➥ Granted with all his intelligence and sardonic nature, falls for the imbecile who stumps his quiver.
𝄞⨾𓍢♬⋆˚♪ Also On AO3: Moral of the Story
[PAIRING/S]: Tsukishima Kei x Fem!Reader (Presence of unrequited/one-sided Hinata Shōyō, Kageyama Tobio, & Yamaguchi Tadashi x Fem!Reader if you squint)
[AUTHOR’S NOTE]: I regressed back to my Haikyū!! phase, dawg. You’ll learn the MC’s backstory pretty quickly (because I pour it over readers like a bucket of cold water). The MC is also heavily implied/stated as half-Filipino. So good luck with that.
✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧
Part 01 (Prologue) <-
Word Count: 17,166 words
Warning/s: None (unless you include eventual angst)
"Of all God's gifts to the sighted man, color is holiest, the most divine, the most solemn." — John Ruskin
August 21 [Third-Year Junior High School]
Sunday | 04:49 PM
THE field lamentably calls out to you.
Lustrous blades of grass reflect the dimming rays of sunlight, and its cast feeds back into your vision as deep hues of graying clover. Beneath the polyurethane studs of your boots, petrichor lingers on the soil. Effervescently so.
Shiratorizawa's goalkeeper had been all too slow as you crossed the ball to your team's forward.
In your ears, succeeding the satisfying swoosh of the ball rolling against the back of the net, a pitch of high frequencies attempts to drown out the grating and tearful celebrations that run toward you at the great execution of such an assist.
For the players of Shiratorizawa Academy Junior High, the end of the match rings with the same multitudes of a death knell. Several of them collapsed on neatly trimmed weeds, burying their crestfallen faces into their hands or their jerseys' inner linings, as the reality of a 3–1 defeat washes over miserably.
Well. That was a needlessly rough game.
You thread away from your teammates, coldly striding to the side of the field. As you sit on the turf, dropping onto the faintly damp soil beside your belongings, you immediately reach for your socks.
Peeling the thick, sweat-soaked fabric down to your ankles, you remove your shin guards and toss them to the patch of grass just shy of your Mizunyoro sports bag. The introduction of cool zephyr to the unsubtle sheen of moisture on your lower limbs illustrate congruency to the greatest sense of relief you have felt in a long while.
Not even the recent victory of Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High can trump its assuagement…which begs your mind the query to “impertinent” matters as you stretch on your own.
When did your personal enjoyment vanish from the poetry of the sport?
Ultimately, the world bleeds out in muddled colors, serving no contrast to your hollowed-out heart.
Did you unwittingly dismiss your future high school football career after the shrill blast of the referee's whistle, as it pierced through the field? As an apprise to your psyche that you were no longer required to run after a silly ball? Or did it happen well before that finality?
"Senpai! The awarding ceremony's about to begin in a few minutes! Coach already got the others to line up!" A first-year reserve emerges from out of nowhere, calling for you to join the rest of the team.
Despite not having played a single minute, she seems ecstatic and prideful; brimming with adrenaline as it circulates throughout her entire body. Such blatant proof that enthusiasm only ever gets one so far.
With half-closed eyes, you stare at the first-year, then out at the center of the field where a stage is hurriedly being assembled by the tournament staff. It is rather mind-numbing; the concept of such affairs. Entirely tedious, too, that you are required to stand through prolonged formalities after a final fixture like the one very recently played.
You sigh tiresomely through your nose, fiddling with the aglets of your loosened laces.
The first-year huffs with pursed lips, perhaps a few seconds away from having a go at towing the team's captain across the football pitch herself. "Senpai—"
"Yeah…I will be there," you reassure whilst waving a hand dismissively.
Not motivated enough to retie your laces, you kick both cleats off entirely; haphazardly throwing them into your bag without a second glance. You slide your socked feet into a pair of worn-out tsinelas that have seen better days before shuffling languidly toward the center of the field.
Standing in a deathfully condensed line of sweaty football players for awarding ceremonies is…in your semi-professional opinion, the absolute zenith of human inefficiency tied with the need to be loudly acknowledged as if one were an incessant toddler.
Time and time again, the stadium lights persist to inject a migraine into your skull while the humidity of stifling air beats down at the back of your neck. If that is not enough, the tournament director—a middle-aged man affiliated with the Japan Football Association possessing no limits in spewing anecdotal spiels and stating the obvious—currently gives a sweeping exposition entailing "youth," "women empowerment," "the spirit of the game," and "discovery."
You shift your weight over from one leg to the other. Tilting your head back, you gaze upon cinereous hues of rust at the mellow yonder; an infinitely more riveting scene compared to what you are subjected to endure on the ground.
The sky is a canvas never short of boundless discoveries…of which it is positive that your outlook concerning football did share at a certain point in the past. The distant past. So, what is there left to discover? Fanatics already associate your surname to be synonymous with the idea of winning; that Yoshino [吉野] truly lives up to its meaning of gracing a "lucky field."
Undeniably standing at the top of the junior high circuit, its sense of fulfillment is debatable at best. At worst, it is impractical to even mention.
"…After an intense and thrilling display of athleticism that kept everyone at the edge of their seats, this school continues to prove that they are not to be taken lightly." The microphone blares through the feedback-heavy PA system, with the tournament director finally getting to the point. "Ladies and gentlemen, our reigning JFA Regional Under-15 Women's Division Champions for the third year in a row…Kitagawa Daiichi Girls' FC!"
The subsequent eruption of chaotic squeals and roughhousing acted out by your teammates make for a rather unpleasant reception to the thin, centimeter-wide membranes of your poor eardrums. Even your vice-captain, who had been the one to score the landslide victory thanks to your assist, catches you by the heavy seams of your shoulders, twisting polyester and elastane into her palms as she jerks you back and forth to rattle the jubilation out of you along with her, as if she had not known you guys won twelve minutes prior. She ardently leads you by the hand toward the stage.
One minute, the weight of a gold medal settles flat against your chest as the synthetic ribbon scratches—itches—your nape uncomfortably; the next, you are getting dragged into the middle of a traditional lineup for a team portrait. Your…socks and sandals cannot be seen (whether this is something to be thankful for or not, it is rather unclear) as they get obscured by your kneeling underclassmen in complete and proper gear within the first row.
You barely find your footing before your vice-captain beckons you wordlessly (…you did not think that motor-mouth of hers was capable of being wordless, really). She gestures for you to hoist the left legs of the massively tiered trophy as she lifts the other side for the team's photo opportunity.
The onslaught of flashing cameras from the local press, capturing every single angle, threatens to sear fuzzy, white spots to your retinas.
Momentarily, as you regain clarity in your vision, you observe the glinting of a cheap veneer, of banner gold spray paint on plastic, under the shared influence of stadium lights and rapid-fire shots of multiple lenses.
Obviously, the trophy itself is merely a placeholder for the effort poured into triumph. Even if it were made out of real gold, paper pulp, or a dog's shit from concrete, it would scarcely change your opinion (although you would be a bit hesitant toward lifting that third material).
Back in your first year for the team, you certainly could not deny that being able to hold such grand awards did have its short rush of serotonin. However, redundancy becomes pertinent. After years of garnering the same exact result, it is just another heavy object to haul back to the bus; an extracurricular bullet point to reside under "Accomplishments" for your future curriculum vitae, and nothing more.
Can a girl not rest? you think, clenching your jaw. Running is tiring. Football is tiring. You regard winning virtually the same as the other two. Without embellishment, you want to go home and embrace the soft duvet of your bed with open arms, or better yet, eat food that practically melts in your mouth…
As the team gets down from the stage, your eyes start to flutter shut, conceding under the spell of visualizing the incomparable comfort of sustenance. Your teammates may have had to guide you through the better part of the menial trek.
"Furthermore, the JFA would like to express our recognition toward the individual of standout young talent who has showcased her exceptional skill, relentless work ethic, and unparalleled leadership," the tournament director continues, shuffling his cue cards in the process.
"It is my distinct honor to announce that the Most Valuable Player of this year's tournament is none other than…Yoshino [F/n]! Jersey number ninety-nine from Kitagawa Daiichi Girls' FC!"
I wonder what my mother prepared for dinner—?! Ow.
A sharp elbow digs into your abdomen's right lumbar, where your gallbladder resides.
"Yoshino-sama!" heralds one of your second-year forwards directly into the shell of your ear. She persists on using that ridiculous honorific despite your repetitious threats of never ever passing to her anymore. "Yoshino-sama, wake up!"
Dazedly, your eyes blink open as they filter the same disappointing reality of the awarding ceremony. All of the spectators in the stands are clapping. Your teammates are punching your arms "endearingly." Not to mention the middle-aged man staring directly at you with a plastered smile which, to be frank, is quite unnerving. In his possession, he holds a crystal plaque and an additional medal.
"Just get up there already!"
With the grace of a teenager being forced to do chores, you lackadaisically step forward from your line and proceed up the short steps of the stage. The outsoles of your sandals emit such an unambiguous slap against the black aluminum platform, you almost second-guess whether someone invited SpongeBob Squarepants to the function.
"Congratulations, Yoshino-san." The tournament director bows graciously, transferring the hefty weight and beveled edges of the glass award from his hold to yours, before draping a second ribbon over your head. "For your exemplary performance in controlling the midfield today."
You stare at it…briefly considering the rate of potential exchange of bacteria as if you were a germaphobe. But since you are not a germaphobe, you shake it with minimal firmness enough to be considered courteous.
"Uh. Thanks." You nod once, voice devoid of any inflections. Tucking the crystal plaque under your arm like a stray textbook, you curtly bow and immediately walk back down the stage before the man can offer more banality or clichés.
After all that jazz—the niceties, the bowing, and the second "mandatory" team portrait (wherein you were more or less held hostage)—at last, it is time to cash in the nap that long awaits you on the team bus. You gather your belongings compiled in your Mizunyoro sports bag before heading to the vehicular property of Kitagawa Daiichi.
As you amble away from the field, your phone vibrates from the inside of your bag.
Tobio [5:17 PM]
Good job w the win
Your cross during the 2nd half was ok but you couldve done it much earlier
Tobio [5:19 PM]
Congrats on mvp btw
Read 5:19 PM
Since when does that numbskull watch my games? you think, because to be candid, you legitimately held the idea that Kageyama Tobio was only ever really programmed to play volleyball, but alright. Guess he attends football matches now. Still, you quirk an eyebrow at the screen, thoughts mingling in your head, as your pace slows down near the parking lot.
"Excuse me! Yoshino-san! A moment of your time, please!"
