Chapter Text
The Tokyo sky was clear, bright, and offensively blue, which Oikawa Tooru took as a personal insult.
When he had made the decision to decline the invitations from overseas clubs just for a few years, he told himself, just long enough to dominate the collegiate circuit and secure his degree from one of the most prestigious sports universities in Japan everyone had been shocked. “Tooru, you’re not going to Argentina?” his mother had asked. “Crappy-kawa, did you finally lose your last remaining brain cell?” Iwaizumi had barked over the phone.
But Oikawa had a plan. He was going to build an absolute empire at this university. He was going to take a team that hadn’t quite reached the absolute pinnacle, drag them to the Nationals trophy by their jerseys, and prove to the entire country that he didn’t need a powerhouse high school legacy to be the best setter in Japan. No Karasuno crows. No genius underclassmen with freak-quick attacks. And, most importantly, no absolute monsters from Shiratorizawa. He was finally free.
Oikawa took a deep, dramatic breath of the Tokyo air, a brilliant, camera-ready smile spreading across his face as he pushed open the heavy double doors of the university’s primary gymnasium. The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood and the rhythmic, thunderous boom of volleyballs hitting the floor instantly made his blood sing.
"Ah, you must be Oikawa-kun!"
A harried-looking man in a track jacket scurried over wiping sweat from his forehead, the assistant coach, if Oikawa recalled his recruitment emails correctly.
"We’re just gathering the freshmen and returning players for the initial headcount and introductions. Line up over by the benches."
"Of course, Coach," Oikawa said, dropping his voice into its most charming, cooperative register. He offered a polite, graceful bow. "I’m looking forward to contributing to the team’s success this season."
"Great, great, glad to have you. Go on over."
Oikawa practically floated toward the benches. He could feel the eyes of the other freshmen on him. They knew who he was. They had seen the Miyagi prefectural qualifiers; they knew the Grand King had arrived in the capital. He threw his shoulders back, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, preparing to take his rightful place at the center of attention.
He approached the semi-circle of tall, athletic bodies gathering near the bench. As he drew closer, the crowd shifted, parting slightly to allow him through.
And then, Oikawa’s brain short-circuited.
Standing in the absolute center of the group, looking like a literal mountain topped with a horribly familiar, messy mop of dark olive-brown hair, was a giant. He wore the same plain white university practice shirt as everyone else, but on him, it looked like a suit of armor. He was holding a volleyball in his massive hands, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly as he listened to a teammate speak.
Oikawa froze. One of his feet stayed glued to the floor while his momentum carried him forward, causing him to stumble in a deeply ungraceful, staggering lurch. He barely caught himself on the edge of the team bench, his gym bag sliding down his arm with a loud clatter.
The giant turned his head at the noise.
Those dark, terrifyingly earnest eyes locked onto Oikawa’s face. For a horrific, agonizing five seconds, neither of them moved. The bustling noise of the gymnasium seemed to drown out into static.
Ushijima Wakatoshi blinked. Twice.
"Oikawa," Ushijima said. His voice was exactly the same as it had been in high school deep, steady, completely devoid of inflection, and carrying the resonance of a foghorn.
Oikawa felt a vein in his temple begin to throb with the force of a thousand dying suns. He stood up straight, abandoning all pretenses of his charming, elegant Tokyo persona. His face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.
"Why," Oikawa whispered, his voice cracking slightly before he found his footing. He stepped forward, pointing an accusatory, trembling finger directly at Ushijima's chest. "Why are you here?!"
The surrounding freshmen looked back and forth between them, suddenly tense, sensing the immediate drop in atmospheric pressure. Ushijima looked at the finger pointed at him, then back up to Oikawa’s face. "I am a student here. I was recruited for the volleyball program."
"I know how universities work, you oversized tree!" Oikawa shrieked, his voice rising an octave, completely unbothered by the fact that the upperclassmen were now staring. "I mean, why are you here, at this university?! You were supposed to go to the V-League! Or Tsukuba! Or the moon! Anywhere that wasn't within a fifty-mile radius of me!"
