Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rarely ever does Matsukawa Issei curse his hormones- okay, that’s a complete lie; he’s a teenager, and puberty has not been kind- but if there ever was a time to curse his hormones, it would be right about… now.

Case in point: Yesterday night, he’d told his parents that he was joining math team, which lead to several confused smiles from them as they tried to figure out his change of heart.

“Didn’t you say you were allergic to competitive math?” His mom had asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re very supportive of your decision, but-”

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they’d let it go because no sane parent prevents their child from joining math team, which is intellectually beneficial and looks very nice on college applications. This, in turn, prevents Matsukawa from having to explain that he’s joining- dear god- because of a crush.

Yep. It kind of hurts to admit it out loud; Matsukawa is the pinnacle of rationale and he’d scoff at anyone else who made such an impulsive, lovestruck decision. But here he is, standing in the doorway of Room 203, clutching his club application form and cursing every single cell of his brain. Why. Why are you like this.

The club advisor, Irihata-sensei, tells him sternly that because it’s his first time here, his lateness will be excused, but no such liberties will be granted in the future. Matsukawa meekly takes a practice test and wedges himself in the nearest available seat, rifling through his bag for a pen before starting on question one.

The only saving point to this entire endeavor is that Matsukawa is good at math, good enough for teachers to have recommended him, good enough for other students to resent. It’s strange, but Matsukawa calms down as soon as he actually begins the test. He might be clueless in romance, but this is familiar- get the facts, set up an equation, solve for x. Repeat.

Matsukawa adjusts to Mathleticon’s style of question fairly quickly, learning to ignore the elaborate scenarios and just to focus on the numbers. This practice test seems to center on probability, which is his forte. He finishes with ten minutes left to spare, and because he never checks his answers and probably will never check his answers, he sets his pencil down and takes a look around the room.

Most of the members he doesn’t know. He does recognize Oikawa and Iwaizumi, though, because everyone in school talks about their sky-high test scores on a daily basis. They go to a nearby college for math and science because there’s no course difficult enough for them at Seijoh, and they’re always winning medals in some competition or other. It’s basically fact that they’ll become famous scientists one day and win the Nobel Prize or something- probably twice.

And then there’s Hanamaki, the reason Matsukawa is here in the first place. They’re in the same math class, and Matsukawa noticed him because all of their classmates constantly seemed to be debating who’s smarter- Matsukawa-kun or Hanamaki-kun? And once Matsukawa noticed him, he couldn’t stop noticing: Hanamaki makes witty comments whenever they’re given pop quizzes; Hanamaki always helps everyone else study right before the test; Hanamaki chews his pencil to bits whenever he’s stuck on a question- oh, fuck.

The timer rings, and Matsukawa turns his test in. The classroom immediately erupts into a hubbub of chatter, and to Matsukawa’s surprise, Oikawa comes over to his desk, slamming his hands on the table before asking, “How did you finish so quickly? ”

“W-what?” Matsukawa stutters, taken aback.

“You came here ten minutes late, and you finished before the timer rang. How’d you do it?” Matsukawa gives a helpless shrug and watches in slight trepidation as Iwaizumi and Hanamaki (!) come over as well.

“Please stop terrorizing the newcomers,” Iwaizumi says.

“I’m not terrorizing him, I’m just asking him a question. Seriously, Iwa-chan, can’t you tell the difference?” Oikawa flashes a sunny smile. “Hello!~ I’m Oikawa, and that’s Iwaizumi, and that’s Hanamaki.”

“I’m a magnet for weirdos,” Iwaizumi grumbles.

“World’s best superpower,” Hanamaki says. He turns to Matsukawa. “And we all know you’re Matsukawa because we stalk you at night and watch you while you sleep- wait, you’re not supposed to know that… anyway, welcome to math team! There’s not really much you need to know except one, your food is our food, and two, nerd is not an insult here.”

“Got it,” Matsukawa says. Just then, Irihata announces that the tests have been graded and results have been posted on the whiteboard, and there’s a stampede to the front of the classroom to see. Matsukawa follows curiously, glad once in his life for his height.

1. Oikawa Tooru- 39/40
2. Iwaizumi Hajime- 39/40
3. Matsukawa Issei- 38/40
4. Hanamaki Takahiro- 37/40

Matsukawa whirls around to face Hanamaki, who’s staring at the board with a stunned expression. But then his face breaks into a wide smile, and he elbows Matsukawa says, “Oh, we are going to win this year.”

They don’t get to talk after that. The late bell rings, and Matsukawa has to run to go catch the activity bus. He sits in the back and stares out the window, wondering exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

---

“So,” Hanamaki says lazily, sliding next to him in math class the next day. “Nice job yesterday. Please tell me why you haven’t joined math team beforehand? Because you’re good.”

Matsukawa shrugs. “Competition’s never been my thing.”

“I’m kind of curious as to why you changed your mind, but that’s not the point right now,” Hanamaki says. Matsukawa internally breathes out a sigh of relief. “Irihata-sensei’s over the moon that you joined, though. I heard him going on and on about how Seijoh finally has a proper team this morning… anyway, do you know how Mathleticon works?”

“Not really,” Matsukawa says. “I mean, I figured out that it’s about math, but like, that"s it."

“Good to know you’re not an idiot,” Hanamaki says dryly.  “Anyway, what happens is, each school has a team of four contestants and six alternates, and then we basically battle to the death over triangles and logarithms. And you see, we have really good alternates, but there wasn’t really a set fourth contestant until you showed up.”

“...That was one test, how do you know I’m not actually stupid and that wasn’t just a fluke-”

“No, you don’t understand, no one else has been able to get over a thirty-five out of forty before you. Most people aren’t stupid enough to challenge Oikawa and Iwaizumi, except me. And well, you. Seriously, I’m really glad you showed up-” Matsukawa’s brain fills with exclamation points “-because I had to play third wheel beforehand, and that was not fun at all. Do you know how obnoxious Iwaizumi and Oikawa are? They’re like, telepathic. That would explain how they manage to be idiots at the exact same time.”

“Excuse me,” a voice says, and both Matsukawa and Hanamaki look up. The girl that’s assigned to sit next to Matsukawa stares at Hanamaki frostily. “That’s my seat?”

“Sorry,” Hanamaki says, sounding not sorry at all. He vaults over the desk and points to Matsukawa, saying, “Probability’s my weakness, by the way, so I’ll totally beat you next time.” Matsukawa laughs and gets out his math notebook, and if he has to physically restrain himself from doodling Hanamaki’s face while taking notes that period, well, no one has to know.

Hanamaki makes it a point to seek Matsukawa out after that, though, and Matsukawa squashes down his romantic feelings to make way for the excellent friendship that Hanamaki offers. They gang up on Oikawa and Iwaizumi and form a telepathy to rival theirs, and they begin to seek each other outside of school, going to random places to study and eat.

Their rivalry on math team doesn’t cut into their friendship at all. It’s nice.

---

“Iwa-chan is such a brute,” Oikawa declares. They’re eating pie at Pie in the Sky, which has a ridiculous name but really good pies. Matsukawa has never eaten here before, and he hopes his face doesn’t look too blissed out as he takes another bite of the cheesy apple pie- Hanamaki has already been accused of having a foodgasm and Matsukawa doesn’t want to be next.

Oikawa is in a particularly whiny and insulting mood because his team had lost a violent game of mathematical Steal the Bacon by two points, which is like regular Steal the Bacon except with math and violence involved. Both Matsukawa and Hanamaki had way too much fun with it, but the game was cut short when Kindaichi ended up in the nurse’s office.

Iwaizumi glares at him. “You didn’t even have the right answer, you absolute idiot, you forgot to multiply by two at the end-”

“Details, details, Oikawa says, waving his hand carelessly. “At least I didn’t put my answer as a ratio when they asked for it as a simplified fraction.”

“That was one time! And what about when you’d rounded to the wrong digit and lost us that entire practice competition?”

“Okay, but you thought that cubes had seven sides-”

“Oikawa! I was six!” Iwaizumi yells, and Hanamaki cackles maniacally in between bites of cream pie. Matsukawa grins. He loves when Oikawa and Iwaizumi aren’t being geniuses, just stupid teenage boys trying to verbally oneup each other. Or just stupid teenage boys in general. One of those.

“Anyway,” Oikawa says brightly, “Iwa-chan got confessed to today! And he said yes!” There’s a calculating expression on his face, the one he makes when there’s a particularly difficult question that he’s trying to bullshit through.

Iwaizumi looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Stop telling everyone that, Shittykawa, it’s not that big a deal. You get confessed to all the time.”

Oikawa ignores this and takes his phone out, tapping on the gallery. “Check it out,” he says, and hidden inside dozens of selfies is a picture of Iwaizumi and another girl. “Don’t they look so cute together?”

They kind of do, but Matsukawa keeps his mouth shut. The picture is a screenshot of a Snapchat photo, and Iwaizumi’s arm is slung around a dark-haired girl from math club named Minako. She’s got her hand thrown up in a peace sign, and the flower-crown filter is turned on. From what Matsukawa’s gathered, Minako’s pretty cool. She wears dresses and boots and will absolutely kick your ass in a math competition.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Oikawa cooes, layers of sugar dripping from his voice.

Iwaizumi scowls. “Yeah, prettier than you.”

“That’s not much of a compliment,” Hanamaki mutters, and Matsukawa snorts. Oikawa gives a halfhearted so mean and pulls out a sheaf of notes, thumbing through them with a shrewd look on his face.

“Oi. Stop studying. Your brain is huge enough as it is,” Iwaizumi snaps, and Matsukawa wonders if all the time Iwaizumi has spent with Oikawa has permanently robbed him of the ability to form a coherent compliment.

Matsukawa cranes his neck curiously. “What for? Is it the math test next week? Why the hell are you studying for that? No one studies for that, especially not you.”

“No,” Oikawa says. “I’m thinking of applying to TMSI.”

“What ?” Iwaizumi spits. “What the hell? How long? Why didn’t you tell me about this beforehand?”

“Because I just decided last night,” Oikawa says stubbornly, with that expression he has when he knows he’s being stupid and just wants to make the vein on Iwaizumi’s forehead pop. It does.

“You’re being fucking unreasonable,” Iwaizumi snarls. “Idiot. What do you want to go there for? Do you know how hard that will be, juggling college and being in, I don’t know, the most prestigious scientific institute in Japan? You’re insane.”

“No, I’m not,” Oikawa says stubbornly, and Iwaizumi’s face grows dark. He mutters a goodbye to a terrified Hanamaki and Matsukawa and drags Oikawa out of the shop, and Matsukawa is left to stare at Oikawa’s half-eaten blueberry pie, ice cream puddling around the edges.

“Wow,” Hanamaki says.

Matsukawa cuts Oikawa’s pie in half and gives the bigger piece to Hanamaki- he suddenly doesn’t feel hungry anymore. “What was that about?”

