Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Tadaima,” Tobio says into the empty corridor as he takes off his shoes, despite knowing full-well that there won’t be anyone answering him. There hasn’t been anyone answering for a long time. Although, the way his voice bounces off the walls, sound absorption and wave interference twist the syllables before the residue echoes back to him eventually—the speed of sound in air at 20 degrees Celsius is 343 metres per second, the hallway is approximately 8 metres long, it should take less than 50 milliseconds to come back—he can pretend that it’s the house welcoming him home.

Tobio slides the tip of his fingers along the handrail as he ascends the stairs to drop his stuff in his room first before starting on anything else. This Sunday would be a good time for a deep clean, he could catch up with several podcasts while he’s at it. And there’s grocery shopping and meal prep, he’ll have to check the cabinet and the refrigerator later, but he thinks he’s running out of eggs and milk. There’s also a faulty lightbulb in Miwa’s old room, and he can drop by Kazuyo—his grandfather always asked him how his day went whenever he picked him up from school, how he was faring whenever he visited him in the hospital, listening and offering guidance even if he couldn’t pass the ball around with his grandson anymore.

He puts Geheimnisse des Universums on the television, having watched the series so many times he pretty much can recite the content verbatim by now, and the guttural fashion of the German language pierces through the space more effectively anyway. Nowadays English is the language of science, but before the seventeenth century, it had been Latin, and by 1900, the dominant was German, thanks to leading scientists such as Einstein, Planck, Heisenberg and many others, until World War I resulted in boycotts of German scientists who were often barred from publishing in Western European journals—a shame, really, how discriminations and prejudices had hindered—and is still hindering—scientific evolution, he laments as his meal heats up in the microwave, entertaining the notion of learning German so he can read Einstein’s and Planck’s works in their original language, but quickly discarding it. Linguistics is not his forte. He can barely pass literature and English, can barely string together a coherent reply to his parents’ text messages, can barely talk normally to Miwa on the rare occasions she remembers her brother exists to call, let alone picking up a brand new one, and German seems difficult.

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

Halfway through his dinner, his phone chimes.

Okaa-san

How was your first day of high school?

His thumb hovers above the screen.

First days are introductions, new environment, new faces, new routine—not much and, somehow, too much. His classmates and teachers are alright, he guesses, there’s not a lot to go on as of now, frankly—although his homeroom teacher, Maehara-sensei, who also teaches them physics, seems to be more of a scientist than an educator considering how he had passionately gone off on a tangent about translational motion when he set out the curriculum. Karasuno, aside from its (once) powerhouse volleyball team and the rumours of Coach Ukai Ikkei returning (which proves to be false), has a strong science programme, which is the next best thing he can get after bombing his Shiratorizawa entrance exam and the daily commute to Date Tech is simply too inconvenient.

His parents hadn’t been too upset that he failed spectacularly when he’s more than capable enough to ace, either way. His bank account gets refilled precisely on the last day of the month, packages of physics journals as well as the calls and texts and emails arrive often enough to remind him that yes, his genitors are still alive and buried in work, and, in return, yes, their offspring is also very much alive, still going out and about with his life, attending school and playing volleyball religiously and hasn’t burnt the estate down—would they come if he did, though? They did stay for a fortnight after Kazuyo’s funeral, the longest time he’s lived with his parents since ever.

It doesn’t matter, he supposes. Not for quite some time.

Therefore, instead of telling Mother about Maehara-sensei, about his butting heads with a fellow first-year during the first club meeting and now on the verge of not being accepted into the team, what the bloody hell is this situation, about two other infuriating freshmen that are his and the obnoxious shrimp’s rivals for the time being, he dreads this year already, his response is short and sweet, as always.

Tobio

it was alright

He tosses his phone aside and finishes his curry rice, pushing the food through the lump in his throat as the narrator goes into raptures about dark energy, feeling the expansion of the void accelerating along with it.

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Contrary to popular belief, Tobio’s vocabulary isn’t limited. Can’t be, seeing as he’s been parsing every single textbook and research paper his parents left behind for as long as he could remember, and scientific terms and expressions can be extremely perplexing—sciences can be extremely perplexing in general, to be honest. Thus, if a grade schooler is able to depict in detail how a lever is built, how it works and why it works, it’s evident that he’s an anomaly.

It had been purely accidental. The children had overstrained the see-saw in the playground so much that it broke, and Tobio, a witness of said debacle, might have run his mouth due to nerves when the teacher interrogated him. At the end of his presentation, the woman had gaped at him, and the silence had unnerved him even more than the situation already did; however, once the astonishment abated, she had beamed at him, and, with a pat on his shoulder, reassured him that he had done well and let him go, and for a seven-year-old, that was all it mattered.

There had been complaints about his being distracted in class, which was definitely not his fault, now that they got the bigger picture, because primary school mathematics was so bloody tedious to him, who learnt how to count and add and subtract and multiply and divide even before how to read, who could execute monstrous deeds of mental calculation and delineate whichever physics concept introduced to him mere moments ago. A slip of the tongue brought about an IQ-test and several interviews, followed by a number of teacher-parent conferences where they discussed if he should skip grades. Kazuyo had ultimately let him make the final decision, which he declined anyway, as he could sense that his grandfather wasn’t too thrilled about the whole ordeal, and furthermore, he wanted to keep his leisure time for volleyball.

A tiny child in a class full of older, larger students would certainly be disconcerting, but staying in the same class while the talks of you being offered academic acceleration spread like wild fire was no less distressing. Granted, Tobio was regarded as one of those “insanely smart children” even before that, and they didn’t outright bully him, nevertheless the teasing and jeering could be a lot, school felt like purgatory for a good while.

Volleyball made it better, though. Tobio might not be the tallest, the strongest, the fastest or the most agile, but he’s meticulous and he’s exceedingly clever, so he set for the others to spike and signalled them when it was the best time to block. His teammates could get the glory of a point earned or an attack defended, he was satisfied with moving behind the scene, with doing most of the heavy-lifting, with shouldering most of the burden, content that he was a part of something bigger—content that there was a group that would accept him.

He’s an introvert, and the fact that he’s much more intelligent than most of his peers makes him even more socially awkward, nonetheless playing a team sport helped somewhat.

He should have known better, he bitterly mourned as the ball dropped to the ground as though a nuclear bomb and he was Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He should have known better, he crumpled onto the bench, drawing in a deep breath to fill up the hollow of his lungs, in his being, yet it didn’t, for if the mass of the stellar remnant is high enough, it becomes a black hole, and black hole enlarges by absorbing matter from its surroundings.

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The universe is always in motion, countless phenomena of varying scales happen in one single second, the time duration of 9,192,631,700 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the fundamental unperturbed ground-state of the caesium-133 atom. In a second, six lightnings will strike the Earth. In a second, Earth travels about 298 kilometres. In a second, four thousand new stars will be born while thirty will explode, the Sun will burn 600 million tons of hydrogen and the universe itself will expand more than 14.8 kilometres.

In a second, practise might derail for Tobio can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Your arms shouldn’t be so weak when you block.”

Tsukishima stops and turns to face him dead on through the netting. “Excuse me?”

Oh for fuck’s sake, not again, someone behind Tobio groans. Probably Narita or Tanaka, they’re his teammates for this three-on-three.

Tsukishima, now rising to his full height, is focusing solely on him. “Please, no need to mince your words, Your Majesty, tell me how crappy I’m playing,” he drawls.

Tobio raises a brow. “You’re not crappy, it’s just that you could be better.” He gives the other boy a one-over. Tsukishima is ridiculously tall, that’s enviable and all, but he’s way too lanky. “You need more muscles if you don’t wanna be knocked back so much. And stamina, too, overall.”

“Oh fuck off,” Tsukishima grumbles under his breath, however there’s no snark, no jab this time, he just turns around and trots to the back of the blocking line. Disaster aborted. One of the best outcomes there is whenever they interact on the court—or interact at all, in general. Tobio feels the atmospheric pressure decrease.

He can visualise it—how things are positioned in space, how they move and transform and impact on one another. Nevertheless, it’s one thing to envisage, to be able to observe the motions and behaviours of matters with his own eyes is always more desirable, the most ideal would be to experience the action itself; and by the virtue of a setter, he arguably sees the most of his teammates’ movements—strengths, weaknesses, fatigue levels, mental states, idiosyncrasies, all equally important when setting. If it’s a non-variance, then accommodate it. Even if the parameters aren’t preferable, an appropriate variable can still deliver a great, beautiful value. So when he thinks he finds out something that could be of help, he’s more than happy to share it.

People isn’t always receptive to such suggestions, though. His old teammates weren’t at least. And while his current comrades are much more open-minded and approachable, there are certain individuals who make him feel as if he’s screaming at a brick wall.

Tsukishima, for instance.

If he could get away with it, Tobio would very much love to borrow a bat from the baseball team and whack some sense into the blonde, because how could he waste all that potential? Height aside, he’s also bloody smart. It takes one to know one—Tobio suspects they assess the situations in a very similar fashion: largely objective; planning ten steps or more ahead of others; favouring accuracy instead of brute force; calculated, concentrated strikes into armour until it falls apart and leaves their opponents devastatingly vulnerable. Pure strength is overwhelming; however, intellectuality is always more deadly.

Of course, people have their own likes and dislikes, their own aspirations and pursuits in life; if they’re gifted with athleticism it doesn’t mean they have to be an athlete—although it definitely is a shame if they’re not. But Tsukishima is still here, making a half-hearted leap and an acceptable contact to the ball, it’s downright insulting to the ones who sorely lack yet still give their all—such as Hinata, poor child is green with envy when he has to tilt his head up and up and up to look at Tsukishima in the eye. Tobio wagers he does care, to a degree: he doesn’t skip practise; he plays his part adequately, even if it’s barely skirting the minimum; and he actually looks offended whenever Tobio voices out his constructive criticisms.

It’s only a club, Tsukishima had said. Why do people join a sport club? Because they like it? Because they’re good at it? We’ve already established those points. For the exercise? Tsukishima seems to be the type that abhors physical labour. For the social aspects? If it is then he’s doing a pretty shit job of it—not that Tobio thinks Tsukishima is big on socialising anyway, he’s an arsehole and bloody proud of it.

What does that leave us? Some bastard who has the talent and the interest—well, he has to, club activities are voluntary, nobody puts him at gunpoint and forces him to play volleyball—yet for some reason just won’t do his best.

Mental block must be it, then.

Here is his case.

Now, how the motherfucking hell do you remove a mental block of an irritatingly brilliant blocker?

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Knowledge is power. That’s Tobio’s number one ideology. The more, the better—too much information you can always process and filter it, whereas insufficient data leads to fallacy, and, in turn, renders everything invalid.

(People make bad choices and terrible decisions, regardless. There are always signs and clues, but you just miss them altogether. Or mayhap you simply don’t want to see, to acknowledge. Ignorance is bliss. Take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe, an alluring prison, confined by comfort. Take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and you see how deep the rabbit hole goes, free-falling into the great unknown. Truth is always a bitter pill to swallow.)

Knowledge is power. That’s why Tobio makes an effort to learn about his teammates even if he’s so tragically socially inept, that’s why he spends so much time slaving away on his homework and arranging tutoring sessions even if he loathes it, that’s why he would lose track of time and put an honest-to-God all-nighter for a spontaneous mini project about global satellite navigation systems. The human brain has the ability to store the equivalent of 2.5 million gigabytes digital memory, naturally he’ll utilise it to its maximum capacity.

(Tsukishima would disagree, with how often he appears so close to curl up a textbook and bludgeon Tobio’s head with it—he actually did it for real, a couple times—as though he could knock its content into his mind by doing so. That’s not how knowledge acquirement works, per se, but he gets the imagery.)

Knowledge is power, yet you’re not obligated to exhibit that power, or how much you have of that power. Tobio lets the tests speak for him for the most part and gives impassive responses to Maehara-sensei’s enquiries. It’s not as if he’s keeping a secret or laying low or anything, he simply doesn’t see why it’s such a big deal, he’s no genius, he’s only a child who has virtually nobody to talk to and too much free time on his hand and too much empty space in his head and a gnawing compulsion to just do something, whether it’s household chores, playing volleyball or perusing through physics theses.

Speaking of geniuses, Tsukishima certainly is one. He’s one of those children who are just miraculously excellent at schoolwork, no matter if it’s natural sciences or liberal arts, prevailing over almost everyone else in their year and having no apparent weak subjects. He solves math and physics problems and balances complicated chemical reactions with as much ease as when he quotes Fukuzawa Yukichi and recounts the Second Sino-Japanese War. Tobio knows he must be studying his arse off as well, nevertheless his insight is admirable, seeing how he describes covalent bonds to Yachi and Hinata using rubber bands or proposes intricate tactics and strategies inspired by chess manoeuvres—to be able to see, to analyse, to apprehend is nice and all, to be able to descry analogies and draw relations and understand everything as a whole is a substantial step-up.

(Is that what he’s been missing? The extensive network, the bigger picture? That’s a darn bruising punch to the face for a setter, who is supposed to see the entire court, see the entire game. Or he does see, yet he doesn’t understand.)

One of the major unsolved problems in physics is finding the “theory of everything”, a hypothetical, singular, all-encompassing, coherent theoretical framework of physics that fully explains and links together all physical aspects of the universe. Over the past few centuries, two theoretical frameworks have been developed, that, together, most closely resemble a master theory, upon which all modern physics rests: general relativity, which focuses on gravity for comprehending the universe in regions of both large scale and high mass, such as stars and galaxies; and quantum mechanics, concerning three non-gravitational forces to handle areas of both small scale and low mass—sub-atomic particles, atoms, molecules—which are strong nuclear, weak nuclear and electromagnetic force. However, at the time being they pretty much despise each other, for they’re based on different mathematics, different principles and different concepts.

Regardless, even the model scientists, the most exemplary pragmatists, the most committed atheists are still devout believers, sciences and logic their religion, the ultimate theory their holy grail. It’s more or less in human nature, isn’t it, to learn, to explore, to question, to hypothesise, to perceive that they’re a macrocosm compiled of millions of microscopic cells and particles, and, simultaneously, a microcosm in the grand scheme of the ever-expanding cosmos. There has to be a means, a gateway connecting these realms, like the wormholes that hypothetically connect different dimensions, different alternate universes.

There has to be a way to connect the world inside you to the world outside. And Tobio has been restlessly searching for it for so long, might as well be his entire life, it feels as though he’s chasing after God. A mere mortal pursuing enlightenment, a mere mortal striving for apotheosis—this must be divine punishment, a cataclysm that wipes his world clean and drowns him in eternal loneliness, a centrifugal force that propels him into the sky he’s been gazing at all his life, into outer space where it’s cold and dark and kenophobic and claustrophobic and he’s overstretched and asphyxiated and the universe, the dark energy crackles, isn’t that what you want.

Glimpsing at Tsukishima walking next to him, headphones on, eyes ahead, seemingly watching the other three chattering away but not really paying attention, enclosed in his own personal bubble, the arm-length distance between them feeling as though light-years away, Tobio wonders if he also sees what he sees, feels what he feels, because that’s the price of being able to look beyond.

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Tobio has always preferred numbers to words. One could say it’s because he’s horrible at it, and that argument has its merit, but he digresses.

Certainly, there are also a shit-ton of numeral systems other than the most widely used decimal, however they have rules, you can more or less utilise Horner’s scheme to convert between different positional notations. They represent a useful set of numbers, they give every number a unique representation, they reflect the algebraic and arithmetic structure of the numbers—it’s logical, clear-cut and standardised and universally comprehensible.

Unlike words—synonyms and antonyms, grammars and syntaxes, accents and dialects blurring together into one giant incoherent mess that is so eulogised as linguistic diversity, the beauty of semantics, the nuance of terms and expressions. Tobio calls it bullshit. Both “envy” and “jealousy” denote the feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else’s possessions, qualities, achievements and perceived advantages, yet you can’t exactly use them interchangeably; and not to mention that there are words that just refuse to be translated into other languages satisfactorily. Language is, first and foremost, a structured system of communication, yet people misunderstand and misinterpret all the bloody time, a thousand phrases, a thousand sentences, a thousand locutions, hours and hours retching up spit and phlegm and blood and tears and vomit, glass shards and acid dissipating into statics and radio silence, leaving only sore throats and torn vocal chords and harrowing emptiness.

Then again, the main reason why mankind dominates this bloody planet is thanks to their mental faculty that allows them to undertake linguistic behaviours, to produce and understand utterances; it emphasises the biological basis for the human capacity for language as a unique development of the human brain—the most powerful evidence of superior intelligence. People pride themselves on the ability to perform complex communication, speech and gestures and signs and writing all the same.

Oikawa is a paragon. His best subject is literature, and he for sure has a silver tongue, vowels and consonants dancing together in a fluid prosodic waltz, extracting poison and glazing it with honey. Tobio-chan, he laughs, he croons, syrup and molasses, it clogs and burns and sucks him dry, are you still playing king to your team; and it’s even more frustrating when he has every right to: he’s Tobio’s senpai, and while he may lack the natural talent, he more than compensates for it with sheer drive and diligence, and it shows, it works, he’s still the better setter, a setter that brings out the best in everyone, sunlight catalysing photosynthesis, converting light energy to chemical energy, carbon dioxide and water into sugar and oxygen, to nurture, to respire, to flourish, to live.

Hinata, though, is a prime counterexample, infectiously sociable despite not being the most eloquent speaker—not like that stops him from being loud and annoyingly chatty. He picks up friends and rivals as easily, as naturally as breathing—they have a running bet about which of their opponents Hinata would encounter during his toilet break—as if it’s as much of his life goal as volleyball. He instils loyalty and begrudging respect by just being his friendly, bubbly, tenacious and ravenous self, a yellow dwarf outshining 90 percent of the stars in the Milky Way, you can’t help but be spellbound by his gravity, be a part of his solar system.

Per contra, Tsukishima reminds Tobio of Oikawa so much oftentimes, from the curl of the lip, the contempt in their eyes, to the lilt of their voice and the sophisticated articulation that makes you feel patronised, if not downright ridiculed, and unfailingly inferior. Kazuyo had always told him, if he got stronger, he would meet people who were even stronger than him—just like Oikawa is an unquestionably better setter than him, Tsukishima is undeniably smarter than him.

It doesn’t mean he’s bloody stupid.

“Did I say it? That you’re stupid? No, so listen to what I’m actually telling you.” Here comes the eye rolling, then the trademark sneer. “God, no wonder language is one of your worst subjects.”

Yeah, this is a mistake.

