Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning started like most of their mornings did — with quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy rather than peaceful.

The digital clock on the kitchen counter blinked 7:46 a.m. in stubborn red digits. The school bell would ring in fourteen minutes. Ushijima Wakatoshi stood by the sink, half-dressed for practice in his team tracksuit, watching the stillness of his kitchen through the faint hiss of the kettle.

His son sat at the table, small shoulders hunched over a neat row of markers. Each pen was lined up with mathematical precision — ordered by shade, tone, and intensity. Crimson to coral, vermillion to tangerine. A whole sunrise laid out across the wooden surface.

“Akira,” Ushijima said quietly.

The boy didn’t look up. His fingers hovered over a cap of teal, tapping it rhythmically.

“We have to go soon,” he tried again, checking the time. “We’ll be late.”

A hum slipped from Akira’s throat. Not a word, but a sound — low, vibrating, like the echo of a thought that couldn’t quite escape. Ushijima recognized it instantly. It was the sound of a routine unraveling.

He knelt beside the table. “What’s wrong?”

Akira didn’t answer, but Ushijima didn’t need him to. The boy’s eyes were darting rapidly between two shades of blue-green. One of the markers — Cyan 306 U — was missing from its spot. Ushijima’s stomach tightened. He remembered seeing it rolling under the fridge two nights ago and meaning to pick it up. He hadn’t.

“306 U,” Ushijima murmured, almost to himself.

The hum deepened. Akira’s hands fluttered once, then pressed tightly over his ears.

The kettle began to whistle. The noise made it worse.

Ushijima turned it off quickly, his pulse spiking. “It’s alright. It’s okay.”

Akira was breathing fast now, his little chest heaving, his head rocking back and forth in small, desperate motions. He hit the screen of his AAC device, fingers trembling until the robotic voice said what he couldn’t:

“Too loud. Not ready.”

Ushijima knelt closer, lowering his voice. “I know. It’s loud. I’ll fix it.”

He moved around the kitchen, turning off everything that hummed or beeped — the fridge light, the ticking clock, even the fan overhead. Silence, finally. Then, he crouched beside his son again.

“Let’s do one color,” he suggested softly. “Just one.”

He picked a random marker from the lineup — a warm coral. He didn’t know the number, but Akira did.

The boy blinked through his tears, hesitant, then pointed at the tablet again.

‘1787 C. Red-orange.’

“1787 C,” Ushijima repeated gently. “Red-orange. You got it.”

The tension in Akira’s shoulders eased a little. His breathing slowed. The quiet hum in his throat turned back into something softer — a tune, a rhythm that meant safety.

Ushijima stood and ran a hand through his own hair. His mornings were supposed to be straightforward: wake up, coffee, practice, precision. But this—this was the life he couldn’t train for. A life that required patience, not strength.

By the time he’d helped Akira into his shoes and jacket, they were ten minutes late. He packed the crayon box into the boy’s backpack without a word. The colors mattered. They always did.

---

The drive to school was silent except for the soft sound of Akira naming colors under his breath. Ushijima didn’t interrupt; he’d learned long ago that his son’s voice came and went in fragments, and forcing words never helped.

When they pulled into the school lot, Akira tapped his AAC tablet again.

“Mr. Tendou.”

Ushijima glanced at him. “You like Mr. Tendou.”

Akira nodded vigorously, eyes bright. Then, another button:

“Red hair. Bright. Like fire truck.”

A corner of Ushijima’s mouth twitched upward. His son didn’t often volunteer comparisons like that. Whoever this new teacher was, he had done something no one else had managed in months—he’d reached Akira.

He parked, exhaling deeply. He hadn’t met this Tendou Satori yet. The week had been filled with away games and press commitments. He’d only heard from the school that Akira had “adjusted beautifully” under the new teacher’s care. For once, no complaints. No frustrated calls. Just quiet progress.

It was… new.

---

Inside, the school hallways buzzed faintly with early chatter. Ushijima felt the shift in Akira immediately—the tightening of his hand around his father’s sleeve, the slight tremor of unease at the sensory overload of children and sound.

Then, a bright voice cut through the hum.

“Akiraaa! There you are, sunshine!”

The boy’s entire posture changed. He let go of Ushijima’s sleeve and broke into a quick shuffle-step toward the source of the voice.

Ushijima followed, and then he saw him.

Tendou Satori was… unexpected.

