Chapter Text
The old maple Kageyama passes by on his way to the train station is still drenched in the bright red of autumn, but soon it’ll shed its leaves, in preparation for the dull, dry months of the off-season. The sky is a beautiful, endless blue, cloudless for miles. The sun shines shyly on the pavement. It’s almost like the beginning of something new.
Ando always says October is the month in which he feels limitless, like he could do anything and everything. But Kageyama thinks Ando says what he says because they’ve never won an international competition. If they’d won, they’d know that September is the month of achieving the impossible, of feeling unconfined and infinite. And October, well. October is the month in which they’d square their shoulders and go even farther.
They’d lost though. Fourth place. “Good,” Coach had said. But not good enough.
Kageyama had thought this year would be the year. Their team wasn’t a new team; they’d been playing with each other for a couple seasons now, everyone was familiar with the way everyone moved, the way some of them would take risks or play conservatively, the way all of them thirsted for the same thing. Kageyama had polished his quick with Miya Osamu, had perfected the toss that Ushijima-san said he needed. And yet, the outcome was still the same.
So now he’s here, going back to FC Tokyo practice with defeat so heavy on his mind. It’s been two weeks, but Kageyama still feels a twinge of annoyance. Three years and no victory.
He gets on the Metro. Behind him, the doors grind shut and the train jolts into motion. Kageyama picks a seat across a woman reading a fantasy novel. The blue sky behind her glares at him. He doesn’t want today to be the beginning of something new, but it’ll have to be. There’s no use picking at old wounds. Kageyama leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, listening to the train as it crawls, syncopated, towards Ikebukuro.
~
FC Tokyo is supposed to be Kageyama’s home team, but Kageyama’s never really felt home at the Tokyo Gas Gymnasium. The locker rooms are too messy, with kneepads, water bottles, and gossip littered all over the floor, and the volleyball court is too cramped and dim. He’s only been gone for a couple months, but his teammates are already talking about people and places he’s never even heard of. They’re friendly to Kageyama, enough to make small talk and invite him out for drinks sometimes, but it’s different. Every time practice ends, Kageyama feels almost relieved.
It’s during these times, when Kageyama’s going through the motions of diving and spiking, blocking and digging – all the drills of early off-season practice – that he misses Karasuno the most. The warm spring nights of playing ball with the hills of Miyagi sprawled out behind them, the gym staying brightly lit until well past dinnertime. Hinata's foghorn of a voice shattering the gathered evening mists, Yamaguchi's encouragements dancing like a Common Jay butterfly around his heart.
When they break for lunch, Kageyama’s legs are yelling at him in protest, his knees nursing new bruises despite the protection, his quads straining as he walks back to the locker room. So he takes his time stretching while his teammates go ahead. By the time he joins them in the cafeteria, they’re already deep in conversation about the Meiji game that’s coming up.
“ – first home game of the season,” Nakamura is saying. “Against Chuo. Should be pretty good.”
“They’ve got a bunch of new people on the team, no?” asks Ueda, scissoring through a piece of fish with his chopsticks. “The right-side’s new, and the libero. Oh! And the setter. Sources say he’s a nasty piece of work.”
Kageyama sits down in the only vacant seat left and starts digging into his rice. He rarely keeps up with varsity competitions. The only games he’d been to were Tsukishima’s, and that was only because Yachi insisted on going to support him.
“They also say he’s hot and popular,” Komatsu says. “That means the girls will be there.”
Nakamura shoots Komatsu a look. “We don’t go to varsity games for the girls.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Komatsu says cheerfully. “But I certainly do.”
“I think he’s older,” Ueda says, taking out his phone and typing something in it. “A grad student. Which is kind of surprising that they’ve only started using him this year.”
“Maybe he was in another university?” Nakamura’s finished giving Komatsu the death glare and is back to taking bites out of his sandwich. “Some school from farther away?”
“I doubt it.” Ueda frowns at his phone. “Have you seen his serves? They’re insane. There’s no way this guy could have stayed hidden from the league if he’d played in undergrad.”
Kageyama pauses in his eating. It’s gotten hard for him to swallow; his throat is so strangely dry. He sets down his chopsticks and clasps his hands together underneath the table. He hadn’t even realized they were shaking.
Miya Osamu looks over. “What’s his name?”
Komatsu waves a hand. “Kawa-something, I think?”
“Oikawa Tooru.” His voice cracks when he says the name, but he hopes he’s quiet enough so the rest of the team doesn’t notice.
“Yes, exactly!” Komatsu crows, flinging rice everywhere as he abandons his chopsticks in excitement.
“I didn’t know you followed Meiji volleyball, Kageyama,” Nakamura says evenly.
“I don’t.”
“Bullshit!” Komatsu shouts. “How else would you know the name of their new setter? There’s nothing wrong with liking varsity volleyball, Kageyama! They have really good games sometimes.”
Kageyama scowls, even though he feels like he’s going to be sick. “I knew him. From before. We were from the same prefecture.”
Komatsu’s jaw drops, and it’s a few seconds before he manages to close it again. “Ooooooh, big rivals? Who won?”