Theoretically, this match-up is perfectly sensible: Tsukishima excels at the subjects Tobio struggles with the most, and one-on-one tutoring warrants undivided attention, thus higher productivity; and it’s not as if they can’t collaborate, they’re on the same bloody team, aren’t they. That said, theory and practise are two entirely different things. A theory, no matter how well-grounded it seems, is falsifiable nonetheless if it’s contradicted by an observation that is logically possible, i.e. expressible in the language of the theory, which has a conventional empirical interpretation—that’s why experiments and test-runs are necessary, isn’t it.

And the a posteriori verdict is that this isn’t going to do, and, as a consequence, Tobio pushes back from the desk hard enough that the legs of the chair screech against the floor and quickly gathers his belongings so he can get the heck out of here—

“Woah, easy,” Tsukishima, instead of responding in kind or just simply letting Tobio vanish from his sight already, isn’t that what he wants, lifts his hands, a placating gesture. “I’m sorry.”

That successfully stops Tobio in his track. “What?” That’s the first time he apologises. Ever.

“I’m sorry,” Tsukishima reiterates, sounding as though the words pain him. “Just—sit back down, alright?”

Tobio narrows his eyes. This feels like doing electrical wiring without a manual. He hopes he can have the safety gears at least. And he knows the Japanese electrical code by rote. Practically living by yourself for two years makes you learn a great deal of life skills and life hacks, including but not limited to fixing electrical appliances.

Tsukishima hands him the manual, though. Sort of. “When I ask if you understand something, I’m not implying that you’re dumb, I’m literally checking if we’re on the same page or not, otherwise this is pointless.”

“I get it,” Tobio pinches the bridge of his nose. “But doing it without the constant jibe would be much appreciated.”

“I’ll try to antagonise you less, however you gotta quit getting ruffled by the tiniest things as well.” Tsukishima rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms under the glasses, briefly skewing the frames, “All in all, we need to stop assuming the worst of each other.”

“Isn’t that so bloody obvious?”

“I’m not the one who was just about to storm off when all I asked was which topics trouble him the most.”

Tobio almost snaps again. “I gave you the list, didn’t I?”

“Just making sure we cover every ground here,” Tsukishima bristles, before pushing his glasses up. “Like I said, you gotta be honest if you’re having a hard time, or I can’t help you. Both parties gotta be willing if we want this to work.”

“I am willing,” he affirms. “I’m suffering here with you, aren’t I?”

Tsukishima clicks his tongue in exasperation. “How could you not be such a smart-arse when it comes to literature or English? It’d make our lives so much easier.”

“Believe me, I wish that were the case, too.”

“Yeah, so you could have more time playing volleyball, I get the picture.”

Tobio scoffs. It’s more due to the way Tsukishima said it, he actually doesn’t care all that much about being labelled as a “volleyball idiot”, he’s heard worse—teacher’s pet, insufferable know-it-all, you’re as good as parentless, aren’t you, are you gonna come crying to Sensei because your Mummy and Daddy won’t come to your rescue, they don’t even need you, they don’t even care, do they—

(This is why he likes numbers better. People say numbers are cold and dry, sciences are cold and dry and confusing, nevertheless humans are no different, no less cold and confusing. Numbers and sciences can be cold and confusing but they are never cruel, whereas humans can be extremely, painfully so.)

“So, are we in agreement?”

Tobio blinks out of his stupor, blinks the blonde boy back into his vision. He’s holding out his hand, waiting, an eyebrow raised, eyes staring intently, challengingly, yet not unkindly.

Oikawa and Hinata feel a lot like the sun, but sometimes, Tsukishima looks like he has the suns in his eyes as well.

Well, to be fair, the moon shines because its surface reflects light from the sun, doesn’t it.

“Sure we are,” Tobio concedes eventually, taking the offer. The moon only reflects between 3 and 12 percent of the sunlight that hits it, so it shouldn’t reduce him to ashes. (Hopefully.)

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There’s always this debate about how different individuals possess different aptitudes, that even the biggest idiot in a field could be an unprecedented genius in something else totally unrelated—everyone is special, so to speak.

(Although, it also insinuates that nobody is special.)

On that train of thought, Tobio supposes Hinata is special. He’s a tiny thing, but he makes up for it with his absurdly high jumps, his endless energy and his bottomless hunger. He’s short yet he’s not overshadowed by his taller teammates, he isn’t overlooked, isn’t unnoticed—hell, his flamboyance makes it more difficult to tune him out. He’s inexperienced, he’s quite clumsy, but he’s learning, he’s improving, and as he fills in the technical gaps he can rely on his reflexes, his instinct. He’s easily distracted because he’s always looking, always picking up motions. He’s not exactly good with words, nonetheless he’s expressive, he’s conversable, he’s empathetic all the same.

Yachi and Yamaguchi, in contrast, aren’t the extreme of the spectrum. They’re unassuming in their brilliance, punctilious and patient and encouraging. Yachi keeps immaculate notes and Yamaguchi is an expert in staying cool-headed and navigating his way amidst the chaos with mind-maps and mnemonic devices. Tobio would gladly take either of them as his study partner any day.

Instead he’s stuck with Tsukishima. Who tends to assume that others are already operating on his wavelength. Who would drum his fingers or tap his pencil if Tobio takes too long and click his tongue when he gives the wrong answer to what’s apparently an easy question.

Deliberate or not, Tsukishima can make others feel smaller, lesser. Tobio could only imagine how intimidating he is to other setters, towering, eyes all the harder to track when obscured by the glare of the fluorescent light on his glasses; and he’s secretly relieved that he doesn’t have to undergo said pressure against his back, on his shoulders during a real match, that they’re on the same side of the court, even if he’s a headache and a half to work with, both in volleyball and in studying—if teamwork does actually exist between them, that is.

Tsukishima is smart, he knows he’s smart and he wields his intellect to its utmost, both as his sharpest sword and his sturdiest shield; and he takes pride in his wit, he’s confident in his rationality, his judgment.

The most effective way to get through such a character is to beat them at their own game, to annihilate them in the exact same battlefield where they’re supposed to reign superior. Or, mayhap a little more merciful, providing a concrete proof of that their assessment is skewed, that you can operate on that exact same wavelength as them, because no matter how good you are, there’s always someone who can catch up with you, challenge you, and even surpass you.

Plus, it’s indescribably fun to defy others’ expectations, the sadist in him cracks up maniacally at the dumb-as-fuck face Tsukishima is pulling after Tobio points out the errors in his physics assignment.

Tobio played a bit of chess during primary school, as one of his closest classmates had participated in several tournaments and needed somebody to train with. It’s been a long time since he last played a game, however he figures what he’s employing now is a King’s Gambit.

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Tobio likes to think that he takes good care of himself. He has to, now that there’s practically nobody looking after him, even if there are days where he just… doesn’t want to get out of the bed, where he feels as though he’s sinking into the mattress, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper into this abysmal ocean, as though he’s dissolving into it, like sodium chloride dissolving into water, a homogeneity.

Having a routine helps. Wake up, go for a run, shower, breakfast, take the tram to school, try to concentrate during class, practise or tutoring with Tsukishima, walk with the group until everyone goes their separate ways, take the tram back home, dinner while watching a physics documentary or a pre-recorded volleyball game, clean up, homework, stargaze or mull over strategies or a research paper until sleep finally claims him. Having a routine helps, like a machine going through coded protocols and sequences. It keeps him afloat when he feels like sinking, it keeps everything neat and organised when he feels like falling apart, it keeps something when he feels like nothing at all.

Tobio likes to think that he takes good care of himself despite everything. He rarely gets sick. He can’t get sick. He hates being sick, hates the nausea, hates the chill in spite of the overheated state, hates the coughs and the stuffy nose, hates the lethargy, the kind of tiredness that goes bone-deep, that makes his muscles aching and leaden and his mind foggy and muddle, he hates that it renders him bedridden, unable to move to do something around the house, to cause some noise to fill up the too large, too vacant space, unable to think properly to keep his mind occupied so he doesn’t have to notice how frightfully barren his world is.

Then again, he’s only human. And human is fallible.

Luckily he decided on a giant pot of soup last night, something that’s easy on the stomach, nevertheless it’s an astounding endeavour to call in sick, then haul himself out of the bed, rummage through the drawers for his comfiest hoodie and drag himself to the kitchen so he can get some substance into his body before he can take the medicine. It’s always a good thing to keep common stuff in your cabinet for emergency like this.

When you’re ill, it’s best that you get some sleep, however he drifts in and out of consciousness pretty much all day, so he hears the sound of Hinata’s message when it arrives, asking if he’s doing alright, where he lives so he can drop off the homework, and if he needs anything. Tobio wills what little energy is left in him to type out a reply, yes, he’s alright (he’s not), and Hinata doesn’t have to come, it’s inconvenient, his house is on the opposite of Hinata’s way home, the bloke lives like a mountain away and bikes to school every day, just scan the stuff and email it.

Second day is same procedure. His throat is still scratchy but he doesn’t hack violently anymore, the fever doesn’t get worse nor it really gets better, and he’s still bloody worn to a frazzle and sore all over. He’s able to sleep more, though, that’s a silver lining.

He thinks he wakes up somewhere late afternoon, judging by the sky outside, and absent-mindedly scrambles for his phone to see what’s been going on when he was dead to the world, mostly texts from his teammates. There was practise yesterday, Hinata must have told them. Tobio can’t deny the warmth blooming in his chest as he pulls the hood down and wraps the blanket tighter around himself. The scenario is still foreign, still surreal to him, that he has actual teammates now, who stand with him, laugh with him and ask after his well-being. That he actually has someone who asks after his well-being now. That he has someone who cares now, even if it’s out of duty and courtesy.

He’s about to swipe respond to the team group chat when a new text appears.

Tsukishima

You’re still sick?

Tobio groans and smacks his forehead lightly with a clothed palm. They’re back on speaking terms now, after that almost full-blown fist fight and a week of cold war, and he’s genuinely glad for it, for waging any sort of dispute with your ally is a horrible idea, it takes a lot out of him as well. Today is supposed to be the first tutoring session ever since they made up.

Kageyama

i’m doing better

sorry for not giving you a heads up

Tsukishima

Figured

It’s been realistically proven that they’re definitely able to hold long, meaningful conversations without biting each other’s head off, if you count arguing about which is the best method to calculate the roots of a polynomial is “long and meaningful conversation”, which totally is (Horner’s scheme is one of the handiest multipurpose arithmetic operations ever devised, sue him). Tobio wouldn’t say they’re close friends or anything, however does it mean something if he can perfectly picture Tsukishima’s eye rolling while typing that?

Know thy enemy, huh, Tobio smirks at the chat bubble and cuts to the chase before Tsukishima can.

Kageyama

are you gonna make some joke about idiots not getting sick?

Tsukishima

No

That’s a fucking lie.

What comes after that is certainly a surprise, though.

Tsukishima

‘cos you’re not an idiot, duh

Tobio stares at the screen.

Tsukishima

I was about to be a responsible subject and offer assistance to the King

But since His Majesty deems it unnecessary I shall excuse myself then

He unwittingly puffs out a laugh. Trust the bastard to be nice for once and still taunt him in the same sentence.

(He supposes he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Kageyama

your concern is appreciated

you’re excused

.

.

.

Even the most taciturn and standoffish people can be a chatterbox should you identify the correct radio frequency of their channel. To be able to discern it is already a noteworthy accomplishment, particularly if the channel is too niche for the general population, and to be able to run on the same order is all the more commendable. Sure, Tsukishima still gapes at him sometimes if Tobio dives too much into the technicalities of hypersonic flow and continuum assumption, because what kind of high schooler knows all that shit, he’d grumble, yet still listen whenever Tobio slips into what Tsukishima dubs the “lecturer mode” anyway. Nevertheless, Tsukishima is an adept multidisciplinarian and he soaks up knowledge like a sponge, so Tobio only has to break down the new and complicated concepts into what they’ve known and learnt in school thus far and everything resolves itself splendidly.

… Admittedly, they do need to stop getting carried away. Discourses during their way back home are all fine and dandy—the other three have their own topics to prattle on about, and it’s not like they forbid anyone else from participating, Yamaguchi has his insightful anecdotes should the theme concern electronics and electromagnetism, and Yachi’s colour sense paints spectroscopy in a softer, more tasteful light, and Tobio is reminded that science and art are two sides of the same coin—but waxing lyrical about three conservation principles in aerodynamics when Tobio is supposed to apprehend the complexity of Oda Sakunosuke’s characters in Six Platinum Stars is not advisable. And someone help them if they unconsciously bring all this stuff over to volleyball practise—

—It’s pretty much inevitable, isn’t it.

It’s Hinata’s fault. Apparently, when Tobio was away in Tokyo, the tangerine troublemaker bloody interrupted the Miyagi prefecture training camp, and he could sympathise with Tsukishima and the mortification he had gone through. At least they both get something out of it, learning how to move more efficiently, and, in Hinata’s case, actually use his head for once to predict where the ball goes.

Doesn’t mean he can receive it cleanly, though.

Tobio hears Tanaka squawk a Fuck! and Yachi gasp by the ball cart. Hinata is on his posterior, a hand on his face. The closest members in his vicinity, Kinoshita and Suga, are already by his sides, checking the injury, and Coach Ukai is hurrying over, Yachi on his heels with an ice pack. Looks like he’s gotten a ball to the face again. Tanaka is one of the most powerful hitters on the team, that must have hurt a lot—how strong is Tanaka-san’s spike, anyway?—

Tobio doesn’t realise that he’s thinking out loud until there’s a reply next to him, “Newton’s second law of motion. Net force equals mass times acceleration. Do the math.”

“Technically, it’s the rate of change of momentum of a body over time being directly proportional to the force applied and occurring in the same direction as the applied force,” Tobio automatically corrects. Tsukishima shoots him a really? side-eye. He sighs. “A volleyball typically weighs between 260 and 280 grams.”

“Make it 270 grams, so 0.27 kilograms. Total acceleration should be a combination of gravitational acceleration and the other—that’s calculable from the initial velocity, isn’t it?”

“On principle, yes.” There’s always a means to relate one quantity to another. Either way, “Gravitational acceleration ranges from 9.764 to 9.834 metres per second squared, depending on altitude, latitude and longitude.”

“I know you can do those atrocious calculations in your head already, but make it easier for yourself and use the standard 9.81, yeah?”

“A king lives to serve his citizens,” Tobio says airily. Tsukishima snorts. “Horizontal acceleration, on the other hand—d’you remember Tanaka-san’s arm strength?”

“In weight-training? Lifting’s different from hitting. Not to mention the angles.”

“Just a reference to form an estimation. Who just told me to make it easier for myself?”

Tsukishima tsks. “Fine.”

Simultaneously, they turn to the person of interest and prod for the missing piece of data, chorusing, “Tanaka-san, how much can you lift?”, and only then do they notice that they’ve successfully gathered the attention of every participant in the gym, all of whom are gawking at them, eyes wide as saucers and jaw slacked.

Nishinoya is the first to regain his composure.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?!?”

Or not.

And with that, my friends, all hell breaks loose.

“Holy shit, did Kageyama and Tsukishima just have an actual conversation? Without insulting one another?!?”

“Bugger me, the sky is about to fall—”

“—the world is ending—”

“—I’m way too young to die—”

“—there are still many things I wanna do—”

“—Kiyoko-san hasn’t accepted my hands in marriage yet—”

“—and what kind of conversation was that? Newton’s second law of motion? Gravitational acceleration? I thought I had enough physics for the day—”

“—and here I thought Kageyama was a pureblood volleyball fanatic—”

“—what the heck is happening?—”

“—where am I? Who am I? Is this real life?—”

“—have I unknowingly fallen into an alternate universe? Did I get isekai’d?—”

Yamaguchi is the one who steps forward to take control of the furore—bless him. (In retrospect, Tobio believes this is when everybody is thoroughly convinced that he’s captain material.)

“Calm down, everyone,” he speaks over the mayhem. He’s usually soft-spoken, but being Tsukishima’s best friend for years is more than enough to substantiate that he’s not spineless—in fact, his voice carries and compels if he wants it to. “Tsukki and Kageyama-kun can talk to each other like civilised individuals, I can attest to that.”

“Me, too,” Yachi nervously raises her hand.

“Me, three!” Hinata chimes in helpfully through the ice pack pressed on his cheek. “This isn’t even the worst.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, folks,” Yamaguchi amicably bobs his head at his supporters.

“It’s nice to see that you two are finally getting along,” Coach Ukai swiftly takes over now that the situation is more stable, Kinoshita guiding Hinata over to a bench. The man zeroes in on the guilty party that caused this ruckus, “Although, I’m sure that people would prefer it when you keep your science discussions outside practise.”

This, somehow, is even more awkward than when they’re reprimanded for bickering. “Understood, sir,” they obediently adhere.

Practise resumes without a hitch.

That said, the question is still burning, so first thing first—

“Seriously though, Tanaka-san, how much can you lift?”

“Have you heard what Coach said at all?” Tanaka heaves out a sigh, bouncing the ball in his hands. “This better not become a thing,” he mutters.

(This will positively become a thing, one Tanaka Ryuunosuke would very much regret it later for jinxing it.)

.

.

.

He finds Tsukishima in the restroom, hands gripping on the edge of the sink, head hanging so droplets of water can drip down. He’s not wearing his glasses, and Tobio doesn’t recall he ever saw his naked eyes, pools of molten gold in the mirror glaring at the intruder.

“You don’t look like someone who just won his first match of nationals,” he remarks evenly.

“I’m happy,” Tsukishima replies, voice drier than dust and bone as he wipes his face with a paper towel. Tobio feels his own sternum itch.

“You don’t sound like it.”

“Trust me, I’m ecstatic.”

“I know you’re emotionally constipated, but at least make it believable, alright?”

“Like you’re the one to talk,” Tsukishima deadpans, putting his glasses back on and turning around so they can see each other face to face.

Tobio bristles, “I’m absolutely elated—or I was until a few seconds ago. It’s difficult to stay happy when there’s someone around you who just can’t be for some reason.”

“Why do you care?” he snarls, annoyance flaring up in his eyes, which makes them actually look like the pure, precious metal instead of the dull varnish.

“‘cause we’re friends—are we?” Tsukishima emits some noise Tobio can’t discern, but he will make a wild guess that it’s not a negation. That causes something in his stomach to stir, not entirely uncomfortable, and riding on that momentum, he drives forward, “Something’s bugging you, isn’t it?”

“You’re bugging me,” the blonde grouches. “Now, and the final set—I can’t believe you tried to pull that off.”

Tobio blinks.

Admittedly, he did, for a millisecond, fear that it was too much, too high, unquestionably the highest he’d ever set to Tsukishima.

Nevertheless, “You did pull it off,” he points out. “We bloody won, didn’t we?”

“And what if I hadn’t?” Tsukishima counters. “You knew it would’ve been unlikely I got it.”

