Chapter Text
Volleyball is far from a quiet sport.
No matter what's happening, there's always noise: the sound of a hand colliding with a ball during a serve, the squeak of shoes against the floor in preparation for a receive, the calls and shouts of warning whenever someone is open, ready to take the next touch.
The sport is built out of the fabric of communication, players constantly shouting to claim balls, ask for a toss, ready the team for defense.
Add in the cheers of the audience, and then it's as if the noise never stops.
"Game point, girls!" Your coach's words are almost inaudible, hovering under the roars of the audience who are still cheering for the last point. "Keep it up and we end this here!"
You echo similar words of encouragement to your team before finding your position, staring straight ahead as someone serves the ball over.
Your feet move the moment you hear the slap of the serve, darting to your defense position as you bend your knees and crouch low. You can tell that the ball is going to soar back onto your side of the court as soon as you see the way the opposing team's libero has positioned her arms—the limbs perfectly parallel but far too deep for the ball to go anywhere but back to you after one touch.
"Freeball!" you shout, stepping away from defense to back into your approach line, but by the time you're ready to call for the ball, your setter has already tossed to the right-side hitter.
You can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at that. You know it's stupid, that you're the one person on the team who's probably touched the ball more than anyone else, but your fingers ache for more. Adrenaline runs through your veins thicker than blood at this point, and all you know is that you want it to be you who ends this match.
"Back, back!" The team's libero calls for the ball as she positions herself under it. This time, it bounces off her arms and sails straight into the hands of the opposing team's setter, who tosses it to their right-side hitter.
But then, the team sends the ball flying straight toward your defense specialist.
It's the worst mistake they can make, with match point weighing against them.
You lock eyes with your setter—your co-captain, a girl you've been playing sports with since your freshman year— the second you sense the trajectory of the ball, mirth coloring both your expressions as you collectively realize that the match is as good as won. The two of you have been in this position hundreds of times before, and you both know exactly what comes next. The ball is bounced into your setter's hands within seconds, and then you've begun your approach, your feet tracing the familiar left-right-left pattern before you jump up, flying high.
You don't bother calling for the ball, seeing no need to alert the setter of your readiness. You already expect her to toss to you—the look in her eyes earlier was practically screaming it.
What you don't expect is for your silence to reward you with an empty defense, the entire court diving to block the other hitter as the girl on the other side of the court calls for the ball at the top of her lungs, none of them realizing that the ball is being delivered to you until it's too late.
Another mistake.
The last one they'll make in this game.
The ball connects with your hand at the peak of your jump, when you're so impossibly high above the net that you can see the disbelief on your opponents' faces even as you slam the ball into the ground, letting it fall with enough force to make every one of them flinch.
The cheers begin before your feet have even landed on the ground.
You don't hear the referee when he blows the whistle, the sound of it drowned out by the whooping and hollering of your school in the bleachers, all of them screaming in support for what was definitely one of the most intense matches you've had thus far.
A grin spreads across your face, proud and confident.
"Fucking finally," you say, keeping your voice low as you look at the score: 25-23. It's the closest match you've had this season. Too close, in your opinion.
Your team lines up behind you within seconds, all of them eager to shake hands with the team and then break off to continue celebrating. It's all over so fast that you don't even have time to begin shifting impatiently from foot to foot before the girls are done, arms thrown up in celebration as your whole team dives into a celebratory huddle.
You waste no time in running to join them, shamelessly throwing yourself at the heap of girls and landing on the back of a poor sophomore as you high five everyone on the team.
"That was amazing, guys!" You don't bother jumping off the sophomore's back, making yourself comfortable as you begin going over everything you guys did right, and how proud you are of the team.
At least, that's what you would do.
A cough from behind you stops you in the middle of a sentence, and you turn your head, already knowing who to expect.
"Oh hey, Big B!" You give an enthusiastic wave to the man in front of you.
"Please," the man begins, his expression mortified as usual when you address him so casually. "Do not call me that. We have had this conversation before."