“Nobody did.” And it feels like a lie. Oikawa-san would always win. Even when Kageyama had been the one who was advancing to play Shiratorizawa, Oikawa-san had stepped up to him after the match and said, “it’s 1-1. Don’t get on your high horse.” Kageyama still remembered everything about his face, the sweat dripping from his chin, his cheeks red with exhaustion, and his eyes, narrowed with resolution to become even better even faster, determined to slip out of Kageyama’s reach once again. “It was a tie,” Kageyama clarifies, after a moment.
“Huh.” Komatsu kicks his chair back so he’s lounging on just two of its legs. “He must be really good then, considering the fact that you’re national setter.”
Kageyama tries swallowing again, but it’s still hard. “You have no idea.”
“I will by tonight! You wanna come, Kageyama? It’ll be nice to meet up with old friends, talk about the old times.”
“Oikawa-san and I were never friends.” And Kageyama doubts Oikawa-san would want to talk about past victories and losses with him, about how Kageyama almost stole Oikawa-san’s volleyball from him, that one time in middle school and then in Spring High.
“Oh, come on.” Komatsu pulls a face. “That was in high school. Things have probably changed.”
Maybe, but maybe not. If there’s one thing that’s predictable about Oikawa-san, it’s the way he holds onto grudges, and Kageyama is a grudge he’s held on to for a long time. But if there’s one thing that’s predictable about Kageyama, it’s the way he’ll do anything to hold onto Oikawa-san. Anything to keep the competition going until he can win. And Oikawa-san had said it was 1-1 between them, hadn’t he?
“I’ll come,” Kageyama says, and closes his eyes.
~
The Meiji University Gymnasium is already packed with spectators when the F.C. Tokyo team arrive. The stands are a sea of purple, churning with anticipation under the bright fluorescent lights that flood the stadium. Theirs seats aren’t the best, too high in the stands, but Kageyama supposes it can’t be helped; Komatsu only ordered their tickets during a “bathroom break” late into the afternoon. They’re lucky to have seats at all.
It’s been a while since Kageyama’s been to a game as a spectator instead of an opponent. He used to go to Tsukishima’s games at Toodai. But Tsukishima had quit his team after his second year of university, so Kageyama and Yachi had stopped going. Even so, he doesn’t remember this big of an audience at Tsukishima’s games, and Toodai has to be as popular as the two schools playing tonight.
Before he can think more about this, the overhead screen lights up with the words, “ARE YOU READY?” And the crowds around him roars an affirmative. The stadium trembles with excitement, and the screen blinks and tells the crowd, “LET’S GIVE THE HOME TEAM THE WELCOME IT DESERVES!”
The screams continue as the players come out one by one – Fukatsu, Onodera, Ishii – all waving all grinning. To Kageyama’s right, Komatsu is clapping with a stunned look on his face. “I wish we had a crowd like this!”
But the applause Fukatsu and the others get is nothing compared to when number thirteen comes on. “Setter.” the announcer has to raise his voice to be heard over the cheers. “Oikawa Tooru.”
It’s hard to see Oikawa-san from where he’s sitting, so Kageyama watches the screen, his heart like a heavy rock sitting on his stomach. And there he is, blowing kisses to the spectators squealing at him. His skin is pixelated and pale against the deep violet Meiji jersey he’s wearing, his hair a little shorter than it had been in high school, even though his shoes and white knee brace are the same. As Oikawa-san slows to a stop next to his teammates, he smiles, and the crowd erupts into even louder screams. Meiji’s number twelve rolls his eyes and reaches over to ruffle Oikawa-san’s hair. Oikawa-san leans into the touch. They both laugh. And Kageyama remembers, with startling clarity, that Oikawa-san is new to this team, that he’d only started playing in the late spring. To gain this much popularity and this much rapport from his teammates in such a short time is something Kageyama would never be able to do.
The stadium quietens down as the Chuo players are introduced, and then it’s warm up, with Meiji taking the court first. Kageyama watches carefully as Oikawa-san feeds his spikers tosses. They look like they’re nothing special, but Kageyama knows that Oikawa-san is giving the spikers the tosses that they need. He knows from the resounding slam of the ball from a spike by Meiji’s ace. Kageyama is sitting too far away, but he’s pretty sure Oikawa-san is smirking as he gives the right-side another perfect set.
Kageyama had once told Hinata that setting was what he loved the most because while it’s quieter and more inconspicuous than spiker, the setter gets to be the control tower and manipulate the game into something beautiful and powerful. Looking at Oikawa-san turn something as simple as spike-feeding into a mesmerizing display of power and control, Kageyama remembers the reason he wants to be setter.
Oikawa-san had always been the reason.
Or, at least, one of the biggest reasons.
He still, apparently, is.
The thought makes Kageyama feel sick to the stomach.
“Holy shit, look at that serve!” Ueda’s shout jolts Kageyama out of his head. He glances at the court. Meiji is practicing their serves now. Oikawa-san is poking Number Eight on the nose and laughing. Number Eight scowls and bats Oikawa-san’s hand away. He stalks back to the end of the court to serve. Oikawa-san, still laughing, follows him.
And then Oikawa-san is spinning the ball in his hand, and he’s tossing it up, and it’s hard for Kageyama to breathe as he watches Oikawa-san’s muscles coil, his arms collecting power, his body twisting as he jumps, sending the ball exploding to the other side. It’s a meteor, a missile, and over before Kageyama knew it. Kageyama replays the serve in his mind even though it makes him feel like he is imploding, his organs sucked in and detonating. The serve’s trajectory is sharper and cleaner than he remembers, the timing and Oikawa-san’s form entirely different. Kageyama catches the distinctions because he has spent lifetimes trying to copy Oikawa-san’s old serves in the sidelines.