“TMSI,” Hanamaki says gloomily. “The destination of every nerd in Japan. Tokyo Math and Science Institution.”

“Are you planning on going there?” Matsukawa asks curiously. “I mean- sorry-”

“No, it’s fine,” Hanamaki says. “And heck yeah, I plan on going there. I’m willing to bet Oikawa was planning to go there all along, too- he’s just… well… Iwaizumi’s got a girlfriend, and um, given the explosive amounts of sexual tension their relationship has…”

“So he’s just doing this for Iwaizumi’s attention?” Matsukawa asks.

Hanamaki shrugs. “Something like that, I guess. It’s hard to understand, really- why would anyone use math to try and further a romance?”

“Beats me,” Matsukawa says, his tongue heavy with sugar and deception.

---

The coffee shop is busy when Matsukawa pushes open the door a week later, the line of customers curving into the booths and merging halfway across the floor. The shop is a crossover between a café and a library; Yuuri, the dark-haired cashier with the glasses and ever-nervous smile had explained to him that the café had remodeled itself precisely to fit this atmosphere, as the main customers were overworked high-school students that needed caffeine and a place to study.

It’s not Yuuri working the cash register tonight, though, which is a shame- Matsukawa can usually wheedle a free coffee from him, partially because Matsukawa helps with the accounting at times, partially because Yuuri is just so goddamn nice. Tonight, the person manning the counter is an enthusiastic silver-haired foreigner, but Matsukawa’s irritation quickly dissipates when he realizes that the cashier had slipped him a twenty-percent discount on his latte and a free bag of cream puffs.

“You’re a friend of Yuuri’s, right?” The guy says. He gestures to the paper bag and holds a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.” A smile. “Have a nice night!”

Matsukawa scans the interior of the room, looking for a place to sit. The cafe is built for maximum comfort, the walls a warm tan and a pile of beanbags and pillows in one corner. It almost makes Matsukawa feel like he’s intruding on some kind of giant sleepover, and just as he’s about to head over to one of the only unoccupied spots in the room, he hears a familiar voice call his name.

“Makki?” Matsukawa asks. He stares at the bag of cream puffs in his hands and unconsciously glances at the counter. The silver-haired man is staring at him, and Matsukawa freezes with horror as the man slides one eye shut in (of all impossible things) a wink. But how did he know…?

Matsukawa decides to forget about it- he’s sure that Yuuri has some kind of fantastical lifestyle outside of this café that he has no idea of- and heads over to Hanamaki’s booth. Only his strawberry hair is visible, since the rest of Hanamaki is obscured by a mountain of textbooks. A tablet teeters precariously on one of the covers, and the first thing Matsukawa does after setting down his coffee is ease the tablet off the book and into his lap.

Hanamaki tugs his earbuds out. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Matsukawa says, but his greeting is ignored in favor of the paper bag in his hand. Hanamaki unfolds the top and peers inside, his face lighting up at the contents.

“I thought my profiterole radar was going off! Mattsun, I love you, my hero and savior.” He leans dramatically into Matsukawa’s shoulder, and Matsukawa silently sends a thank-you to Yuuri’s magical cashier friend. Hanamaki takes one of the profiteroles from the bag and pops it into his mouth and- dear god , Matsukawa needs to get ahold of himself or he’ll never survive the night.

“What are you here for?” Matsukawa asks, then feels like an idiot for asking. As if the flood of study materials weren’t indication enough. Hanamaki thankfully ignores his stupidity, taking his question as an excuse to complain.

“That one giant biology assignment that’s half our grade, what else? I swear, I am going to egg Tora-sensei’s house one day. He’s just going to wake up one morning with yolk on his bedsheets. That guy is evil. Who the hell even asks for a thirty-page lab report? Doesn’t he realize we have lives?”

“Yep,” Matsukawa says. “How dare he interfere with those giant parties we were going to throw that involved, um-”

“Vodka. And drugs. And sex.”

“And math equations.”

“True.”

“If it helps, I’m screwed, too,” Matsukawa says, because hey, misery loves company. “I meant to start that lab a month ago, but fifty cat videos and a few useless websites later-”

Hanamaki gives him a deadpan stare, and then he turns his laptop screen around so that Matsukawa can see that he’s playing Poptropica. Matsukawa is taken aback for one second before he promptly bursts into peals of laughter, and Hanamaki eyes him balefully and says, “Judge me. I dare you.”

“No, no,” Matsukawa says, still laughing. “I. Uh. Have an account, too. That I may have used yesterday, and- yeah, I’ll stop now.”

Hanamaki grins at him and scooches over a bit, patting the empty foot of space next to him. Matsukawa wonders if the coffee has addled Hanamaki’s mind and decides he doesn’t care.

“Keep me on track, okay?” Hanamaki asks, exiting out of his Poptropica game with a click- Matsukawa dies a little bit when he sees that Hanamaki forgot to save his progress- but Hanamaki carries on unperturbed. “If I’m not working, pour a packet of sugar on my head.”

“Waste of sugar.”

“Waste of sugar, noted.” Hanamaki yawns. “And can you show me your project so that I know I’m not completely wrong? I don’t know, okay, chemistry confuses me, and it’s like, I don’t know what’s going to happen if you put these two solutions together. Maybe the world will explode. Who knows? It can explode for all I care, since it’d at least save me from the trouble of finishing this goddamn. Fucking. Essay.”

“I know, right?” Matsukawa says. “So rude of the apocalypse not to happen for our sake. Doesn’t it have any manners?”

“So rude, Iwa-chan!” Hanamaki says, pitching his voice so that it sounds remarkably like Oikawa’s wounded falsetto. Matsukawa stares with wide eyes.

“ Never do that again.”

“Never doing that again,” Hanamaki moans, burying his face in his hands. “I have been tainted.”

Matsukawa takes a deep, hysterical breath. “God, Oikawa would kill us if he knew-”

“Let him,” Hanamaki declares. “Let him and his ridiculously mathematically talented ass murder me. I am so done with this paper. And you know that Tora-sensei hates me in particular, right? In my defense, how was I supposed to know that chemical was toxic?”

“That was you?” Matsukawa splutters. “You poured it down the sink and the classroom smelled like fumes for days on end.”

“Academic intelligence does not equate to common sense,” Hanamaki says airily. He pushes his laptop over to Matsukawa. “Can you dig through the scientific jargon and tell me if this is like, even somewhat accurate?”

Matsukawa rubs his eyes- he’s tired. He takes a look at the screen and winces; Hanamaki has the art of faking scientific prowess down. Dense paragraphs. Charts. Data tables with dozens of columns and microscopic font. And at the bottom of the last page, a paragraph that definitely isn’t A+ material. “Fuck this. Fuck everything. Chemical properties my ass. The only thing science is good for is cheesy pickup lines. Wanna be the sodium to my chlorine? Because trust me, I could totally-”

“Give me that,” Hanamaki hisses, yanking his computer back. “I forgot that was in there. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought that exact same thing in your head.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Matsukawa says. “That’s very scientific. And of course I’d be the sodium to your chlorine, but only if you’d be willing to bond with me.”

“Die. And also, can you please shut up? I haven’t gotten anything done for the entire time you’ve been here.”

“Sorry, can’t help how interesting I am.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile on his face that makes Matsukawa’s heart lurch. “Let me read your paper, you idiot. It’s the least you could do for me at this point.”

It’s a testament to how whipped Matsukawa is that he logs into his account, finds the document, and slides the computer over. Hanamaki buries his face into the screen, frowning and adding commas from time to time. When he’s finished, his expression is nothing short of betrayed “You traitor! I trusted you! I thought we were in this together.”

“What?”

“No. No. I thought we were in the same situation here, but you’re like, ninety-five percent done, and every goddamn paragraph is fucking perfect. You suck. You royally suck. Dracula has nothing on how much you suck.”  

“You corrected some grammar errors?” Matsukawa tries, knowing that it’s a mistake to say as soon as he says it. Hanamaki is joking in that awful, over-dramatic way someone does when they want to hide that they’re actually bothered.

Hanamaki rubs at his eyes and collapses on the table, head buried in his arms. He sits up after a second and rubs at his eyes again. He looks so tired, and Matsukawa suddenly realizes exactly how frustrated Hanamaki really is.

“Hey,” Matsukawa says, his gut twisting. “I’m sorry for distracting you.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I just don’t understand the information at all.” Hanamaki laughs mirthlessly. “I’m not like Oikawa or Iwaizumi, okay? They’re not geniuses, but at least information comes easily to them. I have to study for hours to grasp a single concept, and I haven’t done that for this. I’m not like that. I’m stupid.”

“Don’t say that around me,” Matsukawa says. “Don’t you dare say that around me. You’re going to be fine, okay? You’ve been on the advanced track for a semester already, and you’re still alive. Stop doubting yourself.” When Hanamaki doesn’t reply, Matsukawa takes the rubric that the teacher gave them and says, “You have five sections left, and it’s ten o’clock. If you do one section in an hour, you’ll be done by three at the latest.”

“But I don’t get any of the information,” Hanamaki says, his voice on the brink of hysterical.

“I’ll help you.”

Hanamaki suddenly glares at him, furious, and Matsukawa recoils. “No.”

“Why not?” Matsukawa asks, glaring right back. Matsukawa is always laid-back, always chill, but all of his previous rules go flying out the window when it comes to Hanamaki. He’s angry.

Hanamaki runs his fingers through his hair and flattens his palms against his temples. “Just- no. Goddamn it. I can’t stand taking help, okay? I can’t stand being a burden. Stop being so perfect, Matsukawa. And I can’t even hate you. You’re so nice.”

“You’re not a burden. And I’m not trying to patronize you or pity you or whatever your mind thinks.” His words are tight, twisted with annoyance. He wonders how their conversation had managed to spiral so quickly.

“Yeah? Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you out. As your friend. Because you’re really stressed right now.”

Hanamaki sighs and rubs his fist across his face, seeming to deflate.“I’m sorry,” he says tiredly. “You don’t deserve this. I’ll pay you back sometime. Whatever you want.”

Go out with me, Matsukawa thinks, then: oh god, so not appropriate for the situation. I’m still mad. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“Yes, I do,” Hanamaki says. “That’s how it works.” And Matsukawa doesn’t even try to contradict him. Doesn’t try to tell Hanamaki that their friendship isn’t some kind of equation he needs to balance. He doesn’t say any of that, just silently picks up a sheet of paper and opens the textbook to the correct page.

Five hours, two cups of coffee, and five thousand words later, they’re done. Hanamaki’s eyes are closed and Matsukawa’s on the verge of passing out.

“Thank you,” Hanamaki murmurs, his head pillowed on Matsukawa’s  “And sorry for acting like an asshole.”

“It’s fine,” Matsukawa yawns back. “And you’re welcome.”

“Can I sleep on you? I’m too tired to go home.”

