In middle school, Oikawa always practiced his serves when everyone else was gone, his swift arc of his arm florid and unhesitant, the thwack of the ball against the palm of his hand sure and loud. The sound rang across the empty gym as the ball landed with a hard thump across the net and onto the polished floor.
You watched him for a year, and he saw you watching him. In the early twilight glow he would sometimes observe you with a blank expression that soon morphed whenever you met his gaze, a faux-smile that did not reach his cold eyes.
"Tobio-chan," he sang, "I wonder when you'll have your growth spurt." He paused and his eyes narrowed even as he smiled. "Perhaps never! That'd be nice, don't you think?" Between his hands, the ball was turning around his nimble fingers. You watch the motion of the ball and do not answer; Oikawa would always click his tongue and announce how uncute and disastrous you were.
But one strange day, he grasped you hand and examined your fingertips.
"You need to cut your nails, Tobio," he said disapprovingly, "You're a blasted setter, aren't you? It's a distraction to have your nails so long. Although even if you do cut it, you'll never be good as—"
"Shut it, Oikawa," Iwaizumi shouted from across the gym, and he laughed lightly. His touch was warm when he released your hands. You felt empty.
That was the only advice you ever received from him.
we are kings in a wasted land
Tsukishima Kei x Kageyama Tobio
After the match with Seijoh, you dream that you are back in middle school again.
Teach me to serve, Oikawa-senpai, you would say in your high, underdeveloped tone and you would follow him across the gym. You are sometimes Oikawa and you see yourself, small and agile, your thin legs chasing your dream-Oikawa inside your mind. Oikawa-senpai! Oikawa-senpai!
Inside your head, Oikawa is a sneering shadow, and even in your hazy state you think, he had such a rotten personality.
He watches you chasing him, and he is always static, with his waggling fingers and his narrowed eyes: Tobio-chan, he would chirp inside your head. He repeats only your name and nothing more. You are never any closer to him.
"Majesty," a voice drawls out from somewhere in the fog, "Not to disturb your highness's nap, but it's lunchtime. Or did you forget?"
And so this is how you awake yourself these days: Oikawa wears a brown blazer and a tie along with his easy smile. You are covered in black and wear a petulant scowl that scares everyone off. You are older; but unfortunately, so is he. I will not be seeing Oikawa-senpai today. I will not be seeing him serve. You open your eyes.
Above you, Tsukishima is hovering over you with a small scowl, his eyes very reluctant. His eyebrows twitch.
"Lunch," Tsukishima repeats, and you register his black gakuran and his pale face, his glasses and cold eyes.
"Oh," you say, and try to rub your eyes, but Tsukishima grabs your hands and gives you a look of full disdain that you falter for a moment.
"You're hands are dirty," Tsukishima says in a clipped voice, "Do you want to get your eyes infected? Get your bento and hurry up before Hinata comes over."
You stand awkwardly and Tsukishima frees your hands. He watches you with narrowed eyes as you gather your lunchbox and your warm milk box that you had not opened yet. You meet his eyes.
"Okay," you say, and Tsukishima does not say a word as he walks forth. You follow him down to the cloistered school grounds where no one comes, hidden from the public view with its gnarled vines and old, dropping trees.
Tsukishima's lunchbox is always minimal and tidy: a scoopful of rice, a few fish slices with sweetly soaked peas and ginger. Wrapped in foil, there is also a small slice of strawberry shortcake, which Tsukishima takes his time to cut into small, delicate squares. His motions are neat as his divides them into small fractions, and there is after, an almost hesitation when he gives you a small toothpick impaled with one piece of that delicacies.
You do not like sweets, but you obligingly take it, pausing when Tsukishima sighs and comments, "You take everything so naturally like a king. Where are your manners?" He does not sound angry, but in the past, you were often wrong about other people.
You collect yourself with a scowl, holding the small stick between your fingers.
"Yeah, well, I was about to," you mutter.
"About to what?"
"Thank you for—"
"Shhh, why are you so loud, idiot."
"Me? Loud? Why you—mrrrpphh!"
Tsukishima's hand is against your mouth and smothers your indignation. His twinkling eyes gently mock you.
"You're too loud," Tsukishima repeats, and makes a face as he releases you and looks down on it. "And you just slobbered all over my hand. Barbaric."