“You think it was a fluke?” Tobio throws his hands up. “I can’t even—” He can’t believe they’re having that conversation now. Again. How many times has it been already?

He knows that it’ll have to take more than one sledgehammer to destroy that wall in Tsukishima’s head, and he’ll keep hammering until it’s smashed into smithereens; that said, it’s still bloody aggravating—and despairing as hell, to be honest—to see it resurface once again, a rising tide of apprehension and powerlessness, that it might never get better, that he might never be able to do anything against it, to make it go away.

But he’ll be damned if he never bloody tries.

Even if he tends to be a little too reckless when he’s desperate—to be fair, everybody does, he supposes, survival instinct and such.

Well, he’s still on the King’s Gambit route, isn’t he?

“If we’re talking about unlikely, we should talk about Yamaguchi,” he begins.

Sorry in advance, Yamaguchi, you’re just the perfect piece to use against your stupidly self-deprecating best mate.

Tsukishima cocks his head, bemused. “What about Yamaguchi?”

Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action, there’s always an equal and opposite reaction, Tobio sucks in a deep breath to prepare himself for the repercussion. “When’s he gonna realise that he’ll always just be a benchwarmer?”

Tsukishima snaps his head up so quickly he might as well break his neck in the process. “What?”

He’s digging his own grave, isn’t he? “Let’s be real here: He’s a middling pinch server who can’t receive. He possibly couldn’t make it into a university team. I get that he’s your best mate, but c’mon—who’s he kidding?”

“What’re you saying?” Tsukishima asked, strangled.

Another shovel deeper. “Don’t be so surprised, I’m sure you gotta feel the same way—I can keep a secret, don’t worry.”

“What the—I can’t—You’re unbelievable,” Tsukishima flips out. Tobio had grabbed his collar twice when he was engulfed in wrath before, however this is the first time he’s on the receiving end. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Am I wrong?” Tobio has seen Tsukishima look at him with scorn, with irritation, with shock, with bafflement, with intrigue, and sometimes, if he allows it, fondness; nevertheless, he doesn’t recall ever seeing him staring back with such hurt. This is beyond the miscommunication, the disagreements—this is intentional, this is knowing where the weaknesses lie and brutally stabbing them dead on, and it shows in the tremors of his mouth and his grip, and Tobio feels like he’s being compressed, his oesophagus constricts and his ribcage contracts, squeezing his organs altogether until they burst into a mess of flesh and blood.

“Of course he’s not just a benchwarmer,” Tsukishima spits out. “You bloody know he tried harder than anyone and has gotten so much better since we started here. Who the fuck are you to say otherwise?”

“You’re right, who am I to say?” Tobio grits. “No matter his skill level, he loves the sport and he’s proud of what he’s accomplished.” He may not struggle to get out of the chokehold, yet he can still aim his gaze straight through the blazing suns and withstand the ultraviolet flood that burns his retinas, withstand the flame that exhausts his oxygen to fuel itself and continue to incinerate him until he crumbles to ashes. “He plays for himself regardless of how others view him. Isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t it be enough for him to be here, to be with us, to stand by us?”

“Of fucking course it is!”

“Then, if it’s enough for him, why can’t it be enough for you?”

Tsukishima is taken aback, his hold slackening. “What?”

Most people are too hesitant to employ the King’s Gambit due to its high risks, you literally leave your king exposed. Along that line there’s the sharp Muzio Gambit, in which White sacrifices a knight for a large lead in development and attacking chances, and in practise it can be extremely effective, especially when the opponent is knocked for a loop by such daring tactics.

It’s how it is sometimes: you go big or go home.

Oftentimes it’s the case with Tsukishima.

He’s sacrificed the knight, he can regain the material loss by pawn promotion.

“Look,” Tobio enunciates, “first of all, I didn’t mean anything I just said about Yamaguchi—and it’s not about him anyway.” He pries Tsukishima’s hands away but takes one of his wrists nonetheless, not breaking eye contact. “It’s only a logical ruse to make you see that you won’t let yourself be proud of your achievements—which you totally deserve, by the way.”

“I’ve never said that,” Tsukishima protests, and it sounds tenuous to both of them.

“You’re always saying it, in one way or another,” Tobio argues. “It’s the bloody reason why we fight so much after all.” He exhales. “I know telling someone to just be happy or just be proud is ignorant, but if you did it, then you did it, it’s still a fact. It’s always a good thing to have done something, no matter how insignificant it is.”

Tsukishima chuckles weakly, but at least it doesn’t sound hollow or pained or fake, “Even if it was a fluke?”

“What’s wrong with that? If anything, it means God favours you.”

“God’s love is altruistic. He loves all mankind equally.”

Tobio releases his hold on Tsukishima’s wrist, raising both hands up, exasperated, “God help me, we’re not having a theological debate in the loo. I’ll listen to you preach Catholicism on the way back if it makes you sleep better at night.”

“If you insist,” Tsukishima chirps, some of the usual lilt and wit has returned in his tone, and Tobio supposes that’s another disaster prevented—until he suddenly goes rigid, “Wait, about Yamaguchi—”

“None of it was true, I swear on my volleyball skills,” Tobio reaffirms. “I respect him as a teammate, and he’s also my friend—and fairly speaking, he’s got potential.”

Tsukishima visibly relaxes, and the tightness in his chest loosens as well. The blonde really is a minefield for the unwary. “Really.”

“He’s got excellent aim, for starter,” he starts listing as they walk side by side along the hallway. “And he’s smart and performs well despite his nerves. He’d make a formidable spiker in his own right—we should start prepping him soon, to be honest.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Already making plans for the next season, huh.”

Tobio shrugs. “It’s always good to think about future prospects.”

He doesn’t ask Tsukishima if he feels better, and Tsukishima doesn’t voice anything aloud, either; nonetheless, as they slip back into that familiar groove, arguing about creation myths as promised, they both know it’s unnecessary, for the state of matter is already crystal clear.

.

.

.

If you reveal your strength, naturally people will come to you for assistance in respect to said domain. Under most circumstances, Tobio would be glad to help, he and Suga practise with each other and exchange knowledge all the time—Suga may not be the most capable setter he’s acquainted with, but he’s an awesome senpai and a force to be reckoned with by himself.

Tobio definitely has foreseen this, however it doesn’t make it any less tiring, that he’ll have to share a part of the burden that is tutoring Hinata Shouyou. He’s a shit teacher, ask anyone, nonetheless even the lovely people with great endurance such as Yamaguchi and Yachi could only put up with that ball of brazen fire for so much, and he and Hinata are in the same homeroom to boot, he knows their coursework the best.

He gets that sciences are not for everyone, and a lot of the stuff you learn in high school gets dumped down the drain once you’re an adult anyway, yet you need it as long as you’re a student, and Hinata undoubtedly needs it if he wants to keep playing volleyball instead of withering away in supplementary classes.

And he for sure needs it now, seeing as the first period after lunch break is math, and he, once again, hasn’t finished his homework. Not even the slightest.

Yamaguchi and Yachi really are too lenient on Hinata.

And sometimes—many times already, in fact—Tobio suffers for it.

“So, system of linear equations with two variables,” he recaps after skimming through Hinata’s blank worksheet. “Remember the steps?”

Hinata wrinkles his forehead. That’s a no, then.

“Can’t you just let me copy your homework?” he sullenly suggests.

He’s tempted to, but, “You can’t learn anything that way.”

“C’mon,” the shrimp wheedles. “We’re pretty much running out of time here.”

“And whose fault is that?” Tobio levels him a reproachful glare. “And if you don’t finish it on time, you bear the consequences alone.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Hinata repines. “You won’t have anyone to toss for if I get pulled out.”

“Get off your high horse—there are more spikers on the team than just you,” Tobio snipes, then exhales deeply, succumbing to his ultimate fate.

Their assignment this time is bloody easy, he recalls having taken less than five minutes to sail through the whole thing. He supposes he should be grateful that Tsukishima regularly brings his coursework along to their tutoring sessions, or else Tobio thinks he would die out of boredom.

Well, he could die out of exasperation right here and now.

Tobio scours through his repertoire for the most fool-proof method. The Gaussian elimination is usually his go-to due to its wide range of applications, and it’s one of the options they’ve been taught as well—they call it row reduction, though. But then, taking Hinata’s attention span into account, it’s highly plausible that he’ll mix up the rows should he not be careful, even if there are only two presented. That needs more time.

Alright then.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Hinata pouts at him, but picks up his pencil nonetheless. “First, you solve the top equation for x in terms of y. Move 3y to the right side.”

“Like so?”

Tobio feels a migraine forming already. “You got the wrong sign. It should be minus 3y.”

“Why?”

“It’s because you subtract 3y from both sides. Whatever you do on one side, you’ve got to do the same with the other, otherwise it wouldn’t be an ‘equation’.”

Hinata draws a long aahhh and fixes his mistake. “Now what?”

“Make 2x into just x.”

“By dividing both sides by 2?”

Tobio nods. “You’re learning.”

Hinata sticks his tongue at him. “I’m not that stupid, y’know.”

“I know.” But more often than not you make us feel that way, Tobio pinches between his brows.

The redhead emits a satisfied hum. “Alright, x equals 3 minus ³⁄₂y. What’s next?”

Comes a third voice that answers Hinata’s query, as well as a shadow hovering over them both, “Substitute the expression for x into the bottom equation. Don’t forget the brackets.”

“Tsukishima!” Hinata exclaims. Tobio merely tips his head back, just in time for the blonde to drop a milk box into his lap, and he reflexively catches it.

“Thanks.”

Tsukishima only hums in lieu of a response as he grabs a nearby chair and sits down. “Why’re you still teaching him substitution? It’s elementary algebra, we learnt it in junior high.”

“We did?”

Tobio ignores the redhead’s outburst. “Trust me, I’ve got no clue how he got into high school,” he deplores, poking the straw through the box.

“Likewise,” Tsukishima sends him a commiserative incline of his head.

Hinata harrumphs, “Two against one? Really?”

“Focus on your homework, moron,” Tobio rebukes, and to the newcomer, who’s leisurely chewing on a melonpan with strawberry custard filling—Tsukishima prefers sweet to savoury, “Where’s Yamaguchi, by the way?”

“With Yachi-san.” The again goes without saying. Tsukishima must be bloody bored out of his mind to grace them with his presence like this. It’s got to sting, more or less, that your best friend leaves you for his crush, Tobio gives him a couple (mock) consoling pats on the shoulder, to which Tsukishima half-heartedly bats his hand away before steering them back to the matter at hand, “The shrimp’s a visual learner. Use the graphs.”

Right, considering that each linear equation determines a line on the xy-plane, and because a solution must satisfy all of the equations, the solution set is the intersection of these lines, hence either a single point, a line, or the empty set—two parallel lines.

Regardless, “There’s still substitution involved, to a degree,” Tobio points out. “Besides, the solution may be pretty this time around, but what about the one below that, for example?” he takes another glance at the worksheet, “⁵⁄₇ and ¹¹⁄₇.”

Tsukishima pulls a face. “Fair enough.”

Of course, Hinata, ever the opportunist, jots down the answer right away. “I’ve always wanted to ask, how d’you do that?”

Tobio sips on his milk. “Do what?”

“All those calculations in your head,” his best friend taps a finger at his temple for illustration. “You’re always calculating, now that I think about it.”

“He sure is,” Tsukishima agrees, which is bizarre. Tsukishima never agrees with Hinata, saying he’s too much of an idiot. Which also means he usually takes Tobio’s side of the argument. Which he should because Tobio is the smarter one, duh, yet it’s gratifying anyway.

“You’re always thinking, too,” Tobio fires back. The blonde doesn’t object, only shrugs, because it’s true. And as of Hinata’s question, “There are techniques and methods you can learn, frankly.”

“For there are always methods to madness,” Tsukishima annotates sagely.

Tobio huffs. “Someone’s terribly chatty today, it seems.”

The bastard then executes the most dramatic genuflexion he has ever seen anyone doing in real life. “This loyal subject shall always answer should you ever call, Your Majesty.”

If you can’t beat them, join them—he can also play this game, “I shall issue an imperial edict, then: Help me handle this imbecile.”

“Hey!” is Hinata’s immediate, indignant reaction. Then, “What’s an imbecile?”

“An idiot,” Tobio provides lackadaisically, and right on cue, the tangerine menace detonates. Hanging out with Tsukishima can do wonders to your vocabulary, which certainly ups your sarcasm level as well.

Said person, as expected, throws him a stink eye—he probably didn’t see that coming. “Is His Majesty evading his responsibility?”

Tobio merely stares back, “I thought my loyal subject would be honoured to undertake whichever task I entrust him with.”

Now Tsukishima is downright glowering at him. It could be immensely daunting, if you didn’t know him. When you do, though, you’ll see that he’s all bark and no bite.

Thus, “Much obliged,” he concedes, holding out his free hand for the redhead to readily hand over his assignment. Tobio can’t say that he was anticipating the blonde to give in without a fight, but he allows himself a victorious smirk nonetheless.

If you must go through hell, drag someone along for the ride.

.

.

.

“The shrimp’s got a point, you know,” Tsukishima abruptly broaches, later that day, when they’re on their way home, the two of them lagging behind (again). “The calculating thing,” he clarifies when Tobio furrows his brows in confusion.

“I suppose,” he replies levelly. “Why’re you always thinking, then?”

The silence stretches. Somehow they’ve fallen into the same rhythm, their footsteps harmonising, much like how they can effortlessly slide into that mutual radio spectrum.

“It’s mental gymnastics,” Tsukishima offers eventually. For some reason Tobio feels he’s not being totally truthful. “Keep your brain flexible.” His eyes flicker over for a fraction, before, “You?”

Tobio takes his time to formulate his response as well.

He thinks of space devoid of matter, of non-baryonic substance, of black holes, of ever-expanding universe, of screaming into the void until his throat bleeds and staring at the abyss until that’s all he can see. He thinks of singularity, a point at which a mathematical object is not defined or ceases to be well-behaved in a particular way, such as lacking differentiability or analyticity; a point or region of infinite mass density distorted by gravitational forces and which is held to be the final state of matter falling into a black hole. He thinks he feels like he’s standing at the singularity oftentimes. He thinks he is the singularity oftentimes.

“Mental gymnastics,” he compromises. “Keep your brain flexible.”

However, looking at Tsukishima walking alongside him, hearing the other three hollering at them to hurry the hell up, remembering the strategy meetings with the team, he oh so desperately hopes that he doesn’t have to be anymore.

.

.

.

Out of the boys in the group, Yamaguchi is the least close to Tobio, so imagine his astonishment when the other boy corners him one day after practise, shoving a flyer at his face. It’s about a machine building contest, designing a device to complete a simple task in a minimum of twenty steps and the maximum of seventy-five, and the process must be no longer than two minutes.

“You should go for it,” he says earnestly. Yamaguchi wants to study electrical engineering in university, this will look wonderful on his portfolio.

“I am,” Yamaguchi confirms. Tobio lifts a brow, not sure if he’s following. Green eyes gleam. Tsukishima has warned him multiple times that if Yamaguchi smiles in a certain fashion and his eyes glint differently, that means he’s up to something potentially troublesome. “I want you on the team,” he divulges his motive at last.

Tobio’s brows shoot up even higher. “Why not Tsukishima?”

Now it’s Yamaguchi’s turn to stare. “You’re a physics genius—don’t even deny it,” he squashes down any of Tobio’s attempt to protest before it’s even fully solidified. “And while Tsukki is my best mate and I love him, he can be a pain to work with.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. Except for Yamaguchi who has been Tsukishima’s best friend since second grade, Tobio knows better than anyone how uncooperative the blonde is. He’s mellowed out, somewhat, nonetheless still a bloody headache.

“It shouldn’t take too much of your time,” Yamaguchi says quickly. “If you’re busy, well, I suppose it can’t be helped—”

Tobio waves his hands, “No, no, it’s alright—I wouldn’t mind—I mean—” he draws in a breath, then looks directly at the other boy, “—I’d love to help. Really.”

Yamaguchi blinks at him, once, twice, thrice, then he grins so widely it might as well split his face in half.

“Thank you!” he squeals, catching Tobio’s hands and shaking them vigorously. It’d be a lie to say that he isn’t caught off-guard. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You’re… welcome?” Tobio manages a reply, slow and clumsy. This is why he doesn’t have friends.

Yamaguchi pays his awkwardness no heed, either way. “I’m so excited! Oh my gosh I can’t believe I got you both on board!”

“Both?”

“You and Hitoka-chan,” he explains. Tobio files away the fact that Yamaguchi and Yachi are apparently on first name basis now for later usage. “Her artistry and your expertise and my idea—this is gonna be amazing! You got time now? I can sketch out the main concept, see if it’s feasible.”

“If it’s you, I’m sure it’ll be brilliant,” Tobio assures. Yamaguchi’s eyes sparkle at the compliment, bright and so lively, emeralds and rainforests, lofty broad-leaved evergreen trees forming a continuous canopy; he looks so exhilarated that Tobio can’t bring himself to do anything else but simply go with the flow, “Show me what you’ve got.”

And, perhaps, while he’s at it, he can figure out a way to get Yamaguchi and Yachi together so Tsukishima can stop bitching and sulking.

(They don’t win in the end, however those smitten fools do start dating, and that’s already a success of its own kind.)

.

.

.

On the twenty-third of May, Tobio sends Miwa a congratulation through the message app as usual.

He didn’t expect that she’d call him back, later that day.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

She is. He’s studying for a test.

However, “Not really,” he replies. He swallows. “I know I already sent it, but, erm, happy birthday.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. Thanks.”

The last time they talked was New Year’s. Miwa stayed in Tokyo. His parents attended a conference in Munich a few days prior, and booking plane tickets during such time was a hassle. He told them it was alright, they could take an impromptu vacation, exploring the city, they needed the break, it wasn’t like he would be spending New Year’s alone anyway.

(He was. But they don’t need to know that. He spent winter break cramming like an actual model student.)

(Ostensibly his performance overall last year was satisfactory enough that he could move to the advanced class. He agreed. He’s in class 5 now, the same homeroom with Yachi. He helps her with natural sciences and she lends him her literature and English notes and they quiz each other during recess. The more demanding coursework keeps him busy.)

It’s weird to hear his sister talk.

“How’re you celebrating?”

“Nothing much. Me and my boyfriend are going out for dinner.”

He didn’t know she has a boyfriend.

“How long have you guys been dating?”

“Not that long—since Christmas.”

So it’s been one hundred and fifty days—five months—already.

And he didn’t know.

He vaguely hears the sounds of vehicles on the other side of the line. Miwa is outside, then, probably on her way to meet her date.

“He’s also from Miyagi,” she continues. “A Karasuno alumnus, even.” A light, giddy laugh. He’s bothered by how surprised he is at the sound. She hadn’t laughed in his line of hearing for a long, long time. He’d forgotten her laugh. She’s not laughing to him, laughing because of him, either way. “What a coincidence, huh.”

