Chapter Text
“Number 43, Oikawa Tooru-san, please.”
He should have known.
———
He should have known.
He should have known that something was wrong the moment Iwa-chan so casually entered his classroom and slid gracefully into the unoccupied seat right in front of him. He should have known, he definitely should have — the instinct he built about Iwa-chan should have alerted his caution — when Iwa-chan, the ever straightforward, crude, and crass Iwa-chan, began his sentence hesitantly thus—
“So....”
“Yes, Iwa-chan?” He answered, like an idiot, still munching on the soft, warm, and delicious milk bread that rests in his left hand.
(Perhaps it was the heavenly delight of the milk bread that blinded and deafened him, or maybe it was because he was occupied with deleting all of Ruka-chan’s pictures from his phone. Could be whichever. More likely, the milk bread.
Whatever, the point is, he was distracted.)
“So... the season is over.”
“Yes, Iwa-chan. Yes, it is.”
“And we have... well, nothing else to prepare for.”
“Perhaps some of you don’t, but I do. If I hope to make it out of high school volleyball.”
“Yes, yes, yes. All that. But the coach said....” Iwa-chan purposefully drew out his syllables, in a way that apprised too much trepidation to be cute. But, alas, the Great Oikawa Tooru was occupied (by milk bread). “Come on, help me out here, you know what I am about to say!”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes. ‘The coach said’. He said one thing, he said a million things, Iwa-chan, which one is it?”
“Well, the one where he said that life is... you know, wild, and the world is big, and the chances and the opportunities are endless, and that as youthful spirits...”
“... we should try things out before we grew too old and too grumpy to do so, like his grandfather." Oikawa sighed, "Yes, sure, that one.”
“And so... I think you should try out something new! Something fun, you know, that could get you out of this volleyball.... and Ruka-chan funk that you are feeling right now.” Iwaizumi ended his sentence, unbeknownst to his so-called best friend, by glancing fretfully at the viciously-attacked phone on Oikawa’s hand. That was fair, he guessed, considering how the girl had broken the news to him. Poor child.
“And pray tell, what is that?”
“Well, someone from another club asked us, and just, especially us, a small little favor, and would very appreciate it if we would agree...”
“Sure, sure, get to the point, Iwa-chan.”
“The theatre club wants you to audition for their upcoming production. They said they have to find anyone with an ounce of potential, and they are... very keen on having you trying it out.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Iwaizumi knew this, and Oikawa knew this — albeit belatedly, with many fruitless regrets — that Oikawa is so absorbed with “milk bread” to process any of the information given to him that fateful day.
But, giving his words meant giving his words, especially if his best friend is Iwaizumi Hajime, who is never too abashed to wrangle him into doing so.
Alas, he should have known. But is there any sight more lucid and painful than hindsight?
———
“Right, Oikawa-san, welcome. Please attempt the dialogue from page nine, line thirty-two to forty-three. Let us know when you are ready.”
———
“Thank you. Now, we understand if you haven’t reached that part of the script yet, so we will give you fifteen minutes to prepare. After that, please attempt the monologue from page twenty-one...”
———
“Thank you, to everyone who auditioned today! We are extremely grateful for your interest in our biggest project of the school year and hope that your support will remain...
... At any rate, the judging committee will reach out to you in two more weeks, at the latest, before finalizing the casts for this production...”
———
Oikawa definitely tuned out the rest of the speech.
It just... happened; with reasons, of course. No volleyball player is used to that length of theatre kids’ flowery speeches, and he doubted that anyone could listen to the student director pretending like he was heading the Gekidan Shiki. Honestly, someone should pay him for giving that much effort into an oration — it wasn’t even that informative.
He took the time, instead, to admire the impressive audition space — right at Seijou’s main auditorium. He never knew much about the arts program, spending all his time on the courts as he was, but it seemed fairly ostentatious that a single program owned such an expensive space. Not that he knew how big a usual theatre should be, but surely this many rows of dust-covered maroon seats, plush and outrageously comfortable (they really expect the audience not to fall asleep in these?) with such a grand stage would cost way more than two volleyball courts combined, right?
He was more convinced as such the longer he observed the space — at the voluminous lightings equipment that he doesn’t know the name of, the strategically spaced speakers that dotted the room, all veiled themselves in muted black, and the curious amount of curtains behind the theatre club’s president, coyly showing the extensive space that he sure no Shakespeare productions would ever require — definitely worth more than two volleyball courts combined.
Then, Oikawa wondered why they asked him, notoriously known for a dashing good look and a mind with only volleyball to speak of, to join this theatrical group of performers. They have nothing in common: theatre and volleyball, performance and sport, a grand wooden stage that probably cannot stand twelve people leap and prance upon, courts where the spectators stood like gods above and the performer weighted down their gazes...
Both seemed blinding, though. Blindingly dark and blindingly bright.
Briefly, Oikawa wished his eyes could burn under the gleam of the court just once more, with the ball and the sweat weighing him down and love letting him soar.
———
“So, how did it go?”
“Absolutely weird and boring. I read out two pages from a book, and then they write down their judgemental opinion of me once I leave the room.”
He had agreed to meet Iwa-chan at the coffee shop down the blocks after the audition, if not for consolation just in case the audition turned out to be the biggest mistake of his short, youthful life, then for help with the calculus homework. Oikawa sighed, then flopped down the seat opposite from his best friend, who, seconds prior to his arrival, was shoving his brain under a mountain of equations. His traitorous thought, fleetingly, grew annoyed at the cushion for not being as soft as the one in the auditorium. But the junk in front of Iwa-chan's face was more interesting, and a quick glance informed him that it was— ew, calculus. Just for being a good friend by distracting the precious Iwa-chan from the agony that is mathematics, Oikawa prized himself with a sip of Iwa-chan’s chocolate shake.
