#maybe it will be a 5k fic

[missjoolee]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson Characters: Julie Molina, Luke Patterson (Julie and The Phantoms), Flynn Taylor, Alex Mercer (Julie and The Phantoms), Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Reggie Peters (Julie and The Phantoms) Additional Tags: small acts of vandalism, Flirting, Revenge, Minor Alex Mercer/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Eggs, Getting Together, Kissing, awkward julie molina, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies Summary:

They walk in silence for a few minutes. Julie's thoughts bounce between her anger and frustrations, and the boy walking next to her whose eyes burn into her every time they glance over. She has no clue what's she is going to say to Flynn when they arrive. Eventually, he decides to ask the question that's apparently been on the tip of his brain since she exited the store.

"Are you guys having, like, a bake sale or something?"

When the night she has planned almost ends before it starts, Julie recruits Luke (and by proxy the rest of Sunset Curve) to help her and Flynn pull off a revenge scheme of epic proportions.

Hoping to only gain a little bit of vengeance, Julie is unprepared for the memories and relationships that begin to blossom.

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Excerpt under the cut

Julie made a mistake. It happened... occasionally.

Look, Tetris has never been her game. And all of her instruments have custom bags with nice fitted slots for them to go into. So how was she to realize the six dozen eggs she just bought wouldn't fit in the reusable grocery bag she'd brought with her? The cartons were just barely too long to sit properly in the bottom so she couldn't even use the darn thing to carry a couple of them lest a carton open up and eggs start breaking inside the bag. She needs like an egg carton... crate or something. She glares at the store's bags fluttering in the air conditioning, taunting her with their ability to hold a carton of eggs. She doesn't have any cash to pay for them and the store has a minimum for card.

Sighing, she loops the handles of her bag up to her elbow and slowly starts stacking the cartons in her arms. Guess she will have to GusGus her way out of this one. It's going to take her so long to get back to Flynn. Tucking the last carton under her chin, she slowly brings her hand back down to add support to the bottom of the stack. Then slowly, carefully, she makes her way towards the exit of the store.

The doors slide open at her approach and hot summer air hits her, accompanied by the thrumming chords of a guitar from Luke, the guy that likes to busk near this corner shop in Malibu. He was a nice guy, easy on the eyes. Very. Easy. Julie had stopped many times to listen/talk to him when she was in the area to hang out at Carrie's. Anger floods her at the thought of her now ex-friend.

The guitar screeched to an abrupt stop.

"Whoa, Julie. Do you need help?"

She pauses and considers, but doesn't want to impose. She knows he needs the money he makes from busking to get things for his band.

"O-oh, no. I've got it." She takes another step forward, her shoe immediately catching on a parking block, and she's suddenly tilting forward. Of course this is how she is to go. In a pile of raw eggs in a parking lot on a humid night in front of the guy she's been crushing on for months now. Of course.

Hands catch her shoulders, preventing that sad reality from happening. "Are you sure about that, boss? I don't mind walking with you."

Heat flames her cheeks at the teasing tone, but she doesn't have time to let her embarrassment dictate her actions right now. So, reluctantly looking up at him, she relents. The moment their eyes make contact, the corners of his lips lift up in a soft smile. Despite all the twisted emotions running within her, her stomach flutters.

"Yeah, that'd be helpful. Thanks."

"Let me just.." He gestures behind him at his guitar case awkwardly, before rushing to pack up his things. Slinging the case to his back, he steps back up to her. "Alright, give me half."

She shifts her feet. "I think you will have to take them from me. Something is bound to fall if I move."

"Oh, right!" He quickly, but carefully, takes the top three cartons from her. "Lead the way!"

Julie nods her head to the left. "It's that way."

They walk in silence for a few minutes. Julie's thoughts bounce between her anger and frustrations, and the boy walking next to her whose eyes burn into her every time they glance over. She has no clue what's she is going to say to Flynn when they arrive. Eventually, he decides to ask the question that's apparently been on the tip of his brain since she exited the store.

"Are you guys having, like, a bake sale or something?"

She smirks humorlessly, turning onto the street with the gradual hill upwards. Walls now line the manicured lawns instead of a sidewalk, forcing them to walk in the street. The further they travel, the larger the houses beyond those walls gets.

"Not exactly." Her reply hangs between them. She knows she should offer more explanation than that, but maybe the less he knows the better. Instead, she asks, "What have you been working on recently?"

An elated grin spreads across Luke's face before he jumps right into talking about the latest songs he's been working on. It's actually quite pleasant. The last vestiges of the sun setting, a cool breeze offsetting the heat radiating from the pavement of the street. The attention of her crush smiling down at her. It would be perfect any other night.

The curve of the street eventually reveals a figure with a large package waiting out front of one of the mansions.

"Jules!" Flynn's figure steps out from the shadows of the property's wall. "What took you so long? What's Luke doing here?"

