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The All-Japan Youth Training Camp was supposed to be an honor.
It was also, in Atsumu Miya’s professional opinion, the worst collection of teenage ego and talent he had ever been trapped in.
Everywhere he looked, there was another future ace stretching like they owned the gym. Another setter staring at the floor like he was about to recite a tragic monologue. Another libero bouncing on the balls of their feet like they were waiting for permission to be feral.
Atsumu adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and scanned the room.
Who dat who dat who dat boy
Caught my eye out of all these people
“Who dat who dat who dat boy,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking over unfamiliar faces.
There were a lot of strong players here.
Then there was him.
Sakusa Kiyoomi stood near the far wall, arms crossed, posture straight, mask in place. He wasn’t doing anything impressive. He wasn’t stretching dramatically or talking to anyone. He was just… standing there.
Looking like he had already decided he didn’t like this camp.
Atsumu squinted.
That blank face, I like that
Provoking my curiosity
“Oi,” Atsumu said, nudging the nearest person. “Who’s mask guy?”
Kageyama Tobio stiffened beside him. “That’s Sakusa. From Itachiyama.”
“Ohhh,” Atsumu said. “So he’s one of the scary ones.”
“You’re loud,” Sakusa said flatly, without looking at him.
Atsumu grinned. “Nice to meet you too, mask guy.”
“Sakusa,” the boy corrected.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Maskusa.”
Sakusa turned to look at him then. His eyes were sharp. Assessing. Unimpressed.
Komori Motoya appeared at Sakusa’s shoulder like he’d been summoned by irritation.
“He’s always like that,” Komori said cheerfully to Atsumu. “Hi! I’m Komori. Don’t take it personally, Kiyoomi doesn’t like people.”
“I like people,” Sakusa said.
“You like three people,” Komori corrected. “And one of them is me. Because we’re related.”
Hoshiumi Kourai leaned over from where he’d been tying his shoes. “That explains the eyebrows.”
Komori beamed. “These are the eyebrows of emotional intelligence.”
Atsumu pointed at Komori. “I like this one.”
“Please don’t,” Sakusa said.
Atsumu laughed. “Wow. So cold. Your style is chic, huh? Looks like you tried but you didn’t.”
Sakusa stared at him. “What are you talking about.”
“I’unno. Vibes.” Atsumu tilted his head. “You got bad boy energy.”
Komori blinked. “Bad boy?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Sakusa said.
“I’m not encouraging him,” Komori said. “I’m just confused. You sanitize your hands before touching the ball.”
“Hidden menace,” Atsumu declared. “Clean freak but make it dangerous.”
Hoshiumi nodded solemnly. “He does look like he’d judge you silently.”
“I judge loudly,” Sakusa said.
Atsumu laughed again, eyes bright. “See? Bad boy.”
Drills started soon after.
Atsumu set like it was a challenge to the universe. High, fast, sharp. Sakusa hit like he had something personal against the ball. Their timing lined up too easily, like they’d done this before.
Atsumu noticed.
Sakusa noticed him noticing.
It was annoying.
It was interesting.
When they ended up side by side during a break, Atsumu leaned in, just enough to be invasive.
“You always this quiet,” he asked, “or you saving it for someone special?”
Sakusa did not move away. “Do you talk this much because you’re insecure?”
Atsumu laughed, sharp and delighted. “Oh, you got teeth.”
“And you have no boundaries.”
“I have plenty,” Atsumu said. “I just like crossing ’em.”
There was a pause.
Sakusa’s gaze lingered half a second longer than necessary.
The way you talk like you don't care, I like that
I try to turn away but I'm attracted to you
Atsumu felt it.
The pull of someone who pushed back.
Across the gym, Kageyama stared at them like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
Hoshiumi whispered, “Are they flirting?”
Komori sighed. “I think they’re fighting.”
“Same thing,” Hoshiumi said.
Atsumu grinned wider.
He’d come to camp expecting to be bored.
Instead, he’d found a problem.
And Atsumu Miya had always liked problems.
If there was one thing Atsumu Miya respected, it was skill.
He didn’t care how quiet you were. He didn’t care how rude you were. Hell, he didn’t even care if you were kind of a nightmare of a person.
If you could play, you were worth his time.
And unfortunately—deeply, tragically unfortunately—Sakusa Kiyoomi could play.
The first full drill was chaos.
Rotations were messy. People bumped into each other. Someone from another prefecture forgot how to receive under pressure and almost ate the floor. Hoshiumi yelled at everyone for being slow. Kageyama looked like he was one mis-set away from committing a crime.
Atsumu, naturally, thrived.
He set fast. He set high. He set like he was daring the hitters to keep up with him.
Sakusa kept up.
