Chapter Text
SEASON 2019/2020
Interview with Boo Seungkwan, a few days before the V-League finale.
When did you decide volleyball was your thing?
I must have been around seven years old? Maybe even six. My parents took me to a volleyball match in Jeju City. No, definitely six. It was the 2004 World Grand Prix. Korea played Cuba, Brazil and Japan. We lost every game, but honestly, I didn’t care. The energy on the court, the fans cheering… I was hooked right then and there.
Is Bu Yong-chan your family? You share the same last name!
*laughs* No! I wish we were but no. We’re a volleyball family from Jeju, but no actual blood ties. Just a lot of love for the game and maybe a little teasing here and there.
So if you called him right now, you have his number, right? Would he pick up?
Let’s find out! *pulls out phone, grinning* Watch and learn, this is how you get ignored on live camera.
“Hyung! Wow, you actually picked up… I’m doing an interview right now… Wait, I’ll put you on speaker. Okay, all set. Hyung, shouldn’t we meet up soon?”
Bu Yong-chan:
“Seungkwan-ah! You only call me when you’re doing an interview, don’t you?”
Seungkwan:
“Hyung, you know that’s not true... I call you all the time.”
Bu Yong-chan:
“That’s right, folks, you heard it here. I couldn’t get rid of Seungkwannie even if I wanted to. Let’s meet up after your finale, yeah? Fighting!”
There aren’t many players from Jeju. Do you feel special because of that?
Not special, not really. But I’m definitely proud to represent Jeju wherever I play. Hey, Mr. Oh [A/N: Jeju Governor], how about making me an honorary ambassador for Jeju? *winks* I think I’d do a pretty good job!
***
It’s nine in the evening when the Incheon Korean Air Jumbos wrap up their practice, and five past nine when Seungkwan drags his best teammate, Seokmin, back onto the court for even more training.
“I can’t do this alone, Seok,” he argues, and Seokmin can’t bring himself to say no. It’s impossible to refuse Boo Seungkwan.
So there they are: Seokmin setting balls for Seungkwan to spike. He adjusts the height, angle, and speed with care, giving Seungkwan a chance to practice every kind of attack. After three years on the same team, they’ve learned to read each other wordlessly and this session is no exception.
Thump.
After seven flawless spikes, the next ball hits the net instead of flying over. “Again.” Seungkwan tenses and forces himself to focus. He knows he rushed it.
This time, he waits for the perfect moment. His shoes squeak as he dashes forward and leaps, muscles coiling in midair. The ball slams into the court’s line on the other side with a sharp crack. His breath sounds loud in the empty arena. “Again.”
“Seungkwan-ah…”
“Just toss the damn ball, Seokmin.”
Seokmin exhales deeply but doesn’t argue. He sets the ball again, and this time, it lands perfectly in the corner.
“Kwannie, you’ve hit nearly 90% of those spikes flawlessly. You’re more than ready,” Seokmin says after a few more rounds. “You know that, right?”
Seungkwan tries to lighten the mood when he murmurs, “It’s easier when there’s no one blocking.”
Seokmin sees right through the joke.
“Stressed about tomorrow?” Seokmin’s voice softens, and Seungkwan stops bouncing the ball, meeting his friend’s eyes.
“Aren’t you?” Seungkwan deflects, looking down at the ball in his hands.
“Of course I am,” Seokmin admits, “but I also know we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Let’s get some rest before the match, okay?”
Seungkwan wants to argue but something in Seokmin’s voice makes him defeated and he sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Seokmin is always his voice of reason. If it’s hard to say no to Boo Seungkwan, it’s just as hard to argue with Lee Seokmin.
Seungkwan ducks under the net and starts gathering the balls he sent flying moments ago. “Let’s go. The game’s tomorrow after all.”
“It’s just the finale of the Korean league. No big deal,” Seokmin tries to shake off the tension between them.
Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, no big deal,” he repeats quietly, tossing the balls into the cart.
***
The thing is, this is a big deal. Seungkwan knows what’s at stake. It’s not just about his team winning the match. Call him dramatic if you want, but he’s certain the national team coach is somewhere in the crowd, scouting new talent. And Seungkwan wants that spot so badly it’s making him lose his cool.
He sits on the floor with his teammates, warming up before the game. Neck stretches, arm swings, leg lifts. Left, right. Wrists rotations. Some deep stretches. Then he stands and joins Joshua, the other setter beside Seokmin, to practice tosses and passes.
