Chapter Text
The day turns sunny after light morning rain, and, staring up at the blue sky, you’re just simply thankful that it isn’t pouring spring-summer showers as you stand beneath the ceiling of the entryway. Otherwise, it would’ve been a terrible task for you to avoid touching water puddles with the cast on your foot.
Nevertheless, your mood has no space to delight in that fortune—rather, life has presented you with three issues. The first being Atsumu. The second being Osamu. The third being the two of them together.
“So…”
You turn your attention away from the sky to the first challenger of your simmering rage, and Atsumu visibly shrinks in your gaze. “So…?”
“Well—”
Osamu offers you a juice box silently, as if giving silent encouragement. As if he weren’t next on your list. You look at the carton incredulously, and then up at his face. He simply shrugs and retracts his arm when it gets tiring to hold it up for long, which only serves to sharpen your stare, and even he shivers after a moment, looking away with an expression of mild guilt.
“Well…?”
Atsumu mumbles something, and you swear it sounds like a mix between a prayer and a curse.
“Well? Speak up—I can’t hear you, Atsumu.”
“It was just a mild scuffle! Why’re you taking it all out on me?”
“Because you, Miya Atsumu—and you, come here!” You beckon to Osamu, who reluctantly takes a tiny step forward, only to be jerked closer by your hand wrapped around his shirt, “Another scuffle? A mild one? What scuffle nearly breaks your”—you take a significant look at Atsumu—“nose and a bruise the size of an apple on you?”
“Well—well…”
“Did I stutter, Miya Atsumu? And Miya Osamu—what’s this I hear about fighting in the damn grass fields during afternoon training?” You slightly quiet your tone at the curse, but by now, most of the students leaving the building have either heard or seen your verbal abuse of two boys who are a whole head taller than you, and they leave with gaping mouths—or don’t leave at all, loitering the area like ravens eyeing the next shiniest gem. “Training? The two of you—I swear…”
Osamu lifts the juice box up to your lips again. “Juice…?” He offers in a hopeful tone, and that’s the final straw for you. You’re officially done. It’s officially confirmed. Osamu is officially the dumbest, most clueless person ever, and Atsumu takes the cake for the most irritating. Tomorrow’s headlines: girl comboed by sheer ignorance and stupidity.
But at least he has the sense to know when to hold back his brother’s brain cells from running off. “Samu! What’re ya doing—do you really wanna get beat up today?”
“Yes!” You hiss, “Listen to Atsumu! Do you really want a taste of this fist? I’m sure Tanaka-san has respectfully kept it clean for you! For! You! I’m going to—argh! Fuck!”
A chain of expletives spews from under your breath, and you swear you’re about to pull out all of your bleach-weakened roots from your head all in one go. Your mom was definitely telling the truth when she said you had sailor ancestry.
“Fuck—fine. Just tell me. What is it, now?”
The two look at eachother for mutual reassurance and encouragement, and you know—the day that the brothers look towards the other for a confidence boost is the day that the world ends, that the real guns have finally been brought out, that you’ve been drop-kicked into an alternate dimension you’ve never seen before because the two just never ever run out of unprecedented ego-fueled self-confidence. Where does it all come from? Who do they think is going to help them clean up their own mess, because you certainly don’t have the power to do so this time around.
“That’s… a secret. More importantly—”
“More importantly? Oh, please. Do tell.”
“Well, I’m sure Samu…”
“Don’t hide behind me, ya cowardly twat!”
“Just do it already!”
“No—you!”
Just as you’re about to really pommel them, Atsumu latches his arms around your shoulder in what you can only surmise to be a last-ditch effort to carry out whatever plan the two of them have concocted in unison. And then your world tilts ninety degrees forward, and you're so blatantly flabbergasted that all words die on your throat, even more so when both of them take off running, probably from the teacher pushing through the doors, a mouthful of admonishments on her tongue.
Heaved over his shoulder, you can see the entirety of Atsumu’s ass and the rock path moving beneath his feet, and you feel like a child, seeing the rails of a highway pass by through the car window. And the same euphoric feeling returns to you, reminiscent of that very memory, and a similar, youthful exhaustion that bleeds into your body. You stop struggling in his grasp, instead lying semi-limp as you let out a sigh.
