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At nine, Miya Atsumu steps onto a volleyball court for the first time.
The bright overhead lights cast a luminescent sheen over the glossy hardwood floor where sneakers skid across the surface and other players fall with outstretched hands to reach for a ball. The net softly rattles with every serve and spike haphazardly harpooned at its center, the mesh cradling the ball for a few breathless moments before gently letting go.
"It's kinda loud in here," Osamu says.
They watch as a sloppy game ensues. The ball kisses the floor more often than not. Atsumu doesn't know where the problem lies yet, but he does know that he wants to fix it as he balls his hands into tighter fists each time the whistle blows.
But still, as the ball thumps against forearms and palms and — inevitably — the floor, Atsumu thinks each collision sounds like a steady heartbeat.
"It's not that loud," Atsumu says.
"Then yer deaf." Osamu sticks his finger in Atsumu's ear and soon they're brawling on the floor and being pried off each other.
A shanked pass almost smashes into Atsumu's face as he gets up from the ground, but the coach jumps in and quickly catches it.
"Alright, boys. Let's channel that rowdiness on the court." He places the ball in Atsumu's hands. "Why don't you try serving first in the rotation, Miya?"
"Call me Atsumu," he declares before running towards the backline.
The coach is Inhata Masahiko, former All-Japan setter, and Atsumu learns to admire something that seems bigger than himself for the first time in his life.
Atsumu hears Masahiko-san encourage another child, and when he turns to observe the lesson, Atsumu watches the ball leave Masahiko-san's hands in a round arch, rising then falling to the perfect spot where the hitter easily follows through and smacks the ball into the floor.
Atsumu watches again and again as Masahiko-san prepares each set with acute concentration, each arch different for each hitter, some lower, some higher, some much faster than others. Atsumu watches as Masahiko-san adjusts his hands to perfectly curate each set for each hitter; he watches as Masahiko-san changes the tides of practice each time the ball leaves his hands.
Atsumu recognizes the opportunity to fix any problems on the court.
"Setters," he breathes when he tracks another flawless set rake through the air before it's pummeled into the court, "they're pretty cool."
*
At twelve years old, Miya Atsumu learns to be hungry for more.
He and Osamu have trained hard since elementary school, but even so, Osamu's serves are a little stronger; his spikes spinning at slightly higher velocities; his sets a bit more accurate, and Atsumu can barely keep up.
"Osamu, try playing setter," their coach says, and Atsumu wonders if a volleyball to the face would be much less painful and frustrating than this.
Before Osamu dashes onto the court, he says, "Only the best players get to be the setter, so we all saw this comin'."
Atsumu never lets that go.
*
After practice, Atsumu stays behind.
He lies down on the gym floor, and the overhead lights sear his vision until they're eclipsed by the ball he sets above him. He channels his focus into his hands, how his wrists turn with every toss, how his thumbs and index fingers form a perfect triangle when a set feels particularly good, the way the ball becomes a part of himself for the fleeting moment it rests in his hands until it soars.
Atsumu stays after every practice with a new goal each time.
First, he aims for a few inches above the fire alarm. He tosses and tosses, each set pounding against the wall closer and closer to his target until one set accidentally collides with the gate housing the alarm.
The ball bounces on the floor until it dribbles lazily to Atsumu's feet. Atsumu has been at it for hours, and all he has to show for it is a dented fire alarm cage and a blooming soreness in his arms.
He kicks the volleyball as hard as he can and lets out a frustrated yell.
How does Osamu do it? How does he send out seamless tosses like he was born for this when he and Atsumu were born at the same time? How is Osamu naturally better when they are the same, the only difference marked by the direction of their fringes and the hue of their eyes?
Atsumu stares at the fire alarm and sighs. He drags his feet across the gym, picks up the volleyball, and tries again. He concentrates on the moment where the ball and his fingers connect, that brief bond that allows Atsumu to extend everything he has and shoot it to new heights.