“Go ahead,” Matsukawa says. His leg tenses up when Hanamaki’s head hits his thigh. “Good to know that’s all I’m useful for.”

“Yep,” Hanamaki says, laughing.

Matsukawa’s halfway between being asleep and awake when Hanamaki says, “And I owe you a favor. Don’t forget that.”

“No,” Matsukawa says gently. “No, you don’t.”

Hanamaki hums. “Yes, I do. Or else it’ll feel like you’re in love with me or something. And you deserve better, okay?”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Matsukawa is screaming in protest. But he’s so tired and doesn’t really know what’s happening at this point. Hanamaki’s weight is warm against his skin. “Nokay,” Matsukawa mumbles. “Not okay at all, Makki.”

Hanamaki doesn’t respond. Whether that’s because he’s asleep or because he doesn’t feel like refuting, Matsukawa has no idea.

---

Matsukawa would think that the (romantic, unwelcome) feelings he harbours for Hanamaki would be disappear when he discovered Hanamaki is a stubborn shit, but that is (unfortunately?) not the case. At least Hanamaki reciprocates on at least a platonic level, so he’s not completely pathetic. Or maybe it is. Matsukawa is a meme, and he could probably write a fourteen-page essay on the friendzone that he prays he isn’t in.

Prefecturals are coming up, though, and Matsukawa can feel the pressure breaking everyone into pieces. A day ago, he catches Kunimi feverishly muttering formulas to himself, stopping only when he catches Matsukawa watching, and he’s been seeing Yahaba at the library for the entire week during after-school hours doing worksheet after worksheet. Even Kyoutani shows up to practice, and the world falls off its axis and skids across the floor.

But that’s nothing compared to Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Oikawa’s shell, seemingly perfect and indestructible, begins to wear thin in the form of bloodshot eyes and gaunt skin. Iwaizumi isn’t any better. He snaps at the first years and apologizes right afterwards, rubbing his forehead. TMSI becomes a taboo topic. The air around them feels tight and strained.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki carry on like nothing’s different. They let it fester unspoken, so when they slide into their seats a week before prefecturals, they’re discussing mountain snails. “If we were a trig function, we’d be tangent,” Hanamaki says, and Matsukawa groans.

Oikawa’s in the front of the room, posture relaxed and collar loosely turned up, the personification of cool. His voice, however, is too bright and loud, washing over Matsukawa in painful waves. “Alright! We’ll be taking the test to determine who’s on the team,” he says. “There are six alternate spots in case you don’t make it. Good luck!”

Hanamaki reaches over and catches Matsukawa’s wrist. His fingers burn Matsukawa’s skin. “You better make it on the team,” Hanamaki says. “You can’t leave me alone with these idiots.”

“I’ll try.”

“There is no try! Only do!” Hanamaki shouts.

It’s a good impression of Yoda, and Matsukawa cracks a smile.

Tests are passed out, and Matsukawa takes a moment to flip through the pages before beginning. It’s typical Mathleticon stuff, actual equations buried under a myriad of meaningless words, and formulas fly into his mind and spill across the paper in the form of regurgitated numbers.

Matsukawa feels like a machine. It’s almost a relief when the problems get too thick for the wheels of his brain to turn; he’s anticipated this from page one. By now he understands that there will always be one or two problems he’s incapable of doing.

He almost gets up to turn in his test before remembering the unspoken rule of math team that turning in your test before Iwaizumi and Oikawa makes you look like a complete douchebag, so he sits back down and mindlessly flips through the pages for the last few minutes, pretending to check his answers.

It’s funny, because Matsukawa actually used to be really slow at math. In elementary school, he only ever had enough time to finish the problem sets and not to check them, so he trained himself to get the questions right on the first try. He’s gotten good at it. Get the information. Write an equation. Solve for x.

“Pencils down,” Irihata calls, and Hanamaki was so deeply focused on his test that he jumps a little out of his seat. Matsukawa shoots him a smirk. Irihata goes around collecting the papers, and the second he has all of them, there’s a low murmur of voices from the classroom that quickly morphs into a hectic babble of what did you get? and i hope i did okay.

Oikawa stretches. “What’d you guys think? It was pretty easy for me!”

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “We can’t all be so self-confident. The world would explode.” The words are sharp and acidic, and Oikawa’s eyes are blown wide with shock. The tension is so thick that it makes Matsukawa feel like he’s underwater, and Hanamaki is staring at a nearby window as if he wants to jump. The room’s on the first floor, Matsukawa thinks hysterically. He’d land in the bushes. It’d be fine.

Oikawa breaks the silence with a crack. “What’d you get for-” he starts, but Hanamaki claps his hands over his ears and yells, “Nope. We’re not talking about the test. La la la la la.”

“Real mature,” Iwaizumi grumbles.

“I can’t hear you,” Hanamaki says. “I’m too busy not listening to any of you guys talking. But I’m sure you’re all saying very nice things about me.”

Matsukawa snorts. Everything reverts back to normal after that, Iwaizumi and Oikawa flinging good-natured jabs at each other and Hanamaki and Matsukawa making snarky comments in the background. Oikawa eventually starts walking around the room to try and comfort (aka terrorize) the kouhai. Matsukawa sighs and goes to help Watari try and peel apart Yahaba and Kyoutani, who are locked in an attempt to either strangle each other or violently make out.

There’s the sound of a piece of paper being stapled to the cork board, and everyone immediately drops what they’re doing and rushes to the front of the room. Matsukawa squints, fact smashed into Kindaichi’s head. God, how much hair gel does this guy use?

Team: Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Hanamaki Takahiro, Matsukawa Issei.

Alternates: Minako Masura, Yahaba Shigeru, Watari Shinji, Kino Miya, Saito Ayumi, Kyoutani Kentarou.

Matsukawa catches Hanamaki’s eye. They’re in.

---

The snow seeps into Matsukawa’s boots as he trudges his way through the parking lot. The Saturday sky is gray, overcast with clouds, the shiny metal dome of the Mathleticon building dull in the absence of light. He’s too early.

The wind bites into Matsukawa’s fingers, and he shivers, clutching the practice book close to his chest. It’s not for him; it’s for Hanamaki. Stupid Hanamaki, he thinks. Stupid Hanamaki, with his strawberry-blonde hair and bitten nails and self-deprecating gaze. He’d seen Matsukawa with the book a week ago and begged him to bring it to the competition so he could study beforehand, and Matsukawa, like the lovestruck idiot he is, complies.  

The lobby is warm, the floor carpeted with plush red and the ceiling sparking with golden chandeliers. Matsukawa blinks when he enters, the snowflakes on his eyelids melting into tiny water droplets that cling to his eyelashes. Hanamaki is sitting on a navy blue couch, twirling a pencil between his fingers, a crushed bottle of water balancing precariously on the table in front of him. They’re the only ones here besides staffing.

“Hey,” Hanamaki greets. “You’re so early. No one’s even here yet.”

“You’re here,” Matsukawa points out. His fingers clench at his sides. He needs to be early in unfamiliar situations. It gives him an advantage, time to react. He wonders if this is why Hanamaki is here, too.

Hanamaki shrugs. “My mom’s a terrible driver, and it’s snowing, so she made us leave the house three hours earlier just in case the GPS fails or we get stuck at some intersection.” His jaw tightens. “They care a lot about this. I’m supposed to do well.”

Matsukawa thinks of his own parents, how his mom had asked if he’d wanted coffee halfway through the drive, how his dad had sent him out the door with a “Have fun, Issei!” He doesn’t say this, though, only brushes the snow off the shiny plastic cover of the math book and hands it to Hanamaki, who takes it and rifles through the pages, going straight to- as predicted- the probability section.

Hanamaki is like the world’s hardest math problem, Matsukawa thinks. He’s a mess of numbers and statistics corked into the form of a boy with a deceptively impassive face, and Matsukawa bites his lips as he wonders over and over, what is the probability that he likes me?

According to current data, the answer hovers somewhere near ten percent. But the thing about probability is that it’s just a guess, rendered null by the actual answer Matsukawa is too afraid to ask for. He shakes himself out of his thoughts and opens up Fruit Ninja on his phone.

Hanamaki has his face buried feverishly in the book, going through word problems involving combinations and photographers trying to line up boys and girls in certain orders. Matsukawa kind of wants to grab the book right out of his hands; Hanamaki’s flipping back and forth from the problems to the answer key with growing frustration evident on his face.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi show up an hour later, cardboard crates of food and drink in their hands. “How long have you been here?” Oikawa asks. Hanamaki looks up from his book.

“Long enough for Sato Squirrel to arrange his acorns into three distinct piles and for Mattsun to get a high score of-” he leans over “-two hundred and forty-three on Fruit Ninja. Mattsun, that’s pathetic. Try harder.”

“I haven’t played this game for like, three years,” Matsukawa protest. “I’d kick your ass in Temple Run.”

“Fight me.”

Oikawa flings himself dramatically onto an open couch. “I can’t believe you guys showed up before me,” he mourns. “Don’t you know it’s bad form to arrive before the captain?”

“Don’t you know it’s bad form to be an annoying, arrogant brat?” Iwaizumi retorts, and Oikawa pouts. Hanamaki finger guns. Eyyy.

A man comes into the room, his suit pressed in sharp lines with a tie patterned with formulas and shapes. The lobby is about half-full now, an explosion of colors from all the different schools, and he announces that registration has begun.

“I got it,” Oikawa says. He flashes a peace sign and disappears out the door. It’s nice of him, Matsukawa thinks, but Iwaizumi’s frowning suspiciously and sure enough, when Oikawa returns, he’s holding plastic name tags that are decorated with little emojis and milk breads that definitely weren’t there originally.

“At least he spelled my name right,” Hanamaki mutters, glaring at his sticker. Matsukawa just rolls with it and peels the tag away from its plastic backing, affixing it to the spot just above his heart. There’s forty-five minutes before the actual competition and the lobby is getting more and more hectic, people diffusing in and out of the room like water through a cell.

“Come on,” Hanamaki says eventually, pulling Matsukawa into the tide. Oikawa and Iwaizumi have already left. Hanamaki and Matsukawa head out of the room and exit into the hallway, which is giant and roomy and thankfully not too crowded. Unfortunately, it’s practically a maze, and Matsukawa is resigning himself to the concept of having to ask for directions when he spots a member of Karasuno.

“Let’s tail him,” Hanamaki whispers, and Matsukawa nods. His mouth lifts up into a small smile when he sees the FL√-1 on his jacket, emblazoned above a pattern of geometrical crows.

The competition room is cold and clean. They locate their table, marked with a little turquoise tag that says Aoba Johsai . Matsukawa places his bag next to a chair and shoots what he hopes is a reassuring smile to Watari, whose knuckles are white around his pencil.

