Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gym was loud in the way only elementary school gyms ever were — shoes squeaking, balls thudding against hardwood, laughter ricocheting off the walls.

Koushi stood at the edge of the court, whistle around his neck, hands in the pockets of his tracksuit. The kids were doing volleyball today, by request. A couple of them had seen an old clip of Nationals on YouTube and begged him to teach them how to spike like “the tiny guy with orange hair.”

Hinata, he thought with a faint smile.

He’d demoed the basic toss and arm movement, careful not to get too involved. Not too nostalgic. Let them have fun. He was just there to supervise. Still, he caught himself watching the shape of their movements more closely than usual — checking their footwork, the way they shifted their weight, their timing.

One of the girls missed a receive, and the ball bounced off her arms and rolled toward him. Koushi bent to pick it up, brushing some dust off the surface. He turned it over in his hands once, twice. Familiar.

“Suga-sensei, can we try setting?” one of the boys asked, tugging on his sleeve.

“Only if you promise not to hit each other in the face,” he said mildly, but he crouched down anyway and demonstrated, fingertips brushing the ball gently. “It’s less about strength and more about control, okay? You want it to arc — like this.”

He tossed it once. The ball soared.

They cheered.

Koushi smiled and stepped back, letting them try. Their attempts were clumsy and too forceful, but they laughed through it. No one here cared about rotations or polished form. They were just playing.

That’s what it used to be like, he remembered. Sure there was pressure, a need, to make Nationals. But volleyball was, at its core, fun.

He leaned back against the wall, watching them pair off into groups, the noise building again like waves against the gym floor.

Karasuno had been like that — chaotic, messy, alive.

Koushi exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh.

He didn’t feel sad, exactly. But there was something stretched out in his chest, like a memory being pulled too thin. Nostalgia was a hell of a thing.

“Suga-sensei!” another kid called. “Can you show us that quick set again? I wanna try and spike it!”

He pushed off the wall, catching the ball one-handed.

“Alright,” he said, tossing it lightly into the air. “Just this once.”

They whooped at the challenge, and for a second — just a second — he let himself pretend he was seventeen, eighteen, instead of twenty-six.

And then the ball came down, and he set it like muscle memory.

And for a second, it felt like he never stopped.

—

Hours later, Koushi was in the staffroom, getting ready to go home after the longest meeting in existence. He loved his job, he really did, but somehow Principal Honjo led meetings drier than the desert. 

“Sugawara-san, the kids were raving over your P.E. lesson today,” said the art teacher, Sakura Kobayashi. “You might put Naka-chan out of a job,” she teased.

Koushi let out an embarrassed laugh, “Ever since they found out I was on the same volleyball team as multiple Olympians, they’ve all been asking to play volleyball. They’ll be woefully behind in everything else once Nakamura-san is well.”

“That’s right!” Kobayashi realized, eyes wide. “You were the vice-captain of Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio’s high school team in their… first-year, right? Wow. What was it like, being their upperclassman?”

Koushi rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, hooking his laptop bag over his shoulder. “Ah, it was… well. We all could tell those two were something special — Hinata was always so enthusiastic, and Kageyama was a well-known genius, even back then. But it was fun. Kageyama was cute, looking up to me even though we all knew he was the better setter.”

Kobayashi grinned. “Sounds like it. You must have a hundred stories.”

“I could fill a book,” Koushi said, smiling. “But most of them would be about trying to stop Tanaka and Nishinoya from being public menaces. Hinata and Kageyama were too excited to play to bother being nuisances.”

That made her laugh, and they parted at the school gates with waves and goodbyes. The sky was already beginning to shift into deeper blues — that hazy in-between before the streetlights flickered on and the cicadas gave way to crickets. Summer break was still a few weeks off, but the air had that soft edge to it, like time was slowing down.

Koushi walked home.

His parents’ house was only a fifteen-minute walk from the school — he’d moved back in after university for a year and never really left. Not out of necessity, just… comfort. His mother’s cooking. The familiar walls. Kenji.

“Welcome home!” his mom called from the kitchen as soon as he stepped in, like she had sonar for the front door.

“Hey, I’m back,” he called, slipping out of his shoes. The smell of simmering miso and grilled mackerel drifted down the hallway.

“Dinner in ten!” she added.

“Got it!”

He passed the living room, where his dad was already halfway through the evening news, reading the subtitles out loud like he didn’t trust the anchors.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, hey,” his father replied, glancing up with a smile. “Saw you on YouTube again. Some kid posted your old game footage and called you ‘Mr. Refreshing’ again”

Koushi groaned. “Please don’t repeat that. Ever.”

“You were good,” his dad said simply, like that settled it.

“It was eight years ago. They need to let that go,” Koushi sighed, heading to his room when his dad turned back to the screen.

Kenji’s door was open down the hall. His younger brother — eight years younger, still in high school — sat at his desk surrounded by notebooks and his half-finished physics homework. He had their mother’s eyes and their father’s easy posture, though lately his shoulders seemed more tense than usual.

“You’re studying?” Koushi asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m procrastinating over studying,” Kenji muttered without turning. “I have a test tomorrow.”

Koushi chuckled and reached over to ruffle his hair, dodging a half-hearted swat. “If you need help—”

“I’ll ask. Don’t worry.” He glanced back with a smirk. “How many Olympians did you teach today , sensei?”

“Enough to keep my status as semi-famous,” Koushi replied, grinning.

Kenji rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “Mom said we’re having fish.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I wanted karaage.”

“Join the club.”

They shared a look, and for a moment it felt like there were no years between them at all.

Dinner was loud, full of chopsticks clinking and overlapping conversation — his mom fussing over Kenji’s portions, his dad recounting a story about an overzealous cashier, Kenji chiming in with dry commentary that made their mom sigh and hide a smile. Koushi mostly listened, letting it wash over him. These moments felt rare lately, even if they weren’t. Or maybe he was just getting more aware of how quickly time moved. Kenji was going to start university soon.

Man, Koushi felt old.

After dinner, he helped with dishes, then retreated to his room — the same one he’d grown up in. A little cleaner now, a little more grown-up. But the posters were still there, the same volleyball books on the shelf, the same medals tucked away in a drawer.

He sat on the edge of his bed, peeling off his jacket, then leaned back against the mattress with a soft sigh. His eyes drifted toward the framed photo on his bookshelf: his last year on Karasuno’s volleyball  team. Daichi had his arms around both him and Asahi, all of them grinning like idiots. Noya, Hinata, and Tanaka were in the front, doing ridiculous poses. Kageyama, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Ennoshita, Narita and Kinoshita at the back with varying levels of enthusiasm. Shimizu, Takeda, Ukai and Yachi to the sides.

Koushi stared at it for a long time.

Tanaka.

He used to be so loud, so full of life that the whole gym buzzed when he entered. It was hard to remember him any other way. But now, when Koushi pictured him, the memory came with a strange quiet. Not silence, exactly. Just absence. The thought of his death four years ago — a tragic accident — still hurt.

He blinked.

Funny. He hadn’t thought about Nationals or volleyball in a long time. Not really. The feeling of sitting on the bench. Watching it unfold. Wanting to be proud. Being proud. But still...

Still, there was a part of him that always wondered what would’ve happened if he’d pushed harder. Been a little more selfish. Asked for more. Demanded it.

Would anything have changed?

Would he have?

But those were pointless wishes. In the end, things turned out well. And he was happy. Genuinely.

Koushi turned off the light, slipping under the covers. The house had gone quiet, save for the faint creak of his dad’s footsteps and the chirp of a cricket outside. He let the darkness settle over him.

Maybe it was the gym today. Or that old clip of Hinata. Or just the shape of the air lately — heavy with memory, thick with the edges of something unspoken.

He closed his eyes.

Just for a little while, he thought. I’d like to go back.

There was a flash of light in the sky that Koushi made out through his closed eyelids and he rolled over, face now smushed into his pillow. 

Stop being stupid, Koushi.

He huffed a quiet laugh into his pillow — you don’t get to go back. That was the rule. But still, it was nice to remember.

Chapter Text

“KOUSHI!”

Blearily, Koushi turned over to face the door, blinking his eyes open to the sight of his disbelieving mother. 

“Koushi, get up! You’ve only got ten minutes before you need to leave!”

“It— Isn’t it Saturday?” he mumbled.

“No! Are you seriously going to be late for your first day…” his mother trailed off into angry mutters before finally exclaiming, “Put on your uniform — thank god I made you pack last night — I’ll drive you. And be quick!”

My first day? Uniform?

But Koushi shoved down his confusion to finally get up and brush his teeth.

He stumbled to the bathroom, half-asleep, the floor colder than usual under his feet. The toothbrush felt heavier in his hand. But it was the same brand he’d used all his life, so that couldn’t be it. Still, something… something was off.

He squinted into the mirror.

And stopped.

His hair — too light. A little too short. No trace of the silver that had started threading through his grey fringe last year — silver he’d deny to his last breath. No shadow of stubble under his chin, no faded scar on his temple from the time he’d walked into the kitchen cabinet in university. His face looked like—

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

He looked like high school.

But that couldn’t be right.

He opened the cabinet, ran fingers through his hair. Pulled his eyelid down. Tilted his jaw. No bags. No early lines. No signs of the last eight years.

Only then did he notice the shirt on the hook behind him. White, crisp, freshly ironed.

His Karasuno uniform.

Koushi stared.

Then bolted back to his room.

It looked the same, and yet, not. The desk covered in worksheets with his old handwriting, the backpack he hadn’t used in years slung neatly over his chair. His phone — or rather, his old flip phone — blinking dimly with a low battery warning. And the calendar on the wall, glaringly, impossibly clear.

Monday, April 6th.

2012.

He sat down hard on the bed, heart thundering like a spike serve to the ribs. He remembered yesterday — no, last night. His staffroom. Dinner with Kenji. His mother telling him to get up for work. Kenji.

Kenji.

He scrambled to the hallway, slipping past his mother in a blur of “I forgot something!” and ducked into Kenji’s room.

He was tiny. Tinier than Koushi remembered him ever being. Kenji was clearly not the funny teenager from yesterday, but a cute 9, nearly 10 year old that was still sleeping because his school started tomorrow.

Koushi backed out slowly.

“Koushi!” his mother barked from the entryway. “Shoes on! You can’t be late on your very first day as a third-year! Honestly—”

Third-year.

Karasuno.

He slipped his shoes on in a daze.

Maybe it was a dream. A very vivid, alarmingly detailed dream. Maybe he’d eaten something weird last night. Maybe this was some subconscious guilt-trip his brain had cooked up.

He couldn’t…

He couldn’t really be back. Right?

—

They arrived at school with three minutes to spare, his mom muttering about traffic and young men who didn’t take responsibility seriously. Koushi mumbled an apology and gave her a hug, barely remembering to grab his bag before she pulled away.

The moment he stepped onto campus, it hit him.

The sounds.

The smell of the gym. The thud of balls against hardwood, even through the walls. The voices — familiar and young. Someone was blasting music from a classroom window, a pop song he hadn’t heard in years.

He drifted toward the building in a fog.

Students brushed past him, chattering about club meetings and entrance ceremonies, exams and summer tournaments. One kid — definitely a first-year — zipped down the hall shouting something about "a real gym!" 

The names didn’t come yet, but the tone did.

Koushi walked toward 3-4, fingers clutching his bag so tight his knuckles ached.

His seat was exactly where he remembered. Third row from the back, near the window. Daichi wasn’t there, but the chair next to his already had a hoodie tossed over it — black, frayed cuffs, the logo just barely visible.

Koushi sat down slowly, unsure if he was going to pass out or laugh.

What was happening?

More importantly… why?

—

Koushi passed the rest of his day in a daze — barely getting through classes he once found easy. Daichi clearly noticed something was off, but didn’t mention it. 

“How many do we have on the sign-up sheet so far?” Koushi asked once classes were over. He had to say something to get rid of the concern on Daichi’s face.

“Just two. I was hoping for more, but it’s just the first day, right?” Daichi said with a cautiously hopeful lilt. “You’re sure you’re good? You’ve been out of it all day.”

Koushi shook his head, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as they both headed to the club room.

“I’ll be alright,” he sighed. “It’s just… last first day, y’know?”

Daichi gave him a look. “You’re not the type to get this worked up over something like that, Suga.”

Koushi opened the club room door with a rueful smile, “It’s nothing, really! You know me too well.”

The door creaked open.

The air inside was cool, dust motes hanging in lazy shafts of late afternoon light. Familiar. So, very familiar.

And there, seated cross-legged on the floor with his back against the lockers, was—

“Yo, Senpai! Daichi-san!” Tanaka Ryuunosuke grinned wide, waving one hand lazily while chewing on a stick of gum. His buzzcut was a little too short, uniform shirt rumpled from the gym, and his bag flopped open next to him, half of his kneepads spilling out like always.

Koushi stopped cold. Somehow, all of his spiraling didn’t think of this.

Tanaka looked up fully then, noticing the silence. “You guys good?” he asked, brows knitting together in that way he always did when he thought he’d missed the joke.

Daichi laughed. “You’re early. That’s new.”

“Trying to be responsible this year,” Tanaka shot back, standing with a groan and cracking his neck. “I’m not the youngest anymore, y’know? Gotta act like a responsible senpai or whatever.”

Koushi couldn’t move.

He was there. Tanaka Ryuunosuke. Right in front of him. Not in a framed photo next to incense. Not in a memory at the back of his mind. Not in the long pause that always followed his name.

He was here.

Koushi stared at the way his teammate shifted his weight, loose and careless — not like a ghost. Not like someone who had died—

“—ga? Earth to Suga-san!” Tanaka leaned in, waving his hand in front of Koushi’s face.

Koushi blinked. Swallowed. “Shit. Sorry,” he managed, his voice thinner than he liked. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Tanaka tilted his head. “You okay?”

No. God, no.

He was twenty-six. He had mourned this boy. Attended his funeral. Spoken at it. He had seen Daichi cry for the first time in years because of this boy. He had tried not to scream when he found out how fast the car had hit the divider. He had memorized his birthday, his favourite food, his voice, because it hurt too much to forget.

And now Tanaka was here. Cracking his neck and tossing his bag over his shoulder like the world hadn’t already decided his ending.

Koushi managed a nod, barely.

“Yeah,” he said again, softer. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Daichi didn’t look convinced, but didn’t push it. “Come on,” he said, nudging Koushi’s arm. “Let’s get changed and head to the gym. If we’re lucky, we’ll beat Takeda-sensei there.”

Tanaka perked up. “Newbies might show today, right?”

“Maybe,” Daichi said. “That Kageyama kid was on the list.”

Koushi followed them out of the club room, every step like walking on glass.

“Betcha he’s a smart-mouthed little brat, though,” Tanaka laughed, following them to the gym.

Daichi opened the gym doors, and Tanaka immediately screwed his face up into a snarl.

“Oh c’mon, stop trying to intimidate everyone,” Daichi sighed, sounding fond.

I forgot he did that. 

“I’m not tryin’ to intimidate no one, I swear,” Tanaka panicked.

Koushi could feel himself smiling slowly.

Shit, what am I going to do? How do I— I can’t lose this again.

“Good afternoon!” came a voice from inside the gym, and suddenly Koushi is back to earth again.

Koushi looked up, taking in the gym for the first time and… Hinata. Kageyama. Karasuno’s star volleyball players. Future Olympians. And they’re first-years again.

God, Koushi can’t do this.

He has to do this.

“You’re Kageyama-san, right? Good to have you!” Daichi beamed. 

What did I even say back then?

“You’re quite tall, aren’t you?” Koushi commented. 

“C’mon, Suga-san! First impressions are important. Ya gotta show ‘em what third-years are made of!” Tanaka encouraged, screwing his face up into another snarl.

“Stop making faces, Tanaka,” Daichi sighed before turning back to Kageyama again. “How tall are you?”

“180 centimetres, sir!” 

Daichi opened his mouth to say something else but suddenly—

“Um! Excuse me, but hello!” Hinata exclaimed, and Tanaka and Daichi noticed him for the first time.

“IT’S YOU! THAT TINY NUMBER ONE!” Tanaka exclaimed, pointing at Hinata.

Fuck, I really can’t do this.

Koushi blinked, swallowing hard. The gym’s air suddenly felt thick, like the past was pressing in on him from all sides. But he had to stay present. Had to say something.

“You’re that Hinata Shouyou on the sign up sheet?” Koushi asked, despite knowing the answer.

“That’s me!” he nodded enthusiastically.

“Wow, now this is a surprise,” Daichi hums. “So you both came to Karasuno.”

Hinata and Kageyama shared a confused glance.

“We saw your junior high match a couple months ago,” Koushi explained.

“Yeah! You were short and kinda sucked bad, but you got guts and I like that!” Tanaka laughed. Then he moved closer to Hinata. “Ya didn’t get much taller though, didja?”

“U– um no, I didn’t,” Hinata frowned, but then he perked up. “Still, I may be short, but I can jump! And I’m going to be Karasuno’s ace!”

“Woah, just walked in and already declared yourself our ace?” Tanaka snorted. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“It’s good to have goals, right?” Koushi said lightly, somehow having it in him to notice Hinata’s fear.

Still, Koushi’s smile was automatic, a mask he wore out of habit. Inside, everything felt fragile. He watched Tanaka’s grin stretch wide, the easy confidence in his stance, the careless laugh that seemed to fill the whole gym like it always had. It was the same boy he remembered — full of fire, full of life, utterly untouchable in his energy.

But Koushi's chest tightened. Because beneath that radiant surface, he knew something the others didn’t. Something no one could see.

Tanaka was alive. More alive than he’d been in years in Koushi’s memory. Yet this moment — right here, right now — was borrowed time.

The thought clawed at him, unwelcome and relentless. How could someone so vibrant be destined for such a sudden, cruel end? How was it fair that laughter like this could vanish in an instant, leaving only echoes and regrets?

Koushi swallowed roughly, biting his lip.

Shit. 

