Chapter Text
Morning practice laid a muted haze over the court. The sort that made time feel a fraction delayed, like the world was buffering. Pale sunlight slid through the high windows of the Black Jackals facility and fell in thin bars across the polished floor. A ball bounced once, twice, then decided it had had enough. Shoes squeaked. Voices stayed low.
Then the first whistle cut through it all, crisp and uncharitable.
Akaashi Keiji took his position with the same quiet exactness he used to arrange thoughts he didn’t want to touch.
Outwardly: calm face, steady breath, shoulders set.
Inwardly: numbers.
Distance to the net. The block’s hands: angle, timing, reach. The line shot that would be there if the set was half a hand wider. The hitter’s approach speed, the micro-adjustments in their steps, the weight shift that meant now.
It was a comfort, this kind of certainty. People on the court were much too variable. Physics, at least, had the decency to be consistent.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was on his right. Sakusa’s hits were usually perfect. The ball left his hand like it had signed a contract to obey. Akaashi fed him two sets in a row. Two kills. Clean and predictable.
Akaashi’s heartbeat matched that rhythm with quiet approval.
He would have preferred to stay there. Consistency suited him. It always had.
So of course, the next whistle called for rotation.
“Osamu,” Coach Foster said, and the universe tilted half a degree, just enough to be annoying.
Miya Osamu moved into position with a kind of quiet that didn’t read as peace so much as… containment. He had Atsumu’s face in the same way a winter lake had the same water as a summer river. Technically the same thing, but colder, stiller and somehow more dangerous if you stepped wrong.
Akaashi reminded himself they were professionals. Adults. Men with functioning frontal lobes. Whatever history existed - or whatever lack of history had somehow become its own problem - was irrelevant.
And yet something in his chest tightened, traitorous and subtle, like his body was reacting before his brain could file the correct paperwork.
The ball came. A clean receive. Akaashi set on instinct: hands soft, touch precise, the ball rising into a clean invitation.
Osamu started his approach…
…and stuttered.
Not a stumble. Not a mistake anyone would scold. Just an infinitesimal break in rhythm, a half-beat out of alignment. The kind of thing most people would never even notice.
But Akaashi noticed everything.
Osamu swung anyway. The ball kissed the tape and dropped back onto their side with the quiet humiliation of gravity.
Technically, not Akaashi’s fault.
Technically, not Osamu’s fault.
Technically—
Akaashi swallowed the rest of that thought, because it wasn’t helpful and it was also unkind.
Another rotation. Another chance.
Akaashi went quicker this time, trusting Osamu to adjust. Same idea, different tempo, a more decisive path.
Osamu’s approach hit that same microscopic hesitation.
The block ate the ball like it had been hungry all morning.
Akaashi inhaled. Kept his face neutral. Let the cold settle behind his eyes instead of on his tongue.
He could read hitters like text. The way Bokuto’s shoulders rolled when he was about to go line. The way Hinata’s breathing changed half a second before he exploded into the air. Sakusa’s tiny wrist angle that meant cross even when his body screamed line.
Osamu should have been readable too.
Instead, Osamu was like a language Akaashi had once been fluent in, and now - standing in front of it - he couldn’t remember how to form even a simple sentence.
Politeness kept everything quiet. They met eyes once. That was enough tension to press a shape into the space between them. Osamu’s face was neutral in that way that could mean calm or irritation or boredom or - Akaashi’s personal favorite - nothing at all.
The next rally went smoother. Only because Akaashi didn’t set to him.
Sakusa killed again, like he was tidying up an inconvenience.
“Don’t avoid the play,” Foster called, voice dry. “Use your opposite.”
Akaashi nodded once and did what he was told.
He set to Osamu again, but higher this time, giving room, giving time, giving… space. As if space could solve whatever invisible thing was happening between them.
Osamu met it. His footwork landed heavier than it should have, his swing slightly off-center. The ball still scored, but it wasn’t clean. It was the volleyball equivalent of passing an exam with a nineteen out of thirty and insisting it was “fine.”
Akaashi told himself progress was progress. He was very good at telling himself things.
