Starving Dogs ── Haikyuu

THE MORAL OF THE STORY

there's only one of you
PROLOGUE

You'd say your story begins from when you're born but then you would be lying to yourself. People make it up all time — life begins at conception blah blah blah. They say that humans are alive and can think and feel and talk and smile all when they're smaller than a grain of rice. Really, your story never began when you were born. You only get a story when something hurries in like the Big Bad and rips out the normal from your life. Once that happens, you are now living, not just "existing". Existing and living are two separate concepts; only people like you, whose lives stop being normal, get to understand that. That didn't make you knowledgeable or blessed or even cursed. It just made you...well, you.

Your story doesn't begin when you're sixteen and your dad has been arrested for murder — life gets flipped upside and fucked up — or when you're seventeen and sneaking around a nursing home to avoid a very tall and rooster-like volleyball player (which did not work out at all.) It begins when you're seven and Kazumi Miyazaki decides to sucker-punch the boy pulling at your hair.

It's spring but time weathers away just like water evaporating on a car shield in summer, quick and seething, slipping through the gaps and running away from your hands. Time is infinite as a kid; you think you have so much of it. Time isn't the numbers on a clock, ticking and turning. It's that feeling between birthdays when your presents get smaller, when you can now reach the second shelf on the bookcase, when the books you like to read get more interesting and you're bored of cartoons already since they're so fake.

It's the sadness that comes over you when black oozes over the tarp that is the sky; nighttime falls down onto your shoulders so your mum calls you inside and you can't play football anymore.

Today, it is too hot. Everything seems to be blurred in the colours of red, yellow and orange. But perhaps it is because you were being furiously thrown around in a tug of war with a boy whose name you had already forgotten.

"Say sorry!" He hisses; the words feel like they are bleeding out of his skin. His voice is unnaturally sharp and it hurts your ears.

You were never brought up with manners. While your parents worked, you enjoyed your own company and never thought twice about what would be good and bad, right and wrong — Or as Kazumi had taught you: what is "swag" and "not swag."

So, there is no filter on your thoughts, "No way! You're the one who should say sorry!"

He does not relent. If anything, what you said just made him even more angrier; why were you, the runt of the playground, even trying to speak to him? You imagine him to have been pampered as a kid and stick your tongue out at his round face.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch! That hurts!" You have never been able to pull your own weight and it is no surprise that at seven, you were the easiest person to pick on, whether it be at school or out here. People don't enjoy people who are different. They tell you to be unique and that being yourself is the best because there's only one of you. And yet, as you huff when pudgy fingers entangle themselves with your thick mess of a hair, you learn that people will always tell you things they don't mean. It's just how life works.

Kazumi's punch comes from out of nowhere, quick and snappy — something you never expected of him. The boy flies back, stumbling and he clumsily lands on the grass, startled. Red starts to grow across his skin, blemishing his cheeks. He looks flushed, beady eyes narrowing and you send him a glare, as if you were the one who did the punch yourself.

"Now. Say sorry," You remark with a tone sharp enough to slice through his body; your tongue clicks and lips fly up into a cheap smile while you look down on him. Meanwhile, Kazumi pats your head, as if trying to fix it but it is no use. There are bald spots and you know you will be laughed at school tomorrow. Since he is taller than you, he gently massages it with a frown as you deal with the bully.

You really wish you knew this boy's name so you could add him to the list of names you keep in your notebook, of all the people you know are mean, even beneath their perceived kindness. (This list is dubbed the "Hit-men list" by your dad who scrunches it up to save you from embarrassment.) And yet, it is somewhat fitting that he does not have one — a name, at least, that you are aware of. He is reduced to nothing, as if he was never there, but also as a void that can be filled by anyone. Anyone can be mean like that.

The boy himself now looks like he is about to cry. His eyes seem puffy under the scorch of the sun and he narrows them, quickly getting to his feet. Anger is the first thing to reappear on his face after the dizzied expression.

Before he can fly at you, you find your feet moving towards his and you will never forget the sound of your shoes crunching bones. It's a weird, grinding sound. Something you'd hear when you're in the car, head pressed against the window and passing the factorial area of Tokyo with the big cylinders puffing endless fumes. And then, your fingers curl around his own ones; it's all flesh, chubby and compacted together.

"Okay, okay, [F/n]," Before you try to do the same to his fingers, wanting to bend them backwards like you had seen some vigilante do to a faceless bad guy in a cheap action movie, Kazumi's arms hold you back. "That's enough."

He lifts you off the ground and you kick your feet in the air, "No! No! No! I wanted to do more stuff!"

When he puts you down, you are dismayed to turn back and see how empty the ground was — the bully had fled. All that was left of the scene of the crime was droplets of your blood from where his knuckles had made contact with your scalp. The red bleeds quick and then dries up on the dusty soil.

Your face conveys a scowl.

"Miyazaki-san, I had him! You know how badly I wanted to beat him up!"

Kazumi rolls his eyes, "Don't you think I had him when I punched him! Come on, I'm taking you home."

"Fine," You grit and then breathe a sigh. "Why did you even punch him anyway? Aren't you here with Hiromi and Kazuhiro?"

Kazumi then puts his hands on his hips and gazes at you with a smug look, "I have decided to become your friend. I know we have always been friends [You quickly roll your eyes at that] but today, I felt I out-did myself!"

Your story begins that day, because it's that day that you decide Kazumi Miyazaki is worthy enough of being your friend. Before that, you had always regarded him like a strange pest that kept bothering you. Your mom said he was a keeper — whatever that meant — and your dad said that friends are a side of you that only come out with them. And although you still hold similar feelings almost ten years later, it's kind of clear that Kazumi has kick-started your story since he'll be here for the whole way. Oh yeah, you're stuck with him. Whether you like it or not.

———

prologue is out and my brain is dead... anyway Kazumi is a variant of Kazumi Angel from one of my old bsd fics OOPS and he's very funny he's always cracking a joke in my head (Funny bones...)