“Seriously, Suga, you good?” Daichi murmured under his breath, still concerned, despite the chaos that Hinata and Kageyama were causing.

With eyes that were barely processing the sights around him, Koushi could see Hinata and Kageyama squabbling. Something about being better than before. And Kageyama was doing a jump serve to prove a point. Or something. 

Koushi could remember this. Vaguely.

“I’m fine,” Koushi whispered, not even trying to be convincing this time.

“You’re not.”

Koushi’s voice dropped. “I’m trying to hold it together, alright?”

Once more, Daichi opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Hinata’s yell.

“I DID THE BEST I—” Hinata cut himself off, and when Daichi and Koushi looked up to see what caused the sudden change in mood, they’re met with the sight of frustrated tears. “You— You have no right to say that everything I did was meaningless.”

“Kageyama is a smart-mouthed little brat,” Tanaka mumbled in explanation, though Koushi already remembered how this went.

Daichi gave Koushi a long glance, promising to not let this drop, before heading to do damage control. Already, Koushi has no idea how he’ll deal with that.

“Listen,” Daichi said, heading to the first years. “You guys realize you’re no longer enemies, right? You’re teammates now.”

But he’s ignored.

“I challenge you. Right now,” Hinata declared determinedly.

“HEY, DAICHI-SAN WASN’T DONE TALKING!” Tanaka yells angrily.

He too is ignored.

As the argument escalated — Hinata’s shouts, Kageyama’s retorts, Daichi trying to corral them both — Koushi felt something in his chest twist tight.

Then came the slam of the gym door.

The vice principal.

The scolding started immediately, loud and sharp — but Koushi only registered it in pieces. Words floated by like they were underwater.

 “Disrespect.”

 “Control your team.”

 “Embarrassment.”

Koushi’s eyes flicked to the glossy surface of the gym floor, watching how the light caught on the waxed wood. How Hinata’s foot scuffed a faint streak into it. How the sound of the ball being tossed from one hand to another echoed weirdly.

Who was tossing the ball again?

Oh. Right. Kageyama.

Then came another jump serve.

He watched the motion in pieces — elbow drawn back, the sharp crack of contact, the blurred arc of orange — and then a thump. A yelp. A flurry of something black and fake flying through the air.

Tanaka’s laugh barely registered. Koushi blinked slowly as the vice principal sputtered, Daichi awkwardly holding the toupee like it was radioactive.

It was almost funny. If it weren’t so much. If he hadn’t seen it before.

The world narrowed to silence.

Koushi’s heartbeat was all he could hear — heavy and irregular, like the ticking of a faulty metronome. Something felt unreal. Like the gym was made of paper, like the people inside were only half-there, and he was watching it all from the wrong side of a pane of glass.

Daichi got dragged out. The door slammed.

And Koushi couldn’t move.

He focused on a peeling corner of the white line tape near the net, the way it curled up just slightly — like it always had — no matter how many times they replaced it, the edges always peeled first.

Tanaka muttered something about “poor Daichi,” but Koushi wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t thinking.

He wasn’t really there.

There was a sound — maybe the vice principal shouting — and then silence again. Time stretched thin and strange.

It wasn’t until the gym doors opened again, and Daichi walked back in, that the air seemed to shift.

“Fortunately there will be no consequences,” Daichi said simply, clearly tired. His gaze flicked briefly to Koushi — assessing, like always — but he didn’t comment. “But we all say nothing.”

“Hinata. Kageyama.” Daichi’s voice was low. Steady. Dangerous. “Out. You’re not coming back until you learn how to be teammates.”

Hinata opened his mouth, but Daichi cut him off with a sharp look. Clipped, as if he wanted this all to be over, too.

The silence after their exit was deafening.

Koushi blinked, as if coming out of a long tunnel. The gym came back into focus — the dust motes, the thrum of fluorescent lights, the faint hum of the vending machines outside.

His limbs felt like lead. His throat dry.

“Suga?” Daichi asked softly, once more near him.

Koushi startled slightly, eyes darting up like he'd forgotten people were here. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I think I… zoned out.”

“Yeah,” Daichi murmured. “I figured.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just quiet worry.

Tanaka glanced between them, uncharacteristically silent.

“Sorry,” Koushi repeated, forcing a laugh. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” Koushi shook his head.

“Take five?” Daichi asked. “You’re sweating like hell and we haven’t even started drills.”

“Yeah,” Koushi breathed. “Yeah, just… just give me a sec.”

Koushi barely made it to the bathroom before he fell apart.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Koushi made it two steps in before his legs gave out. He caught himself against the edge of the sink, breath stuttering. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead — too bright, too cold. Everything in here was white and sharp: the tile, the mirror, the echo of his breathing.

He gripped the porcelain so tightly his knuckles went pale.

His reflection stared back at him — still unfamiliar. Too young. Too clean. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be possible.

Tanaka was alive. Laughing. Breathing. Right there.

Like time hadn’t touched him. Like death hadn’t swallowed him whole and left the rest of them aching and rearranged.

Koushi bowed his head over the sink, breath coming faster now — not quite crying, not quite hyperventilating, but something tight and trembling in between.

He hadn’t cried at the funeral. Hadn’t let himself. Not then.

And now, four years too late — or was it four years too early, now? — the weight of it all pressed into his chest like a setter’s worst miscalculation — too heavy, too fast, too sharp.

“I can’t—” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this.”

A drop hit the porcelain. Then another.
He wasn’t even sure when the tears started. His body felt like a stranger to him — bones too light, skin too tight, muscles remembering things they hadn’t done in years.

Koushi dragged a hand down his face. “Get it together,” he hissed. “Come on. You’ve been through worse.”

But had he?

He’d grieved Tanaka once. Survived it. Packed it into boxes marked memory and regret and too late. And now the boxes had burst open, their contents spilling everywhere, staining the air with every laugh, every dumb joke, every reckless yell of let’s gooooooo! echoing inside him like a war cry.

He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, desperate for something grounding. The water was ice against his flushed cheeks. It didn’t help.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he said to the sink.

But he was. And Tanaka was.

And Daichi was looking at him with that familiar concern that made it impossible to lie, even when it was easier.

Koushi closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool tile of the mirror. The glass fogged slightly from his breath.

Just breathe.

In. Out.

He stayed like that for a while — quiet, still, letting the ache roll through him. It didn’t pass, not really. But eventually, his shoulders stopped shaking. Eventually, the pounding in his chest dulled to something manageable.

He exhaled shakily, straightened up, and looked in the mirror again. His reflection was the same. Too young. Too whole.

But his eyes — they were older. Still his.

“I’m okay,” he said out loud.

It wasn’t true. But it was enough to walk back out the door.

For now.

—

When Koushi walked back into the gym, practice was already underway. For a moment, he just stood at the door, watching. How was he supposed to go back to his obsessive volleyball ways after years of not playing more than a single set?

“Suga-san, are you sure you’re alright?” came a voice to his left. 

Koushi turned in surprise, eyes landing on a surprisingly sober Tanaka.

It threw him, how present Tanaka looked — hair buzzed short in that same old way, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, a fresh bruise darkening along his shin from some warm-up dive. More than anything, it was Tanaka that reminded him how everything had changed. Koushi’s throat caught on nothing.

“I…” Koushi swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

Tanaka squinted at him, unconvinced. “You looked kinda pale earlier. Thought you were gonna pass out.”

Koushi bit his lip. “Had a nightmare,” he eventually settled on.

“Must’ve been bad,” Tanaka said softly. A tone Koushi had honestly never heard from him before.

His surprise must have shown.

“I’ve had a couple panic attacks before,” Tanaka admitted after a moment. “They’re no joke.”

“Yeah,” Koushi said with a nod, forcing down his surprise at Tanaka’s confession. “But I’ll be okay,” Koushi said firmly. 

He had to be.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The gym echoed with squeaking shoes and thudding volleyballs — background noise to something brittle and silent between them. Koushi kept expecting Tanaka to crack a joke, throw an arm around him, say something loud and ridiculous.

But instead, Tanaka just nodded, his expression unexpectedly serious. “Let me know if you need anything.”

It was such a small kindness. But from him — from now — it nearly undid Koushi all over again.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I mean it.”

Tanaka smiled, that familiar crooked grin. “We look out for each other, right?”

Koushi couldn’t speak. He nodded once and watched Tanaka jog off to rejoin the scrimmage — like it was just another day, like nothing had changed.

Koushi appreciated that.

Then, he took a deep breath and joined the world of volleyball, too.

—

As the team packs up the gym after practice, Daichi pulls Koushi to the side. 

“You sure you’re feeling better now?” Daichi asked worriedly. “Even your sets were a little off today, Suga.”

“I had a very realistic nightmare,” Koushi mumbled after a moment. He hated lying to Daichi. “Tanaka died. It was… something. But I’ll be okay,” he sighed.

Daichi’s brows knit, his hand still loosely gripping the ball he’d been about to return to the equipment closet.

“…Shit,” he muttered, not flippantly but like he didn’t know what else to say. “That’s— yeah. No wonder you were off.”

Koushi shrugged one shoulder, a poor attempt at nonchalance. “It was just a dream.”

Daichi didn’t look convinced. “Still messed you up, though.”

Koushi nodded slowly, eyes on the scuffed gym floor. “It felt real. Like... like I’d lived it already. The wake, the call, all of it.” His voice dipped lower. “And then today, he’s just— just here. Making dumb jokes. Forgetting his water bottle.”

Daichi was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Tanaka’s always been kind of... indestructible, huh?”

That made Koushi huff a laugh — soft, worn around the edges. “Yeah. That’s probably why it hit so hard.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the clatter of Tanaka stacking cones in the corner echoing faintly across the gym. He was humming something off-key and slapping them together like cymbals, much to the annoyance of the second years. Oblivious.

“WE CHALLENGE YOU, AND IF WE WIN, LET US IN!” Tanaka exclaimed suddenly, startling everyone in the gym. “Totally something those two would say, right?”

Koushi walked over, pulling on his Karasuno jacket. “I’d believe it,” he swallowed.

Because they did it.

“All they have to do is apologize,” Daichi sighed, clearing one of the wooden benches. “But supposing they did… I’d expect Kageyama to make it work with his talent alone — almost as if he hasn’t matured since junior high at all. And individual talent can only take a team so far.”

Almost as if summoned by Daichi’s words, a scream came from outside.

“CAPTAIN!”

Everyone in the gym startled. Tanaka slowly opened the gym doors, revealing the two troublesome first years.

“Have you guys been standing out here all practice?” Tanaka asked incredulously.

They don’t answer. After counting down from three, they make a declaration in unison. 

“WE CHALLENGE YOU TO A GAME, THE TWO OF US VERSUS TWO OF YOU!” 

“You’re kidding,” Tanaka laughed. “They actually did it!”

“One… two…” Kageyama mumbled. 

Then, together, “WE’LL PROVE WE CAN PLAY ON THE SAME TEAM!”

Koushi can’t help it, he facepalms. These two are the future of Japan’s volleyball.

Tanaka burst out laughing, “WHAT’D I TELL YA?” he guffawed. “NOT A BRAINCELL BETWEEN THEM!”

“I heard a ‘one, two…’” Koushi said in disbelief.

He hoped he’d made that up the last time.

“I can’t say I don’t like their type, though,” Tanaka continued laughing.

Koushi watched him laugh — head thrown back, eyes crinkled, completely in the moment.

God, he’d missed this — Tanaka’s bright, reckless, lively laugh — clawed something open in his chest again.

It was stupid, how much he missed a voice that hadn’t even left him yet.

Daichi, however, was not so affected by such meaningless things. 

“And if you lose?” he challenged the first-years.

Hinata gulped, but Kageyama’s response was confident. “We will accept any punishment you deem fit.”

“Really…?” Daichi drawled. “Actually, you know what? This is perfect. We'll likely have a couple other first-years slated to join. Let’s have you play them 3-on-3. It’s a game we hold every year to feel out how the new kids play.”

“But…” Hinata spoke up hesitantly. “If it’s a 3-on-3, who else is playing with us?”

“On the day of the game, Tanaka will join you,” Daichi responded easily.

The shock on Tanaka’s face made Koushi smile, ever-so-slightly.

“ME?! Why me?” Tanaka whined.

“You said you liked their type.”

“Yeah, but dealing with them is a pain in the ass!”

Daichi closed his eyes, adopting a rueful tone, “And here I thought you were the only one of us who had what it takes to deal with problem children.”

“God, twist my arm why don’tcha! Guess I can do it, then! Hey, kid, ya happy now?” Tanaka asked, slapping Hinata on the arm. “I bet ya are!”

Koushi tracked the movement. His heart hurt.

“Good,” Daichi said, turning to the first years right after. “In the event you lose, as long as us third years are around, Kageyama will not be allowed to play as a setter.”

“... what?” Kageyama growled.

“Wait, that’s it? What about me?!” Hinata exclaimed

Answering Hinata’s first question, Daichi said, “It’s not meant as punishment, but as a lesson. This team won’t grow with a diva who doesn’t trust his teammates as a setter. And our team trusts our current setter wholeheartedly,” Daichi gave Koushi a glance, then turned to the first-years when they didn’t respond. “Well? It’s not like we’re kicking you out. I’m sure you could play any other position just fine.”

“I. AM. A. SETTER!” Kageyama exclaimed.

“Then, I guess you better win,” Daichi said, shrugging and turning around. “The game’s Saturday morning, 9 am sharp.”

Then, he closed the door on them. Again.

“Tanaka’s skilled enough to be a huge help,” Koushi commented, once the second-year had gotten out of earshot and Koushi could breathe again.

“Adding a skilled player to their team would only highlight how much they aren’t working together more,” Daichi hummed. “A team that’s disjoined is weak. A diva that refuses to connect on top of a novice like Hinata would kill us.”

“You’re being way harsher than usual, Daichi-san,” Tanaka said, closing the storage room.

Koushi scanned the gym, and upon declaring it clean, picked up his things.

“It’s just that… if they work together, we’ll have upgraded significantly  as a team,” Daichi admitted with a wry smile. 

If only you knew how right you are.

Just as they’re about to leave, Tanaka suddenly said, oddly loudly, “Wait, practice starts at 7am tomorrow, right? Right, Suga-san?”

Koushi blinked. The words landed sharp. He tensed, just slightly.

“Like always,” he said after a beat. His voice was steady. His heartbeat wasn’t. “Yeah. Why?”

Tomorrow.

If there’s a tomorrow… if I wake up to the same colour ceiling, in a room with the same décor… then this isn’t a dream.

Then I’m really here.

Tanaka jumped. “Oh! Ahaha, no reason at all. Say, Daichi-san, can I take home the keys today?”

Daichi shrugged and handed them over after locking up the gym.

Koushi managed a smile, small and tired, and turned toward the door.

Just tonight.

Just one more sleep. Then, if I wake up back where I belong, this will all fade. It has to.

But if I don’t...

Inwardly, he sighed, hearing Hinata and Kageyama’s declaration of practice through the window. 

Then I’ll be here at 6am tomorrow, same as last time.

Chapter Text

Koushi wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe a return to normal. Maybe waking up at 26 again, with Kenji snoring down the hall and his mom shouting about breakfast.

But instead, he woke up in his teenage room for the second day in a row — at 4am, no less — and wanted to scream.

Unfortunately, it was 4am, so he had to lose his shit silently.

Okay. So maybe his coping mechanism of choice was humour. There were worse options.

Like alcoholism. Or crying into his childhood pillow. The latter of which he did last night.

Koushi stared at the ceiling. As if willing it to turn the blue he’d painted it at 24 would somehow make it happen. He stared and stared and stared until his 5:15 alarm went off, and then he forced himself up. 

He couldn’t be the pebble in the lake that ruined Hinata and Kageyama’s future.

Quietly, deliberately, he got dressed — Karasuno jacket, old sneakers, the uniform that still felt like a costume on his grown-up skin.

The hallway creaked under his steps, but no one stirred. His parents were still asleep. Kenji’s door was shut tight. The kitchen light above the stove buzzed faintly when he turned it on, casting long shadows against the cabinets.

He grabbed the lunch he packed for himself last night, along with a bottle of tea and a bag of chips. 

By 5:45, he was outside.

The morning air bit at his cheeks — damp, unkind. The sky was still a murky indigo, but the faintest light was pooling behind the hills. Spring, definitely. The birds were starting to sing.

The streets were empty. Just like yesterday. Just like every other school morning a decade ago.

He started walking.

The fifteen-minute walk to Karasuno used to feel shorter. Maybe he was dreading it too much.

Koushi shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, listening to the rubber soles of his shoes scuff quietly against the sidewalk. The world smelled of wet concrete and sakura petals, the kind that stuck to the ground and made you slip if you weren’t paying attention.

It was all too real.

Too detailed. Too sharp.

He’d gone to bed hoping — praying, maybe — that he’d wake up back at 26. That the hallway would be too narrow for his grown frame, that Kenji would be a sarcastic teenager again

But here he was. Walking to Karasuno in the dark.

This is real.

He didn’t want it to be. God, he didn’t want it to be. Not like this — not with all the weight he carried now. But every breath he took pulled him deeper into this reality. Every footstep echoed with memories he hadn’t meant to hold onto.

And still, some part of him — the part that hadn’t entirely snapped — whispered that this was a gift. To that, he said that this was a punishment. 

Because how was this fair? How was it fair to make him revisit the part of his life that he outgrew, to make him revisit relationships and people he had let go, to make him revisit the part of himself he finally accepted as lost? 

Koushi took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to fall apart, not again. Making his friends worry once was enough.

He reached the front gate and climbed it the same way he did last time to — quietly, with practiced hands and a little more grace than he expected from himself. The gym lights were off. Good . They weren’t being completely reckless.

Koushi slipped inside through the side entrance and made his way toward the sound of sneakers squeaking faintly against hardwood.

They were there.

Hinata was jumping — already soaked in sweat, already yelling. Kageyama was focused, mouth tight, eyes sharper than they should’ve been for a teenager. They were arguing. Of course they were. When were they not?