"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, hopping off the girl you'd been piggybacking on. "What can I do for you, Barbiplier?"
The man sighs. He should have known better than to expect you to call him by his proper name. You've called him 'Headmaster Barbatos' precisely once in your life, back when you first met him. Never again.
"We discussed over the summer that you would be needing a tutor should your grades fall to a certain point—"
A small part of you cringes, having taken that memory and burnt it to a crisp. But now you remember that Barbatos did tell you that if you wanted to stay on the volleyball team, you couldn't fail any classes.
And you're currently failing all of them but one.
"Gosh, Big B, I'd love to stay and chat, but I actually think I should go talk with my team for now. We just won, you know? I should be with them. Plus, I can't let them get too cocky. That was a close match, y'know? It's captain's responsibility to go over the things that went wrong, and I should head over—"
"Your co-captain appears to be fulfilling those duties just fine for you."
You can already hear your team's setter chastising one of the girls for calling a few balls at the beginning of the game that she should have left to the libero, and you bite your lip. As usual, your school's headmaster is one step ahead of you.
"Okay, but there are more than a few recruiters here today. I'm sure they want to speak with me. That last hit of mine was really flashy, y'know? I should probably go. If you think about it, it's technically my future at stake. Wouldn't want to compromise that, so I'll just—"
Barbatos steps in front of you before you can slide out of the situation, sealing off your escape route.
"You spoke to four recruiters before the match began."
You want to correct him, want to tell him that you were actually approached by five, but you feel like that won't help your situation.
"Moving on, you have either ignored all the letters sent to your mailbox telling you to improve your grades, or you have attempted to fix them and have still failed. In light of this, the school has decided to assign you a tutor."
"You mean you decided to assign me a tutor." You throw a pout at Barbatos, making it obvious that you hate the idea of spending any more time with studies than you have to.
"Yes, I made the decision to assign you a tutor. The alternative was allowing you to fail all your finals this semester, whereupon you would be kicked from the volleyball team, lose your scholarship, be removed from the school, and be forced to repeat your senior year elsewhere."
You say nothing, merely opting to frown at Barbatos's shoes. Stupid leather loafers. What business do they have looking so pristine?
"Anyway, I managed to find a suitable student willing to be your tutor, and—"
"A student?"
Your ears perk up at that. You were expecting that you'd have to sit for three hours a day with some old fart who doesn't know the first thing about volleyball. But if it's a kid your age, then...
"Yes." Barbatos gestures to the student next to him, whom you only now realize has been standing here the whole time. "This is Satan. He's going to be responsible for making sure you pass your midterm and final exams."
"A pleasure to meet you." The boy forces a curt smile to his face, nodding at you.
You stare at him.
Tall. Blonde. Green eyes. Attractive in the stereotypical sense, the kind of prettyboy one of your teammates might date. He looks like he might be athletically inclined, but his manicured nails make you doubt he's played any intense sports within the past three weeks.
"Hi!" you blurt, extending a hand out for Satan to shake. You internally cringe, wishing that Barbatos hadn't chosen to introduce you to your tutor immediately after a match. There's sweat dripping down the back of your neck, and you haven't even had time to drop your knee pads to your ankles. You can feel hair sticking to your forehead.
I look like a mess.
Satan is enough of a gentleman not to comment on it, shaking your hand politely.
"Have we..." You study Satan's face, wondering if it's just your imagination. "Have we met? I feel like I've seen you before."
Satan arches an eyebrow, glancing at Barbatos. You might be reading their expressions wrong, but you swear they seem to be asking each other a silent question: Is she serious?
"You..." Barbatos shakes his head, sighing. "Satan is your student president. Your class elected him."
"Hm," you mumble, skeptical. "I don't think that's how I know him. I had a tournament during elections and all, so I didn't see any of this year's candidates."
The edge of Satan's lips quirks up in amusement.
"Satan has been your student president," Barbatos informs you. He's practically hissing, his voice taking on the tone of a parent embarrassed over their child. Is that a pink flush you see coloring his ears? "He's one of our best and most prolific students. Your class has elected him all four years. How have you not noticed?"
