#iwakage

“Every sport is the same. You fall, you stand up, you learn.” Kamui tapped the top of the helmet. “Now go. Show me how brave you are.”

The kart jolted forward, nearly stalling before it picked up speed. Kageyama gripped the wheel like his life depended on it. The track stretched out ahead, wide and endless, and for a moment he forgot his fear. He turned clumsily, the kart wobbling through the curve, but when he reached the straight line, the rush of air against his suit made him laugh out loud.

When he pulled back in, Kamui was waiting, clapping his hands. “See? I told you. You’re a natural!”

Kageyama yanked off the helmet, hair plastered to his forehead. “I went so fast!”

“Not that fast,” Kamui teased, but his grin was proud. He lifted Kageyama onto his shoulders as if he had just won a race. “One day, you’ll be even faster than me.”

Sometimes other drivers came to watch. Once, a tall blonde German bent down to shake Kageyama’s hand. “A promising talent Kobayashi. You drive well, little one.”

Kageyama blinked up at him, eyes wide. “Uncle, who is he?”

Kamui chuckled. “ His name is Sebastian Vettel, we compete sometimes.”

The boy held onto those words. 

Even if he did not fully understand, he felt the weight of them in his chest.

Years passed, and the visits to the track grew fewer. 

Middle school came with harder classes and stricter schedules. 

His grandfather began to watch him closely, encouraging him to practice volleyball more seriously.

“Focus, Tobio. This sport can carry you far,” his grandfather would say, setting a hand on his shoulder after practice.

Kageyama nodded every time, because he wanted to make his grandfather proud. 

He pushed harder, training until his body ached, spending evenings in the gym instead of at the track. 

The smell of fuel and the thrill of speed faded, replaced by the echo of balls against wooden floors.

Yet sometimes, late at night, he would scroll through videos on his phone. 

He would find clips of races, of Kamui behind the wheel, of the drivers he once met shaking hands with crowds. 

His chest tightened as he whispered to himself, “I want to drive again.”

But the next morning, the whistle of a volleyball coach snapped him back, and he threw himself into the game. Volleyball was his present. 

Karting was his past. Still, somewhere deep inside, he carried the memory of his uncle’s voice, warm and steady. 

“You fall, you stand up, you learn.”

And every time he served, every time he set, Kageyama remembered that.

The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and cold like the winter that lingered outside the hospital walls. 

Kageyama Tobio sat in silence, fingers clenched so tightly around the fabric of his sweatpants that his knuckles had turned white. 

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor had once been a small comfort, a reminder that his grandfather was still fighting. But now, It’s gone.

Flatline.

The sound was quiet, but it tore through Tobio like a spiker through the wall of blockers.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. 

He didn’t say a word when the nurses gently urged him to leave the room. He just stood, the weight of everything sinking into his chest like stones in deep water.

His grandfather had always believed in him. 

He always watched his games. 

Always said, "Y'know Tobio... If you get really, reeeally good, you'll get to play lots more games. The best players get to play lots and lots of volleyball. If you get really good... I promise you... somebody who's even better will come along and find you." Without him, the world lost color.

Back on the court, Tobio became sharper. 

Quieter. 

Angrier. 

He trained harder than ever, demanded perfection, pushed his teammates past their limits. But the sets he sent flying were no longer invitations, they were commands. Orders.

They started calling him the Tyrant King.

Not to his face. 

Never to his face. But he heard the whispers.

Felt the glares. 

Even his best friends had begun to keep their distance. 

And during practice one day, it all came to a head.

“Don’t even think about coming to Seijoh. You’re not welcome there.” said Oikawa when they were alone in the hallway.

The silence that followed was deafening. 

He didn’t understand why his senpais, the one he idolized, are the same people who would reject their soulmate bond.

It all came crashing down during the championship. 

The moment the ball left his fingers, Kageyama could already tell, no one was there to receive it. 

No one was looking. 

No one was waiting.

His breath hitched. 

His hands trembled. 

The crowd roared, but it was distant, muffled. 

Like he was underwater.

Kageyama didn’t move. 

Didn’t speak. 

Just stared at his hands like they were foreign things.

At home, his parents had just returned after years of being away. 