…It is just your luck that a nap is further delayed.
Reluctantly peeling your gaze from your phone, you spot a man with a lanyard, a spiral notepad, as well as a daunting crew following closely behind him with a microphone and a camera, exuding frantic energy as they briskly jog toward you. They all have vests on, bearing a patched logo of a publication you have surely seen more than once.
"I'm from Japanese Football Monthly," the journalist pants, flipping open his small spiral notepad. "May we do a quick interview for a featured article in the next issue? Consecutive prefectural dominance led by your last name is historic!"
Oh. So that is what that logo was.
Japanese Football Monthly is the most widely read shūkyū magazine known for its intensive, domestic journalism about all things football (if that title is not a dead giveaway enough as is). Getting a short excerpt or footnote is easily the dream of every young and aspiring playmaker in the country, but a whole featured article?
Dude, I just want to sleep.
Although…you do have nothing else on your schedule besides a coveted siesta. Weighing the advantages and disadvantages, answering a few simple questions—you suppose—would be less of a hassle than rejecting him and his crew, which would probably consume copious amounts of energy in the form of absorbing an earful of one-sided begging on the whole way toward the bus.
"Make it quick," you drop your bag onto the concrete pavement whilst pocketing your phone.
"Excellent! Much obliged," the journalist clicks his ballpoint pen, eyes scintillating with the thrill of a fresh scoop. "First things first, any thoughts about that last fixture against Shiratorizawa? They were highly favored to break your streak this year."
The camera crew eagerly leans in with their Somy PXW-X70 Professional XDCAM Compact Camcorder and Somy 4GB PX Series MP3 Digital Voice IC Recorder With Built-In Stereo Microphone by a fraction of an inch.
Despite the encroachment of equipment, you shrug specifically at his choice of an opening question, and not the slight invasion of your personal space. Is the publication this predictable? Basic, even? "I mean, there is not much to say about the matchup. They put up a fight, but it ended up being futile. And that is all."
The journalist tentatively raises his eyebrows as if expecting you to expound with a theatrical breakdown of tactics or a passionate declaration of rivalry—to which he is left to be befuddled with the stillness of air.
Quickly recovering, his pen scratches feverishly against paper as he jots down notes. "I see…quite a minimalistic response. Quite…humbling! And what about the players of their lineup? Would you care to share some of your insight?"
The following question challenges you to think back to the girls in white and purple jerseys. Are they even worth wasting your breath on? Their defensive line had been a nuisance, to say the most.
They had not been terrifying.
They did not even hold a commanding grip on their side of the field.
Initially, when they scored the first goal within the sixth minute, you thought this would be the match to reform your perspective back to when a white-lined pitch was not so dreary…except, they fell apart all too easily just like the rest.
Turns out their goal was nothing but a fluke.
Whenever your friend—who happens to be part of the boys' volleyball club of Kitagawa Daiichi—described the Shiratorizawa Boys' Volleyball Club to you, he made them sound like a battalion of unfathomable titans led by a granite, olive-haired monolith. Granted, he has never played against them himself (accrediting everything that spouts from his mouth to his graduated upperclassman with light brown hair or whatnot), the grand picture truly wields the ability to paint itself.
You do not ask to face monsters, but their impression was distinctly too…human.
The football team you played against today did not fit into the same frame of phenomenal expectations.
"Well," you start, translating your thoughts into words. "If only they were as strong as their school's boys' volleyball club, then we likely would not have won."
The journalist lets out an unexpected, booming laugh. "My! That's rather daring, Yoshino-san! Wouldn't you say so? A little cross-sport commentary! I love it."
He scribbles the quote onto his spiral notepad animatedly, lightly bouncing off the ground by the tips of his Oxford shoes. He has well-obtained the components of what makes a good article so far, but he is still missing a certain spark. A conclusion—one that includes a forward-looking statement that will excite national scouts!
"Ahem, getting back on track with the topic at hand," the journalist motions for the crew to double-check their equipment and to make sure that everything is recording. Once he gets a positive signal, he smiles heartily at you. "With your junior high school career officially wrapped up in precious gold…do plan on continuing as you step into high school? Have you decided on which powerhouse to attend next spring?"
2011年09月01日(木) 07:21 責09
𝄃𝄃 𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄃 𝄃𝄂𝄃 𝄃 𝄁 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂 𝄃𝄂 𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄃
Tsuji, K. (2011, September 1). MVP to MIA: Kitagawa Daiichi's Number 99 Suddenly Quits?! Japanese Football Monthly, 13(9), 11–12.
MIYAGI — The kit of a generational talent remained stained with the grime of the pitch long after Kitagawa Daiichi had dismantled Shiratorizawa's formation. At the focal point of the celebration stood Yoshino [F/n], encumbered by the two medals around her neck and an MVP plaque that, to her, seemed to act more as an inconvenient weight.
"She didn't even look happy holding the team's trophy," one spectator noted from the stands. "Like, it was definitely a spectacular match to witness—that kid's off-the-ball movement just can't be put into words. She defies description. But damn, it was like she was finished with the sport before the final whistle even blew."
While the rest of her squad celebrated a victory that solidified Kitagawa Daiichi's prefectural dominance at the top of the table, Yoshino appeared already kilometers away.
When this publication caught up with the prodigy heading toward the team bus, the air was electric with the expectations of a legacy in the making. Scouts from the nation's top powerhouses have publicly stated to accommodate and do whatever it takes to secure a surname like Yoshino as a first-year on their roster. Even within the Japan Football Association (JFA), a jersey was pragmatically considered pre-reserved for the young athlete.
We asked about the match. Her response—sparse and blunt—gave a chillingly brief dismissal toward Shiratorizawa's efforts.
"They put up a fight, but it ended up being futile," Yoshino stated.
When pressed for insight on the rivalry, she offered a striking, almost mocking comparison to the prestigious school's legendary volleyball club, suggesting that their football program lacked the caliber required to truly challenge her. It was brilliant! It was certainly the bold, elite-level confidence we have come to expect from a generational talent.
But then the question that should have been a mere formality was raised: Where to next? Which powerhouse will host the tactical mind of Yoshino [F/n] for the upcoming school year?
For months, anyone tracking Miyagi's local rising star along with the JFA had anticipated the day this young playmaker would don the national colors. Yet, the high hopes of Yoshino serving as the cornerstone starter for the U-15 and U-18 National Teams have unexpectedly been left stammering in place.
One syllable. No hesitation. No flicker of regret.
With a single word—a single decision—Yoshino would forever alter the projected trajectory of Japanese women's football.
Winning, then walking out!
As she boarded the team bus to head home, she left the domestic football community in a state of shocked silence. What could possibly cause an innate genius to leave at the peak of her junior high school career? A change of heart? Burnout? A secret injury?
Seeped in the precipice of an abrupt, indefinite off-season, she leaves behind a haunting question to resonate throughout the autumn and winter:
How can the girl who has everything decide she wants none of it?
Editor's Note: Sources closely linked with the Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High School Athletics Department suggest Yoshino has not submitted or tended to any sports-related scholarship offers or recommendation letters for the upcoming academic year. If the school's definitive Number 99 truly intends to hang up her cleats, Japan may have just lost its most promising playmaker before the national team could even reach her.
That's the stupidest thing I've ever read. This can't be true, a dark-haired setter thinks, reading the magazine article on his way to school on a Thursday morning.
You swear as you collapse in a stupor onto your seat at the dining table, it is not the chair that is creaking. After how many years of training, your body is supposedly conditioned to perform; nobody ever said anything about feeling like a poorly oiled machine. Or having a geriatric back at just fifteen years old.
I can barely move…too sore to…
Damn. Every instance requiring of you to extend your arm just to reach for something as trivial as the soy sauce, your triceps curse by disobeying the signals from your brain. You definitely recall cooling down, so, what the hell?
The ache of your joints and the micro-tears on your muscle fibers must be staging a revolution; a physical tax for the three goals you orchestrated into Shiratorizawa's net earlier that afternoon.
Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness is truly the bane of your existence.
While the lactic acid burns wherever it pleases, at least it spares you generously by amplifying how much more savory food can get as its seasoning dances on your taste buds.
"[F/n] dear, don't slouch," your mother tuts as she sets down another serving of steamed vegetables, before darting her gaze to the boy to your left. "Kyōjiro, please help your ate and pass the koikuchi."
"Eh?! 'Pass'?! Ma! Don't use football terms right now…can't believe I didn't get to watch Neesan's championship finals today 'cause of a stupid make-up test! On a Sunday! Kitaichi's rigged. But a'ight." Your younger brother deflates as he places the sauce dish near your plate. "Also can't believe Neesan got interviewed by JFM…and that she's actuallyquitting!"
Unimpressed, your mother playfully rolls her eyes at her son's antics as the boy slumps further into his chair. The lady then taps her nails sequentially on the glazed narra-planked surface of the dining table.
Even without the need to lift your eyes from the teriyaki chicken you currently devour incrementally, the glabella of your skull can feel your mother's stare beginning to bore holes into its marrow.
"So, [F/n]," your mother starts.
"Have you heard from your friend?"
The weary hand that you use to articulate a pair of chopsticks into bringing a piece of chicken pauses halfway into your mouth. You look up from your food, peering at your mother in bemusement. "Friend? Like…Tobio? I guess he did congratulate me earlier."
"No, no," your mother throws her head back in outrageous laughter, amused in a way as if you had just told her chocolate milk comes from brown cows. "Not that walking scowl! Honest to God, that boy is just biding his time—I know he's obsessed with you. I meant the eccentric one! The orange one who used to follow you around everywhere! Oh, what was his name…?"
You chewed slowly; the flavor of the home-cooked meal suddenly resembled the taste of cheap, dry, and lukewarm strips of karaage shared on the steps near Tohoku Elementary's playground.
Staring at the dated film of your memory, the view of the sun always appeared to be rising and setting behind a mess of bright orange hair. Like marigolds intertwined with marmalade maple leaves billowing in a meadow.
At first, you were reluctant at the idea of hanging out with him (a.k.a., the notion of gaining a friend), but the next thing you knew, it was the preeminent wind of first year elementary school when Hinata declared that "following you around" was his full-time job. Around the clock, he would chase after you.
He did not have a bike yet, either. So, he just ran.
You would notice how he threw his entire soul into the optimism of every single stride, which was why he always tripped over his own feet behind you, funnily enough. But the most admirable (albeit daunting) trait you took note of was how the orange-haired boy never failed to dust himself off afterward.