Kindaichi is dragged to the table by a bored-looking Kunimi, who jerks a thumb at Kindaichi and says, “He accidentally wandered into the girls’ bathroom.” Kindaichi blushes and takes a seat at the alternates table, absentmindedly pulling pencils and erasers from his backpack and arranging them on the tabletop. Matsukawa notices he’s brought Kunimi’s stuff, too, and chooses not to comment on it.

Oikawa slides into his seat, Iwaizumi behind him. “We were checking out the other schools,” Oikawa says. “I think we’ll make it to regionals fine. Four teams are allowed in, and the only serious competition we got have is Shiratorizawa, Dateko, and possibly Karasuno.” His eyes narrow. “They’ve got Kageyama Tobio this year.”

Iwaizumi sighs. “He’s not evil, Shittykawa.” Oikawa glares at him. Iwaizumi glares back. The tension that’s been between them for the past few weeks takes shape in the form of dead silence.

Hanamaki coughs. “So,” he says. “Who’s ready to figure out how many watermelons Fruity Fran is going to buy?”

“Has everyone memorized the factors of 2016?” Iwaizumi adds.

“It’s been a shitty, shitty year,” Hanamaki says, and everyone nods in agreement. Watari starts playing a rap he made on essential formulas and Matsukawa double-takes because Watari is good.

“God, y’all are so smart,” Hanamaki grumbles. “Watch as everyone gets, like, twice the score as me and I get kicked out off the team and shipped off to clown school.”

“If it helps, you’ve already had plenty of practice,” Oikawa says, and Hanamaki tries to flick him on the forehead. He kind of fails. “And anyway, Makki, you’re good at math! You should have more faith in yourself!”

“This is like, smart central, though,” Hanamaki says, gesturing around the room. “You can smell the nerd from fifty miles away.”

“Nerd doesn’t have a smell,” Iwaizumi scoffs.

“Yes it does. It’s like Oikawa times a hundred.”

Matsukawa smirks. “Like an entire dumpster instead of a single trashcan.”

Oikawa wails. “Iwa-chan, aren’t you going to defend my honor?”

“I’m still traumatized by the phrase Oikawa times a hundred,” Iwaizumi groans, clutching at his pretend migraine. “One Oikawa is one Oikawa too many.”

“That’s not how math works! Iwa-chan, you’re going to fail this test!”

“SILENCE!” A voice booms. The noise level drops immediately. “Good morning,” the announcer says, this time in a normal tone. A low murmur of greeting floats out the crowd, and the announcer cuts it off. “Please try not to speak until I am done talking.” The peevishness in his voice is magnified twenty times by the microphone.

Matsukawa’s internally making fun of the poor structure of this speech when the atmosphere of the room shifts. The low hum of tension that had been building since the beginning of the day suddenly rises to the surface, giving the air an almost electrical quality. Despite himself, Matsukawa’s palms start to sweat.

Someone starts passing out test booklets and scratch paper, and Matsukawa has never felt so tense in his entire life. The announcer rattles off rapid instructions on proper answer format that Matsukawa’s unable keep up with. Seriously, the guy’s voice is starting to get on his nerves. He questions whether or not he has written Aoba Johsai on the correct line, and he mentally kicks himself for worrying.

The fears dissipate as soon as he actually starts the test. It’s not easy by any means- on most tests, the gears of his mind run silently, smoothly, but with this one, there are knots and whorls and tangles that he tries not to get ensnared in. Still, it’s not as hard for him as it is for some of the others, judging by the pained looks of those around him. He finishes with five minutes left to spare and spends the rest of his time scrutinizing that one question on the fourth page that he can’t and probably never will figure out.

The timer beeps. Matsukawa startles, as does almost everyone else. Someone flings their pencil up in the air in surprise  and everyone else in the room watches as it soars in a wide arc toward the stage. A bright-haired kid goes to pick it up, blushing all the while.

“Nice going, dumbass,” Matsukawa hears. A chorus of snickers rises up from that side of the room.

Matsukawa leans back and sighs. He hadn’t realized it in the heat of the test, but he’s tired. His limbs are heavy, a fuzzy feeling like static in his mind.

Hanamaki pushes a profiterole at him. “Eat,” he says. “It’ll be good for you.” Matsukawa obligingly takes a bite, too numb to come up with a cream puff related joke.

The announcer takes the stage yet again and blares that the tests will be graded in twenty minutes and that competitors can use this time to use the bathroom and regroup. Hanamaki stretches, and Matsukawa understands just how worn out he is when he doesn’t even try to tear his eyes away from the strip of skin the act exposes.

“I heard they’ll be providing lunch this year,” Oikawa says cheerfully around a cracker.

“I came for the food,” Hanamaki says.

Matsukawa shrugs. “Hey, motivation.”

“Ooh, Mattsun,” Oikawa says. “Are you ready for the Faceoff? I mean, assuming your score was in the top sixteen, which it probably was!” Matsukawa nods. They’ve practiced Faceoff twenty hundred times already, and it’s different than the overall test because everyone’s watching and it’s a one-to-one thing. Faceoff determines the rank of the top sixteen, and Matsukawa can only pray he won’t make too much a fool of himself.

He exits the competition room and heads to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He turns the faucet as cold as it will go in hopes that the freeze will shock his mind back into functioning. He’s sweating, Matsukawa realizes. He’s actually sweating, his shirt soaked as if he’d been running a marathon.

He goes back out into the hall where a bunch of people are doing some new-fangled thing called Super-Brain Yoga. He carefully maneuvers around them and makes his way back to the competition room, tearing into a bag of crackers and shamelessly comparing answers with Hanamaki. By now he understands the basics of math team rituals, no matter how uncomfortable they make him feel.

Five minutes later the screen flashes a brilliant blue, displaying the names of the top sixteen in alphabetical order. Matsukawa’s on there. So’s Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Oikawa. The rest are comprised of people from Shiratorizawa, Dateko, Karasuno, and one or two random schools that had somehow managed to snag a genius into their crop.

The Faceoff is done in pairs, each round eliminating half of the contestants in typical knockout fashion. Statistically speaking, it’s improbable Matsukawa would get paired with Hanamaki on the first round- one out of seven- but Mathleticon has been known to pair schoolmates together in some wretched, nerdy version of a reality TV show.

The screen flips to show who’s playing who. And… Matsukawa’s versing Hanamaki. Of course Matsukawa’s versing Hanamaki. His gut twists uncomfortably- yeah, Hanamaki’s his friend, and it’ll be awkward if Hanamaki loses, but no way is Matsukawa going easy on him. Typical math team etiquette: respect your opponents.

Hanamaki’s eyes flash. “I’m not losing to you, Mattsun.”

“Let’s see about that,” Matsukawa grins. “We’re evenly matched. This should be interesting.”

He and Hanamaki are seventh, so they watch the first six matches while making bets and whispering back and forth. There are a couple of people that really stand out: Ushijima, who answers before the announcer even finishes reading the questions; Aone, who answers calm and sure to any question thrown his way; and Kageyama, who- well- what the actual fuck is his mental math abilities.

And then they’re up. Matsukawa swallows. The buzzer is warm underneath his thumb, the screen too big, too close.

The first question involves the probability of some people being selected from a committee. Matsukawa regretfully takes that one- it looks as if Hanamaki’s frantic studying hadn’t yielded fruitful results. “Two hundred and seventy-one out of six hundred and thirteen.” A blue correct flashes on the screen.

The next question involves a large circle containing three smaller circles. Matsukawa grins, because he’d just learned about Descartes’ Circle Formula- it was on Watari’s rap. He gets the answer, twelve root three, and hits the buzzer, but he realizes it’s wrong as soon as the answer is out of his mouth. He’d forgotten about the negatives. The announcer shakes his head and deems him incorrect.

Hanamaki presses his buzzer. “Six root six,” he says quietly. He’s right, and Matsukawa’s blood hums. Best two out of three, and it’s the final question.

The screen flashes again. “Given that four woodchucks can chuck eight logs of wood in ten minutes, and six groundhogs can hog twelve square meters of ground in eight minutes, how much wood could three woodchucks chuck in the same amount of time three groundhogs could hog nine meters of ground? Give your answer as a mixed fraction.”

Hanamaki slams the buzzer down just as Matsukawa’s finishing up with the last equation. “Seven and one-fifth logs!” he says. A giant blue “correct” flashes on the screen, and Matsukawa returns to his chair to watch the rest of the Faceoff as a spectator.

It’s kind of painful. Hanamaki is knocked out in the second round by Azumane Asahi of Karasuno, and Iwaizumi and Oikawa get pitted against each other in the third round and it"s Oikawa that loses. He returns to his seat with a face like ash. Matsukawa is drained by the time Ushijima beats Kageyama and is declared the victor.

They’re ushered back into their seats and the award ceremony commences. Number-shaped balloons float up around the room and a handful of confetti is thrown into the air. Matsukawa receives his fourteenth-place ribbon numbly and barely registers when they call his name.

“And now, for the schools that are heading to state,” the announcer says. “In fourth place, Dateko!” There’s a smatter of applause from the audience, and Date Tech and their freakishly tall members go up to get their plaque.

“In third place, Karasuno!” The applause is louder this time, but Matsukawa can still hear Kageyama and his orange-haired teammate arguing all the way to the stage. (“Why can’t you smile normally , Bakageyama?”) (“This is just the way my face is, you idiot!”)

“And in second place… Aoba Johsai!” Matsukawa makes himself get up and head to the front of the room. He hefts the second-place trophy up with everyone else and manufactures a grin for the cameras; he can only hope he doesn’t look as much of a serial killer as Kageyama did. He sits down and doesn’t look up when Shiratorizawa’s name is called.

“Hey,” Hanamaki says. His voice is gentle. “Nice job today.”

“You too,” Matsukawa responds. What else would he say?

---

A week before winter break, Seijoh gets invited to a training camp, creamy manilla envelopes with gold lettering arriving in the mail. It’s one week, and it"s a testament to exactly how dedicated some people are that they skip out on international vacations just so they can go.

The math team piles into the bus on Sunday, sleet falling from the sky. Their duffel bags are lumpy and rectangular from all of the textbooks and contraband stuffed inside, and Matsukawa winces as his notebook jabs into his back.

The bus ride is supposed to be three hours long. Hanamaki lazily falls asleep on Matsukawa’s shoulder with his earbuds plugged in, and Matsukawa leans his head against the window and resigns himself to boredom.

The entirety of Seijoh is unusually well-behaved, actually. Yahaba and Kyoutani are on opposite poles of the bus, like a radioactive solution separated into semi-stable elements, and there’s only the occasional jab of Iwaizumi complaining about Oikawa’s trashy taste in music.

Therefore, it comes as no surprise when Oikawa pokes his head out of his seat and says, “C’mon, there’s over two hours left. Let’s do some team bonding!”

Kunimi’s disinterested voice floats up from the back of the bus. “We have all week to do team bonding.”

“Do you want us to ionically bond or covalently bond?” Ayumi asks. Matsukawa grins at her- Ayumi’s talent for bad puns exceeds even his.  