You frown, tapping your chin.
Now that Barbatos mentions it, you are pretty sure you've heard of Satan before. But that doesn't explain why you recognize his face. Your life has been centered around athletics from the day you found volleyball—and Satan might judge you for it, but you've never paid attention to the RAB's executive board. Anyone who isn't an athlete gets lost in the sea of faces, and...oh!
"Freshman year!" You exclaim, eyes lighting up. "I saw you when we were in our freshman year! You were on the Varsity winter track team—and—and—and your mile time was 5:11.02! I remember because it was even faster than mine!"
You can see Satan's eyes widen the second you rattle that number off, definitely having forgotten it but recognizing it as correct the moment you mention it to him.
"How do you remember that?" he asks incredulously, looking almost mortified that you know him not for any of his academic achievements but for something he clearly attaches no significance to.
"How could I have forgotten?!" you ask in response, eyes wide in wonder at the realization that this absolute legend of a man is going to be your tutor.
"See?" Barbatos smiles. "She has a good memory for things that she cares about. Your work is already cut out for you, Satan."
The man flashes both of you his usual cryptic smile, though you swear you detect a hint of pride in his gaze.
"Regardless, I'll leave you two to acquaint yourselves. Satan, I trust you'll be able to find your dorm. And you," Barbatos's expression morphs into one of warning, though the amusement beneath the mask is easy to find in his eyes. "Stay out of trouble."
"Thank you, Barbatos."
"Later, Big B!"
"That's Headmaster Barbatos to you both," he mumbles under his breath, shaking his head as he leaves you and Satan to go speak with your coach, likely to inform the man of your poor academic standing.
Next to you, Satan laughs.
"I've never seen someone actually make that man express emotion." Satan flashes you an approving glance, impressed. "You really must be something special."
"I totally am!" You don't bother pretending to be humble. "Did you see my hit at the end of the game? It was perfect! I can't remember the last time I got to spike down on empty defense!"
You continue to chatter animatedly, waving your hands around wildly as you describe all your favorite plays from the game.
"Oh, oh, and did you see that feint my co-captain did in the first set? The other team was so confident when they went to block me—even I was surprised when she just set it over! She's such a great girl, you know? You should come to more of our matches! Maybe we could even set up a day where I go to one of your track meets and you come to one of my matches, and—"
For the first time since you began rambling, Satan interrupts you.
"I don't do track anymore."
You blink.
"Wait, really?" A momentary stupor washes over your senses as you try to recall everyone on the Varsity track team. Sure enough, Satan's face doesn't come to mind—probably the reason why it took you so long to remember him in the first place. "Why'd you quit?"
Satan grins at you.
"I'll tell you when you get your first A."
Satan is utterly unsurprised to learn that his dorm is in the same building as yours. It's exactly the type of thing Barbatos would do—that slimy bastard—force the two of you together so that Satan has no choice but to tutor you, bringing your grades up so that the school doesn't have to lose its oh so precious star athlete.
Yeah, Satan isn't too excited at the prospect of having to tutor you.
And in truth, who would be?
An athlete like you screams trouble. Sure, you seem like the nicest person Satan has ever met and yeah, there's a certain quality about you that makes you impossible to dislike. But the blonde is too familiar with the world of jocks to fall for appearances.
He eyes the corner of your hand, studying the various envelopes that you balance between your fingers.
Some of them are letters from recruiters, he knows, and others are college brochures. He sees a sheet of notes your coach had handed to you, telling you to go over it so that you could run it by the girls tomorrow at practice, but most prominent is the variety of colorful envelopes that are wedged between your index and middle fingers.
Confession letters.
Three of them, to be precise.
And this wasn't even one of your biggest games.
Those letters are probably the single biggest reason why Satan is eyeing you so warily. He doesn't know a single person in the world who can accept love letters on a regular basis and not let it get to their head. Hell, Satan used to receive love letters on a regular basis, and he let it get to his head.
