Work Text:
From a spot next to him on the court, Kentarou watches Yahaba set a ball for Kindaichi, and he thinks about diamonds.
Not about sparkly, expensive rocks—he thinks about coal smashed under so much heat and pressure that it becomes something beautiful, something with value to it. Crushed into shape by a world that refused to allow it to remain just coal.
It's only a brief thought, barely a spark in the back of his mind before Yahaba hits the ground again and laughs, slapping the back of Kindaichi's shoulder to congratulate him for the point. The practice game around him fills his head up with noise and the simple reflection is lost. It's not a deep moment, it doesn't change his life.
Even if Kyoutani Kentarou isn't coal—there's no evidence that he has that kind of value inside of him—he knows heat and pressure, and he knows something about living smashed under a tremendous weight.
–
Kentarou, overall, isn't very good with rules. He wasn't made docile and obedient, and the only laws he can find ways to respect are the ones he gives himself.
This is a problem, in more ways than one. This is a problem when he spikes a ball too hard and it goes out of the sharp lines edging in the court. This is a problem when he's late too often and gets detention and misses practice and then Yahaba yells at him.
This is a problem when he opens his mouth at the wrong time and tells people he got into a fight to cover for the black eye.
This is not a problem when comes to boys.
Because Kentarou doesn't have a problem there. That's the first rule.
–
He comes into practice and Yahaba is watching the first-years torture Kindaichi with a smile on his face but his shoulders drooped low. Tired, Kentarou realizes after a moment that has everything to do with posture and nothing to do with the mole on the back of Yahaba's neck.
Rules. There are rules to this.
He's late, though, so Yahaba turns on him with a glare and crossed arms, pursing his lips tightly in disapproval. “Can't you show up on time?”
“Sorry,” he answers with a shrug, not sounding a bit like he means it. He does, at least, a little, and Yahaba huffs one of his impatient sighs and gestures him over.
“Well hurry up and let me help you stretch,” he's decided that partner stretching is better for the whole team, in the wake of how often Oikawa managed to get himself hurt being stupid. Kentarou almost groans but he's itching to practice so he doesn't. He steps over to where Yahaba's already pointing and sits, spreading his legs out into a wide V shape and adjusting his kneepads, needlessly, to ignore the way Yahaba's hands rest on his shoulders.
He doesn't like the stupid stretching routine. He doesn't like being touched, and he doesn't like the smell of Yahaba's sweat and deodorant in his nose. He just wants to play volleyball. He leans forward and Yahaba pushes slowly on his shoulders in return, helping him ease into the stretch, both arms reaching for his right leg.
His fingers flex when they reach his toe, and he wants to shake Yahaba off of him and he rolls his shoulder with a grunt. “Go set a ball or something.”
“Show up on time and you can find a different partner,” Yahaba snaps back without missing a beat, pushing his leg harder against Kentarou's back. Kentarou lets go of his leg, snarling when Yahaba doesn't let up, snorting. “At least try to stretch, won't you?”
“Fuck off.” Kentarou shifts himself away, glaring when Yahaba's leg drops to the floor again. Yahaba opens his mouth then throws his hands up and clips it shut, stalking off in the direction of Watari instead.
It suits Kentarou just fine, even if Watari stares at him and Yahaba sticks him on the other team when they play a match.
–
“Hey,” Yahaba is leaning his hip against Kentarou's desk, and even though they're in the same class this year it's not like they talk, and Kentarou already has his bento sitting on his desk, aware that it's a mess because he barely had time to make it this morning around dodging bottles lobbed at his head and finishing his trigonometry homework. “You're eating in here? It's nice out.”
Kentarou always eats at his desk, by himself. No one's ever asked him to do anything else and he's certainly not going to just sit with some other group of people so they can skitter off like scared rabbits. So he just shrugs.
“Come eat with us,” Yahaba makes the offer like it costs him nothing to do, raising his eyebrows and hovering until Kentarou stands and tosses his blazer over his shoulder, grabbing his lunch and following after Yahaba.
'Us', as it turns out, is not only Watari but Kindaichi and Kunimi as well. The libero gives him a smile before he even sits down, waving like this isn't going to be strange and awkward. He probably believes it too—Watari is by far the most normal and tolerable person on the team since he mostly just lets Kentarou be. Kindaichi startles so badly at the sight of him walking behind Yahaba that he disturbs Kunimi, asleep on his shoulder, who instantly frowns.
