Oikawa was the best setter in Miyagi Prefecture; everyone knew this, and his title was uncontested throughout his high school years. Karasuno may have lost to Seijoh once and took revenge upon them, but you had not defeated Oikawa personally.
A two-age gap was too much when you were fifteen.
You are older now; that is, you are now Oikawa's age when he took the best setter title, and now it is you who is called a genius. You are the star that you never had been in middle school. You can aim your tosses perfectly towards each of your teammates, and pull out their best spikes and curves. You are learning to observe people and see how they run, how they arc their balls.
I am taking your advice, you tell the Oikawa inside your mind. He only laughs.
It is that match at Seijoh. I am seventeen, you reminded yourself, even as you shook hands with Kindaichi at Interhigh. Kindaichi was even taller at seventeen, but he still had the pug faced look you remember back in middle school. He grunted at you but took your hand firmly, and you nodded a little to him. He nodded back grudgingly.
The game was fine; you had strategized with Hinata and Tsukishima the week before, and Yamaguchi confirmed your strategies. Your team had a strong second-year wing spiker, and your middle blocker positions were not weak enough to break on the first smash.
"Tsukishima, nice serve!"
The ball sailed through; Kindaichi returned it with a powerful blow; your left wing spiker caught it, threw the ball to you.
You tossed the ball instinctively to Hinata first, who smashed the ball before anyone could act. The ball went through.
"Yesssss!" Hinata crowed, fisting into the air.
"It's just one point, idiot," you heard Tsukishima grumble.
The game proceeded, and all throughout, you could envision where your team would run, where they would await your ball. Your tosses were higher to Tsukishima, faster to Hinata, smoother to Yamaguchi. You felt Kunimi's eyes observing you as you threw the ball again and again, and as your team ran up to meet your ball. Your fingers ached in the second half of the game.
Instinct, you would later think, but you jerked your head up towards the bleachers to see a familiar brown-head boy watching you. (He had, once. When you were vulnerable and angry, he had coolly observed you with his brown eyes and did not even bother to follow you to your walk of shame to the benches.)
Of course Oikawa was not there. You focused on the ball and threw to Tsukishima.
The match set went on. You only thought about the ball, but the older you, the Karasuno you, could feel your teammates shifting and changing positions. You could serve a powerful serve.
It was the team that brought your glory that no team before had ever offered you.
The ball did not pass Seijoh's line. You watched the ball thump across the net, and your team shouted, ecstatic.
"Line up!" The whistle blew.
You walked up to Kindaichi, who was staring at you with a complicated expression on his face. His eyes were red, but he was not crying. He held out his hand first; you took it.
"You're still a bastard," he said to you roughly. You nod slowly.
Kindaichi sniffed, and looked away from you. "Oikawa-senpai's been asking about you," he said awkwardly, and it is here where it all started. You jerked at that a little. You stared at him.
Kindaichi went on, oblivious to your sudden attention. "He said…he didn't say much. But he was asking if you were still a crappy setter." Kindaichi shook his head a little. "I guess you're not anymore," he said, his last words very soft. You had to strain to hear him. "It was good, playing against you." And at this Kindaichi looked a little shocked and abashed, as if regretting his choice of words. Before he could take them back, you intervened quickly, "Me too." And you registered his shocked expression, and you thought about Oikawa.
This is when the dreams begin.
/
/
The walk makes you anxious, because Tsukishima is wearing his headphones and ignoring you in favor of looking ahead. Hinata and Yamaguchi are already gone, and for a moment you wish that there were at least Hinata to push over, because this silence is stifling. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets. The night air is balmy, and you wonder briefly if your mother would make you curry for dinner. You sneak a look at Tsukishima again. He is still facing forward. Until—
"Kageyama."
You stop in your tracks. He stops too. "Huh?"
"Stop looking at me. Your looks are annoying." There is a clipped edge to Tsukishima's voice that was not there in the afternoon, and you are alert to this new, sharpened tone. Unfortunately, you do not know what it means.
"I—" Tsukishima cuts you off.
