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Sugawara Koushi is not a genius. At best, he’s moderately talented. He doesn’t have the undeniable skill and precision Kageyama Tobio has, or the natural athletic instincts and speedy reflexes of Hinata Shouyo.
On his best days he thinks himself a necessary part of the team. A welcomed comrade. Even, the beating heart of Karasuno.
On his worst days, he knows that’s a lie. If anyone were the beating heart of Karasuno, it would be Hinata. The first-year had a way of brightening up everyone’s days with his rampant enthusiasm. When a game got particularly disheartening, Shouyo was right there with his loud laugh and even louder words of encouragement. Of challenge.
He knows himself to be a coward. Sugawara Koushi, the Cowardly Crow.
He doesn’t say it out loud, his teammates would just take it upon themselves to convince him otherwise. But they don’’t need their backup setter distracting them with his ‘imagined’ issues.
Sometimes he thinks Daichi notices. He is the captain after all, it’s his job to know his team. But Suga’s not dumb. He knows what to do when he sees the familiar furrowing of dark eyebrows. He smiles, wide as he can-- as if he’s not breaking, crumbling into nothingness-- because he doesn’t want to worry his best friend. Because they will make it to Nationals, even if Sugawara merely rides their feathers, never knowing the sensation of true flight.
There are days where Suga feels he is an outsider. As if he is only a spectator, cheering for a team he doesn’t really know. He is broken already. So broken he doesn’t think he could find the pieces of himself even if he wanted to, but then he hears their victorious cries. Sees Hinata’s wide, unabashedly happy smile, smells the heavy scent of sweat and volleyball, feels the warmth the team exudes at all their efforts being paid off.
And he breaks even further.
Because he’s seeing Hinata’s smile from behind a towering pane of solid glass. The fragrances of the sport he used to have the ability to love wholeheartedly, have gone stale, and remain nearly unrecognizable. And the warmth he feels is not warmth. It is heat, heat that scorches his skin and dries his throat to the point of dehydration.
He chokes on the rancid air, hands bleeding as they pound in futility at the transparent, yet oh-so-unbreakable, immovable obstacle in front of him. His skin comes off in flakes. Crow’s feathers freeing themselves from their undeserving host.
His friends’ joyous calls are distant, but he smiles at them in return. He is hollow. Empty. But they see him as full, beckoning him over. Full of life and love, and happiness. So Sugawara pretends. The Crow dons his false feathers. They are the only things he has that he deserves.