“Stop that, Kindaichi,” he scolds without even opening his eyes, and Yahaba hides a snicker behind his hand.
They sit in a loose circle, with Watari scooting to the side to give Kentarou space to sit next to Yahaba. He's almost reluctant to unwrap his food, glancing at the neatly made lunches that the three of them have. Kunimi doesn't seem to have anything past the package of candy laying unopened in his lap, and he doesn't seem concerned until Kindaichi sets his own lunch there with a small sigh. It's the first thing that gets him to open his eyes, and he blinks at Kentarou like him suddenly being there is as boring as anything else, and picks the chicken out of Kindaichi's lunch instead.
“I don't understand why you don't just pack him his own lunch,” Yahaba chuckles, watching Kunimi before stuffing a bite of rice in his mouth. Kindaichi frowns his brow furrowing slightly further.
“He's only hungry when it's my food,” the gripe makes Kunimi smile—or at least Kentarou thinks it's a smile. His face doesn't really change, but he manages to look entertained anyways.
Kentarou keeps his lunch tucked close to his chest while he eats, and ignores the prickle of Yahaba staring at him as long as he can before glancing over and snapping at him quietly. “What?”
“Did you understand sensei's literature assignment?” He asks, and Kentarou has to pause for a moment because it's not the question he was expecting. He shrugs—literature is actually his best subject, he likes having the chance to think about his answers, rather than just spew facts out.
“The poem thing?” He asks, and Yahaba nods. “I put that it was about, like the danger of allowing other things to get in the way of common sense.”
He feels nervous, on the spot, but Yahaba tilts his head and hums softly in the back of his throat, turning and digging in his bag, pulling the book out and folding it open to the page.
“Oh,” he says after a moment of scanning over it, chuckling softly. “That makes sense. Why didn't you say that in class?”
Kentarou doesn't really answer much in class, not if he can help it. When he does get called on he mumbles every answer directly at his desk, petrified of getting something wrong. He'd had to basically beg to be put into a university prep class, and he feel like no matter how hard he works at it, they all see how he doesn't quite fit in.
Yahaba flips a few pages in his book, leaning over so their shoulders touch, pointing at a series of lines. “What about this one?”
–
Yahaba keeps inviting him to lunch, nagging at Kentarou to bring his books along so they can study. It turns out that he's better at math, and he's good at picking up the problems that Kentarou has wrong on his worksheets. He's bad at literature, and worse at English, and he makes a particular face when copying down the verbs Kentarou has, wrinkling his nose.
“Your handwriting is awful.” He says it with a laugh but grunts when Kentarou snatches his notes back, defensive. They tease each other a lot, and it's not like it isn't true, but he has a sore spot in the exact shape of a boot on his back and the day has only gone downhill from there. Yahaba huffs at him for it, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Quit being immature!”
Something about the way he looks up at Kentarou and smirks makes his mouth go dry, and he tosses the notebook back rather than just handing it over, the pages rattling in the air. It smacks on the ground before Yahaba can catch it, and he rolls his eyes, making Kindaichi laugh to himself. “You're like an animal, geez.”
Watari glances up from his textbook with a small sigh, mouth quirked up on one side. “Quit flirting.”
Kentarou's blood goes cold, because he's not, but Yahaba's face goes just a little pink and he shoots Watari a look over his shoulder and suddenly Kentarou wants to run.
–
He's never really been interested in much of anyone. His dad leaves porno mags laying out on the table because he doesn't give a shit and Kentarou knows better than to touch anything, but the one time he gave into the teenage curiosity and peeked inside them he just… didn't feel anything toward it.
But there was another day, watching some terrible drama on TV because he just didn't care enough to change it, when two of the side characters, boys, kissed. It was just once—soft, with one's hand on the others cheek, smiling into it, like they were melting into one another.
Kentarou's stomach bottomed out entirely and he found himself leaning forward to stare at the interaction until his eyes burned.
And then the door swung open behind him, and he was too entranced in two characters grinning at one another, foreheads touching, sharing the same air and laughing.
“What the hell are you watchin'?” Kentarou could describe that tone of voice with a long list of tiny mistakes—breaking a dish on accident, forgetting to grab his volleyball clothes out of the laundry before they got in the way, grabbing the wrong brand of bread on the way home.
