Chapter Text
The gymnasium is frozen in time, each detail so stark and potent in Oikawa’s mind that he thinks this must be the onset of some latent power. Maybe he actually slowed time, or he’s gained an extra perception, or his consciousness is somehow removed from his body, watching the scene unfold from a different vantage point.
Of course, any of those things could be possible, for anyone but him. Despite knowing that, a part of him still hopes, and hopes desperately.
But he has no extra perception, no supernatural vantage point. If every cell in his body feels supercharged, it’s because he’s running off the adrenaline of two consecutive matches, sweat clinging to his skin and running down the back of his neck. Every squeak of sneakers across the gym floor is an alarm bell, demanding he take notice and be ready.
Six black jerseys form a dark cloud in front of him, the volleyball somewhere above their heads. Oikawa spares a glance for his own team, white and aquamarine in perfect position to block. And there, at the center of their front line, stands Iwaizumi. His shoulders never slump even as his knees bend, his muscles never tire as he braces for an attack.
He’s only ever gotten stronger, since Oikawa has known him. Some days, Oikawa doesn’t know whether to be impressed or jealous, but the uncertain combination sits like boiling water in his stomach, painful and volatile.
Iwaizumi leans in, beckoning Kindaichi and Kyoutani closer. Oikawa can’t hear his words, but he can feel the tenor of Iwaizumi’s voice, rich and rough like the deepest notes of a cello.
They’re a strong team of blockers, even if they don’t have the benefit of Datekou’s size and talents. And beyond the front line, there’s Hanamaki, can predict the path of the ball and guide the block into the best position with his ecological empathy. Kindaichi has the benefit of his height, and he’s always at his best when standing next to Iwaizumi, his abilities contingent on his confidence. The stronger he feels, the stronger he is. Kyoutani, who manipulates kinetic energy, can force the ball back with explosive energy. And Iwaizumi has the strength to slam down any ball decisively, without any hope of recovery by the other team.
They’re perfect, Oikawa thinks distantly, talented and dedicated and special. It has to be enough.
But then a shadow falls across the court. Kageyama steps forward, brow furrowed in concentration and—
And how dare he, really? How dare he wear fatigue and strain so plainly on his face when Oikawa knows how easily this all comes to him, how he barely has to try, because a single thought can summon the ball to his fingertips and send it off again to perfect position.
Some small part of Oikawa lights with pride, knowing that he has been the one to etch that furrow into Kageyama’s brow, forcing him into effort that goes beyond his natural talents. Oikawa is going to beat him, is going to ensure Kageyama will never be able to rest on his laurels.
An untrained eye wouldn’t notice the way the ball reacts to Kageyama’s presence, hovering just above his fingertips. But Oikawa has seen this from every angle—he’s done that same set up thousands of times, but without the benefit of Kageyama’s powers. He’d seen Kageyama’s abortive attempts in his first year of middle school, the ball constantly veering off-course until he’d finally gained mastery over it. And Oikawa had been in the stands, watching, when Kageyama had developed his perfect toss on the court, in the midst of a match, only to belatedly realize that none of his teammates could keep up with him.
No one should be able to match that toss. But as the ball falls down against Kageyama’s fingers and is thrust away, towards the net, a streak of orange and black rips past the rest of the crows.
He’s probably shouting something, Karasuno’s Number Ten. He has a tendency to do that. But Oikawa isn’t really hearing anything at the moment, a roar rushing through his ears like he’s just jumped headfirst into a swimming pool, the water crashing over him and cutting off all other noise.
It doesn’t matter. He knows what the outcome will be if he doesn’t react, now. If they lose this point, it’s all over.
Damn the little brat, though. No one should be able to move like that. He darts across the court like a flash of lightning, the only one able to match Kageyama’s impossibly fast, impossibly perfect toss.
The speed that Number Ten builds with his mad dash propels him upwards as he kicks up off the court, legs bent nearly double as he extends his hand towards the ball.
Oikawa thinks he knows, the instant Number Ten’s palm slams into the ball.
Kyoutani’s energy and Iwaizumi’s strength and Kindaichi’s confidence won’t block this. The ball slams into and past the block, and Oikawa knows that Hanamaki’s awareness is useless. Even Watari, who can selectively attract things towards him, is rendered useless by a spike this fast. But everything is still floating past Oikawa in slow motion, and he can see exactly where the ball is heading.
It’s like he’s swimming—lunging desperately through water that continues to drag him down, making his movements too slow. Or maybe anyone would feel slow after watching Karasuno’s Number Ten, with his superhuman speed. Either way, it’s not enough.
Oikawa moves with desperation, arms extended. His eyes are wide, his hair a sweat-matted mess against his forehead. There’s the pain of fatigue running up his bones, worse in one ankle and the curve of his right knee.
He can see it. Exactly where he has to be, exactly what position he needs to be in to receive that god-like quick.
If he was a teleporter, he’d already be there. If his limbs were malleable like rubber, his arms could extend to catch the ball. If he had superhuman endurance, he wouldn’t be so tired and slow in this moment. If he was precognitive, he would’ve been positioned there from the start, or motioned for the block to be in better position. If only, if only—
But none of that really matters now, does it? Because Oikawa Tooru has no particular talent. And the ball hits his wrist with enough force to bruise, but ricochets away just as quickly, slamming down against the polished surface of the court with a deafening thud.
Oikawa stays frozen in an awkward position even as time returns to its normal flow around him, voices and sounds rising up like he’s just broken through the surface of the ocean.
He doesn’t listen to any of it, barely sees the people around him. All he can think of is that if he’d had a power, any power at all, his team would not have just lost the final match of his high school career.
*
Iwaizumi turns eight first. It really isn’t fair, because June comes before July every year, and so Oikawa is constantly lagging behind. He says as much to his mother and Iwaizumi’s and the other aunties gathered at Iwaizumi’s birthday party, and they laugh with him and pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair, exclaiming to his mother just how cute and darling her son is.
He’s not really sure what to make of their reactions, but he registers that they’re positive. He files that bit of information away, too young to really parse its nuances yet.
And in any case, it doesn’t solve his problem. Iwaizumi is now eight years old, and he’ll be able to hold that fact over Oikawa’s head for over a month until Oikawa catches up.
“You’re not gonna catch up,” Iwaizumi says as they walk to school a few days later, swinging their hands upwards and back. Oikawa’s been holding Iwaizumi’s hand on the way to school for years, now, and barely registers the motion.
“I will,” Oikawa insists, tossing his head. “My birthday’s coming, soon.”
“Yeah, but you’re still younger than me,” Iwaizumi says matter-of-factly.
Oikawa frowns at him, tugging his hand out of Iwaizumi’s grip. “I’m going to catch up,” he says forcefully.
Iwaizumi frowns down at his now-empty palm. “You’re being a baby,” he mumbles.
Indignation rises in Oikawa like lava in a volcano, about to erupt. “I am not,” he screeches. He turns abruptly, spotting the elementary school and running a few meters ahead of Iwaizumi towards it.
“Oi, Tooru!” Iwaizumi calls out, running to catch up. “Wait for me, you big baby!”
Oikawa turns his head, sticking out his tongue at Iwaizumi and not slowing until he’s well past the school gate. By the time they both reach their classroom, Oikawa feels dizzy, his skin running hot.
It is summer, the air too warm and humid. He shakes his head and tucks his backpack beside his chair, giving Iwaizumi a flat look when his best friend kicks the bottom of his chair from behind him to get his attention.
