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Sugawara’s hands tremble as he readies his arms, feet frozen on the floor. Fuck, this is not the time. He forces his hands to push forward as sweat flurries across his forehead, eyes darting back and forth between his awaiting teammates on the court.
He can set to Hinata. This would spark the first year’s spirit, sprouting stars in his eyes and shaping his everlasting shine. While Hinata’s quick reflexes and astonishing jump height can potentially give them the advantage, Suga is suspicious that the opposing team had already caught on to their patterns and, more importantly, their reliance on Hinata as a spiker and decoy.
If Karasuno lost this point, lost this set, lost this game, Hinata would be devastated, discouraged, demolished. Even if it were only to be a temporary setback, Suga doesn’t know if his conscience can handle disappointing Hinata, or even worse, Kageyama, who is for once observing from the sidelines, analyzing his every shift in motion.
He can set to Tanaka. The second year’s fiery passion is undeniable, and Suga can tell that the immense force behind every single one of his spikes holds love and hope for the sport of volleyball. This power can pressure the other side of the court. It can unpredictably break through their defense, rattling their strategy.
However, Tanaka is known for his impulsivity and his erratic excitement. Despite his tendency to hold it in, Suga knows that the weight of failure hangs over Tanaka’s shoulders just as it does over his own: hidden, but aching within his bones with every step he takes. If his spike doesn’t win the point, it will not only diminish his spirit, but the spirit of the team, for Tanaka is the foundation of Karasuno’s will to fight.
He can set to Asahi. His best friend, the core of the mighty left. Suga has always admired Asahi’s paralyzing power and precision in spiking the ball, slamming it towards the other side of the net with neither haste or hesitation. He may generally be a gentle giant off the court, but Suga has never seen as bright a flame in anyone’s eyes as he has in Asahi’s when he bursts through an opponent’s walls.
Suga feels as though he often defaults to Asahi. It’s understandable—they have been close friends, along with Daichi, since their first year at Karasuno—but he wonders whether or not the other team notices the gravitational pull inevitably drawing him towards his trusted friend in each dire situation. If this move is too predictable, and ultimately fails, it can tear Asahi’s psyche in two. Suga knows that regardless of the cause for the failure, Asahi will take fault for it, carrying it on his sleeve like a vicious battle scar. As much as he trusts Asahi, Suga doesn’t want to be responsible for another tear in his heart, another stitch to mask his persistent pitfalls.
Suga finds his own heart tearing as he struggles to split it into infinite pieces to hand out amongst his friends. In the deep crevices of his mind, hidden behind spiderwebs and lingering shadows, he knows that he can’t possibly appease everyone. He knows that he eventually has to pick one person over the others, temporarily relying on one person to carry their team to victory.
But Suga isn’t like Kageyama; he can’t shove his heart into a box in the corner of his aching ribcage the same way he can. He can’t push his biases aside in the overwhelming heat of the court; if anything, it only escalates his biases further as his instinct conquers the fumbled folds of his brain.
Sugawara Koushi isn’t a genius.
When the time comes to finally take his pick—as if he’s on a gameshow, and one wrong move gets him booed by an audience of dark demons dangling over his head—he bites his tongue as his static brain makes a decision for him. Fuck. He spent far too much time dwelling on the possible consequences, and now he can’t even control his own will.
He can only watch as the ball wanes across the court, like a full moon quickly cocooning itself into submission.
He watches it spiral towards the person everyone just knew he would set it to.
He watches as Asahi barrels himself forward, jumping and slapping the ball across the net with fire burning in the creases along his palms.
For a second, there’s a sliver of sunshine seeping into the clouds storming Suga’s head.
For a second, he believes there’s a chance as he hears the thundering clap of Asahi’s hand against the ball.
That light, however, is abruptly shadowed by the human wall towering before him. Suga’s eyes glaze over as he watches the ball flutter down from the sky, its wings clipped and torn into threads of utter shame as it hits the floor.
And in that moment, during the brief silence encompassing the court, Suga has had enough. His mind is no longer stormed by puffed clouds of regret. It is no longer held dearly by the dark demons who have been clinging onto him for months on end.
He isn’t sure whether the light-headed feeling washing over him is a factor of fatigue or the emptiness in his chest, but regardless, it comforts him.
His teammates throw various half-hearted comforting words at him, but they simply phase through him, like little baby ghosts who are first learning how to haunt someone. Suga can tell that despite what they may claim, his teammates were ultimately disappointed.
He especially notices this when he catches Kageyama’s stare burning a hole through his head from the bench across the court. While Suga can never truly tell what the prodigy first year is thinking, he is without a doubt questioning his faith in Suga’s ability to guide him. Suga doesn’t blame him.
It’s not until after line-up, after his teammates leave for the locker rooms without him, after both his head and heart are finally emptied of any lingering doubt, that it finally clicks. He doesn’t know why it took this long to realize it—the simple fact that everyone on his team seems to have already accepted.
Sugawara Koushi isn’t enough.