Also, he needs some consolation and helps with calculus, right now.
“Get your own!” Iwa-chan yelled half-heartedly, “How did you do, though?”
“Nervous. Incredibly nervous. I didn’t want to be that nervous, mind you, considering that I didn’t want to do theatre that much anyway....” He shivered, then shrugged off his school bag, “But I think I did... fine. The girl who was paired up with me was super scary, but she definitely knew more about what she was doing than I do about mine.”
He quickly ordered his usual drink — the smile and an equally bright attitude accompanied, as usual — before slumping down on the table. That theatre stuff had no right to be as tiring as they were. He considered just laying there and sulk, but curiosity thrummed at his throat.
“So, why did they ask for me, anyway?”
“Oh, you know...” Iwa-chan casually said, without looking up from his work, “Hirose from class 6, you must have seen him around, right? He is their usual male lead, but then decided not to audition this time, so they have to pull in as many people with ‘potential’ as possible.”
“Why not you, or Makki and Mattsun? Aren’t they like... “
“... The personification of theatre? Well, yeah, if they are planning on doing comedy.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa giggled, “that... that is so mean of you...”
Behind his textbook, Iwa-chan’s body shook with the effort of containing his own ridicule, “Or if they still want to do a western romance, both of them have to be the leads.”
“Oh my god, Iwa-chan! Makki in a dress! With a blonde wig!”
They broke into laughter, somewhat conscious of the guests around them but also unable to contain the hilarity. The rest of the shop must have considered them madmen, but was it worth the charm of blonde-Makki in a dress? Of course.
Their ruckus quieted when the waitress delivered Oikawa’s favorite mashed-strawberry milk. Oikawa pulled out his calculus homework, running out of excuses for not doing so. He might know how to trace the curve of a volleyball moments after leaving the spiker’s hand, but calculate the slope of that curve? No, thanks. Don’t have time to do that in the middle of the game.
Math homework doesn’t mean silent time, however, “So, why did Hirose quit this time? Isn’t he aiming to attend performance school or whatever theatre kids do?”
“I think he wanted to compete in a different category.”
“... What?”
“Yeah, didn’t you read the brochure I gave you? The play that you just auditioned for? It’s for some kind of league competition. Kind of like a volleyball tournament, really.”
“WHAT?”
“You didn’t read the brochure, didn’t you.” Iwa-chan sighed, still not looking up.
Oikawa paused, for several moments, just to close his eyes lest they dive out of his eye sockets. He took a deep, calming breath... and sat down again, hands clasped in front of his face. One calming breath, and another… Then, he opened his eyes, braving against the cruel and taunting world ahead.
“Iwa-chan, you encourage— told me, to audition... my first audition, ever, in my entire life, and it’s for a tournament? A competition? Against a fleet of kids who have spent their entire life eating up applauses from that... that high stage?”
“Hey, who knows, you could be a natural! You did live through the last three weeks of your relationship with Ruka-chan!”
“Don’t mention Yawamura—“
“Oh, back to the surname already, huh—“
“— Just don’t. And why would they even want me to audition, then, if that’s the case? Won’t it be a waste of time?”
“Well, they asked me to recommend someone, so here you are, so I did! And they are okay with it! Why are you so indignant, anyway, since you didn’t seem to care at all when I asked you?”
“Because I was busy! Deleting Ru— Yawamura’s existence from my life! And why would they— why would ever let me do something you knew I am going to fail at!?” He knew he was being unreasonable; both of them were blowing this out of proportion, with his penchant for the casual theatrics and Iwa-chan’s hot head, but well, what was done was done.
Iwa-chan’s temper slumped as quickly as it flared up. His best friend slumped down against the backrest, and sighed, “I don’t intend for you to fail, Shittykawa, I just want you to live without volleyball or failed relationships for once in your high school life!”
“That’s not true!” Oikawa bluffed, like a liar that he is.
“That is so! You have been in a weird mood since Spring High ended, and didn’t even break up with Yawamura before she forced your hand!”
Oikawa groaned and slammed his face down to his forgotten calculus homework. Of course, he had been in “a mood”, Iwa-chan of all people should have understood why! Of course, that’s why he didn’t have the heart to break up with Ruka... like he would have done had they not been defeated in the semi-finals.
(He couldn’t stomach the thought of losing yet another “match”, be it relationships or volleyballs. He couldn’t stomach anything, at that moment.)
Iwa-chan did know, however, like he always was, and like Oikawa always surmised that he ought to. Maybe— no, definitely— that was why he intervened. In his own gruff, pushing-you-out-of-your-comfort-zone-is-for-your-sake way.
“Alright, then.” Oikawa sniffed, at the cruel, cruel world ahead. Alas, what was done was done.
“It’s just for fun, you know, trying something new. Even if you didn’t get the lead role, one of the minor ones wouldn’t be so bad, would they?” Iwa-chan started, soothingly, before turning back to his work, “It’s not like it’s all or nothing.”
“Sure, it sure is.” Oikawa pouted, just as a matter of principle. “Hey, number 13 on page 72, how do you do it?”
“Which one?” Iwa-chan glanced over, “That, you have to use implicit differentiation first...“
———
Oikawa forgot all about the theatre club in the three days before they announced the final cast, in favor of volleyball, more volleyball, and trying not to fail his calculus quiz. He swore he tried to pay attention, but nothing made sense— maybe math doesn’t suppose to make sense, and you just have to somehow memorize how to perform the witchcraft of mathematics! Why the hell do curves need to have slopes?
It all came to an end, the moment Makki and Mattsun’s rambunctious footsteps rang outside of his classroom, warningly of their playfully-sinister presence.
Alas, he should have known.
“Oi, oi, Oikawa!!” Makki hollered from the window that opened to his classroom. Oikawa sighed, put down his half-eaten onigiri, and staunchly refused to turn around and make eye-contacts.
