Chapter Text
Renjun is completely and utterly humiliated by Na Jaemin in the autumn of their freshman year.
Both Hongik University and Hanyang University’s teams had placed in the top 4 during last year’s collegiate primaries, so neither of them are technically playing in the first day of the Gyeonggi-do Provincial Qualifiers, but when they run into each other outside the gymnasium, nobody is surprised. They’re both there for the same reason: to scope out the competition. Renjun feels several sets of eyes scan over him, evaluating, curious, and a little bit predatory. He knew this was coming—knows he looks too scrawny to be playing on a team like Hongdae’s.
It's not like this is new to him. Renjun picked up a volleyball for the first time at eight years old. That was before he even understood the game at all. Back when he was even scrawnier than he is now, even for his age. “Maybe you’ll grow into it," his father had said, optimistic. He’d played it back when he was younger, the same way all the men in their family did, up until college. “Your cousin was about your height when he started, too.”
Sicheng had grown into it, all long legs and corded muscle. But Renjun never quite made it there, though his fingertips grew calloused, the pale skin on his forearms stopped bruising, and muscle grew where there was once none. No matter how many hours he put in after practice that never seemed to change. Over the years, he'd grown to accept it.
So he's used to the stares and what they mean. Sometimes, they mean I feel bad for him. Sometimes, they mean what is he even doing here, sometimes they mean this is going to be too easy, a lot of times they mean something worse altogether. It’s just another card for them to play—underestimating him, underestimating his team. If they’re not careful about it, Renjun will eat them alive on the court. What he lacks in natural ability he makes up for tenfold in time and commitment. But it takes a discerning player not to just write him off immediately.
Still, it's hard not to be nervous when you're being sized up by one of the best collegiate volleyball teams in the country, let alone their province. Renjun keeps his eyes looking forward, killing the urge to look down even under their heavy gaze, and fiddles with the sleeves of his uniform jacket. It’s still unaltered and too long for his arms. The number seven sits on the back of his jersey, like a brand. His lucky number. It’s due to luck, and luck alone, that Renjun’s even going to get to play in this tournament as a first-year, though it feels terrible to call Kunhang’s college volleyball career-ending ankle injury luck. Under normal circumstances, he’d be warming the bench with Shotaro and Yangyang, the other first-years. But these are not normal circumstances.
Renjun watches as Taeyong and Kun exchange handshakes and pleasantries with a shorter, smiley man, and a taller, even-more-smiley man.
Moon Taeil, opposite hitter, Captain, and Seo Johnny, middle blocker, Vice-Captain, Yangyang explains next to him. Like the nerd that he is.
“How do you even know all that?” Renjun whispers, in hushed Mandarin. Shotaro shoots them a curious look from where he’s standing, just a couple feet away. “Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Stalker.”
“It’s called doing research, Renjun, maybe you should try it too, considering they’re the top pick to win the Qualifiers this year.” Yangyang whispers back. “And it’s not stalking, all this information is in Monthly Volleyball.”
Right. Renjun doesn’t particularly care for Monthly Volleyball. It’s a trashy publication, really, because why should he care about the profile of some random kid from Bucheon and what his favorite type of bread is just because he happens to be a little bit good at a sport at the college level? He says as much to Yangyang, who looks at him like he’s just shat in his private collection of Yeezys.
“Okay, first of all, that kid’s name is Baekhyun, and he’s more than just a little bit good at volleyball, I heard he might even be selected for the South Korean national team. To play in the U23 World Championship,” Yangyang says, which is really not helping the whole stalker vibe he’s giving off. Renjun bites back the childish urge to tell him so. “Second of all, they just did a profile on that first-year setter of theirs, and he’s standing right in front of us, so you might wanna pay attention. They’re calling him a genius, or something.”
Right in front of us is an exaggeration if Renjun’s ever heard one. He’s hanging around in the back, and he would barely look like he’s part of the team at all if not for his seafoam-green-and-white jersey. Renjun’s heard of him, because he doesn’t live under a fucking rock. He’s something of a local celebrity, this Na Jaemin. But this is his first time seeing him in person. He has a lazy, almost subdued air to him. By the looks of it, he’s one of the taller members of the team, dwarfing their captain easily. It’s not noticeable, though, because his shoulders are hunched so far over that he looks several inches shorter than he should.
Absolutely abysmal posture, Renjun thinks, and unconsciously stands up straighter. Most noticeable of all is his hair, bleached blond with a shock of blue running down his bangs right in the middle. In Renjun’s opinion, he looks like an idiot, though this opinion is clearly an unpopular one, and not at all shared by the gaggle of girls that trail at his feet who chatter and giggle whenever he so much as breathes in their direction.
“Genius, huh,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Renjun hates that word.
Na Jaemin yawns. Renjun wonders if he always looks like he wants to go home, or if it’s just when he’s in the presence of people he considers to be below him.
“Hi,” Yangyang says loudly, always too friendly for his own good, and Jaemin directs his attention to them. Renjun wishes he was standing next to literally anyone else right now. “Jaemin, right? We’re first-years too, My name’s Yangyang. It’s nice to meet you, although technically we’ve met before: my team played yours in high school and got our asses handed to us!”
“Ah,” Jaemin says, his voice friendly but alarmingly empty, and it is immediately clear to Renjun that he neither remembers Yangyang, nor particularly cares about who Yangyang is. “Yeah, nice to meet you guys.”
Shotaro nods politely and introduces himself in turn. Renjun stays purposefully quiet and scuffs the rubber soles of his Mizuno Wave Lightning Z6s into the ground. When he looks up, Jaemin is staring at him, eyes deceivingly sharp. Renjun looks back at him, but there's something unnerving about him in particular—Renjun can't quite figure out what this specific gaze means. He suddenly feels like he’s not covered enough, and zips his jersey all the way up to his chin.
“What?” he asks, probably not as polite as he could’ve been. It’s a good thing Taeyong’s still too occupied with the other captains to notice he’s not exactly the picture of good sportsmanship.
Jaemin doesn’t look offended though, just keeps appraising him with a strangely heavy gaze. “You didn’t introduce yourself.”
“Oh,” Renjun says, antagonistic by default. “Kind of presumptuous to assume I wanted to introduce myself to you, isn’t it?"
Renjun immediately receives a pointy elbow to the gut (courtesy of Yangyang) and a panicked look (courtesy of Shotaro) for his troubles. He turns on his heel and walks away right as Kun calls them over—the second match is already starting on Court B, and whoever wins will play them tomorrow.
“That was kind of rude, you know,” Shotaro whispers, eyes darting nervously between Hanyang’s team and theirs.
"Yeah, seriously," Yangyang says. "You must genuinely hate him, or something, but maybe try not to make enemies before you've even played in your first official game."
“I don’t hate him,” Renjun looks away. “I just don’t like him. There’s no reason I should have to like our rivals.”
Yangyang hisses, “Well, he’s staring at you,” and Renjun shrugs.
“Let him,” he says, and presses forward.
No one is surprised when they end up playing each other in the semifinal match.
Their first rotation puts him right in front of Jaemin at the net. Jaemin looks surprised to see him, and Renjun can’t exactly blame him for it, as much as it stings. Renjun’s only standing on the court because of a freak accident. Jaemin earned his spot. The admission makes his blood boil. Sicheng-gē always tells him he’s too competitive for his own good. Renjun always tells him he’s exactly as competitive as he should be.
“Good luck,” Jaemin says to him, his smile too wide to be considered genuine. Renjun only sneers at him in response.
As always, Hanyang’s defense is near air-tight. Renjun had been warned of this fact in the same conversation they’d told him he would be playing in the qualifiers, but it’s still different to see them play in person, instead of through their break room tv screen. All the players are impressive in their own way, but Renjun keeps his eyes trained on Jaemin, follows the clean line of his movement as he moves his arms up and the arc of the ball as it flies into Johnny’s hand. God fucking damn it, Renjun thinks, as he sets the ball across the court to Yuta in a long-timed setup. Of course his form is perfect. Of course it is.
Renjun subconsciously crouches down a little more when it comes around to being Jaemin’s turn to serve. It wouldn’t normally be a setter’s job to worry about a receive—he’d go for the second touch instead and leave the rest to his teammates. But Jaemin’s serve apparently has a nasty sort of spin to it, and though Yuta would normally cover him, Renjun’s the best at digging these types of serves. You’re gonna want to cut his jump serve off at one if you can, their coach had said during their meeting. So I want everyone in serve-receive. Better to just get the ball over the net than let him rack up points. Easier said than done.
This is a rotation that’s light on defense, having just lost Ten, but they have three attackers in the front. If they’re going to try and widen the points gap, it might as well be now. Jaemin ambles a few steps from the end line and turns back around. With so much ease it’s almost terrifying, he throws the ball up, a flash of blue and yellow before it connects with the middle of his palm and is sent flying onto the sideline, directly next to Renjun. The referee’s arm swings down. It’s in.
“Jesus christ,” Ten says, in the distance. And if even their libero is saying that, it’s not looking great for the rest of them either.
The rest of Jaemin's teammates are absolutely losing their shit. One boy jumps on his back, sending him toppling to the ground before the ref gives them a warning glare. Jaemin’s smiling as he passes around high fives, but the reaction is more than a little subdued for someone who just scored a no-touch ace. Renjun can’t quite understand it. There’s something relaxed about the way he plays—so efficient it could be considered lazy instead—not a single step out of line, no superfluous or unnecessary movement. He’s all easy smiles and downward-sloped shoulders. It’s infuriating. Would it kill him to break a sweat, at least? Renjun feels like he’s six feet in the deep end and struggling to keep his head above water. Jaemin, comparatively, looks like he’s cruising down a fucking lazy river in a floatie.
They take the first set, 26-24.
“You’re tense,” Kunhang tells him, before the next one.
It’s not a judgment, just a fact. Renjun knows he’s on edge, knows he’s not playing his best today. He tries not to stare at the Ace bandage wrapped taut around Kunhang’s ankle and nods, accepting a water bottle from Shotaro.
“You’re focusing too much on their setter. You’re not competing against him, your team is competing against his team. There’s a difference.”
“I know,” Renjun says, but he doesn’t, because isn’t he competing against Jaemin? If Hongdae wins, Renjun wins. If Renjun loses, Hongdae loses. It’s all the same.
He flashes a peace sign behind his back at Mark as they walk back to the court on opposite sides—left side back row attack. Hanyang is being overly conscious of Yuta right now, who scored the majority of their points in the first set, and who is usually the focus of their opponent’s attention anyways. There’s something about his demeanor that makes him capable of filling up an entire gymnasium on sheer presence alone. So Yuta’s good, especially as a decoy, but there’s a reason Mark will be the one taking up the mantle of ace when Taeyong graduates. If Renjun can get the ball to him, Mark will make it count.
The boy who’d tackled Jaemin earlier attempts a jump serve, too, but doesn’t make it over the net. Thank god, because that one would’ve definitely taken out Renjun’s arms from sheer force alone if he tried to touch it. Renjun makes a mental note—number twenty-three, Lee—he’ll be a problem next year once he has more control over the direction of his serves. Ten rotates in, and it becomes a little easier to breathe.
They manage to limit Mark to just two serves, so then it’s back to Hanyang, whose captain sends the ball sailing over the net right to the middle of the court—no nonsense, just straightforward. It’s not clear if Taeil is just going with a just-get-it-over-the-net strategy because number twenty-three had overshot and failed or if that’s just how his playing style is. Ten bends his knees to receive it easily, bringing it above Renjun’s head with a perfect A-pass.
Renjun darts his eyes forward from where he’d dashed to the net, scanning the opposite court for holes in their defense. He reaches his hands up and sets the ball to Mark, already making his run-up. It feels good leaving his fingertips, solid, and Renjun’s already strategizing the next play when the whistle blows. Two pairs of hands—Jaemin’s and Johnny’s—loom over the net, still stretched out, when Renjun looks back up. The ball drops to the floor, a dull thud ringing in Renjun's ears.
They shouldn’t have been able to make that block. Renjun had checked—they hadn’t been there two seconds ago, so why?
All he can do is stare as Johnny slaps Jaemin on the back with a laugh and a resounding good job calling that, and Jaemin does nothing, just stares back at Renjun like he’s studying him under a microscope. Renjun realizes—Oh. He’s been read like a book. There’d been four good possibilities just then: Mark coming up the middle for a slide, Jungwoo in the front, jumping for the broad, Renjun doing a setter dump, or a C-pass into a quick to Taeyong, on the left. Jaemin’s seen right through him.
Did he see that Taeyong’s approach was a second too late to pull off a quick? Did he see Renjun glance in Mark’s direction? Could he tell from the angle of Renjun’s set that—
“Renjun,” Mark is saying, a hand on his shoulder as he gently leads him into place. “It’s time to rotate.”
“How did he know?” Renjun asks lowly. “Was it— was it obvious, or something?”
Mark gives him a sidelong glance before squeezing his arm. “No, you were fine. It was probably just a lucky guess. Don’t overthink it, okay?”
Except Renjun does overthink it, because he overthinks everything. Jaemin reads him, over, and over, and over again, and the more Renjun’s setups get blocked the worse he gets. It’s frustrating. He knows he’s getting sloppier by the second, frustration clouding his judgment like an endless loop of negative feedback. And still, he can’t do anything about it. When he closes his eyes, opens them—Jaemin’s hands are there, blocking him off.
Renjun writes off the possibility of it being luck after that.
“It’s okay,” Taeyong tells him, when Hanyang wins the second set, 25-22. Renjun wipes the sweat from his brow bone and tries his best to believe his captain. “It was close. We’ll take the next one.”
They do not take the next one. And it’s not close. 25-16. Nine fucking points.
Three of those points are from the three aces Jaemin had scored off him in a row.
"Renjun. We have to line up," Kun is saying to him, voice low. He claps him on the back, but Renjun can barely process it, replaying the last five minutes over and over again in his head at double speed until he's dizzy with it. "Come on, chin up. You should know better than anyone else that nothing in volleyball is ever just one person's fault."
Except the last point had been, Renjun wanted to say back. The longest fucking rally of his life, probably, and it had all ended because Renjun was late to the receive and couldn't get it to Jungwoo properly. By the time the ball had left his fingertips, there was already a triple block on him. So yeah, it was Renjun's fault, and he can't help but wonder—if only he'd moved a little faster, been a little harder to read—would it have been different then?
Jaemin is still fucking staring at him when Mark finally leads him into place (again). Renjun thinks maybe he was wrong, just now. Maybe it’s not a matter of being faster, or harder to read. If he'd been born with longer arms, longer legs, or a physique that didn't seem ill-suited for sports, that would've made a difference. Renjun never had a chance from the start in the face of overwhelming natural talent. Genius. What an unfair word. Renjun takes Jaemin’s offered hand, watches his own palm disappear under his.
