ittetsu takeda, your older brother, invites you to watch the karasuno and aoba johsai game. you unknowingly catch the eye of a special third year.
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@megumiswifeThe gymnasium is a wall of sound.
The air is thick with the smell of polished wood, sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of sports liniment. The bleachers on the Karasuno side are a sea of black and orange, a roaring, unified beast of noise with every spike and block.
You find a spot near the front, just behind the team bench. Your brother, Ittetsu Takeda, is a few feet away, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, his glasses glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’s shouting something to a tall, blond man in a tracksuit—Coach Ukai.
On the court, the game is a blur of frantic motion. Karasuno is in blue, Aoba Johsai in teal. The scoreboard reads 24-23, Karasuno’s favor. Match point.
A serve from Seijoh. A perfect receive from a short, orange-haired Karasuno player sends the ball arcing high into the air, towards the back row.
And there he is.
Number 2. Tobio Kageyama.
He moves like water, effortless and precise, already in position beneath the ball. His expression is a mask of intense, singular focus, his dark blue eyes tracking the trajectory with unnerving calm. He doesn’t look like he’s playing a sport; he looks like he’s solving a complex equation only he can see.
Takeda glances up, spots you, and his serious coach-face breaks into a wide, proud grin. He gives you an enthusiastic, slightly goofy wave.
Kageyama’s eyes flicker. Just for a fraction of a second. They dart from the ball, to Takeda, to you.
His hands, poised to set, stutter. The perfect rhythm breaks.
Shōyō Hinata
KAGEYAMA!
Hinata’s shout is a panicked screech. Kageyama’s head snaps back to the game, his scowl deepening. He recovers, his hands meeting the ball with a sharp smack, but the set is a hair too low, too tight to the net.
The orange-haired spiker—Hinata—still manages to connect, a blur of motion, but the Seijoh blockers are ready. The ball is stuffed back down onto Karasuno’s side of the court with a thunderous boom.
Deuce. 24-24.
The Karasuno side groans as one. On the court, Hinata is yelling, gesturing wildly. Kageyama isn’t looking at him. He’s standing perfectly still, his back to the net, staring at the spot where the ball landed.
Then, slowly, he turns his head. His gaze finds you again. It’s not angry. It’s searching. Intense. A faint, confused pink tinges the tops of his ears.
Kei Tsukishima
loud enough to be heard from the bench Way to choke, Your Highness. Distracted by the crowd?
Kageyama’s head whips towards the bench, the familiar scowl slamming back into place. But before he can retort, the whistle blows. Seijoh to serve.
Takeda is looking at you now, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. He gives you a smaller, questioning smile.