Archive of Our Own

The call comes in at 10:47 PM Moscow time, which means it's 4:47 AM in Tokyo, which means Lev Haiba has once again completely failed to account for time zones despite having Yaku's schedule written down somewhere.

Yaku stares at his phone screen—LEV HAIBA in all caps because Lev programmed his own contact info two years ago and Yaku has never bothered changing it—and considers not answering. He's tired. Practice ran long today because their new opposite hitter still doesn't understand that "cover the line" means cover the entire line, not just the part that's convenient. His shoulder aches. He has film review in eight hours.

He answers on the fourth ring.

"Do you know what time it is?" Yaku says by way of greeting.

"Yes! It's four forty-seven!" Lev's voice comes through bright and cheerful, completely unrepentant. "I waited until after your practice! I checked the schedule!"

"My practice ended three hours ago."

"I know, but then you do your cooldown routine, and then you eat dinner, and then you watch film for an hour, and then you're free." Lev rattles this off like he's reciting a grocery list, and Yaku's stomach does something complicated that he refuses to examine. "So I waited! I'm very considerate!"

"You're very something," Yaku mutters, but he's already pulling his laptop closer, opening the video call link Lev sent. "What do you want?"

"I have questions about receives! Just a few! It'll be quick, I promise!"

It will not be quick. It's never quick. Lev's "just a few questions" inevitably turns into an hour-long breakdown of positioning and footwork and reading the setter, complete with Lev attempting to demonstrate techniques in whatever cramped space he's calling from and nearly knocking over furniture in the process.

Yaku knows this. Yaku has known this for two years, ever since Lev called him three months into his modeling career and asked, voice smaller than Yaku had ever heard it, if Yaku thought he'd made a mistake giving up volleyball.

And Yaku, instead of saying that's not my problem anymore or figure it out yourself or any of the dozen deflections he could have used, had said: "You didn't give it up. You just chose a different path. That doesn't mean you stop learning."

Then, because Yaku is apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone: "Send me video of your receives. I'll tell you what you're doing wrong."

That was two years ago. Lev still can't receive for shit, but he's gotten better. And Yaku is still answering calls at 10:47 PM Moscow time, pretending this is normal, pretending he doesn't rearrange his entire schedule to make sure he's available when Lev needs him.

The video connects, and Lev's face fills the screen—too close to the camera as always, grinning like Yaku's just made his entire week by answering. His hair is longer now, styled in that effortlessly tousled way that probably takes an hour and a professional to achieve. He's wearing a white t-shirt that's definitely designer despite looking like something you'd buy at a convenience store, and there's a ring light set up behind his laptop that makes him look like he's glowing.

He looks good. He always looks good. Yaku has gotten very practiced at not thinking about that.

"Yaku-san!" Lev's grin widens, and Yaku can see the exact moment Lev remembers he's supposed to be playing it cool, the way his expression shifts into something more controlled. It doesn't work. Lev has never been able to hide what he's feeling, and right now what he's feeling is transparently, obviously delighted that Yaku answered.

"You said you had questions," Yaku says, because if he doesn't redirect this immediately, Lev will spend ten minutes on pleasantries and Yaku will lose what's left of his evening. "Ask them."

"Right! Okay!" Lev shifts back from the camera slightly, and Yaku can see he's in his apartment—the one he shares with Alisa when they're both in Tokyo between jobs. There's a couch visible in the background, and what looks like a half-assembled camera rig. "So I was watching the recording you sent me from your last match, and I noticed that when the setter dumps it, you're already moving before the ball leaves their hands. How do you know? Is it the approach? The shoulder angle? Because I've been trying to read it and I keep guessing wrong—"

And they're off.

Yaku pulls up the match footage on his second monitor, scrubs to the play Lev's talking about, and starts breaking it down. He explains about watching the setter's eyes, about reading their body language, about the tiny tells that separate a real set from a dump. Lev listens with the kind of focus he never had in high school, asking follow-up questions that are actually intelligent, taking notes in a physical notebook that he holds up to the camera to show Yaku his diagrams.

"See, you're drawing it wrong," Yaku says, leaning closer to his screen to peer at Lev's sketch. "Your positioning is too far back. You need to be here—" He pulls up a digital whiteboard, draws a quick court diagram with X's and O's marking positions. "If you're here, you can't react fast enough. But if you're here—" He moves the X forward. "—you can cover both options."

"But what if they set to the outside?" Lev asks, and he's doing the thing where he tilts his head slightly, where his eyebrows draw together in concentration. It's the expression he gets when he's actually thinking instead of just reacting, and Yaku has learned to recognize it as a sign that Lev's about to ask something genuinely insightful.

"Then you adjust. You're not planted. You're reading and reacting." Yaku demonstrates with his hands, even though Lev can't see his feet. "It's not about being in the perfect position for one outcome. It's about being in the position where you have the most options."

"Like chess," Lev says.

"Like chess," Yaku agrees, and something in his chest warms at the fact that Lev's starting to understand this, starting to see volleyball as strategy instead of just athleticism.

They go through three more plays. Then five. Then Lev pulls up footage from a beach volleyball tournament he played in last month—"Just for fun! Alisa made me!"—and asks Yaku to critique his form. Yaku does, pointing out that Lev's still dropping his hips too early, that his platform is inconsistent, that he needs to work on his footwork in sand because it's completely different from indoor court.

"You're thinking about it too much," Yaku says, watching Lev attempt a diving receive in the footage and nearly face-plant. "You're trying to be perfect instead of just making the play. Stop thinking. Just react."

"But you just told me to think about positioning!"

"That's different. Positioning is before the play. During the play, you react. You've already done the thinking. Now you trust your body to do what you've trained it to do." Yaku scrubs back to the beginning of the play, watches it again. "Here. Watch your approach. You're hesitating. You see the ball, you know where it's going, but you're second-guessing yourself. That split-second of hesitation is why you're late."

Lev watches the footage, and Yaku watches Lev watch the footage. He can see the moment it clicks, the way Lev's expression shifts from confused to understanding.

"Oh," Lev says. "Oh, I see it. I'm waiting to be sure instead of just going."

"Exactly."

"But what if I'm wrong?"

"Then you're wrong. But you'll be wrong at full speed, which means you might still make the play. If you hesitate, you're definitely not making it." Yaku leans back in his chair, rolling his shoulder to work out the stiffness. "Confidence isn't about being right every time. It's about committing to your read and living with the consequences."

Lev is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is softer. "Is that what you do?"

"Every play."

"Even when you're not sure?"

"Especially when I'm not sure." Yaku meets Lev's eyes through the screen. "Being a libero means making fifty decisions a match where you have incomplete information and no time to think. You learn to trust your instincts. You learn to commit. And yeah, sometimes you're wrong. But the alternative is being paralyzed, and that's worse."

Lev nods slowly, and there's something in his expression that Yaku can't quite read—something that looks almost like admiration, but deeper. More personal.

"Thank you," Lev says, and he means it. Yaku can hear it in his voice, can see it in the way he's looking at the screen like Yaku just handed him something precious. "Really. Thank you for doing this."

"It's fine," Yaku says, which is his standard deflection. "You're less annoying when you actually understand what you're doing wrong."

"I'm always annoying," Lev says cheerfully, and the moment breaks. "That's part of my charm!"

"You don't have charm. You have height and a good jawline. That's not the same thing."

"Yaku-san thinks I have a good jawline!" Lev's grin is blinding. "I'm telling Kuroo!"

"Tell Kuroo and I'll block your number."

"You won't."

He won't. They both know he won't.

They talk for another twenty minutes—not about volleyball, just about life. Lev tells him about a photoshoot that went wrong when the photographer insisted Lev pose with a live snake and the snake decided Lev's hair looked like a good nesting spot. Yaku tells him about the new opposite hitter who keeps trying to give him receiving tips despite the fact that Yaku has been a professional libero for three years and this kid just graduated from college.

"Maybe he's trying to bond with you," Lev suggests.

"Maybe he's an idiot."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive!"

It's easy. It's always easy with Lev, in a way that Yaku doesn't let himself think about too hard. They fall into this rhythm every week—Lev asking questions, Yaku answering them, both of them pretending this is just casual mentoring and not something that's become the most consistent part of Yaku's routine.

Finally, at 12:15 AM Moscow time, Yaku says, "I have film review in the morning. I need to sleep."

"Right! Yes! Of course!" Lev sits up straighter, and Yaku can see him physically shake off his relaxation, shift back into polite mode. "Thank you again for taking the time. I know you're busy—"

"Lev."

"—and I really appreciate that you always answer even though I'm probably bothering you—"

"Lev."

"—and I promise I'll work on the things you mentioned, I'll send you video next week—"

"Lev."

Lev stops mid-sentence, mouth still half-open.

"Send me the video," Yaku says. "Same time next week."

"Really?" Lev's face does something complicated—surprise and pleasure and something else Yaku doesn't have a name for. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm telling you to send it anyway." Yaku moves his cursor to the 'end call' button. "And Lev? Check the time zones before you call. Four forty-seven in the morning is not 'after practice.'"

"I'll set an alarm!" Lev promises. "Three alarms! I'll get it right next time!"

He won't. He never does. But Yaku will answer anyway, and they both know it.

"Goodnight, Lev."

"Goodnight, Yaku-san!"

Yaku ends the call and sits in the sudden silence of his apartment, staring at his dark screen. His reflection stares back at him—tired eyes, hair still damp from his post-practice shower, the faint shadow of stubble he hasn't bothered shaving.

He should go to bed. He should stop doing this, stop answering Lev's calls at midnight, stop spending hours of his limited free time coaching someone who isn't even playing volleyball professionally anymore.

He opens his calendar and blocks off next Thursday evening, same as always.

Just this once, he tells himself. Just one more week.

He's been telling himself that for two years.

Month One

The next Thursday, Lev calls at 10:47 PM Moscow time. Yaku answers on the second ring.

"You're early," Yaku says.

"I set four alarms this time!" Lev's grin fills the screen. "And I put sticky notes on my bathroom mirror!"

"Congratulations on basic time management."

"Thank you! I worked really hard on it!"

Yaku doesn't mention that he rearranged dinner with Dmitri to make sure he'd be home in time. That's not relevant.

They spend ninety minutes on footwork drills. Lev sends a video of himself practicing in his apartment, nearly taking out a lamp. Yaku pauses the video six times to point out where Lev's weight distribution is wrong. Lev takes notes in a physical notebook, tongue stuck out in concentration.

"Same time next week?" Lev asks when they're wrapping up.

"Same time," Yaku confirms, and pretends not to notice how Lev's whole face lights up.

Month Two

"Yaku-san, can I ask you something?" Lev's voice is uncharacteristically hesitant.

"You're going to anyway."

"Do you ever miss Japan? Like, the food and stuff?"

Yaku pauses mid-demonstration. "Sometimes. Why?"

"Just wondering! Alisa and I tried to make pirozhki last week and they were terrible. I thought maybe you'd have tips."

They spend twenty minutes talking about Russian food. Yaku walks Lev through a basic pirozhki recipe. Lev writes it all down with the same focus he brings to volleyball drills.

The actual volleyball portion of the call: forty minutes.

The random life conversation that somehow happens after: an hour and ten minutes.

Yaku doesn't think about what that ratio means.

Month Three

Lev calls fifteen minutes late, breathless and apologetic.

"Sorry! Sorry! The shoot ran over and then there was traffic and—"

"It's fine. Send me the video from last week."

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? You're not paying me." Yaku pulls up his notes. "Though if you were paying me, you'd be getting a discount for that footwork."

"Hey!"

Lev's laugh is loud and unguarded, and Yaku realizes he's smiling at his screen like an idiot. He schools his expression back to neutral.

They talk for two hours and thirty-seven minutes. Yaku has practice at 6 AM. He doesn't care.

Month Four

"I watched your match against Zenit," Lev says, and there's something different in his voice. Serious. "That receive in the fourth set—the one where you dove left even though the hitter was angled right—how did you know?"

Yaku blinks. "You watched the whole match?"

"Of course! You sent me the link!"

"I sent you a timestamp for one play."

"Yeah, but I wanted to see the whole thing! You were amazing! The way you read their setter in the third set was—" Lev launches into detailed commentary that proves he didn't just watch, he studied.

Yaku's chest does something complicated. "You didn't have to watch the whole thing."

"I wanted to." Lev's voice is soft. "I always want to."

They both let that sit in the air for a moment, neither quite willing to examine it.

"Anyway," Lev says, too bright, "about that receive—"

They spend the next hour breaking down game footage. Lev asks intelligent questions. Yaku gives detailed answers. Neither of them mentions that this stopped being about Lev's volleyball improvement somewhere around month two.

Month Five

Yaku's phone buzzes at 3 AM with a message from Lev: can't sleep. thinking about that drill you showed me. can you explain the footwork one more time?

Yaku should tell him to wait until Thursday. Instead, he calls.

"You're supposed to be asleep," Lev says, but he answers on the first ring.

"So are you."

They talk for forty minutes about footwork, and then somehow another hour about nothing—Lev's upcoming shoot in Osaka, Yaku's teammate who keeps trying to set him up on dates, the stray cat that's been hanging around Lev's building.

When they finally hang up, Yaku lies in bed staring at his ceiling, thinking about how he just spent an hour and forty minutes on the phone at 3 AM for a conversation that could have been a text.

He doesn't do this for anyone else.

He's still not thinking about what that means.

Month Six

"I turned down a job today," Lev says casually, twenty minutes into their Thursday call.

"What kind of job?"

"Campaign shoot in Paris. Three days, really good pay." Lev shrugs. "But it was Thursday through Saturday and I didn't want to miss our call."

Yaku's hand freezes on his mouse. "Lev. You can't turn down jobs for this."

"Why not?"

"Because this is just—" Yaku stops. Just what? Just casual mentoring? Just a favor for a former teammate? "You should take opportunities when they come."

"I take plenty of opportunities. Just not the ones that conflict with Thursday evenings." Lev's voice is matter-of-fact, like this is completely reasonable. "This is important to me."

"It's just volleyball drills."

"No it's not." Lev meets his eyes through the screen, and there's something in his expression that makes Yaku's throat tight. "It stopped being just volleyball drills a long time ago. You know that."

Yaku does know that. He's known it for months. He's just been aggressively not acknowledging it.

"Same time next week?" Lev asks, gentle, giving him an out.

"Same time," Yaku says, because he's never been able to say no to Lev, and he's not starting now.

Month Seven

Dmitri corners Yaku after practice. "You're smiling at your phone again."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are. You've been doing it for months. Every Thursday evening, you disappear, and then you come back the next day looking—" Dmitri gestures vaguely. "—less grumpy than usual."

"I'm not grumpy."

"Yaku. You once told our setter that his sets were 'an insult to the concept of trajectory.' You're grumpy." Dmitri grins. "But not on Fridays. On Fridays you're almost pleasant. So who is she?"

"It's not—" Yaku stops. "It's not a she. It's just a former teammate. I'm helping him with volleyball."

"For seven months?"

"He needs a lot of help."

"Uh-huh." Dmitri's grin widens. "And does this teammate know you rearrange your entire schedule around these calls? That you turned down drinks with the team three times last month because of 'a thing'?"

Yaku doesn't have an answer for that.

He doesn't do this for anyone else. Everyone knows it. Apparently everyone's known it for months.

He's just been the last one to admit it.

YAKU

Three weeks later, Yaku is in the middle of film review when Kuroo calls.

"I'm busy," Yaku says by way of greeting.

"You're always busy. That's why I'm calling." Kuroo sounds amused, which is never a good sign. "I need advice about the youth training camp curriculum. Specifically the libero track."

Yaku pauses the video—a match against Zenit Kazan where their libero made a receive that Yaku is still trying to figure out—and leans back in his chair. "What about it?"

"We're restructuring the program. Less focus on raw athleticism, more focus on reading and positioning. I'm trying to design drills that teach decision-making under pressure, but I'm not a libero. I don't think like you do." Kuroo pauses. "I was hoping you could look at the curriculum and tell me what I'm missing."

This is reasonable. This is a normal request. Kuroo is in charge of youth development for the JVA, and Yaku is a professional libero with strong opinions about training methodology. Of course Kuroo would ask for his input.

"Send me the documents," Yaku says. "I'll look at them this weekend."

"Great. Thanks." There's a pause, and then: "So how's Lev?"

Yaku's hand tightens on his mouse. "What?"

"Lev. You know, tall guy, used to be our middle blocker, currently a model? You talk to him every week. I'm asking how he is."

"He's fine."

"Just fine?"

"What do you want me to say, Kuroo?"

"I don't know. Maybe something more detailed than 'fine'? You spend two hours on the phone with him every Thursday. Surely you know more about his life than 'fine.'" Kuroo's voice is carefully neutral, which means he's about to say something Yaku doesn't want to hear. "Unless you spend those two hours in complete silence, which would be impressive."

"We talk about volleyball."

"For two hours."

"He has a lot of questions."

"I'm sure he does." There's a smile in Kuroo's voice now, audible even through the phone. "And you answer all of them. Every week. For two years."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that you don't do this for anyone else." Kuroo says it casually, like he's commenting on the weather. "I ask you for advice and you send me a three-paragraph email. Yamamoto sends you videos and you respond with 'good job, keep it up.' But Lev calls and you block off your entire evening."

"That's not—"

"Yaku. I've known you since high school. I know what you look like when you care about something." Kuroo's voice is gentler now. "And you care about this. About him. You can lie to yourself if you want, but don't lie to me."

Yaku's jaw clenches. "I'm helping him improve his receives. That's all."

"He's not even playing volleyball professionally."

"So? He still plays recreationally. He still wants to improve. What's wrong with helping him?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. I think it's great." Kuroo pauses. "I just think you should be honest about why you're doing it."

"I'm doing it because he asked for help."

"Lots of people ask you for help. You don't rearrange your schedule for them."

Yaku doesn't have a response to that. Because Kuroo's right, and they both know it, and Yaku is not ready to examine what that means.

"Send me the curriculum documents," Yaku says instead. "I'll look at them this weekend."

"Yaku—"

"I have film review to finish. Was there anything else?"

Kuroo sighs. "No. That's all. Thanks for looking at the documents."

"No problem."

They hang up, and Yaku sits in the silence of his apartment, staring at his paused video without really seeing it.

You don't do this for anyone else.

He knows. Of course he knows. He's known for months—maybe longer—that this thing with Lev has stopped being casual mentoring and become something else. Something that takes up space in his head, that makes him check his phone more often than he should, that makes Thursday evenings feel like the highlight of his week even though he'd never admit that out loud.

But knowing it and acknowledging it are different things. And if Yaku acknowledges it, he has to do something about it. He has to figure out what he wants, what Lev wants, whether this is going anywhere or if they're just going to keep doing this dance forever—Lev calling, Yaku answering, both of them pretending it's just about volleyball.

Yaku is very good at pretending. He's been pretending his entire life—pretending his height doesn't bother him, pretending he doesn't care what people think, pretending he's confident and self-assured and never uncertain about anything.