Every other kid eventually grew tired of Hinata's restlessness, yet you were somehow the only person Hinata did not exhaust…even when you did prefer resting in the shade over playing under the sun. Ironic, considering how you discovered football not long after.
One afternoon, at a local park within your neighborhood—wherein you had been unceremoniously dragged to, by the courtesy of Hinata—you lied on the ground with your back against a tree. That week's issue of Shōnen Jump was opened to a random double-paged spread as you used it to cover your entire face to initiate the secretion of melatonin with the absence of light.
"Psst, [N/n]," Hinata whispered, poking your arm.
"Not just what, silly! What if…I jump over that tree you're snoozing on? D'ya think I'll be able to see the ocean?"
Remaining still, you yawned, "Hah? Baliw. This tree is like ten Shōyōs stacked on top of each other…and the ocean is too far. You would need to jump higher than a mountain or something."
"Okay, okay," Hinata nodded, undeterred. "Then I'll jump higher than a mountain! Will you watch?"
You lifted the manga off of your face just slightly, squinting one eye open. It was at that moment, lying under a ginkgo tree, that you witnessed the sheer sincerity and determination clearly written out on his expression. It was the same look he would later give to the towering walls of middle blockers on a volleyball court.
"Eh…if I am not napping, maybe," you shrugged, placing the manga back onto your face.
"[N/n], don't nap…! I'll wake you up!" Hinata hummed.
"That's mean! I'll just dodge!"
Of course, he would not have dodged—you cannot understand as to why he never did—but he would smile anyway, and you would go back to sleep.
Back then, as you resumed counting sheep, you knew that so long as Hinata was around, the world would never be quiet, but it would always be interesting.
Perhaps orange being missing is part of why your world seems devoid of color?
Eight cycles of the seasons back to the present, you realize you have been staring blankly at what is left of your teriyaki chicken. Clearing your throat, you finally reply, "Shō? I have not heard from him in ages. What goes on that you bring him up, Ma?"
"Well, [F/n] dear, I've been catching up with his mother," the lady states, enthusiastic with sharing parental gossip. Talagang Marites, a bona fide newsmonger. "She told me he's been working so hard on his own. And apparently, he plans to transfer to Karasuno High."
"Hm, isn't that the same high school you're planning to attend next spring, princess?" your father suddenly contributes, lifting his eyes from the medical contents of his work tablet. It is surprising that your mother has not berated him for bringing work to the dinner table. You can make the presumption that she is just too busy being engrossed in the rare opportunity of talking face-to-face with her family—too busy being present in the current conversation to care.
Speaking of "caring," why Karasuno High?
Honestly, you do not have any particular reason as to why you have your prospects set. Maybe it is the "decent" thirty-minute walk to and from campus, the reasonable tuition fee (though more accurately, its lack thereof as a public high school), or the institution's absence of expectations.
"Shō yapped about it a lot," you disclose, staring at a grain of rice. "When we were eleven, he passed by that one Yukigaoka Electric shop with the 'Little Giant' or something playing on a TV. He probably still thinks that the laws of physics will not apply to him if he wears a Karasuno jersey."
"It'll be nice for you to have a familiar face then," your mother sighs, at ease. "Especially after you shared with us how you told that poor journalist you were quitting. I was beginning to worry you'd get lonely without a ball to chase."
"Mama! Football references?!" your younger brother groans as he stands up from his seat. "I'm going up to m'room…"
"Don't forget to bring your plate to the sink!"
Finished with eating dinner as well, you also excuse yourself from the table. "Ma, Pa, I am going to go to bed, too. I have school tomorrow. Goodnight."
Quickly—almost jarringly so—do the soft and padded steps along the staircase of your home become the rough, punctured grip of studs against turf.
The following week is an augmented whiplash of post-season drills and your teammates discussing how your interview "went" with Japanese Football Monthly…which quickly turned into disseminated confabulations—rumors that your friend, Kageyama, for one, refuses to believe without cold, hard proof.
Proof that, at long last, arrives at the local 8–Eleven a few blocks from his house on the first of the subsequent month.
September 01 [Third-Year Junior High School]
Thursday | 05:31 PM
Not even a day after the article hit the nearby convenience store's shelves, the magazine is already being flailed right in front of your eyes. Just as you had wandered off to refill your water bottle at the drinking fountain that cuts between the football field and the volleyball gym, its glossy cover intercepts you.
"[F/n]. What. Is. This." Kageyama demands; his finger pins aggressively to the page featuring a candid shot of your apathetic, post-game visage.
"It is a magazine," you divulge, observing how the water swirls into your bottle. "It is made of paper coated in kaolin clay—"
"I know what a magazine is!" he barks out.
A pair of approaching first-years jump back, bug-eyed and intimidated, promptly scampering away to find a safer drinking fountain to use.
Kageyama scoffs, "What a bunch of wimps." He coughs nothing out of his throat—phlegm being the last of his problems—as he lowers the volume of his voice. "Back to this. I spent nearly seven hundred yen on this shit. It's not even Volleyball Weekly—it's a monthly 'bout football! And they're saying your ass quit. This stupid journalist is yammering about how you said 'no' to continuing!"
He emphasizes his bewilderment by being incredibly up close and personal; he shoves the page well-nigh, just about smacking your forehead with your own printed face.
It must be extremely "silly" to you, because to him, quitting on a sport you are exceptional at is a crime against the universe. An unatonable sin.
"Tell me it's a misquote, [F/n]. They probably didn't understand you and had no other idea what shit to write. Journalists are like—like a bunch of idiot teammates who don't know how to read a toss in the middle of losing against Kōzen Academy…tch, Kindaichi much."
You exhale through your nose, twisting the lid of your water bottle securely as you step away from the drinking fountain. "It is not a misquote."
"Hah?! But I—you…why?!" Kageyama's brows knit together as if constipated for a reason. "You won gold. You're a champion. You're the best! You should go on and win more!"
Where is all of this coming from? Last time you checked, this dude has a lone volleyball bouncing around in his skull. He is the last person you would think to care so much about your "early retirement." Frankly, it is quite painfully ironic that he had to catch you at a time wherein you still stand in your Kitagawa Daiichi football kit due to club activities, smelling of trimmed grass and sweat.
It makes you out to be a fraud.
It is such a confusing sense of loss misplaced.
Now, do not get things twisted into a knot; you legitimately do not plan to, as Kageyama so eloquently phrased it, "go on and win more" like your words to that journalist are of no substance. Like you are a flagrant liar. It is the sole fact that it is still around the middle of the school year—you still have a club to captain until the end of your term. You are just sticking it out until the end, you swear. At the very least, commit to the bit, right?
You merely deign to offer a faint gesture of your shoulders. "It became a waste of my time. Winning is boring when you already know the answer before a game starts."
Kageyama flinches as if you had slapped him with a leather glove. His hands, normally so steady and precise, shake as they ball up into fists at his sides.
Blue eyes narrow, turning cold below furrowed eyebrows.
This is the very first instance you have ever seen him glare at you.
For the boy named Kageyama Tobio, people are usually divided into two categories: Those who can keep up with his sets, and those who cannot.
Then you walked into his life during the first year of junior high school—or in actuality, sat in the same classroom, right in front of him.
You did not play volleyball, so you did not fit into his system.
The girl named Yoshino [F/n] was supposed to be an inapplicable component, and yet…he often found himself gawking. At you.
You, a random girl in a shared homeroom who could sleep through an entire lesson while still being able to answer a sudden recitation question, could not be torn from the visual cortex of his blue eyes.
Shortly after finding out you were into sports like him—albeit marginally disappointed that it was not volleyball—he began staying late. Later than usual. Just to catch the end of the girls' football club's training on the adjacent field.
Kageyama felt himself fall with an "illness" every time he was lucid enough to realize his eyes were always glued to the back of your jersey.
He blatantly admires you; profoundly too much for his own pride to bear at times.
But to call your own sport…
"…'Boring'?" He reiterates the word like it is part of a foreign language he refuses to comprehend. "How can winning be boring?! It's—it's the only time you can really breathe!"
Kageyama himself thinks you are the perfect love letter a higher being sent to nurture and inspire the current generation of players in your sport. How could you even say such a thing? How dare you.
"To hell with you knowing the answer right now, [F/n]. Search higher instead of looking down your pretty nose if you're so satisfied."
He takes a step forward, discarding the magazine as he pushes his body up against yours with the social grace of a vehement freight train, harshly making your lower back collide with the drinking fountain's cold edge. He smells like sudor, mild deodorant, and a hint of that Gun-Gun Milk you sometimes see him drink.
"I literally watched your match against that Singaporean team online," he splutters, words stumbling over each other in rapid succession. "Last year. During that invitational overseas. You were down by two points in the final six minutes. You made that—that crossing quick-step maneuver thing into a long-range spike—I mean, strike! Nobody else in that international tournament, much less in this prefecture, can do a kick like that or make it happen a second and third time. I watched the recording so much, I broke a mouse by clicking the playback button a lot on my sister's laptop—"
He stops abruptly, cheeks overheating almost as if a shade of scarlet ought to take over. He realizes, perhaps an entire spiel too late, that admitting he spent his weekends as a second-year junior high school student dissecting your footwork repeatedly, on loop, is a bit…much.
"I-I was just studying your spatial awareness!" he shouts, as if modulation can conceal the outright confession. "But if you quit, then that observation is useless! You can't just…leave the court—field! Shit! Who's going to keep the score moving if you're sitting idly, reading about rocks or whatever they teach us in class?!"
He grabs your jersey, firmly yanking its cloth into his hand, as if to shake the logic back into you—but as he grits his teeth, he refrains from actually rattling you like aerosol in spray paint.
"…Tobio, are you just 'biding your time'?" you question, watching him struggle. "My mother said so. That, along with you being a walking scowl and how you are obsessed."
"I'm neither of those! I'm not a walking scowl!" Kageyama's voice cracks while trying an unfortunately forced smile…which results in an expression more akin to smelling a foul odor.
He faces away, looking to the side when even he realizes how strained he must have been, directing daggers at the thrown magazine on the pathway, all the while generating enough heat to theoretically melt all of its pages. "I just…I don't like it when people who can soar into the sky choose to walk on the ground. It's a waste of a good set."
He ventures a stolen glance, eyes darting to your attire; the white and steel blue that you both wear, though in assorted jersey styles, though for different arenas, volleyball to football. For a second, the King's mask slips, and he makes a show of being a boy terrified of losing the only other person who speaks his language.
If anyone were to ask Kageyama how many languages you were fluent in, he would say that there are actually four: Nihongo, Tagalog, English, and a Competency in Sports.
