Archive of Our Own

i. 

Kon swallowed thickly, staring at the opposing team arriving, all tall with broad shoulders, arms reaching down to their mid-thighs, quads thrumming with each step. They placed their bags on the opposite side of the net, eyes skimming the court the way a predator looks for its prey— landing on Cassie, Cissie, and Bart, who were peppering on the court. A few courts over, another whistle blew for a match that wasn't theirs. The gym smelled like rubber and old sweat, and Kon had stopped noticing an hour ago. The fluorescents made everything the same flat white, good uniforms and bad ones alike.

Kon's eyes moved to Greta, who was setting for Slobo and Anita as they practiced blocking for each other. Kon sat on the bench; it was hard under him, and the sounds of other games going on echoed throughout the area. He leaned down, pulling the kneepad up to his knee, patting it a few times.

"Don't forget to drink water."

Kon turned a little too quickly, catching Tim just as he sat down.

"Ironic coming from Mister Energy Drinks five times a day," Kon rebutted, reaching over and taking a sip from his water bottle anyway.

"It's so I don't fall asleep on court," Tim said.

Kon shook his head, leaning down to pull up his other kneepad.

Tim leaned down at the same time, grinning wide as his eyes caught sight of the other team staring at them. "You think if we start kissing, they'll turn away?" he asked.

Kon felt his cheeks heat up, hands freezing, his kneepad warm on his calf. "What?"

Tim leaned in a little closer, "If we started making out, do you think they would keep staring?" His voice was low, in a teasing octave Kon didn't know existed outside of his dreams. He turned and faced Tim, meeting narrowed eyes and a grin.

"Uh—" Kon's pulse spiked. For a second the gym noise around them— sneakers squeaking, balls thudding three courts down, a coach barking out a rotation— barely registered. Just Tim's face, six inches away, and that grin.

"Why are you not warming up?" Red asked, hovering behind them with a clipboard in hand, Traya standing next to him with her backpack on.

"I can play instead!" Traya said, sliding her backpack off her shoulder before placing it under the bench.

"No, you're too little to play with the older children," Red said, not in a scolding tone but with a faint smile instead. A smile that said she played with the older kids anyway when there weren't judgmental adults around or a game to prepare for.

"The same thing applies to Tim," Tim's oldest brother said, coming up next to him and ruffling Tim's hair. Kon had seen him at a few practices and games, sometimes even warming up with Tim beforehand. He was all golden skin and lean muscle, and if Kon didn't know any better, he might suggest Dick had played before.

"I am eighteen. Traya is ten," Tim said matter-of-factly, swatting Dick's hand away. Kon snorted at the sight.

"I miss when you were ten."

"You didn't know me when I was ten."

Dick clutched his chest as if the words pierced through to his heart. "I know, don't remind me," he said in a hurt tone. Tim rolled his eyes, and Conner bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing. "Anyway, I brought Roy and Lian, but I also know Jason and Kyle are somewhere around here. Don't go looking for them; they're probably making out and being gross." Dick placed his finger in his mouth and made a gagging noise.

"Lian is here?" Traya asked, looking up at Red. "Can I go sit with them?"

Red nodded, "Of course."

"Good luck, Timbert," Dick said, patting Tim's head once more.

"Stop it, watch the hair!" Tim said, reaching up.

Dick shook his head and laughed, holding Traya's hand as he led her to where his fiancée and stepdaughter were.

"Your hair is already stupid; get out here and set for Kon and me," Cassie shouted.

Kon pulled the other kneepad the rest of the way up before standing and beginning stretches. His eyes fell onto Tim as he pulled up his own kneepads and did some quick stretches.

Tim didn't answer so much as push up off the bench and jog for the net, leaving Cassie to yell something else after him that got lost in the roar of six other gyms running six other tournaments under the same roof. Six courts, six nets, more teams milling around than Kon had bothered counting since check-in. 

A concession stand by the entrance was frying something that smelled like every gym he'd ever been in. Half the bleachers were already packed with parents in matching team shirts, phones out. Kon fell into step half a stride behind, the floor cool and slightly tacky under his shoes. The scoreboard on court two buzzed every few minutes, counting down a match that had nothing to do with them.

"Heads up," Bart said, materializing at Kon's elbow with an armful of stray volleyballs he'd apparently swept up from three courts over, one still spinning on his fingertip like he'd caught it out of the air on the way. He dropped the whole load into the ball cart with a clatter loud enough that Cissie flinched from where she sat retying her shoe. "Coach wants passing lines before hitting lines, and also there's a kid on court four who keeps sending balls into our zone, and I am one more incident away from losing my mind."

"Just hit their kid," Cassie said.

"I am not spiking a volleyball at a stranger's ten-year-old, Cassie."

"Coward."

"Preservation of my own future in youth sports officiating, actually."

Jaime's voice carried down from the bleachers, phone already raised. "Don't listen to her. You're a libero, not a defense attorney, you don't gotta take every case that walks in."

Bart turned, grinning up at him. "Are you filming warmups now?"

"I film everything. You're gonna want this footage in four years when you're doing a documentary about your humble beginnings."

"This is a club, Jaime. We are not professionals."

"Details."

Somewhere above Jaime, Jason leaned over toward Kyle, resting his head on his shoulder, boots already up on the bench in front of him. "If you're filming, get my good side."

"You don't have a good side," Kyle said, without looking up from his phone.

"Everybody has a good side."

"Not you. You peaked at birth, and it's been a slow decline since."

"I'm telling Dick you said that."

"Dick agrees with me. He just won't say it to your face because he's nicer than I am."

Jason knocked his own boots down off the bench, muttering something Kon didn't catch, and Kyle finally looked up long enough to grin at him like he'd won something.

Passing lines meant Bart in his element, dropping into a dig stance every three seconds, forearms out, steady no matter how hard Cassie or Cissie tried to put the ball down at his feet. Greta stood off to one side, tossing serves in from the back corner, same flat expression the whole time. When a pass sailed too far off, she caught it one-handed and lobbed it back into rotation without a word.

"You could talk more," Anita told her, jogging past to grab a loose ball.

"I could," Greta agreed, and didn't say anything else, which was somehow funnier than if she had.

Slobo passed one flat and low, and Bart dove for it anyway out of habit, skidding two feet across the hardwood on his forearms before popping back up like it hadn't happened.

"You didn't need to dive for that one," Kon said.

"I always need to dive for it. That's the whole sport and my entire job."

Kon couldn't argue with that.

Cassie ran a few reps through the passing line too, catching Cissie's serve on her fingertips and shanking it sideways into the net by accident, which got her booed by exactly one person.

"I’m gonna throw you into the net," Cassie said, glaring at Bart.

Bart snorted, “You’re just mad cause you can’t dig a ball."

"I want a new libero."

"There can’t be a new libero. I'm irreplaceable."

Cissie's next serve came in soft, and Cassie caught it clean that time, setting it up for herself in a small act of petty triumph nobody but her cared about.

"Two lines," Cassie called once the passing rotation wound down, already bouncing a ball hand to hand at the net. "Cissie's on your side, Kon, since apparently she thinks she can out-hit me on a cold court."

"I didn't say that," Cissie said, crossing under the net to the far pin, wiping her palms against her shorts. "You said that. I just didn't disagree."

"Same thing."

"Not remotely the same thing."

Kon rolled his shoulder as he found his own spot, glancing back once to find Tim dropping into the setter's position like he'd been standing there his whole life instead of just since tryouts freshman year. "She's gonna make you set for both sides now," Kon said.

"She always does." Tim didn't sound bothered. He never did, not about his volleyball teammates, not about anything that happened on a court instead of off one.

"You're up first," Greta told Tim, and fed him a clean, easy toss without waiting on a response.

Tim's hands found it before it had a chance to drop— set high and outside, right where Kon liked it.

Kon's approach was three steps and a plant and then air, his palm cracking against the ball hard enough to drive it down past Cissie's block before her arms had finished coming up.

"Nice," Tim said, already turning for the next feed.

"You set that high on purpose."

"I set that high because that's where you hit it best."

Kon didn't have anything to say to that, so he jogged back into line instead, catching Cassie's eye roll from the far side of the net on his way. He got two more reps in before Cissie started reading his approach and getting her hands up in time, one clean stuff that sent the ball straight back down into Kon's own face before he could get an arm up to save it.

"That's what you get," Cassie said, delighted.

"I wasn't even trying that time."

"Sure you weren't."

Cissie tried the same set on her side a rep later, and Cassie put it down the line so hard Bart had to dive for it out of pure instinct, still buzzing from the last drill.

Tim ran one more set for Kon just to test Cissie's read again, faking the motion toward Cassie's side before snapping it back outside at the last second. Cissie bit on the fake, and Kon put the real ball down untouched, grinning the whole way back into line.

"That's cheating," Cissie said.

"It’s pronounced ‘setting’," Tim said, grinning wide, glancing at Kon for a second. 

"You two are so annoying," Cassie said anyway, to Kon and Tim both.

"We haven't done anything," Kon said.

"That's the annoying part."

At the net, Slobo and Anita had already started their own block timing on the side, jumping in sync, hands snapping up together and landing in the same half second before resetting without a word between them. Anita counted the rhythm under her breath— up, up, down— and Slobo didn't so much as glance over, just matched her like his body already knew the count better than his ears did.

"You two are unbearably good at that," Kon said, jogging past on his way back into the hitting line.

"Four years of dating," Anita said, without breaking her landing. "That's what it gets you."

"That was supposed to be a joke about something else."

"It's volleyball, Kon. Sometimes it's just volleyball, you nasty man."

Slobo landed, glanced sideways at Anita for half a second, something passing between them that had nothing to do with blocking angles. Kon looked away before he caught more of it than he was owed.

He was still smiling about it when Tim caught his wrist on the way back into line— not hard, just enough to stop him, thumb pressing once against the inside of Kon's forearm where his warmup sleeve had ridden up.

"Your wrist wrap's loose," Tim said, already moving to fix it, fingers quick and sure against the strap. He didn't look up while he worked. "You'll roll it landing off a block if it slips in a receive."

"You could just tell me to fix it."

"I could." Tim tightened the last loop, glancing up through his lashes in a way that felt entirely too deliberate for something about athletic tape. "But this was faster."

"Uh huh."

"Don't overthink it, Kon."