You stare at his hand. With its thin fingers and pale skin, the sun glistening your saliva. In a quieter voice, you repeat, "I'm not loud." You never say that you do not like the sweets Tsukishima offers you. You put the small piece of shortcake in your mouth. The sweetness spreads over your mouth, and it reminds you of a creamier, fluffier texture, years ago. You manage to swallow.
"Of course you're not," Tsukishima agrees, wiping away his hand on his uniform. "Not if your highness says so."
You open your mouth, only to close it. Tsukishima observes you, his amber eyes carefully watching how you blink and look down at your bento. Yours is full of rice and generous slices of meat that is now cool and stiff.
"Kageyama?" he inquires, and you fiddle with your chopsticks and pick up a meat piece from the bottom of the pile. It should still be warm, you think.
"Here," you say, and place it onto Tsukishima's own lunchbox, upon the white rice, "You should start on your lunch first. Not your cake."
"Thank you," Tsukishima says, and amusement is laden all over his voice and perhaps even a sneer.
You both finish your lunches in relative silence after that. The wall against your back is cool and the ground is wet, but with Tsukishima, everything is silent and peaceful.
You stay there until the bell rings.
/
/
The last match in middle school, your eyes met with Oikawa as you were called out from the match and you walked forth towards the benchlines. You looked up out of the blue, and suddenly he was there in the bleachers, his new high school uniform glowing and his face impassive as he was watching the game. No, you thought, as your eyes met, perhaps he has just come to watch me.
It was a self-asserting, aggressive thought. Oikawa's eyes were still the same; needlessly cold towards you, and even from far away you can see how Oikawa was staring back at you without a smile. You trudged to the sidelines and sat down. A towel covered your head and shame. The blaring shouts of your teammates roared around you. You gritted your teeth.
But I want to play, you thought then, but this is still not enough.
Oikawa never mentioned the match to you personally. But a year later, when you are in your black uniform and meet him again as enemies from different schools, he tilted his head and smirked. "Hello Tobio-chan. Are you still playing king to your team?" he crooned, and this is when you think, ah, he knew all along.
/
/
There are many things you do not know about your current teammates yet. The new first years are very eager to please, very wide-eyed as you toss Hinata a ball and he hits it across the net effortlessly. They whisper amongst themselves and clutch the ball with their untrimmed fingernails. You call up one of the boys who will become the setter and tell him sharply to buy a pedicure kit.
The boy blinks at you. "Pedicure?" he echoes, and you pause, trying to recall the exact words from someone years ago. A setter should always have his nails neat and squared, Tobio-chan. How else will you toss a ball?
"Your nails are too long," you say awkwardly, and the boy inspects his nails dubiously, all the while nodding slowly because you are the older, wiser one. Also, you are a genius; that is what everyone is saying around him, save for his older teammates who laugh behind his back good-naturedly.
"King," someone calls, and you snap your head up sharply, your eyes narrowing.
Tsukishima has warmed up and is coming over, his eyes flickering briefly to the younger boy, his new setter apprentice who is now observing his hand with a bigger frown. "Everyone is taking up position," he says, and you wonder why the world stopped for a very short time when you heard that title. You are having too many old dreams lately. You wake up in the middle of the night, clouded in fog and nothingness. Only a figure hovers inside your misty world, unreachable and unattainable.
"Okay," you say, and you look at your setter boy. "Cut them tonight."
The boy nods. "Yes, captain," he says, and you pause at that too. It is different, you remind yourself. You are different.
/
/
Later, when Hinata and Yamaguchi part ways and it is only the two of them, you say to Tsukishima, "Don't call me that."
Tsukishima is walking languidly, his headphones around his neck and looking straight ahead. When you speak, he turns his head a little and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. He is still taller than you, even after the last two years. Taller and lankier to the bones, he is always looking at you disdainfully amused.
"How many times do I have to tell you," he begins now, "Commoners can't really understand you when you leave out both the subject and object of your sentence, Majesty."
You frown at the ground and kick a small pebble in your way. The sun is about to set. You are older, you remind yourself. You are different, somehow, although in ways that you do not know yet.
