The Weight of a King

The August humidity clung to the gym like a second skin. Industrial fans whirred full blast but the air at Aoba Johsai’s volleyball court stayed thick—tasting of dust and sweat and floor wax. Oikawa Tooru loved that. The burn in his lungs, salt stinging his eyes, his body moving through drills smooth as flight. He was a setter, the conductor, the architect. His body was his instrument.

But this summer, that instrument started feeling… off.

It snuck up on him. His waistband got looser. His cheeks looked rounder in the mirror. When he sat cross-legged on the gym floor, his thighs pressed together solid and heavy. He ignored it at first. Summer meant his mom’s cooking, late-night snacks after practice, the occasional convenience store run with Iwa-chan for ice cream. Normal. Fine.

By the second week of August, the scale crept up. He stopped looking. Told himself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

“Oi, Oikawa, you’re putting on some weight, huh?”

Hanamaki said it casual, harmless, sprawled on the floor after a grueling practice. His jersey clung to his lean frame, water bottle balanced on his stomach. He tilted his head toward Oikawa, who was still standing, hands on hips, catching his breath.

Iwaizumi snorted from nearby, towel around his neck. “Don’t be rude, Makki.”

“I’m not being rude! It’s just true. Look at his cheeks.” Hanamaki gestured with the bottle. “All puffy like a chipmunk.”

Matsukawa, doing cool-down stretches, nodded sagely. “The Oikawa Squared. More Oikawa to love.”

Oikawa laughed. He always laughed. His smile was armor—bright, practiced, flawless. “Jealous, Mattsun? This is peak physical condition. Storing energy for winter.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, but his gaze lingered a second too long. Something flickered there—a question, maybe concern—then it vanished. “You’re not storing that much. You’re fine.”

Light teasing. Normal.

But that night, alone in his room, Oikawa stood in front of the full-length mirror and turned sideways. His stomach wasn’t flat anymore. His favorite Seijoh practice shorts—tight around his hips. Soft curve of his thighs spilling out beneath the hem. His face too—the cheekbones that gave him that sharp princely look buried under softness.

He hated it.

Told himself it was just summer weight. It’d come off when regular practice started. He just needed to work harder.

But his mom’s comments didn’t help.

“Tooru, are you sure you should have seconds?” she asked one evening, voice light but eyes sharp as he reached for more rice. “You’ve been looking a bit… round lately. You don’t want to lose that handsome face.”

He set down the bowl. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“I’m just saying. You’re a captain. An idol. Your fans notice these things.”

He didn’t eat dinner that night.

Days blurred into practice, homework, a growing list of private rules. No snacks. No seconds. No dessert. He chewed gum to stave off hunger, drank cold water to fill his stomach. When the team ordered pizza after summer training camp, he said he wasn’t hungry and excused himself to the bathroom.

No one noticed.

Except Iwaizumi, who found him leaning against the sink, staring at his reflection with cold disgust.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice sharp with concern. “You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”

Oikawa snapped on a smile like a mask. “Just tired, Iwa-chan. You know how it is. I’m going to head to bed early.”

Iwaizumi frowned but didn’t push. “Alright. Drink water.”

“Yes, Mom.”

That earned a half-hearted shove, and for a moment the banter made everything feel normal again. But when Iwaizumi left, Oikawa turned back to the mirror and pressed his palm against his stomach.

Softness there. His body’s betrayal.

He couldn’t forgive it.

---

First day of the new term brought autumn’s first chill, and the official start of fall season. The locker room buzzed with energy and fresh gym uniform smell. Oikawa stood at his locker, jersey already on, fingers trembling as he reached for his Seijoh shorts.

He’d worn them all summer. Snug but manageable. Today, as he pulled them up, they caught at his hips. He sucked in his stomach, pushed, strained—

The button wouldn’t close.

He tried again. Hands shaking. Held his breath, pulled the sides together with all his strength. The fabric strained against his thighs, his waist. The button sat a full centimeter away from the buttonhole.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Oikawa? You ready?” Iwaizumi’s voice behind him, muffled by the team shuffling out.

“Yeah! Just a second!” His voice cracked.

He yanked off the shorts and threw on an older, looser pair from the bottom of his bag. First-year shorts, faded and too short in the leg, but they fit. Barely.

He stared at the Seijoh shorts crumpled on the bench. The school emblem—his pride as captain—mocked him from the fabric.

When he walked onto the court, he was smiling. But his eyes were hollow.

Practice blurred. He set the ball perfectly, over and over, fingers precise, footwork sharp. No one noticed the clenched jaw, the flinch when the ball hit his palm. No one saw the shake in his hands during water breaks.

But after practice, when the team filtered back into the locker room, the mask broke.

He was last in. The room quiet—smelling of sweat and liniment. Other members laughing, talking about the upcoming match. Oikawa sat on the bench, bag at his feet, and pulled out the Seijoh shorts again.

Maybe he’d been too tense. Maybe he just needed to relax.

He stood up, stepped into them, tried again.