"I chose this university because it has an excellent agricultural economics department and a top-tier athletic facility," Ushijima explained, entirely unfazed by Oikawa’s impending breakdown. He shifted the volleyball to his left hip. "I did not know you would be here. I was under the impression you were going to Argentina."
"I changed my mind!" Oikawa snapped, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, his lip curling into a dramatic, bratty pout. "I decided to stay in Japan to grace the collegiate circuit with my undeniable genius. But clearly, the universe hates me. It actively punishes me for being beautiful and talented."
Ushijima stared at him for a long moment. It was that specific, blank stare that always made Oikawa want to throw a rack of volleyballs at his head, the stare that meant Ushijima was processing Oikawa’s dramatics through a filter of absolute, literal logic.
"I see," Ushijima finally said. A microscopic shift occurred in his expression, the ghost of a satisfied nod. "Then this is a fortunate turn of events."
Oikawa’s jaw dropped. "Fortunate? Fortunate?! In what twisted, miserable reality is this fortunate, Ushiwaka-chan?!"
"You are a superior setter," Ushijima said bluntly, his voice ringing clearly across the gym. "I have always told you that you should have come to Shiratorizawa because you maximize the potential of your hitters. Now, you are on my team. You will be setting to me. This is the correct path."
If looks could kill, Ushijima would have been incinerated on the spot, reduced to a pile of athletic ash. Oikawa’s face went entirely red, a mix of pure fury and a bizarre, involuntary spike of heat in his chest that he immediately chose to categorize as a mild cardiac arrest.
"I am not your setter!" Oikawa hissed, stepping directly into Ushijima’s personal space, which required him to tilt his chin up quite a bit—a fact that infuriated him even more. "I am the university’s setter! And I will set for literally anyone else before I give you a single, perfect toss! I will set for the benchwarmers! I will set for the mascot! I will set for that water cooler over there!"
"The water cooler cannot spike a ball, Oikawa. That is illogical," Ushijima replied smoothly.
"I don't care! I'll teach it how to spike!"
"Alright, alright! Break it up, freshmen!" The head coach, a formidable-looking man with graying hair and a clipboard that looked like it had seen better days, walked over, clapping his hands loudly. The sharp sound broke the tension, forcing Oikawa to step back, though he kept his eyes locked on Ushijima in a deadly, narrow-eyed glare. "I don't know what kind of high school history you two have," the Coach said, looking between Miyagi's two most famous rivals, "but you’re wearing the same colors now. Get in line. We’re doing standard physical assessments, and then we’re running three-on-three drills to see where your chemistry lies."
"Our chemistry is non-existent, Coach," Oikawa volunteered brightly, flashing a sweet, utterly fake smile. "Like oil and water. Like matter and anti-matter. If we combine, we will actually explode and destroy the campus."
"Great. Then you two can pair up for the passing drills," the Coach said, not even looking up from his clipboard. "Ushijima, Oikawa. Court two. Move it."
Oikawa’s smile shattered. He whipped his head toward Ushijima, hoping to see at least a shred of mutual annoyance on the giant’s face. But there was nothing. Ushijima simply turned, walking toward court two with his massive, steady strides.
"Let us go, Oikawa," Ushijima called over his shoulder.
"We should not waste practice time." Oikawa stood in place for a second, stomping his foot against the hardwood like a frustrated child.
"I hate him," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for the terrified freshman next to him to hear. "I hate his stupid shoulders, I hate his stupid face, and I hate his stupid, perfect posture."
Grabbing a volleyball from the cart, Oikawa marched onto the court, his mind already racing with a million different ways to make Ushijima Wakatoshi’s life a living hell for the next four years.
The passing drill went exactly how anyone who knew them would expect. Which was to say, it was a petty, passive-aggressive war masquerading as an athletic exercise.
Underhand pass? Oikawa sent the ball back with an absurd amount of spin, forcing Ushijima to adjust his footing.
Overhand set? Oikawa aimed it so precisely that it grazed the very tips of Ushijima’s fingers, forcing him to stretch uncomfortably.
Yet, no matter how difficult Oikawa made the ball, Ushijima just... adjusted. He moved his massive frame with a quiet, terrifying efficiency, sending the ball back to Oikawa with perfect, pillow-soft accuracy. It was infuriating. It was like trying to punch a brick wall and watching the wall apologize for hurting your knuckles.