Luke answers before Julie can. "Hey! I insisted on helping after Julie almost immediately dropped all these eggs in the parking lot."

Flynn shoots Julie an unimpressed raised eyebrow. Julie shrugs her shoulders, minding not to jostle the eggs too much. While the girls are silently communicating, Luke's gaze seems to have registered the package at Flynn's feet is an 18-pack of toilet paper and begins to bounce back and forth between it and the eggs. The toilet paper, then the eggs in his arms, back to the toilet paper, to the eggs in Julie's arms, comprehension registers on his face.

"Whoa. What did someone do to piss you two off?"

[rewrittenwrongs]

Tim starts a Tumblr account and posts ‘incorrect quotes’ for all the bats, only they’re not incorrect they’re all actual conversations/sentences they’ve had, and he gains a huge following super quick because every line is pure gold. Barbara is the first to find out and agrees to help keep the secret, then it’s Stephanie who either gains access to the account or starts writing fanfic abt the batfam that includes all these details that line up a bit too perfectly with the truth because it’s hilarious, then Duke who thinks it’s genius and either still makes them buy his silence or starts drafting posts for Tim that he said with/to civilians and/or alone on patrol. Then Dick finds out because one of the Titans shows him this funny blog they found and he recognises almost every post, so he starts looking into it just as Tim starts posting Young Justice and Teen Titans ‘incorrect’ quotes too, and they have to blackmail him into silence.

When Bruce finds out he demands Tim delete the account, and instead Tim posts the entire conversation.

[nextstopparis]

when I was drowning I thought about the light instead of the water, the accident instead of the ache.

— Yves Olade

[kucho04]

Lucky item, yellow hair ribbon Art trade :)

[happypeachsludgeflower]

I don’t always make Feng Xin suffer, but when I do? God do I make that man suffer. He’s just my little meow meow and I want to see him cry 🥸

[crow2222]

my brain loves doing this thing where. I make a new story idea and it takes over my brain

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[apoptoses]

i might have finished a little something for kink fest, thank fucking god 😔

[kareofbears]

never been a natural

"Usually," Oikawa starts, shoving the wires in his pockets, and Hinata flinches for no good reason. It dawns on him that he's never had a one-on-one conversation with Oikawa before. "Reconnaissance is supposed to be a secret, chibi."

---

Or, Hinata gets lost and runs into an Oikawa he isn't quite familiar with.

read on ao3 or below the cut

Mondays are days of misery for Hinata.

It didn’t used to be. Mondays used to be filled with volleyball. Receives, spikes, sets, strategy. Bike up the hill, shower, pretend to study, then crash for the night. Rinse and repeat. It was his life, and he's fiercely protective of it.

Hinata’s pumped every minute he possibly can into cramming more volleyball. Every bubble of open air in his schedule is inflated with volleyball, body slick with sweat and eyes trained on the ball in front of him. More, more, more, until—

“From now on, Mondays are off.”

Silence rang across the gym, the incessant squeaking of shoes coming to a halt at once.

"...Of what?" Nishinoya tried, question bitten off short with a sharp laugh. A nervous tick, a dead giveaway of what everyone had hoped they misheard.

Coach Ukai looked each of them in the eye. Seeing him serious outside of a tense match has them all kept quiet. There isn't even a hint of a smile on his features. "I've decided that practice will only be on Tuesdays to Fridays." Hinata takes a sharp intake of breath, and Ukai's gaze flickers at him, eyes sharpening further. "Is that clear?"

It was probably the most unclear thing Hinata's ever heard in his entire life.

Obviously, they didn't take the news lying down. Immediately after that practice, Hinata and Kageyama locked eyes before nodding, no words needed. Monday rolls around and they walk up to the gym doors, bleary-eyed and geared-up, to find the door locked.

They expected this. Kageyama silently leans down and Hinata clambers onto his shoulders, movements steady and practiced. This isn't the first time they've broken into the gym to get extra practice time, and—Hinata sticks his tongue out in concentration, aggressively patting Kageyama's head when he needs more height, reaching up to shove his hand in the third broken light bulb where he knows Takeda-sensei keeps the spare key—he refuses to let it be the last.

When he pulls his hand out, what's in his fist isn't a dusty silver key, but a folded piece of paper:

Try it again and you're off the team.

He doesn't know what's more impressive—the foresight to do this or the fact that it was signed by Coach Ukai, Faculty Advisor Takeda, Captain Daichi, and Vice-Captain Sugawara.

Hinata lets out a frustrated yell and forces himself to run faster, early morning jog turning into a dead sprint. That was two weeks ago. Two entire Mondays of feeling like he's skipping practice, of having to endure that gnawing feeling that he's being left behind with every passing week. An entire day where other teams are combing through strategies to figure out how to improve and beat them out of the Nationals lineup.

