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On the other side of the net, number seventeen—nameless, faceless number seventeen—bounces the ball three times. He stands about one and a half meters back from the end line; his knees are bent, but only just. It has to be a jump float. There isn’t enough space for his topspin, and a direct spot serve would be wasted on a point like this.
“It’s a floater. Gin, be ready,” Dazai says, left hand touching the smooth fabric of Odasaku’s jersey in front of him for a brief second; his words almost get lost in the noise of the sports center, the overlapping cheers from crowds watching six different games on three different courts creating a veritable wall of sound.
Gin nods anyway, widening their stance in the middle back of the court. They hold their arms out in front of them, palms supine like a matador waiting for the bull.
Up front, Verlaine stands, right foot turned out toward the edge of the court. Without looking, he holds up a fist, his thumb flat against the side of his index finger; on the left side of the court, just in front of the attack line, Akutagawa searches for Dazai’s eyes, holds up three fingers when he finds them; behind him, hugging the left sideline, Chuuya makes no gesture. He only glances, quick, toward Dazai and then away.
A. Three. Bic.
The whistle blows. It seems to cut through the tension broiling on the court. From the tower, the referee crosses his right hand over his chest.
Nameless number seventeen bounces the ball again. One, two, three. Spins it between both hands. Glances slightly to his left, toward Dazai—doesn’t quite make eye contact—for the slightest moment. Takes one step forward; both hands raise to toss the ball up, about one meter above his head, close to the end line.
Dazai leans into the balls of his feet, peering around Odasaku’s broad shoulders, toes creeping forward as far as they can without crossing Odasaku’s heels.
Seventeen jumps up and hits the ball. It makes a satisfying fwoop sound as it moves, its path unsteady, warbling midair.
Dazai takes off from behind Odasaku as the ball crosses the net, head turned over his left shoulder to watch its path: it drifts toward Chuuya’s side of the court first, looks like it’s going to stay there, before curving hard into the space between Gin and Odasaku. Gin receives it like it’s nothing, puts it right up between zones two and three, a third of a meter—perfect—from the net and three from the right sideline; Dazai’s eyes track it as it goes. Verlaine takes two steps off the net. Akutagawa drifts out of the court and stands, prepared, just outside the junction of sideline and attack line. Chuuya slides behind Gin and into the middle back.
He sees his own hands, too, raise up in front of him; sees how no-name numbers on the other side of the net ready themselves to block. Their middle is moving toward the left, toward our right side. Verlaine has already taken a step to the right. They know to expect it. But their right side, on our left, is locked on Akutagawa, following him.
In two steps, Dazai is there, in the picture-perfect neutral posture Mori impressed upon him as essential in an elite setter. His thumbs and pointers make contact a fraction—no, a fraction of a fraction—of a millisecond before the other six fingers do. The contact is perfect. The force of the ball goes into his carpals, metacarpals, wrists, forearms; it goes up no more than one meter above the net, one meter in front of the attack line.
Chuuya is there. He’s short, shorter than any outside has business being, but watching him jump is like a shot of adrenaline. His feet strike the ground with such raw, blinding power that he seems to hang in the air for minutes.
Dazai’s pulse races, hammers in his jugular and wrists, his entire face. The nameless blockers are still stuck on the right and left. Verlaine approaches, even though the ball isn’t for him. The blockers following him jump.
Chuuya swings. It hits just behind the attack line, bounces several meters in the air, before he’s fallen even half of the height he’s jumped.
The court is eerily silent as Chuuya lands in a half-crouch.
And then everything erupts into cheers.
“And Yokohama’s Port Academy scores match point, leaving Kanagawa Tech in the dust at 18 to 25!” One of the commentators bellows over the loud-speakers, melting into the roar of the crowd.
As Chuuya rises, he clenches his fists tight, severe face twitching in a restrained smile—the way it always does after plays like this. Their teammates surround him—Akutagawa first, clapping him on the shoulder with a broad grin unlike Dazai’s ever seen before.
“Did you see that swing, Kanemaru?” The other commentator’s response breaks the wall that is Chuuya’s deadpan face, puts the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Verlaine does the same to Dazai before crossing the court, muttering great set under his breath before capturing his half-brother in a violent headlock. “And just who taught you that?”
Chuuya pushes him away with a hidden smile, wiping his hands on his jersey as he does. “Definitely not you,” he gripes, holding both hands out for Gin to hi-five before approaching Dazai.
They share a charged look for one second, two; Chuuya—reluctantly—raises a hand to Dazai as well. “I hate to say it, but that was a killer set,” he says. Then, quiet enough that Dazai can tell he wasn’t meant to hear it—”bastard.“
“Aw, Chuuya! For a moment there, I was worried I’d set it too high for you. I thank whatever higher powers there are that I didn’t.”
“You—”
“We’d better line up. Not all of us are content to soak in their own sweat,” Dazai says over the sound of Chuuya’s snarky comeback, shooting a cheeky wink to Odasaku.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Chuuya says, although his voice conveys much the opposite.
Kanagawa Tech assembles in number order on their end line, save for number seventeen, who stands in first position; their libero, number 1, stands beside him.
Dazai stands directly across from this previously faceless player, takes in the person behind the enemy: one-hundred and sixty-five centimeters, maybe one-hundred and seventy. Medium length dark hair. Glasses. Tan-ish skin. Nothing spectacular, even with his decent jump float. To Dazai’s left, Gin in the number four libero’s jersey, followed by Verlaine and the rest.
“I can’t wait to go home and sleep,” Dazai complains, waiting for the referee to blow his whistle.
From down the line, Akutagawa side-eyes him. “Mori-san will need to speak with us first,” he says, as serious as ever.
Dazai ignores him.
The referee finally blows the whistle, bringing both arms parallel in front of him. Dazai walks to the center line, just to watch how number seventeen stands idly after jogging. Gin nudges him with an elbow as they pass by. It doesn’t make Dazai go any faster.
“Fantastic game, Seventeen-kun,” Dazai grins when he reaches the center of the court, reaching his hand out to shake.
“It’s Ranpo,” Seventeen says through a sublime smile, “and good game yourself.” The handshake is brusque, and a touch too firm. It grates on Dazai’s sore hand. When Seventeen—Ranpo—opens his eyes, Dazai gets the sense that he’s being seen right through.
“Travel home safe, Ranpo.”
“You too, prodigy. We’ll crush you next time.”