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realmyth · 9 days ago

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everybody wants to love you

kageyama tobio x fem reader

childhood bffs to loves, growing pains and all

— bday fic w my fav trope for my fav boy i lorb him sm

Monsoon season has eased into a gentle lull.

The cicada song goes lazy in the drizzle, the metal fan working overtime to propel a stream of sticky, suffocating wind in your face, through your hair. Everything moves languidly in the heat, each second coaxed honey-slow into the next as the summer rainy season settles over Miyagi.

On the TV drones a broadcast where they show a map of the prefecture, tracing the path of the next storm in red-blue whorls. It won’t quit until next week. Lying stomach-down and doing nothing on the hardwood floor, you hope it never will.

The doorbell rings. You don’t get up to answer it.

Your mom might be calling you to shove all the boxes with your things from Tochigi to the side, shuffling some of the cardboard away with her house slippers, but becoming one with the floor is your only mission. It’s a noble cause for a five year old like you.

Your mother calls again; you don’t respond, but you hope she can feel the gravity of your eye roll. She talks quietly to someone in the genkan, and then the stranger slips off their wet shoes with a squeak— sounds like rainboots and— pads down the hall.

You close your eyes, listen to the hiss of the rain and the empty lull of the cicadas and the hollow wheeze of a ball being bounced against the floorboards…but you don’t have a ball.

“Do you like volleyball?”

( And this is where it all begins. )

You crane your neck and turn your face towards the ceiling. The boy standing above you is haloed in a starburst of lamplight; he’s all round cheeks and bowl cut bangs that hang over his eyes. He brushes his hair (it’s dark like the ink from your mom’s fancy pen) away from his eyes (they’re dark blue).

Well, they’re more than just dark blue, but you haven’t learned enough words to really describe it, so.

You don’t know what kind of face you make, but judging by the face he makes, it must not be pretty. “No. I hate exercise.”

“You don’t have to run around,” he tells you. It’s under-breath and quiet. He talks strangely like all the other people in the neighborhood with their smudgy consonants and pitched vowels. “Setters don’t move a lot.”

You slide your attention back to the broadcast. The weatherman is almost finished; after this, the sports game your dad wants you to record for his mentor’s son will start. “I don’t even know what that is.”

He settles down on the floor next to you, cradling the volleyball in the hollow of his crisscrossed legs; without a word, he watches you watch the athletes jog around.

“Stop looking at me.”

“You said you don’t like volleyball.”

“I don’t, my dad’s friend does,” you say, pushing the tape recorder. Your jaw begins to ache, molars gritting. “Leave me alone.”

Your mom walks by, floorboards protesting under her and the laundry basket’s weight. The whole house is like this; it’s old, and creaky, and smells kinda stale. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was haunted.

She says, “Play nice with Tobio. He’s staying until his parents are back from work.”

That’s not until nightfall, which means you have to put up with the strange volleyball boy for hours. What if he makes you get up from the floor to run laps around the living room?

You shudder.

Tobio straightens and his ball rolls across the floor. He points to a man on the screen, but it’s hard to distinguish because they all look like tiny, walking stick men. “That’s my favorite player.”

“What’s so special about him?”

He shuffles closer, repositioning to lay on his stomach like you, whispering, “His spike point is super high. My grandpa heard that he’s still growing too.”

You don’t know what to say first. What even is a spike point? Why couldn’t his grandpa watch him instead? When will this bowl cut nerd leave you alone?

The whistle blows sharply, and Tobio’s so-called favorite player tosses up the ball. It’s too fast to track— you can only hear the echo of the impact and the spectators’ noise.

Woah.

“That’s called a service ace. He’s cool, right?” Tobio asks. His feet make a slow thump-thump beat against the floor that matches the rhythm of your pulse.

You nod, eyes hunting the ball as it goes up again, trying to catch the movement and make it tangible. “I guess.”

He reaches to claw at his volleyball, small fingers reeling it back in front of him. It looks right in his hands, a key sliding home.

“I’m gonna be just like him one day.”

ー

There’s a singular ribbon of light slipping its deft fingers in the line between your drawn curtains. When it flickers, you know that the light is coming from your neighbor and not an early dawn.

You stumble out of bed, careful to land your feet without sound, and skitter to the window. Throwing the curtains apart, you’re met directly with Tobio’s beams; they sear white-gold starbursts behind your eyelids that linger for a while.

You pick up your light, switching the button on and off.

Tobio messages: You’re up.

You woke me up, you send. Too bright.

Graciously, he angles his light away. Sorry.