Jaemin opens his mouth, then closes it, like he wants to say something but isn’t quite sure of what to say. He finally settles on, good game, still with the undecipherable gaze. It just serves to piss Renjun off even more, and he pulls his own hand back like he's been burned.
But not good enough, though. Renjun swallows the words. They feel like acid going back down his throat. He turns on his heel without another word and skulks back to fall in step with the rest of his team, already packing up to leave the court.
"I changed my mind," he mumbles into Shotaro's shoulder much later, on the bus ride home. Shotaro looks at him, questioning. "I think maybe I do hate him."
🏐
Volleyball Monthly
Player Spotlight: Na Jaemin
Kim Seulgi, Associate Sports Editor
Name: Na Jaemin
Height: 177cm
Age: 19, 1st Year
College: Hanyang University
Position: Setter
Standing Reach: 237.6cm
Jumping Reach: 323.0cm
Vertical Jump: 93.4 cm
Favorite Type of Bread: Milk Bread
The newest player causing a stir on the collegiate volleyball scene is Hanyang University first-year, Na Jaemin. At just nineteen years old, he's caught the attention of other teams and volleyball fans alike for his poise under pressure, quick-decision making, and excellent technique. There have been eyes on him since high school, when he was voted best setter at Nationals while playing for Songlim High School.
"You decide how to run your offense base on the quality of your setters, not your hitters," Hanyang University Coach Lee tells us. "Was it a risk to build our offensive strategy around using a first-year student as our primary setter? Yes. Did it pay off immensely? Absolutely, yes. Jaemin's technical skills more than make up for his lack of experience. Half of the time, he's the one masterminding the strategy on the court. I think the results speak for themselves in terms of his capability as a setter."
And speak for themselves, they do. Hanyang University not only won the National Sports Festival this last month, they defeated Seoul National University's team in an upset in the finals with straight sets. We recently got the chance to ask Jaemin a few questions about volleyball, and his perspective on the sport.
Q: How long have you been playing volleyball for? How did you get started?
A: Almost seven years now. It's not a very exciting story, though! I had to pick an after-school activity in middle school, chose volleyball on a whim, and I haven't stopped since.
Q: Very serendipitous. On that note, some people have been calling you a "genius" — and we can't blame them! How do you feel about the label?
A: Well I'm flattered, first and foremost. Though I think the connotation of it can be problematic. After all, no amount of success can be attributed to natural talent alone, right? Working hard is always a choice.
Q: That's true. With the Provincial Qualifiers coming up this weekend, we have to ask: Are there any games or matches this season that have stood out to you as being memorable?
A: Not particularly! Every match is memorable in its own way. Though with volleyball, after you've played a certain amount of matches, it starts to feel somewhat repetitive. Same motions, different order.
Q: Finally, do you have any tips for players who may be looking to emulate your success?
A: Be born with it, maybe? No, I'm kidding. Work hard, and the results will follow. Good luck.
🏐
His first year flies by, just like that. Renjun doesn’t get a chance to redeem himself, because they’re getting a first-year genius setter of their own, and after that, there’s no time to wallow in self-pity.
“The team needs you, you know.” Kun says to Renjun on the day of their graduation ceremony. The even if you aren’t actually playing on the court goes unsaid. “Make sure they don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone, okay, vice-captain?” He’s passing the mantle to him. It’s not common for a second-year to become vice-captain. But Ten couldn’t since he was Libero, and none of the third-years had wanted it, and Renjun truly shuddered to think about what would befall the team if either of them took up any responsibility. Jungwoo, because he was sort of just like a clumsy, well-meaning puppy who accidentally caused problems sometimes, and Yuta, because he was the type of person who enjoyed causing problems on purpose as much as he possibly could. Mark and the rest of the team had been insistent, and so Renjun had accepted.
“I will,” Renjun promises.
Taeyong pats Renjun’s head, fond. Renjun is reminded of the first time he’d met Taeyong, and how he’d thought wow he’s so pretty, wow he’s so nice, wow I can’t believe I get to play volleyball with someone like him. He wonders if it’s possible that he could be that for someone else.
The fourth-years move on quietly, Taeyong off to grad school and Kun back to China to play for the CVL.
“We’re going to run a 5-1 system,” Coach Zhang says to their team, and Renjun pretends not to notice the weight of his teammate’s gazes on him. Heavy. Yangyang tries to squeeze his shoulder, and Renjun flinches away from the touch.
5-1. Five hitters, one setter. They all know it won’t be him.
It makes sense. Having one setter creates consistency in leadership—they control the team’s core offense. Jisung isn’t a strong enough attacker—yet—for them to justify running a 6-2 system. He would be playing as right-side hitter half the time, a waste of his actual talent when he could be spending the entire game as setter instead. And Renjun is not talented enough to offset that loss.
So as much as Renjun wants to be—he is not selfish. He knows Jisung is better for their team, and that he will still get chances to play, especially now that his jump floater serve is finally starting to come together. It would be a mistake to let his pride get in the way of that. Jisung is their best chance at winning the collegiate championship, and he’s so cute that not even Renjun is capable of resenting him. Not when he’s always following him around like a baby chick despite the fact that he has more talent than Renjun does by a long shot, saying, hyung hyung hyung would you like to practice our tosses together hyung what do you think of this can you give me any tips hyung let’s have lunch together in his sweet little voice.
“Elbows down,” Renjun tells him during a practice. “You’re too tense. If you’re sloppy with your form, it’ll be easy for the opposition to read who you’re setting to. During the semifinals last year, Jaemin—”
Jisung sighs. He toys the ball around in his hands. “I don’t even know who Jaemin is, hyung. I mean, I’ve watched the game, because you sent it to me like a million times, but I don’t get what’s so special about it. Or him, really.”
“It’s been a year,” Ten says, like Renjun isn’t perfectly aware of that fact. “Don’t you think you’ve been hung up over that particular game for long enough?”
“I am not hung up,” Renjun insists.
Yangyang pauses in the middle of his cooldown stretches. “I’ve seen you watch the recording of it, like, a million times at this point. You’re hung up on it.”
“Shut up,” Renjun whispers poisonously. “Or I’m going to tell Jungwoo you’re the one who spiked that ball into the back of his head the other day.”
“What I meant was of course you’re not hung up on it,” Yangyang amends. “It’s totally normal to obsess over someone you’ve played once a year ago and then never saw again, except through your laptop screen, on a recorded video you asked your cousin to get for you.”
So maybe Renjun’s hung up on this one particular loss. Maybe it’s not normal for him to keep asking Sicheng to use his contacts to get Renjun recordings of Hanyang’s games. That doesn’t make it obsessive. Yangyang said it himself. He’s just doing research.
“Hyung,” Jisung calls out. Renjun gets pulled back into the moment. “Look here, what do you think of this?”
“You really don’t resent him, not even a little bit?” Yangyang asks later, in the club room. He’d waited for Renjun after practice while he practiced serves, alone, until his palms were bright red and his calves burned. His regular practice time had been taken up by practicing with Jisung. It’s a twisted sort of irony that’s not lost on him—Jisung is the one who took his spot, and Renjun’s the one spending all his time helping him improve. The gap between their skill levels is only continuing to grow. Renjun isn’t sure he’ll ever catch up. “You’re sure? I mean, he’s cute, but I’d probably still be a little pissed if I were you.”
Renjun slides his jersey off, shoves it into his locker. Yellow is his favorite color, so he’d been pleased when he came to Hongdae and saw their uniforms. Recently he’s just started associating it with the feeling of loss. But does he resent Jisung for it? “No, I don’t,” he decides, and pulls on a clean t-shirt over his head. “And the team still needs me anyways.”
“Sure,” Yangyang says. “But don’t you think you deserve to be a little selfish for once, too?”
What Yangyang doesn’t understand is that this: all of it, really, is Renjun being selfish. His drive to win is as much about the love of the sport as it is about wanting to prove that he—not his team, even—that he, Renjun, is better than Jaemin, even if it’s through a proxy. But even just thinking about admitting that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, so he says none of it, slams the locker door shut.
“Come on,” he says, without answering the question. “It’s getting late. Psychoanalyze me another time.”
The walk back to the dorms feels longer than usual. He asks Yangyang about his oceanography class to fill the silence, listens to him babble about rising sea levels and marine life ecosystems until they’ve reached their destination.
He discards his bag by the door, turns on the flickering light in the hallway. The apartment is as empty as he left it in the morning. There’s a note on the fridge his roommate’s left for him. I made some veggie stir-fry, there’s leftovers for you in the pink tupperware. You’re an athlete, so you need to be more conscious of your diet, okay?
Renjun smiles at the vaguely frog-shaped doodle at the bottom of the post-it note. Minghao’s always been a nag. Still, he ignores the tupperware in favor of a sports drink, and by the time Minghao gets home Renjun is curled up by his laptop on his bed.
Minghao knocks even though the door’s open, and from the look on his face it’s clear he knows exactly how Renjun has spent the last two hours. “You didn’t touch the stir-fry,” he says, with a pout.
“Wasn’t hungry,” Renjun tells him. On his laptop, his cursor moves past two folders, one marked 2020 and another marked 2021. He clicks on the first. “Practice kinda stressed me out today.”
“Meditation,” Minghao says, voice strained. He knows by now it’s useless to try and get Renjun to do anything else once he’s in the zone. “You should try meditation.”
Renjun looks up and offers him a smile. “Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow morning,” he says. It’s a familiar lie.
Minghao smiles back, wishes him goodnight, and closes the door. They both know Renjun is not going to join him tomorrow.
Back on his laptop, Renjun scrolls past several videos. 2020 National Sports Festival, Finals, Hanyang University vs. Seoul National University. 2020 Nationals, Second Round, Hanyang University vs. Dankook University. 2020 Nationals, First Round, Hanyang University vs. Busan National University. 2020 Provincial Qualifiers Finals, Hanyang University vs. Yonsei University.
2020 Provincial Qualifiers Semifinals, Hanyang University vs. Hongik University. File last opened yesterday at 11:00 PM. He opens the video, clicks straight to the twenty-three-minutes-thirty-six-seconds mark where he knows the second set begins.
He’s studied this match so many times. Enough that he could give a play-by-play with his eyes closed, the moving image of it practically burned into the back of his retinas. If he concentrates hard enough, he can remember all the minute details of that day—the smell of salonpas gel, the way the crowd had yelled when he failed to anticipate Jaemin’s third set setter dump, how the A/C had felt on his skin, clammy with sweat and sticking to his uniform. Still, through the screen, he watches his own form, poised to set. Pauses, rewinds, watches Jaemin watching him, watches Jaemin tug Johnny into place to block Mark’s spike. Even one-year removed from the loss, Renjun feels his blood boil. There was no way Jaemin should’ve been able to read him. Or the next ten times.
But he did.
The rest of the game plays all the way through, the same way it always does. Ace. Another ace. Another ace, this time off Renjun. When it comes to an end, Renjun stares at his reflection in the darkness of the screen.
He hits repeat.
🏐
Renjun thinks he’s a good person. Mostly. Sure, he’s no saint, but by normal people's standards, he clocks in at pretty okay. Even if Ten says he can be a stubborn bitch, and Mark sometimes gets frustrated trying to pull words out of him when he feels particularly emotionally repressed, and starts to shut down. Emotional constipation, Yangyang calls it. Renjun prefers emotionally unavailable by choice. But he holds open the door for people who are walking in behind him. He feeds the stray cat that lives behind the gymnasium every day after practice. He is not one of those people on airplanes who clap when the plane lands. These should all qualify him as a good person. So he wonders what, exactly, he could have done to deserve this.
“Hey, hello?” Jaemin says, hovering at his table. His hair is completely blond now. It’s a better look than the random streak of blue, but Renjun isn’t about to tell him that. “Chenle’s friend, right?”
Zhong Chenle is a dead man. Zhong Chenle is a dead fucking man, and Renjun is going to kill him himself, and then he is going to kill Jisung for bringing him into their lives, and then Renjun will go to jail but it will be worth it, because it means Hongdae will be missing both setters, but Hanyang will be down their libero and more importantly, Renjun will be free from Chenle and his terrible awful ideas forever. Oh gē, Renjun mocks him in his head. Gē, surely it couldn’t hurt to go on one blind date, I don’t want you to graduate college a virgin, I’m looking out for you, come on, what’s the worst that could happen? Renjun’s not even a fucking virgin.
“Sorry, excuse me?” The-Literal-Worst-That-Could-Happen says, more loudly this time. He must think Renjun can’t hear him.
“Yeah.” Renjun takes out his Airpods, even though he hadn’t actually been playing any music, and pockets his phone, ignoring the vibration of what is definitely his friends whining at him about keeping secrets in their groupchat. “That’s me.”
Jaemin slides into the seat across from him, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that looks like it should come with a Danger: Radioactive Material warning label slapped on it. Renjun is truly disgusted. “Hi,” he says, and flashes a smile at him. It’s the same friendly-but-carefully-empty voice Renjun recognized in him the first time they met. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Jaemin.”
“Yeah, I know that.” Renjun stares. “I saw—”
“Oh, you saw the article?” Jaemin laughs, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and the action strikes Renjun as very faux-bashful. Practiced ease, like tossing a volleyball up into the air and knowing someone will be there to spike it down. “You know, when Chenle told me he wanted to set me up on a date, I kinda thought he was joking. But I’m glad I showed up.”
If Chenle had told Renjun that the guy he’d be setting him up on a blind date with was Na Jaemin, Renjun would have punched him in the throat so hard he threw up all the malatang they’d been having the night he agreed to this. This, being his current disastrous situation. He realizes now why Chenle had both been so vague about who he would be meeting but so persistent about it anyways. And okay, maybe Renjun did read that stupid article about him, with his face spread across its glossy pages, but that was hardly the point. Why exactly would Jaemin think Renjun didn’t remember his name?
Renjun continues to stare. “You… Is your team okay with this?” Obviously Chenle's fine with it, because he's the one who set them up. Chenle also lives for chaos, however; so that’s not necessarily a good thing. Renjun isn’t sure what kind of face Mark would make if he went back and told him he'd gone on a date with someone on Hanyang's volleyball team. Or if he would care at all.
Jaemin laughs, but it’s less like a ha-ha-that-was-so-funny laugh and more like a laugh that comes out because he’s so confused there’s simply nothing else to do. “Yeah, why wouldn’t they be?”
Renjun realizes: Jaemin has no clue who he is. It’s even more humiliating than their first encounter, because the only thing that’s more embarrassing than getting your ass handed to you so badly in a game is to get your ass handed to you so badly and have the opponent not even remember you.
“I’m the setter from Hongdae,” he bites out, watching the slow realization spread across Jaemin’s face. “Yeah. Last fall. Gyeonggi-do quals. Semifinals. Jesus. Are you so self-obsessed that you don’t even remember your opponents?”
