miss second place
oikawa tooru is always first — in volleyball, in school, and in everyone’s hearts. she’s second, but fiercely competitive and determined to keep up. their rivalry is electric, but beneath the teasing and tension, something deeper stirs.
starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4
genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers
wc: 8.9k
The clock flashes 7:48 p.m. in angry red digits—mocking, almost. This is well past the hour anyone with a shred of sanity would still be in school, let alone buried under a mountain of paperwork.
The student council room glows in soft lamplight, golden and too calm for the storm in your head. Folders are splayed out in organized chaos, pages fluttering as you scrawl in tight, no-nonsense lines. Your pen moves like a weapon.
Then—like clockwork, or a curse—the door slides open.
"Still slaving away, Miss Second Place?"
Oikawa Tooru’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and irritating, like expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. You don’t have to look to know the exact smirk on his face. You can feel it.
Your pen freezes.
"Get out, Tooru."
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He sinks into the seat across from you like he owns the place, his Seijoh jacket barely hanging off one shoulder, hair damp and tousled just right—like some overachieving drama prince straight from practice. Even now, a faint sheen of sweat clings to his neck in a way that makes you want to look away and stare all at once.
You hate him. You really do.
"This room is for student council members only," you snap, eyes still on your paper.
"Good thing I’m special." He props his chin on one hand, lashes fluttering in mock innocence. "Joint authority, remember? Besides, aren’t you tired of playing president all alone? I came to keep you company."
You finally glance up, and yes—there it is. That grin. The one that says he knows exactly how far under your skin he is.
"You’re not helping. And your definition of 'company' feels more like pest control."
"Then it’s working." He leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse twitch. "Wouldn’t want you to collapse from overwork before I get the chance to beat you on next week’s midterms."
You don’t hesitate—you grab the nearest piece of scrap paper, crumple it, and peg it at his annoyingly symmetrical face. It hits him square on the cheek, and he jerks back with a dramatic flinch like you’ve stabbed him.
"Get out, pretty boy, or I’m telling Hajime you’re still here after hours."
That gets a reaction. He presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply—emotionally, theatrically.
"That hurts, Prez," he says, lips curling into a mock pout. "Using my best friend against me? I thought we had something special."
"We do. It’s called mutual disdain."
He grins wider, as if that’s exactly what he wanted you to say.
"Funny. That’s my favorite love language."
As if on cue, your phone buzzes on the desk. You glance down, thumb flicking the screen open.
[hajime]: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again.
[hajime]: also tell him to shower before he starts flirting, he smells like gym socks and ego.
Your brow twitches.
"Speak of the devil," you mutter, holding the screen up so Oikawa can see. "Your handler says it’s bedtime."
Oikawa squints at the message, then gasps—actual, audible gasp.
"Rude. Gym socks?" he whines, sniffing his sleeve like that’ll help his case. "I smell like victory. And maybe just a hint of mango body wash."
"You smell like someone who thinks cologne is a substitute for personality."
"You wound me again." He sprawls back in the chair like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance. "First the paper attack, now this? One day, you’ll admit you’re obsessed with me, and I’ll pretend to be surprised."
"When hell freezes over."
"Can’t wait, Miss Number Two."
He winks, and it takes everything in you not to launch a stapler this time.
She remembered the first time he called her Number Two.
She was six, standing next to the gold-framed board of top test scores in the elementary school hallway. His name was at the top—bold, smug, infuriating. Hers was right beneath.
Oikawa had turned to her with a dazzling smile and said, "You’re pretty smart, Number Two."
So she’d kicked him in the shin.
He cried. She got detention. Balance, briefly, was restored.
But he kept calling her that. Every year, every test, every time she pushed herself just a little harder—he was always a step ahead, always grinning like he knew. Like it was some private joke only he was in on.
And now here he was, still grinning across a student council desk stacked with forms and expectations, like he hadn’t haunted her entire academic life.
"Still holding onto that nickname, Prez?"
His voice yanked her back to the present.
You glare.
"You mean the one that got you kicked in the leg? Yeah, fond memories."
"Worth it," he says, leaning back like he’s proud of the scar you definitely didn’t leave. "You gave yourself a villain origin story, and I got a fan for life."
"Delusional. Impressive, but delusional."
"Comes with the genius territory."
You chuck another crumpled paper at his head. He dodges—barely—and laughs like he’s won anyway.
You hate that sound.
You really hate how much you don’t.
It wasn’t always like this. Or maybe it always was.
Another memory surfaces before you can stop it—middle school, Kitagawa Daiichi, the golden age of bad haircuts and worse attitudes.
He’d just been named volleyball captain. You’d just topped the midterms for the first time in years. For once, your name was above his on the results board. You still remembered the silence when he walked up to check the list, eyebrows raised.
"Look at that," he’d said, mock-shocked. "The earth’s off its axis."
You’d smirked. "Guess it was bound to happen. Number One fits me better anyway."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, Iwaizumi’s firm voice cut through the tension.
"Enough, Tooru." Iwaizumi stepped between you two, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "You’ve been going at this since elementary school. If you don’t stop, I’m telling coach to bench you."
Oikawa scowled, but Iwaizumi’s stare didn’t waver.
You exchanged a brief look with Iwaizumi—part gratitude, part shared exhaustion.
Oikawa sighed dramatically, but the edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and smiled, slow and unreadable.
"Wear it while you can," he said quietly.
You’d thought about that moment more than you’d admit. Not just the words, but the way he’d said them. Like it wasn’t war anymore—like it was something closer, messier.