"That. The title." You stop and Tsukishima surprisingly stops along with you, his eyebrows raised. "It's annoying, and it's been a long time since I've been called that."
"….I've always called you that," Tsukishima says, a short pause passing between them, "I've never heard you say anything before now."
"I did," you say, with a fierce scowl this time, you eyes slowly focusing in on Tsukishima's buttoned gakuran, his buttoned cuffs and pale neckline. "When we first met. I told you I didn't like it."
"You grabbed me by the shirt, rather," Tsukishima says dryly, "Did you say that? I don't really remember a lot of nonsensical things."
You don't meet his eyes. The sun is hovering just above Tsukishima's head, slowly going down visibly. The light illuminates Tsukishima's face and you cannot read his expression.
"No one calls me that anymore," you try to explain, and it comes out weak, and you sound tired. You know that you do not sound like yourself; on normal days, you would shout at him and shake him by the sleeve or his neck and Tsukishima would smirk down at you. You should feel indignation and petulance, while Tsukishima should feel condescension towards you. But right now you are behind a week's worth of sleep, and your mind is vague. You do not know what you want to say to your team or to Tsukishima.
You never had a team before. You had never had that 1 printed on the back of your shirt.
Tsukishima does not say anything to this, his face clearing out of any sneer he would have made, as he watches you frown. You are about to rub your hand against your cheek and eyes, but as you raise your hand up, Tsukishima stops you.
"I told you this too," he says mildly, "But your hands are dirty. Don't touch your eyes with them." Tsukishima's hand is cool and long, bigger than your own. You stare at your clasped hands, wonderingly.
"I washed them after practice," you say slowly, and Tsukishima sees you looking down at your hand and his, and his fingers curl up. "They're not dirty."
"Even so." Tsukishima does not say anything more about the matter, but he does not release your hand. You let out a breath. "Come on, I'll take you home." He steps forth, and you follow. With his other hand, Tsukishima brings it up to your forehead and tugs a small lock of your hair. You hear his smirk when he adds, "You're also thinking too much in that tiny head of yours."
You think now would be a good time to kick Tsukishima in the knees.
/
/
Oikawa is now in Tokyo. He told you this himself, surprisingly.
It was winter; you were about to enter your second year and the Karasuno gakuran is not so stifling anymore around your neck. You had run into Kunimi a week before in the sports store; he had nodded at you and you nodded tentatively back. He had asked you, so, how are you?
Good, you replied, and paused. You?
Kunimi had raised his eyebrows at that, but he also replied, Good. He added somewhat offhandedly, You look better.
You're changing, people said. And this new you had been walking towards your house. That day was cold, you remember, because you were just a few feet away from your house, and a figure was standing in front of your front gate; when you walked up closer, you realized with a start that it was Oikawa. His ears were red and his cheeks burnt with the cold. He smiled at you.
"Tobio-chan," he said, and you were frozen to your place, and the first thing you can think of was, "Oikawa-san. How did you know where I lived?"
Oikawa had scrunched his nose at that, as if reliving a painful memory. He sighed dramatically. "Don't you remember?" he said, his tone alit and false, "Back in your tinier middle school days, you just had to watch me after practice so you could steal my serve form, and when I was locking the gym you followed me all the way to the clubhouse. It was dark," he continued, when you just blinked at him, "And the world isn't very kind to little boys out in the dark, Tobio-chan. So being the nice and caring senpai that I am, I walked you home all the time." He bared his teeth at you, his eyes narrowing. "Don't you remember?"
He had always walked two feet ahead of you, his feet light and rapid. You had scurried to follow alongside him and he had never stopped for you. He did not talk to you then, did not talk to you after. Alone, you were breached in a cool silence.
You said slowly, "I think so."
"It's no use handing out kindness and concern to selfish little tyrants," he sighed, and smiled a moment later. "So, Tobio-chan. Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"
Oikawa was still taller than you, better at his serves, cleaner in his forms. He was a captain and a setter that you have not quite surpassed yet. He was then watching you, with his curl of his lips and his blank eyes. You stared at his red cheeks and offered, "You just graduated."
Oikawa looked taken aback. "Hm?"
"I—I mean," you said, "My…senpais. They graduated today, too, so I thought—" you stop and scratch you head roughly, your fingernails clipped and blunt as you rub your scalp. "Congratulations," you said lamely, when Oikawa just continued to stare at you.