They reached a break. Sweat rolled down Akaashi’s neck, pooling beneath his warm-up collar. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, kept his posture composed enough that no one would guess there was a thin, sharp thread of irritation being slowly braided into his thoughts.
Across the bench area, Osamu sat angled away, elbows on knees, twisting the cap of his bottle like it had personally offended him. He didn’t look frustrated. Osamu rarely did.
Which was, irritatingly, its own kind of problem.
Because quiet tension didn’t announce itself. It didn’t shout or slam doors. It simply lived. Between glances. In misaligned steps. In sets that should have been easy.
This would have been tolerable if the stakes were lower. But the Jackals were built on synchronization, and Akaashi had never tolerated being the weak link in any equation. Least of all one involving a Miya.
Coach Foster and Captain Meian approached, their shadows stretching into Akaashi’s peripheral vision.
“You two are running together the rest of the week,” Foster said, tone flat with authority. No room for negotiation. “Find your connection. It’s there. Use it.”
Meian nodded, expression steady. “We believe in both of you. Make it work.”
Akaashi bowed his head. Respectful andcompliant, but faintly furious.
Osamu did the same. Silent and unreadable. Naturally.
They returned to the court. Another serve. Another chance at something that shouldn’t have felt this complicated.
Akaashi tracked the ball’s arc, marked its point of contact, measured the air like it had answers. He could already see where it needed to go. He could already feel the set in his hands before it arrived.
Osamu’s breath, his angle, his approach - observed and categorized- understood in theory if not execution.
Akaashi set.
Osamu hit.
A clean kill. At least clean enough that Foster’s approving grunt was audible.
It should have felt like relief. Instead it felt like postponement. Like putting a piece of tape over a crack.
Practice ended in noise and movement. Hinata’s bright laughter, Bokuto’s booming voice, Atsumu loudly declaring himself irreplaceable as if the world hadn’t already confirmed it against its will. Their chaos made Akaashi’s quiet feel sharper.
Osamu walked past him to grab his bag.
Nothing was said. Nothing was resolved.
The space between them held every word left unsaid and every rally gone wrong.
Akaashi gathered his towel, kept his eyes forward, and let a thought settle in his mind like his own shadow: If connection is a skill, then surely it can be trained.
And if it wasn’t?
He pushed that thought away before it could grow teeth.
The locker room held onto heat the way it held onto noise: by refusing to let either fully dissipate. Water dripped from hair and jerseys in a soft, uneven rhythm. Someone laughed near the showers.
Akaashi sat on the wooden bench, towel loose around his neck, shoulders angled forward as he unwrapped the tape from his fingers. Peel. Smooth pull. Peel again. Each strip left a faint red line behind, a quiet, controlled action in a space that felt anything but.
Across the room, Osamu leaned against a locker, arms crossed, posture relaxed enough to pass for ease. A bottle of Pocari Sweat sat beside him, unopened, like a prop waiting for its cue.
To anyone else, Osamu looked fine.
Akaashi knew better. Or at least, he thought he did.
He considered saying nothing. Silence was efficient. Silence avoided collateral damage. Silence was, nine times out of ten, the correct choice.
Unfortunately, today had already proven that efficiency was not a guarantee.
He inhaled, steadying his breath before it could betray him. “Miya-san,” he said, voice careful, neutral. “About earlier—”
Osamu lifted his gaze. Not sharply. Not defensively. Just enough to acknowledge the sound.
“Yeah?” he said. “What about it?”
The question was open in structure and closed in tone, and Akaashi felt it immediately. He hesitated. Not for lack of words, but because he had too many, and every one of them felt like it could be interpreted in the worst possible way.
He trimmed his honesty down to the bones.
“I was adjusting my sets to your approach,” he said quietly. “The tempo felt off. It wasn’t meant as criticism.”
For a moment, just a moment, Akaashi thought it might land.
Then Osamu’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“So you’re sayin’ my approach’s the issue,” Osamu said lightly. The Kansai lilt softened the phrasing, but not the meaning. “Good to know.”
Akaashi blinked once. “That’s not what I meant.”