He can pretend about this too.

He unpauses the video and goes back to analyzing receives, and he definitely doesn't think about the fact that Thursday is in two days and Lev will call and Yaku will answer, same as always.

It's fine. It's just mentoring. It doesn't mean anything.

LEV

The photoshoot is running long.

This is not unusual—photoshoots always run long, because photographers are perfectionists and lighting is apparently the most important thing in the universe and Lev has learned to just smile and hold the pose and wait for someone to tell him he can move.

What is unusual is that it's Thursday, and it's 6:30 PM, and Lev is supposed to call Yaku in thirty minutes.

"Can we take five?" Lev asks during a lighting adjustment, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"Sure, but make it quick," the photographer says, already fiddling with his camera settings. "We're losing the good light."

Lev grabs his phone from his bag and checks the time. 6:32 PM. The shoot is supposed to wrap at 7:00, which would give him just enough time to get home and call Yaku at 7:15 like always. But they're running behind, and there's no way they're finishing in the next twenty-eight minutes, and Lev can feel panic starting to claw at his chest.

He could call Yaku late. It would be fine. Yaku would understand.

Except Lev has never called late. In two years of weekly sessions, he's never missed the time slot, never pushed it back, never asked to reschedule. Because the time slot is sacred. It's the one consistent thing in Lev's chaotic, unpredictable life, and the idea of disrupting it makes him feel like he's failing at something important.

"Hey," Alisa says, appearing at his elbow. She's in full makeup and a designer dress, having just finished her own portion of the shoot. "You okay?"

"The shoot's running late."

"I know. We'll be done soon."

"I'm supposed to call Yaku-san at seven fifteen."

Alisa looks at him for a long moment, and Lev can see her doing the mental calculation—weighing the importance of the shoot against the importance of Lev's weekly call with Yaku. "Call him now," she says finally. "Tell him you'll be a few minutes late. He'll understand."

"But I'm never late."

"Lev." Alisa's voice is gentle. "He'll understand. And if he doesn't, then he's not worth this much anxiety."

She's right. Lev knows she's right. But his hands are shaking slightly as he pulls up Yaku's contact and types out a message.

Lev: shoot running late, might be 15 min behind schedule. is that okay?

He stares at the message for a full minute before sending it, then immediately regrets the phrasing. Too casual? Not casual enough? Should he have apologized more? Should he have—

His phone buzzes.

Yaku-san: it's fine. call when you're done.

That's it. Four words. No irritation, no guilt trip, just a simple acknowledgment that plans change and it's not the end of the world.

Lev reads the message three times, something in his chest unclenching.

"See?" Alisa says, reading over his shoulder. "He's not mad."

"I know."

"Then why do you look like someone just told you your dog died?"

"I don't have a dog."

"Lev."

Lev pockets his phone and tries to shake off the anxiety. "I'm fine. Let's finish the shoot."

They do finish, eventually, at 7:43 PM. Lev changes out of the designer clothes as fast as humanly possible, thanks the photographer, and practically sprints to the parking garage. Alisa drives because Lev is too distracted to be trusted with a vehicle, and she doesn't comment on the way he's bouncing his leg the entire ride home, checking his phone every thirty seconds like the time might have changed.

"You know you're allowed to be late sometimes, right?" Alisa says as she pulls into their building's garage. "You're allowed to have a life that doesn't revolve around Thursday evenings."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

Lev doesn't answer, just grabs his bag and heads for the elevator. He makes it to the apartment in record time, drops his stuff by the door, and pulls out his laptop. It's 8:02 PM Tokyo time, which means it's 2:02 AM in Moscow, which means Yaku has been waiting for forty-seven minutes.

Lev's hands are shaking as he opens the video call link.

Yaku answers on the second ring.

"Sorry!" Lev blurts out before Yaku can say anything. "I'm so sorry, the shoot ran late and I couldn't leave early and I texted you but I know that's not the same as calling on time and I promise I'll—"

"Lev." Yaku's voice is calm, maybe a little amused. "It's fine. Breathe."

Lev breathes. His heart is still racing, but Yaku doesn't look annoyed. He looks tired—there are shadows under his eyes that weren't there last week—but not angry.

"I really am sorry," Lev says, quieter now. "I know you have a schedule—"

"And my schedule has room for flexibility. It's fine." Yaku leans back in his chair, and Lev can see he's in his apartment, wearing a worn Nekoma hoodie that Lev recognizes from high school. "How was the shoot?"

"Long. Boring. The photographer spent twenty minutes adjusting a light that looked exactly the same before and after." Lev runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. "But Alisa looked amazing. The campaign is for a watch brand, so there was a lot of close-up hand shots. Very dramatic."

"Sounds thrilling."

"It was the opposite of thrilling." Lev grins despite himself. "But it pays well, so I can't complain."

"You can always complain. You're very good at it."

"I'm good at many things!"

"Name three."

"Being tall. Being handsome. Being charming."

"Those are all the same thing, and only one of them is true." But Yaku's smiling now, that small quirk of his mouth that he tries to hide and never quite manages. "Did you send me the video from last week?"

"Yes! Did you watch it?"

"I watched it. Your platform is better, but you're still dropping your hips too early. We'll work on it." Yaku pulls up something on his screen—probably the video Lev sent. "But first, I want to talk about reading the setter. You asked about it last week, and I found some footage that demonstrates what I was trying to explain..."

And just like that, they're back in their rhythm. Yaku breaks down plays, Lev asks questions, and the anxiety that's been sitting in Lev's chest for the last two hours finally dissipates. This is familiar. This is safe. This is the part of his week that makes sense, even when everything else is chaos.

They talk for two and a half hours. Longer than usual, because Lev has more questions than normal and Yaku seems content to answer them. At one point Yaku gets up to make tea, and Lev watches him move around his kitchen—economical movements, everything in its place, the kind of efficiency that comes from living alone and knowing exactly where everything is.

"Your apartment is very clean," Lev observes.

"Your apartment is a disaster," Yaku counters, settling back in front of his laptop with a steaming mug. "I can see the pile of clothes behind you."

"Those are clean!"

"They're on the floor."

"The floor is a valid storage location!"

"You're twenty-four years old. Learn to use a dresser."

But there's no heat in it, just the familiar back-and-forth they've perfected over two years of weekly calls. Lev chirps back something about Yaku being a neat freak, Yaku responds with a comment about Lev's organizational skills being on par with a golden retriever's, and they both grin at each other through the screen like this is the best part of their respective days.

Which, for Lev, it is.

He's still not thinking about what that means.

YAKU

The next morning, Yaku wakes up to a text from Kuroo.

Kuroo: so you stayed up until 4:30 AM talking to lev

Kuroo: just mentoring though

Kuroo: very normal

Kuroo: nothing to examine there

Yaku stares at his phone, trying to figure out how Kuroo knows what time he went to bed. Then he remembers: he'd texted Kuroo back about the curriculum documents at 4:45 AM, because he'd been too wired to sleep after the call with Lev and figured he might as well be productive.

Yaku: the shoot ran late. we started late.

Kuroo: you could have rescheduled

Yaku: he apologized for being late. i wasn't going to make him reschedule on top of that.

Kuroo: right

Kuroo: because you're so accommodating with everyone else

Kuroo: remember that time yamamoto asked if you could move our alumni game by an hour and you told him to "learn to manage his time better"

Yaku: that was different

Kuroo: how

Yaku doesn't respond, because he doesn't have a good answer. Because Kuroo is right—Yaku is not generally an accommodating person. He's punctual to the point of being rigid about it, he doesn't tolerate people wasting his time, and he's been known to end phone calls mid-sentence if they're running long and he has somewhere to be.

But with Lev, he stays on the call. He answers at midnight. He rearranges his schedule and stays up until 4:30 AM and tells himself it's fine, it's just mentoring, it doesn't mean anything.

His phone buzzes again.

Kuroo: you know it's okay to care about him, right?

Kuroo: like, as more than a former teammate

Kuroo: you're allowed to want things

Yaku sets his phone face-down on his nightstand and stares at the ceiling.

The problem is that Yaku doesn't know what he wants. Or rather, he knows exactly what he wants and he's terrified of it, because wanting things has never worked out well for him. Wanting things means being vulnerable. It means admitting that someone else has the power to hurt you, to disappoint you, to leave.

And Lev is—

Lev is bright and earnest and so transparently happy every time Yaku answers his calls that it makes Yaku's chest ache. Lev is terrible at receives and wonderful at listening and somehow manages to ask exactly the right questions to make Yaku think about volleyball in new ways. Lev is chaos personified, but he's also the most consistent part of Yaku's week, the thing Yaku looks forward to even when he's exhausted and stressed and has a hundred other things he should be doing.

Lev is important to him.

Yaku has been very carefully not examining how important.

He picks up his phone and types out a response to Kuroo.

Yaku: i'll look at the curriculum documents this weekend

Kuroo: that's not what we were talking about

Yaku: it's what i'm talking about

Kuroo: you're impossible

Yaku: and you're nosy

Kuroo: someone has to be. you're both idiots.

Yaku doesn't ask what Kuroo means by "both." He doesn't want to know.

He gets out of bed, makes coffee, and pulls up the curriculum documents Kuroo sent. He spends three hours making detailed notes about drill progressions and decision-making exercises, and he definitely doesn't think about Lev. He definitely doesn't replay their conversation from last night, doesn't smile at the memory of Lev's indignant "the floor is a valid storage location!", doesn't feel warm at the way Lev had said "thank you for waiting for me" at the end of the call, soft and sincere.

It's fine. It's just mentoring. It doesn't mean anything.

Yaku is getting very tired of lying to himself.

LEV

Two months pass. The calls continue, every Thursday without fail. Lev's receives are actually getting better—not good, but better—and Yaku seems genuinely pleased about it in his own gruff way.

"You're still dropping your hips," Yaku says during one session, "but at least now you're doing it consistently. That's progress."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"That's depressing."

"I'm choosing to take it as a compliment!"

"You would."

They're in the middle of breaking down a play when Lev's phone buzzes with a text from Kuroo. Lev glances at it, then does a double-take.

Kuroo: hey, i'm putting together an alumni match for nekoma. 3-on-3, just for fun. you in?

Lev: when?

Kuroo: three weeks from now. saturday afternoon.

Lev's heart jumps. He hasn't played in an actual match—even a casual one—in over a year. The last time was a beach tournament that Alisa had dragged him to, and he'd been terrible, but it had also been the most fun he'd had in months.

Lev: yes! definitely yes!

Kuroo: great. i'm trying to get yaku to fly in for it too. figure if i can get enough people committed, he can't say no.

Lev's brain short-circuits. Yaku. Here. In Tokyo. In person.

They haven't seen each other in person in two years. Not since Lev moved to Tokyo full-time, not since these weekly calls became their primary form of contact. Lev has thought about it—of course he's thought about it—but it's always felt theoretical, like something that might happen someday but probably won't.

"Lev?" Yaku's voice cuts through his spiral. "You still there?"

"Yes! Sorry!" Lev looks back at his screen, where Yaku is watching him with a slightly concerned expression. "Kuroo just texted. He's organizing an alumni match."

"I know. He asked me about it last week."

"Are you coming?"

There's a pause, and Lev can see Yaku considering his answer. "I don't know. It's expensive to fly back for a weekend, and I'd have to take time off from practice—"

"You should come," Lev blurts out, then immediately regrets how eager he sounds. "I mean, it would be fun. To see everyone. It's been a while."

"It has been a while," Yaku agrees, and there's something in his voice that Lev can't quite read. "Are you playing?"

"Kuroo just invited me. I said yes."

"You're going to be terrible."

"I know! That's part of the fun!" Lev grins. "Come on, Yaku-san. You know you want to see how much I've improved."

"You haven't improved that much."

"Then come and tell me what I'm still doing wrong! In person! With actual demonstrations!" Lev is fully aware he's being pushy, but he can't seem to stop himself. The idea of seeing Yaku in person, of actually playing volleyball with him instead of just talking about it over video calls, is suddenly the only thing he wants. "Please?"

Yaku is quiet for a long moment, and Lev holds his breath.

"I'll think about it," Yaku finally says.

"Really?"

"I said I'll think about it. That's not a yes."

"But it's not a no!"

"Lev—"

"I'll take it!" Lev is grinning so hard his face hurts. "Think about it! And then say yes! Because it would be really fun and I miss—" He stops himself just in time, the words I miss you dying on his tongue. "I miss playing with the team. It would be nice to do that again."

Yaku's expression does something complicated, and for a moment Lev thinks he's going to call Lev out on the obvious deflection. But he just says, "I'll let Kuroo know by the end of the week."

They move on to other topics, but Lev can't focus. His brain is stuck on the possibility of Yaku being here, in Tokyo, in person. Of seeing him outside the confines of a video call. Of actually playing volleyball together instead of just talking about it.

Of finding out if this thing between them—whatever it is—translates to real life, or if it only exists in the safe distance of a screen.

Lev is trying very hard not to think about what he wants the answer to be.

YAKU

Yaku tells Kuroo he'll come to the alumni match.

He tells himself it's because Kuroo is persistent and annoying and won't stop texting him about it. He tells himself it's because he hasn't seen the team in two years and it would be good to catch up. He tells himself it's because he needs a break from the intensity of the Russian league season, and a weekend in Tokyo sounds nice.

He doesn't tell himself it's because Lev will be there.

He especially doesn't tell himself it's because the idea of seeing Lev in person—of actually being in the same physical space as him instead of separated by thousands of miles and a video screen—makes his heart do something stupid in his chest.

"You're coming?" Lev's face lights up when Yaku tells him during their next call. "Really?"

"Don't make a big deal out of it."

"I'm making a huge deal out of it! This is the biggest deal!" Lev is practically bouncing in his seat, and Yaku can see him physically restraining himself from doing something embarrassing like clapping. "When do you get in? Do you need a place to stay? You can stay with us! We have a guest room!"

"I'm staying with Kuroo."

"Oh." Lev's face falls slightly, then brightens again. "But we'll see each other at the match! And maybe we could get dinner? Or coffee? Or—"

"Lev. Breathe."

Lev breathes, but he's still grinning like Yaku just told him he won the lottery. "Sorry. I'm just excited. It's been a long time."

"It's been two years."

"Exactly! A long time!" Lev leans closer to the camera, and Yaku can see the genuine happiness in his eyes. "I've missed you. I mean—I've missed seeing you. In person. The calls are great, but it's not the same as actually being there, you know?"

Yaku's throat tightens. "Yeah. I know."

They talk about logistics—when Yaku's flight gets in, what time the match starts, who else is coming. Apparently Kuroo has managed to rope in Yamamoto, Fukunaga, Kai, and even Kenma, who has allegedly agreed to play setter despite his general policy of avoiding physical activity whenever possible.

"It's going to be chaos," Yaku says.

"It's going to be fun!" Lev counters. "And you can finally see my receives in person! I've been practicing!"

"I've seen your receives. You send me video every week."

"It's different in person! You'll see!" Lev is still grinning, and Yaku feels something warm settle in his chest. "I'm going to make you proud, Yaku-san."

"You don't have to make me proud. You just have to not injure yourself."

"I can do both!"

"That would be a first."

But Yaku is smiling despite himself, and when they hang up an hour later, he sits in the quiet of his apartment and thinks about seeing Lev in three weeks. About actually being in the same gym, breathing the same air, existing in the same physical space instead of separated by screens and time zones.

About whether this thing between them—whatever it is—will feel different in person, or if it will feel exactly the same.

Yaku is terrified to find out.

He's also counting down the days.

LEV

The three weeks pass in a blur of photoshoots and preparation and Lev driving Alisa slowly insane with his nervous energy.

"You're pacing," Alisa observes from the couch, where she's scrolling through her phone.

"I'm not pacing."

"You've walked past me six times in the last two minutes. That's pacing."

Lev stops mid-step. "I'm just thinking."

"About Yaku-san."

"About volleyball! About the match! About whether I've actually improved or if I'm going to embarrass myself in front of everyone!" Lev runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "What if I'm terrible? What if all this practice hasn't helped at all? What if Yaku-san realizes he's been wasting his time coaching me?"

"Lev." Alisa sets her phone down and looks at him seriously. "Yaku-san has been coaching you for two years. If he thought he was wasting his time, he would have stopped. He's not exactly known for his patience."

"But what if—"

"And even if you are terrible at the match, which you probably will be because you're always terrible, he's not going to stop caring about you." Alisa's voice is gentle now. "That's not how this works."

"How what works?"

"This thing between you two. Whatever it is." She stands up and crosses to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Lev, he's flying to Tokyo for a weekend. He's taking time off from his professional volleyball career to play in a casual alumni match. He wouldn't do that if he didn't care."

"He's doing it to see everyone. Not just me."

"Keep telling yourself that." Alisa squeezes his shoulder. "But maybe, while he's here, you could actually talk to him. About what you want. About what this is."

"I don't know what this is."

"Then figure it out. Together." She lets go and heads toward her room. "And Lev? Stop pacing. You're going to wear a hole in the floor."

Lev doesn't stop pacing. He paces for another twenty minutes, then gives up and goes to the gym to practice receives. He stays for three hours, working on his platform and his positioning and his timing, trying to make sure that when Yaku sees him play, he'll see improvement. He'll see that all those hours of coaching weren't wasted.

He'll see that Lev has been listening.

YAKU

The flight to Tokyo is long and uncomfortable, and Yaku spends most of it trying not to think about the fact that in six hours he's going to see Lev in person for the first time in two years.

He fails spectacularly.

His brain keeps supplying helpful images: Lev's smile, Lev's laugh, Lev's hands gesturing wildly as he explains something. The way Lev looks through a screen, all sharp angles and bright eyes and that stupid perfect hair that probably takes an hour to style.

Yaku wonders if Lev will look different in person. Taller, probably—Lev is always taller than Yaku remembers. But will he seem different? Will the easy rapport they've built over video calls translate to physical proximity, or will it be awkward and stilted and disappointing?

Yaku is terrified it will be awkward.

He's more terrified it won't be.

Kuroo picks him up from the airport, grinning like he knows exactly what Yaku is thinking.

"Welcome back," Kuroo says, pulling him into a brief hug. "How was the flight?"

"Long."

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"Too tired for the match tomorrow?"

"I'm never too tired for volleyball." Yaku throws his bag in Kuroo's trunk and climbs into the passenger seat. "Who's confirmed?"

"Everyone. Even Kenma, though he made me promise it's only one match and he doesn't have to do any running." Kuroo pulls out of the parking garage, navigating Tokyo traffic with practiced ease. "Lev's been texting me every day for the last week asking if you're really coming."

Yaku's stomach flips. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're really coming. Why, did you want me to lie?"

"No. I just—" Yaku stops, not sure how to finish that sentence. "I don't know why he's so excited. It's just a casual match."