Oikawa-san serves again.
The sound of the ball hitting the ground is deafening. It drives away the implosion in Kageyama’s chest and leaves a hollowness in its wake. The hollowness is new and old at the same time. It reverberates and rattles against the empty spaces between Kageyama's ribs, echoes past the memories of Oikawa-san can you please teach me, almost painful but not quite, leaves more empty places behind.
The whistle blows. Kageyama lets his eyes follow Oikawa-san as he walks off the court with his teammates. For a split second, Oikawa-san tilts his head back and glances in Kageyama’s direction, and it’s almost as if he sees Kageyama, because he smiles, slow and feral.
No way, Tobio-chan.
~
“So let me get this straight. You went to the Meiji-Chuo game and saw your old crush and after watching Meiji bring Chuo to a crushing defeat, you realized you were still crushing on him big time?”
Kageyama wishes he could spit in Tsukishima’s drink. “It’s not a crush.”
Tsukishima laughs. “You poor dumb fuck.”
Kageyama doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to meet Tsukishima and Yachi for coffee on Tuesdays. Well, he’d be perfectly happy to meet Yachi for coffee every day if their schedules allowed it, but all Tsukishima does whenever they go out is laugh at some thing Kageyama’s done. It’s annoying, and Kageyama could live without it, but here he is, sitting opposite Tsukishima clutching his regular flat white in his hand, wanting to splash it onto Tsukishima and ruin his awful crisp white shirt.
“Well, what is it then?”
“What?” He must have missed what Tsukishima had said when he was imagining the beautiful brown stain down Tsukishima’s front.
“If it’s not a crush, what is it?”
“It’s – ” he breaks off. He wants to say they’re rivals, but that’s not quite true, is it? Not when they’re not competing against each other anymore. They haven’t been competing against each other for years. And yet – “I want to be better than him.”
“Boring~” Tsukishima says, rolling his eyes. “You’re so predictable, King.” He puts on a falsetto to imitate Kageyama. ‘“The first game, the second game, the playoffs, the nationals, Oikawa-san…I’m going to win them all!’”
“I think wanting to be better than Oikawa-san is a perfectly good goal,” Yachi says. She gives Kageyama’s knee a reassuring pat from underneath the table. “He’s a great player, isn’t he? It’s normal to want to be better than him.”
Tsukishima takes a drag of black coffee from his reusable straw. “But our King here is national setter. He’s already supposed to be better than him.” He offers Kageyama a challenging look. “He’s supposed to have moved on.”
“I have moved on.” Kageyama says. Their waitress comes back with their food. Kageyama smiles at her as a thank you, and she flushes red before leaving.
“Ugh, your smile gives me the creeps.” Tsukishima gives a gigantic shudder before picking up some spaghetti with his fork. “If you have moved on, you wouldn’t have gone to the game at all.”
“I was curious about the game. I haven’t been to an inter-varsity since you quit your team.”
“Sure you were. But you were curious about the game because your favourite senpai was in it.”
“My favourite senpai is Suga-san,” Kageyama says. “And he definitely wasn’t there.”
Tsukishima snorts. “If Suga-san had known you were going to be at the Meiji game to watch Oikawa with a lovestruck face, you’d be his favourite kohai for sure.”
“I’m not – ”
“Suga-san seems to be doing well, isn’t he?” Yachi asks hurriedly, pushing a plate of cookies towards Kageyama. “I heard that he’s in Kyushu right now. He’s been super busy doing environmental justice work.”
Tsukishima spares Yachi a smile. It’s soft, fond, containing none of the nastiness he usually sends towards the rest of humanity. “Suga-san is probably terrorizing his employees into buying environmentally friendly straws with his scary personality. Like he did with me.” He knocks his own straw against his glass as if to prove his point.
“I didn’t know you were scared of Suga-san, Tsukki,” Yachi says, teasingly.
“I’m not!”
Yachi giggles. “You totally were!” She glances at Kageyama and pats his knee again as Tsukishima sinks into a self-defensive silence. “Don’t worry though. Everyone was scared of Suga-san at one point.”
The sun is out in full force when they leave the café. Tsukishima ducks into the Metro immediately, saying he had a tutoring session with a first-year law student at four, and Yachi wishes him good luck with teaching while Kageyama prays for the poor, unsuspecting student. When Tsukishima’s gone, however, Kageyama’s at a loss for what to do. He wants to spend more time with Yachi, but doesn’t know how to say it. Usually Tsukishima is the one who stays when Kageyama has to leave.
“Er,” he says, turning around. Yachi is digging around in her bag, and the sun is tugging at her blonde hair just so that it glows, and she looks really, really beautiful like this. “Do you – ”
“Found it!” Yachi exclaims. She’s holding up an old-fashioned film camera, looking triumphant. “I have to take some pictures or my next project. Do you want to come with?”
Kageyama startles, and it’s a couple seconds before he realizes what Yachi just said. Then he smiles, relaxing, and Yachi smiles back, nodding in encouragement. “What’s the project on,” he asks.
