Archive of Our Own

Akaashi Keiji considers himself a practical person.

He is not a flashy person; he is not loud. He doesn’t like more attention than necessary. He doesn’t seek the spotlight in the same way that some of his teammates do. Keiji has always preferred to be behind the camera, the one taking the photo, making the film, rather than in front of it. Work in and of itself is reward enough for him, and he is content to keep working backstage.

Captaincy, he finds, is a new experience.

Things were different when he was Bokuto’s vice captain. There was no shaking hands with the other teams’ captains, there was no need to give inspirational speeches to keep morale, there were fewer expectations of greatness. Fukurodani has had a place at Nationals every year since Keiji has been a member and before, and Bokuto-san had proved to be a captain that could take them back. But, Keiji thinks, a quiet thought nagging in the back of his mind, is he going to be a captain that can take Fukurodani to Nationals?

He has always been a leader within the Fukurodani Academy boys’ volleyball club; that part isn’t new. But in the past, there was always someone else—Morino-san had been an unforgiving captain when Keiji was a first-year, and then there was Bokuto-san—and Keiji has never done this on his own.

The night before the first practice of the new school year—the practice where he’ll meet the new members of his team, meet them as their captain—finds Keiji in his bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, knuckles white as they grip the edge of the counter. At the moment, it feels like the only thing keeping him standing upright.

He meets his reflection’s gaze in the mirror, still fogged from his shower. Captain, he thinks to himself. He’s not the vice captain any longer. He does not have Bokuto-san to hide behind anymore. He has to lead the Fukurodani volleyball club himself.

Weak, he thinks. I am weak. But he isn’t, he thinks in vain. He’s strong, he’s been vice captain, he’s been to Nationals before, multiple times. Logically, he knows that he can handle this. There’s this doubt, though, eating at his mind, grasping at his airway, and Keiji hates himself for not being able to be sensible right now.

The nagging voice in his head isn’t entirely wrong, though. Keiji doesn’t have Morino’s imposing height and strong presence, nor does he possess Bokuto’s enthusiasm and energy. He’s simply Akaashi—reliable and confident and calm and practical to a fault. And those are all good traits for a strong vice captain. What matters now, though, is whether they are good for a captain.

Akaashi is a good player, and a good teammate, and a good friend. But is that enough? His anxieties wash over him in an onslaught of doubt, and he forces himself to breathe. It comes out ragged, harsh; it is entirely unlike the composed, steady, confident setter that Morino-san saw in him, that Bokuto-san saw. Keiji knows he is good—but is he good enough to be a good captain?

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. There’s a reason that Bokuto-san chose him to be his vice captain, and there’s a reason that the starting third-years from the past year all recommended him to Fujita as the new captain. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine, as long as he can keep himself together.

—————

Kurata, Keiji thinks, will be a good influence on the first-years as their vice captain. He is warm and smothering in a way that Keiji himself lacks. And more importantly, he has the drive of someone who has spent the past two years on the bench, someone who has fought tooth and nail to improve enough to be a starter and has only managed to do so for his final year.

Most of the first-years seem eager, excited; they want to play and their untainted enthusiasm soothes Keiji’s nerves. He can do this, he tells himself, and he tells himself again when Seki-kun, a first-year setter, looks entirely unimpressed. He stands tall, and he stands apart from the other first-years. It shouldn’t unsettle Keiji. Seki has failed to make a connection with his new teammates, but it’s only the first day. Of course he shouldn’t worry.

Breathe in, Keiji tells himself after he all but slams his bedroom door behind him when he gets home. Breathe out. He’s okay. It wasn’t a disaster. The first-years don’t hate him. He hasn’t messed this up yet.

Still, he can’t get Seki out of his mind. “I’m going to be Fukurodani’s starting setter,” he had told Keiji. It’s not even that Seki is truly a threat—Keiji may not be a genius but he is a good, even great, setter, and, more importantly, he has two years of Nationals under his belt. Seki, Keiji can tell after practice, possesses an amount of raw power that might be threatening if it weren’t for the first-year’s complete and utter lack of game sense. Power is nothing in comparison to experience.

No, Keiji is not threatened by Seki’s abilities as a setter; he is afraid of the defiance in his eyes. If he can’t unite his team, if he can’t get them to think and move as one cohesive unit, then, he knows, they don’t have a chance of going to Nationals.