“I suppose,” he says. “You sound happy.” He kind of regrets it once it gets out. It’s obvious, she’s spending time with her lover, isn’t she.

But Miwa only giggles, “Do I?”

“You’re laughing,” he points out. Twice, in less than five sentences. This day had started normally, what is this turn of event?

“Well, I guess I am happy,” she acknowledges. “Shuuji-kun is a nice guy. You’ll like him.”

“Really.”

“He used to play volleyball as well. Not a regular, though.” Same as Tsukishima’s elder brother, then. He wonders whether they know one another, it would be absolutely bonkers if they did. “He came to your national games last year.”

Tobio feels his heart jump to his throat. “He did?”

“How did you think we met then, Tobi?”

“You came to my games?!?”

“My little brother was playing. In Tokyo, where I live. In nationals.”

He thinks he’s gaping like a fish right now. Floundering like a fish out of water.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he chokes out at last.

“I didn’t want to distract you,” she admits, the guilt is so blatant in her voice he couldn’t turn a deaf ear to it even if he wants to, which only baffles him even more, and, frankly, rubs him up every wrong way possible.

“We could’ve met,” he grits out. “We haven’t seen each other in person for a year and a half, nee-san.”

“I didn’t think you’d like to—”

“Of fucking course I’d like to! You’re my bloody older sister, aren’t you?”

“Then why did you never say so?” she hurls back. “I had to find out about you getting into nationals through my co-worker whose son plays for the first team you beat.”

“I’m not the one who is ‘too tied-up with work’ to even come back home for once in five years—probably longer if it weren’t for jii-san’s funeral.”

“You make me sound like some heartless bitch.”

“Either that, or a coward. Take your pick.”

The worst thing you can do to rile up a Kageyama is to call them a coward.

“Don’t you dare, Tobio,” she snaps. “I’m not running away.”

“Heartless bitch is it, then.”

“Being all smart-arse now, aren’t you—oh, right, you’re the genius, the golden child between the two of us, after all,” she hisses, like a viper, baring poisonous fangs, dripping venom and vitriol.

“Don’t make this all about me!” he snarls. “I’m not the one who left!”

“You understand that I had to!” she rebuts.

“Leaving doesn’t mean never returning,” he flings back. “You keep saying you’re not running away, then come home—I dare you.”

Between the two of them, Miwa is the extrovert, the friendly, the easy-going, the smooth-tongued. Tobio can’t help the vicious triumph singing in his veins like MDMA when his sister stays mute, that he made her shut up, tearing apart all the flimsy excuses she oh so loves to hide behind and he’s been letting her get away with them because she’s his sister.

Not this time. He’s so fed up with it.

Acrimony tastes ashen on his tongue—he supposes it’s the state of their relationship now: ashes.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he sneers, then disconnects the call. This is the first time he ever hangs up before she does.

.

.

.

Tobio infers that it began with Miwa.

Well, to be honest, it should have started with his parents, always so drowned in mountains and mountains of work that they’re scarcely home, for if you reach a certain height, a certain depth of a field, work is virtually your life. Nevertheless, on the rare occasions they are, they do try, and they keep in contact to the best of their abilities, he can acknowledge that. And he’s definitely inherited their passion to learn, to explore, to discover every secret this world has to offer. And he can actually talk to his parents, to an extent, even if it’s all physics rambles, Mother and Father consistently send him theses and research papers and are open to discussion about them after all, should their workload allow it—that’s not a typical exchange between parent and child, but Tobio takes what he can get, and they indulge his curiosity, genuinely encouraging and delighted that their son shares the same interests as them, he’s his parents’ child, people often note.

Miwa is different. Both of them grew up under their grandfather’s care, yet she’d stayed with Kazuyo for longer, so she takes after him more than she takes after their parents—she’s skilled with her hands, cooking and drawing and playing volleyball and styling hair and doing make-up all the same, she has an eye for aesthetics, she knows when to be firm and when to be soft, she knows how to communicate, how to express herself. She’s a lot of things Tobio isn’t. (A lot of things Tobio wishes he were.)

Tobio is also something she isn’t: a prodigy, in terms of volleyball and intelligence alike, so they say.

(That’s one of the reasons why academic acceleration was ill-advised for him—bloody sibling rivalry. Even if said sibling is eight years older than him, and should he have taken the chance he’d be still several grades below her.)

Tobio thinks—no, he knows Miwa detests him. Or at least she’s bitter, she’s uncomfortable with him. He’s aware that he makes a lot of people uncomfortable, Miwa is just unfortunate enough to be the first one on that bloody long list. He can’t blame her for quitting volleyball, for leaving, for hardly calling, because she needed to find a place for herself—she needed to find herself. And Kageyamas are bloody resilient, bloody stubborn once they’re set upon something.

When Miwa left, Tobio still had Kazuyo, until he didn’t. He also can’t fault a dead man either, and it’s the cycle of life: you come to the world, you grow old, you fall ill, then you return to your creator. Kazuyo hadn’t wanted to leave him alone, hadn’t felt right about leaving him alone, you’re still so young, he’d said, somewhere during his last days, the hand that used to be so big and strong had felt so brittle, so fragile when he ruffled Tobio’s hair; and Tobio couldn’t cry, seeing as he’d only worry his dying grandfather even more if he did, and that was the least he could do, to let him go, to let him rest in peace knowing that his grandson would be okay, he’s been fighting by himself for this long, he could do it for another while, for the rest of his life if push comes to shove, and he’s fine with it, for if you die then you die alone anyway.

Or so he tells himself. Or so he chants religiously. He wouldn’t say he doesn’t believe in God, but if there really is a god out there, then—

Tobio still has nightmares about junior high, of Oikawa’s grating mockery, of Oikawa’s unwavering refusal to teach him how to serve, of Oikawa’s skin-crawling sneer when Tobio helped the third-years with their math and physics coursework just because he could and he wanted to be of assistance, wanted to be a good kouhai, of giving Oikawa and many others more reasons to loathe him than he already did; of Kunimi’s and Kindaichi’s catatonic faces and chilling gazes when they turned their back on him, when they declared that they were going to Aoba Johsai, practically telling him not to apply there (not that he planned to, Seijoh’s curriculum isn’t to his preference); all the pent-up stress, then Kazuyo’s passing, the match had been the final straw that broke the camel’s back, and he flunked Shiratorizawa—it was all too much.

Tobio has nightmares about all the losses and failures, past and present and future all the same. He’d failed Kitagawa Daiichi, he’d failed Karasuno, and he dreads that he’ll fail Karasuno even more than he already had, than he already does, the defeat against Date Tech still fresh, still leaden, still plaguing, still tormenting. The setter is the brain of the team, Nekoma hymns before every match, if the brain doesn’t function properly then the body will crash, if you’re sick in the head then your body will rot along, brain death is used as an indicator of legal death in many jurisdictions after all. He knows it, he’s guilty, he’s faulty, he’s made too many mistakes, too many missteps, too many misjudgements, he’s not strong enough not quick enough not smart enough not attentive enough not good enough—

It’s all too much, yet when he wakes up, it’s not loud, it’s not violent, it’s cold and still and it’s even more devastating, more suffocating, more frightening than the memories, the nightmares, because reality is sometimes even more ruthless, more unforgiving than the dreams. Dreams are only in your head, the manifestations of your fears, reality is something you have to confront head on, something you don’t get to run away from, something you can’t choose to forget.

So, when their first-year setter, Fukuda Shintarou, asks Tobio for guidance on setting and solving geometric problems alike, thanking him profusely afterwards and saying that he wants to become just like him someday, Tobio only laughs, for if he doesn’t laugh he’ll cry, and replies, no, you don’t want to become like me.

.

.

.

Tsukishima is a private person, and so is Tobio. He’s neither inclined to visit someone else’s house nor is he thrilled to invite somebody back home. So, to say he’s pleasantly surprised that Tsukishima wants him to come over is an understatement. He supposes they’re friends now, good friends, even; it’s easy to talk to him, to strategise with him, to be with him, he for sure didn’t see this development when they first encountered, yet he’s utterly happy about it.

They’re friends, and friends coming over to each other’s house is a normal thing, right?

(Since when does he have normal things, like friends and a home that isn’t empty and family members that are actually there in person, anyway?)

He didn’t expect Tsukishima Akiteru, though. And judging by the look on Tsukishima’s face when his elder brother ushers both of them into the dining area, he didn’t, either.

Akiteru reminds Tobio of the Miwa earlier in their childhood, when she was still spiking his tosses and roping him into her “experiments”, when she could still smile brilliantly at him and tuck him to bed every night and hug him whenever he felt upset about school. Akiteru attended their games a few times, and Tobio remembers going to cheer his sister on when she was still competing in junior high, and he wonders if Tsukishima did the same. He only has a nebulous idea that something happened between the brothers, and it’s volleyball-related, and he could make an educated guess that it scarred Tsukishima so much that it somehow twisted his mentality as well. Tobio is still fixing it. He doesn’t know if he’s helping at all.

(And it’s so bloody frustrating, because Tsukishima can be so bloody phenomenal if only he gets out of his own bloody head.)

Nevertheless, it seems that they’ve made up, Akiteru joking around and embarrassing his little brother and Tsukishima bristling and glaring, which incites something in Tobio, something that feels almost like hope, that his and Miwa’s relationship might be able to mend, after all.

(Tobio had tried to call her, after the match against Date Tech, despite their on-going cold war—which, frankly, doesn’t differ much from the antebellum. She had been out with her friends, so she had messaged him back in the next morning, and asked him if there was anything wrong. He told her no, he just wanted to check on her. It ended there. They haven’t talked ever since.)

There’s also something akin to desire, to envy, seeing the Tsukishima siblings actually interacting, even if the younger seems quieter, broodier, for some reason—fuck, he’s in that mode again, isn’t he?

Tobio is a catastrophe at socialising, he can’t even talk to his own sister, can’t even talk about anything else but physics with his own parents, can’t even give proper instructions to the underclassmen without it being either all sound effects or a deluge of technical terms, and he certainly sucks at comforting others. But talking to Tsukishima is always easy, so he makes do. They have a rhythm, they have a wavelength, don’t they? Process the signals, filter through the static noise until you find the right frequency, and it’ll click. It has to.

By some miracle, it does, Tobio inwardly sighs in relief as Tsukishima goes off on a tangent about ankylosauria, the figurines on the shelves looking absurdly adorable in the room of such a serious boy. Tsukishima isn’t much of a conversationalist, and neither is Tobio, yet there always seems to be a galaxy, a universe to run on about between the two of them. Tsukishima has this way of breaking down the broadscale and bringing separate matters together seamlessly, like fission and fusion of the nuclei of atoms; and for once, Tobio isn’t so afraid of being propelled into outer space, for the nuclear reaction converts mass into energy, energy equals mass times speed of light squared, and thus his universe lights up.

.

.

.

As the seniors depart the club, Ennoshita transfers captaincy to Yamaguchi, while Tanaka hands over the number two jersey to Tobio. Fortunately, both processes are done in private, so no one else would have to see him erupt into a flustering mess.

“It’s yours now,” Tanaka laughs, and laughs even harder as he watches Tobio trace the number imprinted on the back of the shirt, hands trembling a little.

“I’ve never had this.” His mouth is going on autopilot with the sheer amount of stupefaction and jubilation inundating him. He had been a good setter, a valuable piece in Kita-Ichi, however he was deemed too much of a ticking bomb to be given such responsibility.

(Well, to be fair, he did explode in the end.)

“Yamaguchi would do well as the heart of the team,” Tanaka tells him once the laughter has diminished. “You, on the other hand, have always been the brain.”

“Are you referencing Nekoma’s chant because you couldn’t come up with an inspiring speech on your own?”

Tanaka swats at the back of his head. “When we hoped you and Tsukishima get along, we surely didn’t hope you’d get along this well.”

“We did it for the team, Tanaka-san,” Tobio says innocently.

“Yeah right,” the third-year gives a loud snort. “Back to the point—you’ve been pretty much our field commander for the past two years anyway, so it’s no brainer that you’ll be the most suitable candidate for vice.”

Tobio lowers his head, feeling heat rushing up and over his entire being. “You give me too much credit.”

Tanaka flicks his forehead. “Quite the contrary—you don’t give yourself enough credit, kiddo,” he scolds, not unkindly, then smiles, wide and fond, his eyes oddly wise and a bit older somehow, “I trust you to help lead this team to next year’s nationals, but—rely on your comrades more often, alright?”

It sounds sacred, the oath, and sagacious, the heartfelt advice, both will carry him out through the following year. He nods solemnly, the jersey between his hands a heavy weight, yet strangely buoyant all the same.

.

.

.

He can’t believe he had a meltdown.

He can’t believe he had a meltdown in front of Tsukishima.

He can’t believe Tsukishima didn’t leave.

He can’t believe Tsukishima took him home.

He can’t believe he actually invited Tsukishima to stay.

He can’t believe Tsukishima actually agreed.

He can’t believe Tsukishima is in his house. For a whole night.

A core meltdown accident occurs when the heat generated by a nuclear reactor exceeds the heat removed by the cooling systems to the point where at least one nuclear fuel element goes beyond its melting point.

(The nightmares, the defeat, Miwa, Mother, Father, promotion to vice-captain, schoolwork, bloody modern literature and English tenses, working until he collapsed, and yet—)

In a modern reactor, a nuclear meltdown, whether partial or total, should be contained inside the reactor’s containment structure. Assuming that no other major disasters befall, while the meltdown will severely damage the reactor itself, possibly contaminating the structure with highly radioactive material, a meltdown alone should not lead to significant radioactivity release or danger to the public.

The story changes if the nuclear meltdown is a part of a chain disaster, though. Like Chernobyl.

He does feel like Chernobyl right now.

He feels something warm and fluffy wiggle around in his lap. He feels something warm and fluffy nudging at his palm. He absent-mindedly pats her. He hears a purr, like the hums of high-voltage open wires, of static noise, random signal having equal intensity at different frequencies, a constant power spectral density. Tora has been a constant in his life ever since the Wakabayashi moved in next door.

Just as Tsukishima has been a constant in his life ever since they met.

“You’ve actually got clothes that fit me.”

He turns around, blinking rapidly, holding the shutter button of the camera for the burst mode, taking as many photos as possible so the image can ingrain in his mind and won’t fade away anytime soon. Tsukishima is taller and has broader shoulders than him, the shirt that hangs loosely on his frame and pools around his waist fits the other boy perfectly. The pants, on the other hand, go above his ankles. His blonde curls look soft and fine, like spun gold.

He can’t picture a soft Tsukishima, but he always seems golden in his eyes. Tsukishima calls him King and His Majesty and His Royal Highness and similar titles all the time, but he also exudes this regal air, even if he’s no noble person.

He’s no noble person, either.

“I like oversized shirts,” he says at last. He likes the way the folds of the fabric envelop him. It feels like an embrace.

“So I’ve noticed.”

He pats Tora three times on her back. The feline understands the cue, leaping off his lap and trailing after them as they climb up the stairs to the attic. He plops down on the floor, back against his bed, Tora crawling into his lap again, as Tsukishima takes a look around his humble abode.

“It must be five times as large as my room,” Tsukishima comments when he finally settles down next to him at a respectable distance, the same distance as when he stayed with him at the gym.

(He stayed. He stays.)

“I’ve got an entire floor to myself, so to speak,” he says.

“A space fit for a king, I suppose.”

“I’m the only inhabitant, I can do whatever I want. And besides,” he gazes up, over at the skylight above his workspace and personal library segment, which takes up the majority of the area, “it’s easier to see the stars.”

“I see.”

Tora meows and snuggles closer. She’s a clever thing, almost human-like at times, she knows it when he’s upset, and she’ll nuzzle up to him. It’s not enough to defrost the frigidity deep in his bones or fill up the gaping hole in his chest, but he appreciates the effort nonetheless. She’s stayed with him through the darkest, coldest nights, after all. She’s there when no one else is.

Now, however, there’s someone else. There hasn’t been someone else for such a long time, it feels alien. He feels alien in his own skin.

“You’re a Libra, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s visible in the northern hemisphere between April and July, best in June.” It’s early December at the moment. He’ll be turning seventeen in less than three weeks.

“And the best time to look for Capricornus is late summer to early autumn. Shame.”

“The constellation is faint, either way. You’ll need a dark sky. Little to no light pollution.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Triangulum and Aries in the northern sky, Eridanus, Fornax and Horologium in the southern.”

“Kojima is an Aries, isn’t he?”

“The tenth of April, so yeah. You wanna see it with or without the telescope?”

“Can we do both?”

“If you want.”

They move over under the skylight. Tsukishima tilts his head up to search for the Ram while he fiddles with the device. Aries isn’t a particularly prominent constellation, so a dark country sky absent of moonlight is most desirable for viewing it. Tonight, though—

“It’s a full moon,” Tsukishima says.

He flips through the calendar in his head. “It’s the fifteenth of the lunar month today, I believe.”

Tsukishima hums, “Full moons are traditionally associated with insomnia and insanity.”

“Are you an insomniac?”

“My sleeping pattern is superb, thank you very much,” Tsukishima chortles. He doesn’t roar with laughter like Tanaka, Nishinoya or Hinata. When he laughs, it’s quiet and short, if it’s not a once-in-a-blue-moon happenstance already, so it’s even nicer when he does. Tsukishima is ethereal when he genuinely smiles. “Are you gonna ask if I’m insane as well?”

“Everyone is a bit mad, to be fair,” he huffs. “I know I’m kinda mad.” Then, barely above a whisper, “I feel like I’m on the brink of going mad for real most of the time,” he confesses, aloud, for the first time ever, to himself and to the world alike.

Tsukishima inclines his head. “It’s the scariest thing when you’re smart, isn’t it? When you’re a genius, in particular.”

“I’m no genius,” he objects automatically. “I’ve just got a lot of materials and time.”

Tsukishima half-shrugs. “Same difference.” He drops down onto the floor. It’s winter, the floor of his room is covered in carpet so he can go bare-foot, he even chooses the extra fleecy kind. It’s comfortable enough to lie on the floor. He’s fallen asleep lying on the floor while reading plenty of times.

“I get the feeling,” Tsukishima murmurs, a confession of his own.

“Do you.”

“Why’re you always thinking, then?”

“Why are you?”

Tsukishima draws his eyes shut for a few seconds before reopening them.

“To organise the chaos that is my mind,” he breathes out.

“Because you see too much?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes again. “It’s always too loud, to harsh, too sharp, too messy—too much, overall.”

“Does being myopic help?”

“To a certain extent. It’s a different type of ‘seeing’, you know that already.”