What do you want — and you aren’t quite sure what his name is in your little firefly language— TO-B-IO?

He makes a face, all pucker with no sour bite. You want to laugh at his duckbill-pursed lips and press your thumbs between his furrowed brows, smooth out the wrinkles in his skin.

What the heck is TO-B-IO?

Name.

It’s supposed to be like this — he flickers his beam in a pattern that you assume must be his name. It’s easy to do after you learn it, like second nature.

Tobio.

You mouth the syllables with every pulse of your thumb on the flashlight’s button because for some reason, the shape of his name feels so right against your tongue in the way a volleyball looks so right in his hands.

Yeah, that’s better. He turns off his light and gives you a thumbs up; illuminated by only the moon, Tobio is all silvery and chromatic. You wonder if all boys sparkle like shining knights.

The moonbeam shifts away with the approach of a cloud, and you raise your flashlight again.

Mine’s like this — you show him, blinking the light. Got it, Tobio?

He shoots your name back in photons, little pulses of light that have you grinning excitedly. Tobio can’t really do the same; it’s awkward and stilted, almost half-assed. He has dimples, which almost makes up for it.

You seriously gotta fix your smile, you flicker. He dials the intensity of his light all the way up and shoots the beam right into your face.

ー

You come to the conclusion that Tobio is really freaky about volleyball.

He demands that you toss the ball to him on the one day the rain breaks, right when you’re about to step outside in a pair of eye-scalding Hello Kitty sandals, clutching a net and mason jar. Your mom has to come down to the genkan and wrestle away your beetle catching gear because she feels bad for Tobio.

( You feel bad for him too— kind of. Even if his parents are at work more than they are at home, at least he still has you to come to. )

After that, you throw more balls than you swing bug nets, and Tobio’s arms look like cooked lobster shells from how many times he’s received them. Although, sometimes it’s just sunburn.

You ask him once about why he can’t just go somewhere else to play; he says that he usually does, but the nearby kid’s gym is closed until the owners can fix the roof that leaked during one of the summer storms.

Plus, he adds, my grandpa’s helping Miwa with her volleyball stuff most of the time. And you’re okay at tossing.

It’s then that you’re introduced to the Kageyama family, sans Mom-geyama and Dad-geyama. You see them in passing like far-off ships from the porthole of your window sometimes; Tobio gets his eyes from his mom and hair from his dad.

So tonight, like all other nights when the kid’s gym closes early and Tobio’s parents overstay their time at the izakaya with their coworkers, Kageyama Kazuyo-san is in charge of his grandkids, and by the same token, you too.

( Your mom lets you stay at over on Friday nights, and Friday nights only. )

“Kageyama Kazuyo-san.” You toddle up to the old man; his knees crack and his beard bristles with a smile when he crouches down to meet you, and you can tell that Tobio did not get his smile from his grandpa. “What school did you go to?”

“Ah, that was so long ago,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san sighs. He cradles his chin between his thumb and forefinger, the skin on his knuckles gnarled and splattered with liver spots. “Why do you ask?”

You twist your hands behind your back, mouth shifting. “Tobio wants to go to your school because he said it’s a volleyball big-house or something, but he’s not telling me which one.”

The old man hums and scratches his beard; it makes a funny sound that tickles your ears. You lean in when he shields his mouth with a hand. “He might be embarrassed because he probably forgot the name.”

“Yeah, he’s a super idiot. Inoue-sensei made him stand at the back of the classroom ‘cause he keeps falling asleep. Oh, did you know that I’m the smartest in kindergarten?”

When Tobio’s grandpa laughs, it’s with his head tucked down and his shoulders shaking and— Tobio does that too, when you trip over your own jump rope during recess.

“I’ll tell you the secret,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san says. He rocks back on his haunches with a tired groan, knees creaking with relief; he crosses his hands over them, wrist in palm. “But only if you stop saying Kageyama Kazuyo-san. It makes me sound like an old monk.”

The words fly out before you can catch them with your hands, which freeze halfway around your mouth. “But you are old, Grandpa-yama.”

He regards you with narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth, bent frame unfurling after a moment. Grandpa-yama has long legs; it takes him a while to stand straight with minimal protest from his creaky knees.

“The name,” he declares, forcing his shoulders back and chest forward with his hands balled and propped on his waist like some manga hero, “is Shiratorizawa.” He curls back into his normal old man posture. “Now, go to bed, it’s late.”

You settle next to Tobio on the floor of his room. He’s sleeping already, body furled fetal with his knees and arms held tight against his chest— the blanket of his futon is kicked to the side, and he’s half-laying on your own.