Tall, lean, and dressed in a loose button-up that looked more suited to painting than teaching, with hair the exact shade of Akira’s favorite color—vivid, impossible red. There was a wild sort of energy in him, all movement and expression, yet when he knelt to Akira’s level, his presence softened instantly.

“You brought your colors again?” Tendou asked, voice lilting with warmth.

Akira nodded and reached into his bag, showing him the coral marker from earlier.

“Ah, 1787 C, right?” Tendou said, eyes sparkling. “That one’s my favorite. It’s close to my hair, isn’t it?”

Akira’s eyes widened in delight. His small hand reached out before Ushijima could stop him, brushing gently through Tendou’s hair with awe.

Tendou laughed, not moving away. “Yep, it’s soft, too! Wanna guess the shade exactly?”

Akira’s fingers tapped at his tablet.

‘186 C. Red. Bright.’

“Bingo!” Tendou cheered, clapping softly once. “I told the kids this morning my hair’s a limited-edition color. You’ve got a good eye, Akira.”

Ushijima stood there, momentarily frozen. His son—his careful, quiet, wary son—was laughing. Not just calm, but alive, body relaxed, eyes shining in a way Ushijima hadn’t seen outside their home.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Ushijima,” Tendou said suddenly, standing and turning with that same open grin. “I’m Tendou Satori—Akira’s new teacher.”

He extended his hand, and Ushijima took it automatically. Tendou’s grip was firm but light, his palm faintly stained with marker ink.

“I’ve heard about you,” Ushijima said. “Akira likes your class.”

“That’s mutual,” Tendou replied easily. “He’s brilliant with colors. I’ve never seen a kid who can identify shades by Pantone code. I told the class he’s our ‘color captain.’”

Akira smiled at that—small, proud, and bashful.

Tendou glanced at the boy, then back at his father, tone softening. “He’s got a rare way of seeing the world. I’m just trying to keep up.”

There was no pity in his voice, no forced patience. Just genuine admiration.

Ushijima didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t used to hearing his son described like that—with respect, with wonder instead of concern.

“Thank you,” he managed.

Tendou’s grin tilted a little. “No need. He does all the hard work.” Then, lowering his voice slightly, he added, “I’m really glad you came today. I wanted to talk about a few things—some small adjustments we can make to help him even more.”

Ushijima nodded, glancing down at Akira. The boy had already wandered toward a color chart pinned to the wall, tracing each hue with his fingertips, mouthing silent numbers.

“He’s calm here,” Ushijima said quietly, almost to himself.

Tendou followed his gaze, his expression turning soft. “Yeah. This is his space. I try to make sure it stays that way.”

Ushijima looked back at him. “You’re very good with him.”

Tendou chuckled. “He makes it easy.” Then, after a pause, he added with a teasing smile, “But thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Ushijima blinked, unsure why that last part made something warm flicker in his chest.

Tendou clapped his hands lightly, breaking the tension. “Well! Why don’t we talk after class? Akira can show you how he organizes our color wall. He’s very proud of it.”

As Tendou guided Akira into the classroom, Ushijima lingered at the doorway. The boy immediately lit up at the sight of rows of color swatches taped along the wall, each carefully labeled. Tendou knelt beside him, letting Akira point out his favorites, his gestures animated, unguarded.

For the first time in a long while, Ushijima didn’t feel the weight of worry pressing on his chest. Instead, he felt something else—quiet awe, tinged with gratitude.

Akira had found someone who spoke his language, even without words.

And as Ushijima watched Tendou laugh with his son, hair bright under the morning sun, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to understand that language too.

Chapter Text

The last bell of the morning class echoed faintly through the hallway. From his place by the classroom door, Ushijima could hear the hum of small voices, the scrape of chairs, the subtle rhythm of children settling back into their seats after recess.

He hadn’t planned to stay. His training schedule didn’t exactly leave room for school visits, and his manager had already texted twice asking if he was running late. But when Tendou had invited him to “stick around for a bit,” something in his tone—warm, confident, unassuming—had made it impossible to refuse.

Besides, Akira had looked up at him before class started, eyes bright and hopeful. It had been a silent request, but Ushijima had understood it all the same. Stay.

So he did.

---

The classroom was a small explosion of color. Paper butterflies, paint swatches, and color charts filled the walls like a living art gallery. The front board had a list scrawled across it in bright green marker:

"MONDAY: Find your shade — we’re learning complementary colors!”