Yachi brings her camera up and points it at Kageyama, and she’s reaching for the shutter and pressing down. Snap. She’s beaming when she brings the camera back down again. “It’s on beautiful things,” she says, and winds her camera up for a new shot.
They take the train to Harujuku, and follow the teeny-bopper crowd up the elevator to Takeshita Dori. Before they get to the exit, Yachi snaps a picture of the people coming out, their brightly-dyed hair illuminated by the afternoon light. “And I thought Shouyou’s hair was unusual,” she says, her eyes huge.
Harujuku is a place in Tokyo Kageyama’s never visited before. It just sounded…extra to him. Teen girls dressed in Lolita clothing and sparkly gelled nails taking selfies next to fancy crepe shops, boutiques selling yellow and black polka-dot raincoats and life-sized china dolls, stalls crammed to the brim with black t-shirts screaming out band names. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, but the street is packed. One of Yachi’s hands close around Kageyama’s wrist. A small comfort.
They’re turning down one of the side streets when Yachi finally says, “So, did you actually go see the Meiji match because of Seijoh’s setter?”
“I don’t know,” Kageyama says, slowly. “I went with my team, and they were definitely there to see him.” He pauses, frowning, as Yachi lets go of his wrist to take a picture of the sign of a tattoo parlour. “Why are you asking me this again? I already gave Tsukishima an answer.”
Yachi crouches to get another shot. “I guess I didn’t know if you were comfortable with telling Tsukki what actually happend.”
“I’m not.”
“So what actually happened,” Yachi asks pointedly, getting up. She holds out her hand again. Kageyama just stares at it, frustrated.
“I don’t know,” he says again, “I don’t see how it’s a big deal. I didn’t know he was on the Meiji roster until the day of the match.” He hadn’t thought about Oikawa-san for years before that. But when he knew Oikawa-san was playing, Oikawa-san was all he could think about. He doesn’t want to tell Yachi that, though. “We didn’t talk during the game. I’m not going to let him get to me on the court again, if that’s what you’re worried about. We don’t even play each other anymore.”
Yachi slips her hand into Kageyama’s and squeezes it. “I’m not worried about that at all.”
Kageyama squeezes back. There are so many things about people that he doesn’t understand. This didn’t used to bother him, back in high school, but now, being on the national team, ball suddenly, ironically, isn’t everything. There are press conferences and interviews, reporters crowding him at airports asking him how he feels about the defeat delivered by the USA, or whether he has any words for that setter on the Turkish team who got injured halfway through the second set, or what he does when he’s not playing volleyball. And Kageyama would struggle through his responses every time, even though the PR team had coached him through his answers, even though sometimes he just literally had to say, “me too.” Kageyama had spent hours memorizing Oikawa-san, but he just couldn’t understand him, or his own feelings about him. Voicing them out would be too hard. If this happened during an official press con, Coach would berate him for being too hesitant or vague on his answers, but this wasn’t a press con. This was just Yachi, trying to understand, not being pushy about it.
As they push their way back onto the main street, Kageyama says, “Hey, Yachi-san,” before he can fully process the words coming out of his mouth. “Do you really think I should let it go, like Tsukishima said?”
“Well,” Yachi says, giving his hand another squeeze. It’s darker now, nearing dusk. The shadows lurking between the lampposts make it harder for Kageyama to see Yachiface, but he thinks she’s smiling. “You never got him to teach you his serve, did you? I don’t think you should give up now.”
Yachi doesn’t bring up Oikawa-san again for the rest of their walk, so Kageyama doesn’t either. He relaxes into the lights and people flooding the main street and lets Yachi steer him into a shop to take a picture of butterfly hair clips that glow in the dark. She doesn’t want to use flash for the photo, so she takes forever to get the settings on the camera right. Kageyama just stands next to the shopkeeper and watches as she tries to get a still of a million fake butterflies blinking in and out of existence. He could tell the press this the next time they ask him what he does in his spare time. He could tell them he goes to Harujuku to stop thinking about his old senpai while his best friend flits around taking pictures of beautiful things.
~
The next Meiji game falls on a Sunday. A day in which Tsukishima is free and insists upon going with Kageyama and Yachi. It’s chilly when Kageyama meets up with them in the Metro station after practice. The wind nipping at the nape of his neck makes him wish he’d brought a scarf, and his face falls when he sees Tsukishima warmly wrapped up in a muffler, a smug look nested between two folds of purple wool.
“Hi Kageyama!” Yachi, at least a foot and a half shorter than them both, looks small and happy in a baby pink poncho.
“Hi,” Kageyama says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit. His fingers had been flaming when practice ended, but the cold has chased away the burn, leaving just a little more than numbness in its wake.
Tsukishima eyes Kageyama’s FC Tokyo uniform coolly. “You know, when you’re going to a game to support a team’s setter, you usually wear his school colours.”
“I’m not going there to support anyone,” Kageyama snaps.
“Hmmm,” Tsukishima hums, dragging the sound into an upward inflection so it feels as derisive as possible. “I suppose you’re just ‘curious about the game?’”
“Tsukki,” Yachi interjects. “He’s tired. He just got off from practice. And besides, I’m not wearing anyone’s colours either.”
Tsukishima’s expression flickers, and Kageyama stares as his ears go a little red. “You’re wearing blush, which is exactly your colour.”
Yachi also flushes red. “Oh,” she says in a small voice.