“Oikawa! Get your ass out here, quick!” Mattsun snickered, uncaring of his friend’s profanity, and willingly let Makki conduct the performance. That snicker, however, will be the downfall of Oikawa’s sanity. “Come on, theatre boy! Quick, before the show begins!”
Their dismayed target trekked across the classroom like an exiled man, while, in fact, he is very much loved and demanded by his fellow teammates — and now hype-men, Mattsun graciously added. Buzzed up by the number of jokes that stifled his lungs — can’t spoil the surprise yet — Makki pulled Oikawa’s arm and practically led him away running, like an overexcited puppy pulling his first sledge. Mattsun was not far behind, either, and his taunting grin was arguably worse than whatever jokes Makki had in store.
“And.... here we go!" Makki abruptly stopped, crashing Oikawa's shoulder with his own, "Congratulations, theatre boy, ya got the lead right in ya bag!”
Despite the cheerful proclamation, Oikawa intently stared at the colorful poster in front of him, the header gracefully denoted its content as the official casting for the next play — An original production by the Seijou’s Theatre Club, a collaboration with the Western Literature Club...
And here he was.
Shimazaki Haruna as Mademoiselle de Villette
Oikawa Tooru as Alexander Dusseau
....
Thank you for all of those who auditioned. Congratulations to the cast, and we wish for a successful production with you! For more information, please contact....
————
The first meeting was three days after the casting announcement, and the table reading four days after that.
It felt a little surreal, ended up as the male lead, especially considering how unreasonably nervous he was at the audition, adding to the fact that this is his first role, like, ever ever. A total zero on his “previous experience” mark. And somehow, here he was, the male lead of a supposedly “very important” competitive production of the school.
Somehow, this worked out, against his eternity of bad luck.
He thought about it once, he had thought about it a million times. But the point stood; and so did the inferiority complex pulsed violently against his heart.
He can’t screw this up.
———
The first meeting was not that more interesting than the ending speech at the audition.
He was genuinely trying to pay attention this time, if not because of the responsibility of a male lead, then as the newbie of the scene. He knew virtually nothing about theatre, if one doesn’t count the commoner’s perceptions that were, somehow, always and completely missed the mark. And he, the great and charming Oikawa Tooru, did not wish to injure his image. It did help that the speaker this time is someone... more comprehensible and concise. The vice-president — Yokoyama Yuri-san from Iwa-chan’s class — if he remembered correctly.
“Welcome, everyone. If you do not already know, I’m Yokoyama Yuri and the Vice-President of Seijou’s Theatre Club. First off, as usual, thank you for coming and for committing to the production.
“This is perhaps obsolete, but I would like to stress the importance of this project.” Oh, not obsolete for him, at all. “Well, this play will be our biggest production for the year. Not only would it be our last stage for the school year, but this year, it will also be the keynote performance of the Seijou Summer Festival in late July, as well as our entry for the National High School Theatre Competition.
“We decided that this is finally the year that we lifted the bar.” Yokoyama paused, and her demeanor, if even possible, turned even more serious and imposing, “Our goal this year is a total sweepstake. The original screenplay, inter-collegiate, western, and more.”
A gasp resonated around the room, before the mere weight of the words pressurized into silence. Glancing around, a little more than confused, Oikawa eyed the intensity that burdened, yet sparkled, in every cast members’ eyes — from his fellow leads to the minor characters and the crewmen. Almost half, he never remembered to ever seeing them on campus, and the room is definitely too crowded to host just a group of kids playing theatre, but perhaps he misjudged how dedicated the school, and these kids, are to this competition. Even the name of it sounded imposingly serious.
“Thus, per both club members' approval, Seijou and Karasuno will collaborate for our entry. I hope that everything will go smoothly.”
Karasuno, again, huh.
(But as comrades this time.)
“Alright.” Yokoyama exhaled the remainder of the stiffness that drowned the auditorium, loudly clapping her hand to refocus, “Now that we got the introduction out of the way, the packets that were handed out at the beginning contain everything that you need to know about this production. Hopefully, you all have some kind of writing utilities on you.” He did, thank heaven, (thanks, Iwa-chan), “First off, let’s get to the scheduling...”
He opened the thick envelope that was given at the doorstep, his name carefully etched on the cover, before pulling out a sea of paperwork that almost made his eyes water. Thankfully, the packets and Yokoyama seemed to be in accordance with the chronology of the meeting. Oikawa wondered how many trees the club had massacred, between the sheer number of actors and crew members, multiplied by the several productions they pushed out each school year. Now, maybe, just maybe, the volleyball club under his and the previous reigns had been extremely unorganized — relied solely on the sheets of paper pinned haphazardly on the club room’s bulletin board and the coach’s hollers about match dates in their ears during drills — but at least they didn’t have this many sheets of paper to keep track of.
The booming voice from the stage quickly brought him back from reality, explaining on what dates, what group of people are expected, and where. He realized then, that the schedule has been at least a little bit personalized, separating the crews’ from the casts. What an impressive level of paper-working.
There was the table reading that was coming on soon, and a wide gap between that and the first rehearsal. Then, there were more scattered meetings, twice every week, until the next big event — bolded and colored red — the “technical rehearsal” or whatever that meant. In-between those meetings, colored in a muted blue, were his various costume-making and make-up appointments. He was, strangely, excited about that. Almost excited enough to suffocate the trepidation that these mysterious rehearsals brought out. The first costume appointment would be only two days after the table read.
(First off, Oikawa didn’t even know that they have color printers at school.
Secondly, what the hell are all those terms?)