“Ionic bonding,” Iwaizumi says. “That way, we can transfer Oikawa to another school.” There’s a beat of silence as everyone digests the (terrible, awful, no-good-very-bad) joke.

Hanamaki’s the first to recover. “Do you need some ice for that Bunsen burn ?” A wave of groans erupts out of the entire bus, and Hanamaki flashes Matsukawa a grin.

“Bonding right here, captain,” Matsukawa says, finger-gunning. “We’re making fun of you together. As a team.”

“I give up on all of you,” Oikawa says. In the end, though, they end up playing Never Have I Ever (the staple game of all long bus rides, Oikawa says) with pouches of grape Caprisun. It’s not a very exciting game, to be honest. While most of the members of Seijoh’s math team are reasonably popular around school, no one really has the time to have sex in the closet or do drugs on the rooftop, and the game eventually spirals into a total joke.

“Never have I ever used a math pickup line, ironically or unironically,” Kunimi says, and well over half the team takes a swig, Matsukawa right with them. He and Hanamaki had spent nearly an hour just texting pickup lines back and forth until they’d ran out.

“Never have I ever wanted to go to TMSI,” a first-year girl says, and most of the bus laughs and shamelessly drinks. Oikawa refuses to look at Iwaizumi when he takes a sip.

“Never have I ever fake-dated anyone,” Ayumi says jokingly, but the atmosphere suddenly spikes when Minako takes her pouch and raises it to her mouth. She jerks her chin, and Iwaizumi follows suit. There’s dead silence throughout the bus.

“Plot twist,” someone murmurs, which does absolutely nothing to diffuse the tension. Hanamaki turns to Matsukawa, eyes wide. Did you know? Matsukawa gives a subtle shake of his head. The game carries on, although no one’s really paying attention anymore.

The bus pulls up to the camp shortly afterwards. Matsukawa sticks his earbuds in while a staff member gives the spiel about good behavior and training camp regime. From what Matsukawa gathers, it’ll just be practice test after practice text, mixed in with a couple game-show style games and group competitions. They’re to sleep in the gym, and the study rooms, library, and kitchen are open twenty-four hour seven.

They take a tour after that. The school is sleek and modern, and Matsukawa hums as he checks the place out. Around him, people are whispering about how they wish they had this kind of high-tech equipment at Seijoh, but Matsukawa knows that by the end of the week, everyone will be too exhausted to care.

Eventually, they’re lead to the gym and advised to turn off the lights by nine. Matsukawa snorts- yeah, sure, there’s a better chance he’ll make it to Nationals. Judging by the amused glances of those around him, everyone else seems to share that sentiment, and Matsukawa can tell that no one will be getting into their bedrolls until much, much later.

---

Matsukawa is awoken on day one at six courtesy of the watch alarm he’d forgotten to switch off at the beginning of winter break. It’s about forty minutes before the designated rising time, thick and amber sunlight streaming from the east window. Oikawa’s already up, glasses perched on his nose and his delicate fingers paging through a book, and he takes one look at Matsukawa and smirks.

Sometime during the night, Hanamaki had rolled over until his sleeping bag was uncomfortably close to Matsukawa’s, the former’s arm slung across Matsukawa’s chest. It’s not even that intimate of a gesture- seriously, less than five percent of Hanamaki’s epidermis is currently in contact with Matsukawa’s- but Oikawa is a genius with probability and Matsukawa’s willing to bet he’s got a pretty good estimate of how likely it is that Matsukawa has a crush.

He refuses to blush. Instead, Matsukawa folds up his bedroll and stashes it in the corner with his duffel bag, slipping out the door and making his way through the halls. He squints at the map of the school for a second and decides that he’s not going to be locating the cafeteria anytime soon, so he might as well get a head start.

The training is paid for, but the food isn’t, so Matsukawa digs out a pack of cereal from his backpack and dry-munches it, the cafeteria ladies watching him with a baleful eye. He sits down and waits for everyone else, a little bit glad for the alone time. Seijoh is great, but damn they are loud , and at times, it kind of makes Matsukawa lose his chill.

Last night had initially been awkward. They’d all just stared at the floor for a good ten minutes trying to figure out who would sleep next to who, broken only by Kindaichi pulling out a calculator and stress-calculating the number of possible arrangements. That had somehow escalated into a pillow-fight/trash-talking/math-doing session, and by the end of it Kindaichi’s calculator no longer functioned and the gym was an absolute mess. After that, they’d all just shrugged and shamelessly decided to sleep next to the person they were closest to.

(Another perk of being an early riser: he got pictures. The one with Yahaba and Kyoutani would make great blackmail, if he ever decided that the risk of getting on Kyoutani’s bad side didn’t outweigh the return.)

Hanamaki shuffles in twenty minutes later, voice thick and hair mussed. He grabs as many caffeinated drinks as permitted and shoves them all into his backpack, proclaiming, “I’m going to need it.” The cafeteria ladies look like they want to assassinate him at this point, and Matsukawa makes a mental note to avoid them.

Hanamaki unscrews the top of a frozen coffee and sticks a straw in. Matsukawa wonders when the act of drinking coffee became so sexy. God, by now, his brain is just a cesspool of math equations and fantasies of- nevermind. At least he still has his wit somewhere among the masses of hormones.

“Do you know who else is here?” Matsukawa asks, thankful that he doesn’t choke on his own tongue.

Hanamaki shrugs. “Shiratorizawa declined, because, you know, they’re too good to associate with us peasants. Nekoma’s here, though, I think? From another prefecture. They’re good. Like, really good. Fukurodani, too… um… a bunch of other random schools, too, but those two are the ones that stuck with me the most. Whatever. I guess we’ll find out soon.”

“How many math puns do you think will be made in our presence today?” Matsukawa asks.

“Twelve.”

“Twenty. I’ll bet you a hundred yen for it.”

Hanamaki shrugs, says, “That’s enough for a candy bar, at least. You’re on.”

The day passes pretty uneventfully. They’re shuffled into some kind of rotating stations where they are drilled on typical problem constructions and recurring formulas, and Matsukawa takes page after page of notes until his hands cramp up. They work with a partner- of course Matsukawa pairs up with Hanamaki- in a mock-competition where the winner gets a free bag of candy.

An enthusiastic kid named Bokuto (who already seems like he’s on a sugar high) and a quiet guy named Akaashi wins, and Bokuto whoops and hollers while Akaashi settles his face into a long-suffering expression. Iwaizumi and Oikawa place second by only one point, and their death glares are hilarious. Matsukawa purses his lips to keep from laughing.

Even still, whole thing is exhausting. By the time lunch rolls around, Matsukawa’s head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton balls, and at least half the cafeteria is asleep. Hanamaki sleepily hands over one-hundred yen; Kuroo from Nekoma had used at least ten math-related pick-up lines in the lunch period alone.

By the time it’s four, Matsukawa’s brain has turned into melted jello and he feels like his butt has been stapled to the chair. The aggressive tick-tocking of the wall clock gives him a headache. Matsukawa thinks about how he’d be lucky if he got even half the problems on this current practice test right, because even though he’s been given a gold mine of information, he’s too tired to process any of it. He performs atrociously, as does everyone else in the room, and an irritated staff member directs them to the south gym, where the final activity is located.

“Frick,” Hanamaki groans. He rubs his eyes. “I’m so dead.”

Oikawa presses his fingers to his temples. “I can’t feel my brain.”

Iwaizumi whacks him good-naturedly. “That’s because you never had one to begin with.”

“Insulting me in my exhausted state, so mean~”

“Shut up, Shittykawa.”

Matsukawa snorts and pulls futilely on the door handle for twenty seconds before realizing it’s marked ‘push’. Inside, the gym smells like sweat, and there’s a rainbow of rubber balls lined up in the center.

“What the fuck?” Someone mutters from behind them. “Dude, this is sick! Are we playing dodgeball?”

“Dodgeball?” Another person asks, popping up from the line like some kind of lanky Russian jack-in-the-box. “Yaku-saaaaaan! Let’s be on the same team!”

A brown-haired boy sighs. “That’s Lev. He’s pretty good at math, but he’s a complete airhead otherwise.”

“My head’s not made of air,” Lev says petulantly. “Then I’d be invisible.”

Matsukawa snickers and steps into the gym, effectively unblocking the mathlete traffic jam that had built up along the doorway. The announcer comes in five minutes later, dressed in shorts and a baseball cap with a whistle hanging from his neck.

“Alright!” he says, flipping up his visor. “You’re probably tired from doing math all day, so let’s give your brains a break. We’re going to have an EXTREME dodgeball match- remember, though, hits to the head don’t count, and all regular rules apply. Winning team gets free dinner.”  

Why is it extreme, then? Matsukawa wonders. Next to him, Iwaizumi’s cracking his knuckles, and Matsukawa flashes back to the one time the baseball team had nearly slammed a classroom door off its hinges trying to recruit Iwaizumi. Oikawa’s got his finger on his chin, muttering about strategy, and Matsukawa sighs and thinks, we’re all going to die.

Nerds in popular shows always end up scoring the winning point by calculating the trajectory of the ball and whatever, but that is absolute shit and does not work in real life. Theory and practice are two very different things, and Matsukawa stands near the back of the wall fully prepared to get whacked into the next century by a stray dodgeball.

The announcer blows the whistle, and the air is suddenly filled with colorful streaks from both sides of the room. Iwaizumi whips them one after the other while somehow managing to deflect them at the same time, and while most of them have absolutely no aim the whole thing is so intense that Matsukawa can’t help but get caught up in the flow.

Hanamaki grins at him from the other side of the room and chucks a dodgeball at him. Matsukawa narrows his eyes. Oh, you are so on.

---

After that, the ice is broken and everyone talks to everyone else like they’ve known each other since forever. At lunch, lines between the tables are blurred. Kuroo and by extension Bokuto come over to the Seijoh table and bring their raucous teams of cats and owls along with them.

Take notes, do practice tests, rinse, repeat. They scream answers over each other and make fun of ridiculous questions. It becomes a pattern, and Matsukawa is happy with how he fits; he lets the loud ones make up the foundation of the conversation, and he pitches in whenever a gap or particularly stupid comment allows him to. Everyone’s constantly throwing barbs at each other, not the mean kind, but the kind that’s pretty much essential to any healthy relationship.

After a while, though, it does get tiring, and by the fifth day Matsukawa slips out of the room while everyone else engages in rounds of Nervous Breakdown and Truth or Dare. He needs some air. Quietly, hands in pockets, he heads into the hallways.

He doesn’t really know where he’s going, but he vaguely recalls a staff member telling them that the study rooms are open twenty-four hour seven, so he heads over there. The hallways are weirdly quiet, the air motionless from the absence of people. It’s nice.