But of course, at the finals of your third year, Oikawa was Number One again—snatching the top spot effortlessly and infuriatingly like it was always meant to be his.
And the rivalry didn’t stop there.
It followed you into high school like a shadow you couldn’t shake. He went all in on volleyball with Iwaizumi at his side, carving out his name on the court with that same relentless brilliance that always kept him just one step ahead.
And you? You went for student council. Naturally. There were fewer scoreboards, but the stakes were still high—recommendations, university prospects, the unspoken war for who would stand tallest by the end of it all.
By third year, the stage was set.
He was the captain of the Seijoh volleyball team. You were the student council president.
Two crowns. Two thrones.
Two people still acting like the world might stop turning if the other one ever admitted defeat.
And yet, somehow, despite all the years and fights and thrown stationery, Oikawa Tooru kept finding excuses to wander into your territory.
Like now—his jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from practice, that smug glint in his eyes making itself comfortable across the desk from you.
"You’re really going to keep pretending I don’t make your evenings more exciting?" He stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual. "I bet the paperwork misses me when I’m gone."
You give him a flat look. "I bet your team does too. Shouldn’t you be terrorizing first-years or something?"
"They’re fine." He leans in, eyes dancing. "Besides, this is way more fun. Watching you pretend you don’t enjoy the company."
You toss another crumpled paper at his head.
He doesn’t even flinch this time.
And still—he doesn’t leave.
"You know," Oikawa says, tapping his fingers against your desk, "you’ve never denied having a crush on me. Statistically speaking, silence is admissi—"
The door slides open.
"Knew it."
Iwaizumi stands there with a look that could flatten a first-year.
"My gut told me you weren’t home yet and I was right." He steps fully into the room, arms crossed. "Why am I not surprised you’re harassing the student council president after hours again?"
"Harassing?" Oikawa gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "I was keeping her company! She’s lonely—"
Iwaizumi walks over and grabs him by the collar.
"No, she’s busy. You’re the lonely one."
"Rude!" Oikawa protests, letting himself get hauled up like a sack of potatoes. "At least let me say goodbye!"
Iwaizumi ignores him completely, nods politely in your direction.
"Sorry. Won’t happen again."
You raise an eyebrow.
"It will."
Iwaizumi sighs. "Yeah. I know."
Oikawa, being physically dragged out of the room like some overgrown cat, turns his head with a grin and calls out:
"Goodnight, Number Two~!"
You chuck a pen at the closing door. It bounces harmlessly off the frame.
You don’t miss the way your lips twitch—just barely—before you shake your head and dive back into your paperwork.
Oikawa trudged down the hallway, Iwaizumi’s grip still firm on his collar.
"You really don’t know when to quit, do you?" Iwaizumi muttered, voice low but steady.
Oikawa shrugged, flashing that trademark grin. "Where’s the fun in quitting? Besides, she was actually... tolerating me tonight."
Iwaizumi scoffed. "Tolerating you is the bare minimum. You’re lucky she didn’t throw a stapler."
Oikawa laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "True. I’ll take it as a win."
They slowed near the exit. Iwaizumi glanced over, eyebrows raised.
"You’re really still hung up on her, huh?"
Oikawa’s grin faltered just a bit, eyes darkening with something more complicated. "Yeah."
Iwaizumi shook his head, a rare softness in his voice. "Just don’t mess it up, Crappykawa."
Oikawa smirked again but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as they stepped out into the cool night.
The next afternoon, you stood just outside the gym doors, clipboard in hand, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. You needed to watch their practice—study their form, their movements, everything—so you could finalize the program for the upcoming school festival. It wasn’t like you wanted an excuse to see Oikawa again, but if you did, this was as good as any.
Oikawa was in the center of the court, barking orders with that usual mix of charm and command. Iwaizumi was by his side, steady as ever.
The moment Oikawa spotted you by the bleachers, his whole aura shifted—like a dog finally spotting its owner after a long day. His usual confident grin softened into something warmer, and his eyes locked onto you with unmistakable recognition.
Iwaizumi, noticing this change, let out a long, exasperated sigh. He glanced sideways at Oikawa, who was already weaving through the players and heading straight toward you without a second thought.
Iwaizumi muttered under his breath: "Here we go again."
"Oi, Miss Number Two, you’re here to watch me?" Oikawa called out with a cheeky grin as he closed the distance.
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "Tooru, where’s the form? I’ve told you so many times to get it to me for the festival."
He scratched the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish smile. "Well, you see... I haven’t finished it yet?"
Your patience snapped. "Are you serious, Tooru? I reminded you all last week."
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll give it to you personally—later. Or tomorrow."
You narrowed your eyes. "That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I don’t want to deal with you more than I have to."
"Promise, I’ll give it to you." Oikawa’s grin softened just enough to sound sincere.
You let out a long sigh, feeling like you’d run out of options. It took every ounce of patience not to strangle Seijoh’s volleyball captain right here in front of his teammates.
"I’m dead serious, Tooru," you warned, eyes locking with his. "This is the last time I’m asking."
"Not gonna stay to see my greatness?" he teased, voice dripping with mock confidence as you reached the door, already turning to leave.
"Heck no," you shot back without missing a beat, pushing the door open with a smirk.
As you stepped out of the gym, the cool air hit your face, a welcome relief from the noisy chaos inside. Just behind you, Iwaizumi barely held back a grin as he grabbed a volleyball and flung it straight at Oikawa.
"Stupid," he snapped, voice low but amused, "you already finished the form last week."