“What? No,” Jaemin says in a hurry. “I just don’t remember everyone we play against. There’s a lot, you know?” He almost looks legitimately guilty. It’s the first semi-genuine emotion Renjun’s recognized in him, and that pisses him off more. “I mean, it doesn’t really matter to me that we’re playing on rival teams, I don’t even care that much about volleyball, you know?”
The humiliation burns bright in Renjun’s chest, even hotter now. He pours his blood and sweat into this sport and doesn’t even get a place on the starting lineup. Jaemin doesn’t care about the sport and he’ll get to be in every game, because he is naturally better. Just like that.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, after collecting himself just enough that his voice is no longer shaky. “I don’t like you. I don’t know what Chenle thought he was pulling, but he must be out of his mind if he thinks I would ever want to go out with someone like you.”
There’s a flash of confusion before Jaemin’s face smooths over in a millisecond, stone cold, and Renjun thinks—ah, here we go. Finally, the person you were all along. “Someone like me.”
“Yes,” Renjun says, his fists clenched tight in his own lap. “Rude. Inconsiderate. You don’t work for anything, it just falls into your lap.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I know your type.”
Jaemin gives him a once-over. “Sure. I know your type, too. You have a complex—about what, I don’t know. Your height? Your lacking volleyball skills? But definitely about something. And instead of working on improving yourself, you take your anger out on others.”
Renjun grits his teeth, and says nothing.
“Let me remind you,” Jaemin continues, leaning in. “None of this is my fault. You were the one who decided to throw a fit. If you want to be remembered, maybe be memorable. Play better. Be better.”
Play better. He says it like it’s so simple. Maybe for Jaemin, it is.
Renjun scoffs, pushing his chair back. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m planning on it.”
Jaemin does not stop him when he leaves, and Renjun is thankful for that if nothing else. He fumes the entire way home, replays the conversation over and over again in his head as the train lurches along the track. There’s a text from Sicheng by the time he gets back to his dorm, and he opens it eagerly.
The video is blurry when he opens it on his laptop, though it’s not clear whether that’s because his Macbook Air is almost half a decade old and barely holding on by a thread (Apple products—not built to last), or because whoever Sicheng obtained it from recorded this game on a fucking cheese grater. It’s this year’s Nationals, the first match for seeded teams. Hanyang is playing Ansan University, who just lost Baekyung-or-something-or-other to graduation, and are clearly struggling to fill the gaps his absence has left.
Renjun watches as blurry-video-Jaemin walks from the endline with that signature relaxed ease of his, moving smoothly into his jump serve—he has more control than he did last year, Renjun will give him that. He rewinds, watches the same ten seconds of his serve again. He watches it again, on his phone, at dinner. Again, after he practices his setting drills in the courtyard. Again, under his covers in the dark late at night so Minghao won’t be able to see the light from his laptop peeking underneath his door if he walks by, until his sight is straining and he can see the inverse image of Jaemin and his stupid blond-and-blue hair on the back of his eyelids.
By the time he’s done, the sun is just rising above the horizon. He sees a pair of twin hands rising above the net, the same hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the glossy pages of a magazine, and inverted seafoam green uniforms.
Renjun rolls over, closes his eyes, and does not sleep.
🏐
Volleyball Monthly
Hanyang Sweeps Ansan University in Major Upset
Kim Seulgi, Associate Sports Editor
Despite being a favorite to win the Spring Nationals, Ansan University was defeated in the quarterfinal round in straight sets this past weekend by Hanyang University (25-18, 25-20, 25-16). Both teams were hard hit by the loss of key players in the past year. Ansan's offense was significantly weakened without Byun Baekhyun (Outside Hitter, playing for Osaka's Panasonic Panthers in the Japanese V.Leagues for the 2021-2022 season), and the team struggled to make up the difference when faced with Hanyang's tenacious plays. Hanyang, too, lost a vital part of their defense in the form of Seo Johnny (Middle Blocker, playing for the Cheonan Hyundai Skywalkers for the 2021-2022 season).
The difference? Ansan University Coach Choi chalks it up to a lack of communication on the court. "Baekhyun wasn't just the core of our offense, he was also captain, and the loudest person on the court. In his absence, the team's been struggling to remember to communicate with each other without being prompted by him first. Hanyang was better equipped than we were to deal with their defensive loss. And that setter of theirs is fucking scary."
Hanyang's setter is second-year Na Jaemin, who we interviewed in the June 2020 issue of Volleyball Monthly. In the year since then, he's made a name for himself as an unshakable presence on the court. Hanyang University Coach Lee jokes, "You could send him up against a team of Olympians and he wouldn't blink an eye. His mental fortitude is unmatched." Jaemin himself has a different take on it. "It's just easy for me to read other players. I focus a lot on their behavioral tells instead of just their physical ones. People, by nature, are predictable. So it's hard for much to faze me. A setter has to be mentally strong to support the rest of the team." The rest of the team is notable in their own right, too. Other standout players on Hanyang's lineup include second-year Lee Jeno (Outside Hitter), and fourth-year Captain Kim Doyoung (Middle Blocker). Altogether, the results are clear: Hanyang University is a force to look out for in the coming season.
🏐
Renjun turns his phone face down on the table and scowls. Next to him, Shotaro gives him a questioning look.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, above the clamor of the restaurant.
Renjun sighs. He’d known Coach Zhang and Mark had been planning their monthly team bonding dinner for tonight, but he had every intention of skipping. He had no such luck. Only Yangyang managed to beg off, because he had a paper he needed to finish. The rest of them had been corralled into the dakgalbi place on Hongdae Street near the rear gate of campus, down the block from the 7-11 where they would normally congregate for after-practice snacks. The street is crowded, noisy as it always is, and between the nine of them (eight, minus Yangyang, plus Coach Zhang, plus team manager Yeri), they fill out most of the seats in the restaurant, one loud, raucous table smack-dab in the center of it all. Renjun would feel bad for the rest of the diners if they weren’t exactly as loud as they were.
They’ve already finished their dinner, technically. But Coach Zhang, a few drinks in himself, had ordered beers for the table. Team bonding activities always get taken out of the club fund, meaning the university is footing the bill. Renjun is not stupid enough to turn down free alcohol, and talking to Chenle always leaves him on edge, even if it’s just over text. He could use a drink. Or five, or six, or seven.
The conversation had started with volleyball, as it always did, and continued to unravel as the alcohol kept flowing. Renjun had left for the bathroom at some point, and when he came back, soju bottles had been added to the mix of beer and empty plates in front of them. At the other end of the table, Yuta and Jungwoo had started arguing about whether the human body technically had one butt, or two.
“I’m fine,” Renjun says to Shotaro, and spears a mandu all the way through with his fork with more force than is strictly necessary.
Ten leers at him across the table, a flush spread high across his cheeks. “Jisungie told us you had a date last weekend,” he says, coyly, and Renjun feels his blood pressure spike. “Does that have anything to do with your mood?”
Jisung stiffens from his other side. “Hyung,” he says, panicked. “Hyung, it’s not what it—”
Renjun wraps an elbow around his neck and makes a valiant attempt at choking him out. “He was lying to you,” Renjun says. “Isn’t that right, Jisungie?”
Jisung whines, feebly trying to tap out.
“Haha, okay guys, that’s enough, Renjun, please let go of him, I can’t have my vice-captain in jail and one of my setters dead, please?” Mark is still getting used to the whole captain authority thing, and that is the only reason Renjun decides to listen to him and relinquish Jisung. He releases his arms, and Jisung hunches over the table, gasping for air, which is hilarious because Renjun hadn’t even been holding him down with any force, the drama queen. “Let’s all just relax.”
“Yeah,” Ten says, still leering. He pushes a shot glass across the table to Renjun, because he’s a terrible enabler like that. “Relax, vice-captain. Loosen up. Tell us more about your date.”
A reprimand rests on the tip of Renjun’s tongue, but vocalizing it would only prove Ten’s point. Renjun washes it down with a shot of soju instead. “There’s nothing to tell. I walked out on him.”
The table erupts in oohs and ahs, louder than they have any right to be. Renjun isn’t hungover, but he can already feel a headache coming on.
“But why? Was he rude to you?” Yuta asks, frowning. “Because if he was rude to you—”
“It was Na Jaemin,” Renjun spits out. “From Hanyang. Chenle set me up.”
Yeri looks up from where she’d been braiding Ten’s hair. “Oh, him,” she says. “One of my friends on the girl’s volleyball team got set up with him once. I hear he dates around a lot.”
Some of the anger fizzles out of Renjun. “Oh. Really?”
“Yep,” Yeri ties off the tiny little braid she’s made out of Ten’s bangs. Jungwoo snaps a picture. “You know Sooyoung? It was just one date, nothing serious.”
Mark makes an ohh noise. “Now that you bring it up, I think he went on a date with my roommate on the ice skating team once, too.”
Something dark twists in Renjun’s stomach. So Jaemin makes a regular habit out of whoring himself out to all the college athletes in Seoul. So what? That’s not his business. Whatever Chenle had said about Jaemin thinking he was cute didn’t actually mean anything. Whatever. He’s not special. That’s fine. Nothing new.
Shotaro pushes a glass of water towards him. “You should really drink something that’s not alcohol right now,” he says.
It’s excellent advice. Renjun ignores it in favor of another shot.
In the end, both Mark and Yuta have to drag him home, because Renjun always forgets he’s more lightweight than the rest of the team. Mark offers to stay and look after him, and Renjun has to beg Yuta to make him leave. They tuck him into bed, but not before leaving a bottle of water and an aspirin on his nightstand, and promising to get him out of morning practice the next day. The last one is an empty promise, because Renjun always shows up anyways, come hell or high water.
Renjun stares up at the ceiling long after they leave. The conversation with Yeri is still gnawing at him. He thinks, again: he’s not special. But some part of him had wanted to be.
The realization sits uncomfortably inside him.
🏐
When their coach informs them they’ll be doing a week-long joint practice camp with Hanyang next month, Renjun looks at him like he’s fucking insane.
“Are you fu—” he says. And then, because he values his life. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Mark gives him his signature I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed Captain stare. He’s been getting good at that one, lately. Their coach just laughs. They both let him get away with too much, and Ten says one day he’ll get his ass beat for it. Unfortunately, Renjun thinks he might be right about that.
“Of course I’m sure,” Coach Zhang says. “What better way to hone our own skills than to test them against our top competitors?”
Renjun can think of at least twenty different ways, all better than this, if only because none of them involve spending a prolonged amount of time with Jaemin. He’s about to list them all, but Mark just squeezes his shoulder as if to say not now.
“I agree,” he says, the traitor. “It’ll be a good opportunity for all of us. We’ll go tell the rest of the team now, thanks Coach.” He drags Renjun away, making him feel vaguely like a very disgruntled cat getting carried by the scruff of its neck.
As soon as the door’s closed behind them and he’s sure Coach Zhang can’t hear, Renjun turns on Mark. “What was that all about?”
“Renjun, you can’t talk to our coach like that. I know you have a weird grudge against Hanyang’s team—” Renjun must make a face, because Mark immediately shuts down any protest before it can even leave his mouth. “No, let me finish. You represent the team now, and I need to know I can count on you to be civil with the other team, okay? As my vice-captain?”
Renjun opens his mouth, then closes it again. Mark’s disappointed Captain stare has come and gone, and he’s turning the full force of his puppy eyes on Renjun now. He’s sick. “...You can count on me.”
“That includes their setter, you know.”
“I know that. I’ll be civil. But I won’t be nice, either.”
Mark sighs, looking very put out, but pets Renjun’s hair. “That’s probably the best I’ll get from you, huh?” he says. It’s a rhetorical question.
“Let’s just tell everyone else,” Renjun says, and swats Mark’s hand away from his head. “At least Jisung will probably be happy.”
So this is how Renjun ends up here: standing outside Hongdae’s gates on a random weekend in July, watching Hanyang’s team disembark from their bus. Why they even took a bus to get here is beyond him, they’re all from fucking Seoul and their schools are on the same side of the river, even. Less than 15 kilometers apart. God, rich kids are the worst.
He stands dutifully next to Mark, shakes hands politely with both their Captain and their Vice-Captain. Yangyang had insisted on drilling the information into Renjun’s head before their arrival — Doyoung, middle blocker. Solid fast attacks, but focuses more on offensive blocks as a strategy to score. Jaehyun, opposite hitter. Not the most powerful attacker on their lineup, but definitely the most consistent, so he tends to get the most points, especially early-on in the set.
There’s probably less than five words spoken between him and Jaehyun, but when Renjun grabs Doyoung’s hand, he gets an approving look. “You were the setter we played during the semifinals last year, right?” Doyoung says. “You were good.”
“You mean for a first year?” Renjun squeezes his hand tighter.
“No, I mean you were good in general.” There’s nothing about his tone or his words that are meant to flatter. He just says it like it’s a fact. Renjun is pretty sure he likes this one.
“Thanks,” he smiles, genuinely. “I’m better now, so you guys better watch out.”
Doyoung throws his head back and laughs, and Renjun decides he definitely likes him. “I don’t doubt it,” he says. “Looking forward to seeing what you have in store for us this week."
The rest of the introductions go by in a blur of names and faces Renjun is sure he will not remember by the end of the day. Renjun puts Chenle in a headlock, to the apparent delight of everyone else on his team. The one named Donghyuck is cackling so loudly Renjun wonders whether he might run out of breath eventually.
“I was just trying to help,” Chenle wheezes. Jaemin stares. “C’mon, I know you think he’s h—”
Renjun squeezes tighter.
🏐
It’s different, he thinks—sharing this space (their space, but also his space) with so many more people. Jaehyun sets his bag down on the bleachers where Renjun would normally put his own. Renjun keeps bumping into bodies—whose names he’s predictably already forgotten—as they set up the nets. Jaemin is—well, Jaemin is still just staring at him. He hasn’t tried to approach Renjun yet, so it’s fine. It all feels vaguely wrong, but Renjun knows he has a tendency to be a little territorial and defensive, so he teases Yangyang, fawns over Jisung, and clings to Mark, just to feel some sense of normalcy.
There’s a practice game scheduled for later in the afternoon, but for now, it’s easy enough to get into the rhythm of passing drills. The routine nature of practice is a welcome distraction from his thoughts, and the weight of a volleyball in his hand always leaves him feeling more settled, even if it’s just temporarily. He gets paired up with a timid first-year from Hanyang—Jung Sungchan, middle blocker, the Yangyang-encyclopedia in his mind supplies—who looks like he’s about ten seconds from bolting for the nearest exit. Renjun isn’t heartless, so he tries his best to respond to the awkward small talk Sungchan is supplying, even as they pass the ball back and forth.
