More Than the Worst Thing

The gym smelled like sweat, wood polish, and floor wax. Late afternoon light cut through the high windows, throwing long shadows across the court. The usual sounds—volleyballs thudding, shoes squeaking, guys yelling—filled the air. Seijoh’s boys’ volleyball team grinding through practice.

Oikawa moved through drills like a machine. Perfect sets. Crisp footwork. Serves that could kill. But something was off.

Iwaizumi noticed first. He always did.

Oikawa hadn’t smiled once since he walked in. No teasing Mattsun about his hair. No towel flick at Makki. No theatrical whining about being “Iwa-chan’s favorite setter.” Just silence, clipped answers, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

During water break, Oikawa sat apart, back against the wall, water bottle untouched. Jaw tight. Shoulders hunched—making him look smaller than he was. Iwaizumi wanted to go over, sit next to him, ask what’s wrong. But he knew Oikawa. Push too hard, and he’d retreat further.

So he let him be. For now.

Drills resumed. Iwaizumi kept an eye on him during setting practice—Oikawa feeding balls to spikers, rotation style. Tosses perfect, but no joy. No playful wrist flick. No quiet compliment on a good spike.

Then, mid-drill, Oikawa stopped.

He held up a hand. “Hydration break,” he said, flat and tired. “Five minutes.”

The team exchanged looks. Oikawa never called breaks during drills. He was the one who pushed for one more set, one more repetition, one more everything.

But he was already walking away, steps quick and uneven, heading toward the locker room hallway.

Iwaizumi dropped the ball and followed.

The locker room door was closed. He pressed his ear to it—nothing at first. Then a muffled, ragged breath. A choked sound.

His stomach twisted.

He pushed the door open slowly.

Oikawa stood in the middle of the room, back to the door, shoulders shaking in silent heaves. Hands pressed over his face, fingers digging into his cheekbones like he could physically hold himself together.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi said quietly.

Oikawa flinched. Hands dropped, but he didn’t turn. His reflection in the mirror above the sinks showed a face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips pressed thin as he fought to breathe.

“Go away, Iwa-chan.” Barely a whisper, cracked at the edges. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Iwaizumi didn’t move. He closed the door softly.

“No, you won’t.” He crossed the room, stopped a few feet behind him. “Talk to me.”

Oikawa let out a shaky breath. “It’s nothing. Just—a bad day. A headache. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been a ghost since you walked in. You didn’t even call me ‘Iwa-chan’ once.”

A bitter, broken laugh. “Iwa-chan,” he repeated, the name tasting different. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining practice.”

“You’re not ruining anything.” Iwaizumi stepped closer, voice dropping softer. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Together. You’re not alone.”

Oikawa finally turned. Face a mess—tear tracks, red-rimmed eyes, that vulnerability he usually hid behind charm and bravado. He looked young and scared, and Iwaizumi’s heart clenched.

“I can’t—I don’t want to talk about it here,” Oikawa said, voice cracking. “They’ll all look at me differently. They’ll—”

“They won’t. They’re your team. They’ve got your back.” Iwaizumi paused. “Let me tell them we’re cutting practice early. We’ll play something else instead. Something stupid. A game.”

Oikawa blinked, confusion flickering through the tears. “What?”

“Trust me. Let’s just end practice. Sit in a circle and mess around. I’ll handle it.” Iwaizumi held his gaze, steady. “You don’t have to hold it together anymore. Not today.”

Oikawa looked at him for a long moment, then nodded—a single shaky gesture.

Iwaizumi stepped forward and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

---

When they got back to the gym, the team had stopped drilling. They stood in a loose cluster, watching with worried eyes. Mattsun had his phone out, probably texting someone. Makki was bouncing on his heels. Kindaichi and Kunimi stood near the net, silent.

Iwaizumi clapped his hands. “Practice is done. We’re doing something else.”

Murmurs.

“What do you mean, done?” Mattsun asked. “We still have an hour.”

“New plan,” Iwaizumi said. “We’re playing a game. A stupid game. Sit in a circle.”

“What kind of game?” Makki’s eyes narrowed.

“Truth or dare. Or two truths and a lie. Something.” Iwaizumi shrugged. “Just sit. Now.”

They shuffled into a loose circle on the gym floor. Oikawa sank down at the edge, arms wrapped around his knees. Iwaizumi sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“Okay, who starts?” Mattsun asked.

“You,” Iwaizumi said.

Mattsun sighed, but turned to Oikawa, expression softening. “Alright. Oikawa, truth or dare?”

Oikawa’s voice was barely audible. “Truth.”

The circle went quiet. No laughter. No teasing. Everyone knew this wasn’t just a game.

“Okay,” Mattsun said slowly, choosing his words. “What’s the thing you’re most scared of right now?”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. He stared at the floor, fingers twisting together.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can say it.”

“You can say anything here,” Makki said, unusually soft. “No one’s going to judge. We’re all your friends.”

“Your team,” Kindaichi added quietly.

Kunimi nodded.

Oikawa pressed his palms against his eyes. A shuddering breath. “Something happened,” he whispered. “Something bad. And I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Iwaizumi placed a hand on his back. “Tell them.”

The words came out like pulling thorns from under skin.

“My ex-boyfriend. From a few months ago. We broke up—I thought it was fine. But he… he had a video. Of us. Private.” Oikawa’s voice broke. “He leaked it. It’s online. Everywhere. People at school have seen it. Someone sent it to me last night.”

A collective intake of breath. The gym felt colder.

“What the hell,” Mattsun breathed, face darkening. “That’s—that’s illegal. Revenge porn. He could go to jail.”