"I'm not overthinking anything."

"You've got your overthinking face on."

"I don't have an overthinking face."

"You do. It's the same one you get right before you ask if I'm free Friday and then don't ask."

Overthinking face. Fantastic.

Kon opened his mouth, found nothing in it, and closed it again. Tim was already standing, already turning back toward Greta for another feed, entirely too pleased with himself for a guy who hadn't actually said anything incriminating. Kon flexed his wrist once, testing the wrap, and told himself the warmth climbing up his neck was from warmups and nothing else.

Red's whistle cut through the noise a few minutes later, short and sharp, and the team drifted in around him without needing to be told twice. Sweat had gone cool along Kon's arms by the time he jogged over, his chest still working to catch up with itself.

"Fast breaks on the left," Red said, clipboard tucked under one arm, not that he ever needed to look at it. "They run a six-two out of serve receive. Their outside is left-handed, so Slobo, Anita— angle your blocks in, don't give her an opening."

"Got it," Slobo said.

"Bart, their libero's better than she looked on film. Don't underestimate her digs."

"I never underestimate anybody," Bart said. "I overestimate everyone equally. It's safer that way."

"Greta, stay warm on the bench. I might rotate you in second set depending how their middles adjust."

"Understood," Greta said, and that was the whole extent of her reaction.

"Cassie, Cissie— hit sharp, not just hard. This team blocks well, and a hard ball into a good block just comes right back at your own face."

"Copy," Cassie said, and Cissie's shoulder bumped hers, quiet, no words needed for it.

"Tim." Red's eyes found him last, the way they always did. "Same as always. Keep them guessing."

"Always do." Tim didn't look at Kon when he said it. He didn't have to.

Red nodded once, looking them over— the sweat-damp hair, the bouncing knees, the nerves nobody was going to admit to out loud. "Good. Hands in."

They crowded together, palms stacking on top of each other in the center of the huddle, and Kon's hand landed on top of Tim's without any decision behind it, just where it happened to end up.

"Young Justice on three," Red said. "One, two, three—"

"Young Justice!"

The huddle broke apart the way it always did, each of them peeling off into their own last-minute rituals. Cassie bounced twice on her toes and cracked her neck to one side. Cissie pulled her ponytail tighter, twice, though it hadn't come loose either time. Bart re-taped a knee that didn't need re-taping, and Slobo watched him do it with an annoyed expression. Anita rolled her shoulders. Greta drank exactly half a cup of water and set the rest down on the bench, untouched, for later.
opped trying to talk him out of it two seasons ago. Anita rolled her shoulders. Greta drank exactly half a cup of water and set the rest down on the bench, untouched, for later.

Kon just watched Tim, who wasn't doing anything— just standing there, spinning a ball between his palms, looking too calm for someone about to face six very tall opponents.

They filed toward the edge of the court as the officials arrived, two refs in matching gray polos, one climbing into the stand while the other set up the scorer's table with a kid from the other school who looked far too excited to be running the book for a match he had no stake in. He waved Greta over to confirm the lineup card, double-checking numbers against jersey colors, while Red signed the roster without even looking at it.

The ref's assistant blew a short whistle of his own, waving both teams up to share the net. "Three minutes serving, home team first," he called, clipboard already out to time it.

Kon lined up on the end line with the rest of his side, watching the other team spread out along their own baseline, closer now than they'd been from the bench. The outside hitter's grin didn't go away even up close. The middle blocker next to her had a strip of athletic tape wrapped around one whole forearm, like he'd fought something and won.

"Three minutes isn't enough time," Bart muttered, bouncing a ball against the floor. "I need at least five minutes to feel spiritually prepared to serve."

"You get thirty seconds like everyone else," Cassie said, already stepping up to the line.

Her serve went in clean, a flat, heavy topspin that clipped the back line before the other team's libero even moved. Cissie's went next, shorter, angled toward the seam between two defenders, and the ball dropped untouched. Slobo's came in low and mean, and Anita's followed a beat later, the two of them trading spots at the line without needing to discuss the order.

Tim served last in their rotation, tossing the ball once to test the height before sending it in a long, flat line that skimmed the tape and dropped just inside the sideline. The opposing captain caught it on the rebound and tossed it back over with a nod that was almost respect.

"Nice serve," Kon said, when Tim came back around.

"I know." Tim didn't even try to sound modest about it. "You're up."

Kon stepped to the line last, spun the ball once in his hands, and put it in deep enough that their libero had to take two full steps back to dig it. Across the net, the outside hitter clapped, unbothered, like she approved of the challenge more than she minded losing the point in a warmup that didn't count.

"Rotate out," the ref's assistant called, and both teams swapped ends of his attention, the other team stepping up to serve while Kon's side spread out to receive.

Their serves were heavier than they'd looked on film, three of them landing deep enough to make Bart dive twice in a row, and the last one caught Kon square in the forearms hard enough to sting.

"They're good," Kon admitted, shaking his arm out.

"We're better," Cassie said, with the kind of confidence that had never once been dented by an actual loss, as far as Kon knew.

Slobo, jogging past with a stray ball tucked under one arm, didn't even look up. "We're better because we've beaten them twice already."

"Let me have this," Cassie said.

"No. They’re a bunch of basitches."

"Time," the ref's assistant called, and both teams peeled back off the shared net, jogging toward their own benches for the last few minutes before lineups.

Jaime hopped the low rail down from the bleachers just long enough to jog over, catching Bart in a quick one-armed hug before a coach three courts down glared him back toward the stands. "You've got this," he said, "and if you don't, I still love you, but you've got this."

"Comforting," Bart said, into his shoulder.

"I try." Jaime peeled off, jogging backward a few steps just to hold eye contact a second longer before he had to actually turn around and watch where he was going.

Back at their own bench, someone had set out a fresh tray of water cups, and the team descended on it like they hadn't had anything to drink in hours instead of ten minutes. Cassie draped an arm over Cissie's shoulders while she drank, unbothered by how sweaty they both already were, and Cissie let her, which told Kon more about how nervous she actually was than anything she would have said out loud.

Bart dropped onto the bench next to Slobo and Anita, breathing hard. "I forgot how much I hate warmups."

"You say that every single week," Anita said.

"And every single week it's still true."

Tim crouched to retie one shoe, methodical about it in a way that had nothing to do with the actual knot, and Kon found himself watching the back of his neck instead of drinking his own water like a normal person.

"You're doing the staring thing again," Cissie said, not unkindly, from somewhere behind him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

Kon found Dick first, three rows up, Roy beside him with Lian asleep against his shoulder despite the noise around them, one small fist curled into the collar of his shirt. Traya was wedged in between the two of them, waving with her whole arm like she thought Kon might not see her otherwise, already recruiting Roy into holding her water bottle so she could clap properly. Jason and Kyle had claimed the row behind, and Jason had his boots up on the bench in front of him again, undeterred, apparently on principle.

"They're not even playing yet and Kon's already blushing!" Jason called down, loud enough to carry over two rows of bleachers. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Kon said, too fast.

"He almost made out with Tim by the bench earlier!" Traya offered helpfully, not even looking up from the friendship bracelet she was tying onto Lian's sleeping wrist.

"I did not—" Kon started.

"You absolutely did," Cissie said, walking past with a volleyball tucked under one arm. "I was there. It was very dramatic."

Roy, gently and without waking Lian, cupped his hands and shouted, "Get 'em, tiger."

Dick, one arm slung loose around Roy's shoulders like he'd forgotten it was there, was very obviously trying not to grin and failing at it. "Don't listen to Jason," he said. "Listen to Jason a little. Mostly don't!"

"I hate everyone here," Kon said, mostly to himself, and jogged off before Jason could find a follow-up question. 

"Tim’s family's a lot," Cissie said, once he'd caught back up to her at the sideline.

"You have no idea. I have heard horror stories."

"I have some idea. I watched Tim’s step-mom threaten a ref last season."

"She offered him a strongly worded suggestion about his eyesight," Cassie said, appearing at Cissie's other shoulder. "That's not a threat."

"It's absolutely a threat. You’re just saying it’s not because you think Mrs. Selina is attractive. "

"My Lesbianism has absolutely nothing to do with this."

Across the net, the other team was finishing their own lines, tall and loose in a way that made it obvious most of them had been playing together since middle school. Their outside hitter caught Kon watching and grinned, not unfriendly, just certain— like she already knew how tonight ended. Next to her, a kid who had to be new kept re-tying the same shoelace for the third time. Kon almost felt bad for him. Almost.

The head ref waved the captains forward for the coin toss. Tim jogged out to meet the other team's captain, a guy built like a door, buzz cut, already looking like tonight was decided before the whistle had even blown once.

Kon watched from the sideline with his arms crossed, jaw tighter than it needed to be for reasons he wasn't going to look at too closely two minutes before serve.

The other captain looked Tim up and down once, probably trying to be intimidating about it. "You're the setter that's supposed to be good?"

"Depends who's asking," Tim said, easy, like the question bored him.

"Just making conversation."

"Then make it after the coin toss."

The other captain laughed, short and surprised, like he hadn't expected that, and something in his expression shifted from certain to slightly less certain, which Kon decided he liked quite a bit.

"Call it," the ref said, coin balanced on his thumb.

"Heads," Tim said.

The coin went up, came down, slapped onto the back of the ref's hand. He peeked under it. "Heads. Your call— serve or side?"

Tim didn't hesitate. "Serve."

The other captain shrugged, already turning to jog back toward his own line, unbothered either way. Tim caught Kon's eye on the way back to the bench and held it a second longer than the walk really required before he ducked his head and jogged past to take his spot.

Kon felt his pulse do something stupid and inconvenient about it, which was not an ideal way to be feeling two minutes before serve.

Tim jogged past close enough that his shoulder brushed Kon's on the way to the service line, quick and probably not even on purpose. "Hey," he said, low, just for Kon. "Don't miss your approach because you're staring at me."

"I wasn't staring."

"You're staring right now."

"That's different, you're right in front of me."

Tim's mouth curved, and he didn't answer that, just jogged on toward the service line like he hadn't said anything worth a response.