Oh, Kageyama thinks, a little belatedly. They’re dating. Or, at least, they will be soon.
Tsukishima coughs, and he lowers his gaze so the light reflects on his glasses just right to hide his eyes. “Are we going to the game or not?”
The ride to Meiji feels normal. Yachi tells Kageyama about the new art exhibit coming up while Tsukishima plugs in his headphones and stands a little to the side to rest his head against the door. When Kageyama starts telling her about his new practice schedule, about Ueda and Komatsu’s new prank on the coach, he can’t help but notice her surreptitiously glancing at Tsukishima. He breaks off, unsure of whether to continue or not, and Yachi doesn’t even realize he’s stopped talking. Kageyama doesn’t know how he feels about this, exactly. Not that it should matter. He thinks he might be happy for them, but, at the same time, something incredibly like loneliness wells up in his stomach.
Because the memory of him and Yachi taking pictures in Harujuku, and the memory of all three of them getting Tuesday Coffee at that café by the Tokyo Gas Gymnasium, had felt so important. And Kageyama remembers things using muscle memory, everything stays and goes through use and disuse. If Yachi and Tsukishima start dating, it will be hard for Kageyama to ask Yachi out to take photos again, and maybe they won’t want him there with them for Tuesday Coffee anymore, and maybe, if they start seeing each other seldomly enough, Kageyama’s musculature will change, and he’s afraid he’ll forget that time Tsukishima had been startled into laughter at a joke Kageyama had told. He’d laughed for at least five minutes, holding onto the edge of the table, trembling, as Yachi sipped her cappuccino, grinning from ear to ear.
The wind has picked up when they get off the train, and Kageyama brushes off the unwelcome thoughts into the breeze as Yachi shivers and pushes at him and Tsukishima to “hurry, Hurry! It’s so cold!” The stadium in comparison is heated up with the sheer amount of people packed together in the stands, already cheering even though the game hasn’t started yet. Their seats are closer to the front this time, right next to the referee so they get a full side view of the court. Kageyama almost trips over someone’s foot as they fight their way to their places, bumping into Tsukishima as he tries to steady himself.
“Watch it,” Tsukishima says, sharply.
“Sorry,” Kageyama mutters, both to Tsukishima and the person he tripped over.
“It’s good manners to look at the person you’re apologizing to, Kageyama.”
Kageyama blinks and looks up. “Daichi-san!” Yachi exclaims.
Daichi-san grins. “Yo. How’s my favourite underclassman doing?”
“What are you doing here?” Kageyama blurts out.
“We’re here to support Waseda of course!” Daichi-san plucks at his maroon sweater. “Gotta show some school pride.”
“We?” Tsukishima looks over from Kageyama’s other side. “Who’s we?”
“Tsukishima!” Daichi-san says, looking delighted, just as Iwaizumi-san peeks out behind Daichi-san. “It’s been how many years now? Four? Five? Heard you used to play for Toodai.”
“Six, actually, since you graduated.” Tsukishima glances at Iwaizumi-san coolly. “Seijoh’s ace. You’re the we?”
“There is no we,” Iwaizumi-san says. “I’m just here to annoy Oikawa by not wearing his team colours.”
“It’s strange to see you not yelling at someone.”
“It’s strange to see you not looking as though you’ve smelled something bad, Glasses-kun.” says Iwaizumi-san levelly.
“Hey,” Daichi-san interjects, even though the corner of his mouth is twitching. “We’re all here to have a good time.”
“That’s right,” Yachi says, nodding viciously. “Don’t go ruining the game for the rest of us.”
“Who are you supporting, Yacchan?” Daichi-san asks, just as the commentator starts announcing Meiji’s lineup for the game.
“I-er” Yachi glances at Kageyama. Kageyama looks away towards the court, where the ace is being introduced. Yachi raises her voice to be heard over the cheers. “I’m going to support the underdog.”
“That’s a good team,” Iwaizumi-san says, nodding. He glances at the crowd and sighs. “That’s regretfully not going be Oikawa’s team.”
“Oikawa’s team has been having a winning streak since the start of the season,” Tsukishima says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oikawa has won 23 points with his serves alone. Waseda is going to have a hard time, I think.”
“You looked up the stats?” Kageyama tries not to sound impressed.
Tsukishima shrugs as excited screams flood the arena. “Someone has to do the research.”
It’s Kageyama’s second time seeing Oikawa-san in a little more than a week, but it feels like it’s the first. Oikawa-san is different; he isn’t smiling in this game. He’s got blank expression on his face when it’s his first turn to serve, and he gets four aces in before his fifth lands outside the court by half an inch. By the time the first set point rolls around, Oikawa-san has won his team two additional points with setter dumps, and, in the end, takes the set for them by spiking a toss the libero gives him. The entire gymnasium is an uproar.
Iwaizumi-san is cheering along, too, despite having told them he’d be supporting the other team. “He’s being flashy but focussed!” He yells at Daichi-san. “This is peak Oikawa!”
Daichi-san pulls a face. “So much for rooting for Waseda.”
“I never said I’d be rooting for them.”