Osamu shrugged, unscrewing the bottle cap and taking a slow drink. Unbothered. Casual. Almost bored. “Sounded like it.”
The words weren’t sharp. That was the problem. They slid under the skin instead, quiet and dismissive, like a door being closed gently but firmly in his face.
Akaashi opened his mouth to clarify… then stopped.
He’d read about this once. Intent and interpretation diverging like split rivers, each perfectly logical in its own direction.
A locker door clicked shut nearby.
“He didn’t mean it that way,” Sakusa said, voice even. He ran a towel through his hair, movements unhurried, as if he weren’t very deliberately inserting himself into the conversation. “Akaashi’s not blaming you, Miya. He’s blaming physics.”
Akaashi glanced sideways, equal parts grateful and mortified. Sakusa had always been good at this—at translating him into something less sharp, less easily misread.
Osamu arched a brow. “Physics, huh? Must have it out for me, then.”
“If you keep mistiming,” Sakusa replied calmly, “it might.”
There were a few snickers from the far side of the room: Hinata failing to suppress a laugh, Bokuto not even trying. The sound didn’t break the tension so much as compress it further.
Osamu’s jaw tightened. Akaashi felt something in his chest do the same.
He tried again, softer this time. “I wasn’t criticizing your play,” he said. The words came out too smooth, too careful, polished to the point of fragility. “I haven’t found the right rhythm for you yet. That’s on me.”
Osamu finally looked at him properly.
Not angry, but assessing.
“You don’t need to manage me,” Osamu said. His voice stayed level, almost polite. “I’m not some project. Don’t make it sound like charity.”
The word hit harder than any raised voice could have.
Akaashi felt the heat climb up the back of his neck, the sensation cold and tight at once. Around them, the locker room noise continued - someone laughing, a bench creaking, the hiss of the showers - but it all felt very far away.
He should say something. Maybe to clarify… or push back. Instead, his shoulders drew in almost imperceptibly, as if his body had decided retreat was the safer option.
Atsumu burst into the room like a weather event, towel slung over one shoulder, grin wide and reckless. “Oi, what’s with the funeral atmosphere?” He glanced between them, eyebrows lifting. “Samu, you causin’ trouble again?”
“I don’t,” Osamu said shortly.
“Sure,” Atsumu drawled. “And I’m humble.”
He clapped Akaashi on the shoulder, bright and easy. “Keiji-kun, don’t let him get to you. My brother’s just bad at—uh—people.”
“Good thing you’re an expert then,” Osamu replied, deadpan.
Atsumu groaned. “Alright, alright. Everyone’s tired, everyone’s hungry, and I’d really like to survive today without Foster-san murderin’ us.”
As if summoned by the concept of authority itself, Coach Foster stepped in, Captain Meian close behind.
“Enough,” Foster said, voice cutting clean through the room. “Shower, eat, reset your heads before tomorrow.” His gaze settled briefly on Akaashi and Osamu. “You two especially. Whatever’s between you, get rid of it before Hokkaido. Camp’s not for babysitting egos.”
Meian’s tone was gentler but no less firm. “You’ll be working together through camp. Team drills. Skill sessions. You’ll have time to sort it out.”
Osamu’s expression cooled further, something shuttered sliding into place. Akaashi bowed his head, respectful and painfully aware of how small he suddenly felt under the weight of so many watching eyes.
The room began to empty toward the showers, steam already creeping into the air.
Akaashi stayed where he was. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging from his hands. The steady sound of water hitting tile filled the space, rhythmic and impersonal.
Sakusa’s gaze lingered on him from across the room. Steady, quiet and disapproving in a way that had nothing to do with Akaashi and everything to do with Osamu’s tone. It didn’t make the tightness in his chest ease.
If anything, it made the embarrassment sharper.
Akaashi closed his eyes.
Hokkaido loomed ahead. Cold air, snow, hours of drills designed to force connection where none seemed willing to form. He thought of Osamu’s voice: calm, cool, careful in a way that left no opening.When he finally stood, the bench creaked softly beneath him.
There will be time, Foster had said.
Akaashi wasn’t sure whether that was meant to be reassuringor a warning.