They took the court. Six on a side, the hardwood already scuffed up from a full day of matches. Kon rolled his shoulder one more time and glanced down his own side of the net— Cassie bouncing on her toes at the far pin, Cissie stretching one arm flat across her chest, Slobo and Anita already set at the middle with their hands loose and ready, Bart low near the back line, weight forward on his toes like he might take off running before the whistle even blew. Behind them, up in the bleachers, he could just make out Traya standing on the bench seat to see better, Roy's hand hovering near her waist in case she toppled, Jason already cupping his hands around his mouth to yell something Kon was almost certainly not going to want to hear.

Tim stood at the service line, ball resting against his hip, a little chalk dust still on his palm from wiping it against his shorts earlier. He caught Kon watching and lifted an eyebrow— not quite a question, not quite anything else either.

Kon looked away first. He always did.

Somewhere behind him, Cassie muttered something to Cissie that made her laugh, quick and quiet. Kon didn't turn to look. He kept his eyes on the net instead, on the six feet of space between him and the other side. The gym never actually went quiet before a whistle. It just felt like it did.

"Ready?" the head ref called down the net, waiting on hands.

Kon raised his. Down the line, everybody else did the same, and across the net the other team mirrored it back, six hands up in something close to unison, the kind of readiness that looked a lot like nerves once you knew where to check for it.

The ref brought the whistle to his mouth.

The gym didn't quiet— six other tournaments still running, folding chairs scraping, someone already filming, three different voices yelling three different names. But Kon's hearing narrowed down anyway, the way it always did right before serve. Just the net in front of him. Just Tim, fifteen feet back, the ball resting on his hip.

The whistle cut through all of it, short and sharp.

Game on.

ii. 

Cassie stepped up to the service line first, bouncing the ball twice against the floor before catching it against her hip, and Kon found his spot at the net, weight forward, eyes on the girl across from him who'd been sizing him up since warmups.

The whistle blew. Cassie's serve went up in a flat, mean topspin, and dropped just inside the sideline before their libero got a platform under it. The pass floated high and a little long, forcing their setter to chase it toward the antenna, and what came out the other side was a rushed, low quick to the middle blocker with the taped forearm.

Slobo was already there. He and Anita went up together, no signal between them that Kon could see, and the ball smacked off Slobo's hands and dropped dead on the other side of the net before their hitter had finished her approach.

"One-zero," the ref's assistant called, and the kid running the book scribbled it down like it mattered more than it did.

"Hell yeah," Cassie said, already back at the line, bouncing the ball again.

Her second serve went in just as heavy, and this time their libero dug it clean, setting up an actual offense— a high ball to the outside hitter with the grin, who put it down the line so hard Bart didn't even get a hand up.

"One-one," Anita said, unbothered, rotating back into position. "They're fine. We're better."

"Yes, we are," Cassie stepping up and high fived her swiftly.

Above them, Jaime had already found his commentary voice, low enough not to draw a coach's glare but plenty loud for the row behind him. "One-one. They're feeling it out. Classic chess."

"It's not chess," Kyle said, without looking up from his phone. "It's volleyball."

"Everything's chess if you squint."

"Nothing is chess if you squint. That's not how squinting works."

“I’d kill to see Timbert’s team play chess against each other,” Jason snorted. 

Their outside served next, a heavy jump serve that came in flat and fast, and Bart dove for it out of instinct more than necessity, popping the ball up high enough that Tim had room to run the offense he actually wanted. He set Cassie a quick shoot, low and fast, and she put it down cross-court before the block had time to shift over.

"Two-one," the book kid called.

Cassie jogged back into rotation, already looking pleased with herself. "Your sets are getting better."

"My sets have always been good," Tim said.

"For Kon, maybe."

Tim didn’t dignify that with a response, but Kon definitely heard a scoff. 

The rally after that ran longer— their setter finding a combo play that pulled Slobo out wide and snuck a middle attack through the gap he'd left, tying it up again, and then their next serve caught Kon deep in the corner, forcing him into a scramble dig that barely stayed in bounds. Tim was already moving before the ball had finished its bounce, sprinting to get under it, hands coming up in a set that had no business being clean given where he was standing, but it landed high and outside anyway, right where Kon liked it.

Kon's approach ate up the three steps without thinking about them, and he put the ball down past a single block that got a hand on it and nothing more.

"Three-two," the book kid said. 

Jaime's voice carried down, half-narrating, half-yelling. "That's what I'm talking about! Get the footage, get the footage—"

"You're filming a volleyball match like it's a nature documentary!" Cassie called up.

"With you guys, it might as well be!"

Bart, jogging past on his way back to the service line for their next rotation, didn't even look up at the bleachers. "He's been saying that for years."

"Because I’m right!" Jaime shouted back.

"Serve," the ref said, unimpressed by all of it.

Slobo served next, low and mean, skimming the tape on the way over, and their libero misjudged the spin, shanking the pass wide enough that their setter had no choice but to send up a free ball— a soft, high, harmless pass right back over the net, the kind that should have been an easy point.

Cassie ran it down instead of letting Kon take it, calling him off with a sharp "mine" that left no room for argument, and put it away cross-court with enough force that their libero didn't even attempt the dig.

"Four-two," the book kid said.

"I could've had that," Kon told her, jogging past.

"I know. I wanted it more."

"This is a team sport, Cassie."

"Your mom is a team sport."

Their side served twice more before the rally finally turned— a long exchange that had Bart diving twice, Slobo and Anita trading blocks with the rhythm they'd shown off in warmups, and Cassie tipping a soft roll shot just over an outstretched hand to end it.

"Five-two," the book kid called, and their coach said something sharp to his bench that didn't carry far enough to make out.

The next point ran even longer, the kind of extended rally that had both benches half-standing before it finished— their setter running a slide behind her middle that caught Slobo guessing wrong, the swing landing deep before Bart got a piece of it, popping it up just enough for Tim to take it from there, a quick, low set to Slobo that punched through a block that hadn't reset in time.

"Six-two," the book kid said, and by the time the ref's assistant called the score again after one more exchange they were up six-three, their side of the gym starting to notice, a scattering of parents in the bleachers clapping a little louder than they had for the first few points.

Kon caught Tim's eye across the net during the reset, and Tim didn't say anything, just held it a beat longer than he needed to before turning back toward Greta, who tossed his side a fresh ball with the same flat expression she wore for everything.

The other team called their first timeout at seven-three, their coach a tall man in a polo who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, gathering his six around him at the sideline with the kind of clipped, urgent energy that meant he hadn't expected to be down this early.

Young Justice clustered near their own bench, not really needing the break but taking it anyway, someone passing a water bottle down the line.

"Their middle's cuts it close to the net," Slobo said, toweling off his face. "Their feet almost cross the middle every time. We could call them out on it.” 

"I've seen it too," Anita said.

“You two share the same brain,” Cissie said with a scrunched nose. 

"If it persists and crosses, we’ll say something," Cassie nodded. 

Red didn't say much, arms crossed, watching the other bench with the kind of attention that made it clear he was cataloguing something for later. "Keep serving tough," he said finally. "Every time their libero has to move her feet, their offense gets worse. Cassie, stay on that seam, it's still open."

"Copy," Cassie said.

Greta, still parked on the end of the bench with a towel draped over one shoulder, watched the other huddle. "Their setter keeps looking left before she sets right," she said, not looking at anyone. "It's not subtle."

"How do you know that from here?" Bart said.

"I watch."

"That's it? You just watch?"

"It works, I know how she thinks, I am also a setter." Greta said.

Cissie dropped down next to Cassie for the last few seconds of the break, knocking their shoulders together. "You good?"

"I'm always good."

"That's Tim's line."

"I stole it. It's a good line."

The whistle called both teams back before the water bottle made it all the way down the line, and Kon jogged back to his spot at the net, rolling his shoulder once.

"You good?" Tim asked, falling into step beside him for the few strides it took to get back into position.

"I'm always good."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting before serve."

Tim's mouth twitched, and he peeled off toward his own spot without pushing it, leaving Kon to set his feet and watch the other side's server bounce the ball three times before finally sending it over.

The next several points blurred together the way they always did once a rally got its rhythm— serve, pass, set, attack, dig, repeat, the gym noise around them narrowing down to just the sound of the ball and six voices calling for it. Young Justice traded a couple of points, lost a couple back when the other team's outside found a seam Cassie hadn't quite closed yet, and by the time the score hit eleven-eight in their favor, Kon's shirt was soaked through and he'd stopped noticing.

"Their setter's dumping more," Bart said, jogging past after a dig that left a red mark blooming across his forearm. "Watch for it on two."

"I've been watching for it," Slobo said.

"Watch harder," Bart said, grinning, and Slobo huffed something that might have been a laugh if he'd let it get all the way out.

Kon served next, a flat, heavy ball that clipped the back line and forced their libero into an ugly dig, the pass sailing so far off the net their setter had no chance to run a real play. What came back over was a slow, arcing free ball, easy enough that Cassie called it before it had finished crossing the net.

"Mine," she said, and put it down with the same casual violence as before.

"Twelve-eight," the book kid said, sounding a little more invested now than he had at the start.

Kon caught his breath at the service line, rolling the ball once between his palms before tossing it up for the next serve. Across the net, their libero had already dropped low, weight forward, reading his approach the way Bart had said she would, cheating a half step toward the same corner she'd guessed right on twice already.

He put it somewhere else instead, short and angled, and watched her lunge a beat too late.

"Thirteen-eight," the book kid called.

"Show-off," Cassie said, grinning, jogging past to take her own turn at the line.

They lost the next rally to a shot off Anita's block, the ball deflecting hard off her hands and out of bounds before anyone could track it down, and then lost the one after that too, the other team's outside finding her rhythm and ripping two kills back to back down the same line Cassie kept failing to close.

"She's got you," Cissie said, not unkindly, jogging past Cassie on the rotation.

"She does not have me."

"Babe, if I were insecure, I’d be jealous of how much she has you."

Cassie rolled her eyes, “Shut up.”

Cassie only grinned in response. 

Red called their first timeout at thirteen-eleven, the lead thinner than anyone liked, and he didn't waste words. "Cassie, angle your block in, stop giving her the line. Bart, she's tipping short when she can't get all the way through, be ready to move up."

"I'm always ready to move up," Bart said.

"Then be readier," Kon said. 

"That's not a real word."

"It’s a new word."

Bart dropped onto the bench for the last few seconds of the break, elbows on his knees, chest still heaving. "I would just like it on record that I have dug more balls in the last ten minutes than most liberos dig in an entire tournament."