Kageyama watches as Oikawa-san throws a towel over his head and sits down on the opposite end of the bench, away from his team. One of the team managers holding the water bottles hesitates as he passes by him, but decides not to hand him one, opting to set the bottle next to him instead. Kageyama’s seen Oikawa-san concentrate like this during one of their middle school matches. The game had been against Shiratorizawa, and Kitagawa Daiichi was down two-nothing. Oikawa-san had sat down next to Kageyama because there wasn’t space anywhere else. He’d been breathing hard, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. Kageyama had shivered in the hot gym as their arms touched.
“Why is he playing so hard against Waseda, though?” Iwaizumi-san is saying. “Meiji’s winning easily.”
“Maybe he’s putting on a show?” Daichi-san suggests. “Oikawa does love being showy.”
“He’s not even interacting with the audience, though,” Iwaizumi-san points out as the whistle blows and Oikawa-san stalks back onto the court. “I think the audience tonight would rather him be pretty and charming rather than moody and intense.”
“I guess he just feels like it then,” Daichi-san says as Waseda’s pinch server sends the ball whizzing into the net. He sighs. “Meiji’s going to win by a landslide.”
And Meiji does. 3-0, beating Waseda by at least ten points each set. Kageyama stays seated even as everyone else stands and cheers for the home team. He feels paralyzed, especially when he hears two girls behind him say, “Why isn’t Oikawa-san our national setter? He’s way better than the one we have right now.” Oikawa-san was stunning in the game, and the toss he gave in the match point, a backward cross-court with pinpoint accuracy that seemed to suspend the spiker in mid-air along with it, was a toss Kageyama had wanted to perfect for Ushijima-san last season but never did.
Daichi-san must have seen his face, because he leans down and asks, “Are you okay, Kageyama?”
“I’m – ” Kageyama’s voice is scratchy even though he hasn’t been screaming like the rest of the spectators. He clears his throat. “I’m okay.”
Daichi-san narrows his eyes, but he says, “Okay.” Then he’s tugging at Kageyama’s arm. “Let’s move before the everyone does. It’s going to be chaos then.”
“Okay,” Kageyama echoes, following Daichi-san out.
The darkness and quiet outside the stadium is dazzling. Only a few people are milling around the exit of the stadium. Daichi-san and Iwaizumi-san lead them to a bench a couple hundred feet away. Iwaizumi-san plops down on the bench, while Daichi-san pulls a bottle of water out of his backpack, taking a few sips before putting it back in. Kageyama tugs his jacket closer to get away from the cold. They’re all silent as they wait for Yachi and Tsukishima to join them.
It’s a few minutes before they arrive, and when they do, the stadium exit is already swarming with people. Yachi looks like she’s brimming with excitement as she bounds towards them. Tsukishima trails behind more slowly.
“That was a really good game, wasn’t it?” she asks.
Daichi-san grimaces. “It’s good if you’re a Meiji fan. They absolutely destroyed Waseda. I thought you were going to support the underdogs, Yacchan.”
Yachi shakes her head. “I changed my mind because Oikawa-san was so cool. He really helped the team focus. What did you think, Kageyama?”
“I - ” Kageyama blinks, caught off guard by having been asked a question. For a brief moment, he considers the answer he would have given an eager journalist under Coach’s close supervision: a diplomatic one, one that shows his appreciation for some of the plays Oikawa-san’s made but also offers some constructive criticism on how the game could have been better. But it feels wrong, he doesn't even have any constructive criticism to make, and his heart is beating too painfully in his chest for him to think. “He was amazing.”
Daichi-san laughs. “You haven’t changed at all, Kageyama. ‘Amazing,’ even after all this time?”
“Yes.”
“You looked like you were about to throw up, though.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so,” says Daichi-san dubiously. He checks his phone. “We’re going to meet Oikawa for a late dinner tonight. Do you guys want to join?”
“No,” Tsukishima says bluntly.
“What Tsukki means,” Yachi hurries to say, “is that he has an early class tomorrow, so it’s better if he went home early. I have a thesis deadline coming up, so I should probably go back to the studio.”
Daichi-san’s face falls. “That’s unfortunate.”
“But,” Tsukishima says, still sounding impassive, even though a smirk is slowly making its way across his face, “the King can go. He doesn’t have practice tomorrow. A late night or two won’t do him any harm.”
Kageyama furrows his brows. “How did you-”
“Please.” Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “We see each other every week. I probably have your schedule memorized better than you do.”
“You see each other every week?” Daichi-san asks. “That’s -”
“Point being,” Tsukishima cuts in, “Kageyama would be happy to have dinner with you and Oikawa.”
“I-”
Tsukki,” Yachi whispers. “Shouldn’t Kageyama have a say about this?”
Kageyama really doesn’t want to have dinner with Oikawa-san, because Oikawa-san would probably spend the entire meal either ignoring him or calling him names. “Genius,” Oikawa-san would sneer. “Dictator-chan.” And Kageyama would have to sit next to him and try not to notice the annoyed looks coming his way, the long drape of Oikawa-san’s fingers on the table, the fall of Oikawa-san’s hair in his face, the way he’d be close enough to touch.
Kageyama would much rather eat lunch with Tsukishima every Tuesday for the rest of his life.
“Wow, didn’t know you loved our lunches so much, King. I feel extremely grateful to have Your Majesty’s seal of approval.”