He didn't lunge for the remote, and he can't remember if he even turned around to look his father in the face. He remembers his mouth was dry, that his words came out like he didn't know how to use them anymore.
He has a small scar on the back of his hand from shielding his face with it, the kind no one bothered to ask questions about when he showed up to practice in his last year of middle school with a bandaged up hand, because everyone knew Kentarou was just a troublemaker who got into a lot of fights.
That's when he makes the first rule. He isn't gay. Every other rule is just learning how to make that true.
–
Kentarou only gives his respect to people who own it. Kentarou only follows the rules he makes for himself.
Kentarou doesn't lie to people, he lives his lies out because they are the only choice he has. Kentarou is a delinquent because people think he gets into fights (he's never hit someone), Kentarou is late to class because he doesn't care about his grades (he needs to do better, always, so much better). Kentarou is straight because he's certainly not allowed to be anything else.
Kentarou is coal, superheated, with pressure on all sides.
Kentarou does not have a diamond inside of him.
–
The practice match they have against Johzenji is fun, more than Kentarou expects it to be, and winning is even better. He has a hard time finding a loss fun, he doesn't really see how anyone can. It's a piece of how he is, though, he doesn't feel satisfied unless he gives things his all.
It gets late while they pack the gym up, and Yahaba sends the second and first-years home before they're done, even though there isn't much left to do though Kentarou doesn't complain about being held later. He never does—it beats going home.
Watari digs his phone out of his things when they get into the club room, staring at the screen with his brow intently furrowed before looking over at Yahaba. “Can you handle locking up? Apparently my sister is having trouble with something and needs me to come home right away…”
“With what?” Yahaba blinks, something quick and suspicious on his face. Watari blanches, then laughs nervously and shrugs his shoulders.
“She… didn't say.” He's already looping his bag over his shoulder and apparently his question wasn't much of one because he just darts out with a wave, a move that would get Kentarou shouted at, but only nets an exasperated sigh and a shake of Yahaba's head. Kentarou figures it's because the two of them are actually friends, and he's just the ace that Yahaba keeps on a short leash.
He goes back to changing because in the end he doesn't care that much about the whole exchange, until he feels Yahaba's gaze prickling at him. There's a bruise on his arm, probably roughly shaped like a hand, he hasn't looked very hard at it even though it's been a few days and the edges are probably yellow and gross now.
“That looks pretty bad,” Yahaba says after another moment, leaning over, his shirt half-buttoned, blinking his eyes. “What happened?”
“Got in a fight,” Kentarou answers, not too quick. The lie is ingrained in him already. It's always a fight. He fights a lot. Yahaba's eyes narrow, though, and he hums to himself.
“With who? You get in a lot of fights.” He continues buttoning his shirt up and Kentarou can feel the way his muscles lock up. He's not used to this—people don't ask questions like this of him. He shrugs, trying to force his heart to slow down.
“Just some punks from a different school. I didn't ask for their phone numbers,” he rolls his eyes, like Yahaba, is asking him some kind of ridiculous question, but almost jerks back when he finds the setter leaning in closer to him, much closer than he expects. He knows there's a flinch on his face, and Yahaba tilts his head, not leaning back once it relaxes again.
“That doesn't really sound like you.”
“How the fuck do you know? You just said it yourself, I get in a lot of fights,” he huffs, trying to think of a way to flee without making it obvious. He's not made for tucking his tail and running, but he's never had this conversation with someone before. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had tried, once, and Kentarou had grunted and grumbled his way through it and then stopped showing up to practices in the hope that they would forget and never ask him again. And he was right, sort of, though he could always tell when one of the two of them was thinking about it.
“Remember the Spring Tournament?” Yahaba is still so close that his breath tickles across Kentarou's cheeks, his brow furrowed. “That's always bugged me. I yelled at you, I slammed you into a wall, and all you did was let me.”
“If I'd punched you in the face they would've kicked me out,” he turns his face slightly away, which is a mistake because the tips of his ears are burning. Yahaba shakes his head.
“You've never confronted me about it again. Why? You get in fights all the time, right?” He sounds almost amused this time when he says it, but when Kentarou looks back he's still frowning, and he reaches out to touch the now clothed spot on Kentarou's arm. He doesn't jerk away this time, because his skin tingles even without the direct contact of Yahaba's fingers on it, just the warmth through his shirt.