The clock drags slowly towards lunchtime, and all the while Oikawa only feels worse. He thinks he’s sweating, and even though he hadn’t eaten much this morning his stomach is churning. He barely registers what his teacher is saying.
“When you move on from elementary school,” she says, chalk floating near her head and moving to write notes on the blackboard at the slight gesture of her fingers, “The middle school you attend will be based on whether or not you’ve developed powers by that point. Not everyone will get theirs before you graduate, so you may find yourself transferring in your second or third year. That’s perfectly normal.”
Oikawa shifts uncomfortably, laying his chin flat against his desk in the hopes that the coolness of the surface will ease his heated skin. This isn’t even an important lesson—every student in his class already knows all of this. Oikawa doesn’t know why his teachers insist on repeating the same lesson, year after year.
“Of course, many people never develop powers at all. And that’s alright, too,” his teacher continues, the chalk beside her drawing a large circle on the board and then bisecting it into two uneven slices. “At the last census, forty percent of adults in Japan had developed some sort of ability that went beyond the capacities of the average human. So it’s likely that less than half of you will develop your own powers in the next few years.”
Oikawa very much feels like he’s going to throw up. The movement of the chalk is dizzying, and he wonders if he’s supposed to be seeing one piece suddenly becoming three. Probably not.
There’s a kick at the back of his chair.
“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi asks in a low whisper. “You keep moving.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but the gorge rises in his throat and he snaps his mouth shut, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. It fades a bit, but the pressure in his body is insistent.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he announces, loudly, at the same time he thrusts his arm into the air, waving it to get his teacher’s attention.
She cuts off mid-sentence, turning towards Oikawa with narrowed eyes. She’s doubtlessly wondering why one of her best-behaved students has suddenly forgotten all of his carefully-trained manners.
“Go on,” she nods at him, and Oikawa wobbles slightly on his feet before dashing out the door. “No running, Tooru!”
He barely pays her any attention. He moves quickly down the hallway, afraid he’ll fall over if he slows down. When he reaches it, the tiled bathroom is like a haven. He sinks down to his knees against the wall, letting the back of his neck and head press against the cool ceramic.
He waits patiently for his head to stop spinning, hugging his knees close to his chest. But the room keeps fading in and out of view around him, and the heat under his skin is pushing at him like water against a dam. He pulls himself towards the sink, hovering over it and waiting to throw up. But nothing comes, and he just feels tired out from standing.
The nurse’s office is probably his best option, at this point. But even at seven years old, Oikawa is easily embarrassed, and he feels hot and sticky and disgusting. He doesn’t want to shuffle out of the bathroom and back to class, only to ask to be excused to the nurse. He glances at the mirror—he doesn’t look particularly sick, but his eyes are glassy and sweat is gathering against his hairline. Most embarrassingly, he keeps shifting on his feet, unable to sit still or school his expression.
No, the best option is definitely to wait here until he feels better. He already feels a little bit better, away from the restless energy of two dozen other students and the tap-tap-screech of his teacher’s chalk against the blackboard.
Oikawa goes back to his spot against the wall, sitting back down with his legs pulled up against his chest and chin balanced against his knees. He thinks about his family pediatrician, Sato-sensei, who can ease pain and fevers just by laying her hands against someone’s skin. He wishes he had that power, now, or that Sato-sensei were here. Or his mother, whose voice is soothing and persuasive. She’d probably pick him up in her arms and rock him gently, the power of her voice easing his body to sleep so that he wouldn’t have to feel sick and uncomfortable anymore.
Even if he does have one of those abilities, he won’t know until he’s older. Right now, just surviving until the end of the school day seems like an impossible challenge. He groans, curling up more tightly and gritting his teeth, willing the discomfort away.
He’s not sure exactly how long he waits there, but eventually he hears a knock at the door and lifts his head.
“Who is it?” he asks, one hand pressed against his stomach as though that will somehow help. “Go away!”
There’s a low grumble outside the door, and then, loudly, “Open up! You’ve been in there for an hour!”
“Iwa-chan?”
He’s struck by the desire to open the door and let Iwaizumi in. Aside from his mom, Iwaiziumi is the person who’s best at making him feel better. The last time he’d eaten too much ice cream at another friend’s birthday party, Iwaizumi had carried Oikawa home on his back, even though he’d complained about it the entire time. Iwaizumi could definitely make him feel better, now.
But before he can push himself to his feet and unlock the door, Oikawa thinks better of it. Iwaizumi already thinks he’s a baby, after all. What will he say now if he thinks that Oikawa can’t take care of himself? He’s seven, not an infant. He should be better than this, by now.
“Oi – ka – wa,” Iwaizumi says, punctuating each syllable with another knock on the door. “Open up. What’re you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” he calls back, a little desperately. “I’m fine! Go back to class!”
“It’s lunchtime,” Iwaizumi retorts. “Are you sick? Come on, let me in.”
Of course Iwaizumi would figure it out. Oikawa bites down on the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. Iwaizumi would take care of him, if Oikawa let him inside. But he’s been feeling, increasingly lately, that Iwaizumi always comes across as the stronger one in their friendship. Oikawa wants to be the one taking care of him, for a chance.
Pride wins out. “Nope,” Oikawa trills. “Go away. Go eat your lunch.”
He hears vague murmuring from the other side of the door.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head. The conversation is at least distracting from how thoroughly awful he feels.
“I said, you’re stupid and if you don’t let me in I’m telling on you.”
“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa is entirely scandalized. Of course, Iwaizumi isn’t always openly nice to him, but he’d thought that being best friends would come with a certain degree of loyalty. Iwaizumi is not allowed to make fun of him in front of other kids, and certainly isn’t allowed to tell on him.
“If you don’t want me to, open the door,” Iwaizumi says, voice brokering no argument.
“No.” He clutches his head in his hands, trying to find some way of alleviating the pain there. He hates the way his voice wobbles when he says, “Go away, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi says something he can’t hear. Then he starts knocking on the door again, more and more insistently. The noise reverberates in Oikawa’s skull, so loud that Oikawa can’t really focus on anything else.
“Stop that,” he growls.
“Let me in,” Iwaizumi retorts.
But Oikawa is nothing if not impossibly stubborn, and now that he’s decided he doesn’t want Iwaizumi’s help he’s not going to change his mind. His toes curl inside his shoes, fingers still clutched in his thick brown hair.
Iwaizumi doesn’t respond for a moment, though Oikawa can hear him still jostling the door. Oikawa tries to tune out the noise, pressing his head between his knees and trying very, very hard not to throw up.
There’s a sound like ripping, like when Oikawa tears pieces of construction paper apart for art projects, only the sound is too loud, too big. He looks up in alarm and sees the door to the bathroom tearing away from the frame with a deafening noise.
Oikawa scrambles to his feet just as the door comes away entirely, lifted back at an odd angle to reveal Iwaizumi Hajime, red-faced and brow furrowed in concentration as he holds up the door in one hand, having just ripped it off its hinges.
“Why didn’t you let me in?” Iwaizumi demands, looking furious and still holding up the door, “You look terrible! You should’ve told the teacher to call your mom!”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says faintly, eyes round as the moon as he tracks the movement of the door. “Um…”
“Well?” Iwaizumi demands. “What were you thinking?”