He strips his practice clothes from his body and steps into his shower, inhaling deeply in the hot steam and trying not to let his doubt haunt him too much. Instead, he chooses to think of new strategies they might be able to work with their new players. He saw the first-year libero, Teruya, play in his last middle school match, and the kid is nothing short of a genius. He had been able to execute a neat libero’s toss, and in middle school… Karasuno’s reserve setter had been able to spike by the spring high preliminaries, Keiji recalls. He’s going to have to start practicing his spikes, then, because he can’t Fukurodani fall behind, can he?

—————

Keiji knows that he’s overworking his shoulder, but with a defiance that he didn’t know that he possessed, he doesn’t stop until it’s too late.

He is a resilient one, cut from the cloth of victors, and it takes more than a sore shoulder to stop him. He has a duty to his team, as their starting setter and as their captain. He doesn’t plan on letting them down, not in the heat of the inter-high. He refuses to. They’re not going to lose, not when it’s his last year, not when he’s the one leading them. He will go to Nationals as a third-year.

Fukurodani is caught in a deuce in their final set with Yoshihara, the final team that they have to beat to advance to Nationals—until Keiji’s right shoulder gives out. Even after relentless practices with Teruya-kun and even more help from Bokuto-san, Keiji isn’t used to spiking. The stress, he finds, of setting, blocking, and spiking, and the practice of all three, is too much for his shoulder to handle.

Pain tears through his shoulder and Keiji staggers over to lean against the cool pole of the net for relief, clutching his shoulder. Kurata rushes to his side instantaneously, firing questions about how he feels, what’s wrong—but Keiji can’t think straight; the only thought ringing through his mind is that they’re going to lose the match without him.

Win, he almost says as their manager, Kita, guides him gently in the direction of the medics. He senses their worry, their anxious concern; they could use a few words from their captain right now. But he doesn’t say it. If they lose, Keiji thinks, he can’t let them feel like they let him down.

He glances once over his shoulder to see Seki walking onto the court. Seki has improved since the start of the year; that much is undeniable. Keiji has little doubt that he’ll be the starting setter after he retires. Still, he lacks experience, and Keiji doesn’t need to watch the end of the match to know that Fukurodani isn’t going to be the team advancing to Nationals this tournament.

“Stay calm,” is the last thing that he says to his team. He doesn’t say, It’ll be okay. If he did, he thinks, he wouldn’t be able to face them after.

—————

It’s only a minor sprain, Keiji is informed by a doctor who smells strongly of soap, and he’s lucky that it’s not worse than it is. If he’s a really good patient, the doctor tells him, then he’ll be healed enough in time for their annual summer training camp.

And Akaashi Keiji is a practical person, so he bides his time.

He doesn’t bother fighting back, and he bites down the itch to ignore his instructions and start playing again. It seems wrong, to just stretch as he watches his team engaged in a practice match, as he watches them struggle to adapt to Seki’s tosses.

They’ve already lost the inter-high preliminary, and Keiji doesn’t plan on losing the spring high. He’s not willing to finish his second year without returning to Nationals.

In the past, Keiji has always been content to sit back if it meant he could watch his team’s improvement. He’s never demanded attention from his team. But now, when he knows that this spring high is going to be his last chance, he doesn’t want to sit anymore. He wants to fight.

The frustration of not being able to act, to practice in the way he yearns to, is consuming. He finds himself sitting at his desk with his homework in front of him, unable to focus. Everything seems wrong in light of their loss and his injury.

He sits at his desk at home and tries to edit the photos from his last shoot, but the lighting that had seemed perfect then just seems to bleach out his subjects, and every time he tweaks any of the settings, it just looks worse.

—————

It’s Keiji’s fault that they didn’t make it to Nationals.

Maybe it wasn’t for lack of competency, and maybe his team doesn’t blame him, but—but, well, maybe they should. Keiji doesn’t need to be told that their loss to Yoshihara is his fault. He had known that there was more strain on his shoulder when he started spiking, he had felt the atypical soreness that followed practices. But, in a stroke of a sheer determination to win Nationals, he had ignored it, and now he has to pay the price. All of the Fukurodani volleyball club has to pay the price for his mistake.

The worst part is that they blame themselves. Teruya had come to him after the match, sobbing, apologizing for taking the move that had pushed Keiji’s shoulder past its limit. He overheard the second-years talking in the hallway—How can we face Akaashi-san now? they had said. It’s our fault that the third-years aren’t going to Nationals.

But that’s not it, Keiji wants to scream. He wants to say, It’s my fault that you aren’t going to Nationals.

It was a reckless move, and Keiji is normally anything but. There’s something, though—something that Morino-san had, and that Bokuto-san had, and that all the rest of his third-year teammates had last year. There’s a certain drive that develops, Keiji has learned, when it’s your last year. When it’s your last chance.