(What year are you? Second-year. How long have you been playing volleyball? Since I was eight. Oh, cool, what are you studying? Fine Arts. Ah, I see, I’m studying biology. Cool.
There’s a stretch of silence after that.)
Renjun lets the sweat and the repetitive motions of their drills draw him into practice. By the time Hanyang’s coach blows the whistle, signaling a switch in partners, conversation is flowing a little more naturally. Sungchan is a solid player and infinitely more polite than anyone on Hongdae’s team could ever be, with the exception of Shotaro and maybe Mark. Renjun is beginning to forget why he ever thought this training camp was a bad idea.
"Huang Renjun," A voice says from behind him. Renjun feels his entire face crumple. Right. That’s why. "Renjun. Come on. You can't pretend you don't hear me this time. You don't even have Airpods in."
Renjun sighs deeply. “Sorry,” he says, turning with a smile. “I’m a foreigner, you see, my Korean isn’t so good.”
Jaemin just laughs, a touch mocking. “Your Korean was just fine the last time we met, though?” His hair is bright pink now. It clashes with his uniform. Renjun is overcome with the petty urge to tell him so.
“Your hair clashes with your uniform.”
“I happen to think the pink is cute,” Jaemin sniffs. Renjun begrudgingly admits to himself that it’s not the ugliest thing he’s ever seen, or whatever. “It brings out my eyes.”
“I’m surprised you actually remember who I am this time.”
“Let’s see if you do anything to make you worthy of remembering.”
“Um,” Sungchan says. Renjun had forgotten he was there. “I’ll just leave.”
Jaemin smiles too-wide. The expression looks out of place on a face as pretty as his. “You do that. I have business with Renjeonnie.” Renjun’s eye twitches. Okay, he’s just being annoying now.
Renjeonnie, Sungchan mouths to himself, in confusion, but makes his exit anyway.
“Business,” Renjun parrots. “What business could you possibly have with me?”
“We’re pairing off for drills, remember?” Yes, but that doesn’t explain why I have to be paired off with you. “Maybe if I’m feeling generous, I’ll even give you some tips.”
“I don’t need any tips, especially not from you.”
“Prove it.”
Renjun could walk away. His stupid, stupid pride won’t let him.
They start off with slow, steady passes—the weight of the ball between Renjun’s hands is familiar, and so is the texture of synthetic leather beneath his fingertips—but it feels weirder to be doing this with Jaemin than it did with Sungchan, for whatever reason. More foreign, for a reason he can’t explain by rival team status alone.
“This is boring,” Jaemin complains after a while. What is he, five years old? “Toss to me.”
The sound of volleyballs making contact with the floor echoes across the gymnasium. In the distance, Chenle is laughing at something. Or someone. Renjun squints. “What do you mean, toss to you?”
“I feel like it’s pretty obvious. You toss the ball, and I’ll hit it. You do know how to set a ball for a proper spike, don’t you?”
“We’re not doing spiking drills right now.”
“Come on, no one’s going to notice. Our coaches aren’t even here right now. Just do it,” Jaemin taunts. He makes his next volley a little bit short, so Renjun has to all but dive for it. His knees scrape against the wooden floor. Asshole. “Or maybe you can’t?”
The provocation makes Renjun tighten his shoulders, narrow his eyes. Jaemin must know he can't possibly back down from a direct challenge. Competitive to a fault.
"I'll do it," he says.
"Show me what you've got, then," Jaemin says, but with the tone of voice that makes Renjun wonder if he’s expecting failure from him. The ball comes sailing over before Renjun can think to protest. He jumps for a quick, without warning, like he's expecting Renjun to just adjust to him no matter what.
Renjun squares his body, arms extended up over his head. He bends at the knees as his back arches into the set, fingers spread as they make contact with the ball soundlessly, pushing upwards. It's not quite high enough—it would've been, if Jaemin had run up for a regular attack instead—but as far as technique goes, he knows it's perfect.
Jaemin spikes it down with ease anyways. Of course he's good at offensive plays too, Renjun thinks bitterly. The ball hits the back of the court and rolls to the side. True to Jaemin's word, it goes unnoticed by everyone else, too focused on their own drills.
"Fuck," Renjun says. "Could I get a little warning, next time?" It'd be hard enough to sync up for an unexpected quick even with his teammates, who he's been playing with for years. It's even harder with Jaemin, who Renjun barely knows, whose movements he's not accustomed to yet.
"Not bad. Fingers are too stiff though." Jaemin is muttering, like he's talking to himself.
He turns to Renjun, and Renjun feels, for the first time, that Jaemin is looking at him and seeing him.
"You see," Jaemin says, blithely. "If you played like that last year, maybe I would have remembered you."
🏐
It doesn’t come easier on the second day, or the third, or even the fourth. Renjun likes practice because it's predictable. He likes the routine. Hanyang's coach seems determined to ruin that for him.
"Coach Lee likes to have us play doubles 'cause she says it helps us stay sharp," Chenle explains. "In a two on two, you always gotta be aware of the entire court. Every man for himself, everyone always strategizing the next play for themselves. They're good instincts to hold onto in a real game." Renjun's not listening, he's too busy glowering like a wet kitten—Yuta’s words, not his—staring at the court.
"I don't see how it's beneficial for us to just sit here and watch," Renjun grumbles, but mostly he's just being difficult on purpose. Like this, he has no real way to avoid Jaemin, who's made it his personal mission to piss Renjun off as much as possible this week.
"You should know better than anyone else that observing can be just as important as getting in the game, Renjeonnie," Jaemin says from directly behind him, and narrowly dodges Renjun's elbow. He should have just called Renjun a benchwarmer directly. It would've saved both of them some time.
"Stop calling me that.”
“You don’t think it’s cute?”
“No, it’s not. My name is Renjun. Learn to say it correctly.” Renjun turns back around, stubborn, in the opposite direction of the court. Like through some miracle of object permanence, Jaemin will suddenly cease to exist if Renjun simply refuses to look at him. And maybe it's a little childish, sure. But Jaemin's not exactly the poster child for maturity himself. His eyes fixate with disinterest somewhere to the left of the emergency exit sign hanging on the wall.
Chenle shakes his head at both of them, and walks away.
"Renjeonnie," Jaemin calls, after a beat. Renjun frowns harder, and does not respond, arms crossed over his chest. "Reeeenjeooonnie."
Renjun remains staunchly in place.
The next few moments happen in pieces: The sound of a ball squeaking. A flurry of footsteps. Jaemin's voice, more urgent— "Renjun. Seriously, Renjun—"
"Huh," Renjun says, dumbly, turning around in time to see a ball flying towards his face at approximately 200 kilometers per hour. He flinches back to brace for impact.
It never comes. Jaemin's hand darts out faster than he can blink, the ball ricocheting off his fingers and flying into the wall with a resounding smack. For a split second, Renjun thinks he can see Jaemin's pinky bend back in a grotesque, shouldn't-be-physically-possible-way.
"Are you okay?" Jaemin asks him, like Renjun is the one who just took a quick spike to the finger. Renjun opens his mouth and closes it, not sure what to say. Yes, I'm fine? Why did you do that? Are you okay?
"Sorry," a despaired voice cuts through. Jeno, panicked, is jogging towards them with... tears in his eyes? Renjun squints. Yeah, definitely tears. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen. I just—I was trying something new with my angle of approach for my cross, did either of you get hurt?" He wheezes, and Renjun thinks he might be hyperventilating.
"I'm fine," Renjun tells him. Jeno continues to wheeze.
"I’m fine too, Jeno, don’t worry," Jaemin says. Renjun wants to call him out for lying through his teeth, but Jaemin just flashes them both a grin, slaps Jeno on the back with his opposite hand and ushers him back to the court.
Renjun thinks to say something to him, but at the bottom of the bleachers, Yeri waves a hand at him. Signals his turn for doubles with a yell of his name. Still, he falters.
As if sensing his hesitation, Jaemin waves him off, his right hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket. "You better get to it," he says. "Who knows the next time you'll get a chance to play on a real court?"
He's clearly just trying to bait Renjun, meant to get him to storm off in a flurry and ignore whatever is clearly going on with Jaemin. It's almost insulting that Jaemin could be so shockingly transparent about his intentions and still expect Renjun not to notice it. At any rate, Yeri is calling his name again, louder, and Renjun has no choice but to grit his teeth at Jaemin and turn on his heel to leave.
And even despite it all, it's hard for his eyes to leave Jaemin after that, which is—infuriating, to say the least—because all he wants to do is focus on the scrimmage, and his plays, and he can't. Not when Jaemin is injured and it's his fault, and why hasn't he said anything, and why isn't he doing anything about it? Renjun fumbles a simple pass for the third time in a row. From next to him, Ten sighs.
"If you stare at him any harder, you might really burn a hole through his back," he jokes. Renjun wishes he could've at least had the good fortune to be paired with someone else other than the resident team gossip. Anyone else would've let him live that one down. "No, really. Stop staring at him. I'm afraid he's going to file a restraining order against you."
"I should be the one with the restraining order," Renjun grumbles, still glaring (not staring, there’s a difference). Jaemin whispers something to Donghyuck, slips furtively out the back door to the gym. "Tell Coach Zhang I'll be back in a bit."
The look Ten gives him can only be described as confused as fuck. “What are you doing?” he calls after him. Renjun doesn’t answer, because even he’s not sure himself.
He grabs his bag on the way out, pushes the door open. The school is quiet on the weekends, empty except for the odd student passing through on their way to the library, or looking for a lost item. It’s easy for him to find Jaemin, sitting on the ground around the corner in the hallway.
"What are you doing here?" Renjun blinks down at him.
“Skipping practice. What are you doing here?” Jaemin blinks back up.
Renjun scowls, kneeling down next to him. “Give me your hand.”
Jaemin opens his mouth, about to protest.
"Nope. Shut up. I won't be able to focus if I don't do this. I know you jammed your finger. Just give me your fucking hand already, so I can do this and we can both go back in.”
Looking properly chastised, Jaemin holds his right hand out reluctantly. Renjun reaches out to grab Jaemin’s hand and survey the damage himself, wincing when he sees his pinky. “I knew it. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything, are you stupid?”
“Couldn’t let Jeno see he’d hurt me.” Jaemin hisses quietly when Renjun’s thumb presses into the base of his knuckle. “He would’ve cried.” And, yeah, Renjun thinks, remembering Jeno on the verge of tears. That’s fair. Renjun wasn’t aware consideration was a word Jaemin had in his vocabulary. Today is full of surprises.
“I guess,” Renjun says. “But you still really shouldn’t have done that.”
“Letting you get a concussion would’ve been better?”
Why do you care? sits on the tip of Renjun’s tongue. He swallows it back. His bag gets unzipped, and out comes the athletic tape. Jaemin stares at it like he’s never seen such a thing before in his entire life. “Whatever. I brought tape, so. Wrap it up.”
“I… don’t know how,” Jaemin admits. He looks like the admission physically pains him more than the jammed finger does.
“You can’t be serious,” Renjun says miserably. “You’re a setter. How do you not know how to tape up your fingers?”
Jaemin huffs. “I don’t like the way it feels. As a setter, you should understand, right? It’s important to be able to feel the ball as much as possible. Tape gets in the way of that.”
“As a setter,” Renjun nags as he unwinds the roll of athletic tape, tearing off a piece. “You should know that your fingers are your most prized instrument. You need to take better care of them.”
“Okay, I don’t need the whole self-care lecture, let’s stop there. And it’s not even a sprain,” Jaemin protests. “Why are you even helping me?”
“I don’t like owing things to others. Why did you help me?”
Silence. Jaemin’s shoulders slump. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up. Just hold your hand up.”
Once it’s clear that Renjun isn’t leaving, Jaemin sighs quietly and complies. And this part, at least, is methodical. He watches Renjun’s hands as they work—taping his pinky with tape from the outer side, wrapping around once before crossing the tape over his knuckle diagonally, pulling the tape across and under the finger to the opposite diagonal side, crossing the tape back over the top of the finger. There’s just the sound of soft breaths, the distant noise of whistles blowing and volleyballs making contact in the distance. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, but—Jaemin kind of has nice hands, Renjun realizes. In a purely objective, volleyball sense. It’s nothing more than an observation. Like, the breadth of his palm would probably make holding a volleyball pretty easy, and the length and dexterity of his fingers would be really useful for setting, and—
Renjun needs to get it the fuck together. They’re just hands.
“How does that feel?” he asks, cutting his own thoughts off forcibly before they can wander. He’s distantly aware of the fact that he’d been holding Jaemin’s hand for several moments, unmoving, and can only pray Jaemin just assumes he was surveying his own work.
Jaemin wiggles his fingers, face carefully blank. “Good, actually.” There’s surprise in his voice, like he wasn’t actually expecting Renjun to actually help. Rude.
“Great,” Renjun says, rising to his feet. “Then you can come back in and play.”
“Can I ask you something?” Jaemin blurts out.
Renjun looks down at him. “Sure, I guess.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Jaemin looks like he’s gathering the words in his mind. Without the immediate distraction of volleyball, Renjun lets his eyes drift, with no choice but to observe him. Like this, still and unassuming, Jaemin just looks like a boy. A freakishly beautiful boy, sure, but nothing like the player that’s been tormenting his thoughts for the past year or so. Maybe that’s why Renjun suddenly finds himself staring, contemplating the furrow of his brow and the strong line of his jaw. He watches the play of light and shadow on Jaemin's face, the long lashes framing his gaze and sweeping over the curves of his cheeks, the swell of his lips, and—Renjun swallows nervously.
Oh no. He's hot, isn't he? It’s one thing for Renjun to acknowledge Jaemin is attractive. That’s an objective fact. Jaemin has a fanclub, of course, he’s attractive. And Renjun has eyes. But it’s another thing entirely for Renjun to be attracted to him. He can't be attracted to Jaemin. Anyone but him.
“Why do you… try so hard, I guess?" Jaemin finally asks, sounding legitimately confused. Renjun is only thankful for the distraction from his own thoughts. "It’s just one practice. You haven’t even missed ten minutes of it. In the big picture, it doesn’t really matter, does it? None of it really matters.”
Just like that, any shred of attraction Renjun may have had for him crumbles, washed away in the dim light of the hallway. Renjun can’t help it. He laughs straight in Jaemin’s face, who just looks offended. “Oh. Sorry. Your whole nihilism thing is for real?” Jaemin scowls, and Renjun takes that as a yes. “I try hard because I want to. There doesn't need to be any deeper reason behind it. Every minute counts, because I like playing volleyball, Jaemin, and I would much rather be hauling ass and getting sore over drills with the rest of my team than wasting another minute out here with you."
There's one last question nagging at him. "Why do you even play volleyball if you think none of it matters? Just because you're good at it?" Jaemin doesn't answer. Maybe Renjun was foolish to expect more. He scoffs, turns around to leave. “Yeah. Maybe think about that first before you go around asking other people stupid fucking questions.”