Koushi leaned against the doorframe, just watching for a moment. Taking it in. Their rawness. Their determination. Their absolute inability to communicate without shouting.

And he felt it again — that twist in his chest.

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a memory. This was now .

And now meant he had to keep Kageyama as setter. To make sure Hinata wasn’t left behind. That was the only way either of them would have a chance at their dreams. Of course, he wished he could be a starter for his team at least once. But he wasn’t selfish enough to ruin Kageyama’s future, Hinata’s future, or his team’s future chance at Nationals to satisfy his ego.

He would help them all he could.

With that thought in mind, Koushi took yet another deep breath, plastered on a soft smile and opened the gym doors.

“Yo,” Koushi said as he stepped inside, a part of him laughing at the three boys’ astonished faces.

“Suga-san?! H– How…?” Tanaka spluttered. 

“You were acting really suspicious last night, y’know?” Koushi laughed, setting his things down and changing his shoes. “Asking obvious questions, offering to keep the key when you’re usually the last to arrive…”

‘U– Um—”

“Don’t worry,” Koushi said breezily, tying his laces. “I won’t tell Daichi. Consider it a thank you for last night,” he added, giving Tanaka a soft smile. Then, Koushi grinned. “Besides, it’s sort of exciting, isn’t it? It’s like we’re doing special secret training!”

All three of them let out a sigh of relief.

“Don’t thank me for that, Suga-san,” Tanaka said with a frown. “But, I’ll take all the help I can get for these two,” he snorted.

Has he always been so emotionally intelligent?

Koushi laughed at Hinata and Kageyama’s offended expressions as he stretched.

 “You two have been fighting an awful lot,” Koushi said dryly.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tanaka groaned.

“Well if he could just suck a little less—” Kageyama started, squeezing the volleyball in his hands angrily.

“HEY—”

“SO!” Koushi interrupted loudly, standing up. “What are we working on?”

—

In the end, Koushi helped Hinata with his receives while Kageyama focused on syncing up with Tanaka — just like before.

And just like before, Hinata didn’t take that lying down. Every time Tanaka got especially excited over a spike, Hinata would look over longingly. After about an hour, Hinata was done.

Just like before.

The déjà vu clung to him like sweat — sticky and cold. Watching them move in rhythms he already knew made his head feel just slightly too heavy, throat oddly tight.

Koushi closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, about to serve the ball to Hinata again, but—

“C’mon, I wanna spike,” Hinata begged, looking at Kageyama. “Let me spike one!”

Thank god he didn’t notice.

Kageyama glared.

“You’re a setter, right? So you love setting! Why can’t you put one up for me just once? Please,” Hinata pouted.

“Don’t. Wanna,” Kageyama bit out.

Koushi frowned. He knew how this went, after all. And it didn’t look to be changing.

“Why not?! You’re so stingy!”

“Yeah!” Tanaka added. “Y’know he has a point. What’s so wrong with sending him one ball?”

“A set and attack only happen once the ball is received properly,” Kageyama said. “Since you can’t even do that, you have no right to demand a chance to spike! During the 3-on-3, I’ll be setting to Tanaka-san as much as I can. Let him handle the offensive side of things. You just focus on staying out of the way and not screwing us over.”

That… that logic is so flawed. Why would you put a shit receiver on defense? But I don’t think— did I say anything last time? What if I didn’t and speaking up ruins Hinata’s resolve to work on his receives?

“If I get my receives on par,” Hinata started slowly, walking toward Kageyama. “Then, will you set the ball for me?”

“During the game, I’ll set the ball to anyone who’ll score. I might be forced to set it to you at some point. But the way you are now… I don’t think you’re necessary to win at all. And besides, you don’t just get good at receiving overnight.”

Tanaka snorted, “What a jerk.”

Koushi sighed, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Then, looking at the clock, he said, “We should tidy up.”

Hinata’s face screwed up in frustration.

Koushi sighed again. “I’ll help you practice your receives at lunch,” he said quietly.

—

Koushi shouldered his bag and fell into step beside Tanaka, exhausted after two hours of morning practice. Tanaka, who was still toweling sweat off the back of his neck, seemed to be in the same boat. His buzzcut was already half-damp again.

“I’m gonna die,” Tanaka groaned, head tipped back toward the ceiling. “Why do we do this to ourselves? Morning practice should be illegal.”

“You say that every week,” Koushi said mildly.

“And every week I mean it.”

They walked in silence for a few paces, the floor squeaking faintly under their sneakers. The air between them felt companionable, almost easy — almost.

Koushi snuck a glance sideways. Tanaka’s brows were pinched ever so slightly. His jaw tight. Not angry — just closed off. Tired, maybe.

Whatever was bothering him couldn’t be too bad. Koushi didn’t remember anything major concerning Tanaka.

“Daichi said he’d catch up,” Koushi said after a moment, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Takeda-sensei cornered him about practice matches.”

“Bet Daichi’s losing his mind over managing the club,” Tanaka snorted. “Those first-years man… But I guess he needs a second setter more than he cares about their manners.”

Koushi huffed a laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” Tanaka said, elbowing him lightly. “You and Daichi keep this team together. Everyone knows that.”

Koushi looked at him. Tanaka said it so casually — like it was obvious, like it wasn’t a compliment so much as a fact. But the ease with which he said it made something twist low in Koushi’s stomach.

“You give us more credit than we deserve,” Koushi said after a pause.

“Nah,” Tanaka replied, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You just don’t see how much you do.”

They turned a corner, feet echoing faintly on the tile. The windows ahead were glowing now — morning light finally beginning to filter in.

Koushi bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something — you too, maybe. You matter more than any of us ever gave you credit for. But the words caught, unspoken.

“You good, Suga-san?” Tanaka asked suddenly, brow raised.

“Hm?”

“You’re doing that thing. Where you think too hard and go all quiet.”

Koushi blinked. “What thing?”

Tanaka shrugged. “Y’know. That thing. When you’re about to lie and say you’re fine, but your brain’s, like, twelve kilometres away.”

Koushi blinked at him, startled. “I didn’t know you noticed that.”

Tanaka looked vaguely offended. “I’m not blind.”

That made Koushi smile. “No. Guess you’re not.”

They passed the vending machines outside the staff room. Tanaka made a face and smacked the top of one. “Still out of energy drinks. The one thing I wanted.”

Koushi slowed his steps. “Tanaka,” he said quietly, unsure if he should continue. “Can I ask you something?”

It bothered Koushi, how he really couldn’t remember anything notable about Tanaka from this year, couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment they went from close to distant friends. 

Tanaka tilted his head, hand still hovering over the drink selection. “Shoot.”

Koushi hesitated. Then, “What do you want out of this year?”

Tanaka blinked. “Like… volleyball-wise?”

“Yeah,” Koushi said. “Or… anything, really.”

It wasn't a fair question. Not really. But he couldn’t help it.

Tanaka blinked a few times, genuinely thrown. He scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, Nationals, obviously. I wanna get us there. Wanna go all out.”

Koushi nodded, but said nothing.

“…Also,” Tanaka added after a second, “I wanna score at least one point that makes the crowd go nuts. Y’know? Like, screaming-my-name nuts. Just once.”

That made Koushi smile, genuinely. “That’s fair.”

They reached the stairwell. Tanaka leaned against the railing instead of climbing it — only third-year homerooms were upstairs

“Why’d you ask?” he asked, suddenly quieter.

Koushi shrugged. “Just thinking. It’s my last year, I’m vice-captain. Feels like… I should know what we all want.”

“Guess so,” Tanaka said, voice softer now. “But that’s kind of the problem, right? Sometimes you don’t know what you want until it’s over.”

Koushi looked at him sharply. But Tanaka was already walking back.

“See you at practice!” he called, voice echoing.

Koushi stayed still for a beat longer.

Sometimes you don’t know what you want until it’s over.

The words sat heavy in his chest. He didn’t think Tanaka even realized what he’d said. But Koushi did.

And he was going to remember it.

—

Lunch practice with Hinata was similarly deep, but at least Koushi could recall the conversation from last time.

They’d found a quiet spot behind the building — a wide patch of pavement with enough open space for drills. The air was warm from the midday sun, but the breeze tugged at Hinata’s sleeves as he crouched, arms braced, eyes locked on the ball like it might fly at him any second.

Koushi held the volleyball under one arm, watching him with a faint smile. With how far Hinata went, it was easy to forget just how late he started playing.

“You’re a little less loud than usual,” he commented, stepping into position.

Hinata straightened with a frown. “I’m focusing. Receives are hard!”

“You don’t say,” Koushi deadpanned.

“I’m serious, Suga-san,” Hinata groaned. “Kageyama won’t set to me if I suck, and if he doesn’t set to me, how am I supposed to be the ace?!”

“Didn’t realize the setter decided the ace.”

“I mean— no, but— ugh!”

Koushi laughed softly, tossing the ball once. He recognized this conversation — remembered it nearly word-for-word from the first time. But standing here now, older and more tired and aware of what the future held, it felt different.

Not less bright, no. Just more important.

He served the ball gently, his normal, underhand serve,  letting it land at Hinata’s feet.

“Again,” he said. “And try not to flinch this time.”

Hinata huffed and reset his stance. “I wasn’t flinching .”

“Oh, my mistake.”

They did a few more receives — all messy, all enthusiastic. Hinata chased after the ball with a single-minded energy that made something twist behind Koushi’s ribs. He hadn’t seen this version of him in years — not since the Olympics, not since the pressure and the polish.

This was just Hinata.

Too small. Too fast. Too loud. Absolutely burning with a single-minded desire for improvement.

“You’re doing really well,” Koushi said after a few rounds, catching the ball before it could roll toward the bushes. “Want me to set the ball for you tomorrow morning?”

He vaguely remembered making this offer before, but Hinata’s response was no less endearing.

“Really?!” Hinata perked up. “Y– You will? I mean— Please!”

Koushi laughed, “I forgot we never actually introduced our positions to you yesterday,” he smiled. “But, I’m Karasuno’s starting setter. I’d have to get used to setting to you eventually, and you want to practice spiking, right?”

Hinata was practically bouncing, “Yeah! It feels so awesome when you smash one in for a kill, and it’s just. So cool!” Then, he sobered. “But, y’know? In junior high, I never had a setter — I didn’t have any teammates at all. I mostly bugged my friend on the basketball team to set for me, and when I had to leave the club, I asked the girls’ team’s setter or some people on the housewives’ team. Still, no matter how well we got along, it’s not like being teammates,” Hinata sighed. “That’s why I was so excited to see what my setter in high school would be like!”

Hinata’s face darkened, no doubt thinking about Kageyama’s attitude. 

It’s really easy to forget how hard he had it before Karasuno .

Koushi frowned sympathetically. “He’s not the only setter around, y’know? I just said I’m a setter too,” he laughed. “I’ll put some up for you.”

And just like he remembered, Hinata perked up, only to slump again.

“Yeah but… no offense… if you set for me, it’d kinda be like I lost somehow.”

That one stung more than he expected. Not because of the words — Koushi didn’t need to prove himself — but because of how quickly Hinata equated help with failure . He really had spent too much time alone.

Still, Koushi just laughed, “You’re real set on competing with him, aren’t you?”

Hinata sighed. “When I played against Kageyama, he was so good it was frustrating. I hated when he stood across from me. So, after that, I came here, thinking I could challenge him someday.” 

“Is that why you play volleyball, then?” Koushi asked, knowing full well that it wasn’t.

But years later, Hinata would tell him that this conversation is what led to Hinata understanding his desire to play. So Koushi had to let this go well.

“Hm…” Hinata tilted his head, then shook it. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I just think that… if I’m good enough to beat Kageyama, I’ll be good enough to beat any other talented player, right?”

Koushi let his body straighten in understanding. “So, in other words, Kageyama is the best player in your age group that you can think of, right?” He laughed at Hinata’s frustrated frown. “That means, if he was your greatest opposition before, now , he’s your greatest ally.”

Koushi watched the frown soften at Hinata’s brow. That look — one of stubborn resistance giving way to thought — felt like progress. Not a fix. But, still, a start to something he knew would do more than just work out.

“Think on it, alright?” he hummed. “For now, we can keep practicing.”

Chapter Text

The dedication with which Hinata practiced ought to be studied, in Koushi’s opinion.

Past him hadn’t fully grasped it — dismissing it as something that made Hinata, Hinata — but now, watching with eyes a decade older, it floored him. The way Hinata chased every ball like it was the only thing that mattered. The sheer amount of effort poured into each movement. The hunger.

And the results were undeniable. In just a week, Hinata had improved more than most players did in months. Even more impressive — he and Kageyama had stopped trying to murder each other. They were building something that looked suspiciously like trust.

Koushi was proud of them. Truly.

But seeing it again, happening exactly the same way, was killing him. Some would be thankful for a blast to the past, but it was suffocating him. What was the point in existing, experiencing life, when you already knew how the story unfolded? When you already liked how the story unfolded? Where was the joy, the grief, the emotion in that?

Though, if Koushi was honest, that was a bit of a lie. There was something that stuck out to him. Or rather, someone.

Tanaka smiled like he always did, joked like he always had — but Koushi’s eyes were older now, and the smile didn’t sit right. Not always. 

And Koushi didn’t know what to make of that.

—

That Saturday, the sixth day Koushi spent back in time, the whole team gathered in the gym to set up and watch the first-year 3-on-3. 

The air buzzed with that same chaotic energy from before: Tsukishima taunting Kageyama, Yamaguchi grinning nervously, Hinata practically vibrating with anticipation. Koushi moved on muscle memory, tying the net to the poles, his hands working fast.

He didn’t feel seventeen. He didn’t feel twenty-six either.

He just felt tired.

Being back in high school, remembering every miniscule detail of his life, the pressure of making sure the future was exactly the same? It was a lot. 

Koushi honestly wasn’t sure why he was even here.

“Alright guys, let’s get this started! I’ll be joining Yamaguchi and Tsukishima to even out the numbers!”

“WHA— Captain, you’re playing against us?” Hinata paled.

Daichi laughed, “Relax, Tanaka’s much better at offense than I am. But I won’t be going easy on you.”

As he made his way to the bench by the scoreboard — where Ennoshita, Narita, Kinoshita and Kiyoko were — Koushi caught Tanaka’s grimace.

Yeah, Daichi’s offense isn’t as good as Tanaka’s, but he’s still our starting wing-spiker. And the best receiver after Noya. I guess here’s to hoping whatever I’ve done so far is similar enough that Kageyama and Hinata will still win the match.

Koushi sighed as the start of the game was announced, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. The uncharacteristic motion grabbed the attention of Ennoshita, who was managing the scoreboard.

“Applications,” was Koushi’s lie of choice to his teammate’s concerned glance.

What Koushi didn’t notice was the way Kiyoko’s eyebrows furrowed, just for a moment.

I hate this.

Numbly, Koushi observed the 3-on-3, which thankfully seemed to be going the way his fuzzy memories indicated. He watched as Tsukishima riled up Tanaka, as Kageyama failed to sync with Hinata (a sight that still surprised him), as Daichi shocked the other team with his defensive capabilities. He watched as Kageyama’s rocky junior high past was revealed, and then as the whole gym was shocked by Hinata’s light dismissal of it all.

For some reason, Koushi couldn’t find it in him to react — not even as Hinata made the declaration of a lifetime easy as breathing.

“I don’t know what it was like for you in junior high, okay?” Hinata exclaimed, after almost missing a toss he called for — a toss he called for after Tsukishima blandly recounted Kageyama’s past with the empathy of a brick wall. 

The ball was dribbling away from Tsukishima sadly. Koushi followed it with his eyes, hardly listening to Hinata’s next words even though he knew they would be monumental.

“All I know is that I’m grateful for every ball put up to me,” Hinata continued, watching Kageyama with a single-minded focus. “So every time you get the ball, send it to me!”

There’s the briefest amount of silence after this declaration, but Tanaka breaks it cleanly, looking almost betrayed.

“YOU TWO KNOW HOW TO DO A QUICK SET?!”

The ball rolled over to Koushi’s feet and he tossed it to Daichi in a practiced motion. 

Beside him, Ennoshita spoke, flipping the score, “Wild, huh? I didn’t expect them to click at all.”

“Mm,” Koushi hummed. It was true. No one looking at Hinata and Kageyama on their first day would expect them to pull teamwork together in less than a week.

“You think they’ll work?” Ennoshita pressed.

“They’ll work,” Koushi said, and it came out flatter than intended.

Then, he tensed, Ennoshita’s words reminding him of something.

There was a beat of silence. Ennoshita glanced sideways, then looked back down. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Applications,” Koushi repeated, focus on the game sharper. “They’re stressful.”

I say something to them. Something that makes them come up with the freak quick. Fuck, what was it?!

Koushi inhaled sharply, leg bouncing in frustration as Hinata and Kageyama continuously failed to replicate their original quick set. Each failure was met with frustration on both ends

“GAH! I can’t get the timing at all!” Hinata groaned.

“You’re fast, can’t you just—”

Shit, shit, shit, the freak quick. They should’ve gotten it by now, right? They weren’t this frustrated during the 3-on-3, right? Were they?

But no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to remember one small moment from a random Saturday eight years ago. Even if it eventually changed the team’s trajectory, and then some of their lives.

That just wasn’t how memories worked.

Koushi exhaled. It’s fine. This is fine! So fine! I’m not going to ruin their future careers or anything!

He couldn’t remember, so he decided to do the next best thing. Analyze. What was Kageyama doing now that differed from the freak quick? What made it so different from a normal quick? What eventually made Hinata frustrated with it? What would Koushi have done in response?

The answer was simple: at this point, Hinata was a creature of instinct. Forcing him to sync to Kageyama, even slightly, took away his only weapon — freak athleticism. The freak quick was Kageyama’s pinpoint accuracy in motion.

And Koushi? If high school Koushi noticed that, he would’ve said something.

Now, how to allude to that?

“Kageyama,” Koushi said sharply, just as the boy cut himself off, about to yell at Hinata to ‘move faster’.