His focus is sharper than ever, even if this isn’t his first V-League finale. Cheonan Hyundai Skywalkers are never easy opponents and he knows not to underestimate them.
Sure, his team has won this tournament several times in recent years, and winning again would be great but this year, it’s different. This year, he has a personal goal.
At twenty-two, Seungkwan knows he’s at the perfect age to make the national team. He’s been playing professionally since eighteen, hailed by fans and media as the “Promising Talent,” the “Tiny But Not So Tiny Hope of Korean Volleyball,” and so on. He can only hope the coach sees it the same way.
“If he even notices you among your teammates,” Hansol warned a few days ago when they talked about Seungkwan’s chances.
Seungkwan looked at his best friend calmly, smiling without it reaching his eyes. “Wow, Sollie, we’ve known each other for what... fifteen years? Is that the best you can do? Kinda disappointed here…”
Hansol blinked, slightly thrown off. “I admit, you might be small, but you’re scary.”
“We’re literally the same height, Sollie,” Seungkwan teased, voice sing-songy. Were his teeth clenched just a little?
“I’m not a volleyball player, am I?” Hansol replied between bites of fried chicken. “I can be small and not piss anyone off with it.”
“Wow, thanks, bestie.”
“You know it,” Hansol shrugged, going back to his chicken.
So what if Seungkwan is only 174 centimeters tall? Not exactly ideal for a volleyball player, as Hansol pointed out but he’s good. Really good. He’s made it his mission to prove that size isn’t everything, even in sports. Pun intended, thank you very much.
Still… sometimes it’s hard. He doesn’t like to admit it, but it bothers him. Hansol’s height never gets under anyone’s skin but Seungkwan’s does. People have always found it funny that a hitter isn’t even 175 centimeters tall. All his life, they said he could only be a libero. When he was six and told his parents he wanted to play volleyball, it was just a hobby in their eyes, a phase. At fifteen, when he announced he wanted to go pro, his older sisters laughed.
But what Seungkwan loves as much as volleyball is a challenge. So he decided to take it on.
***
The sharp blast of the referee’s whistle snaps Seungkwan out of his swirling thoughts. It’s time to practice serves before the match officially begins.
He moves to the end line, scanning the court on the other side of the net, eyes narrowed and mind sharp. At first, he doesn’t realise who he’s looking at. His eyes move too fast, every person on the other side looking just like a blur. But something makes him come back to one particular figure.
Even with his hair a little different and a new uniform clinging to his frame, Seungkwan would recognize that presence anywhere. A rush of something electric bolts through his chest before he can name it.
Kim Mingyu’s back.
He has heard about the injury through league updates. Some ankle issues during last season that took him out for months. The kind of news you pretend not to care about but still click on anyway. Still think about after.
Seungkwan blinks hard, disbelief mingling with a flicker of something else. Nervousness, maybe? Mingyu stands there, calm and poised, already sending killer serves toward Seungkwan’s teammates.
He looks rested. Definitely focused. And, Seungkwan doesn't know if he should be glad or a little annoyed, he doesn’t seem to be looking at him at all.
Seungkwan wonders if Mingyu even noticed him yet.
Is it possible he doesn’t recognise him? No, Seungkwan thinks to himself, volleyball is not that big of a world and they’ve crossed paths before.
It might be an underestimation, actually. High school was hard at first, when Seungkwan transferred from Jeju but then it got easier. It started to feel like home at one point.
But then something shifted. A silence that stretched longer than either expected crept in. One day turned into weeks and suddenly it was time for Mingyu to graduate.
Seungkwan never admitted to it out loud, but he followed Mingyu’s career. All the way overseas, then all the way back. Right up to the injury that benched him for months.
And now here they are, facing off under stadium lights, not as teammates, but as rivals. Seungkwan isn’t sure how he should feel at the moment.
He dares a look at Mingyu again. He doesn’t look angry or hostile. Just... distant. He can't read him and it makes him realise how much time has passed. He used to be able to tell what Mingyu thinks.
The referee’s whistle cuts through his spiraling mind. Seems like it’s going to be a recurring motif tonight, he thinks.
He shakes it off. No time for nostalgia now. Focus, he tells himself.
Players from both teams step forward, shaking hands, exchanging the usual good lucks, polite and practiced. Seungkwan knows it’s good sportsmen behaviour so he steps into line expecting at least something. A glance would be more than enough. Any indication that Mingyu still cares.
But Mingyu doesn’t even look at hm.