Kageyama has always felt an underlying connection to you because of that fourth tongue. Why do you fail to see how special it is? Is it not a neat thing to possess? He thinks it is. So why pull away from that?
You jerk your head back, away from his encroaching face nearly smooching yours from proximity. Arching a brow, you deflect. "Nothing you have said changes the fact that it is—"
"Boring? Or what, 'mundane' in English? Hah—even I know that word," Kageyama sneers. "Do you have any idea how arrogant that sounds? Do you know how many people would kill just to get on your fudging level?"
Before the last few syllables can leave his mouth, his frustration boils over. He further impinges into your space, entirely obliterating the boundary of air between you.
There is no gentleness to him—no tact. He yokes you by the collar of your jersey, bunching its material into a white-knuckled fist, hauling you brutishly against the metal frame of the drinking fountain with a blunt clatter as he anchors you there. His grip is so rugged and unyielding that it rattles a choked breath right out of your boots.
He handles you with that thoughtless, physical reprimand unique to boys who live on the court—the kind of rough, intense grappling meant to force a stubborn teammate to look him in the eye.
"Don't look down on it," he gripes, voice dropping into a low hiss that vibrates right against your sternocleidomastoid. Unadulterated fixation. His chest heaves against yours as he holds you by the seams of your kit. "Don't you dare look down on the game just because you got good at it a bit faster than others. Shit—hey—stay still, you're—"
"E-Excuse us, Kageyama-senpai…!" The sudden, squeaky voices of the same pair of first-years slices through the air. "But could you and your girlfriend please not make out in a public space…? And may we please use the drinking fountain? The other ones around campus aren't working and—"
"Y-Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" They bolt instantly, vanishing into the wind like dandelion seeds being carried away by a light gust.
As they round the corner, silence crashes violently between the two of you. And Kageyama freezes. Then, as if his nervous system finally catches up to the position he operated the both of you into, his entire body locks rigid.
His hands remain on your jersey's collar, your back remains pressed against the drinking fountain, and his face is—oh. Alarmingly close.
"Your nose is nearly touching mine," you point out flatly.
Kageyama virtually combusts, reeling backward so fast that he nearly slips on the concrete (somehow, while wearing shoes with supposedly good grip, "drip," and traction, but alright…) as he rips his hands away from you like he had touched an active Bunsen burner.
"I WASN'T TRYING TO KISS YOU!" He is quick to profess.
"…I did not say you were."
"Good! That's 'cause I wasn't! Those idiots—ugh, they're as blind as a bat's dung! We weren't even making out! Why would I not want to—I mean…?!" His voice fluctuates disastrously before he slaps his palm onto his forehead with a strangled noise of frustration.
Setting your water bottle aside for now, you stoop down to retrieve the discarded magazine from the pavement. As you inspect it, you notice the material has bent slightly at the corner, forming dreadful dog-eared pages of shiny paper.
"How tragic," you murmur. "Seven hundred yen, you say?"
"Stupid! Don't change the topic!"
You squint at him. His ears are not their usual clammy shade. It is…interesting. "You are emotionally compromised today," you remark frankly.
"…You got flustered enough for two underclassmen to assume we were engaging in public indecency."
"Like I said, don't try and change the topic!" Kageyama snaps, in an octave too high. He may be standing a few meters away now, but he still clears his throat with the evident effort of not fixating anywhere near your mouth or lips again.
Clearly. He needs to win this. Not a kiss; the argument. Because if winning is apparently so boring for you, he wants to give you a taste of what it feels to lose for once.
"I'm not 'emotionally compromised,' or whatever the heck that is," he snarks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his club jacket so as to hide them shaking. "I'm just—I'm pissed off. You're conceding so easily, and it's an insult to my way of life."
He takes a deep breath through his nose, finally leveling his gaze at you. The blush still stains his cheekbones, but the King of the Court has returned, cold and demanding.
"I played some amateur shrimp once," he hisses. "Earlier this year, during the preliminaries of my athletics meet. His shitty team was the first that I was up against. He was a complete dumbass in an ugly lime jersey. No technique, no height, no sense—nothing but a pair of legs and a lot of jumping. He was so talentless, but he was begging for one more second of the match. He wanted to stay in the running so bad, it was pathetic."
…Okay? What a way to go off on a tangent.
"And then there's you," he expounds, his blue eyes turning into slits behind the flare of the afternoon sun. "You have everything—that's the one thing that stupid journalist got right in the article. You've had it since our first year at this godforsaken school. Do you think I'm too socially stunted to notice? I saw you get elected for that armband as a second-year. I've watched every single one of your games ever since, Captain. Just 'cause I think volleyball's the only sport worth playing, or that football is confusing as hell, it didn't stop me from attending. Every. Single. One."
The admission hits the pavement like thudding mercury. You blink, trying to process this odd information. Every game? It is hard to believe. Even random Tuesday qualifiers that had empty bleachers?
"My mother was actually right," you mutter, feeling strange. "You really are obsessed with the game."
"It's not just the game, you dense moron! It's also how I feel really strongly about…" He swallows the rest of the sentence.
Kageyama sighs. "If you're so bored, find a harder game. Find a field where you can't predict the outcome before the stupid whistle. But don't sleep on the last few years, calling them a waste, just 'cause you're too lazy to search for a new challenge—that you're complacent enough in letting them find you first, idiot."
He pivots sharply on the axle of his shoe, his back stiff enough to snap a twig between his scapulas.
"I'll be at the top," he whinges over his shoulder, the threat clear and stinging. "Next year, I'll be at Shiratorizawa. If you ever decide you want a 'different answer,' you'll know where to find me. Just…don't say it didn't matter. I won't let you."
Kageyama talks a big game. Regardless, has football really turned so stale?
Surely, knowing answers on a pitch is not as boring as sitting through Karasuno High's Entrance Ceremony, right?
April 09 [First-Year High School]
Monday | 06:31 AM
“Sweetheart, I’ll make us coffee. I have a long shift at the hospital.”
“Alright, dear. Teka, I’ll just check up on—”
“MA, I CAN’T FIND MY PANTS!”
“Gising na ba ate mo? Silipin mo nga.”
Maybe staying up past two o’clock in the morning was not the wisest decision ever. Four hours and thirty-one minutes later, your head is throbbing, lagging like a faulty browser with sixty-seven different tabs running, on the brink of undergoing the “Blue Screen of Death.”
Truly, exploring the relatively new Jungle biome and enjoying the release of Minecraft’s minor 1.2.5 version update admittedly could have waited.
The dampened blah-blah-blah combined with the thump-thump-thump of your parents and your younger brother’s frantic morning routine slithers—no, reverberates—through the thin plaster of your bedroom walls.
The thought of opening your eyes seems like such a hassle.
I do not want to get up, I don’t want to get up, I don’t wanna get up, I’on wanna get up, I’on wanna—
It is the third…or fifth back-to-back alarm (set for every single minute past “6:30 AM”) ringing out from your phone. The one to display “6:35 AM” on a luminescent screen is the lucky alarm that provokes a visceral groan that you bury deep into the plush sanctuary of your pillow. Eventually, you sluggishly reach out to your nightstand to swipe the alarm off.
Rolling out of your bed—more so, stumbling your body onto the cold panels of wooden floorboards—you narrow your eyes at the light trespassing into your room due to the semi-opened entrance.
You walk across your room to try and shut the door, though you feel a cold wire hooked on the brass knob.
Neatly draped on the hanger, steamed to a crisp, is your new school uniform. It may be quite dark despite the light from the hallway, but still, you could discern that there is not a single crease where one ought not to be. 'Di rin amoy kulob. All signs point toward your mother’s subtle and efficient handiwork.
“HEY, I JUST MET YOU~♪ AND THIS IS CRAZY~♪ BUT HERE’S MY NUMBER. SO—”
It is just Kyōjiro passing in the hallway. At the top of his lungs, he sings a particular western track that local radio stations recently spam…whilst only wearing the top half of his Kitagawa Daiichi gakuran, prancing in sagging football shorts as he flaunts his pair of slacks (presumably found on the clothing iron, just as your mother had indicated).
“It is too early in the morning for this,” you yawn somnolently, dragging a hand across your face. But at least someone is looking forward to their first day of school.
Shuffling into your en-suite bathroom, you bring the hanger with you.
The shower is lukewarm. Water, pitter-pattering against your skin like blunt needles before sliding down, serves as a compromise between your desire to go back to sleep and the unfortunate circumstance of having to be a functioning member of society (as a goddamn high school student).
Washing away any remaining suds of soap, you then decisively twist the metal nozzle into place—the eager supply of water fell to its abrupt pause, trickling behind small droplets.
After drying off and slipping into your undergarments, you take in the hanging uniform.
Structurally, it is barely similar to your junior high school’s fashion; trading the sailor-style motif for a more modern and modular blazer. Palette-wise, you went from white and steel blue to midnight black, gray, and red. Not like it will affect your education anyway.
You get ready. Buttoning every button of your blazer, combing your hair flat, and presenting as every bit a prestigious, uptight nerd.
Stepping out of your bathroom, you gaze at the high school student staring back at you from the full-length mirror near the foot of your bed.
She seems excited, you humorously thought, as the girl shamelessly reflects your resting bitch face ironically.
Well, you have your work cut out for you. Walking in with zero expectations beyond a quiet life, you have not a clue as to what the next three years will entail…though certainly, it will not include this getup that has the same spirit of saying “uhm, actually” with the Index Pointing Up emoji.
A snicker erupts from the hallway. You never did close that bedroom door, huh.
“Neesan, are you going to tell me about my car’s extended warranty?” Kyōjiro stifles a laugh at his own joke. “Who invited Mr. Gaylord Robinson from The Amazing World of Gumball? Wait—no, no. Neesan, are you a new investor for Shark Tank?”
Call it the instinct of an older sibling; your hand immediately goes for the threateningly thick anatomy textbook on the bookshelf near your full-length mirror, but the scuff of retreating footsteps chide that the rascal had already bolted.
“Run, Kyō,” you mutter to the empty room. “Gravity will inevitably catch you.”
Turning back to your mirror, a sigh escapes you. Diyos, sa totoo lang, with the anatomy textbook in your hand, it completes the ensemble of a goody two-shoes; too formal and too commercial.
Setting the textbook back into its slot on the shelf, your hand reaches for your own shirt collar. Loosening the red ribbon, undoing the first two clasps of your white blouse, and then shucking open your blazer entirely. You roll the blazer’s sleeves up to your elbows—exposing your forearms—and tousle your hair until neat spikes are more lived-in, “placid,” and defiant.