The setter jumped, paling like he was going to be reprimanded.

“The way you’re setting now… it’s hindering Hinata’s sharpest weapon — his speed,” Koushi said gently, trying to assuage his fear. “You’ve got to remember that Hinata’s basically a complete newbie at volleyball. The only reason a quick isn’t a laughable thought is his athleticism. But, when you ask him to keep up with you, to watch you and keep up with your thoughts, he can’t use that speed to its full extent. So…” Koushi paused. This was the important part. “Isn’t there some way for you to use your skill and accuracy to keep up with him instead?”

Kageyama still looked skeptical.

Fuck.

“Um!” Koushi floundered for a moment. “See, I’m a setter, too. And, well, when I watched you play, I was kind of astonished by your skill. Your ball control, and instincts, but more than that… your vision. You have this uncanny ability to predict, in less than a second, where and how your opponents will move. All things that… I can’t do,” Koushi admitted with a rueful smile. 

Tanaka’s eyebrows furrowed angrily. “Don’t say that, Suga-san!”

Koushi was touched, but he ignored him. He had to get this right, or Hinata and Kageyama’s futures were ruined.

“Listen for once,” Daichi sighed.

Tanaka stiffened. Koushi caught the motion and furrowed his brows, but decided to bench the thought for now.

“It’s kind of frustrating to see you not watch your teammates, too,” Koushi said, turning back to Kageyama. “You don’t watch your spikers the same way you watch your blockers. You don’t read them. And I know you can. If you applied even half of that awareness to your teammates, if you tried to understand them — how they move, where they hesitate, where they shine — you wouldn’t just be a genius setter. You’d be their setter. You’d be able to ace the most important part of a setter’s job: letting a spiker attack with their fullest potential.”

Here, Kageyama’s face morphed into something thoughtful.

Is this… it? Have I done it?

“Hinata!” Kageyama declared suddenly, pointing at the orange-haired boy. “I’m jealous of your athleticism. I hate how you don’t use everything you have. But… if you won’t use it, then I will! Run as fast as you can, jump as high as you can. Don’t worry about the ball, this time. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Wh– What? What does that even mean?!”

“Just run where there’s no blockers and jump with all you have. Don’t look at the ball, don’t worry about finding it. It’ll be there. Just swing.”

The moment Kageyama said not to look for the ball, Koushi sighed in relief, slumping on the bench.

I think I’ve done it.

When the next rally started, there was a shift in Kageyama. He was much more focused, eyes darting everywhere, taking everything in. When Tanaka received the ball, sending it to Kageyama, the first year took a deep breath. Then, as Koushi watched with bated breath, Kageyama sent the ball flying straight into Hinata’s palm, the spike happening in an instant.

The freak quick.

Koushi could feel the relief deep in his soul.

The gym erupted into chaos.

“D– Did you see that?” Daichi stammered from the other side of the net, looking flabbergasted. “The whole time… Hinata had his eyes closed!”

Kageyama stiffened. “What the hell?! Did you actually not open your eyes?” he asked Hinata, almost sounding horrified.

From the bench, Koushi couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, weight on his shoulders gone. Ennoshita’s curious glance went unnoticed.

“Well, yeah,” Hinata said earnestly. “You told me not to look, but I can’t help but watch the ball when my eyes are open, so I closed them.”

“I mean, I did say that but—”

“They really will argue over anything,” Ennoshita commented, staring at the duo in disbelief.

“Change the score,” Narita reminded, nudging Ennoshita.

The latter flipped the score numbly. 

Koushi couldn’t help but let out an amused smile. He forgot the shock that the quick set inspired.

—

The rest of the match went as Koushi remembered, with Hinata, Kageyama, and Tanaka’s team eventually winning. Still, Koushi couldn’t help but feel that something was off. His eyes kept drifting toward Tanaka.

There was no obvious reason — Tanaka was laughing, pumping his fists, tossing Hinata into a headlock for a particularly good receive. Very classic Tanaka, actually. But something about it sat wrong.

Too loud? Too obnoxious?

Koushi was torn. It was so Tanaka to be overly enthusiastic, but as an elementary school teacher, Koushi had learnt to not dismiss his instincts. 

And then, when Hinata cheered for him — “Tanaka-senpai, that was awesome!” — the smile froze.

It was maybe half a second. A blink. But Koushi saw it — a stutter in Tanaka’s expression. He stopped mid-motion, eyes not quite focused, like the words hadn’t registered. And then suddenly he was grinning again, louder than before, mussing Hinata’s hair and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

Koushi looked away. His heart knocked once, then stilled.

We compliment his spikes all the time, so why?

Maybe that was normal. Maybe Koushi was just projecting. Missing Tanaka had become second nature, so of course he’d see ghosts where there weren’t any. Of course it would be strange to see him there now.

He was probably reading into things. 

But probably didn’t mean certainly and still, his unease lingered.

—

“Hey, Daichi-san, Suga-san,” Tanaka called, walking up to them at the end of the second set.

Koushi startled, only just realizing that Daichi was next to him now.

“Did you know ahead of time that they could do something like that? Is that why you said what you did?!”

From beside him, Daichi laughed, “I was just thinking that Hinata could probably get good enough to hit some of Kageyama’s more impossible hits.”

Koushi bit his lip and his silence made the two boys turn to him incredulously.

“Ah, well, Kageyama’s accuracy really is something, y’know?” Koushi said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “And as he is now, Hinata can’t really intentionally do a quick — we all saw that. If I had the skill, it’s what I would’ve done.”

Then, Koushi shrugged. “It’s standard technique for the setter to put up the ball in a way that’s most beneficial for the spiker — it’s just that somehow, with Kageyama’s ridiculous skill and Hinata’s awful technique, we’ve ended up with… this.”

“A combo better than either of us could’ve hoped for,” Daichi finished.

Tanaka let out a low whistle. “Still can’t believe that actually worked,” he said, eyes drifting toward the first-years, Hinata and Tsukishima bickering over sportsmanship or something. “Guess we’ve got monsters on our team again.”

“Mm,” Daichi hummed. “Let’s hope they’re what we need for Nationals”

That got a laugh from Tanaka — loud, unrestrained, just the way it used to be. But now, Koushi heard it differently. It rang almost… forced.

Or maybe that was unfair.

He tried not to look too closely as Tanaka wandered off, calling over his shoulder about cleaning up the cones before Ennoshita could yell at him about it.

“He’s the same as always, huh?” Daichi said, watching him go.

“Yeah,” Koushi replied automatically.

But what does ‘same as always’ mean?

__

Later, when the first-years began cooling down, Koushi found himself helping take down the net. It was the most troublesome thing to pack away, and yet he always drifted to it — chose the net over putting away volleyballs and towels.

 Tanaka was already crouched by the net post, fiddling with a tight knot.

Tanaka was everywhere these days. More visible than Daichi, even, and Daichi was in his classes.

“Yo,” the second-year said casually. “You think anyone ever invents an easier system for this? Like a one-pull-release thing?”

“You’ve been complaining about this since I met you,” Koushi said, echoing an earlier comment. 

Still, Koushi decided to help, reaching for the top ties.

“And I will every time I have to do this,” Tanaka grumbled, mock-offended.

Koushi reached for the last loop, stepping around to the other side of the post. As he shifted, his eyes flicked toward Tanaka, whose arm had also moved to reach for it. 

Tanaka’s sleeve had ridden up, just a little, exposing a bit more bicep. But that wasn’t what caught Koushi’s attention.

A thin, raised scar sat high on the inside of Tanaka’s upper arm. Angry red, too fresh to be old. Not a scrape. Not the kind of mark left by practice or an accidental knock against the gym floor. No, it was clearly placed in an area hard to notice, an area that wouldn’t affect his spikes too much.

Deliberate.

Clean.

Koushi’s breath stilled.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, eyes fixed for a beat too long, until the sleeve slipped back down as Tanaka tugged the knot free with a victorious grunt.

“Got it,” Tanaka said, standing. “One day I will make this faster, I swear.”

Koushi forced a smile. “You’ll revolutionize the volleyball world.” His voice came out hoarse. Too quiet.

“Yeah,” Tanaka laughed, folding the net. 

Koushi moved automatically. Picked up the nearest stray volleyball. Then another. But his ears were ringing and his hands were shaking and his mind—

His mind was stuck on a funeral four years in the future.

—

It had rained the morning of the funeral.

Not hard, just that cold, steady drizzle that seeped into your sleeves no matter how tightly you wrapped your coat. The kind of rain that blurred windshields and made umbrellas feel pointless. The stereotypical funeral day rain that made you feel like the sky was crying, too.

Koushi stood in the temple, just behind Daichi in the second row, surrounded by too many faces he hadn’t seen in years. Some of their former teammates had come back from university. Noya flew in from Europe. Yachi stood between Kiyoko and Takeda-sensei, hands knotted tightly in front of her, her face pale and unreadable.

There were too many young people. 

The incense hung thick in the air — sticky and cloying. It clung to the folds of his suit and the inside of his throat. He’d stopped noticing the smell after the first hour. Or maybe he’d just gotten too good at ignoring things.

Saeko was seated beside her parents in the front row, back straight, lips pressed into a line too thin to be called a mouth. She hadn’t cried during the procession, nor during the prayers, nor during the moment they read Tanaka’s full name aloud.

But when the priest finished the impersonal, recycled eulogy, Saeko rose.

“I’ll speak,” she said, voice cracking.

The room stilled. Someone moved to guide her to the podium, but she brushed them off.

Koushi watched her walk to the front like her bones weighed double what they should. She was wearing black, but the wrong kind — not tailored mourning clothes, just a plain jacket and slacks. Her hair was in its signature bob, but it was frizzing in the humidity and her roots were showing. She looked wrong. Fractured.

She stared at the crowd for a long moment before speaking.

“Thank you,” she began stiffly. “For being here. I know Ryuu would’ve hated all this attention, but he would’ve also been smug about the turnout.”

A small, brief laugh rippled through the room. Koushi didn’t join in.

“I’m not… I didn’t write anything,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to speak. I thought I’d just sit there and let it be done.”

She swallowed.

“But I can’t. Because this doesn’t feel like something that should just be done.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“He was my little brother,” she said, quieter now. “Loud. Stupid. Obnoxious. But he called me every week. Even when I told him not to. He’d leave voicemails I didn’t listen to until days later.”

There was a tightness in her voice now. It didn’t sound like tears. Just too much emotion trapped behind clenched teeth.

“I should’ve—” Her voice hitched. She stopped.

A silence fell. One too long to be natural.

“I should’ve known better,” she said finally.

Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want this to be about me.”

She tried to smile. It looked sad.

“I hope you’ll remember him the way I do,” she said. “Loud. Annoying. Honest. The kind of person who could scream you into an apology and then buy you a drink for making you cry. He loved harder than anyone I knew.”

She didn’t cry during the speech. She didn’t cry when she sat back down.

She didn’t cry until hours later — after the service, after the interment, after most of the mourners had trickled away. Koushi had lingered at the edge of the parking lot, watching the last of the umbrellas fold away into car doors.

He hadn’t planned to say anything. But Saeko had walked up to him, suddenly and silently, holding a can of black coffee like it was a peace offering.

“I didn’t know who else to talk to,” she said, without preamble.

Koushi blinked, surprised. “About…?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked up at the sky — at the heavy clouds starting to bruise violet with the setting sun.

“I always thought I’d know if something was wrong,” she said. “I figured, y’know… he was mine. My idiot brother. I thought I’d see it.”

The can crinkled slightly in her grip.

“I missed it,” she said softly. “If there was something. Maybe there wasn’t. I don’t know. But I keep thinking back, and I just—”

She stopped herself. Let out a breath.

“I should’ve known better.”

It was the second time she said it that day, but it landed differently now. Like she was trying to fit the pieces together and didn’t like the shape they were taking.

Koushi had said something then — something automatic, even though he didn’t quite understand what she was referencing. That she couldn’t have known. That sometimes things just happened. That Tanaka had always been stubborn. Private.

Saeko had nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

They stood there a little longer, quiet. Then she handed him the coffee and walked away without saying goodbye.

Koushi had watched her go, can warm in his hand.

The next morning, he went back to work. Eventually, the others stopped calling as often. Grief thinned into something quieter. Life moved on.

But every now and then — at the gym, or while watching a match, or in the hum between lesson bells — Koushi would remember that scar in her voice.

The way she said, I should’ve known better.

And he’d wonder if maybe they all should have.

—

“Suga! Get over here, we’re handing out the jackets!” Daichi called.

From inside the storage room, Koushi flinched. His body jerked more than it should’ve at the sound of his name, like he’d been shaken from a dream.

Except it wasn’t a dream. Just memory — old and mean.

His hand was still curled loosely around the handle of a half-broken broom, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. Or maybe at the place where the golden afternoon met the grey of that funeral morning. The incense and the sweat. The sound of Saeko’s voice cracking on something she wouldn’t name.

He blinked. Let out a breath. Right. The jackets.

Get it together.

He shoved the broom — ridden with memories and hurt that were hard to make relevant — back where it belonged and made his way out. The light in the gym seemed too bright now, too sharp against the edges of his vision.

By the time Koushi reached the court, the first-years were already standing in a line, club jackets newly draped over their shoulders. Hinata’s was slightly too big. Kageyama’s was zipped all the way up.

Koushi slipped into place beside Daichi, his movements mechanical.

“As the captain of the Karasuno volleyball team, let me be the first to say — welcome aboard!” Daichi beamed, all warmth and pride.

“Thank you!” Hinata and Kageyama said in unison, loud and eager. Tsukishima stared back unenthusiastically. Yamaguchi looked hesitant but happy.

Everyone around them clapped. The first-years grinned. There was a moment of pure lightness — of excitement and promise. Koushi could feel it humming in the air like static.

But his chest still felt tight.

He clapped along. He smiled. But it felt like the smile didn’t quite reach the skin. Because how could he be happy after knowing the pain Tanaka was in?

Then they scattered again — back to cleaning, folding, packing. The benches had been cleared, balls herded into their basket. Everyone talking over one another. Normal, normal, normal.

Koushi’s eyes found Tanaka across the gym. He was crouched by one of the benches, digging around for a missing towel, muttering to himself about how nobody ever checked under the benches but him.

He looked fine. Lively, even. Just a normal second-year, grumbling about chores.

Koushi’s gaze lingered a beat too long.

Tanaka turned, suddenly meeting his eyes, and grinned.

Koushi startled. Forced a small, crooked smile back. His hands were still at his sides, balled too tightly into fists. He shoved them into his pockets.

When Daichi sighed, Koushi was relieved.

“Well, that settles that. I think. Finally.” Then, Daichi tilted his head. “Suga, you and Tanaka helped out a bit behind the scenes, right?”

Koushi forced a sheepish laugh, “Ah, yeah, a bit.”

Daichi slumped, relieved. “I’m glad it worked out. Thanks.”

Koushi watched Daichi turn away, already calling out instructions about floor sweeping and calming down the first years — Hinata and Kageyama still wanted to practice, the volleyball monsters they were. But Koushi didn’t move. His eyes lingered on Tanaka, the comical exhaustion he was exhibiting upon hearing Hinata and Kageyama still wanted to play.

He looked okay. Happy, even.

But Koushi had seen the scar.

And now, no matter how bright the lights were or how loud the team got, he couldn’t unsee it.

So he stood there, fists buried in his pockets, the ghost of Saeko’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of his skull.

“I should’ve known better.”

Maybe this time, she would.

Lost in his thoughts, Koushi didn’t notice the way Kiyoko was watching him, again.

Chapter Text

Just as the team had finally packed up the gym and were ready to leave, Takeda-sensei, their slightly anxious faculty advisor, came bursting in.

“I DID IT! I GOT ONE!!” he exclaimed excitedly, leaning against the doorframe as he panted. “I GOT US A PRACTICE GAME! NOT ONLY THAT, I GOT ONE AGAINST SEIJOH! ”

Koushi, who was still slightly out of it — a state he’d been in all week, if he was honest, though his recent revelation didn’t help — startled for the umpteenth time. Takeda-sensei’s excited delivery was like a barrelling ram, reminding Koushi that even if he was noticing new things, he was in the past. Life would go on exactly as he remembered. The script was set, the story written — all Koushi was doing was flipping back through the pages.

It wasn’t a very welcome thought.

Koushi tuned in, joining the team’s impromptu circle around the door just as Takeda-sensei finished introducing himself.

“Ah, sorry I haven’t been around lately — I’ve been so busy asking other schools for practice matches,” Takeda-sensei said sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about that! How did you get them to agree?!” Daichi asked incredulously. “Don’t tell me you had to grovel.”

Koushi joined Daichi at the front of their little group, suppressing a smile at Takeda-sensei’s earnest expression.

“Oh no, grovelling is a specialty of mine, but I didn’t have to use it this time!”

“Sensei…” Daichi sighed.

“But… they did have one condition,” he admitted slowly. “If we want to play against Seijoh, you’ll need to place Kageyama-kun as the primary setter for the game.”

Ah right. This. 

Koushi, unlike the rest of the senior members of the team, hardly reacted. Kageyama being a better setter — and being much more passionate about volleyball — was something he’d accepted years ago.

However, Tanaka in particular seemed to burst at the news.

“HUH?! THE HELL? ARE THEY TRYNA DISS US OR SOMETHIN’? SURE SOUNDS TO ME LIKE WE’RE GETTING DISSED!”

Takeda-sensei paled, “No, no, no, I’m sure they meant no disrespect…”

“Don’t worry,” Koushi spoke, firmer than he was sure the rest of them expected. “I’m honestly fine with this. It’s not a chance our team will get often.”

Koushi could feel the shocked glances on his back.

“How can you say that?” Tanaka asked angrily, looking back at him. “ You’re Karasuno’s starting setter, not him!”

Koushi blinked, taken aback by Tanaka’s genuine offense on his behalf. 