Oikawa caught the ball with an exaggerated wince, clutching his chest dramatically.
"That hurts, Iwa-chan," he said, voice thick with mock offense. "And besides, it’s kind of cute to see her reaction."
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing another ball and launching it at him without hesitation.
"Yeah, well, quit wasting time and give it to her already."
Oikawa dodged the second ball with a laugh, shaking his head.
"Fine, fine. Next time, I swear."
Iwaizumi’s glare softened just a little as he watched his friend, then glanced after you, who was already walking away, clipboard pressed to your chest.
From the sidelines, Hanamaki and Matsukawa leaned casually against the gym wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with amused grins.
Hanamaki nudged Matsukawa, smirking. "So this is what it feels like to watch a romcom with a slow burn," he said, eyes following Oikawa’s playful dodges and Iwaizumi’s half-exasperated throws.
Matsukawa chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, all the teasing, the back-and-forth... I swear, if they had a soundtrack right now, it’d be some dramatic love theme playing nonstop."
Hanamaki laughed softly. "And you just know they’re both secretly enjoying every second of it, even if they’d never admit it."
Matsukawa’s grin widened. "At this rate, the whole school’s waiting for them to actually drop the act and say what’s really going on."
They shared a glance, silent agreement passing between them, like two longtime spectators watching a match far more interesting than any volleyball game on the court.
"Slow burn or not," Hanamaki said with a sigh, "this is definitely one for the books."
As dusk settled over the school, the student council room lay bathed in the soft glow of fading daylight. The usual hum of activity had long since faded, replaced by a stillness that felt almost sacred. Papers were strewn across the desk, pens resting where they had been abandoned. And there, slumped over the wood, you were fast asleep—exhaustion having finally claimed you.
Outside the sliding door, Oikawa stood quietly, the folded form clutched carefully in his hands. The room was unusually silent, heavier than usual, and for a moment he hesitated. But then, with slow, deliberate steps, he pushed the door open, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.
He found you exactly as he’d expected—head resting on your folded arms, chest rising and falling in steady, tired rhythm. Something softened in his usually mischievous grin. Without a word, he shrugged off his Seijoh jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders. The fabric settled warmly around you, a quiet shield against the chill of the evening.
Unseen by Oikawa, Hanamaki and Matsukawa lingered just beyond the doorframe, having followed him silently. Hanamaki’s eyes widened in surprise as he whispered, “Did you just see that? Tooru put his jacket on her.”
Matsukawa nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He’s got layers, huh? Who knew?”
Before they could say more, Iwaizumi appeared, arms crossed and wearing his trademark disapproving glare. “Cut it out, you two. Give them some space,” he ordered, tugging them gently away.
Back inside, Oikawa carefully placed the folded form on the desk beside you. He lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the peaceful lines of your face. Then, with a faint, almost shy smile, he quietly stepped out, sliding the door softly behind him.
The sound of the door clicking shut stirred you from your sleep. You blinked blearily, the room still dim but quiet once again. Then, a soft warmth caught your attention—a weight across your shoulders that wasn’t there before.
You lifted your hands, fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of Oikawa’s jacket wrapped gently around you. A slow smile spread over your tired face, the silent gesture lingering in your mind as you reached out to the neatly folded papers beside you.
The rivalry, the teasing, the endless back-and-forth—it all melted away in that moment, replaced by something quieter, something real.
And for once, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the hardest battles led to the sweetest victories.
Midterms season finally arrived—the unavoidable trial before the school festival’s bright chaos. You barely remembered what a full night’s sleep felt like, caught between finalizing festival preparations and cramming for exams. Exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, but beneath it all, a quiet confidence simmered.
This time, you told yourself, it would be different.
You were pumped, ready to finally see your name soaring above Oikawa’s on the class rankings—a victory long overdue. Every sleepless night, every rushed note had been worth it. Today, you thought, today would be the day the score finally tipped in your favor.
Well, that was what you thought.
Now, here you were—standing in front of the cold, unforgiving bulletin board, eyes scanning the list you’d been waiting for. Your heart sank the moment you saw it: your name, again, just below Oikawa’s.
But what stung the most wasn’t that you’d lost—no, it was the margin. One point.
One. Single. Damn. Point.
A flush of frustration and disbelief rushed through you, hot and sharp. You had pushed yourself harder than ever this time. Late nights, skipped meals, endless revisions—all for this? To fall short by a fraction that felt like a cruel joke?
You clenched your fists, the bitterness bubbling beneath the surface. How did he do it again? How did he always manage to stay one step ahead, grinning like he owned the game?
The weight of the rivalry pressed down on you heavier than ever. And in that moment, the silent promise you’d made years ago—to beat him, no matter what—felt more urgent, more necessary, than ever.
Fuck.
From behind you, the murmur of students drifted over—mostly girls, their voices bright with excitement and praise.
“Oikawa’s number one again! No surprise there.”
“He’s amazing, isn’t he?”
“I heard he stayed up all night studying for this!”
Their words stung sharper than you expected, a chorus of admiration that only deepened the ache of coming in second—again.
You forced yourself to breathe, to steady the storm inside. But the familiar voice cutting through the noise was unmistakable.
“Hey, number two,” Oikawa’s teasing drawl came from just behind you, his grin smug as ever.
And just like that, the tension that had been building snapped into something sharper, more combustible.
“Don’t talk to me, Oikawa,” you said sharply, your voice low but slicing through the chatter like a razor.
Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and strode away, each step heavy with the weight of frustration and bitter disappointment. Behind you, Oikawa stood frozen for a moment, his usual cocky smirk fading into a flicker of confusion.
Hanamaki appeared beside him, arms crossed and wearing an amused yet knowing grin. “I guess the prez finally broke down, huh?” he said quietly, nudging Oikawa with an elbow.
Oikawa ran a hand through his tousled hair, his grin slowly returning but tinged with something softer, almost reluctant.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “Maybe this time, it’s not just a game to her.”
Just then, Iwaizumi and Matsukawa joined the group, having caught up after following the scene. Iwaizumi’s usual stern gaze softened as he looked at his two friends.
“You’ve been pushing her for years, Tooru,” Iwaizumi said, arms crossed, voice steady. “Maybe now she’s finally pushing back.”
Matsukawa nodded, a small smile on his lips. “She’s tougher than she looks. And she’s not someone you just toy with.”
Oikawa’s eyes flickered back toward the direction you’d gone, narrowing thoughtfully. “For me, it’s never been just a game. It’s how I make sure she always notices me.”
Hanamaki shook his head with a chuckle. “You’ve been poking the bear for so long, Tooru. You might finally find out what happens when she fights back.”
Iwaizumi added, “You might want to be ready for that. She’s not the same girl you knew in middle school.”
There was a pause before Hanamaki nudged Oikawa again, a teasing grin on his face. “Because you should’ve just told her what you really felt, Tooru.”
Oikawa’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure, a mixture of admiration, respect, and something almost like awe settling into his eyes. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he confessed quietly.
But even as he said it, the weight of the rivalry hung heavy in the air—an unspoken truth between them all. A fragile line between competition, irritation… and something far more complicated.
Instead of heading to practice like he usually did, Oikawa found himself walking toward the student council room, a strange pull guiding his steps. The hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. When he pushed open the door, you weren’t there.
He frowned, then glanced at the small window near the ceiling. Without hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the rooftop—because he knew you.
He knew that when the weight of everything got too much, this was where you’d retreat. Where you could breathe, away from deadlines, expectations, and the constant pressure to be perfect.
When he reached the rooftop, he found you sitting alone, legs drawn up to your chest, eyes staring off into the distance like you were somewhere far away.
For a moment, Oikawa just watched, the usual confident grin replaced by something softer—almost protective. He wasn’t sure if you wanted company, but he wasn’t about to leave you here alone. Not today.
“Leave me alone, Oikawa,” you said without looking up, but you knew it was him.
He froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—because you usually called him Tooru, not by his last name.
The shift in tone, the distance in your voice—it hit him harder than he expected. For once, he wasn’t sure how to break through the wall you’d put up.
“Are you—”
He barely got the words out before you cut him off, sharper this time.
“I said leave me alone, Tooru.”
You finally looked up at him then, eyes tired, voice strained—not angry, but worn down, like something in you had finally snapped under the pressure.
And Oikawa—he wasn’t used to that tone from you. Not the teasing, not the competitive spark. Just… exhaustion. Disappointment.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words died in his throat.
You stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open—because he was just standing there, still looking at you like you were supposed to be fine. Like you could keep doing this. Like you hadn’t been breaking little by little.
“You know what’s worse than losing to you?” you said, voice trembling at the edges. “It’s how easy you make it look. Like you don’t even try. Like you don’t lose sleep. Like you’re not terrified of not being enough.”
Oikawa blinked, stunned silent.
You looked away, laughing bitterly. “You walk around like everything falls into place for you. And maybe it does, maybe it always will—but I have to fight for every little thing. I have to be perfect or it’s not enough. I have to keep up or I’m a disappointment.”
Your hands curled tightly into fists.
“So yeah. Maybe I get annoyed when you call me number two. Maybe I’m tired of always coming in second to you. Maybe I’m just—” you swallowed hard, voice dropping, “—tired. Of being not enough.”
You didn’t mention the way your parents’ voices echoed in your head when you saw the results. You didn’t say how silence at home cut deeper than any scolding. You didn’t say how that one point wasn’t just a number—it was everything they’d use to remind you you weren’t quite there yet.
You just sat there, all of it pressing down on your shoulders like stone, unable to look at him anymore. Afraid that if you did, the whole damn dam would burst.
“So, Tooru,” you muttered, each word sharper than the last, “if you’re just going to stand there to make fun of me…”
Your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, jaw clenched as you finished, “Just leave me alone.”
You didn’t even have the strength to look at him as the words left your mouth.
Oikawa stood there, frozen. Every instinct in him screamed to pull you into a hug, to tell you he wasn’t here to tease you, that he never meant to push you this far.
But he knew better.
This wasn’t the moment for that—not when you were breaking, not when the weight you carried wasn’t his to fix.
So, for once, Oikawa Tooru said nothing.
He stepped back.
And left.
The days leading up to the festival were unusually quiet. For once, no one barged into the council room with a smug grin and half-finished forms. No teasing voice echoing down the halls, no smug remarks about “Miss Number Two.”
Just silence.
Just… peace.
And it was unbearable.
At first, it was a relief—you had time to breathe, to focus, to finalize the logistics of the festival without anyone pestering you. But the silence kept stretching. And it started to feel less like peace and more like absence.
You hadn’t seen Oikawa since that day on the rooftop. No smirks, no casual visits, no fake apologies to buy himself more time on deadlines. He wasn’t even showing up to drop off paperwork anymore. It was always Iwaizumi now. And while you appreciated Iwaizumi’s quiet efficiency, the lack of chaos—the lack of him—gnawed at you.