"If you have something to say, say it." With that Tsukishima pulls off his headphones roughly and waits, his eyes a little narrowed. He looks peeved, a little tired.
You cross your arms and look down at your feet. You think hard and offer, in a near-whisper, "You've been avoiding me."
"Have I?" This is all very Tsukishima, very airy and light. You cannot read anything in his tone, and his voice makes you hesitant a little before you go on, "Ever since I told you to stop calling me names. You've been acting weirder."
"What are we, kindergarteners?" There is definite laughter in Tsukishima's voice now as he asks you. "I obeyed your request, didn't I? I'm not calling you by your honored title."
"You're not calling me anything," you finally snarl, and from your feet to Tsukishima's face, it is a slow, continuous line of your vision. Tsukishima's face is unreadable, a different type of complication from Kindaichi's. With his face, you draw a complete blank.
"….Am I supposed to?" Tsukishima says, and his voice is softer and a little deadly. You frown.
"Yes," you say, "If you're okay with everything. Are you?" And a sudden thought strikes you and you cock your head. "Was there something wrong with my tosses the other day?" That seems reasonable. It took a long time to perfect Tsukishima's tosses last year when you two were still cool and cordial to each other, because Tsukishima's spikes were delicate and logical, while your tosses were instinctive and relied on primitive instincts. You had to predict his every move, the flexibility of his hands and his quick, furtive glances for the right cues.
Tsukishima shakes his head a little and even laughs. His laughter sounds strained and weary. "No," he answers, "No. That's not it at all. Not everything's about volleyball." He cranes his head up against the night sky and closes his eyes. "It's nothing," he says. "You're overreacting. For once in your life."
You see him take off his glasses and rub his eyes. You say on instinct, "Your hands are dirty. You're going to ruin your eyes."
"So you can learn something from me after all," Tsukishima mumbles, "How nice." But he obligingly stops, and looks at you. Without his glasses, Tsukishima's eyes are softer and rounder around the edges, and his gaze is very open. He looks almost wistful this way.
You hold out your hand, bite your lips when Tsukishima raises an eyebrow and steps away a little. "No one's here," you say aggressively, almost a challenge.
Tsukishima stares at your hand and then looks at you as he puts his glasses on, There is a silence that makes you wary and angry, your thoughts banging inside your head, there is something wrong, there is something wrong. You begin to retract your hand, but Tsukishima holds it at the last moment and links your fingers together.
He jerks your clasped hands, and your stumble forth, two steps, and Tsukishima is suddenly there, his brown eyes overwhelming you. Before you could draw back, however, his lips are upon you, mouth feather-light and closed, as he brushed your nose and lips. You open your mouth a little; Tsukishima tilts his head and draws out his tongue. It is warm and wet, sliding against your own tentatively.
When you break apart, you want to sputter and yank free of his grip, but Tsukishima holds you tight. His fingers dig into your palm.
"I—you—" you say, but Tsukishima only laughs, and this laughter is his typical laugh, his mocking, almost carefree laugh.
"You said no one was watching," he says, his voice careless and cruel, and there is a glint in his eyes.
He takes you home.
/
/
You stay awake the next day during lunchtime, but Tsukishima does not come.
You bite your lips. Your lunch box stays at the bottom of your bag and you let it grow cold.
/
/
On TV, you sometimes see Oikawa beaming at the cheering crowd, and he marches forth the courts. He is wearing the national uniform, on the center of the courts, and you see his agile fingers deftly tossing back the ball into whoever is closest. His eyes are bright on the screen, and you watch him.
His tosses are graceful and artful. You tighten your fingers around your curl knees and take a look at your daily regime. Perhaps more push-ups, you think, perhaps a longer running sprint.
Oikawa is older; you can see it in his height, in his eyes that are no longer so taunting and cold like an adolescent would have shown you. But perhaps it is because you are not in Oikawa's line of vision on the screen; if you step into the TV frame and onto the courts that Oikawa is now standing on, mayhap Oikawa would turn his head and wrinkle his nose, his eyes once again reverting to childishness cruelty his jeering lilt as he calls out your name.
That does not matter anymore. What matters is that you will never catch up to him.