Oikawa really doesn’t have an answer for him. He points vaguely at the door, and Iwaizumi glances at it, registering for the first time what he’d just done.
“Oh,” he says quietly, setting the door gingerly down on the floor. He tries to lay it upright, but it falls over against the ground with slamming noise. “Um.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, a little faint and a little exasperated. He’s suddenly more tired than sick, the room cloudy in his vision.
“Hey!” Iwaizumi calls out, alarmed as Oikawa pitches forward on his feet. He moves and catches Oikawa by the shoulders just as two teachers come rushing down the hallway, alerted by the noise.
It’s not completely unheard of. There’s a girl in Oikawa’s neighborhood who’s had her powers almost since birth, her eyes changing color to reflect her mood. But gifts like that are rare, and most people come into their powers sometime between ages twelve and fourteen. Iwaizumi is only eight, and he’s just shown an incredibly developed ability.
At least, that’s what the principal tells Iwaizumi’s mother when she and Oikawa’s mom come to pick the two of them up. Oikawa, who’d been sitting up before the two women arrived, immediately flops back onto his side when he sees them, clutching at his stomach again.
“My poor Tooru,” his mother croons, kneeling to pick him up once she’s laid a hand against his forehead. “Did you get sick, baby?”
Oikawa nods, though his eyes are still trained on where Iwaizumi is standing beside his mother. He’s tugging nervously on the strap of his backpack, and before Oikawa can tell him that probably isn’t the best idea it snaps in two.
“Oh, my,” Iwaizumi’s mother says with a laugh. She ruffles Iwaizumi’s hair, but he keeps looking at the two pieces of the torn strap with a grumpy frown.
The four of them head out to the car together—the two mothers had decided to carpool, apparently—and Iwaizumi spends the short ride home staring out the window, pensive. Oikawa stares at Iwaizumi, trying to decide what he thinks about his friend’s newfound strength.
By the next morning, Oikawa isn’t feeling sick at all. He waits for Iwaizumi on the curb outside his house like he does every morning, so they can walk to school together. Iwaizumi shows up a few minutes late, and when Oikawa waves a hand at him he doesn’t reach out to take it.
Oikawa frowns at him. They always hold hands on the way to school, yesterday’s brief aberration aside.
“What’s wrong?” Oikawa asks, tilting his head to one side.
Iwaizumi flushes, his cheeks going rounder as he pouts. “I’m not supposed to touch anyone right now,” he mutters. “Until I figure out how not to be too strong, all the time.”
Oh. Oikawa supposes that makes sense, though he can’t really imagine a scenario in which Iwaizumi would actually hurt him.
It’s the first way Iwaizumi’s powers change both of their lives, if only slightly.
But after school, when Oikawa waits for Iwaizumi by the gate, the other boy comes bounding towards him ten minutes late.
“I have to go to extra classes,” he says, out of breath from running. “With the other powered kids.”
Oikawa knows that there are four students who have manifested powers at their school. There’s Risa-chan, with her color-changing eyes, and then two students who’ll graduate to middle school next year. And now Iwaizumi.
“I see,” Oikawa says, unsure of why his eyes feel like they’re burning.
“You’ll have to walk home on your own,” Iwaizumi continues. Then, almost apologetically, “It’s only gonna be twice a week.”
Oikawa nods. “Of course, Iwa-chan,” he trills, smiling brightly. “See you later!”
That night, when he’s lying awake in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck across his ceiling, Oikawa realizes the most important thing that’s changed in the past few days.
If Iwaizumi has powers, now, he’ll definitely be going to a powered middle school in a few years. And if Oikawa wants to go with him, he’ll have to develop powers by then, too.
And so begins a nightly ritual, of Oikawa staring up at the ceiling and waiting for whatever his power will be to manifest. He tries not to be too disappointed when nothing happens, with a few days. But then a few days turns into a few weeks, and then months, and then the last few years of elementary school are slipping by, and his powers never come.
*
The lights in the gymnasium are too bright, blazing down on him with an unforgiving glare. He pulls himself up from the lunge he’d dived into, going after that last ball, because under such a spotlight he will not allow himself to look weak. But even as he does, he sees the other members of his team falling to their knees, eyes cast downwards as though they cannot bare to face the truth of this moment.
He can’t look at them, not like this. He takes a step forward, past them and towards the net, and his gaze catches on a pair of deep blue eyes, oil-dark and gleaming with victory.
Oikawa has often wondered if there’s anything that actually separates him from Kageyama. From an outsider’s perspective, surely he should be the more successful one. He’s been working hard, pushing his limits, for practically his entire life. He looks like he should be a success story, the one who’s best suited to wear a crown atop his head. At least, he knows how to smile for the cameras.
But looking into Kageyama’s blue eyes, now, he can see the subtle glow of power behind them. Kageyama can manipulate the world with a single thought, moving objects with the force of his mind. If he had any kind of intelligence, or ambition for anything but volleyball, he’d be nearly unstoppable. As it stands, he’s only ever felt the need to use his telekinesis to manipulate the ball and to keep others at arm’s length.
That power is something Oikawa will never have, so no matter how hard he works he’ll never be able to reach the level Kageyama is capable of. His pride balks at the thought, but then he glances back at the scoreboard and the truth of his loss settles heavily across his shoulders.
“That’s one win for each of us, now,” he says, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at his former underclassman. “Don’t think you’re better than me.”
And Kageyama, in that blandly earnest way he’s always had, merely nods in response and agrees.
Some part of Oikawa wants to reach across the net and shake him, to demand that Kageyema admit that he thinks he’s better, that he knows he’s surpassed Oikawa simply on the virtue of having powers. But he knows Kageyama would never do that. His genius is born of idiocy, of a genuine appreciation of what all those around him can do, even if he’s shit at communicating that.
If Oikawa asked, what would Kageyama say he admired about him? He has no talent that Kageyama can take on for himself, no unique skill to emulate.
He turns away before he can see Kageyama rejoin his team. Instead, he has the responsibility of his own to contend with. His faith in Seijoh is absolute, and so he knows that he will see no blame in their eyes when they all face him. They won’t place this loss on Oikawa’s shoulders, even though that’s where it belongs.
There’s grass, overgrown and filled with dandelions, sprouting up from the gym floor around the coaches’ bench and the reserve players’ box. Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the anxiety that would have caused Yahaba to lose the ironclad control he usually has over himself. He’ll probably will the plants away before they exit the gym, his responsibility winning out over whatever else he’s feeling.
Oikawa comes to stand in the center of the crescent his team forms around the coaches’ bench, but Irihata’s words float over all of their heads, not really landing.
There’s a gentle nudge at the corner of his mind, and Oikawa recognizes the sensation of Matsukawa trying to push attention away from himself. His ability to control when people notice him is usually used for two purposes—to manipulate players on the volleyball court, or to keep people from noticing when Hanamaki pushes him up against one of the back gym walls before or after practice. It’s easy to shrug off the power now, though, which means that Matsukawa isn’t doing this on purpose. He’s instinctively trying to keep people from looking at him.
Oikawa glances at him and immediately sees why. He has his head tilted up towards the ceiling, but that doesn’t hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. Hanamaki’s crying, too, and Kindaichi’s face has long since been red with tears, his nose running unattractively.
And this is why Oikawa has tried not to look at them, until now, as the minutes have dragged by so slowly. There’s an uncomfortable, oppressive energy between them, like they’d built up too much adrenaline during the match and now it has nowhere to go. It’s stifled, lightning trapped in a bottle, and Oikawa imagines it all centering on him, ready to strike him down for failing them.