What he expected, but didn’t truly understand until now, was the structure of theatrics rehearsals. Of course, it would take forever if no one learns their lines before rehearsal, but he had not truly comprehended how individualistic was this... collaborative art, until now. There was as much individual work as there was about coopetition and chemistry: any missteps and miscommunication can evolve into a disaster, probably, but one also was required to carry out their own practice. On the second thought, maybe this was similar to volleyball, after all.
———
The casts are dismissed before the technical crews, and their “homework” had been getting to know each other. When everyone, including the scary girl that Oikawa had paired up with, left the room, so did he.
They all concentrated outside of the auditorium’s door and chatted noisily; whispers and peals of laughter commingled between cohorts. He always assumed that the cast, for one production to another, had always been the same people, in the same club — that “getting to know each other” was meant for the minor characters and him, the newbies of the team — but now he wasn’t so sure. Though, perhaps they were all chatting as old friends.
“Oikawa-kun, right?”
“Ah! Yes, it’s me!” He jumped at the lilting voice that suddenly conjured beside him, before looking down to the girl that stood exactly where the voice came from.
“Sorry if I startled you, it just seemed like you were a bit… well, loss.” The girl smiled good-naturedly, eyes squinted with the force of it, paying no heed to his awkwardness. She seemed nice. “I’m Yamamoto Aya, by the way. I play Madame de Blois.”
“Ah, well… It seems like you already know me, don’t you?” He scratched his head, attempting to make himself less graceless and more… casually suave.
“Right, Monsieur Dusseau.” Yamamoto grinned, in a foreign accent he could only guess as perfectly poised French, “It’s not like you are the most popular guy at Seijou for nothing! And switching gears to the theatre, honestly, what is there to not notice!”
“Well, you know, I just want to try out something new…”
“That’s good to know! And landed at the lead role, too. That’s impressive!” She twirled a little in excitement, her brown ponytail whirled along like a mini-version of herself.
“Thank you… honestly, I have no clue how I did it. I don’t even know half of the things that are written on the schedule, and I seriously don’t want to mess this up for you guys.”
“Don’t worry about it!” Yamamoto laughed, “Haruna-chan and I sure would love to help! Right, Haruna?”
Yamamoto waved her friend over, somewhere amongst the sea of people. Oikawa glanced toward her hand and found another girl, jet black hair streamed down her shoulder and somewhat taller than Yamamoto was, sauntered toward him.
Lo and behold. That was the same girl that he had auditioned with.
The female lead.
“I’m sure you guys know each other already, right?” Yamamoto asked, hazel eyes shone brightly.
Shimazaki Haruna, on the other hand, seemed more aloof and less excited to be here, and he was not sure how much of it was her usual demeanor or vexation. She seemed immaculately professional at the audition, and her unerring stance at the auditorium just now intimidated him greatly, solely based on the sheer confidence that she showed, as if the space had always belonged to her.
He had always believed that the theatre kid’s female lead stereotype — cold, professional, unnerving, and frigid off-stage — was incorrect, and now, more than ever, he sincerely hoped so.
“Shimazaki Haruna, nice to meet you.”
“Right... Oikawa Tooru, nice to meet you.”
That… was awkward.
“Perhaps you guys would be more comfortable talking after the first table reading!” Yamamoto beamed on, completely uncaring of the unease that ensued, “Now, let’s go meet everyone else!”
———
The table read came soon, perhaps too soon, after. Both Yokoyama and Yamamoto — Yuri and Aya, now — had assured him that he did not need to do anything at the first reading, besides showing up with the script and a pencil or two. That was somewhat assuring, at least.
The more reassuring part was not having the first line of the play. His character would be introduced on page six, line seventy-four, and the first four pages were reserved for Mademoiselle de Villette and her afternoon tea with Madame du Blois. The most reassuring, then, was knowing that they do not need to act, but merely read — knowing that without prior practices, all actors were made equal and that Oikawa would not be making a fool out of himself. The flat, aloof voice of Shimazaki was paradoxically comforting.
“Why, of course, Madame du Blois… There is no reason I ought to resent the Duke’s betrothment. That would even take me out of this wretched countryside.”
“Surely, someone of your kind would not much like to be confined to someone else’s wishes, Louise. What would you even do, once France is but behind your horizon?”
“Anything, my dear Amelie. Any new scenery would provoke more duties and excitement than idle Ardennes.”
Well, that was until they reached the supposedly romantic lines.
“Ah, Monsieur Dusseau.” His character’s name sounded glacial in Shimazaki’s timbre, but that was most likely just her normal tone, at this point, “Summer, as it was. Here granted to us its dear labor.”
“Budded from the gentle spring, seeded by the sweetness of heat.”
A glance was shared. Mlle. de Villette furtively smirked at M. Dusseau.
Shimazaki, of course, did none of those. He was thankful for that.
“The season shall bloom, Monsieur, with its sultry aroma and transforming the land into something… ah, more lively.”
At the end of the day, they did not talk as much as Aya would have loved to. But Oikawa was more than fine with that.
———
Compared to all the strangeness of theatre, the strangeness of the fitting sessions would perhaps be the one that Oikawa welcomed the most.
He stepped into the fitting room and found someone already presided there, tension weighed their shoulders in concentration, despite their casual posture — back lithely rested against the folding chair and both legs off the floor; one foot rested upon the chair, the other leg perched on top of it. What a bizarre pose to be sitting at — that couldn’t be comfortable at all — but given what he knew about theatre kids’ penchant for idiosyncrasies and the person’s engrossment in their works, Oikawa decided to let them be.
He knocked on the door frame, however, keeping up his charming manner. The person flinched — almost dropped their pencil, and the movement flaunted the scribbled sketches that they were working on — before glancing backward and widened their eyes at Oikawa. For the sake of politeness and the half-maybe-an-hour of them working together, Oikawa tried not to laugh.
