The tension didn't fade the next day. It clung to you like sweat, heavy and suffocating, even as the morning light spilled across the camp. Breakfast chatter buzzed around the dining hall, but every laugh, every scrape of a chair, every clink of silverware felt muted under the weight of Kuroo's stare.
Except today, he wasn't looking at you.
He was deliberately looking anywhere else.
That, somehow, hurt worse.
You pushed your food around your plate, appetite gone, when Oikawa slid into the seat beside you with his usual effortless smile. His presence was warm, a steady contrast to the cold distance across the room.
"Y/n," he greeted, voice soft but bright, "you should eat. You'll collapse on me in practice if you don't."
You forced a small smile, shrugging. "I'm fine."
Oikawa leaned in, lowering his voice just enough for you to hear. "You don't look fine. But don't worry I'll take care of you." His words were teasing, light, but his eyes held something heavier, more deliberate.
And then, before you could stop him, his hand slid over yours on the table. Firm. Public.
Conversations around you stuttered. A few heads turned.
Your breath caught. "Oikawa—"
But he didn't let you pull away. Instead, he gave your hand a squeeze, tilting his head with that infuriatingly charming smile. "Don't look so shocked. I've been thinking… maybe I should just say it already."
Your chest tightened, the whole room seeming to tilt.
"I like you, Y/n," Oikawa said simply. No theatrics this time. Just his voice, steady and certain. "More than I probably should. And I don't care who knows it."
The air left your lungs in a rush. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and though your mouth opened, no words came. You weren't ready, your heart was still tangled in knots you couldn't begin to untie. But you didn't pull your hand away, either.
That silence your hesitation was enough.
A chair scraped violently against the floor.
Your head snapped up just in time to see Kuroo shove his tray aside, his jaw locked tight, eyes burning with something rawer than jealousy desperation.
The room froze.
"Kuroo—" you started, but he was already moving.
"Enough," his voice cut through the air, sharper than you'd ever heard it. Not teasing, not sarcastic. Just unfiltered hurt. He didn't look at Oikawa. He didn't even look at you. He just turned, shoving through the doors and leaving the hall in silence.
The echo of the slam felt like a punch to your ribs.
Oikawa sighed softly beside you, finally letting go of your hand. For once, his smile was faint, fragile. "I guess… I pushed too far."
He leaned back, eyes following the door Kuroo had vanished through. And though his voice was light, there was a weight behind it. "But I'm not giving up just yet." You sat frozen, pulse racing, the hollow ache in your chest threatening to swallow you whole.
Because this wasn't just tension anymore. This was breaking.
And you weren't sure how to stop it.
Your pulse still thrummed in your ears, drowning out the quiet hum of voices slowly returning to the dining hall. But nothing felt normal. Not the food on your plate, not Oikawa's hand now withdrawn but still warm against your skin in memory. Not even the air in your lungs.
Because Kuroo's face his eyes when he snapped, the strain in his voice was seared into you. That wasn't the captain everyone knew. That wasn't the playful strategist, or the confident tease. That was something else. Something fragile and breaking.
And it was your fault.
Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to chase after him right then, to explain, to fix it somehow. To tell him you hadn't chosen anyone yet, because you didn't even know how to choose yourself. But your legs felt heavy, cemented to the floor. And Oikawa's presence beside you only made the weight worse. He was still there, steady, kind in his own way, not demanding, not pulling but waiting. Always waiting.
You pressed your palms together under the table, fingers trembling.
You wanted to scream at both of them to stop. To leave you out of the war you'd never meant to start. To stop making you feel like you were breaking no matter which way you turned.
But the truth the cruel truth was that part of you didn't want them to stop. Because buried beneath the guilt was something sharp, something dangerous: the fear that losing either of them would hurt worse than this storm ever could. And so you sat there, heart tearing in two, while the door Kuroo had stormed through remained shut.
And the silence he left behind pressed in harder than any confession could.
It followed you through the night, into restless dreams, and clung to your shoulders the next morning like a second skin. No matter how much you tried to shake it off laughing a little too easily when Oikawa teased you at breakfast, forcing your hands steady as you tied your shoes it was still there. Heavy. Inevitable.
By the time practice rolled around, the gym's familiar squeak of sneakers and the sharp thud of volleyballs should've been grounding. But today, they only grated against nerves already stretched thin.
Kuroo was already there when you walked in, standing by the net with his arms crossed, posture rigid. His gaze flicked over you once, unreadable, before shifting back to his teammates. The distance was worse than his anger had been. Silence you could almost live with this coldness was unbearable.
Oikawa brushed your shoulder lightly as he passed, tossing you a grin that made your stomach twist. "Ready to show them how it's done?" he asked, deliberately loud enough for a few heads to turn.
You managed a small smile, but it felt stiff. And when you risked another glance toward the net, you found Kuroo watching. His jaw was tight, his grip on the ball in his hand sharp enough that his knuckles whitened.
Drills began smoothly enough, but the rhythm faltered quickly. Kuroo's sets were just a beat too fast when Oikawa was at the net. His blocks landed harder, sharper, every movement brimming with something that wasn't just strategy. Twice, the ball skidded off in the wrong direction, teammates scrambling to cover.
"Oi, captain what's with you today?" one of the guys muttered after another broken rally.
Kuroo waved it off with a thin smirk. "Guess I'm just trying to keep things interesting."