“We need to go give our greetings.” He hears his voice say the words, and is amazed that it doesn’t shake. It’s as though his body has engaged some kind of autopilot, keeping his spine straight and his hands steady as he takes the first few steps towards the stands, leading the rest of his team.
His conviction falters only when Iwaizumi gets a few steps ahead of him and then stops abruptly. Oikawa can hear his heavy intake of breath, sees the tremor in his hands as he clenches his fingers. And it isn’t fair, because it’s as though Iwaizumi is expressing everything that Oikawa isn’t letting himself feel.
There should never be tears running down Iwaizumi’s face, not while he looks so utterly destroyed, not when he’s biting down on his lower lip so hard that Oikawa fears it will start to bleed.
Be strong, he thinks desperately. I’m sorry, please be strong, you’re tougher than this.
He squares his shoulders and jogs the few steps separating them, swinging his arm around to hit Iwaizumi’s back forcefully, hoping to startle him back to himself.
It must be his imagination, but Oikawa feels something spark from the contact between them, static electricity shocking them both. He keeps walking, telling himself not to dwell on the feeling.
The team lines up, pulling up their jerseys to wipe away their tears and schooling their expressions into dignified, defiant stares.
Matsukawa and Hanamaki come to stand beside Oikawa, but he glances past them to an empty spot in the lineup until Iwaizumi comes forward, expression set like stone and shoulders squared.
Only then does Oikawa face forward. “Thank you very much.”
“Thank you very much.”
*
Oikawa is sitting on his front porch when Iwaizumi finally makes his way home from his supplemental classes. Oikawa has his legs folded up again his chest, chin pressed against his knees as he regards every blade of grass in his front yard individually. When he sees Iwaizumi’s trademark red sneakers, he looks up.
“You’re home—what’s that?”
Iwaizumi has his backpack hanging off of one shoulder, but both of his hands are clasped reverently around a green, red, and white ball that he holds in front of himself as he walks. He shrugs.
“It’s a volleyball.”
“I can see that,” Oikawa scoffs, dusting himself off as he gets to his feet and crosses the yard to meet Iwaizumi. “I mean, why do you have it?”
Iwaizumi presses his lips together in a firm line. “I’m going to start learning how to play.”
“Why?” Oikawa reaches out and takes the ball from Iwaizumi, spinning it between his hands experimentally. He likes the weight of it against his hands, the indentations that separate the ball into differently-colored sections.
Iwaizumi’s mouth twists, and then he sighs. “It’s supposed to help, I guess. Give me a way to channel my powers into something.” He sounds like he’s repeating someone else’s words, not quite understanding them himself.
“That didn’t work out so well with baseball,” Oikawa reminds him, thinking of an incident he’d observed just a few weeks ago.
“I didn’t know the bat would snap when I hit the ball,” Iwaizumi growls. “And anyway, that’s why I’m trying something different, now.”
“So you’re going to slam the ball through the floor of the gym, is that it?” Oikawa asks innocently, batting his eyelashes.
Iwaizumi shoves him in response. “Shut up. I won’t.”
“Ow,” Oikawa huffs, dropping the volleyball to rub at his shoulder.
“Did I hurt you?” Iwaizumi asks immediately. He’s wearing the frown that means he’s concerned, or sorry, even if he won’t say as much.
“No, no,” Oikawa waves him off. “You’re just so rough, Iwa-chan. Maybe volleyball will be good for you. Shove the ball instead of me, okay?”
“It’s called spiking,” Iwaizumi informs him, grinning slightly as he stoops to retrieve the ball. “Want to try?”
“What, like you hit the ball to me and I hit it back?” Oikawa frowns slightly, tilting his head as he considers this. He’s never had much interest in sports, and generally hates getting sweaty. He’s not sure why he’s even entertaining this idea.
“No,” Iwaizumi says, “I’d hit it right through you. But maybe you can toss it up for me and I can hit it into the grass?”
He looks so eager, so hopeful, about his suggestion. And Oikawa knows the past few months have been difficult for him, trying to temper a strength that he never asked for in the first place. Iwaizumi is a tactile person—he likes touching things, and making things, and everything of the sort. Holding himself back is leading to boredom, and maybe also loneliness. Oikawa, who sits on the porch and waits for him two days a week, can relate.
He sighs dramatically. “Alright, fine. How do I toss it?”
The first time he tries, the volleyball comes back down to slam Oikawa in the nose, and Iwaizumi points a finger and laughs. But because his first attempt is unsuccessful, Oikawa is determined to try again. And so he tries, and he tries, and he tries.
Within a few days, he and Iwaizumi are playing every day after school, even though Oikawa’s mother bemoans the fate of her roses when Iwaizumi hits too hard past the grass and into her planters.
A few years later, it seems like a foregone conclusion that they’ll both join the volleyball team in middle school. It’s just a question of which school’s team Oikawa is going to be on.
“I looked it up,” Oikawa says, pushing his printed research across the kitchen table towards his parents. “There’s no actual rule against me enrolling at Kitagawa Daiichi. There’s an anti-discrimination law, and everything!”
“Tooru,” his mother says, taking the papers and biting down on her lower lip. “There’s no rule, but that’s not really how things are done—”
His father reaches across the table to ruffle Oikawa’s hair. “He’s just thinking ahead. Aren’t you, Tooru? Either way, we’ll have to transfer him there in a few months or a year when his powers kick in.”
Oikawa’s mother narrows her eyes at her husband, even though the appeasing smile never leaves her lips. “Don’t say things like that to him,” she hisses, and Oikawa can hear it when she kicks his father under the table.
His father coughs, looking through the papers Oikawa had passed over. “He’s smarter than all the neighborhood kids going to this school,” he insists. “And he’ll work twice as hard, anyway. Right, Tooru?”
Sensing victory, Oikawa nods vigorously. “Of course!”
His mother sighs, leaning over to take one of Oikawa’s hands in both of hers. “Of course we won’t say you can’t try, sweetheart. But you also don’t have to do this, you know? There’s no shame in going to a non-powered school.”
Oikawa’s father snorts, and she kicks him again.
And Oikawa knows she means well, but he finds himself agreeing more with his father. There is shame in going to a non-powered school. It would like admitting he’s not going to get powers, to declare that he’s content with a mundane existence. And he really isn’t.
“I want to go to Kitagawa Daiichi,” he declares again. “I’m going to go there and play volleyball with Iwa-chan and we’re going to be the best team in the prefecture.”
It doesn’t end up being quite that easy. There is an anti-discrimination law on the books, but it’s rarely invoked. Parents generally don’t want to send their non-powered children to powered schools, and students transfer so often in middle school after developing their powers that there’s no real reason to fight the established norm. But that isn’t good enough for Oikawa. But when Oikawa’s parents do invoke the rule, the administration is too stunned to push back.
They line up the first years on one side of the court for the first day of club activities. There’s a good number of them, maybe eighteen or twenty. It’s no surprise— Kitagawa Daiichi is known as a powerhouse school in more ways than one, and many students whose powers have already appeared have manifested a physical skill, like Iwaizumi’s strength, that makes them perfect candidates for sports clubs.