"Wait," Jaemin calls after him, sounding confused. “You left your tape?”
"Keep it," Renjun says, still walking away. "You'll have to redo the taping everyday. I just gave you a head start."
His teammates descend upon him when he returns. If Renjun had realized that him skipping out on ten minutes of practice would be so noticeable as to alert the entire fucking team, maybe he would've done it a little more in the past.
"Where'd you go?" Jungwoo pouts, his lower lip jutting out. Renjun will never understand how that works on him when he stands a solid one point eight meters tall. “Are you keeping secrets from us now, Renjun?”
"Bathroom," he lies.
Shotaro hesitates before speaking up. "The bathroom is in the opposite direction." Yangyang cackles, and Renjun shoots a glare in his direction.
"Shut up, or I'm never setting to you ever again."
"I think Coach Zhang would have some choice words about that decision," Yangyang says. "But sure."
If any of them notice Jaemin slipping back into the gym just a few minutes after him, they don't say so. For the rest of the day, Renjun pointedly does not look at him, or the way his shorts ride up when he jumps, or the smooth, pale skin of his thighs, or the corded muscle beneath them.
He’s not attracted to Jaemin.
🏐
The camp ends, Hanyang’s team leaves, and life goes on.
And it's fine. It's all fine, until Chenle texts him and Jisung a team selfie in the locker room, and there Jaemin is, in the back, shirtless. Grinning, shameless, all pearly white teeth and toned muscle and—okay, Renjun thinks. Maybe he is attracted to Jaemin. He can admit, objectively, when someone is attractive. Objectively, Jaemin is one of those people. Mark is too. And Yangyang. And pretty much everyone on Hongdae and Hanyang's teams. They're all fit, good-looking people. So being attracted to Jaemin is a purely physical reaction. There’s nothing wrong or unnatural about that. It happens.
Acknowledging this fact should feel liberating. It should lift a weight off Renjun's shoulders. Instead, Renjun thinks too long about the sharp jut of Jaemin's hips where his shorts had been slung too-low, and fumbles a quick in the middle of practice. Ah, sorry, that one was my fault, Shotaro is saying, and Renjun has to scold him about not blaming everything on himself just because he's afraid of upsetting others. Jisung gives him a pained look from the opposite side of the net, like he knows exactly what Renjun was thinking about.
Mark taps him on the shoulder while everyone else is packing up for the day. "Let's practice that quick attack," he says. There's a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead, but he's got a determined look on his face.
Renjun winces. The towel slung around his neck suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds, so he discards it on the bench. "Was it that bad?"
"No," Mark lies to him. The only time Mark volunteers to stay back with Renjun after practice is when Renjun's performance that day is capital-B Bad. "This is as much for me as it is for you." Another lie. It's what makes Mark a good captain.
Inhale. Exhale. Controlled, even breaths. Renjun clears his mind. Frees himself from all earthly desires, or whatever it is that Minghao likes to say. "Okay," he says. "Let's do it, then."
What Renjun likes best about training with Mark is that it's silent. Yeri, too, doesn’t ask questions, just dutifully tosses balls up for Renjun and helps Mark pick them up after. It’s just the sound of heavy breathing, shoes squeaking on wooden floors, the echoes of Mark’s spikes reverberating around the gym, the resounding thwack of skin meeting synthetic leather, an open palm meeting a volleyball. Their team is chatty at best and obnoxiously loud at worst. Renjun loves them, but it also gets to be too much to deal with after a few hours. Mark knows when Renjun needs company, and when to draw back, when to be quiet and not say anything to him. When it's just the two of them on the court, it almost feels like they're in high school again. It's nice. Familiar.
Mark is not quiet today. "So," he says, twenty minutes in. "We're going to Hanyang this weekend."
Renjun grunts affirmatively.
"How are you feeling?"
"I feel fine about it," Renjun says. "At least it's not for a week this time." Just three days. Renjun's not sure if he could bear any more than that.
Mark looks at him. "Well, you and Jaemin aren't at each other's throats as much anymore, which is good. The bickering was kind of a lot."
"We don't do that."
"I mean, you kind of did. Especially in the first few days. Not sure when that changed, though."
Renjun squeezes the ball in his hands so tight he feels like it could burst. "Let's just practice," he says, and Mark takes the hint to back off.
🏐
Hanyang's campus looks a lot different from Hongik's. It's less concentrated, for one. It feels like a proper campus, instead of a series of concrete buildings tucked into the city with all its crowded buildings and busy roads. Even though it's not that far from Hongdae, Renjun's never had a reason to visit before now. Doyoung shows them around with all the grace and aplomb of an official tour guide, complete with fun facts and a full historical timeline of major events since the university's founding. Mark insists on derailing the tour for a few minutes to take a picture with the lion statue outside the campus History Museum, and it's only a little embarrassing. To his credit, Jaehyun, who Renjun did not previously peg as the caretaker type, is more than happy to take one-million photos of Mark (portrait mode, landscape, panorama, flash on, flash off) and answer all of Jisung's questions in between.
"Why'd you pick Hanyang?" Jisung asks. "Besides the whole volleyball thing."
"Hanyang University was the first college in South Korea to offer engineering and architecture programs," Doyoung recites, like he's reading a script. "And it is consistently ranked among the leading universities in STEM fields nationally."
"It was close to my house," Jaehyun says, smile placid.
The nets are still being set up by the time their little group gets to the gymnasium.
"We're borrowing the basketball courts for the weekend since we've got a bigger group than usual," Doyoung tells them. "It'll be done by the time we finish warm-ups. We usually do a lap or two around campus to start."
Renjun hates running.
They stretch on the pavement. It's still early morning, and it's cold, Renjun's breath coming out in small puffs in front of him. He hadn't brought his jacket because he'd planned on being inside a temperature-controlled gym. There are a few lingering rays of sunshine peeking out from behind the clouds, and Renjun reaches his hands to the sky, soaking them in greedily.
"You look like a cat," Jaemin snorts, stretching alongside him. Renjun does not watch the way his thighs flex under the sunlight.
Renjun puts his arms down, suddenly self-conscious. "Whatever," he says, crossly, and bends at the waist to touch his fingers to his toes.
"Thanks for last time, by the way. My finger's better now." Jaemin attempts to copy Renjun's motions to an accompanying melody of bones cracking in no less than five different places.
"Don't mention it. I mean, really, don't mention it." Renjun looks around. "I don't want other people to know that I helped you."
Jaemin's expression is wry and a little tortured, but that's probably from overextending his back. His bubblegum pink hair has faded since the last time Renjun saw him. It’s a slightly less obnoxious pastel pink, now, an unavoidable result when being a student athlete necessitates washing your hair once a day. "Is it really so bad that you did something nice for once?"
Renjun shivers, goosebumps prickling his skin. "I have an image to maintain."
"You're cold," Jaemin says.
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Am not." Renjun sneezes.
"Are too. Here, take this." Jaemin unzips his jacket and tosses it to him. Renjun stubbornly lets it fall on the pavement.
He frowns. "I don't want your dumb jacket. I'm fine." A breeze blows past, and against his will, Renjun shivers harder. "Okay, maybe I'm cold. I still don't want your jacket. I'll warm up in a bit when we start running."
"I don't like owing things to people," Jaemin says, a secretive smile on his face. Renjun scowls—who said Jaemin was allowed to use Renjun’s own words against him? Jaemin picks the jersey up off the ground again, and hands it to Renjun properly this time. "Seriously, just take it. You'll draw more attention to us if you don't."
It strikes Renjun that it'll undoubtedly draw even more attention to them if they notice that Renjun is wearing a Hanyang jacket and Jaemin is not. Whatever. Not his problem. "Fine," he says. He reluctantly slips the jacket on, zips it all the way up to the collar so it covers the entire bottom half of his face. It smells like lychee, vaguely herbal. It drapes Renjun’s frame in loose sheets of synthetic cotton, slipping down past his wrists and over his fingers. Only half of his hands are visible underneath the white fabric, and Renjun has to curl his fingers over the sleeves in an attempt to make it look not as oversized as it really is. "I'll give it back to you when we're back inside."
"No, you can keep it," Jaemin says, something unrecognizable flashing over his face. "Or— actually, don't. I don't know why I said that. I actually really need it. But you can keep it for today at least."
So Renjun wears it while he runs, and while they practice, all the way up until lunch. Jaemin doesn’t ask for it back, and Renjun is not particularly inclined to seek him out first to return it to him.
“Jaemin let you wear his jacket?” Donghyuck asks him, amused. They’ve forged something akin to friendship over the weeks, through mutual bitching between scrimmages. Mostly, they’ve just been whining at each other about how fucking sore they are, and how bad Kamikaze drills suck, and how terrible Chenle is. Renjun usually enjoys watching how relentless Donghyuck is in teasing his teammates. He finds he doesn’t like it so much when it’s turned on him.
Lunch today is a simple affair, served at the cafeteria in the student union building. It leaves a little to be desired. Renjun sticks his chopsticks upright into a bowl of rice. A bad omen. His mother would have a fit if she saw him. “Yes, he did,” he says. He’s hyperware of how much the jacket is hanging from his shoulders now that Donghyuck’s eyes are on him. He pushes the sleeves up past his elbows, but they just fall back down past his wrists. Fuck.
“He’s not normally good at sharing.”
“He owed me a favor. I was cold.”
“Hmm,” Donghyuck says contemplatively. “It’s getting pretty hot now though, isn’t it?”
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of Renjun’s neck. “Not really,” he lies.
Donghyuck smirks, like he knows something Renjun doesn’t. “Just wanted to make sure you know you can take that jacket off at any time you want.”
Renjun keeps the jacket on.
🏐
Jeno corners him on the third day during one of their water breaks.
"Jaemin's been pretty into it lately, huh?" he asks, casually, like he and Renjun haven’t just barely made each other's acquaintance.
Renjun looks to the right, uncapping his water bottle. "What?" he says, taking a swig of water. He and Jeno have talked before, sure, but never one-on-one, and the abruptness of this entire conversation strikes him as somewhat odd.
"I said," Jeno repeats, still smiling. "Jaemin's been pretty into it lately, huh?"
I heard you the first time, Renjun grumbles to himself, patting his forehead delicately with a dry towel before he turns back to Jeno. They've got a half hour before the next scrimmage starts, but he's still sweaty and out of breath from the pepper drills Coach Zhang had made them run earlier. "I mean, I guess. It's a training camp. Aren't we all supposed to be into it?"
"You would think that," Jeno says, nodding in Jaemin's direction. Renjun follows his gaze to center-court, where Jaemin is trying to cajole Jaehyun into hitting a couple more tosses for him. "But I've played with Jaemin for almost eight years now, and it's been a long time since I saw him this focused on practice. Or even on a real game, for that matter."
"Oh," Renjun says flatly, still not quite understanding what the point of this all is. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”
If Jeno is discouraged by Renjun's apparent lack of enthusiasm, he doesn't show it. "We were elected co-captains of our team in high school. I don't think Jaemin wanted to admit it, but it was a lot of pressure for him. I'd never seen him like that before, so unsure and so hard on himself. It was— It was bad." He swallows. "Bad enough that he had to sit out Nationals our senior year when he dislocated his knee in the middle of the first game. He's better now, but... he was like a different person when he came back. Quieter. Hard to communicate with. Like he just didn't care about any of it, anymore, or was afraid to let himself care."
It’s not an entirely unfamiliar story to Renjun. Something similar had happened with him back in high school after they’d been on a particularly hot losing streak. No one had ever blamed him for the losses (not outright) but Renjun had blamed himself anyway, because he’s never been able to take criticism with grace even when it’s coming from himself. Even now he remembers late nights spent in his backyard, bruised knuckles, and the dark spot on the side of their house where he’d practiced hitting the ball into the same place over and over again. Then—pain shooting up from the outer arm up to the top of his shoulder as he laid on the ground, his chest suddenly too small for the breaths he was supposed to be taking. Realizing too late that he had gone too far.
He’d ran himself into the ground, and all he had to show for it was a shoulder that burned on rainy days and semi-monthly physical therapy appointments. So Renjun knows—all too intimately—what Jaemin must have been feeling at the time. There’s a moment where he feels something vaguely like sympathy, and then he remembers they’re talking about Jaemin, of all people, and it’s gone as fast as it appeared.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asks, bristling. Jaemin isn't the first player to get injured playing volleyball, and he won't be the last one either. Why should Renjun care?
Jeno takes a sip from his own water bottle and smiles again, face still turned towards Jaemin. His gaze is soft. Renjun's stomach twists uncomfortably. He's been getting that feeling a lot lately when it comes to Jaemin. “Well, it’s funny. Even before that happened he was always naturally uncompetitive, and he’s stayed that way. Except when it comes to you.”
"Me," Renjun repeats, dumbfounded. Jaemin's noticed the two of them together by now, and is sending them a curious look. Renjun purposefully does not make eye contact with him.
“Yes, you.” Jeno seems to be waiting for a response. When Renjun fails to come up with one, he continues. “All I'm really trying to say is that it's nice to see Jaemin having fun with the sport lately. He’s actually trying again."
"You think he’s having fun?" It definitely doesn't seem that way to Renjun. Unless Jaemin counts tormenting him as fun.
"Yes," Jeno laughs. "He is. Again, because of you. He won't admit it, but you’re good for him."
Renjun starts, then stops. Then does it all over again. He can’t quite find the words right now. “I see.”
“I think you two might be more similar than you may have imagined.”
And that really hits a nerve. Similar — the only similarity he has with Jaemin is that they play the same sport. Renjun grows defensive instantly. “What exactly are you trying to say? Get to the point.”
"The point is that I wanted to say thank you," Jeno says, looking directly at him this time. His voice is earnest, and earnest people, honest people like Jeno, have always been the hardest for Renjun to handle. "For helping Jaemin find his love for volleyball again."
🏐
Through the net, Renjun can see Jaemin saying something to Donghyuck. As he’s talking, Jaemin lifts the hem of his jersey, uses it to wipe at the sweat gathered on his forehead, exposing the smooth, pale skin of his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen flex, taut. It’s several long, excruciating seconds before Jaemin lets the hem fall back into place.
“Renjun,” Mark says, and Renjun’s attention shifts back into place. “Renjun.”
“What?” Renjun asks. Across the court, Jaemin sweeps the hair out of his eyes with a hand, effortless. Renjun’s fingers tighten their grip around his water bottle.
Jisung grimaces. “You’re staring. Again.”
Renjun grimaces right back at him. He’s not staring. They’re losing the third set of this fucking practice game, 13-15. Two points doesn’t feel like a wide gap to bridge, but it is, especially when each play has been going on for minutes at a time before either team is able to score. Each rally has had him gasping for air by the end of it. The pace is exhausting, and he’s already sore from the rest of the drills they’d run, and he wants this to be done.
