invisible string | oikage

distortion

fic is short—about 10k words. have fun reading.

***

Imitation was the highest form of flattery. That, Tooru knew. But something about it coming from Tobio was akin to stripping Tooru's skin raw, peeling off well wrapped covers to reveal something unsightly.

It took Tobio three months to carry himself with unadulterated confidence on the court, years too early for his age. It took him less than two practices to nail a new skill—a move that Tooru perfected only after two weeks. It took him less than thirty minutes of seeing Tooru's jump serve to say "Oikawa-senpai, please teach me how to serve."

Naturally, with all pettiness of a child and assumed self-preservation, it took Tooru very little, too, to detest Kageyama Tobio.

(He knew it ran deeper than that. Much, much deeper.)

Tooru slammed the ball across the net with a strength too brutish—too Ushiwaka—for his taste. It flew out of the court, leaving a thundering crash in its wake. His owl-eyed team turned to him in surprise, and he saw Tobio-chan, mouth agape, expression mixed with curiosity and awe. Because, after all, Tobio was none the wiser to Tooru's pinprick-hot hatred for him.

How annoying.

"My bad," he muttered, earning a suspicious prod from Hajime.

"What's up with you?" he asked, irritance in his eyes masking loyal concern. "You've been like this all week."

"Nothing much," Tooru managed to sing-song in reply, "Strength conditioning may have been too fruitful."

It was a blatant lie and Hajime's knowing look confirmed it. But why worry, Tooru thought. Why worry for him, when he'd done so well for himself? A faultless performance he'd put up—being captain, being a service ace, being a team player; he did not need anyone's pity, did not need whatever the loving fuck Tobio had to offer him.

When practice ended that evening, Tooru stayed back. "I need this," he argued, clutching a ball tight between sweating palms when Hajime snappily reminded him of his knee and how the doctor clearly mentioned he shouldn't go overboard with training. "I can't be caught lacking, not with tournaments around the corner."

"I can't force you to stop, then." Hajime's tone said he very much wished he could. "But you are not lacking at all. I don't know why you've been so jittery lately. Volleyball shouldn't be more important than your well-being."

"Don't you think I know that?" Tooru snarled. "But I can't stop. Not when Ushiwaka's barrelling ahead, not when Tobio-chan's being a fucking nuisance—"

Hajime blinked. "Kageyama-kun? He's just a kid, Oikawa!"

"So? He's gonna catch up to me if I'm not careful, don't you see? What, am I supposed to let down my guard because he's twelve?"

"Yeah?"

Silence.

Tooru was so angry he could barely speak. It was a shame Hajime had to be the one he took it out on. He made it a note to apologise later.

His fury was rightfully protective, but bizarre in the way it carried guilt that sunk deep in his stomach. Iwa-chan was right. Tobio was a kid, small and lanky. The bones in his elbows protruded jarringly from his arms as a result of puberty's beginning stages. So, who was Tooru to declare an internal battle against this child? Was he this insecure, to fear a tween who still had years to develop and grow?

Barely keeping his gait from being a full-on run, Tooru shoved past his dear friend and stormed to the locker room, skipping late practice in lieu of facing whatever confrontation Hajime wanted to set up. Fuck that. A sagely little voice in Tooru's head might sputter in protest that maybe Hajime was right, but his pride and insecurities—complex and habitual—struck back something twisted.