Oikawa stands beside Iwaizumi, eyes slightly narrowed as he watches their upperclassmen practice. He knew it would be this way— his parents had spent weeks warning him, after they’d helped him register for school, his mother with a bit more empathy than his father. But in the end their words had come down to one condemning message: You’ll have brought it on yourself, when you don’t measure up.
And their upperclassmen are impressive. There’s a wing spiker who can manifest fire around the ball, making the libero on the other side of the court duck away from the ball rather than go in for the receive. There’s a middle blocker who can extend the length of his arms and legs, making him a formidable wall against any attack. Another wing spiker can pick up enough speed to hover a foot above the air, like a hummingbird, just before he spikes.
The list goes on and on. Kitagawa Daiichi’s team is made up of talented players who are taught how to make the best use of their talents. Their starting line-up is the perfect storm of abilities, each selected for its use for a particular position.
Oikawa wonders, watching them, if the players themselves are even taken into account at all, or if it’s just their powers that earn them their positions.
“Alright,” the coach calls out, finally turning to the first years. “We’re going to run through some basic drills. No powers, yet— we just want to see what you can do normally.”
Hope blooms in Oikawa’s chest. He’s grown more than a few centimeters over the past year, and his instincts are good. If they’re just playing regular volleyball, he can surely distinguish himself. He’s even taller than Iwaizumi, now, and better at receives. Iwaizumi always loses interest when Oikawa recommends they practice those, saying he’d rather be spiking, instead.
“Oi,” Iwaizumi says, elbowing Oikawa in the side, “Pay attention.”
Oikawa looks up and sees one of the assistant coaches beckoning him towards the net, a look of impatience on his face. He must’ve called for Oikawa once, already. But Oikawa doesn’t let that deter him. He lifts his chin, grinning, and steps with purpose onto the court.
And for about forty-five minutes, he’s the star of the show. Many of the other boys are still awkward in their movements, or unpracticed entirely. Oikawa knows how to serve decently, and can jump up for blocks. He doesn’t make his receives every time, but he at least knows how to dive for them. And he’s been setting to Iwaizumi for years, now, mimicking forms he’s seen on TV and getting better and better.
It’s clear to everyone at the practice that Oikawa knows the game better than any of the first years, save for perhaps Iwaizumi. Oikawa preens a little at the attention, skipping across the court to high-five Iwaizumi after a particularly successful play.
And then the head coach blows his whistle, calling them all to attention.
“Alright,” he says, looking down at his clipboard for a moment before he glances back at the first years with a critical eye. “That was fine. But now let’s see what you can really do.”
Oikawa swallows, feeling very much like a candle that has just been snuffed out. This time, when they line up, he doesn’t push to the front of the line.
It’s a simpler set of drills than the earlier practice. Each first year approaches the net, explains their power, and the coach suggests some way of demonstrating it using the volleyball.
One kid is able to guide the course of the ball using a gust of wind, bringing it in easier for a receive. Another creates small illusions, projecting an image of three volleyballs so that the original goes unnoticed until it makes contact with the other side of the court. A third can manifest forcefields around his hands, making his blocks nearly impossible to get through when he manages to keep his arms straight.
No two students seem to have the same ability, but the coaches have ideas for most of them. Not every drill goes off flawlessly, and the students are still clumsy and unused to using their gifts to such purpose. But the coaches continue to nod approvingly, jotting things down and murmuring like “there’s potential, here.”
Oikawa tries not to think too hard about what they’re going to say to him.
He’s at the back of the line, Iwaizumi right in front of him. When his best friend’s name is called, Oikawa reaches out instinctively and clutches the back of his t-shirt, holding Iwaizumi back for a moment.
“What,” Iwaizumi says, turning back to look at him. “I’ve gotta go, they’re calling me.”
“Yeah,” Oikawa says, swallowing down his anxiety and flashing a watery smile. “Go, go, Iwa-chan!”
Iwaizumi frowns at him for a moment before marching towards the net with purpose. The coaches glance down at him, waiting for his explanation of his power.
“I’m strong,” Iwaizumi says simply. But he glances back at Oikawa again, the furrow between his brows matching the severe curve of his mouth.
“Alright,” the head coach says, sounding almost excited. “We can work with that.”
Two of the assistant coaches help set the ball towards Iwaizumi, who runs up to meet it with narrowed eyes. He extends his hand for the spike and connects to the ball, but it doesn’t blast away from his hand with the resounding sound Oikawa’s become used to. Instead, it hits the opposite side of the court with little fanfare, the product of a normal eleven-year-old’s strength.
“Do you need to try again?” the head coach asks.
Iwaizumi stares at his palm, blinking slightly in confusion. He looks up and nods vigorously. “Yeah. I just— I don’t know what happened.”
They set him up again, and again he connects with the ball. Oikawa chews the inside of his cheek as a second ball leaves Iwaizumi’s hand with no particular force behind it. Iwaizumi’s been working on tempering his strength since his powers manifested, but Oikawa knows that strength is always lingering, ready to be unleashed when Iwaizumi calls on it.
So why isn’t it working, now?
He can see the tell-tale signs of anxiety in Iwaizumi’s stance, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and hunches his shoulders. He’s nervous, agitated for some reason. Oikawa can’t understand it— they were just playing together, and having fun.
Iwaizumi tries again, and fails again. Part of Oikawa wants to scold the coaches for pushing him so much— if nothing else, Iwaizumi keeps showing that he’s good at volleyball, even without his strength. The rest of it shouldn’t matter.
Finally, Iwaizumi misses the ball entirely, his feet hitting the court with a thud that rings too loudly in Oikawa’s ears. Iwaizumi looks up, face red, and doesn’t let the coach speak first.
“I want Oikawa to set the ball to me!” Iwaizumi says, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. “He does it better than you.”
The other first years all hide their faces behind their hands, scandalized that Iwaizumi’s talking back to an adult. But Iwaizumi keeps his feet planted, and the coach shakes his head.
“Fine,” he says, flipping through the stack of club registration forms on his clipboard, “Oikawa-kun?”
Oikawa steps forward, looking with pointed concern at Iwaizumi. “What are you doing?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth.
Iwaizumi frowns at him. “Just help me out.”
Oikawa shrugs, taking his place on the court. One of the assistant coaches remains to help them with the set up, but before he moves Oikawa reaches out and taps Iwaizumi on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry so much, Iwa-chan! I believe in you.”
The ball leaves his hands as easily as any had throughout the afternoon. Iwaizumi runs up to meet Oikawa’s toss, and the next moment goes by in a series of flashes— Iwaizumi’s hand meets the ball, and then the ball slams into the opposite end of the court. Except that it doesn’t bounce away, but instead cracks through the floor, embedding itself in a small crater. It’s only afterwards that the thunderous noise that accompanied Iwaizumi’s spike registers to Oikawa’s ears.
Iwaizumi’s wearing a fiercely proud smile, looking up at the head coach with a very I-told-you-so expression. The coach reaches up to adjust his glasses, not at all perturbed by the damage done to his gymnasium.
“Very good, Iwaizumi-kun,” he says. He notes something down, then turns to Oikawa.
“That was certainly well done,” he says, “But what is it you can do?”
There’s no ambiguity in his question, despite the phrasing. Oikawa shuffles his feet, sensing when Iwaizumi comes up directly behind him. Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, but his presence is enough of a comfort.
Oikawa lifts his chin, adopting a tone of deliberate nonchalance.
“Oh,” he says, “Nothing. I can’t do anything at all.”