They had not seen the boy they left behind slowly unravel, and when they finally did, it struck them like a blow. 

Their son was not the eager child who once wore his grandfather’s encouragement like armor. 

He was tired, withdrawn, and broken.

One night, his mother spoke softly to his father in the kitchen. “He can’t stay like this. Volleyball was supposed to give him a future, not destroy him.”

His father sighed, looking toward the closed door of Tobio’s room. “He needs something that will remind him of who he is. Not the King of the Court, not a replacement for anyone else. Just Tobio.”

That was when the idea came.

The next week, Kamui stood at the doorstep, hands in his pockets, his usual easy grin fading when he saw his nephew’s hollow expression. 

“Tobio,” he said gently, crouching down to meet his eyes. “How about you come stay with me for a while?”

Kageyama blinked, confusion flickering in his gaze. “Stay with you? Why?”

“Because you used to love being at the track,” Kamui replied. His voice was warm, but steady. “I remember the way your face lit up when you drove, even if it was only a few laps. You don’t have to choose volleyball or racing forever right now. You just need something that makes you feel alive again.”

“I… I don’t know.” Kageyama’s voice cracked, shame pulling at his throat. “I’m not good enough. I tried so hard, and everyone still left me.”

Kamui reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not true. You’re good enough, Tobio. Volleyball doesn’t get to decide your worth. Neither does anyone else. You’re more than one game, more than one nickname.”

For the first time in months, the boy’s eyes shimmered with something other than anger or grief. He whispered, almost like a secret, “I miss it. The karts. The sound. Going fast.”

“Then come back,” Kamui said simply. His grin returned, a spark of mischief glinting in his eyes. “I’ll teach you properly this time. And I won’t ever leave you behind.”

That night, Kageyama packed his bag. Volleyball had broken him, but maybe, just maybe, the track with his uncle could help put him back together.

Back at the track, Kageyama slipped into the kart. 

His hands trembled as he adjusted his gloves, but the moment the engine came alive beneath him, the nerves shifted into something else.

It was not fear. It was the familiar rush he had missed for years. The vibrations rattled through his body, and as he pressed the pedal, the world blurred. 

Corners came and went, the tires squealed, and the wind clawed at his suit. On the sidelines, Kamui clapped and shouted encouragement, his voice cutting through the roar.

When Tobio finally pulled back in, helmet tucked under his arm, Kamui’s grin was wide. “You haven’t lost it. It’s like you never left.” He let the words hang for a moment before his expression softened. “But if you’re serious about this, we need to take the next step. My Le Mans season is starting, and I can’t always be here. You’ll need a manager, someone who can push your career forward while I’m racing.”

Kageyama looked down at the kart, his chest rising and falling as though he had just finished a long rally on the court. “I want it,” he said, voice steady despite the storm inside him. “I want to race.”

The manager they found for him was sharp-suited and precise, sunglasses perched on his head even indoors. 

He studied Kageyama with a critical gaze, circling him like a scout measuring potential. “Kageyama, is it? I’ve seen the tapes. You’ve got raw talent. But raw doesn’t win championships.” He leaned closer, his voice low and uncompromising. “Do you want to take this seriously?”

“Yes.” Tobio’s reply was immediate. He did not flinch, did not stutter.

The man smiled thinly, satisfied. “Then we start in junior formula. It’s a ladder, boy. You climb or you fall. Nothing in between.”

The words dug into him like nails. Volleyball had once been the same, unforgiving and merciless. 

He thought of the nickname that had haunted him, King of the Court, teammates turning their backs, of rejection from those he wanted to stand beside most. His fists tightened, his jaw locked. “I’ll climb,” he said.

The years that followed were brutal. 

Junior formula stripped him down and rebuilt him in equal measure. 

There were days when the car spun out before the first corner, leaving him in the gravel, fists pounding the wheel in frustration. 

Nights when he sat alone in the garage long after the team had gone home, staring at his helmet as if it carried all his failures. 

There were races where he crossed the line dead last, shame biting at his heels.

Yet there were also flashes of brilliance: the first podium, the taste of champagne burning his throat, the roar of a crowd chanting his name, not in mockery, but in celebration.