"Nobody's arguing with you," Cissie said.

"I like to say it anyway. For the record."

"What record?"

"The one in my head. It's very thorough."

They broke from the huddle and Kon caught Tim's sleeve for half a second before he could walk off, just enough to make him look back. "You good?" Kon asked, echoing it back at him, half a joke.

"I'm always good," Tim said, mouth curving. "That's not an answer, though. You should know that by now."

"I'm learning."

"Slowly."

"You're the one teaching."

Tim didn't answer that, just knocked his shoulder against Kon's on the way past and jogged back to his line, and Kon told himself the warmth climbing up the back of his neck again was just from the gym, and not from the way Tim had looked at him doing it.

The next stretch of the set tightened up the way close sets always did, both sides trading points in short, sharp bursts. Their middle tried the same quick that had burned Slobo earlier, and this time he read the feet exactly the way he'd told Anita to, getting both hands high enough to send the ball straight back down onto the antenna and out. Cassie finally closed the seam a rally later, stuffing the outside hitter cold at fifteen-thirteen, the whole bench erupting loud enough that Jaime's voice cracked trying to match it from the stands.

The other team answered back, their jump-serve specialist finding Bart's back corner twice in a row before he adjusted his read, and then finding it a third time anyway, just to prove she could.

"She's got my spot," Bart said, jogging back, breathing hard. "I hate that she found my spot."

"Everyone has a spot," Slobo said.

"Yeah, but she found mine."

"'Spot' isn't a real volleyball term," Cassie said.

"It is when I'm the one who's tired of getting served at."

"She's serving short angles," Bart said, breathing hard, jogging back into formation. "I keep going deep."

"So stop going deep," Cassie said.

"Groundbreaking advice, truly."

"I try."

At seventeen-sixteen, Young Justice's favor, the rally that decided the flow of the whole set finally arrived, though nobody knew it yet while it was happening. Their serve came in short and mean, clipping the net on the way over in a legal let that dropped it fast on their side, and Slobo had to lunge to keep it off the floor, sending up a pass that had no shape to it at all— too low, too far off the antenna, the kind of ball that should have forced a free ball back over just to survive the point.

Tim didn't call for a reset. He was already moving before the ball had finished its arc, sprinting wide to get under it, and from where Kon stood he could see the exact moment Tim made the read— no time to turn, no angle to see who was even coming in from the left, just the flat certainty of a setter running an offense on instinct and trust instead of eyes.

The set went up behind him, blind, high and tight along the antenna, a backset with no hesitation in it at all.

Kon was already there. He didn't remember deciding to be, just found himself airborne, palm cracking against the ball hard enough that the sound of it carried over the crowd noise from three courts down, and it dropped in past a single blocker who hadn't had time to read where the set was even going.

"Eighteen-sixteen," the book kid called, and for a second the whole bench was on its feet, Bart already halfway into a celebration slide he abandoned when his knee reminded him it had limits.

Tim turned, breathing hard, hair damp against his forehead, and found Kon already grinning at him from six feet away, the ball still bouncing somewhere behind the opposing baseline where nobody had bothered chasing it.

"Told you," Tim said, low, quick, the words barely making it across the space between them before the ref's whistle cut through to reset the court. "I always know where you are."

Kon felt the heat hit his face before his brain caught up to the sentence, a full second behind where it needed to be. "You didn't even look."

"I didn't need to." Tim was already turning away, already jogging backward toward his own rotation spot, throwing the rest of it over his shoulder like it cost him nothing at all. "My heart can always find yours."

"That's— " Kon started, and didn't finish, because the whistle blew again and the other team was already stepping up to serve and there wasn't room in the next four seconds to say anything that wasn't about volleyball.

"You're doing the face," Cassie said, passing him on the way to her own spot.

"I don't have a face."

"You have several faces. That one's new."

The serve came in low and fast before Kon could argue the point further, and he had exactly enough time to get his stance up and back into play before his brain finished catching up with the fact that Tim Drake had just made an entire crowded gym disappear with four words and a backset he hadn't even looked at.

The rally that followed dragged them both out of position— a deep dig sent Tim scrambling toward the sideline to save a ball that should've been dead, and Kon ended up covering the same six feet of hardwood chasing the same play, the two of them nearly colliding at the antenna before the ball popped up between them just clean enough to save.

"Move," Tim said, breathless, already turning to get under it.

"I am moving."

"Move faster."

"I'm moving as fast as—" Kon didn't finish that either, because Tim's shoulder caught his on the way past, quick and deliberate in a way a genuine collision wouldn't have been, and the look he threw back over it lasted exactly as long as it took to get his feet back under him for the next contact.

"You like being in my way," Tim said, already three steps gone.

"I do not."

"You do a little."

Kon didn't get the chance to argue, because the ball was already coming back over, and there wasn't room in a live rally for anything except getting under it.

The rally that followed ran long, six or seven touches on each side before Bart finally ended it with a dig so flat and precise it looked less like an accident of physics and more like a promise he'd made to the ball personally, sending it up high enough that Tim had time to run a real play. He set Cassie a quick outside, and she buried it, and the score ticked up again— nineteen-sixteen, then twenty after a service ace off Anita's flat, heavy float serve that nobody on the other side even got a hand on.

"That's four in a row," Cassie said, delighted, jogging past Anita on the rotation.

"I know how to count."

"I'm just saying. Four."

"You said that already."

"It needs repetition."

At twenty-sixteen their coach didn't call a timeout— he'd already burned one and clearly meant to save the last for later— but he didn't stay quiet either, his voice carrying across the net sharper than he probably meant it to, something clipped about resetting the block angles before it was too late to matter. His team's body language shifted during the next changeover anyway, tight and unhappy in a way that meant the gap had started to feel real to them, no longer something they could serve their way out of.

The next dead ball gave Young Justice a few seconds to regroup at their own bench, most of them just leaning against the scorer's table, riding the momentum instead of interrupting it.

"They're gonna come out mean," Slobo said. "Watch the middle, she's been eyeing us."

"Copy," Anita said.

Kon found himself next to Tim without quite meaning to end up there, both of them catching their breath against the low rail separating the bench from the court.

"That backset," Kon said. "You could've missed."

"I don't miss."

"You could've."

"I didn't, though." Tim glanced sideways at him, something easy and pleased sitting behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the scoreboard. "You were exactly where you're supposed to be. You're always exactly where I think you are. It’s really attractive that you’re predicatable."

"That's— " Kon felt his ears go hot for the second time in five minutes, which had to be some kind of record even for him. "That's a weird compliment."

"I'm a weird guy."

"Yeah, you kinda are.”

"Only for you," Tim said, and then the whistle blew before Kon could figure out what to do with that, and Tim was already pushing off the rail, jogging back toward the service line like he hadn't just handed Kon something he was going to be turning over in his head for the rest of the match.

The other team came out exactly as mean as Slobo had promised, running three straight middle attacks that punched through before Slobo and Anita could adjust their timing, pulling the score back to twenty-nineteen with a run that had their whole bench on their feet screaming.

"Told you," Slobo said, jaw tight, jogging back into position.

"Shove it," Anita said, but there wasn't any heat in it, just the flat focus of someone recalibrating mid-rally.

Red didn't call a timeout to answer it. He just raised his voice from the sideline, steady, unbothered. "Same block angle. You've got this."

They held the next serve, Cassie closing the line hard enough that the outside hitter's kill attempt sailed wide by half a foot, and the point after that went to a long rally that ended with Bart digging a ball off his own shoe that shouldn't have been recoverable by any reasonable definition of the sport, popping it up just high enough for Tim to save with a bump-set that had no business landing clean.

"That wasn't a real touch," Cassie said, laughing, and looking toward Bart.

"It was a completely real touch. My shoe is a legal part of my body."

"Barely."

"Rules are rules."

"Show me the rule."

"I don't have to show you the rule."

Cassie gave up on the argument somewhere around there, mostly because the ref's whistle called them back before she could find a real rebuttal, and Bart took the small victory with both hands raised like he'd won something far bigger than a technicality.

The set crept forward from there in small, hard-earned increments. Their outside found one more kill down the line before Cassie finally solved her for good, planting a block so clean the girl threw both hands up in something that looked almost like respect. Bart dug two more balls off his forearms that had no right staying in bounds, and Anita and Slobo strung together a double block on consecutive points that had their whole bench chanting the count before the second one even landed.

Twenty-two to twenty. Twenty-three to twenty-one. Both sides trading serves without either one finding the kind of run that had defined the middle of the set. Kon's legs had started to feel it, the good kind of tired that came from actually competing for something instead of just running drills, and every time he caught Tim's eye across the net during a reset there was something steady sitting there that had nothing to do with strategy.

At twenty-four to twenty-one, set point, their coach burned his second timeout, and this time nobody on the other bench looked like they believed the talk was going to fix anything. Their setter kept glancing toward Tim during the huddle, the way you looked at someone whose game you hadn't figured out yet and were running out of time to solve.

Young Justice barely bothered to huddle. Red just said, "Play tough, close it out," and that was the whole speech.

Cassie served, a flat, mean float that dropped just inside the sideline, and their libero got a platform under it, but the pass sailed short, forcing a rushed set to their outside that came in low and behind her approach.

She hit it anyway, hard and flat, and Anita's block caught the edge of it, deflecting the ball high into their own back row where their libero had to scramble to keep it alive, popping it up in a shape too ugly for any real offense.

Their setter didn't even attempt a play. She just got a hand under it and sent it back over as a free ball, high and soft and completely without teeth.

"Mine," Tim called, already moving to take it himself, and for a second Kon thought he was going to run a normal set— safe, controlled, boring, exactly what a setter up by three at set point was supposed to do.

He didn't. He took the free ball on the second contact and dumped it himself, a soft, precise tip that dropped just over the outstretched fingers of their front row before anyone had registered he wasn't setting at all.

The gym went up around them, Bart already yelling something wordless, Cassie's arms thrown overhead, and Kon just stood there for a second, watching Tim straighten up from the landing with the exact same unbothered expression he wore for literally everything, like he hadn't just ended a set with a move that had no business working against a block that tall.

"Twenty-five, twenty-one," the book kid called, and it barely registered over the noise.

"You could've just set me," Kon said, jogging toward him through the celebration, half the team already colliding into a loose, sweaty knot near the service line.