Your eyes hurt.
/
/
Your tosses are off, Hinata tells you the next day, almost angry. He does that sometimes, when he (mistakenly) thinks that you aren't pulling out your best on your worst days. You think of getting angry, but he has a point because you have been consciously trying a new mental regime that wasn't working, and therefore retaliate with a short nod and grip another ball. Hinata's anger is replaced with worry.
"You're weird today," he says, frowning. "Are you coming down with the flu?"
"No," you say. The ball is heavy between your hands. Tsukishima is practicing tossing the ball with the second year setter again, but he is in hearing range. He turns his head and frowns in your direction.
"Are you sick?" Tsukishima asks mildly, and you scowl at this and raise your voice.
"I am not," you stress, and with a glare at Hinata, you gesture your hand roughly, "C'mon, I'll throw you another."
Hinata smiles, a little worryingly. He shoots a look at Tsukishima, but he is no longer paying attention.
/
/
The next day, it is Yamaguchi who finds you at lunchtime. He trips a little at your classroom entrance, and you watch him navigate among the chattering students to come over to your desk. You do not greet him by standing up.
"Did you—" Yamaguchi looks worried, wringing his hands, as he shifts his eyes around, "—Did you fight with Tsukki?"
You think of your cold lunch (once again) and glare at your desk. "Why?" you say, and it comes out tight and angry, "Did he say anything?"
"Tsukki doesn't work that way," Yamaguchi says, his words stumbled and hurried, anxious to make things normal again. You look up. Yamaguchi watches you with a small frown, and even his offering of a smile does not comfort you. "He doesn't talk about those things," Yamaguchi tries to explain, "What's wrong, Kageyama?"
You don't answer to this. Nothing is wrong, you want to say, It's just my dreams. Tsukishima is avoiding me. I don't want to be the damn king to any court. I want to change.
You wonder if you can.
"I don't know," you finally say, and the words come out in a strained whisper.
Yamaguchi smiles at you, and his second effort is better than his first. "Sometimes it's better to be direct with Tsukki," he offers, "He's not used to that." He stops playing with his hands together to focus on you. "Maybe that's why he likes you," he adds, and at this your lips automatically curve down. You feel compelled to snap, "He doesn't like me." (He just likes to mock me and I let him.)
Before Yamaguchi can answer, the first bell rings that signals the end of lunchtime. You quickly cover your face with your arms and drop your head down to sleep. You hear Yamaguchi leave.
/
/
Middle school Kunimi had spoken to you once after their final match.
"We're going to Seijoh," he had said, and looked at you with a mixture of coolness and tiredness. His voice bespoke of irritation.
You were at the gym then, practicing and hitting many serves, all in a row. Around you, an army of balls scattered about, your dead subjects fit for a fallen king. You had never made the nationals; your middle school days ended with your disqualification at the finals. You held the ball in your hand tighter and glared at Kunimi.
"So?" you answered roughly. Kunimi's eye twitched.
"So," he said slowly, "I know you also received a recommendation. I'm telling you so that you won't accept it." He looked at you. "Will you?"
It wasn't a threat; it was a statement of fact and you stared at your former teammate who had always been impassive to your tosses and who had never tried hard enough, who had always worn a little scowl whenever you shouted at him. For the first time then, you wondered if you had been in the wrong.
(You wondered if Oikawa would have done better and yanked out Kunimi's potential; three months later, you would have your answer.)
"No," you answered, and your hollow voice echoed around the silent gym walls.
Kunimi nodded a little and turned around. Before he did though, he added in a tired voice, "Grow up, Kageyama." It was not a rebuke, but a piece of worldly advice from a former friend and teammate, whom you would now only see as enemies.
(A few years later, the same Kunimi would say softly, "You changed," and you would jerk your head, wondering if this was a good thing; Kunimi must have seen this question on your face, because he had curled his lips a little that was not unfriendly, adding, "It's not a bad thing, Tobio." You had gaped at him, your first name sounding strange on his lips after so many years.)