Through every high and every crushing low, Kamui called. “Did you learn something?” he would ask.

“Yes,” Tobio would answer, even when his voice was hoarse with anger.

“Then it’s not a loss,” his uncle always replied.

By the time he was twenty-two, the tide began to shift. 

A Formula 2 weekend ended with his car in first place, the checkered flag waving above him. 

He lifted the trophy high, cameras flashing from every direction. 

Reporters shoved microphones at him, questions flying faster than he could answer. 

His manager leaned in close, his words sharp but laced with satisfaction. “F1 teams are watching now. Keep going.”

That night, Kageyama sat alone in his room, phone in hand, replaying a video of Kamui battling at Le Mans. 

He whispered to himself as though speaking the words would anchor them in reality. “One more step.”

The call came two years later. 

His phone buzzed, and on the other end was a voice he had only ever imagined hearing. A team principal, calm and direct. “Kageyama, we’d like you to test for us.”

His chest tightened, fingers gripping the phone until his knuckles whitened. “Yes, sir,” he breathed.

When he told Kamui, his uncle only smiled, pride shining in his eyes. “Remember, Tobio. Racing doesn’t erase your past. It adds to it. Volleyball taught you pain. Let that fuel you. Drive faster because of it.”

And so, at 24, Tobio Kageyama stood on the starting grid of his first Formula 1 race. 

The crowd was deafening, the engines a symphony of chaos, but inside the cockpit there was only silence and the sound of his own heartbeat. 

The visor hid his face, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. 

The lights above flickered red, holding the world in suspended tension, and then they vanished into green.

The car launched forward, tires screaming against asphalt.

In that moment, he was no longer just the boy haunted by volleyball courts, no longer only Kamui Kobayashi’s nephew. 

He was Kageyama Tobio, a Formula 1 driver, finally racing toward the future that had once felt so far out of reach.

The morning air at Suzuka carried the sharp scent of fuel and hot asphalt. 

Banners of red and white fluttered against the grandstands, the crowd already buzzing long before the engines had roared to life. 

For the first time in years, the Toyota logo gleamed on the pit garages, the marque returning to Formula 1 with a young driver at the center of its gamble.

Tobio Kageyama stepped out of the team truck, helmet bag slung over his shoulder, expression carved into stone. 

This was his home race.

Last year’s Suzuka debut still burned in his memory, a blur of mistakes, a crash, and headlines that had labeled him “Rookie crashed in his homerace” He had replayed every corner of that race a thousand times in his mind. 

This time, there would be no slip, no wasted chance.

The paddock swarmed with people: journalists angling for interviews, engineers darting between garages, and guests from every corner of the sporting world. 

Kageyama ignored them all, eyes fixed ahead. He moved with the single-minded focus of someone who had only one goal: redemption. 

He wants to make his uncle proud and take that podium, last podium was his uncle, he wants to make history.

He barely noticed the group of tall figures weaving their way through the crowd, their jackets marked with Olympic logos. 

They were being shown around by a Toyota liaison, pausing to take photos near the pit wall. 

One of them, a man with familiar sharp eyes and a smile that had once been both mentor and torment, froze mid-step.

“Kageyama?”

The voice cut through the noise of the paddock like a blade. 

Kageyama stopped. He turned his head slowly, the name echoing in his mind like a memory he had buried deep.

There, a few steps away, stood two men he had not seen since middle school.

Oikawa Tooru, posture confident as ever, and beside him Iwaizumi Hajime, steady and watchful. 

Their team jackets bore the colors of Japan’s Olympic volleyball squad.

For a long heartbeat, Kageyama stared at them without a flicker of recognition. 

The years had changed them, sharpened their faces, broadened their shoulders. 

They were strangers draped in memories, and in Kageyama’s mind, those memories were filled with rejection and the sting of words that had cut him down.

The silence stretched. 

The crowd moved around them, unaware that a collision of past and present had just taken place.

Oikawa’s smile faltered as he searched Kageyama’s eyes. “You really don’t remember us, do you?”

Kageyama adjusted the strap of his helmet bag, gaze steady but unreadable. He opened his mouth, his voice low and even.

“No. I don’t.”