And maybe, just maybe, you regretted it.
Not the part where you said what you felt. But the part where you pushed him away like it was all his fault. Because deep down, you knew it wasn’t.
You were tired. You were under pressure. And he’d just happened to be standing too close when everything finally boiled over.
So now the silence didn’t feel like peace anymore. It felt like distance.
And maybe, just maybe… that hurt more.
On the other hand, Oikawa wasn’t doing much better.
He tried—God, he really did. He showed up to practice on time, yelled at his team to run blocking drills again and again, even flashed his usual smile at underclassmen when they passed by the gym. But it was hollow, all of it. Like watching a performance after the actor forgot his lines.
He hadn’t seen you since the rooftop and he hated how much he noticed.
Every time he walked past the student council room, his eyes would flicker to the door, just in case. Every time someone mentioned the festival, he half-expected your voice to cut in and scold him about paperwork, about deadlines, about how he was being irresponsible again.
But it never came and the silence started to echo.
His teammates were the first to catch on.
“You’ve been setting like a demon,” Matsukawa groaned after taking a ball straight to the chest. “And not in a cool, cinematic way. In a ‘Tooru’s got trauma’ kind of way.”
“Did you two fight?” Hanamaki asked, handing him a water bottle like he was ready to stage an intervention. “Or did she finally punch you in the ego like we always hoped?”
Oikawa didn’t answer. He just took the water bottle and drained half of it in one go, muttering something about increasing practice intensity.
But they weren’t wrong.
He was more irritable, more tightly wound. The usual charm that masked his stress was cracking around the edges.
Iwaizumi, always the most observant, cornered him after practice. They sat on the bench outside the gym, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon.
“You want to see her, don’t you?”
Oikawa didn’t look up. He just ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “Of course I do. But…” He exhaled slowly, voice quieter. “She told me to leave her alone. And she meant it. I know she did.”
Iwaizumi studied him for a moment before replying. “You’re not as good at backing off as you think.”
“Yeah, well,” Oikawa muttered, giving a weak smile, “turns out I’m even worse at staying away.”
Silence settled between them for a few moments.
“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”
“Always have,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “But this time, it’s not because you’re stupid. It’s because you think not showing up is what she needs, when what she probably needed was for you to just be real with her.”
Oikawa looked over, eyes flickering with something sharp.
“You think I don’t want to be real with her?” he said, frustrated. “You think I haven’t wanted to tell her everything since—” He cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. “But I never know how. With her, it’s always been this game. This rivalry. It’s the only way I knew how to stay close.”
Matsukawa, who had wandered over quietly behind them, chimed in, “You could’ve just told her what you really felt, Tooru.”
Hanamaki followed soon after, tossing a towel at his captain. “Maybe if you stopped flirting with sarcasm and actually said something genuine for once, you wouldn’t look like a kicked puppy every time someone says her name.”
“Shut up,” Oikawa grumbled, but the towel stayed draped on his lap, unmoved.
He leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky as it deepened from orange to dusky purple.
“I screwed it up, didn’t I?” he said softly.
Iwaizumi didn’t say no. Instead, he stood up, clapped a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, and said, “Not yet. But if you keep doing nothing, you will.”
And with that, the rest of the team walked back into the gym, leaving Oikawa alone with his thoughts, a half-empty water bottle, and the hollow ache of wanting someone who asked him to leave.
Two days before the festival, the student council room buzzed with low conversation and rustling papers. You were buried in a stack of checklists when the door slid open with a quiet thunk.
“Knock knock,” Iwaizumi said, holding a folder in one hand and a slightly apologetic look in the other.
You looked up, immediately straightening in your seat. “Hey, Hajime.”
“Here’s the paperwork for the volleyball booth,” he said, placing it gently on your desk. “Updated layout, activity proposal, and the final sign-ups. All signed and stamped.”
You blinked. “He actually finished it?”
Your hand paused mid-reach over the papers, fingers hovering. “…Oh.”
For a few seconds, the room was too quiet.
Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you asked—softly, almost too casually, “How’s… Oikawa doing?”
Iwaizumi looked at you for a moment, unreadable. Not judging, not surprised. Just watching.
“Same as usual on the outside,” he said finally. “But quieter. Doesn’t talk as much unless it’s volleyball. Hasn’t been teasing the first years. Or us. Which is how we know something’s off.”
You nodded, lips pressed into a line. “He hasn’t come by.”
“He’s giving you space,” Iwaizumi said. Then, after a beat: “And it’s killing him.”
Your eyes dropped back to the folder. The clean signatures. The neat organization. It wasn’t like Oikawa to be so tidy. It wasn’t like him to be distant, either.
And even though some part of you still felt the sting from midterms, another part—a bigger part—missed the way he filled the room with noise.
You cleared your throat. “Thanks for the update.”
Iwaizumi nodded, already heading for the door. But just before he left, he paused, looked back, and said.
“If you’re still mad, that’s fine. But if you’re not… maybe let him know.”
You looked down at the folder on your desk, running your fingers along its edges, thoughts swirling like an untamed storm. Hajime was halfway to the door when you called out quietly—almost too quietly.
“Iwa.”
He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.
You swallowed, eyes still fixed on the paper. “I’m not… really mad at him.”
The words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting on your chest for days.
“I was frustrated. Overwhelmed. With everything. The festival, midterms, and…” you exhaled, shutting your eyes for a moment. “It wasn’t about him. Not really. I just… took it out on him. And I hate that I did.”
