“I just think he’s really cool.”
Six words that Suga is now regretting, after Daichi had rolled his eyes at him and shoved him in a certain pink-haired boy’s direction. He’d ended up stumbling, nearly dropping his tray, and wouldn’t that have been something, spilling a full bowl of hot curry over your latest—
“—infatuation,” Daichi grins.
“Shut up, you make it sound like I have a crush on him.”
“Don’t you?”
“For the last time, no. I just want to be friends with him.”
Daichi gives him a look.
“Seriously!” Suga protests. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“You’re being awfully suspicious about all of this,” Daichi retorts. “Excuse me for not believing you when you refuse to talk to him like a normal person, moon over him at every lunch break, and turn red every time it’s your turn to block him on court—which, by the way, you need to stop doing, because it’s losing us points.”
Their practice match earlier had been difficult, to say the least. Suga’s palms and chest twinge with the reminder of their pinprick bruises from practice and endless diving drills. Despite improving their skills, there was still so much their team needed to work on: receiving, communicating, coordinating attacks… the list went on. When Suga had finally gone in to play against Aoba Johsai, he’d failed to block Hanamaki at least twice. The disappointment over losing the points had stung, but he’d felt more fired up than ever when seeing Hanamaki smirk at him through the net.
Suga lets out a sigh. “Fine, fine, I get it.” He points his spoon at Daichi. “But it’s not a romantic crush, it’s just a friend crush, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. A friend crush.” Daichi grins and shovels the last of his rice in his mouth, setting his bowl back on his tray with a victorious plunk.
“Be serious!” Suga kicks Daichi under the table. “What would I even say to him? Hi, you look like someone I want to be friends with.” He lets his face fall into his palms with a smack. “We’re basically enemies right now.”
His so-called-friend throws his hands up in the air. “Just say hi! It’s not that hard. We’re literally at a volleyball camp; you already know he likes volleyball.”
“Oh yeah, sick spike you have there, Hanamaki-san, thanks for getting it past every single one of my blocks so far,” Suga mocks, raising his head from his hands to pull a face at Daichi. “That’ll go well for establishing that I’m”—his voice pitches into a distressed whisper—“a loser!”
“Okay, maybe you should workshop that one a bit. You could try bonding over your weird hair colors?”
Suga can practically hear the smile tugging at the corners of his best friend’s lips.
“You are so unhelpful.”
“Come on, is that any way to treat your best friend? When you’re literally asking him for help on how to replace him?”
Suga groans and replants his face in his hands, but Daichi leans over to poke at Suga until he squirms and is forced to repurpose one of his hands to bat away the offending limb.
“Ugh, you know I’ll never replace you.” At Daichi’s grin, he adds, “I’ve got too much blackmail on you for that spot to ever be taken.”
He laughs as Daichi sputters in mock-offense, and lets his eyes trail across the cafeteria to where Hanamaki Takahiro sits with the rest of the Aoba Johsai volleyball team.
Hanamaki solemnly lifts a solitary cream puff in the air, using both hands as if commemorating the dessert with some sort of ritual. It’s a good thing he’s using both hands, since the pastry nearly goes airborne a moment later when Oikawa Tooru jostles him in a frantic attempt to escape the wrath of his vice captain, who’s threatening to punch him yet again.
Suga snorts out a laugh.
“Haha, they’re so funny, you’re so right,” Daichi deadpans, waving his chopsticks in front of Suga’s face.
“You’re insufferable,” Suga says, sticking his tongue out at him.
“And you love me for it—hey!”
Daichi scrabbles across the table, but Suga’s already standing up and slinging his bag over his head, triumphantly holding Daichi’s last meat bun out of reach. He takes a vicious bite and gives Daichi a smirk to match.
***
Across the cafeteria, Hanamaki mirrors Sugawara, taking a bite out of his profiterole and chewing thoughtfully. Matsukawa leans over his shoulder.
“Y’know, if you keep staring like that, he’s gonna notice you.”