The person in question — the costume designer, his memory supplied — went red, quite adorably (his mind supplied, though this time, not a helpful input). From this angle, Oikawa can deduct that this is in fact, a person too cute (shut up, brain) for Oikawa’s good.
“It’s gonna help you put your mind off things”. Really, now. Iwa-chan’s suggestions began to hold a completely different meaning.
Suppressing his desire to trail his hand through that silky, tousled head of silver hair for later (What the fuck, brain, shut up), he raised his hand in greeting and remembered to slap on his signature smile in the last minute. The other person seemed to jostle out of his own reverie at that moment, and ushered Oikawa into the room and break out of his theatre-kid’s-comfortable position.
“Hey, you must be Oikawa-san, right? The male lead?”
“Yep, that’s me!” He beamed, purposefully made his steps light and casual, “And you are...?”
“Sugawara Koushi,” the other person — the costume designer — smiled, the gentle lilt in his voice lit up the room, “So, for today, I just need to take some measurement for the actual costume,” Sugawara fumbled around with the bag folded underneath his chair, pulling out a neat roll of tape measure, “well, depends on whether Seijou can find the gloves and boots and all that, we might need another tailoring session, but for now, the actual suit is the priority.”
“You guys... can make boots?”
“Nah,” Sugawara licked his lips, twisting the soft tape between his fingers, “but we can find one and customize it. If Seijou doesn’t already have one in your size, that’s it.”
“Hm,” Oikawa had several questions but ignored them in favor of taking in the space. They have borrowed a music practice room for this — he eyed a group of music stands neatly stacked in the farthest corner from the door, a sheet of crumbled notes peeked out in the middle. He had imagined the costume design portion as something chaotic and “artistically disheveled”, as television would love to portray, but the space was sparse and no clutter existed beside the two folding chairs, a stuffed messenger bag, the pencils and strewn sketches on the floor. Perhaps it’s the borrowed room, he reasoned, but the difference between imagination and reality was still staggering. Sugawara studied his sketchbook once more, before gesturing for Oikawa to stand in front of him.
“Take off your jacket, please.” Sugawara waved in his general direction before rummaging his bag once more, “and change to a sport short or something,” he glanced back, “wait, you already did, huh.”
“What, you think the male lead is a newbie?”
“Well, given that you are well-known for volleyball and not theatre, yes.”
“Cheeky.” Oikawa huffed, and waves of laughter rang out of Sugawara like bells sailing the wind. “Sugawara-san, maybe you should audition for the next production; heard they’re planning to do a comedy piece.”
“Just Suga is okay,” Suga’s voice tumbled in between his giggle, “and yes, you really are a newbie, huh. Bet that you didn’t even go to the orientation, or else you’d know that I’m not from Seijou.”
“Wha... Hey! I totally knew what was going on at the orientation! Of course, I was,... what are you going on about—“
“Alright, then I guess Monsieur Dusseau here is too important to notice the tech people, hm?” He smirked, and Oikawa sputtered indignantly, before being cut off by the other’s cackle, “Just kidding, of course, you need to pay attention to what Yokoyama-san said more than snooping at others!”
“Well, Suga-san, aren't you hilarious. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Cheeky.” Suga raised his brows playfully, “heard that the next production is a comedy, too.
“Now, lift your arms up, shoulders flat, please.”
As banterful as Suga seemed to be, once immersed in work, he is as meticulous and methodical as any theatre professionals… well, kids, that Oikawa had met. Willowy fingers blithely pressed the tape along Oikawa’s arms, his thumb gently pressing around to find the joint between Oikawa’s arm length and the shoulder. Under the layer of fabric, he could not feel the calluses that freckled the other’s fingertips as clearly as from the pressure upon his wrist. Suga did not waste a single movement; he swiftly measured, shifting the tape from joints to perceived joints, carefully counting off the minuscule marks that lined the tape, then quickly scratched a number onto his notes, clipped onto the music stand beside him, a setup Oikawa had not noticed until then.
Strangely, Oikawa felt that his touches lingered forever. Like a phantom that abandons and immediately reaches back, a tango of existence and none, leaving all of his touches woven into a ceaseless dance. The silence between them began to stifle his lungs, and the overwhelming sensuality of Suga's touch invaded that vacuum of space. He blamed the daring silence; one that let every callused touch sending tingles to his bones.
“Ticklish, Monsieur Dusseau?”
“Not if we talk. That might distract me.”
“Alright,” Suga chuckled, “So, the first time being fitted?”
“Yeah, the first one for a long time.” He admitted. Suga signaled for him to turn around, “Mom used to take me to a tailor once every while, but we haven’t done so for quite sometimes.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. More because of my schedule than anything, so.”
“Volleyball?”
“Ya got it. How did you know, anyway?”
Suga took a breath that felt like a ghost of a giggle, “Oh, you know. The Seijou folks are pretty friendly. They talked.”
“Gossip, you mean.” He pouted, even though Suga won’t be able to see it.
“Not all bad talk, really, most are just curious. And some marveled at how you got the lead at first try. We shut down any chance of mudslinging, anyway.”
“Hah, mudslinging. Hasn’t heard that word in a long time.” Oikawa’s snickers must have wavered Suga’s work, but he received no complaints, “But thanks. For doing it for me.”
“No problem. We will all be working together anyway, so it’s good that all gears run smoothly." Suga said, “Anyway, most talks are good ones, though. The girls love you, honestly. All gushing about your talents and stuff.”
“Well, of course…”
“Seems like that’s the usual for the pretty boy Monsieur Dusseau, hm?” Suga tapped Oikawa’s shoulder to let him know to turn back, and he saw a smile blessed onto the boy’s lips. It’s soft, adoring, and Oikawa wondered if his heart was responding to him at all.
Okay, no. Immediate retreat.
“Something like that, Suga-chan.” No, no, no! Not teasing back! Not like that! “A shame someone as lovely as you is not in the hearts of the masses, hm?”
