Chapter Text
“Demons don’t get to play on human teams.”
“Heh. He does look demonic…”
Tendo Satori knows that people are cruel, especially children. He’s familiar with the ruthless taunts, the nicknames, the petty games. The isolation haunting, the pain stinging. Tendo knows the pains of being a victim. He also knows revenge; the thrills of when tormentors became the tormented.
Which is why he wants to show the blue-eyed setter the same view.
Despite what others think, Tendo isn’t completely dumb, nor is he completely heartless.
He is a starting player of Shiratorizawa’s volleyball club, the best in Miyagi, after all. He knows how to put pieces of a puzzle together.
Kageyama Tobio, the famed ‘King of the Court’.
A tyrant. A dictator. A monocrat.
Tendo knows this. He knows the whispers that follow the setter. He knows that the setter is a tyrant king, a player who refuses to share the spotlight. But Tendo knows that Kageyama Tobio is more than a king.
For a long time, the Shiratorizawa coach, Washijo Tanji, has always taken his team to the middle school volleyball tournaments. Contrary to what others believed, it wasn’t to intimidate the Shiratorizawa hopefuls. It was an opportunity for him to hear his team’s opinions on the players. After all, monsters sense other monsters.
The red-haired can remember watching a second-year Kageyama Tobio. At the time, he was only a bench-warmer, as Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High’s volleyball club had a rule that the captain had to be the starting setter and third year, meaning that the blue-eyed boy couldn’t be a starting player. Tendo didn’t miss the smirks that the Kita Daii’s captain would send the younger player every time a spiker hit his sets. He didn’t miss the taunting faces made to him by the pinch server. There was no doubt. Kitagawa Daiichi’s Kageyama Tobio was like him. A victim, a burden to a team.
Now, in the present, second-year Tendo can see that Kageyama Tobio is no longer a victim. But at the same time, Kageyama isn’t free. He can see how the third-year middle-blocker and wing spiker keeps changing their pace and how high they jump, making it difficult for the setter to give them a good set. He can see how they don’t jump as high or run as fast as they did for the last setter. He can see how the other players keep looking over at each other. There’s something that they’re planning, and the setter doesn’t know it.
“What’s the score?” Shirabu asks, as he plops on the seat, coming back from the bathroom.
“12-9,” the redhead replies, watching as Kitagawa’s turnip head gets ready to serve. He watches as the ball is hit back into Kitagawa’s court, the droopy eyed wing spiker lazily missing the retrieve. The setter clenches his fists; his eyes trained on his spiker. He watches as Kageyama says something to him, his blue eyes ablaze. He looks angry, irritated. Tendo can tell that he wants to win, that he’s hungry for victory.
The setter sends to ball to the turnip head, just for the middle blocker to miss, barely making the ball over the net. He could’ve hit that, if he’d just jumped a centimetre higher.
“Man, look at those sets!” Tendo nudges Ushijima, his first and best friend, “Don’t you think they’re amazing! I’m sure our team can hit them.”
Ushijima looks down to the court. “Hmm, I cannot say that Kageyama is untalented, but he doesn’t use his spikers to the fullest. Not like Oikawa does.”
Shirabu hums his agreement. “A set’s shit if the spiker can’t hit them.”
“He’s talented, no doubt, but he needs to make his sets easier to hit,” Semi says, leaning back in his seat, “It’s a shame, really, for such a talented setter to not be able to score points with his hitters.”
Ushijima nods in agreement.
Kageyama sets to the drowsy looking spiker. The set is perfect, it would’ve cleared the way for the spiker, and it’s at the perfect height, if only the spiker had put 100% of his effort into the jump.
Tendo frowns, “What if it's the spikers?”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“It’s clear that the spikers aren’t doing their best. I mean, we all – except you, Shirabu – saw them last year. The spikers are clearly slacking!”
Shirabu hums. “Maybe, but our team doesn’t need someone who can’t adjust for his hitters.”
The words that left Shirabu’s lips were painfully familiar, but he’d never thought he’d hear the words directed at someone else.
Kageyama sets the ball again. The set is beautiful. The arc is graceful, and if the spiker had hit it properly, it would have made it past the blockers.
The other players look at Kageyama with a sense of disgust, including the coach. Something in Tendo’s stomach shifts, the same feeling as when he guesses a block wrong, as the players all share a look, while Kageyama seems oblivious.
“I bet we could hit his sets.” He says, “We’re a team of elites, and he’s clearly at that level.”
Reon raises an eyebrow, “Why are you so interested in him? Have you guys met?”
His stomach lurches, and he looks back at the court. Just in time to see the ball leaves the setter’s fingers before thudding on the court. Tendo watches as the setter sits on the bench, a towel over his face, shoulders tense, an expression Tendo couldn’t see.
Semi sighs, “That’s gotta be tough. If that happened to me...”
Tendo scowls, getting up from his seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”