Keiji has always wanted to do well—it’s only natural to want to win. But where before a loss would be greatly disappointing, it would be devastating now.

This is his last year—his last year to make it to Nationals, his last year to lead the team, the last year to stand by his friends on the stage of the national tournament, the last year to win Nationals. But all of that—it all hinges on whether or not Keiji can take them there.

His decision to ignore his injury before, Keiji knows, was careless—stupid. He had been convinced that he could handle it, and his lapse in judgment caused them to lose in their last match before Nationals.

Keiji is not prone to self-pity; he does not see need to keep beating himself up over most things. But this time, he’s cost his team Nationals. It’s not just that he couldn’t take them there as a captain—that would have been bearable, forgivable. No; he is the very reason why they didn’t make it there. They had been up by a point—if Keiji had been able to finish the match, they would have won, he knows. But he couldn’t finish the match, and he was too much of a fool to tell anyone about his shoulder pains before.

It occurs to Keiji that he has no idea what he’s going to do if they lose in the spring high preliminaries.

—————

Physical therapy is a pain. His therapist has little to no personality, and that’s on her good days. But Keiji perseveres through his therapy anyway; if he wants to be healed in time for training camp, he has to do do his exervises. Kasai-san is a relentless therapist, and although logically, Keiji knows that it’s her job and it’s going to help him in the long run, he just wants to sleep instead of stretch.

Therapy is more exhausting than he thought it would be. Multiple times, after a long practice and an even longer therapy session, he wakes up with his face pressed against his keyboard or a textbook, and he misses an assignment consciously for the first time in his life in favor of more sleep instead.

His mother wakes him up the third time, her hand gentle on his good shoulder.

“You know,” she says, thoughtfully, “nobody would blame you if you retired early. Therapy and practice are very time-consuming, and it’s taking a toll on your grades and your sleep schedule.” She moves her hand to card her fingers through his hair like she would when Keiji was a little boy. “I think that you should think about it. Especially because you’ll be studying for entrance exams…” She trails off, her hand stilling.

“No,” Keiji says, after a beat. “No. I’m not retiring. I’m their captain, I—I need to see this through to the end.”

She hums. “That’s my boy,” she says. “You’ve always been so committed.”

But that’s not true, and Keiji knows it. He has never been this committed before. All through his life, Keiji has spent thinking ahead, about what’s best for his future, what’s the most practical. He can still think clearly enough to recognize what the rational choice is here, and that’s to retire. Practice and physical therapy aren’t worth his health or his grades, and he needs more time to study for his university exams. To retire would be… practical.

But Keiji’s done with being the practical one. He gave that up when he took his role as the volleyball club’s captain. He swore to them, on the first day of practice, that he’d see this through to the end, and he’s going to, sleep schedule be damned.

—————

It’s Nekoma’s year to host the summer training camp, and Keiji has never been so happy to practice volleyball before. Even now, he has restrictions on how much he’s allowed to practice, but he can practice normally with his team, be with them again, and that alone is a victory in his eyes.

Nekoma and Karasuno, he finds, have both changed since the previous year’s spring high. Fukurodani had only played Nekoma and not Karasuno—the former beating, and thus eliminating, the latter—but Keiji had watched their matches with Bokuto-san and the rest of the old team. Nekoma, Keiji suspects, will lose much of their strength when Kenma graduates. He is more than the heart of the team; he is the brain, without which the heart wouldn’t know how to pump blood through its vessels.

The crows, for their part, carry a different attitude than before: they’re more confident now, more comfortable in their own skins.

After seeing how Karasuno had played in the March tournament—their performance subpar, truly, after the show they put on at Nationals—Keiji had thought that they might not be able to recover from the loss of their reliable captain and ace. Evidently, he thinks as he watches them move on the court against Shinzen, he was wrong.

Karasuno has evolved, more than Keiji had envisioned they could. Even after a year, the now-second-years’ quick attack steals the show, Keiji notes. He watches Karasuno defend against Shinzen’s offense, led by Ennoshita. He really has learned how to take command of the court, Keiji thinks, watching him interact with his team.

He thinks back to the few times that they met up, following last year’s training camp, to hang out and work on his films together, back before they lost contact when exams picked up. They haven’t seen each other since then until now, and... now, Keiji thinks, Ennoshita is almost unrecognizable. The self-conscious, almost sheepish, demeanor is gone, replaced by a confidence that Keiji has never seen on him before. His team trusts him—unconditionally, unhesitantly, but not blindly.