/
/
In your dreams, the constant words of Oikawa Tooru are inside you, with his marred face, immobile and frozen, as he whispers you name. You are alone in a vast court. He laughs; he sing-songs, "Tobio-chan. You're deluding yourself. You can't change your skin that easily. Still a king to a lonely court, aren't you?"
You wake up in those nights, sweating; you close you eyes and think, But Oikawa-san is never intentionally cruel.
(He is, a voice says, but in the end he had always helped you, had never refused you, save for his damn serves. He had never shown you his coveted serve.)
Nights in Miyagi are quiet; you wonder if Tokyo would be louder.
A letter came from K University the day before; the letter is deceptively innocent, sitting on his desk, yet unopened. You stare at it now, the thin envelope, wondering what offerings it would grant him, what doors it would open.
It is the university where Oikawa is.
/
/
"Captain," the second year setter says, "I cut my nails." He shows them to you, his clipped hands neat and trimmed, as he awaits your approval. "Do you think this is short enough?"
You study them longer than necessary, because you did not think that he would have taken your piece of advice to heart. But his hands are indeed, cut and therefore better for tossing a ball. You nod briskly. "It's good," you say, and the setter smiles, a little shyly. A few steps behind them, Tsukishima is waiting for the boy, his hands lazily playing with the ball. You see beyond the boy and at Tsukishima. He happens to look up; your eyes meet.
"Practice tossing with Hinata today," you tell the boy, your eyes still upon him, "I'll practice with Tsukishima."
The setter nods, and you head over to Tsukishima, who is now frowning down at his ball. He must have heard, but he is feigning ignorance.
"C'mon," you say to him, "I haven't tossed to you in awhile."
"Should you?" he answers back absent-mindedly. "Your second-in-command has been tossing to me well enough."
"Second-in-what—" you begin, and stop. You narrow your eyes; Tsukishima catches your look and smirks.
"Oh?" he inquires, "Am I not supposed to say such things too?" He has that faint trace of sneer on his face that is constant. You cannot read people, but a sneer of a dismissal is not ambivalent. Such a face is very clear-cut. Dislike, you remind yourself. Your hands feel cold.
"Never mind," you say, and lower your eyes. You turn away. "I'll tell Mizuhi to come back. I'll toss to Hinata."
Tsukishima opens his mouth to say something, closes it. His face is once again a blank. He too, lowers his eyes.
/
/
Ennoshita laughed a little when he gave you his jersey number.
"So," he said, "It's yours now." He paused and with his usual benign smile, watched patiently as you held the number imprinted on the back of the shirt, your hands trembling a little. He laughed again at how wide-eyed you must have been. You stroked the straight number reverently, as you unconsciously blurted out, "I never had this. Captaincy. I always wanted it." You stopped, holding your breath a little, your hands were a little unsteady. Ennoshita smiled at you, his eyes wise and a little older, as he nodded and looked around. Everyone else had gone; only you two were left in the old and musty clubhouse, the odor of adolescent pervading every corner.
"It's not always easy being captain," Ennoshita said calmly, "You have to lead the team, rile them up when they're down and lead them when they're rowdy. You're the one that has to burden the losses and failures. You're going to feel," he paused, and started again, "sometimes you're going to feel that everything is your fault." He said the last part in a softer voice, and you understood his hidden meaning; Karasuno did not make it to the nationals that year, losing a set match with Shiratorizawa. You watched Ennoshita's face contort, but it was only for a second, and the older boy soon regained his composure and smiled at you. "But all the victories and the euphoria," he continued softly, "They'll all be yours too. Remember that."
You frowned. "Euphoria?" you questioned, and this time your former captain laughed a little, his previous painful expression gone.
"Elation," he explained, "Happiness. Really, Kageyama, you have to get your grades up this year. Captaincy isn't only about the team." His smile froze at his last line, as his eyes bored into your own. You meet his eyes and held them. "You'll make a good captain," he said evenly, his voice firm with each syllable, "I can't think of anyone else who can take us to the next nationals."
It sounded sacred, an oath in the cold night that would carry you out through your last year. The world enclosed upon you as you nodded solemnly. The jersey hung between your hands.
/
/
This time after practice, it is Tsukishima who blocks your path and announces, curt, "We're going home."