Hanamaki doesn’t bother pulling his gaze away from Karasuno’s captain and vice captain. Their ruckus is barely out of the ordinary for the cafeteria, given that this training camp pulled together over twenty schools from across Japan. Between Oikawa’s antics, Kyoutani’s penchant for picking fights, and the fact that Iwaizumi was the only teammate who could knock them back in line—usually in the literal sense—the Aoba Johsai team had their fair share of rowdiness. At the start of camp, Coach Irihata and Coach Mizoguchi had given their team stern instructions:
“Take advantage of this camp. We’ll be playing a game with Sendai University in two weeks, so now’s the time to brush up on your skills.”
Their coaches had disappeared after that for a few hours, most likely to catch up with the other coaches and sort out whatever kinds of paperwork were involved in attending a week-long series of away games, and Hanamaki and the rest of the team had assumed that their coaches would turn up to their practice games as needed.
Left to their own devices, they’d quickly sorted out a rotating system among their teammates for score-keeping. It probably didn’t help that their team didn’t have a manager, and that most of the organization and note-taking fell to Yahaba, who was relatively attentive when it came to games and utterly distracted off-court in his attempts to act suave and find reasons to sidle up to Karasuno’s younger manager, but they managed.
Aoba Johsai had never been a team that stuck too closely together outside of volleyball. They got along well, but their team worked best when they had equal parts of time together and apart. A full week together as a team might be stifling, especially when there were no classes or homework in between. They came together on the court and for extra practice, but for the most part, it often meant that their team scattered about in pairs or trios during non-game time. Mealtimes were the exception, though. Every school clung to their own like an unspoken rule. It was far easier to group together at one long table than to try befriending someone from another team.
It had also led to situations like the curry situation, as Matsukawa had dubbed it.
Earlier, they’d exited the lunch line, their trays filled with plates of meat buns, stewed vegetables, and bowls heaped high with steaming rice and fragrant curry. The managers were going all out, and it was nice to see the different teams coming together to make something beautiful. Hanamaki had made fun of Matsukawa for that line, teasing him for being sentimental and asking if he was going to miss high school and their volleyball team after graduation. Matsukawa had rolled his eyes and deadpanned something about hoping not to see Hanamaki at work, but knowing that it’d be inevitable anyway, and the rest of the team had cracked matching smiles at his joke.
Hanamaki had opened his mouth to defend his pride, and it was then that he had nearly gotten bowled over by Karasuno’s silver-haired setter. He’d lifted his tray high above his head to spare it from impending disaster, and gotten Sugawara’s tray jabbed directly into his gut for his efforts. The barley tea in his cup had sloshed over its rim, spilling across the front of Hanamaki’s shirt, and wooden chopsticks had gone clattering to the floor.
Their curry, at least, had been spared, and he’d enjoyed every bite of his own bowl afterward, along with a golden tinge of satisfaction from the memory of how Sugawara had looked up at him, eyes wide and cheeks pink, before straightening up and backing away with a stammered apology. Hanamaki had lowered his tray and shook his head, giving him an easy smile, and they’d parted ways with their respective teams.
As Hanamaki had sat down next to Matsukawa, settling into the familiar comfort of his teammates’ conversations around him, he’d watched Sugawara slide his lunch tray across Karasuno’s table and use his newly freed hands to catch Sawamura in a headlock, digging his knuckles into the top of Sawamura’s head reproachfully before relinquishing his hold and rounding the table to eat lunch.
Now, with only twenty minutes of break left, and their next practice match not for another hour, Hanamaki wonders if he should have said something more to reassure Sugawara, who he’d caught glancing at him guiltily more than once.
“He’s the one who keeps looking over,” Hanamaki tells Matsukawa, “and I can’t help it if he’s sitting directly in my line of sight.”
His teammate raises an eyebrow and drains the last of his tea from his cup, setting it back on his tray with a dull thud.
“You aren’t intrigued by him at all? If it makes you feel any better, I’d still say that Oikawa’s the one with a weird fascination with him, not you.”