He hears the thud of footsteps behind him two halls down and turns around. There’s Hanamaki, a deck of cards in his hand and a lopsided smile on his face. “Ooh, Mattsun,” Hanamaki teases. “Sneaking out?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa says dryly. “You know. Going up to the rooftop to do drugs and all that rebellious crap.”

Perhaps the joke lies in how impossible it is for Matsukawa- for any of them- to do something like that. The training camp had warned that anyone with drugs or alcohol would be escorted off the parameters, but honestly, the closest any of them had gotten to that was Kuroo and his bottle of grape-scented hand sanitizer.

Besides. There’s a snowstorm.

“Where are you going, then?” Hanamaki asks. “Actually, screw that. Can I come?” Matsukawa thinks of how easy it is to have a conversation with Hanamaki, like tossing a ball back and forth. There’s no expectations, no having to unravel the meaning of his words. Matsukawa nods.

“I’m heading to the study rooms,” Matsukawa says, and Hanamaki’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not to actually study. My brain’s going to explode.” Hanamaki mouths an understanding same and they fall into step beside each other, shoulders occasionally brushing.

Hanamaki yawns. “God, I’ll be so glad when this camp is over.”

“Really? You seem like you’re so chill with it, though.”

“I’m a chill guy.”

“Super chill.”

“And… the word chill has lost all meaning.”

“Chill out, Makki,” Matsukawa retorts gleefully, and Hanamaki laughs and smacks him on the shoulder. While they’re making light, superficial conversation, Matsukawa can almost believe they’re flirting. Almost.

They reach the study room and Hanamaki immediately hops onto one of the desks, feet planted on a swivel chair. Matsukawa hoists himself up beside him. The room is badly lighted, one of the lamps missing its lightbulb.

“Why’d you join math club, Mattsun?” Hanamaki asks. “I never did get to hear the tragic backstory.”

Hormones. “I like math, I guess,” Matsukawa answers weakly. It’s not a complete lie.

“Ugh. That’s so simple of a reason,” Hanamaki says. “Whatever, then. Boring.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, because everyone expected me to,” Hanamaki says easily, tilting his face toward the ceiling. “I started when I was in fourth grade. I was like, the smartest in the class, and I thought I was going to win Worlds because I knew my frickin’ multiplication tables. I kind of miss being that stupid, not knowing everyone else was so good.”

Matsukawa laughs. “When I was in fourth grade, I thought I’d be able to get into TMSI because I knew the order of the planets and shit.”

“Yeah, and here we are now,” Hanamaki says. “I mean, you’re really good, though. When you make it into the regionals Faceoff, you better win. I’ll be the one with the neon sign.”

“You say that like I’ve already made it into Faceoff,” Matsukawa scoffs. “And I don’t think I will. The only ones that have a chance in Seijoh are Oikawa and Iwaizumi.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes. “So self-deprecating, Mattsun. That’s my thing.”

“Why is that your thing.”

Hanamaki shrugs. “I’m self-deprecating. It’s like Oikawa being annoying. Or Iwaizumi being violent. Or the sky being blue.”

“No, it’s not. It’s purple,” Matsukawa says automatically.

“Right, sorry. Forgot about that. How stupid of me. Hey, by the way, did you know that Yamasaki asked Minako out, and she said yes?”

“...Really?” Matsukawa asks, flashing back to the Never Have I Ever game on the bus ride that had ended up revealing more than it had been intended to. 

“Yep. Now all we need is for Oikawa and Iwaizumi to get together. Then the jokes I can make at their expense will go up approximately sixty-eight point three percent.” Hanamaki hums, considering. “I’d have to deal with them being all gross and romantic, though. Ugh. Couples disgust me.”

“Why?” Matsukawa asks. “Bitter?”

“Nah, it’s probably impossible for me to feel attraction to anything except perfectly-shaped triangles,” Hanamaki says, and Matsukawa internally winces. “And snow days. And profiteroles.”

“Yeah?”

“And people who give me profiteroles.”

Matsukawa’s gut does a dip. “That puts me in your range, doesn’t it?” He tries to act like it’s a joke.

“Yeah, my dating field is like, riddled with asymptotes, but I suppose you’d work,” Hanamaki says, grinning.

“Your sexuality has a mathematical equation?” Matsukawa mutters. “You’re such a nerd.”

His face is bright red, because although he might be obtuse when it comes to romance, even he knows that the chances of Hanamaki liking him back have just increased.

---

Hanamaki acts like their conversation in the study room had never happened, and Matsukawa sighs internally and plays along. As the weeks pass and Regionals near, Matsukawa thinks that maybe he was wrong; maybe he’d just imagined the entire thing in some kind of hyper-realistic dream. But being in Hanamaki’s friendzone isn’t all that bad. It’s like being in jail, but there’s a working toilet and the food is edible… and… yeah, yeah this sucks.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have too much time to dwell on it, instead poring over Geometry for Dummies while cursing the fact that he doesn’t understand anything , the name of the book adding insult to injury. Formulas rattle around his brain like marbles in a jar, and he traces invisible equations on his desk while finally understanding what losing your marbles means.

Eventually, though, Regionals actually rolls around, and Matsukawa is more relieved than anything. At least he’ll be able to take a break afterwards. But there’s plenty of room for nervousness, too; there are knots tight in his stomach the night before, his pounding heart ruining any chances of sleep. He wakes up the next morning bleary and tense, rubbing his eyes while his mind races away.

By the time he reaches the competition, though, he’s pretty much resigned himself to his fate. Matsukawa Issei does not do nervous. Except maybe when standing awkwardly in an enormous auditorium, trying to find Seijoh in the hubbub of people. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it on a chair, scanning the room for any of his friends.

“Mattsun! Over here!” Hanamaki yells, waving enthusiastically. Matsukawa can only see the hand and the barest flash of pink, but he grabs his his bag and coat and weaves his through the crowd until he locates Aoba Johsai.

“ There you are,” Hanamaki says. “We were looking all over for you.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Your eyebrows,” Hanamaki deadpans. He points to Iwaizumi and Oikawa, who both have their nose buried in the same book, pulling it back and forth between them. Matsukawa winces. That book, which wasn’t in the best condition in the first place, now seems thoroughly destroyed, its spine looking like it can’t take any more of the tug-a-war. “These two idiots are stressing me out- can you please tell them to chill?”

“Lower your temperature by several degrees,” Matsukawa tells them, but they continue to fervently study as if they’d be able to beat the knowledge into their minds in the space of an hour. Knowing Iwaizumi and Oikawa, they probably could. Matsukawa shrugs, sends a helpless glance to Hanamaki, and sits down. Despite the chatter, the atmosphere is tense, and he can feel competition slice through his skin and slip into his veins.

“Mattsun,” Hanamaki whispers, panning a hand around the room. “Can you feel the brain waves? We’ll get smarter just by sitting here.”

“That’s not how it works,” Matsukawa says patiently. “You have to go up to someone and steal their brain. Preferably with a form of painful surgery.”

“Shit, you’re right. Can I just, like, borrow your brain for this one competition? Please?”

“Do you really wanna know what goes on inside my head?” Matsukawa says, wiggling his eyebrows. Hanamaki shudders, and Matsukawa smirks. He’s discovered a long time ago that his eyebrows are an excellent accompaniment to his various salacious comments.

Ten minutes later, Irihata drags them out into the hall for the ‘Super Brain Exercises’ he’d picked up from Shiratorizawa, and no, there is absolutely no way to make this cool . The Super Brain Exercises is a combination of squats and yoga, and the only way Matsukawa gets himself through it by imagining Ushijima trying to balance in the tree pose.

“We could be a meme,” Hanamaki says, gesturing to their line of mutant yoga.

“We’re always a meme.”

“True, but like, even more meme than usual. What would you caption this?”

“Trying to flirt like-”

“Hey girl, wanna join in our Super Brain Exercises?”

“Come to the dark side. We have math.” At this, Hanamaki overbalances and crashes into Matsukawa, and they land in a heap of laughter on the floor. Matsukawa tries to hold this feeling in his head, knowing the pain he’d be subjected to in the next few hours.

The tests feel like some kind of dream- all feelings of panic evaporate as soon as Matsukawa actually starts them. He emerges with lethargy carved into his bones and a deep sense of gratitude that the tests are over. He stands up. Stretches. Tries not to think about how he had no clue how to do most of the problems on the last page. Regional math questions are hard ; he doesn’t even want to know about Nationals.

“Circle… A…equals… death…” Hanamaki mumbles, slumping onto Matsukawa’s shoulder. He pretends to drunkenly punch numbers into his calculator. “Eyebrows… equal… caterpillar… twenty-five…”

“Both me and my eyebrows are deeply offended.”

“Fight me.”

“In this state?”

Hanamaki lolls on his shoulder and says quietly, “They are bushy, though. Like caterpillars. Or paint brushes. Or that one weird shrub in my grandma’s backyard.”

“I’ll let that one go only because I really like the word shrub.”

“Fair enough,” Hanamaki agrees, pressing his face further into Matsukawa’s sweater. “So tired,” he sighs, and Matsukawa dips his head in agreement. He’s so exhausted that he can’t even bring himself to get flustered over the amount of contact he and Hanamaki have got going on currently. The rest of the Seijoh team are in similar positions, knowing that for most of them, this is the end. They’ve got no chance of getting into Faceoff.

Except Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi has hardened himself to stone, a statue facing the stage. Oikawa is the picture of nervosa, biting his nails and jiggling his leg until Iwaizumi finally loses it and punches him on the arm.

Matsukawa hums contemplatively. He’d guess that Seijoh is in either second or third place- all the strong schools were from their prefecture. It’s unlikely that they’ve managed to beat both Karasuno and Shiratorizawa in one go- you don’t have to be good at probability to know that .

But in the end, Mathleticon isn’t about teamwork. It’s about being good enough individually and crossing your fingers that your teammates won’t drag you down. It’s about staring at the stage hoping you won’t get knocked out, that you’ll make it far enough for it to mean something , to make a name for yourself and to prove to everyone else that they were wrong, that this is worth it.

And that, Matsukawa thinks, is something for Oikawa and Iwaizumi to achieve. He can’t deny that they deserve it. Perhaps their scores are only a few points higher than his, but it’s a chasm he’ll never be able to cross. As a competitor, he’s bitter. But he’s not a competitor anymore. He’s just their friend, whooping and clapping as their names get called for Faceoff, and did Hanamaki actually bring a neon sign?

Matsukawa can see out of the corner of his eye money exchanging hands among the first years. But this is the one thing that he and Hanamaki would never bet on, not in a million years.

The questions rain down so hard and fast that Matsukawa barely has any time to think. He knows how to go about doing maybe three-quarters the problems- he could probably beat maybe one of the competitors if he were lucky. But mostly, he’s astounded by how extraordinarily intelligent these people are. How do they do that?

