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I’d been joking five minutes earlier.
Something stupid about Nekoma stealing our heaters because they couldn’t survive real winter. Kuroo had flipped me off, Yaku had told him to shut up, and Takeda had laughed that soft, helpless laugh of his like he didn’t know how to exist in a room full of idiots.
Snow everywhere. Mountains pressing in on all sides. The kind of clean cold that makes your lungs ache but your head feel clear.
I remember thinking—this isn’t so bad.
Then the floor screamed.
It wasn’t a crack. Not really. It was deeper than that, like the building itself had decided it was done pretending to be solid. Metal shrieked. Wood snapped. Someone yelled water— and then—
Impact.
The world went white and red and loud.
⸻
When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the pain.
Not sharp. Heavy. Deep. Like someone had poured concrete into my arm and let it harden. I tried to move and the pain bloomed, nausea rising instantly.
“Ukai—Ukai, wake up—!”
Hands on my shoulders. Shaking me harder than necessary.
Takeda.
His glasses were cracked down the middle. One lens missing entirely. There was blood at his hairline, a thin line running into his eyebrow, and his hands—his hands were shaking.
“Hey,” I croaked, my voice barely there. “Easy.”
The building groaned again, low and threatening.
Takeda’s face went pale. “We have to move—there’s a water pipe burst, the structure’s unstable, they’re telling everyone who can walk to—”
I pushed myself up.
Everything spun. My arm screamed. I ignored it.
“Who’s down?” I asked.
Takeda hesitated. That was enough.
I was on my feet before he could stop me.
“Ukai, please—your arm—”
“I said who’s down.”
Another groan. Snow dust sifted from the ceiling.
Tanaka was half-buried under a fallen beam, unconscious but breathing. Yachi lay a few meters away, curled in on herself, unmoving. Lev was sprawled awkwardly near the wall, far too still for someone his size.
Yaku was there, braced under Lev’s shoulders, teeth clenched as he tried to lift him alone.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
Takeda grabbed my jacket. “Ukai—don’t—please, let someone else—”
“There is no someone else.”
Adrenaline hit like a switch flipping.
I didn’t feel my arm anymore. I didn’t feel anything except the urgency, the pressure, the sense that if I didn’t move now, people were going to die.
I went to Tanaka first.
“Sorry, kid,” I said under my breath, wedging my good shoulder under his arm and hauling.
Something in my arm tore or screamed or both. I didn’t let myself think about it.
Tanaka groaned but didn’t wake as I dragged him toward the exit where cold air and daylight poured in through a shattered wall.
“Yaku!” I shouted. “Get out! Now!”
“I can’t leave Lev!” he snapped back.
I dropped Tanaka just outside, ignoring the way my knees buckled, and turned back.
The building creaked again. Louder this time.
Takeda was kneeling beside Yachi, trying to rouse her, panic bleeding through his calm.
“Takeda,” I barked. “Take Yachi and go.”
“I can’t leave you—”
“Do it!”
He flinched.
I hated that. Filed it away for later guilt.
Takeda scooped Yachi up—careful, protective, like she was something precious—and ran.
I went back for Lev.
Yaku looked up at me, eyes wild. “You’re hurt.”
“So are you,” I said. “Move.”
We lifted together.
Lev was heavy. Dead weight. The kind that drags you down no matter how strong you think you are.
Halfway to the exit, my arm gave out.
I bit down hard enough I tasted blood and shifted my grip, using my shoulder, my back, anything that wasn’t screaming.
“Don’t drop him,” Yaku muttered like a prayer.
“I won’t.”
The world narrowed to steps. Breath. Snow-slick ground.
We got Lev out.
The moment his weight was gone, the pain rushed back in full force, hot and dizzying.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
People everywhere—students, coaches, staff—some crying, some shouting names, some staring blankly at the wreckage like they couldn’t process it.
I stumbled forward.
Then I saw the others.
Bodies on the grass. Jackets thrown over them. Blood staining white snow in awful, unforgiving contrast.
Kuroo lay on his side, unmoving. Kageyama’s face was ashen, eyes closed, one hand curled like he’d been reaching for something. Nishinoya—God—Nishinoya was terrifyingly still. Fukunaga lay nearby, chest rising shallowly.
My stomach dropped out.
“No,” I whispered.
Someone grabbed my elbow. I shrugged them off.
“Ukai!” Takeda’s voice cut through the noise.
I turned.
He was back already. Of course he was. Standing there with Yachi safe behind him, eyes locked on me like he was afraid I’d disappear if he blinked.
I took a step toward him.
Everything drained out of me at once.
Adrenaline doesn’t fade gently. It vanishes. Like someone pulling a plug.
The ground tilted.
My arm went numb. My legs stopped listening.