After all, Ennoshita is the one who has already taken them to Nationals this year, which is far more than Keiji can say for himself.

—————

They end up running into each other on their way to the showers. Keiji is aware of the sound of footsteps quickening to match his pace, and then Ennoshita is walking behind him, towel slung over his arm.

“Ennoshita-san,” Keiji greets in acknowledgement. “I’m glad that your team could make it to camp. Fujita mentioned that the coaches have been discussing the addition of Karasuno to the Fukurodani group officially.”

Ennoshita smiles, then, and it’s different than it was before—still serene, a little sleepy, but now there’s this… happiness, that surrounds him. He’s content, Keiji realizes. He’s content in a way that he never was before.

“I told you before, there’s no need for honorifics, Akaashi,” he says. “And if Karasuno could join the group—that would be great,” he adds. “The team grew so much last summer. I’m hoping for the same this year.”

Keiji hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know how much more your team can evolve in such a short period of time, Ennoshita,” he says. It’s—experimental. It’s strange, to drop the formalities. It’s true that they are both captains, and that puts them on even ground, but formal politeness is Akaashi’s safety blanket. It’s safe, good. No one gets offended if you’re just distantly polite all the time. Conversation with anyone is a lot of Keiji to handle, and—it’s better if he holds everyone at arm’s length that way.

That smile from before brightens a bit, and Ennoshita says, “You think?” He laughs, then, and adds, “They have come so far. I’m really lucky to be their captain.” He ducks his head a little, still smiling, and Keiji can see the Ennoshita from a year ago—he’s a captain who’s brought his team to Nationals, yet he still has the same humility from when he spent matches on the bench.

Keiji almost forgets where they’re going until Ennoshita steps ahead to hold open the door for him. Almost as soon as they step inside, there’s a shout from one of the Karasuno first-years, calling Ennoshita over.

“I’ll talk to you later, Akaashi,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Keiji says, and Ennoshita grins at him again before heading in the direction of his teammates. It is good to see him again. Different, but—good.

—————

Despite practice and his physical therapy, Keiji still can’t quite play like he used to, and it’s more frustrating than he realized it would be. Returning to normal practice should’ve been a good thing—but it’s difficult to accept reality when your skills have slipped backwards.

His team is growing—and he’s there, with them, except he’s gotten worse instead of better. They’re at training camp to improve and reach heights that they never have before; Keiji’s at training camp just to get back to where he used to be.

He gets to see Karasuno’s evolution up close the next day, when their match is scheduled for the last of the day. Their energy is different than last year’s—there’s no more awkwardness, only cohesion. Last summer, Keiji remembers, Karasuno only claimed three wins at the camp. This year, they’ve already won more than they did in the entire duration of last year’s practice matches, and the camp is only starting.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Kurata asks as they stretch, and Keiji offers a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

Kurata seems to accept this, and goes to help Onaga stretch, and Keiji lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His shoulder did feel better—but still not normal. After spending so much time benched with an injury, he isn’t used to spending so much time with strain on his shoulder again.

They get into position to receive Karasuno’s offense, and Keiji speaks. “Like always,” he says, “stay calm. Think clearly, so you can play your best. We’ve prepared as much as we could.”

—————

Fukurodani and Karasuno are caught in a deuce in their tenth practice set at training camp, 27-27, and both are grappling to gain the upper hand. They really have evolved, Keiji thinks. And for the same amount of time, what can he say for himself? The rest of the Fukurodani volleyball club has changed, grown. They’re stronger now, honing their skills at the training camp—as they should. But Keiji feels like he has fallen farther behind than before.

No more spikes. That’s what his doctor had told him, what his therapist had pounded into his head, what his coach agreed with. It was unnecessary stress on his shoulder, and could cause it to tear again, and worse.

Karasuno’s shrimp scores with a spike, and they’re at set point. Treat this practice like a real match, Keiji had told his team. What kind of captain, he wonders, isn’t willing to take his own advice? In a real match, he would call for a toss. He would do whatever to ensure that Karasuno didn’t win their last needed point.

Fighting the doubt that’s blooming in his mind, he signals behind his back to Teruya.

“Akaashi-senpai?” the first-year asks, uncertain.

Again, Keiji makes the hand signal, and he can hear Teruya’s quiet, “Okay,” from behind him. Teruya is a good player: sensible, thoughtful, already a priceless member of their team. His hesitation is both entirely unsurprising and completely justified in Keiji’s mind. But Keiji is their captain—and he calls the shots. Ennoshita wears his captaincy well, Keiji thinks. If he hadn’t been ready before, he has certainly risen to the occasion. It’s about time that Keiji stepped up to the plate with his own team. He needs to take them to Nationals for the spring high.