He walks past with a curt bow, moving on to the next player like Seungkwan is no different than any other name on the roster. Oh. It leaves coldness in his chest.
Seungkwan doesn’t let it show how much it affects him. He keeps his disappointment inside. Just nods at the next player and keeps going.
If that’s how Mingyu wants to play it, fine.
***
Seungkwan’s mind flashes back to high school, the very first time he officially met Mingyu.
They were in the middle of warm-up before practice when Coach Lee blew her whistle to get everyone’s attention.
“Alright, team, we have a new friend joining us today. Let’s give a warm welcome to Mingyu!” She announced, pointing to a tall kid trying (and failing) to hide behind her.
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow immediately. He recognized him at once. Mingyu was a year older, but impossible to miss. Who wouldn’t notice the tallest kid in school wandering the halls like a gentle giant?
His height made him memorable, but Seungkwan first really noticed Mingyu when the older boy accidentally spilled his drink all over Seungkwan’s shoes. Their second encounter wasn’t much better. Mingyu had bumped into him, sending all of Seungkwan’s papers fluttering into the air like startled birds.
And then there was the time Mingyu walked right into the glass library door.
Yeah. That one was definitely the funniest.
In short, Mingyu was clumsy as hell.
The team cheered as Mingyu gave a shy wave. Most of them greeted him with friendly nice to meet yous.
But then, Lee Chan, the youngest on the team and a bundle of energy, stepped up. “Wow, you’re so handsome! And tall!” he exclaimed with wide eyes.
Seungkwan groaned immediately.
Mingyu chuckled and replied, “Aren’t you a first-year? Bet you’ll catch up in height soon.”
That seemed to satisfy Chan. “I like you already, hyung. You’re nice, not like some of those so-called hyungs.” He shot Seungkwan a pointed look.
“What did I ever do to you, Channie?” Seungkwan pouted.
“Exactly, nothing at all.”
Mingyu quickly learned not to mess with Seungkwan that day as he watched Seungkwan chase after Chan like a tornado.
Coach Lee, looking a little weary, blew her whistle again. “Alright, enough! Hey! I said enough!” The command finally made Seungkwan and Chan stop.
“Sorry, Coach…” they chorused.
“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes, used to their antics. “Okay, everyone, continue warming up. Mingyu, join in and let’s get started.”
Chan immediately turned to Mingyu. “Mingyu hyung, wanna be my partner?”
“No, no, you promised to play with me today, Channie,” Jeonghan said, suddenly appearing next to Chan. Then he looked at Mingyu and added, “Sorry, you can have him next time. Kwannie looks like he needs a partner though!” He grinned mischievously and grabbed Chan by the wrist.
Seungkwan wanted to kill his friends right then and there, but Mingyu was already looking at him expectantly. He just nodded.
“I hope you’re not as clumsy with the ball as you are in the school corridors,” Seungkwan teased.
Mingyu looked caught off guard for a moment. Then Seungkwan saw the exact instant Mingyu realized what he meant.
“Huh, yeah, about that… I promise I’m good with balls.”
Seungkwan couldn’t help but snort. Mingyu’s face turned bright red. “Oh no, that’s not—”
“Can’t wait to find out,” Seungkwan said, winking and laughing quietly.
Turns out, Mingyu was really good with balls.
***
The memory fades and Seungkwan blinks, refocusing on the present. The gym buzzes with anticipation around him.
Mingyu is out there now, no longer just the tall, clumsy kid from high school but a formidable opponent.
And though the past between them is tangled in silence, Seungkwan feels a flicker of something sharp and familiar. Nerves, yes, but also the spark of a challenge. The kind he’s always been drawn to.
The sound of the whistle cuts through the roar of the crowd. Seungkwan exhales one last time and takes his place on the court.
It’s time to play.
Woosung, one of the Jumbos, steps behind the line for the first serve. The ball leaves his hands in a clean, floating arc.
The opposing side handles it with ease, and just like that, the first rally begins in fast, controlled chaos. Bodies shift, arms move, the rhythm of volleyball echoes across the arena. Seungkwan moves on instinct, reading the setter, adjusting angles, bracing himself.
First few points are divided evenly between two teams. They’re still testing the waters. Seungkwan manages to avoid Mingyu, there’s no indirect ball contact until he sees Mingyu rise above the net like it’s nothing. Mingyu’s body stretches to full height, and for a split second, he looks untouchable. Then his arm swings, fast and brutal.
Seungkwan barely gets there in time.