His feet hit the pavement hard, throat tight and breath coming hard and fast. Running. At least they can't stop him from doing this. Even when he didn't have a team, he had this. He had himself. And they can't stop him from improving. There's a tight feeling in his chest, a bitterness that he hasn't felt since he lost that match in middle school. A tidal wave of emotion that comes from being face to face with the fact that the world isn't fair. That there's always going to be something in his way, something that prevents him from being where he wants to be. His only remedy against that was practice, and somehow, he lost that too.

Finally, he has to hunch over, skin covered in sweat as his lungs try to catch up with him. Idly, he looks up, relieved that the sun is barely up, soft rays of sunlight peeking out through the mountains in the distance. The last thing he wants is to go to school today, but he doesn't know how far he can push his luck before Daichi really brings the hammer down on him.

Turning around to head home, Hinata pauses. Turns around again. Swivels left. Then right. Then, out of desperation, up and down.

He smacks his hand over his face, scrubbing roughly.

He doesn't know where he is. Again.

A sigh comes from the deepest part of his gut as he resigns himself to his new fate. Slowly walking around, he counts himself lucky that he's somewhere that's pretty populated. Actually, he looks around, mildly curious, this entire neighborhood is...nice. Stores and their shopkeepers starting to open businesses with a yawn, a few keeners making their way to classes early. He glances around, starting to get excited at his new surroundings. There's a playground, empty but of a much higher quality than anything his neighborhood has, and a dirt patch that looks just big enough for a volleyball scrimmage if he was desperate.

He ups his pace to an easy jog, feeling good from the run despite the initial inconvenience. Maybe he can ask someone here how to get back home. His stomach grumbles, and he fights the urge to sigh again. A snack, too, would be pretty good right now.

Turning the corner, neck craning to see what awaits him. There's a cafe at the end of the street, mostly empty except for a few businessmen darting in and out for a quick coffee. Through the big glass windows of the cafe, there's a few booths visible to Hinata, predictably vacant, except for one right in the middle.

Then Hinata stops in his tracks. He takes a step backwards so that he’s hidden again. Rubs his eyes. Peeks around once more, just to make sure.

Oikawa Tooru glances—earphones visible even from here—in his direction and Hinata scrambles back, clambering behind the wall, jaw slacked.

His luck.

The only player that gives Kageyama Tobio—his best friend and nastiest guy alive—the heebie jeebies, is sitting in a cafe in some unknown neighborhood. Only unknown to you, his mind supplies unhelpfully. This is Seijoh's turf and you just strolled right into the Great King's throne room.

Slowly, Hinata backs away, carefully walking backwards into the opposite direction. It's fine. There's no way Oikawa saw him. All he needs to do is leave as quietly as possible and get back to Karasuno.

—

He's walked past the cafe six times before he admits defeat.

Hinata—properly sweaty again, not from the run but from the nerves—can't figure out which direction he even came from before. This bookstore looks familiar. That lamp post is one he's seen before, right? He swears that child is the same one he keeps running into. The only thing that’s changing is the sun’s position above him, mocking him for the time he’s wasted wandering around, directionless.

The whole time, Oikawa's still there, mug to his right, papers scattered across the table and pencil tapping on the wood to whatever undisclosed song is playing in his earphones. With each pass, Hinata expects someone to join him—he's never seen Oikawa without his team, or at least without the stern-looking Iwaizumi by his side. But nobody ever does.

Taking a deep breath, puffing his chest up as big as he can, and mustering all the bravery he can hold in his frame, Hinata meekly knocks on the window of the cafe.

Oikawa looks up at him, expression unsurprised and almost offensively disinterested, pencil still loosely gripped between his fingers.

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Hinata raises a hand. "Hi," he mouths.

It's enough to pull a quirk of a brow from Oikawa. Setting down the pencil, Oikawa points to the seat across from him. An invitation.

WIth a gulp, Hinata enters the cafe, bell ringing above, the scent of coffee beans almost overwhelming. After a quick greeting to the barista, he warily makes his way to Oikawa, who'd taken out his earphones. Their eyes meet and for a split-second, he's back in the inter-high gym, his freak quick getting blocked, getting read. He blinks and suddenly he's back in the cafe, in direct line of Oikawa's gaze.

"Usually," Oikawa starts, shoving the wires in his pockets, and Hinata flinches for no good reason. It dawns on him that he's never had a one-on-one conversation with Oikawa before. "Reconnaissance is supposed to be a secret, chibi."

He hesitates, mind whirling at the implication. "What?"

“I’ve been seeing your little feet skittering around my block for the past twenty minutes.” Oikawa gives him a look. "I guess secret isn't really your style, though."