"Yaku." Kuroo glances at him, one eyebrow raised. "You know why he's excited."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do. You're just pretending you don't because that's easier than dealing with it." Kuroo's voice is matter-of-fact, not unkind. "But you're going to have to deal with it eventually. Preferably before you get on a plane back to Russia and spend the next two years wondering what would have happened if you'd just been honest."

Yaku doesn't respond, because Kuroo is right and they both know it.

They drive in silence for a while, and then Kuroo says, quieter now: "For what it's worth, I think he feels the same way. I think he's just as scared as you are."

"I'm not scared."

"Liar."

Yaku looks out the window at the familiar streets of Tokyo, and he thinks about Lev texting Kuroo every day, asking if Yaku is really coming. He thinks about the way Lev's face had lit up when Yaku confirmed he'd be at the match. He thinks about two years of weekly calls, of Lev asking questions and Yaku answering them, of both of them finding excuses to extend the conversations just a little bit longer.

He thinks about what Kuroo said: You don't do this for anyone else.

"What if I mess it up?" Yaku asks quietly.

"Then you mess it up. But at least you'll know." Kuroo glances at him again, and his expression is softer now. "Yaku, you've been coaching him for two years. You've spent hundreds of hours on video calls. You've rearranged your entire schedule to make sure you're available when he needs you. If that's not already a relationship, I don't know what is. You're just scared to call it what it is."

"And what is it?"

"I don't know. That's something you two need to figure out." Kuroo pulls up to his apartment building and parks. "But you're not going to figure it out by avoiding the conversation. So tomorrow, after the match, maybe actually talk to him. About what you want. About what this is."

"What if he doesn't want the same thing?"

"What if he does?"

Yaku doesn't have an answer for that.

LEV

The morning of the match, Lev wakes up at 5 AM and can't fall back asleep.

He lies in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, his brain unhelpfully supplying a running commentary of everything that could go wrong today. He could be terrible at volleyball and embarrass himself. He could be awkward around Yaku and make things weird. He could say something stupid and ruin two years of careful friendship. He could—

"You're spiraling," Alisa says from his doorway. "I can hear you thinking from my room."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You're definitely spiraling." She comes in and sits on the edge of his bed, looking down at him with a mix of amusement and concern. "It's going to be fine."

"What if it's not?"

"Then it's not, and you deal with it. But Lev, you've been talking to him every week for two years. You know him. He knows you. This isn't some stranger you're meeting for the first time. This is Yaku-san. Your Yaku-san."

"He's not my Yaku-san."

"He's not anyone else's Yaku-san." Alisa stands up. "Now get up. You need to eat breakfast and stop catastrophizing. The match starts at noon, which means you have six hours to get your head together."

Lev gets up. He showers, he eats breakfast, he does some light stretching to warm up his muscles. He checks his phone approximately forty times, even though he knows Yaku isn't going to text him—Yaku never texts first, always waits for Lev to initiate.

At 11:30, Lev and Alisa head to the gym. It's a small community center in Nerima, the same one Nekoma used to use for practice matches back in high school. Walking in feels like stepping back in time—the same scuffed floors, the same smell of sweat and rubber, the same echo of voices bouncing off the high ceiling.

Kuroo is already there, setting up the net. Yamamoto is doing dynamic stretches in the corner, and Fukunaga is sitting on the bench looking serene and possibly asleep. Kai arrives a few minutes later, followed by Kenma, who looks like he's already regretting his decision to come.

"Lev!" Yamamoto bounds over and pulls him into a crushing hug. "It's been forever! You look good! Modeling is treating you well!"

"Thanks! You look good too!" Lev extricates himself from the hug and looks around the gym. "Is Yaku-san here yet?"

"Not yet. Kuroo said he's running a few minutes late." Yamamoto grins. "Excited to see him?"

"I'm excited to see everyone!"

"Uh-huh." Yamamoto's grin widens. "Sure you are."

Before Lev can respond, the gym door opens and Yaku walks in.

Lev's brain short-circuits.

He'd forgotten—somehow, despite two years of video calls, despite seeing Yaku's face every week—he'd forgotten what Yaku looks like in person. Smaller than Lev remembers, but that's always true. Compact and powerful, all controlled energy, moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of professional training. He's wearing athletic clothes that fit him perfectly, and his hair is slightly longer than it was in high school, and he looks tired but alert, eyes scanning the gym until they land on Lev.

Their eyes meet, and Lev forgets how to breathe.

Yaku's expression does something complicated—surprise, pleasure, something else Lev can't name—and then he's crossing the gym, and Lev is moving to meet him, and suddenly they're standing face to face for the first time in two years.

"Hi," Lev says, and his voice comes out slightly strangled.

"Hi," Yaku says, and he's smiling, that small private smile that Lev has only ever seen through a screen. "You're taller."

"You're shorter."

"I'm the same height I've always been. You're just a giant." But there's no heat in it, just fondness, and Lev feels something in his chest unclench.

"It's good to see you," Lev says, and he means it more than he's ever meant anything.

"It's good to see you too." Yaku's smile widens slightly. "Ready to show me what you've learned?"

"I'm going to be terrible."

"I know. That's part of the fun."

And just like that, the awkwardness dissolves. This is Yaku. His Yaku, who has been showing up for him every week for two years, who answers his calls at midnight and stays on the line for hours and makes him want to be better at volleyball even though he's not pursuing it professionally.

This is going to be fine.

YAKU

The match is chaos, exactly as predicted.

They split into two teams—Yaku, Kai, and Fukunaga on one side; Lev, Yamamoto, and Kuroo on the other. Kenma sets for both teams, rotating sides every few points, looking vaguely annoyed at having to move but doing it anyway.

Lev is, as expected, terrible.

But he's also better than he was two years ago. His receives are still inconsistent, but his platform is cleaner, his positioning is smarter, and he's actually reading the play instead of just reacting. Yaku can see the evidence of their coaching sessions in every movement—the way Lev adjusts his stance, the way he watches the setter's shoulders, the way he commits to his read instead of hesitating.

It's not perfect. It's not even good. But it's improvement, and Yaku feels an absurd surge of pride watching Lev successfully receive a serve that would have blown past him two years ago.

"Nice receive!" Yaku calls across the net, and Lev's face lights up like Yaku just told him he won an Olympic medal.

"Did you see that?" Lev shouts to no one in particular. "Yaku-san said it was nice!"

"I said the receive was nice. I didn't say you were nice."

"I'm taking it as a compliment!"

"You would!"

They play for an hour, rotating positions, mixing up teams, trash-talking each other with the ease of people who have known each other for years. Yamamoto spikes a ball directly into the net and blames Kenma's set. Fukunaga makes a receive that defies physics and refuses to explain how he did it. Kuroo blocks one of Lev's spikes and crows about it for five minutes straight.

It's fun. It's easy. It's exactly what Yaku needed without knowing he needed it.

At one point, Lev goes for a receive and crashes into Yaku at the net. They both go down in a tangle of limbs, and Lev immediately starts apologizing.

"I'm sorry! I didn't see you! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Yaku accepts Lev's hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. "Watch where you're going."

"I was watching the ball!"

"Watch me too. I'm shorter than the ball. Easier to miss."

Lev laughs, and the sound is bright and unguarded, and Yaku realizes with a jolt that he's missed this. Not just the volleyball, not just the competition, but this—being in the same physical space as Lev, hearing his laugh without the distortion of a microphone, seeing his smile without the barrier of a screen.

He's missed Lev.

Not the video call version of Lev. The real, physical, present version of Lev, who takes up too much space and talks too much and looks at Yaku like he hung the moon.

Yaku is in so much trouble.

LEV

After the match, they all go out for dinner at a yakiniku place near the gym. It's crowded and loud, and they end up at a table that's slightly too small for seven people, which means Lev is pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Yaku on one side and Yamamoto on the other.

He's hyperaware of every point of contact with Yaku—their arms brushing when they reach for food, their knees bumping under the table, the warmth of Yaku's presence beside him. It's distracting in the best possible way, and Lev has to actively focus on the conversation to avoid just staring at Yaku like a creep.

"So Lev," Kuroo says, grinning in a way that means he's about to say something embarrassing. "How's modeling? Still enjoying it?"

"It's good! Busy, but good." Lev reaches for a piece of meat, trying to play it cool. "Alisa and I just finished a campaign for a watch brand. Very dramatic. Lots of hand close-ups."

"Sounds thrilling," Kenma says dryly.

"It was the opposite of thrilling. But it paid well." Lev glances at Yaku. "How's Russia? How's the team?"

"Good. We're third in the league right now." Yaku is focused on grilling meat, his movements precise and efficient. "Our new opposite hitter is talented but undisciplined. Reminds me of someone."

"Are you talking about me?"

Yaku glances up, and there's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or something softer. "I'm always talking about you."

Lev's heart does something stupid. The table goes quiet for a beat, and then Kuroo laughs.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to him," Kuroo says, and there's a knowing edge to it that makes Lev's face warm.

"That's depressing," Yaku says flatly, but he doesn't look away from Lev.

The conversation moves on—Kuroo's work with the JVA, Yamamoto's kids, Kai's new job. Lev tries to focus, but he's acutely aware of Yaku beside him, the occasional brush of their shoulders, the way Yaku's attention keeps drifting back to him even when he's talking to someone else.

At one point, Lev's phone buzzes. A text from Alisa: have you talked to him yet?

Lev doesn't respond. He just pockets the phone and tries not to think about what "talked to him" means.

Dinner ends around 9 PM. Yamamoto heads home. Kai leaves early. Kenma disappears without saying goodbye.

Kuroo pulls Yaku aside as they're heading out, steering him toward the entrance with a hand on his shoulder.

"I need to grab more drinks from the convenience store," Kuroo says, his tone suggesting this is both urgent and definitely not a transparent excuse. "Bokuto's complained twice already. Lev's outside—maybe he could show you around the neighborhood while you wait? Twenty minutes, minimum."

Yaku narrows his eyes. "Kuroo—"

"Don't waste it," Kuroo says, already walking away.

Through the glass doors, Lev is visible in the evening air, hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. Waiting.

Yaku's stomach does something complicated. He could stay inside. He could find Kai, check his phone, let the moment pass.

Instead, he walks toward the doors.

The cool air hits him when he steps outside. Lev turns, and his face lights up—unguarded, obvious, like Yaku's presence is the best possible outcome of any situation.

"Yaku-san! I was hoping you'd come out." Lev's grin is wide. "It's kind of loud in there."

"Bokuto's always loud." Yaku leans against the wall, arms crossed. "You looked like you needed air."

"I did." Lev runs a hand through his hair, nervous. "It's good to see everyone, but it's also a lot. Everyone asking if I miss volleyball, if I'm going to come back to it professionally. I don't really have good answers."

"You don't owe anyone answers."

"I know. But I feel like I should." Lev shifts his weight, uncertain in a way that doesn't match his usual confidence. "It's weird being the only one who's not playing anymore. Like I'm visiting a life I used to have instead of living it."

Yaku studies him for a moment. Lev's gotten better at articulating things like this—better at identifying what he's feeling instead of just bulldozing through it with enthusiasm. It's one of the things Yaku's noticed over the past two years of calls, the way Lev's learned to pause and think before speaking, at least sometimes.

"You're not visiting," Yaku says. "You're just doing something different. That doesn't make you less part of this."

"Doesn't it, though?" Lev's voice is quieter now, and he's looking at the ground instead of at Yaku. "Everyone in there is still playing. You're playing professionally in Russia. Kuroo's working for the JVA. Even Kenma's still connected to volleyball through his company. And I'm just... doing photoshoots. Selling clothes. It feels small compared to what everyone else is doing."

"It's not small. It's just different." Yaku's voice is firm, the same tone he uses when Lev's being self-deprecating on their calls. "You're good at what you do. You're successful. That matters."

"I guess." Lev finally looks up, and there's something searching in his expression. "But sometimes I wonder if I gave up too easily. If I should've tried harder to make volleyball work."

"Did you want to make it work?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Lev opens his mouth, closes it, then shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe? I liked playing. I liked being part of a team. But I also like what I'm doing now, and I'm good at it, and it's stable in a way volleyball never was for me. I was never going to be a starter on a professional team, Yaku-san. We both know that."

"You could've been. If you'd kept working at it."

"Maybe. But I didn't want it badly enough to do that." Lev's voice is matter-of-fact, not bitter. "And that's okay, right? It's okay to choose something else?"

"Yeah. It's okay." Yaku uncrosses his arms, letting his hands fall to his sides. "But you don't sound like you believe that."

"I do believe it. Most of the time." Lev's mouth quirks into a small smile. "And then I come to something like this and everyone's talking about their seasons and their teams and their training schedules, and I feel like I'm on the outside looking in. Like I made the wrong choice."

"You didn't make the wrong choice. You made your choice. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yeah. There is." Yaku pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. "Look, you're allowed to miss volleyball without it meaning you made a mistake. You're allowed to feel weird about not playing professionally without it invalidating what you're doing now. Those things can both be true at the same time."

Lev stares at him for a moment, and something in his expression shifts—softens, maybe, or opens up. "When did you get so good at this?"

"At what?"

"At saying the thing I need to hear." Lev's voice is quiet, almost wondering. "You always do that. Even on our calls. I'll be spiraling about something stupid and you'll just... cut through it. Say the obvious thing I couldn't see because I was too close to it."

Yaku's chest tightens. "That's just coaching."

"Is it?" Lev tilts his head, and there's something in his eyes that makes Yaku want to look away. "Because it feels like more than that."

The air between them feels suddenly charged, heavy with something Yaku doesn't want to name. He should deflect. He should make a joke, change the subject, steer this conversation back to safer ground. That's what he's been doing for two years—keeping things professional, keeping the distance, pretending the calls are just casual mentoring and nothing more.

But Lev's looking at him like he's waiting for something. Like he's hoping for something.

And Yaku doesn't know what to do with that.

"We should head back inside," Yaku says, and he hears the deflection in his own voice, the retreat. "Kuroo's going to take forever at the convenience store and someone needs to make sure Bokuto doesn't challenge everyone to arm wrestling."

"Yaku-san—"

"Come on. It's getting cold out here." Yaku's already moving toward the door, and he doesn't look back to see if Lev's following. He can hear footsteps behind him, long strides catching up easily, and then they're both stepping back into the warmth and noise of the gym.

Kuroo's not back yet. The others are scattered around—Kai and Fukunaga talking by the net, Kenma on his phone in the corner, Inuoka and Shibayama laughing about something near the bench. Normal. Easy. Safe.

Yaku heads toward Kenma because Kenma won't ask questions, won't push, will just let Yaku exist in his vicinity without demanding anything. But he can feel Lev's presence behind him, can sense the weight of the conversation they didn't finish, and it sits heavy in his chest like undigested food.

"You okay?" Kenma asks without looking up from his phone.

"Fine."

"You look like you're about to bolt."

"I'm not bolting. I'm standing here."

"Uh-huh." Kenma finally glances at him, and there's something knowing in his expression that makes Yaku want to kick him. "Lev's staring at you."

"He's not—" Yaku stops himself, because of course Lev is staring at him. Lev's always staring at him, has been since high school, and Yaku's spent years pretending not to notice. "He's fine. We're fine. Everything's fine."

"You said 'fine' three times in ten seconds."

"Because it's true."

"Sure." Kenma goes back to his phone, and Yaku knows he's not going to push further. That's the thing about Kenma—he sees everything, but he doesn't make you talk about it unless you want to. It's one of the reasons Yaku's always liked him.

Kuroo returns twenty minutes later with bags full of drinks and snacks, and the group migrates toward the convenience store haul like seagulls descending on scattered bread. The energy shifts back to easy camaraderie—Bokuto arguing with Kuroo about which sports drink is superior, Kai mediating with his usual patience, Inuoka trying to steal chips from Shibayama's bag.

Yaku finds himself standing next to Lev again, and this time Lev doesn't try to continue their earlier conversation. He just stands there, shoulder almost brushing Yaku's, and laughs at something Bokuto says. It's comfortable. Easy.

It feels like a lie.

Five Years Ago — Nekoma High School Gym, Second Year

The gym is empty except for the two of them.

Practice ended forty minutes ago, the rest of the team filtering out in their usual clusters—Kuroo and Kenma leaving together as always, Fukunaga and Inuoka arguing about the best convenience store meat buns, Kai offering quiet goodbyes as he shouldered his bag. Coach Nekomata had given Yaku a long look before leaving, the kind that said don't stay too late without actually saying it, and Yaku had nodded and waited exactly thirty seconds before pulling out another ball.

Lev's still here. Of course Lev's still here.

He's been begging Yaku for extra practice for weeks now, ever since their last practice match against Fukurodani where Lev's receives were so catastrophically bad that even Bokuto—Bokuto, who once tried to receive with his face and called it a valid strategy—had felt genuinely sorry for him. That's rough, man, Bokuto had said, clapping Lev on the shoulder with the kind of sympathy usually reserved for natural disasters, and Lev had looked so utterly dejected that Yaku had almost—almost—felt bad for him.

Almost.

"Again," Yaku says, tossing the ball up and serving it across the net.

The problem is that Lev doesn't understand why he's struggling. He thinks it's a temporary setback, something he can fix with enough enthusiasm and raw effort. He doesn't realize that his height—the thing everyone praises him for, the thing that got him scouted, the thing that makes people say wow, you're going to be amazing—is actually working against him right now.

Lev's spent his entire volleyball career being told he's naturally gifted. That his height is an advantage. That he just needs to jump and swing and the rest will work itself out. And for blocking, for spiking, that's mostly true. Lev can reach heights that other players can only dream of. His athleticism is undeniable.

But receiving? Receiving doesn't care how tall you are. Receiving cares about reading, about positioning, about understanding the geometry of the court and the physics of the ball and the intentions of the server. Receiving is about making yourself small and controlled and precise, and Lev has never had to be any of those things before.

So he flails. He guesses. He lunges for balls that were never going to be in his reach and misses balls that should have been easy. And every time he fails, Yaku can see the confusion in his expression—why isn't this working? I'm trying so hard. Why isn't it enough?

It's frustrating to watch. Not because Lev isn't trying—he's trying harder than almost anyone Yaku's ever seen—but because he's trying in the wrong direction. He's throwing effort at a problem that requires understanding, and no amount of enthusiasm is going to bridge that gap.

Yaku's been watching this pattern for months now, and he's been biting his tongue because it's not his job to fix Lev. Lev has coaches. Lev has teammates. Lev has people whose actual responsibility is to help him improve.

But none of them are doing it. They're all just patting Lev on the head and saying you'll get there eventually and just keep practicing, and Yaku's watched Lev keep practicing the same wrong techniques over and over, ingraining bad habits deeper with every repetition.

It makes Yaku want to scream.

He doesn't usually care this much. When Yamamoto screws up a receive, Yaku yells at him and moves on. When Inuoka mistimes a block, Yaku corrects him and expects him to fix it. Yaku's not in the habit of staying late to personally tutor people who should be able to figure this out themselves.