“It’s alright, really,” Koushi repeated, softer this time. “It would be interesting, don’t you think? To see how far Hinata and Kageyama’s new attack will get us in a game against one of the best teams in the prefecture.”

Tanaka shot him a frustrated look, clearly holding himself back from saying more. Seeing the respect he obviously had for Koushi was bittersweet.

Daichi, too, seemed to be hesitant, but after a nod from Koushi, he proceeded.

“Sensei, could you please tell us the details?”

After a pause, Takeda-sensei continued. “They scheduled it quite soon — this Tuesday. Their weekends are apparently already booked, and their practices are quite busy, so we’ll only have time for one game. We’ll borrow a school bus to get there…”

Koushi sighed and closed his eyes, the familiar words washing over him.

—

Once the gym was finally, finally packed and the team dismissed, Koushi hightailed it out of there. He was tired of holding himself together — reeling from what he’d seen on Tanaka, yes,  but also because volleyball was the worst part of time travel.

He thought he’d at least be able to play, forget the longing. He thought that volleyball would be the one good thing to come of it.

But it was almost worse in a way. 

It didn’t feel the same. It felt odd, like reading a journal entry of a kindergartener and smiling fondly at the way they poured their heart out, never quite understanding. It made his memories almost feel… tainted.

“SUGAWARA-SAN!”

Koushi paused mid-step, startled. Being forced out of his thoughts was getting old.

Still, he turned around, and met a determined-looking Kageyama in the middle of the road.

“Thanks to that condition or whatever, I was automatically put on the starting lineup, but next time, I’m going to earn it!” Kageyama declared.

Koushi’s eyes widened. “H– Huh?”

Kageyama’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wha–?”

“Oh! Um, I’m flattered, it’s just… I kinda thought you… already had?” Koushi floundered.

Didn’t he? Wasn’t this where it was decided? Fuck.

“H– Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well, um… you’re kind of already more talented and athletic than I’d ever be,” Koushi said, a little uncertain. “I’d never be able to set accurately enough to do a quick with someone like Hinata.”

Koushi hated interacting with the Hinata and Kageyama of now. He hated the stress of knowing their futures, in particular.

“The gap between our experience is not so easily overcome!” Kageyama said insistently, then deflated. “That and… the rest of the team really seems to trust you… and stuff…”

Koushi’s eyes widened. Right. There’s that.

“I’m not going to give up!” Kageyama ended with conviction.

And Koushi? Koushi couldn’t just disrespect the guts it took to make a declaration to a superior like that.

“Good,” he said with a soft smile. “I won’t either.”

Even though he kind of already had.

“BUT SUGA-SAN!” came an exclamation from behind Kageyama — Hinata and Tanaka had caught up. “Are you sure you’re alright with this? ‘Cause I’m not really likin’ it,” Tanaka ended with a frown.

Koushi gave the boy a gentle smile. “Yeah it kinda sucks, but it’s what’s best for the team. And anyway, Seijoh probably thinks Kageyama’s the same kind of setter as before — wouldn’t it be fun to see their faces?” 

“He’s right,” said Daichi, coming outside of the convenience store, holding up a bag of pork buns. “Let’s go and show them that Kageyama isn’t the only one to be afraid of!”

“Ooh pork buns,” Koushi laughed, zeroing in on the bag. “Gimme.”

Daichi snorted, “They’re for everyone.”

Koushi hummed, taking one for himself before handing them out. 

As Koushi was finishing up his bun, discretely watching Tanaka again, Daichi tapped his shoulder.

“Have a minute?” Daichi asked. “I was going to go over positions and ask Kageyama for ideas on where to place Hinata.”

Koushi blinked. “Yeah, sure. Kinda part of my job description, right?”

Daichi shrugged as they both entered the store. “You’ve been a little off recently, y’know? I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m working through it, don’t worry,” Koushi sighed, taking a seat at the table. “Thank you for letting us stay here,” he added, turning to Ukai — Ukai who didn’t know them yet — who was manning the cash register.

“Don’t make a racket,” he grumbled, leaning back in his chair to read the newspaper.

Koushi nodded as Daichi began briefing Kageyama on their original starters.

—

On Monday, Koushi decided to skip school. If Tanaka was really harming himself, well… Koushi had to do something, didn’t he? He just hoped that Saeko would actually be at Sendai University. And that he would have the luck to find her on campus.

This wasn’t his most thought out plan.

Still, two train stations and an outfit change later, he was there. Sendai University. No point in going back.

Koushi stood at the edge of the campus courtyard, trying not to look completely out of place. His plain hoodie and jeans were hopefully neutral enough that no one would look too closely. But, he felt conspicuous — almost a university student himself but too lost to pass as a real student.

A group of university students passed by, laughing loudly. One of them wore their hair in messy pink curls, another had a philosophy textbook open in one hand and a coffee cup in another. 

Koushi was way out of his depth, here.

Just find her , he’d thought. Find Saeko.

But Sendai University was huge , and it wasn’t like he could wander around calling her name. Not without sounding unhinged. 

Still, he had to try.

He headed toward the student centre. It was where people passed through, where he’d maybe — hopefully — catch a glimpse. He was praying for coincidence. Something .

And then, by some small miracle, he saw her.

Tanaka Saeko. Hair short and blunt, ears decorated with piercings, black leather jacket slung over one shoulder. She was talking animatedly with a friend just outside the cafeteria, gesturing with her whole arm. Koushi didn’t recognize the other girl, but that didn’t matter. He recognized her .

God , she looked exactly like her brother.

Koushi’s throat closed.

Now what?

He hovered for a second too long — just long enough for her friend to notice him lingering.

“Yo,” she called, squinting. “You good?”

Saeko turned. Her brow furrowed as she looked Koushi up and down. “Uh… hi?”

Right. Okay. No going back now.

“I’m so sorry,” Koushi said quickly, stepping forward. “I know this is weird. I just… I’m Sugawara Koushi. I go to Karasuno? I’m… I’m friends with your brother.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Tanaka’s Suga-san?” she repeated, surprised. “Wait, you’re the vice-captain, right?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

She crossed her arms, suspicious but intrigued. “What, did he screw something up? Is he ditching practice? What’d he do?”

“No— no, nothing like that,” Koushi said quickly. “He’s fine. I just… I needed to talk to you. About him.”

That made her narrow her eyes. “You came all the way to Sendai University on a school day to talk to me about Ryuunosuke ?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but please. It’s important,” Koushi said helplessly.

A pause.

“Okay,” she said, nodding toward the stairs. “There’s a bench up that way. C’mon.”

With a relieved sigh, Koushi followed her to the bench.

“So?” she said, sipping her iced coffee and sitting sideways on the bench like she owned the entire courtyard. “What’s up with my dumbass brother?”

Koushi hesitated. “Has he seemed... off lately? At home, I mean?”

Saeko’s expression flickered, just a little. “You gonna tell me what this is about, or are we gonna keep dancing?”

Koushi rubbed his palms against his jeans. “I know this is going to sound insane, but… I–” Koushi looked away. It wasn’t an easy thing to say. “I don’t think he’s… okay. I thought I was just seeing things or reading into things that weren’t there but then… I— I saw a cut on his arm at practice on Saturday. It didn’t look like an accident.”

Saeko went very still.

“He doesn’t know I saw,” Koushi continued, not meeting her eyes. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.”

For a moment, Saeko didn’t even blink. She just stared at Koushi like he’d said something in a language she didn’t speak — and then, all at once, like she understood exactly what he meant and hated that she did.

“…You sure?” she asked finally. Her voice was low now. Careful.

“I don’t know,” Koushi admitted, stomach twisting. “It could’ve been something else. I told myself it was a scrape from the court, or— or that he bumped into something. It didn’t look like that, though. I’ve— I’ve never seen them before. I don’t know what they’re meant to look like. But you don’t… get cuts that straight on your inner arm accidentally. I think.”

Saeko stared at the pavement. Her fingers tapped once against her iced coffee, then stilled.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Koushi’s heart thudded. “So— so it has been weird at home?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was rough around the edges.

“He’s been… quiet,” she said. “Not mopey or anything, just— quieter than usual. Not eating as much. Doesn’t joke with me like he used to. Thought it was just second-year stress. Maybe pressure to get into those personal training programs he’s been talking about.” She snorted, bitter. “I told him he was an idiot for worrying about that crap already.”

She ran a hand through her hair, pausing at the back of her head, like trying to hold it in place would keep her steady.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she added.

Koushi nodded mutely.

“But,” she went on, more slowly now, “last week, when I visited, I found a bunch of antiseptic and gauze in the bathroom cabinet. I didn’t think much of it. Thought it was Mum going through a bulk buying phase.”

A lump formed in Koushi’s throat.

“And I’ve seen him rubbing at his wrist when he thinks no one’s looking,” Saeko finished, voice barely audible now. “God damn it , Ryu.”

Saeko let her hand drop from her head, slowly lowering her iced coffee onto the bench between them. She didn’t look at Koushi — just kept staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, like she was trying to outstare the problem into disappearing.

Koushi sat very still. The air between them buzzed with everything she hadn’t said — and everything he couldn’t.

“I don’t know what to do,” she muttered. “I mean— I thought I’d know, y’know? If something was wrong. He talks to me. He always talks to me.”

Koushi pressed his hands together tightly, fingers laced, knuckles white.

“I guess … he doesn’t know how.” Koushi said softly.

That got her to glance at him. Her expression had that same edge Tanaka sometimes got when he was trying not to look too hopeful.

“Would you be okay if I… kept an eye on him? At school, I mean,” Koushi asked, forcing his voice into something even and casual. “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. Just… keep watch.”

Saeko looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time — really seeing him.

“You’re already doing that, aren’t you.”

Koushi’s mouth twitched into something between a smile and a wince. “I’m trying.”

There was a long silence. A bird screeched somewhere over the courtyard. Someone dropped a vending machine can that rattled against the bricks.

Then finally, Saeko sighed. “I won’t tell him we talked.”

“Thank you,” Koushi said quietly.

“He’s not gonna like it if he finds out.”

“I know.”

She looked down at the condensation on her cup, smudging it with her thumb. “Just… if you notice anything else. Anything worse. Let me know, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They sat there for a moment longer — not as strangers anymore, but not quite allies either. Two people holding a secret neither of them wanted, bound by the same fear for someone they both loved.

Koushi stood first. “I should head back. I’ve missed enough classes already.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to skip,” Saeko said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” he admitted, glancing down at himself. “Guess today’s an exception.”

Saeko stood too, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “Even if it’s weird and scared the hell out of me.”

Koushi gave a tight smile. “Thanks for listening.”

“Be careful with him,” she added, her voice softer now. “He doesn’t like people knowing when he’s hurting.”

Koushi nodded once, throat too tight to answer properly.

Then he turned, hoodie still zipped up to his chin, and walked off campus.

—

Koushi ended up skipping his afternoon classes, too, sitting in the corner booth of the convenience store, Sakanoshita. He didn’t even bother pretending to be a customer. He just sat, arms folded on the table, chin resting against his arms, watching condensation build on the inside of the drink fridge.

Ukai, leaned back at the register with a manga in one hand and a cigarette behind his ear, glanced over a few times. He didn’t say anything — just gave Koushi a look that clearly read: You’re not supposed to be here.

But he didn’t kick him out either.

Koushi didn’t have it in him to care. He’d said what he could. He’d done what he could. The rest of the world could keep spinning without him for a few more hours.

The door chimed once or twice with customers. Someone complained about a lack of shiruko at the back. Ukai flipped a page, shifted in his chair, scratched the back of his neck.

The quiet, the fluorescent hum, the faint smell of fish cakes — it all became white noise. Too much.

So Koushi closed his eyes.

—

He’s 22. It’s raining.

He’s in his apartment — messy, dim, a stack of unopened bills on the kitchen table — and the television is still on. He hadn’t meant to watch the news. It had autoplayed after something else.

There’s a reporter standing under an umbrella, lips moving. A blurred street sign behind her. A cordoned-off intersection.

“—was identified as Tanaka Ryuunosuke, twenty-one, a local fitness instructor set to wed his fiancée in three days. According to preliminary reports—”

Koushi didn’t register it at first. Not until they showed the footage.

Security cam. Blurry grayscale. Tanaka walking across a rain-slick street, hood up, shoulders tense. A car turning too fast. The wrong moment. The worst moment.

Koushi dropped his drink. Didn’t even notice. Just stared.

Tanaka didn’t look scared. Not angry. Not anything.Just… tired.

He crossed like someone who didn’t expect to make it to the other side.

And then—

—

Koushi jerked upright on the table, breathing too fast, his heart somewhere in his throat. His hand was shaking.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it. But it was the first time since .

Since this.

Since being thrown back into a world where Tanaka was alive, loud, grinning, still getting overly excited over spiking.

The difference was unbearable.

Koushi scrubbed his palms over his face and tried not to throw up.

Ukai looked over again, mildly alarmed now. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” Koushi croaked, voice barely working. “Just tired.”

Ukai didn’t believe him, but didn’t press. Just muttered, “You kids are all weird,” and went back to flipping his manga.

Koushi leaned forward again, trying to get his breathing under control.

He could still feel it. That split second on the footage — the way Tanaka stepped forward without checking. Not careless. Not oblivious.

Just… done.

It hadn’t made sense, back then. Not Tanaka. Not his Tanaka. The one who threw his whole soul into everything.

But now?

Now Koushi couldn’t stop seeing it.

In every too-loud laugh. Every tight smile. Every time Tanaka brushed his arm like something itched beneath the skin.

He had to do something.

Because Tanaka hadn’t just died that day — he’d been dying for a while.

And nobody saw it.

“Fuck,” Koushi mumbled, looking at his old phone for the time. 

14:58

“Fuck,” Koushi said again, a little louder. 

It was club time.

—

When Koushi entered the clubroom, he was met with Daichi’s unimpressed stare.

“You know, you were never a member I worried about getting pulled off the team for grades or attendance record,” Daichi said dryly.

Unfortunately for Koushi, his words caught the attention of everyone there. Everyone being Ennoshita, Kinoshita and… Tanaka.

Koushi winced at the attention but forced a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Overslept.”

“You overslept through school ?” Tanaka asked, a little too brightly, like he was trying to cut the tension in the room with a butter knife. “Damn, Suga-san. Thought you were the responsible one.”

Koushi managed a laugh that felt like it scraped his throat on the way out. “Guess I’m going through a rebellious phase.”

Tanaka snorted, throwing an arm over Kinoshita’s shoulder as if nothing was wrong. As if he wasn’t standing there with sleeves pushed up, a faint line of gauze peeking just barely from under his sleeve — obvious now that Koushi knew where to look. As if Koushi hadn’t spent the whole day feeling like his world was stuck on a fault line, trembling and too still at the same time.

Daichi’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“Ennoshita, Kinoshita, Tanaka, head to the gym. I need to talk to Suga for a second,” he said casually, but with the kind of firmness that didn’t invite argument.

Tanaka raised an eyebrow but shrugged, grabbing his bag with a lopsided grin. “If this is about kissing up to Asui-sensei again, I’m just sayin’,  you should take him up on that tea date. He looked disappointed when you didn’t, don’t think I didn’t see—”

“Out,” Daichi said flatly, pointing to the door.

Tanaka laughed all the way down the hall.

The moment the door shut, Daichi folded his arms. “So. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Koushi dropped his bag on the table and leaned against it, arms crossed like it might hold him up. “Nothing’s going on.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Daichi said gently.

There was a pause.

The quiet between them stretched — not awkward, exactly. Just full. Of everything Koushi wasn’t saying.

Daichi sighed, stepping closer. “You don’t have to tell me everything. But you’re clearly not okay. You’ve been zoning out for a week, missing sets, showing up late to classes. You’re so quiet now. That’s not like you.”

Koushi stared at the floor. The words crowded his mouth, heavy and choking. Tanaka’s not okay. I think he’s hurting. I think I’m the only one who knows.

But saying it would make it real.

And if he was wrong… If he’d misread it all…

“I saw something,” Koushi said finally. His voice sounded too thin, too far away. “And now I don’t know what to do.”

Daichi’s brows drew together, concern bleeding into every line of his face. “About who?”

Koushi hesitated. His throat locked.

Say it. Just say it.

Daichi waited.

But the image of Tanaka laughing — just a couple days ago, tossing Kinoshita in a headlock, yelling about being the best wing-spiker to exist — slammed against the inside of Koushi’s skull like a warning.

If he was wrong — if he wasn’t hurting — dragging him into this would feel like betrayal.

But if he was right…

Koushi swallowed hard.

“… I’m still figuring out if I’m creating problems that aren’t there,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you when I know for sure.”

Daichi didn’t look satisfied, but he nodded. “Alright. But I’m here. If you need backup. Or whatever else.”

Koushi gave him a tight smile. “Thanks.”

They stood there in silence for another moment, then Daichi clapped him once on the back.

“Let’s go. The team’ll burn down the gym without us.”

Koushi followed, his limbs too heavy, his chest too tight. He still didn’t know what he was going to do.

But he had to figure it out.

Chapter Text

The screen burned white into his eyes in the dark.

Koushi lay on his side, one arm folded under the pillow, the other holding his phone a few inches from his eyes. The brightness was turned all the way down, but it still felt like it was searing through his skull. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

what to do if you think someone is suicidal

He deleted it.

how to help a friend who self harms

Delete.

what if someone is hurting themselves but says they’re fine

The Google results loaded slowly — 3G stuttering painfully at the top of his screen — and the first few links were obvious: “Signs of Depression in Teens” , “Resources for School Counselors” , “Call This Hotline.” A few led to forums. He clicked one.

“You have to be direct. Ask them. Be calm. Be honest. Don’t make it about you.”

But he wasn’t calm. And he wasn’t direct. And he sure as hell wasn’t an adult, not right now. Not someone Tanaka would listen to. The power dynamic all his teachers’ training relied on wouldn’t apply here.

Koushi locked the phone, leaving it face down on the mattress.

The ceiling above him spun. The streetlights from his window, dimmed by his curtains, seemed too bright. His thoughts were loud enough to drown it out anyway.