Takeda’s face blurred. His mouth moved. I couldn’t hear him anymore.
The last thing I felt was his hands catching me, desperate and warm, before the world went dark.
⸻
I woke up fighting.
My body jerked before my brain caught up, breath ripping out of my chest like I’d been dragged under icy water. White light burned my eyes. Beeping. Too close. Too loud. The smell of disinfectant punched straight through the fog in my head.
I tried to sit up.
Pain detonated through my arm.
I gasped, vision swimming, panic flooding in so fast it made me dizzy. My heart hammered like it was trying to escape my ribs.
“No—no, wait—Ukai, it’s okay—”
Hands touched my shoulders. Gentle. Careful. Familiar.
Takeda.
His voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline. Calm, low, anchored. The kind of voice that didn’t rush you, didn’t demand anything.
“You’re in the hospital,” he said softly. “You’re safe. Please don’t move.”
Hospital.
The word landed wrong. My throat tightened instantly.
I tried to shake my head, but even that made the room tilt. “I—no—I have to—”
“Ukai.” He leaned closer, and suddenly he was in my line of sight. Glasses fixed, hair neatly combed like he’d been here a while. His eyes were tired. Red around the edges. Still steady.
“You had surgery,” he said. “Your arm was badly injured. The doctors needed to operate.”
The fog thinned just enough for fear to slip through.
Surgery.
Something cold coiled in my chest. My breaths came too fast, too shallow, like my lungs had forgotten what they were supposed to do.
“I—” My hands trembled. “I didn’t—no one told me—”
“I know,” Takeda said immediately. “I’m here. You’re awake now. It’s over.”
It didn’t feel over.
My vision tunneled. The beeping grew louder, syncing with my pulse. My arm felt wrong—heavy, foreign, wrapped and restrained. I could feel the ghost of pain under the numbness, waiting.
“I can’t—Takeda, I can’t—”
His hands moved without hesitation.
Not grabbing. Not restraining.
He brought his fingers up to my temples, light pressure there, grounding, like he was holding my head together.
“Look at me,” he murmured. “Just me. Breathe with me.”
I tried. Failed. Tried again.
He counted softly. In. Out. Slow. Patient.
The panic didn’t vanish, but it loosened its grip enough for me to stay upright, enough for my vision to stop swimming.
“You’re okay,” he repeated. “You made it through.”
Something cracked then.
“Did I—” My voice broke embarrassingly hard. “Did I get them all out?”
Takeda’s expression softened, something warm and aching passing through his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “Everyone is safe.”
I swallowed thickly. “Everyone?”
“Kuroo. Kageyama. Tanaka. Yachi. Lev. Fukunaga. Yaku.” He listed them like a promise. “All accounted for.”
My chest shuddered.
“Nishinoya is still in surgery,” he added gently, clearly anticipating the way my shoulders tensed. “But it’s going well. The doctors are confident.”
I nodded, but the relief hit too fast, too hard.
My eyes burned.
“I thought—” My breath hitched. “I thought I left them.”
“You didn’t,” Takeda said firmly. “You saved them.”
The tears came anyway.
I hated that. Hated how sudden it was, how I couldn’t stop it. Hot and humiliating, sliding down my temples into my hair. My chest heaved like my body had decided now—now—was the time to process everything I’d shoved aside.
“I didn’t feel it,” I choked. “I didn’t feel anything until after. And then I couldn’t move and—God, I thought I was dying.”
Takeda didn’t flinch.
He shifted closer, careful of my arm, and drew me into his chest, one hand still steady at my temple, the other resting between my shoulder blades.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”
That undid me completely.
I cried into his sweater, half sobs, half incoherent apologies that didn’t make sense even to me. The anesthesia loosened everything I normally kept locked down—fear, guilt, the awful weight of responsibility that had been crushing me since the moment the building gave way.
Takeda held me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He shushed me quietly, fingers combing through my hair, grounding and slow. No judgment. No embarrassment. Just presence.
“You scared me,” he admitted softly, almost to himself. “You collapsed so suddenly.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, voice muffled. “Didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” he said. “I know you didn’t.”
I stayed like that longer than I probably should have. Longer than was appropriate. Longer than I would have allowed if I’d been fully clear-headed.
But Takeda didn’t pull away.
Eventually, the tears eased into something quieter. My breaths evened out, exhaustion settling heavy in my bones.
Takeda leaned back just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing away the last dampness at the corner of my eye.
“Try to rest,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“I want to.”
The words were simple. Steady. Certain.
My eyelids grew heavy again, the world softening at the edges.
As I drifted, I was vaguely aware of Takeda’s hand still resting against my temple, still there, anchoring me to the present.
And for the first time since the mountains, I let myself sleep without fear.