But Lev's different. Lev asks questions. Lev listens. Lev has this weird combination of confidence and humility where he genuinely believes he can be great but also genuinely wants to learn how. And that's rare. That's worth something.

So when Lev had approached him after practice today, eyes bright with determination, and asked if Yaku would stay late to help him work on his receives, Yaku had said yes before he could talk himself out of it.

Now he's regretting it. A little. Maybe.

Lev lunges for it, arms extended, and the ball ricochets off his forearms at a forty-five-degree angle, sailing into the wall with a hollow thud.

"What are you doing?" Yaku's voice is flat, unimpressed.

"Receiving?" Lev sounds uncertain, like he's not sure that's the right answer.

"That's not receiving. That's flailing." Yaku walks around the net, picking up the ball. "You're not even watching the ball. You're watching where you think the ball is going to be, and then you're surprised when it's not there."

"But I am watching it—"

"No, you're not. You're guessing." Yaku bounces the ball once, twice, then holds it up. "Receiving isn't about guessing. It's about reading. You need to see the server's approach, their arm swing, the angle of contact. You need to process all of that in the half-second before the ball leaves their hand, and then you need to move to where the ball is actually going, not where you think it should go."

Lev's face scrunches up in concentration, and Yaku can practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to process this information and fit it into his existing understanding of volleyball. "But that's so much to think about."

"That's why you practice. So you don't have to think about it anymore. So it becomes automatic." Yaku tosses the ball to him, and Lev catches it clumsily, fumbling it twice before securing it against his chest. "You're tall. You're fast. You have good instincts when you're attacking. But receiving is different. It's not about athleticism. It's about reading the game."

"I'm trying to read it—"

"You're not trying hard enough." Yaku's voice is sharp, cutting, and he sees Lev flinch slightly. Good. Maybe that'll actually get through to him. "You know what your problem is, Lev? You think volleyball is about being tall and jumping high and hitting the ball hard. And yeah, that's part of it. But it's not the whole thing. The whole thing is about understanding the game. About seeing patterns. About knowing what's going to happen before it happens."

"But how do I—"

"You watch. You pay attention. You stop assuming that your height is going to carry you through everything." Yaku crosses his arms, and he knows he's being harsh, knows this is the kind of feedback that would make most people shut down or get defensive. But Lev's not most people. Lev's got this weird resilience where he can take a hit and keep coming back, and Yaku's counting on that right now. "You think I'm being mean. I'm not being mean. I'm being honest. And if you can't handle honesty, then we're done here."

"I can handle it," Lev says quietly, and there's something in his voice that makes Yaku actually look at him—really look at him—for the first time since they started.

Lev's not defensive. He's not making excuses. He's just... listening. Taking it in. His expression is open, almost vulnerable, and Yaku realizes with a strange jolt that Lev actually trusts him. Trusts that Yaku's criticism is coming from a place of wanting to help, not wanting to tear him down.

That's dangerous. That kind of trust.

"You think I'm relying on my height?" Lev asks, and his voice is smaller now, uncertain in a way that Yaku's never heard from him before.

"I know you are. Everyone knows you are." Yaku doesn't soften his tone, doesn't pull the punch. "You're a good player, Lev. You could be a great player. But you're never going to get there if you keep treating volleyball like it's just about physical ability. You need to use your brain."

Lev is quiet for a long moment, and Yaku watches him process this. He's expecting defensiveness, maybe some protest about how he does think about the game, how he's not just relying on his height. That's what most people would do—deflect, make excuses, protect their ego.

But Lev doesn't do that.

Instead, he looks at Yaku with an expression that's startlingly earnest, completely unguarded. "Will you teach me?"

Yaku blinks. "What?"

"Will you teach me how to read the game?" Lev's voice is completely sincere, no trace of pride or defensiveness. "I know I'm not good at it. I know I've been doing it wrong. But I want to get better. So will you teach me? Please?"

And there it is—the thing that makes Lev different from everyone else Yaku's ever tried to coach. No defensiveness. No ego. Just raw, honest desire to improve, paired with the humility to admit he needs help.

Yaku's chest does something complicated, something he doesn't have words for.

"Fine," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended. "But you have to actually listen. If I tell you something, you do it. No arguing, no second-guessing. Got it?"

"Got it!" Lev's face lights up with that familiar enthusiasm, and Yaku feels something in him soften despite himself.

"Okay. Let's start with the basics." Yaku moves back to the other side of the net, ball in hand. "I'm going to serve, and I want you to tell me where the ball's going before it gets to you. Out loud."

"Out loud?"

"Yes, out loud. So I know you're actually thinking and not just guessing." Yaku gets into position, and he can see Lev's nervous energy from across the net—the way he's bouncing slightly on his toes, the way his hands are already positioned even though Yaku hasn't served yet. "And don't move until you've called it. I want you to commit to your read before you commit to your movement."

"Okay. I can do that." Lev takes a breath, settles into a ready position. "I'm ready."

Yaku serves—not hard, just a clean serve with a slight topspin. He watches Lev's eyes track the ball, watches the micro-expressions crossing his face as he tries to process what he's seeing.

"Um—left? It's going left!" Lev calls out, and he's right, and he moves to the left and gets under the ball and receives it cleanly, sending it back over the net in a perfect arc.

"Good!" Yaku catches the ball, and he can't quite keep the approval out of his voice. "But you hesitated. You weren't sure. Why weren't you sure?"

"I... I don't know. I just guessed?"

"No. You didn't guess. You read something that made you think it was going left. What was it?" Yaku holds the ball, waiting. "Think about what you saw. My approach, my arm swing, the contact point. What told you it was going left?"

Lev's face scrunches up in concentration. "Your arm... it was angled? Like, not straight on, but kind of to the side?"

"Exactly. My arm angle was open, which means the ball's going to go in the direction my arm is pointing. That's the read." Yaku gets back into position. "Again. And this time, tell me why you know where it's going, not just where."

They go through it again. And again. And again.

Each time, Lev gets a little better at articulating what he's seeing. Each time, his explanations get a little more detailed—your shoulder dropped, so I knew it was going short; you hit it on the outside, so I knew it would spin right; your approach was faster, so I knew it would have more power—and Yaku realizes with something like surprise that Lev's actually paying attention. Actually learning.

After the fifteenth serve, Yaku calls a break. Lev's sweating, breathing hard, but he's grinning like he just discovered something revolutionary.

"This is amazing," Lev says, wiping his forehead with his shirt. "I've never thought about volleyball like this before. Like there's all this information happening before the ball even gets to you, and if you know how to read it, you can be in the right place at the right time."

"That's literally what receiving is." But Yaku's smiling despite himself, because Lev's enthusiasm is infectious, and there's something deeply satisfying about watching someone actually understand something you've been trying to teach them. "But reading the serve is just the first step. You also need to read the server."

"What's the difference?"

"The serve is what's happening right now. The server is what's going to happen next." Yaku grabs a water bottle, takes a drink. "Every server has patterns. Tendencies. If you watch them long enough, you can predict what they're going to do before they do it. That's the next level of reading."

"How do I learn that?"

"You watch matches. You study servers. You pay attention to what they do in different situations." Yaku caps the water bottle. "I'll send you some videos. Matches to watch, specific servers to study. Your homework is to watch them and tell me what patterns you notice."

"Homework?" Lev's eyes are wide, but he doesn't sound opposed to the idea—just surprised.

"Yeah. Homework. If you want to learn how to read the game, you need to study it. Not just practice it." Yaku moves back to his side of the net. "And if you don't do the homework, we're done. I'm not wasting my time on someone who's not serious about improving."

"I'm serious!" Lev's following him like an oversized puppy, eager and earnest. "I'll do all the homework. I'll watch every video. I'll take notes. I promise."

"We'll see." But Yaku's already mentally planning the first week's assignments—matches to watch, specific players to study, concepts to understand. He's already invested, and he knows it.

They continue practicing for another hour. Yaku introduces different types of serves—float serves, jump serves, serves with different spins—and makes Lev call out not just where the ball is going, but why he thinks it's going there. At first, Lev's explanations are hesitant, uncertain. But gradually, he starts to see the patterns. Starts to understand the logic.

"Your toss is higher when you're doing a jump serve," Lev says during one rally, and Yaku can hear the excitement in his voice. "And you approach from a different angle. So even before you jump, I know it's going to be faster and probably going to the back corner."

"Good. What else?"

"And when you do a float serve, you don't spin the ball when you toss it. It just goes straight up. So I know it's going to move weird in the air, and I need to wait longer before I commit to the movement."

"Exactly." Yaku serves again, and this time Lev receives it perfectly, his platform steady and his positioning ideal. "See? You're already getting better."

"Because you're teaching me!" Lev's grin is incandescent. "I've been trying to figure this out for months, and you explained it in like an hour."

"I didn't explain it. I made you figure it out yourself." Yaku collects the balls, starts putting them back in the cart. "That's the difference. If I just tell you the answers, you won't remember them. But if you discover them yourself, they stick."

"Is that why you kept asking me questions instead of just telling me what to do?"

"Yeah. That's why." Yaku glances at the clock on the wall and realizes with a start that it's past eight o'clock. They've been here for almost two hours. "We should go. It's getting late."

"Can we do this again?" Lev asks as they're putting the balls away, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice. "Like, regularly? I know you're busy with your own practice and everything, but if you have time, I'd really like to keep working on this with you."

Yaku should say no. He should maintain boundaries, keep this professional, not let Lev's earnest enthusiasm pull him into something that's going to eat up his time and energy. He's got his own training to focus on, his own goals to pursue. He doesn't need to be spending hours every week coaching someone who should be able to figure this out with the team's actual coaches.

But when he looks at Lev—at the hope in his expression, at the genuine desire to improve, at the way he's looking at Yaku like Yaku's opinion is the only one that matters—he finds himself saying, "Fine. Once a week. Thursdays after practice. But you have to actually do the homework I give you."

"I will! I promise!" Lev's practically bouncing with excitement. "Thank you, Yaku-san. Really. This means a lot to me."

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you actually improve." But Yaku's smiling as he says it, and he knows Lev can tell.

They lock up the equipment room and head toward the exit. The school is dark and quiet, most of the clubs having finished hours ago. Their footsteps echo in the empty hallways, and Yaku's acutely aware of Lev's presence beside him—the way Lev's still buzzing with energy despite the long practice, the way he keeps glancing at Yaku like he wants to say something but isn't sure how.

"You know," Lev says as they're walking to the station, "I was really nervous about asking you to help me."

"Why?" Yaku glances at him. "You ask people for help all the time."

"Yeah, but you're different." Lev's voice is quieter now, more thoughtful. "You're really good at volleyball. Like, really good. And you don't waste time on people who aren't serious. So I thought maybe you'd say no. Or that you'd think I was hopeless."

"You're not hopeless. You're just untrained." Yaku adjusts his bag on his shoulder. "There's a difference. Hopeless means you can't improve. Untrained means you haven't learned yet. You can fix untrained."

"Is that why you agreed to help me? Because you think I can improve?"

Yaku considers this. The honest answer is more complicated than yes or no. He agreed because Lev asked. Because Lev's enthusiasm is hard to resist. Because there's something about the way Lev approaches volleyball—with joy and determination and absolutely no pretense—that makes Yaku want to help him succeed.

But he's not going to say all that. So instead he says, "I agreed because you actually listen. Most people don't. They ask for advice and then do whatever they were going to do anyway. But you actually take feedback and apply it. That's rare."

"Oh." Lev sounds pleased, almost shy. "I didn't know you noticed that."

"I notice everything. That's my job." They reach the station, and Yaku pulls out his transit card. "Same time next week. And I'll send you those videos tonight. Watch them before Thursday."

"I will!" Lev's grinning again, that wide, unguarded smile that makes him look younger than he is. "Thank you, Yaku-san. For staying late. For teaching me. For not giving up on me."

"I haven't done anything yet," Yaku calls back as Lev heads toward his platform. "Thank me when you actually improve."

But he's smiling as he says it, and he knows Lev can tell.

On the train ride home, Yaku stares out the window at the passing lights and thinks about the way Lev looked at him when he asked will you teach me? Like Yaku was someone worth learning from. Like Yaku's opinion mattered more than anyone else's.

It's dangerous, that kind of trust. That kind of faith.

Yaku's going to have to be careful not to let it mean too much.

But even as he thinks it, he's pulling out his phone and compiling a list of videos for Lev to watch. Matches featuring the best receivers in the league. Servers with distinctive patterns. Plays that demonstrate perfect reading and positioning.

He tells himself he's just being thorough. That this is what a good mentor does.

He's lying to himself, but he doesn't examine that too closely.

When he gets home, he sends Lev the list with detailed notes about what to watch for in each video. Lev responds within minutes—a string of enthusiastic messages promising to watch everything, thanking Yaku again, saying he's excited for next Thursday.

Yaku reads the messages and feels something warm settle in his chest.

He's in trouble. He knows he's in trouble.

But he doesn't stop it.

He doesn't want to.

Three Weeks Later

"You're doing it again," Kuroo says, and Yaku looks up from his phone to find Kuroo watching him with an expression that's far too knowing.

They're at a café in Tokyo—Yaku's back in Japan for a brief break between seasons, and Kuroo had insisted on meeting up. Yaku had agreed because it's Kuroo, and saying no to Kuroo when he's determined is like trying to stop a landslide with your bare hands. Pointless and exhausting.

"Doing what?" Yaku asks, even though he knows exactly what Kuroo's talking about.

"Smiling at your phone like it just told you the meaning of life." Kuroo leans back in his chair, coffee cup cradled in both hands, and his expression is equal parts amused and concerned. "Let me guess. Lev?"

Yaku's first instinct is to deny it. To say it's just a teammate, or a friend, or literally anyone else. But Kuroo's known him since they were fifteen, and lying to Kuroo has never worked. Not once.

"He sent me a video of his receives from practice," Yaku says, setting his phone face-down on the table like that will somehow make this conversation less invasive. "He's been working on the drills I gave him."

"Uh-huh." Kuroo takes a sip of his coffee, and his eyes never leave Yaku's face. "And that's why you're smiling like that? Because he did his homework?"

"He's improving. That's satisfying."

"Yaku." Kuroo's voice is gentle now, which is somehow worse than when he's teasing. "How long have you been doing these calls with Lev?"

"I don't know. A few months?" Yaku knows exactly how long. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. But admitting that he's counting feels like admitting something he's not ready to acknowledge.

"And how often?"

"Once a week. Thursdays." Yaku picks up his own coffee, just to have something to do with his hands. "It's not a big deal. Just an hour or so."

"An hour." Kuroo's tone is flat, disbelieving. "Yaku, I've seen the messages. You're not talking for an hour. You're talking for two, sometimes three hours. And that's not counting the time you spend preparing materials for him, or watching his practice videos, or—"

"Okay, fine. So it's longer than an hour. So what?" Yaku can hear the defensiveness in his own voice and hates it. "He's a good student. He asks good questions. It takes time to answer them properly."

"I'm not criticizing you." Kuroo sets his cup down and leans forward, elbows on the table. "I'm just trying to understand what this is. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been spending a significant amount of your free time coaching someone who graduated two years ago and isn't even playing volleyball professionally anymore."

"He still loves the game. Just because he's not playing professionally doesn't mean he can't improve."

"That's not what I'm asking." Kuroo's gaze is steady, unflinching. "I'm asking why you're doing this. What you're getting out of it."

Yaku opens his mouth to say nothing, I'm just helping a former teammate, but the words stick in his throat. Because that's not true. He is getting something out of this. He looks forward to Thursday calls with an intensity that borders on embarrassing. He rearranges his schedule to make sure he's available. He thinks about Lev more than he thinks about most of his actual teammates.

"He's a good kid," Yaku says finally, and even to his own ears it sounds weak. "He deserves good coaching."

"He has coaches. He had coaches at Nekoma, and I'm sure he could find coaches now if he wanted them." Kuroo pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer. "But he asked you. And you said yes. Why?"

"Because—" Yaku stops, frustrated. "Because he asked. Because he was earnest about it. Because I thought I could help."

"And have you? Helped, I mean?"

"Yeah. He's gotten a lot better. His reading has improved, his positioning is cleaner, he's starting to anticipate instead of just react—" Yaku realizes he's rambling and cuts himself off. "Yes. I've helped."

"Good. That's good." Kuroo's watching him with that same knowing expression, and Yaku wants to throw something at him. "So now that you've helped him, are you going to stop?"

The question hits Yaku like a physical blow. Stop the calls? Stop talking to Lev every Thursday? The thought makes something in his chest constrict painfully.

"I don't know," he says, and it comes out quieter than he intended. "I haven't thought about it."

"Liar." Kuroo's voice is gentle, but the word still stings. "You've thought about it. You've thought about it a lot. And the fact that you don't want to stop tells me everything I need to know."

"It doesn't tell you anything—"

"It tells me this isn't just about volleyball." Kuroo picks up his coffee again, takes another sip. "When was the last time you rearranged your schedule for someone who wasn't family or a teammate?"

Yaku wants to argue, but he can't. Because Kuroo's right. Three weeks ago, Yaku had turned down drinks with his teammates because it conflicted with his call with Lev. Two weeks ago, he'd woken up at 5 AM to watch a match Lev had recommended, just so they'd have something to discuss. Last week, he'd spent two hours putting together a detailed breakdown of receiving techniques, complete with diagrams and video timestamps, because Lev had mentioned struggling with a specific type of serve.

"That's different," Yaku says, but his voice lacks conviction.

"How?"

"Because—" Yaku stops. Tries again. "Because Lev actually listens. He takes the feedback seriously. He works hard. It's not a waste of time."

"I'm not saying it's a waste of time. I'm saying it's more than mentoring." Kuroo sets his cup down with a soft clink. "Yaku, I've known you for almost ten years. I've seen you coach people. I've seen you mentor younger players. And I've never—never—seen you invest this much time and energy into someone unless you cared about them. Really cared about them."

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and undeniable.

Yaku wants to argue. Wants to say that Kuroo's reading too much into this, that it's just coaching, that he'd do the same for anyone who showed this much dedication. But the lies won't come. Because deep down, in a place he's been very carefully not examining, Yaku knows Kuroo's right.

"It's not like that," he says finally, but even he can hear how weak it sounds.

"Then what is it like?"

Yaku doesn't have an answer. Or rather, he has an answer, but saying it out loud feels like stepping off a cliff into empty air.

He thinks about the way Lev's face lights up when he successfully executes a technique they've been working on. The way Lev laughs—bright and unguarded and completely genuine—when Yaku makes a dry comment about his form. The way Lev listens with his whole body, leaning toward the camera like he's afraid of missing a single word. The way Lev texts him between calls, not about volleyball but about his day, his life, the random thoughts that cross his mind.

He thinks about how Thursday has become the day he looks forward to most. How he finds himself mentally cataloging things to tell Lev throughout the week. How he's started watching matches differently, noticing things he thinks Lev would find interesting, saving clips to share during their next call.

