The gym breathed. It was a living thing, inhaling the squeak of shoes on polished wood and exhaling the humid scent of effort. Yasuri felt it on his skin, a pressure distinct from the air itself. The thud of a volleyball against the floor was a heartbeat. The shouts of his teammates were the frantic thoughts of a brain overstimulated. He stood at the back line, weight settled low on his hips, a silent anchor in a churning sea.
Atsumu Miya spun the ball in his hands, a showman preparing his grandest trick. His gaze, sharp and predatory, swept the court and landed on Yasuri. A grin, all teeth and challenge, split his face. It was the same grin he'd worn for the past three weeks whenever he wanted a reaction.
"Oi, Amazon," Atsumu called out, his voice echoing slightly. "Let's see if ya can handle a real serve!"
Osamu, on the sideline, let out a long-suffering sigh. "Just serve the damn ball, 'Tsumu."
Atsumu ignored him. He tossed the ball high. The familiar, terrifying pause before his jump-serve—a pocket of silence where the world held its breath. Then, the explosion. The ball shot across the net, a blur of white and green aimed not at the open court, but directly at Yasuri’s chest. It was a statement. A provocation.
Yasuri didn’t flinch. His body moved with a liquid economy that defied his size. A single, gliding step to the right. Arms extended, a perfect platform. He didn't punch at the ball; he absorbed it. The impact was a dull thud against his forearms, the force bleeding away into his stable frame. The ball looped up in a high, gentle arc, landing perfectly for the setter. A textbook pass.
He watched the ball, then let his gaze drift back to Atsumu. He offered nothing. No triumphant smirk, no flicker of annoyance. His large, faintly green eyes, perpetually half-lidded, were simply… watching. The tip of his forked tongue darted out, wetting his lips before vanishing.
Atsumu’s grin faltered, twisting into a frustrated scowl. "Tch. It's no fun if ya don't even try."
From the bench, Suna Rintarou lowered his phone, a tiny, amused smile on his face. He'd been filming again. He was always filming, his lens often lingering on their strange, silent wing spiker.
"He did try," Suna said, his voice lazy. "He just didn't need to try very hard."
The whistle blew, signaling a water break. The kinetic energy of the gym dissipated instantly. Ginjima collapsed dramatically onto the bench, Ojiro Aran stretched his powerful shoulders, and the twins immediately started bickering over whose fault the last flubbed play was. Yasuri tuned it out. The noise became a low hum, like a refrigerator.
He hated the taste of the sports drinks everyone chugged. Too sweet. It coated his tongue and made his teeth feel sticky. He watched Osamu methodically unwrap an onigiri, the scent of rice and nori cutting through the stale gymnasium air. A familiar, unpleasant knot tightened in Yasuri’s stomach. It wasn’t hunger. It was the opposite of hunger. The thought of putting food inside himself right now, during the physical and social pressure of practice, made him want to gag. It was a hard rule, etched into his bones: no food before the event is over. Practice was an event.
He needed coffee.
Without a word, he turned and walked toward the gym's exit. His braid, thick and dark brown, swayed against his back.
"Solid receive, Yasuri," Ojiro called after him. The ace’s voice was warm, genuine. "That footwork looks smooth. Almost like that dance from your country... capoeira."
Yasuri paused for a millisecond, his hand on the door frame. He didn't turn. He just gave a slight inclination of his head, a barely-there acknowledgment, before pushing the door open and stepping out into the hushed quiet of the hallway.
The vending machine was an old, humming beast that dispensed lukewarm beverages with a loud clank. Yasuri fed it his coins. Button F4. Black coffee, no sugar, no milk. He tapped his long fingers against the glass while he waited, the clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth an unconscious, rhythmic beat. The can dropped with a satisfying thud.
He popped the top. The bitter, slightly burnt aroma filled his senses, a familiar and grounding smell. He took a long swallow, letting the heat spread through his chest. It was terrible coffee, but it was his. A ritual. A small piece of control.
"That is your third today."
The voice was quiet, factual. It came from right beside him. Yasuri didn't startle. He’d sensed Kita Shinsuke approaching the way an animal senses a change in the wind. The captain stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression as placid and unreadable as ever.
Yasuri took another sip of his coffee before answering. He simply nodded.
Kita’s gaze wasn't accusatory. It was observant. It swept from the can in Yasuri’s hand, to his face, to the barest hint of a tremor in his fingers. He noted the way Yasuri’s jersey hung just a little looser than it had a week ago.
"Proper fueling is part of practice," Kita stated. It wasn't a command or a scolding. It was a principle, like saying ‘the sun rises in the east.’ It was how Kita saw the world: a series of correct procedures to be followed.
Yasuri said nothing. He had no excuse that would fit into Kita's logical world. *I can’t eat because my own stomach betrays me* wasn’t a proper procedure.
Kita’s eyes drifted to Yasuri's right arm, where the sleeve of his shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the skin of his bicep. The intricate pattern of black spots and rosettes, swirling like a living pelt under his brown skin, was visible in the fluorescent hallway light.
"Your tattoos," Kita said, his tone unchanging. "They are done well."
Again, Yasuri just nodded. His hand instinctively went to pull the sleeve down, but he stopped himself. There was no judgment in Kita’s gaze, only a quiet cataloging of fact.
"The pattern is a jaguar," Kita continued, a statement, not a question. "They are not native to Japan." He paused, his gaze meeting Yasuri’s. "You did not get them here."
It was the second time in five minutes his home had been invoked. A place that felt more like a dream than a memory now. A hot, green, wet dream filled with sounds and smells that had no equivalent in Hyogo. He could feel the ghost of that humidity on his skin, a phantom sensation that made the sterile air of the school feel thin and cold.
Yasuri shook his head. A single, slow movement.
Kita held his gaze for a moment longer. He withheld the obvious questions. *Where, then? Why that animal?* The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. With Kita, silence was just an absence of words, not an absence of meaning. He had seen. He had noted. He would file the information away.
Finally, Kita gave a small nod of his own. "The break is almost over. Let's go."
He turned and began walking back toward the gym, his footsteps measured and even. Yasuri fell into step beside him, the half-empty coffee can still warm in his hand. He watched the steady set of Kita's shoulders, the perfect, unthinking posture. He listened to the rhythm of their footsteps falling into a matched cadence. The knot in his stomach eased, just a fraction. He wasn't being managed or prodded. He was simply being observed, accounted for. A piece on a board, seen clearly by the one person who looked at the whole game.