Tobio insisted on the roll-out mattresses for reasons unknown. He has his own bed, the frame towering over you on the floor. The shadow it casts reaches all the way to the door.

He shifts, just close enough that you can smell his mint toothpaste (you tried it earlier and gagged at the spiciness) and see his brows furrowing. Tobio makes a small, displeased sound when you tug your blanket from under him.

“Psst. I bet you forgot that your grandpa’s school was called Shiratorizawa,” you whisper.

His eyes don’t open, but his nose crinkles like the crushed paper in Inoue-sensei’s trash bin. “Shut up.”

“That’s a bad word, Tobio.”

He just yanks the blanket his way until you’re both huddled under it.

ー

Primary school rushes towards you at a speed you hadn’t expected.

Winter thaws and eases to a close; the ice that had built up under the eaves melts away with a slow drip, feeding the bushes that line the outer wall of your house. They’re budding now, little blue-tipped blooms that’ll surely burst come summertime.

Armed with your mother’s old randoseru (because the new ones at the big store in Sendai made you cringe at the price), you march the short distance to the gate of Tobio’s house and ring the bell.

You don’t really know how to read his last name on the nameplate; the characters are too complicated for a simpleton child like you, and even if you weren’t a simpleton, you’d still be too lazy to look up the meaning.

He’s just always been Tobio. You’ve never really seen the need to know the meaning of his family’s name until now, because according to your mother, surnames are so important that she made you practice writing real kanji and hid all your hiragana books last night.

A girl— Miwa, since Tobio said that his mom was leaving early and coming home late today, like all days— breathes life into the intercom. The feed sparks. “Good morning, who’s this? Wha— Tobio, don’t run out like that!”

The door swings wide and Tobio stumbles out, a dark blue randoseru hanging from his shoulders. You don’t miss how the leather shines with novelty; you close your fists tighter around the worn straps of your own bag.

When he grabs the bars of the gate that’s very much taller than he is to close it, you spring on him.

“How do you read your last name again? I only know it’s Kageyama, but like— which kage does it mean?”

Tobio latches the gate with a metallic snick. “Shadow or something.” And then he squints at the placard. “It’s not that hard to read.”

“It is,” you insist, scrutinizing the engraved characters. Kageyama Tobio— shadow, mountain, to fly, hero— it fits, you think. You jolt the wrong way when his fingers tug at your sleeve, jerking your nose into the nameplate. “Ow….”

Tobio mutters an apology and slides an arm out of his backpack strap to grab tissues; you eye him with your palm clasping your nose. There’s a weird flex in the big pocket of his randoseru, the seams stretching to accommodate—

“Tobio,” you tell him, “you know they probably have volleyballs at school, right?”

He huffs, scooping the ball out underhand and sending it over the gate. You hear it bump against some garden supplies with a shallow clatter. “They won’t feel the same as mine.”

The tissues he offers you are creased all over in their little plastic pack. You take one nonetheless and dab at your nose; it isn’t bleeding, which is good, but you sniffle just to make him feel bad. “A volleyball is a volleyball.”

His face pinches in on itself, puckering like the mouth of a drawstring bag. You resist the want to pull his face out of the expression with your fingers; Tobio angles away to fumble with a map before you can reach up.

He points down the street, eyes fixed on his paper. “My sister said to keep walking until we get to the…lamp with the cat and then turn right.” He frowns. “There’s a cat lamp?”

You shrug, reeling him by the arm along the sidewalk. The asphalt is still damp at this time of day, and loose rocks grit against the soles of your new shoes. Tobio grunts when he stumbles over a small pothole, tugging your wrist.

The lamp with the cat is, in fact, a streetlight hosting a number of lost pet posters. There must be at least fifteen dogs and cats and hamsters that your neighbors are looking for, though the hamsters are good as dead by now.

Tobio grunts to get your attention— walk all the way down until we get to the konbini; turn left. No, if you buy something, we’ll be late.

You turn to him pleadingly. “The entrance ceremony isn’t that important, right? It’ll be fine if we’re late.” Tobio just keeps looking on and on, eyebrows lax in exasperation. You groan, “I’ll buy milk too.”

The aircon breathes ice down your neck when Tobio tows you into the convenience store; he speeds straight to the vending machine, deliberating between two brands with a squint. You wander off to pick up an onigiri, grabbing the first one you see off the shelf.

When you come back, Tobio’s still trying to weigh his choice of milk box.

“What’s taking so long?” you mutter, digging around your pocket for spare change. You slip a coin into the machine’s slot, nudging Tobio out of the way.

