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He is not a prodigy or a natural talent. He doesn’t have the innate, instinctual awareness for the court and the ball, and it doesn’t roll off his fingertips effortlessly.
Everything that Tooru is on the court—everything he’s achieved—is the result of merciless perfectionism borne out of hours and hours of practice. He will be the best not because he was born that way but because he forged himself into it.
That kind of dedication requires sacrifice, and Tooru is willing to sacrifice it all.
(Is it fair that others aren’t required to give so much of themselves over to the nonexistent mercy of the court? No. But life isn’t fair.
If it was, Kageyama Tobio would not have been selected for the Junior National Training Camp at only 15 when Oikawa has never been invited even once.)
The ball is a familiar weight in his hands. He tosses it up, jumps, serves. It goes into the corner, exactly where he wants it, fast and beautiful and perfect despite the fact that exhaustion is beginning to set in. He doesn’t know, exactly, how long he’s been at it, but it’s been at least two hours of setting drills and serving drills and speed drills and—
It’s not enough, the voice in his head says. Go again.
So he does. Toss, jump, serve. Toss, jump, serve. Toss, jump, serve.
The slam of the ball on the other side of the court is almost rhythmic. A part of him feels like a machine the way he can get it in every single time, every serve a perfect imitation of the one that came before it.
If it was like this in every game, we might have beaten Shiratorizawa.
And then maybe higher ups in the Japanese Volleyball Association would have noticed him, too. Or maybe not.
Not enough, the voice says, so Tooru goes again. And again. And again. Until he loses track of just how many times he’s sent the ball up and smacked it back down.
He’s sweaty and aching, shoulder burning from the repeated exertion, and the knee he tweaked earlier this year is starting to wobble. He knows he should stop, but—
It’s not enough. Work harder, and maybe trash like you will catch up. Eventually.
Again.
His toss is starting to go awry, not quite a perfect line, not quite where he needs it, but he hits it anyway.
Again.
His palm is numb from where he’s slapped the ball so many times, red and far past the point of stinging.
Again.
His knee spasms right as he goes to jump, and he stumbles, doesn’t make it. The ball falls limply to the ground right in front of him, and he’s panting now, trying hard to catch his breath when just a second ago, he hadn’t been aware of his breathing at all. His vision swims, and he braces himself with his hands on his knees, and he’s so weak.
Sometimes he thinks he’d like to rip himself apart and start from scratch if he could.
Maybe that would be enough.
Probably not.
He bends to pick up the volleyball. Just one more time, to correct the mistake he just made—
“That’s enough,” a voice cuts through the empty gym, and Tooru looks up to find Iwa-chan standing at the doorway. He’s dressed casual, school uniform long abandoned—and no wonder, it’s dark outside, which means Oikawa’s been at this longer than he thought—and his arms are folded across his chest.
It’s habit by now to greet Iwa-chan with some witty, snappy retort, but when Tooru opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His heart is hammering in his chest, and his breathing is still ragged, and he’s a mess. This isn’t how anyone should see him. He needs to be better than this, stronger, less…fragile.
“One more, Iwa-chan,” he says, flashing a flimsy smile. “I don’t want to end on a bad note.”
Before he can reach for the ball, however, it’s snatched out of his grip. Iwaizumi stands there, scowling, keeping the ball away. “I said you’re done.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“Do you need someone to set a curfew for you?” Iwaizumi shoots back, unimpressed. “Drag you in to eat dinner? Send you to bed at a reasonable hour?”
“Well—” he splutters, but Iwaizumi isn’t going to let him talk his way out of this one.
“You sure as hell don’t seem capable of doing it yourself. It’s 8 in the goddamn evening, and you’ve been here this whole time. Have you even given yourself a half hour break? Refilled your water?”
Tooru’s silence is answer enough.
“For fuck’s sake,” Iwaizumi curses, and Tooru braces himself—for a smack over the head, or an irritated Shittykawa, or something.
He’s not prepared for Iwa-chan to nod solemnly and then throw Tooru over his shoulder like he doesn’t weigh anything. There’s a moment of dizzying disorientation, but then they’re walking and all Tooru can think about is the fact that Iwa-chan is a lot stronger than he looks.
(Not that he doesn’t look strong. You’d have to be blind to miss how fit he is, especially his arms, which have, apparently, won the secret award of Best Arms in Seijoh.
It’s not an official award, but it is agreed on unanimously by the general student body, which is no small feat.)
“Stay put,” Iwaizumi says, lowering Tooru to a bench at the side of the gym. And then he’s off, picking up the stray volleyballs and loading them back into the cart before wheeling that into the supply closet, taking down the net, removing the poles.
Cleaning up after Tooru, and he hates that—he likes to play at being something of a diva, but there’s not a person alive who could genuinely accuse Oikawa of being a slacker—but every time he even so much as thinks about getting up to help, Iwaizumi hones in on him like he’s got a sixth sense for it and glares until he sits down again.
Eventually, the gym is packed up, and then Oikawa finds himself tossed over Iwa-chan’s shoulder again as the lights in the gym go out and the doors get locked up. And then Iwa-chan is carrying him home.
“I can walk,” Tooru offers, a token protest.
“Can you?” Iwaizumi asks.
The truth is, honestly, probably not. Or at least, not the whole way home. It’s not too far, but after hours of practice, Tooru’s legs are about as sturdy as a jell-o cup. His whole body feels like it’s going to collapse in on itself like a dying star.
(Maybe that’s what you are, the voice says, mean and cruel. A dying star desperately trying to keep its light.)
Iwa-chan slaps the back of his thigh, jolting him out of his head. “Stop that. I can practically hear you going into one of your bullshit spirals.”
Tooru gasps theatrically. “Iwa-chan! Did you develop telepathic powers? And you’re only telling me now?”
Usually now would be the point where he’d call Oikawa an idiot or a dumbass, and if it was a good day, Oikawa would take it with good humor. It’s not a good day, and he’s too close to breaking to stand being called names—even knowing it’s not meant cruelly.
He shouldn’t have worried.
“Maybe I just know you that well,” Iwaizumi says instead of an insult, and Tooru just hums in response.
(The wind up at Iwa-chan’s house, where he shoves Oikawa in the direction of the shower with a pile of clean clothes. When Tooru emerges in a too-loose sweatshirt and a pair of well-worn sweatpants, Iwa-chan all but force feeds him leftovers from dinner. And then they climb into Iwa-chan’s bed the way they used to when they were much younger, and Iwa-chan tucks Oikawa’s head under his chin, keeps his hands pressed firmly along Oikawa’s spine, and that’s how they fall asleep.
For the first time all day, Oikawa’s brain is finally, finally quiet.)