But you saw it the way his gaze slid past you when Oikawa laughed under his breath, the way his shoulders stiffened when your hand brushed Oikawa's during a rotation switch. It wasn't just practice anymore. It was a storm circling, tightening, waiting to hit.
And everyone was starting to feel it. The gym's easy energy dimmed. Jokes landed flat. Even the coach's whistle carried a sharper edge as he barked, "Focus!" But the truth was, focus was impossible. Not with every ball, every play, charged with something no drill could fix.
And you knew, with a sinking certainty, that this wasn't going to hold much longer.
The rally started clean Oikawa with a quick pass, another setter ready for backup but the moment the ball reached Kuroo, it was like watching a fuse spark. His set came too sharp, too high, and the spike attempt crashed uselessly into the net. Groans echoed across the court.
"Seriously?" one of the guys muttered, tossing the ball back.
Oikawa caught it instead, spinning it easily in his hands before stepping forward. His smile was there, but it didn't touch his eyes. "What's the matter, Kuroo?" His voice carried, light and taunting, but sharp enough to cut. "Losing your touch? Or just distracted?"
A few teammates froze mid-step. The air thickened.
Kuroo's head snapped up, eyes locking on Oikawa's, his jaw ticking. "I'm fine."
"Fine?" Oikawa repeated, a laugh edging dangerously close to cruel. He tossed the ball once, catching it with a smack of palm against leather. "Funny. Because from here, it looks like you're more focused on me than the game." His gaze flicked just briefly toward you.
The implication slammed into the gym like thunder. A ripple of silence followed, every player suddenly invested in tying their shoes, in stretching, in pretending they weren't watching.
Kuroo's smirk was thin, dangerous. "Careful, Oikawa. You might start to believe your own dramatics."
"Please." Oikawa stepped closer, ball tucked under one arm, his grin sharpening into something colder. "If you've got a problem, don't take it out on the team. Or is this just your way of proving something?"
Your stomach twisted. Every word was a needle, threading tighter and tighter between them, pulling the whole gym into knots.
Kuroo's laugh was low, humorless. "You think you know what I'm proving?" He took a step forward, and for the first time, his voice cracked under the weight of something raw. "You don't know anything."
The sound cut through you like glass.
The gym was frozen, the ball of tension wound so tight you thought it might finally snap.
And somehow, you were standing in the crossfire.
The gym air was thick with heat and silence, every eye darting between the two of them. No one dared move.
Oikawa tilted his head, the ball rolling lazily from one hand to the other. "Then enlighten us, Kuroo," he said, voice deceptively light. "If I don't know anything… what is it you're really trying to prove?"
The words hit like a dare.
Kuroo's shoulders squared, chest rising as though he were about to lunge not with fists, but with something worse. His eyes flicked just once to you. And it was enough to send your pulse hammering, because in that split second, you thought you knew what was about to fall from his lips.
Your name.
It hovered there, unspoken, pressed against the sharp edge of his teeth. His face was taut, raw in a way you had never seen in front of anyone else. The ball smacked loudly against Oikawa's palm, the sound ringing out like a countdown. "Go on," he pushed, smile sharpened into a blade. "Say it. What's got you so—"
TWEEEEEEET!
The coach's whistle sliced through the gym, sharp and merciless. Everyone flinched.
"That's it!" the coach barked, striding forward, his glare sweeping across both setters. "Enough! You two are done for the day. Pack it in before I throw you both out permanently." A stunned silence followed. Teammates shifted awkwardly, exchanging uneasy glances. The heavy rhythm of your heartbeat was the only sound you could really hear.
Kuroo's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Oikawa's smirk didn't fade, but his eyes flickered, something softer buried under the act. And you… you could hardly breathe. Because that moment the one just before the whistle was going to haunt you long after practice ended.
The shuffle of sneakers on the polished floor filled the silence as everyone broke apart, voices hushed, movements awkward. The usual post-practice chatter was gone, swallowed by the tension still clinging to the air like smoke after a fire.
You didn't look at Kuroo. Couldn't. Not with the memory of his almost-confession burning in your chest, heavy and dangerous. Instead, you slipped out of the gym as quietly as you could, the cool air outside a small relief against the weight crushing your lungs.
"Y/n."
Oikawa's voice caught you before you made it down the steps. He jogged up beside you, his smile softer now, none of the sharpness he'd wielded on the court. "You okay?"
You forced a laugh, though it cracked halfway through. "I'm fine."
"Mm," he hummed, not convinced. His hand brushed against yours, featherlight at first, then more deliberate as he hooked his pinky around yours. A gesture so small, yet so obvious. "Don't let him get in your head," he said, his voice low, careful, as though Kuroo might overhear even out here. "You deserve better than to be caught in whatever game he's playing."
Your throat tightened. Was it a game? Or something far too real to even put words to?
Oikawa leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "You know," he added with a small chuckle, "you look much prettier when you're not worrying about him." And for a moment, you almost let yourself believe him. Almost let yourself sink into the safety he offered.
But then the door creaked open behind you.
You didn't have to turn to know who it was. The weight of his stare was enough.
Kuroo.
He stood just a few feet away, his gaze fixed not on Oikawa, not even on you on your joined hands. The intensity of it hit harder than any spike, his silence so sharp it carved the air between you clean in two.
The world seemed to narrow to that single point: his eyes, dark and burning, locked on yours.
And for the first time, you weren't sure if he looked more broken or more furious.