The button wouldn’t close.

A sob clawed up his throat. He clamped his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. The first tear spilled down his cheek, hot and shameful, then another. He sank onto the bench, the shorts dangling from his hands, shoulders shaking with silent, choked sobs.

He couldn’t stop.

“Oikawa? You coming?” Iwaizumi’s voice, muffled through the door. He must’ve been waiting outside.

The sobbing got louder. He couldn’t control it.

The door swung open.

Iwaizumi stepped in, then froze. The others—Hanamaki, Matsukawa, Kindaichi, Kunimi—all turned and stared. Oikawa’s face streaked with tears, nose red, the shorts crumpled in his lap like a confession.

“Everyone out,” Iwaizumi said, voice low and hard. “Now. Running drills on the court, five laps. Go.”

No one argued. They filed out, casting worried glances, and the door clicked shut.

Oikawa buried his face in his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

Iwaizumi sat down beside him. Not touching, but close enough that Oikawa could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Oikawa.”

“I can’t button them.” Words wet and broken. “I can’t even button my own shorts. I’m so—I’m so pathetic.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Oikawa’s voice cracked. “I’m just taking up space. Useless like this. Everyone’d be better off if I just didn’t exist anymore.”

The words hung ugly and raw. Iwaizumi went still. Then slowly he shifted to face Oikawa fully.

“Don’t you ever say that.” His voice rough, barely a whisper. “Don’t you ever, ever say that again.”

Oikawa lifted his head. Eyes red-rimmed, makeup smudged, his beautiful face a mess of pain. “Why not? It’s true. I’m the captain, and I can’t even fit into the uniform. I’m a joke.”

Iwaizumi’s hand found his. Firm. Warm. “You’re not a joke. You’re our setter. Without you, we’re nothing. I’m nothing.” He paused, voice softer now. “I need my pretty boyfriend, Oikawa. The one who smiles and pisses me off and sets balls so perfectly it makes me want to kill him. That’s who I need. Not a number on a scale.”

Oikawa let out a shuddering breath. He didn’t believe it. Not really. But the words wrapped around him like a blanket, and for a moment he let himself pretend.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Iwaizumi pulled him into a hug. “Don’t be. Just… promise me you’ll talk to me next time.”

Oikawa nodded against his shoulder.

He didn’t mean it.

---

The diet began the next day.

No rice. No bread. No sugar. He chewed gum obsessively—spearmint, peppermint, watermelon—and drank cold water until his stomach ached. When hunger pangs got unbearable, he allowed himself a single apple or a handful of cucumber slices. Nothing more.

He practiced like a demon. Hours before practice, hours after. Stayed late in the gym, setting balls until his fingers bled, running until his legs gave out. Every dizzy spell was proof he was winning. Every tremor in his hands a victory.

The first time he fainted, it was after morning practice. Skipped breakfast again—world went gray at the edges. He woke up on the gym floor with Iwaizumi kneeling over him, face white.

“Oikawa. Oikawa, can you hear me?”

“I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just stood up too fast.”

The second time was during a drill. The third after a match. By the end of the week, he’d fainted twelve times.

He lost count after that.

The team grew quiet. The teasing stopped. Even Kyotani, who rarely spoke to anyone, started watching him with a furrowed brow. One afternoon, after Oikawa collapsed against the wall during a break, Kyotani wordlessly shoved a water bottle and a protein bar into his hands. Then walked away.

Oikawa stared at the protein bar. He didn’t eat it.

His weight dropped. The shorts fit again. The cheekbones returned. Thighs slimmed, waist narrowed, and when he looked in the mirror, the old Oikawa stared back. But the voice in his head didn’t stop.

Still not good enough. Still ugly. Still taking up space.

Iwaizumi noticed. He tried to reach him.

“You look great,” he said one evening, hand brushing Oikawa’s hip as they walked home. “I mean, you always do, but… you seem happy.”

Oikawa’s smile was brittle. “I’m fine, Iwa-chan.”

“Are you? ’Cause I’ve seen you eat. You’re living on gum and air.”

“I eat.”

“An apple is not a meal.”

Oikawa pulled away. “Stop being so dramatic.”

The distance between them grew.

---

The confrontation came on a crisp October evening, after a particularly intense practice match. Oikawa had played brilliantly—perfect sets, flawless blocks—but his legs had been shaking for the last two sets. He’d skipped lunch and dinner, gum the only thing keeping him upright.

Iwaizumi cornered him in the gym after everyone left.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m tired, Iwa-chan.”

“Too bad.” Iwaizumi’s eyes hard, jaw tight. “I know what you’re doing. The diet. The fainting. The way you avoid eating with us.”

Oikawa’s smile flickered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Iwaizumi’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “You’ve fainted twelve times in a week. TWELVE. I counted. Kyotani’s been leaving protein bars in your locker and you throw them away. You think I don’t see?”

Oikawa went pale. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is my business! You’re my boyfriend! I love you, and you’re killing yourself!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t love me!” The words exploded out of him, sharp and venomous. “Maybe I’m not worth loving like this. Maybe I never was.”