Akira sat near the front, his markers carefully arranged by hue, tapping one gently against his wrist as he listened. His AAC tablet sat within reach, already active.

Tendou stood at the whiteboard, hands flying as he talked, his energy impossible to ignore. He wasn’t just teaching — he performed. Every word carried a rhythm, every gesture deliberate but fluid, like a well-practiced dance.

“Okay, everyone!” Tendou announced cheerfully. “We’re going to pair up! Find the person whose shirt color looks good with yours!”

Groans and laughter filled the room. Tendou grinned and pointed dramatically at one student wearing purple. “You, my violet friend! Find someone in yellow. Complementary magic, remember?”

The kids scrambled around, giggling and comparing. Through it all, Akira stayed in his seat, quietly watching the colors shift around him. His fingers twitched near his AAC tablet, but he didn’t press anything.

Tendou noticed. Without missing a beat, he knelt down beside him.

“Hey, captain,” he said softly, voice lower now, slower. “Want to pick your complementary color?”

Akira tilted his head, considering. Then he tapped his coral marker and pointed to the chart on the wall. His fingers hovered over a square of pale teal.

Tendou’s grin widened. “Oh, good eye! Coral and teal—it’s a perfect pair.” He glanced up, meeting Ushijima’s gaze across the room. “He’s better at this than I am.”

Ushijima said nothing, but a faint warmth stirred in his chest. Akira’s entire posture had changed — relaxed, focused, secure. He was engaged, not anxious.

Tendou leaned closer to Akira, whispering something Ushijima couldn’t quite hear. The boy gave a quiet hum of amusement — that soft, rare sound that always made Ushijima’s throat tighten.

---

After class, when the last student had gone home and the walls had gone quiet again, Tendou began tidying the desks. Ushijima offered to help, but Tendou waved a dismissive hand.

“Please, I’ve got this down to an art,” he said, stacking papers with a flourish that made it look like sleight of hand. “Besides, you’ve got that look.”

Ushijima raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The I just watched my kid smile for forty minutes straight and I don’t know what to do with my heart now look,” Tendou teased lightly, but there was no mockery in it—only warmth.

Ushijima hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, he said quietly, “He doesn’t smile like that often.”

Tendou’s expression softened instantly. “Then I’m glad you got to see it.”

He perched on the edge of a desk, long legs crossed loosely. “He’s incredible, you know. The way he organizes color? I swear he thinks in gradients. When the class paints, he doesn’t just pick colors—he matches exact tones, like he feels them.”

Ushijima looked toward the small color wall near Akira’s seat. Each square was labeled meticulously, tiny handwriting below each one: ‘Cool tone — calming.’ ‘Too bright — hurts.’ ‘Favorite: 1787 C.’

“My wife used to say he saw the world in pieces,” Ushijima murmured, eyes on the board. “She meant it kindly. I think.”

Tendou didn’t pry, didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded, letting the silence breathe.

After a moment, he smiled again, gentler this time. “I think he sees the world more completely than most people ever will.”

Something about that sentence hit deep — an ache, quiet and unfamiliar. Ushijima wasn’t used to hearing people talk about Akira like that. Teachers spoke in clinical tones, therapists in strategies, relatives in pity. But Tendou spoke with reverence.

He cleared his throat. “You’ve helped him adjust faster than anyone else. He’s… calmer.”

Tendou tilted his head. “He’s just comfortable. Once he knows what to expect, he blooms.”

He hopped down from the desk, brushing his hands off. “He’s got this amazing internal rhythm. I’m trying to build lessons around it—color, pattern, repetition. He thrives on structure, not rules.”

Ushijima found himself listening more closely than he meant to. The way Tendou spoke about teaching wasn’t like most educators. It was intuitive, affectionate, and utterly unpretentious.

“Do you teach every student like that?” Ushijima asked.

Tendou grinned. “Only the ones who fascinate me.”

For a moment, the air between them shifted. Ushijima couldn’t tell if Tendou realized what he’d said—or the way his tone lingered afterward.

He looked away first, busying himself with picking up a stray piece of chalk. “He likes your hair,” he said abruptly. “He said it’s like a fire truck.”

Tendou laughed, delighted. “Yeah, he tells me that every morning. Sometimes he asks if I dyed it on purpose to match 186 C. Maybe I should start pretending I did.”

Ushijima’s lips curved faintly. “He’s very attached to that color.”