"What?" he repeats, before realization dawns on him. "Oh! No. I'm not here to spy, I just got lost on my run, and—" he cuts himself off as he takes in Oikawa's appearance. White blazer, sweater vest, red tie pressed immaculately against both. "Wait, what are you doing here?"

Tilting his head to the side, his expression morphs into one of intrigue. "You got lost to the point that you accidentally made it to Seijoh?"

Hinata isn't listening. He glances around until his eyes land on the calendar against the far wall, just in case he's mistaken. "It's Monday," he states.

"So I've been told,” he waves off. “You accidentally ran 12 kilometers?”

"It's Monday," he insists, confusion coated thick in his words. And then, uneasily, he asks, "Are you skipping practice?"

Oikawa levels him with something that isn't quite disappointment, but close to it. "Think about it very hard before you accuse me of something, chibi." He starts collecting his scattered papers, and Hinata catches a glimpse of numbers across the pages. "We don't practice on Mondays."

Surprise runs through his body. "Your coach made you guys do that, too?"

"Coach?" It was Oikawa's turn to look surprised. "Coach doesn't make us do anything. I instated it."

This time, he can't keep his jaw from dropping. "What?" Any nerves about being in front of the Great King leaves his body. He flops into the booth, sitting across from Oikawa with his palms pressed against the table. Is he crazy? "Are you crazy?"

A snort gets pulled out of Oikawa. "Tobio-chan really did find his equal, didn't he?"

Hinata opens his mouth, dozens of questions on the tip of his tongue, when Oikawa continues. "As much as I'd love for you to disappear off the face of the planet and get rid of that nasty quick of yours—" he points out the window, almost bored. "Go past that yellow house there. Three blocks down, there'll be a bus stop. It should take you back to your flock."

What? he almost says again, before realizing that it's directions to go back to Karasuno. Directions he isn't quite interested in anymore. "Oh, thank you," Hinata says distractedly, still unable to process that a top four school in the prefecture doesn't practice for an entire day every week. "Um—"

Oikawa’s eyes flicker to Hinata, taking in his sweat-slick forehead and running outfit still sticking to parts of his torso, and grimaces infinitesimally. Hinata stays quiet. There's something familiar about this, and it dawns on him that he feels this way before every Nekoma match. The intense feeling of being watched, of being studied, dissected.

After a moment, Oikawa shrugs, almost to himself. "Try not to get lost again," he tells Hinata instead of whatever he wanted to say. "Don't want your team to think I've kidnapped you or anything. Despite what Tobio thinks, I do fight fair."

He feels his eye twitch. There's something that deeply irked him about being left in the dark about himself. It reminds him of Tsukkishima. Or Kageyama, earlier on in their partnership. Or maybe, that run wasn't enough to wipe Hinata's frustrations clean from the world.

When he doesn't move, Oikawa claps his hands together twice. "Go on, now. Time for the crow to fly back home."

"Tell me," he says, voice coming out harder than he meant it to.

Oikawa pauses, hand still raised, a flicker of surprise in his features. "Tell you what?"

"You..." Hinata deflates, whatever bravery struck suddenly seeping out all at once. "It looks like you wanted to say something. Sorry."

Oikawa studies him for a long moment, enough that Hinata has to fight not to shift in his seat. Then, he sets the stack of papers down on the table, leaning back into the cushion of the booth. "I don't talk shop unless someone asks me to," he says finally. "Unsolicited advice is the worst."

Hinata doesn't know how to answer that. Most of the advice he gets is unsolicited—or maybe because everyone knows that Hinata soaks up volleyball like a sponge and would never see advice as unsolicited. "I'm asking."

"You're running on your team's rest day." It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a praise, either. "Running isn't resting."

Hinata clenches his fists under the table. "It's better than sitting around and doing nothing."

"Resting isn't nothing," he scoffs. "Especially you. Sprints in every match, decoying a real spike, jumping high enough to make it all look convincing. You think it’s magic that keeps you flying?" Oikawa leans forward, elbow on the table and chin resting on his palm. "It's muscles. Tendons. Flesh and bone. Physical stuff that breaks down if you let it. Don't make that mistake again."

Hinata bristles, the urge to argue equal to his urge to curl in on himself. "But—"

Oikawa crosses his arms and waits, and Hinata feels his words die in his throat. The usual exaggerated levity in his eyes was absent. He wonders for a moment if this is what Kunimi and Kindaichi feel when they're being scolded. The moment is long and tense, Oikawa's gaze surprisingly heavy and Hinata unwilling to relent.

Then Oikawa sighs, leaning back into his seat. Taking out a folder, he files his scattered papers away, stows them in his bag before throwing something at Hinata.

He catches it without thinking, bewilderedly taking in the banana in his hands.

"Potassium after runs, always," Oikawa slings his bag over his shoulders, scooting out the booth. "You look like you're going to fall over. Can't have you forfeiting the game because you're malnourished, of all things."