They don’t immediately kick him out of the volleyball club, which Oikawa supposes is a kind of blessing. But even at eleven years old, he can tell how quickly the coaches lose interest in him. Some first years can’t even make it onto the court without tripping over their own feet, but because their powers have potential, they get more playtime than Oikawa does.
His response has never been to back down. He can’t stretch or light things on fire or create illusions or slam volleyballs straight through the gym floor. But he loves the game, loves playing it, and absorbs as much about it as he can. His first attempt at a jump serve is embarrassing, and his second is ridiculous.
But his third is only laughable, and after a few months he has the motions down if not the accuracy or power he wants. Oftentimes, he’ll practice alone, continuous serves again and again that have nothing to do with being gifted and come only after his body has begun to memorize every motion and responds in perfect time.
Of course, Iwaizumi was never going to let him play alone. Whenever he’s practicing his spikes, he insists that Oikawa be the one to set to him. And gradually, their other teammates begin to start requesting the same. There’s a part of Oikawa that feels he needs to earn his place amongst them, so he focuses on each player’s strengths and weaknesses, their quirks and habits. He knows who likes the ball closer to the net and who can’t hit particularly fast tosses. Eventually, all the little things he’s memorized about his teammates become second nature.
More so than his solitary serves, he loves being in the center of the court, facilitating the play of those around him. And sometimes it feels like he’s not standing in the center of the court, but rather in the middle of a garden, watching the plants bloom before his very eyes.
When the third years graduate, the coaches line up the remaining players to announce the new lineup. It only makes sense that Iwaizumi makes the starting line—no one else has a power so perfectly useful, and since the first day of tryouts Iwaizumi’s strength has never failed him. But after his name is called, the coach looks down at his clipboard ruefully, laughing to himself.
“Oikawa,” he calls out, as though he’s saying the name despite himself, “will be our setter.”
He wears his freshly-starched jersey with pride when they arrive at their first tournament. Still second years, Oikawa and Iwaizumi do their stretches together, Oikawa looking over the gym and commenting off-handedly about the other gathered teams.
“That setter, Semi, creates tornadoes,” Oikawa says, stretching his arms over his head, “And I think that first year libero does something with the weather. Thunder, maybe?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know exactly,” Iwaizumi grumbles, lifting himself up out of a lunge, “Don’t you keep charts on all these people?”
Oikawa shrugs exaggeratedly. “Well, yes, but it’s not like I have a perfect memory, or something!”
He tries not to sound too bitter when he says this. A flawless memory would be a gift, some kind of recognizable, tangible power. As it is, he’s quickly approaching his thirteenth birthday with no power at all.
Iwaizumi’s hand comes down flat against the crown of Oikawa’s head, but there’s no force behind it.
“Ow!” Oikawa protests, anyway.
“Stop thinking about that stuff,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re here, aren’t you? You and I are both going to be standing on the court when we win.”
Powered tournaments are a display of carefully controlled chaos. When Oikawa steps onto the court, he can feel his teammate’s powers building up slowly, their focus narrowed to just the match ahead of them. During their first few games, everyone seems to be better than usual—Iwaizumi’s spikes are stronger, their libero’s enhanced vision is nearly flawless, one of their middle blocker’s forcefields more powerful than normal.
Sometimes, Oikawa feels energy burning beneath his skin, a dull buzz that he imagines as the steady glow of the stars, the sensation of the galaxy singing back to him.
But it doesn’t last. They face Shiratorizawa Middle School in the finals, and when their second year ace steps onto the court the entire atmosphere of the tournament shifts. Oikawa’s stars stop singing, and all he can feel is an overwhelming pressure as his legs threaten to give way beneath him, his entire body heavy as lead.
“Ushijima,” their coach says with a sigh, afterward. “He has his own force of gravity.”
It explains why the ball is always drawn towards him, why he can send it off with such force. Why players around him feel weaker, intimidated not just by his formidable glare but also by the aura he exudes.
He’s only twelve years old, but his gift is already more powerful than most people’s will ever be. Oikawa tries, and fails, not to hate him on sight for that.
“Give it up,” Iwaizumi says on the bus ride home, nudging Oikawa in the shoulder when Oikawa refuses to turn away from his determined glaring out the window. “So we lost one match. It was only our first tournament. And besides, I heard Coach saying that everyone was playing better today, with you as our starting setter.”
Oikawa looks up, at that. The head coach rarely has an encouraging word for him, and acknowledges Oikawa’s usefulness to the team only despite himself.
“Really?” Oikawa asks.
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “If you think I’m going to keep repeating compliments you’ve obviously heard the first time…”
“Iwa-chan! Say it again, come on!”
A year later, when their upperclassmen graduate and the new lineup is announced, Oikawa takes his new jersey, emblazoned with the number one, and holds it close to his chest.
*
He doesn’t really remember making it back to the locker room, but by the time he’s pulled on his pants and jacket Oikawa’s head is clear again. Iwaizumi leads the team off to load the bus with their gear, and Oikawa lingers in the doorway, doing a mental headcount of their teammates as they each pad out to the parking lot, looking defeated.
“Can you handle the rest?” he asks one of the second years. “I’ll meet you at the bus.”
Oikawa can sense when the gravity around him begins to shift. He walks forward, his footsteps too heavy and his movements slow. He grimaces, because he knows exactly what’s coming next.
(“There’s no way you can tell when he’s behind you, that’s ridiculous,” Iwaizumi had said last year, snorting at him.
“I can tell when you’re behind me, too,” Oikawa sniffed primly. “It’s because you’re a savage and don’t shower enough.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Iwaizumi muttered, kicking at him.)
But aside from the heaviness in the air, there’s no denying the tall and unwelcome figure of Ushijima Wakatoshi standing in the hallway, looking at Oikawa with inscrutable golden eyes.
It’s been years since Oikawa’s knees have buckled just being around him. But the air still grows heavy, his head feeling too light. The last time Seijoh had faced Shiratorizawa in this gymnasium, Oikawa hadn’t fallen to the floor after the third set out of despair at his defeat. It was more that his body had succumbed to the pressure of fighting gravity for so long, finally coming crashing back down to earth.
“A word of advice,” Ushijima says, his deep voice cutting into Oikawa’s thoughts. Oikawa’s face contorts into a grimace as Ushijima continues, “Don’t make the same mistake, again.”
Oikawa walks past him, partly to prove that he can still move under his own power. Even Ushijima’s words feel laden and heavy, a pressure building at the base of Oikawa’s skull and behind his eyes. Oikawa huffs, determined to brush it off.
“Would you stop that?” he snaps, when he feels the force of gravity increasing, his arms heavy at his sides. He turns his head just slightly to see Ushijima blinking owlishly at him.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and there’s no facetiousness to him. Oikawa bites down a sigh as Ushijima resumes his earlier train of thought. “You know that, had you chosen to play somewhere else, you would have been the undisputed champion.”
Oikawa digs his teeth into the side of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. He hasn’t played against a non-powered team since before middle school. He wouldn’t even know how to play against them, anymore, wouldn’t know what to do with a volleyball match that obeyed the laws of physics and reason.
But then again, maybe that’s not what Ushijima is referring to.
Oikawa draws an aggravated breath, spreading his hands despite the effort it takes to do so. “So should I have chosen Shiratorizawa over Seijoh? That would’ve made everything okay?” He huffs. “An unpowered setter on Shiratorizawa’s team, honestly.”