“The next time Jaemin gets the ball to Jeno,” he says, quietly. “Go for a soft block. Don’t try to shut him out completely. Just prioritize keeping the ball in play and getting it over the net.”
The whistle blows. Time out over.
For once, Renjun is thankful for the chance to partially sit out a set. It gives him more time to observe. It seems obvious to say now, but even though they may share a position it’s evident to Renjun that he and Jaemin have entirely different philosophies in how they play. Even disregarding the gap in their skill levels (or talent, or whatever else it could be called) — it boils down to communication, at the end of it all.
Renjun likes to discuss plays with his hitters beforehand. He adjusts based on their feedback and personal preferences because he knows them like the back of his hand. He knows, for example, that Shotaro’s vertical isn’t as high as the others, so he likes a set that’s a little lower. He knows that Mark likes his sets further back from the net to better avoid getting caught by blockers. And so on.
Jaemin plays like he’s the only one in the room who matters. Keep up with me, he says with his tosses. And Hanyang, to their credit, does keep up. He kicks back against the floor, jumps high above the net, and just trusts someone will be there to hit his sets. If Renjun squints hard enough, he thinks he could see wings on his back. His way of playing is careless, reckless even, but oddly free.
Jaemin sets the ball low and fast to Jeno. Renjun’s lips curl into a smile when Yuta jumps and bends his hand back to make contact with the ball and slow it down. Behind him, Jisung manages to get the second touch. When he gets the ball to Mark, he slams it down into Hanyang’s court without a problem. Free, maybe, but not infallible. Jaemin, for all his genius and raw talent, is a beatable opponent like any other.
Yuta flashes him a thumbs up, and Jaemin turns to him, eyes narrowed. It feels good, Renjun realizes. To have Jaemin’s full attention, to be hit with the full force of his gaze, heavy and dark. Recognition—I did that. Look at me. Renjun holds eye contact with him for all of five seconds before he suddenly gets that same too-exposed feeling he’d gotten when they first met. Jaemin rakes his eyes over Renjun slowly, looks at him like he sees something to be desired. Looks. Really looks.
Renjun shivers, against his will, and turns away. On second thought—maybe don’t look at me, after all.
They rotate, and Jisung and Renjun swap places.
“Stop staring,” Jisung whispers again, as Renjun jogs onto the court to take his place.
He’s still not staring. Jaemin is just a fucking anomaly. Jeno had told him Jaemin was naturally uncompetitive. Maybe that was true a year ago, but Renjun watches him sprint across the court in long strides to get underneath the ball in time for a back set up the middle for Sungchan to slam it down, and thinks—what part of that reads as uncompetitive? The expression on his face is entirely foreign to Renjun. He finds, strangely, that he doesn’t hate that as much as he thought it would.
Jeno smiles at him from across the court. He’s trying.
It’s Jaehyun’s serve. He goes underarm, for more control probably, because he rips it right down the seam. It frazzles them just enough that by the time Renjun gets second-touch, all he can really do is get the ball up into the air for Shotaro to land a cross.
Jaemin jumps diagonally to make Doyoung’s single block into a double. The ball hits his pinky at an angle that would have definitely jammed it up again if it weren’t already taped.
You’re welcome for that, Renjun thinks bitterly, as a newly-bought, unopened roll of athletic tape in his bag taunts him from across the gym. The ball falls in their court. Jungwoo nearly takes out Shotaro by the ankles when he dives in an attempt to dig it last-second. No luck.
Renjun scowls, looking up to Jaemin’s exhilarated, unfaltering grin.
The next time the ball is in play and heading towards Renjun, he’s ready for it. Over the years, Renjun’s learned that it only takes five seconds for a proper attack to be executed.
Five. Renjun scans the opposite court. Jaemin’s stance tightens, his body coiled with tension.
Four. Mark nods at him, and Renjun knows he sees the same thing—a hole in their defense —right on the side where they’ve left the court open. Jungwoo jumps for a feint, and Doyoung follows his movements. Jaemin stays in place.
Three. Renjun sets the ball in a high arc, straight to the middle of Mark’s palm. Jaemin’s thighs flex as he runs up the side of the court, and he jumps to block the cross.
Two. Mark drills the ball down the left boundary line on the opposite court. It might be the cleanest line shot he’s taken all season. Jaemin lands solidly on his feet, looking surprised.
One. The ball flies and hits the innermost part of the white line. Jaemin’s surprise turns to understanding turns to excitement. His grin widens, and his eyes meet Renjun’s. He could at least have the decency to pretend he was in any way flustered by the unexpected attack. Something about it still infuriates Renjun.
It’s nice to see Jaemin having fun. You’re good for him.
Renjun is good at pretending. He switches back out with Jisung, and pretends the thudding in his chest could be attributed to the excitement of the game alone. Jaemin’s gaze follows him as he goes, predatory, and Renjun pretends not to notice it.
A bead of sweat slides down his throat. Jaemin traces its path down Renjun’s neck and towards his chest with hawk-eyed vision, and Renjun pretends not to notice that, too.
🏐
Renjun rucks the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows, splashes cold water over his face. It drips down the sides of his cheeks, dampens his bangs where they’d been sticking to his forehead from sweating all day. Cools him down, but brings no sense of relief with it. He twists the faucet once to stop the water.
Get it together, he thinks to his reflection. You don’t have time to be thinking about these kinds of things. He’d stayed behind after practice had ended to—what, take his mind off things? Distract himself?
("You were kinda off your game today, hyung," Jisung had told him, not unkindly. His bag was slung over his shoulder unevenly, and Jungwoo had to adjust the strap for him.
“I know,” Renjun had grumbled in response. Because of course he knows. He catalogs every error like an encyclopedia of his own failures, commits it to memory, carries it with him. “I think I’m gonna stay back.”
Mark turned sympathetic eyes on him. "Don’t stay too long, okay?" he said sternly. A lesser man would have tried to convince Renjun not to stay back at all. Mark, though, has always known Renjun too well. "I'll make sure they save a plate for you at dinner if you're late.")
The time for dinner has come and gone, the sun has long since set below the horizon, and Renjun is still here.
Thank you for helping Jaemin find his love for volleyball again. Jeno’s words echo on the tiled walls of the bathroom. They’ve been bouncing around his mind all day.
He still can’t wrap his head around it. Renjun’s not like the other members of his team, who thrive in these too-loud environments and make conversation with strangers as easily as they’re able to make friends. He doesn’t have Yangyang’s easy charm, or Jisung’s genuine innocence, or Shotaro’s earnest demeanor, or even Mark’s clumsy likability. As hard as he tries, finding the right words for these types of situations is difficult — an exercise more grueling than any drill any coach has ever put him through. Honesty is one of those things that people say becomes easier with practice, and Renjun is downright out of shape.
The door swings open.
Renjun shifts, and the edge of the sink digs into his hip.
“What’re you still doing here?” Jaemin asks. He should look terrible. They’ve been exercising all day, presumably sweating all day, and the harsh, fluorescent light shouldn’t be doing anyone any favors. His pink hair stands out starkly against the sterile white tiles.
He should look terrible. He doesn’t. Renjun hates it.
“Presumably the same thing you’re doing,” he says. “I stayed behind. Extra practice.”
“I’m not here for extra practice,” Jaemin says.
He’s being cryptic as usual, for absolutely no reason. It’s like it’s in Jaemin’s nature to be infuriating. “Then why are you here?”
Jaemin ignores the question. “You definitely needed it though. Your serves were messier than usual today.”
Renjun snorts. Jaemin steps closer, and closer still, until Renjun can practically feel his body heat. “Yeah, well, I was distracted. You can blame your friend for that.”
“Who, Jeno?” Jaemin asks. His shoulders tighten almost immediately, defensive. “You mean earlier, during practice? What did he say to you?”
“Why don’t you just ask him if you want to know so badly?” Renjun stands to leave, but Jaemin’s hand comes up to circle his wrist, grip tight. His pulse thrums underneath the touch, and—
As soon as the touch comes, it’s gone. Jaemin drops his wrist, as if burned, as if only just then realizing what he’d done. “I did ask him,” he swallows dryly. “And he said that I should talk to you about it.”
It feels like something Renjun shouldn’t say out loud. If he says it out loud, it becomes real. If he says it out loud, he has to acknowledge that maybe whatever he and Jaemin are goes beyond competitive rivalry. There has to be a reason Jeno wouldn’t tell Jaemin what they were talking about.
“Well here you are. Asking me. And I’m telling you no.”
“God, you’re so difficult.” Jaemin scowls, and Renjun just laughs, pleased, because it’s nice to be the one under his skin for once.
“Maybe that’s because it’s none of your business.”
Jaemin looks at him, eyes dark, like he’s drinking him in. He’s standing so close now that Renjun thinks he could probably count every eyelash, every freckle on his face. He’s suddenly, painfully conscious of the fact that his face is still wet, water trickling down from his jawline down the column of his throat. “Just tell me.”
Renjun is not sure why he chooses to answer him. He’s properly backed up against the sink, now, so there’s nowhere to run. Even if he could run, he wouldn’t. Huang Renjun does a lot of things, but he does not back down from a competition, implicit or not.
“He said,” Renjun starts. His voice is rasping out of his throat. Another thing he’s unsure of. “That I’m good for you. That we’re more similar than I think.” Among other things. Renjun isn’t quite ready to say the rest of it out loud yet.
“Oh,” Jaemin says. He looks at Renjun like he’s seeing him for the first time. “And what do you think about that?”
“I think that you’re stubborn, and childish, and appallingly unmotivated,” Renjun tells him, and means it. “But when you see a challenge, a worthy one, you rise to it. I don’t hate that part of you. I see it in myself sometimes, too.”
And Renjun isn’t stupid—he’s been kissed before, been with other men before, and he knows the signs—knows when someone is about to kiss him. There’s a certain flash of the eyes, barely perceptible unless you’re looking for it. He’s seen it in Mark, and his high school boyfriend Junhui, and that guy he’d hooked up with last weekend but didn’t catch the name of, and he’s seeing it in Jaemin now. Jaemin’s gaze darts to his mouth, and his hands curl over the edge of the sink, and Renjun knows.
He’s certain that Jaemin leans in first, but the rest of it feels blurry. Endless, and fleeting, all at once. The harsh light of the bathroom glancing off the planes of Jaemin’s face, vibrant, and the softness of his mouth, and the quiet huff of air as Renjun forgets to breathe, his heart pounding in his ears. Renjun would’ve expected Jaemin to kiss him the way he plays volleyball, easy and relaxed. This is none of those things. The way Jaemin kisses him is clumsy, all uncertain hands and none of the deliberate grace a setter is supposed to have.
Renjun wants to blame it on adrenaline alone when he kisses back, but in the back of his mind he knows that’s not quite right, either. He fists his hands into Jaemin’s jersey and holds onto it tighter when Jaemin presses in, too close, his body fitted right against Renjun’s. The sink is still digging into his hip, but Jaemin’s hand is, too. His eyes are squeezed tight. Altogether, it’s not the worst kiss Renjun’s ever experienced.
When they separate, it’s only because Renjun’s throat is starting to constrict from lack of air. Jaemin is breathing like he’s just run a half-marathon. Renjun’s grip on his collar loosens.
“Why did you do that?” Renjun asks. Though Jaemin could ask him the same thing: why did you kiss back? And Renjun would have no answer for him. He licks his lips on reflex, and the taste comes away bitter, all dark chocolate and unsweetened coffee.
Jaemin’s responding exhale is shaky. “I don’t know,” He replies, honestly. Stripped of any of his usual bravado.
No further words are exchanged and still, Renjun can’t comprehend why Jaemin is staring at him like he’s in a daze.
🏐
One week before the spring qualifiers, Renjun falls on his ass in the middle of a jump float serve. It feels like crashing down to Earth.
"No big deal, yeah?" Yuta says, helping him up. "Mark fucks his serve up half the time during practice. Brush it off."
"Hey!" Mark protests in the distance. "Unprovoked?"
Renjun grits his teeth, grabbing Yuta's outstretched hand to pull himself up. Brush it off. Maybe Yuta or Mark could brush off a failed serve every now and then. But not Renjun—his serve is the only thing that’s letting him see any court time at all. They have no need for two setters. That much had been made clear to him at the start of the year. So Huang Renjun doesn’t just flub a fucking serve. The only explanation Renjun can think of for making such an error is that he hasn’t worked hard enough, clearly, hasn’t put in enough time.
He knows very well that there's no room for any additional failure here.
The closer they get to the tournament, the more agitated he gets. The more agitated he gets, the longer he spends in the gymnasium after practice. Practices his serves until his legs are burning, then vertical sets until he can’t feel his fingers anymore, then back to serves. Rinse. Repeat. Drags himself into bed before he collapses, then does it all over again the next day. Better to fall asleep exhausted than continue losing sleep over the possibility of losing their games at qualifiers.
“You need to chill. Seriously, what’s it been, five days in a row now?” Mark’s gotten even better at his Disappointed Captain stare over the past few months as he’s grown into his role, so Renjun decides not to even bother looking at him. It sounds like something Jaemin would say to him. Salt rubbed into an open wound, gasoline poured over an open flame.
“Chilling isn’t going to help us win on Saturday,” Renjun mutters, facing away. He bounces the ball against his fingertips in the setting position. “I don’t need to chill, I need to be better.” It doesn’t matter how many minutes on the court he’s going to get, he just needs to make them count. Even if it’s only thirty or sixty seconds.
Renjun bends his knees and extends his arms, sending the ball sailing through the air. Mark runs up before he’s even completed his set, gym floor squeaking under his sneakers, turns his body and jumps. He swings an arm forward, sends the ball over the net. Like he’s done it a million times (he has). Renjun never tires of seeing it. Mark has a way of playing volleyball that makes others want to join in naturally. Draws everyone in, both off the court and on the court. The ball lands squarely in the corner of the court, hits the wall as Mark lands on his feet, just a couple feet away from him.
“You see,” Renjun says, gritting his teeth. He grabs another ball from the dwindling pile behind him. “That should’ve been further back from the net.” He’s been setting for Mark for four years in all, high school to college, and he still can’t manage to make those pinpoint-accurate tosses that Jaemin can. His shoulder throbs, even though it should’ve healed fully a long time ago. Sicheng always tells him he has a tendency to carry wounds that never quite scar over, even when they’re self-inflicted. Renjun has never thought he might’ve meant that literally, too.
Mark closes the distance between them. “It was fine,” he insists, pries the ball from Renjun’s hands and lets it drop to the floor. More work for him to clean up later. “It was good, Renjun.”
“But it could be better,” Renjun repeats.