"I know." Tim's grin was doing something dangerous, close up, damp hair stuck to his forehead, chest still working to catch its breath. "But this was faster."

"That's what you said about my wrist wrap."

"It's usually true."

Cassie crashed into Tim's other side before Kon could answer that, looping an arm around his neck hard enough to nearly take him off his feet, and the rest of the team folded in after her— Bart still narrating something to Jaime's camera from inside the pile, Slobo allowing himself an actual smile for approximately one and a half seconds before it vanished again, Cissie catching Anita's palm in a slap so hard it echoed.

Greta stayed on the bench through all of it, clapping twice in a way that somehow still communicated the full range of her enthusiasm, and Red let the whole thing run a beat longer than his usual patience allowed before he started calling them back in.

Across the net, the other team had already broken off toward their own bench, their coach saying something low and fast that none of them looked thrilled to hear. Their outside hitter caught Kon's eye on the way past and shook her head, not unfriendly.

From the bleachers, Jason's voice carried down louder than strictly necessary. "That's my little brother!"

"You do not get to claim him," Dick said, laughing. “That’s my brother too.”

"I absolutely do. I am his favorite, I get dibs. It’s a rule."

"It is not a real rule," Kyle said, not looking up from where he was recording the whole thing anyway.

Traya had climbed fully onto the bench seat now, one of Roy's hands hovering at her back on principle, cupping both hands around her mouth. "Tim! Tim! Do that again!"

"I can't do that again, it only works once," Tim called up, and Traya looked personally offended by the limitation.

Red let the celebration run a few seconds longer than strictly necessary before his voice cut through it, calm as ever. "One set down. Water, then bench. We're not done."

The team peeled apart, breathless, dripping, already trading commentary on the dump as they drifted toward the sideline— Bart insisting he'd known it was coming, Cassie insisting nobody had known it was coming, Cissie pointing out that even Tim probably hadn't fully decided until the ball was already in his hands.

Kon fell into step beside Tim on the walk to the bench, close enough that their arms brushed once, on purpose or not, he genuinely couldn't tell anymore.

"You're going to give me a heart condition," Kon said.

"You'll live." Tim reached for his water bottle without looking at him, but the corner of his mouth hadn't settled back down yet, not all the way. "Besides. We've still got one more set. Pace yourself."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

Kon dropped onto the bench beside him, shoulder to shoulder, both of them still catching their breath, the scoreboard behind them holding steady at twenty-five to twenty-one while the gym around them rolled on into its next round of matches like nothing had happened at all.

Up in the bleachers, Traya had stood on the bench seat again, and Roy's hand found the back of her shirt on reflex without either of them looking away from the court. Dick cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled something that got lost in the general noise, and Jason, beside him, looked personally wounded that nobody had asked for his commentary yet.

"You're doing the thing," Cassie said, dropping onto the bench on Kon's other side, still breathing hard, toweling sweat off the back of her neck. "The staring thing."

"I'm not staring at anything."

"You're staring at the scoreboard like it personally offended you."

"Maybe it did."

"Sure." Cassie didn't sound convinced, and didn't push it either, just reached past him for the water cooler, and Kon let the silence sit there instead of arguing a point he wasn't going to win anyway.

Tim leaned back against the bench rail, eyes on the court where the next match's teams were already filing in, entirely unbothered by any of it, and knocked his knee once against Kon's like it was nothing at all.

"One down," he said.

"One down," Kon agreed, and didn't trust himself to say anything else before Red called them back up for the second set.

III. 

"Let's go, swap sides," Red called, already halfway to his feet, clipboard tucked under one arm the way it lived there. "Three minutes."

The scoreboard behind him still read twenty-five to twenty-one, and would keep reading that until someone from the next match bothered to reset it.

The bench emptied out around Kon in a scramble of water bottles and ball bags, everyone moving with the loose, unhurried confidence of a team that had just won a set and knew it. Cassie hauled the ball cart by its handle, wheels catching on a seam in the floor before she yanked it free. Cissie scooped up the spare kneepads nobody had bothered claiming. Bart walked backward the entire way so he could keep narrating something to Jaime in the stands, and somehow didn't run into anyone doing it.

"You're gonna eat it," Slobo said, not even looking at Bart.

"I have never once ‘eaten it’ walking backward."

"There's a first time for everything."

"That's such a negative worldview, Slo’."

"When have I ever made you think I have a positive view of the world?"

Around them, the gym had barely paused for the changeover— three other matches still running in full swing, a whistle blowing somewhere behind them for a point that had nothing to do with theirs, the concession stand still frying whatever it had been frying since check-in. Nobody in the building seemed to have noticed Young Justice had just closed out a set at all, except for the small, loud pocket of bleachers that belonged to them.

Kon grabbed his own water bottle and Tim's off the bench in the same motion, mostly out of habit at this point, and held the second one out without really thinking about it.

"Thanks," Tim said, taking it, fingers brushing Kon's for half a second longer than the handoff strictly needed.

"You'd forget it otherwise."

"I wouldn't."

"You left it in the car during regionals last season."

"That was one time."

"You left it at a different gym a month ago."

"Okay, that one doesn't count, that gym was doing renovations, it was chaos in there."

Kon didn't have a rebuttal for that, mostly because it was true, and fell into step beside him instead as the team crossed to the other end of the court, threading between two other matches still running on either side. A kid from court four chased a stray ball almost into their path, and Bart caught it one-handed without breaking stride, tossing it back with ease.

"Show-off," Cissie said.

"It's called being good at my job."

"It's called being annoying at your job."

"You’re not getting that new libero."

Dick appeared at the low rail a second later, having apparently decided the three-minute interval was fair game the same way Jaime treated every stoppage in play, hooking his arms over the barrier and leaning in like he belonged there.

"You're not supposed to be over here," Tim said, without turning around.

"I'm supporting my brother. That's legally protected." Dick's eyes tracked across the bench, landing on Kon for half a second before sliding back to Tim, entirely too pleased with whatever he'd apparently decided that look meant. "You looked good out there."

"I know."

"Modest, too." Dick glanced over his shoulder, checking for the coach he'd apparently already been warned about once tonight, and lowered his voice like that made any difference in a gym this loud. "Traya wants to know if you're gonna do the thing again."

"Tell her I can't promise repeat performances."

"I told her that. She didn't accept it."

"She's ten. She doesn't have to accept things."

Dick pushed back off the rail, already retreating before the trainer— or Red— could notice him properly. "Good luck. Don't lose. Love you! Kiss Kon for luck!"

"Shove it, Dickface!" Tim called after him, not even bothering to sound like it was a joke, and Dick's laugh carried all the way back up into the bleachers.

Kon, several shades of red he hadn't fully recovered from yet, didn't trust himself to comment on any of it. Tim hadn't looked at him once while he'd said it. He hadn't needed to.

The new bench waited for them on the far side, a mirror of the one they'd just left, and the whole team dropped their bags in roughly the same configuration out of pure muscle memory— Bart's gear always nearest the water cups, Cassie's always half a foot too far from everyone else's because she liked the extra elbow room, Greta's folded into a square so precise it looked ironed.

Up in what were now the far bleachers, Kon spotted Dick's group resettling too, Roy shifting Lian's weight against his shoulder as they climbed to a new row, Traya already scrambling up ahead of everyone else to claim the best seat before Jason could. Jason lost that race and made his displeasure known from two rows back, loud enough to carry across the gym.

"This is discrimination," he announced, dropping onto the bench anyway.

"Against who," Kyle said.

"Me. Personally. By name."

"You're not important enough to be discriminated against."

"That's the meanest thing you've said to me all day, and you've said a lot of mean things."

The ref's assistant jogged over with his clipboard, waving the book kid along behind him. "New lineup cards for set two. Any changes to your starters?"

Red flipped his own card over, scanning it more out of habit than necessity, and looked down the bench at Greta, who was already looking back at him with the same flat, patient expression she wore for literally everything.

"You want in?" Red asked her.

"You said depending on their middles."

"Their middles adjusted for a bit and then stopped."

"Then no," Greta said. "Not yet."

"Not yet," Red agreed, and turned to fill out the card with the same six names as before.

Tim, next to Kon, hadn't said anything, but something in his shoulders had gone a little less loose during the two seconds that decision hung in the air, and Kon noticed it the way he noticed most things about Tim these days— immediately, and with more attention than the moment probably warranted.

"You good?" Kon asked, low, just for him.

"I'm always good."

"That's not an answer."

"It can be if you accept it as one."

"I’ll accept it when you’re done being smug about the lineup card."

Tim's mouth twitched, and whatever had tightened in his shoulders eased back out, and he knocked his knee against Kon's on the bench, same as always, like it settled something neither of them was going to say out loud.

Greta, apparently unbothered by any of it, reached over and stole a sip from Tim's water bottle without asking. "You'll be tired by twenty," she said, handing it back.

"I'm never tired by twenty."

"You will be tonight."

"That's an oddly confident prediction."

"I watch," Greta said, which had apparently become her answer to everything today, and went back to retying her shoe like she hadn't just delivered a small, deeply unbothered threat.

Red waited until the book kid had jogged the new lineup card back to the scorer's table before he pulled the team in, the same loose half-circle they always fell into without anyone calling it. Bart was still breathing a little hard from the sprint across the gym for no reason. Cassie had an arm draped over Cissie's shoulders again, absent, automatic. Slobo and Anita stood close enough that their elbows kept brushing, which neither of them seemed to notice or mind.

"Good set," Red said, which was as close to a compliment as he ever led with. "Don't relax about it."

"We're not relaxed," Cassie said. "We're thriving."

"Thriving looks a lot like relaxed from where I'm standing."

"That's a you problem."

Red let that go without comment, the way he let most of Cassie's commentary go, and flipped his clipboard around so the team could half-glance at the notes he'd scrawled during the break, none of which any of them were actually going to read from six feet away.

"Their middles are still crowding the center line on quick sets," he said. "Slobo, Anita, you called it out already. If it happens again in this set, don't wait for me. Tell the ref."

"Copy," Slobo said.

"It's a real violation," Anita added, mostly to Bart, who hadn't asked. "Foot fully over the line during contact is a fault. We're not making it up."

"I never said you were making it up."

"You had a face."

"I have several faces. None of them were doubt."