“Better,” you conclude. At least the stiff salesperson is gone.
Downstairs, the house is…a microcosm of disarray that can only be fostered with the Yoshino family dynamic, you dare say. Your father is a silhouette by the kitchen sink, with one hand sporting a coffee mug as the other balances his work phone against his ear. Across from him, at the dining table, Kyōjiro gobbles his way through a bowl of steamed rice and grilled mackerel.
Your mother, with a life governed by exploratory projects and a series of deadlines, merely treats the first day of a new school year as yet another logistical hurdle to clear.
She pauses mid-stride toward the dining table just as she catches sight of you by the foot of the staircase.
One eyebrow climbs toward her hairline.
“Sweetie,” your mother begins, carrying a tone of maternal weight that brooks for no argument as she sits diagonally from your brother. “You’re a young lady now. Please fix your clothes. Or at the very least, wear your blazer properly for Schola Brevis.”
“…Okay po,” you mutter, fumbling with the stubborn buttons once more.
Kyōjiro snorts through a mouthful of rice (as your parents’ efforts to teach the young boy the manner of not talking when one’s mouth is full were definitely fruitless). “Waste of time, Ma. With that look, Neesan’s just gonna scare off the boys at orientation anyway.”
Your mother’s sharp gaze shifts from the lapels of your blazer to your face, and her expression suddenly melts into a woeful tug of heartstrings; into exhaling with a dramatic, heavy-handed sigh of lamentation.
“How is it that my lovely daughter doesn’t have a partner yet?” your mother murmurs poorly, leaning her cheek into the palm of her propped hand. “If your brother can see the problem, imagine what the neighbors think.”
“I thought you said it was better to focus on my academics before—”
“Nonsense!” the lady demurs. “Surely, if you’d only chosen to study high school in Manila, there’d be at least ten young men courting you by now! Diba? Dalagang-dalaga! Hay, ‘nak. Although…with your boyish mannerisms, you may even make girls do a double take.”
“That is not…never mind. Whatever you say, Ma.”
“You know, I do have a business trip to the Philippines next month. Bukod pa sa Boy Bawang niyo ni Kyōjiro, ikaw muna, ‘nak. Taga saan gusto mo? Luzon, Visayas, o Mindanao—”
“I am taking my leave to go to school…”
“[F/n]! Teka nga,” your mother reels you back before you have a chance to actually act out your declaration. “Could you please walk Kyōjiro to the bus stop?”
“Eh…is he not old enough to walk himself there?” you refute. Making your way across the humble abode toward the genkan, you continue. “Ma, he is already a second-year.”
“Wouldn’t you be passing by either way, dear? I’m aware that your route is generally in the same direction.”
Logic. Damn it. The singular weapon you cannot easily parry.
“Guess Neesan doesn’t wanna walk her baby brother anymore ‘cause she might get embarrassed, huh?” Kyōjiro quips, sticking his tongue out at you while surreptitiously checking his own reflection on the mirror-like surface of his bowl.
You shot him a quick, downward glance; eyes narrowing in the place of a flick to the forehead before pivoting away. “It is not even about that. Besides, you are not a ‘baby’ anymore. Cough, second-year junior high school student, cough.”
“Y’know, you’re s’pposed to pretend to cough and not actually say the word—”
You adjust the strap of your school bag as you slide into your loafers with practiced speed. Kyōjiro scrambles, nearly tripping over his own duffle bag to keep up. He knew his very own sister did not care for “waiting” either.
Along the edge of the road, in the mundane of morning air and the smell of damp pavement, you and your younger brother walk to the bus stop. You move to the outer side, situating yourself between Kyōjiro and the passing cars without much thought. It is rare and measured evidence of willfully being a “doting” older sister; a protective perimeter you have maintained since the boy learned how to stand on his own feet.
“Hoy, did you get allowance?” you nudge Kyōjiro’s shoulder whilst watching the yawn of the sky.
“Nah, I have packed lunch anyway,” Kyōjiro chuckles, patting his bag. The contents jostle lightly. Its specificity is unknown to you, but if you were to make an educated guess, the only thing he packed for his first day would be food, a pair of football cleats, and a change of clothes.
You halt, turning your head to stare at him with quizzed confusion. “The hell are you going to give the bus driver then? Thoughts and prayers?”
Before your doofus brother can respond, you reach into your skirt pocket and produce a handful of yen—enough to cover his fares for the next three days with a small margin for emergency snacks if he were to be a glutton.
“Do not blow it all off on Potari Sweat or whatever.” You shove the money into his hand.
“Uwah! Neesan…you’re the best!”
Trudging forward, the familiar route extends ahead. Spring has just recently started bleeding into the quaint town, whisking cherry blossoms onto the roadside like faint brushstrokes of drab pink.
Rounding a corner, the bus stop comes into view a few blocks away, and Kyōjiro’s usual chatter dies down. His shoulders tense up, and his grip on his bag tightens significantly. You even take note of the shift in his gait, replaced by the rhythmic hitch which suggests his mind currently plays back his worst failures, not on a cemented sidewalk, but on the pitch.
“Yeah,” Kyōjiro admits. “I don’t plan on sticking to the bench this year…but that’s easier said than done.”
It is peculiar how such words have the ability to be so soft, yet so bulky. Like a kilogram of feathers.
It is also, without reservation, strange—the quiet, uninvited, and strangling hint of pain in your chest.
Junior high school was rough, not exactly toward you, but to someone who shares the same name.
“Yoshino, bring the ball forward.”
“Yoshino, you’re amazing!”
The Kitagawa Daiichi football field always echoed across that singular name.
Always for Yoshino [F/n], never for Yoshino Kyōjiro.
If only his love for football was a metric directly proportional to how well he could play…it is almost unfair. However, you are unable to relate to the boy. Only he knows the sting of that silence better than anyone.
He is not the fastest. He is not the strongest. He is not even the smartest player. Your younger brother is no genius that can see imaginary vectors or the invisible lines of force, but he loves football more than anyone you have ever met.
Love cannot do much, but much can be done with love.
Kyōjiro was barely above average, but you would never call him “mediocre.” There is merit in effort. Trying should be enough. You had spent many afternoons watching him from the other side of the field; you had seen him stay for thirty minutes to hours after his training just to practice his strikes until he came home with battered cleats.
“You will make the starting eleven this year,” you attest. It is not some sort of empty platitude. You state it as a matter of statistics and probability—devoid of the sugary confections any typical older sibling just spoon-feeds. You have witnessed his improvement; the data you have gathered simply supports your conclusion.
Kyōjiro peers up at you, eyes wide as if they were pools of a star-filled sky. “Seriously?”
By then, before you knew it, the distant view of the small bus stop’s roof became the same roof that is suspended atop your heads; the little shelter stands wonky by the overhang, and a clutch of other students already wait for the bus with sleepy faces and heavy backpacks. You say nothing more, raising a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair until he lightly swats at your wrist.
Your lips curl at its ends into the faintest smile. “Now, do you really need me here until the bus arrives? Big boy ka na, eh,” you taunt, mimicking your mother’s phrasing and tone.
With that—or at least before he could get all mushy on you—by the heel of your shoe, you turn to leave him under the awning as you start walking toward the hill.
Big boy ka na, eh. You had meant it as a joke, but as you begin the commute toward Karasuno High—stretching ahead with thirty-five minutes of tranquil footfall and passing cars—the humor sours.
It is not your fault. Kyōjiro wants to stay in the game until his boots fall apart out of his own volition. It is not your fault he wants the noise, the pressure, and the very thing that has started to be a script you have already read a thousand times.
Without warning, Kageyama flashes across your mind—of that alarming, sunburnt shade powdering his features, of his nose grazing your own, of his eyes seething with a zealotry that makes your blood run cold.
You wonder where he is. Did he get into Shiratorizawa like he said?
It is fickle, your sickening realization.
To Kyōjiro, you are a special blade of grass next to him, an identical dupe lacking the same substance, that wishes to be just as special. To Kageyama, you are as cussed as they come; an animal at the top of the food chain, an apex predator, who still chose to starve. You sat beside a dejected, football-loving boy at a dinner table, stood in front of scrutinizing blue eyes near a drinking fountain, both fraudulent in a Kitagawa Daiichi football kit that had long been starting to feel like a costume. It is not your fault.
Kyōjiro is waiting for a bus to a future he may never conquer. Kageyama may be somewhere across the prefecture, waiting at the top of a mountain he refuses to climb alone. And what do you do?
You purely stroll up a hill, trying to articulate how to tell the world that the view from the top is not as beautiful as they all think it to be.
As the school gates rise in the distance, students in matching black uniforms begin to dot the sidewalks, like a murder of crows slowly converging on the hilltop. There is a tide of black blazers and gray skirts, all while red ribbons flutter in the unwilted breeze. You fiddle with your bag, tightening your grip on its straps before merging into the current.
If you—Yoshino [F/n]—actually thought you could just naturally blend in with the crowd, you are thoroughly mistaken.
Beneath a deadpan exterior, you start processing the new environment. Entering Karasuno High's campus is not anything worth noting. Making your way past the school's large [宮城県立烏野高等学校] sign is not accompanied by an orchestra's tune, nor the excitement that coming-of-age films often depict.
But is that all you felt?
Do the dozens of eyes, quick glances that linger too long, and the whispers darting between groups of students fly over your head?
"Hey, who's that? A first-year?"
"Wait! Ain't she that one football player from a famous magazine?"
"She's around our age? D'ya think she's single?"
Pursing your lips slightly, you click your tongue. So much for a low profile.
You maintain an equilibrated gaze—low enough to ignore passing faces, yet high enough to seem…purposeful.
The shoe lockers line the entrance of the building as a gauntlet of cold metallic grids. At your old school, the getabakowas really more of a large wooden shelf with open slots to shove your outdoor shoes into; Karasuno's has hinged doors like proper lockers! Wow. Yes, very riveting indeed.
You scan the rows until you finally come across a label like [1–4 吉野]. Your class assignment and surname is printed into the plastic sleeve of Locker 1055. Thankfully, you took the time to be familiar with your student details on your returned and processed application form. It saves you the trouble of having to ask how things work around here.
The metal groans in the crowded entrance as you pull the door open. Stepping aside, you crouch down as you slide out of your loafers, tucking them neatly into the allotted space. Your new pair of white indoor shoes—rubber soles still pristine and unsullied—squeak faintly against the linoleum.