Hinata watches as Oikawa makes his way out, thank you stuck in his throat. He’s not sure what to make of this strange version of Oikawa.

The bell rings as he leaves, and Hinata eventually exits, banana peel in hand and deep in thought. At least the bus stop was easy to find this time.

—

Next Monday, Hinata slides into the booth with no hesitation. "I took the bus here," he says in lieu of a greeting. "So I'm still resting. Don’t yell at me."

Oikawa sighs, overexaggerated. He's wearing glasses today. Thick, black rims that he pushes up his nose as he continues writing. "This isn't exactly open practice," he says. "I'm not taking questions. Or giving free advice, for that matter."

Hinata lets his gaze settle on the paper's scattered once more around the booth, attempting to read upside down kanji. Half the papers, predictably, are volleyball tactics, success statistics, or general notes (Mad-dog —> low sets + flexible shoulders. Note: Iwa's presence non-negotiable). The other half is filled with—

"Is that math?" Hinata asks, nose scrunching.

"Calculus," Oikawa corrects, before finally looking up from his page. While Hinata isn't surprised that Oikawa is an early riser, it's one thing to get up early for volleyball; to get up early for homework is a different torture entirely. "Why are you here, chibi?"

It's a question he's prepared for, thinking about how to answer it on the entire bus ride here. "I hate rest days," he proclaims, unashamed in the slightest. "They suck and I hate them and I'd rather keep playing volleyball until all my bones break and I want to know why you—" he gestures wildly at Oikawa, "of all people are okay with it."

Hinata braces himself for the inevitable argument he's going to get into, but he has to know. The diagram in his head is simple—Oikawa taught Kageyama a lot about volleyball. Kageyama is crazy about volleyball. That means Oikawa taught Kageyama to be crazy, so Oikawa should also—

Oikawa bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Chibi," he smiles, mirth audible. "I bet I hate rest days more than you do."

Hinata brightens up at that. "Really?"

"Of course," he puts his pencil down, giving Hinata his full attention. "Why on earth would I rather be doing anything else if I could be on the court?"

"Right? I want to play!"

"I want to get better.”

"I want to spike."

"I want to set," Oikawa agrees, and there's a sparkle in his eye that Hinata's never seen on him before, or Hinata's just never seen it up close. A devout love for the sport. He knows exactly what it looks like, because he sees it in the mirror every single day. It dawns on him that he’s never had a practice match with Oikawa. Every interaction they had is a do-or-die, no room to breathe around each other. "I want to serve. I want to get better. I want to play tough teams and win hard games and touch the ball and play more volleyball until my fingertips are bleeding from setting."

Hinata’s grinning properly now, an idea forming in his head. "I saw a park nearby," he says excitedly, mind already whirling with possibilities. "I brought a ball in my bag, I think we can—"

"And, like I said before," Oikawa cuts in, tone still light. "I don't practice on rest days."

The grin on Hinata's face falters, his heart sinking. "But you just said—"

"Do you want to play volleyball forever?"

He can have his memory wiped and he's sure that his DNA strands can answer the question for him. "Of course."

"Past high school?"

Hinata bristles at the idea of doing anything else. “Yes.”

"And what are you willing to do to make that happen?" Oikawa asks, and he feels as if he's being tested in some way, but he's too excited to care. This is the closest thing to volleyball that he’s gotten on a Monday.

"Anything!" he exclaims. And then, quietly: "I'll do anything."

"Then, unfortunately for you," Oikawa's smile turns smug and haughty and Hinata realizes, belatedly, he's stuck in a web that's been spun specifically for him. Kageyama's voice echoes in the back of his mind: He's got a nasty personality. "That takes a lot of hard work."

Hinata tilts his chin upwards. "I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“Yes,” Oikawa taps his pencil against the paper in front of them, calculus staring back mercilessly. “You are.”

An incredulous wave washes over him. “What does this—“ Hinata carefully pushes the paper away from him, afraid it’ll attack him somehow. "Have to do with anything?"

"Ever heard of university-level volleyball?" Oikawa asks, smile faux-pleasant as he takes in the blanched color of Hinata's face. "You think they'll let you in just because your vertical is impressive?"

Hinata blinks at him. "You think my vertical is impressive?"

Oikawa throws the pencil at his head. "Best in the prefecture, without a doubt," he sniffs as Hinata rubs his forehead with a pout. "But it's not enough. Good grades lead to good universities, and good universities have good volleyball teams."

His vision swims as he stares at the paper between them. Symbols he doesn't even recognize seem to mock him, numbers seemingly floating off the page as he gets dizzy just looking at these unknown equations. What even is calculus?

"Easy for you to say," Hinata mutters, toying with the pencil in his hand. It's short, almost sharpened down to the nub. He doesn't think he's ever had the same one long enough to get it to this length. "You're good at school."