Cissie, from the far end of the huddle, didn't even look up from retying her shoe. "Bart, please don't start a debate about the metaphysics of court boundaries. We only have so much time."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain a lot of opinions nobody asked for."

"Same thing."

Red kept going before that could turn into its own separate argument. "Bart, their jump-serve specialist is going to keep hunting your back corner. You did well last set. Keep doing well."

"I live to do well," Bart said. 

"Cassie, Kon— they're going to start reading your approach the way you read theirs. Mix it up. Don't get predictable just because it worked once."

"We're never predictable," Cassie said.

"You hit the same angle four times in a row in the third rotation."

"That's called consistency."

"That's called predictable," Cissie said, grinning, and ducked when Cassie swatted at her without any real force behind it.

"Kon." Red flipped a page on his clipboard without really needing to. "Your approach is getting a hair late off the second contact. Not enough to matter yet, but their block's fast, and fast catches up to late eventually."

"I'll tighten it up."

"I know you will."

"Very motivational," Cassie said.

"I'm not paid to be motivational. I'm paid to notice things."

"Nobody's paying you."

"I volunteer to notice things," Red amended, unbothered, and moved on before Cassie could find a follow-up.

Red didn't smile, exactly, but something in his face eased a fraction, the way it did whenever the team started running its own momentum without him having to push it. He looked down at his clipboard once more, more out of habit than need, and then back up, landing on Tim and Kon last, the way he always seemed to.

"Tim." A beat. "Kon."

"Yeah," Kon said, straightening up a little, the way you did when a coach said your name in the tone that meant a note was coming.

"Their block's going to start cheating toward you on the outside. You've been the answer all set, they know it now." Red's eyes flicked between them, brief and businesslike. "Keep them honest. Mix your tempo. Kon, don't always wait on the same read— sometimes take it early, make them guess."

"Got it," Kon said.

"And you two keep finding each other blind, which is good," Red went on, already moving toward the next point on his mental list, oblivious the way coaches got oblivious when they were three sentences ahead of themselves, "but if their middle starts closing the gap, you're going to need a backup play. Don't fall in love with the connection you've got just because it worked."

The huddle went very quiet for exactly one second.

"Too late," Tim said, easy, like he hadn't just detonated something in the middle of a tactical note.

Cassie made a sound like she'd been personally assaulted. "Oh my god."

"I'm just agreeing with the coach's concern," Tim said, entirely too pleased with himself. "Falling in love with a connection. Very relevant. Very astute read of the situation, Red."

"That is not what I meant," Red said, flat, already regretting the word choice with the weariness of a man who coached teenagers for a living and had made this exact mistake before.

"It's what you said."

"It's not what I meant."

"I'm choosing to interpret it generously." Tim glanced sideways at Kon before Red could recover, unhurried about it, like the whole huddle wasn't still watching. "For the record, I'd fall for it again."

Bart had both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking, and Anita didn't even try to hide her grin, just let it sit there while Slobo pinched the bridge of his nose like a man praying for patience he already knew he wasn't getting.

Kon felt the heat crawl straight up the back of his neck and into his ears, fast enough that there was no chance of playing it off as gym warmth this time, not with the whole huddle looking directly at him.

"You're doing this on purpose," Kon said, which came out a lot less steady than he'd meant it to.

"Doing what?" Tim's eyes were bright, entirely too pleased with himself, the exact expression he wore right before a backset he had no business making. "I'm just listening to the coach. Actively. Like a good teammate."

"You're impossible."

"You keep saying that like it's an insult."

"It is an insult."

"Doesn't feel like one. Not when it's you saying it."

Cissie leaned over toward Cassie, not even bothering to lower her voice. "This is the most action we've gotten off the court all day."

"Bigger than the backset," Cassie agreed.

"I don't know," Bart said, finally getting his hands off his mouth. "The backset was pretty romantic. This is just— public."

"There's a difference between romantic and public?"

"Yeah. One's a compliment and one's a health code violation."

"I'm standing right here," Kon said.

"We know," Cassie said. "We're not being subtle about it."

Anita, still grinning, elbowed Slobo. "Remember when we were like this?"

"We were never like this."

"We were exactly like this. You once set up a whole double block just to stand next to me for four seconds."

"That was genius, this is just whorish."

"It was the least genuis idea you've ever had and I have heard a lot of your ‘genius’ ideas," she said, holding up air quotes. 

Slobo didn't dignify that, just looked at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of intervention, and didn't get one.

Red closed his eyes for a second, the exact expression of a coach recalculating exactly how much of his three minutes he'd already lost to this, and when he opened them again his voice had gone back to businesslike, mostly. "Can we return to volleyball?"

"We never left volleyball," Tim said. "I'm extremely focused on volleyball."

"You are the least focused person in this huddle right now."

"I'm focused on the parts of volleyball that matter."

"The plays we make matter."

"Sure. And so does team chemistry. You said it yourself."

Red opened his mouth, visibly reconsidered whatever he'd been about to say, and settled instead for a long, flat look that had clearly worked on generations of teenagers before this one and was doing absolutely nothing against Tim, who met it without so much as blinking.

"I hate that you're good enough that I can't bench you for this," Red said finally.

"I know," Tim said. "It's a real character flaw of yours."

The huddle broke into actual laughter at that, Bart nearly folding in half, Cassie wheezing something that might have been a word, and even Slobo let one short exhale through his nose that was, for him, the equivalent of hysterics. Greta, from the end of the bench, offered a single slow clap, which somehow landed harder than if she'd said anything at all. Kon just stood there, ears still burning, watching Tim not even have the decency to look embarrassed about any of it.

"You're never going to let me live that down," Kon said, quieter now, just for him, once the noise had settled enough to talk under it.

"Live what down? I complimented our peer chemistry. That's a coaching term, isn’t it?"

"It is not a coaching term the way you say it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tim's mouth was doing the thing again, the almost-smile that wasn't trying very hard to hide itself. "I'm just a guy who listens to his coach."

"You're a menace."

"I'm efficient. I got two whole sentences out of Red's advice and made it about you. That takes skill."

"That takes no shame whatsoever. It’s not a skill."

"Having no shame is a skill from where I’m standing"

Kon opened his mouth to argue that, found it harder than it should have been with Tim looking at him like that, close enough that the noise of the gym had gone soft and distant again the way it always seemed to around him, and settled for shaking his head instead.

Tim's grin eased into something quieter while the rest of the huddle drifted a step or two away, still trading commentary about Red's face, giving them the closest thing to privacy a gym full of six tournaments ever offered.

"For what it's worth," Tim said, lower now, "I meant it. The chemistry thing."

"I know."

"Do you, though?"

Kon glanced sideways at him, caught off guard by the shift, the way Tim could go from needling him in front of the whole team to this in under a breath. "I know you don't miss on purpose. And I know you don't set anybody blind unless you trust them not to let you down."

"That's not the same thing as what I said."

"No," Kon agreed. "It's better, probably. You're just bad at saying the actual thing, so you say it in front of Red instead and make it a joke."

Tim didn't argue that, which was, from him, close to an admission. "Fine. I like you. Is that direct enough for you?"

"That's— " Kon's brain caught up about a full second behind his mouth. "That's very direct, actually."

"You said I was bad at it."

"I didn't think you'd just do it on command."

"I am very good at listening"

"Do you have to make it dirty?"

"If it’s about you, yes." Tim knocked his knuckles once against Kon's arm, light, deliberate. "I like you. I've liked you for a months now, probably longer, and I'm tired of only saying it in code in front of our coach. So. There it is."

Kon stood there for a second, entirely unprepared for how much easier it was to hear than he'd expected, given how many months he'd spent bracing for it in the abstract. "You could've led with that."

"Where's the fun in that."

"I'm serious. You could've just said it months ago."

"I know. I'm saying it now." Tim's mouth curved, not quite as steady as his voice had been a second ago. "You don't have to say it back right this second. I just didn't want to keep hiding it anymore."

Cassie bumped Kon's shoulder with hers on the way past, quieter than usual. "You good? Actually good, not the answer you keep giving Tim."

"I'm good."

"You've been doing a lot of blushing for a guy who's good."

"That's just gym temperature."

"Sure it is." She didn't push it any further than that, peeling off toward her own spot before he could argue. "Go be normal about your feelings for once. We've got a set to win."

Tim reappeared at his elbow a moment later, having apparently circled back for exactly this, unhurried in the way he only ever was when he'd already decided something.

"Ask me if I'm free Friday," Tim said, quieter now, the huddle already starting to break apart around them into their pre-serve rituals, Cassie bouncing on her toes at her own spot, Bart re-taping a knee that didn't need it.

"Now? We're about to start a set."

"I know. Ask me anyway."

Kon's pulse did the same stupid, inconvenient thing it had been doing all match, right on cue. "Are you free Friday?"

"Yes." Tim didn't make him wait for it, didn't fold a joke into it this time. "See how easy that was?"

"You could've made it that easy weeks ago."

"I like watching you blush about it." Tim was already turning to jog toward his own spot, throwing one more look back over his shoulder that lasted exactly as long as it took him to reach the service line, which was, Kon was starting to suspect, precisely how long he let himself linger on anything that mattered before he made himself stop.

"Hands in," Red called, and the huddle re-formed on instinct, palms stacking in the center the way they always did, Kon's landing on top of Tim's again without any decision behind it, the same as every time.

"Young Justice on three," Red said. "One, two, three—"

"Young Justice!"

They peeled apart into position, the ritual restarting itself the way it always did— Cassie cracking her neck, Bart re-taping the same knee for the second time in ten minutes, Slobo watching him do it with the same patient almost-amusement as always. Greta drank exactly half her water and set the rest down for later, same as before, Cissie sitting next to her with her legs crossed. 

Across the net, the other team had finished their own scramble, taking their spots on what had been Young Justice's side of the court a few minutes ago, their coach's voice still carrying something clipped and urgent from the sideline. Their outside hitter caught Kon's eye across the net and gave him a small, unbothered nod, the kind that acknowledged the first set without conceding anything about the second.

Up in the bleachers, Traya had already relocated to the front row of the new section, waving her whole arm again like she wasn't sure Kon could see her from a slightly different angle than before. Roy gave a thumbs up over Lian's sleeping head, careful not to jostle her. Jason had both boots up on a new bench, undeterred by the change of scenery, and Dick reached over without looking to knock them back down onto the floor, a reflex at this point more than an actual objection. A few rows down, a woman Kon recognized only from a story about a referee's eyesight caught his eye and gave him a small, approving nod, the kind that made him instinctively stand up straighter without knowing why.