And then he turned, walking toward the Toyota garage, the sound of his racing boots fading into the hum of engines starting up. 

The past had called his name, but Kageyama was no longer a boy on the volleyball court. 

He was a Formula 1 driver, and Suzuka awaited his redemption.

Back in their third year of high school, Oikawa and Iwaizumi had expected to see him again.

Kageyama had been a prodigy, the type of player who could turn the tide of a game with a single set. 

They thought he would land in one of the powerhouse schools, maybe Shiratorizawa or Aoba Johsai itself. 

There was no question in their minds that he would be on the court, standing across from them, challenging them like he always had.

But when tournaments began, his name never appeared on any roster. 

They searched for him in brackets, in match reports, even in whispers exchanged by coaches. 

Nothing. No sightings, no rumors, no stories. 

It was as if he had vanished the moment they turned their backs on him.

Iwaizumi would glance at Oikawa sometimes, both of them too proud to voice what gnawed at their chests. 

“He’ll show up eventually,” Oikawa once muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. But the months pass, and Kageyama’s shadow never crossed a volleyball court again.

By the game with Shiratorizawa, the regret had settled in.

 The words they had thrown at him in middle school replayed in quiet moments. 

“We don’t need a third.”

“You’re too much.”

What had felt like a defense of their bond now tasted bitter, because they had driven him away. And when Nationals came, there was still no sign of him. Even the crowd, packed with rising stars and hopefuls, carried no trace of Tobio Kageyama.

Years later, the regret had dulled but never disappeared. 

They had told themselves he was probably playing in some small team, or maybe he had quit volleyball altogether. 

Still, the not knowing haunted them.

Then came Suzuka.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi walked through the F1 paddock as Olympic athlete and an athletic trainer on tour, curious and excited, until they saw him. 

Not in a jersey, not with a ball in his hands, but in a racing suit emblazoned with Toyota’s colors. 

Tobio Kageyama, standing among some of the greatest drivers in the world.

They froze. 

He looked taller, sharper, his presence commanding even when he stood silent. 

Reporters swarmed him, and he greeted them with polite smiles. 

Other drivers clapped him on the back, and his grin was genuine, warm in a way they had never seen from him in middle school.

But when his eyes turned to them, all warmth vanished. 

There was no recognition, no flicker of the boy who had once looked at them as teammates, rivals, and maybe something more. 

His gaze passed over them like they were strangers in a crowd.

Oikawa felt the breath catch in his throat. 

Iwaizumi’s fists clenched at his sides. 

They had spent years regretting their rejection, but nothing could have prepared them for this moment. 

Watching him smile at everyone but them, only to meet their eyes with an emptiness that cut deeper than any words ever had.

For the first time, they realized the full weight of what they had done. 

They hadn’t just pushed Kageyama away from the team. 

They had lost him entirely.

The Suzuka paddock buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with tension and excitement. Reporters hovered at every corner, cameras flashing whenever a driver appeared.

Yet inside Toyota’s hospitality suite, the atmosphere was surprisingly light.

Kageyama leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening as laughter filled the room. Gian Manalo, his teammate and the first Filipino driver in Formula 1, was animatedly telling a story about a disastrous attempt to cook adobo for the mechanics.

The 2019 rookies Alex Albon, George Russell, and Lando Norris howled with laughter, chiming in with their own tales of rookie mistakes.

“You should’ve seen me in Austria,” George said between chuckles. “Missed the pit box by about two meters. My engineer still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“Two meters?” Lando smirked. “That’s generous. Looked like you were trying to park in the hospitality tent.”

Kageyama allowed a small smile, rare but genuine. Gian noticed and nudged him. “See? Even Tobio’s laughing. That means it was properly funny.”

Alex leaned forward, grinning. “Oi, Kageyama, any embarrassing rookie stories you’re hiding?”

He shook his head. “None that I’ll tell you.”

The room erupted again.

For a moment, the pressure of Suzuka lifted, and they were just young men who had chosen a brutal sport but found a family within it.

When race day arrived, Suzuka’s stands were packed to bursting.

Red and white flags rippled across the sea of fans.

Kageyama climbed into his car, visor down, blocking out everything but the circuit ahead.