He’s still turned away from Ushijima, but he can imagine the displeased tilt of his frown.
“If you have no gifts yourself, then the only strategy is to surround yourself with unchallenged power. You chose against that because of what, your pride?”
Oikawa can’t even imagine himself standing in the middle of Shiratorizawa’s team, flanked on all sides by the veritable forces of nature that make up his team. Gravity, cyclones, precognition, earthquakes… Ushijima’s team is a collection of powers more suited to gods than humans.
Power like that would trample on anything more delicate, struggling to bloom.
“If you wanted to win, you know which team you should’ve been on.” Ushijima states plainly. It’s a foregone conclusion, to him.
But is that what Oikawa wants? Victory? It’s such an oversimplification of what this all means to him. A way of reducing it down to something that Ushijima, or Kageyama, or anyone with tangible power can understand. Victory is something that makes sense in their world.
Utter powerlessness isn’t. They can’t have ever felt the crippling inadequacy that Oikawa’s been fighting off his entire life, ever since he first saw talent being born in others, always passing him over.
He doesn’t just want to win. He wants to be good enough.
The laughter rises in him like steam in a pot, threatening to boil over. He sees no reason to fight against it, opens his mouth and barks out his derision with a tilt of his head and a wink of the eye.
“Your confidence is as laughable as ever,” he says, voice as sharp as a knife. “Do you really think your power makes you unbeatable? It doesn’t.”
Ushijima regards him out of dark eyes. “You’re shaking,” he observes.
And Oikawa isn’t blind to the tremor in his hands, the unsteadiness he feels where his feet are planted against the ground. He doesn’t know what would’ve brought on such unsteadiness, different from the crippling, oppressive feeling that always comes with losing to Ushijima. His skin burns hot, tingling with static.
“You should listen to what I’m about to tell you,” Oikawa says, and he feels far away from his body, his voice echoing against the far-spaced walls. “I’ll choose my pride over your power any day. You shouldn’t forget that, worthless as it is.”
When he’s stepped away from Ushijima a few moments later, he’s left weightless. Maybe it’s the contrast of having only a normal amount of gravity around him, now—it’s as if there’s nothing tethering him to Earth, at all.
If he floated away into space, he thinks idly, would he discover some power that just wasn’t suited to this planet? Can he breathe without atmosphere, or speed through the universe like a comet?
Then, there’s a weight against his shoulder, a strong hand drifting down to clutch at his wrist, tugging him forward.
“Where’ve you been?” Iwaizumi says, pulling Oikawa along. “Come on, the bus is about to leave, everyone wants to get home, already.”
There will be so many things to deal with, once they get back to school. His high school volleyball career is over. All the things he’s been avoiding—graduation and exams and choices for university—will suddenly come barreling towards him.
If only time would go as slowly as it had during the match. But increasingly, Oikawa realizes he’s run out of time. He never did come upon a power, and a promise he’d made to a younger version of himself has just slipped away, dissipating into the air like smoke.
*
His place on Kitagawa Daiichi’s team is secure for a few dazzling, intoxicating months. And then the new first years arrive—a promising crop that includes Kindaichi Yuutaro, Kunimi Akira, and one Kageyama Tobio.
“Have you looked into his eyes? They’re creepy,” Oikawa says one day as he and Iwaizumi are setting up the net, glancing over his shoulder to where the first years are huddled together.
Iwaizumi’s face stretches incredulously. “Are you still on about that? Leave him alone.”
“I would if he would stop being creepy,” Oikawa says definitively.
“He’s a kid,” Iwaizumi bites out. “And you’re being an asshole.”
Oikawa saunters away, but not before throwing one more searching glance over his shoulder at the first years. He likes most of them. The prospect of being a respected upperclassman is nice, actually. The second years are too close to truly revere him, and Oikawa’s come to find that he likes that type of attention.
And Kageyama doesn’t not revere him. Out of all the first years, he follows Oikawa the closest, trailing after him with a volleyball pressed between his palms. His eyes will go wide and hopeful as he holds up the ball and asks Oikawa to teach him how to serve.
And there’s a small part of Oikawa that knows he’s being irrational—Kageyama hasn’t done anything wrong, exactly. At least, not intentionally.
But there is the very, very small matter of the fact that when Kageyama plays volleyball, the ball follows his intentions and thoughts exactly. He’s telekinetic, and could make that power work for him in an endless amount of ways.
And the only thing he seems to use it for is volleyball. His sense for the game is good, instinctively, and because the ball follows his every thought he doesn’t have to work up to a place where his abilities match those instincts.
When he uses his powers, his eyes flash a brilliant blue. It’s not creepy, in the way that Oikawa’s claiming, because he’s seen changing eyes and glowing hands and all manner of other eccentricities since he was a child. So it isn’t strange.
It’s just unfair.
And with Kageyama’s arrival, Oikawa feels the place he’s carved out for himself over the past few years begin to crumble beneath his feet.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been practicing for—if he had to guess, he’d say he’s hit a hundred serves, give or take a dozen. The balls echo empty against the other side of the court, the rest of the team long gone.
Heat itches under Oikawa’s skin, and no matter how much he practices it won’t subside. It feels better, when there’s people around. Like he can pour some of his excess, frantic energy into his interactions with them. He hates being by himself, always feels this buzz that keeps him awake and anxious.
He needs to find a better way of managing this, he knows. There won’t always be someone else around, especially if he loses his place here. If he’s not a part of the team, he’ll be alone, and—
“Oikawa-san?”
The voice grates against his last nerve. Oikawa turns to see Kageyama standing beside him, looking up at him with wide and hopeful eyes. And in that moment Oikawa’s vision blurs, and he sees not one Kageyama Tobio but five, each repeating the request. And then he sees Kageyama on the court, taking his place at its center, unpracticed by any measure when compared to Oikawa but the ball follows his thoughts, and how could Oikawa ever match that—
His eyes are blazing blue, though Oikawa has no idea why Kageyama is calling on his powers, now. One of the balls at Oikawa’s feet rises into the air, gliding over the net in a perfect imitation of the arc Oikawa’s serves take.
He sees red. Kageyama doesn’t usually have that much control, just enough power to nudge the ball one way or the other once it’s left his hands. But if he’s already advancing this quickly—the ball didn’t have much force or speed behind it, yet, but now it’s only a matter of time. He’ll only continue to get better, and Oikawa will—
“Get away from me,” he grits out, voice strangled. The ground beneath his feet feels barren, like anything that might have grown there has suddenly been burned away, leaving him on rocky and uneven surfaces. The goal he’s been chasing is a light in the distance, a star that’s gradually getting further and further away.
And Kageyama is still just standing there, frowning after the ball that’s rolled away on the other side of the court as though it has offended him, as though he didn’t specifically call on it to do what it just had.
“Oikawa-san—”
“Get away.”
He’s suffocating, he’s sure. Kageyama is standing there and sucking the life out of him, and has the gall to look confused and innocent all the while. Hatred fills Oikawa’s throat, tasting like blood. He barely registers the motion when he lifts his arm, fingers curling into a fist, tendons straining with how hard he’s clenching each muscle.
He takes a swing, mind blaring with alarm bells when he realizes what he’s doing. His vision is still scarlet, unfocused and—
The blow never lands. Suddenly, there’s a too strong grip on his wrist, pulling him backwards so suddenly that Oikawa loses his footing and falls backwards, landing hard against the gym floor.