He thinks about last Thursday, when Lev had been exhausted from a long photoshoot but had still shown up for their call, still engaged fully, still asked thoughtful questions. And when Yaku had suggested they cut it short so Lev could rest, Lev had said, No, please. This is the best part of my week. I don't want to miss it.

The best part of his week.

Yaku had felt something crack open in his chest when Lev said that. Something he'd been keeping carefully locked away.

"I don't know what it is," Yaku says quietly, and it's the most honest thing he's said all conversation. "I just know that I don't want to stop."

Kuroo's expression softens. "That's a start."

"A start to what?"

"To being honest with yourself." Kuroo leans back in his chair. "Look, I'm not trying to make this harder than it needs to be. I'm just trying to get you to admit what's already obvious to everyone else."

"And what's that?"

"That you have feelings for Lev. Real feelings. The kind that don't go away just because you're in different countries or living different lives." Kuroo pauses. "The kind that make you rearrange your entire schedule just to talk to him for a few hours every week."

Yaku's first instinct is to deny it. To say that Kuroo's wrong, that he's reading too much into a simple mentoring relationship, that feelings don't factor into this at all.

But he can't. Because the moment Kuroo says it out loud, Yaku realizes it's true.

He has feelings for Lev. Has had them for a while now, if he's being honest. Maybe since that first night in the gym, when Lev looked at him with such earnest trust and asked will you teach me? Maybe since the first Thursday call, when Lev showed up exactly on time with notes prepared and questions ready. Maybe since the moment Lev turned down a job in Paris because it conflicted with their call, and Yaku realized that this mattered to Lev as much as it mattered to him.

The realization should be terrifying. It should send him into a panic, make him want to end the calls immediately, put distance between himself and this feeling before it gets any worse.

But instead, all Yaku feels is a strange sense of relief. Like he's been carrying something heavy for months and has finally been given permission to set it down.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. Maybe I do. Have feelings. For Lev."

Kuroo's smile is gentle, knowing. "Yeah. I know."

"But it doesn't matter." Yaku picks up his coffee, realizes it's gone cold, sets it back down. "He's in Moscow. I'm in Ekaterinburg. We see each other maybe once a year, if that. Having feelings doesn't change the logistics."

"Doesn't it?" Kuroo tilts his head. "You're already making it work. You talk every week. You're invested in his life. You care about what he's doing, how he's feeling. That's not nothing, Yaku. That's actually pretty significant."

"It's phone calls. That's not a relationship."

"Why not?" Kuroo's voice is challenging now. "Who says a relationship has to look a certain way? You're showing up for each other. You're making time for each other. You're building something together, even if it's not traditional. That sounds like a relationship to me."

Yaku wants to argue, but he can't find the words. Because Kuroo's right. Again. They are building something. Have been building it for months now, brick by careful brick, call by call.

"I don't know how to do this," Yaku admits, and his voice is smaller than he'd like. "I don't know how to want someone when the distance makes it impossible."

"You're already doing it." Kuroo's voice is gentle. "You're already wanting him. You're already making it work, in your own way. You're just scared to call it what it is."

"Of course I'm scared." The words come out sharper than Yaku intended. "Do you know what it's like? To care about someone you can't actually be with? To look forward to seeing their face on a screen because that's the closest you can get? To rearrange your entire life around two hours a week because that's all you have?"

"No," Kuroo says quietly. "I don't. But I know what it's like to watch someone I care about deny themselves happiness because they're afraid of getting hurt."

Yaku looks away, stares at the table. His coffee cup. The napkin he's been unconsciously shredding into tiny pieces.

"What if I tell him and it ruins everything?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if he does feel the same way but the distance is too much and we try and it falls apart and then I lose even the calls? I can't—" His voice cracks. "I can't lose the calls, Kuroo. They're too important."

"Hey." Kuroo reaches across the table, puts his hand over Yaku's. "I get it. I do. But you're catastrophizing. You're imagining the worst possible outcome and treating it like it's inevitable."

"Isn't it?" Yaku looks up, and he knows his expression is raw, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "We're in different countries. We have different careers. We barely see each other in person. How is this supposed to work?"

"I don't know," Kuroo says honestly. "But I know that you're already making it work. You're already prioritizing him. You're already showing up. The only thing that's missing is honesty."

"Honesty about what?"

"About what this is. About what you want it to be." Kuroo squeezes his hand once, then lets go. "You don't have to have all the answers, Yaku. You don't have to know exactly how this is going to work. You just have to be honest about how you feel. The rest, you can figure out together."

Yaku is quiet for a long moment. He thinks about Lev's smile. The way Lev's voice gets soft when he's tired but still wants to keep talking. The way Lev remembers tiny details from conversations weeks ago. The way Lev makes Yaku want to be better—not just at volleyball, but at everything.

He thinks about the way his chest feels lighter on Thursdays. The way he catches himself smiling at nothing when he's thinking about something Lev said. The way he's started measuring his weeks not by matches or practices but by the time between calls.

He thinks about what it would mean to actually say it out loud. To tell Lev I have feelings for you. I look forward to our calls more than anything else in my week. You make me happy in a way I didn't know I could be happy.

The thought is terrifying.

But it's also exhilarating.

"I don't know if I can do this," Yaku says quietly.

"Yes, you can." Kuroo's voice is certain. "You're one of the bravest people I know, Yaku. You moved to a foreign country to pursue your dreams. You play a position that requires throwing your body at the ground over and over again. You're not afraid of hard things. You're just afraid of this specific hard thing."

"Because this matters more." The admission feels like pulling out a splinter—painful but necessary. "Volleyball, I can handle failing at. But this? If I fail at this, if I lose Lev because I couldn't figure out how to make it work—"

"You won't lose him." Kuroo's voice is firm. "Yaku, I've seen the way Lev talks about you. I've seen the way he lights up when your name comes up. That kid is gone for you. Completely gone. The only question is whether you're brave enough to meet him halfway."

Yaku's throat is tight. "What if halfway isn't enough?"

"Then you figure out how to go further." Kuroo picks up his coffee, realizes it's also cold, makes a face. "Look, I'm not saying this is going to be easy. Long distance is hard. Different countries is harder. But you're already doing the hard part. You're already showing up every week. You're already making him a priority. The only thing you're not doing is admitting it."

The café door opens, and Yaku glances up automatically. His heart does a complicated thing when he sees Kenma walking in, because of course Kuroo invited Kenma. Of course this is an intervention.

Kenma spots them immediately and heads over, sliding into the seat next to Kuroo without preamble. He's wearing a hoodie despite the warm weather, and his hair is pulled back in a small ponytail.

"You told him yet?" Kenma asks Kuroo, not bothering with a greeting.

"Told me what?" Yaku looks between them, suspicious.

"That you're in love with Lev," Kenma says, like he's commenting on the weather. "And that everyone knows except apparently you."

Yaku feels his face heat. "I'm not—"

"You are." Kenma pulls out his phone, starts scrolling. "You rearranged your entire training schedule to make sure you're free Thursday evenings. You turned down team drinks three times in the last month because they conflicted with your calls. You spent two hours last week explaining receiving techniques to someone who doesn't even play volleyball professionally anymore." He looks up, and his expression is matter-of-fact. "That's not mentoring. That's caring about someone."

"Kenma—"

"I'm not judging." Kenma's voice is calm, analytical. "I'm just stating facts. You care about Lev. Lev cares about you. The only reason you're not together is because you're both too scared to admit it."

"We're in different countries—"

"So?" Kenma shrugs. "Kuroo and I were in different cities for two years. We made it work. It's not about distance. It's about whether you want it enough to try."

Yaku looks at Kuroo, who's watching him with a gentle expression. Then at Kenma, who's gone back to his phone but is clearly still listening.

"Do you want it enough to try?" Kuroo asks quietly.

And that's the question, isn't it? Not whether it's practical, or logical, or easy. But whether Yaku wants it. Whether he wants Lev. Whether he's willing to be vulnerable and honest and risk getting hurt for the chance at something real.

He thinks about Thursday calls. About Lev's laugh. About the way Lev makes him feel seen in a way no one else does. About how the best part of his week is two hours on a screen with someone who's 1,800 kilometers away.

He thinks about what it would be like to stop pretending. To actually acknowledge what this is. To tell Lev the truth and see what happens.

The thought is terrifying.

But the thought of not trying—of continuing to pretend this is just mentoring, just friendship, just anything other than what it actually is—is worse.

"Yeah," Yaku says quietly. "Yeah, I want it enough to try."

Kuroo's smile is bright and genuine. "Good. That's good."

"But I don't know how to tell him." Yaku runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "What am I supposed to say? 'Hey Lev, I know we've been doing these calls for months and I've been pretending it's just coaching, but actually I have feelings for you and I don't know what to do about it'?"

"That's not bad, actually," Kenma says without looking up from his phone.

"I'm not saying that."

"Why not?" Kuroo leans forward. "It's honest. It's direct. It's very you."

"It's also terrifying."

"Most worthwhile things are." Kuroo's voice is gentle. "But Yaku, you don't have to have a perfect speech prepared. You don't have to know exactly what you're going to say. You just have to be honest. Tell him how you feel. Tell him what you want. Let him decide how he wants to respond."

"And if he doesn't feel the same way?"

"Then at least you'll know." Kenma finally looks up from his phone. "But he does. Feel the same way, I mean. It's obvious."

"How is it obvious?"

"Because he turned down a job in Paris to talk to you about volleyball." Kenma's expression is flat, like this should be self-evident. "No one does that unless they're in love with you."

Yaku's chest does something complicated. "He said it was because the timing was bad—"

"The timing is always bad if you're looking for an excuse." Kenma goes back to his phone. "He chose you over money and career advancement. That's not nothing."

Yaku sits with that for a moment. Lev chose him. Has been choosing him, week after week, call after call. Showing up on time, doing the homework, engaging fully even when he's exhausted or busy or has a hundred other things he could be doing.

Moscow — Six Weeks After the Confession

The drive from Sheremetyevo Airport to Yaku's apartment takes forty-five minutes in light traffic, and Yaku spends the first ten of them acutely aware of every single breath he takes.

Lev is in his car. Actually, physically in his car. Sitting in the passenger seat with his long legs folded awkwardly because Yaku's sedan wasn't designed for someone who's 194 centimeters tall. His suitcase is in the trunk. His presence fills the entire vehicle—the faint scent of his cologne, the sound of his breathing, the way he keeps looking out the window and then back at Yaku like he can't quite believe this is real.

Yaku can't quite believe it either.

"It's colder than I expected," Lev says, and his voice sounds different in person. Richer, somehow. More textured than it ever did through laptop speakers. "I knew Moscow would be cold, but this is—"

"It's November," Yaku says, and his own voice sounds strange to his ears. Too careful. Too measured. "It gets worse in January."

"I brought a good coat." Lev shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position for his legs. "Alisa made me pack three sweaters. She said you'd judge me if I showed up unprepared for Russian winter."

"I wouldn't judge you." Yaku glances at him, then back at the road. "I'd just make you borrow my clothes, and they wouldn't fit."

Lev laughs, and the sound fills the car, warm and familiar and completely overwhelming. Yaku's heard that laugh a thousand times through video calls, but hearing it in person is different. It's three-dimensional. Real. It makes something in Yaku's chest ache.

They fall into silence again, and Yaku focuses on driving. The highway stretches ahead of them, lined with snow that's already turned gray from exhaust and salt. The sky is overcast, threatening more snow. It's not a particularly beautiful day, but Lev keeps looking out the window like he's trying to memorize everything.

"What's that building?" Lev asks, pointing at a Soviet-era apartment complex.

"Just apartments. Most of the city looks like that outside the center."

"And that?"

"Shopping center. It's new. Wasn't there when I first moved here."

"How long have you been in Moscow now?"

"Three years. Almost four." Yaku changes lanes, navigating around a slow-moving truck. "I was in Ekaterinburg before this, but the team relocated. Better facilities here, bigger budget."

"Do you like it? Moscow, I mean."

Yaku considers this. He's never really thought about whether he likes Moscow. It's just where he lives. Where he works. Where he's built a life that doesn't include most of the people he cares about.

"It's fine," he says finally. "The volleyball is good. The city is... big. Busy. There's always something happening."

"But do you like it?" Lev's voice is gentle, probing. "Like, if you could live anywhere, would you choose here?"

The question catches Yaku off guard. He's spent three years not asking himself that question, because asking it means acknowledging that he might want something different. Something more.

"I don't know," he admits. "I haven't really thought about it."

Lev is quiet for a moment, and when Yaku glances at him, Lev's watching him with an expression that's too perceptive. Too knowing.

"You should think about it," Lev says softly. "What you want, I mean. Not just what makes sense or what's practical. What you actually want."

Yaku's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I want to play volleyball. That's what I'm doing here."

"I know. But is that all you want?"

The question hangs in the air between them, heavy and impossible to ignore. Yaku knows what Lev's really asking. Knows what he's really saying. But he's not ready to answer that yet. Not when Lev's only been in the country for an hour. Not when they're still figuring out how to exist in the same physical space.

"We're almost there," Yaku says instead, and it's a deflection and they both know it.

Lev doesn't push. He just nods and goes back to looking out the window.

Yaku's apartment is in a relatively new building in the Khamovniki District, close enough to the practice facility that he can walk when the weather's decent. It's a small one-bedroom on the eighth floor, nothing fancy, but it's clean and organized and entirely his. He's never brought anyone here before. Never wanted to.

But now Lev is here, following him up the stairs because the elevator is broken again, and Yaku is acutely aware of how small his life must seem. How contained. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, a living room dominated by a couch and a TV he mostly uses for watching match footage.

"This is it," Yaku says, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He toes off his shoes automatically, and Lev follows suit, leaving his sneakers neatly by the door.

Lev steps into the apartment and just... stops. Stands there in the entryway, looking around with an expression Yaku can't quite read.

"This is where you do the calls," Lev says quietly, and it's not a question.

"Yeah. Usually from the couch." Yaku sets his keys on the small table by the door, suddenly self-conscious. "It's not much, but—"

"It's perfect." Lev's voice is soft, almost reverent. He walks slowly into the living room, and Yaku watches him take it all in—the couch where Yaku sits every Thursday, the coffee table with its neat stack of volleyball magazines, the bookshelf with its mix of Russian and Japanese books, the window that looks out over the street below.

Lev stops in front of the couch and reaches out to touch the back of it, his fingers trailing over the fabric. "I've seen this couch so many times on my screen," he says. "But it's different seeing it in person. Knowing this is where you sit. Where you've been sitting every Thursday for two years."

Yaku's throat is tight. "It's just a couch."

"It's not just a couch." Lev turns to look at him, and his expression is open, vulnerable. "It's where we've been building this. Whatever this is. It's where you've been showing up for me, week after week, even when you didn't have to."

"Lev—"

"Can I sit on it?" Lev asks, and there's something almost shy in his voice. "I know that's weird, but I just—I want to see what it's like. From your perspective."

Yaku nods, not trusting his voice.

Lev sits down on the couch, in the exact spot where Yaku always sits, and looks around the room from that angle. His expression is thoughtful, contemplative. "This is what you see during our calls. This view."

"Yeah." Yaku moves to sit next to him, leaving a careful space between them. Not too close, but not too far. "That's the angle."

They sit in silence for a moment, and Yaku is overwhelmingly aware of Lev's presence beside him. The warmth of his body. The sound of his breathing. The way his knee is just barely not touching Yaku's.

"It's strange," Lev says quietly. "Being here. With you. In person."

"Strange bad or strange good?"

"Strange good. Definitely good." Lev turns to look at him, and they're close enough now that Yaku can see the exact shade of green in Lev's eyes. Can count the faint freckles across his nose. "But also a little scary."

"Why scary?"

"Because what if it's different in person? What if the thing we've been building only works through screens?" Lev's voice is barely above a whisper. "What if I'm disappointing when I'm not just a face on your laptop?"

Yaku's chest aches. "You're not disappointing."

"You don't know that yet. I've only been here an hour."

"I know." Yaku reaches out, slowly, giving Lev time to pull away if he wants to. When Lev doesn't move, Yaku takes his hand. Lev's fingers are cold from the November air, and Yaku wraps both hands around them, trying to warm them up. "I know because you're the same person you've always been. The person who shows up on time. Who does the homework. Who turned down a job in Paris because our call mattered more."

Lev's breath catches. "Yaku-san—"

"Just Yaku. We're past the formalities, don't you think?"

"Yaku," Lev says, testing it out. His voice is soft, almost wondering. "Okay. Yaku."

They sit like that for a long moment, hands clasped, neither of them quite sure what to do next. The apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic outside and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" Yaku asks finally, because he needs to do something with his hands, needs to move before he does something stupid like kiss Lev right here on this couch where they've spent two years talking through screens.

"A little. The airplane food was terrible."

"It always is." Yaku stands, reluctantly letting go of Lev's hand. "I'll make something. Nothing fancy—I'm not a great cook. But I can manage."

"Can I help?"

"You can watch. The kitchen's too small for two people."

Lev follows him into the kitchen anyway, leaning against the doorframe while Yaku pulls ingredients from the refrigerator. It's strange, having someone in his space like this. Yaku's lived alone for three years, and he's gotten used to the solitude. Used to the quiet. But having Lev here doesn't feel intrusive. It feels... right. Like something that was missing has finally clicked into place.

"You're very organized," Lev observes, watching Yaku move efficiently around the small kitchen. "Everything has a place."

"It's easier that way. Less time wasted looking for things."

"Alisa says I'm a disaster in the kitchen. I leave things everywhere."

"I know. I've seen your apartment through the camera." Yaku pulls out a cutting board, starts chopping vegetables. "Your sister is a saint for putting up with you."

"She is." Lev's voice is warm with affection. "She was really excited when I told her I was coming here. She said it was about time."

"About time for what?"

"For me to stop pining and actually do something about it."

Yaku's knife stills for a moment. "You told her? About us?"

"Of course I told her. She's my sister. She knows everything." Lev pauses. "Is that okay? That I told her?"

"Yeah. It's okay." Yaku resumes chopping, trying to keep his voice casual. "Kuroo knows too. And Kenma. They staged an intervention."

"An intervention?"

"They told me I was being an idiot for not admitting how I felt about you." Yaku scrapes the vegetables into a pan, adds oil. "They were right."

"They usually are. Kuroo and Kenma, I mean. They're annoyingly perceptive."

"Yeah." Yaku stirs the vegetables, watching them sizzle. "They've known me too long. Can't hide anything from them."

Lev is quiet for a moment, and when Yaku glances at him, he's watching Yaku with an expression that's soft and fond and a little bit awed.

"What?" Yaku asks.

"Nothing. Just... I like watching you cook. You're very focused. Very precise."

"It's just vegetables."

"I know. But you do it the same way you do everything else. With intention. Like it matters."

Yaku's face feels warm. "Everything matters if you're going to do it. Might as well do it right."

"See? That's what I mean." Lev's smile is gentle. "You care about things. Even small things. It's one of the things I—" He stops, and Yaku can see him choosing his words carefully. "It's one of the things I really like about you."