“Well, if we talked about that,” Suga chuckled, then gently coaxed Oikawa down to the chair nearby, “Aren’t it befitting? You shine in the spotlight, and I the shadow beneath?”
“So poetic now, aren’t we?”
“And you served the theatrics well.”
Laughter rang and bounced between the proofed barrier of the practice room; when he left later that day, Suga’s numbers and the promise to update him on the state of the suit loitered in his message history, Oikawa found Suga’s pearls of laughter still echoing in his head, like bronze bells gliding through a summer field.
———
The Garden of Farewell
The original production of Aoba Johsai High School and Karasuno High School
Director: Sashihara Riko
Screenplay: Tashima Miru, Miyawaki Maki
The story surrounds Mlle. Louise de Villette, the desirous daughter of a French noble, who will soon depart her home country for distant Belgium, for an engagement with the Duke of Cröy. She had wanted nothing more than to leave her insipid and idle hometown, but a last-minute encounter between her and the clever charm of Alexander Dusseau, the new guard employed at the estate, might waver her resolution...
———
The first rehearsal ran smoothly enough.
The trepidation in his heart evaporated, and it beat comfortably in his chest when he saw that, against his unreasonable fear, that he was fairly early. Usually, he would be at volleyball practice at this hour, though barely warmed up to yell instructions at the underclassmen. The coach understood the obligation — more of the work of the other third years than of his — though he suspected that even the old man was sick of seeing him in the courts days after days. Everyone else seemed understanding enough.
(He didn’t allow himself to wonder how much of it was pity.)
Yuri was sitting cross-legged on the stage floor and enthusiastically waved him over when she saw his face peeked behind the creaks of the door. Shimazaki and Aya were already there, too, and seemed relaxing enough, both of their bellies resting on the wooden floor. Aya’s wave rivaled Yuri’s enthusiasm; Shimazaki only gave him a polite nod.
He waved and smiled at all of them, though, before quickly jogging to the stage, leaping through the stairs to replace the exercises that he would miss from today's volleyball practice.
“Volleyball player, always leaping and bouncing everywhere like little chicks.” Yuri teased.
They chatted about everything and nothing at all; mostly, he laughed, Aya jokes, Yuri chimed in, and Shimazaki huffed out breaths that were meant to be laughter, from then until the space filled up with chatty teenagers. They did something dubbed “blocking” that day — a term that sounded volleyball-related, and then didn’t — the director, Sashihara, asked them to recite their lines, section by section, while moving around the stage as scripted. Occasionally, she would pause the act, scrunch her nose, tilt her head high as if that would transform the scene in front of her somehow, then gave out new directions, and the actors in question would quickly scribble down her order in their script.
It seemed fun, watching others work while waiting for his entering cue. Shimazaki was great, he assumed, from the way everyone cannot help but focused on her every little movement. She moved like a perfectly pompous lady of the nobility — even feet, straight back, a smile with just a hint of calculation and restraint; the uncontrived flicks of fingers that emphasized her station, yet was nowhere seen in the actual script. All those small gestures, confined by the noble indolence and the setting of a tea table, sculpted a vivid painting despite the blank stage. Sashihara seemed like she was having fun, too; from time to time, she even seemed surprised at Shimazaki’s unexpected geniuses.
On his cue, Oikawa entered the stage. He had studied his line for this scene over and over, and yet the prospect of being scrutinized by the director and fellow actors alone set his heart off like a rambunctious drum.
“Alexander Dusseau, my lady,” he bowed, thankful that his voice didn't shake; his left arm crossed behind his back and the other hugging the script to his chest, “I am honored to serve the Duke and his estates.”
“Of course, the Duke and his estates.” Shimazaki sighed dramatically, her face moved from half a gesture to another, as if testing out what mask it should wear, “Never a thought for the Duchess and the ladies. And you, dear Amelie, wondered why I would depart this hinterland.”
“I meant no offense, Mademoiselle, the words are merely procedural.” He looked up, eyeing his script before continuing.
“As if it would improve such anything, honored guards.” Shimazaki read from her script, paused, then added a last-minute giggle, “Honored guards, all swords and words, no senses found!”
“Shall it be, that they are all squirrelly,” Aya sing-songed at her script, “Square and stout, but savvy? Not really.”
“May that it be,” Oikawa smirked, lifted his feet a little before straightening his back, “that little squirrel, so shrewd and mellow, steal away your sack, while you’re so lively in talk.”
“Alright!” Sashihara clapped, “Great delivery, ladies and gentlemen! Dusseau, move back, away from Madame du Blois some… twenty more centimeters! Servants at the back, I know you guys are not the focus, but move around a little more! Door guards…”
———
From Suga-chan: how was the rehearsal today?
To Suga-chan: pretty good :D we just did the whole blocking thing. not done yet tho. we have to finish act 3.
From Suga-chan: that’s cool!
From Suga-chan: we just started on the fabric today.
From Suga-chan: well, mostly asahi did the work, i just observe :P
To Suga-chan: what kind of a costume maker does that make you?? >:D
From Suga-chan: not a costume maker :D
From Suga-chan: i just helped around, thats it
To Suga-chan: so what even is your main job??
From Suga-chan: an all-rounded errand boy :P
From Suga-chan: jk, wont want to ruin the surprise ;D
To Suga-chan: (¬_¬) im onto you~
———
Shimazaki eventually approached him, after the second rehearsal had ended.
“Oikawa-san, do you have the time?”
“It’s… 7:30 pm?”
“Would you mind staying a little bit longer, for practice? Or would you prefer that we meet tomorrow?”
He had volleyball practices on the weekdays that the theatre club did not meet. The season might be over, but there are personal skills to hone and underclassmen to train, even though he toned it down, as demanded by Iwa-chan, “Today would work better. But if you prefer tomorrow, it would have to start… around this time.”