Oikawa wins his first round. So does Iwaizumi. Matsukawa can see them eying each other from across the stage. If they each beat one more person, they’d be able to go to Nationals together, since four people from each region make it. But it’s a too-real possibility that they’ll get matched together, one out of seven, and Matsukawa prays to all the gods of chance that the odds will work in their favor. He can see Hanamaki cross his fingers and knock on the wooden table leg.

But it’s like Hanamaki said. Probability is rendered useless once the actual result is determined, and Matsukawa watches in horror as the announcer calls them up as a pair in the next round. Oikawa and Iwaizumi slide into their seats, and the announcer shuffles his cards and says, “Well look at that, rivals from the same school!”

Matsukawa glares even though he knows the announcer can’t see him. You have no idea.

The first question they get is on the area of a crop circle that a really intricate UFO created. Oikawa gets that one, yelling “Fifty-two pi!” before the announcer is even done reading it. The next one is on the trajectory of a volleyball as it’s spiked over the net, and this time it’s Iwaizumi that slams the button down and answers the question. The tension at Seijoh is palpable.

“Third question,” the announcer says. A grid shows up on the screen. “Argyle is trying to get to his girlfriend Beatrice’s house, but unfortunately, he’s quite stupid and goes only north and left at random. What is the probability that he will make it to Beatrice’s house?”

Who comes up with these things, Matsukawa wonders. The room is still as Oikawa presses his buzzer and says quietly, “Twenty-five out of one-hundred and sixty-nine,” and then Iwaizumi is getting ushered off the stage and back into his seat. A knife sticks itself into Matsukawa’s side, conflicting with the pride he feels for Oikawa. He wonders what he’ll say when the Faceoffs are done. Hanamaki looks like he’s having the exact same issue.

Oikawa gets out in the next round, but that’s fine, because he’s going to Nationals, and Matsukawa tunes out the rest of the Faceoff. Ushijima wins, to no one’s surprise, and Matsukawa mock-claps with everyone else as he’s given a shiny gold ribbon.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi return, and Iwaizumi has his head held high. Oikawa looks simultaneously guilty and radiantly happy all at once, and they hover awkwardly at the edge of the table. No one meets their eyes.

It’s Iwaizumi that acts first. He punches Oikawa in the chest, and the entire place recoils. “You dumbass!” He hisses. “You just made it to Nationals, Shittykawa, you fucking amazing prat ! At least have the decency to look happy about it!” Iwaizumi then glares at everyone at the table, who immediately swarm around them to congratulate their captain.

Oikawa’s grinning widely, but his eyes are sad. Iwaizumi, however, looks as if he doesn’t want anyone to console him whatsoever, so Matsukawa acts the same as normal. He and Hanamaki congratulate Oikawa with a few backhanded compliments and then fade out from the scene.

Seijoh gets third place, and Matsukawa hefts the trophy up and smiles for the camera. Karasuno gets second despite the fact only Kageyama is making it to Nationals, and this one guy is yelled at for taking off his shirt. Shiratorizawa is announced first place to no one’s surprise, and then Regionals is over, people pouring out of the room to go home.

It’s an unspoken agreement that Aoba Johsai won’t be celebrating together, so they disperse one by one. Matsukawa waits outside for his mom to pick him up, texting her to ask if Hanamaki can carpool with them since his mom had an emergency at work. She says yes, and he and Hanamaki wait outside in silence.

Matsukawa knows they’re both thinking about Iwaizumi, who would never complain about his loss, not after his best friend’s success. He probably wouldn’t even allow himself to cry. Because the only thing he could do was continue, even though, in the end, Oikawa might still be impossible to keep up with.

“Your mom here yet?” Hanamaki asks, and Matsukawa shakes his head, seeing his inbox devoid of messages.

“You wanna check out the scores?” Hanamaki asks, and Matsukawa considers this for a moment before nodding his head. They head into the now-empty competition room and stand by the wall, where the top one-hundred scores are posted. Hanamaki is twenty-sixth. Matsukawa is twenty-seventh. Matsukawa shrugs and holds his hand up for a high-five, and Hanamaki obliges.

“Sorry,” Hanamaki says.

“No,” Matsukawa says. “One of us had to beat the other, so there’s no use apologizing over it.”

Hanamaki dips his chin. “We probably got the same score, actually, and the judges gave me higher place because my handwriting is neater and I actually show my work.”

Matsukawa rolls his eyes. “Mathleticon, turning friends against each other since 1903.”

“Agreed,” Hanamaki says, and they stroll out of the building. It’s wet and cold outside, but Matsukawa prefers this. The Mathleticon building was suffocating him.

“Also, if you’re worried about Iwaizumi, don’t be,” Hanamaki says. “I mean, he knew what he signed up for when he became Oikawa’s best friend.”

“Why would he do that to himself,” Matsukawa says out of habit. Hanamaki lapses into silence, staring out in the distance. Matsukawa is quiet, too. He allows himself this at the very least.

Mathleticon is finished. It feels like the end of an extremely stressful era, and Matsukawa frowns in fascination at the idea of spare time. He wonders what he’ll do with it.

But then Matsukawa’s mom is pulling up, and they’re blasting music out of the radio while they scream the words at the top of their lungs, and the cold air hits his face and Matsukawa decides that it’s okay, he’ll figure it out.

---

“What are you going to do?” Hanamaki asks, and Matsukawa gives a noncommittal hum in response, angling his head toward the faraway treeline.

They’re sitting on top of a picnic bench, the March weather cool and wet, snow melting into slush underneath the brilliant blue sky. Hanamaki’s wearing a fleece jacket, the kind that looks fluffy and warm but is actually thin as hell. It’s unbuttoned and falling off of his shoulders, and Matsukawa privately thinks it should be illegal to look that good.

“Statistics,” Matsukawa finally says. He has freedom with a choice like that; every field needs someone willing to crunch numbers. His parents had been the ones to suggest it, but Matsukawa  isn’t doing it to please them. He likes the careful filtering of information, the lines of the charts stark against the screen for him to unravel into something worthwhile.

“You’re just rubbing into my face how much I suck at probability,” Hanamaki says, planting his palms on the wood and leaning back.

“Yep,” Matsukawa deadpans. “That was definitely the number one influence in my decision. Of course I would choose my lifelong career out of pure spite.”

“I just don’t understand why you sound so sarcastic,” Hanamaki snarks. “I, for one, decided to major in engineering because Matsukawa Issei can’t geometry.”

“Fucking triangles.”

Hanamaki winces. “Do not remind me. Do you know how disappointed I was in seventh grade when I realized that ASS was not, in fact, a viable way to prove triangles congruent? So many wasted insult opportunities.”

“Next time we run into Oikawa and Iwaizumi, we can call them congruent triangles.”

“Oooh, yes. Speaking of which, Oikawa got third in Nationals. Who the hell even does that?” Hanamaki says, flailing his arms.

They’d watched the match on TV. He’d definitely been the crowd favorite, and Matsukawa wishes he could say he was surprised.

“And TMSI accepted him,” Matsukawa says. “Isn’t Oikawa like, the youngest person to get in for the past two decades?”

“Don’t remind me,” Hanamaki says, sprawling out on the picnic bench in a way that he somehow manages to use Matsukawa as his pillow and legrest all in one go. “Anyway, I’m happy. Good for him.”

“I can tell you kind of resent him, too.”

“Who said it can’t be both,” Hanamaki says, and Matsukawa gives a half-lidded nod of agreement. It’s hard not to be bitter, watching their friend climb the rungs while they’ll always be the mediocre kind of brilliant. But they’re trying.

They lapse into silence, and Matsukawa hums as he takes out a piece of paper and attempts to make a diagram of the skewed events of the past month. He draws a dotted line to represent Minako and Iwaizumi’s fake relationship, sketching an arrow from Yamasaki pointing to Iwaizumi to show the respect for his senpai that resulted in him keeping quiet.

Then he draws a thick line from Oikawa to Iwaizumi and a thick line from Yamasaki to Minako to represent their- ugh- true love , and the whole thing ends up looking like a demented parallelogram. It’s a disappointment, really. The layers of angst and jealousy aren’t in there at all, and they’re complicated enough to have their own fractals and sub-fractals.

Hanamaki leans his head on his shoulder to look at his work. “One more thing,” he says, and he takes the pen and doodles two frowning emoticons on the side. “That’s us, by the way.”

Matsukawa’s fingers twitch of their own accord- there’s a fleeting thought of drawing a thick line between his and Hanamaki’s faces that’s squashed before he can even properly contemplate the consequences. Instead, he draws a big, frilly heart around Oikawa and Iwaizumi and passes the paper back to Hanamaki.

“Very nice,” Hanamaki says, pretending to inspect it. “But wait.” He draws a zigzag like the side of a stairway and adds two stick-figures underneath it whose faces are smushed together, and then he draws another stick figure with a horrified expression and a tuft of turnip hair. “There we go! That’s Kindaichi. I told them they should have chosen a better place to make out than the stairwell.”

“Not Kindaichi, my poor, innocent child,” Matsukawa says, pretending to dab a tear from his eye. “And here we thought we’d have to corrupt him all by ourselves.”

“His innocence is cute, really. You know that face he makes when someone cracks a dirty joke and everyone else is laughing and he has no idea what’s going on? Priceless. We could sell it on eBay and get rich.”

“Did you know Kunimi tried to sell Kindaichi once?”

“Oh, really?” Hanamaki says. “I didn’t hear about that one.”

“God, Makki, keep up with the times,” Matsukawa says, elbowing him. “I’ll have to revoke your status as a manager of the gossip mill if such an incident happens again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

---

Graduation day is surreal. The crowd is too packed and warm, and Matsukawa sweats through his graduation robe and wishes he were somewhere else. A teacher makes a particularly emotional speech that’s amplified by its comedic punctuation, and Matsukawa can tell a lot of people are getting teary-eyed.

Matsukawa’s eyes remain dry. Not because he’s a robot, but because he has never been one to hold on too tight to past memories; he stores them deep inside an internal container and moves on, letting events unfold as they should. He can’t deny it’d hurt to lose his friends, especially Hanamaki, but he’s spent the past few weeks (months?) untangling the knots they put in his go-with-the-flow demeanor.

Oikawa has an entire line of girls waiting to confess to him. It’s cute and annoying. They’re supposed to go out for ramen soon at Victuri Plaza, and the confessions are creating an enormous hold up. Oikawa is a master of finesse; he turns the girls down delicately, leaving them happy and even more enamored with him than before, but his patience takes up time.

Matsukawa gets a few confessions himself. He’s clueless in this respect, and he dreads the way his chest tightens whenever he sees a girl’s downcast expression. He has not mastered Oikawa’s art in any way, and he accidentally makes two girls burst into tears. The third girl, Ayumi, is a friend of his from math club, and she tells him that the only reason she confessed was because her parents expected her to.

“Thanks for turning me down, Matsukawa-kun,” she says. “I wouldn’t have known what to do if you said yes.” Matsukawa gives her a small smile in return, and she hands him a scrap of paper with a few digits scribbled on it. “It was cool knowing you, though, so if you ever want to talk? I’m also majoring in Stats.”