"It's not very nice, hearing that from a disgustingly tall boy," Oikawa said, but there was a twinkle in his eyes now. "But, okay. I'll take that."
He stepped forward; his face alit by the streetlights above you. He had a beautiful face, you had thought when you first saw him, but back then you did not think much of it. When you first saw him, you thought middle school was where everything would be great; but you soon found out it was only him, it had only been him who had shone.
"I'm going to Tokyo," he said, his words accompanied by white breath. "I might be recruited for the Japan's national team."
You nodded, slowly. He was not smiling then; his face serious, his hands deep in his pockets, surveying you openly with his blank look. There was something hovering between you; what, you did not know.
(You always do not know. You are only good at understanding where the ball would come, where your enemies would unload the ball on the other side of the net. You are good with chasing objects around your eyes. You have never been good at anything else; that is why you have never been made captain in middle school, why you did not realize sooner that everyone had hated you. Only when the ball had echoed after your tossed the ball you felt the literal rift between you old teammates, and not before. Only with the fallen ball had you looked up to see Kunimi and Kindaichi, their stony faces lined with coldness. Only then did your heart clench, too late, always too late.)
"Are you coming?" Oikawa asked, and his smile was back. "Are you going to follow in my footsteps, Tobio-chan? Although you'll never be good as Oikawa-san."
You answered back, "I know." You stopped. With your answer, Oikawa's face changed into something difficult that you could not read. His smile ceased and once again, it was a thin, single line. He looked angry and exasperated, amused and resigned. His lips pursued and he looked at you, beyond you. He was always beyond you.
"….That's what I always hated about you," he said finally, but there was a certain fondness in his tone, "You're too damn sincere, Tobio." He lifted his foot; he walked closer towards you, and hesitated when he was only a step away. He smelled of soap and bread. He liked milk bread, you remembered.
"I'll be waiting to crush you, Tobio-chan," he said softly, and with that promise, he was gone.
You stood there for some time after that. Snow was falling.
You had not seen him since.
/
/
Tsukishima does not call you King, Highness, Majesty. He does not call you anything at all the next day. He shouts out to Hinata, or he gestures to Yamaguchi, but he does not spare a glance into your direction. You spin the ball between your hands harder. They cannot receive your serve across the net.
There is nothing that you have done wrong, you think, aggravated and angry inside; but there was a time when you thought that once, and you were wrong then. Perhaps you are wrong now.
In the locker rooms, you corner Tsukishima while he is about to don his shirt and snarl in a whisper, "If you have a problem with me, you should just say it." Hinata looks into your direction a bit wary. You must have that scary look on your face, because Hinata meets your eyes and quickly looks away with a small eep. Only Tsukishima is unfazed.
"Problem?" he inquires, "I don't have any problems." He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to his open locker. "Do you mind? I'm getting dressed."
You stand there, even as you take a step back and try to think. Tsukishima did not call you out for lunch today; you had slept throughout the entire lunch class bell and had only awoken when the teacher came. Your lunch box is now full of cold rice and stiff meat and eggrolls while Tsukishima's own had been empty. He had eaten with Yamaguchi. You bite your lips.
Tsukishima does not look at you until he is all dressed, and you can count the ribs protruding on his torso, and how lean he is. He looks slightly disgruntled to see you still standing there, but you do not know how to make things right when Tsukishima would not tell him.
You ask, somewhat quietly, "Are we walking home together?"
Tsukishima frowns at you as if you are an idiot. You bristle inside. "Of course," he says lazily, as if your face was not scrunched and your hands are not balled into fists. "Unless you had something else planned."
You shake your head.
Across from them, Yamaguchi says cautiously, "Are you okay, Kageyama?"
You only know everything when it is too late, when the ball hits the floor and you whip around to see no one standing behind him. You let out a breath. "Yes," you say, and look away. "Fine."
/
/
In second year, their old upperclassmen descend upon the Karasuno gym with their new college friends, and everyone was saddled with shouts and hoots of reconciliation, all except for Tsukishima, who had only sighed. But even he had been ushered into a small flat outside school authority, and taken a drink.