“Tomorrow it is, then.” Shimazaki nodded, “I will meet you at the volleyball court? The auditorium might be closed.”
Alright, time to adjust his homework schedule, then.
———
“Everything is still going smoothly, though! It seems like the costume department is a little bit understaffed, so I mostly stay there as of now, but once the initial cutting and measuring are done, the Seijou team could come help, and then the workload is halved!”
They called each other that night, talking and doing homework at the same time, and it felt almost as if they were in the same room. Oikawa wondered if the blithe lilt Suga’s voice would just resonate within the four walls over and over like last time, forever lingering in his room.
“Seems rough, being the chief designer.”
“Well, Okada had her experiences, but Asahi just got roped into this last minute!” Suga laughed; the names of Karasuno theatre members flowed seamlessly together in his head, “He kind of freaked out, actually, but Okada and the club sponsor love his design!
“So, everything is fine with the acting?”
“Well, since it seemed that you guys are waaay more productive than we are,” Oikawa sighed, and scribbled more redundancies onto his History essay, “We just got done with the second rehearsal today, since it is too much of a hassle to make Karasuno’s casts traveled all the way here three times a week. So, not much had happened, except that we got the blocking done,” using technical theatre terms should not be this exciting, but here he was, being converted into a theatre nerd, “and began working on each scene, one by one. Sashihara wants us to be off-book for Scene One by next week.”
“Is that a lot?”
“Kind of, but I have it easier than Shimazaki or Aya-chan.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle de Villette and Madame du Blois, of course.”
“Seems like you are familiar with the script, aren’t you?”
“Well, we all got the books beforehand, so that we can have a headstart on designing, so yes. You actors are the last one to get the books.”
The French Revolution marked a troubling period for the nobility and clergy class, and would forever change the relationship between these two estates and the common Frenchmen. This marked the end of the Three Estates era, which disproportionately benefits the minuscule number that resided in the high-class, while exploiting the majority, some of them lived in perpetual poverty, “Then it seems like you guys are busier than us, then.”
“Not quite.” Suga hummed; the scratches of pen on paper on both sides of the line commingled and resonated, like a dance of pleasant disharmony, “Just more time-consuming, I suppose, considering that we have to use the school’s facilities almost the entire time, while you guys can practice whenever. And then there is fitting, and dress rehearsal, and all that. Needs a window for adjustment, too.”
“In case the measurements are incorrect?”
“In case you get bigger, too, but yes.”
“Hey! I’m a volleyball player—“ Suga cackled at his indignation, and showed no sign of remorse not stopping, “The only bigger I can get is taller!”
“Sure, sure. By the way, how are you getting along with the Mademoiselle de Villette?”
“Shimazaki?” Surely, Suga would have noticed that she was the only cast member whom he has yet mentioned by their first name, “she is… cool, I guess. Professional. We don’t talk much, though.”
“What? You talked more to Madame du Blois when she is already married, and when you are supposed to be romancing her best friend?”
“Suga-chan made the situation way worse than it is!” Oikawa huffed, “There won’t be any real romancing until Act Two, when de Villette, du Blois and the Countess of Flanderre almost fell into the lake! Dusseau is supposed to prioritize the Countess, but he grabbed de Villette instead! You would know that if you read the script, hm?”
“Well, if you consider that the true romantic moment, then even the first scene would count! It’s the build-up that matters!” Suga responded, “The rhyming, the challenges, and the knowing smirk… From the beginning, Mademoiselle had her eyes on Dusseau!"
A month ago, Oikawa would not have imagined that he would respond to that statement with such ferocity and indignation, “That’s not true romancing, though! Just fleeting words and veiled meaning! It’s reaching, but it’s not there yet. Just… the stepping stones. Not at the gate.”
“But without those stepping stones, you wouldn’t have gotten to the gate. It’s the little sparks that burn down the forest.”
“If you say so.” Oikawa sighed, before switching the subject, “Anyway, Shimazaki asked me to meet her tomorrow for more practice. Maybe I could learn about how Mademoiselle feels about this herself, but who knows?”
———
Just as her words, Shimazaki showed up at the volleyball court at exactly 7:30, when no one but him and Iwa-chan remained, especially on a Friday evening. He stepped out from the gym’s shower, steams still curling around his brown locks when he spotted Shimazaki standing near the entrance.
“This is the only court that still has its light on, so I assumed.” Shimazaki shrugged when meeting his eyes, before stepping into the threshold. “How do you want to do this? On the audience stand, or right in the middle of the court.”
“The court, if you would like. Better lighting, that way.”
Somewhen between the first five minutes of their theatre practice, Iwa-chan emerged from the locker room, perhaps just finished with the load of paperwork that he had taken from Oikawa’s, and raised his brow questioningly at Shimazaki. Oikawa just waved him away; they could go home separately for a day. Shimazaki nodded in Iwa-chan’s direction, before continuing,
“Monsieur Dusseau, if you would please…”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dusseau bowed, before approaching Monsieur d’Aubigne. M. d’Aubigne sputtered, but obliged nonetheless. He bowed to Mlle. de Villette and let Dusseau escort him away. END SCENE.
Shimazaki let down her book, face neutral. “You did well, Oikawa-kun, especially for a newcomer.”
What the hell does that even mean? Oikawa began with a smile, “Thank you, Shimazaki-san. Whatever I might lack, I’d have to entrust the instructions to you and the rest of the cast.” And.... slapped on his signature smile.
Shimazaki returned half of the gesture, before continuing, “I had my doubts, Oikawa-kun, I must admit. But you seemed to be earnest about this.” She paused, turning the pages, before continuing, “Nonetheless, there are quite a few things that we must address. For example, your micro-actions need a little bit of work on. It’s okay that you have yet to develop them as of right now, but I figure we might as well get started.
