Work Text:
Maybe she belongs on the Moon, Misaki thinks.
Since she’s been little she’s heard the well-known lore of a princess descended from the Heavens, playing the farce of a mortal her whole life until finally she had been forced to return to her place of birth, forced to accept that that was where she had belonged all along. Earth was no place for a being from the Moon.
And this, she thinks, as another volleyball ricochets off the floorboard and narrowly misses her ear to assault the wall behind her, is ground she was never meant to walk on.
“Oh, whoops, sorry!” Terushima laughs, though really he’s beaming with pride as he chases after his misplaced volleyball, his hands clapped together in what’s clearly an insincere gesture. Misaki says nothing, even when she catches Okudake’s apologetic gaze.
Beside her, Coach Takaaki sighs. “His physical strength and enthusiasm couldn’t be beat by many, but no one can say much about his precision and control. He’s still not using his head on the court at all.”
Hana gets the distinct feeling he’s muttering to himself more than anything, working out his frustration, but still she scribbles the notes into the planner in her hand. Terushima – work on precision and control. Perhaps she could roll over one of the targets from the archery team, several of them if she could manage it, so the team could learn to add direction to their spikes rather than going just wild in their fun; if they turned it into a competition with points and rewards, she was sure even these new, undisciplined first-years would play along.
A surprisingly good idea, she thinks, and almost mentions it to the man beside her. But Terushima has started a game of trying to spike his volleyball through the basketball hoop amidst applause and whoops from his peers, and Coach Takaaki has his face buried in his hands, his palms rubbing at his weary-looking eyes.
“G-Guys, stop it!” Okudake lectures them weakly, when he catches sight of their coach, but such a brittle attempt has never been enough when dealing with their newest teammates.
Hana promptly keeps her mouth shut, and wonders when she would be beamed back up into the sky.
.
So when the third-years graduate from the team, she is tempted.
Okudake might just be the last semblance of peace – of valor and simplicity – remaining on the team, and his departure paves the way for a wild road ahead. Her presence wouldn’t change much, anyway, Hana thinks; the second-years have never listened to her nervous lectures from the sidelines, and she knows this would happen even more so with Terushima as the newest captain. Volleyball was never hers to begin with, a sport she still feels alien to from time to time after three years.
“I don’t think they’d listen to me, though…” she sighs, pressed up against a windowsill in a crowded school hallway.
Okudake stands firm even as one student after another bumps his back in the narrow space this corridor allows. Maybe he thinks Hana’s never noticed, that always he acts as a shield between her and the reckless abandon on his other side, being careful never to take a single step closer to her figure. He’s always been gentle like that. Hana’s considered, once or twice, telling him that she wouldn’t mind if ever he allowed himself to be pushed forward – but then, she never has, and days before his graduation from the team doesn’t seem like an opportune moment for confessions she never before found the courage for.
“That’s not true at all.” He smiles, pulling one from Hana as well. “You’d be surprised, I think, at how much these boys value your opinion.”
“Even though I’ve never been on the court?” She doesn’t believe it.
“Hmm, well…” His smile’s turned just a little mystical, a little faraway, and Hana knows – just knows – that his feet are aching to stand once again on those creaking floorboards in the first gymnasium: the place where he belongs. “I think you don’t have to ever stand on the court for it to become a part of you.”
So when the third-years graduate from the team, she is tempted, but maybe a little less than before.
.
Runa is a sweet girl. Hana thinks maybe she’s found herself a gem of a junior, someone sweet, nurturing, never a bad word on her tongue. The only roadblock Hana can foresee is the poor girl’s horrid fear of boys – and the boys of the Johzenji team aren’t exactly an ideal group for her first to be thrust into.
She’s still shaking hours into the encounter, and Hana’s trying not to smile, but it’s proving difficult. How different an experience it had been from her own first meeting with the team, three years ago. The Johzenji team is changing, quickly and surely.
“Th-They’re never going to listen to me!” Runa squeaks, horrified at the prospect of what awaits her. Soon Misaki-senpai would graduate as well, and she would be tasked with these boys all on her own.
You’d be surprised, Hana wants to say, or some encouraging words of the like. But three years on the sidelines, and she’s still not sure she belongs. She has no words for someone who’s just beginning to cultivate that feeling, not until she’s figured out her own.
“It’ll be all right,” she says instead, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. Runa seems to relax slightly under the touch, at Misaki-senpai’s soothing presence. But still she looks a little unsure, and all Hana can think is she’s not the only one.
.
It’s a shame, Hana thinks, that Okudake never got to play against Karasuno. It’s a shame he never saw his juniors evolve in the way they did, following that match. It’s a shame that he wasn’t witness to her transformation.
It wasn’t the frustration. Hana’s felt frustrated plenty of times before, watching these boys play; their follies and their disregard are nothing new and never any less cringe-worthy. It was, she’s quite sure, that captain that Karasuno’s been lucky enough to possess, his back sturdy, his plays supportive, his encouraging smile a mirror of everything good Hana has ever witnessed on the court. Karasuno’s captain – valor and simplicity – is Okudake, and her seniors, and her mentor, and a time when Johzenji was strong, and a time when Johzenji was powerful, and a time when Hana felt she was doing something worthwhile becoming manager for such a team.
“Anyone who thinks like that must have a screw loose!”
Ahh, it was this feeling, she thinks, striking her boys dumb with her sudden change, and even she herself is struck by this sudden inner strength she has found – this sudden inner strength she has unearthed after months of stifling its prowess. This team is counting on her. This team needs her. And before her departure, she would entrust this moment, this feeling, these emotions to Runa.
The game ends, 2-0, following a failed, improvised attack. This is the kind of team Johzenji has become. Somehow, Misaki thinks maybe they’ll still be okay.
The court beckons her, one last time. Before Misaki turns away for a final time, she thinks of her first tournament with her mentor at her side, of her first time feeling the frustration of loss, of Okudake’s promotion to captain, of thrilling late-night practices with the team, of memories lost in the abyss and memories she would always carry forward with her in life. She turns her back.
Once, Misaki Hana used to believe she belonged on the Moon.
In this moment, she has never felt more grounded.