no archive warnings apply. lapslock. from kayable's BR3 fill. 559 words
the earth in oikawa tooru’s heart is barren in junior high. i’m gonna beat him, he’d cried, and he might as well have said by flapping my arms, i’m going to fly home. his tears salt the earth. nothing grows, and it’s almost like being in the desert, for people on the receiving side of his focus. the laserlike heat of his stare, the way he’d study late at night the same plays over and over again, knees pulled to his chest.
it’s bitter going, from earning his place as a setter and learning to play for victory, rather than joy. the regular’s jersey looks different on him, his shoulders never quite bowed completely as he watches their seniors play.
and nothing grows, because he plants nothing there.
by his third year, he’s lost, in the desert in his head, the looming shape of ushijima wakatoshi and shiratorizawa’s immediate victories crushing him down. leaving him to dry out in the sun, brown and brittle.
people leave offerings for graves. for the already-dead, to appease their spirits and let them know that, even in the afterlife, they are loved. he’s left flowers on his grandfather’s gravestone before, lit incense for him once when his mother let him dip the little stick into a tiny flame, held in her hands.
and she’d extinguished the match easily, leaving the scent of incense to burn in his nose.
next time, he’ll just do better. he has to win.
“oikawa-san. teach me the serve--”
(get away--keep away from me--don’t come any closer)
--and it’s swift, quick, snapping limb and everything in him is aflame, everything he sees is fire. there is nothing in the desert at all but himself, and oikawa tooru is burning up alive.
“calm down, dumbass--”
iwaizumi hajime burns him clean. “kageyama-kun, i’m sorry, but that’ll be all for today.” and he dismisses him, that boy, who is so obedient he scuttles out of the gym, ball still in his hands.
god, he can’t breathe. he’s drowning in midair, fingers clawing at the burnt earth. iwaizumi’s hands are hot on his skin, fingers anchored at his wrists. the tendons are swollen underneath.
“that substitution was to clear your head,” he scowls, and lets go of him.
oikawa tooru plants nothing, but something in him grows. growth isn’t gentle: it’s not soft rain, like tears. it’s the hard torrent of sweat and summer sun, and iwaizumi’s words that put in his earth a tiny hope: with six people, the strong are even stronger. it’s a graft.
he can breathe again. sitting on the ground, his head reeling, he can look up at his best friend and breathe, in and out. standing on his own two feet is easy, after that.
“i don’t know why,” and for the first time today, he smiles. “but all of a sudden, i feel invincible.”
with hope, he can see the faraway horizon with clarity, and take rest under its branches.
“you can give it everything you’ve got,” hajime says. he doesn’t have to look at him to know how serious his expression is.
he can honor that: their strength, their sweat, their growth. “i know,” he replies, and toes the line at the court. twirls the ball in his hands, tosses it up in the air. takes a deep breath.
FILL: TEAM AKAASHI KEIJI/BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, G
559 words
the earth in oikawa tooru’s heart is barren in junior high. i’m gonna beat him, he’d cried, and he might as well have said by flapping my arms, i’m going to fly home. his tears salt the earth. nothing grows, and it’s almost like being in the desert, for people on the receiving side of his focus. the laserlike heat of his stare, the way he’d study late at night the same plays over and over again, knees pulled to his chest.
it’s bitter going, from earning his place as a setter and learning to play for victory, rather than joy. the regular’s jersey looks different on him, his shoulders never quite bowed completely as he watches their seniors play.
and nothing grows, because he plants nothing there.
by his third year, he’s lost, in the desert in his head, the looming shape of ushijima wakatoshi and shiratorizawa’s immediate victories crushing him down. leaving him to dry out in the sun, brown and brittle.
people leave offerings for graves. for the already-dead, to appease their spirits and let them know that, even in the afterlife, they are loved. he’s left flowers on his grandfather’s gravestone before, lit incense for him once when his mother let him dip the little stick into a tiny flame, held in her hands.
and she’d extinguished the match easily, leaving the scent of incense to burn in his nose.
next time, he’ll just do better. he has to win.
“oikawa-san. teach me the serve--”
(get away--keep away from me--don’t come any closer)
--and it’s swift, quick, snapping limb and everything in him is aflame, everything he sees is fire. there is nothing in the desert at all but himself, and oikawa tooru is burning up alive.
“calm down, dumbass--”
iwaizumi hajime burns him clean. “kageyama-kun, i’m sorry, but that’ll be all for today.” and he dismisses him, that boy, who is so obedient he scuttles out of the gym, ball still in his hands.
god, he can’t breathe. he’s drowning in midair, fingers clawing at the burnt earth. iwaizumi’s hands are hot on his skin, fingers anchored at his wrists. the tendons are swollen underneath.
“that substitution was to clear your head,” he scowls, and lets go of him.
oikawa tooru plants nothing, but something in him grows. growth isn’t gentle: it’s not soft rain, like tears. it’s the hard torrent of sweat and summer sun, and iwaizumi’s words that put in his earth a tiny hope: with six people, the strong are even stronger. it’s a graft.
he can breathe again. sitting on the ground, his head reeling, he can look up at his best friend and breathe, in and out. standing on his own two feet is easy, after that.
“i don’t know why,” and for the first time today, he smiles. “but all of a sudden, i feel invincible.”
with hope, he can see the faraway horizon with clarity, and take rest under its branches.
“you can give it everything you’ve got,” hajime says. he doesn’t have to look at him to know how serious his expression is.
he can honor that: their strength, their sweat, their growth. “i know,” he replies, and toes the line at the court. twirls the ball in his hands, tosses it up in the air. takes a deep breath.