“Another matter, however,...” She paused, fiddling with the corner of the pages, “Oikawa-san, I must know… how serious are you with the theatre?”
“Not as serious as you or Aya— Yamamoto-san are, of course. But I understood that, well, this is a competition and you guys have a lot of stakes riding on this one.”
“Of course. Just as the volleyball club had its own regional rivalries, we, too, had our own grudges and contenders.” Shimazaki nodded, “Competition aside, how serious are you, with theatre on itself?"
“I mean… I suppose that I won’t be doing more of it after this production. It’s not like I’m going to make a career out of this or anything, you know? A future hobby, maybe.”
Shimazaki nodded, in understanding, “Then, how serious are you with this production?” When Oikawa tried to respond, she continued, “Not in the ‘this is a competition and Seijou must win’ kind of commitment, but what is this, to you? What do you want from here?
“This, Oikawa-san, is the question you must answer if you want to be the best Alexander Dusseau that you can be.” She stood up, with the grace of Mademoiselle de Villette— the grace of an actress that lives and breathes her art, “Perhaps, well, you should compare it with what volleyball meant to you, too.”
The clock ticked toward 8:30. An hour-long session, three scenes covered ahead of the schedule, and somehow, Oikawa thought, that was all Shimazaki wanted to talk to him about.
———
“What the hell does Shimazaki want from me?”
“What?” Oikawa assumed that the scattered slamming of volleyball would mask his grumbling, but evidently not. “Is she giving you trouble or something?”
“Not really,” Oikawa licked his lips, before taking off — sprinted, then soared through the air, slamming the balls down with all the force of his frustration; it almost went out of bound — “she asked if I’m really serious with theatre, and then what does it meant to me." He breathed, “Nothing much, easy. I just can’t tell her that, of course.” He shrugged noncommittally.
“I mean…” Iwa-chan paused, before passing him another ball. They were working on their serves today. “I know that I virtually forced you to do it, but at the end of the day, something new must creep into that hollow skull of yours, right?”
“Wha… Iwa-chan!” He threw the ball back, just to be irritating, “Of course I’m learning something new! Technical terms, micro-action, or whatever that is, acting…”
“I don’t mean that, Shittykawa.” His best friend caught the ball with ease, bouncing it against the floor, “I meant in the same line as Shimazaki’s question. Like, you learn something from theatre, and it meant something to you. Something more than just the acting and talking.”
He huffed, scrunching his brows in contemplation, but didn’t want to deal with it. The silence stretched thin, almost severed by the sounds around them, as they walk toward the net. Iwa-chan just looked straight ahead and demanded him to set the ball so that he could spike. Like the good friend and teammate that he is, Oikawa obliged. Iwa-chan tossed the ball, a perfect parabola like those printed on his textbook.
Having the comfortable weight of volleyball on his hand was nice. Felt like home, almost.
He set the ball high this time, judging from their relative distance from the net. Flawless, as always. Iwa-chan sprinted up, leaping through the stifling air and the echoes surround them, and slammed the ball down. Whether a player was defending the target or not, the ball would surely demolish all of their control.
“She said that, well, comparing it to volleyball might help.”
“Alright. That makes sense.” Iwa-chan looked at him and shrugged. “What is volleyball to you, then?”
“My entire life, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa scoffed and mockingly widened his eyes, “The thing I had been, and will, dedicate the rest of my life to?”
“Okay, if it’s your entire life, then what does it mean? What are you committing your entire life to?”
Silence befell. Oikawa reserved it for thinking, and Iwa-chan, waiting for him to think. The world passed them by, one slam of volleyball by one, but the bubble of Oikawa’s thoughts seemed to be a vacuum. The voices began to muse all together, and Oikawa briefly thought that one would break their bubble soon, asking why the captain and vice-captain seemingly frozen in thought — maybe accompanying a ball to the back of their heads, even. But nothing seemed to happen. As if even the universe was questioning, and demanded from him a response.
“It's just… the familiarity, at the first sight,” Oikawa breathed, eyeing the well-worn volleyball that twisted and turned involuntarily by his hands, “a familiar weight on my hand, familiar movement, familiar breath… It’s just as natural as breathing. Like, eating rice for every dinner. It’s just something that's been with me since forever. A friend, as old as you, Iwa-chan.” He looked up, and Iwa-chan still stood there, listening. No coaxing nor persuasion. “It’s fun, too. Exhilarating. Every sting that flares up when I serve, the satisfaction the moment a ball leaves my hand, every time I correctly predict a move and guide everyone about it. It’s like, I live for those moments. Every hardship, every failure, every injury,... everything became worth it when I knew that I… I accomplished something.
“There is a certain bliss in that, I suppose. Feeling like life is just and certain, that my effort counts, that everything is worth something.
“And I want to chase that sensation for my entire life. Those good-feeling moments and collect the motions that build it up.” Oikawa stopped the momentum of the ball with a slap of his hands, looking straight into his vice-captain’s eyes, and they understood. Iwa-chan moved back a metre or two, then nodded. The ball bounced away and leaped back. “It’s how I measure my growth, too,” His exhale harmonized with Iwa-chan’s brisk footsteps, and the ball left his hand. Minus tempo, closer to the net this time. He didn't see where it landed. “Every time the consistency of my serves increases, every time my serves get stronger, every time I improve the synchronicity with my spikers… Everything counts. Everything builds up into a stronger Seijou.”
“So, your life is volleyball and your worth rests in volleyball.” Iwa-chan spun his spiking arm, “Maybe that’s why I want you to get out there and try something new, every once a while.”
“You make it sound way worse! Of course, I have other things in life besides volleyball!”
“Yeah, alright, how is implicit differentiation going?”
Oikawa’s squeak answered more than any word could suffice.