It doesn't take long for Atsumu to find the spot a few inches above the alarm after that.
*
Even after spending hours in the gym, Atsumu goes home and ropes Osamu into practicing with him until hunger entices his brother back into the house. Atsumu compensates by directing his tosses against the exterior of his home.
He chooses a spot on the wall and tosses, again and again, hitting his target with more frequency. Atsumu tosses until the crickets in the grass grow weary and the moon tucks itself away in a blanket of clouds. When Osamu comes back out, hands rubbing at the sleep in his eyes, and beckons Atsumu to come inside, Atsumu tallies twenty seven successful tosses in a row. When he lies down in bed, he thinks about the imprints he's left on the wall and smiles into his pillow.
*
During practice, Atsumu realizes his dedication must go farther.
Atsumu positions himself beneath the ball when it's his turn to set, a grin carving dimples into his cheeks as he anticipates that marvelous moment when the ball becomes an extension of himself.
But when the ball makes contact with his hands, a sharp pain erupts from the tip of his finger and burns all the way down to his knuckle. Atsumu inspects the damage and frowns at his now broken nail. He doesn't know if he's more betrayed by the ball or himself.
"Way to go, scrub," Osamu chides.
"Shuddup! Maybe if yer pass wasn't so terrible —"
Their coach clears his throat and instructs the rest of the team to continue practice as he tends to Atsumu. His teammates throw him pitiful glances. Atsumu decides that he hates it and resolves to always have the last laugh moving forward.
As his coach wraps tape around his finger, Atsumu wistfully watches Osamu from the sidelines as he sets.
*
His mother catches him struggling to use her nail file late one evening. Atsumu waits to be admonished for staying up past his bedtime, but his mother gently pries the nail file out of his hands instead and shows him how to properly use it.
"It's best to file yer nails in one direction in small strokes rather than hackin' away back and forth like yer sawin' through a stump," she says, patient." It prevents frayin'. After all, our nails are made of little hairs."
He files his nails every other day, keeping them short, smooth, and strong. His tosses feel better against his fingertips.
*
One day, the twins come home to hand grips on their pillows. A note adorned with their mother's loopy handwriting is perched on each one.
Osamu only uses his during their breaks in between practice, but Atsumu opts to use it whenever he can without straining his hand. He learns of other useful exercises and puts them to good use. He particularly enjoys stretching his fingers over the kitchen table; the grooves whittled into the wood remind him of the stitched lines of a volleyball. Sometimes he'll claw stretch in the middle of class and earn a couple of snickers from his classmates, but he finds that he cares less about their opinions this time around.
*
Atsumu develops a regimen:
He stays a few hours after practice and runs tossing drills on his own until he's forced to go home only to practice in his yard with the crickets as his only companions after Osamu has had enough. He shoots his tosses towards the moon and marvels at the way the ball soars into its orbit.
He then stays up late with a nail file in hand and eyes glued to the television while Osamu falls asleep on his shoulder. Atsumu watches one match every night, and he pays special attention to the matches where Masahiko-san plays. He tracks every toss, counts the seconds the ball descends from its deliberate arc before it's smacked into the court.
"Hey," Osamu whispers as he tugs on Atsumu's cheek, "we should go to bed. Ma says the lack of sleep will eventually catch up to us, and I don't wanna hear ya complain about eyebags when we're old."
When sleep finally pulls him under, Atsumu dreams of Inuhata Masahiko's tosses and how he can make them better.
*
It's raining when the fruits of Atsumu's labor finally ripen.
The gymnasium windows rattle with every clap of thunder, which results in Atsumu's teammates flinching every few minutes and underperforming on the court during practice.
Atsumu watches from the bench, flexing his hands in an anxious rhythm each time a set is too high, too low, too close, too far. Osamu's eyes never leave the ball, but Atsumu's gaze flits around the court, mentally cataloging each shanked pass, each ball served into the net, each spike flying out of bounds.