Not just kept up—matched him.
Atsumu sent a set a fraction tighter than usual, just to test him.
Sakusa still hit it clean.
Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Show-off.”
Sakusa didn’t even look at him. “Your sets are predictable.”
That was a lie.
And Atsumu knew it.
He adjusted the next one mid-air, changed the timing by a breath, shifted the angle just enough to be inconvenient.
Sakusa adapted instantly.
The ball hit the floor with a sharp, satisfying crack.
The gym went quiet for half a second.
Komori let out a low whistle. “Okay, that was hot.”
“It was efficient,” Sakusa said.
Atsumu grinned. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure you weren’t.”
They started syncing without meaning to.
Not because they wanted to.
Because it was effective.
Atsumu could feel Sakusa reading him—adjusting to his tempo, anticipating the set before it left his fingers.
It was irritating.
It was exhilarating.
The situation is changing
Now I'm curious about you
You'll know soon (what is this?) you'll know (tell me)
That it's already too late
Oh, Atsumu was already halfway in. That much was obvious.
During a break, Atsumu flopped onto the floor, arms behind his head. “Y’know, mask guy, you’re less annoying when you’re hitting.”
Sakusa took a bottle of water from Komori and drank without removing his mask fully, just enough to sip. “You’re still annoying when you’re setting.”
“That’s flirting.”
“That’s honesty.”
Hoshiumi plopped down between them. “You guys are weird.”
“You’re five feet tall and violent,” Atsumu said. “No one asked you.”
“I’m five feet of fury,” Hoshiumi snapped.
Kageyama hovered nearby, clearly wanting to say something and failing. “Your timing is off,” he blurted at Atsumu.
Atsumu snorted. “You jealous?”
“No!”
Sakusa finally looked directly at Kageyama. “Your footwork is too rigid. You’ll injure yourself.”
Kageyama froze. “…Thanks?”
Komori blinked. “Wow. He gave advice. Atsumu, you’re special.”
Atsumu placed a hand over his heart. “Truly honored.”
Another drill. Another rally.
Atsumu pushed harder.
Sakusa pushed back.
They started competing for dominance in the smallest ways:
Who could spike cleaner.
Who could recover faster.
Who could stare the other down longer before breaking eye contact.
Atsumu leaned closer during one exchange, voice low. “You always this serious, or you just got somethin’ to prove?”
Sakusa met his gaze without blinking. “I don’t play games.”
Atsumu’s grin sharpened. “That’s funny. I do.”
Don't come too easily
That's no fun, stay right there
The coaches noticed.
“Those two,” one of them muttered. “That’s a dangerous combination.”
Atsumu heard it.
Sakusa definitely did.
Neither of them looked pleased.
Neither of them stepped away.
By the end of the session, Atsumu’s muscles burned and his head was buzzing—not from exhaustion.
From the problem he’d accidentally found.
Sakusa Kiyoomi wasn’t just good.
He was a challenge.
And Atsumu Miya had never been very good at walking away from those.
Atsumu realized something important on the second day of camp.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was not ignoring him anymore.
This was worse.
Ignoring Atsumu meant you were uninterested.
Paying attention to Atsumu meant you were choosing violence.
They kept ending up in each other’s space.
Not because the gym was crowded.
Because Atsumu made it so.
He stepped a little too close when asking about rotations.
He leaned in when Sakusa bent over to tie his shoe.
He hovered when Sakusa stretched, pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
Sakusa did not move.
Did not flinch.
Did not tell him to back off.
Which, frankly, was terrifying.
Atsumu leaned in one time too many and murmured, “Y’know, you don’t gotta act like I’m contagious.”
Sakusa glanced at him. “You’re loud.”
“That’s not a disease.”
“It’s chronic.”
Atsumu laughed. “You think about me a lot for someone who doesn’t like me.”
“I think about noise pollution,” Sakusa replied. “Same category.”
Atsumu grinned, because that was definitely attention.
They started trading jabs between drills.
Not the loud, obvious kind.
The quiet kind that only landed because they were paying attention to each other now.
“Your form’s sloppy today,” Sakusa said.
“Your standards are unrealistic,” Atsumu shot back. “Relax, Maskusa.”
Sakusa’s eyes narrowed. “Say my name properly.”
“Make me.”
The air between them snapped tight.
Hoshiumi walked between them and immediately stiffened. “Why does it feel like I just walked into a murder scene.”
“You’re dramatic,” Atsumu said.
“You’re flirting,” Hoshiumi replied.
“I am absolutely not—”
Sakusa cut in flatly. “He is.”
Atsumu choked on air. “HEY—”
“You are,” Sakusa repeated. “You’re just bad at it.”
Atsumu stared at him.
