The squeak of shoes stopped. The thud of volleyballs ceased. Coach Kurosu clapped his hands, and the sound echoed sharp and final in the gymnasium's sudden silence. Kaian dropped his hands to his knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin to form a small, dark circle on the polished wood floor. Practice was over. Thank god.
“Listen up,” Kurosu said, his voice cutting through the collective panting. “Quick announcement before you hit the showers. We’ve secured a practice match for this Friday.”
A low murmur rippled through the team. A Friday match was unusual.
“Against who?” Atsumu Miya called out, already toweling the sweat from his bleached blond hair.
Kurosu’s lips quirked. “A long-distance visitor. Itachiyama Institute.”
The name hit Kaian like a physical blow. Itachiyama. A cold dread, heavy and suffocating, flooded his veins. He felt the blood drain from his face, a dizzying rush that made the world tilt. His carefully compartmentalized life—the team, the quiet hours in his room, the digital shrine he’d built to a player he’d never met—was about to catastrophically collide.
“KAIAAAAN!”
Atsumu’s shout was a cannon blast next to his ear. He flinched.
“Ya hear that? Your husband’s comin’ to visit!” Atsumu cackled, slapping him hard on the back. The impact jarred Kaian’s teeth. He stumbled forward a step, catching himself before he could fall.
“Shut up, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu said, his voice flat. He was looking at Kaian, a flicker of something unreadable in his grey eyes. “You’re gonna give him an aneurysm. He’s already gone pale.”
From the corner of his eye, Kaian saw the glint of a phone screen. Suna, of course. Leaning against the net post, thumb swiping, a sly grin plastered on his face. Documenting the meltdown for posterity and the team group chat.
Kaian straightened up, forcing his face into a mask of indifference. He was a fortress. He was a 187-centimeter wall of calm. He was a liar. Inside, his stomach was a knot of writhing snakes. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Here. In this gym. Breathing this air.
He had to get out of this.
He broke from the group huddle as it dissolved, making a beeline for Coach Kurosu, who was gathering his notes. Kaian put on his most sincere, pained expression. He took the initiative.
“Coach,” he began, keeping his voice low. “About Friday. I think… I think my knee is acting up again. The one from last year. Maybe I should sit this one out, just to be safe.”
Kurosu looked up from his clipboard. His gaze was patient, but sharp. He looked at Kaian, then down at his left knee, then back up at his face. He didn’t buy it for a second.
“Your knee seems fine, de Souza,” the coach said calmly. “You were jumping your highest all week today. Get it iced if you’re worried. I expect you suited up and ready on Friday. This is an important opportunity.”
Defeated, Kaian just nodded. “Yes, Coach.”
He retreated to the locker room, the cacophony of Atsumu’s ongoing taunts fading behind him. He needed a moment. He sat heavily on the bench in front of his locker, the metal cool against his back. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sports cream. He hated it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small leather pouch. From it, he produced a slender metal tool with a curved, precise tip. Methodically, he began to clean under his fingernails, scraping away the day’s invisible grime. It was a stupid habit, a small act of control in a world that was rapidly spinning out of it. One nail, then the next. Scrape. Wipe. Scrape. Wipe.
He just had to survive one day. One match. He would be on the bench, mostly. Osamu was the starting opposite. Kaian would only go in if Osamu was exhausted or if the lineup needed a heavier, more powerful blocker on the right side. He could be functionally invisible. He could watch from a safe distance, just like he always did. Through a screen, or from the sidelines. No different.
A lie. So many lies today.
“You’re not looking forward to this.”
Kaian didn’t startle. He knew Kita Shinsuke’s footsteps, quiet and deliberate. The captain stood a few feet away, his expression neutral as always, but his eyes were perceptive. They saw everything.
Kaian stopped cleaning his thumbnail. He didn’t bother with another lie. Not with Kita. He let out a slow breath.
“…No,” he admitted, the word barely a whisper.
Kita nodded, a small, accepting gesture. He wasn’t there to judge or to tease. “Atsumu is loud. Don’t let him get to you.”
“It’s not just him,” Kaian mumbled, putting the tool back in its pouch.
“I know.” Kita’s gaze was steady. He wasn’t just talking about the crush. He was a captain; he saw the whole court, even the parts that weren’t there yet. “Their coach requested this match specifically. It’s not a casual stop on a tournament tour. There’s a reason they’re coming all the way to Hyogo.”
Kaian looked up. A practice match this far out of the way was inefficient. It cost time and money. Itachiyama didn’t do inefficient things. Sakusa didn’t do inefficient things.
“A reason?” Kaian asked. “What reason?”
Kita just watched him for a beat, his expression giving nothing away. “Get showered, de Souza. Don’t be late for the bus.”
The captain turned and left, leaving Kaian alone with the echo of his words. A specific reason. He didn’t explain. He never did. He just stated the facts as he knew them, and you were left to piece together the rest.
Kaian pulled his phone from his bag, the worn case cool in his palm. He unlocked it. The screen lit up, illuminating his face in the dim light of the locker room. There he was. Sakusa Kiyoomi, mid-serve, his form a perfect, breathtaking arc of potential energy. An image from the quarterfinals last year. Clean. Calculated. Perfect.
It was a picture of a god, frozen in digital amber. Safe. Distant.
On Friday, that picture was going to walk through the door, and Kaian had the sickening feeling that he wasn’t just a fan in the crowd anymore. He was on the other side of the net.