Chapter Text
The first practice is quieter than Kei expects.
Not silent.
Nekoma is never silent—but controlled.
Voices don’t overlap. Calls don’t echo uselessly. The gym hums with a low, constant rhythm of movement and communication: shoes squeaking, the dull thud of volleyballs against polished wood, short directives exchanged mid-play.
“Left.”
“Mine.”
“Cover back.”
The words are clipped. Functional. Efficient.
It’s irritating.
Kei stands at the edge of the court, fingers flexing around the strap of his bag, eyes tracing the movements of players who already know where to be before the ball crosses the net. They shift together like a single organism, each movement anticipating the next.
This isn’t middle school.
He knew that. He just didn’t expect to feel it this quickly.
“Tsukishima.”
Kuroo’s voice cuts through the low noise without raising volume. The captain stands near the net, jacket already shrugged off, sleeves rolled up. His posture is loose, but there’s something alert in the way he watches the court—like he’s cataloging everything.
“Middle with me,” Kuroo says.
Not a request.
Kei steps forward. The net feels closer than it should. Or maybe he’s just more aware of the space he’s expected to claim.
They start with blocking drills.
Footwork first.
Kuroo demonstrates without speaking—step, shift, plant, jump. Clean lines. Controlled force.
Kei mirrors him.
The motion feels familiar enough. The timing doesn’t.
He jumps when the set rises.
Too early.
“Wait,” Kuroo says quietly.
Kei lands, irritation flickering. He resets.
The next set rises.
He waits.
Too late.
The ball slips past his fingertips.
Yaku’s voice cuts in from the backcourt. “You’re chasing the ball. Stop that. Read the hitter.”
“I am reading,” Kei says, sharper than he means to.
“Then you’re reading the wrong thing,” Yaku replies, unimpressed.
It stings. Because it’s true.
They reset. Again.
Kenma sets with minimal motion. The spiker shifts shoulders, weight transferring in a way that’s subtle if you’re not watching for it.
Kei tracks the hands.
Mistake.
“Shoulders,” Kuroo murmurs, low enough that only Kei hears. “Hands lie. Shoulders don’t.”
Kei adjusts.
The next set rises. He watches the shoulders.
He waits a fraction longer.
He jumps.
The block brushes the ball. Not enough to stop it, but enough to change its path.
“Better,” Yaku says. Not praise. A statement of fact.
Kei lands, chest tight, lungs pulling in air that feels sharper than it should. Sweat beads along his hairline, sliding down the bridge of his nose. He hates the sensation crawling under his skin—the quiet awareness that he’s behind in a way that can’t be brute-forced.
They move into coverage drills.
Nekoma doesn’t rush.
They position. They wait. They adjust mid-play without breaking rhythm.
Yamamoto shouts encouragement that sounds more like a challenge. “Again! Don’t rush it!”
Inuoka barrels forward, overcommits, then corrects himself with a sharp pivot.
Lev moves too fast, laughs when he nearly collides with the net, then tries again with more control.
Kenma barely moves at all—and somehow still controls the flow of everything.
Kei adjusts his glasses with the back of his wrist. His legs burn with exertion. His mind burns with something worse: the effort of thinking ahead instead of reacting.
He does well enough that no one pulls him aside for extra correction.
He doesn’t stand out for mistakes.
He doesn’t stand out for success either.
He exists in the space between.
He hates that space more than he hates failure.
During a water break, Yamamoto drops beside him on the floor. “You’re tall. That helps. But you think too late.”
“You’re loud,” Kei replies flatly. “That doesn’t help.”
Yamamoto laughs. “Fair.”
Yaku tosses a towel at Yamamoto’s head. “Less talking, more thinking. Applies to both of you.”
Kei watches the way they fall into rhythm—how Yaku’s sharpness doesn’t push Yamamoto away, how Yamamoto’s noise doesn’t disrupt Yaku’s focus. They fit. Annoyingly well.
They rely on each other.
And it works.
The realization settles heavy in Kei’s chest.
He doesn’t like how easily he understands it.
They run another drill. Kei misses the timing again, but adjusts faster this time. The block lands cleaner. Not perfect. Better.
“Your timing’s fine,” Kuroo says quietly as they switch positions. “Your patience isn’t.”
Kei shoots him a look. “I’m waiting.”
Kuroo meets his eyes without flinching. “No. You’re hesitating. There’s a difference.”
The words sit with Kei longer than he wants them to.
Practice winds down.
Kei tells himself he’ll leave with the others.
He doesn’t.
He stays under the pretense of retying his shoes. Then reorganizing his bag. Then stands alone at the net, staring up at it like it’s waiting for him to decide something.
He jumps.
Too early.
He lands, exhales, resets.
Wait.
Jump.
Too late.
Again.
Again.
The gym empties gradually. Voices fade. The hum of lights grows louder in the absence of sound.
He tries again.
Wait.
Jump.
This time, his hands meet the ball cleanly. The impact reverberates up his arms, a hollow thunk that settles behind his ribs.
That felt good.
…That’s stupid.
He steps back, annoyed at himself for the flicker of satisfaction warming his chest.
“Still here?”
Kei turns. Kuroo stands near the door, jacket slung over one shoulder, gym bag in hand.
“Just finishing,” Kei says.
Kuroo nods. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“You’re adjusting faster than you think,” Kuroo says. Then, after a beat, “You don’t rush when you don’t understand something. You watch. That’s useful.”
Kei looks away. Compliments sit wrong in his mouth.
Kuroo steps closer to the net, not invading space, just existing in it. “Nekoma isn’t about who jumps highest. It’s about who waits better.”
Kei’s fingers curl briefly around the net tape. “That sounds inefficient.”
Kuroo huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s infuriating, right? You’ll hate it here.”
“Good,” Kei mutters. “I don’t like being comfortable.”
Something in Kuroo’s expression shifts—not a smile, not quite seriousness either. Interest, sharpened.
“Then you’ll fit in,” he says.
Kei scoffs, but the words linger.
When Kuroo finally leaves, Kei stays long enough to turn off the gym lights himself.
Outside, his phone buzzes.
Tsukishima: I didn’t die.
First practice was… loud.
Yamaguchi: That’s good, right?? Did you join something??
Tsukishima: I did.
Don’t get excited.
Yamaguchi: Too late. I’m excited anyway. What club?
Tsukishima: Volleyball.
It’s just a club.
Yamaguchi: “Just a club” is still a club.
I’m glad you picked something.
Tsukishima: Don’t read into it.
It was convenient.
Yamaguchi: Uh-huh. Convenient.
Still—promise we’ll keep in touch?
Kei stares at the screen longer than necessary.
Tsukishima: I said I would.
I don’t break promises.
Yamaguchi: I know.
I’ll hold you to it.
Kei pockets his phone.
He walks home with shoulders tense, mind replaying timing and spacing and the way Nekoma waits instead of jumping.
He tells himself he stayed late because he hates being corrected.
He doesn’t believe himself.