And a captain can’t make it to Nationals without taking risks.

Just as he had requested, Teruya sends the toss to him, and Keiji can hear a squawk of surprise from one of the players on the other side of the net as all five other players approach. One spike is all it takes, Keiji thinks, and he jumps. He can hear Fujita-sensei’s dismayed shout in the back of his mind, but all he can think about is his hand making contact with the ball and sending it down on the other side of the net. It’s a clumsy spike, one that wouldn’t have made it past blockers if they hadn’t been focused on Kurata instead—probably expecting that Keiji wouldn’t dare spike with his condition—and despite its success, Keiji can’t help the disappointment that seeps through his mind. It’s sloppy—not like his old spikes.

He reaches up with his left hand to rub his aching shoulder, unused to spiking after so much time recovering. He looks up and, across the net, his eyes meet Ennoshita’s, an undecipherable expression written across his face.

The whistle is blown, and Keiji turns to see Seki holding the paddle emblazoned with the same number one as Keiji’s jersey. Behind him, Fujita looks furious. On his way off the court, Keiji wonders when he became the type of person who was willing to risk his shoulder for a point, especially with the knowledge that he would be disciplined by his coach.

—————

“Your coach seemed pretty angry back there,” Ennoshita says, setting his plate down next to Keiji’s and sliding into the seat.

Keiji shrugs. “Well,” he says, “he did tell me not to spike anymore.”

Ennoshita’s eyebrows raise. “You’re such a rule-breaker, Akaashi,” he teases. His forehead creases a little bit, then, and he adds, “Really though, is your shoulder okay? It looked like you were in pain earlier.”

“I’m fine,” he says, a little too quickly and a little too clipped, and the rudeness settles oddly in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he amends. “I am fine, though.”

“Good. That’s—good,” Ennoshita says, apparently unable to think of a better word, and Keiji gets another glimpse of the boy he spent afternoons with in Starbucks only a year ago, editing films. “I felt awful when I heard about it, you know,” he says, a little hesitantly.

“Don’t,” Keiji says. “It’s not your fault.”

“Still,” Ennoshita says. “I’m glad that it’s doing better, though.”

Keiji hums in acknowledgment. This is… comfortable. Ennoshita isn’t a hard person to talk to—polite. Friendly, even. And he doesn’t overstep his boundaries. A little more confident in his conversational skills, he says, teasingly, “You should be careful. It’ll be completely healed by the time we meet at the spring high.”

Ennoshita lets out a little laugh, and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, embarrassed. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?” he says, and Keiji almost says something, but then Ennoshita adds, “You’re assuming that we’ll be able to beat Aoba Jousai again in the spring high preliminaries.”

“How presumptuous of me,” Keiji replies drily. “You’ll beat Aoba Jousai, though,” he says, taking a bite of the food on his plate.

Ennoshita snorts, and Keiji raises his eyebrows. “Haven’t you been watching their videos?”

“Of course,” Ennoshita says. “They’re still a strong team. They beat us in the March tournament.”

“Your team didn’t know how to work together yet at the time of the March tournament,” Keiji says dismissively—honestly. “Aoba Jousai has a bigger pool to pull players from. They’d already been practicing with their new starting team, since you eliminated them from the spring high prelims. Their setter now isn’t as good as Oikawa-san.”

“Yahaba’s still pretty good,” Ennoshita says, and Keiji can’t quite tell if he’s doubtful still, or simply being humble.

“He’s good enough,” Keiji concedes. “But Kageyama is the better setter. Aoba Jousai lost a lot of their power when Oikawa-san and Iwaizumi-san graduated.”

“That’s true,” Ennoshita says, looking thoughtful. He looks up from his food, then, and at Keiji. “I guess I’ll have to see your shoulder when it’s healed completely, then,” he says with a grin, and Keiji can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face in return.

—————

Ennoshita Chikara: Hey, how was the drive back?

Keiji blinks. According to the contact text messages, their last exchange is from months ago. He tries to come up with reasons why Ennoshita might be texting him out of a blue. Is it about Karasuno being added to the Fukurodani group? Does he want to schedule a practice match or something?

Akaashi Keiji: Good. I fell asleep.
Akaashi Keiji: How was yours?

Ennoshita Chikara: 2nd yrs and Noya kept me awake -_-
Ennoshita Chikara: Tanaka too but that was his snoring
Ennoshita Chikara: My team is so loud

Akaashi Keiji: My team has been much more quiet since our last captain graduated.