Iwaizumi stepped back into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you with that quiet, grounded calm he always carried.
“He knows,” he said simply.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “What?”
“Tooru. He knows it wasn’t really about him,” Iwaizumi said, walking closer. “He gets it. Probably more than he lets on. You think he doesn’t notice when someone’s under pressure? He does. Especially when it’s you.”
You let out a shaky breath, blinking faster now. “He must think I hate him.”
Iwaizumi’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “He’d let you kick him in the shin and still ask if you wanted his last milk bread. You think he’s scared of you being angry?”
“…I did kick him once,” you muttered.
“He still brings it up,” Iwaizumi said dryly, a trace of amusement in his voice. “Point is, he’s not mad either. He’s just waiting. Giving you time. Because, you know…” he paused, shrugging a little. “He cares.”
You sat back in your chair, heart squeezing at that. You weren’t ready to face Tooru yet—not completely. But knowing he understood, knowing he was waiting… it softened something in you.
“Thanks, Hajime.”
Iwaizumi nodded, then turned for the door again. This time, before stepping out, he added without looking back,
“Just don’t take too long. He’s unbearable when he’s love-sick.”
You blinked. “Love-sick? Impossible. This is Oikawa Tooru we’re talking about.”
Iwaizumi let out a soft snort. “Yeah, well. Apparently it’s a condition reserved exclusively for you.”
Your breath caught just a little at that. But Iwaizumi didn’t linger—he slid the door open and stepped out, leaving you with a folder full of finalized volleyball booth forms, a heart that beat a little too loud in your chest, and the ghost of a smirk on your lips.
When the next day arrived, it was your job to make sure everything was in place—from the booths to the decorations, from the schedules to the last-minute details. The entire school buzzed with energy, but you moved through the halls with a sharp, watchful eye, checking and double-checking every corner of Aoba Johsai.
You stopped in front of the classroom assigned to the volleyball club. Their booth was set up like a cozy café, the sweet scent of cakes and fresh breads wafting through the door. Colorful signs and neatly arranged pastries made it look inviting—and, knowing Oikawa, probably perfectly planned to attract as many visitors as possible.
“Iwa, I’ll be ba—” Oikawa’s voice stopped abruptly as the door swung open and he caught sight of you standing there.
His usual confident grin flickered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something unreadable.
You met his eyes without hesitation, your clipboard lowered by your side as the buzz of the festival preparations faded into the background—just for a moment.
“Hi Prez, Iwa’s inside if you want to check the booth,” Oikawa called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.
Before you could say anything, he was practically sprinting down the hall, leaving a faint trail of his usual confident energy behind him—but this time, tinged with something like nervous excitement.
From the side, you caught the familiar voices of his teammates chuckling.
“He’s hopeless,” Hanamaki muttered, shaking his head.
“Always running away when it counts,” Matsukawa added with a grin.
Iwaizumi just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s Tooru for you.”
You stepped into the classroom, taking in the cozy setup. The tables were neatly arranged with trays of cakes and breads, decorated with colorful signs and cute little details that only Oikawa could come up with. The volleyball club members were bustling quietly, making final adjustments and sharing quick smiles.
Everything was in place—ready for the festival.
You let out a small breath of relief. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough for now.
As you scanned the menu, your eyes caught a particular cake that hadn’t been on the original list they’d given you.
“Hey, Haji,” you called softly, “did you add a new cake to the menu?”
Iwaizumi glanced over your shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, the strawberry cheesecake? That was Tooru’s last-minute addition. Said he knew you liked it.”
You couldn’t suppress a small smile, a mix of annoyance, flattery, and something softer swirling inside you.
“Everything looks good. I’ll swing by again tomorrow to check on things. Good luck,” you said, patting Iwaizumi’s shoulder before turning to leave.
Unbeknownst to you, Oikawa had been quietly lurking in the back, slipping in through the other door just in time to catch your entire conversation. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something more vulnerable.
Just then, Hanamaki and Matsukawa appeared around the corner, grinning as they noticed Oikawa caught off guard.
“Look at Captain,” Hanamaki teased, nudging Matsukawa. “Caught red-handed.”
Matsukawa laughed softly. “He’s hopeless, but you gotta admit, it’s kind of sweet.”
Iwaizumi shook his head, a smirk on his face. “Yeah, and now he’s stuck with us watching his every move.”
Oikawa shot them all a playful glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. Beneath the teasing, there was an unspoken hope—that maybe, just maybe, she noticed the little things after all.
The day of the festival came with bright skies, loud chatter, and students from different schools pouring in through the gates. The energy was high, the booths alive with color and movement. Everything was in place and no major disasters were happening—no missing materials, no last-minute emergencies, no clubs on the brink of combustion. For once, things were smooth.
You could actually breathe.
You allowed yourself to think—just for today—this might actually be a success.
As promised, you made your way to the volleyball team’s booth. It was buzzing with activity, a line stretching outside the classroom door. Inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hung in the air, warm and inviting. Students sat at desks turned café tables, enjoying cakes, drinks, and breads with cute handwritten menus propped up in front of them.
When it was finally your turn, you scanned the menu only to frown slightly.
“Strawberry cheesecake’s sold out already?” you asked.
Hanamaki, who was manning the small counter for now, gave you a cheeky grin. “Sold out in the first hour. Some girl bought two whole slices just because Tooru made it.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course.
“Fine. I’ll just get the milk bread,” you muttered, fishing out your ticket stub to pay.
Before Hanamaki could ring it up, Oikawa appeared from behind the divider with a tray.
