no thoughts, just her
— tobio forgets his jersey number but remembers the exact time you first sneezed in front of him.
ts!kageyama tobio x f!reader
c: fluff!!
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kageyama tobio is the kind of man who could probably forget his own shoe size if volleyball didn’t require footwear. which is fine. understandable. tragic, even—because he’s a professional athlete, his body is the business, and yet his brain… sometimes takes detours.
like the time during practice when he blankly stared at the back of his own jersey as if someone had written quantum physics instead of a simple number. his teammates swore they saw smoke leaving his ears.
“kageyama,” ushijima asked, patient like a saint. “are you… lost?”
and kageyama, with that blunt honesty of his, replied, “i don’t know what number i am.”
silence. echoing silence. the kind of silence that could age wine.
“your jersey,” hoshiumi said carefully, as though speaking to a feral animal. “has the number. right there. on your back. it’s been the same for so long, kageyama.”
“oh,” he muttered. “right. i forgot.”
the entire adlers team collectively had to sit down, not because the revelation was earth-shattering, but because they could not comprehend how a setter of his caliber could erase his own numerical existence.
but then. oh, then.
someone (a random guy named berto) made the mistake of asking why—if his memory was apparently this hole-ridden—he somehow, without fail, could recall your birthday down to the exact minute.
and kageyama, red in the face, ears blazing like twin traffic lights, shouted so loudly the rafters shook:
“BECAUSE IT MATTERS MORE!!”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and that, dear reader, is when everyone realized: kageyama’s brain runs exclusively on two modes—volleyball and you.
and unfortunately for volleyball, it had to share space with the gravitational pull that is you, his girlfriend, his universe, the reason he knows the exact second you once tripped on a crack in the sidewalk two years ago (“2:47 pm, april 16th,” he recites without blinking, as if the event is carved into marble).
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kageyama doesn’t just love you. he lives you. eats, sleeps, breathes you.
example:
you once offhandedly mentioned you liked the smell of strawberries. normal boyfriend move would be to buy you strawberries.
kageyama’s next move?
he bought enough strawberries to make the kitchen look like a crime scene. then panicked because “what if she doesn’t like them that much” and ended up googling “can strawberries expire faster if i stare at them” at 2 a.m.
another time, you told him you liked how warm his hands were.
and suddenly, every chance he gets, he’s grabbing your hand, clutching it like he’s trying to convince fate itself that you’ll never let go. even during games. ushijima once had to physically pry him off your wrist before a match because, in kageyama’s words, “her hands get cold if i’m not holding them. what if she dies?”
the dramatics are unparalleled.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the obsession devotion reaches its peak whenever your name comes up around the team.
someone starts, “so, y/n—”
kageyama who’s whipping his head around so fast doctors would warn about spinal damage “what about her? what did you say? do you like her? YOU CAN’T LIKE HER. SHE’S MINE.”
ushijima, calmly sipping water, “i said she made good cookies.”
kageyama blinks, “oh. yeah. she does. really good. amazing. the best. she’s the best. you’re not allowed to have any.”
hoshiumi snickers, hand covering his mouth, “she literally gave me some yesterday.”
kageyama, scandalized, gripping the floor like it betrayed him, “WHAT—”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and yet, despite being a human disaster in love’s clothing, he is also the sweetest kind of devoted.
he sets reminders for every tiny detail you’ve ever given him:
your favorite pen ink color (0.5 mm, black, smooth tip, no exceptions).
the exact shade of sweater you once said made you feel “like a cinnamon bun” (he ordered three in bulk).
the minute you first laughed at one of his lame volleyball analogies (“10:36 am, august 3rd. it was about pancakes. she laughed at pancakes. it was beautiful”).
he doesn’t forget these things because they matter. to him, you are a library of holy scripture and he’s memorized every verse.
and when you ask him why he can’t remember his own jersey number but can rattle off the date and time you first sneezed in front of him, he simply answers—face serious, eyes sharp, heart loud:
“jerseys change. numbers change. but you—” he pauses, as if words aren’t enough. “you don’t. and i don’t want to forget anything about you. ever.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you laugh, because it’s so him. clumsy, blunt, desperate, the kind of love that’s too big for his chest.
“tobio,” you tease, ruffling his hair, “you sound like a stalker.”
he frowns. “no. stalkers don’t care about birthdays.”
and honestly? fair point.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he may forget his jersey. his shoe size. his locker combination.
but he’ll never, ever forget you.
to him, you’re the game. the victory. the only scoreboard that matters.
and if he has to scream it from the rooftops until the world finally gets it, he will:
“BECAUSE IT MATTERS MORE!!”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: HAHA! I’M ALIVE, PRETTY PEOPLE!
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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
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