So Kageyama had said the last bit out loud. Maybe he’d said the bit about Oikawa-san out loud as well. He feels his cheeks growing hot, and he looks at Tsukishima for any indication that he’d said something embarrassing. Tsukishima looks like a cat that just got the canary. But then, Tsukishima’s always like this when Kageyama’s done something stupid, and admitting to rather having lunch with Tsukishima is a really stupid thing. So maybe Tsukishima hadn’t heard after all.
Kageyama must have done something, though, because Tsukishima sighs, unravels his scarf and holds it out to Kageyama. "Here," he says, "wear this. I bet you didn't check the weather before you left home. It's going to get colder tonight. And besides, Yachi says the purple will bring out the colour of your eyes."
“I never said that,” Yachi counters. “But it does. Purple goes well with blue.”
Kageyama takes the scarf and puts it around his neck. He’s instantly warmer, and his heart, which was still beating fast, slows down a little. “Thanks, I guess.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes again as he and Yachi turn back to the Metro station. “You’re welcome. I guess.”
“Wait, Tsukishima,” Daichi-san says, putting away his phone. He must have been checking for messages. “We’ll come with you. We’re meeting Oikawa at the izakaya anyway.”
~
The izakaya Daichi-san takes them to is two stops away, brightly lit and welcoming. The owner of the place knows Daichi-san, and pauses in his work to talk to him and Iwaizumi-san after the waiter takes their orders. Recognition flashes in his eyes when he notices Kageyama.
“Kageyama Tobio,” he says, nodding. “Good job during Worlds this year.”
Kageyama stands up and bows. “Thank you. We will do better next year.”
“You’re very polite,” the owner observes as Kageyama sits down again, “even though you have such a scary presence on court.” He turns back to Daichi-san. “How did you know each other.”
Daichi-san grins. “I was his senpai from high school.”
Iwaizumi-san elbows Daichi-san. “I was his better senpai.”
Someone drops a bag into the seat next to Kageyama. “And I was his best senpai.”
Kageyama’s chest constricts violently. His vision blurs. He’d spent the train ride telling himself that it was just dinner, that he was ready to face Oikawa-san as equals. But he isn’t ready. He never is. Kageyama feels dizzy, overwhelmed. Oikawa-san is so close Kageyama can smell him: sweat and salonpas, leather and gym disinfectant, mixed in with the new smell of something clean, aseptic. “Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says, and hears his voice breaking.
Oikawa-san sits down next to him, and Kageyama turns away. “Four beers please,” Oikawa-san says, his hand flitting into Kageyama’s periphery as he reaches for the menu.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi-san says. “Four? We already ordered for ourselves.”
“I know, Iwa-chan, you stingy scrooge,” Oikawa-san says. “Don’t worry. One of them is for Tobio-chan.”
Kageyama looks up. “Me?”
“He just told us he doesn’t drink, you idiot!”
Oikawa-san glances over and catches Kageyama’s surprise. “I gotta thank my number one fan somehow,” he says. His eyes flicker down to where Tsukishima’s scarf is still wrapped around Kageyama’s neck. Under the table, their knees brush. Kageyama tenses, his breath speeding up. “Just pretend you do drink, Tobio-chan! I did go through all the effort to buy it for you after all!” He flashes a peace sign.
“You made no effort at all,” Iwaizumi-san growls. “You didn’t even bother asking if he wanted it. And what do you mean, number one fan?”
“Tobio-chan’s been to two of my games now! That’s more than everyone else in the room.”
So he did see Kageyama the last time. Kageyama thinks of the slow smile that had bled across Oikawa-san’s face. “You were amazing.”
“You think so?” Oikawa-san’s voice is still light, but the press of his leg against Kageyama’s is heavy. “Mou, it’s just because our ace is a lot better than Iwa-chan over here.”
“It’s not - ” Kageyama starts to say, but the waiter is back with their drinks, and Oikawa-san is cracking open two beers, one for each of them, and he’s laughing as Daichi-san tries to restrain Iwaizumi-san from grabbing at him. Oikawa-san looks happy, buoyant after a win, more relaxed in Kageyama’s presence than he has ever been. Their legs are still touching. Oikawa-san doesn’t move away, so Kageyama doesn’t either.
Over the next hour, Oikawa-san finishes all three of his beers and orders a fourth as they’re finishing up the fried squid. He doesn’t speak to Kageyama much, just once, when he asks who the “cute blonde girl” who’d been sitting next to Kageyama was. He doesn’t mention the game tonight, either. Instead, he talks about things called dimensions in space, slurring his words a little bit, his cheeks flushed with the alcohol. Apparently, there are up to eleven dimensions in the universe. Kageyama hadn’t even known there were more than three.
“Oikawa is doing a PhD in astrophysics,” Iwaizumi-san says. He must have seen how bewildered Kageyama was. “He studies radio galaxies but is also very into parallel universe theory.”
“Okay,” Kageyama says, remembering how Oikawa-san would sometimes talk about aliens during practice at Kitaichi. Parallel universes must have something to do with them.
“It means that there is a very large - possibly infinite - number of universes that exist, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa-san says, taking another sip of beer and scrapping the miso off the eggplant that just arrived. “So everything that didn’t happen in our past, but could have, has occurred in the past of some other universe. Who knows, maybe, in some other universe, I don’t hate you.”
Kageyama’s breath hitches. A cold wave crashes down his spine. The fact that Oikawa-san hates him isn’t surprising, but it still hurts to hear it.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi-san hisses, “don’t be a dick.”