He should have said something earlier. When Tanaka didn’t even mention the scrapes on his arm. When his laugh had landed half a second too late and Koushi had pretended not to notice.

He rolled onto his back and covered his face with both hands. His skin felt feverish. He hadn’t told anyone on the team. Not Daichi. Not Kiyoko. He hadn’t said anything last night, even after Tanaka left the gym looking too tired, too sharp around the edges the moment he dropped his front. Just acknowledged Saeko’s message saying “ text me if anything’s wrong.”

He kept seeing that version of Tanaka — the one from the future — in flashes. A photo in a news article. A memorial. Ennoshita crying. Daichi's voice breaking as he spoke to an auditorium full of black uniforms. Noya’s face had never been so lifeless.

Maybe it wasn’t suicide. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it doesn’t matter because I still didn’t do anything.

He sat up fast, breath caught in his throat, and turned his phone screen back on.

notes app
new note

TALK TO TANAKA

He stared at it. Then wrote:

“Hey, are you okay?”
“I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Do you want to talk?”

Each line felt wrong. Too blunt. Too generic. Too rehearsed.

He backspaced the whole thing and turned the screen off again.

Outside, a car passed. Inside, everything was still.

Fuck.

He lay back down and didn’t sleep.

—

Though barely making it through the school day was Koushi’s new normal, that Tuesday was arguably his worst so far — other than his first day back, of course.

The classroom buzzed with the usual Tuesday chatter — begging for the weekend to come, last-minute cramming, someone in the back sneezing like they were dying — but everything sounded far away. His eyelids were heavy, throat dry, and the inside of his head felt like static.

He hadn’t even changed his uniform shirt from yesterday. He couldn't remember if he'd eaten.

By last period, he blinked down at the worksheet on his desk and realized he’d read the same sentence three times without understanding a single word.

Next to him, Daichi nudged him lightly with his elbow.

“You okay?” he asked under his breath. A question he’d been asking Koushi a lot lately.

Koushi nodded too quickly. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole thing either.

Daichi gave him a long look before turning back to his notes.

“You don’t have to say that, y’know? I won’t push if you don’t want me to but… whatever it is, it’s not getting better is it?” Daichi asked, completing his worksheet as he did. As if this were a casual conversation when the topic was anything but light.

Koushi didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow, let alone speak. He lowered his head, pretending to write, even though the pen in his hand was shaking slightly.

Daichi didn’t press. He never did. That was part of the problem. He cared too quietly, too respectfully — like if he waited long enough, Koushi would open up on his own.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Because if he opened his mouth now, it’d all come spilling out: the memories, the fear, the warped, sick panic of holding too much knowledge in a too-young body. The guilt of watching someone slowly come apart and not knowing how to stop it.

The bell rang too loudly. He flinched.

He followed the crowd through the halls on autopilot. Someone bumped his shoulder. He mumbled an apology. When he reached his locker, he stared at the door for a full five seconds before remembering his combination. Even then, his fingers fumbled.

He could feel Kiyoko watching from the end of the hall.

She didn’t say anything — she rarely did unless she meant it — but when he turned his head, her eyes met his, steady and unreadable. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, a silent question.

Are you okay?

Koushi gave her a smile he knew didn’t reach his eyes.

He saw hers narrow slightly, but she didn’t call him out. Just locked her locker and walked toward the gym.

—

By the time the team gathered at the school gates to take the bus to Seijoh, the sun was already low and hot in the sky. The match was scheduled late — something about gym availability — but the bus ride would only be about twenty minutes.

Koushi stood near the back of the group, his bag slung over one shoulder, trying not to lean against the railing like he needed it to stay upright.

Tanaka was joking with Hinata, loud and loose and animated. Laughing like nothing was wrong.

But Koushi remembered the way his sleeves had ridden up on Friday. The way he’d looked at the floor.

The way Koushi hadn’t said a damn thing.

He shifted his gaze and stared at the pavement. Someone clapped him lightly on the back. Daichi.

“You’re riding with me, right?” he asked casually.

Koushi blinked at him, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

The team began filing onto the bus, squeezing into rows two by two. Hinata was bouncing with nervous energy. Tanaka snagged the back row and threw his bag down triumphantly. Hinata took the aisle seat next to him. For a moment, Koushi wondered if he should sit there, instead.

He hesitated.

And then—

“Suga,” Kiyoko said quietly, tapping his shoulder. “Sit with me?”

He turned to her, startled. Then glanced at Daichi behind him, who immediately took a detour to sit next to Takeda-sensei in the passenger seat.

 “Oh! Sure.”

The seat felt too warm. The engine growled to life. The bus pulled away from the school.

Kiyoko didn’t speak for the first few minutes. Just watched the streets roll past in the window. Then, without looking at him, she said:

“You’re not really okay, are you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Koushi stiffened. He didn’t reply.

“I know I’m not Daichi,” she continued, voice soft. “So I’m not going to tell you what to do. But… I— we can’t help if you don’t say anything.”

He let out a breath. “I know.”

The lights of a vending machine flashed past the window.

“I’m just scared for someone,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

Kiyoko didn’t respond right away. But he felt her shift slightly beside him. Not pulling away,  just… sitting with it. With him.

Then she said, “Doing nothing might be worse— for both of you.”

He looked out the window too, eyes unfocused, the glass cool against his forehead. The city blurred by.

Then, the sound of Hinata retching and Tanaka screaming for the bus to stop overtook his senses and the moment was over.

—

Seijoh’s gym was just as big as Koushi remembered, with high ceilings and the multiple courts one would expect from a powerhouse private school. Of course, the sight — even from the entrance — overwhelmed Hinata.

“Woah…” Hinata breathed, paling further. “Everything’s huge.”

“It makes sense — they’re a powerhouse school,” Daichi said as they walked inside. “All of Aoba Johsai’s players are above average in attacking and defense. Honestly, each of them could probably be the ace in another school.”

“Their blocking is pretty good, too,” Koushi recalled.

“C’MON, GUYS!” Tanaka said brightly, and Koushi startled. For all that he was trying to be hyperaware of the second-year, in his disorientation, Koushi had managed to lose sight of Tanaka.

“We don’t have to worry about blocking anymore,” Tanaka laughed, slapping Hinata’s back. “That’s what we have Hinata for!” Then, Tanaka got a little softer, just a tad. “… we know you kinda suck though, don’t worry. We’ll cover for ya.”

Hinata brightened. Koushi couldn’t help but wonder if all of that was intentional.

But then Tanaka unintentionally brought Hinata’s mood back down. “Oh! But you’re all alone for serving, don’t mess that up.”

Was that intentional too? To look like an idiot? 

“I’M KIDDING!” Tanaka laughed. “No one cares if you mess up a serve— Huh?! Where’d he go?!”

“To the bathroom,” Koushi informed him, setting up the benches.

“AGAIN?!”

—

Despite the team’s desperate efforts, Hinata was a nervous wreck for the entire first set. He bumped into teammates, ran all over the place and was generally a frantic mess. The set ended just as Koushi’s vague memories told him it would: with Hinata serving a ball into the back of Kageyama’s head.

While Koushi of the past was both worried out of his mind and faintly amused, this Koushi was just focused on Tanaka.

The second-year was playing fairly normally, though casting Hinata the odd glance. He adjusted the sleeve of his jersey a couple times, but that was something Koushi only caught because he was looking. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Koushi couldn’t believe Tanaka was…

He shook his head, looking up just in time to watch Tanaka approach a dejected Hinata after Kageyama’s lecture.

“Listen,” Tanaka started, oddly serious.

Hinata sat on the gym floor, off the court. “Yes sir,” he mumbled to the ground.

“You thinkin’ you gotta play as good as everyone else even though you’re a newb?”

“B– But… if I don’t do well, I'll get benched, and I don’t wanna get benched! I wanna play the whole game!”

Tanaka startled, a frustrated expression overwhelming his face. Koushi tensed at his reaction, ready to get off the bench and step in.

“You… Ya think we’re stupid or something?! You suck. We know that. So what?!”

From beside Koushi, Takeda-sensei mumbled, “Uh… do you think we should step in?”

“Daichi-san knew you were awful before even putting you in!” Tanaka continued, and Koushi had to blanch at the wording.

“But…” Tanaka added. “Well. If you do get benched… Just worry about it then! Quit worrying about stuff ya don’t need to! You’re short on brain cells enough as it is,” he laughed.

Hinata let out a weak laugh.

“Now! Listen up! The thing about volleyball is… everyone on this side of the net is on your side!” Tanaka exclaimed.

“I think… it’s fine,” Koushi finally replied to Takeda-sensei, just as Hinata perked up.

Koushi watched the interaction intently.

“Yeah you suck. Who cares? Bring it on, mess up, get in the way! We’ll cover for ya, ‘cause we’re you teammates and senpais. Go on, call me Tanaka-senpai,” Tanaka laughed.

“TANAKA-SENPAI!”

Tanaka laughed, demanding Hinata repeat himself over and over, until slowly but surely, his nerves were gone.

Because that was Tanaka: a genuine guy that wanted the people around him at their best.

Maybe that was why it hurt so much to realize that Koushi probably never knew him at his best.

—

The next set went by well. Hinata was no longer frantic, putting less pressure on Daichi, Tanaka, and Ennoshita to hit. To the pleasant surprise of everyone but Koushi, Hinata was more of an effective decoy than anyone expected, allowing Karasuno to win the second set.

Karasuno’s side of the gym erupted into scattered cheers, Tanaka whooping loudest of all as he jumped in place and fist-pumped toward the ceiling. Koushi clapped along half a second late. He had seen the whole set — his eyes had followed the ball, registered the movement, catalogued each shift in rotation — but he might as well have been watching the game underwater.

Four days ago, he’d seen the cut. Yesterday, he’d told Saeko. Last night, he’d remembered the footage of Tanaka crossing the street, expression so dull it was like he’d already left the world behind.

Now, Tanaka was laughing. Smiling. Screaming with Hinata about crushing the next set.

Koushi blinked, heart thudding too hard.

How?

How had Tanaka managed to keep this up for so long — the noise, the energy, the convincing grin? How could someone exist like that and also carve a line into their own arm with enough anger and self-loathing to leave a scar?

How had no one noticed?

“TIME FOR A VICTORY COMEBACK!” Tanaka cheered, Hinata echoing his words. 

Koushi swallowed and turned back to the bench. His hands were clammy, his breath short. The air felt too thick.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head: red on pale skin, a smile that cracked at the edges. And the awful, spiraling thought that had burrowed into him since yesterday and wouldn’t let go. Koushi didn’t want to jump to conclusions but he saw the empty look on Tanaka’s face as he crossed the street without looking.

His death could have easily been—

“OIKAWA-SAN!”

The shriek rang out like a firecracker, and the crowd surged — students scrambling to the railings, girls giggling behind their hands, a few boys shouting Oikawa’s name like they were invoking Buddha.

Karasuno’s side of the gym wasn’t much better. Even Daichi tensed. Ennoshita swore under his breath.

And Tanaka—

Tanaka was scowling at the sight of Oikawa, glaring and muttering angrily about all the girls squealing his name. As if everything was normal and he was just jealous. As if Koushi didn’t just come to the most awful conclusion not even a week ago.

Koushi couldn’t breathe.

The cheers were too loud, the lights too bright, the floor too solid. It was all moving — the timeline, the match, the crowd — and he was stuck, stranded, useless.

Oikawa stepped into the gym, all confidence and charisma and inevitability.

Of course he was here. Of course everything was still happening the way it always had.

Koushi’s stomach flipped.

“I need—” he muttered, to no one, and was already turning, already walking.

Past Kiyoko. Past Tanaka. Past Daichi’s startled glance.

He didn’t stop until the gym door shut behind him.

And then he was in the hallway, the light colder, the sound dulled — but his heart was still racing. His hands still shaking.

Bathroom.

He needed a sink. Cold water. A mirror that might tell him what the hell he was doing.

—

The bathroom was too bright.

That was Koushi’s first thought as he stumbled in, the echo of the gym still ringing in his ears. Harsh fluorescent lights bounced off the tiles, sterile and cold, as he leaned over the sink and braced himself with trembling hands for the second time in just as many weeks.

His heart was still racing.

He wasn’t sure if it was from Oikawa’s entrance or from the thoughts that had been looping in his mind since the second set ended. Maybe both.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, letting it drip onto his Karasuno jacket. The shock of it helped. A little.

He exhaled hard.

Pull it together.

In the mirror, his face looked pale. Tight around the mouth. His eyes felt older than the ones staring back.

“You’re not supposed to be like this,” he muttered. “You’re the adult.”

But the image wouldn’t leave him — Tanaka, grinning, jumping, cheering, so loud and so alive .
And underneath it: the scar. The look before he stepped into traffic. The possibility that it wasn’t just an accident.

He gripped the edge of the sink.

“He’s going to die,” Koushi whispered. “He is going to die. And everyone’s just clapping and cheering. Like everything’s normal.”

A drop of water hit the porcelain with a slow plink.

Somewhere in his tangled knot of thoughts, Kiyoko’s voice surfaced.

“Doing nothing might be worse — for both of you.”

At the time, Koushi hadn’t said anything in response, but now her words really sunk in. Maybe saying he was observing, being careful, not trying to spook Tanaka — maybe that was cowardice.

He looked back at his reflection. His breath still came a little unevenly, but the panic had dulled into something harder. Heavier.

“You know now,” he said aloud, voice barely above a whisper. “So do something.”

Koushi dried his face with a rough paper towel.

He still didn’t know exactly what he was going to say to Tanaka. But he knew he couldn’t watch and wait anymore.

Chapter Text

The streetlights flickered overhead as Koushi’s team trudged toward the parking lot, shoes scuffing the pavement. The shock of a win against Aoba Johsai, even without their captain, was enough to have them buzzing. 

Koushi followed at the back, Daichi by his side. He knew that Daichi was getting tired of his crap, but he hoped the shock of winning would buy him some time. 

It didn’t.

“Okay,” Daichi said suddenly, when he was sure the team was distracted. “ Seriously . What is going on with you?”

Koushi blinked. “Huh?”

“You dipped in the middle of the game, Suga. It didn’t even look like you could breathe when Oikawa walked in.”

Koushi opened his mouth, then closed it. Of course Daichi noticed. He always did. And clearly, Koushi was exhausting his patience

“I got overwhelmed,” he said, after a beat too long. It wasn’t exactly a lie.  “I’m fine now.”

Daichi gave him a look that clearly said bullshit .

“That’s the fourth time in two weeks that you’ve been weird,” he said instead, voice low. “The second time you’ve had to leave to panic.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying you’re fine, but—”

“I said I know ,” Koushi repeated, sharper than he meant to. Then, softer, “Just… not now. I think I’m getting there, okay?”

Daichi hesitated, concern written all over him. Koushi could feel the questions stacking up in his friend’s head — and the restraint it took not to ask them yet.

“Okay,” Daichi said finally. “But I can’t keep letting this go.”

“I know,” Koushi murmured.

Ahead of them, Oikawa was leaning against the fence near their bus, all lazy confidence. Upon noticing him, the first-years tensed. 

Immediately, Tanaka stepped ahead, “What d’you want, huh?” Tanaka snarled. “Lookin’ for a fight?!”

Hinata latched onto the back of Tanaka’s jacket, peeking out from behind the second-years shoulder, and from the back, Koushi could see the way Tanaka had tensed. It was only for a moment, only because Koushi was watching so closely that he even caught it. But it was there.

It could’ve been from surprise. It didn’t have to mean anything. But Koushi had learnt to trust his gut . Unfortunately, they were in public, so he couldn’t do anything just yet.

“Oh c’mon, you don’t have to be so hostile. I just came by to say hi,” Oikawa said to Tanaka cheerily, oblivious to Koushi’s internal turmoil. Then, his eyes swept over the rest of the team, zeroing on Hinata. “That last block and broad jump attack of yours was really amazing, shorty.”

Hinata startled, rubbing the back of his head bashfully. Tanaka seemingly relaxed, watching Hinata grow comfortable.

“I only got to play against you for the last couple of points today, but next time, I’m hoping I’ll get to see you from the start.” Then, Oikawa glanced at Tsukishima. “Oh! But I’ll work on my serve too, okay?”

Clearly, Koushi was missing something because everyone scowled.

“You guys have an awesome offense, but everything starts with a solid receive. If you can’t do that, how far do you think you’ll really get? I’m not the only nasty server out there,” Oikawa said lightly. “The Inter-High Qualifiers are just around the corner, so don’t get eliminated too soon, ‘kay? I’d love for a chance to defeat my cute, adorable and utterly despicable little kouhai over here in an official game~”

“W— WELL, WE’LL PRACTICE OUR RECEIVING, TOO!” Hinata stammered, grabbing a disgruntled Tsukishima by his sleeve.

“Receiving isn’t something you can get good at overnight. I’m sure your captain knows all about that,” Oikawa said airily, turning away.

Daichi tensed. Koushi wordlessly took his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

“You really don’t have much time before the tournament starts,” Oikawa said cheerfully, walking back to Seijoh’s entrance. “I, for one, can’t wait to see what you’ll do.”

There’s a beat of tense silence.

“U– Um! Don’t pay attention to him, Daichi-san,” Kageyama stammered. “He’s always loved to mess with people like that.”

All of a sudden, Daichi laughed.

“Captain?!” Hinata yelped.

“Yeah… the Inter-High Qualifiers are coming soon,” Daichi hummed. “But that also means it’s time for him to come back.”

Koushi’s eyes widened. He’d almost forgotten about that.

“Him?” Hinata asked curiously.

“Karasuno’s Guardian Deity,” Daichi replied ominously.

A ripple of excitement went through the team. Hinata bounced on his toes. Even Kageyama looked interested.

“We still have other team members?” Kageyama asked Koushi quietly, leaving Hinata’s side when he got a little too explosive in his excitement.