You jam two buttons at the same time, and one of the boxes comes racketing down with a dull clatter. He kneels to grab it while you put in a few more coins for your own.

“This one isn’t healthy,” Tobio scowls, slipping your peach milk into his randoseru for safekeeping until lunchtime. He punches the sharp end of the straw into the hole in his box. “Too much sugar.”

You waltz to the counter, absently dumping a stack of coins for your onigiri. You unravel the plastic covering, digging your teeth into the rice ball; salty ikura bursts under your tongue. “I’m not a sports freak like you, Tobio.”

He grunts and hooks his fingers into your sleeve, pulling you towards the door. His nails are short and neat, skin still soft; the heat blooming from his palm bleeds into your skin.

You move closer to him without a second thought. Tobio is shorter than you are and you have to tilt sideways to accommodate him, but you don’t like walking with a lean, so you wrap your palm around his to fix it.

He keeps his words to his chest, easing into a silence only filled by the grit-gravel crunching under your shoes. It isn’t until after the opening ceremony does he slip away, drawn like a moth to the flame at the sight of a volleyball in the ball-bin during recess.

ー

Three summers pass in all but the blink of an eye.

Tobio’s not as tall as you yet, but he’s still the tallest boy in your year. You’ve gotten lucky time and time again to share a classroom, a desk next to him; that way, you always have him to whisper to and he’ll always have you to give him hints on the multiplication worksheet.

You’ve been twined by the hand since that spring day at the beginning of year one. The other girls in your class tease you endlessly, little snide comments about how you’re Tobio’s girlfriend and you are always gonna be my love, itsuka darekato—

You don’t really care. They become white noise when he stretches his arm across the aisle to tap your wrist for help; it’s lunchtime, and you’re halfway through a bite of your rice ball while your girl friends giggle.

“Hitano-sensei didn’t explain this well,” he mutters, brows angled together. “Mixing words and numbers is stupid.”

Tobio, though lonely more often than not, finds solace in the junior volleyball club. He’s learned some choice words from the bigger kids— not that you really care. To you, he sounds cooler.

You set down your lunch, chair scraping along the floorboards. “Underline the important stuff only.” Tobio begins to draw under every character. “Er…maybe just the numbers, it’s easier if you just take the numbers out first.”

You can hear them teasing you with that Utada song in the back of the classroom, off-beat and terribly out of tune.

Always be inside my heart, itsumo anata dake no basho ga arukaraaaaa…

You study Tobio instead. You’ve learned that in concentration, he tends to stick out his tongue, pinch his brows, and pout. It’s endearing; you find yourself leaning closer, close enough to see his lashes flutter and eyes dart around.

You’re just trying to get a better look at his eraser-bitten paper, that’s all. Really, that’s all.

ー

Valentine’s Day is a nuisance.

You can’t quite grasp where it all went horribly wrong. Before, in the lower years, everyone wrestled in the playground together with no qualms; now, the girls and boys have broken up into cliques, and the boys are the only ones who still wrestle. The girls flutter about in the shade and by the swings instead.

Tobio and you are the only ones who have yet to separate.

“Have you given anyone chocolates?”

You turn to meet the expecting faces of your friends. Akari, the one who asked, slips her gaze past the curve of your shoulder— you know that she’s looking at Tobio.

He’s been steadily growing, and before long, he might be taller than you. But that hasn’t happened yet, and you hope that it won’t for a long time.

If Tobio shot up above the rest of your year, the number of crushes on him would skyrocket. You don’t think you can handle more than one girl— your friend nonetheless— chasing his affections.

Akari’s looking at Tobio with so much love sickness that you can practically see the hearts in her eyes. Your face prunes like a plum forgotten in the sun. “No way.”

The group breaks into white-noise chatter.

Well, I’m giving sweets to Sato-kun — I hope Katogawa reads the love letter I put in his locker — Nakamura-kun already said that he can’t wait to give me flowers on White Day — Whaaat, you’re lucky Nana, Himura-san rejected me…

“I’m confessing to Tobio after school,” Akari says. The noise falls flat.

You blurt, “You can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s not like he’s your boyfriend.”

It’s not like he’s your boyfriend either.

“Because,” you sputter, shooting a glance over your shoulder. The boy in question is spinning one of the school volleyballs, hands running over the cracks and crevices in the sun-beaten leather.

“Because what?”