A bark of laughter sounds like it came from Oikawa's soul and Hinata jumps at the sudden sound. "Oh, that's funny," he huffs, humor still sticky in his tone. "Say, chibi, tell that to Iwa-chan next time you run into him, will you?"

Hinata tilts his head to the side, brow furrowed. He peers down at the table once more, this time with a different perspective. The people in Karasuno who are natural academics (Tsukkishima, of all people, come to mind) are almost never surrounded by flashcards. Backpack never more than half-way full, never staying behind for extra studying lessons from the upperclassmen. Eyes drifting back to Oikawa, who's cheat sheets and notes are surrounded by eraser shavings, brightly colored sticky notes, and pale hands gray from where his skin slid across still-dusty pencil led.

"You're stupid?" Hinata blurts out. Something light flutters in his chest, and it pulls the corner of his lips upwards.

"I am no such thing!" Oikawa flares out, snatching his pencil back from Hinata. "And you're rude. I may not be your senpai, but I'm still older than you."

"No, it's okay!" he points at himself, proud and eager. "I'm stupid, too."

That only seems to rile him up more. "I'm fine in most subjects," he insists. "It's just calculus, and these damn—" he shoots a glare at nothing, face twisting. "Derivatives. I've been at it for weeks, and there's only so much Mattsu's willing to explain to me before he makes me buy him ramen for his time. I mean," he continues babbling, words pouring out of him like an unstoppable current, a build-up of pressure that's rushing to be let out. "I'm their captain, and they can't even spare me time to break down the rate of change. I'm sure Mr. Refreshing doesn't give your captain a second thought with homework, because that's what a team is for, isn't it? Argh!"

Oikawa looks the most frazzled he's ever seen him, matches included. To be honest, Hinata has no idea what he's even talking about anymore (is this still math? Maybe they moved onto chemistry without him realizing), but the more he talks, the more the thing in Hinata's chest is taking flight.

"Is…" he hesitates, not sure if now's a good time to bring the conversation back on track. Or if Oikawa would listen to him, still lost in the sea of his own rant. "That why you don't practice on Mondays? For… homework?"

Stopping suddenly, Oikawa visibly refocuses back on Hinata. "It's part of it. The other parts are physical—" he kicks Hinata's knee from under the table. "Mental—" he points the pencil at Hinata's head again, who rushes to block this time. "And emotional,” Oikawa taps two fingers over his own heart. “Take care of all three and you can play forever.”

Nursing over his freshly-bruised knee, Hinata grimaces. “Then when’s practice?” he grumbles. “There’s no way you have enough time for all that.”

The look in Oikawa’s eyes is unflinching. “You make time.”

It’s a slap in the face. Oikawa, third-year captain of a powerhouse team, telling him to make time.

What have you been doing for three years?

The fluttering feeling his chest wilts, and what gets resurrected is this ugly, now-familiar twist in his gut. Being locked out of his own gym just when he felt like he was making progress with himself. Height always, always, always a wall for him to overcome. Losing the preliminaries to the boy in front of him.

"I don't think it's fair of you to say that, Oikawa-san," he mutters, struggling to keep his tone level. But it’s as if his tongue was loosened from his building frustration, years of isolation and drowning in inadequacy crashing down on him all at once. "You have the talent. You have the confidence. People know who you are. You're the captain of Aoba Johsai. Everybody in this prefecture knows about your serves. You have no—" Hinata lets his eyes slip close, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry if I'm rude. It isn't fair to compare you to me. Not when our experiences are—are—basically opposites of each other. Not when it took everything I had to get this far."

It was probably too far. He's never been this upfront with someone from another team, even Ushijima. But Hinata doesn't regret saying it.

Opening his eyes, he meets Oikawa's stare dead-on. He doesn't seem angry, at least, but there’s something there that Hinata doesn’t can’t read. Somewhere behind them, the barista sneezes. A clock ticks. Morning rays pour into the cafe, and idly, he remembers when Mondays used to be simpler.

Then Oikawa huffs. Shoving a hand into his bag, he ruffles through its contents for a few moments, papers audibly crinkling, before sliding a notebook across the table. It's an old thing, the binding fraying in several places and the cover bent this way and that. Gingerly, Hinata picks it up, carefully spreading the pages—

Only to be met with a page of Xs. Dozens of tiny Xs, dutifully crossed across the Campus lines, written in with various pencils and pens, different colors and sizes.

He glances up at Oikawa, who crosses his arms, and Hinata takes that as an invitation to keep going. He flips to the next page, and it's the same thing. And the next. And the next. And the next, until he starts to get impatient and flips to the middle, where, finally, there's a highlighted yellow circle, followed by countless exclamation points.

Oikawa yawns, reaching for his mug. "Landed my first jump serve," he says lightly.

Hinata's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, before closing it shut, teeth clacking together.