Koushi gave him a rueful glance, thinking back to the circumstances that led to Nishinoya’s suspension. High school really was dramatic, wasn’t it?

 “Yeah. A couple.”

Kageyama’s eyes widened and Koushi smiled faintly, letting the rest of the team get swept up in the talk of Nishinoya’s return. But his attention drifted sideways, back to Tanaka, and Koushi’s smile dropped.

He wasn’t saying much now, just standing with his hands jammed in his pockets, watching the younger players with an unreadable expression. That too-wide grin from earlier was gone. So was the flash of fright he’d had when Hinata had latched onto his back.

Koushi hated how he was reading into everything now. He hated how it wasn’t hard to believe anymore. That someone like Tanaka could be hurting. That he could be hiding it so well.

“Everyone!” Takeda-sensei called from the bus, waving his arms frantically. “The vice-principal will be upset if we’re late! Let’s go!”

Koushi broke from the group, letting go of Daichi’s hand, and made his way toward the bus, catching the side of Tanaka’s sleeve as the second-year moved to sit in the back again.

“I’m sitting with you,” Koushi said quickly. Not a question.

Tanaka blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m not gonna deal with Daichi quizzing me the whole way home,” Koushi added, waving vaguely over his shoulder, like this was all for convenience’s sake. “You mind?”

There was a flicker of surprise — or maybe hesitation — on Tanaka’s face, but it was gone fast.

“Nah, I don’t mind,” he said. 

They sat in silence for a while, buckling their seatbelts and waiting as Takeda-sensei took attendance.

Once the bus got onto the main road, Tanaka gave him a sideways glance, brow furrowed with genuine concern. “I know you just said you don’t wanna deal with questions, but seriously… you okay, man? You missed the whole last set.”

Koushi looked at him. Not just at him — through him, almost, like he was trying to read all the things Tanaka wasn’t saying.

You’re asking me if I’m okay.

And Koushi didn’t know how to answer that — because no, he wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay since he woke up in the past. He’d barely been able to breathe through the last four days. Every time he blinked, he saw that flash of red on Tanaka’s arm. Every time Tanaka smiled too easily, laughed too hard, Koushi felt like he was standing on a trapdoor, waiting to fall through.

But Tanaka didn’t know that. He couldn’t. Not yet.

So Koushi forced a breath. Let it out slowly. Managed a half-shrug.

“…Just spaced out a little. Sorry for worrying you.”

Tanaka frowned but didn’t push. “It’s cool,” he muttered. “Everyone gets in their head sometimes, I guess.”

Koushi stared at the seat in front of him.

Yeah. But not everyone makes themselves bleed to survive it.

He clenched his hands in his lap, willing them to stop shaking. The truth was sitting heavy behind his ribs. Kiyoko’s voice echoed in his head again:

“Doing nothing might be worse — for both of you.”

He swallowed hard. That knot in his chest had been there since Sunday. Since he saw those scars.

Since he knew .

You know now. So do something.

Koushi turned his head, just enough to see Tanaka quietly scrolling through his phone beside him, his face half-hidden by the shadow of the seat in front of them.

He made a decision.

—

The gym lights flicked off behind them one by one as Daichi and Koushi locked up after a quick debrief. The sharp clack of the doors locking echoed. 

Outside, the air was heavy. The sky had turned a bruised grey, clouds dragging low. Karasuno’s court felt far away now — it belonged to a different version of them, one still glowing with adrenaline and noise, not the one silent with exhaustion in the countryside at night.

Koushi spotted Tanaka just ahead, leaving the club room with his bag slung over one shoulder. Alone.

“Uh, you go on ahead, Daichi,” Koushi said quickly. “I need to talk to Tanaka.”

He hastened his pace, running toward the club room before Daichi could respond.

“Tanaka.”

Tanaka turned, surprised. “Suga-san?”

Koushi hesitated, then forced his voice steady. “I need to ask you something.”

There was a pause. Tanaka tilted his head, brows drawing in — wariness creeping in where humor usually lived.

“…Okay?”

Koushi’s throat felt dry. “Please don’t lie.”

Tanaka blinked. “What, are you in love with me or something?” he joked, flashing a crooked grin. “It’s okay, I don’t discriminate!”

Koushi didn’t smile.

“I saw the cuts,” he said quietly. “On your bicep.”

The world stilled. Even the crickets seemed to hush. Tanaka didn’t move.

Koushi took a breath, willing his hands not to shake.

“I saw it,” he repeated, sounding uncertain despite himself. “And— And you seemed hurt or something today. You flinched when Hinata grabbed you. I… I’ve been trying to ignore it. But I don’t think I should.”

Tanaka’s entire posture changed — shoulders drawing up, jaw setting.

“What? That?” he scoffed, too fast. “It’s nothing. Got elbowed weird in practice, is all. And the cut’s from weight training. The bar slipped.”

“It looked like it was healing for weeks,” Koushi said. “Not days.”

Tanaka’s eyes darkened. “Why are you even watching me that close, huh? That’s messed up.”

“I think you’re hurting,” Koushi said, trying to keep his voice gentle, free from accusation. “I just… I want to help.”

Tanaka took a step back. Koushi didn’t follow.

“ Please. I need to know if you’re safe.”

Something in Tanaka’s face cracked.

For one moment — one second — he looked cornered. Small. Like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then his expression shuttered over again.

Koushi hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it did. He hoped that didn’t mean there was more to this than self-harm.

“You don’t know anything,” he snapped. “Stay out of it, Suga-san.”

He turned fast, storming down the path toward the main gate. The wind kicked up, rustling the trees. Thunder rumbled low in the distance.

Koushi stood frozen despite the threat of rain, his heart pounding, the afterimage of Tanaka’s face burned into his vision.

Fuck me.

He reached for his phone with numb fingers.

To: Saeko
I think it’s worse than I thought.

—

Koushi stared blankly at the open page in front of him.

His pencil rested uselessly against the margin of his notes. The chalkboard might as well have been a wall of static. Around him, students murmured and passed papers, but the classroom felt strangely far away — like he was watching it all through a thick sheet of glass.

He hadn’t slept.

His body was here, but his mind was still back in yesterday, in the hallway outside the clubroom, replaying Tanaka’s expression again and again. The shuttered anger. The way he’d stormed off without looking back.

He kept cataloguing things. Not on purpose. His brain just wouldn’t fucking stop.

•  Tanaka dodges contact unless he initiates it.
• He’s only invited people over when his mom’s out.
• His tone gets sharp when he's pushed — but only when it’s personal.
  
  

He gripped his pencil tighter. His fingers hurt.

When the bell rang, he startled so hard his eraser fell to the floor.

—

The wind was cool but sharp on the rooftop, tugging at Koushi’s sleeves. He sat against the wall, bento untouched in his lap, legs drawn up, the sun casting long shadows across the concrete.

He hadn’t meant to end up here, but the cafeteria had been too loud, classrooms too claustrophobic. And he didn’t want to see Tanaka. Not yet.

He’d only been alone for a few minutes when the door creaked open behind him.

Despite Koushi’s best efforts, Daichi clearly caught up to him.

“I had a feeling you’d be up here,” Daichi said finally. “You always hide in the most stereotypical places when you’re not okay.”

Koushi forced a smile. “Guess I’m predictable.”

Daichi didn’t smile back. “You haven’t eaten. Again.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Funny,” Daichi said. “You said that yesterday. And the day before. You said that the day school started. And the nights leading up to the three-on-three. And considering the way you barely ate your lunches after the Date Tech matches, I’m taking that as a sign you’re not okay.”

Koushi flinched. Clearly he hadn’t grown much in eight years. At least his coping mechanisms didn’t.

“It’s been five times in two weeks, now, Suga. Five times in two weeks that you’ve been so out of it I’ve had to take notes for you. And I don’t mind doing it, but I do mind how obviously badly you’re in your head right now.”

“I know.”

“No,” Daichi said, and his voice cracked slightly — the edge of anger, or fear, or both. Koushi wasn’t sure. “You don’t know. You keep pretending this is fine. You keep pretending you’re fine. And I’ve been trying to give you space, but—”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

That stopped Daichi cold.

Koushi immediately looked down, ashamed.

“I— Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. “I just… I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have a name for it.”

“You don’t need to give me a name.” Daichi’s voice was gentler now, but tight. “You just have to let me in. Let someone in. You’re scaring me, Suga— Koushi . You don’t have to tell me everything, but you need to stop refusing help.”

The use of his given name hit harder than it should have.

“I wish I could,”  Koushi said, barely audible. “I swear I do. But it’s not my secret to tell. It— It’s worse than I thought, and it’s really delicate, Daichi. If I fuck this up, it’ll be bad . I’m working with their family on it, though. I’m not doing this alone I just— If I tell you I think it’ll be worse.”

Daichi pulled back slightly, studying him. “Is it… about someone on the team?”

Silence.

Koushi’s eyes flicked to Daichi’s, then away.

“Shit,” Daichi breathed. “It is.”

“Please don’t guess,” Koushi said quickly, voice cracking. “Please don’t ask. Not yet.”

Daichi didn’t press, but the air shifted. Heavy with the unspoken.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Okay,” he said. “ Okay . I won’t ask. But you need to hear me, Suga.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Daichi continued, steady now but hoarse around the edges, “but I’m watching one of my best friends come apart at the seams and not let me do anything about it.”

“I know.”

“I keep thinking—what if this was me? Or Asahi? Or anyone else. You’d be the first one banging on my door telling me to eat, telling me to get help, dragging me into the nurse’s office if you had to.”

Koushi swallowed hard.

“But you won’t let anyone do that for you.”

“I can’t,” Koushi whispered. “Not right now.”

Daichi’s fists tightened against his knees. “You keep saying that. And I get it, I do. I trust you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. Because this thing — whatever it is — has you walking around like your body’s here but your mind is stuck somewhere else. And the worst part is, I think you’re not the one who’s hurting the most. But you’re acting like it’s your job to carry it anyway.”

A long silence stretched between them. The kind that made even the wind feel loud.

Then Koushi said, “It is my job.”

Daichi turned to him sharply.

“I mean… know it’s technically not,” Koushi said quickly. “I know . But it feels like… if I don’t do something, no one will. And then if something happens— if he—” He broke off, breath catching.

And Daichi understood, then. He understood just what Koushi was trying to stop. And he could read into Koushi’s recent interactions with everyone well enough to take a guess of who it was, too.

Daichi didn’t speak for a long time.

The rooftop wind tugged at his hair, making the silence feel longer, sharper. He didn’t ask. He didn’t name names. But Koushi could see it anyway — the way Daichi’s hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. The way his eyes had gone distant and sharp at once, like his brain was piecing together a puzzle he never wanted to solve.

But when he finally spoke, it wasn’t with accusation. Or panic. Or demands.

It was with care.

“You’re not alone in this, okay?” Daichi said, voice quiet but unwavering. “Whatever’s happening… whoever it’s about… you’re not the only one who wants him safe.”

Koushi blinked fast, throat tight.

“I’m not asking you to tell me anything you can’t,” Daichi went on. “I meant what I said. I trust you. If you say it’s delicate, then I’ll believe you. But I need you to take care of yourself too.”

Koushi let out a breath that sounded more like a shudder.

Daichi looked over at him, eyes soft but lined with something deeper — fear, maybe. Or grief.

“You’re still a person, Koushi,” he said. “Not just a fixer. Not just someone holding the world together with duct tape and sheer will.”

Koushi gave a broken laugh, something close to a sob. “Tell that to my brain.”

“I am,” Daichi said gently. “And I’ll keep saying it as many times as you need.”

He shifted a little closer, nudging their shoulders together.

“I don’t know what you’ve seen. But if it’s anything close to what I’m starting to think… I’m scared too,” he admitted. “For him. And for you. But right now, I’m choosing to look after the person in front of me.”

Koushi stared at his knees.

“You haven’t been sleeping— don’t lie , I know you haven’t. You’re not eating. You’re zoning out in class and leaving practices as early as you can, but I saw you through my window, walking home late the other day. You’re carrying something so heavy it’s pulling you under, and I’ve watched you drown in silence for over a week now.”

Koushi’s breath hitched.

“So let me hold part of it. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me be here, okay? Let me worry about you. Because someone has to. And you’ve done more than your share.”

A tear slipped down Koushi’s cheek before he could stop it.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” he whispered. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You won’t,” Daichi said firmly. “You’re doing the best you can. And I’m going to make damn sure you don’t fall apart in the process.”

They sat like that for a while — quiet, shoulder to shoulder, as the breeze rolled across the rooftop.

Eventually, Daichi reached over and gently took Koushi’s bento.

“I’m not asking you to eat all of it,” he said. “But three bites. Just three. And I’ll stop nagging for today.”

Koushi let out a watery laugh and nodded. “Three bites,” he agreed hoarsely.

And he took them.

—

The school day dragged like a limp limb behind Koushi. But for the first time all week, the weight on his shoulders felt a little more bearable. Like Daichi’s words hadn’t just been air — like maybe, just maybe, someone had reached through the fog and anchored him back to earth.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

That feeling lasted exactly until he opened the clubroom door after class and saw Tanaka standing there, already changed into his practice clothes.

Their eyes met. And just like that, the ground tilted.

Tanaka didn’t look angry. Or scared. Just… distant. His body was here, but his presence wasn’t. That version of him — the one that barked encouragement across the court, who charged into every match like it owed him something — was nowhere in sight.

Koushi took a slow step forward, the door creaking shut behind him.

“Tanaka,” he said softly.

No answer. Tanaka adjusted his kneepads with practiced efficiency, expression unreadable.

“I’m not trying to push you,” Koushi tried again, voice low. “I just—after yesterday, I was hoping we could talk. Even if it’s not everything. Just a little.”

That got a reaction. Tanaka’s hands stilled.

Then he looked up, sharp, too-calm. His voice was cold.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

Koushi blinked.

Tanaka stood, shoving his duffel bag toward the bench with more force than necessary. “Don’t ruin everything,” he said. “You get that? I’m fine. I’m doing fine. Don’t fuck this up for me.”

Koushi froze. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just—”

“You think I don’t know how people will look at me?” Tanaka’s voice was still quiet, but colder than Koushi had ever heard. “You think I don’t get how fast everything I’ve worked for could disappear?”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t know,” Tanaka snapped, finally meeting his eyes. There was something in his expression that made Koushi flinch — fury, yes, but layered over a desperation so raw it made his stomach twist.

“You have no idea what it costs to be me. So stay out of it.”

And just like that, he was gone — stalking back toward the court with his jaw set and his fists tight.

Koushi stayed in the clubroom. The hum of the vending machine outside filled the silence. He stared down at the floor, at the scuff marks on his sneakers, at the water bottle that trembled slightly in his hands.

Don’t ruin everything.

The words rang in his ears, echoed in his body. Koushi forced himself to relax his tense fists. He changed into his practice clothes mechanically, not looking up when Daichi entered, but still waiting for him to get ready when Koushi was done.

From the silence and the timing of Daichi’s entrance, Koushi guessed that Daichi had an idea of what happened.

They walked together to the gym, neither of them saying a word until they catalogued just who was inside. 

Nishinoya . He really was back.

“Noya!!” Tanaka exclaimed, just as Daichi and Koushi entered, tackling the libero in a hug. No one would have connected this Tanaka with the one that snapped at Koushi moments earlier.

But Daichi and Koushi exchanged a quiet glance, their smiles tight and small. Relief curled in their chests, but it was tangled with the weight of everything else they were carrying.

Nishinoya’s return was a light in the dark, sure — but for them, it didn’t chase away the shadows. Not yet.

Daichi nodded once, softly. “He’s back.”

Koushi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he whispered. “He’s back.”

Daichi glanced at Koushi for a moment, making sure he was okay before addressing Hinata and Kageyama — the only other people in the gym this early.

“Hinata, Kageyama, this is Nishinoya Yuu, a second-year. He’s our libero.” Daichi said.

The two first-years looked at Noya curiously… and then Hinata put his foot in his mouth.

“WOAH! HE’S SHORTER THAN ME!”

“SAY THAT AGAIN TO MY FACE, I DARE YOU!” Noya glared. 

Watching Nishinoya seamlessly interact with the team, Koushi couldn’t help but smile. He’d forgotten just how much the libero brightened everyone’s spirits. But of course, it didn’t last.

“Anyway, where’s Asahi-san?” Noya asked with a grin, once he settled in. “He’s back, right?”

Koushi stilled, taking a breath. From beside him, he felt Daichi do the same. They shared a glance.

I forgot just how much that Date Tech match meant to all of us.

“No,” Koushi said finally, meeting Noya’s eyes.

Noya’s jovial expression turned harsh in a flash. “THAT SPINELESS COWARD!”

Tanaka jerked up, bristling. “Don’t talk about our ace like that!”

“SHUT UP!” Noya shot back, the snarl in his voice sharp enough to cut. “Ace or not, a coward’s a coward!” He turned, already moving toward the door, his steps quick and heavy. “I told you, I’m not coming back until Asahi-san does!”

And just like that, he was gone — as sudden as he’d arrived, leaving the gym still vibrating with his absence.

—

Eventually, Noya comes back because of something or the other Hinata said to convince him to help Hinata with his receives, but Noya maintains that he’s not joining the team until Asahi does.

Daichi moved differently today. He laughed when the first-years bickered over whose toss was worse, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His glances toward Tanaka were fleeting but pointed, his voice pitched softer than usual when calling out to him. He didn’t push — not yet — but there was a new precision in how he watched, cataloguing every flicker of expression.

Koushi stayed quiet, his hands busy with setting drills. But in the back of his mind, the club room confrontation replayed itself — Tanaka’s voice, cold and trembling, the warning in his eyes.

Don’t ruin everything.

Well, Koushi didn’t say a word, but Daichi seemed pretty certain about it anyway.

Tanaka, for his part, seemed determined to outplay the shadow hanging over him. He dove for impossible saves, called loudly for balls he didn’t really need to take, and grinned wide enough for the whole gym to see. But it was too clean, too practiced — a performance for an audience that didn’t know they were watching a show.

