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God wears light blue and has storm in his eyes.
Kiyoomi has met him before, in taped matches, in coaches’ strategic analyses, in Wakatoshi’s and Hinata’s and Kageyama’s adulation. But only when basking in his presence does Kiyoomi understand their decade-long infatuations.
Oikawa takes up his position behind the end-line, spinning the ball in his hands. The referee whistles. The battle starts. He tosses the ball up high before taking flight. When he strikes the ball and a cord in Kiyoomi’s heart, the arena trembles.
Kiyoomi wants that serve to be his. He wants to be the one that forestalls god.
---
Argentina v Japan, third set, and coach pulls Kiyoomi out.
He stands by their benches fighting for big gulps of air and willing his heart to ease its mad gallop. There’s screaming in his ears, in his muscles, in his blood. His legs slightly shake; his head swings a little. On his forearms red bruises from mighty serves bloom like cockspur coral and burn like god’s brand. He knows the shade of blue they will turn.
The whistle sounds. The battle resumes. Ojiro’s serve crashes into the Argentinian libero and bounces back to their court as a free ball. Miya turns the first touch into a set. Wakatoshi turns the set into a cannon that makes the court quake and the opponents shudder.
Behind the net, Oikawa’s stormy eyes gleam mean.
On the court, there are always gods to revere and defy.
---
Kiyoomi goes to the dining hall very late. He doesn’t want to be smothered by too many people, not today, not after that match.
The Olympics main dining hall is a massive two-storey off-white metal structure that’s always lit bright. Haggard athletes scatter here and there; there are not enough of them to turn Kiyoomi away. Long tables surrounded by indigo plastic chairs line up neatly, rows after rows halfway to the horizon. Food stations line the perimeter with brightly coloured decor above, below, and behind the steam of hot food. The place is too big, the temperature set too low for warmth, but the cleanliness that the staff manage to maintain, by some miracle, makes Kiyoomi feels at ease. He’s grateful for that.
He heads to the Japanese food stations. One of the big conveniences of having the Olympics in Tokyo is the abundance of Japanese food, his food, down to the most peculiar flavours that don’t quite sit right on foreign palates. When the mind is high strung and the body is shattered, food is fuel to repair but also balm to comfort, and there's nothing more comforting than home.
Apparently, he's not the only one with that thought in mind.
In a light blue jacket Oikawa is beaming at the workers behind the counter. The more flustered they look as they pile his tray with sushi and gyoza, the brighter his beam glows. There’s a slight tightness between his shoulder blades, but his voice is breezy. He turns around at the sound of Kiyoomi’s footsteps. His beam blinds Kiyoomi for a moment.
Oikawa greets him, "If it isn’t Japan team pretty boy."
Kiyoomi wonders if Oikawa always starts conversations like he doesn’t want them to last long, like he wants them to end badly. He doesn’t dwell on it. The workers seem to think otherwise anyway.
“My name is Sakusa.”
“I know. Are you here for some late night snack too?” Oikawa says airily.
His presence surprises Kiyoomi. He has never seen Argentinian light blue in the main dining hall. “I thought the Argentina team has meals in their training area?"
"We only have Argentinian food and cheeseburgers there," Oikawa shrugs.
"Why didn't you have dinner with Iwaizumi or Hinata then?" Their familiarity is broadcasted internationally.
"Not today," Oikawa shrugs again. He picks up his tray and goes towards the nearest chair.
Kiyoomi chooses a seat four rows away. As he eats, his mind wanders towards light blue and serves that bruise. The force in them comes close to Wakatoshi’s in intensity; their accuracy has been honed sharp enough to slice through any defence. His sets are glorious too, easy enough but also hard enough. He commands hitters with ease; hitters follow him with pleasure. Like a god of war he reigned over their battle until Kiyoomi had to bow out.
He doesn’t regret it. Now, he only wants to cut down god.
So he quickly finishes his meal, then walks over to where Oikawa is still working his way through a small mountain of gyoza.
“Why are you so strong?” Kiyoomi asks unceremoniously.
Oikawa almost chokes. “Why are you asking?” he coughs. “Are you trying to find out some seeecrets to my prowess?” his sing-song stretched out vowel has an edge to it like razors wrapped in cotton candy.
“Yes.” If Oikawa is sharp, then Kiyoomi can be blunt. Very.
Oikawa looked at him, eyes calm. The sky before the storm, Kiyoomi recognises. He lets Oikawa pick him apart in exchange for the right answer. He doesn’t want to know Oikawa’s serving drills or his nutrition plans or his imagery training, not yet. Before anything else, he wants to know what brings forth the storm.
Oikawa seems to find something in Kiyoomi that he deems good enough for an answer.
“Love.” He pauses for a second, “and pride.”
Kiyoomi thinks of a conversation years ago in a training camp. He thinks of Hinata’s answer one winter morning. Maybe there is indeed a common denominator to those who soar above.
“You sound like Wakatoshi-kun.”
“I most definitely do not!” Oikawa snaps, more out of a habit of the heart than anything.
They trade words for a little while, about Wakatoshi’s serves, about how “his serves are much more superior than Ushiwaka’s”, about how Oikawa was more than miffed when Kiyoomi bumped his very first serve that afternoon. Kiyoomi is pleased to know.
When Oikawa picks up his last gyoza, Kiyoomi cannot but ask:
“What will you do at the end?” With all that love and pride overflowing. What will you do when you have the world in the palm of your hand.
"There’s no end."
Kiyoomi feels a little bit like being knocked back by Oikawa’s serves again. For someone who ends things to live, who knows the end is inevitable, he doesn’t understand Oikawa.
“There’s no end,” the mortal mask is gone. “I chase not only golds, not only world stages. I chase not a career, but a life of volleyball. There's no end in my sight. My road is endless.” The storm is back to rage in his eyes.
Isn't that unviable, Kiyoomi wants to ask. How does one live with never being done. How can one be content knowing that they will never be satisfied. Oikawa’s declaration clashes with his entire being. It makes him want to run out of here and do something like eating a cupcake, or receiving 100 serves, or cleaning the entire Olympics Village, simply for the sake of getting things done.
Yet a part of Kyoomi is still dazzled by Oikawa like eyes by fireworks, still drawn to him like magnets to their opposites. He doesn't take his eyes away from light blue.
Oikawa swallows his last bite.
“Are you full?”
“No, not even close.”
---
At his first national tournament back in middle school, Kiyoomi’s volleyball was tinted purple. Then came black and then came white. Now there’s also blue as light as the sky.
How he wants to meet him again, the god in light blue. He wants to see the storm in his eyes, wants to feel the burns from his serves, wants to hear him declare over and over that he’s not sated, will never be sated. He wants to meet him again on the court, on the opposite side of the net. Then, he can drag him down from his throne.
Kiyoomi isn't sure if their paths will cross once more. They might be in the same orbit, but Argentina is still an ocean away. But he still goes through serve receive drills everyday, diligently, properly, so when they meet again, he will be ready.