“I do.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Amber flickers over him. Traditional Chinese medicine uses amber to “tranquilise the mind”, Tsukishima once told him, during one of his rhapsodies about fossilisation. “Quid pro quo.”

He doesn’t know when he stopped tinkering with the telescope and let his hands rest on his thighs. He doesn’t know a lot of what’s been going on this evening.

“To load up the vacuum that is my life,” he crystallises.

Tsukishima turns his head over to face him directly, perplexity precipitating in seas of clear aqueous gold, “You see too much, too.”

“It’s true,” he acquiesces.

He thinks of dark matter and dark energy. In the standard Lambda-CDM model of cosmology, the total mass-energy of the universe contains 5 percent ordinary matter and energy, 27 percent dark matter and 68 percent dark energy. Should dark matter exist, it must barely interact with ordinary baryonic matter and radiation, except through gravity. Dark energy is speculated to be responsible for the accelerated expansion of the universe, its density is extremely low, much less than that of ordinary matter or dark matter within galaxies, yet it dominates the mass-energy of the universe because it’s uniform across space.

It’s not a vacuum, he thinks, but does it matter if it’s a space filled with substance you cannot touch, you cannot sense, you cannot feel, you don’t know for sure if it exists. Most of his the universe is made of substance one cannot feel. Or maybe he’s made of substance one cannot feel. Or maybe he’s made of substance that cannot feel—

“Hey.”

A wavelength with different frequency and different power density cuts through the white noise. He blinks as the power density decreases and the frequency increases until it’s out of human range. Tsukishima is still looking at him, not quite frowning, but he’s definitely unsettled. Concerned, even, if he allows himself the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

“Don’t be,” Tsukishima says. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He moves his stiff neck flexion.

“I do want to, though,” he claws the words out, “It’s—it’s just—” yet the syllables are stuck in his throat like fishbone.

Tsukishima understands, nonetheless. He smiles softly, “I can wait,” and holds a hand out.

He takes it. He can let himself have this, let himself be pulled down, let himself free-fall, yielding to the attraction of gravity. Tsukishima is a grounding presence next to him, he doesn’t let go of his hand, he tangles their fingers together, the strings which are so small that they look like a tiny dot, the electrons vibrating and circling back and forth between atoms.

“Are you thinking right now?” he asks, when the covalent bond is stable. They both have their eyes close, facing the skylight.

Tsukishima gives their joined hands a gentle squeeze. “No. It’s peaceful here.” A breath. “You?”

He feels the ridges and calluses and the soft expanse of skin of the other hand. He feels the warmth of the other hand.

Tobio squeezes back. “No. It’s not empty here.”

.

.

.

(It’s ludicrous, really, how letting go makes him feel fuller, steadier, more tangible than ever.)

(Perhaps it’s because now he has someone who doesn’t let go.)

.

.

.

“I like this one,” Tobio announces.

Tsukishima—no, he’s Kei now, like fireflies, glowing yellow, green, blue and pale red, cold light, no infrared or ultraviolet frequencies, of visible wavelengths and causing no harm should you look at directly—chuckles, “I know you would.”

Tobio hums along the melody. Kei says he’s tone-deaf, but who cares. “It feels like the universe waking up,” he notes.

“A poignant description, I suppose,” the blonde replies. “It’s called ‘Unfold’ after all—it means to open or spread out from a folded position, and by extension, to gradually develop or be revealed.”

Another word added to his English vocabulary. Kei listens to a lot of Western musicians.

Tobio reaches out for his phone. The track is a collaborative work, the first artist’s name looks like a normal English name, while the second one is definitely a pseudonym, his English has gotten good enough to work out its meaning.

“‘Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs’? Really?” he cracks up.

“It’s a cool as heck stage name,” Kei defends. “Can you imagine overhearing somebody saying, ‘Hey, have you heard of Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs?’”

“Sounds like something seven-year-old you would say to some unfortunate victim.”

Kei jabs at his ribs. Tobio only cackles more maniacally. He can see why the alias catches Kei’s attention, nonetheless. And it certainly is a cool stage name.

That said, “Why d’you like dinosaurs so much, anyway?” he’s always wanted to ask.

“Why d’you like astrophysics so much, then?”

It’s Kei’s thing, deflecting a question with another question. Especially if it gets personal. A defence mechanism, he supposes. He does it himself, sometimes.

“Old tactic, Tsukki,” he tuts. “You can do better than that.”

“An old tactic is still a good tactic if it works, Your Majesty,” Kei retorts. “Chess tactics were developed centuries ago, and people still use them now, don’t they?”

“They’re basically logical sequences, all for the ultimate goal that is to protect your resource and to corner your opponent—it’s practically warfare, and mankind has been raging wars ever since long before recorded history, which was like, what, ten millenniums ago?”

“Approximately fourteen thousand years ago, as of the current state of excavation and research,” he rectifies. “Speaking of warfare—why do we keep playing mind games at one another?”

“It’s only you, I do no such thing. You even said I’m too emotionally constipated for more complex social behaviours. Multiple times.”

“You said the same thing about me. Multiple times. And for the record, I’m not the one who bloody fake insulted the best mate of a best mate just to make a point. Or manipulated him into talking about radiometric dating and dinosaurs just so he could temporarily forget about his unresolved feelings towards his older brother.”

“Well, I’m not the one who exploited my respondent conditioning to indirectly tutor the biggest moron to ever grace planet Earth. Or subliminally messaged his own best mate into dragging another best mate into a science project, expecting said poor soul to get that fool and the girl who he had a crush the size of Jupiter on together while he was at it.”

“There was no harm done from it.”

“Mine was. Yours, on the other hand, is detrimental to my digestive system because the bloody menace has been bothering me at every single lunch break ever since.”

“Tutoring Hinata is a shared responsibility. Even if you’re a royal, you’re not exempted from it.”

Tobio blows out a long, tortured sigh and flings himself back down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under the sudden weight.

“I miss the time I was lumped into the idiot category,” he mutters. It didn’t last long, either way—he’d laid his cards out too early, and Tsukishima Kei, the opportunistic bastard, has been wrenching out every bit possible of it.

He doesn’t know how somebody could convey immense disdain and utter disbelief through a gaze simultaneously, but apparently Kei can. “Would you honestly prefer people to view you as an imbecile to a genius?”

“Why not both?” Tobio ripostes. “I mean, there are loads of world-class athletes who did abysmally in school, and vice versa, the typical nerds that are absolutely hopeless when it comes to physical endeavours.”

Both the disdain and the disbelief only skyrocket as Kei continues to stare. “Similar argument applied—why’ve you got to choose between brawn and brain if you can have both?”

Tobio doesn’t have an instant witty response to that. Or any response at all.

He senses Kei scooting over until he enters his field of vision, arms looping around his legs and chin resting atop of his knees.

“You’ve definitely got both, Tobio,” he restates, and Tobio feels his breath caught in his throat.

Kei still keeps up the King charade—it’s their charade now, frankly—nevertheless, he calls him by his given name whenever he’s truly, sorely serious.

Tobio gulps.

“So do you,” he returns, with just as much conviction.

Here’s the thing about them: they started off with provoking each other at every chance they had, then somehow it’s grown into the present day debates and banters between best of friends. Tobio likes Hinata despite everything, their coordination on the court is irreproachable; working alongside Yamaguchi and Hitoka that one time has led to several more collaborative ventures, it’s been good fun in and of its own; however, his and Kei’s line of thinking is synchronous before he even realises it, strategising with him is effortless, talking to him is effortless, Tobio doesn’t think he’s ever talked that much to anyone, he didn’t think he could even talk like an actual normal human being.

That said, there are moments like this, where the silence spreads light and thin and serene yet no less electrifying, no less spellbinding, as though a thrumming electromagnetic field, a suspension in quantum superposition, and both are too afraid to move, to break the spell—or mayhap they both don’t want to break this dynamic equilibrium, as in this reversible chemical reaction when the rates of reaction in both directions are equal, because who knows what would happen if the balance were to shift.

Tobio shifts first in the end this time, looking at the ceiling. The ceiling of Kei’s room is bare, like his own, but Miwa’s is decorated with noctilucent stars, a near-perfect simulation of the May night sky, and he periodically stays in her room partially for it, in addition to the fact that he does miss her, miss their childhood stargazing together, for she loved the stars as well.

(Does she love them still, or said love had waned when her grudge towards their parents became greater than her yearning for them, when their sibling ties disintegrated?)

He closes his eyes and tries to visualise Miwa’s ceiling. Canes Venatici and Coma Berenices are northern constellations, while Centaurus, Virgo, Corvus, Crux and Musca lie south of the celestial equator. Virgo and Centaurus are the second and ninth largest constellations in the sky, whereas Crux is the smallest. May is also the best time of the year to observe the many interesting deep sky objects located in these constellations—the Virgo Cluster and the Coma Cluster of galaxies, the Sunflower Galaxy and the Whirlpool Galaxy, just to name a few.

“You must’ve noticed that I was born on the winter solstice, right?”

Kei is momentarily bemused by his randomness, but he nods, “Yeah, like Hinata’s is on the summer solstice.”

“Or yours the autumn equinox,” Tobio inserts, before puffing out a helpless laugh, “What’s with the special birthdays?”

“Call it destiny if you’re superstitious,” Kei says airily.

“Like hell I am,” he snorts. “Anyhow, winter solstice. Longest night of the year. You can say it’s because I was born during the night that naturally I’ll be drawn to the night sky, if you’re superstitious,” he adds the last part as an afterthought, just to be annoying.

Kei merely rolls his eyes, though. “Nice try.”

“What did you expect, then?” Tobio shoots back. “Another sob story?”

“Maybe?”

Tobio scowls. “You just love to listen to others complain about their sufferings so you can feel better about your life, don’t you?”

“It’s in human nature to take pleasure from others’ misery,” Kei sings in that infuriating cadence.

“You fucking sadist,” he aims a slap at the side of his head, to which he smoothly tilts back to dodge, smirking smugly. He lets his arm fall on his side, lying next to Kei’s, so close they almost touch, yet the infinitesimal distance exists still.

He says to the space overhead, “I’m sure that you’ve already got an idea of why.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, before, “I do,” Kei admits. “I also know that you’re gonna sucker-punch me if I ever attempt to psychoanalyse you out loud.”

“You already are,” Tobio points out, then shuts his eyes, “You probably got it right, anyway.”

“You can’t confirm if a deduction is accurate or not without knowing what it is.”

He barks out a short, breathless laugh. “C’mon, who’re we kidding with here? You’ve already got the clues, the facts, it’s not that hard to make a case.”

Kei goes quiet again for a while, most likely to reassess his viable courses of action. For the most part he wouldn’t take the leap, but a step back, to guard both himself and Tobio. Kei isn’t soft, however he’s careful, too careful, to the point that he’s missed a lot of chances, and Tobio won’t deny, it’s so bloody maddening because it makes him stuck as well, he wants to shake him and hug him in equal measure, for after all this time Kei still doesn’t let himself reach out for the things he wants, for the things he definitely can have, for the things he positively deserves.

So, when he finally does, it’s only right to meet him halfway.

“Let me rephrase the question, then,” Kei says, slow and tentative. “Why, despite everything, do you still like astrophysics so much?”

Tobio can’t suppress a smile.

“There’s a whole universe out there,” he answers. “Why confine yourself in Earth?”

A beat.

Then, “Of course it is,” Kei guffaws.

Tobio blinks his eyes open and peers at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing in particular.” The laughter has died down, nonetheless he’s still grinning from ear to ear. Tobio wants to be indignant, yet can’t bring himself to, not when Kei is like this, eyes a vibrant and majestic gold, the sun at his zenith. “That’s just like you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean it literally.”

“The it’s-only-a-club literally or the literally literally?”

“Oh sod off.” Kei goes for a swat at the side of his head this time, but he blocks the hand. “Are you seriously still holding that against me?”

“Just making sure,” Tobio quips. “You say things you don’t mean a lot.”

“I mean most of the things I say to you, though.”

Here’s the thing: Kei usually doesn’t go for the straightforward route, that’s Tobio, always bombarding at the nucleus dead on regardless of the emission afterwards, because it has to be done, to achieve the stable nuclide. But proton decay happens; many apparently “stable” nuclides are radioactive, just with extremely long half-lives; some are in theory energetically susceptible to other known forms of decay but no products have yet been observed, so he has no bloody clue of what he’s looking at, what triggers the process, what he’s supposed to look for, what he’s supposed to do about it.

Tobio suddenly realises that their hands are still touching. Kei’s fingers are longer, bonier than his, and they’re sliding between his. He remembers the time when Kei always put up a fight, even if half-hearted, whenever he offered to help with the taping, and now he’s actively lacing their fingers together.

He’s been reaching out without anyone answering for so long, he can’t fathom how fulfilling it is when somebody finally, finally does, and they even reach back.

It dawns on him, “I think it’s also because I want to understand.”

Kei thumbs along his metacarpals. “Understand what?”

“How it works. How it all connects. The big and the small. The complex and the simple. The unknown.”

“Are you implying that you want to figure out the theory of everything? Like, the master theory?”

“I’m not smart enough for that.” The movement on his hand pauses, only to be followed by a light squeeze, equally chiding and comforting. Tobio allows, “But, well, I mean, the idea is fascinating—a formula that just makes sense of everything.”

Kei clasps his other hand on top of his. “I see the appeal.”

Tobio rolls his eyes. “Of course you do. Isn’t that similar with you?” he moots. “Finding a pattern, because history repeats itself?”

“Humans write history, and humans are creatures of habit.” Another of Kei’s deflection techniques—getting philosophical. It used to mess up his head, all the abstract and abstruse talks; however, as Kei had said before, there are always methods to madness, and there’s a fine line between genius and insanity. They can afford to be a bit mental. “It’s certainly not all pattern, regardless. You can always discover something new when you look into the past as well.”

“It’s true that a huge part of Earth history is still a mystery,” Tobio agrees. “Like how exactly dinosaurs became extinct.”

“You can believe in the asteroid theory like most people.”

“Even so. The impact couldn’t have wiped out an entire species overnight. It must’ve been a chain disaster: volcanic eruptions, world-wide climate change, even radioactivity.”

“You won’t stand a chance against cosmic cataclysm, after all. And they were supposed to be these humongous reptiles that once ruled this bloody planet,” Kei muses. “Makes one wonder how the end of human civilisation would be.”

“God,” Tobio groans. “Your grim outlook on the future still surprises me sometimes.”

“Everyone’s got to think about the end at some point,” Kei argues. “You’ve never thought about how you’d die?”

Tobio has. Perhaps too often, when he’s on his own in the darkness, in the vacancy, when he runs out of calculations to do in his mind. The worst had been around Kazuyo’s death, sleepless nights of curling up on the floor of his grandfather’s room and hoping his ghost still lingered so he wouldn’t be alone in the giant, virtually forsaken estate.

Yet he says none of it. He doesn’t need to. The seedlings might have not been the same, nevertheless the bourgeoning plants can appear almost identical.

Instead, “I’d like to think about how much I could do before I die.”

For when you die, you die alone.

“Can I ask you something?” Kei prompts after another rather long bout of pensive quietude.

“Go for it.”

“Why won’t you consider going to university?”

Okay, he didn’t anticipate that.

Tobio pushes himself back up, whipping his neck over to the blonde while refraining the urge to glare. He might have failed wonderfully. He also wants to jerk his hand away, however Kei only tightens his grip, enough to not let him escape.

He could at least try to keep his tone neutral. “Where did that come from?”

“You said you want to do as much as you could, didn’t you?” Kei opens fire. “That should include getting the appropriate education for your level of intelligence as well.”

The reply is reflexive, “I’m not—”

“—‘a genius’,” Kei finishes the sentence for him, eyes sharp and fierce like a hawk’s. “Try again.”

Tobio breathes out, jaded, “I can’t get by without you tutoring me. How’s that ‘smart’?”

“Your grades say otherwise.”

“Like I said—tutoring.”

“I only tutor you two subjects,” Kei points out. “And it’s not like you need my help that much. You’re still in the upper half of an advanced class. You’ve received plenty of offers, including Waseda and Meiji.” Tobio gawks at the blonde, who merely shrugs. “Yachi-san told Tadashi—”

“—who told you.” He clicks his tongue. He’s underestimated the power of gossip. Hitoka knows about the scholarships because apparently Ueno-sensei assumes that she can convince him to at least glance over his options, seeing as she’s the volleyball club manager and one of his best friends. What’s with people nagging him about going to university?

Kei looks quite disgruntled himself—is he pouting?

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” he grouses. “Normally people would be completely over the moon when bloody Waseda offers them a scholarship.”

“You’re not really considering their offer, either,” Tobio counters.

“Who says I’m not?” he refutes. “It’s still my back-up plan, you know—unlike you, who won’t even think of it at all.”

“What’s there to even think about, anyway?” Tobio is tired of this conversation already, however Kei can be bloody persistent if he thinks he’s right about something.

“That yes, it’s absolutely marvellous that you got scouted by Division One teams, it says a lot about your volleyball skills, but isn’t it the exact same thing with all the scholarships you’ve gotten as well?”

“It’s a sport scholarship, your academic performance just needs to be not terrible.” Kei levels him an incredulous stare. He relents, “Okay, fine, maybe I’m not stupid, I’m actually decent or whatever, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna do well in uni—high school and university are two different arenas.”

Now the blonde has this murderous look that only appears whenever he’s utterly frustrated, before he releases this long, blustery sigh, like air and steam expelled from a high pressure cooker.

“I don’t get you sometimes,” he says, weary and stumped. “You’re perfectly alright when people say that you’re a genius setter, yet for some reason you can’t seem to take the same compliment when it concerns your intellect.”

Tobio feels his breathing quicken. This isn’t like Kei at all. Kei is never this candid, this forceful. He shouldn’t have allowed him to ask the question. Why are they still talking about this? Why is he still talking about this? “I told you before, I just read a lot—”

“It doesn’t change a thing,” Kei cuts him off in one decisive slash, then shuffles over so they can face each other eye to eye. “For the record, Hinata doesn’t understand a single shit after reading through his physics textbook, but you scan a bloody paper on stellar parallaxes then recalculate the statistics in your bloody head like it’s nothing. If it’s not genius, then what, huh?”

“Stop it,” Tobio pleads, angry and panicked and pained and nonplussed. Everything was fine three minutes ago, and now he’s struggling to just get oxygen in and carbon dioxide out of his lungs. “Why’re you doing this?”

“Because you’re hurting yourself on purpose! You always say that I don’t believe in my own abilities enough, but you’re just the same—no, even worse, because I think, deep down, you know that you’re smart, yet you just keep hypnotising yourself that you’re not for some reason.”