And then laughed, bright and unbothered and entirely too pleased. “Oh, so you’ve noticed.”
“Unfortunately.”
The way you talk like you don't care, I like that
I try to turn away but I'm attracted to you
Cold tone. Disinterest on the surface. Still pulled in anyway.
It wasn’t attraction.
It was friction.
And friction, as Atsumu was learning, was addictive.
He leaned in again later, voice low, grin sharp. “You always this tense, or am I makin’ you nervous?”
Sakusa’s eyes flicked to Atsumu’s mouth. Just for a fraction of a second.
Then back to his eyes.
“You’re not important enough to make me nervous.”
That hit.
Atsumu’s smile faltered for half a breath.
And Sakusa noticed.
They both did.
The silence stretched—thick, heavy, charged with something neither of them wanted to name.
Then Atsumu straightened, grin back in place like armor. “Good. I’d hate to be special.”
Sakusa watched him for a long second.
“You already are,” he said quietly.
Atsumu froze.
Sakusa turned away like he hadn’t just thrown a knife and walked off.
Atsumu stood there, staring at the back of Sakusa’s head, pulse loud in his ears.
Like you're bewitched, follow me
He didn’t follow.
He didn’t move at all.
For the first time since arriving at camp, Atsumu Miya wasn’t sure whether he was winning.
The vending machines in the dorm hallway glowed like tired little suns.
It was late enough that most of the camp had gone quiet—lights dimmed, doors closed, the kind of hour where even the loudest people learned to lower their voices.
Atsumu had come out for a drink.
That was the lie he told himself.
The truth was that he had been pacing his room like a restless animal, mind snagging on the same dark-haired, masked problem over and over again.
He found Sakusa standing in front of the vending machine, staring at the buttons like they had personally offended him.
“You look like you’re about to fight it,” Atsumu said, stepping closer. “Lemme guess. It ate your money.”
“I’m choosing,” Sakusa replied.
“It’s juice. Not a life decision.”
“That’s what people who make bad choices say.”
Atsumu snorted and hit a random button. The machine clunked and spat out a bottle.
“There. Fate has chosen.”
Sakusa stared at the drink like it had betrayed him, then sighed and took it anyway.
He twisted the cap open.
And then—
He pulled his mask down.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal.
Atsumu had seen his face before. In matches. In passing. In photos that circulated whenever Sakusa Kiyoomi did something terrifying on the court.
This was different.
No crowd.
No court.
No armor.
Just tired eyes. Tension finally unclenched from his jaw. A moment of quiet that didn’t look like it belonged to him.
Atsumu went still.
Something in his chest shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… enough.
That blank face. I like that.
Sakusa caught him staring.
“What,” he said flatly.
Atsumu blinked. “You look different when you’re not pretending you’re untouchable.”
Sakusa’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “I’m not pretending.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The silence stretched between them. Not hostile. Not comfortable. Something in-between. A thin wire pulled too tight.
Atsumu rocked back on his heels, suddenly unsure of his usual bravado.
“You’re a bad boy, y’know that?” he said, softer than he meant to.
Sakusa scoffed. “You’re projecting.”
“Nah. You’re the scary kind.”
“Define scary.”
Atsumu searched for the word. “You don’t flinch. You don’t react. You don’t… show your cards. That’s worse than bein’ loud.”
Sakusa studied him. Really studied him. Like Atsumu was a puzzle he hadn’t bothered to solve until now.
“And you’re the noisy kind,” Sakusa said. “You provoke until people respond. You need the reaction.”
That hit closer than Atsumu liked.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “At least I’m honest about it.”
Sakusa lifted the bottle again, took another drink, then slowly pulled the mask back up.
The moment vanished.
Armor back in place.
The bad boy behind glass.
Don’t come too easily. That’s no fun.
Sakusa turned to leave.
Atsumu spoke before he could stop himself. “Hey.”
Sakusa paused, not turning around.
“You don’t gotta pretend you’re made of steel all the time.”
There was a beat.
Then, quietly: “You don’t have to pretend you’re made of noise.”
Sakusa walked away.
Atsumu stood there long after the vending machine lights hummed back into silence.
For the first time, the game didn’t feel like a game.
It felt like a warning.
The next morning, Atsumu woke up already irritated.
Not at anyone in particular.
At the fact that Sakusa Kiyoomi had existed in his head all night like an unsolved problem.
It was stupid.
They weren’t friends.
They weren’t rivals in the classic sense.
They were just… two people who had noticed each other in a way that refused to go away.
Atsumu rolled out of bed and told himself not to look for him.
He found him anyway.
Sakusa was already in the gym, stretching with the kind of calm precision that made it look like he was built for this space. Mask on. Expression neutral. Entire existence annoying.