“Make that one milk bread,” he said, carefully placing the warm pastry down, “and one iced choco.”
You blinked. “I didn’t order a drink.”
“But you like it with milk bread,” Oikawa said with a soft grin. “Iced choco, three cubes of ice, no whip, no syrup—just the way you like it.”
Your lips parted slightly in surprise, caught off guard by the memory he held onto so casually. Before you could speak, he added,
“On the house. It’s festival day, after all.”
From the side, Matsukawa leaned toward Hanamaki and whispered, loud enough for you both to hear,
“And the captain strikes again with his signature move—attention to detail.”
Hanamaki fake-gasped. “Devastating. Truly swoon-worthy.”
Oikawa shot them both a glare, but his gaze flicked back to you, a little more unsure now.
“I mean, only if… you want it.”
You stared at the tray for a moment. Then, with a soft sigh, you took it from his hands.
“Thanks… Tooru.”
And just like that, his smile returned—easy, bright, and just a little shy around the edges.
When the night had long fallen over Aoba Johsai, the warmth of the festival fading into the cool hush of a late autumn breeze, students gathered around the bonfire in the courtyard below, laughing, dancing, soaking in the final moments of what would be their last school festival. You should’ve been down there too, smiling with them, celebrating a job well done.
But instead, you were on the rooftop—your usual place of quiet, a little peace above the noise. It had been your biggest undertaking as student council president, and now that it was done, the adrenaline had left you all at once. The silence wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. You let it.
The door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t even need to look.
“Oh. You’re here,” Oikawa’s voice broke the stillness, a little softer than usual.
You turned slightly, surprised to see him holding a white pastry box, tied with a neat ribbon—turquoise, like your school color.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said with an awkward little smile. “Not to bribe you. Well… maybe a little.”
He handed it over. Curious, you undid the ribbon and opened the lid.
A whole strawberry cheesecake. Not a slice. Not a portion. A full, homemade cake.
“You made this?” you blinked, brows raised.
“Kind of.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away for a second. “I had help. But most of it’s me. I remembered you liked it, so…”
You stared at the cake, then back at him. Your lips tugged into a small, exasperated smile.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He gave a tiny, nervous laugh, stepping beside you to look out over the bonfire-lit courtyard. For a moment, you both just stood there, watching the flicker of the crowd below. No teasing. No snark.
Then he spoke again—quieter this time.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
You turned your head slightly, his profile silhouetted by the soft lights coming from below.
“This might sound… stupid, and honestly, I probably should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered. “But I like you.”
You froze.
His voice didn’t waver—but it was gentler than you’d ever heard it.
“I’ve liked you for a while now. Probably since you started beating me in rankings,” he added, with a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “You’re smart. And annoying. And really, really good at making me want to try harder.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The words landed somewhere deep in your chest.
“I’m not asking for anything. I know you’ve got a lot going on,” he said quickly. “But I just… I didn’t want to end high school without telling you. No pressure. Take your time, or don’t say anything. I’ll be okay.”
You looked at him, really looked at him—his stupidly pretty eyes, the nervous line of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the railing like it was keeping him steady.
And for the first time in weeks, your heart wasn’t tangled in frustration.
It was warm. Uncertain, but warm.
“Okay,” you whispered.
You didn’t need to say anything else.
He smiled, and it was softer than any expression you’d ever seen on him.
Maybe it wasn’t the beginning of something.
But maybe, just maybe, it could be.
Oikawa’s confession stuck with you for weeks.
He didn’t bring it up again—not once. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t even hint. He went back to being his usual self: annoying, dramatic, always flashing you that ridiculous grin whenever you passed by. And yet… somehow it felt different now. Like there was a second meaning hidden under his usual antics. A quiet kind of hope he carried behind every smirk and every stolen glance.
But his presence started to thin.
With the spring qualifiers looming closer, the third-years of the volleyball team were drowning in practice. Late nights, early mornings, extra laps, countless drills. It felt like the whole team moved like a single heartbeat—driven and relentless. Tooru, especially, seemed to be running on nothing but sheer will and obsession. And just like that, he became harder and harder to catch.
Then the match against Karasuno happened.
The result hit like a brick to the chest. Aoba Johsai lost. After everything—they lost. And with that, their journey as third-years was over.
You didn’t go to the game.
You wanted to, but duties piled up and the nerves clawed too sharply in your stomach. But when the final score came in, when you saw the hushed disappointment written across the school’s group chat, the ache bloomed deep in your chest. Not because they lost—because you knew how hard they worked. Especially him.
So you went to the gym that evening, hours after the game had ended.
It was dimly lit, with only a few lights turned on above the court. You stepped inside quietly, heart hammering in your chest.
The third-years were still there.
Iwaizumi sat on the bench, towel around his neck, staring blankly ahead. Matsukawa was on the floor, lying on his back with an arm covering his face. Hanamaki was tossing a volleyball up and down without really looking at it. Sawauchi and Yuda were leaning against the wall in silence. Shido sat by the door, legs stretched out and eyes shut like he was trying to block the world out.
And Oikawa was in the center of the court, kneeling beside a ball, head bowed. Still.
None of them noticed you right away. Not until your footsteps echoed.
Iwaizumi looked up first.
“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Thought I’d check in,” you said gently, eyes sweeping over them. “I figured you’d all still be here.”
Matsukawa let out a dry chuckle. “We don’t know what else to do.”
Hanamaki offered you a half-hearted smile. “Hey, Prez. Sorry you had to see us like this.”