He doesn't answer, but Yahaba probably doesn't expect one because the next thing he does is lean in the rest of the way and kiss Kentarou.
Which is something he's never done before, and he doesn't know how to expect it should feel because he doesn't let himself sit around and think about it either. But Yahaba's mouth is soft against his, and everything feels like it's blazing around him and Kentarou doesn't know how to kiss, not really, not well. But he presses back into the pressure of Yahaba's mouth anyway, feels the moment it tilts into a smile.
And then he remembers. He has rules.
He pulls back so suddenly that he almost bites Yahaba's lip in the process, and Yahaba blinks at him in pink-faced surprise, lips damp and slightly parted. There's a sick curl through the warmth in the pit of his stomach and Kentarou lunges forward without thinking, shoving until Yahaba's back slams against the lockers.
“I am not,” his voice comes out in a hiss, teeth bared in one fierce line, like an animal pushed into a corner, wavering between fight and flight. “I am not like that.”
He doesn't say gay. It's a rule.
Yahaba looks back at him, stunned, hurt, confused. Kentarou runs.
–
Kentarou is coal. Kentarou does not have a diamond inside of him.
–
Yahaba stops meeting his eye during practice.
Kentarou doesn't have trouble taking the hint, not really, and even though he can't actually do anything to get out of Yahaba's way without quitting the team, he does his best.
Mostly, he stops following after him to lunch like a lost dog, and instead gathers his things—his lunch and his bag, and finds a spot to sit on the roof where no one seems to want to bother him. It's starting to get a little chilly, anyway, and most of the groups that usually make it such a busy place seem less interested in being out in the cold.
Kentarou doesn't mind, and it makes it seem better than going back to eating lunch alone at his desk. Or maybe it just keeps Yahaba from feeling guilty or pitying him again for not having anyone else to eat with. Kentarou tells himself he doesn't care—it wasn't like he wanted to eat with the rest of the team anyway.
Or, at least, that was true to start with. After, sitting and staring at his lunch with a frown, he's met with the slow realization that he's lonely like this.
It sucks. He's angrier at Yahaba for that than for thinking he was… for kissing him out of nowhere.
–
Strictly speaking, it's not a surprise with Oikawa and Iwaizumi come to watch them practice. They're wearing jersey's from different colleges, griping at each other like usual like they never graduated at all.
They're holding hands.
Kentarou stares so hard at the way their fingers lace together that a ball spiked by Kindaichi smacks him directly on the side of the head and sends him flat on his ass, blinking. He's dazed, by the hit, but it doesn't account for the way his hands are sweating or the fact that it feels like his heart is in his throat.
Yahaba steps up next to him, frowning and shaking his head. “You're bleeding.”
“Shit,” Kentarou grunts, poking at the side of his nose that's now trickling blood. Yahaba sighs, on one knee in front of Kentarou, forcing him to tilt his head back, staring into his eyes. Realistically, he knows Yahaba is trying to make sure he didn't get his brains scrambled, but his skin still itches and he's not used to having anyone so close to him without immediately violent intentions and he kind of wants to fight he way free.
He swallows the urge to the back of his throat, blinking his eyes hard, trying to ignore the alarms blaring in the back of his mind. Yahaba lifts one of his hands by the wrist, forming his fingers to pinch around his nose and leaning back, pointing at the bench. “Go hold it closed for at least five minutes.”
Yahaba's cheeks are red.
Kentarou sits on the bench with a huff, resiting the urge to cross his arms because he can't let go of his nose without getting shouted at by Yahaba. (It's less because getting hit was his own fault—he'll probably have to say something to Kindaichi later).
He can't stop stealing looks at Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Even the moments when they aren't touching, it seems like there's a charged air between them. Kentarou's skin crawls because of it, and he goes from staring at the two of them to staring at the rest of the team, wondering if anyone else has noticed.
He can't entirely tell, because no one does anything. They're back to it when the match finishes, fingers laced together, both hands resting on one of Iwaizumi's legs, and Yahaba walks over to them with a tired smile, ruffling his fingers through the back of his hair.
