The noise was a physical weight. Squeaking shoes, the percussive slam of volleyballs against the floor, Atsumu Miya’s gratingly cheerful shouts—it all pressed in on Jade Yasuri Alves, a constant, abrasive pressure. He stood just behind the attack line, a point of stillness in the swirling chaos of the practice match. His breath was even. His gaze was fixed, not on the ball in Gin’s hands, but on the space above the net where it would eventually arrive.
The fluorescent lights of the Inarizaki gym were terrible. A flat, dead white that bleached all the colour from the world and made tracking a fast-moving object a chore for anyone, let alone someone whose eyes fought the glare. They flattened depth. Made the court feel like a diagram. He hated them.
“Yasuri-san!”
Akagi’s voice cut through the din. The set was coming. It wasn't for him. It was a feint, a quick for Osamu. Yasuri knew this not because he saw the sign, but because he felt the slight shift in the setter’s shoulders, the micro-hesitation from the opposing blockers as they readied to jump for Atsumu. A waste of energy.
He took two calm steps back, his weight settling deep into his heels. He did not move like the others, all coiled springs and explosive potential. He moved like a river stone, immoveable until the current decided to shift it.
Atsumu landed, already crowing about his perfect set. Osamu grunted, already reaching for a water bottle. The point was won. It meant nothing. They would do it again. And again. The repetition was the point. Kita Shinsuke watched them all from the sidelines, his expression as placid and unreadable as ever. His presence did more to keep the team in line than Coach Oomi’s whistle.
“Break!”
The tension snapped. Bodies sagged, players flocking to the benches for water and towels. Yasuri stood his ground for a moment longer, the echo of the whistle ringing in his ears. His stomach, predictably empty, gave a low churn. He never ate before a practice or a match. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, a sour memory of regurgitated rice and shame that clung to him even years later.
“Oi, Jaguar-kun,” Atsumu breezed past, clapping a hand on Yasuri’s shoulder that was meant to be friendly but felt like a challenge. “Ya sweat pure espresso or somethin’? Never see ya look tired.”
Yasuri didn't flinch. He just looked at the hand until Atsumu, with a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, removed it.
“Leave him be, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu mumbled around a mouthful of onigiri he’d produced from a pocket. “He’s charging his battery.”
Suna Rintarou, leaning against the wall and scrolling through his phone, looked up. His lazy eyes met Yasuri’s. A corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a silent acknowledgement of the absurdity. Yasuri appreciated Suna. He didn’t demand conversation. He just observed, a fellow predator comfortable in his own silence.
Yasuri needed to reset. The noise, the proximity, Atsumu’s pointless prodding—it was scraping at the edges of his control. Without a word, he turned and walked out of the gym. The sudden quiet of the hallway was a balm. The air was cooler here. He made his way to the vending machine, the clatter of his coins the only sound. He pressed the button for black coffee, no sugar, no milk. He always made sure to have exact change for it. It was a ritual.
The can was cool in his hand. He didn’t go back to the gym. Instead, he found a recessed spot further down the corridor, where the wall was concrete and cold against his back. He popped the tab, the hiss barely audible, and took a long sip of the bitter liquid. He closed his eyes. For a moment, it was just the cool wall, the taste of coffee, and the low hum of the building around him. He let his tongue, forked tip just brushing the back of his teeth, click softly against the roof of his mouth. A quiet, rhythmic sound only he could hear. It was his own form of counting, of grounding himself.
“Hiding out?”
The voice was gentle. Aran Ojiro stood a few feet away, holding out a bottle of sports drink. His smile was genuine, lacking the sharp edges of Atsumu’s or the slyness of Suna’s.
Yasuri took the bottle. He tilted his head in thanks, not trusting his voice.
“Kita-san worries when you just disappear,” Aran said, leaning against the opposite wall. “Says you look like you’re about to phase through the floor sometimes.” He chuckled. “I get it, though. It’s a lot in there.”
Yasuri took another sip of his coffee. He could feel Aran studying him, not in the dissecting way Suna did, but with a simple curiosity. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Aran was one of the few who didn't try to fill it.
“Your Japanese is really good, you know,” Aran said suddenly. “Considering. I mean… your folks must be real proud. All the way over here.” He gestured vaguely, as if indicating the vast distance to Brazil. “Do they get to watch the streams? To see you play for a powerhouse school like this?”
The air in Yasuri’s lungs seemed to thicken. The image that flashed in his mind wasn’t of proud parents watching a laptop screen. It was of a stiflingly humid room, the smell of rain and damp earth, a low voice speaking in Portuguese, sharp with disappointment. *This is not for you. You do not belong there.*
He blinked slowly. The memory evaporated, leaving a cold residue. He looked at Aran, whose face was open and expectant. A question deserving of a simple answer he didn't have.
Yasuri gave a low, noncommittal hum from deep in his chest and took a deliberate swallow of coffee. He pointed with the can back toward the gym. Time to go back.
Aran’s smile faltered for just a second, a brief flicker of confusion before he nodded. “Right. Break’s almost over.”
As they walked back, the roar of the gym growing louder with each step, Yasuri felt a change. The space he had carved out for himself had been invaded, however gently. The question lingered, an unwelcome guest. He walked through the doors, the harsh white light hitting him again, and his eyes immediately found Kita.
The captain wasn't looking at the Miya twins bickering over the last onigiri, or Gin doing stretches. He was looking directly at Yasuri. There was no judgment in his gaze, no curiosity. It was a look of quiet, unnerving comprehension. As if he hadn’t just seen Yasuri return, but had watched the entire exchange with Aran down the hall, had seen the memory flicker behind his eyes.
Kita gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't a greeting. It felt like a confirmation. And Yasuri, for the first time since coming to Inarizaki, felt not just observed, but completely and utterly seen. The feeling was not entirely comfortable.