Ennoshita Chikara: They keep me young ig
Ennoshita Chikara: ...they also make me feel like a middle aged dad

Akaashi Keiji: Funny, I think I heard Sawamura-san say something along those lines last year.

Ennoshita Chikara: Haha yeah probably
Ennoshita Chikara: I wouldn’t be surprised
Ennoshita Chikara: Hey, I was wondering if you’d want to help out with another film?
Ennoshita Chikara: It was really great working w you on Shimmer Tsukky

Keiji considers his options for a moment. He still has school—not to mention preparation for entrance exams—and practice as well as physical therapy, but… He glances at his open bedroom door. His mother’s been encouraging him to spend time with people other than his team, and he did have a nice time helping Ennoshita with Shimmer Tsukky.

Akaashi Keiji: Sure.
Akaashi Keiji: I’m not sure how much time I’ll have with school and practice, but I think I’ll be able to work it around my schedule.

Ennoshita Chikara: Great!
Ennoshita Chikara: I’ll email you the script?

Akaashi Keiji: Sounds good.

—————

Ennoshita, Keiji finds, is an easy person to be around. They have the quiet sort of friendship, the kind where nothing can be said or everything can be said, and Keiji likes it. Ennoshita isn’t demanding or needy, and they’re both independent humans who can live their lives and still be friends.

“Do you think the dialogue here is awkward?” Ennoshita asks, pointing across the coffee shop table at a line from the script in front of Keiji. “The ‘No problem’ line,” he says. “It seems… off.”

Keiji reexamines the line, squinting at the words for a moment before giving up and sliding his reading glasses back on. “It does seem a little too… colloquial for Okimoto,” he says thoughtfully, eyes scanning ahead to read the following lines. “The earlier scenes with him make him seem like he would be more formal.”

He looks up from his paper to find Ennoshita’s eyes on him, and their gazes meet briefly, only for Ennoshita to look down at the papers almost instantly. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, still thinking. “Yeah, I think that’s it. Thanks, Akaashi.” He turns the papers around to face him and crosses out a line before writing a quick replacement.

“Anything to help you with your first foray into romance,” Keiji says drily.

Ennoshita’s cheeks flush and he scowls, with no real menace. “I told you, it’s coming-of-age. This better?”

“Right. Coming-of-age,” Keiji repeats. “Whatever you say.” He raises his eyebrows and adjusts his glasses again before reading the revised dialogue.

Sᴀᴛᴏ. Thank you.
Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ. No problem.There’s no need.
Sᴀᴛᴏ. No, really. Thank you for walking me home.

[Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ begins turning to leave. Sᴀᴛᴏ’s hand raises to the handle of the doorknob.]

Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sato-san. [Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ sticks his hands in his pockets and turns the rest of the way. He begins walking away from her door.]
Sᴀᴛᴏ. Wait! [Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ turns back to face her] I told you before! [flustered, blushing] Just—you can just—it’s just Sato!
Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ. [with a small smile] I’ll see you tomorrow, Sato.

[Oᴋɪᴍᴏᴛᴏ walks down the driveway. Sᴀᴛᴏ stays at the door, hand still on the doorknob, until he is no longer in sight. She turns around to go inside but looks back once, then closes the door.]

The scene leaves an odd feeling resting low in Keiji’s stomach, strange, yet not unpleasant. “Yeah,” he says, reading the new line over again. There’s no need. “I think this is more consistent with the rest of Okimoto’s lines.”

—————

Ennoshita Chikara: You guys have your first round of prelims tomorrow right?
Ennoshita Chikara: Good luck!

Ennoshita doesn’t even wait for a response before wishing him good luck, Keiji thinks. And maybe that’s what makes being around Ennoshita so nice—he’s so considerate, Keiji thinks, and in the most effortless way. There’s no ulterior motive. He’s simply so deep in the habit of thinking of others first that he doesn’t need to try anymore.

Akaashi Keiji: Yes, and thanks.
Akaashi Keiji: Miyagi preliminaries start next week, right?
Akaashi Keiji: I’m sure you’ll make it.

Ennoshita Chikara: Yeah, they do!
Ennoshita Chikara: Thanks, I hope so ^-^”

There’s that odd feeling blooming inside of him again, the same as when Keiji was reading over the script with Ennoshita at the coffee shop. He types and re-types his message more times than he can keep track of, and finally hits ‘send’ before he can revise the text again.

Akaashi Keiji: You will. I still need to show you what I’m capable of with a healed shoulder, don’t I?