Hanamaki laughs at that. “When has our captain ever been normal about anything?”
They both look at Oikawa, who’s currently trying to convince Kunimi that taking an art class next year is the key to finally getting a girlfriend. Their kouhai seems resigned to spending the rest of lunch like this, picking at his rice bowl mournfully as if it will offer an escape.
Hanamaki shakes his head, and pops the last bite of his cream puff into his mouth. “That’s for sure.”
Matsukawa gets pulled into conversation by Oikawa, then, and Hanamaki takes this moment of peace to stack the dishes on his tray neatly. He doesn’t say anything about how he’s noticed Sugawara even before this camp, how the other boy has something alluring to him when he’s on the court and even more so when he’s not. There isn’t anything wrong with assessing an opponent, he decides, and there certainly aren’t going to be any opportunities to talk to Sugawara except for when they face each other on opposite sides of the net.
Matsukawa nudges him, startling him out of his thoughts. “So, want to go say hi?”
“Huh?”
“It’s not like we meet up with other schools that often. I’m surprised Coach had us come at all—you know he mostly organizes practice matches with college teams. Might as well make some new friends while we’re here.”
“New friends,” Hanamaki says, skeptical. Matsukawa has never been one to initiate socializing, even though he’s surprisingly the most social person out of their group, always knowing the right things to say at the right time. It also makes him the best one at wheedling the rest of them into his plans or pranks.
“Yep,” Matsukawa says, and his face is entirely blank when he adds, “this is the excuse I’m giving you instead of calling you out on all the extra attention you’ve been paying to a certain setter.” He gets up, picks up his duffle bag and lunch tray, and looks at the other third year expectantly.
Hanamaki thinks about Sugawara’s determination when playing, and how it doubles when he’s standing on the sidelines, and how maybe, just maybe, he’d like to know what gives him so much courage.
He grabs his own tray and gets up, knowing there’s no talking Matsukawa out of a scheme. Still:
“We’re enemies, okay? We have to beat them, this is no time for friends.”
It’s a weak comeback, but both of them know that Hanamaki doesn’t have the grace or energy to invent some elaborate excuse to talk to another volleyball player at camp, let alone Sugawara, who he’ll admit he admires despite barely having exchanged two words with.
“Definitely,” Matsukawa agrees, the smile playing at the edges of his expression glinting with hidden mischief. “We’ll meet you at the gym later,” he offers to the rest of the team, and Iwaizumi nods in acknowledgement before dropping back into conversation with some of their second years.
They drop their trays off at the kitchen, and then Hanamaki’s stomach is twisting as they stride over to Karasuno’s table, now empty except for Sugawara and Sawamura. As they draw nearer, Sugawara looks up, surprised, and Sawamura twists in his seat to see who caught his friend’s eye.
“Hey,” Matsukawa says.
“Hey,” Sugawara echoes back.
“Matsukawa-san, Hanamaki-san,” Sawamura greets. “Good game earlier.”
“Good save earlier,” Matsukawa says smoothly. “Both of you.”
Sugawara averts his eyes, smiling sheepishly and waving a hand, and Sawamura’s eyes crinkle. “Want to grab a seat?”
“Nah, I’m just here to drop him off.” Matsukawa jerks a thumb over his shoulder to Hanamaki, who shrugs and offers a smile. “This doofus couldn’t think of a single reason to talk to your vice captain.”
“Oh thank god,” Daichi says, “Let’s leave them at it.” He stands up. “Want to practice? You can show me that annoying block up close.”
Matsukawa grins. “You’re on.”
The two of them walk away without another glance for Hanamaki or Suga, falling into easy conversation like they’ve been friends for ages. Hanamaki takes a breath, and slips into the now-empty chair across Sugawara.
“You know, I don’t think they know what they’re doing if they think that letting us become friends bodes well for them.”
Suga throws his head back and laughs, and Hanamaki can’t hide the smile that tugs his lips upward.
Yeah, Hanamaki thinks to himself, I can’t wait to see where this goes.