“That’s the point of playing a sport,” Mark says, grasping his arm. “It could always be better. You need to relax, Renjun. Go home. Watch a movie, or something. Go to sleep.”
Renjun looks down at where Mark’s fingers are curled around him. “I can think of better ways to relax,” he says, and doesn’t miss the way Mark’s gaze darts down to his mouth. Familiar, in more ways than one.
“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” Mark tells him, later. He says that every time. His voice sounds hoarse. Renjun wonders if maybe he was too rough on him. “No, really. I mean it.”
Renjun closes his eyes, but all he can see is pink hair and a seafoam green track jacket. He opens them again, just to stare at the ceiling. “Okay,” he says. Mark hands him a clean t-shirt, kisses him on the cheek. No hard feelings. “Is it Yuta?”
Mark flushes bright red in lieu of an answer, and Renjun can’t help but smile.
His phone chimes with a notification from where it’d been tossed carelessly on Mark’s nightstand, screen lighting up the otherwise dark room. Mark glances down, squinting through his glasses. “It’s Jaemin,” he announces, and frowns when Renjun’s hand reaches out to block the screen before he can read the rest of the message. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to look, it was just right there.”
“It’s fine,” Renjun mumbles. “It’s nothing. He’s nothing.”
“He seems like a little bit more than nothing,” Mark jokes, the mattress dipping underneath his added weight as he settles back down.
“It’s nothing,” Renjun repeats, this time more insistently. And it’s true—Jaemin only ever texts him congrats after a game, or to taunt him over a loss. Once, just to send him some stupid meme that Renjun had ignored. The kiss that one time? It meant nothing. Of course it didn’t, because Jaemin never brought it up again. Renjun didn’t want him to, either.
It’s just a kiss. Renjun has kissed strangers for less.
“I wish Chenle never gave him my number.”
Mark pauses, like he’s considering his next words carefully. “You know the team wouldn’t care, right? If you guys dated.”
It’s not about the team. Renjun and Jaemin are not friends, and they are definitely not dating. He doesn’t know how to say this to Mark without it sounding like a flat-out denial for all the wrong reasons. “Let me stay the night,” he says instead, and leans into the touch when Mark ruffles his hair. He doesn’t know how to be alone with his thoughts right now, and if he goes home right now, there’s no telling if he’ll use his spare key to get into the gym again for more practice.
“Of course,” Mark says, indulgent, and Renjun remembers what it was like, suddenly, to be fifteen years old and head over heels for the wide-eyed spiker, two years his senior. He’s old enough now that he knows what he felt—feels—for Mark isn’t love, at least not the romantic kind. There’s trust. Admiration. The kind of kinship that only grows with time. All of those things, and something more. But it’s not love. He’s known that for a while.
Admitting it to himself doesn’t feel as terrible as he thought it would.
🏐
It's nothing, he had told Mark.
Up until this point, Renjun's been trying not to think about Jaemin altogether. Redirects his focus into practice, into work, into studying, because he's afraid of what might happen if he thinks of him at all. It's been easy enough to do, until now. The arrival of the Provincial Qualifiers means a lot of things. Among them: Nationals is around the corner; it might not matter that Nationals is around the corner if they don’t even make it past today; and it’s not going to be possible for him to avoid thinking about Jaemin, anymore.
The gymnasium is swarming with teams. Renjun scans the crowd, finds SNU’s team in their black-and-blue uniforms before he catches sight of Hanyang. Mark waves to Jaehyun. Doyoung flashes them a thumbs up. Across the gym, Jaemin looks... unaffected, like nothing happened between them at all. Like Renjun imagined it all in his head. Maybe to him, it was nothing. Renjun tries to mirror his indifference in his own expression, but it comes out more like a scowl instead.
"You're sure it's nothing?" Mark gives him a, we’re going to talk about this later look, and Renjun tries to reconstruct his usual frosted facade.
"I'm sure," Renjun insists. And it's true. It's nothing when Jaemin arrives with Jeno, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and watches their first set. It's nothing when Jeno leaves, but Jaemin stays and watches their second set. It's nothing when Jeno comes back, and tries to get Jaemin to rejoin the rest of the team where they're starting to warm up for their game, and Jaemin refuses to leave until it's clear Hongdae's won the third set, too. It's nothing when Renjun scores four service aces in a row off Yonsei's libero to finally win them that third set, and he looks to the bleachers, and Jaemin is looking back at him.
They make eye contact. Jaemin smiles, unexpectedly. He raises his hand. His fingers are taped. Before Renjun can even begin to decipher what it might mean, Yangyang tackles him and Shotaro to the ground in one fell swoop, a victory cry tearing itself from his throat. By the time Renjun looks back up again, Jaemin’s already gone.
As a team, they manage to gather themselves in time to watch Hanyang’s last match of the day. Renjun realizes—Jaemin in motion is a beautiful sight—always has been. But doubly so when Renjun’s seeing him actually properly try for the first time. There’s no trace of the player he’d gone up against a year ago, and that realization is equal-parts terrifying and thrilling. He can’t tear his eyes away from him.
“If they win this,” Jungwoo says. “We’ll be matched up against them in the finals tomorrow.” He sounds almost sad about it. Renjun knows he’s grown close with them in the past few months, the same way they all have.
The air feels stifling, suddenly. Off to the side, a group of girls squeal Jaemin’s name. Renjun’s hands twist in the fabric of his own bright-yellow jacket, and when he looks down at himself, he thinks for a moment—oh, this is wrong, this should be white-and-green—before he catches himself.
"This isn't going to affect how you play, will it?" Mark asks Renjun, one last time. Hushed, like there’s a secret in there somewhere.
Renjun swallows, and he can barely taste bitter chocolate at the tip of his tongue.
It’s nothing.
"No. It won’t."
🏐
It rains on the second day of the Provincial Qualifiers. Unseasonably hot. Renjun's hair is still damp from his shower that morning, the laces of his shoes tied haphazardly. He steps in a puddle on his way to the gym in the morning, and tries not to consider it a bad omen. It'd been impossible to get any sleep the night before. In the few hours he got, he dreamt in flashes. A finger bending. Pink hair. Smooth skin against dark concrete. Ink-black text against a stark white background. Finals: Hanyang vs. Hongik.
His shoulder burns.
They line up, one team across from another. Renjun stands up a little straighter.
“I hope you at least put up a decent fight this time,” Jaemin says to him, purposefully incendiary, when they shake hands. “Or I’m going to win again.”
The challenge stokes a fire in him. Renjun’s first instinct is to rise to it—you wish, we’ll see about that, you’re the one who needs to put up a fight, I’m going to win. But if anything, Jaemin should be taunting Jisung, not Renjun, because Renjun’s going straight to the sidelines after this. He’ll get called in maybe three or four times if he’s lucky. “There’s no individual competition here,” Renjun lies through his teeth, and wishes he could believe that. “Our teams are playing each other. Not us.”
It’s funny—how fast each play seems to go when you’re watching it from the outside. It used to sting, having to sit and observe instead of actually play. That’s faded to a dull ache, now, because Renjun knows that observing gives him the chance to more critically analyze the opposing team’s patterns and attacks. He can afford to be a little more objective than his teammates can in the moment. Still, more than once, he leans too far in, like his body is trying to move towards the ball on instinct. Yeri, sitting next to him on the bench, leans into his side to ground him. It only helps a little bit.
As much as they learned about Hanyang through the training camp practice games, Hanyang learned just as much about them. Jaemin feigns a toss knowing Yangyang is the type to jump before he thinks, then dumps the ball at his feet. Hanyang ticks into their strongest serve rotation, and Shotaro in serve-receive knows Ten will cover their seam, because Jeno can't aim for the end lines when he's focusing on the power behind his serve. Doyoung snatches the point back immediately with a single block, knowing Jisung is prone to opening with a quick in the middle. Back and forth, push-and-pull. Renjun gets called in twice to serve. Both times, they cut him off after two. It's neither a particularly good nor a particularly bad performance for him.
The first and second sets end up close—neither side ever gets more than two points in a row at a time—but Hanyang University wins both, 25-22 and 29-27. Despite the narrow gap in points, it must shake everyone's confidence, because the third set gets off to a rocky start. Coach Zhang calls for a timeout less than two minutes in. Yeri passes around waters, and the rest of the team huddles around the bench. There's tension in the air. No one speaks, but Renjun's sure they're all thinking the same thing. Lose this, and it's over.
“They’re trying to predict your patterns,” Renjun tells Mark, to break the silence. “I think they’re shifting the block more central to cut off your hitting line. So be conscious of that if you can.” Next, he turns to Jungwoo. "Your hang time needs to be longer when you're jumping straight into a block. Hanyang's timing is a little quicker than we're used to, so you're not at the peak of your block when they're spiking down."
They all roll their eyes at him while he nags, but when they return to the court, it's with heated energy. With Jungwoo adjusting the timing of his blocks, it's a lot easier for Hongdae to start shutting down attacks, and helps Ten in the back narrow his line of sight for receives. Even Jaehyun's spikes start getting dug up, and Jaemin begins to look visibly frustrated. His plays are razor-sharp as always, but he seems to be getting more and more distracted. After Jungwoo gets his third consecutive block point, Jaemin glances in the direction of the bench. Renjun writes it off the first time, and the second. After the third time, it starts pissing him off. Why are you looking over here? He wants to scream. Keep your eyes on the game. Hanyang starts ramping up their defense in the second half of the set, but they lose Chenle right as it's Mark's turn to serve. Coach Lee crosses her arms in a T after their first successful serve-and-block, intending to stop him at just one. From there it's an inevitability. Mark's next serve is an ace, even after the time out, and Hongdae manages to take the third set, 25-20. They still have a fighting chance.
It goes to shit around the middle of the fourth set. They’ve just used up their last time out. Jisung’s got his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry,” he says, the thin line of his mouth trembling, and for a second Renjun sees himself in him. Young, inexperienced, and shouldering all the blame. Jisung’s good, but he’s never played a five-set match before, and it’s starting to take a toll on his stamina, especially with going over 25 points in the second set. Hanyang must’ve picked up on that fact, because they’ve made it a point to start targeting him with their serves. From the corner of his eye he can see Doyoung patting Jaemin on the back approvingly. It must’ve been his idea. “I’m really sorry. I don't think I can do it. Renjun-hyung, we should sub you in for the rest of the set at least.”
Renjun shakes his head. It’d only be a temporary fix, and they can't afford to replace Jisung entirely. It would be one thing if it were just about the physical exertion—but being targeted by Hanyang is taking a mental and psychological toll on Jisung too. And that’s the worst part. Renjun, of all people, would know.
Coach Zhang steps in for the first time all day. His clipboard gets left on the bench. "We're going to switch to a 6-2 system," he says.
Two setters. For a minute, Renjun thinks he's misheard him.
"We'll lose Shotaro, so we have to run our offense more on the outsides of the court. But Jisung is taller, so having him in the front row means we can actually run a little out of the right side, too, which will open up the middles a little more.”
"We've never done that before," Renjun protests. "Even if we did, switching in the middle of a game is absurd. The communication is going to be a mess. I've never even attempted a quick with Jisung—"
"You did it with Jaemin, that time, didn't you?" Yuta points out, and Renjun stiffens. He'd been so sure no one was paying attention to them. "I've been working with Jisung on his spikes. He could pull it off."
Of course it makes sense, in theory. With two setters they'll be able to attack more aggressively. It just adds another offensive tool to their arsenal. And Hanyang will definitely, definitely be caught off guard, because they've never seen them do it before.
"Do you want to play, or not?" Coach Zhang asks wryly, like it's even his choice.
Renjun grits his teeth. It's the chance he's been dying for. He should be thrilled. But under the pressure, under these circumstances, it's hard to stand steadfast. There's a seed of doubt that's been growing within him, having taken root in the aftermath of that first loss to Jaemin. And he's watered it, fed it, let it flourish. "Of course I do. But last time—"
"Last time was last time," Mark says. His hand finds Renjun's shoulder. "Things are different now. And since when have you ever backed down from a challenge?"
Since him, Renjun thinks. He's scared, fucking terrified, that this will prove what he's always known. There's no amount of effort that can surpass genius. He looks over. And on the other side of the net: Jaemin, his gaze indecipherable as it always is.
The whistle blows. Their thirty seconds are up. Renjun goes, more reluctantly than he'd like to admit.
Luckily, he manages to get his head out of his ass and focus as he steps onto the court. His addition to the lineup is one that takes Hanyang by surprise, and bolsters Hongdae's stability, even despite the novelty of the 6-2 formation. Even though Jisung's technically the better player —Renjun's had an extra year of playing with this team—and that's not useless here. He remembers Kun's words. The team needs you, you know. Mark's, too, when he'd first asked Renjun to be his vice-captain. You keep our spirits up, our attacks strong, and our defense solid. Who else would I have wanted to help lead this team? He remembers this—this much, he can do.
It's Doyoung's serve, and as the ball sails over the net, Yangyang drops back into the left for Renjun to push up the middle. Jisung dives for the receive—the flying receive drills from camp had paid off after all—and Renjun manages to pull off a slide with Mark, the ball set low and pushed to the antenna. They pull forward, 21-19. His hesitation gets overtaken by determination; blood rushing in his ears and through his veins, adrenaline coursing through him in waves. He's in good shape today, he thinks. It’s a good thought, one that gives him enough confidence to score another point off a pipe with Yangyang in the back, straight down the middle. That's not an attack Hanyang's seen before, either, because he and Yangyang have only just recently added it to their repertoire after months of practice. The ball feels like it fits in his hand better than usual, his body limber and quick, his jumps soaring higher, weightless, like he's been waiting for this moment. 24-22.
Jaemin's singularly focused now, and Renjun can't recall ever seeing him like that before. His movements are languid, efficient as always, not a single step wasted, but there's tension coiled in the way he leans forward as they switch rotations, tight like a whip. Renjun shifts to the front, and Yuta jogs onto the court, clapping Ten on the shoulder as they switch. Jaemin is up to serve again. He aims clear for Renjun, and Renjun has to drop to his knees to dig the ball, breaking formation. His arms sting and his kneepads don't do much to dull the pain in his legs, but he rises up in time to jump, making their double block into a triple as Sungchan attempts a blockout against their fingers. Jungwoo moves his hand at the last possible second, and the ball goes flying clear into the bleachers. When he looks across the net, it feels like his line of sight narrows. Just him, and Jaemin, and the electric current connecting the soles of their shoes where they’re both standing on the linoleum floor. I’m not the same person I was last year, either. I’m better now. You can’t target me anymore and expect it to work. It’ll be different, this time. Is this memorable enough for you?
Jisung’s next serve is an ace. Hongik University wins the fourth set, 25-23.