Ennoshita Chikara: Believe me, there’s never been any doubt about your abilities
Ennoshita Chikara: I’ll see you at nationals then :(

Akaashi Keiji: Go on. Tell me how you really feel.

Ennoshita Chikara: ...THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SMILEY :) :) :) :)

Akaashi Keiji: Someone’s backpedaling.
Akaashi Keiji: But now I know how you really feel.

Ennoshita Chikara: Well we can’t all have phones that do fancy emojis

Akaashi Keiji: Of course. How silly of me.
Akaashi Keiji: Your 2009 flip phone is truly unforgettable.

Ennoshita Chikara: Excuse you, it has a keyboard

Akaashi Keiji: Silly me.

Ennoshita Chikara: You wound me, Akaashi </3 :’(

Before he can stop himself, a small huff of a laugh escapes Keiji. In truth, Ennoshita’s use of old-fashioned smileys is endearing. The feeling from before still lingers, like something constricting inside of his chest, light and tight at the same time.

Oh, Keiji thinks.

He tells himself to not jump to any conclusions. This isn’t something to be rash about.

—————

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Fukurodani has to face Yoshihara in the preliminary finals, but Keiji can’t help the disappointment. Keiji is stronger now than he was in the inter-high preliminaries: physically, mentally. His injury hasn’t rendered him hopeless; it has fueled a fire that Keiji hadn’t known was there before.

Still there is that unextinguishable fear inside of him. They’re closely matched teams; they weren’t caught in a deuce for nothing, and Yoshihara had rightfully won their place in the inter-high. If Keiji’s injury still made their win rightful, that is.

“Akaashi.”

Keiji turns to look up from his stretching position to Kurata, standing above him.

“There’s no need to be worried, Kura—”

“We’re going to win,” Kurata interrupts him. Keiji opens his mouth to speak, to say that nothing is sure, they can’t be presumptuous, but Kurata continues. “We are. I know you—I know you think you failed us in the inter-high prelims. But you didn’t. You were doing what you thought was best, you were doing what you thought would take us to Nationals. And we are going this time. We are.”

Keiji swallows, the feeling thick. He considers his words carefully before saying, “Of course we are. I won’t have it any other way.”

Kurata’s concerned look gives way to a splitting grin. “Aye aye, Captain,” he says with a mock salute before jogging off to meet with Fujita.

I’ll see you at nationals, Ennoshita had told him. And, Keiji thinks as he pulls on his kneepads, he will.

The scores climb as Fukurodani and Yoshihara continue fighting in the final preliminary game, caught in a deuce in the fifth set. Kurata scores, taking the team to match point at 18-17.

Emotion washes over Keiji in waves of relief and excitement. His teammates clap him on the back, pulling him close into their group embrace. We did it, Keiji thinks. I did it. His anxieties have been eased; a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He’s leading his team to Nationals. There’s no repeat of the inter-high preliminaries—they’ve won.

—————

Ennoshita Chikara: Heyyy rival
Ennoshita Chikara: See you tomorrow ;D

Akaashi Keiji: See you tomorrow.
Akaashi Keiji: It’s almost one. Go to sleep.
Akaashi Keiji: You’re going to need as much energy as possible if you want to take us to the fifth set.

Ennoshita Chikara: Ok look you’re awake too

Akaashi Keiji: Not for much longer. Good night.
Akaashi Keiji: :)

Ennoshita Chikara: aKAASHI YOU USED A SMILEY
Ennoshita Chikara: I’m HONORED
Ennoshita Chikara: Goodnight ;D

—————

Keiji almost doesn’t want to get out of bed.

There’s this—nervousness inside of him, an anxiety set deeper than he’s experienced for any other Nationals. What if we lose? Keiji thinks, and the fact that he’s so frightened of it is disconcerting. He should stay calm; he normally does. Yet now, his heart is racing, and his chest feels tight, and what if this is his last chance to fight with his team?

Karasuno would not be a bad team to lose to. Even if they lost, Keiji thinks, he would be able to hold Ennoshita and the rest of his team in high regard. But what if the same couldn’t be said the other way around? What if, should Fukurodani win, Ennoshita wouldn’t want to be friends with Keiji anymore?

The loss of Ennoshita’s friendship, Keiji realizes, would change everything. The days, weeks, months, of staying up late to text about Ennoshita’s latest projects. Their Skype marathons of slapstick comedies with awful plots would be over. The silence, the mundanity, the predictability of his nights alone at home, struggling to do homework after physical therapy, would return.

When he befriended with Ennoshita, Keiji hadn’t realized just how much he would have to lose.

Now, the idea of losing that—the relationship that started slow, the relationship that crept up on him—might be worse than losing Nationals.