You are halfway through standing up straight when a bold second-year leans against the neighboring locker, his posture a curated display of lax and "casual" confidence. He wears a grin that has likely seen more mirrors than it did the opposite sex, teetering more on rehearsed charm than any genuine sincerity.
"Oi, first-year. Ya free after school?" He winks like a bug flew into his eye. Heedlessness then scan you for a blush that will only follow suit when pigs fly. "I could show ya 'round. Call it a welcome gift."
Ew. Your spine becomes a rigid line of indifference. Your face remains…flat, regarding him with the same detachment of interest one might give a sauntering cloud.
That is all. There is no need to make a scene. There really is no hesitation with you, is there? No stuttered apology? Just a blunt dismissal before you sling your bag over your shoulder and leave. Not even staying to watch his grin fracture either? Alright.
The boy rapidly blinks at your retreating form, with silence punctuated by his friends' cackles. A "hushed" voice drifts behind you, presumably to the second-year. "Shot down fast, man. New record?"
God forbid a girl who is efficient and merely wants a quiet life of isolation. Whispers follow you down the hall like a wake trailing after a ship. Seriously, you have no energy to waste on the ever-shifting perceptions of strangers. Though the whispers are not malicious—if anything, they are fueled by that dangerous brand of curiosity that can turn bum students into nominated leaders, athletes into worshipped idols, and boredom into desperate fan clubs. The attention yearns for you to address it as the elephant in the room, but you refuse pointless matters from being in your life.
If you recall correctly—in which case, you regularly do—after the Entrance Ceremony, there is Homeroom Orientation, a brief introductory with each of your subject teachers, lunch, and then Club Introductions. Your stomach twists into a subtle, unpleasant knot of dreaded anticipation. You can already visualize the club booths, the liable story that your reputation precedes you, and the energetic upperclassmen who will chase for an "answer" you have already given.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, you navigate your way to where they are holding the Entrance Ceremony without any hiccups.
The second you stepped a foot into the domain of the auditorium—also known as the "First" Gymnasium for some odd reason (that being, there are two gymnasiums)—the hubbub of hundreds of new students cramming into the organized formation of folding chairs berates your ears. A low, internal curse bites at your mind. You regret leaving your earphones in the drawer of your desk at home.
Some faculty members usher you in, directing the masses like shepherds guiding sheep into pens.
"Sit wherever you please, quickly," one instructs, uninspired, distracted by their watch.
You slip toward the back row immediately, selecting a seat with an empty buffer on either side. You go slack the instant you sit down on the semi-comfortable chair, arms interlocking, chin tilting toward the stage with feigned attentiveness. My, you can even squeeze in a short nap before this shindig officially starts, by the looks of things.
The stage lights flicker on, illuminating the vice-principal as he shuffles forward to the podium. His voice—booming through the microphone—prattles on about "responsibility," "honor," "the importance of diligence in your studies," and "upholding the core values of the school." His speech washes over you like sleep-inducing mist; it is harder to keep your eyelids open with each passing second.
Still, not even your drowsiness can prevent detail-oriented eyes from catching the almost indistinguishable shift of "hair" at the top of the man's head.
A toupée. Slightly crooked, further being betrayed by the stage lights blatantly reflecting off scalp where hair should have been.
Oh…that is…actually hilarious.
You cannot stop yourself from faint amusement; the corner of your lips quiver. You try to save the vice-principal a semblance of grace by covering your mouth—although, around you, a few other students have already taken notice as well. You hear the terms "Baldilocks" and "Magic 8 Ball" get thrown around as the most recurring favorites.
The vice-principal drones on about decorum whilst the back row of the auditorium ripples with muffled snickers and snide comments.
All in all, this is a situation dictating the misfortune of what happens when applied adhesive is lacking. He should try using egg whites if he has insufficient wig glue at home.
The speech drags on, and so does the ceremony. Formalities have a fun way of choking out life. After the vice-principal sadly leaves the stage, the principal shows up, followed by the head of the Parent-Teacher Association, more administrative staff, and then the student council president. One after another, their words stack like bricks; building a wall between you and the sweet relief of freedom.
At long last, the closing remarks end. You and your fellow peers are told to exit in an orderly fashion, but the unpreached law of convenience bests the former. Synchronously, the chairs grate as students stand up, as some stretch, and as others buzz with energy, all before they funnel back out the doors.
You rise at your own pace decisively, tucking your hands into the pockets of your blazer.
"Attention, students! Please be in your assigned classrooms before Homeroom Orientation starts! Thank you!" a random bespectacled faculty member wearing a green, half-zipped jacket announces.
You subconsciously remember the special schedule for the first day of classes like the back of your hand.
God, the school's choice to use military time strains your mind just as you conjure the image of the timetable in your memory. Checking your phone discreetly, it displays "10:06 AM." Meaning…those bastards extended by six full minutes. Goodness. You pocket your phone into your blazer.
Well, that still gives just shy of forty minutes for you to take another nap—that is, if you get to your classroom.
You started down one hallway, following the direction and flow of most students, going up a flight of stairs near something called the "West Wing." You were so confident you would just automatically know where Class 1–4 should thematically be. Eighteen minutes of shrouded hallways and stairs later, you squint at the signage hanging from the ceiling of the corridor.
…Hah? You scratch your head, as if you wore a pointy, imaginary hat with "Dunce" scribbled onto it. You know you climbed a flight of stairs, but how the hell did you end up on the fourth floor? At the Third-Year Corridor, too? The fuck? Of all the times to have a mildly bizarre adventure inconvenience you, this is the most annoying.
"Hey, I thought it was you! You're Yoshino, aren't you? From Kitaichi? Got featured on JFM about a few months ago?"
The voice is…oily. That, and the point of origin is far too close for comfort. You turn to find a third-year student, or frankly, one who shows concerning aspects that suggest spending too much time…crouching over a laptop, and not enough time honing his manners. It is like he is breathing down your freaking neck.
You attempt to withdraw yourself from more social confrontations, but you are met with the wall of a classroom. He looms over you—admittedly, you are average height—as he rests a hand against the dry plaster beside your head. Yuck. It is like a low-budget kabedon in a live-action adaptation of a Shōjo manga with godawful acting…and it goes without saying that he succeeds in making your skin crawl.
Lord, 'di naman ako masama. Ba't ba na ako pa talaga.
"Shoot, what was it…? Oh! 'MVP to MIA: Kitagawa Daiichi's Number 99 Suddenly Quits?!' right? Right. Not only do I memorize the article name…volume thirteen, number nine, I believe? I'm sort of a fanatic. Gotta say, kōhai-chan—or should I say [F/n] Sinag Alba Yoshino, former captain? Ah, details, but anyway…you really do look so much better in person than in the prints. You lost? I can take you the long way to your class."
…How does this walking-talking toilet paper know my second and middle name?
Not even your childhood friend knows your complete and rarely spoken government name. Oh, fuck. On bad days, even you sometimes forget.
Not to stereotype lightly, but you fear for your IP address.
His eyes wander in a way that is distinctly unwarranted; his gaze borderline leers, and that makes your jaw lock while wanting to call a trusted adult. You are about to express your torrid disgust when a shadow falls over the both of you.
"Excuse you, but she seems to be a first-year. She doesn't need the 'long' way from anything you're trying to insinuate."
Standing there is a girl with dark hair, elegant glasses, and a beauty so striking it resounds your systems with a physical impact. "Goddess" is the only word that fits. You have never been a "simp" like loud-mouthed fools who slobber on the floor, but you may have a documented weakness for attractive people. How can anyone blame you? With this girl, especially? Her glasses alone are a work of art. Surely, she is one of God's favorites.
The greasy third-year student pales, his hand dropping from the wall. "Oh, Kiyoko-san…I was just, uh, helping her out."
"I'll take it from here," she says. Her gorgeous eyes framed by those impeccable glasses do not leave him until he mumbles a half-hearted apology and scurries off toward Class 3–1 like a street rat.
She then turns to you, her expression softening. "I take it that you're lost? The first-years' classrooms are two floors down. The stairwell layout may be a little confusing if you take the West Wing by mistake. From the first gym, I presume? I'll show you the way."
"…Thank you po—" you bluster. Patay. The Filipino habit you usually reserve for your household, and had no trouble keeping under wraps until this very moment, slips out.
She does not question the foreign word, only gesturing for you to follow.
As you walk, the silence between you is significantly more comfortable than the blabbering of that earlier weirdo, though you also cannot help but notice how other students part for her.
“I’m Kiyoko Shimizu. Third-year student,” she mentions as you reach the same staircase landing you were at before getting jumped. “I don’t know about the magazine people have been mentioning around school, however, I do recognize you from a feature in the local newspaper. You have a very prominent reputation…and an organized way of thinking—or so the paper says.”
You shrug, looking at your shoes. “I guess so. I am Yoshino [F/n], first-year, Class 1–4. Still, I would not say I have an ‘organized way of thinking’ when I did just get lost.”
“Hopefully you don’t lose your way for the Bukatsu Shōkai this afternoon,” Kiyoko says, pausing at the top of the second floor’s stairs. She makes eye contact with you then, through clear lenses, with an inspecting stare. “I’m the manager for the boys’ volleyball club. Even though the school year has just begun, we’re already seeking a first-year to take over the managerial position after I graduate.”
“You’ve been a captain,” she continues, voice nothing but angelic and persuasive. “First I’ve read of a second-year becoming one, especially with active third-years present. That kind of vision is rare. If you know what it’s like to see an entire field in a split second, processing a whole court might be easier. The team needs someone who can think quickly on instinct.”
You open your mouth to give your standard, no-qualms rejection, but the words die in your throat.
She gives you a small, concise nod. “The transition from a sport, especially one you’ve once participated in, to an entirely new environment just to hold a clipboard does come across quite shrill, but please think about it. We’re in the second gym. If you come by, I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
You finally stand beneath the correct signage, but your heart does a weird, traitorous thrum that lasts shorter than a nanosecond as she bids you farewell.
Holy shit, you think, rubbing your neck. Pretty people with glasses are dangerous.
The First-Year Corridor is hardly busy twelve minutes before Homeroom Orientation; most students already got absorbed into their classrooms, while only some prefer to loiter in the hallway with people they know from junior high school or whoever the fuck. You stroll at a leisurely gait, finally oriented with a crash course on the school’s magical stairwells all thanks to that helpful (and beautiful, glasses-wearing) third-year.