Iwaizumi staggered back as if struck. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” Oikawa’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t understand. You can eat whatever you want. You’re perfect. I have to earn every inch of this body. If I’m not thin, I’m nothing.”

“You’re not nothing! You’re the stupidest, most dramatic, most brilliant setter I’ve ever met.” Iwaizumi stepped forward, voice breaking. “If you don’t stop, I’m telling the coach. I’m telling your mother.”

Oikawa’s eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

For a long moment they stared at each other. The air between them crackled with tension. Then Oikawa’s face crumpled, and he turned away.

“Just leave me alone.”

He didn’t see the tears in Iwaizumi’s eyes.

---

The collapse came three days later, during a practice match against a local team. Oikawa had been playing too well—everywhere, setting, digging, blocking, pushing beyond his limits. In the third set, he went up for a block, and the world tilted.

He hit the floor hard.

The sound of his body slamming against polished wood was sickening. The gym went silent. Then chaos—voices, footsteps, and Iwaizumi’s voice, loud and terrified, cutting through everything.

“OIKAWA!”

He wasn’t conscious. Didn’t feel Iwaizumi scoop him up, cradling him against his chest like something precious and fragile. Didn’t see the panicked faces of his teammates, or Kyotani slamming his fist against the wall. Didn’t hear the coach shouting for the nurse.

He woke up in the nurse’s office—antiseptic and stale air heavy around him. A thin blanket draped over him, soft light casting long shadows across the room.

Iwaizumi sat beside him, head bowed, hands clasped tightly in his lap. When he saw Oikawa open his eyes, his whole body sagged with relief.

“You’re awake.”

Oikawa tried to speak, throat dry. “What… happened?”

“You collapsed. Mid-set. Hit the floor like a sack of bricks.” Iwaizumi’s voice was hoarse. “They brought you here. The nurse said you’re severely malnourished. Dehydrated. Exhausted.”

Oikawa stared at the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. Just… why?” Iwaizumi’s voice cracked. “Why did you do this to yourself? Why didn’t you let me help you?”

Tears slid down Oikawa’s temples, pooling in his ears. “I couldn’t stop. I looked in the mirror and I saw this—this monster. This thing everyone was laughing at. And I thought, if I could just get rid of it, if I could be thin again, I’d be okay. But I’m not okay. I’m still not okay. I hate myself, Iwa-chan. I hate my body. I hate everything about me.”

Iwaizumi reached out and took his hand. “Oikawa.”

“I’m replaceable. The team doesn’t need me. You don’t need me. I’m just a setter. Someone else can do it.”

“No.” Iwaizumi’s grip tightened. “No one else can do it. No one else can set the way you do. No one else smiles at me like that. No one else makes me want to be better.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you keep hurting yourself, the one who loses you is me. I can’t live without you, Tooru.”

The name—his first name, spoken so softly—broke something inside Oikawa. He sobbed, ugly and raw, turning his face into the pillow. Iwaizumi climbed onto the narrow bed and wrapped his arms around him, held him close.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. But you have to let me help you. You have to let yourself get help. Please.”

Oikawa nodded against his chest. “I’m scared.”

“I know. Me too. But we’ll do it together.”

---

The road was long.

Iwaizumi helped him enroll in a nutrition program. Found a therapist who specialized in athletes and body image issues. Together they made a meal plan—small, regular meals designed to rebuild his strength without triggering his fears. Iwaizumi sat with him during every meal, eating the same food, reminding him he wasn’t alone.

The team noticed. They didn’t say much, but showed support in small ways. Hanamaki started packing extra snacks for everyone. Matsukawa made terrible jokes that made Oikawa laugh despite himself. Kyotani, without a word, slid a protein bar onto Oikawa’s desk before every practice.

Slowly, painfully, Oikawa began to heal.

He still had bad days. Days when the voice in his head told him he was fat, ugly, worthless. Days when he stared at the Seijoh shorts and felt the old panic rise. But on those days, Iwaizumi was there. He’d take Oikawa’s hand, look him in the eyes, and say, “You are enough. You have always been enough.”

And Oikawa would breathe.

---

The final scene took place in the locker room, on the first day of winter practice. Cold air, heaters humming softly as the team filtered in. Oikawa stood at his locker, a new pair of Seijoh shorts in his hands.

They fit.

He buttoned them easily, fabric sitting comfortably around his waist. He looked in the mirror—not at the flaws, not at the imaginary fat, but at himself. His face was healthy again. Eyes clear.

He wasn’t thin. He was strong.

Iwaizumi appeared behind him, reflection in the mirror. He smiled—a real smile, soft and warm. “Ready, Captain?”

Oikawa turned, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Ready, Iwa-chan.”

They walked out onto the court together, cool air hitting their faces, the familiar scent of the gym wrapping around them like a homecoming. The team was already there, warming up, laughing, alive.

Oikawa took a deep breath.

He was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.