If they’ve gone to such lengths for this plan of theirs, are willing to risk it all, then you might as well indulge them. You’re kind enough to spare such small mercies, especially when they’ll never see your retaliation coming afterwards.
(Obviously, it’s not because struggling would probably lead you to risk more injuries if he actually ever drops you, and being the stubborn guy that he is, Atsumu would probably never stop running, at least until you actually fell, and falling face-first into concrete is not on your bingo card today.)
“Just tell me what you guys are doing, for fuck’s sake.”
Osamu pats your head apologetically, a half-pace behind his brother, and you look up to give him a frightening glare. He shrinks back ruefully, and although you have half a mind to forgive him, you don’t. Not when it becomes more and more clear as you’re carried down the path, that you’re going in the direction of not just anywhere, but the building complex where all four basketball and volleyball clubs hold their meetings.
It doesn’t take another Einstein to understand what’s going on, although you do frown with slight shame that it takes you so long to realize. There’s only one reason they’d ever take you here anyway.
Atsumu sets you down gently when he sputters to a slow stop, and his hands shake, perhaps unsure of where to put them. As if he hadn’t just heaved you up onto his arm in a measure of the unwarranted, post-puberty, strength of a teenage boy.
“Uh—bumpy ride, hah?”
You give him a punch to the stomach, and he cowers into it, almost pathetically. Looks like you’re still good at something, then.
“Hah. Bumpy ride? Go fuck yourself or something, Atsumu.”
The sun above your head reads that the twins are late for training. The clock on your wrist—even more so.
“So… what’s next, Samu?”
“Wha—? It’s yer turn now, scrub! I carried her here. I took a punch for you!”
Raising both fists into the light, you give them the most menacing smile you can. “So both of you have a death wish, huh?”
“C’mon! Grab her! It’s all or nothing now!”
Only a fool would fall for the same thing twice, you think. And yet they still manage to loop your arms around their neck, lifting you entirely off the ground and crushing you between their shoulders as they “carry” you into the building. Your feet dangle uselessly, and you curse yourself for your stupidity and for your damned genetics while simultaneously hurling scathing hexes at them even as they march in deeper through the halls.
Truth be told, you’ve never been inside the main gymnasium, or at least not as thoroughly as now. Being carried awkwardly like this, you’re able to get a complete, free-of-charge tour with a side of lots of staring from the basketball club members. They loiter around the entryway and are only there because, courtesy of the volleyball powerhouse school that they attend, there isn’t much favor granted to hoopers, who have the misfortune of sharing the same court. Not that you like them anyway, and the credit for that can be given to Tanaka. Nevertheless, there isn’t much to see, not that you expected much in the first place. Only one hallway in the entirety of the gymnasium leads directly from the path outside, and two more branch out into the lockers, bathrooms, and storage rooms. The club rooms are the only thing that marks it similar to the non-athletic clubs, and they sit right outside. If you remember correctly, the girls’ judo team’s club room is a few doors down on the second floor.
Two turns, and then suddenly you’re bursting into the actual playing area. You don’t even let them set you down on the sleek, polished court before grabbing a handful of Atsumu’s hair and pinching Osamu down onto your eye level by his ear until the three of you are slightly bowed, the twins more so than you, in an awkward and obviously coerced huddle.
“So. An explanation?”
“Well—well…”
You push them down until your foreheads nearly touch, and you lighten your voice, letting it go to a soft whisper, as if the meek tone would mask the murder in your eyes. “I’m all ears. Aren’t I? Surely you’re not going to have me sign as your manager, right? I’m sure, between the two of you, there’s still a neuron pulsing, right? A frontal lobe?”
Osamu laughs nervously, wrapping his hand around your wrist, quietly pleading with you to let go of the hostage you’ve made of his own ear. “Are you sure ya wanna do this here? There are people watching, you know…”
Right. He’s right, for god’s sake. There are people watching. Immediately, you let go, and Atsumu jerks away, cringing as he scrabbles to fix his hair, and Osamu shuffles back, rubbing at his helix.