Nonetheless, Oikawa smiles, a touch sardonic. Caught. "No, you can say it."

Even with permission, he hesitates. "That's a lot of Xs," he says carefully.

"Took a while." He takes a sip of coffee, placing the mug back down onto its saucer. "Do you want to guess how many times it took for our dear Tobio-chan to do the same thing?"

Hinata stays silent.

"Four," Oikawa's smile turns twisted. "Four times. I saw it happen, actually. I was in the gym with him when the ball flew over the net. Good for him, I suppose."

“Kageyama trains hard, too,” he points out quietly.

Oikawa's mouth twitches. “As hard as you?”

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks, desperately, anything to get Oikawa to stop talking. Anything to keep him from shattering the illusion of the Great King. Because if he's not the Great King, if he's not the third-year who serves bullets at Hinata's team, if he's not the figure that convinced Hinata that unstoppable monsters exist—

"Because, chibi, no matter how hard you train, someone out there will be able to do what took you months to master in the span of an afternoon."

—Then he has to come to terms with the fact that Oikawa Tooru is just as human as the rest of them.

Oikawa points a finger. "But that doesn't give you the right to give up. That doesn't give you an excuse to let up, or to drown in despair. You'll get there. Even if it takes," he falters infinitesimally, before rallying himself with a bright smile. "Even if it takes a little while."

Stamina monsters, Ukai calls them sometimes. Hinata had reveled in it, shone with pride. But sitting in a cafe in front of Oikawa dutifully doing homework while the world is still deep in its slumber, Hinata pales in comparison. Because his approach to volleyball is a sprint, Oikawa's is a marathon, and he’s ready to play the long-game in a way that Hinata can't possibly imagine.

“Well!” Oikawa declares, arms stretched high into the air, breaking the atmosphere between them. “You've ruined my Monday routine more than anyone else has in the past few months." He points an accusatory finger at Hinata. "If this was Karasuno's plan to take me down, I'm not letting you have this victory. You know where the bus is. Shoo, shoo."

"I understand," Hinata says quickly, syllables bumping into each other clumsily in his haste to get the words out. "I understand rest days now."

Oikawa raises a brow, doubtful. "Do you?"

"I..." He knows what it is now, that thing in his chest, ballooning in him until he feels like he can float from it. Hope. Because it’s possible. Someone as incredible as Oikawa, a seemingly unsurpassable mountain on court, is somehow sitting at the same table as Hinata. The curtain fell away to reveal that there were never any super powers, no magic wand that made those serves. It’s grit. It’s diligence. It’s enduring Monday after Monday with nothing but an unwavering focus on what’s in front of him. The only thing that can bring them to the level of a genius is hard work, and hard work doesn't always take place on the court. “I think I’m starting to.”

"Humph," Oikawa shoves his earphone back in his ear, turning his attention back to his worksheets. "As if I care."

Disappointment rises in him, slow and heavy. There's still so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. When did you start learning jump serves? Why did you start learning jump serves? Did people look down at you, too? What’s Ushijima’s spikes like? Why is Kageyama so scared of you?

Sliding off of the faux-leather of the booth, he fights not to let the dismay too obviously on his already-readable face when Oikawa speaks again. "Did you find the bus stop last time?"

He pauses. “Yeah?”

"Good." Fingers finding his phone, Oikawa turns up his music, enough that even Hinata can hear the muffled sound from here. "Then see you next week.”

It takes a moment for him to understand what he’s saying, convincing himself he misheard. When it hits him, Hinata can't repress the garbled noise that spills from his mouth, words slurring together to make one long, string of excited noise. He all but runs out of the cafe, bell ringing shrill behind him, before Oikawa can change his mind. Hinata can't wipe the grin off his face, inspiration thrumming through his veins as he skips to the bus stop.

Mondays. He can’t wait for Mondays.

[johnslittlespoon]

ONE SCENE LEFT TO WRITE FOR CHAPTER TWO BTW LET'S GO. spent p much all day yesterday working on it hence the lack of answering more asks, but this means i might actually manage to update two weeks in a row when i thought i'd be lucky to be able to stay motivated enough to update once a month :')) no promises but i'd love to get it out by friday bc my original thought process was aw imagine if i could continue the weekly mota episode tradition for myself but instead it's getting a fic chapter out on that day lol </3

[philosophiums]

im so jealous of ppl who want to and can read fics often. i have to jump over like 6 mental walls before i can even open a fic, and then another 4 to actually begin reading

[buckera]