“Thanks,” Matsukawa says, folding the piece of paper and slipping it into his pencil case. He means it. She gives a bright smile and turns around, and it’s only because he looked back that he sees her swiping at her eyes. Matsukawa’s heart clenches. Part of him wants to call after her, wants to apologize and tell her she’s beautiful and that of course someone will fall for her one day, but he knows how empty his words would sound. He walks away.

Oikawa’s watching the scene, finally done with his line of fangirls. He slings an arm around Matsukawa and whispers into his ear. “It’s not your fault you don’t like her. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Matsukawa nods, and nothing more is said about it. His mood, however, is somber when he, Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Oikawa walk into the ramen shop, but he lets it go because guilt isn’t what he wants to associate with their final day as high schoolers. They order their ramen and then pile into the booth, the restaurant half-filled and warm.

The ramen, as always, is delicious . The ramen shop is next to the cafe and their shopkeepers are friends, and Yuuri has apparently put a nice word in for Matsukawa everywhere because their ramen is ten percent off. Oikawa argues that it’s because of his fabulous looks; unfortunately, he’s in the earshot of one of the chefs and she turns around and says, “No, no it is not.”

Oikawa whines and Iwaizumi snickers for ten minutes straight. Matsukawa eats his ramen and Hanamaki steals a couple of noodles, and then Oikawa’s position at TMSI is brought up. Oikawa looks wary, and Matsukawa wants to tell him not to worry so much. They’re his friends. Even if they are jealous, they’d still be happy for his success.

“Astronomy, huh?” Hanamaki asks, punctuated by a purposeful slurp of his noodles. “Always knew you’d return back to the planet you came from.”

“I hope they have WiFi there,” Oikawa says, ignoring the jab. “I wouldn’t want to lose my Snapchat streak with Mattsun. Which, by the way, you better keep up when we’re in college!”

“No promises,” Matsukawa says. The whole thing goes downhill from there. Oikawa lunges across Iwaizumi and latches onto Matsukawa, shrieking in indignation; Iwaizumi’s soup teeters precariously, and a rainbow of language flies out of his mouth; Hanamaki, the traitor, is doing nothing, leaving Matsukawa to try and free himself alone.

“Please get off of me,” Matsukawa says. “I need to eat my noodles. Or more like, I need to prevent Hanamaki from eating my noodles.”

“But Mattsun !” Oikawa whines.

“Don’t worry, Oikawa, he’ll see plenty of your face when you colonize Mars or whatever and end up on national TV,” Hanamaki drawls. “Although I’m sure the place will have second thoughts about hiring you when you start ranting about the aliens.”

“I know there’s a compliment somewhere in there!” Oikawa says, beaming. Iwaizumi cuffs him in the head. “If you want to tell me I’m a handsome genius, just say so!”

Iwaizumi scowls. “I’m this close to dumping my soup on your head.”

“Kinky,” Hanamaki says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Dammit, Mattsun, help me out over here- your eyebrow game is better than mine.”

“You’re so crude, Makki,” Oikawa complains, his fingertips on Matsukawa’s forehead in a valiant attempt to keep his eyebrows from moving.

“Okay, you guys didn’t have the decency to get together sooner, so I have to cram, like, three years worth of gross couple jokes into the span of two months.”

“Apologies,” Iwaizumi drawls. “But hey, at least we got together.”

“Sick burn!” Oikawa crows. He elbows Hanamaki, who has suddenly developed great interest in the few stray noodles stuck to the sides of his bowl. Matsukawa squashes down the tiny flame of hope that had dared to kindle inside him and starts stacking their trash onto the tray. A waiter hands them their check.

The four of them exit the ramen shop and stand awkwardly at the entrance, unsure of what to say. Iwaizumi clears his throat, his face twisted with discomfort. “Um. It’s been fun,” Iwaizumi says. “You guys have been great.”

“So eloquent,” Oikawa snickers. “Don’t worry, Iwa-chan, none of us expected you to give a grandiose speech.” Iwaizumi flushes bright red, but he barrels on.

“You’re going to TMSI to specialize in space,” Iwaizumi says, addressing Oikawa, who opens his mouth as if to say something. Iwaizumi cuts him off. “But aren’t you going to need a computer programmer to plot the trajectories?” He points to himself. “And an engineer to build your rocketships?” He points to Hanamaki. “And a statistician to analyze your data?” He gestures to Matsukawa.

Oikawa’s mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and glassy. “Iwa-chan-”

“You might be the youngest of us to get in,” Hanamaki chimes in, “but trust me, we’ll be coming, too. One, because we can’t have you beating us. And two, because you’ll probably accidentally cause the entire universe to explode without someone watching you over.”  

There’s a split-second of silence before Oikawa flings his arm around Hanamaki and presses his face into his shirt. “So not cool!” He wails. “How can you just say something like that?”

“Shut up,” Hanamaki mumbles. He rubs the back of his neck. “Or I’ll take it back.” Oikawa laughs quietly; he knows, as they all do, that words like that can’t be unsaid. Matsukawa just smiles at them, his hands in his pockets.

The Iwaizumis’ red Nissan pulls into the parking lot before anything else can be said. Oikawa and Iwaizumi take a step forward before taking a look back, as if unsure.

“See you around,” Matsukawa says casually. Goodbye for now, but not forever. Those were the words he was supposed to say when he and Hanamaki were dividing up their embarrassing farewell speech.

Hanamaki is outraged. “That was not your line!” He screeches, and Matsukawa shrugs unapologetically in return. He’s supposed to be the quiet one, after all. He gets a kick on the shin from Iwaizumi as punishment, too, so it"s fair.

“Hajime! Tooru!” Iwaizumi’s mom calls, rolling down the window. “Hurry up, okay? We gotta pick up Takeru!”

“See you,” Iwaizumi says, and he and Oikawa climb into the car and wave through the windows. Hanamaki and Matsukawa wave back until the car turns out of the parking lot and becomes a small speck on the road. They stand there for a moment, bathed in the setting sun, and Matsukawa turns around says, “What do you want to do now?”

Hanamaki taps his chin. “Wanna head to the plaza center?”

“Sure,” Matsukawa says, and they go. The plaza center is a large, open space in the middle of Victuri plaza, adorned with shrubbery and fancy stone tables. It’s a popular gathering place, couples and families sitting around and casually chatting, and the low murmur of voices permeates the air around them.

They slide into one of the open benches. “I’ve got a math problem I need you to solve,” Hanamaki says, sounding hesitant, and Matsukawa gestures as if to say, bring it . Hanamaki takes an index card out of his backpack and slides it over, the words “solve for i” on one side and “9x+7i>3(3x-7u)” on the other.

Matsukawa takes it and frowns. “This is messed up in so many ways. First off, i is generally known as an off-limits variable because it’s the square root of negative one-”

“-Just… act like it’s a normal variable-”

“-Second off, I wouldn’t be able to get an answer because it’s an inequality, unless you wanted me to graph it, and third off, I’m pretty sure you’re pranking me or something because you are perfectly capable of solving such an equation yourself, I slept through half my calculus test and still managed to get an A- san.”

“You know what,” Hanamaki says, yanking the paper back with such force that Matsukawa almost gets a papercut, “ignore that. It was stupid, anyway.” Hanamaki’s pointedly refusing to look at him now, mouth set in a thin line.

Matsukawa regrets everything. “Actually, now I’m very curious to see as to what i equals. How about you give that back?” Matsukawa asks, reaching out and taking the paper from Hanamaki’s hand. Hanamaki grabs for it, but his fingers slip harshly off the edge, and then he tackles Matsukawa to the tabletop and tries to get it out of his hands.

Matsukawa slips out from underneath him and runs, doing the equation in his head. 9x-7i>3(3x-7i). 9x-7i>9x-21u. -7i>-21u. i<3u . It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Matsukawa to comprehend, and when he does, he feels a fire start from his stomach and spread to the rest of his body. Hanamaki, by now, has given up chasing him, sitting a few feet away on a bench with his head buried in his collar.

Matsukawa wonders how he should react, since hey, he only gets to respond once, and he has a meme title to live up to. Since this is probably the world’s worst cringeworthy confession letter (it’s a shabbily-constructed math equation, probably snatched off the internet), his response should be equally cringe-worthy in return. He taps his pen against his mouth for a moment before hastily sketching a graph and heading over to Hanamaki.

“Hey,” Matsukawa says. “Here’s your answer.”

Hanamaki squints. “You didn’t even graph it right,” he says. “This is i<1/3u. Has my stupidity addled your brain?”

Matsukawa grins, his smile wide and genuine and lopsided. “Your feelings,” he says, and Hanamaki groans, “are reciprocated.”

1

2

3

“Oh my god, that’s awful,” Hanamaki wheezes. Matsukawa doubles over laughing and gets a hard smack to the shoulder. Hanamaki’s face is right next to his, outraged.

“You could have confessed earlier,” Hanamaki seethes. “I waited until this moment because I thought you didn’t like me, you fucking asshole . Your signals were so mixed we could’ve made a probability equation out of it.”

“I was obvious, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Obvious. Absolutely transparent. Glass windows are opaque in comparison to how transparent I was.”

“You’re a fucking brick wall, and just as dense.”

“Your mom is a brick wall.”

“Your face is a brick wall.”

“Ouch,” Matsukawa says. He laughs and takes Hanamaki’s hand, since he’s pretty sure he’s allowed to do that now. Hanamaki’s hands are warm, and his fingers fit nicely into the spaces between Matsukawa’s own. Matsukawa likes it. Hanamaki is a touchy person, but there are some types of contact reserved especially for couples, and Matsukawa decides that touch is now his favorite sense out of all five.

“Seriously, though, we’re going to different unis in like, two months,” Hanamaki complains. “This sucks.”

“We’ll make it work,” Matsukawa says. “As a master of probability, I can tell you that there’s a good chance we’ll wind up together.”

Hanamaki grins. “Ah, and there’s the sappy, uncool statement that I was deprived of before,” he says. “Shame Oikawa and Iwaizumi aren’t here to witness it.”

“I hate you.”

“You literally just confessed to me a moment ago and we’re already in a fight?” Hanamaki gasps, pressing his hands to his cheeks. “I didn’t know our relationship would be so turbulent.”

“Shut up,” Matsukawa grumbles. He berates himself for his simple sentences, but Hanamaki’s looking at him in a way that makes it near impossible to think straight.

“Hey, you’re the one who decided to like me,” Hanamaki says, folding his hands behind his head. “Watch as like, you propose and I respond with a meme or something.”

“Oh, we’re already on the topic of marriage? How forward of you.”

“I know, right?” Hanamaki says. He leans back, face parallel to the sky. Matsukawa follows suit. It’s twilight, the view a dusky blue, and he knows his curfew’s soon. But that’s okay. He has time.

They have time.