Yaku focuses very hard on the vegetables, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing. "You're easy to please."

"I'm not. I'm actually pretty picky. Ask Alisa." Lev shifts against the doorframe. "But with you, it's different. Everything you do feels... I don't know. Genuine. Like you mean it."

"I do mean it." Yaku adds rice to the pan, stirs it in with the vegetables. "I wouldn't do it otherwise."

They fall into comfortable silence while Yaku finishes cooking. It's nothing elaborate—just fried rice with vegetables and egg, simple and filling. But when he plates it and hands Lev a bowl, Lev accepts it like it's something precious.

They eat on the couch, because Yaku doesn't have a dining table. Lev sits in his usual spot, and Yaku sits next to him, and it feels surreal and perfect and terrifying all at once.

"This is good," Lev says around a mouthful of rice. "Really good."

"It's basic."

"It's perfect." Lev takes another bite, and Yaku watches him eat, feeling something warm settle in his chest.

This is what it could be like, he thinks. This easy domesticity. Cooking for someone. Eating together on the couch. Existing in the same space without needing to fill every silence with words.

It's everything he didn't know he wanted.

After dinner, they wash dishes together despite Yaku's protests that the kitchen is too small. Lev washes, Yaku dries, and they develop a rhythm that feels practiced even though it's their first time. When they're done, Lev yawns hugely, and Yaku realizes with a start that it's past midnight Moscow time, which means it's even later for Lev's internal clock.

"You should sleep," Yaku says. "You must be exhausted."

"I am." Lev yawns again. "But I don't want to. I feel like if I sleep, I'll wake up and this will have been a dream."

"It's not a dream. You're really here."

"I know. But it feels like one." Lev looks around the apartment. "Where should I...?"

"You can take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Yaku, no. This is your apartment. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."

"You're a guest—"

"I'm not a guest. I'm—" Lev stops, and something shifts in his expression. "What am I, Yaku? To you?"

The question hangs in the air between them, heavy and unavoidable.

Yaku could deflect. Could say you're a friend or you're a former teammate or any number of safe, easy answers. But they're past that now. They've been past that for a while.

"You're someone I care about," Yaku says quietly. "Someone I want here. Someone I've been waiting for."

Lev's breath catches. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can share the bed. If that's okay. I don't—I'm not assuming anything. I just mean, we're both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird."

Yaku's heart is racing. "Okay. Yeah. We can do that."

The bed is a double, which means it's not huge, but it's big enough for two people if they don't mind being close. Yaku lends Lev a t-shirt and sweatpants to sleep in, and they take turns in the bathroom, brushing teeth and washing faces with a careful politeness that feels absurd given everything they've already shared.

When they finally climb into bed, there's a moment of awkwardness as they figure out positioning. Lev ends up on his back, and Yaku ends up on his side facing away, and there's a careful space between them that neither of them crosses.

"Goodnight, Yaku," Lev says softly.

"Goodnight."

Yaku closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but he's acutely aware of every sound Lev makes. Every breath. Every small shift of position. He can feel the warmth of Lev's body even across the space between them, and it's overwhelming and comforting all at once.

He's almost asleep when he feels Lev move. Feels the bed shift as Lev turns onto his side. Feels the careful, tentative touch of Lev's hand against his back.

"Is this okay?" Lev whispers.

Yaku's throat is tight. "Yeah. It's okay."

Lev's hand stays there, warm and steady against Yaku's back, and Yaku feels something in him relax. Something that's been tense for two years finally letting go.

"I'm really glad I'm here," Lev says quietly. "I know it's only been a few hours, but I'm already glad."

"Me too," Yaku admits. "I'm glad you're here too."

They fall asleep like that—not quite touching, but close enough. Close enough that Yaku can feel Lev's presence like a physical thing. Close enough that when he finally drifts off, his last thought is that this feels right.

This feels like home.

Maybe Kenma's right. Maybe it is obvious.

Maybe Yaku's just been too scared to see it.

"Okay," he says finally. "Okay. I'll think about it."

"Don't think too long," Kuroo says. "Life's short. And you've already wasted enough time pretending you don't care about him."

"I haven't been pretending—"

"You have." Kuroo's voice is gentle but firm. "You've been pretending this is just mentoring. Just friendship. Just anything other than what it actually is. And I get it. I get why. But Yaku, you deserve to be happy. And Lev makes you happy. So stop pretending and do something about it."

Yaku wants to argue. Wants to list all the reasons why this is complicated, why the distance makes it impossible, why admitting his feelings is a terrible idea.

But he can't. Because deep down, he knows Kuroo's right.

He's been pretending. Hiding behind the excuse of mentoring, of friendship, of anything that lets him keep Lev in his life without having to risk vulnerability. But the truth is, he's already vulnerable. He's already invested. He's already rearranged his entire life around someone who lives 1,800 kilometers away.

The only thing he hasn't done is admit it.

"I'll think about it," he says again, and this time it sounds less like a deflection and more like a promise.

Kuroo seems to hear the difference, because his smile softens. "Good. That's all I'm asking."

They sit in silence for a moment, and then Kenma says, without looking up from his phone, "Your next call is Thursday, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just wondering how long you're going to wait before you tell him." Kenma's voice is casual, but there's a knowing edge to it. "My bet is you'll do it within the next two calls. Kuroo thinks you'll wait a month."

"We're not betting on this—"

"We already did," Kuroo says cheerfully. "I've got five thousand yen on you waiting until after the alumni match. Kenma thinks you'll crack before then."

"I hate both of you."

"No, you don't." Kuroo's grin is infectious. "You love us. Just like you love Lev. You're just bad at admitting it."

Yaku wants to argue, but he can't. Because Kuroo's right. Again.

He does love Lev. Has loved him for a while now, if he's being honest with himself. Maybe not in the dramatic, all-consuming way that movies portray, but in the quiet, steady way that matters more. The way that makes him want to be better. The way that makes Thursday the best day of his week. The way that makes him smile at his phone like an idiot when Lev sends him a random text about his day.

The realization settles over him like a weight and a relief all at once.

He's in love with Lev Haiba.

And he has no idea what to do about it.

But maybe—just maybe—that's okay. Maybe he doesn't need to have all the answers right now. Maybe he just needs to be honest. To tell Lev the truth and see what happens.

The thought is still terrifying.

But it's also, for the first time, something that feels possible.

Moscow — The Night Before

It's their last night together, and neither of them wants to acknowledge it.

They've spent the evening doing nothing in particular—cooking dinner together (Lev made a mess of the kitchen trying to recreate a recipe Alisa taught him), watching a movie neither of them paid attention to, existing in the same space with the careful awareness that tomorrow this ends. Tomorrow Lev gets on a plane and Moscow becomes just a city again instead of the place where they finally figured out what they are to each other.

Now it's past midnight, and they're lying in bed in the dark. Yaku can hear the distant sound of traffic outside, the hum of the heating system, Lev's breathing beside him. Lev's on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Yaku's on his side facing him, close enough to touch but not quite touching.

"I don't want to leave," Lev says quietly.

"I know."

"I mean, I knew I wouldn't want to. But I didn't know it would feel like this." Lev's voice is soft, almost wondering. "Like I'm leaving part of myself behind."

Yaku's chest aches. "You're not leaving anything behind. You're just... going back to your life. Your work. Alisa."

"But you're here." Lev turns his head to look at him, and even in the darkness Yaku can see the emotion in his expression. "And I don't know how to go back to just Thursday calls after this. After having you here, in person, every day. After waking up next to you and cooking with you and just... existing with you."

"We'll figure it out." Yaku reaches out, finds Lev's hand, threads their fingers together. "We've been making it work for two years. This doesn't change that."

"It changes everything." Lev's grip tightens. "Before, I could pretend the calls were enough. That seeing you once a year at alumni matches was enough. But now I know what it's like to have you. Really have you. And going back to screens and time zones and distance—Yaku, I don't know if I can do it."

"You can. We both can." Yaku's voice is firmer than he feels. "Because the alternative is not having this at all. And I'm not willing to give this up just because it's hard."

Lev is quiet for a long moment. Then: "What are we doing? Really?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what is this? What are we building toward?" Lev shifts onto his side so they're facing each other, still holding hands between them. "Because if this is just... if we're just going to keep doing long distance forever, seeing each other a few times a year, I need to know. I need to know if there's an end point. If we're working toward something."

Yaku's throat is tight. He hasn't let himself think about this—about what comes after, about how this actually works long-term. He's been so focused on just getting through each day, each call, each moment of missing Lev, that he hasn't considered the bigger picture.

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't have a plan. I just know that I want you in my life. However that looks."

"That's not enough." Lev's voice is gentle but firm. "I need more than that, Yaku. I need to know that this is going somewhere. That we're not just... treading water."

"What do you want me to say?" Yaku can hear the frustration in his own voice. "That I'll quit volleyball and move to Moscow? That you'll give up modeling and come to Ekaterinburg? We both have careers. We both have lives. I can't just—"

"I'm not asking you to give up anything." Lev interrupts, and his voice is calm, patient. "I'm just asking you to think about the future. About what you want. Not what's practical or what makes sense, but what you actually want."

"I want you." The words come out before Yaku can stop them, raw and honest. "I want this. I want to wake up next to you every morning and cook terrible dinners together and watch you make a mess of my organized kitchen. I want all of it. But I don't know how to make that work when we live in different cities and have different lives."

"Then we figure it out." Lev's voice is soft. "Together. We don't have to have all the answers right now. We just have to want it enough to try."

"I do want it. I want it so much it scares me."

"Good." Lev pulls their joined hands up to his chest, holds them there. "Because I want it too. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make this work. Even if it means more distance. Even if it means waiting. As long as I know we're working toward something."

"We are." Yaku shifts closer, until their foreheads are almost touching. "I don't know what it looks like yet. But we're working toward being together. Really together. Not just calls and visits, but... a life. Together."

"Yeah?" Lev's voice is hopeful, vulnerable.

"Yeah." Yaku closes the distance between them, presses his forehead against Lev's. "I love you. I don't say it enough, but I do. And I'm going to figure out how to make this work. How to build a life with you. I just need time."

"I can give you time." Lev's breath is warm against Yaku's face. "I've been waiting for you for years. I can wait a little longer."

They lie like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped between them. The apartment is quiet except for their breathing, the distant sounds of the city outside. Yaku tries to memorize this moment—the weight of Lev beside him, the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"I'm going to miss you," Lev whispers. "So much."

"I'm going to miss you too."

"Promise me something."

"What?"

"Promise me we'll still do Thursday calls. Even after this. Even when it's hard." Lev's voice is almost pleading. "I need to know that's still ours. That we still have that."

"I promise." Yaku pulls back just enough to look at Lev's face. "Thursday calls are sacred. They always have been. That's not changing."

"Okay." Lev's smile is small but genuine. "Okay. That helps."

They fall asleep like that, tangled together, holding onto each other like they can somehow make morning come slower if they just hold tight enough.

Moscow — The Last Morning

Yaku wakes before the alarm, and for a moment he just lies there, listening to Lev breathe. The sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold, and Lev is still asleep beside him, face peaceful and unguarded.

This is the last time. The last morning waking up together. The last time Yaku will see Lev's sleep-soft face first thing in the morning, at least for a while.

The thought makes his chest ache.

He doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to start the day, because starting the day means getting closer to the airport, to security, to goodbye. But the alarm is going to go off in ten minutes, and they need to leave in an hour, and time doesn't stop just because Yaku wants it to.

Carefully, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from Lev's forehead. Lev stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment he looks confused. Then his gaze focuses on Yaku, and his expression softens.

"Morning," Lev says, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning."

"What time is it?"

"Almost seven. We need to leave by eight."

Lev's face falls. "Right. The airport."

They lie there for another moment, neither of them wanting to move. Then Lev sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I should shower. Pack."

"Yeah."

But neither of them moves. They just sit there on the bed, the morning light making everything feel surreal and temporary.

"Yaku," Lev says quietly. "Last night, when I said I didn't know if I could do this—the distance, the calls—I didn't mean it. I can do it. I will do it. I just... I needed to say it out loud. How hard it is."

"I know." Yaku reaches for his hand. "It's hard for me too. But we'll make it work."

"Yeah. We will." Lev squeezes his hand once, then stands. "Okay. Shower. Then we go."

The next hour passes too quickly. Lev showers while Yaku makes coffee. They pack Lev's suitcase together, folding clothes in careful silence. Yaku finds one of his own shirts mixed in with Lev's things—Lev must have borrowed it during the week—and Lev asks quietly if he can keep it. Yaku nods, throat too tight to speak.

The drive to the airport is quiet. Yaku navigates the morning traffic while Lev stares out the window, watching Moscow pass by. Every few minutes, one of them will say something—a comment about the weather, a reminder to text when he lands—but mostly they're silent, both trying to make the drive last longer than it actually does.

When they pull into the airport parking garage, Yaku turns off the engine and they just sit there for a moment.

"We don't have to go in yet," Yaku says. "Your flight's not for two hours."

"We should go in. Get through security. Make sure there's no issues." But Lev doesn't move to open the door.

"Yeah. We should."

They sit there for another five minutes before Lev finally opens his door.

Sheremetyevo Airport — Departure

The airport is crowded with weekend travelers. Yaku helps Lev check his bag, and they go through the motions mechanically—passport, boarding pass, baggage tag. The airline agent is cheerful and efficient, and Yaku wants to tell her to slow down, to take her time, to give them a few more minutes.

But she doesn't. She hands Lev his boarding pass with a smile and wishes him a good flight, and then they're walking toward security.

They stop just before the security checkpoint. This is it. This is where Yaku has to let him go.

"I guess this is it," Lev says, and his voice is carefully controlled.

"Yeah."

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, and Yaku is acutely aware of all the people around them—travelers rushing past, families saying goodbye, the constant announcements over the PA system. This should be private. This moment should be just theirs.

But it's not. It's happening in the middle of a crowded airport, with strangers everywhere and time running out.

"Thank you," Lev says quietly. "For this week. For letting me come here. For... everything."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I do. Because you didn't have to do any of this. You didn't have to let me into your life like this. Into your home. But you did, and it meant everything to me."

Yaku's throat is tight. "It meant everything to me too."

"I'm going to miss you." Lev's voice cracks slightly. "I know I keep saying it, but I am. So much."

"I'm going to miss you too." Yaku steps closer, not caring about the people around them anymore. "But we'll talk on Thursday. Same time."

"Same time," Lev agrees. "And I'll text you when I land."

"You better."

They're stalling now, both of them knowing it. The security line is moving, and Lev needs to go through, but neither of them wants to be the one to end this.

"Lev," Yaku says, and his voice is rough. "I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"I love you." The words come out easier than Yaku expected. "I know I said it last night, but I need to say it again. I love you. And this week—being with you, having you here—it wasn't just nice. It was everything I didn't know I needed. And I'm going to figure out how to make this work. How to build a life with you. I don't know how yet, but I will."

Lev's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I love you too. So much. And I believe you. I believe we'll figure it out."

"Good." Yaku pulls him into a hug, tight and desperate. Lev's arms come around him immediately, holding him just as tightly. They stand like that for a long moment, holding each other in the middle of the airport, and Yaku tries to memorize everything—the way Lev smells, the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart.

"You should go," Yaku says finally, even though every part of him wants to hold on longer. "You'll miss your flight."

"I don't care about the flight."

"Yes, you do. Alisa will kill you if you miss it."

Lev laughs, watery and broken. "Yeah. She will."

They pull apart slowly, reluctantly. Lev picks up his carry-on, and they stand there looking at each other.

"Thursday," Lev says.

"Thursday," Yaku confirms.

"I love you, Yaku-san."

"I love you too."

Lev turns toward security, takes a few steps, then turns back. "I'll see you soon. I promise. We'll figure out another visit."

"I know. Go. Before I change my mind and drag you back to the car."

Lev smiles, soft and sad and full of love. Then he turns and walks toward security.

Yaku watches him go. Watches him join the line, show his passport and boarding pass, place his bag on the conveyor belt. Watches him walk through the metal detector. And then, just before Lev disappears around the corner toward the gates, Lev turns back one more time.

Their eyes meet across the distance. Lev raises his hand in a small wave.

Yaku waves back.

And then Lev is gone.

After

Yaku stands there for a long time after Lev disappears, staring at the security checkpoint like Lev might somehow come back through it. Like this might have been a mistake, and Lev will realize it and turn around.

But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't.

Eventually, Yaku forces himself to turn away. To walk back through the airport, past the check-in counters and the coffee shops and the families greeting arriving passengers. To find his car in the parking garage and sit in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

The apartment is going to be empty when he gets back. Lev's presence will still be there—in the coffee mug he used this morning, in the towel hanging in the bathroom, in the faint scent of his cologne on the pillows—but Lev himself will be gone.

And Yaku will be alone again.

The thought should be devastating. And it is, a little. But it's also... okay. Because this isn't the same as before. Before, Yaku was alone and pretending he didn't care. Before, he was going through the motions of his life without letting anyone in.

But now he's alone and in love. Alone and building toward something. Alone but not lonely, because Lev is still there, just in a different city. Still showing up every Thursday. Still choosing Yaku, week after week.

They're going to be okay. The distance is hard, and saying goodbye hurts, but they're going to be okay.

Yaku pulls out his phone and sends a text: Drive safe. Text me when you're through security.

The response comes almost immediately: I'm through. Waiting at the gate. Miss you already.

Yaku's chest aches, but he's smiling as he types back: Miss you too. See you Thursday.

Thursday. I love you.

I love you too.

Yaku starts the car and drives home. The apartment will be empty, but it won't be lonely. Because he has Thursday to look forward to. And the Thursday after that. And all the Thursdays that come after, until they figure out how to make this permanent.

They're going to be okay.

He believes it.

Moscow — The Next Morning

Yaku wakes to sunlight filtering through the curtains and the immediate awareness that he's not alone.

Lev is still asleep beside him, sprawled on his back with one arm flung over his head and the other resting on his stomach. His face is peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, and Yaku allows himself a moment to just look. To take in the reality of Lev being here, in his bed, in his apartment, in his city.

It still doesn't feel entirely real.

Yaku slips out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. The apartment is cold—Moscow mornings in November are unforgiving—and he pads quietly to the kitchen, pulling on a sweatshirt as he goes. The clock on the microwave reads 7:23 AM. Early for a Saturday, but Yaku's body is trained to wake up at this time regardless of the day.

He starts coffee, the familiar ritual grounding him. Measures out the grounds, fills the water reservoir, presses the button and listens to the machine hiss and gurgle to life. While it brews, he opens the refrigerator and stares at its contents with a growing sense of inadequacy.

Eggs. Bread. Some leftover rice. A questionable-looking tomato. Half a block of cheese.

This is not an impressive breakfast spread for someone who flew eighteen hundred kilometers to see you.