Koushi didn’t clap when Tanaka landed a particularly good spike. He didn’t trust himself not to give something away.

When Hinata and Kageyama switched to receiving practice, Koushi drifted to the sideline, watching Daichi block against Tanaka. Daichi was holding back — not physically, but in the way he didn’t trash talk, didn’t bait Tanaka the way he might on a normal day. He was treating him like glass.

Tanaka either didn’t notice or refused to notice. He kept his grin plastered on, kept swinging hard, kept shouting “Nice one, Captain!” every time Daichi blocked him.

But Koushi could see the way his shoulders dipped when he turned away.

By the time the last whistle blew, the whole team’s energy felt wrung out, even though the drills hadn’t been that intense.

They packed up in the same silence they’d started with.

Tanaka was out the door first.

Koushi lingered by the bench, coiling his towel into his bag. He felt Daichi’s eyes on him before he looked up.

“Get some rest,” Daichi said. It wasn’t a request.

Koushi nodded. 

—

Koushi didn’t get any rest. The moment he was alone, he pulled out his phone.

To: Saeko
I confronted him.
I think I made it worse.
I don’t know what to do.

Minutes stretched. No reply.

He tried again, words tumbling out in fragmented bursts, too anxious to form proper sentences. The sky outside darkened as night crept in, and the room’s silence grew louder with each passing second.

Finally, a response came.

From: Saeko
Meet me at the café near Sendai University after practice.
I’ll be there.

Chapter Text

The café near Sendai University was small and dimly lit, the kind of place Saeko liked — tucked away from the main street, with enough noise from the espresso machine and the steady hum of conversation to make any silence between words feel natural instead of awkward. She sat in a corner booth, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing. Her leather jacket was tossed over the seat beside her, hair tied up messily with a red scrunchie. A cigarette itched at the back of her mind, but it probably wasn’t the best idea to smoke right in front of a high-schooler. Not very ‘responsible older sister’ of her.

She spotted Suga the second he came through the door. He looked like hell. Not the kind of hell that comes from pulling an all-nighter before exams, but the kind of exhausted hell that clung to your bones. He scanned the room quickly, spotted her, and made his way over with that polite little smile he probably didn’t even realize was fake.

The weirdest thing Saeko had noticed about him last time was how old he felt. Somehow, today he felt even older.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. His voice was low. Tired.

That… probably didn’t bode well for the rest of their conversation.

“Yo,”  She leaned back, stretching her arms over her head. “You look like hell. Should I be worried?”

That got a faint huff of laughter out of him — clearly forced. “Uh, yeah, probably.” Suga looked off to the side. “Look, something’s up.”

Her joking expression softened immediately. “Yeah? He still…?” 

She didn’t finish the sentence. No need. They both knew what she meant.

Suga’s eyes were sharp, scanning her face for a beat before he started talking. And once he started, it was like a dam breaking.

He told her about the little things he’d been noticing — how Ryuu had been quieter than usual, how his jokes didn’t quite land the same way, how his eyes had a certain… flatness when he thought no one was looking. How his temper had gotten shorter, how his instinctual response to a greeting was a snap— before he took a breath and was back to normal.

Then he told her about the confrontation— about catching him alone, about asking if he was safe. About the way Ryuu had looked at him, the blank denial in his voice, and the way he’d walked away like Suga was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing around his head. “It’s worse than I thought,” he’d texted her that night, and Saeko had responded with a desperate denial, a “maybe it’ll get better, let’s wait and see.”  Now, hearing him say it out loud, it carried a weight that made her chest tighten.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong,” Suga said, his hands curling around his coffee cup like it was the only thing tethering him to the table. “It’s not just low self-esteem— I’ve seen the way he deals with people targeting him on the court, he’s stronger than that. And it’s too consistent for it to just be bad days. I’ve… I’ve— they’ve warned us about this at school before. The way he flinches sometimes. The way he freezes when someone gets too close. The way he… zones out.”

She didn’t say anything yet. Just kept her eyes on him, steady, letting him finish even though every goddamned word made her want to scream and cry.

“I think,” Koushi swallowed, “I think someone’s hurting him.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and awful.

Saeko didn’t respond right away. Instead, she leaned back, letting her head hit the wall behind her, and stared up at the ceiling. Her brain was moving faster than she could keep up with, flipping through years of memories, trying to find the one that connected all the dots. Her fingers drummed against her thigh, restless.

And then it hit her.

The thought was so absurd, so vile, that her first instinct was to laugh. And she did— sharp, humorless, almost ugly. “Oh, fuck me.”

—

Saeko was five when she first realized Mom wasn’t like other moms.

Not in the ways that would’ve been fun, like letting her eat ice cream for breakfast or staying up late to watch TV. No, her “different” was sharper. Meaner.

She was controlling in ways you couldn’t see from the outside. Which was how she liked it. To the neighbors, she was polite. Smiling. Her hair always perfect, her voice always pitched just right. 

Inside the house, Mom was awful— raising her voice at the slightest of mistakes, pitching fits over the way Saeko tried to dress herself (but never helping Saeko, never). 

Still, Saeko loved her. Mom could be soft, after all. Kind. Loving. All Saeko had to do was close her eyes.

Every night for as long Saeko could remember, she would lay on her futon, curled beneath the thin quilt, staring up at the ceiling where the pale light of the moon spilled through the cracked paper sliding door. The world was hushed, the silence thick enough to press on her chest. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but inside, the house held its breath.

Then, if she waited long enough, she would feel Mom touch her. Soft, gentle. It was nice, almost. It made Saeko feel loved. Special.

It was just a touch — a simple caress — but so exciting. Fingers tracing along her bare arm, fingertips sliding down in a way that was soothing. Saeko’s skin prickled under the coldness, a strange tingle spreading through her body she didn’t know how to name. It was like electricity, buzzing just beneath the surface, making her heart race and stomach twist in knots. 

It was so overwhelming it made Saeko want to open her eyes, to turn onto her stomach, but she didn’t.

The hand moved with slow deliberation, fingers drifting lower, to the hem of her baby pink Hello Kitty pyjama top, and then under. Saeko slowed her breathing— she remembered something about people sleeping breathing deeper from school when the sensei was scolding a boy for being awake during naptime. Her body felt warm as the hand on her stomach went lower and lower.

The tips of her fingers twitched, but she kept them still. She didn’t want Mom to know she was awake. If Mom knew, maybe she’d get angry. Or maybe she’d stop. And Saeko didn’t know which would be worse.

Her eyes stayed shut, lashes pressed tight, the darkness behind them pulsing with the beat of her own heart. The quilt felt heavier than before, trapping the heat under it, trapping her.

The hand on her stomach was warm now, the way something gets warm just from touching skin for too long. It moved in slow circles, lazy like it had all the time in the world.

It didn’t feel as nice now. The tingly feeling at the bottom of her stomach was too much, overwhelming. She wanted it to stop.

Saeko focused on the sounds in the room. The faint tick of the clock in the hall. The rustle of Mom’s sleeve as she shifted. The almost-silent sound of her own shallow breathing. If she thought hard enough about those things, she could pretend the rest of it wasn’t happening.

The circles got slower, lower.

Saeko bit the inside of her cheek, the faint taste of iron blooming on her tongue.

She couldn’t help it. She rolled over.

Mom tried to keep going for a moment, and Saeko began to thrash, hoping that Mom would blame it on a nightmare.

The hand moved away. Saeko stilled. 

She didn’t move until she heard the creak of the floorboards and the sliding door shutting again.

—

It happened again. And again. Sometimes weeks would pass between, sometimes only days. 

Saeko wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The tingly feeling was nice sometimes, and she began imitating Mom’s actions herself, but it always got to be too much too soon— the sort of overwhelming that made her cry. Sometimes, even though it felt wrong, Saeko craved it. She would take “naps” on the couch, go to bed early, just to feel the tingly feeling again.

She always regretted it when it became too much. 

By the time she was twelve, she’d perfected the art of “sleeping” through it. She learned to keep her breathing steady, her hands limp, her face slack.

Then one afternoon at school, she felt a strange wetness when she stood from her desk. She thought she’d spilled juice or sat in water, but when her teacher called her quietly to the side, her voice careful and kind, the truth came out.

“Sweetheart, I think you’ve started your period,” the teacher said, placing a cardigan gently around Saeko’s waist before leading her to the nurse’s office.

Saeko’s face burned. She hadn’t even noticed the stain. She mumbled an embarrassed “oh” and followed. The nurse gave her a pad and a thin book wrapped in plastic: Growing Up and What to Expect.

Later, alone in her room — the door open because Mum didn’t allow it closed — she read it cover to cover. It talked about hormones, mood swings, body hair, menstruation. Then there was a section on sex; clinical words, simple diagrams. Kinds of touch. Where it was “supposed” to happen. What was “normal” between two consenting people. How to be safe. 

Some parts sounded a little too similar — a little too familiar — for Saeko’s comfort. But it couldn’t be true. Mum couldn’t be doing … sexual things to her, right? It must be a normal mother-daughter thing. 

Right?

So she stayed quiet. And she let it keep happening. She lay “asleep” while Mom’s hands wandered, while her voice dripped those awful words Saeko pretended not to hear. Words about how she was “special,” how she “belonged” to her.

Sometimes Mom would guide Saeko’s hand where she didn’t want it to go, whispering things in a tone that made her skin crawl. Saeko stayed limp, because limp meant it ended sooner. Limp meant she could leave her body behind for a while.

—

For almost a year, Saeko clung to the idea that it was normal.

That maybe all mothers were like this behind closed doors — gentle in public, special in private. That the too-similar touches in that puberty book were just… coincidence.

But the thought never really left her. It sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and wrong, even when she tried to bury it. And one day, when her brain wouldn’t leave it alone, Saeko picked up the book again — she’d never returned it, just slammed it shut when she made the connection and threw it across her room, letting it lay under her bookshelf.

Saeko read and read, hoping something would mention the similarities of sex and what mothers did to daughters while they slept. 

It didn’t.

What it did mention was the concept of consent. Boundaries. How they were crossed. How anyone could cross them. How any boundary crossed was assault. 

Saeko sat there on her futon, the book still open in her lap, the last page staring back at her like it was written in blood. She read it again. Again. 

The words blurred.

Consent. Boundaries. Anyone can cross them. Anyone .

It was like the air had been punched out of her lungs. The meaning fell into place all at once — ugly and sharp, slicing through every excuse she’d clung to. Every moment she’d told herself was normal, motherly, even loving, shattered in an instant.

Her throat closed, a sob climbing up fast, threatening to tear its way out. She clamped her hand over her mouth, biting down on the side of her fist so hard she could feel the faint grind of teeth against bone. Her chest shook, the sound caught in her throat, trapped there until it burned. Her eyes blurred with hot, unrelenting tears that spilled anyway, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto the crinkled page.

She wanted to curl into herself and disappear. She wanted to scream until the walls caved in. But Mom was home — she’d hear, she’d come in, and she’d ask why. And Saeko could never answer that question.

Not now. Not anymore.

God , how was she supposed to face her mother with the realization that the one woman she should’ve trusted to protect her, hurt her more than anyone else she knew?

Saeko didn’t get more than thirty seconds to fall apart.

Her chest still ached from holding back the sobs, her mouth tasted faintly of blood from biting her fist, and her eyes were raw and swollen when she heard the familiar creak of the front gate. The muffled sound of Ryuu’s laughter drifted in, higher-pitched and brighter than anything she’d felt in days. Kanoka’s voice followed — cheerful, saying goodbye before her footsteps padded away down the street.

Panic surged. She swiped at her face, wiping the tear streaks onto the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pressing her hands to her cheeks to rub warmth into the blotchy skin. She couldn’t let him see her like this. Ryuu noticed things — maybe not all the things, and definitely not all the time, but enough to make her careful.

The sliding door rattled open, and she heard his sneakers scrape against the genkan floor.

“Saeko-nee? I’m home!”

She forced her voice into something steady. “Welcome back, Ryuu. Wash your hands.”

Ryuu chattered about Kanoka’s new bike as he walked past her room, the words bubbling up like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. Saeko closed the puberty book quickly, shoving it under the futon. She straightened her back, plastering on the same easy, lazy grin she always gave him, even though her stomach was still twisting and her heart felt like it had been split open.

The smell of stale air in the house told her Mom hadn’t bothered with dinner again. Papers always took priority— the clicking of Mom’s keyboard from her home office was proof she hadn’t even thought about food. It was the same every night she didn’t stay at the actual office late.

Saeko moved into the kitchen on autopilot, pulling vegetables from the fridge, filling a pot with water. The motions were muscle memory by now — chop, rinse, stir, taste — but every clink of the knife against the cutting board felt like it was holding her together. It gave her something to do, something to hide in.

When she set the food down, Ryuu dug in immediately, legs swinging under the table as he talked about volleyball practice. She smiled when he looked up at her, laughed in the right places, kept her hands busy collecting his empty plate when he finished. All the while, the realization from earlier sat in her like a lead weight, heavy enough to crush her if she slowed down for even a second.

—-

That night, she lay “asleep” in her futon when she heard the soft pad of footsteps approach. Her breathing slowed. Her muscles went slack. She could smell Mom’s shampoo before she felt the hand again.

Even after the pages in that book stripped away every last excuse she’d clung to, she let it happen.

She was some kind of sick in the head, wasn’t she, for letting it happen. God . 

It was the same as always — slow, careful, deliberate. Fingers on her arm, then under her shirt. Sometimes higher, sometimes lower. Sometimes Mom would guide Saeko’s hand into her clothes, curling her fingers until they were somewhere she didn’t want to be, whispering into the darkness about how “good” she was, how she “belonged” to her. The words slid into her ears like oil, leaving her skin crawling under the quilt.

She stayed still, because still meant it ended sooner. Still meant no questions, no consequences she couldn’t predict. She didn’t know what would happen to her — or to Ryuu — if she said something. If she reported it like the book told her to. 

What if they didn’t believe her? What if they took Mom away and she and Ryuu got separated? What if no one wanted them? What would happen to Ryuu’s friends? He’d only just managed to find his footing in school, to stop getting in trouble for his aggressive nature and make friends and a team in volleyball.

What if they had to move? Leave everything behind?

So she let it happen. Again. And again. 

She fought her instincts, lay limp until it was second nature, and didn’t think about it.

___  

Really, it was an irony only Tanaka Saeko could fully appreciate — the split screen of her life, the sharp line between school and home.

By high school, she was chaos personified. She fell in with the loudest kids, the kind that teachers eyed warily in the hallway and told the “good” students to avoid. She laughed too loud in the back row, feet kicked up on the desk, daring the teacher to call her out. She was quick with her fists if someone tried to push her around — though most didn’t bother. 

No one wanted to pick a fight with Tanaka Saeko. Not unless they were growing tired of keeping all their teeth.

She drank often, sometimes showing up to class with the faint burn of cheap vodka already warming her chest, hidden in a beat-up water bottle she’d refill in the bathroom between periods. She’d sneak cigarettes behind the gym or on the walk to school, blowing smoke into the cold morning air and pretending it didn’t make her dizzy. She was the girl parents warned their kids about. A bad influence. Wild. Untouchable.

But at home, she was none of those things.

At home, she was the model sister. She kept her voice down so Mom wouldn’t snap. She washed the dishes without being told. She listened to Ryuu’s endless stories about volleyball practice, nodding and smiling in all the right places. She was understanding. She was patient. She made herself small, soft-edged, unthreatening.

And when the house went quiet, when the shoji doors slid open in the dark and Mom’s footsteps padded closer — she was still. Always still.

She still let it happen. Every time. The careful, deliberate touches. The whispered things she pretended not to hear. It didn’t matter how much she roughed around at school— at home Tanaka Saeko was quiet. The moments when Mom would guide her hands to places she didn’t want to go went unfought. She stayed limp under the quilt, breathing slow, because stillness meant it ended sooner. Stillness meant no confrontation, no questions she didn’t know how to answer.

She told herself it was better this way, repeating her mantra:  Speaking up might ruin everything — might tear her life and Ryuu’s apart. Maybe they wouldn’t believe her. Maybe they’d take Mom away and scatter the two of them to different homes, different cities. Maybe Ryuu would lose his friends, his team, the first good thing that had happened to him in years. The fear sat in her stomach like a knot she couldn’t untangle, so she didn’t.

She let it go on.

For years, she lived in that split life— wild and dangerous at school, docile and compliant at home. She wore her rebellion like armor in public, but at night, she lay in silence, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, waiting for it to be over.

And then, one humid September afternoon, it was.

She carried two suitcases up the narrow dorm stairs at Sendai University. The room was small — just a single bed, a desk, a window cracked open to the sound of traffic. But no roommate.

She set the suitcases down, closed the door behind her, and realized, in a dizzy rush, that there was no chance of footsteps coming down the hall tonight. No quilt that would get heavier with the weight of another body leaning over her.

The thought hit her so hard she had to sit down on the bed.

And then she was crying. Not just a few tears, but great, wracking sobs that clawed their way up from somewhere deep inside her. Her whole body shook with it. Her chest ached, her throat hurt, her eyes burned. She pressed her palms into her face, but it didn’t stop. She cried like she’d been holding her breath for years and finally — finally — someone had told her she could breathe.

It wasn’t grief, exactly. It wasn’t joy, either. It was relief, sharp and overwhelming, tangled up with all the fear and shame and anger she’d swallowed for so long.

She cried until her voice went hoarse, until her shoulders ached from shaking, until there was nothing left in her but the sound of her own uneven breathing in the quiet dorm room.

And for the first time in years, she could fall asleep without pretending. Because, here, Mum couldn’t touch her.

__

Memories, unwanted, flew through Saeko’s mind, and there really was no doubt about it. If— If Ryuu’s Suga-san was reading the signs right — and for some reason, Saeko couldn’t find it in herself to doubt him — then there really was only one person that could be hurting her baby brother like that.

Her eyes filled with unwanted tears.

“I left him there,” she whispered.