The ball slams into his forearms. The force travels up his arms like a shock, but he absorbs it, controls it and sends it flying back into play.
“Nice save!” someone shouts. He doesn’t respond. He’s already moving.
His team transitions, Seokmin with the perfect set, and Seungkwan doesn’t hesitate.
He launches forward, trusting the rhythm etched into his muscle memory.
Boom.
The ball slams the line, barely grazing Mingyu’s high block on its way down. A point.
Seungkwan breathes deeply while the crowd erupts in cheers.
Seungkwan doesn’t look across the net. Not yet. But he knows Mingyu’s there, finally looking at him.
For the first time since high school, it feels like they’re speaking the same language again.
***
After a few strong plays, momentum seems to be on Jumbos’ side, until it isn’t.
The serve comes fast, slicing low. Seungkwan hesitates for a fraction of a second, misreading the angle. He lunges but it’s too late. The ball drops between him and a teammate, with a loud thump, untouched. A clean ace.
Frustration bubbles in his chest. He clenches his jaw, silently cursing the hesitation and the miscommunication.
Then his eyes drift across the net.
Mingyu is already walking back to position, unreadable. There's no smirk on his face, no sight of satisfaction. Just that same calm, distant focus. Mingyu’s stride is casual, unfazed. It stings, seeing him so calm when Seungkwan’s chest is tight with frustration. Is he really going to ignore him throughout the whole match?
Seungkwan exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back.
Focus. Reset. The match isn’t over. Not even close.
The coach calls him off and Seungkwan doesn’t protest. Coach must see he’s in the wrong mindset at the moment and he knows when to step back, when to reset. He sits down and tries to calm his mind down. It’s okay, it’s okay…
He watches his teammates struggle with Skywalkers’ serves and he watches as Jumbos lose the fourth set.
He gets ready to play again.
***
“Timeout! Jumbos!”
The whistle cuts through the noise. Seungkwan jogs off the court, sweat dripping down his temples, his breath heavy.
The scoreboard reads 12–12, the final set. Just three more points and it’s over.
They huddle near the bench, towels tossed, water bottles exchanged. Coach Min stands tall in front of them, voice low but firm.
“You’re reading their rotation well, but you're hesitating on coverage. Seungkwan, you’ve got to trust Joshua’s back sets, don’t second-guess it. If their outside hits again, you shift quicker.”
Seungkwan nods, wiping his face. He hears the words, but his mind flashes back to that last spike from Mingyu, how clean it was, how familiar that motion felt. How easy it looked.
Jihoon elbows him lightly. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Seungkwan lies, forcing a breath. “All good.”
“Because if you let that dude get in your head,” Jihoon smirks, “I will personally make you do extra laps.”
That earns a laugh from the bench. Seungkwan shakes it off. To others it’s just a rivalry.
“Let’s shut him down.”
The buzzer sounds. Timeout is over. Seungkwan steps back onto the court, thinking about coming out of this arena as a winner.
The air in the gym is tight with anticipation. Every fan sits on the edge of their seat, holding every breath between whistles. Just a few more points and half of the arena will cheer loudly while the other will leave disappointed.
A serve cuts low over the net but the receive is clean. The rally begins once again.
Both teams dig, set, block like machines. Hands are flying, bodies reacting faster than thought. Each touch of the ball raises the stakes.
The ball is on Jumbo’s side now. Joshua, subbed in for Seokmin at the start of the set, makes a bold call. He sends a high but fast ball towards Seungkwan.
Seungkwan charges in from the back row, timing it to perfection. On the other side, Mingyu rises like gravity doesn’t apply to him, ready to block the ball.
For one breathless second, it’s just them. Across the net, their eyes lock. Even if they wanted to, they can't exchange any words, but Seungkwan notices a spark of understanding in Mingyu's gaze.
The crowd keeps their breath as Seungkwan’s hand hits the ball.
The ball clips the top of the block, Mingyu’s fingertips, and drops just out of reach on the far side. A point.
13–12.
Seungkwan lands, heart pounding and breath ragged. He feels adrenaline flowing through his veins. It calls for it, but he doesn’t celebrate. He just stands there for a beat, eyes still on Mingyu.
Mingyu looks back. For a second, Seungkwan thinks the cold distance between them melts and he might see through the mask he's been wearing the whole time. Is it regret in his eyes?
Then, just as suddenly, the moment is over. The crowd erupts, the game snaps back into motion and Seungkwan is pulled back to reality by his teammates’ cheers.
But inside, something hums to life.