Yaku is still contemplating his options when he hears movement from the bedroom. Footsteps, then the bathroom door closing. Water running. A few minutes later, Lev emerges, hair sleep-mussed and wearing the borrowed sweatpants that are slightly too short on him.

"Morning," Lev says, his voice rough with sleep. He's smiling, soft and genuine, and Yaku's chest does something complicated.

"Morning. Coffee?"

"Please." Lev moves into the kitchen, and the space immediately feels smaller with both of them in it. He leans against the counter, watching Yaku pour two mugs. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Best I've slept in weeks." Lev accepts the mug Yaku hands him, wrapping both hands around it. "Your bed is really comfortable. Or maybe it's just that I wasn't alone."

Yaku's face feels warm. He busies himself with opening the refrigerator again, as if the contents might have magically improved in the last three minutes. "I don't have much for breakfast. I usually just eat something quick before practice."

"That's okay. I can cook." Lev sets his coffee down and peers over Yaku's shoulder into the fridge. "Eggs, bread, cheese... I can make something with this."

"You can cook?"

"I'm not completely useless in the kitchen. Alisa made sure I learned the basics before she'd let me move in with her." Lev starts pulling ingredients out. "Scrambled eggs okay? I can make toast too."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." Lev's already cracking eggs into a bowl. "You cooked last night. It's my turn."

Yaku watches him work, feeling oddly displaced in his own kitchen. Lev moves with surprising efficiency, whisking eggs, buttering bread, finding the pan without having to ask where it is. He's humming something under his breath, completely unselfconscious, and Yaku realizes this is what it would be like. This domestic ease. Sharing space, sharing tasks, existing together in the mundane moments that make up a life.

"You're staring," Lev says without looking up from the stove.

"I'm supervising."

"Uh-huh." Lev glances at him, grinning. "How am I doing, supervisor?"

"You haven't burned anything yet. That's promising."

"High praise from Yaku Morisuke." Lev plates the eggs, adds the toast. "Where do you want to eat?"

"Couch is fine."

They settle on the couch with their plates, sitting close enough that their knees touch. The eggs are good—fluffy and seasoned properly—and Yaku tells him so.

"See? Not completely useless." Lev takes a bite of toast. "What's the plan for today?"

"I have practice at eleven. It's optional weekend training, but I usually go." Yaku pauses. "You could come. If you want. See where I play."

Lev's face lights up. "Really? You'd want me there?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe it would be weird. Having me watch."

"You've been watching me play for two years through a screen. This is just the same thing in person." Yaku takes another bite of eggs. "Besides, you should see what you've been giving me feedback on all this time."

"I'd love to come." Lev's smile is incandescent. "I've been curious about your facility. You've mentioned it so many times, but I've never been able to picture it properly."

They finish breakfast in comfortable silence, and Yaku finds himself relaxing into the rhythm of it. The quiet morning, the shared meal, the easy presence of someone who knows him well enough that conversation isn't necessary.

After they clean up—Lev washing, Yaku drying, the same rhythm they found last night—they get ready. Yaku lends Lev a jacket because Lev's coat is too thin for a Moscow November, and they head out into the cold.

The practice facility is a twenty-minute metro ride from Yaku's apartment. They stand close together on the train, Lev's height making him stand out among the other passengers. A few people glance at him—he's striking enough to draw attention even without the context of being a professional model—but Lev doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy looking out the window, watching Moscow pass by.

"It's different than I imagined," Lev says quietly.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Bigger, maybe. More... real." Lev glances at him. "When you talk about it on our calls, I picture it a certain way. But being here, seeing it—it's different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Just different. Not bad." Lev's hand finds Yaku's, fingers threading together. "Good different."

Yaku's throat is tight. He squeezes Lev's hand once, then lets go as their stop approaches.

The facility is impressive—a modern building with multiple courts, a weight room, physical therapy offices, and locker rooms that actually have functioning showers. Yaku leads Lev through the entrance, nodding to the security guard who waves them through.

"This is nice," Lev says, looking around with wide eyes. "Really nice."

"It's one of the better facilities in the league." Yaku guides him toward the main court. "The team invested a lot in infrastructure a few years ago. It shows."

The court is already occupied when they arrive. Yaku's teammates are warming up—passing drills, serving practice, the usual pre-training routine. Dmitri spots them first, his eyebrows rising when he sees Lev.

"Yaku! You brought a friend?" Dmitri jogs over, grinning. He's tall—not as tall as Lev, but close—with broad shoulders and an easy smile. "I didn't know you knew anyone in Moscow besides us."

"This is Lev." Yaku's voice is carefully neutral. "He's visiting from Tokyo. Lev, this is Dmitri. He plays opposite."

"Nice to meet you." Lev extends his hand, and Dmitri shakes it enthusiastically.

"Tokyo! Long way to come for a visit." Dmitri's eyes flick between them, and Yaku can see the moment he puts it together. "Ah. This is Lev. The one you talk to every Thursday."

Yaku's face heats. "I don't talk about him—"

"You don't have to. You're always in a better mood on Fridays." Dmitri claps Lev on the shoulder. "Good to finally meet you. Yaku's been—"

"Dmitri." Yaku's voice is flat. "Don't you have warm-ups to do?"

"I'm doing them. This is part of my warm-up. Social warm-up." But Dmitri's grinning as he jogs back to the court, and Yaku knows he's going to tell everyone.

"He seems nice," Lev says diplomatically.

"He's a menace." But there's no heat in it. Yaku leads Lev to the bleachers. "You can watch from here. Practice is usually about two hours."

"I'll be fine. I brought a book." Lev pulls a paperback from his jacket pocket. "But I'll probably just watch you instead."

"Don't get your hopes up. It's just drills."

"I like drills." Lev settles onto the bleacher, and his expression is soft. "I like watching you play."

Yaku's chest aches. "I'll try not to disappoint."

"You never do."

Practice is intense. Coach Volkov runs them through receiving drills, blocking sequences, serve-and-pass combinations. Yaku throws himself into it with his usual focus, but he's acutely aware of Lev watching from the bleachers. Every dive, every receive, every moment of communication with his teammates—he knows Lev is seeing all of it.

It should make him self-conscious. Instead, it makes him want to be better.

During a water break, Dmitri sidles up to him. "Your friend is very attentive."

"He likes volleyball."

"He likes you." Dmitri takes a drink. "He hasn't looked away from you once in the last hour."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm really not. Ask anyone." Dmitri gestures to their teammate Sergei, who's also watching Lev with undisguised curiosity. "We're all wondering who he is and why you've been hiding him."

"I haven't been hiding him. He lives in Tokyo."

"And he flew all the way here to watch you practice on a Saturday morning?" Dmitri's grin is knowing. "Yaku, come on. We're not stupid."

Yaku doesn't have a response to that. Because Dmitri's right. Lev did fly eighteen hundred kilometers to be here. Did wake up early on a Saturday to sit in a cold gym and watch Yaku run drills. Did look at Yaku like he was worth crossing continents for.

"It's complicated," Yaku says finally.

"It doesn't look complicated. It looks pretty straightforward to me." Dmitri claps him on the shoulder. "But hey, I'm happy for you. You've been different lately. Lighter. I'm guessing that's because of him."

Before Yaku can respond, Coach Volkov calls them back to the court.

The second half of practice is serve receive—Yaku's specialty. He positions himself in the back row, reading the servers, adjusting his positioning based on their approach and arm swing. It's instinctive now, the kind of reading he's been teaching Lev for years. He doesn't have to think about it anymore. His body just knows.

He receives cleanly, over and over, sending perfect passes to the setter. The rhythm is meditative. Comforting. This is what he's good at. This is what he's built his career on.

When he glances at the bleachers between rallies, Lev is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely absorbed. His book is forgotten beside him. He's watching Yaku with an intensity that makes Yaku's chest tight.

This is what Lev has been trying to learn. This reading, this positioning, this instinctive understanding of the game. And watching Yaku do it in person, seeing it in real-time instead of through video footage—Yaku wonders what Lev is thinking. If he's seeing something new. If it makes sense in a way it didn't before.

Practice ends at 1:15. Yaku towels off, changes quickly in the locker room while his teammates shower and joke around. When he emerges, Lev is waiting by the entrance, and his face lights up when he sees Yaku.

"That was incredible," Lev says as they walk out into the cold. "I mean, I've watched you play before, but seeing it in person—Yaku, you're so good. The way you read the servers, the way you adjust your position before they even make contact—it's like you know what's going to happen before it does."

"That's the point. That's what I've been trying to teach you."

"I know, but seeing you do it is different than hearing you explain it." Lev's voice is animated, excited. "There was this one serve—the tall guy with the blond hair—"

"Sergei."

"Sergei. He was serving, and I watched you shift your weight before he even tossed the ball. You knew where it was going before he hit it. How did you know?"

"His approach. He always approaches from the same angle when he's going cross-court." Yaku pulls his jacket tighter against the wind. "You learn people's patterns. What they do in different situations. It becomes automatic after a while."

"That's what you've been trying to teach me. To see the patterns."

"Yeah. But you're not playing competitively anymore, so it's more theoretical for you."

"I still want to understand it." Lev's voice is earnest. "I want to understand what you do. What makes you so good at it."

Yaku's chest aches. "It's just practice. Repetition. Nothing special."

"It's not just practice. It's instinct. It's understanding the game at a level most people never reach." Lev pauses. "Your teammates are really good too. Dmitri seems nice."

"He's nosy. But yeah, he's good. One of the best opposites in the league."

"He said you've been in a better mood lately. On Fridays."

Yaku's face heats. "He talks too much."

"Is it true?" Lev's voice is soft. "Are you in a better mood after our calls?"

Yaku could deflect. Could say it's just because Thursday practice goes well, or because he sleeps better on Thursday nights, or any number of excuses. But they're past that now. They've been past that since Lev confessed, since Yaku admitted the truth, since they decided to try.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I am. Talking to you—it makes everything else easier."

Lev's smile is soft and wondering. "Good. That's good."

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, and Yaku finds himself pointing out landmarks without really thinking about it. The café where he gets coffee before early practices. The bookstore where he buys Russian novels to improve his language skills. The park where he runs when the weather's decent.

"This is your life," Lev says quietly. "This city. These places. This is what you do when we're not on calls."

"Yeah. It's not very exciting."

"It's not supposed to be exciting. It's supposed to be yours." Lev looks around, taking it all in. "I like seeing it. Understanding where you are when we talk. What your world looks like."

"What did you think it looked like?"

"I don't know. More... isolated, maybe? But you have a whole life here. Teammates who care about you. Places you go. Routines that matter." Lev pauses. "It makes me happy. Knowing you're not alone here."

"I'm not alone." Yaku's voice is quiet. "But I'm not... I don't have what you have in Tokyo. The team, the history, all those connections."

"You have connections here. Dmitri clearly likes you. Your other teammates too."

"It's not the same."

"No. But it's still something." Lev's hand finds his, fingers threading together. "And now you have me here too. For a little while, at least."

Yaku squeezes his hand. "Yeah. I do."

They end up at a small Georgian restaurant Yaku likes, tucked away on a side street. It's early for dinner—barely past two—but neither of them ate much for breakfast, and the walk has made them hungry.

The restaurant is warm and dimly lit, with exposed brick walls and mismatched furniture that somehow works. They're seated at a corner table, and Yaku orders for both of them—khachapuri, khinkali, a salad with walnuts and pomegranate.

"You come here often?" Lev asks, looking around.

"Once a month, maybe. The food's good, and it's quiet. Not many tourists know about it."

"It's nice." Lev's knee bumps against Yaku's under the table. "Thank you for bringing me."

"You don't have to thank me for feeding you."

"I'm not thanking you for the food. I'm thanking you for sharing this with me. Your places, your routines, your life." Lev's voice is soft. "You didn't have to. You could have just let me stay at your apartment and kept everything else separate. But you're not. You're letting me in."

Yaku's throat is tight. "I want you here. I want you to see this."

"Why?"

It's a simple question, but the answer is complicated. Because Yaku's spent three years building a life in Moscow that felt separate from everything else. Separate from his past, from his team, from the people he cares about. He's been existing in this bubble where volleyball is the only thing that matters, where personal connections are surface-level at best.

But Lev being here—it's breaking that bubble. Making Yaku's Moscow life feel connected to the rest of him. Making it feel less like exile and more like choice.

"Because I'm tired of keeping things separate," Yaku says finally. "I'm tired of having this life here and that life there and never letting them touch. You being here—it makes it feel more real. More whole."

Lev's expression is soft, understanding. "I get that. I feel the same way about you seeing my modeling work. It's not just about showing you what I do. It's about letting you see all of me, not just the parts that fit into our Thursday calls."

The food arrives, and they eat slowly, talking about everything and nothing. Lev tells him about a disastrous photoshoot where the photographer kept insisting he pose with a live snake. Yaku tells him about the time Dmitri accidentally locked himself in the equipment room and had to be rescued by the janitor.

It's easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation they've been having for two years, but better because they can see each other's expressions, can reach across the table and touch hands, can exist in the same physical space.

"This is nice," Lev says at one point, and Yaku knows he's not just talking about the food.

"Yeah. It is."

They linger over dessert—a honey cake that's too sweet but somehow perfect—and by the time they leave, the sun is starting to set. The walk back to Yaku's apartment takes longer than it should because they keep stopping to look at things. A street musician playing violin. A bookstore window display. The way the light hits the buildings.

When they finally get back to the apartment, Yaku's feet hurt and he's tired in a good way. Lev collapses on the couch with a satisfied sigh.

"I like your city," he says.

"It's not mine. I just live here."

"It's yours. You've made it yours." Lev pats the couch next to him. "Come sit. You've been on your feet all day."

Yaku sits, and Lev immediately shifts closer, until they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. It should feel strange—this casual intimacy, this easy touching—but it doesn't. It feels natural. Like something they've been doing for years instead of hours.

"Thank you for today," Lev says quietly. "For letting me see your world."

"You're part of it now. You have been for a while."

"Yeah?" Lev's voice is hopeful.

"Yeah." Yaku leans his head against Lev's shoulder, and Lev's arm comes around him automatically. "You've been part of it since you asked me to teach you. Since you showed up every Thursday. Since you made this matter."

They sit like that for a long time, not talking, just existing together. Outside, Moscow continues its evening routine—traffic, voices, the distant sound of a siren. But inside Yaku's apartment, everything is quiet and still and perfect.

"I could get used to this," Lev says eventually.

"To what?"

"To this. Being here with you. Not having to say goodbye at the end of a call." Lev's voice is soft. "I know it's only been a day, but I already don't want to leave."

Yaku's chest aches. "You have two more weeks."

"I know. But it's not going to be enough. It's never going to be enough."

"No," Yaku agrees quietly. "It's not."

They don't talk about what happens after. Don't talk about the logistics of distance, of careers, of building something real when they live in different cities. They just sit together in the growing darkness, holding onto this moment, this perfect ordinary evening that feels like everything Yaku's been missing without knowing it.

And for now, that's enough.

Three Weeks Later

"You're doing it again," Kuroo says, and Yaku looks up from his phone to find Kuroo watching him with an expression that's far too knowing.

They're at a café in Tokyo—Yaku's back in Japan for a week between seasons, and Kuroo had insisted on meeting up for coffee. Yaku had agreed because Kuroo's persistent and also because Yaku's been in Moscow for six months straight and could use some familiar company.

"Doing what?" Yaku asks, setting his phone face-down on the table.

"Smiling at your phone like a teenager with a crush." Kuroo takes a sip of his coffee, and his grin is insufferable. "Let me guess. Lev texted you."

"He sent me a video of a match he watched. He had questions about the defensive rotation."

"Uh-huh. And that made you smile like that?"

"I wasn't smiling."

"You were definitely smiling. Kenma saw it too." Kuroo gestures across the café to where Kenma is sitting in the corner with his laptop, ostensibly working but probably playing a game. "He said, and I quote, 'Yaku's being obvious again.'"

"I'm not being obvious because there's nothing to be obvious about." Yaku picks up his coffee, more for something to do with his hands than because he wants it. "Lev and I talk about volleyball. That's it. That's the whole thing."

"You talk about volleyball every week for two years."

"So?"

"So that's not normal, Yaku." Kuroo leans forward, elbows on the table. "You don't do that for anyone else. I've asked you for coaching advice maybe three times in the past year and you always say you're too busy. But Lev texts you and suddenly you've got all the time in the world."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because—" Yaku stops, trying to find a reason that doesn't sound like exactly what Kuroo's implying. "Because Lev actually listens. Because he does the work. Because he's serious about learning."

"And because you like him."

"I like a lot of people."

"Not like this." Kuroo's voice is gentler now, less teasing. "Come on, Yaku. We've been friends for how long? I know what you look like when you're interested in someone. And you're interested in Lev."

Yaku's jaw tightens. He wants to deny it, wants to deflect, wants to change the subject to literally anything else. But Kuroo's looking at him with that patient, knowing expression, and Yaku knows he's not going to let this go.

"It doesn't matter," Yaku finally says, and his voice is quieter than he intended. "Even if I was interested—which I'm not saying I am—it wouldn't matter. I'm in Russia. He's in Japan. We talk once a week on video calls. That's not a relationship. That's barely even a friendship."

"It's more than barely a friendship and you know it." Kuroo's voice is firm. "You've been showing up for him every week for two years. You've been teaching him, encouraging him, making time for him even when you're exhausted from practice or traveling for matches. That's not nothing, Yaku. That's commitment."

"It's mentoring."

"It's more than mentoring." Kuroo sits back, studying him. "And I think you know that. I think you've known it for a while. You're just scared to admit it because admitting it means you have to do something about it."

Yaku's chest feels tight. He stares at his coffee, at the foam slowly dissolving into the dark liquid, and tries to find words for the tangle of feelings he's been avoiding for months.

"What am I supposed to do?" he finally asks, and his voice is rough. "I'm in Russia for at least another two years. He's building a career in Japan. Even if there was something between us—and I'm not saying there is—how would that even work? Long distance? Video calls? Seeing each other maybe twice a year if we're lucky?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you figure it out together." Kuroo's voice is patient, understanding. "But you can't figure it out if you never talk about it. If you just keep pretending this is casual mentoring and nothing more."

"What if I'm wrong?" Yaku looks up, meeting Kuroo's eyes. "What if I say something and it turns out he doesn't feel the same way? What if I ruin the one thing we do have because I couldn't just leave it alone?"

"What if you're right?" Kuroo counters. "What if he does feel the same way and you're both just dancing around it because you're too scared to be honest? What if you could have something real instead of just these weekly calls where you both pretend you're not feeling more than you're saying?"

Yaku doesn't have an answer for that. He picks up his phone, looks at Lev's last message—a video with a timestamp and a question about defensive positioning—and feels something in his chest ache.

"I don't know how to do this," Yaku admits quietly. "I don't know how to want someone when the logistics are impossible. When the distance is too far and the timing is wrong and everything about it is complicated."