Tobio is finally able to break away, plunging forward, making them both fall over, him straddling Kei, hands fisting tightly on his shoulders and pinning him on the mattress.

“Just stop,” he begs. “Stop telling me I’m something that I’m not. Stop putting me on this pedestal. Just—stop. The more you do this the more I can’t breathe.”

Tobio had thought the suns of Kei’s eyes could never scorch him. Not this way. That was a horrible misconception. “Then tell me where I got it wrong. Tell me why my reasoning is false. If you can’t provide one single logical counter-evidence, then it means I’m right, that it’s factual, and I’m going to keep saying it, keep showing it to you until you believe it.”

“Why are you telling me to believe it if it doesn’t make sense?!”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“Everything!”

Kei’s eyes widen behind his glasses.

“I just don’t understand,” Tobio croaks out. “They say the more you learn, the more you know, the fuller, the better you feel, but I don’t. All this knowledge, all this information—what good is it if it doesn’t amount to anything, if it doesn’t fill in the gaps, if it doesn’t make me feel more complete?” He feels something hot prickling in his eyes. His arms are shaking. He feels like collapsing, but if he collapsed then he’d fall atop of Kei, and he’s heavy, so he’ll have to hold on. “Why do we keep working on quantum theory if the more developed it is, the sillier it looks? Why do we keep looking for aliens, keep sending messages to outer space if there’s no reply? Why don’t we just accept that we’re alone in this universe?”

The dam breaks.

When it breaks, it floods. It floods everywhere. Floods cause property damage and long-term displacement of residents and increased spread of waterborne diseases.

Tobio leans back, removes his hands from Kei’s shoulders so he can control the cataracts.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, swiping at his eyes furiously.

“No, no, no, it’s alright—it’s not your fault, it’s mine—shit, this isn’t what I had in mind—” The other boy has already scrambled back up the moment he saw Tobio tearing up, taking his wrists in hand to drag them away from his face but he resists, trying to pull away altogether, shaking his head. Kei doesn’t leave him much of a choice, though, seeing that he’s faster than Tobio for once, reaching out to cup his cheeks, wiping away the tears that just won’t stop overflowing.

“Shit—” Kei curses again, eyes pale and fretful, “—I didn’t plan this—fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing—please don’t cry—”

“I can’t,” Tobio hiccups. “It’s a bodily response to an emotional state.”

“And I put you into that emotional state,” Kei rejoins, then, quieter, somewhat too tenuous, and agonisingly contrite, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s alright,” he sniffs, drawing in a shuddering breath, “It’s better than nothing.”

The remark, for some reason, makes Kei’s face contort even more. Tobio hates it when he looks like that, hates it even more that he’s the one who causes it.

But then, Kei dives down, and Tobio freezes due to the sudden motion, mind going blissfully blank for a good couple seconds before he finally registers the warm, tender pressure on his forehead.

Kei is pressing their foreheads together, and his hands are caressing his cheeks.

It’s not a kiss, yet it feels like one, and much better, Tobio relaxes, relishing the soft heat exhaling on his lips, the firm but exceedingly gentle touch on his face, grounding him in place, keeping him stable and solid; and he lets himself bask in this warmth, this stability, this resonance, until their breath and heart move in sync, like their mind does.

Tobio thinks—no, he knows Kei is thinking, because he always is, a rapidly pulsating radio source, a compact star discharging ultra-high-energy cosmic rays, tremendously magnetised. Tobio counts the very precise intervals between pulses, before Kei speaks up again, a beam of emission pointing towards him.

“Do you think I’m smart?”

That came out of nowhere.

Nonetheless, Kei doesn’t say anything without a specific purpose, so, “Yeah,” Tobio replies. “You’re the smartest person I know.” He thinks he must have said it to Kei a thousand times already.

“And you understand what I say?”

“We’re speaking in the same language.”

That earns him a breathless laugh. Something inside him clicks. “You know what I mean.”

He does.

“Not right away sometimes, but yeah, I understand what you say,” Tobio concurs.

“And I you,” Kei relates. “Not right away sometimes, but ultimately, I do. Message sent, message received, and so on.” The cold, sharp metal edges of his eyes smooth out, liquefied gold rich and lustrous, Felix Felicis, one single drop and you’re guaranteed immense luck for an entire day. “You’re not alone in this universe, Tobio.”

.

.

.

They lost the second set of the first match of the Inter-high qualifiers.

Synchronised attack—overloading—isn’t anything new, they use it themselves countless times, it’s a tried-and-true tactic. What Tobio didn’t expect was who scored said match point, and how said person did it.

A first-year opposite hitter executed a high shot, like a three-pointer in basketball.

That sure is an interesting development, so to speak.

The intermittent between the second and third set lasts ten minutes, enough time to recharge and reassess the state of warfare. Hitoka and the first-year manager, Ichinose, are handing out water and towels whilst Yamaguchi and the mood-makers are hyping the others up.

Next to him, Kei is disturbingly quiet, his body a live wire. Tobio sidles over, minutely pleased that he doesn’t move away.

“Whatever self-depreciating thoughts you’re harbouring, knock it off,” he hisses, adding a poke at his arm for good measure. Kei glares at him. He glares back. “You couldn’t have seen that.”

Kei holds the gaze for another beat or two, before sighing, “It’s not all that.”

“That also includes what we talked about before the match.” Tobio had wanted to distract him, however it seems to have done more harm than good. He compartmentalises better than Kei.

But he bristles, “Not that, either.” Tobio raises a brow. Kei takes a sip from his bottle. “I’m thinking about number twelve.”

“Huh.” Tobio pauses to mull over the situation a bit more, then broaches, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m not a telepath, Your Royal Highness,” Kei rolls his eyes, yet discloses his evaluation nonetheless, “His receives were disastrous. He hadn’t really spiked—except for that match-point, but you can’t call that a spike.”

Tobio nods. “It was a shot. He seems to lack the overall skills for volleyball, but he’s definitely been playing sports regularly for a long time, judging by the way he moved.”

“And the way he positioned his hands for the shot was just like how you’d do a long-ranged shot in basketball—”

“—which very likely means that he’s got foundation in basketball, and he’s probably a shooting guard—”

“—and quite a skilled one at that, considering how smooth it was—”

The sound of somebody clearing their throat cuts in on their train of analysis. Their comrades are giving them judgmental and exasperated looks like whenever they veer into another science discourse during practise.

“Care to share your ideas?” Yamaguchi asks—no, orders, he’s using his Captain voice.

“Hold on for a sec,” Tobio says, then turns to push Kei down on a bench. “You go rest. I’ll handle the talking.”

He snickers, “Are you sure you can do the presentation on your own?”

“I’m not that bad anymore,” Tobio grumbles. “You, on the other hand, still got horrible stamina, and we still need you to be in top condition for the frontline. That kind of shot takes time to land anyway, it’s not gonna be too difficult to predict its course.” He pats Kei’s shoulder. “We’ve got your back.”

It could be the effect of the fluorescent light reflecting, but Kei’s golden eyes glint dangerously. “I’ll be in your care, then.”

Tobio can’t help a fierce grin in return, and, with a lightning-quick press of his forehead to Kei’s, he straightens up and pivots to the rest of the team.

.

.

.

Out of all people, Hitoka is the last one Tobio thought to bring up the topic first. (Which leads to plenty more, he’d learn soon enough.) Granted, she’s steeled significantly since their freshman year, and being in the same class for the second year in a row makes them colleagues in more ways than one, and he should have factored in Yamaguchi’s influence on her.

Nevertheless, to be ambushed while you’re comparing homework just before first period is not how he’d like to start his day.

“Are you and Tsukishima-kun dating?”

By some miracle, he doesn’t jolt, doesn’t drop any object within his vicinity and doesn’t flip the desk over. He just looks up from his assignment and stares, unblinking.

“Why’re you asking?”

“I don’t wanna assume anything,” Hitoka says breezily, yet very meaningfully.

Tobio decides to play dumb anyway. “What’s there to assume?”

Hitoka gasps, might or might not be a bit too dramatic, “Oh my god, this is even worse than I thought—you’ve even adopted his speech pattern.”

Now he’s actually frowning. “Friends pick up each other’s habits all the time.”

“I don’t see you picking any from Shou-kun,” she points out. “And he’s supposed to be your best mate. Or even me, and I thought we’re close.”

He gives her a blank stare. “We don’t pick up anything from each other because we’re already similar enough. And seriously though, would you like to learn anything from Hina?”

“His optimism, perhaps, and his assertiveness—hang on, you’re changing the subject—that’s from Tsukishima-kun, too!” she accuses, stomping a hand on her pile of worksheets. Tobio resists the urge to click his tongue, because that’s probably also one of Kei’s ticks, and he won’t give her any more evidence to use against him. “Although, to be fair, you’ve rubbed off on him considerably as well—he scowls when he’s confused, and I believe I heard him using thwack and fwip and swoosh to explain some of the techniques to the first-years the other day.”

Here’s the thing: At first glance, Hitoka seems like an angel. She used to be one. She is still one. Sort of. She’s observant and thoughtful and scrupulous—especially in her note-taking, you mess up her colour-coding rules and hell hath no fury like Yachi Hitoka’s scorn—and he’s incredibly grateful to have her as a friend. He’s less grateful when she uses her perceptiveness for evil. Like now.

She’s still laying out her case, “People compliment on you and Shou-kun’s teamwork all the time, but you know what’s even more frightening? How you and Tsukishima-kun seem to actually read each other’s mind sometimes. Maybe it’s because you’re both geniuses and therefore operate on the same wavelength, but you can also reach that point if you’re married for fifty years, the elderly couple next door to mine is just like that.”

Tobio massages his temples to alleviate the growing migraine. “What’re you getting at?”

“That you two as a couple just makes so much sense!” His best female friend enthuses. “And you’d look really, really cute together, too!”

“You sound like an avid shipper.”

“That I am, Tobio-kun,” she declares proudly. “You guys aren’t exactly subtle, anyway.”

All lines of thinking in his head stop to a halt with a loud screech.

“Excuse me?”

Hitoka lets out a long sigh, as though a mother who tries to explain to her five-year-old toddler why he has to brush his teeth before going to bed for the umpteenth time.

“Have you seen how he looks at you? Do you know how you look at him? How you two bloody look at each other? I mean, it purifies my heart and soul.” She exhales dreamily. “What’s more—he lets you tape his fingers—for which he absolutely refused both my and Tadashi-kun’s help, by the way—and he’s the only one who’s ever been to your house—which, playing favourite much?” Here she throws him a pout, and while he’s aware that she’s merely joking, Tobio feels a twinge of guilt in his guts.

His friends have a vague idea that his family situation is atypical, and they never pry, knowing without saying that it’s still an open, festering wound for him; and as much as he’s thankful for their considerateness, it doesn’t sit right with him, nevertheless he doesn’t think he’s ready to let them see how fucked up everything is, either. Not yet.

The only one thus far who knows all the bad and the ugly is Kei.

“He’s different,” Tobio offers quietly. Because of circumstances. Because he understands, the feeling of hating something you love so much it ruins you, but for it’s what you love, you can’t let go.

Sensing his discomfort, Hitoka smiles, gentle and patient, and Tobio can’t help but think of Miwa, of the sister she used to be. Hitoka knows more of his story than Hinata and Yamaguchi due to him blurting out a comparative comment between her and Miwa once, and she’s his best female friend as much as he’s her best guy friend thanks to the commiseration between children who have been taking care of themselves ever since they’re old enough do it alone. She is an only child, raised by a busy single parent, however he has no doubt that she’d be a great older sister, seeing that she’s somewhat become just like one for him over the past two years.

“It’s alright, we’ve all got our favourites,” she sings, light and euphonious and jesting, and he’s half-irked, half-eased. “You understand how ‘different’ he is, or have I got to explain the science to you?”

“I believe I can explain the scientific aspects better than you,” Tobio deadpans.

“Yeah, chemical reactions and stuff—and don’t even start, young man,” she wags a finger at him warningly just as he opens his mouth, vasopressin, adrenaline, dopamine and oxytocin on the tip of his tongue. He clamps it shut, which gets him an approving nod. “Point is, you like him, he likes you, you two pretty much act like a couple already, so do me a favour and make it official, yeah?”

This time he clicks his tongue for real. “Have we got to, though? What if we like the way it is now?”

“It’s also for the mental state of other members on the team, Tobio-kun,” she proclaims solemnly. “And so you can do all the PDA you want—keep it PG, though.”

“Like you’re the one to talk,” Tobio says flatly. “The scar from that fateful day is still fresh in my mind.”

Right on cue, Hitoka goes scarlet. “That was one time!” she protests. “And we thought you’d left!”

He lifts his hands. “Just saying. All you’ve got to do is to lock the door, and sanitise the clubroom after you finish. No big deal.”

She glares at him—not that she looks intimidating when she does it, and Tobio is even immune to Kei’s death glower.

“I thought we were talking about your love life, when did it turn into mine?” she grouches, arms crossed.

“When you brought up PDA—as a matter of fact, you and Yamaguchi are the epitome.” Well, it’s not like they’ve done anything too unpalatable to the public eye—except for the aforementioned fiasco, and a few more similar incidents to varying degrees of mortification for both the interrupted and the interrupter, Amenomori didn’t even enter the clubroom for a fortnight once—it’s just more often than not kind of in-the-face. Which reminds him, “I was the one who got you guys together, so I expect special treatment at your wedding, if not being the one who walks you down the aisle.”

She huffs, “Keep it up and you won’t even be invited. And it’s not like you and Tsukishima-kun are any better.” He raises a brow. She blows a raspberry. “Okay, fine, it’s not too in-the-nose, but for those who know the two of you long enough, it’s impossible not to notice.” She taps a finger on her chin in consideration. “It’s pretty sweet, y’know, how you guys hold hands if either is feeling down sometimes, and the way you press your foreheads together before matches and during intervals—it’s like ants relaying messages by touching their antennas—is that the secret behind your telepathy?”

“Telepathy is pseudoscience,” Tobio informs, straight-faced. “There’s no good evidence that it exists.”

Hitoka laments, “You haven’t even got a romantic bone in you, do you. No wonder your love life is still miserable.”

“It’s not my priority.”

“Are you saying Tsukishima-kun isn’t your priority, then?”

Tobio narrows his eyes at his elder sister figure, who is staring at him challengingly, as though daring him to oppose—one of the expressions she’s adapted from her boyfriend in his Captain setting.

He surrenders first, breathing out a defeated sigh. “Sometimes I miss the you who’d squeak whenever we got too close.”

“And sometimes I miss the you who’d stumble on the words,” she quips back. “Tsukishima-kun has corrupted you.”

“So has Yamaguchi to you, Hitoka,” he counters flippantly. “They really are two of a kind, huh.”

“That they are,” Hitoka agrees. “But we love them still, don’t we?”

Tobio hums as he scans Hitoka’s chemistry homework and circles on the first error he sees—people tend to mix up when the element has more than one valence or oxidation state, “I suppose we do.”

.

.

.

“Tadaima,” Tobio says to the corridor out of habit as he takes off his shoes and puts them on the rack. Kei follows, then, after a long stride so he can get ahead of Tobio, turns around and pulls his face closer.

“Okaeri,” he whispers against Tobio’s lips.

Tobio blinks. Then puffs out a laugh, “This isn’t your house.”

Kei shrugs. “I practically live here during breaks anyway.”

“Are you suggesting that you want to move in? We just got our first kiss like an hour ago. Isn’t this going too fast?”

“Close friends live together all the time.”

“So you want us to be just close friends, then?”

“Having fun fucking with me now, aren’t you?” Kei says wryly, but the red of his ears destroys any nonchalance he wants to put on. He looks so adorable Tobio can’t suppress a wide grin stretching out so much that his cheeks sort of hurt. Kei’s hand is still resting at his neck, thumb stroking against his pulse as he says, “You always say it whenever you’re home despite knowing that nobody will answer, so.” Another shrug.

The implication couldn’t be clearer, couldn’t ring louder, a true echo reverberating throughout the hallway, throughout his mind and his being and ostensibly never diminishing, and he feels his heart resonate along until the amplitude oscillation reaches its peak.

That said, what spills out of his mouth is, “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

“Oh fuck off,” Kei groans, releasing him so he can wheel around and march on, all the while bemoaning, “What do I even see in you?”

Tobio finally bursts, elated and giddy and so so so full, so saturated with euphoria that the rest is bubbling up and over as he grabs on Kei’s wrist to keep him from going any further and throws himself into the other boy, who, after a moment of surprise, wraps his arms around him as well, nails lightly scrapping through his hair.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into Kei’s shoulder, taking a deep breath in. Kei always smells cold and crisp. It’s not a bad kind of cold and crisp, it’s the kind of early winter mornings, when the sky is still dark and the air is fresh as you inhale, the kind of cold and crisp that rouses you awake and makes you feel alive. “For staying,” he clarifies, reaching up to plant a kiss on his lips.

Kei understands. He always does. “Gladly,” Tobio feels it rather than hears it, before he pulls back just slightly to repose his forehead on his, and they breathe each other in until everything solidifies.

.

.

.

As expected, his homeroom teacher summons him into the guidance counselling office the day after he submits his form. A part of him feels like a child caught red-handed stealing another cookie from the jar despite already eating his share, said cookie being applying to one of the most selective universities in the country in spite of having more or less taken the offer from one of the best teams in V-League.

“I see that you’ve seriously reconsidered your options,” Ueno-sensei begins, face and tone neutral and thus all the harder to discern his feelings about this whole situation. Tobio dreads this conversation already.

“I have,” is his careful response.

The man gives him a one-over. He tries not to swallow or fidget.

“And here I thought that Maehara-sensei and I have spent all this time talking to a brick wall,” his teacher intones. He places his chin atop of his entwined fingers. “May I ask what caused the change of heart?”

“I did some soul searching,” he provides slowly. “Besides, I can’t be an athlete forever, can I? Might as well get a degree if I’m capable of it.”

His sensei nods in understanding, with a sprinkle of satisfaction as well, then peeks at his documents before continuing.

“Even so, Kageyama-kun. Didn’t Waseda offer you a scholarship?”

“I think it’d be difficult to work out the arrangements,” he answers. “And as you mentioned in the last session, my grades are good—maybe not Toudai or Tokyo Tech good, but I didn’t agree to the transfer to university prep class for nothing. I could certainly try.”

“Okay, I understand. I’m not saying you can’t, because looking at your performance, you can.” The man pinches between his eyebrows, then draws a sharp intake of breath. “So, let us recount all the facts, shall we? You’re still taking the Schweiden Adlers’ offer?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And therefore you’re still playing until the end?”

“Yes, I still am.”

“And you want to go to Tokyo Tech?”

Tobio sucks a deep inhale to brace himself for the aftershock. “Yes, sir.”