Ojiro stands not too far away from the scene, exasperation on his face, and he’s jogging. Jogging towards you. God—there are a lot of people. The entire volleyball team is circled up around the whiteboard, and God… how could you forget that the twins are technically late? Of course, they’re all here.
“You two…Atsumu, Osamu what do you think you’re doing? I suggested you bring her—not literally. Are you serious—you two… I’m really sorry about that, er—I’m telling you… you two…”
You smile sheepishly, but it probably doesn’t reach your eyes, because he, too, shifts uncomfortably.
(How do you always manage to mess things up?)
“I’m here now, then.”
He sighs, rubbing at his eyebrow, and you think of how his hair seems a bit longer than in your memories, even though you see him nearly every day. How didn’t you ever notice that?
“Sorry—I should’ve known… ugh, they just never think.”
Atsumu scowls, stepping closer to you as if he’d forgotten all his past transgressions. “Hey! It was the only method I had, you know?”
Just as a rebuttal bubbles up on the tip of your tongue, a flash of sandy hair catches your eye. It’s the plain color of a camel’s fur, which is a weird comparison but oddly fitting. Carrying a clipboard in one hand, glasses perched on his nose, you look up at Coach Kurosu as he approaches, and another wave of embarrassment lights up on your face. Of course the coach saw everything, too.
What an awful start to your second encounter. And your first impression probably hadn’t been that good, either, especially since the circumstances of that time entailed you and Osamu sneaking around campus grounds to jump Atsumu, only for the pie in your hand and the confetti in his to be confiscated on the spot.
“There you are! I’d thought that you would never come, you know?”
Frowning, you give the two a suspicious glance and turn confusedly to face him. “Oh. Coach—were you—uh, sorry. I… were you expecting me?”
He rests his free hand on your shoulder and laughs heartily, and you shrink even more so as if he were scrutinizing you and not simply comforting. “Of course! You applied, did you not? I got your form. And it’s perfect—we could use a manager. Especially one of your caliber; I’ve heard great things about you from Minoru—er, Kurihara… sensei. Be not afraid. It seems you’re acquainted with some of our players, too. That’s perfect!”
The whole thing sounds like listening to a lecture about integrals and derivatives, except that it is not as if you don’t understand the words; rather, you can’t make sense of what context it is that he knows and you don’t, and that information which you lack becomes the reason you blink in utter confusion and then adopt an expression of gullible ignorance.
“Uh—what form—”
“Come! I’ve approved everything. You came at the perfect time. Usually, I would need to meet you, but I’d received such vividly glowing remarks about you from Kurihara-sensei and my players that it wasn’t really necessary, was it? It’s good Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun brought you here today. I didn’t think they’d really listen. Those two…” He sighs, and you think how it is that middle-aged men can be so different at times. Your senseis have been on two different spectrums—Adachi-sensei, a kind of calm, soothing storm, and Kurihara-sensei, talkative, enthusiastic, and strict. It seemed that Coach Kurosu veered closer on the spectrum to his friend, Kurihara-sensei.
“Anyway. Come, let’s introduce you to the team. They’ll be pleased to have a young lady like you, I’m sure. I showed them your form and everything.”
You nod meekly, shoving the rolling contents of your guts and the remnants of lunch back down your throat. What the hell have the twins dragged you into this time? You should’ve given them a piece of your mind when you had the chance. Now look where you are.
And gods above, what fucking form is he talking about?
The entire volleyball team might be eighteen or nineteen people strong, all dressed in black and white save for Atsumu and Osamu, who are both in the school uniform they have yet to change out of.
Never one to be oppressed by mere staring, you don’t shrink under their combined gazes. However, it is walking blind into a complete lie made recklessly by the two brothers that scares you. You don’t want Kurihara-sensei to think worse of you than he already does, and by now, Coach Kurosu seems to have been perfectly convinced that you applied, you want to be here, and if you come out with the truth, it’ll seem like you have cold feet, or that you don’t take this team seriously enough, which you never have and would never dare to do.