"But it's alcohol!" Hinata squealed, his eyes wide and starry. He grasped his cup like it was something holy. Almost like a volleyball.
"It's beer," Tanaka said brightly, "It's not going to affect you much. Although, Sawamura-san, didn't you also say you had vodk—"
"No, stop right there," their former captain said firmly, and Tanaka groaned and took the beer, "I feel guilty serving this to you guys as it is."
The beer was frothy and cool in the warm room, and after a glass (maybe two), your world around you felt hazy and dizzy, and you stared hard at the wall across you. You tilted you head and almost collided to the person next to you as you stumbled.
"Oh," you heard a voice, "I think Kageyama may have had too much. Tsukishima, hold him, will you? Get him some fresh air."
You felt your arms being lifted and your legs disoriented, as someone spoke into your ear. "Majesty, up. Get your legs moving."
Tsukishima drags you by the arm and hoisted you out of the door. Your feet were squeezed roughly into your sneakers; the taller boy pushed you as he opened the door, grunting, "At least make some effort to walk, highness." You stumbled along and the cold air hits you. You breathe. Whiteness.
Tsukishima was behind you and soon besides you as you walked unsteadily along the outdoor apartment hallway, looking down at the streets below. Your head was dizzy.
"Just for later notice," Tsukishima said, "Maybe you shouldn't drink."
"I'll do whatever I want," you snapped, and narrowed your eyes. You whirled around to face Tsukishima, his white face ghosted by the moonlight. He was predictably sneering.
"Of course you will," he answered back, "Forgive me for giving you sound advice, your highness."
You scowled. "How come you're not drunk?" you said, "You had a drink too, I saw you."
He shrugged. "I keep myself in check. Unlike some people." He crossed his arms. "Get your mind functioning, it's cold out. I don't want to stand here longer than I have to."
"Does the cold wake you up?"
Tsukishima grunted. "It'll make you sober."
You watched him then, this taller boy, whose face was just as hard to read as yet another person. But Tsukishima was not a setter; he was a person who had only just begun to play volleyball incessantly. He did not have the same careful blank look that you have often received; Tsukishima did not study you with hidden disdain but openly dismissed you. He was different, you reminded yourself that night. What you did not know was how so.
"What?" Tsukishima wrinkled his nose and frowned. "Kageyama, maybe Hinata is too much of an idiot to have told you this, but your staring creeps people out. Stop it."
You blinked and averted your eyes. You looked again.
Tsukishima rolled his eyes. "You're an idiot."
This was what was easy about Tsukishima. He did not hide his feelings towards you; you knew then that he had once disliked you, and perhaps a year later he would grudgingly follow you. But he would never like you.
You should have let those feelings stayed.
You took a step forth; Tsukishima was still watching you warily, but he was pliant that night. Another step, and another, until you saw how brown Tsukishima's eyes was, and how warm they might look one day.
(There were another set of brown eyes; they had always been cold and lacking. You had given up on that particular pair from the very start.)
You leaned out and kissed him. Your lips brushed; his lips were very dry.
Tsukishima did not move when you moved back, stumbling a little. He only stared at you, his eyes wide and mouth a little open. It was the first time you have seen Tsukishima look that surprised.
"What—" he started, and laughed a little. "Good god."
Terrible mistake, you were about to think, but Tsukishima grabbed you by the wrist and stopped you in your tracks.
"I didn't know," he began, his voice full of mirth, echoing in the night air, "that you thought of anything else besides volleyball."
"I don't," you said, "usually."
"Ah." He did not let go, still, his grip only growing tighter and his lips curving higher. He leaned over and your lips touched again, only this time, Tsukishima opened his mouth and his tongue swiped over your closed lips, once. His breath was hot. You jerked slightly back, but he was still holding you.
"You—" you sputtered, and Tsukishima laughed then, a little chuckle.
"You're such a child." But his eyes did not look hostile. His eyes curved along with his smile. Those were softer eyes, a softer look.
This is where you started; that dark hallway, his pale face. You only have your poor judgment to blame for.
/
/
A/N: I...don't know if this is going to be a twoshot or a multi-chaptered fic. This completely Tuskikage,by the way! ...contrary to what Tobio thinks inside his little brain.
Reviews are always welcome!