"Second set!" Jaime hollered down toward the court, phone already up. "Same energy, please, I'm building a whole highlight reel."

"There is no highlight reel," Bart said, not turning around.

"There will be. I'm making it."

"Serve," the ref's assistant called, once both teams had settled, and the head ref up in the stand raised a hand to confirm both sides were ready. Down at the scorer's table, the book kid flipped to a fresh page for the new set, already looking more invested than he had any real stake in being.

The other team's setter stepped up to the line first this time, tossing the ball once to test its weight, since Young Justice had served first in the opening set and the serve rotated over the way it always did. She bounced it twice against the floor, glanced down her own line to check her hitters were set, and didn't look rushed about any of it, the calm.

Kon found his spot at the net, weight forward, the gym around him narrowing down the same way it always did right before a whistle— the noise still there, other tournaments still running, folding chairs scraping somewhere behind him, a whistle blowing for a match that had nothing to do with theirs. But smaller now, somehow. Further off.

His legs still carried the good ache from the first set, the kind that meant something instead of nothing, and the floor under his shoes had gone slightly tacky again the way it always did an hour into any tournament.

He glanced down the net without meaning to and found Tim already looking back, fifteen feet away, chalk dust still faint on his palm, something steady and unbothered sitting behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the score. Tim didn't say anything. He didn't have to, not anymore, not after the last three minutes. He just held Kon's eyes for a second, tipped his chin down in something that wasn't quite a nod, and turned back toward the net.

Kon rolled his shoulder once, settled his weight, and tried very hard to think about blocking angles instead of the exact shape of that almost-smile.

"Ready?" the head ref called down the line, waiting on hands.

Kon raised his. Down the row, everyone else did the same, unison born from repetition rather than instruction at this point, and across the net the other team mirrored it back, six hands up in something that had settled somewhere between readiness and nerves an hour ago and hadn't moved since.

The whistle blew, short and sharp, cutting through all of it.

Set two.

iv. 

The other team's setter served first— a flat, no-nonsense float that landed short enough to force Bart into an awkward forearm scoop, and the pass sailed wide enough that Tim had to chase it down instead of running anything resembling a real play. What came out the other side was a rushed, defensive poke over the net, more prayer than offense, and their middle put it away before anyone on Young Justice's side had finished reacting.

"Zero-one," the book kid called, already invested again after the intermission.

"That's on me," Bart said, jogging back into position, unbothered by his own admission the way he was unbothered by most things that happened to his body during a match.

"It's on the serve," Slobo said. "Not you."

"I appreciate the loyalty, but it was also a little on me."

"You can appreciate the loyalty and still be wrong about whose fault it was."

"There are many faults. It's a big tent."

Their setter served again, the exact same float, and this time Bart read it clean, popping a pass up high enough that Tim had room to work. He set Kon outside, quick and low, and Kon's approach did the three steps on instinct, palm cracking the ball down the line before the block had fully formed.

"One-one," the book kid said.

"There we go," Cassie said, already clapping once, sharp, before rotating back.

Kon served next, a flat, heavy ball that clipped the back line, and their libero had to take two full steps back to dig it, the pass sailing high enough that their middle could only get a soft, defensive touch on it instead of a real swing. The ball popped up on Young Justice's side, and Tim was there to turn it into a real play, setting Cassie a quick outside before their block had reset. She buried it clean.

"Two-one," the book kid said.

"That's for last set," Cassie said, to no one, rotating back with her chin up.

Up in the bleachers, Jaime had his phone raised again, narrating under his breath to Jason and Kyle in the row behind him. "This is the good part. This is where it gets interesting."

"It's been interesting the whole time," Kyle said.

"It's about to get more interesting."

"You say that every game."

"Because it's true every game."

Dick, a row down with Roy and a still-sleeping Lian, didn't look back at either of them, eyes fixed on the court instead. "Tim looks tired."

"Tim is always tired," Jason said. "He runs on spite and energy drinks."

"He's had zero energy drinks tonight."

"Then he's running purely on spite. Even better."

Kon served again, same corner, but their libero was ready for it this time, popping a clean pass up that let their offense actually run. Their outside hitter— the one with the grin that hadn't gone away since warmups— got a high, easy ball and put it down the line before Cassie could get her feet set, the same corner that had given her trouble all of last set too.

"Two-two," the book kid said.

"They're annoying," Cassie said.

"They're doing their job," Kon corrected, jogging past.

"They can be annoying and doing their job."

Their outside hitter served next, and it came in deep and heavy, catching Cassie in the back row before she'd finished shifting into her defensive spot. The pass wobbled off her platform, high and short, and their middle punished the gap before Slobo could get both hands up in time.

"Two-three," the book kid said.

"That one's actually on me," Cassie admitted, jogging back, jaw tight.

"Welcome to the club," Bart said. "We meet on Tuesdays. Bring snacks."

"I hate you."

"That's the club motto."

Their outside served again, same corner, and this time it caught Cassie flush in the same spot, the pass sailing even worse than the last one, and their middle ran the same quick before Slobo had reset from the first attack.

"Two-four," the book kid said.

Red's voice carried from the sideline, even and unbothered. "Cassie, step your feet in half a stride. You've got more space than you think."

"Copy," Cassie said, though her jaw stayed tight through the next rotation, the same tightness that came from being solved twice in a row by the exact same read.

Their outside hitter served a third time at the same corner, greedy about it now that it was working, and this time Cassie was ready, stepping in exactly the half stride Red had told her to, and the pass came up clean and high, giving Tim room to actually do something.

He set Kon a backset without looking, same as he had all of last set, trusting the timing the way he trusted very little else in his life without evidence first, and Kon was there, airborne, driving it down past a single blocker who hadn't read the direction in time.

"Three-four," the book kid said.

"Nice," Cassie said, relief plain in it. "Okay. We're fine. We were always fine," She said, to herself now, somehow managing to sound both defensive and completely unbothered.

The next several rallies blurred the way they always did once both sides settled into their rhythm— serve, pass, set, attack, dig, reset— the gym around them narrowing down to the sound of the ball and six voices calling for it on each side. Young Justice traded points evenly through the middle of the run, Slobo and Anita timing a double block clean enough to draw an actual cheer from their side of the bleachers, Bart digging two more balls off his forearms that had no business staying in play, Cissie closing a line she'd left open all of last set.

Somewhere in the middle of it, their coach called a timeout, voice sharp enough to carry across the net, and Young Justice drifted toward their bench for the brief thirty seconds it took the other side to regroup, nobody bothering to sit.

"They're switching their block angles," Slobo said, watching the other bench instead of his own team. "Middle's moving toward Kon now."

"Good," Cassie said. "Means they're not moving toward me."

"That's not really the takeaway I wanted you to have."

"It's the one I'm having anyway."

"Noted. I'll adjust my coaching style accordingly."

"You're not the coach, Slobo."

"I coach myself. It's a smaller job, but I take it seriously."

By the time the score ticked to four-four, both benches had stopped sitting, drifting instead into that loose, standing readiness that meant a set had decided to actually matter.

"They're not tired yet," Anita said, toweling sweat off her face during a dead ball. "Usually teams this size get tired by the middle of set two."

"Maybe they don't get tired," Slobo said.

"Everyone gets tired."

"Maybe they're just better at hiding it. Weak basitches."

"That's such a you thing to say."

Their setter served next, tossing a short, sneaky float that dropped just over the net before Bart could fully close the gap, and Cassie had to scramble to keep it off the floor, sending up a pass with no shape at all. Tim ran it down anyway, setting a rushed, high ball back to Cassie that she still managed to put down cross-court, more instinct than technique.

"Five-four," the book kid said.

"That was ugly," Cissie said, jogging back, breathing hard.

"Ugly points count the same as pretty ones," Bart said.

"I know how scoring works, Bart."

"Just checking. You looked personally offended by your own kill."

Kon served again, and this time the opponent's transition attack found the seam between Cassie and Bart on defense, the two of them converging half a step too late, the ball dropping untouched between them.

"Five-five," the book kid said.

"That's on both of us," Bart said.

"I'm aware," Cassie said, already resetting, already moving on, the flat efficiency of a girl who'd learned a long time ago that dwelling on a dropped ball only cost you the next one too.

The rally after that ran long— touches on each side, both benches half standing again, Bart diving more times than needed, Slobo and Anita trading a block that got a touch but not a stuff, the ball staying alive through pure stubbornness until their setter finally dumped it over herself, catching Young Justice's front row flat-footed.

"Five-six," the book kid said.

Red didn't call a timeout, not yet, just raised his voice from the sideline, steady, unbothered. "Step up. You're behind. Play like you want to be ahead."

"We know," Cassie muttered, mostly to herself, jogging back into position with her jaw set the exact same way it had been all set.

Their middle served next, low and mean, and Slobo dug it up clean this time, setting Tim up for a real offense. Tim ran a quick to Slobo that punched through before their block had reset, evening it back up.

"Six-six," the book kid said.

"There we go," Bart said, already jogging back with both fists raised for exactly one second before he remembered he was supposed to be conserving energy for the actual match.

Kon served next, a short, soft serve that landed just past their front row, and their libero had to scramble it up messy, giving their offense almost nothing to work with. Tim was already crossing to cover the dig-and-tip that came back over, and got a hand under it just enough to feed Kon a rushed set, the same shot he'd been hitting all set, except this time their block had moved toward it, reading him the way Red had warned they would in the huddle. Kon hit it anyway, and got a hand on it, deflecting it just enough that it dropped in anyway on a bounce nobody could've called clean.

"Seven-six," the book kid said, and the whole bench exhaled at the lucky bounce like they'd personally willed it into existence.

"That should not have gone in," Kon said, moving back, still a little stunned by his own luck.

"Don't question it," Cassie said. "Just take it."

"I'm just saying, physics-wise—"

"Physics doesn't care about your feelings, and neither do I. Take the point."

Kon served again, and their offense worked the return attack to their outside hitter instead of testing Cassie's corner, like she'd finally gotten bored of losing that fight. She hit it flat and mean, straight down the middle, and Kon went up without thinking, hands set, and got all of it.