“I can’t help it,” Oikawa-san says guilelessly. “It’s my default mode.”
“Maybe in some parallel universe it won’t be.”
“The same universe I talked about, probably.”
When they leave, the bottle of beer Oikawa-san got Kageyama is still half-full. The owner comes out and sees them off, and Daichi-san and Iwaizumi-san part ways with Kageyama and Oikawa-san when they reach the main street; they are walking home.
“Are they roommates?” Kageyama asks Oikawa-san as they start walking. A stifling silence has fallen over them, and he wants to fill it. He’d been so preoccupied he forgot to ask Daichi-san how he and Iwaizumi-san met, or what he’d been doing for the past three years.
Roommates?” Oikawa-san echoes. “In a way, I guess. They’re together.”
“Yeah,” Kageyama says. Oikawa-san is really stating the obvious. “I know. They just left.”
“No, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa-san says, rolling his eyes. “As in. They’re dating and living together. They were holding hands under the table. Didn’t you notice?”
“No?” Kageyama was more focussed on something else under the table.
“God, you’re hopeless,” Oikawa-san says, his teeth chattering. Like Kageyama, he’s only wearing his team jacket. Kageyama thinks about offering Tsukishima’s scarf to him, but Tsukishima would probably kill Kageyama if he lent it to somebody else, and anyway, there’s only a very small chance Oikawa-san would accept it.
So he lengthens his strides, picking up the pace so they won’t prolong their time in the cold, rushing past neon signs and quickly emptying fast food shops. When they get to the station, he bounds down the steps two by two to get out of the wind. The platform is deserted, and he catches the tail lights of a train leaving, the rumble of its wheels echoing off the walls of the tunnel.
“Are you that eager to get away from me?” Oikawa-san is standing at the bottom of the stairs. His hair is a mess, and he’s slightly out of breath. He’s beautiful under the flickering fluorescent lights. Kageyama could stand there for ever and categorize him into the millions of things he remembers and the millions of things he doesn’t: the way he pouted whenever someone didn’t do what he wanted, how he has to tilt his head slightly upward to talk to Kageyama now.
God, you’re hopeless. Kageyama wants to say Oikawa-san’s words out loud, even though he wouldn’t know who the words would be for. Would they be for Oikawa-san, for thinking Kageyama was eager to get away from him, for forgetting that Kageyama has spent years chasing after him. Or would the words be for Kageyama himself, for spending so many years chasing, trying to pull ahead, and yet for some reason now all he wants is to pull Oikawa-san in and kiss him until he’s warm from it?
The want comes rushing out from somewhere inside him, like a dam breaking.
“Do you really hate me in this universe?” he says, and then grimaces. The question sounds the same as all the questions Kageyama’s asked of Oikawa-san before, containing the same amount of stupid, gushing hope despite everything.
“Hmmmm.” Oikawa-san hums. And he’s suddenly so close. Kageyama thinks he can count each one of Oikawa-san’s eyelashes as he blinks. “How about you observe and figure it out yourself? You’ve always been good at that.”
Neither of them move. But then, in a flash, Kageyama is overcome with the desire to somehow beat Oikawa-san. So he turns his head, leaning in, and presses his lips to Oikawa-san’s cheek.
And he waits, tense, his heart pounding in his chest, for Oikawa-san’s next move. He can feel Oikawa-san’s jaw working, hear his harsh intake of breath.
Then Oikawa-san turns to kiss Kageyama back.
It’s everything and nothing like Kageyama expected. Oikawa-san kisses him rough and sure, with tongue and lips and teeth, hot and unyielding. Kageyama is so aware of the drag of Oikawa-san’s hand down his back, the tight grip of Oikawa-san’s fingers on his bicep, the hard lines of Oikawa-san’s body against his. And Kageyama has kissed before, has been kissed, but it was never like this. He feels dizzy and unprepared, gasping for air every time Oikawa-san moves away to let him breathe, trying hard to meet Oikawa-san halfway when he leans back in.
Something whistles in the background, and a train rushes into the station. Oikawa-san breaks away from Kageyama, and they stare at each other. Then Oikawa-san’s gaze slides away, and his mouth splits into a grin. The tightness of it contrasts weirdly with his swollen lips. He says, “That was fun, Tobio-chan,” in that light, sing-song voice of his, as though the kissing that happened moments ago was just a rally Oikawa-san had beaten Kageyama at. He moves toward the incoming train, turns away from Kageyama and waits for it to slow to a stop. Kageyama wants to reach out and stop him from getting on the train, to tell him there’s no way Kageyama would figure this out, but Kageyama’s too overwhelmed.
The train is already moving away when Kageyama fully registers what’s going on. It’s the same thing. Kageyama had had Oikawa-san within reach, felt the number thirteen on Oikawa-san’s volleyball jacket rasping underneath his palm and the exhilaration of getting closer and closer to him. Kageyama had thought he’d win. But then Oikawa-san did the unthinkable. He did everything Kageyama could have done and more and slipped out of Kageyama’s hold. And now the doors have slid shut and Oikawa-san is gone and Kageyama is left behind again.
Kageyama turns around to catch his own train. He raises a hand to wipe the spit away from his chin. Kageyama is left behind again. All he can focus on is the bitter taste of Oikawa-san’s beer lingering in his mouth.