hair in frustration.
“I’m his best friend, you know? I have to play a part in pulling him together, but,” Iwaizumi looks at Koushi, really looks, his gaze razor sharp. “If you want him, you have to prove it.”
Koushi feels his heart pounding. He gulps, and nods slowly.
“I will,” Koushi says. His voice feels so shaky, but he’s not stuttering. He pushes on. “I will prove it, Iwaizumi-san.”
Iwaizumi stares at him hard, for a few moments. Koushi meets his gaze head on.
Then, the expression on Iwaizumi’s face crumbles, and the faint light of a bittersweet smile spills out from the cracks, like dust motes dancing in the sun’s wake.
“Good,” he says. Koushi isn’t sure if Iwaizumi is speaking to him or to himself. There’s that misty look in his eyes again. “That’s good.”
Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease—
“Talking to my nephew,” Oikawa says. They are curled up into each other on his bed, blankets tangled between their intertwined legs. Koushi snuggles deeper into Oikawa’s collarbones. He smells like edelweiss flowers, and spring rain. “Hiking? The view from the top. You. Days like this. Talking with Iwa-chan.”
Koushi hums. “Not volleyball?”
A sound reverberates from Oikawa’s stomach. It’s a cross between a sigh and a laugh. “Nope. To be honest volleyball feels like the cause of all my problems right now. I don’t know why I still love it.”
And he does, love it. “Sometimes one moment—that moment—can make up for all the other bad ones.”
“I know,” Oikawa exhales, even though he’d just said otherwise. Oikawa is just that kind of person. Koushi doesn’t mind, most of the time. “You know too, right?”
It’s so warm and cosy—Oikawa’s just like a heater. And Koushi’s almost lulled into sleep, breath slowing, everything a blurry haze, but he thinks he answers.
“Yeah.”
“Suga-chan!”
Koushi turns back. Oikawa is walking towards him in the hallway. He looks good in black. Koushi smiles, and strides towards him. They meet in a fluttering half-embrace, holding each other’s arms. “Shouldn’t you be with your team right now, Oikawa?”
Oikawa tuts. “Of course I wanted to see you, Suga-chan!”
Oikawa lets go of Koushi’s elbows and wraps his arms around Koushi’s nape, bringing their faces close together so that their foreheads are touching, and rubs their noses together. Koushi chuckles softly.
“Close your eyes,” Oikawa whispers. Koushi raises an eyebrow and gives Oikawa a wry smile, but does as he’s told. He feels the warm, slightly rough pressure of Oikawa’s chapped lips on his eyelids, first on the left, then on the right. They are plump and there, and they radiate bliss. Koushi lets out a breath of pleasure, of joy.
“For good luck,” Oikawa says. “We’ll still beat you, though.”
Koushi snorts, and punches Oikawa in the shoulder, ignoring the sharp yelp that punctuates it. Before they part, Koushi buries his face in Oikawa’s neck, and leaves a chaste kiss on the dip of his collarbone.
Oikawa will definitely go for a dump shot next, Koushi thinks, and starts.
Where had that thought come from? He doesn’t know, but it all just – makes sense, to him. He watches as the wing spiker on the other side of the net, the number one emblazoned on his front and back, jumps. The blockers—Kuroo included—chase after him. The ball falls into Oikawa’s hands, and over the net. The libero doesn’t make it.
All of a sudden Koushi feels this rush of indignation – this thrumming adrenaline flowing through his veins, and he wants to be out there, beside his teammates, on the same court, but on opposite sides, as Oikawa, because he knows, he knows –
He is jolted out of his thoughts by a tap on the shoulder. “Suga-san,” it’s their team manager. “Coach Sato wants you.”
Coach Sato wants you. He shivers with anticipation, and the thrum’s gotten to his chest, drumming away at his ears. He feels himself getting up, walking towards the coaches’ bench. His mind is as clear as day.
“Sugawara,” Coach Watanabe says, clapping a hand on Koushi’s shoulder. “Sit down. Are you feeling okay today? In tip-top condition?”
“We’ll be switching you with Ueno,” Coach Sato announces. “Tell me what you’ve observed from the bench.”
Koushi sits, and talks, and Coach Watanabe tells him to stretch as he does it. The manager places a squeeze bottle beside him and instructs, in a soft voice, for him to hydrate. He’s on his fourth ankle rotation when Coach Sato finally interrupts.
“You know a lot about Oikawa,” he remarks. “A friend of yours?”
Koushi squirms a little. “Yes,” he says carefully. “I’ve played against him before. He is a pretty well-known player as well.”
“I think I saw him here the other day,” Coach Sato continues. Koushi knows his face is heating up. “In our stands, during the match with Keio.
“But no matter,” he says. “Use your knowledge against him. I’m sure he’s got dirt on you, too. But I trust you.”
There is a solid whack of the ball hitting the ground, and the blow of a whistle. Coach Watanabe gestures to the referee. The manager hands Koushi a paddle with the number twelve on it.
“Thank you, Coach!” he stands up and bows deep. “I will do my best.”
The whistle sounds again. Koushi takes a deep breath, and turns to face the court.
(He could feel it this whole time. Those eyes on him. Burning, burning, sparks flying.)
He catches Oikawa’s gaze. Heated, full of concentration. Beads of sweat glinting on his face. Hunger. I will win, it says.
No, Koushi thinks. I will.
Ueno jogs over, head hanging low. He grasps the paddle.
Koushi steps in.