The lights went out, engines screamed, and the battle began.

Every lap was a test of precision.

Gian fought hard behind him, defending positions with fearless grit.

The others all pushed their limits too, proving why they belonged in the sport.

For Kageyama, every corner at Suzuka was redemption, a rewriting of the painful memories from the year before.

When the checkered flag fell, he crossed the line first.

The crowd erupted, Suzuka roaring with the sound of his victory.

Moments later, Gian surged across in third, securing Toyota a double podium on their home soil.

The podium ceremony was a blur of champagne spray, cheers, and the Japanese anthem rising over the circuit.

Kageyama closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him.

He had done it.

Not just for himself, but for Toyota, for Kamui, and for the boy who had once stood lost between volleyball courts and kart tracks.

Down in the media pen, Oikawa and Iwaizumi stood among the crowd of spectators allowed in with special passes.

Their eyes followed every movement as Kageyama and Gian approached the microphones, helmets in hand, still dripping from the champagne.

A reporter leaned in, smiling. “Kageyama, how does it feel to take your first Suzuka win with your platonic soulmate and teammate Gian in P3?”

The word made Oikawa flinch. Platonic soulmate.

A Romantic Soulmate once a word they had rejected, a romantic bond with Kageyama they had thrown away.

Kageyama glanced at Gian, who smirked proudly, and then faced the cameras.

His voice was steady, calm, but filled with conviction.

“It feels… right. Gian’s not just my teammate, he’s my brother. Winning here at home with him on the podium too means everything. And it’s not just him. My other platonic soulmates Alex, George, and Lando, they’ve been with me through every struggle, every late-night talk, every moment when I thought I couldn’t do this. We push each other, we support each other. That’s what soulmates are supposed to do.”

The rookies grinned from the sidelines, clapping him on the back, while Gian threw an arm around his shoulders.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi watched in silence.

The cheers of the crowd were deafening, but in their ears, only Kageyama’s words echoed.

He had found his platonic soulmates, his family, his team. And none of it included them.

For the first time, they understood: they hadn’t just lost him.

He had built an entirely new world without them one where he was happier, stronger, and untouchable.

Here's Kimura Tatsunari as Kageyama Tobio in the Live Stage of Haikyuu

“Wake uhup I c-can’t sleep like thihis!” Kageyama whined, and even though he continued to squirm, he knew he was helpless against Iwaizumi’s strong grip. 

“PFahah-H-Hahajime!” Kageyama cackled, and he arched up again, his arms helplessly moving around in order to fight off his tickly boyfriend. But to no avail.

Even while sleeping, Iwaizumi was just too strong. “Stoohohop!” Kageyama whined, and he gazed at the alarm clock. Still only 4 in the morning. Shit, he had a looog way to go… Once morning light came, and Iwaizumi’s beautiful eyes opened, Kageyama was a mess. 

“Hey. Goodmorning,” Iwaizumi hummed, still oblivious, and he gulped when Kageyama turned his head towards him, showing the bags under his eyes and his flushed cheeks. His heaving body was shaky from laughing and giggling so much, and his arms were hanging weakly beside his body, having given up their fight one hour ago already.

“What happened?” Iwaizumi asked, and he gulped when Kageyama tightly gripped his hands which were still positioned on Kageyama’s waist - the tickle spot he had been exploiting the last couple of minutes before he woke up. 

“Nothing!” Kageyama growled, throwing off Iwaizumi’s hands so he could finally sit up and gather his breath, his body still felt tingly all over and his muscles ached from laughing and squirming so much.

“You’re unbelievable,” he panted, and he failed to climb out of bed due to his exhaustion, and he fell back next to his boyfriend who yawned and stretched out with a content smile.

“Looks like you had a tough night, love. Hey but guess what? I actually dreamed I tickled you to death, and you loved it,” Iwaizumi said lovingly while he nuzzled the back of Kageyama’s neck.

“Huh?!” Kageyama lifted his head momentarily before collapsing again, making tired and whiny noises.

“Care to make this reality for me?” Iwaizumi said, and Kageyama’s eyes widened and he sputtered in protest when his lover was climbing over him already.