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History has a tendency to repeat itself, it’s something that is constantly drilled into everyone’s heads every day (as students in school learning history or in everyday life courtesy of activist groups). There had been a growing fear, though, somewhere in the depths of Eita’s heart, that this time, history wasn’t going to repeat in time for them. There were too many threatening circumstances to be able to guarantee it; too many variables that he had absolutely no control over.
His arm had only been the beginning of his problems; an aggravated injury that he really should have taken care of and had ended up paying the price for not doing so. Then there had been that too-close call in the regionals, forced to watch from the warm up box as his team was forced, for the first time in a very long time, into a closely run fifth set that (at one or two moments), the setter had feared they may actually lose. If they lost there, without him even being able to be properly on the court thanks to his injury and impending international match and promises to two friends as old as time, he isn’t sure what he would have done.
But the moment had never come.
Shiratorizawa had done what Shiratorizawa does best, and they had taken home the first place prize of the regional volleyball tournament just like everyone expected they would.
It was a weight off of Eita’s shoulders, for a brief moment, at least.
The match against the South Korea Youth World team had proved beyond what they had gotten comfortable with at the regionals, and even all of his careful care and physiotherapy and caution in his attacks had still resulted in a three minute injury break halfway through the third set and a sit-out period of ten points to give his elbow time to rest and recover from the onslaught of the Korean spikers.
They had lost, but it wasn’t the loss in an international practice match that weighed down on his mind on the flight back from South Korea, arm thickly bandaged and stabilized and his pained expression hidden away into Wakatoshi’s shoulder.
The weight continued to grow and drag him down in the two weeks that had followed, forced into a break to allow his arm to recover, only allowed to use it for his rehabilitation and strengthening exercises.
It hadn’t lifted when he was cleared to play again, freed from the weight of an injury ending his career, only to be trapped by the fear of not being able to become strong enough to take them all the way.
At Nationals, there were no certainties.
Eita trained as much as he could stand, and spent every other moment work on his physiotherapy, determined to be in his top form for the final tournament of his high school career (perhaps even at risk of ruining his future in the sport, but, for the one moment he was aiming for, he felt like it would be worth it).
They win the first round with ease, and nearly lose the second match in the third set (Eita hates playing on the opposite court to other members of the Youth World team). They bury their opponents in the quarter-finals, and claw their way through the semi-finals, until the finals loom like an iron wall far above their heads.
But they’ve broken through iron walls before, and even with the throbbing in his arm and fingers completely hidden away in bandages and an urge to sit down and rest for a while so his body doesn’t fall apart, he keeps fighting. He supposes it’s hard to give up with a steady hand on the back of his left shoulder and a comforting presence on his right, a feeling of deja vu (a reassurance that they’ve done this before so they can do it again).
It’s five sets of hell.
They trade points back and forth, and sets as well, and the last is dragged out far beyond the fifteen point mark, heels dug in, refusing to give way, refusing to allow their opponents to break ahead. The final three points, Eita thinks, are the points he’ll remember as the best in volleyball.
The first comes off of a steady receive from their ever reliable libero off of a serve, and Eita, if given the chance, would never be able to thank Hayato enough for the moment. The perfect return to the setter for him to be able to set it to any of his four spikers, but he takes it for himself.
(He’s been scared of his left arm for almost five years. Scared of using it for fear of destroying his arm completely, no matter how warm and comforting and encouraging the memories from the first year of volleyball are; the memories of working together with Wakatoshi and ignoring all of his mother’s attempts to train him to use his right hand only rather than both and embracing a gift that would give him such an advantage in his sport. He breaks through the fear and it’s worth the throbbing it leaves in his elbow to watch the fear and surprise of the blockers and the receivers, their opponents full prepared to receive another heavy ball from Wakatoshi, not from the setter who hadn’t spiked at all the entire match, let alone with his left hand.)
The second point comes off of his own serve, riding on the surprise still capturing the other team, allowing him a service ace off of a receiver unaccustomed to left-handed players.
The third (the final) is the perfect moment. The one Eita couldn’t have asked for more from back in his third year of middle school, and the same goes for now. His serve is received, he’s okay with that, and they’re prepared for the set up that follows. Hayato’s off but Satori’s on and his almost perfect guess block guides the one touch directly into Reon’s waiting receive. Eita sees nothing but the ball against the stadium lights through the silhouette of his outstretched fingers, and he doesn’t need to look to know where his ace his. It’s a perfectly practiced movement, one they’ve spent six years perfecting, and it all pays off in the split second later when the sound of rubber slamming into wood echoes in his head and noise erupts around them.
The setter’s hands fall to his sides and he feels the entire weight of the world roll off of his shoulders. All the stress and worry and fears all proved wrong as history finally repeats itself for the comforting presence on his right and the weight of a hand on his left shoulder and while the rest of their team bounces around in their celebrations, there’s only a comfortable silence for the three of them, simply enjoying the moment.
And it really is only a moment, before Reon is half-tackled to the ground by an enthusiastic Satori and the noise moves to engulf them and the calm in Eita’s heart gives way to the excitement infecting the rest of his teammates.
In all the noise and over-enthusiasm, there’s a voice registering in his mind. One that he isn’t quite sure whether he actually heard it or his ears are playing tricks on him, but he acts on it anyway.
It’s the moment that makes all of the struggle worth it.
The pain and the insecurities. His struggles and his recoveries. The fights and the arguments between childhood friends, and petulant childish tantrums. The ups and the downs, and the fears and the joy, and it all boils down into a single moment with feet lifting onto tip-toes and bandaged fingers sliding into dark hair and a brief whisper of, ‘thank you’ before there’s no space left between them as lips meet lips.
(The perfect moment.)