You’ll be okay, Keiji tells himself.

Whoever wins, it’ll be a good game, he tells himself. And that’s what matters. He’s there to play volleyball.

—————

The scores keep climbing, and Keiji wipes the sweat from his brow. It’s exhausting, to have to play five-set matches at this level. Both Fukurodani and Karasuno have improved since training camp. Karasuno, Keiji has come to realize, has a truly frightening ability to adapt and evolve. Tanaka scores, bringing Karasuno to match point, and Fujita-sensei calls for the final time-out.

“Akaashi,” he says. “I want you to spike.”

Keiji freezes, water bottle halfway to his lips. Beside him, Kurata shifts uncomfortably.

“Coach,” he says, “are you sure you want to take the risk? You haven’t practiced in months, right?” he adds, turning to Keiji. “And you could hurt your shoulder again, too, and—”

“I’ll do it,” Keiji says.

“Akaashi,” Kurata says, a pained look crossing his face. “Are you sure you want to? It’s a big risk—”

“Karasuno has been to Nationals three times in the past two years because they take risks,” Keiji says. “If we can’t also take risks, then we don’t deserve to win this match.”

His team is quiet, for a moment, then, and Fujita speaks. “Well spoken, Akaashi,” he says. “Teruya, toss to Akaashi.”

The first year nods, his expression the same as the one in training camp, a mix of solemnity and hesitation.

They return to their positions on the court.

“Like always,” Keiji says, “stay calm. We’re going to win. I believe in you.”

—————

The sun is setting and the Fukurodani volleyball club is about to leave the gymnasium when Ennoshita catches Keiji by surprise.

“Hey,” he says, slowing his pace to match Keiji’s. “Good game, earlier.”

His voice is laced with a somber sort of enthusiasm, a bittersweet congratulation. It makes Keiji’s own words catch in his throat, and he wonders how you’re supposed to address the captain of the team you just beat.

Ennoshita’s eyes search his face, and he adds, a little more quietly, “I’m not angry, you know. Well,” he amends, “I am. But not at you. Not at your team.” He means, I’m angry at me. It’s a feeling that Keiji knows well, a feeling that has haunted him since their loss in the inter-high preliminaries.

“Volleyball is a team sport,” Keiji says. “There are six people on the court. You did the best you could at the moment, and—” He pauses, his eyes meeting Ennoshita’s. “—and no one is to blame.”

“Yeah,” Ennoshita says. “Yeah.”

Their walking slows to a stop and they lapse into silence, standing there in the middle of the corridor. This is it, Keiji thinks. It might be the last conversation they have as friends, and Keijin wants to stay friends, they’ve only just started working together, Keiji isn’t ready to lose him.

“I understand,” Keiji starts, “if you don’t want to continue working together after this—”

Ennoshita’s brow creases, and he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Of course I want to keep working together.”

The fluttering anxieties in Keiji’s chest still, and he attempts to mask the surprise in his voice. “Even after today’s match?”

“Of course I do,” Ennoshita says. His expression is near unreadable to Keiji; a small hope flutters inside of his chest, though, because he thinks he may see—just maybe— “One game isn’t enough to make me want to give you—give all of this up.”

It’s like all of the anxieties from when he had woken up have dissipated, and all Keiji can really think to say is, “I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Ennoshita says, looking more relieved than Keiji has maybe ever seen him. “Yeah.” He pauses for a moment, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck, reminiscent of the Ennoshita that Keiji first met at training camp, and he says, “There’s—there’s actually this project that I’ve wanted to start working on. But, ah…” He pauses, meeting Keiji’s eyes. “I can’t really do it without you.”

A new project? He hadn’t mentioned anything before, Keiji thinks, trying to remember their past conversations. Maybe he was worried about what would happen after their match, too. That must be it, he decides. “What do you need me to do?”

“Well, um.” The tone of his voice isn’t one that Keiji has ever heard before. It’s simultaneously certain and uncertain, and it’s higher than Keiji’s ever heard it—a sort of hoarse squeak. If it weren’t for the serious expression cast over Ennoshita’s face, Keiji might crack a joke about spending too much time with the Yachi. Ennoshita takes a step forward, toward him, and he can feel the tightening feeling in his chest. “I was hoping that—” Ennoshita cuts himself off with an embarrassed cough before continuing. “—well, a kiss might be a good way to start?”

Oh, Keiji thinks in a stroke of brilliance. And then the wave of relief, of happiness, hits him, and hell yes is he interested in this project.

“No problem,” he says, closing the distance.