Hayakawa Shun stands 187 centimeters as the captain and wing spiker of the team. You find him quickly amongst the sea of numbers as the first and foremost number one, and though his self-introduction does little to give you the information that you’ll need to be able to work with this assortment of gangly boys, you can tell, looking in his eyes, that he’s seen right through you. His eyes pierce across your every movement—you are stripped bare until the very virtues of your soul are laid before him. It must be something acceptable, because he gives you a nod.
Similarly, he, too, is naked before you. A deep shade of blue, his eyes tell you of his discipline, and his smooth, light smile tells you of his firmness—unwavering, quiet, not scarily strict, yet it would do you no good to cross him. In his dimples, you see humor; in the way his teammates elbow him, and he rolls his eyes back, you can see presence; in his straight back and perfect posture, you can see self-awareness. In the bruises that litter his forearms, you see dedication; in the callouses that peak out from his palms, you can see persistence.
Standing before you, eyes twinkling, his hair a shade of beige, Hayakawa becomes the best of Atsumu and Osamu combined.
Each person introduces themselves following the example of their captain. In that, you can see the example of his leadership, because it has not even been half a school year, yet mutual respect has been instilled into the minds of them all.
Coach Kurosu takes the liberty of announcing your name. He also takes the liberty of explaining your not-so-distant past, and the little incident with Tanaka, which garners from the players a sentiment not unlike yours, a symphony of sighs and pleased grunts. It is good that you’re in good standing with them, then. It seems Tanaka was not too well-liked either.
“I’m from Himeji,” You say quietly, having been left with little to introduce yourself with. “Well, specifically from Tokyo, and I moved when I was young to Himeji, and then to here, which is why I may sound a little different. Please treat me well, I’ll be in your care from now on.”
It reminds you of the volleyball clinic when you were young. How you’d introduce yourself to an audience of kids, how they giggled and watched, except it's boys now, but nevertheless, their restraint can be akin to children, and so the curiosity rolls of their shoulders in waves.
What is surprising, though, is not the looks. It is the familiarity in their eyes. They’ve heard of you, and it is beyond a passing interest that would come from hearing of your infamy through hushed whispers. Someone has talked vividly about you, and enough for them to be intrigued.
“Well, let’s get started. You two! Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun. Since you need to change anyway, show her around, as well. The rest of you, laps!”
“They’re crazy.”
Wiping your forehead with a towel, you grunt in agreement, too out of breath to say anything else. Fortunately, Li has enough words in her for both of you to share.
“Literally throwing you over your shoulder is one thing, but forging your handwriting on a form? If they don’t fear god, at least fear the teachers…”
You pick up the dumbbells from the floor, shifting them in your hand, tendons popping beneath your skin as you flex your wrist. Your 5kg ones seem almost laughable in the face of Li’s 12kg, but you lift them above your head anyway and start another rep of shoulder presses. This close to dinner time, most of the training room has been vacated, which you ought to be grateful for considering how loud Li can get.
“Another one? You’re really going at it today.”
“Well, considering that I can’t do anything with this thing on my leg, I might as well work on what I can. You’re done already?”
“Yeah.” She takes a drink from her water bottle and squats down to be eye level with the bench. “Done for today.”
“Last one, I’ll be done soon.”
“It’s okay, I’ll wait.”
True to your word, you finish up quickly, slotting the weights back and throwing the rubber bands back into the boxes before exiting the room.
Dinner today is chicken karaage and rice, wakame salad, pickled vegetables, miso soup, and melon slices. Picking up the end of the line, Li gets two trays from the stands in the corner while you hold your spots. Still slightly wet from wiping down the grime on your skin after a workout, you try your best to fight the urge to hurl yourself from the cafeteria towards the bathrooms for a scalding hot shower.
Nearing the fruit section, Li gives you her miso soup and takes your portion of melon slices, because she knows that you’ve never particularly liked melon, and knows that you like soup better, and she likes melon, but doesn’t like miso. Sitting down at an empty table, you find yourself stricken with the sudden illness of a lack of appetite, and so you begin to stare off into the window, a surface of glass that gives way to the orange hues of the sunset, in hopes that time may recover your lost ache for food.