“He’s a piece of shit,” Makki said, voice hard. “Where does he live? I’ll pay him a visit.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. His free hand was balled into a fist on his knee. But he didn’t speak. He kept his hand steady on Oikawa’s back.

“The video,” Oikawa continued, voice dropping to a whisper, “it shows… me. In a way no one should see. He recorded it without me knowing, and it has—put music over it. Explicit lyrics. Like it was a joke. Like I was a joke.” His shoulders shook. “People are sharing it. Laughing. Commenting.”

His voice cracked and he hid his face in his hands.

“It’s horrible. I feel so disgusting. So exposed. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I came here today thinking volleyball would make me feel normal, but I just—I can’t do anything.” His voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I’m scared. So scared.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Iwaizumi pulled Oikawa into his arms.

Not a gentle hug. Fierce, desperate—like he could physically shield him from the world. He wrapped his arms around Oikawa’s trembling frame and held tight.

“You’re more than that,” Iwaizumi said, voice rough. “So much more than that. You’re our captain. Our friend. The best setter I’ve ever seen. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re stupidly dramatic sometimes—but you’re good, Tooru. This doesn’t change who you are. You hear me? It doesn’t.”

Oikawa sobbed into his shoulder, raw and broken.

Around them, the team moved without words. Mattsun shifted closer, hand on Oikawa’s knee. Makki sat on his other side, hand on his shoulder. Kindaichi knelt in front, face serious. Kunimi stood behind, arms crossed, but his eyes were soft.

They formed a circle within the circle—a wall of bodies around Oikawa. A cocoon of warmth and safety, blocking out the harsh lights and the cold gym and the cruel world outside.

Iwaizumi tightened his hold. “We’ve got you. Always.”

Oikawa clung to him, crying without shame now, letting go of the tension he’d held for hours—days—weeks. Tears soaked into Iwaizumi’s jersey. Neither cared.

“We’re going to get through this,” Iwaizumi murmured against his hair. “Together. I promise.”

---

The gym slowly became a sanctuary.

Practice forgotten. Matsukawa ordered pizza on his phone, Makki raided the club room for blankets and pillows. Kindaichi and Kunimi set up a small TV in the corner, connected someone’s laptop to stream a comedy. They dimmed the lights, spread out cushions, turned the space into a makeshift living room.

No one suggested going home.

Oikawa sat in the middle of it all—still fragile, still raw, but no longer alone. Iwaizumi stayed glued to his side, arm around his shoulders, not letting go.

They ate pizza. Laughed at the movie—forced at first, then genuine as the ridiculous plot unfolded. Mattsun made snide comments about the acting. Makki threw cheese puffs at the screen. Kindaichi fell asleep with his head on Kunimi’s shoulder, and Kunimi let him.

At some point, Oikawa’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, face going pale.

Iwaizumi snatched it away. “Nope. Not tonight. Whatever it is, it can wait.” He turned it off and set it aside.

Oikawa let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just keep being here.”

The movie ended. The team gradually settled down, finding spots to sleep. Mattsun and Makki shared a corner, snoring in harmony. Kindaichi and Kunimi curled up under a blanket on the other side.

Iwaizumi helped Oikawa lie down on a pile of cushions near the center. Pulled a blanket over him, then lay down beside him, facing him.

“You’re staying?” Oikawa whispered, eyes red but dry now.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Iwaizumi reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together. “Close your eyes. I’ll be right here.”

Oikawa blinked, fresh tears threatening. But he held them back. Squeezed Iwaizumi’s hand, letting the warmth ground him.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For finding me. For not letting me hide.”

Iwaizumi pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and lingering. “I’ll always find you. Now sleep.”

Oikawa closed his eyes. For the first time in what felt like years, the tight knot in his chest loosened. The shame and fear were still there, lurking in the shadows. But here, in the quiet gym, wrapped in the warmth of his team and the steady presence of Iwaizumi, he felt something he thought he’d lost.

Hope.

He drifted off, breathing evening out, hand still clasped in Iwaizumi’s.

Iwaizumi stayed awake long into the night, watching over him, thumb tracing slow circles on Oikawa’s palm.

Tomorrow, they’d face the world together.

Tonight, they had each other.

---

Morning light crept through the windows, soft and golden. Oikawa stirred slowly—awareness coming in fragments: firm floor beneath cushions, faint smell of pizza and sweat, weight of an arm draped across his waist.

He opened his eyes.

Iwaizumi was still asleep beside him, face relaxed, breath warm against Oikawa’s cheek. His arm wrapped around him protectively, even in sleep.

Oikawa watched him for a moment. The sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that even rest couldn’t smooth away. He’d stayed. They’d all stayed.

His phone was still off, still tucked away. The video was still out there. The comments, the laughter, the shame—none of it had disappeared overnight. But when Oikawa looked at Iwaizumi, at the circle of his sleeping teammates, he realized something.

He wasn’t defined by that video. He wasn’t the object of someone else’s cruelty. He was the captain of Seijoh. A setter who made impossible plays look easy. A friend who teased and smiled and, when necessary, broke down and let others hold him.

He was more than the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

Iwaizumi stirred, eyes fluttering open. He found Oikawa looking at him and smiled—small, sleepy.

“Morning,” he murmured. “You okay?”

Oikawa’s lips curved into a weak smile—tentative, fragile, but real.

“I think… I will be,” he said. “With you.”

Iwaizumi pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Then we’ll be okay together,” he said. “No matter what.”

Outside, the sun rose higher, spilling light across the gym floor. The world was waiting, harsh and unkind. But for now, in this quiet moment, wrapped in the warmth of his team and the strength of the one person who had never let him fall, Oikawa Tooru allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.