“Oh, I know,” Tendou said. “He even asked me to wear a red shirt tomorrow. I said I’d think about it.”

They both glanced at the color wall again, where Akira’s drawings hung crookedly. There were smudges of coral and teal and scarlet—each labeled in tidy handwriting that only Tendou’s encouragement could’ve coaxed out.

“Would it be alright,” Tendou began hesitantly, “if I shared something? A small observation?”

Ushijima nodded.

Tendou stepped closer, not quite invading space but close enough that his energy was unmistakable. “Akira grounds himself through color. It’s his language, his stability. But he also uses people as color anchors. When someone makes him feel safe, he assigns them a color in his head. I’m fairly sure,” he said with a soft smile, “that you’re grey.”

Ushijima blinked. “Grey?”

“Yeah,” Tendou said, as though it were obvious. “Not dull grey. The good kind. Soft, steady, reliable. The color you find in shadows before rain. His favorite balance color.”

Ushijima didn’t know how to answer that. But something in his chest—a place that had been tight for years—loosened.

Tendou noticed. He always seemed to notice.

“Anyway,” Tendou said, breaking the tension with a clap of his hands, “I’ll email you some of his new work. You might like to see what he’s been doing in art time. He’s been drawing volleyball courts lately—did you know that?”

That startled Ushijima. “No.”

“Oh yeah,” Tendou said lightly. “Lots of little nets and lines. I think he’s connecting you with color now too.”

For a second, Ushijima couldn’t speak. His throat tightened, and he could only manage a small nod.

Tendou smiled gently. “He really loves you, you know.”

The words hit harder than expected.

As Ushijima looked through the classroom window, watching his son sitting quietly on the bench outside, sunlight catching in his hair, he realized something.

This strange, vibrant teacher with red hair and ink-stained fingers had managed to reach a place in Akira’s heart that even he hadn’t been able to.

And for the first time in years, Ushijima wanted to understand how.

Chapter Text

The air outside the classroom smelled faintly of rain.
Ushijima leaned against the car, the engine still running low and steady, his eyes fixed on the school doors.
It was Friday, a long week after their last meeting, and he’d promised himself he’d make time to pick Akira up in person — no assistant coach, no driver, no rushing through phone calls. Just him.

But even from a distance, he knew something wasn’t right.

The sound came first — not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the muffled chatter of the schoolyard. A single cry, high and panicked.
Then another.

Ushijima was already moving before his brain caught up.
He crossed the hallway in three strides, the steady calm he used on court slipping into instinct. His son’s voice — strained, cracking — echoed faintly from inside the classroom.

When he reached the doorway, the sight rooted him still.

Akira was on the floor, curled near the bookshelf, his small hands gripping his sleeves so tightly the fabric twisted. His AAC tablet lay facedown beside him, the device’s voice looping an error message that only made the noise worse.
Around him, a few students hovered uncertainly while an aide tried to hush them out of the room.

Tendou was already there.

He wasn’t frantic — not in the way Ushijima expected. He moved slowly, his posture loose, voice a low, rhythmic murmur.
“Okay, okay… too bright, too loud, yeah? Gotcha, buddy.”

He crouched near Akira, not touching him, just close enough for his presence to anchor the air.
With one hand, Tendou reached over to dim the classroom lights. The other adjusted the blinds until the harsh sunlight softened to muted grey.
Then he sat cross-legged on the floor beside Akira, matching his breathing.

“Hey,” he said softly, “remember our rule? Color words first.”

Akira’s breathing came in uneven gasps. He rocked back and forth, but his eyes flicked toward the box of markers on the low shelf. Trembling, he reached for one — violet — and gripped it like it was keeping him afloat.

Tendou smiled faintly. “Violet. Okay. Too much noise for violet, huh?”

He tapped his own temple lightly. “Mine’s red right now — really loud. Wanna help me make it quiet?”

Akira hesitated. His fingers twitched over his AAC tablet, but instead of typing, he just pressed it once — the preprogrammed voice finally saying, ‘Quiet. Please.’

“Yeah,” Tendou breathed, almost whispering now. “We’ll make it quiet.”

He began humming — off-key, gentle, familiar. The same rhythm he used for color drills, a pattern Akira associated with calm. Slowly, the tension bled out of the small body beside him.
Akira’s hands loosened from his sleeves. His rocking slowed.