Atsumu wandered over like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.
“Morning, bad boy.”
Sakusa did not look up. “Don’t call me that.”
“You earned it.”
“I did nothing.”
“That’s worse.”
Hoshiumi, tying his shoes nearby, glanced between them. “Do you guys always talk like you’re about to fight in an alley?”
“Only when he’s around,” Atsumu said.
“Only when he’s loud,” Sakusa replied.
Hoshiumi nodded solemnly. “So yes.”
Drills started.
And somehow—somehow—they kept getting paired.
Not by accident.
Not by fate.
By a mutual, unspoken decision to step into each other’s orbit and see who would blink first.
Atsumu set harder than necessary. Sakusa spiked sharper than necessary. They pushed each other in ways that were technically productive and emotionally suspicious.
Their timing synced too easily.
That part scared Atsumu.
He thrived on chaos. On improvisation. On noise.
Sakusa thrived on control.
And somehow, their styles met in the middle and did not collapse.
Coach muttered something about “a dangerous combination.”
Atsumu pretended not to preen.
Sakusa pretended not to listen.
Tobio, watching from the sidelines, frowned. “Why are they standing so close?”
“So they can argue more efficiently,” Hoshiumi said.
They argued anyway.
“Your set was late,” Sakusa said.
“Your approach was slow.”
“You rushed.”
“You hesitated.”
They glared at each other.
Then adjusted.
The next play landed perfectly.
Something flickered between them.
Not victory.
Recognition.
Up and down. Hard to control.
During water break, Atsumu handed Sakusa a bottle without thinking.
Both of them froze.
Sakusa stared at the bottle like it might explode.
“What,” Atsumu said defensively. “You look like you’re dying.”
“…Thanks.”
The word felt heavier than it should’ve been.
They stood too close.
Neither moved away.
Hoshiumi leaned over to Tobio. “They’re doing it again.”
“Doing what.”
“Whatever this is.”
Atsumu finally stepped back, annoyed at himself.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said.
Sakusa capped the bottle. “You started it.”
“I always start things.”
“And I always finish them.”
Their eyes met.
The challenge was unspoken.
Wanna make a bet?
The game had stopped being accidental.
Now, it was mutual.
The camp ended the way all temporary things did.
Too quickly.
Suitcases appeared in the hallways. Team jackets were slung over shoulders. The gym that had felt crowded with tension only days ago now felt hollow, like the air had been sucked out of it.
Atsumu told himself he was relieved.
This was good.
He hated getting stuck on things.
People, especially.
He found Sakusa by the exit without meaning to.
Which was a lie.
Sakusa stood alone, duffel bag at his feet, mask on like armor, posture straight like he was bracing for impact that never came.
Atsumu stopped a few steps away.
Not close enough to be familiar.
Not far enough to pretend he didn’t care.
“So,” Atsumu said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Guess that’s it.”
Sakusa nodded. “Looks like it.”
They stood there, the silence thick and uncomfortable.
Atsumu hated silence.
It meant there was something being said anyway.
“You’re still annoying,” he offered.
“You’re still loud,” Sakusa replied.
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Atsumu glanced at Sakusa’s eyes. Steady. Guarded. Watching him in that infuriating, unreadable way.
“You gonna keep the mask on forever?”
“You gonna keep pretending you don’t think before you act?”
Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Cheap shot.”
“Accurate shot.”
The corner of Atsumu’s mouth twitched despite himself.
For a second—just a second—it felt like they might say something honest.
They didn’t.
Sakusa picked up his bag.
Atsumu stepped aside.
They passed each other.
The space between them was small enough to feel like a choice.
Neither of them took it.
The answer is already there
Just follow me naturally
I chose you
I already chose you.
The thought startled Atsumu with how clearly it landed.
Not as affection.
As recognition.
He turned before he could stop himself.
“Oi.”
Sakusa paused, looking back.
“This ain’t over,” Atsumu said.
Sakusa studied him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “I know.”
And just like that, he walked away.
Atsumu stood there until the hallway emptied.
Hoshiumi walked past him with his bag. “You look like you lost something.”
“Nah,” Atsumu muttered. “Just… postponed it.”
Tobio glanced back, confused. “Postponed what?”
“Don’t worry about it, Ousama.”
Yea, I'm actually pretty confident
I don't play a losing game, ha ah ah
You're already halfway fallen for
me
The bus engines started outside.
The camp ended.
They went back to their separate lives.
Atsumu did not see Sakusa again for years.
Not until black jerseys.
Not until professional courts.
Not until they stood on the same side of the net, older, sharper, and far more dangerous to each other than they’d ever been at sixteen.
The game hadn’t ended.
It had just been waiting.
From now on, bad boy down