You have a lot of things waiting to dart off your tongue: because you’ve never talked to him before, so why should you get to call him Tobio, because you don’t know him like I do, because volleyball has always been his first love and I’m pretty sure that he’s not interested in girls or romance for any of the matter, because I’m his best friend, because—

“He has practice after school,” you tell her instead. The rest gets caught wriggling between your teeth. “At our neighborhood’s volleyball club. They have a match next week.”

Akari doesn’t budge. “Well, chocolates will make him excited for his game!”

You scramble for anything else. “He doesn’t like chocolate. Plus, he already has a girlfriend.”

Someone— it might be Ichiko— almost shouts, but the sound is caught in the hollow of her slack jaw. “Who?”

“Volleyball.” You say it with as much nonchalance as you can muster and play with the skin next to your nail that’s beginning to peel in strips.

Pain blooms hot and red, aching under your skin when you pull it too far back. Tobio’s going to be mad that you’re messing with your fingers again, and then he’ll let you borrow his hand lotion and give you his nail clipper and tell you to cut the skin before it gets too long and starts bleeding— you know this because he does it every time, without fail.

Ichiko laughs at your remark and Akari isn’t far off. She says, “It’s probably just something he does for fun, you can’t be serious.”

“Don’t cry when I say that I told you so.”

Secretly, you hope that Akari will heed your warning. She doesn’t, and Tobio gives a whole box of chocolates to your mom because the only sweets he’s ever really liked were the milk-flavored popsicles from the konbini.

You don’t see Akari’s face for two days. It takes her three more to be able to meet your eyes, and another to open her mouth.

ー

“I’m going to Okinawa.”

You try not to let your words wilt like old kelp. Tobio’s spoon stills, hovering over the marinated egg he always nabs when you bring pork curry for lunch; you knew that he might get upset. You’ve spent every summer together since you were five, him trying a new milk flavor for every volleyball you tossed his way.

Tobio lowers his makeshift plate— the lid of your bento. “Okinawa? Up north?”

“It’s actually down south,” you correct, and you readjust your grip on your chopsticks for the fifth time. There’s a little crescent divot in the wood from your fidgeting habit; you run your nail over the dip and it slots right into place.

Tobio tucks his mouth in, holds it between his teeth. When he lets go, he runs his tongue over his lips lightning-quick. “You aren’t coming to Kita-iichi with me?”

“What?” You push the side of your chopsticks into a soft potato and it falls into halves. Tobio looks for some far horizon just past your temple. The distance bleeding into the edges of his eyes is maddening. “It’s just vacation.”

“Oh.” He slips back into normal function, spooning the curry egg into his mouth. As he chews, he pushes around the loose grains of rice on your bento’s lid. “But you are going to Kita-iichi, right?”

You snort and bridge the short distance of your desk to poke his cheek with the butt end of your chopsticks. “Obviously, ‘cause it’s closest to home.” You nudge him again, and he does nothing to stop it. “Why? Want me to walk to a different school? The next junior high is an hour away, you know, and I—”

Tobio scowls, cuts your sentence in the middle with, “And you hate exercise.” The tail end of his sentence gets warbled by the other half of the potato you had split between your chopsticks.

“I was going to eat that, Tobio.”

“Sorry.” He isn’t. You give him the other half of the potato anyway.

ー

One of Tobio’s teammates— Kindaichi, you think his name is— looks at you with something akin to awe on the days you’re able to stay for practice.

“You should come to practice more often,” says Tobio’s teammate Kindaichi’s friend, Kunimi. It’s lunchtime, and he beelined down the aisle of desks the moment Tobio ran off to get something from the vending machine. “Hell, come to all our games too.”

“I’m busy,” you tell him, shuffling away your literature papers. “Senior high entrance exams are coming up. Plus, I’m not interested in you.”

Kunimi’s laugh is low and lazy, almost blasé. “The only thing I’m interested in is when Kageyama plays nicer every time you’re there. It’s like he’s practically in love with you.”

“What?”

The boy in question rounds the door frame with two milk boxes in hand, gliding across the length of the classroom with his head bent to look at his phone. Kunimi skitters away in the opposite direction before your best friend can spot him.

Tobio pokes your drink— banana flavored this time— with the straw first before he does his. When he passes it over, you can still detect the barest heat from his skin lingering on the box.

“Didn’t get the scholarship to Shiratorizawa,” he grumbles. His milk box slowly sinks in on itself the longer he sulks, inhaling the dairy with a vengeance. “Guess I’m taking the test with you.”

You start going through the possibilities in a millisecond— Tobio learns better with flashcards and volleyball terminology, he needs to summarize better, there’s no way he’s going to get through the English portion of the exam without falling asleep. Maybe you’ll bribe him to push through, he’s been wanting to work on his digs for a while.

