Growing up as a social person, Sora Suzuki was surrounded by love and affection- even from the most random people. Tender strokes, gentle kisses. Love came to him in the form of five unique beings, and damn, he's in deep. But when shit happens, and...
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JULY TWENTY SEVENTH, TWO THOUSAND AND TWENTY FOURTH
13:49 in the afternoon
THE ROAR OF THE LARGE sports gymnasium shook the walls, its ceiling high with wooden beams and heavy metal girders. The room echoed from dozens of hardwood floors vibrating under the pounding of feet. The lights flickered as if a hundred strobe bulbs lit up simultaneously. A steady stream of sweat poured down the faces of men playing a life-or-death game of professional volleyball.
It was the Olympics, held in a country known for love, the one and only France. Fitting for the end of this story, don't you think?
The fifth set of the final match of the tournament was underway, the volleyball being passed back and forth between players and their opposing team. It was Japan versus France, an easy win by anyone's standards. But this new team Japan had constructed was unlike any other. This wasn't a group of athletes who just happened to possess the talent they bore; this was an elite, highly skilled unit of trained professionals. Of monsters and beasts who knew only volleyball and nothing more.
They lived and breathed it. Cried and sang for it. Volleyball was etched into their very DNA; it was what fueled them to get up in the morning and what lulled them to sleep at night.
A whistle blared. A timeout.
The players stepped to the side, grabbing their water bottles and chugging the liquid down like it was their lifeline. Their muscles ached, their hearts raced, and yet, above all, they were excited. Ecstatic, even. They were almost there. Almost at the finish line. At the gold medal.
If they won this set, they'd win the whole thing.
"Oi, Suzuki!"
Both Kageyama and Oikaw turned around, their bodies clad in the red jersey of their national team. They had their shirts pulled to their faces, wiping away the sweat that raced down their skin. Their teammates stood behind them with their own red shirts, grinning like maniacs.
"Which one?" Kageyama asked, pointing between them.
Gao Hakuba glanced between the two. "You," he stated, pointing at Oikawa. "Come 'ere. Coach wants to speak with you."
Oikawa walked over. The number on his back was prominent, a pristine white that clashed with the red background. Number 1, the captain of Japan's Men's National team.
"Man, it's so confusing that you two have the same last name," Bokuto said as he bounded over to Kageyama, Hinata trailing behind him. They wore matching grins, eyes wild with adrenaline and the promise of a great match. "Was it your idea or Sora's? I bet it was Sora's! The bastard's always been so possessive over what was his, soulmates included!"