And then, in a barely-there whisper, the boy spoke — real sound, fragile but clear.

“…violet’s too heavy.”

It was the first spontaneous sentence Ushijima had heard him say in weeks.

Tendou smiled — no surprise, no shock, just pure, steady encouragement. “Then we’ll switch to something lighter, huh? Maybe teal?”

Akira nodded, eyes half-lidded, the crisis finally ebbing.

---

Ushijima had been standing there the entire time, unmoving.

He wasn’t sure what to do — whether to step in or stay quiet. He’d handled meltdowns before, but always with effort, tension, and the constant ache of helplessness. He’d never seen anyone reach his son like this — not a therapist, not a specialist, no one.

Tendou glanced up finally, noticing him at the doorway. His expression didn’t change — no panic, no embarrassment — just that easy, reassuring smile.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “We’re okay. Just a rough patch. The fire alarm test went off early — too sudden for him.”

Ushijima stepped closer, his voice low. “Does this happen often?”

Tendou shook his head. “Not really. But when it does, it’s important to give him control again. His world goes… too big, too fast. So I help him shrink it down.”

Ushijima looked at Akira, now sitting cross-legged beside Tendou, sorting his markers by color again. His small fingers brushed a teal pen — slow, deliberate, calm.

“You make it look easy,” Ushijima said after a moment.

Tendou huffed a small laugh. “It’s not easy. But it’s not supposed to be hard, either. It’s just… listening differently.”

He tilted his head toward Akira. “He teaches me how.”

There was no self-importance in his tone. Just simple truth.

Ushijima crouched down beside them, the movement automatic. He placed a large, careful hand on his son’s back. “You okay?”

Akira looked up at him. His eyes were glassy from tears but steady now. His hand found Ushijima’s wrist — a small squeeze, brief but grounding.

“Okay,” he echoed softly.

The word was barely audible, but it was enough to make Ushijima’s chest tighten.

---

When Akira was settled again — safely coloring by the window with noise-cancelling headphones — Tendou turned to Ushijima, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he said. “He’s been doing great lately, but everyone has off days.”

Ushijima shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize. You handled it better than I ever could.”

Tendou’s eyes softened. “You handle him fine. You’re just… used to being the strong one, right? Sometimes he doesn’t need strong. He needs steady.”

Ushijima didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure he could.

“Do you—” he started, then stopped, searching for the right words. “Do you ever get overwhelmed?”

Tendou chuckled, rubbing his hands together to wipe away marker smudges. “All the time. But then I remember… color is just light you can’t hold. You can’t fight it — you have to see it.”

Ushijima looked at him for a long moment, that strange, warm respect blooming again. “You speak like a poet.”

Tendou grinned. “Don’t tell my students that. I’m already weird enough.”

That earned the faintest smile from Ushijima.

As Tendou turned to check on Akira again, the fading light caught his hair — the same red that had fascinated Akira since day one. Ushijima found himself understanding why. There was something magnetic about it — the color of warmth, of energy, of life.

For Akira, it meant safety.
For Ushijima… he wasn’t sure yet what it meant.

But as he helped his son pack up his things, watching Tendou’s easy patience with every movement, he realized one thing for certain:

He’d never felt so grateful to see someone else in color.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet that evening.
Too quiet.

Ushijima sat at the dining table long after Akira had fallen asleep, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall. The lights were dimmed low, as always — too bright, and Akira would stir in his sleep.

The laptop screen glowed faintly against the dark, a small square of light in the silence.

New email.
From: Tendou Satori
Subject: Akira’s masterpieces, round two 🎨

Ushijima clicked it open.

Attached were three images — scanned drawings, carefully labeled in Akira’s handwriting.
The first was a volleyball court, lines perfectly symmetrical, filled with players drawn as small blocks of color. The net shimmered in a gradient of soft grey. The corners were signed in bright coral: 1787 C — happy.

The second was a color wheel, but not like the ones from textbooks. Each slice had a small note beside it: “teal = calm,” “red = Mr. Tendou,” “grey = dad.”

The third drawing made him pause. It was of their house — simple, square — but the sky above it wasn’t blue. It was made of soft streaks of pink and red, almost identical to Tendou’s hair.

He read the message that came with them.

> Hey, Wakatoshi (hope it’s okay if I use your first name—“Mr. Ushijima” sounds like I’m writing to a headmaster or a samurai).