“My mom’s making curry tomorrow. I’ll have flashcards ready then.”

Tobio is still frowning (pouting is the better word) when he rests his shoulder against yours. You wonder if his teammates have ever seen him like this.

ー

“I’m cold.”

Spring is coming later than the last. There’s still a good, solid centimeter of snow waiting to thaw on the shingled roof, a layer of frost still clinging to the placard on your gate.

You shift under the covers until Tobio’s eyes are lined up with yours. You study the furrow of his brow, how his eyelashes make the barest flutter as he awaits your response.

He still drags down an extra futon when you’re over. You sink your fingers into your blanket and step over to his bed— the real one, with the frame and mattress and dark blue sheets.

It bounces when you flop down on it with loose, sleepy limbs.

“C’mon,” you mumble, rolling onto your stomach and lifting a corner of the blanket, “sleeping down there’s bad for your back.”

Tobio clambers over with deliberate, smooth movements, like he’s trying not to waste energy. When he lies down, it’s not with your ungracious attitude but with a gentle slide that makes his warmth wash over you in waves.

He holds you in his gaze, brows low over his eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned— there’s melancholy tucked in there, the blue dusk that lingers after the sun has melted behind the mountains.

Should you even be doing this? He’s a boy, you’re in the same bed, but he’s also your best friend who falls asleep with you every Friday night. What if you aren’t supposed to do this? What if they— whoever they are— take you away from him?

You pull the covers up to your chin and Tobio threads his arms around your frame. You find that all your worryings are just that— worries, empty promises of something that couldn’t possibly happen because he’s here.

Tobio guides your head to press against his sternum, wordless. You can feel the weight of what he wants to say though, pressing against your ear, knotted around your waist. You card through the crow-feather strands at his nape and a shudder rips a wavelength down his spine.

“You okay?”

His ribcage spreads around a gasp for air, spine flexing when he lets his breath out all at once. You trace a nondescript shape around a knot in his shoulder, and he wraps a knee around your own, wordless. You think about what Kunimi said.

An eternity doesn’t do the minute before he starts speaking justice; the seconds go viscous all while sprinting past you.

“Kazuyo died.”

Oh.

You wrap him tighter in your arms. You can hear his heart kissing the underside of his ribs— the rhythm is stable, slow and assured.

“I pulled out an extra chair yesterday, watching the game,” he rumbles like a storm resting in the horizon, “I forgot until Miwa sat there and asked me who was leading the set.”

With your mouth dry, tongue like cardboard: “Are you okay?”

The cricket song fills what he doesn’t say with harmonics. You shift until the negative space between your bodies is airtight, filled to the brim with the scent of clothesline wind and salonpas. It’s the sharp, minty smell of a gym that has you shuddering, tears staining thundercloud spots into his shirt.

“I’ll be okay—” You pinch his shoulder and Tobio huffs out a small, not really laugh. “You should ask yourself that.”

( One day, but not today. )

“I’m being serious,” and you don’t sound very serious with your voice muffled in his chest, caught by the tail under the lump in your throat. “Always here for you.”

The compass point of his nose kisses the crown of your head when he cranes down to murmur— I know. You’re sinking deeper into the lined-dried sheets, wading through a pool of the gentle, honeyed warmth that comes from being cocooned in your best friend’s arms.

“I miss Kazuyo too,” you speak again, cheek flush to the worn, pilled cotton of his shirt. Tobio smiles that smile with his mouth pressed in a line; you can feel the shape of it against your hair. “I think he’s proud of you, though.”

I’m proud of you too goes unsaid.

Tobio’s chuckle is shaky, stained with a butchered inhale— I know.

He always knows. The thought of pressing the truth between his lungs, into the atriums of his heart anyway still unspools in your stomach.

ー

You get into Shiratorizawa. Tobio does not.

You think that he’s already accepted it, walking away from the results board with his hands jammed firmly in his pockets and shoulders set straight. Still, you chase his shadow, prying your fingers between the gaps and slipping into his pocket.

His hands are cold to the touch; he lets you press your palm to his, reeling in the heat you offer him so readily, so willingly. You’re thoughtless in your pursuit, driven only by instinct and a need to hoard every moment you can get with him.

“It’s good.”

You almost miss it from how dampened his voice is. There are cracks in it, a swallow mid-way through a vowel, a pinch to his lip, tongue pocketed in cheek.