It was almost strange, Satan remembers, watching you accept all three confession letters with such a sweet smile—your bright eyes never once taking on a tint of condescension even as suitors readily set you up for it.
The boy frowns to himself, shaking his head.
Satan knows what people are like. He knows what you're going to be like. Too much of the spotlight will burn anyone in the long run, and Satan's been hearing about your volleyball skills from his friends long enough to know that you've been in the Royal Academy of Barbatos's public eye longer than anyone should be. That kindness you wear so naturally has to be nothing more than a facade, a mask of lies to make people like you. You look sincere, but you're obviously just a brilliant actress. A wizard at hiding your true expressions. Dumb when it comes to school, but secretly a mastermind of manipulation.
"Wait!" you blurt, eyes wide. "We have to go back!"
"Oh?" Satan arches an eyebrow, not particularly bothered by the idea. "Why?"
"I left my kneepads in the gym!"
Satan blinks.
Okay, he takes all of that back.
There's no way you're a mastermind of anything. Except volleyball, maybe. And if your head is this empty, it's a wonder you're even able to be that good at that.
"The kneepads," Satan begins, impossibly slow, hoping that you'll come to the realization on your own. "That you left in the gym," he continues, eyes round in disbelief as you nod your head ardently. "That are currently on your knees?"
You blink. Once, then twice. And then you slowly drop your head to your knees, eyes widening as an impossibly quiet "oh" escapes your lips.
Satan snorts.
"I thought you had a good memory for the things you cared about," the blonde says, arching an amused eyebrow your way. It's probably the first time tonight where he's seeing you genuinely embarrassed and not just recklessly optimistic.
"I—I do!" you defend indignantly, hiking your duffel bag higher around your shoulder as you awkwardly try to find your balance under the weight of it. "It's just that I normally put my knee pads around my ankles after a game, and so I assumed that I left them behind when I couldn't feel them there!"
A pretty decent excuse, the blonde knows. Heck, even he was a bit thrown off today when Barbatos approached him and told him that this was the day he would get to meet his tutoring student. But Satan finds mirth in your momentary fluster, so he doesn't let you know any of this, his grin only widening as he nods disbelievingly.
"I'm sure," he says with enough dismissal in his voice for you to know he doesn't believe you.
"Hey!" you protest. "I'm being serious! I'm not stupid!"
"A debatable subject, based on recent evidence."
Satan can't even get another step in before you've slung your duffel bag off of your shoulder, whacking Satan straight in the chest with it. The blonde stumbles at the force of it, abruptly realizing that the muscles on your arms are no joke, but he regains his balance soon enough.
"Is that seriously any way to be treating your new tutor?" His words are serious but his voice betrays him, amusement sliding in where he was hoping to tease you some more.
"If anything, you should be treating me better," you argue back. "Aren't you, like, supposed to be getting me hyped about learning or something?"
"All in due time," He responds with a sigh, heart deflating at the prospect. Again, you seem like a nice enough person. But Satan's intuition is screaming at him that you're going to be a nightmare of a student—no matter how fun you seem to be.
"Is this our building?" he asks, trying to read the sign in front of the dorm in the darkness, to no avail.
"Yup. Haven't you been here before?
"Only once," Satan mumbles as he holds the door open for you. "Barbatos had me move in today. He probably wanted me here to keep you in line."
You roll your eyes at that, not dignifying Satan with a response as you pass the sign-in log to him, waiting so that the two of you can walk to the elevator together.
"What's your room number?" he when he's trying to figure out which button to press.
"665. Top floor."
Ah, Satan thinks, amusement flooding his veins as he presses the neon six. So not only are the two of you in the same building, but your rooms are directly across from each other.
Definitely something Barbatos would do.
Satan feels like he should be annoyed at that, because it certainly wasn't a part of the bargain he struck with Lucifer and it should have been mentioned to him at the start, back when he first agreed to become a tutor.
And yet, he can't bring himself to give in to the familiar simmer of wrath, not with you standing so close next to him, wiggling your eyebrows and making silly expressions in the mirror that Satan can only pretend he isn't enjoying.