Akira had a great day. We worked on “color emotions” — how certain shades make us feel. He described grey as “safe.” You’ll see that theme a lot in his art now.

He also drew you a volleyball match. I think you’re the big grey rectangle that looks suspiciously like a brick wall (his words, not mine).

He’s been smiling more lately. And talking — small words, but important ones. He told me today that teal feels like “music.” I think that means progress.

I thought you might like to see these before bed.

Sleep well,
—Satori

Ushijima read the email twice. Then a third time.

He wasn’t sure what struck him more — the insight about Akira, or the casual humor that softened it. There was no professional detachment, no polished academic phrasing. Just a teacher who saw his son.

He saved the images to a folder labeled Akira – Art, though the name felt too small for what they were.

On instinct, he clicked Reply.
Then stopped.

He’d never been good at writing. His words were too short, too stiff. Tendou’s came so easily — light, effortless. But after a long moment, he began typing anyway.

> Thank you.

Akira showed me the drawings before bed. He was proud. I’ve never seen him attach feelings to color before.

You help him find words I can’t.

—Ushijima

He stared at the screen for several seconds before pressing Send.

---

The next morning came quietly, as most mornings did. Ushijima found Akira already awake, sitting on the living room rug with his markers spread around him like a halo.
The boy looked up when he heard his father’s footsteps, offering a soft hum — a greeting of sorts.

“Morning,” Ushijima said, crouching beside him. “You’re up early.”

Akira nodded and tapped at his AAC tablet.

‘Drawing. Mr. Tendou.’

He held up a fresh sheet of paper. On it was a red stick figure with wild hair and long arms. Beside it, a grey one — taller, square-shouldered. Between them was a small splash of teal, like a bridge.

“Is that us?” Ushijima asked.

Akira smiled faintly, pressing another button.

‘Together.’

The word was mechanical coming from the device, but the meaning was alive.

Ushijima’s throat tightened as he reached out, brushing a thumb along the edge of the page. “You did well.”

Akira hummed again, pleased, and went back to coloring.

Ushijima stood, watching him for a long moment. He wasn’t sure what had shifted in their lives these past few weeks — only that it had. Tendou’s energy lingered even when he wasn’t here; it existed in Akira’s laughter, in the new drawings taped to the fridge, in the soft, quiet calm that had returned to their home.

When his phone buzzed on the counter, another email notification flashed.

From: Tendou Satori
Subject: Akira’s next project (warning: involves glitter)

A small laugh escaped him — the kind he rarely made.

He opened the message immediately.

> Morning, captain of the Ushijima household!

Just wanted to give you a heads-up — Akira’s asked if we can mix paint this week to “make new greys.” He wants to see what happens when red and grey meet in the middle.

I think that’s his way of telling us something.

—Satori

Ushijima read the line twice. When red and grey meet in the middle.

He looked at Akira again — head bent, humming quietly, completely at peace.

And for the first time, he wondered if his son wasn’t the only one learning a new language through color.

Chapter Text

The Schweiden Adlers gym was a cathedral of sound.
The sharp crack of volleyballs, the squeak of rubber soles, and the distant hum of overhead lights filled the space with life.

Ushijima had walked through these doors a thousand times before.
But today was different.
Today, he walked in not as a player, not as an athlete — but as Akira’s dad.

His son clung lightly to his sleeve, fingers tapping against the fabric as they stepped onto the polished floor. Around them, a wave of fourth-graders spilled into the gym, laughing and whispering with the excitement only a field trip could bring.

And leading that wave — animated, bright, and absolutely unmissable — was Tendou Satori.

His red hair caught the light like a flame, his arms wide as he spun in the center of the court. “Okay, explorers of color and motion! Remember, we’re guests here in the mighty Schweiden Adlers’ nest — so no running, no yelling, and if you see a volleyball flying toward you, duck artistically!”

The children erupted in laughter.
Even Ushijima felt the edge of a smile.

Akira’s eyes lit up at the sight of him. He quickly tapped on his AAC tablet.

“Mr. Tendou!”

Tendou turned immediately, grin widening. “Akira! There’s my favorite color wizard!”

Akira’s face broke into a small, shy grin. His father noticed — the kind that reached his eyes.

---

When practice began, Tendou guided the class to the bleachers, crouching beside the kids as the Adlers warmed up.

“See those passes?” he whispered to Akira. “That’s blue — steady and smooth. Like a river.”