“What do you mean?” you ask, breath going cloudy around the corners of your mouth. You shrug your scarf higher until the wool tickles the tip of your nose.

He looks down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, following his own steps like he can’t really believe he’s still here. When he speaks, it’s stilted and butchered like he’s choosing his words so very carefully. “You’re smart. You can get anywhere with that.”

You draw your brows together, frowning. Tobio gives no resistance when you pull your tangled-up hands from his coat and plunge them into your own pocket. He sags with the movement though, shoulder tilting to accommodate the height difference.

“But getting anywhere doesn’t really mean much if you aren’t there. Plus, volleyball goes places too.”

You hear his smile more than you see it. It’s a light scoff that gets washed under the sound of traffic, an upstep in his gait, a rustle between his elbow and side when he clasps your fingers tighter. Tobio ducks his chin into the scarf that he borrowed from you— he never remembers to take his own— and clears his throat.

Can he smell your detergent on the wool? Once, you left a sweater in his room; he handed it back cleaned and folded properly as per the washing instructions. You pressed it to your face until near-suffocation, drowning in the scent of clothesline wind and citrus soap.

You tilt into him, arm to arm, tendrils of body heat knitting together until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, “What’s your backup school? If it’s public, then we’ll have already taken the standard exam.”

He’s hesitant, too caught up in watching his steps pad against the concrete. Your eyes trace the path down his profile from the slope of his forehead, along the gentle swell of his wind-bitten cheeks, off the cliff point of his nose. At the end of your journey is his cupid’s bow, half-buried under his scarf.

The yearning hits you full-force then, to see the purse of his mouth, the bowed line of his lips. Tobio is pouting, and you’ve only been able to catch glimpses of it through a window, across the playground, down the hall. You try not to think about Tobio hiding it from you.

“You should,” Tobio lifts his head up, running his tongue over his lips. You almost chastise him for doing so because he’ll end up using the chapstick that he bought for you last winter; he knows that you’ve been saving it in your left inside pocket. His hand slips away, leaving a phantom warmth in your palm, “We should go to different schools.”

Did he really just say that?

You can hear how dry his mouth is when he speaks again. “I’m going to Karasuno for volleyball.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“No,” he refuses, taking in a shaky breath, “you’re going to Shiratorizawa.”

The frown that folds over your face is deep-set, betrayed. “You can’t decide that for me.”

Tobio starts with your name— and you’ve never known a sound so fulfilling than when he says it— sneakers grinding against the sidewalk when he pivots to grab your shoulders. The clouds steaming from the corners of his mouth are synced to the harsh rise and fall of his chest. “You’re throwing everything away by not going to Shiratorizawa.”

( He sounds like he’s in pain. )

There’s so much in you that wants to combat him; that you don’t care about Shiratorizawa; that throwing away everything means throwing him away because ever since you were five years old, Kageyama Tobio has been your everything and for god’s sake, you might even lov—

But like Valentine’s Day in third grade, turning around to answer Akari over the chatter of the playground, the well of what you want to say dries up the moment you pry your mouth open.

“Fine.” You lock the remains behind the pearled gates of your teeth, tear your gaze away to hide your tears behind a guise of defiance. Your voice splinters when you say it again— fine.

The walk back home is silent.

Your curtains don’t glow with flashlit fireflies in the night.

Pork curry with eggs doesn’t fill you up during lunch anymore. The vending machine at the konbini is always a few coins short and a strawberry milk too heavy.

Spring comes, and the cherry blossoms bloom too early for the opening ceremony at Shiratorizawa.

ー

from: tobi !! subject: untitled Don’t be late for your opening ceremony.

to: tobi !! re: subject: untitled (draft) so u want me back now or wha| (draft) idec abt shiratorizawa| (draft) my mom made pork curry| was late anyway. not sorry

from: tobi !! subject: Volleyball Training camp. A team from Tokyo came over to play with us. Hinata likes their setter.

to: tobi !! re: subject: Volleyball (๑•ૅㅁ•๑) ??

from: tobi !! subject: untitled haircut (miwa) kinesio tape salonpas protein powder

to: tobi !! re: subject: untitled im not ur grocery list ….my mom wants peach milk

to: tobi !! subject: interhigh haruko wtvr gl on semis. iwa and oikawa r troublesum.

from: tobi !! re: subject: interhigh haruko wtvr Haruko is in the spring. We’ll try that one if Interhigh doesn’t work out. Thank you.

from: tobi !! subject: English What does it mean when a sentence is partially inverted in past tense?

to: tobi !! re: subject: English (draft) idek what that is TT it means ur an idiot

to: tobi !! subject: shoulnt even care but i hate this school so u better beat them

from: tobi !! re: subject: shoulnt even care but Are you mad at me or something? You don’t have to go to the game but at least stop being mad. It’s bad for your heart.

to: tobi !! subject: toboke bakageyama stupid tobio ur so dumb smtimes i hate it >:/ and mom needs ikura onigiri from konbini on cat lamp street the brand w blue stripes.

from: tobi !! re: subject: toboke bakageyama Stupid Tobio also got peach milk for your mom as a surprise. She likes it, right?