Ueno-sensei sighs, long and tired and exasperated.

“I’ll be frank with you, Kageyama-kun. You’re incredibly gifted, and I’m pleased that you’ve decided to pursue higher education, but there are good schools that are literally begging you to play for them. And if you want to play professionally, you can always get a degree later, once things have settled down.”

“It’s not what I want,” he replies. “I know I can do it, sensei.”

“You can try,” Ueno-sensei corrects patiently, and Tobio is rather irritated, because the man himself has been cajoling him into going to university, and now when he finally does, this happens. “Have you thought that you might be spreading yourself too thin? That because you can’t commit to one thing, you’ll end up doing badly in both?”

Tobio flinches. Of course he’d contemplated that and the ultimate futility of his balancing act, that’s part of the reason why he hesitated, even if negligible, after all.

However, there are also the thoughts of Yamaguchi prospering in his captaincy, of Hinata calling for more tosses and jumping higher and higher, of Kei devising devastative tactics and accommodating to his sets to the best of their abilities, of the underclassmen painstakingly refining their crafts and fitting new tools and gears into their arsenal. He also thinks of the people putting all the eggs into one basket, like Hinata’s determination in chasing after the volleyball glory; and Tobio supposes in an alternate universe he’d be just the same, letting the sport consume his life for he doesn’t have anything else to call his own.

But it’s not like that for this version of him. His life has never been solely volleyball. He loves the sport for the physical, social and sentimental aspects of it alike, sure. Regardless, it wasn’t his first love, it’s not what occupies the empty space of his mind, what carries him through the darkest phases of his life, even if it breaks him all the same.

Tobio supposes it doesn’t count as spreading himself too thin if his intention is to keep his options open, and to do the things he loves, the things he takes pride in. He didn’t move to the advanced class for nothing; he doesn’t devour all the textbooks and theses and papers and research works and scientific publications for nothing; he doesn’t try his best to comprehend modern literature and memorise English vocabulary despite his lack of affinity for linguistics for nothing; he doesn’t study well into the nights, downing coffee and energy drinks and sporting bruising eye bags during morning practise for nothing.

“Sensei,” he starts, “you think I can go to university, right?”

Ueno-sensei looks dumbfounded by his enquiry, but acknowledges, “You’re smart. Your grades say you definitely can, and that’s why we’ve been persuading you.”

“And do you think I’ve got what it takes to play volleyball professionally?”

The man nods. “Taking into account all the offers you’ve received, yes, of course.”

“So, the fact that I’ve maintained said academic and athletic performance at the same time for all these years suggests that there’s a chance I’m able to achieve similar results if I follow through with it, wouldn’t you agree?”

His homeroom teacher’s eyes widen, and they bore into him for a long, long while.

Then he sighs again, deep and utterly resigned.

“Damn geniuses—thank God they’re not in the same class,” the man grumbles lowly under his breath, and Tobio supposes he shouldn’t have heard the remark. Still, he knows exactly who is the other one being referred to.

.

.

.

Five metres before he arrives at his gate, Tobio stops dead in his track.

And stares.

“Tobi.”

It had been strange to listen to it on the phone more than a year ago, it’s even more surreal now it’s, well, real.

“Nee-san,” he breathes out.

Kageyama Miwa doesn’t change much after two years and nine months. She still keeps her hair short and stylish, she’s wearing a long dark overcoat that suits her perfectly, that makes her taller, more distingué, her blue eyes are as piercing as ever, and her painted lips are squirming into a weak smile. He almost raises a brow. Miwa doesn’t do weak.

“I bought some groceries on the way here,” she lifts the tote bag on her right hand for illustration. “You still like curry?”

“I do,” he allows. “I can never quite get the flavour like what you or jii-san made, though.”

That’s apparently the right thing to say, seeing that while the smile is still feeble, it looks less strained. Somewhat nostalgic. Plenty rueful.

“I could show you again,” she proffers. An olive branch. There’s always this inflection in her tone that lends her a dignified aura that he could never quite attain for himself, no matter how much more eloquent he’s become.

But then, she’s much older than he is. He might be the cleverer, however he supposes she’s the wiser, because she’s been living in this world for longer, because there’s only so much intelligence can do without the real experience.

Tobio strides forward and punches in the passcode.

“You’d better not leave out anything.”

Miwa’s lips quirk up a bit more, softening the hard, aged lines of her face just the slightest. He feels as if there’s an iceberg slowly but surely melting in his chest.

.

.

.

Tobio unlocks the gate for Kei, while he comes down to the kitchen to prepare some tea. They’re supposed to study together today, after Kei returns from his try-out.

He hears thumping resound from the main corridor, which is absurd already, seeing as Kei is always light and careful, before he’s attacked with a bone-crushing hug from behind, as well as a loud kiss on the cheek.

Tobio feels a grin splitting his face. “I take that it went well?”

A nod. The hold tightens, like Kei is trying to restrain his exultation inside.

“The Sendai Frogs,” he mumbles dazedly, as though he’s still in a daydream. “I got in.”

“Naturally. I told you so.” Kei is a starting member of a Miyagi volleyball powerhouse ever since his first year, he’s one of the best middle blockers in the prefecture period, the Frogs would be out of their mind not to take him in.

Regardless, great news is still great news, Tobio pries himself out of the embrace minutely to turn around and cradle Kei’s face, who still has his arms loop around his waist and leans into his touch like a cat, and Tobio is utterly enamoured.

“I knew you’d make it.”

“Nii-chan said the exact same thing.”

“You told Akiteru-san first?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Nah.” If anything, Tobio should thank the man for getting Kei into volleyball in the first place.

He presses their lips together. Kei draws out his tongue and he lets it slide against his own, warm and wet.

“I’m happy you’re playing beyond,” Tobio says when they break apart, foreheads resting against one another. Kei’s eyes curve along with his smile, soft and sweet, before his lips are upon his again.

.

.

.

The woes of being a senior who is going to take the centre test include (but are not limited to) that the détente between games is spent slaving over exercise books and sample questions, and naturally the four of them—barring Hinata because he won’t be going to university—will have to carry all of their materials along to Tokyo and wilt away while the others can rest and chat and scroll on their phones, and at moments like these Tobio almost regrets giving into Kei’s and Hitoka’s coercions.

“What’s 330 times 1020 divided by the 345?”

“Approximately 975.65.”

A minute. “What’s 345 times 1020 divided by 330?”

“About 1066.36,” Tobio scowls, looking up from his flash cards and over to Kei’s workspace, placing his chin on the other’s shoulder in the process. “Where’s your calculator?” It doesn’t need to be answered—he spots the object immediately, right on top of Kei’s open textbook on his left.

“It takes time to enter the equation,” is Kei’s galling reply. “And I’ve got a mental calculator right next to me.”

Tobio tsks.

Alright then. He also can play this game.

“Can we use ‘efficient’ and ‘productive’ interchangeably?”

“Under certain circumstances, yes. ‘Efficient’ indicates maximum productivity with minimum waste, though.”

He nods. Flips to the next card. “What about ‘produce’ and ‘generate’?”

“If we’re talking about a vital, chemical or physical process, then yes.” There’s a pause in Kei’s movement, evidently realising Tobio’s retaliation. He sighs, which makes his body slightly slump along, then turns his head over. Tobio blinks guilelessly at him for good measure.

“Fine,” Kei pleads guilty, nuzzling their foreheads together. “I won’t bother you anymore.”

Tobio pats his cheek. “Good.”

There’s a short moment of peace where they come back to their task, before someone clears their throat, and both of them direct their attention to the third and fourth participant of the room, and it becomes some sort of a bizarre—and comical—staring match between two pairs.

“So,” Hitoka opens.

“We’ve noticed that you guys have gotten more… physical lately,” Yamaguchi observes, hands gesturing over them. Certainly, Tobio is half-draping himself over Kei.

“And?” Kei pushes on, inclining his head so his cheek is pressed against Tobio’s hair.

Hitoka is the one who bluntly poses the million-dollar question, “Are you finally, officially dating?”

Only then does it occur to him.

While it’s true that they had been bombarded with that query, from teammates to opponents all the same, yet it’s been a long time since anyone asked them forthright, except for the usual suggestive gazes and eyebrows wagging and whistling and light teasing which they just ignore altogether, and they never announced anything, either—in fact, Tobio doesn’t think anything has changed that much.

Regardless, he can always rely on Kei to handle the verbal offense and defence alike.

“What constitutes as ‘dating’?”

The other two wear some complicated expression, as though they can’t decide if they should throttle themselves or the bastards in front of them.

“It’s when two people who like each other are in a romantic relationship, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi sets forth. “You hang out. You go on dates. You hold hands. You hug. You kiss. You do… whatever you two have been doing so far.”

“Well, to be fair, we’ve never seen them kiss,” Hitoka interjects.

Yamaguchi shoots his girlfriend a side-eye. “You’re not helping.”

Tobio scrunches his forehead. “We don’t really go on dates, though.”

“We haven’t got time for that, considering all this mess,” Kei motions to the mountains of books and papers on the table all of them are sharing. “If you count studying together as dates, then we’ve been doing that since our first year, and we definitely weren’t dating back then.”

Yamaguchi aims at them both his nastiest stink eye. “Sometimes I think you guys just love to fuck with others.”

“Well, it does bring joy to our tedious life,” Kei says, all smiling in the way he knows that will unfailingly outrage his hapless victims.

“And you’ve just got to drag my sweet, innocent Tobio-kun into your shenanigans,” Hitoka bewails.

“Oh trust me, he’s not that innocent. The soda geyser on Hinata’s birthday? That was his idea.”

“Kei!” Tobio gapes, landing a punch on his back. “I can’t believe you’d give me away like that. And for the record, you were also in on it.”

“This faithful servant was merely following his king’s order,” Kei dips his head once at him with a hand over his heart.

“Can we just get back to the main subject here?” Yamaguchi whines. “Are you guys together or not? Give us one definitive answer so we’d know how to properly respond to all of your suitors. Nomura-kun has been pestering me to set him up with Kageyama.”

Tobio stares. “Nomura, as in Nomura Daisuke, the basketball team captain?” The volleyball and the basketball team share the gym a couple times, he supposes they’re affable acquaintances, no other distinct impression than that—well, aside from the fact that the bloke is tall and bulky as heck. They don’t even interact with one another that much, for most of the transactions are done between captains, hence Yamaguchi.

The other three simply stare back at him in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?” Hitoka screeches.

Tobio feels so horribly wronged. “No. Why would I?”

“Mate, he literally swoons whenever you just nod or say hello to him,” Yamaguchi claims. “He’s almost as bad as Tsukki.”

“Hey!” The person in question barks out indignantly.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings, Tobio-kun,” Hitoka admonishes. “Although, I suppose that’s totally understandable, seeing that you two only got eyes for each other, after all.”

“Can you stop talking like you know everything about us?” Kei glowers.

Yamaguchi snorts, “Enlighten us, then.”

Tobio decides to take matters into his own hands, tilting Kei’s face into a fitting angle and crashing their lips together. He faintly hears Yamaguchi and Hitoka gasp and Kei let out a shocked noise before pushing back and Tobio pulls away right then and there just to be annoying, as well as because that’s enough to make a point. Kei scoffs, but snakes his arms around Tobio’s waist and burrows his face into his shoulder anyway, and he cards his fingers through blonde curls.

“Well?” he turns to the other two. “Does that clear things up?”

They blink rapidly, rebooting their system, then break into shit-eating grins. “Crystal.”

.

.

.

Miwa and her boyfriend attend their games, she messages him so, and as they warm up he searches the crowd for the familiar face, but it’s difficult considering how large the stadium is, how many people would come to see a bunch of high schoolers playing volleyball. He guesses knowing that there’s someone watching, someone cheering for them is more than enough, either way.

During the semi-finals, they’re defeated by Itachiyama after a brutal match, placing third overall. It’s the furthest they’ve ever gotten in nationals, and for a team that hadn’t been a contender for even the prefectural qualifiers three years ago, it’s already a remarkable accomplishment.

Nevertheless, a loss is still a loss.

“You’ve done well,” Miwa reassures him when they go out for dinner afterwards. She didn’t see him when the tournament was still on-going, but she had been waiting for him as they filtered out of the stadium. One look and everyone can tell that they’re siblings, both have their father’s black hair and lithe figure and their mother’s blue eyes and facial contour. His friends had eyed her warily, Hitoka even stepped forward, not quite blocking yet she wasn’t welcoming, either. Miwa had handled the passive-aggressiveness with all the elegance he can never obtain in the social department, seeing as he’s disbursed it all on the physical and intellectual department, Miwa would comment, at some point in the future; and she promised Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei to “not keep him out too late”.

“No, it’s alright, you’re his family,” Takeda-sensei had said, to which she replied, “It’s my responsibility to fatten him up, but the boy needs his rest as well.”

And fatten him up she does—they’re in a Korean barbeque restaurant, and he’s feasting to his heart’s content and she’s watching him in that type of half-interest, half-disgust one usually adorns when they see their sibling or best friend or partner do something appalling to their standards—the exact same look Akiteru and Tobio had shared when Kei single-handedly wolfed down an entire strawberry shortcake.

Now Tobio doesn’t care all that much, though—he’s not going to turn down a free meal, and he’s going to make an as large as possible dent on his sister’s wallet. At least he can conform to proper table etiquette and swallow his food before talking—unlike some uncultured tangerine menace. “I suppose we have.” He cleanses his palate with a swig of genmaicha. “I’m proud of this team.”

And he wishes he could play more with them, he supposes that’s the main reason why he felt so dejected when the ball landed in their court, the clangour signifying that time was up, at last.

“As you should.” Miwa checks on the briskets. “They’re good for you,” she notes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy since like, forever.”

He hums, “I am happy—well, not happy happy, considering we just lost, but, in general.”

“Yeah, I get it,” she chuckles. She actually laughs to him, laughs because of him now, and he can’t deny the bloom of elation in his chest.

Ever since her brief visit, they’ve been talking again, and more frequently—nothing much, nothing important, though, only trivial, miscellaneous titbits of their lives, such as crazy customer stories and stupid things his teammates do, photos of fun mascots she passes by on her way to work and images of the Miyagi starry night skies.

(Miwa still loves the stars, she once texted him that one of the most saddening things about living in Tokyo is the overwhelming light pollution.)

Baby steps.

“I miss playing volleyball sometimes,” Miwa promptly confesses as she nestles a piece of pork belly in her lettuce leaf.

“You can still play as a hobby, y’know. You used to be such a brilliant wing spiker,” he reflects. “Miura-kun and Sakurai-kun can learn a thing or two from you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she quips.

“I’m being perfectly honest, nee-san.” He dips his wrap into the ssamjang. “It was a shame that you quitted so early.”

“Perhaps.” Miwa folds hers tightly into one bite-sized piece and chews on it thoughtfully. “I was never as good as you, though,” she says.

Tobio utilises the fact that he’s too busy eating his portion without making too much of a mess to process the remark and formulate an apt reply. He knows sooner or later they’ll have to address the elephant in the room, however it doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to it nor he thinks he’ll ever be satisfactorily prepared for it.

There’s no study guide, no theorem, no law of science, no theory that can direct him to the best solution at the moment, so he’ll have to play it by ear, and he’s more or less tone-deaf.

And here he thought he could lick his wounds while gobbling down food.

The universe must detest him, apparently.

“It doesn’t mean you weren’t great, nee-san,” he tells her earnestly. “I’d know. I set for you all the time. You were the first spiker I’ve ever set for.”

And firsts always mean a lot.

Oh, so that’s why it hurt so much when she gave up on volleyball.

Miwa picks up the grilled briskets into a plate, then moves on to the ribeye.

“You were such a nerd,” she reminisces. “Always raving on and on about wind tunnels and flow fields—shit I’d never be able to understand. I think at some point ojii-san decided to just screw it and exploit your genius to calculate our expenses and taxes.”

“Second grade,” he helpfully supplies.

His sister rolls her eyes. “And I was like, it’s cool. You can be a nerd. Nerds are lovable in their own way—you were absolutely adorable, you know, when you tried to explain to me how birds can fly, with tables and diagrams and all.” He pouts. She merely flashes a toothy grin at him, before resuming, “And then you got into volleyball.”

He feels the temperature drop. The air gets denser. The molecules drag on his skin, viscous and sluggish like grease and oil. His hand is still sticky from the meat juice and the sauce. He cleans it with a napkin. Now it feels a different kind of muggy.

“It wasn’t fair, you know,” she says it so lowly, so lightly, so thinly, he has to strain his ears.

He loses the plot. “What wasn’t fair?”

“That somehow, you seem to get the best out of everyone—okaa-san, otou-san, and even ojii-san. And there’s me.” She gives vent to a tremulous laugh. “Makes me wonder if I’m really their daughter, if I’m really ojii-san’s granddaughter or not.”

“Of course you are. Jii-san liked you better, even—I mean, he taught you all of his recipes, not me.”

“I think that was because he hoped I’d stay with you after he left.” Miwa takes a bit of the slaw into her bowl. There’s that family resemblance—they keep their hands moving whenever they think, whenever they get anxious. “I couldn’t.” She fiddles with her chopsticks, then gazes at him, eye to eye, at last. “Being with you would only worsen my existential crisis.”

“I know,” he solaces. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Tobi,” she maintains. “I wasn’t being fair to you. It wasn’t your fault for being born a genius, then working so hard to become an even bigger genius. It’s just—” she lets out a harsh exhale, “—Has anyone ever told you that sometimes you’re simply too brilliant to just look at, let alone get close to?”

Tobio gnaws on his lower lip. He leans back, blinking at the light overhead. Thinks of the stares, the whispers behind his back. Thinks of how it took a science project for him to actually hold long conversations with Yamaguchi and Hitoka without Kei or Hinata as inductors. Thinks of how his kouhais would group him in the scary and strict senpais category (along with Kei). Thinks of how King uttered by Kei initially bore not only contempt and ostracism, but was also somewhat as though an actual coronation—a king of wastelands, a king of nothing.

“Not outright,” he acknowledges. “I still don’t really get it, you know, human obsession with the so-called ‘innate talent’. Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” Edison was a bastard, but he was a bastard who had done a lot for the evolution of applied sciences—until they have the concrete proof that he was a fraud, that is.

Miwa’s eyes twinkle, amused. “I didn’t know you’ve become so philosophical.”

“One of my best mates is terribly so,” he says wryly.

“I see.” She tucks a stray lock behind her ear. Her earrings gleam under the orange glow. “Karasuno has been good for you.” The steel of her eyes mellows out, like silver completely dissolves in nitric acid, forming silver nitrate which is a water-soluble compound. “You’ve grown.”

“No thanks to you.”

She lifts her hands, “Guilty as charged.”