It's not that Kentarou is too far away to hear what they're saying, but he doesn't pay any attention to it. Instead, he settles back to watching everyone else. They seem normal about it, in a way that makes Kentarou feel even more unsettled. It's strange, seeing the two of them be so casually affectionate.
Unfair, Kentarou's mind supplies.
He doesn't want to tell himself that he's jealous of it, because that doesn't seem quite right, but something about it makes his stomach boil in the same way.
They get to show up and hold hands in front of their old team. Kentarou has a scar on his hand from seeing two boys kiss on television once.
–
Kindaichi clears his throat, hovering nervously a foot or so in front of Kentarou's desk, shifting his weight between his feet. Kentarou looks up, then blinks in surprise, tilting his head just slightly to the side in confusion. “What?”
It sounds more severe than he means it to, but Kindaichi just barks a nervous laugh and rubs at the back of his neck. “You haven't been eating lunch with us! I- I just wanted to, um…”
He trails off, nervous still, but Kentarou just leans back in his seat, content to wait out exactly where this is going. Kindaichi clears his throat, then glances over Kentarou's shoulder to Kunimi leaning in the doorway, looking bored. “We wanted to offer again! U- unless you were eating with other friends or something!”
Kentarou almost laughs at the implication that he has other friends. Instead, he shrugs, maybe smiling a little bit, gathering his things up and following Kindaichi and Kunimi out the door. Yahaba blinks at him, but shifts to make space without anything more than surprise, warm and open, on his face.
–
It's late, and his dad isn't supposed to be home for another two days.
Still, he has the door to the bathroom locked, staring in the mirror, fingers curled around the edges of the sink until his knuckles go white. It's hard to meet his own gaze in the mirror, but that's a fact that's been true for years.
“I'm gay,” he's never said it out-loud before. He's never let himself. It makes his stomach roil like he might be sick, and he has to break eye contact with the mirror and suck in a shaking breath. It's not so dramatic, though, is it? He tries again, lifting his head, staring himself down. “I'm gay.”
No one is around to know if that makes Kentarou cry or not.
–
What is a diamond, after all, but coal?
–
It takes him days to build up the courage to confront Yahaba. Things don't seem easier. The knowledge sits sick in his stomach and he's restless with the urge to do something about it but too cowardly to take the first step.
Still, he hangs around while Watari and Yahaba chat and pack things up until Watari catches sight of him, blinks twice, then smiles. “I gotta head home!”
“Huh? Alright…” Yahaba blinks, frowning slightly when Watari takes off much like before. The air in Kentarou's lungs feels heavy, and he has to remind himself to keep breathing. He's pretty sure Yahaba's ignoring him, rather than having forgotten that he's there.
“H- hey,” his voice shakes a little on its way out, and as he expected, Yahaba doesn't jump, just looks at him with a little frown.
“I'm not going to do anything Kyoutani-kun. No need to be so nervous.” His tone is icy, and Kentarou withers almost gives up right there.
But, he wasn't made for running away, and he clears his throat, curls his hands into fists, like he's trying to square himself up for taking a hit.
(He really hopes Yahaba doesn't try and punch him for this.)
“I—” he has no idea what to say. He's not good at this, at any of this. “I'm sorry.”
Yahaba blinks, he looks caught between interested and surprised, wavering.
He doesn't know how to explain, it seems like too much to lay out all at once. He twitches, feeling too exposed with Yahaba staring directly at him. He remembers repeating the same phrase in the mirror, but can't make him say it again.
“I've never been in a fight,” he tries instead, and Yahaba's lips part around a soft sound and Kentarou stares. “And—is it okay if I kiss you?”
He looks like he might just fall over at the suggestion, stunned, but Yahaba nods softly. Kentarou shuffles closer and leans up, feeling the quick intake of Yahaba's breath before pressing their lips together.
Even having done it once before, he doesn't really expect things to feel so soft, and Yahaba's fingers rest on either side of his face, holding him there. When they break apart the first time, he still looks dazed, then he smiles.
They stay in the club room kissing until Kentarou's lips are tingling and tired.
–
It is not that a lump of coal contains a diamond. Kentarou contains nothing of value that doesn't belong to him already.
It is that diamonds are made with pressure, and with time. Kentarou isn't cracked open into something polished and shining and beautiful overnight.
He walks into practice with Yahaba's fingers laced through his. It takes weeks.
It's a step.