The squeaking drove Arai Keiko mad. It was a sound of effort, of friction, of boys throwing their whole bodies into a game she was only just beginning to understand. But on a purely sonic level, it was grinding, high-pitched torture. Like a flock of terrified mice being trampled on a waxed floor. She hated it. She focused on the water bottles instead, turning each one so its label faced perfectly forward, their plastic bottoms forming a crisp, satisfying line on the bench. Symmetrical. Orderly. A small pocket of sanity in the chaos.
Practice was winding down. The drills had grown ragged, the shouts less energetic. Even Hinata’s leaps seemed to have lost a few inches of altitude. Daichi called a final huddle, his captain’s voice cutting through the lingering echoes of smacked volleyballs.
“Alright, that’s enough for today. Everyone stretch, clean up, and get home. We have an early start tomorrow.”
A collective groan of relief went through the team. As they broke apart, Arai saw it again. A flubbed receive from Nishinoya. It wasn’t a spectacular miss, just a simple dig he’d normally scoop up with a bored flourish. The ball glanced off his forearm at a bad angle, skittering away toward the bleachers. He didn’t shout, didn’t drop and roll, didn’t even yell his signature “Rolling Thunder!” He just stumbled a half-step, hissing through his teeth.
Tanaka jogged over, clapping him on the shoulder. “Noya-san! You good? Lookin’ a little wiped!”
“Shut up, Ryu! I’m fine!” Nishinoya snapped, his voice sharp and thin. He didn’t meet Tanaka’s eyes, instead rubbing his forearm with his other hand, a gesture that looked more like an anxious habit than a soothing one.
It wasn’t the first time. Over the past week, Karasuno’s Guardian Deity had been… glitching. He was a fraction of a second slower. His landings were heavier, less controlled. The boundless, chaotic energy that radiated from him had dimmed, leaving something quieter and more brittle in its place. The others seemed to notice in passing, chalking it up to a slump. But Arai, whose job was to observe from the sidelines, saw the pattern. The slight tremor in his hands as he taped his fingers. The way his gaze would unfocus for a second too long during timeouts. The sweat on his brow that seemed colder than it should be.
As the team started their cool-down stretches, Arai began her own ritual: collecting discarded towels and empty bottles. She moved along the benches, her sneakers silent where theirs had shrieked. Near Nishinoya’s discarded gym bag, half-unzipped and spilling a change of clothes onto the floor, something caught the light. It wasn’t a coin or a stray piece of tape. It was a small square of foil and plastic, bubbled where a single pill had been pushed through.
She picked it up. The foil side was printed with characters too small to read in the dimming light, but it wasn't the cheerful packaging of a vitamin or a mint. It had the sterile, no-nonsense look of medicine. From her mother’s cluttered medicine cabinet, she knew the difference between over-the-counter and something a doctor gives you. This was the latter.
Arai’s first instinct was to throw it in the rubbish bin with the empty tape rolls. It was trash. But something stopped her. It felt… significant. An answer to a question she hadn’t dared to ask. On her own initiative, she closed her hand around the little piece of refuse and walked toward him.
Nishinoya was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical exertion. His usually vibrant hair seemed to droop.
“Nishinoya-senpai,” she said softly.
His eyes snapped open. They were bloodshot. “What?”
She held out her hand, palm open, the empty blister pack sitting in the center. “You dropped this.”
His eyes locked onto the object. For a split second, his face was pure, unguarded panic. Then the mask slammed down. He didn’t just take the packet; he snatched it, his fingers closing over it so fast she felt the scrape of his nail against her skin.
“Thanks,” he muttered, shoving it deep into the pocket of his shorts without looking at her. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bag. “Gotta go.” He was gone before she could say another word, leaving a faint scent of sweat and something vaguely chemical in the air. The interaction was over in five seconds, but it left Arai’s pulse hammering. That wasn't the reaction of someone who dropped a painkiller for a headache.
She stood there, staring at the space he’d just vacated.
“Arai-san?”
She turned. Sugawara was watching her, a kind but questioning look on his face. He held a stray volleyball under one arm.
“Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine, Sugawara-senpai.” She straightened her shoulders, a reflexive motion. “I was just… asking Nishinoya-senpai if he was feeling okay. He seems tired.”
Suga’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He sighed, a soft, worried sound. “Ah. Yeah, he’s been pushing himself. The sprain from last month still acts up sometimes, I think. He won’t admit it, but he’s probably in a bit of pain.” He withheld the part where he and Daichi had already discussed it, the part where Nishinoya had sworn at them both when they’d suggested he take a day off. He was giving her the simple, plausible answer. The one that protected everyone. “Don’t worry too much. He’s tough.”
He gave her a reassuring nod and headed for the equipment closet. Arai watched him go, the word ‘pain’ echoing in her head. That made sense. But it didn't explain the flash of sheer terror in Nishinoya's eyes. It didn't explain the aggression.
The gym was nearly empty now, smelling of old wood and stale air. On the bench near where Nishinoya’s bag had been, she saw his knee pads. He’d forgotten them in his haste. She walked over and picked them up. They were heavier than they looked, dense with padding and stiff with dried sweat. The fabric was worn smooth in patches, scarred from thousands of dives across this very floor. They were the tools of his trade, the armor of the guardian. She held them in her hands, the familiar weight of them feeling suddenly, terribly wrong. It was like holding a shield dropped by a soldier who had fled the battlefield.