"Nobody knows how to do it until they try." Kuroo's voice is gentle. "And yeah, it's complicated. Yeah, the distance is hard. But Yaku, you're already doing the hard part. You're already showing up every week. You're already making time for him. You're already invested. The only question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."

Yaku sits with that for a long moment, turning it over in his mind. He thinks about the past two years of calls, about the way Lev's face lights up when Yaku answers, about the way their conversations have slowly shifted from purely volleyball to something more personal, more intimate. He thinks about how he looks forward to Thursday nights, how he plans his schedule around their calls, how talking to Lev has become the best part of his week.

He thinks about the alumni match, about standing outside the gym with Lev and feeling like they were on the edge of something important, something real, and then retreating because he was too scared to find out what it was.

"I'll think about it," Yaku finally says, and Kuroo's expression softens into something like relief.

"That's all I'm asking." Kuroo finishes his coffee and stands up. "But don't think about it too long. Life's short, Yaku. And Lev's not going to wait forever."

After Kuroo leaves, Yaku sits in the café for another twenty minutes, staring at his phone. He could text Lev right now. Could say something honest, something real. Could take the leap Kuroo's pushing him toward.

But he doesn't. Because he's not ready yet. Because the fear of ruining what they have is stronger than the hope of having something more.

So instead, he responds to Lev's video with technical feedback about defensive positioning, keeps his tone professional and distant, and tells himself he's doing the right thing.

He's lying to himself, but it's a comfortable lie.

For now.

Six Weeks Later — Thursday Night Call

The call starts normally. Lev's in his apartment, sitting at his desk with good lighting that makes him look like he's glowing. He's wearing a hoodie Yaku's pretty sure used to be his—black, oversized, with a faded Nekoma logo on the chest. Yaku doesn't comment on it.

"I watched the match you sent," Lev says, pulling up his notes. "The one with the Italian league. And I think I'm starting to understand what you meant about reading the setter's body language before they even touch the ball."

"Yeah? Show me." Yaku settles into his couch, laptop balanced on his knees, and watches as Lev pulls up the video and starts walking through specific plays.

They go through the analysis together, Yaku offering corrections and observations, Lev asking questions that show he's actually thinking about the concepts instead of just memorizing them. It's good. It's productive. It's exactly what these calls are supposed to be.

But there's something different about Lev tonight. Something in the way he keeps pausing, like he's working up to saying something. Something in the way he's not quite meeting Yaku's eyes through the camera.

"What's wrong?" Yaku asks after the third time Lev trails off mid-sentence.

"Nothing's wrong." But Lev's fingers are drumming against his desk, a nervous tell. "I just... I've been thinking about something."

"About volleyball?"

"About us." Lev finally looks directly at the camera, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes Yaku's chest tighten. "About these calls. About what we're doing."

Yaku's heart starts beating faster. "What about them?"

"I miss you." The words come out simple, direct, and Yaku feels like the ground just dropped out from under him. "Not just the coaching. Not just the volleyball talk. I miss you, Yaku-san. I miss being around you. I miss the way you call me out when I'm being stupid. I miss the way you explain things like they're obvious even when they're not. I miss you."

Yaku's throat is tight. He should deflect, should make a joke, should steer this back to safer ground. But Lev's looking at him with that open, earnest expression, and Yaku can't find the words to retreat.

"We talk every week," Yaku finally says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears.

"I know. And I'm grateful for that. I am." Lev runs a hand through his hair, and Yaku can see how nervous he is, how much courage this is taking. "But it's not the same as being in the same room. It's not the same as actually being around you. And I know that's not possible right now, I know you're in Russia and I'm here and our lives are in different places. But I needed to say it. I needed you to know that this—" He gestures at the screen, at the space between them. "—this isn't just coaching for me anymore. It hasn't been for a long time."

Yaku's chest feels like it's being crushed. He's been avoiding this conversation for two years, has been carefully maintaining the fiction that these calls are just mentoring, just two former teammates staying in touch. And now Lev's saying it out loud, making it real, and Yaku doesn't know how to respond.

"Lev—"

"You don't have to say anything." Lev's voice is quiet, almost resigned. "I'm not asking you to feel the same way. I'm not asking you to do anything about it. I just needed to be honest. Because pretending this is just about volleyball is exhausting, and I can't keep doing it."

Yaku stares at him through the screen, at the vulnerability in his expression, at the way he's bracing himself for rejection. And something in Yaku breaks—the careful distance he's been maintaining, the deflection he's been hiding behind, the fear that's been keeping him silent.

"I miss you too," Yaku says, and his voice is rough, unsteady. "I think about you more than I should. I look forward to these calls more than anything else in my week. And I've been telling myself it's just mentoring, just coaching, just staying in touch. But it's not. It hasn't been for a long time."

Lev's eyes widen, and Yaku can see the hope flickering across his face, tentative and fragile.

"I'm scared," Yaku continues, and the admission feels like pulling teeth. "I'm scared of wanting something I can't have. I'm scared of starting something when the logistics are impossible. I'm scared of ruining what we do have by asking for more."

"What if we don't ruin it?" Lev's voice is soft, careful. "What if we just... try? Figure it out as we go?"

"How?" Yaku's voice cracks slightly. "I'm in Russia for at least another year. You're building your career in Japan. We see each other maybe twice a year if we're lucky. How do we make that work?"

"I don't know." Lev's honesty is disarming. "But I know I'd rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been. I'd rather have you in whatever way I can than not have you at all."

Yaku's throat is so tight he can barely breathe. He thinks about Kuroo's words from weeks ago—you're already doing the hard part, you're already showing up—and realizes Kuroo was right. He's already invested. He's already committed. The only question is whether he's brave enough to admit it.

"Okay," Yaku says, and the word feels like jumping off a cliff. "Okay, let's try. I don't know how this works. I don't know how we make this work. But I want to try."

Lev's face does something complicated—relief and joy and disbelief all mixed together. "Really?"

"Really." Yaku's voice is steadier now, more certain. "But we have to be honest with each other. About what we need, about what's working, about what's not. I can't do this if we're just going to dance around things and hope it works out."

"I can do honest." Lev's smiling now, wide and radiant. "When can I see you? I can take time off. Three days. I'm not waiting until next week."

Something warm blooms in Yaku's chest. "It's just—" He stops, and there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "I want to see you too. Not through a screen. So yeah. If that's okay."

"It's more than okay." Yaku's voice is rough with emotion. "Book the flights. I'll figure out the rest."

"I don't know." Lev's honesty is disarming. "But I know I'd rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been. I'd rather have you in whatever way I can than not have you at all."

Yaku's throat is so tight he can barely breathe. He thinks about Kuroo's words from weeks ago—you're already doing the hard part, you're already showing up—and realizes Kuroo was right. He's already invested. He's already committed. The only question is whether he's brave enough to admit it.

"Okay," Yaku says, and the word feels like jumping off a cliff. "Okay, let's try. I don't know how this works. I don't know how we make this work. But I want to try."

Lev's face does something complicated—relief and joy and disbelief all mixed together. "Really?"

"Really." Yaku's voice is steadier now, more certain. "But we have to be honest with each other. About what we need, about what's working, about what's not. I can't do this if we're just going to dance around things and hope it works out."

"I can do honest." Lev's smiling now, wide and genuine. "I'm good at honest. It's the pretending I'm bad at."

"I've noticed." Yaku feels something in his chest unclench, something that's been tight for months finally relaxing. "So what now?"

"Now we figure it out." Lev leans closer to the camera, and even through the screen Yaku can feel the warmth of his presence. "We keep doing these calls. We visit when we can. We make it work because we both want it to work. And we stop pretending this is just about volleyball."

"It was never just about volleyball," Yaku admits quietly.

"I know." Lev's voice is soft, affectionate. "I've known for a while. I was just waiting for you to figure it out."

"You could have said something sooner."

"I was scared too." Lev's smile is gentle, understanding. "But I'm glad I said something now. I'm glad we're doing this."

"Me too." And Yaku means it. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, despite all the logical reasons this shouldn't work—he means it.

They talk for another hour, and this time the conversation isn't about volleyball. It's about them—about what they want, about what they're scared of, about how they're going to navigate the distance and the time zones and all the complications that come with trying to build something real across thousands of miles.

It's not easy. It's not simple. But it's honest, and that feels like enough.

When they finally hang up, Yaku sits in the dark of his apartment and feels lighter than he has in months. Like he's been carrying something heavy and finally set it down. Like he's been holding his breath and finally exhaled.

He picks up his phone and texts Kuroo: you were right

Kuroo's response is immediate: i'm always right. about what specifically?

Yaku: about lev. about me. about all of it

Kuroo: FINALLY. took you long enough. what happened?

Yaku: we talked. we're trying. i don't know how it's going to work but we're trying

Kuroo: proud of you. seriously. this is good. you deserve this

Yaku stares at that last message for a long moment. You deserve this. He's not sure he believes it yet, not sure he's ready to accept that wanting something and having it can coexist. But he's trying. They're both trying.

And maybe that's enough.

Two Months Later

The video call quality is terrible tonight—Yaku's in a hotel in Kazan for an away match, and the wifi is spotty at best. Lev's face keeps freezing on the screen, pixelating and then resolving, and they've had to restart the call twice already.

"This is ridiculous," Yaku mutters, watching Lev's image stutter. "We should just reschedule."

"No!" Lev's voice is insistent, even through the lag. "I haven't talked to you in three days. I'm not waiting until next week."

Something warm blooms in Yaku's chest. "It's just three days."

"Three days is a long time." Lev's face finally resolves into clarity, and he's smiling that soft smile that makes Yaku's heart do complicated things. "I missed you."

"We literally texted this morning."

"Texting isn't the same as seeing your face." Lev shifts on his bed—he's lying down tonight, propped up on pillows, and he looks comfortable and relaxed in a way that makes Yaku wish he was there in person. "How was the match?"

"We won. Three sets to one." Yaku adjusts his laptop, trying to find a better angle. "I had a good game. Twelve digs, two service aces."

"That's amazing!" Lev's enthusiasm is genuine, unfiltered. "I wish I could have watched it live."

"It wasn't televised. Just local coverage." Yaku pauses, then adds, "But I'll send you the recording if you want to watch it."

"I always want to watch your matches." Lev's voice is soft, affectionate. "Even when I don't understand all the technical stuff, I like watching you play. You make it look easy."

"It's not easy."

"I know. That's what makes it impressive." Lev's eyes are warm, fond, and Yaku feels his face heat slightly. "You're really good at what you do, Yaku-san. I hope you know that."

"I'm adequate."

"You're better than adequate. You're one of the best liberos in the Russian league." Lev's voice is firm, insistent. "Stop downplaying your accomplishments. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

Yaku's throat tightens. He's never been good at accepting compliments, never been comfortable with praise. But hearing it from Lev—hearing the genuine admiration in his voice—makes it harder to deflect.

"Thank you," Yaku finally says, and his voice is quieter than usual. "That means a lot. Coming from you."

"It should mean a lot coming from anyone." But Lev's smiling, pleased that Yaku accepted the compliment. "So what else happened today? Besides the match."

They talk for another hour—about Yaku's teammates, about Lev's upcoming photoshoot, about nothing and everything. And when Lev says "I miss you" and Yaku says "I miss you too," there's no deflection anymore. No pretending it's just about volleyball.

"When's your next break?" Lev asks as they're winding down.

"Not until late November. We have matches every weekend until then." Yaku checks his calendar. "What about you?"

"I have a gap then too. Three weeks." Lev's voice is careful, hopeful. "I was thinking... maybe I could come visit? In Russia. If you want."

Yaku's heart stutters. "You want to come to Russia?"

"I want to see you." Lev's voice is simple, direct. "I want to be in the same room as you instead of just looking at you through a screen. So yeah. If that's okay."

"It's more than okay." Yaku's voice is rough. "I'd really like that."

"Then it's settled." Lev's grin is wide, radiant. "I'll book the flights tomorrow."

They say goodnight, and Yaku sits in the dark hotel room feeling something like hope. In six weeks, Lev will be here. In six weeks, they'll figure out what this looks like in person.

He picks up his phone and texts: thank you. for being patient with me. for waiting while i figured this out

Lev's response comes immediately: i'd wait forever if i had to. but i'm glad i don't have to anymore

Six Weeks Later — Moscow

Yaku's at the airport an hour early, which is excessive and he knows it. But he couldn't stay in his apartment any longer, couldn't sit still.

The arrivals board updates—Lev's flight has landed.

It takes forty minutes for Lev to clear customs, and Yaku spends that time pacing. And then he sees him.

Lev emerges from the customs area, pulling a suitcase, wearing jeans and a hoodie and a beanie that makes his hair stick out at odd angles. Their eyes meet across the arrivals area, and Lev's face lights up in that way it always does, unguarded and obvious and so full of joy that Yaku feels something in his chest crack open.

Lev crosses the distance in long strides, and then he's there, right in front of Yaku, real and solid and present.

"Hi," Lev says, breathless.

"Hi." Yaku's voice is rough. "How was the flight?"

"Long. Worth it." Lev looks like he wants to reach out but isn't sure if he's allowed.

Yaku doesn't give him time to wonder. He steps forward and pulls Lev down into a hug.

Lev makes a surprised sound, and then his arms come around Yaku, holding him tight. This is the first time they've touched in two years—the first time since the alumni match, since that moment outside the gym when Yaku retreated.

"I missed you," Lev says into Yaku's hair, voice thick. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." Yaku's voice is muffled against Lev's chest. "I'm glad you're here."

They stand there for a long moment, and Yaku doesn't care that people are probably staring. He's just glad Lev is here. Glad they're doing this.

When they finally pull apart, Lev's eyes are bright. "So what now?"

"Now I take you home." Yaku grabs Lev's suitcase. "You're probably exhausted."

"I'm not tired." But Lev's yawning even as he says it.

"Sure you're not."

The week passes in a blur of small moments: Lev burning eggs in Yaku's kitchen, both of them laughing about it. Walking through Moscow, Lev asking questions about everything. Yaku's practice, where Lev sits in the stands and watches with rapt attention. A team dinner where Lev charms everyone without trying. Late nights on the couch, talking until they can't keep their eyes open.

And on the third night, standing in Yaku's small kitchen after dinner, Lev cups Yaku's face and leans down, and they kiss.

It's soft, tentative, both of them learning the shape of each other. And when they break apart, Lev's eyes are dark and his smile is soft.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Lev admits.

"Me too." Yaku's voice is barely above a whisper. "Since high school, probably. I just didn't know it yet."

"I knew." Lev's thumb brushes across Yaku's cheekbone. "I've known for years. I was just waiting for you to catch up."

"I'm a slow learner."

"You're worth the wait."

Saturday morning comes too quickly.

At the airport, they stand in the departures area, and Lev's trying to smile but it's not quite working.

"This is harder than I thought it would be," Lev admits.

"Yeah." Yaku's throat is tight. "But we'll see each other soon. Two months, maybe less."

"Two months." Lev pulls him into a hug. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too." Yaku's voice is muffled. "But we'll talk on Thursday. Same time as always."

"Same time as always," Lev echoes.

They stand there for a long moment, and then Lev pulls back. "I should go."

"Yeah." Yaku nods. "Text me when you land."

"I will." Lev hesitates, then leans down and kisses him—quick and desperate. "I love you, Yaku-san."

Yaku's breath catches. "I love you too."

Lev's smile is brilliant, even through the sadness. "I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

Yaku watches him disappear into the security line, and then he turns and walks back to his car. His chest aches, but it's not the hollow ache of loss. It's the ache of something precious, something worth protecting.

He pulls out his phone: checking my schedule. i can probably come to tokyo in late january. would that work?

The response comes almost immediately: YES. absolutely yes. i'll make it work.

The First Thursday After

At 7 PM Moscow time (1 AM Tokyo time), Yaku's laptop chimes.

He answers, and Lev's face fills the screen—smiling, bright-eyed, exactly the same as always.

"Hi," Lev says.

"Hi." Yaku feels himself relax. "You look tired."

"I am tired. But I wasn't going to miss this." Lev yawns. "Thursday calls are non-negotiable."

Yaku smiles. "So, do you want to go over that match footage from last week, or—"

"Actually," Lev interrupts, "can we just talk? About your week, about my week. About everything."

And this—this is the shift. This is what's different.

They're not hiding behind volleyball anymore. They're not pretending this is just coaching.

"Yeah," Yaku says softly. "We can do that."

So they talk. About Yaku's practice, about Lev's photoshoots. About Alisa's new campaign, about Yaku's teammate who's getting married. About the weather in Moscow, about the restaurant Lev tried in Shibuya.

They talk for two hours, and it's easy and comfortable and everything they've been building toward for two years.

"I'm already counting down to January," Lev says as they're winding down.

"Me too." Yaku's voice is soft. "But we have this. Every Thursday. Same time."

"Same time," Lev echoes. "I love you, Yaku-san."

"I love you too."

When they hang up, Yaku sits in the quiet of his apartment and thinks: this is going to work.

It won't be easy. There will be hard days, days when the distance feels impossible. But they'll show up. Every Thursday, every visit, every text message and phone call.

They'll show up, and that will be enough.

The pattern continues—the same rhythm they've maintained for two years. But now when Lev says "I miss you," Yaku doesn't deflect. Now when Yaku stays on the call longer than necessary, neither of them pretends it's about volleyball.

Now it's honest. Now it's real.

Now it's everything it was always supposed to be.

"Five years from that first call to now." Lev shakes his head. "That's a long time."

"It went fast."

"It went slow," Lev says softly. "But it was worth it."

Yaku doesn't argue. He's thinking about the path that brought them here—that gym in high school, two years of Thursday calls at 10:47 PM, the first time Lev landed in Moscow and they stopped pretending. All of it necessary. All of it leading to this: sitting on their couch in their apartment, Lev's head on his shoulder, the distance finally closed.

"Hey, Yaku-san?" Lev says.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For showing up. For all those calls, for not giving up on me."

"You're still terrible at receives."

"I'm adequate at receives." Lev grins. "You said so yourself."

"That was two years ago. You've regressed."

"That's because I'm not playing volleyball anymore."

"Excuses." But Yaku's smiling. "And Lev?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you too. For waiting. For never missing a call. For making this work even when it was hard." Yaku's voice is quiet. "For loving me enough to wait."

"I'd wait forever for you," Lev says simply. "But I'm really glad I don't have to anymore."

"Me too."

They stay on the couch until late, talking about everything and nothing—about Yaku's practice, about Lev's shoots, about what they want for dinner tomorrow. The conversation is easy and theirs.

And when they finally go to bed, Yaku thinks: this is it. This is what they've been building toward for five years.

Not the grand gestures, but this—the ordinary, everyday intimacy of sharing a life with someone who shows up, consistently and without question.

Someone who loves him enough to wait, and who he loves enough to come home to.

It's not perfect. They still argue about volleyball. Lev still leaves his clothes everywhere. Yaku still gets grumpy when he's tired.

But it's theirs. And it's enough.

It's more than enough.

It's everything.