There's no relief in it. They no longer have the element of surprise on their side when the fifth set starts, and there's a sense of urgency on both sides. They're both rushing—Renjun has to breathe in, out, remember to slow his own movements down. The last set will only get played to fifteen points. Fifteen points feels like so few in the grand scheme of things. Jaemin manages to get four points in a row off his jump serve, right from the start, and it's only with Ten's help that they finally manage to cut him off there. Jisung looks over in his direction, sends the ball towards him, and Renjun jumps. He swings his arm down and watches the ball slam clean, untouched, onto the other side of the net, a dark line painted onto polished linoleum. He's not the most powerful hitter, by any means, and his vertical isn't as high as Shotaro's, but Jisung probably knew it was for those reasons that Renjun would go unmarked hitting from right side. In the back row, Jaemin grins, his eyes wild. 2-4.
Chenle gets swapped out for Doyoung. Hongdae loses an additional two points to Donghyuck's serve. Yuta wrenches one back with the next rally through sheer force, performing a wipeout off Sungchan's arm. Jungwoo's serve bounces off Jeno's forearms, the ball careening to the side. Their blocks start to leave Hanyang scattered. Jeno’s serve gets cut off at one, mercifully, after the referee signals that Sungchan had accidentally touched the net. Their defense starts to fall apart. By the time Renjun rotates into the back, they're tied up, 11-11. Jaemin crouches low, his thighs flexing as he drops. His eyes track Renjun's movements with an intensity that feels misplaced. Renjun centers himself, aims, jumps, and sends the ball over to the other side, right at the spot where Jaemin and Jaehyun are meant to cross paths when Jaemin moves up to the net. There's a moment of hesitation—yours, or mine. It lands cleanly between them. Renjun starts breathing a little easier.
And maybe there is a little bit of individual competition there, despite whatever he'd said to Jaemin earlier. Still, he's not so naive to think the same trick will work a second time. On his next serve, it falls a little short. Jaemin dives for the ball, slides across the floor just in time to push it into the air. Another first. He’s desperate now, and when he gets back on his feet it’s unsteady, and he's yelling something Renjun can't quite make out. Chenle manages to get hands on it next, but all he can do is send it back over, right in front of Jisung. Free ball.
Jaemin in motion is always a beautiful sight, even Renjun knows that much. But now that he's diving into the game with total and absolute reckless abandon, it goes beyond that. He's stunning, like this. This Jaemin is not empty. This Jaemin is frighteningly, beautifully full, alive. The line of his body as he runs, the desperation in his movements as he tosses to Jeno. Mark and Yangyang shut him out, and the ball falls back solidly in Hanyang's court. 13-11. The momentum shifts in their favor, but not for long. Hanyang tightens their blocks, 14-12. Every play becomes more careful, more critical. 15-14. Donghyuck's serve sends the ball straight into the net, and he swears under his breath. Hongdae is at match point.
Ten rotates back in, and then it's Mark's serve. This time, Hanyang is ready for it. Their formation has just Chenle and Jaehyun in the back, the strongest receivers, the rest of the team standing out of the way. Jaehyun manages to receive the ball with an overhand pass straight to Jaemin, who opts for another setter dump. Right in front of Renjun. It feels personal. Renjun turns desperate eyes to Coach Zhang. He shakes his head. No more time outs.
They shift into the next rotation, and Renjun watches as Jaemin readies his serve. It's a sight he's seen a million times—in today's game, in practice games, through his laptop screen. The ball spins in his hands. A flash of white, where he's taped his hand. Renjun blinks, and the ball is on the opposite side of the court. Nowhere near him. Jisung and Yuta both dive for it. There is no long rally this time, no elaborate play gone wrong. The ball rolls to the ground. Anticlimactic.
The whistle blows. Game, set, match. It’s final.
Renjun closes his eyes. His limbs suddenly feel leaden. Heavy. The exhaustion catching up with him. It's over, and this time there was nothing he could've possibly done about it. Despite the long hours of work, of practice, of poring over recorded games and conceptualizing strategies, it wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough. The gap between his skill and Jaemin's is a deficit no amount of time could ever make up for. Effort does not equal results. Scattered cheers erupt from the opposite side of the gymnasium, and through the haze of his dread, he feels himself get pulled into the post-game huddle by Mark.
He keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the ground the entire time they shake hands with Hanyang, even when Jaemin squeezes his hand too-tight and says his name like a question. It's only when they've packed up and leave the gymnasium that he manages to pick his head back up again. Jaemin looks up from his bag, at the same time, and Renjun manages a wry smile.
I quit. You win. Renjun mouths to him, and doesn't stay back long enough to see Jaemin's face fall.
🏐
The locker room is quiet. Renjun goes through the motions of showering and dressing himself in a daze. Yangyang and Shotaro are whispering amongst themselves, huddled by the lockers. They pointedly do not try to draw Renjun into conversation as he passes by them. There'll be time to talk later, but they all know it's best to leave him be when he gets into one of his moods, particularly after a bad loss.
This one might be the worst so far.
He's not expecting to see Jaemin when he opens the door. He's showered already, his arms crossed like he's been waiting for someone—for him? His hair is damp. Renjun wonders what could've been so urgent that he rushed out without drying it off completely first.
“What are you doing here?” Renjun bites out. It takes all his strength to speak past the lump in his throat, all frustration and self-righteous anger. He tries to maneuver around him, and Jaemin blocks off his path. “Seriously, Jaemin, I’m not in the mood for this, can you just—”
Jaemin’s face is dead serious. “What did you mean when you said you quit?”
“What else can it mean? You won. I lost.” Renjun hisses. They both know he’s not just talking about the match they’d just played. It’s not about the team, anymore. It never was. “So I give up. I quit. I’m done trying. I don’t know how many other ways I can spell it out for you.”
“But why?” Jaemin is asking, and what a stupid fucking question that is, when he’s standing in front of Renjun like this. Living, breathing proof that Renjun will never quite be good enough, no matter how much he tries. No matter how much time and effort he puts in. Renjun’s effort is useless in the face of Jaemin’s overwhelming talent. Better to just cut his losses.
None of that is worth saying to Jaemin. “You won,” Renjun says, simply. “You should be happy. Go celebrate with your team.” He makes a move to leave, and Jaemin stops him with a hand to the wall. Caging him in. He’s shaking a little bit, Renjun realizes.
“You can’t quit,” Jaemin says. The simplicity of the statement burns Renjun, because the decision to play or not to play is different for him.
“And why shouldn’t I?”
“There’s still next year. And all the years after, too.”
A laugh bubbles its way out of Renjun, against his will. “All the years after,” he says, voice shaking. “Let me tell you something about guys like me, Jaemin—guys like me don’t get to play volleyball after college.” His anger is thinly-veiled, audible, and Jaemin has the fucking nerve to look surprised by it. Once Renjun’s started, he can’t stop. “Why in the world would I waste my time warming the bench for the next two years when you’ve just proved I’m never going to be able to measure up? When I could be doing other things instead? I can’t just throw away my future because I like a sport. Liking volleyball isn’t the same as being good at it. Really, I should be thanking you for helping me come to this realization sooner than I would have otherwise.”
Jaemin tenses. “You can’t quit,” he says, again, like a child throwing a tantrum. “Because I’m still here. I don’t—I don’t want you to quit.”
“What, so I’m just supposed to continue playing for your sake? You realize how selfish that sounds, right?” His teammates can probably hear him. That doesn’t matter right now. “And this has nothing to do with you anyways, I don’t even know why you care so much.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. And of course I care, Renjun, I—”
“Of course you didn’t. Na Jaemin never has to think twice about what he says, does he? Everything comes so easy to you.”
“Oh, you want to talk about easy? I knew you were a lot of things, but I never thought you were the type to give up so easily. And for no reason.” Jaemin replies harshly. His eyes are too dark. Renjun feels like there’s nowhere for him to hide underneath his gaze, and the thought of being seen, of being exposed, is terrifying. “What happened to playing volleyball because you like it?”
“For no reason,” Renjun laughs, humorless. It’s such an unfair statement—it hits him like a spike to the solar plexus. “Maybe you don’t understand this, but normal people—regular people—it’s not so simple for us. Liking volleyball doesn’t mean I have to run myself into the ground trying to keep up with everyone else at the competitive level. I can join a club team. I don’t know. Play at the rec center.” He doesn’t know at this point if he’s saying all this for his own benefit, or for Jaemin’s. Who is he trying to convince, exactly?
The next sentence dies in his throat once, twice, before he forces it out. “I have a future to think about, Jaemin, and I need to accept that volleyball just isn’t in it.”
Jaemin’s gaze is still searching. Prying, digging, looking into Renjun, and Renjun wishes he knew what he was looking for, because he feels raw, splayed open, seen in the worst way, and Jaemin is really not helping. “What about me?” he asks.
“What about you?” Renjun is genuinely unsure how this conversation about his decision to quit volleyball keeps getting redirected to Jaemin.
Jaemin steps closer, somehow, and Renjun tilts his head back and holds his ground. Unyielding, even in his enduring confusion. He wonders if he could blame the thudding in his chest on the exertion of the game they just played. “Ask me again.” The command comes out of nowhere, makes his head spin, like he’s taken one of Jeno’s jump serves straight to the skull.
(He almost did, that one time, if not for—)
“What?”
“Ask me why I kissed you again.”
The words get stuck somewhere in Renjun’s throat. “Why did you kiss me,” he says, barely more than a whisper. There’s too much emotion in his voice, revealing too much, but he’s too tired to even attempt hiding it.
He wrenches his own gaze back up to Jaemin’s face. There’s that same, recognizable flash in his eyes again. This time, Renjun leans into it when Jaemin draws closer. He closes the remaining half centimeter between them to press their lips together, and it’s different than it was before. Jaemin’s more sure of himself, and it shows in the deliberate movement of his hands threaded through his hair, his tongue at the seam of his lips. He kisses Renjun deliberately, insistently, until he’s dizzy with it, Renjun’s hands fisted in the seafoam-green knit of his jersey as he lets Jaemin take, and take, and take.
Renjun sweeps a hand down the side of Jaemin’s neck, and the rapid-fire beat of his pulse thrums underneath his touch. His own heart is stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. Kissing Jaemin feels like a guilty pleasure, heady and wanting. Renjun is not good at allowing himself indulgences, but Jaemin licks over his lower lip and Renjun’s mouth falls open, and he thinks—maybe he could make an exception for this.
Renjun’s lungs are burning by the time he pulls back. “That wasn’t technically an answer,” he says, but he can’t help the way his mouth lifts up at the corners, amused.
“I came close to quitting too, at one point,” Jaemin replies, finally, after a stretch of silence. His hand is still anchored firmly at Renjun’s waist. Renjun notices, in the back of his mind, that the width of his palm spans nearly half of his waist, and it makes him feel dizzy all over again. “But you make me want to keep playing volleyball. With you, against you, it doesn’t matter, as long as you’re there.”
“Jaemin—” Renjun starts.
Jaemin cuts him off. “Let me finish. Please?” Renjun’s not sure he’s ever heard Jaemin say please before. He nods, wordless. “Once, you asked me why I played volleyball. I don’t have an answer for that yet. All I know is that you make volleyball fun. So you’re not allowed to give up. Not until you beat me.” He’s using the same words Jeno had said to him before, and still, Renjun is struck by the raw simplicity of them when they come from Jaemin himself. The honesty of it all.
Renjun’s lived his entire life up until now with a one track mind. There’s never been a before volleyball and an after volleyball for him. Everything in his life gets sorted neatly into volleyball, and not-volleyball. Jaemin is—he doesn’t fit neatly in either category. The realization doesn’t unsettle Renjun nearly as much as he thinks it should.
He's not sure when it started—when Jaemin became synonymous with a blue-and-yellow Mikasa ball, with the boundless high-vaulted ceiling of a gymnasium, with the feeling of victory and loss and everything that comes in between. With the sport he loved. Maybe it started from that first time Jaemin had kissed him, all those weeks ago. More likely, it’d started before Renjun even realized what it was, the first time he’d seen Jaemin play. Adrenaline rushing through Renjun’s veins, his eyes latched onto Jaemin’s infuriatingly perfect form. Compounded by the knowledge that Jaemin, the entire time, was studying him in turn.
Renjun snorts. “You know this is the least romantic confession in the world, right?” he says, eyes watery. His heart is stuck somewhere between his throat and his chest. It’s really not romantic at all. Talking about their feelings through volleyball, in the aftermath of a game Renjun had lost, in the hallway outside the locker room where Renjun’s team is probably eavesdropping on them. But it’s fitting for the both of them, somehow.
“I’m fully aware,” Jaemin huffs, but his voice betrays his embarrassment. His grip on Renjun is ironclad, like he’s afraid Renjun might slip away if he were to loosen his hold a little, even with their bodies pressed flush together like this. “Are you going to let me kiss you again now, or what?”
“Win your next game,” Renjun says, fingers still curled loosely into Jaemin’s shirt. “And maybe I’ll think about it.”
🏐
Volleyball Monthly
Hanyang Narrowly Defeats Hongdae, Advances to Nationals
Kim Seulgi, Associate Sports Editor
For the first time in five years, Hanyang University's volleyball team qualified for the Spring National Tournament under the leadership of Coach Lee Soonkyu, defeating Hongik University in the finals to advance in a nail-biter of a game (25-22, 29-27, 20-25, 23-25, 18-16). Although they lost out on their final game, Hongdae garnered attention for their gutsy decision to change systems in the middle of the game. Hongik University Coach Zhang moved vice-captain and second-year Huang Renjun onto the court, who has garnered attention this season for his strong serves, but hasn't played as setter since last year's Provincial Qualifiers. Despite a standout performance from both setters (incl. Park Jisung, first-year), Hanyang narrowly pulled ahead in the last set to seal the deal.
Coach Zhang doesn't regret the decision. "It was the right choice in the moment, even though the team had never tried it before. I would do it over again if I had to," he tells us. "Our team is lucky to have two very talented setters. With more practice, I expect to see a lot more success running a 6-2 system in the coming year with our current lineup." When asked about the game, Coach Lee only had this to say: "Even I was surprised — I haven't seen my players perform at this level before. But it was a great match. We have a very close relationship with Hongdae, and I think that brought the best out of both teams. Let's hope they can keep the momentum going for Nationals."
Editor's Note: Nationals will be held from May 23-27, at the Jangchung Arena in Seoul. Best of luck to all teams who will be playing!
🏐
(“Why do you think Jaemin and I are similar?” Renjun blurts out. The whistle blows. They have to get back to drills.
Jeno just smiles, like he was expecting that follow-up. “You’re both a little bit insane about volleyball,” he says. “In a way that the rest of us mere mortals will probably never be able to understand.”
“And so what?”
“So what? I’ve never seen Jaemin chase anything in the entire time we’ve been friends. Like along the way, he started being scared to want things. He won’t chase after a ball, won’t chase after anything outside his immediate reach. But he chases you.”)