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I believe in myself
My back hurting is for my wings to come out
I believe in you, even if things are bleak right now
The end will be great
Fly, fly up in the sky
Fly, fly get 'em up high
It's the path you chose, dude don't be scared
This is just the first flight
King Of The Court. Kageyama hates that. He just wants them to win, is all. But it's a rightfully unattainable feat if nobody is able to hit his sets.
He wishes he could set, serve, and spike all by himself. He knows he is capable of making a good pass, sending a good set, and hitting a ball well enough to take the point. He's capable, but.
Volleyball cannot be played alone.
It is a game in which twelve people play on court at a time, six on each side of a net. A game where no one can touch the ball twice in a row. A game where all must connect with the ball, and most importantly, with one another.
Kageyama knows all this, but still.
How were they to win if they couldn't shake off the blockers?
They should just adjust to his sets. They need to, or else they won't be able to win. That's what's most important, right? To win. And there's no other way, unless they can hit his sets.
"Move faster!"
"Jump higher!"
They couldn't possibly win if nobody took the game seriously. If everybody took it as seriously as him, there shouldn't be any trouble syncing up with his sets. His sets are good, he knows that much, and they do too. So why aren't they hitting them?
"Your sets are impossible! What's the point if we can't even hit them?!"
But then, how else are they to win? How else are they to break through the wall? What else can be done?
Move faster, jump higher.
And so he sets the ball — a precise set, one which should evade the blockers, and score them a point, but.
When Kageyama looks back, nobody is there. Nobody.
The hollow sound of rejection hitting the gym floor rings through the gym, echoing off the walls and ceiling, before settling in the depths of Kageyama's stomach. It stays.
This fluke wasn't an accident. It was completely voluntary. It was deliberate refusal. "We're done with you," it screams.
"Kageyama." His eyes widen upon hearing his name. "That's enough. Go sit on the bench."
Is this where it ends? The burning sensation within him feels somewhat weaker now, the echo of desertion punching him right in the gut, right in the chest, where his love and desire for volleyball is stored. He's supposed to stay on court the longest. Because only the strongest, only the best get to stay on court. Does this mean he isn't good enough?
But nobody was there to hit his set.
Receive, set, spike. Only three touches to execute an attack.
Nobody was there.
The receiver bumps the ball up, awaiting the decision of the setter. The setter must decide in that stretch of time who to send the ball to.
Where are the blockers. Where is the ball. Where are the hitters. Absorb the surroundings, and make the right decision. Become one with the surroundings — feel it within.
Nobody.
The setter sends the ball flying past the blockers, to the hitter's hands, who is in the air, ready to slam the ball down and take the point.
"I'm here!"
Kageyama's heart skips a beat, and it isn't excitement, nor nerves — it's something more deeper within, a smouldered flame stuttering deep in his gut. Clawing its way back to life. Asking for another chance.
He glances towards the voice, and sees somebody in the air, hanging in pause; like an angel coming down from above to greet him.
He hesitates. The prospect of no one being there when he puts up the ball — it still scares him down to the bottom of his soul.
But somebody is here now.
And that somebody is flying, and that somebody is there, and that somebody is ready to hit his set.
He sends the ball up, and oh. He feels light. It feels as if the angel's presence is curling all through him, it's burning desire to flap its wings coursing through Kageyama's veins, straight to the tips of his fingers, where the ball had just left.
That's right, he understands. He always has, but now, it seems so clear — as clear as the piercing gaze of his angel, the thrum of give it to me more felt than heard.
He's a setter, and he's a good setter. And he will become better, but that improvement cannot happen alone. He needs people here with him, and he needs to allow them to be. Ready to take everything's he's got to give. To help him rekindle that saddened flame. To feel it brewing in his chest, strong, burning, but warm all the same.
To feel the same warmth from beside him, from those on his side of the net.
To create a crack in that wall for his hitters,
And for their wings to break through.