When more than a few minutes pass, someone kicks you beneath the table to wake you from your stupor. You roll your eyes at Li, but you follow her words anyway, shifting back to pick at your food with chopsticks. You’ve never really liked chicken karaage either, but it’ll do a lot in replenishing lost energy after the workout, not to mention that food is food and you’ll never have complaints. Especially since it does look appetizing now—the deep-fried skin has a certain glazed, crispy sheen.
As more residents file in, the sun goes down slowly with the horizon, Li nags you for a piece of your chicken, and your table is joined by Nishimura Hana and Kimura Akari, your dorm neighbors. They nod at you in greeting, but, of course, are more inclined towards Li—they’re more familiar with her, after all. Outside of your former club activities, you hadn’t really connected with them elsewhere.
Giichi—who you’ve permanently ingrained in your mind as the rich boy that would rather live in the dorms than commute from Nishinomiya—joins you two seats down with Ginjima and a member of the volleyball club that you recall as familiar. He waves to you, and you side-eye him in return, and he responds to that with mock hurt, one hand on his heart and the other draped against his forehead, leaning back as if hit by the impact of your glare.
He’s just as dramatic as Atsumu.
“So… I hear you’ve been roped into something,” Giichi purrs, sliding over next to you with a motion one too like a scheming cat for your liking.
“It’s not even ‘roped!’ It’s literally fraud,” Li hisses in rage, dropping her chopsticks not so subtly as she scowls. “Tell me that forging handwriting isn’t fraud and I’ll think you’re bonkers.”
“Well, I don’t have much to say about that. But you didn’t mention that, did you? Or else the twins wouldn’t be as happy as twin larks over there.”
He jabs a finger towards the entrance, and you follow it to, of course, the topic(s) of your very conversation. They don’t look terrible, especially after the beating you’d given them, and that appears to be the very issue.
“Two stupid larks, alright. Well, not for long.”
“If you’re gonna… give them a piece of your mind, do it somewhere the supervisors can’t see.”
With that, he sidles away back to his own seat, and you’re left planning a murder with utmost detail. The details of which evaporate when Osamu slides in right next to you and Atsumu next to Li, and you forget everything you’ve planned in the past five minutes. Fat lot of good your brain is. It’s supposed to counterweigh it—not follow its instructions.
You suddenly wish you had drumsticks instead of karaage. Makes for a better weapon.
“So…” Osamu glances at you.
Li opens her mouth, a roll of admonishments ready to slip out like toilet paper unraveling itself as it runs away from your hand in the bathroom. Good thing you kick her hard in the shin before it happens, your hand reaching out to snatch the paper from the floor before it rolls away too far, and you’ll have to relinquish the hold your butt has on the toilet seat in order to catch it.
Sometimes, you’re thankful Li has enough words for both of you. Sometimes, it’s better if you handle it—either because the solution requires a more detailed plan of thought, or a more delicate handling, or simply, it is up to you to solve and not Li.
In this case, it is the very latter, because it is the twins here, and not anyone else. It is not right to hide your thoughts behind her towering shadow.
Ultimately, it is because it concerns you. You are no paper tiger—and truly, it is both of them who are at fault.
“I’m still mad at you two. I cannot believe you would do something so important without asking me. Remember, consent is key—even in this context. I’m sure I told you, but I’m disappointed.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’ Atsumu. Just listen. I know that if I keep forgiving, you guys will never learn, so know that I’m still disappointed. But I forgive you, and I think I always will. Really. I won’t have you explain to Coach Kurosu—sure, okay. But don’t do it again. Friends don’t force each other into doing things without asking.”
They look at each other and then back at you, and truly, you can see the sincere apology in their eyes, the admonished nodding of their heads. You think them adequately reproached by the way they fidget.
At least until Osamu mumbles, “But I’m sure ya would’ve never agreed otherwise.”
And Atsumu, “It’s going to be good for you.”
Evidently not, then.