Chapter Text
精神 (sᴇɪsʜɪɴ) — sᴘɪʀɪᴛ
☆𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐓!!☆
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ
“SEISHIN!!!!!”
The squeak of your shoes. The rush of hot air. The tightening of your chest.
You're off in seconds.
That's the feeling you like the most — that raw exhilaration that consumes your entire frame, taking over your body and sending delicious shudders of warmth down your spine.
When you're on the court. When you're alert, on your toes, shallow-breathed.
The best part?
Everyone's watching.
And with all eyes on you? Disappointing the audience is out of the question.
It's almost as if you can fly — like greased lightning you've dashed to the other side of the court, blood roaring in your ears, sweat coating your skin like a thin sheen of shine, lungs gasping for air. Your arm's outstretched forward. Any sound surrounding you is suddenly drowned out. Mellowed down. Muffled. Because all you can see is the ball. And it's within reach.
Fisted hand. You lunge it upwards.
The ball is flung into the air.
Exhale.
You part your lips. You almost want to laugh. But you're not done. Not yet.
Inhale.
“ONE TOUCH!!!”
And with your shriek, sound returns to your life. The world around you resumes as if it had never slowed down. Your peripheral brightens. Spacial awareness flips on like a light switch. But you don't catch your breath. There's more to be done.
Gasps arise from the crowd. Your leap has sent you tumbling to the scoreboard next to the court. You wince. But you're up again in milliseconds, eyes wild and wide, pupils darting from left to right. Right to left. Up and down. Down and up.
The ball.
On the other team's side.
You analyze.
The setter's leapt up. Left wing spiker jumps. In position.
Wait.
Right wing spiker jumps not a second later. Your breath hitches. It's another trick.
Your teammates have gone to the left. Right side is unattended. Crap.
Go.
You dash for the right. The ball's been released. It's veering right. Your captain curses. She turns for you.
But you're already there.
Right wing spiker's hand connects with the ball. It's an aggressive hit. Swift. It'll go down in a heartbeat.
You're swifter.
Your hands won't make it in time. Your legs. You have to use your legs.
You slide your leg forward on instinct, eyes trained on the ball, breathing halted. There it is again. Time's slowed down. The air almost stills — like the only thing in the damn world that matters is you and that ball.
Your foot is jutted out. The ball flails through the air.
You grin.
Kick upwards.
The ball goes flying, flung upwards by your foot.
Exhale.
There. You did it again.
“ONE TOUCH!!"
”ONE MORE POINT!!" The crowd echoes your yell. You appreciate the gesture.
And you can breathe. They've got it under control.
“MOMO!” Your captain's in position. The ball sails in a quick arc. Right for her hands. They're ready and waiting — itching to set. That's Akane for you.
Hana runs past you. Himari alongside her. Synchronised attack.
Yes!
Momo jumps and lands. Himari hits the ball.
It cuts through the air. To the other side.
Touches the floor.
Match point.
We've won.
And that's the climax. That warmth is like liquid gold, pooling in your chest, only growing bigger. And bigger. And bigger.
The whistle is blown.
25 points.
The feeling explodes within you like a firework. You open your mouth. You scream.
You all did it.
Momo's face is flushed. Your coach is applauding by the sidelines. The crowd is louder. You dash forward. Like an acrobat you leap deftly into the air, palms faced downwards to slam against the floor. In seconds, you've pulled off a perfect handspring. The audience roars. You spin around, finally facing your supporters.
It's your school, Fukuroudani Academy, banners and drums in their clutches as they scream for your victory. Those smiles and laughs. Those happy faces. Your team did that.
You won.
You lift a fist up, letting out a loud, long whoop. Your voice rings out across the room. Deafening, you can tell. Even the crowd can't match your volume.
Himari's slapped you hard on the back, dragging you into the group hug your team's created. Of course, you don't protest. You're so happy.
You beat Nekoma. Why wouldn't you be?
But...
Unbeknownst to you, there are two boys in the crowd.
They're at the front of the upper bleachers, in the midst of the school cheer group, peering down at your team. In silence. Which is incredibly abnormal.
One of these boys have raven hair and tired, deepest eyes. He blinks monotonously at the scene below, face stoic. The guy next to him is slightly taller, with spiked white and black hair, gazing down at the court.
His bushy, grey eyebrows are knitted gently together, lips parted, large hands clenching the handrail before him. His fingers twitch subtly. That isn't unusual. Bokuto is at a volleyball game after all. Just a reflex.
Something's caught his attention. Or someone.
There's a reason why he's so quiet. It's not because he's thinking. Bokuto Koutarou can do a lot of things. But deep thoughts hurt his brain. He can't do that for long.
Seishin.
They chanted your name a while ago.
Not that he could blame them.
You were a beast on the court, like an animal on steroids. Leaping about and shooting across the area like a rocket. Always on your feet. Always moving. Not a breath wasted.
A libero. A female libero. And the damn best he's ever fucking seen.
The prettiest too.