His eyes are set and hold a certain calculated gaze that you have not seen before. You are in the middle of buttoning your shirt; your gaze is fixated at your locker wall as you reply, "I have plans." You sound exhausted even in your ringing ears.
There is a splitting silence after your last line, as Tsukishima is left there in his spot, and Hinata and Yamaguchi trade glances. You continue to button your shirt. The second and first years have already gone, and it must be a good thing, you surmise, because they all have not seen an angry Tsukishima Kei. You can feel his irk brimming to his cold eyes that are now directed at you.
"You never have plans after," Tsukishima says, his voice deceptively light.
"I do today," you say back, in his same composed tone. Yamaguchi burps out a small, "Ohhh," almost a moan.
"Excuse me," Hinata interrupts, his voice wavering but persistent, "But are you two fighting? Kageyama-kun?"
"No," you reply, already irritated. "Go home, idiot."
"Yes, go home, Hinata," Tsukishima echoes, without looking at the shorter boy. He is glaring at you, still in his spot. "Yamaguchi, take him home."
"Hinata," Yamaguchi automatically says, tugging Hinata by the sleeve, "Let's go."
The clubroom is cold and silent after they leave; with them, they took away the nervous tittering and replaced it with an icy standstill that you were not willing to break. You reach out for your gakuran next.
Tsukishima says sharply, "I already told you once. You shouldn't think so much with that tiny brain of yours." He sounds frustrated as he chooses his words with his logical consistency that you had never had and therefore never bothered with. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," you say. Tsukishima makes a sound that is almost a growl. "And stop insulting me."
"Is that another one of your commands, then?" That was a clear jeer, and you turn to Tsukishima as you are mechanically buttoning up. Tsukishima is exasperated, furious, wary as he meets your eyes; when he does, his lips curl. It is an ugly look on him; it looks fake.
You say your next words almost with a sigh, because the only reason you have for your openness is your tired state of mind. You say, "I don't know why I kissed you."
Tsukishima does not say anything for a moment. He presses his lips together and he looks almost angry. The next moment however, he too, looks worn as he closes his eyes briefly. He opens them, does not look at you. He looks beyond you.
"Oh?" He does not offer anything more. You do not care to explain yourself as you finish dressing up. Tsukishima still waits for you. You grab your bag and Tsukishima turns away.
You walk together towards your house, a foot apart. Later, you realize that Tsukishima had headed over to the front of your house, as was his routine.
/
/
On that weekend, you do not get a call from Tsukishima.
You still go out, and head over to the park where you would often go with the taller boy when the weather was nice, with your volleyball in tow. You would practice tossing to him, and he would direct you his preferences. A little lower, a little faster, a little less accurate, king, it's very annoying when you do that. Do what? Make your tosses so stable.
Those are the voices that dominate your head as you walk towards the park. It is almost empty, but as you walk closer, you see a tall figure leaning against the railing bars. You walk faster, your heart instinctively stopping for a brief second, even thought the person's hair is not Tsukishima's light yellow.
It is wavy and light brown, stylized and fine, even from afar.
You slow your last steps deliberately, but the person has already spotted you, and he turns to you, a smile upon his face. Older, and off-screen, he is not that different from the last time that you have seen him. He has a playful glint in his eyes that you have never quite been able to figure out. In your dreams he is unmoving and almost a monster with his cold leer. But here, under the bright sun and face-to-face—
"Tobio-chan," Oikawa says, cocking his head and wagging one foot. He leans against the railings as he observes you with your volleyball and your wide eyes. He offers you a bland smirk. "You seem so eager to see me. Have you been waiting for Oikawa-san to come back?"
There is no answer that you can give him. You just stare and stare at him, this monster in your dreams, this blockade you must overcome. After a beat, you can only say his name.
"Oikawa-san," you say, and that is all that you need to say, all that you ever needed to convey to him.
/
/
A/N: ACKKK. No, it's still not finished. It's really not Oikage even though I am completely failing at convincing myself at this point (especially for this chapter). It's so hard to portray Tsukishima from Kageyama's point of view.