"Please, look at me"
Tōru Oikawa
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From the moment you meet Tōru Oikawa, you know you won’t get along. You were water and he was oil.
He smiles too easily. Talks too much. Carries himself like the world is already his.
“So you’re the new manager,” he says, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your spine straighten. “You look…serious.”
You don’t blink. “And you look like someone who ignores instructions.”
The gym freezes. Someone coughs. A volleyball rolls to a stop.
For a split second, his smile slips. Not enough for anyone else to notice but you do. Then it’s back. Wider. Sharper.
“Iwa-chan,” he laughs, “she’s scary.”
“I like her already,” Iwaizumi mutters.
Oikawa decides right then that you are trouble.
You don’t back down.
You call him out when he pushes through pain. You correct him during strategy discussions. You don’t laugh at his jokes when he’s being reckless.
“You don’t understand what it takes to win,” he snaps one afternoon when you stop practice to force him to rest.
“And you don’t understand what it takes to keep a team standing,” you shoot back.
He steps closer, towering slightly. “I’m the captain.”
“And I’m the manager,” you reply coolly. “Which means it’s my job to stop you from ruining yourself.”
The silence crackles. For a moment, it looks like he might yell.
Instead, he laughs too loudly. “Wow. You really hate me, huh?”
You don’t answer. Because the truth is far more dangerous.
What he hates most is not you. It’s the way the team listens to you.
They relax around you. Trust you. Look to you when things go wrong. Oikawa sees it in small moments such as when a player thanks you quietly, when laughter follows you down the hall.
And worse when other people notice you.
The first time a first-year lingers too long by your side, Oikawa’s serve turns brutal. The first time an opposing captain smiles at you, Oikawa’s jaw tightens until it aches.
“You’re glaring,” Iwaizumi mutters.
“Don’t be stupid,” Oikawa snaps.
But later, when he watches you laugh at someone else’s joke, something twists violently in his chest.
The tension escalates during a practice match.
Another school. Another captain. Too friendly.
You’re talking strategy, but Oikawa only sees the way the other boy leans closer than necessary.
“Manager,” Oikawa calls sweetly from the court, voice laced with warning. “We’re starting.”
You glance over and nod before turning back to the boy in bright orange jersey. “I know.”
Oikawa doesn’t miss a single serve that game.
Afterward, you confront him.
“That was childish,” you say.
“And that was flirting,” he snaps back.
You laugh, incredulous. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”
“I know!” he fires back, voice sharp, frustrated. Then, quieter “That’s the problem.”
The breaking point comes after a loss.
You don’t soften your words during review.
“You stopped trusting your hitters,” you say evenly. “You tried to do everything alone.”
Oikawa stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“You think you know better than me?”
“I think,” you reply, meeting his eyes without fear, “that you’re terrified of being replaceable.”
That one hits.
He storms out.
You find him later behind the gym, rain beginning to fall, his hands braced against the wall like it’s the only thing holding him upright.
“Why do you look at me like that?” he asks, voice strained. “Like I’m not enough.”
Your chest tightens. “Because you keep acting like you have to be perfect to deserve staying.”
He turns on you then, eyes bright with anger and something far more fragile.
“Everyone chooses you,” he says bitterly. “They listen to you. They trust you. You don’t have to fight for attention.”
“That’s not true,” you whisper.
“Then why..” his voice cracks, “Why does it feel like I’m already losing you?”
The jealousy spills out raw, ugly and honest.
After that, nothing is the same.
Arguments linger too long. Silences stretch until they ache. Every accidental touch feels deliberate.
When someone flirts with you, Oikawa steps in without thinking.
“She’s busy.”
You shove his shoulder afterward. “You don’t own me.”
“I know,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “But I don’t know how to stop wanting you to look at me like that instead.”
The confession hangs there unclaimed, dangerous.
The night everything nearly breaks, it’s raining hard enough to drown out the world.
You argue again about his shoulder, his recklessness, the way he refuses help.
“Why do you care so much?” he demands, standing too close now.
You laugh shakily. “Because someone has to when you won’t.”
His eyes search your face like he’s afraid of what he’ll find.
“Then why does it feel like you’re always choosing everyone else over me?”
“You push me away,” you whisper.
He grabs your wrist not rough, not gentle but desperate.
“Because if I don’t,” he breathes, “I’ll want something I’m not allowed to have.”
The rain soaks you both. The air hums.
Enemies don’t touch like this. Enemies don’t tremble like this.
And yet neither of you lets go.
The rain keeps falling. Neither of you moves.
Oikawa’s grip on your wrist tightens for half a second then falters. His fingers loosen like they’ve forgotten how to hold onto anything at all.
“…I’m tired,” he says suddenly.
The words don’t sound like Tōru Oikawa’s. There’s no sharpness. No sarcasm. Just exhaustion, stripped bare.
You turn fully toward him. His head is bowed now, shoulders tense and breath uneven. Rain darkens his hair, water sliding down his lashes like he’s crying even though he hasn’t let himself yet.
“I’m tired of fighting,” he continues, voice cracking despite himself. “Tired of pretending I’m not scared. Tired of acting like I don’t notice when people look past me like I’m already replaceable.”
Your chest aches.
“I hate that I get jealous,” he admits, words spilling faster now, like if he stops they’ll choke him. “I hate that every time someone laughs with you, I feel like I’m losing something I never had the right to want.”
He finally looks at you.
And there it is.
Not the captain. Not the rival. Not the confident, infuriating, brilliant setter but a boy who is terrified of being left behind.
“I keep pushing you away,” he whispers, voice breaking completely now, “because if I let myself want you… if I let myself believe you might stay...” His breath stutters. “...then losing you would destroy me.”
His shoulders shake once. Then again.
He turns away sharply, dragging a hand over his face like he’s angry at himself for falling apart.
“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not supposed to...”
You step forward.
Finally, you don’t hesitate this time.
Your hands come up, gentle but sure, resting against his arms. He stiffens at first, instinct screaming at him to pull away but he doesn’t. He can’t.
“Tōru,” you say softly. Not captain. Not Oikawa. Not idiot. Just his name.
He exhales, a broken sound, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.
The rain soaks you both, but you barely feel it.
You wrap your arms around him.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Like he doesn’t know what to do with comfort. Then his hands clutch at the back of your jacket, fingers curling tight and desperate.
“I’m here,” you whisper, pressing your cheek against his damp hair. “I’m not leaving. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you win.”
His breath shudders.
“I’m here because you’re human,” you continue. “Because you care. Because you try. Because even when you’re terrified, you still stand on that court and give everything you have.”
His grip tightens like your words are the only thing keeping him upright.
“You don’t have to compete for me,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to earn me. You don’t have to be better than anyone else.”
He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“…You’re cruel,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Saying things like that.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“No,” you say gently. “I’m honest.”
His eyes are red. Vulnerable. Open in a way he’s never allowed anyone to see.
“I don’t need you to be untouchable,” you add. “I just need you to stop carrying everything alone.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you like he’s memorizing this, like he’s afraid it might vanish.
Then he nods. One small, shaky nod.
“…Stay,” he whispers. Not a demand. Not a joke. A plea.
You slide your hands up, thumbs brushing away rain from his cheeks.
“I am,” you promise. “Right here.”
He leans into you again, slower this time. Trusting.
And for the first time, Tōru Oikawa lets himself break. Not because he’s lost but because someone stayed.