You shook your head, walking slowly across the court. “No. You don’t have to apologize. You all did your best.”
Oikawa hadn’t moved.
Your eyes landed on him, and something in your chest twisted.
Tooru,” you said softly.
His head lifted slightly at your voice, eyes dull with exhaustion and something heavier—pain, maybe. Disappointment. Loss.
You knelt in front of him, lowering yourself to his level.
“You played great,” you murmured. “All of you did.”
He shook his head, voice barely audible.
“It wasn’t enough.”
You reached out and gently placed your hand over his, squeezing.
“It mattered. To all of us. To me.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment the weight in his eyes cracked just a little.
“You came,” he whispered.
“Of course I did.”
From the bench, Hanamaki cleared his throat.
“I swear to God if you cry, I’m leaving.”
“Shut up,” Oikawa muttered, his voice cracking anyway.
Matsukawa smirked.
“Don’t act tough. We’ve all cried already.”
Iwaizumi stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder.
“C’mon. Let’s go get something to eat. My treat. We’re not dying here in this gym.”
As the others got up slowly, gathering their bags and their broken spirits, Oikawa remained where he was for a second longer.
As the gym slowly emptied, one by one, the third-years dragged their bags over tired shoulders and shuffled toward the exit. The sharp echo of footsteps and the soft scrape of shoes against polished floorboards filled the space before fading into the distant hum of the overhead lights.
Iwaizumi gave you a subtle nod as he passed, the kind that said take care of him—a quiet trust passed between you without words.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa lingered by the door for a moment, exchanging glances full of knowing amusement and concern. Hanamaki smirked and whispered something to Matsukawa, who snorted softly. You caught the words—rom-com timing—and it made you smile despite the heaviness hanging in the air.
Sawauchi, Shido, and Yuda trailed after them, their footsteps gentle and respectful, fading down the hallway until it was just you and Oikawa left in the cavernous gym.
He hadn’t moved from the center of the court. The dim lighting cast long shadows over his hunched frame, kneeling on the hardwood with one hand curled lightly around a scuffed volleyball as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded.
His back was tense, shoulders tight as if carrying the weight of disappointment itself. His gaze was fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin, strained line that barely contained everything he wasn’t saying.
You crouched beside him again, this time closer—close enough to feel the slight tremor in his breath, the faint pulse of his wrist beneath your fingertips.
“Tooru,” you said softly, barely louder than the quiet hum of the empty gym.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” you whispered, voice steady but tender. “And I know how much you gave—how much you always give.”
His fingers twitched. Slow and uncertain, you reached out, letting your hand cover his. The warmth of your skin was a small lifeline in the vast silence.
“You don’t have to smile right now. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt—not with me.”
His breath hitched slightly.
“It’s just—I tried so hard. I really tried.”
You squeezed his hand, slow and reassuring.
“I know.”
His voice cracked like a fragile thread.
“I wanted to make it. For us. For Iwa-chan. For the team. For—”
“For you,” you finished gently, your voice catching with the weight of the moment. “And you did. You made something incredible.”
Finally, his eyes met yours.
They were rimmed red, eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from him before. His face was a map of heartache and stubborn pride, and your chest tightened as empathy and something deeper welled up inside you.
“I lost.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in just a little, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “You gave everything. That’s not losing, Tooru.”
His breath hitched again, eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of truth to hold onto. And for once, he didn’t have a witty comeback or a sharp retort—just silence.
And so you closed the distance.
Your lips pressed to his—soft, tentative, trembling slightly with all the words you hadn’t spoken, all the feelings you’d kept locked away. For a heartbeat, he froze, caught off guard by the gentle weight of your kiss.
Then he melted into it, his hand lifting to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into the strands of your hair like he never wanted to let go.
The gym around you faded—no cheers, no confetti, no grand finale. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts finding each other in the dark.
When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the moment again.
You smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
“No pressure, right?”
A soft, raw laugh escaped him.
“Right.”
“Good,” you murmured. “But next time, let me cheer for you before the game.”
“Deal,” he breathed, voice thick with something like hope.
And this time, he leaned in first.
Bonus scene.
Hidden just outside the gym door, Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Iwaizumi leaned casually against the wall, trying to keep their expressions neutral—but the amusement and relief were obvious in their eyes.
Hanamaki was the first to break the silence, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “Finally. About time those two stopped dancing around each other like it’s some kind of complicated volleyball drill.”
Matsukawa chuckled, nudging Iwaizumi with a grin.
“Guess that means we can officially retire from matchmaking duty, huh?”
Iwaizumi gave a tired but genuine smile, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, I can finally live in peace… at least until the next disaster.”
Hanamaki smirked knowingly. “Don’t get too comfortable, Hajime. Now that they’re official, you’re basically their go-to therapist for all the drama.”
Matsukawa laughed, crossing his arms. “And Oikawa? He’s probably gonna come back swinging with ten times the teasing. No way he’s letting this slide quietly.”
Iwaizumi sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “I’m doomed.”
They shared a look, the quiet camaraderie between them filling the space. Then, breaking through the muffled sounds from inside the gym, came your sharp, amused voice.
“Hey! I can hear you, you know!”
Hanamaki’s grin faltered for a moment. “Oh, busted.”
Matsukawa laughed openly. “Guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”
Iwaizumi threw his hands up, chuckling. “And here I thought I was done with the chaos.”
The three exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling between them as the gym’s silence returned. Footsteps echoed softly inside, and through it all hung the unmistakable warmth of something finally falling into place—something worth waiting for.
© 2025 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.