Akira hummed softly, watching Kageyama and the others move in rhythm. He tapped on his tablet.

“Grey = Dad.”

Tendou smiled. “Yeah. Grey’s a strong color. Hard to knock over.”

From across the court, Ushijima heard him — the gentleness in his tone. It made something quiet shift in his chest.

---

The warm-up wrapped, and Tendou clapped his hands together.
“Alright, artists! You’ve seen the pros move — but now comes the big question…” He leaned forward dramatically. “What color am I when I play?”

A ripple of giggles spread through the class.

“Mr. Tendou, do you even know how?” a bold student asked.

He froze mid-gesture, eyes darting to Ushijima as if to say, Save me.

But Ushijima only tilted his head slightly. “They want to know,” he said, perfectly calm. “You should show them.”

The class broke into chants. “Mr. Ten-dou! Mr. Ten-dou!”

Tendou groaned theatrically. “You’re all tiny tyrants.”

Still, he rolled up his sleeves and accepted the ball a player tossed over. He bounced it once, twice — and something in his posture shifted.
For just a second, his joking energy dropped away. His hands found the rhythm.
And when he tossed the ball for the serve, it was perfect.

The sound it made — the deep, satisfying thwack — turned heads.

The ball sliced cleanly through the air, landing dead center on the opposite line.

The kids gasped.
Even Kageyama raised an eyebrow.

“Beginner’s luck,” Tendou said quickly, though his grin looked a little too exhilarated to be casual.

Ushijima crossed his arms. “Again.”

“What?”

“Serve again,” Ushijima said, stepping onto the opposite side of the court. “I’ll receive.”

The students went wild.
“akiras dad versus teacher!” someone shouted.

Tendou tried to wave them off, but he was smiling. “You’re all terrible influences,” he muttered under his breath.

He served again. The ball curved sharply, faster this time — and Ushijima barely caught it in time, sending it back in a perfect pass.

The gym fell into stunned silence.

Tendou blinked. “Oh, we’re actually doing this.”

Ushijima’s voice was calm. “Apparently.”

---

The rally began.

Tendou’s movements started hesitant, rusty — then, slowly, that old instinct surfaced. His body remembered what to do. His reads became sharper, his guesses faster.

The kids’ laughter faded into awed murmurs.

Kageyama, off to the side, murmured to a teammate, “That’s… not beginner’s luck.”

Ushijima hit a clean spike, and the ball blurred through the air — but Tendou moved before it even left his hand.

He leapt — not with grace, but with timing born of intuition — and met the ball squarely. The sound echoed.

The ball dropped just over the net.

For a heartbeat, silence.
Then chaos.

“HE BLOCKED MR USHIJIMA!” a student screamed.

Tendou landed hard, wobbling but laughing, hands braced on his knees. “Okay — ow — I’m officially retiring again.”

Ushijima blinked, unreadable. “…You’ve done that before.”

Tendou grinned breathlessly. “What, blocking you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe in another life.”

The class chanted, “Mr. Tendou! Mr. Tendou!” as Akira hurried to his side, clutching his tablet. He tapped three words.

“Red wins! Red wins!”

Tendou crouched, still winded, and smiled at him. “You think so, Akira?”

Akira nodded, then hesitated — tapping one more word.

“Together.”

The sound of it, robotic as it was, hit something deep.
Tendou’s grin softened. “Yeah. Together.”

Ushijima approached slowly, ball under one arm. “You shouldn’t underestimate yourself.”

“Or overestimate my knees,” Tendou joked, still catching his breath. “Pretty sure they’ve been replaced by dust.”

“You were good,” Ushijima said simply. “You read the ball well.”

That earned a faint flush. Tendou scratched the back of his neck. “Guess I just… got lucky.”

“Guess,” Ushijima said. But his gaze lingered.

He watched the man kneel beside his son — patient, steady, with laughter that came from somewhere genuine.
And when Tendou caught Akira’s small hands and guided him through mimicking a set, Ushijima felt something shift again — the world, for just a moment, painted in softer shades.

Red and grey.
Alive and calm.
Together.

---

When the bus finally pulled away later that afternoon, Ushijima stood in the doorway of the gym, watching it disappear down the road.

He could still hear Akira’s laughter.
Still see Tendou leaping across the net.

And though he couldn’t explain why, his chest felt both lighter and full at once — as if a piece of the past had returned, painted in colors he’d almost forgotten how to see.