ー

The sky opens up and in the patter of the raindrops, you think you can hear cicadas.

But that’s impossible; cicadas only come out in the summer, and it’s winter now. The mid-December chill has long wrapped its talons around the old wooden beams of your home, frosted over the corners of the windows and dripped from the eaves with icicles.

Your new heater sits over the ring of dust left by the metal fan from last summer; it hums with the winter storm outside. The day hasn’t gotten so cold that the rain will turn to snow. You hear the cicadas sing again.

( A better part of you knows that the hymn is just the heater’s hum. You still pretend that it is summer regardless. )

The doorbell rings and you don’t get up. Your mother is definitely calling you from the laundry room to greet your guests, but you only move to slide the short distance from the couch to under the kotatsu, feigning sleep.

Getting your feet warm again is the only thing you care about right now.

( Has this happened before? )

The cicada choirs cease their hum when the thunder gets too loud. Tobio— because you know that the footsteps are Tobio’s, he walks with the same caution and purpose from the court— pads over. When he crouches down, his knees crack, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Stupid Tobio,” he mutters. You can see his dumb little pout in your mind. “Not that stupid, I can be smart sometimes.”

You nearly stop pretending when you feel a cool hand on your forehead. But Tobio sighs in the absence of your response, clothes rustling with movement— he’s pulling the edge of the kotatsu’s blanket higher over your shoulder.

The cuff of his sweater brushes against the swell of your cheek; it’s damp, and you can smell petrichor on the threadbare fabric.

He ran up to the cat lamp konbini and back for you in the rain. He’s soaking wet and here he is, pulling up your blanket and checking if you’re sick or not.

“Can’t even work a kotatsu properly,” Tobio continues, cranking up the temperature until you’re sure that you’ve begun to sweat under the covers. “You’re the stupid one.”

He sets down something by your head, floorboards creaking as he stands, unfurls his spine, walks away. You crack your eyes open to a sliver.

It’s the peach milk.

The thing about Tobio is this: he doesn’t just ask if you could share your food or help him with a problem. He skates around what he really wants in hopes that you’ll be the one to pick apart the things he can’t express.

In this breadcrumb-trail language, pulling up the blanket and running errands in the rain is tantamount to I miss you.

Later, he slides his legs alongside yours under the kotatsu. You take a peek— he’s wearing the pajamas you always keep for him in the topmost drawer of your wardrobe.

“I know you’re awake.” Talk to me.

You shut your eyes tighter and feign a sleepy grumble, scooting away.

Tobio sighs. “I’m gonna drink your milk, it’s getting warm.”

“You’re a meanie.” Say sorry.

“And who’s the one ignoring me for a year?”

This is certainly a bruise to your pride, being made to apologize before he does. But then again, you’re equally as guilty for the ongoing feud with your best friend, opting for prickly exchanges and stiff greetings when you both happen to leave the house at the same time.

You huff and shuffle forward, resting your temple on his thighs, wreathing his waist with the cage of your arms. Tobio doesn’t seem to mind being held captive— instead, he maneuvers so that the sliver of space between you and his solar plexus is infinitesimal.

Here, you can feel every breath he takes. It’s more…intimate than it should be, but those worms of thought are banished by Tobio’s hand resting on your head. He’s warm, a lot warmer than the kotatsu.

“We’re going to Nationals,” he says to fill the silence. “Do you…want to go to the temple together on New Year’s? For good luck.”

“Yea.” It comes out before you can think. “I miss being with you.”

Tobio’s fingers slide tentatively from your crown to your temple, then lower until his palm cups your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth. You swallow when you look to catch your best friend (more than, please, more than) slowly turning pink.

You had forgotten that he has dimples. The little dip in his cheek is still there when he suppresses his smile, all the same.

Everything thaws.

You might be seeing spring.

— 7.2k words later,, haii,, if u read thru all the yap abt tobio then ur legally obligated to reblog with tags!! /hj but pretty pls give me ur thoughts i will eat them all for breakfast lunch dinner and dessert <3

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