Your vision traces the windows of the hallway, noting how the sunlight spills across the floor; bright enough to make you squint after a morning in shadowed passageways. You rub your eyes, wishing you would have had the sense to eat a proper breakfast—
Something ghosted at the edge of your vision. Something remarkably patent. Something brighter than the sunlit floor. Something…
Your mind—lacking the necessary fuel, boost of cognitive function, and replenishment of depleted energy due to skipping breakfast—is lagging behind, but you can definitely feel it barreling toward you. The sound comes first; the pounding rhythm of sneakers running against tile, hurried breaths bouncing off of the walls, and the faint rustling of clothes as a bag swings around.
You step to the side just in time to catch a flash of orange hair, wild and unmistakable, before it launched where you previously were.
The thing faceplants onto the floor of the hallway. Are they dead?
The thing wriggles before suddenly springing up again. Your body reacts faster than your brain; shooting out your arms as a weight collides with your chest. Legs wrap themselves tightly around your waist as arms cling around your shoulders. The force nearly knocks you down onto the floor, but you steady yourself, eyebrows raised, staring down at the human projectile now latched to you like a tarsier.
For one suspended breath, you did not register his face—just the blur of energy and the absurdity of how your first day has gone so far. Then he leans back, and the sunlight catches him in full.
Still the same as your memory had frozen him, with hair as vivid as a traffic cone, and a smile stretching from ear to ear.
Prying him off with some effort, it only takes unhooking his arms from around your neck until his feet touch the ground again.
Hinata bounces in place, essentially vibrating with unmeasured revelry.
“I knew it—I knew you’d end up here too!” he says, words tumbling so fast, it is a mystery as to how he does not trip over his sentences much like his feet. He should be a rapper. “My mom told me you might, but I wasn’t sure! Or, well, I wasn’t sure until I saw you, and I was like ‘No way!’ but then it hit me like BUWAH and then I was like ‘Yes way!’ and—”
“Slow down,” you interject, granted that your tone is passive rather than scolding. You scrutinize him up and down with appraising eyes. There is definitely a certain aspect that is off.
He is…taller now. Slightly taller than you. What has happened to the world?
Hinata notices your stare and puffs his chest. “Pretty cool, yeah? I grew! I mean, I still gotta catch up to everyone else, but it’s a start!”
“…Huh,” is all you give him, although to Hinata, it is as good as fireworks. He beams, hands gripping the band of his cream-colored canvas shoulder bag as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Man, I can’t believe it’s really you! I thought we’d lost touch forever after elementary, and then junior high was just super crazy—”
His rambling persists as a waterfall of enthusiasm that fills up the First-Year Corridor. You allow it to override you, not bothering to interrupt this time. Your eyes relax, albeit merely by a fraction, as you take in his hyper storytelling and gestures. Shōyō is still the same twerp.
When he pauses for a breath, you hum, “Without taking into account your growth, it seems as though you really have not changed.”
Hinata freezes, then laughs so cacophonously that a few nearby students turn their heads. “UWAH! But you have! You look so pretty. And very cool! Swag! Did I say that out loud? Ah, it’s true! Don’t mind! Not that you weren’t cool or pretty before! Seriously, everyone’s gonna stare!”
“If only that has not happened already,” you scrunch your nose, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder.
Hinata falls into step beside you in the blink of an eye, glowing like a joyful sunrise, eager to go about for the rest of the day so long as you are with him.
Years apart quickly dissolve in a heartbeat, as if you have never been separated at all.
And you, though you would not care to admit it out loud, found yourself oddly fine with it. Despite the world not flipping upside down and automatically turning colorful again.
He may be glowing, but that is not enough to alter your surroundings into something radiant.
Orange had not been the kindle to a life with greener pastures.
“C’mon, [N/n]! I can’t believe we’re in the same school again—GAH! This is the best! I missed you so much! Like, if you take a boat and fill it with how much I’ve missed Yoshino [F/n], the boat would sink! And the amount of me missing you would spill and take over the whole ocean!” The energetic boy has you by the wrist, dragging you with him as his steps bubble with excitement.
You let yourself be pulled along like you have yourself one hyperactive sled dog with orange fur—your pace is unhurried despite Hinata’s tugging. “You do not even know if we are in the same class, Shō,” you impart monotonously.
Hinata waves off your words with his free hand. “Ehhh, doesn’t matter! It’s gotta be fate! Childhood friends reunited after a billion years apart? We’re totally classmates! We can sit together, and you can explain the English and numbers stuff I don’t get!”
The time prompts the few other dawdling first-years in the hallway to start shuffling in clusters to their classrooms. The air is thick with newness. You keep your gaze forward—until you catch sight of a neat placard above a doorway.
“Oh. Class 1–4.” You dug in your heels, bringing Hinata to an abrupt stop. He jolts backward at the sudden resistance, nearly bumping into a passing student.
“Oof—hey! Why’d you stop?”
“This is my classroom.” You nod toward the sign.
Hinata stares at you hollowly, unblinking as his brain buffers. Then his jaw went slack, eyes rounding in delayed horror. “Eh?! No way! You’re in a college prep class?!”
“Awh! But—but my homeroom’s all the way on the other end! Class 1–1!” He points miserably down the hall, like the number itself thorns him.
You scratch the side of your temple. “That…explains quite a lot. Your placement in the remedial-adjacent track is statistically consistent with your grades from elementary school.”
“[N/n]! That’s mean!” Hinata’s lips quiver—a devastation like this nearly turns him into the saddest puddle in the First-Year Corridor, though he still did not let go of your arm. His whole face scrunches up like a kid being denied their favorite dessert. “This sucks! I thought we’d finally be in the same class again after all these years. Does this mean I have to walk all the way over here just to see you? Well…it’s doable, I guess…but still! How can you just abandon me like this?”
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “It is not really ‘abandonment’ if we were never assigned to be together in the first place.”
He slumps dramatically on the sliding doors to your classroom, blocking your path, hand theatrically dragging down his face. “You’re so cold…”
An unreadable expression marks you, remaining unfazed, but you did hold out your hand to ask for something. “Phone.”
“What?” he peeks out from behind his fingers.
“You have one, right? Cellphone. Number. Exchange?”
“Oh! Yes, yes!” In an instant, Hinata brightens again, fumbling a yellow…flip phone out of his pocket like a sacred treasure. “Back then, we didn’t own phones yet, I forgot—man! This is awesome! Now we can text all the time!”
You input your number onto Hinata’s phone and hand it back to him. Hardly ten seconds later, you feel your own device vibrate in your blazer’s pocket.
💬 MESSAGES (now)
Unknown
wwww lol its me shō XDD
💬 MESSAGES (now)
Unknown
heeeeyyyyyyyywwww
You stare up from the notifications on your screen, deadpanning whilst Hinata just gives you a cheeky smile.
“Then couldn’t you…go to your classroom? The teacher will be there soon.” You move Hinata aside with a single hand, similar to pushing your father’s favorite bag of pretzels out of the way to reach the Boy Bawang behind it in the kitchen pantry. He would just have to continue sulking in the hall if he does not get his shit together.
“Why’d you have to be so smart, [N/n]?!” he pouts after dusting himself off, but his face splits into that unrelenting smile again. “Fine! But lunch! I’ll dash here! I need to know everything that’s happened with your amazing football career! And I need to update you on my volleyball stuff! There’s this one guy that I need to defeat, [N/n]…some sort of King…you won’t believe it!”
You watch as he sprints away, orange hair flailing.
Sighing, you slide the doors open to Class 1–4, and step into your homeroom. The moment you do, the school’s five-minute warning bell rings.
Conversations overlap beneath the scrape of chair legs against wooden sugi floorboards. Someone laughs too loudly near you as another student hurriedly shoves several notebooks and worksheets into a folder under their desk as though Homeroom Orientation on the first day of school warrants that level of preparedness.
Your eyes sweep the room once. Five columns and five rows. Guess you have twenty-four people to try and tolerate this year.
Three seats remain unoccupied—the classroom’s attendance is already ninety-two percent complete—though you immediately dislike two of them.
The first option is actually quite close to your current location. It is within the column nearest to the wall, back row. The seat also has immediate access to one of the two sliding doors, meaning you can hypothetically book it out of class as fast as you would like without having to wait or scooch through your classmates.
However, it is to the right of a boy who seriously needs to lay off relying on deodorant to mask his body odor. He talks with his hands as if conducting an invisible sports panel.
Basketball; you caught the word three separate times within five seconds.
“Kobe! And then…if you pivot properly—”
His arm nearly clips the poor guy beside him in the jaw.
He seems to like basketball, basketball, and maybe baking? Kidding, that third interest still entails baskets and shooting balls into them. By the decibel that he speaks, it is all the more reason to stray away. The seat makes you twinge.
One adrenaline-pilled and overly enthusiastic athlete in your life is already more than enough.
Your gaze then shifts to the second option. Fuck, dude, it is in the third column, dead-center, second row. Honestly, the seatmates on either side do not convey the impression of being too bad.
The classmate who would be behind you if you do take that chair is actually quite cute, even. Dark grayish-green locks…maybe army-colored? Moss? Whatever. His hair additionally has a flyaway tuft sticking out like an antenna. He strikes as somewhat self-effacing from where you stand at the back of the classroom. Are those freckles? You are not too sure—could be acne—but it does complement his features well, forming constellations across his mug.
What you do have a problem with is the classmate who would be in front of you. The boy has combed, slicked-back hair, and he is already hunched over two notebooks stacked neatly atop his desk with pens galore as if finals are tomorrow. His foot taps against the floor with enough cadence to slowly eat away at your sanity.
You can already envision him reminding a subject teacher about forgotten homework assignments six months from now.
Oh, damn. He slapped a hand on his forehead, spun around in his chair, and grilled the people behind him. He certainly sticks to a strict regime…and speaking of sticks, does he have one up his ass? Or would it be a Grade A ruler instead?
This guy likely raises his hand often, and he would be directly in front of you, meaning more attention would be drawn to that vicinity. Jeez. It is a royal pain when you are well aware of your recurring habit of sleeping in class. You do not particularly need a stickler do-goody to pester you about waking up and “personifying the school values by listening attentively to the lessons being taught.” He is the type of guy who would definitely find a way to procure a student council armband around his uniform sleeve by the end of Schola Brevis, somehow.
That leaves the third and final option; fifth column, closest to the windows, third row. Okay. It appears to be quiet, to have minimal foot traffic, and to possess decent airflow. Cons? The only one you could think of is how far it is from the exit, but the trade-off is worth it. Your potential neighbors do not tick any boxes of being an outright nuisance. Most importantly, the guy occupying the seat to its right seems entirely uninterested in the existence of everyone around him. The third option is actually promising.
Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy…
That guy. He has sandy-blond hair and—damn it, your brain must seriously be deprived of its essential nutrients if it is doing that tiny, treacherous stutter from earlier, only doubling down further because of—glasses. Dark, rectangular frames that sit perfectly on a sharply sculpted bridge. With specs, he stares absentmindedly toward the front of the classroom, toward the chalkboard, as if the entire Entrance Ceremony and subsequent Homeroom Orientation is beneath his notice.
Huh—and Freckles is beside him. Too bad Glasses has headphones on, Freckles is having the time of his life rambling to what might as well have been a decorative brick wall.
“…and did you hear about that Kitaichi football prodigy? Reminds me of the King. Looks to me like that school’s got a thing for producing strong student-athletes. Yikes,” Freckles fails to whisper confidentially. “But hey! People say she’s in our class, although I don’t know if they’re joking because—”
Glasses barely acknowledges him.
You have to give a bit of credit where it is due; you respect the lack of hustle.
He looks competent. He looks like he minds his own business.
He looks…pretty. You blame Kiyoko-senpai for this development. It is an inconvenient sensitivity.
As you approach the empty desk, your attention briefly drifts downward. A moon-shaped keychain swings gently from the side of his red bag. Attached to the same metal ring hangs a small name tag.
Tsukishima. Moon-shaped keychain?
You get it. Kind of dorky, but it is not illegal to be on-the-nose.
Wait. Hold on. Sure, the unassuming desk looks empty, however, who knows? Maybe there is some bullshit eraser on the floor near the leg of the table, or some other obscure item that stakes a claim for that desk.
It is patently burdensome to ask, but less so than having to get up as a forced retreat to those dire fallbacks you do not want to have. Alright, then you will plainly ask. Easy peasy. It is a task bereft of being difficult if your brazenness could huff a thing or two about it.
Dude, just say, “Tsukishima Hotaru, is anyone occupying this desk already?”
Well, actually, he does not really give the appearance of a guy named “Hotaru.” Something about his posture, that intellectual—almost sardonic and derisive—aura, or the fact that he exudes an expression that is perpetually unimpressed by the human condition…it makes you gamble on the alternative, less-common on’yomi reading.
You stand by the desk, quietly clearing your throat. He does not look up at first, though to be fair, those Somy headphones and the music filtering in his ears are a clear "Do Not Disturb” indicator. You wait at least six seconds before deciding to speak.
“Hoy. Tsukishima Kei. Is this seat taken?”
Instantaneously, the air within the 1x1 meter space around him crystallizes. Freckles stops mid-sentence.
The blond glances upward. For a skip of the heart, his headphones remain over his ears as a melody continues to leak, hinting a thin barrier between you…before his gaze settles properly onto your countenance.
Behind dark frames, his pointedly cutting irises…they are a brilliant shade of amber. Honeyed dews that can deter an adult bear from consuming them just by how magnificent they are. By God, why are you so distracted?
There is an exact moment in the fabric of time where his “processor” stalls, almost in a similar manner to you lagging through your wake-up routine at home. You expect it to be an initial hint of him going to ignore you, to be ticked off, or maybe to offer the same fawning and gross recognition you have had the displeasure in enduring all morning long.
Instead, his narrow ambers audit you with a sterile intensity.
What is it? MVP? Former youth football prospect? The girl featured in a notable magazine?
There is a ripple in his composure; a microscopic clench of his mandible, a momentary thaw of his guarded expression, an imperceptible dart in those intimidating eyes—blink and you miss it. You do not require reading his mind to arrive at the realization writing its way in the instance he forgets to breathe.
There is something off about this guy. For whatever reason, he is not looking at some image conjured from whispers, a “prodigy,” or a “magazine article.”
For the first time today, someone appears genuinely caught off guard by the sight.
His fingers reach up, lightly pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck.
“…Come again?” he asks, with a voice so smooth—like a low drawl that does not fail to give you goosebumps. What the fuck is going on?
The second the words left his mouth, irritation flickers briefly across his face as he clicks his tongue. He is bothered—at his own lack of attention, at the way your voice caught him so unexpectedly that his mental defenses tripped.
He is incomprehensibly bothered that, despite himself, he is actually beholding the view of you out of his own free will.
“The seat,” you repeat steadily. You find yourself staring a breath too long at how the morning light catches the corner of his lenses, turning corpuscles of dust around him into floating specks of gold.
Starkly different from spray paint under stadium lights.
For months—arguably a year—your world had been washed out in the heavy apathy of a girl who left her shadow on the muddy field. Quitting football turned your life into one that tasted like lukewarm tea steeped too short; one that looked like a faded photograph.
Color simply stopped trying.
You had an abundance of your mind set to expect your first day at Karasuno High to be more of the same drab itinerary.
In that moment, the world does not turn into a rainbow, but why is it unfortunately packed with more nuance than you could knuckle into a football with your non-dominant foot? As you lock eyes with him, the dullness of a kaolin-gray filter over your vision appears to sharpen. The contrast turns up. The edges of the room become more defined as pigments shift from muted monotony to a more vivid spectrum. And this stranger-classmate of yours is the catalyst of such impossible color?
Glasses—or Tsukishima, you mean—does not have sandy-blond hair. It is not singularly “blond” either. Except his hair is not the bright, mercantile sheen of city lights like imposing orange; it is softly the hue of a town in Miyagi with spring breaking through. Pale as the dried thatch of old barn roofs, yet catching April’s thin sun like fresh, unspun silk drying on an engawa. It is the exact shade of blond resembling cold morning light cutting through crisp air that hits Sendai’s foothills before snow fully melts.
You cannot place it exactly.
Perhaps, his hair is startling, warm ivory—the flush of early Ipomoea alba yet to bloom completely, laced with the clean chaff of the region’s fresh produce from lined rice paddies.
Precipitously, the boring chalkboard at the front of the class is not just a powdery desaturation of shamrock; it is a deep, intense slate of green.
Whatever it is, it must be the trick of the light…or the very first drop of pure paint in diluted, murky water.
Weird like a breath of fresh air in a congested room that has been sealed for years.
Freckles throws himself over the wooden expanse of Tsukishima’s desk, his whisper conveying that winded, frenzied energy of a kagwang itching to glide. He drifts so far forward that the warmth of his presence threatens to breach the cold perimeter of your personal space. “She actually got your given name right on the first try!”
“Shut up, Yamaguchi. Obviously, there’s bound to be someone in this school whose tongue isn’t a butcher’s knife,” Tsukishima snaps. His voice is a thin, biting wind, sharp enough to cut, yet his unrelenting stare wavers naught away from you.
So the gamble did work out.
A faint, inward sigh of relief tracks. Shit, dude, enter the lottery. You can be Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but with correct kanji readings as the Golden Ticket. You had pulled that reasoning right out of thin air as a desperately lunging play on a pitch you hardly see.
The freckled boy—Yamaguchi something—seems entirely undeterred. Instead, he faces you fully, his expression lighting up with a rustic, sheepish ardency. An azalea-pink hue dusts high on his cheeks. His weight leans so heavily against the wooden table that the legs of Tsukishima’s desk groan against sugi, inching a few millimeters closer to yours.
“I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi!” he intones, his voice leaping a pitch higher than it had been when he was gossiping just a scene before. “And, uhm, it’s really cool to meet you, Yoshino-san! I saw that one photo of you in the magazine where you were doing the—”
“Yamaguchi. Sit down. You’re hovering.” Tsukishima’s interruption is a bucket of well-water drawn directly from beneath ice.
Yamaguchi chirrups, a high, disconcerting sound, and nearly trips over his own lanky limbs as he recoils toward his own chair. “Ah—sorry! Sorry, Tsukki! I just—anyway, nice to meet you!” He offers one last dopey look; the kind of open-eyed wonder that tattles he had already decided you were the most interesting thing to ever occupy Class 1–4, before he hides his face behind a fan of spaced digits.
Tsukishima rolls his eyes. Then, he merely gestures with a vague, dismissive flick of his gaze toward the empty chair to his left. “It’s unoccupied. Sit if you want. It’s not as if I own the room.”
You pull the chair out. The screech of metal legs dragging against the old sugi floor cuts through the room. It is a sharp, scraping friction that, for a fleeting second, the receptors of your ears processed to be the only sound left in the entire world.
The words run before you can catch them. Shit. That deep-set household habit, the casual vernacular of a life lived behind closed doors, spills out into a sterile Japanese classroom.
Whatever. You cannot un-ring the bell that demands future prodding inquiries now.
As you settle into the seat, the periphery of your vision becomes a canvas of high-contrast movement. Through his woven fingers, Yamaguchi peeks at you, gaze roving toward you for a brief, borrowed moment, as if trying to verify that a creature of flesh and bone had actually materialized beside his best friend—one whose flesh and bone, in particular, conglomerate into an appearance that is a sight for sore eyes, in his opinion.
Meanwhile, Tsukishima’s subtlety lingers in a mighty, quiet watch of vacancy. His eyes trace your profile for a stray tick of a clock’s hand longer than necessary—an analytical, studying contemplation that attempts to decipher an unfamiliar variable left in your wake—before he finally turns back toward the green swathe of the chalkboard.
The desk beneath your palms feels smooth, real, and violently brown. For so long, the world had been a smudge of slathered chromatism, but the grain of this wood is suddenly distinct enough to prick.
Beyond the glass pane of the large windows, the young ginkgo trees sway in the gentle breeze; their early leaves catching the sun like pale green coins. Beneath your ribs, your cardiorespiratory system thrums with an abnormal rhythm—stuttering with a pulse that has absolutely nothing to do with the flights of stairs you had just traveled.
Pretty people with glasses, you think again, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as the ache of the sky outside large windows finally looks blue in its vast, celestial firmament. What could be the con of sitting next to one?
Back then, you did not know enough to ask better questions.
The beginning of spring always exhibits to be deceptively gentle, after all. Snow thaws. Tempests soothe. Vibrancy of rays mill about longer against classroom floors and the rim of clean glasses.
Perhaps that is why the passage of time never feels particularly grand while you are living through it.
At fifteen, it is easy to mistake the first return of color for permanence.
It is all the more easy to believe that the people who alter the texture of your world will simply remain there forever—beside classroom windows, below spring skies, at the desk to your starboard.
Before long, April, too, softened into the passing haze of bickered interactions, Tokyo summer camps, dragged study sessions, and shared autumn moon festivals with a first-name basis. To which somewhere amidst the quiet accumulation of ordinary days, the years disappeared from right beneath your feet, slipping into February's late winter.
What could possibly be the con of sitting next to one?