“I don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tobio mitigates. “You’ve got to take care of yourself first. If you’re a mess and you’ve got to deal with another mess, that can’t end well for both parties. And for what it’s worth—” he gestures to both of them, “—we both turn out not horrible.” In fact, Miwa is doing extremely well herself—not everyone can brag that their sister is a hairdresser for several J-Pop bands.

“I suppose,” she says evenly, nonetheless the tenseness of her stature noticeably fades. “Still. I was a dreadful sister. I owe you an apology.”

“You do,” he agrees. “Basic human decency.”

Miwa snorts out an incredulous laugh. “You’re even more of a smart-arse now. How’s that possible?”

“We live, we learn, nee-san,” Tobio says flippantly, which gets him a near-glower. He grabs a pair of tongs and flips the ribeye fillets before they burn.

She takes a sip of her tea, probably to cool herself down in front of her little shit of a brother that she’s supposed to make up to. She’ll get there—especially if she keeps on feeding him like this, the easiest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

“So, we’re alright?” she moots tentatively.

He hums, “We’ll see about that.”

Miwa raises an eyebrow, then exhales, picking up her chopsticks. “Fair enough,” she acquiesces, snatching the tastiest-looking piece before he can get to it. He narrows his eyes at her, who merely smirks smugly, “We’ve got time, once you’re finally in my turf.”

.

.

.

“We’ll show them all on three, yeah? One—”

“You’ve got nothing to show, Hina.”

“Shut up!” The redhead carps at him.

“Why’re we doing this again?” On his left, Kei looks no less exasperated.

“Because you promised!” Hinata yowls. “Didn’t we agree on it, keeping your acceptance letters a secret then we can have an awesome big reveal?”

“I’ve got no recollection of that,” Kei replies flatly.

It’s definitely ridiculous, considering that Hinata is the only one who doesn’t go to university in their squad, however he’s even more enthusiastic than those who do. At this point Tobio virtually accepts that it’s simply his standard setting: being voracious about anything and everything. And being overly exuberant also. It’s part of his charm, to be honest—not that Tobio would ever say it aloud.

“Well, it happened.” The shrimp swivels to Yamaguchi and Hitoka. “You two are with me, right?”

“Weeeellllll—” Hitoka drawls.

“—Hitoka-chan and I kinda told each other about a week ago?” Yamaguchi scratches the back of his head. “To see if we’ll be going to the same city or not,” he cocks his head, smiling sheepishly at everyone else in the makeshift circle.

“Gucchin! Yacchan!” Hinata points at them. Sitting right next to the screeching banshee, Tobio unfortunately bears the full impact, covering his ears and grimacing. “I call betrayal!”

“Haven’t you been badgering me all this time for my letter as well?” Tobio complains.

“And I declare betrayal on you, too, Yama-kun!”

“Did you tell him?” Hitoka jumps in like a shark sniffing out blood.

“No, of course not,” Tobio rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even tell Kei.” He pauses. “I told Miwa-neesan, though.”

“Tobio-kun!” she exclaims, clambering over and attempting to slap him with her paper. “How could you!”

“Can we just get this over with?” Kei huffs out, sounding so bloody done with all this buffoonery, waving his own paper.

“Alright, alright,” Hinata waves his hands dismissively. “On three. One, two—”

“—three!” they shout, hands shooting towards the middle, each holding a letter. The texts are too small to discern the content properly from this distance, but the insignia should be enough of an indicator.

Hinata’s eyes flit over the papers. “Holy fuck, you made it into Tokyo Tech? For real?!?” And to Kei’s, “And you Tohoku as well?!?”

“They’re the geniuses, it’d be more bizarre if they didn’t,” Yamaguchi chirps. Tobio feels himself heating up at the remark, as well as the attention the others is directing at him. He might have ventured for it, sure, yet he didn’t really expect that he’d actually, well, succeed.

(Like Kei, his back-up plan had been Waseda. Regardless, Tokyo Tech’s physics programme is still better.)

It’s a delight, nonetheless, seeing that all the hard work, all the nights spent cramming paid off.

“I knew you could make it,” Kei lays his hand on top of his. Tobio flips it so they can weave their fingers together, squeezing lightly.

“Same with you.”

There’s a sob. Tobio turns to his right to see that Hinata is rubbing at his eyes, and Hitoka is also tearing up, head resting on her boyfriend’s collarbone. Yamaguchi is drawing circles on her back, still smiling, nevertheless his eyes, too, are glistening.

“Why’re you guys crying?” he asks, wondrously confounded and disquieted.

“I’m just—” Hinata blubs, “—I’m just gonna miss you guys so, so much.”

“Says the one who’s going to Brazil,” Tobio retorts, but, fine, there’s also something churning in his guts—darn mirror neurons.

“Oh gosh,” Hitoka blinks rapidly, dabbing her eyes with her sleeves. “Sorry. I can’t help it. Shou-kun will be oceans away, Tobio-kun will be in Tokyo, and Tsukishima-kun will be in Sendai, and Tadashi-kun and I will be somewhere between you two. I’m allowed to get emotional.”

“At least we’ll have each other,” Yamaguchi consoles her, settling his chin on top of her head and looking upwards, no doubt hiding his own emotional state.

Kei tsks, but it lacks the usual bite. “You’ve just got to rub it in, don’t you?”

“I’ll visit you guys, obviously,” Tobio grouses, however he’s hooking his arms around Kei’s abdomen as well, pressing his lips against his temple before snuggling into the comforting warmth. He sighs, “I’ll visit as much as I can. Just be there when I come back.”

Kei responds with a kiss on top of his head and tugging him closer, halfway into his lap, fingers running through his hair. Tobio closes his eyes to the casual brush of lips against the shell of his ear, and the hushed, steadfast promise of, “I will.”

.

.

.

In the end, Tobio finds himself to be the one who clings on the most.

He thought he’s supposed to be the one who has issues with people around him leaving, yet now he’s the one leaving.

And obviously, he doesn’t want to.

It’s a good thing that the others share the same sentiment. Between the flurries of reorganising their life, they make the most of their time left together, roaming around the city and the mountains and having game tournaments and film marathons and sleepovers. Tobio invites everyone over at last, and they make lunch in his kitchen, not their first time cooking together but the first time this place being so chaotic and bright and vivacious after so, so long, elbows knocking and kitchen tools clanging and shrieking as eggs fall into mixing bowls and flour flying like high thin tropospheric clouds, huddling together in front of the oven watching cake rising up; and Tobio feels his heart grow along, baking soda reacting with acidic ingredients creating tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide, expanding in the heat, solidifying the structure and giving a fluffy and airy texture.

It’s a good thing that Kei shares the same sentiment. He drags Tobio over for dinner and takes him out on actual dates in Sendai and stays with him and holds him so he won’t be by himself in the house, not anymore. They trace constellations and galaxies in the sky as much as they chart out the map of each other’s body, points, lines, curves, planes; they hum and sing along to their favourite songs as much as they gasp and moan each other’s name, laying claim and taking pledge and reaffirming identities, an equality relating two expressions such that produce the same value for all variables within an established range of validity. Kei fills the vacuity in his head with Greek mythology and modern history and scratches his brain at all the right places with Industrial Revolution and timeline of space exploration; fills the emptiness in him just right and thrusts into him so deep that he sees stars bursting in his vision, electron-capture supernovas leaving behind pulsating neutron stars, hot and erratic and magnetic, electric pulses of pleasure shaking him to the core.

It’s painful yet blissful; Tobio isn’t one to feel delicate but the way Kei embraces him, the way his fingers dance on the nobs of his spine and his lips trail on his skin from neck to navel makes him feel oddly treasured, oddly desired; golden eyes ablaze with passion and affection as he covers his lips with an almost too tender kiss, somehow even more intimate than the fact that they’re physically connected, and Tobio has to pull, to bite, to sear, to reassure him that he won’t break under his gravitational potential energy, he won’t burn under his X-ray intensity, and even if he does, he wouldn’t mind, for to break is necessary to rebuild, to remake it into something stronger and better. Muscles grow stronger by the repairing of myofibrils damaged by exercise; food entering the body are broken down before the nutrients can be absorbed; nuclear fission generates gamma radiation and imparts the highest photon energy.

Tobio doesn’t mind if Kei breaks him, because to break is to feel, to hurt is to feel, something is always better than nothing. To break is to make contact, to make an impact, impact events have shaped Earth history, have been implicated in the formation of the Earth-Moon system, the evolutionary history of life and the origin of water on Earth.

He doesn’t mind if Kei breaks him, because he knows he’ll put him back together just the same, as he’s already done, as they’ve already done to one another, time and time again. He doesn’t mind if Kei breaks him, because he can take a piece of him and keep it with him.

Tobio may have to leave, but he doesn’t mind leaving his heart behind, because leaving doesn’t mean never returning, and as long as he knows where his heart is, he can always find his way back.

.

.

.

Epilogue

“Why’re you calling?”

“You said I can call you whenever—or is this not a good time—I’d assumed that you’d be back by now—”

“I’m not busy or anything,” Tobio breaks off his partner’s rambles. “It’s more like—it’s what, two in the morning for you?” He narrows his eyes. “Why’re you still up?”

“Still working on my thesis.” Kei leans back in his chair, blowing out a blustery sigh, his will to live exhausting along. “I need a break, otherwise I think I’ll go mental for real,” he rubs at his eyes under his glasses, briefly making the frames askew.

Tobio hums, twirling a fork of pasta, “You want to vent or you want a distraction?”

“Distraction, please,” is Kei’s immediate pick. “I swear to God, I believe my brain capacity has reduced to that of an earthworm right now.”

“The central nervous system of an earthworm consists of two ganglia above the mouth—”

“I say distraction.”

Tobio snickers, then glances around for inspiration, catching a glimpse of a book he’s been reading recently, and thus, reels off the history of unification theories of physics, starting with Newton’s law of universal gravitation depicting the experience of gravity on Earth and the motions of the celestial bodies to Einstein’s general relativity, then onto quantum mechanics and the Standard Model, describing electromagnetic, weak and strong interactions and classifying all known elementary particles, finishing off with the notion of a Grand Unified Theory of relativity and quantum gravity, an eleven-dimensional string theory being the only self-consistent candidate thus far.

When Tobio is long done with his dinner and Kei looks somewhat befuddled but at least no longer frustrated, he sees that his partner is drumming his fingers again, as he usually does when he’s contemplating something.

“So, a GUT model merges the three gauge interactions of the Standard Model into one single force at high energies?”

“Yup. It’s proven that electromagnetic and weak interaction can be unified—Glashow, Salam and Weinberg received a Nobel Prize in 1979 for it. Adding the strong interaction, we should achieve what’s called the electronuclear interaction—it’s characterised by one larger gauge symmetry, and thus several force carriers, but one unified coupling constant.”

“And unifying that with gravity, it should provide a more comprehensive theory of everything—a TOE—rather than a GUT model,” Kei points out. “It’s the name that kinda threw me off.”

Tobio can see how the coinage is a little misleading. Either way, “If you can combine three fundamental forces—omitting gravity—into one, it’s pretty ‘grand’, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Kei acquiesces. “You’re still obsessed with finding a TOE, huh,” he smirks.

“Not really,” Tobio shrugs. “It’s got to do with theoretical physics, it’s too abstract for me.”

“Right, you’re the sort that prefers actually doing something to sitting around rationalising—not that you don’t rationalise way too much already.” He scoffs, which only makes Kei’s lips quirk up even more.

Tobio takes a sip from his glass. “All things considered, I think I should leave figuring out a TOE for people who’ve got bigger brain than mine.”

“Like you’re the one to talk,” Kei snorts. “Isn’t it tempting, though? You can get a Nobel Prize for that—who can brag that they’ve played in the Olympics and won a Nobel Prize?”

“The rules for Nobel Prize in Physics require that the significance of achievements being recognised has been ‘tested by time’,” Tobio apprises dryly. “There are loads of discoveries that potentially got such an impact.”

“For instance?”

“The true nature of dark matter and dark energy. What exactly happens at the centre of a black hole. If there really is extraterrestrial life and how you contact these lifeforms should they be intelligent,” he grins. Kei rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation yet the fondness still seeps through, and Tobio finds himself melting along, so he professes, “And for what it’s worth, I believe I’ve found my TOE.”

Kei lifts a brow. “Really now.”

“I’m looking at him.”

The blonde blinks owlishly for a bit, processing the information, before he puts a hand over his mouth, evidently to hide his smile, however he can’t hide the crinkle of his eyes or the stamp of pink spreading on his cheeks.

“Is it a physicist’s way of being romantic?”

Tobio feels his lips quivering as he restrains his own dopey smile—and fails spectacularly. “What did you expect, then?”

Kei waves his free hand. “Nah, that’s just like you.”

Tobio wants to be indignant at the comment, yet what pours out of him is a light, mirthful laugh, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean it literally.”

“The it’s-only-a-club literally or the literally literally?”

“Oh fuck you.”

“You already are.”

Kei’s facial muscles start to twist in the way they usually do when he can’t decide whether to feel irritated, mortified or resigned, or all of the above with his antics. Tobio allows himself an exceedingly triumphant grin, and earns himself a half-hearted glare, which is even less effective with all the heat on his face.

“I really, really despise you sometimes,” he grouches.

“There’s a fine line between love and hate, so they say,” Tobio quips.

He’s anticipated another glower, or a witty comeback; but Kei releases his hand, showcasing the soft, adoring smile that makes his eyes look like liquid gold, and subsequently liquefies Tobio’s insides as well.

“That’s true, in this case,” he admits quietly. “I miss you.”

“I know.” Tobio feels his heart squeeze. “I do, too.”

It’s kind of a miracle—and a tribulation as well—considering how they’ve spent most of their relationship miles away from one another—particularly now that they’re even in different countries, different continents. They’ve made it work somehow, between juggling both academic pursuits and professional volleyball. They call, text, facetime, regardless nothing can come near to actually being there in person, to feeling the heat, the pressure of another body right next to them. Seeing each other on the screen is never as good as the real thing. And Tobio has always been a devotee of direct observation and real experiences.

His eyes flicker over his bookcases, packed with physics journals and compilations of scientific papers and theses. His teammates gawk when they come by, saying that his collection seemingly never ceases growing and growing, and that they didn’t expect him to have an actual physics degree at a prestigious university, and why he’s playing volleyball when he could be working on strange quark matter or micro black holes or whatsoever—that specific question surfaces a lot during interviews as well.

He asks himself that question oftentimes, too.

“I’m thinking of coming back,” Tobio muses aloud.

Kei huffs, “Of course you should—Hitoka would hunt you down and haul you back herself if you didn’t return for her and Tadashi’s wedding.”

“Naturally I wouldn’t miss it for the world—I set the first block for this, after all.” You can’t escape Yachi Hitoka once she’s decided to take you under her wings. And she, against traditions, has appointed him as her man of honour anyway, like the most esteemed title of best man deservingly belongs to Kei. “Regardless, it’s not what I mean.”

Amber eyes widen. “You don’t mean—”

“I’m serious,” Tobio affirms. “I mean, Italy’s been great and all, but—” he rakes his fingers through his hair, “—I want to get my master’s degree. I’m gonna need it—and a PhD also—before I can even dream about winning a Nobel Prize,” he adds jokingly.

Kei frowns slightly. “The best astrophysics programmes are mostly in the US, though.”

“Toudai’s is plenty good—top ten, top twenty or something.” Tobio inclines his head. “Don’t you want me back?”

“Of course I do,” is Kei’s instantaneous reply. “It’s just—” he pinches the bridge of his nose, then sighs, “I don’t want to hold you back.”

“It’s not ‘holding me back’ if that’s something I want as well,” Tobio rebuts.

Apparently that’s not enough to calm Kei down, seeing that he starts worrying his lower lip. Tobio waits. They don’t keep secrets from each other, they just need time to arrange everything more coherently before they can verbalise them.

“You can be so much more, you know,” Kei says at last. “You’re an Olympian, and you’re also a genius who could work out an actual ultimate theory for real, even.”

Tobio stares at him in incredulity. “Says the one who’s about to finish his master’s degree. Who’s finished a two-year programme within a year while still playing volleyball professionally.”

“I’m not you, Tobio,” he insists. He sounds like the words pain him, and frankly, they pain Tobio as well. “You deserve better. You could have the world in your hand if you want to, but you—” he cuts himself off once more, burying his face in his palms; and when he uncovers himself again, he’s still smiling, brimming with devotion and appreciation, yet there’s also resignation and desperation bleeding through the cracks, and Tobio thinks something inside him breaks along, “People love things that are out of their reach all the time, and I suppose I’m no exception. But I’d rather die than clip off your wings, because that’s why I love you so much in the first place.”

Tobio stays still for a while. And as soon as his eyes don’t burn so much, his oesophagus doesn’t constrict so much and his chest doesn’t contract so much and he can actually breathe, he stands up, conveniently taking his dirty dish to the sink, and grabs his laptop on the way back to his seat and begins to work.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m booking a ticket back.”

“What?!?” Kei squeaks. “You can’t just—Isn’t the season gonna—”

“I can handle it,” Tobio intervenes, firm and final. “You, on the other hand, need to stop thinking about bioturbation and get some proper rest—and I mean proper rest.”

“Even so!” Kei keeps spluttering. “You can’t just—You can’t—You can’t just bloody take off whenever I call!”

“I can, and I will.” Tobio pauses for a moment to glare at his blundering mess of a partner. “Always. As long as you want me to.”

That silences him. Good. He can get back to booking. The earliest one he can get is at four thirty-five in the next afternoon, and it’s an over nineteen-hour flight with a transit in Doha—it’ll have to do.

“I’ll be there before you even know it,” Tobio says as he carries on with the procedure.

“When will you land?” Kei interrogates.

“About seven in the evening of the day after tomorrow. Why?”

“I’m picking you up.”

“There’s no need—” Tobio catches Kei’s eyes and he’s giving him the Look, the expression that declares loud and clear that he absolutely will not take no for an answer, and he gives in, “Fine. Just be there when I arrive.”

“I will.”

Tobio can’t rein in a contented smile, and without looking, he knows Kei is smiling back.

Long-distance is difficult, sometimes it feels as though light-years away, but they’ve made it work, and Tobio is immeasurably grateful and gratified and euphoric that it works, because when he’s finally back in Kei’s arms and he has an Okaeri whisper against his lips in response to his Tadaima, he thinks he understands it, at long last, why people keep sending messages to outer space, why people keep searching for aliens, for inhabitable planets, for the universe isn’t a vacuum but an endless expanse, superabundant in different solar systems, different galaxies, different worlds, fast radio bursts and bow shocks and beams of emission from palpitating compact stars shooting towards Earth and light particles ostensibly travelling forever without anything in their track are only few of the countless ways in which the universe says, no, you’re not alone.