Oh. It’s Iwaizumi running past him, laying his hand—now gentle, no force behind it at all—on Kageyama’s shoulder, murmuring something to him. And Kageyama is nodding, glancing back at Oikawa only once before turning on his heel and scampering out of the gym and towards the lockers.
Iwaizumi stays faced away from him, but Oikawa can see the way his chest rises and falls, his breathing heavy.
Kageyama would be able to give Iwaizumi perfect tosses, Oikawa thinks bitterly. He wouldn’t have to work at it at all, he’d only have to think about where the ball needed to be and then it would be—
“Oi,” Iwaizumi says, still not facing Oikawa. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
He wasn’t thinking, Oikawa almost says. The feelings had overwhelmed him suddenly, and needed some outlet. If Kageyama wasn’t always around, if he hadn’t been put into the match when Oikawa had been pulled out, if Iwaizumi wasn’t so terribly patient with him, if the coaches didn’t look at him like he was going to be the greatest player Kitagawa Daiichi had ever seen—
“Well?” Iwaizumi turns around, glaring down at Oikawa with something far beyond his usual, superficial grumpiness. There’s a fire in his eyes, disappointment lingering in the severe curve of his frown. He’s never directed such ire at Oikawa, before.
Oikawa feels himself trembling, the same energy that’s been burning beneath his skin suddenly boiling up again. He hasn’t gotten up from the ground, yet, so now he draws his legs towards his chest and presses his forehead against his knees.
He doesn’t recognize the noise that comes out of him. It might be laughter, or a whimper, or a breathless, strangled scream. In any case, Oikawa is shaking with it, tears dripping down his face as guilt and disappointment and despair all settle against his chest, heavier than they’ve ever been before. He can’t breathe, he feels so heavy.
“Hey.” Iwaizumi’s voice is softer now, but the anger hasn’t faded. Suddenly, he’s kneeling in front of Oikawa, grabbing both his hands and pulling at them, forcing Oikawa out of the tight ball he’s trying to curve himself into.
“Iwa—” His voice breaks, but Iwaizumi doesn’t pay him any attention. He gets one hand under Oikawa’s shoulder and hoists him to his feet, paying no attention to Oikawa’s startled squawk.
“You’re an idiot,” he continues, ignoring Oikawa’s protests as he hoists him effortlessly over one shoulder, Oikawa’s legs dangling over Iwaizumi’s chest and his hands clenched in the back of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt for balance.
“What are you—Iwa-chan, put me down!”
Iwaizumi starts walking them towards the locker room, Oikawa’s weight not even a mild inconvenience to him. He keeps speaking as though Oikawa hasn’t spoken.
“You really think too much about stupid things, you know? You don’t have to keep proving yourself. You’re the center of our team. We all want you there.”
Oikawa stops beating his fists against Iwaizumi’s back for a moment, stunned by his words.
“Until someone better comes along,” Oikawa sneers, the reaction involuntary at this point.
Iwaizumi growls. “Shut the hell up, Oikawa. No one’s looking to replace you. You’re two years older than Kageyama. You’re going to be the one leading us at the next tournament, and then we’re going to high school and he won’t even be there. What are you so worried about?”
He’s carried them past the lockers, Oikawa realizes, and had grabbed Oikawa’s bag with his free hand. Does he plan on carrying Oikawa the entire way home? How embarrassing.
“Most people have developed powers before they get to high school,” Oikawa says softly, when they’re outside the school and the night air is brisk against his face.
“Yeah?” Iwaizumi says, voice flat. “And?”
“I can’t do anything yet,” Oikawa admits quietly. “Everyone develops so much in middle school, I thought as long as they came by the time I graduated I’d… I’d be on an even playing field with the rest of you, you know? I’d be worthy of standing on the court with you, and our team.”
Iwaizumi bites down on another irritated noise. “You know I’ve never wanted anyone else beside me, don’t you? How could I have possibly made that more obvious?”
And Oikawa thinks back to the first day of volleyball club, and Iwaizumi refusing to spike anyone else’s toss. The way they’d always worked so well together, that when Iwaizumi hit one of Oikawa’s tosses he always seemed stronger in those moments. And Oikawa, foolishly, had felt that he had something to do with that strength, like he had any claim to Iwaizumi’s abilities.
There’s a wetness against his cheeks, tears falling unbidden as Iwaizumi keeps one arm wrapped around Oikawa’s legs, holding him steady as Iwaizumi walks them down the sidewalk. Oikawa is left looking up at the sky, the stars blazing into existence one by one, even behind the cloudy sky. They’re laid out artfully, one shining light for each empty space. Oikawa tilts his head, watching the darkening sky and pausing over a gap where no star has appeared.
“But you could be so much better than me,” Oikawa says at length, when he’s sure he can force the words out. “A setter with any power would make you stronger, and—”
Iwaizumi huffs impatiently, pausing in his steps. “I think I’m strong enough, don’t you? And it’s not just you and me. You act like it’s only you on one side of the court and everyone else on the other. You think we don’t see how hard you work to support us? And you think we don’t want to give you the same, in return?”
Oikawa hiccups, fingers digging into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He tells himself it’s for balance, and not because the solidity of Iwaizumi’s body is comforting, a grounding weight rather than an oppressive one.
“Any team is more than the sum of its parts,” Iwaizumi says, when Oikawa stays silent for a long moment. “And you add something. Who cares if you can’t put a label on it and register it as a power?”
Oikawa’s stomach twists painfully, his vision still focused on a blank stretch of sky. No star blinks into existence there.
“I can’t add anything that someone else can’t,” Oikawa says bitterly, the dark stretch of sky like a reminder. “And if I can, I don’t see it.”
“Because you’re focused on the wrong thing,” Iwaizumi says. He starts walking again, and Oikawa sees the streets go by in reverse as he hangs off of Iwaizumi’s shoulder like a rucksack. “I’m telling you that I see it,” he continues, definitively. “So trust me, even if you don’t trust yourself.”
He wishes he could stop crying. He wishes he could be as sure, as steady, as strong as Iwaizumi always manages to be. Maybe it’s easier, when you’ve had the confidence of a defined power for years and years. It’s a bitter thought, and Oikawa’s ashamed as soon as he’s had it. He swallows, reaching up to rub at the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“I do trust you,” he says quietly. “I believe in you even when I don’t believe in myself.”
Iwaizumi makes a choked noise, like a cough, and Oikawa tilts dangerously until Iwaizumi readjusts his grip.
“Sorry,” he mutters. And then, “Then I’ll do the same, for you.”
(He’s crying again, a few weeks later, when he stands for a ceremony and is awarded second place. Ushijima Wakatoshi stands placidly amongst his teammates, the first place medals like a foregone conclusion even before they hang around their necks. But Oikawa clutches the award for Best Setter against his chest, a tangible reminder of what he’s accomplished despite starting so far behind the others.
“We’ll beat Shiratorizawa next time,” he says, voice watery around his tears.
Iwaizumi stands beside him, crying just like Oikawa. “Powers or not,” he adds, and Oikawa nods fervently in response.
It’s a promise.)
*
When Oikawa stands at the center of the court, he sees a garden blooming around him. Vines and roses, fruit trees and grasses. And at the forefront, a steady, strong oak tree rises from the earth, the kind with branches thick enough to climb and a canopy of leaves. It’s the kind of tree that one could sit in and watch the stars from.