He chews his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the pulp as his teammates' resolve wanes and the rain pelts at the glass sideways. Another clap of thunder shakes the overhead lights when a teammate buries a spike into the net. This warmup is absolutely abysmal, and Atsumu hates it.
He knows how to fix this. He wants to fix this. He wants, and he wants, and he wants.
And the universe finally presents the opportunity, rain-soaked and thunderous.
"Alright," his coach starts as the team lines up, "we're gonna have Atsumu as our setter today."
Goosebumps rise on his skin, and his hands suddenly feel weightless and infinite, the phantom touch of a volleyball ghosting over his fingertips as his hunger compounds with his excitement.
He'll change the tide of practice, and everyone will see.
"Did you know 'Tsumu?" Osamu smirks. "The more positions you play, the better you get."
"Shut yer mouth and at least be jealous! Stupid Samu…"
Atsumu steps onto the court, his sneakers squeaking with every stride until he's in position, his resolve unshakable as his coach sends a serve over.
The receive is off-center, and Osamu takes a step to make up for the imperfect pass and toss in Atsumu's place, but Atsumu has tossed hundreds of shanked sets off gymnasium walls and the sides of his house. The cage around the fire alarm trembles at another clap of thunder, and as he runs towards the ball soaring through the air, he thinks of the ball dribbling at his feet all those weeks ago.
He makes it just in time, planting himself firmly and squaring his shoulders. He lifts his hands up, the fluorescent lights haloing the ball as it inches closer to his fingertips. He thinks of where the hitters are; how many are on his left? His right? Is there one ready for a pipe play, or are they too young for that right now? There are no opponents on the other side, but Atsumu has never had a more pivotal decision to make in his life.
Atsumu has watched, has learned, has metaphorically scribbled every strength and weakness of his teammates into the creases of his brain, embedding them forever.
The best toss for Osamu is high and fast, the apex of the arch reaching ten inches above the net and four inches away, two feet from the right antenna. This is an ironclad fact, one forged over the countless spikes Atsumu has watched his brother hammer into the court.
One second, a brief moment for a brief bond that allows Atsumu to bundle the best pieces of himself and shoot it behind him.
He can't see Osamu make his approach, but he can hear it. Atsumu looks over to the other side of the net in time to watch Osamu's spike land just beyond the ten foot line.
It's quiet as Atsumu watches the ball dribble off the court until the silence is cut by a sharp inhale to his right.
Osamu just stares at him, his gaze half-lidded and seemingly lazy, but Atsumu knows better. He can see excitement coalescing in Osamu's irises, framed by a steely resolve that hardens with every passing second.
"How'd that toss feel? Was it the best toss ya ever had?"
Osamu glances to the other side of the net and holds his chin in his palm. For once, Atsumu can't discern what his brother is thinking, can't even conjure up a handful of possibilities of what Osamu could be contemplating so deeply as he takes in the expanse of the court.
"Hello?" Atsumu tries. "Earth to Samu? I know my toss was amazing, but you're actin' weird." He tugs at Osamu's cheek, which earns him a smack.
"Quit it!"
"Well, you're not sayin' anything!"
"Gimme a second." Osamu levels Atsumu with another half-lidded stare, and then, "That was a really good toss, Tsumu." Before Atsumu can revel in the well-earned compliment, Osamu says, "Bet you can't do it again."
"Oh yeah? I'll prove ya wrong right now."
And Atsumu does, again and again, toss after toss arching above the net before Osamu and the rest of the hitters pound the ball with rising precision and compounding strength. Each toss is perfect in its own right, and Atsumu's team quickly finds their groove.
A thunderstorm may have rattled the team's resolve, but Atsumu has finally unraveled his clenched fists. He's learned how to mend the problems on the court with open palms and outstretched fingers.
Miya Atsumu has carved a space for himself on the court and he'll continue to reach up and up and up until his hands reach past the bloated rain clouds in the sky and haul him over the top.