"Your form is slightly tense today, Oikawa," Ushijima noted calmly as he caught a high pass. "Are you fatigued from the move to Tokyo?"
Oikawa caught the return ball, squeezing it so hard his knuckles turned white. "I am not fatigued, Ushiwaka-chan! I am in peak physical condition! I am a specimen of athletic perfection!"
"Then you should hit the target more consistently," Ushijima replied, completely missing or entirely ignoring the dripping sarcasm. He threw the ball up to start the drill again. "Your passes are drifting to the left."
"They are drifting to the left because I am trying to hit you in your stupid ear!" Oikawa barked, entirely abandoning his upperclassman manners.
By the time the three-hour practice finally concluded, Oikawa was physically exhausted and mentally drained. He had spent the entire afternoon exerting 200% of his energy into being a brat, and Ushijima had absorbed it all like a giant, olive-green sponge.
In the locker room, Oikawa deliberately chose a bench as far away from Ushijima as humanly possible. He stripped off his sweaty practice shirt, throwing it into his bag with unnecessary violence.
"Hey, Oikawa, right?" Oikawa looked up, instantly smoothing his expression into a bright, welcoming smile. A second-year player with a friendly face was leaning against the lockers.
"Yes! Good to meet you, Senpai."
"Man, you and Ushijima really go at it," the second-year laughed, shaking his head. "The tension on court two was insane. The Coach loves it, though. He said he hasn't seen anyone motivate Ushijima to move that fast in a long time."
Oikawa’s smile stiffened. "Oh. Is that so? I'm just... trying to be a good teammate."
"Well, it’s good you guys are building chemistry early," the second-year added, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. "Especially since you're going to be spending a lot of time together. Anyway, see you tomorrow!"
Oikawa blinked, his smile dropping the second the upperclassman turned his back. Spending a lot of time together? Well, obviously, we're on the same team, but "Oikawa."
Oikawa jumped, a small, undignified squeak escaping his throat as a shadow fell over him. He looked up. Ushijima was standing there, fully dressed in a pair of dark sweatpants and a heavy jacket, holding a small piece of paper in his hand.
"Do not sneak up on me like that! You have the stealth of a freight train!" Oikawa snapped, clutching his chest. "What do you want?"
Ushijima held out the piece of paper. "The assistant coach gave me this. It is the housing assignment for the athletic dorms."
A cold dread, heavier and more terrifying than any jump serve Oikawa had ever faced, pooled deep in his stomach. He slowly reached out, his fingers trembling as he snatched the paper from Ushijima's grip. He looked at the text.
BUILDING B - ROOM 402
ASSIGNED RESIDENTS:
* OIKAWA TOORU (1ST YEAR)
* USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI (1ST YEAR)
Oikawa stared at the paper. He stared at it until the letters began to blur. He stared at it until he forgot how to breathe.
"The Coach believes that because we are the core of the new offense, we should foster a deep, cooperative relationship outside of the gymnasium," Ushijima explained, his voice entirely matter-of-fact. "I have already moved my boxes into the left side of the room. I left the right side for you."
Oikawa slowly raised his head. His eyes were wide, vacant, and completely devoid of hope. "A dorm," Oikawa whispered. "We share a dorm."
"Yes."
"A single room. With two beds."
"Yes."
"I have to look at your face. In the morning. And at night. And when I am trying to sleep."
"That is correct." Ushijima adjusted his gym bag. "I am going to the convenience store to purchase milk. Do you require anything?"
Oikawa didn't answer. He couldn't. His soul had officially left his body, floating up toward the ceiling tiles of the university locker room.
Ushijima waited for a moment, nodded to himself when no answer came, and turned on his heel. "I will see you at the room, Oikawa."
As the locker room doors swung shut behind the giant, Oikawa finally let out a long, theatrical, agonizing wail, burying his face in his hands. His grand Tokyo empire was ruined. His brilliant new life was a sham. He was trapped in a room with a giant, literal-minded volleyball robot, and there was absolutely no escape.
This was going to be the worst year of his life.