Wip Word Search 🔍

rules: use this generator to generate three random words (or however many you'd like to do) and share the lines where they show up in your WIPs

my words: affect, great, opposed

1. affect from the mudslide fic ☔️

He watched as Eddie got up from the couch, carefully depositing Christopher’s legs from his lap before turning back to him and planting a soft kiss onto the top of his soft curls. He was getting too old for these kinds of affections when awake and — as much as he couldn’t wait to see Christopher become his own, independent person — Buck desperately wanted to halt time. It wasn’t a fair thing to think; Chris wasn’t exactly his kid to begin with and regardless of what Eddie’s will said would happen after his death, Buck's place in their lives wasn’t set in stone, so he savored every tiny moment he could. Somewhere along the last handful of years, Eddie and Christopher became Family, with a capital F. Buck loved Chris like he was his own and his feelings for Eddie were clear as day — only if not for the man himself. It was better that way, Buck reasoned. He probably wouldn’t let Buck hang around all the time, if he’d have known. Eddie probably didn’t think of them that way anyway. Buck ran his fingers through the curly hair tickling his cheek and pulled the kid’s small frame just a fraction closer, relishing in the moment of stillness.

2. great from the jealous eddie fic 🧇

“So uh t-tell me about yourself, you know, hobbies, pets, family, whatever.” “That’s pretty broad.” Jason chuckled and Buck felt his cheeks heat up immediately. Wow, he really hasn’t been on a proper date in such a long time that apparently he lost the ability to make conversation. Great. “Sorry I—” “Relax, Buck. It’s alright.” His shoulders sagged a little at that. “I guess cycling is a hobby, right? I’m not allowed pets at my place and uh… Two sisters, parents live in Nevada.” “Uh great, that- that’s great! I have a sister too, my parents live in Pennsylvania though.” Jason assessed his face for a long moment before he leaned back in his chair with a small sigh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem much more nervous than before. Is everything alright?” “Uh yeah— yeah, I’m fine, just…” Buck sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Eddie, my uh my partner at the 118, he’s been acting kinda weird about us going out. I just… I don’t know, I guess I got a little into my head about it.” A disapproving frown tugged at the patch of skin between Jason’s eyebrows for a moment, before it disappeared with a sigh. “So he’s one of those guys then.” Buck knew what he meant instantly; the type of guys who were just too macho not to feel threatened by even the mere mention of two men dating. Of course, it couldn’t have been further from the truth —  and Buck was quick to make that clear. “N-no, not at all! He’s a good guy, great actually. He’s my best friend.”

3. opposed from the breeding kink fic 🛏️

“You might be right,” he breathed, leaning over Buck and slipping his hands under his thighs for more leverage, “maybe we should just stay here like this forever.” Eddie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment when he bottomed out again. It wasn’t a plausible or in any way realistic idea, really, but Eddie found that he still wasn’t opposed to the fantasy of it. Especially not when Buck’s warmth enveloped him so perfectly, while he got to watch his chest rise and fall quicker and quicker, listen to his quiet whines and grunts as Eddie sped up his movements until he hit a steady rhythm and smell as fresh sweat broke through the lingering scent of their shared body wash; tea tree and mint. His hair was still damp from their shower and that was one thing they didn’t share; the shampoo — and god, Eddie was grateful that it never became something that he’d lose on the account of getting used to smelling it on himself, so now he could let the fruity and fresh scent of green apple, and something that uniquely belonged to Buck wash over his senses.

tags under the cut 💛

I was tagged by @hippolotamus @theotherbuckley @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @fortheloveofbuddie and @wikiangela thank youuu 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @eddiebabygirldiaz @nmcggg @thewolvesof1998 @ladydorian05

[omegawolverine]

oh!!! if u have any deadpool fic recs, i will gladly take them :] i have yet to delve into that part of the fandom

i def do but they're all spideypool or team red...if that's ur cup of tea then i def got u

edit:

the list is short but these are mostly chaptered so i hope that makes up for it TvT i think a lot of my bookmarks from my big spideypool hyperfixation were deleted unfortunately...anyways!

poolverine, terrible bdsm etiquette, canon typical hate fucking and violence. if u don't wanna see wade get physically injured (like not to spoil but it involves putting out cigars on his skin) for sexy purposes then this is NOT for u. also very unsanitary in general so if that's also not ur thing id pass this one

looooong series about spideypool meeting danny phantom and then becoming his sort of support system/dad like figures on accident...idk it's fun but also angsty, i haven't finished it but it's fantastic so far

pretty typical spideypool fic so there isn't rly any warnings outside the norm, tho based on the tag "avengers family" i think this is probably an age gap fic so idk how u feel about that 🤷‍♀️

soooo spideypool, 44 chapters.......anyways, i haven't read this in a loooong time so my warnings might be off, but the only thing that comes to mind is past SA

[gerrydelano]

oh no. i'm writing the introduction to fantasy au lmao fuck

[jayparked]

why is it that the second i open my google docs i suddenly dont want to write anymore :/

[eggsdrawings]

i bring a sort of Start A New Wip vibe to the workplace that my Hasn’t Finished My Other Wips don’t really like