The ball ricocheted off his palms harder than anything had hit him all match, staying on their side of the net for exactly long enough that the whistle blew before he'd even registered the sting climbing up through his fingers.

"Eight-six," the book kid said.

"That's the stuff," Cassie said, delighted, smacking his shoulder on the way past. "Clean one, too."

"Yeah," Kon said, already shaking his hand out on reflex, not quite paying attention to his own voice.

Kon served a third time, but their libero read it clean this time, digging it up high enough for their setter to run a real play. Their middle punched a quick through before Slobo and Anita could reset from the last exchange.

"Eight-seven," the book kid said.

Red called their timeout at eight-seven, Young Justice's favor, thin as it was, more to reset the rhythm than to fix anything actually broken. The team drifted toward the bench without much urgency, riding the small lead instead of panicking about how small it was.

"Good shape," Red said, arms crossed, watching the other bench with the same cataloguing attention he always wore during breaks. "Their outside is starting to force it into the seam. Cassie, Bart, talk to each other out there, call it earlier."

"Copy," Bart said.

"Copy," Cassie said, half a beat behind him, and neither of them seemed to register that they'd said it at the same time, the way two teammates who'd spent a season on the same side of a net eventually started sounding like each other without meaning to.

"Slobo, Anita— their setter's favoring the same slide she ran last set. If she goes to it twice in a row, jump on the third."

"We noticed," Anita said.

"I know you noticed. I'm saying it out loud so everyone knows."

Bart dropped onto the bench for the last few seconds, chest heaving, and reached for the water cooler without waiting for anyone to hand it to him. "I would like it noted that I have already dug more balls this set than I dug in the entirety of last set."

"Nobody's counting but you," Slobo said.

"I'm counting for all of us. You're welcome."

Cassie hadn't sat down. She stood a few feet off the bench instead, bouncing a spare ball once against her palm, restless with the kind of energy that came from being solved twice in a row and only partly fixing it, and her eyes landed on Kon, who was still shaking his hand out without seeming to notice he was doing it.

"You good?" she asked.

"Yeah." Kon flexed his fingers, testing the sting. "That just stung more than I expected."

"That's because she hits like she's trying to end someone's career," Cassie said, with something close to professional respect. "I've taken that same line off my own forearms twice this tournament. Feels like getting hit with a phone book."

"A phone book," Bart said, from the bench. "What year do you think this is?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think anyone under thirty knows what a phone book is."

"It's a metaphor, Bart."

"It's a bad one."

"It's a great one, actually, and I'm not taking notes from a guy who dives face-first into hardwood for fun."

Kon shook his hand out again, wincing at the sting that ran up through his palm into his wrist. It wasn't anything serious— he knew that immediately, the sting already starting to dull into a manageable throb instead of the sharp jolt from a second ago— but it ached in that stupid, disproportionate way a jammed hand did, way more than the actual damage seemed to justify.

"Honestly," Kon said, flexing it one more time, "it's almost as bad as blocking one of Cassie's spikes in practice."

"Excuse me," Cassie said, spinning to face him fully. "Almost?"

"Almost."

"I have never in my life hit a ball 'almost' as hard as anyone. That's an insult to my entire training regimen."

"I'm complimenting you."

"You're comparing me unfavorably to a stranger."

"I'm saying you hit hard enough that getting hit by their outside hitter reminded me of you. That's a compliment."

"It's a weird compliment."

"Everything Kon says is a weird compliment lately," Bart said. "It's contagious. I think he caught it from Tim."

Tim was already crossing the space between them before Bart had finished the sentence, unhurried about it the way he was unhurried about most things that actually mattered to him, and caught Kon's wrist gently, turning his palm up to look at it with the same focused attention he gave a bad pass mid-rally.

"Let me see," Tim said, and it wasn't a question, not really.

"It's fine."

"I didn't ask if it was fine. I asked to see it."

Kon let him, mostly because arguing took more energy than he had left for it, and Tim's thumb traced once along the heel of his palm, light, testing for anything that felt more wrong than a jammed hand should.

"Nothing's broken," Tim said, half to Kon and half to himself, the same quiet focus he brought to running through worst-case scenarios out of habit and ruling them out one by one. "You'd be worse than this if something was broken."

"I could've told you that."

"You also told me it was fine, and it clearly wasn't, so forgive me for double-checking."

"It's a little sore. That's all. From the block."

"The one that felt like Cassie," Tim said, mouth twitching.

"Almost like Cassie."

"I heard that," Cassie called, from somewhere near the water cooler, not looking up.

"Noted," Tim said, and then, without any real warning, without the joke Kon had been bracing for, he lifted Kon's hand and pressed his mouth to the sore spot on his palm, quick and soft and entirely too gentle for how hard the actual moment had been.

The bench went very quiet for exactly one second.

"Okay," Bart said, into the silence. "Okay, that's— that's a new one."

Kon felt the heat hit his whole face at once, faster than it had for anything else all match, faster than the huddle, faster than the backset, faster than any of it, because this wasn't a joke folded into a coach's tactical note, this wasn't banter with an audience built into the bit. This was just Tim, quiet and unbothered by who was watching, still holding his hand like it was something worth being careful with.

"Better?" Tim asked, like he hadn't just detonated something in the middle of a sanctioned timeout.

"That's not— that's not how that works," Kon managed, voice doing something embarrassing and unsteady on its way out.

"I never said it was medicine."

"Then what was it?"

"It was because your hand hurt and I didn't want it to." Tim said it simply, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world, like the whole bench wasn't currently staring at both of them with varying degrees of delight. "Also I've wanted an excuse to do that for a while, and this was a good one."

"That is deeply unhinged," Cassie said, sitting down hard on the bench like her legs had stopped fully supporting her. "I love it. I'm a little scared of it. I love it."

"I did this," Cissie said, quietly, mostly to herself, staring at the ceiling. "I made this happen by being supportive of a menace."

"You didn't make anything happen," Cassie said. "This has been happening for months, we just got to watch the finale."

"This isn’t the finale," Tim said, still not letting go of Kon's hand.

"You are a disgustingly bisexual man, Timothy Drake"

Greta, from the end of the bench, offered a single slow clap, the same one she'd given after Red's huddle disaster last set, and it landed just as hard this time as it had then. Slobo pinched the bridge of his nose. Anita didn't even try to hide her grin, just let it sit there, delighted and unbothered.

"I have never seen you do that before," Bart said, to Tim, genuinely marveling now. "In three years. Not once. Not even when Cassie sprained her ankle at regionals."

"I don't kiss everyone's injuries, Bart."

"Clearly."

"That would be unsanitary and also strange."

"This isn't strange?"

"This is different."

"How?"

Tim glanced at Kon before he answered that, something steady and entirely unbothered sitting behind his eyes, the same look he'd worn all match right before he did something that had no business working. "Because it's him."

Kon didn't have anything to say to that. He'd had things to say to most of what Tim had thrown at him all match— overthinking-face jokes, backsets, coaching-term deflections, the whole slow unraveling of however many months of restraint— but this, apparently, emptied him out completely; left him standing there with his hand still loosely held and his face doing something he had no control over at all.

"For the record," Bart said, apparently unable to let a silence sit for more than four seconds, "I would also like my injuries kissed better. This is a formal request."

"You don't have any injuries right now," Cassie said.

"I'm building a case for future ones."

"That's insane."

"That's forward planning. I will be informing Jaime."

Cissie, still staring at the ceiling like it owed her an explanation, finally lowered her gaze. "You two are going to be unbearable for the rest of this tournament, aren't you."

"Probably," Tim said, not even trying to argue it.

"Wonderful. Can't wait."

"Time," the ref's assistant called, mercifully, cutting through what was rapidly becoming the least private moment of Kon's entire life.

The team scrambled up off the bench, Bart still narrating something under his breath about finales and unhinged behavior, Cassie recovering enough to shove his shoulder on the way past, Slobo and Anita already resetting their focus toward the net like none of it had happened, though the look Anita threw Kon on the way past said otherwise.

"You good?" Cassie asked, falling into step beside Kon, uncharacteristically gentle about it.

"I have no idea," Kon said, honestly.

"That's fair. It’s been a lot."

"It has been so much."

"For what it's worth, he doesn't do that. Any of that. We’ve known him since we were fourteen and I've genuinely never seen him just say a thing like that out loud without wrapping it in eleven layers of sarcasm first."

"I noticed."

"So maybe don't overthink it into oblivion. Just— let it be a nice thing that happened. You're allowed to have nice things happen to you, Kon."

"I know that."

"Do you, though? Because you've got a face on right now that says you're already three steps into figuring out what it means instead of just letting it mean whatever it already means."

Kon didn't answer that immediately, mostly because she wasn't wrong, and Cassie let the silence sit there for a beat instead of pushing it, which was, for her, a rare and deliberate kindness twice in one match.

"He likes you," she said finally, simple, no jokes folded into it. "A lot. It's been obvious to literally everyone but the two of you for months. I just think it's worth saying out loud once, since he apparently ran out of patience for saying things quietly."

"I heard him. Earlier. During the huddle."

"Maybe you should do something about it."

Kon didn't have a response to that, so he just nodded, flexing his hand once more as he found his spot at the net, the sting mostly faded now into something warmer and much harder to name.

Tim was already at his own position, spinning a ball between his palms, entirely too composed for a guy who'd just kissed a teammate's hand in front of six witnesses and a scorekeeper who was absolutely going to tell someone about it later. He caught Kon's eye across the net and didn't look away first this time, didn't duck his head or turn back to Greta for a feed. He just held it, steady, unbothered, like the whole gym wasn't there at all.

"Ready?" the head ref called down the line.

Kon raised his hand— the sore one, on purpose, a small, stupid rebellion against how much it had already stopped mattering— and found he didn't have to fake the steadiness in it at all.

The whistle blew.

Their setter served first out of the timeout, testing Cassie's corner again out of habit more than strategy, and this time Cassie was ready for it, stepping in clean, sending up a pass so precise Tim barely had to move for it. He set Kon a quick, low ball, no hesitation in it, no backset theatrics this time, just a clean, fast read that trusted Kon to be exactly where he needed to be.

Kon's approach did the three steps, and his hand— sore, warm, entirely too aware of itself— connected clean, driving the ball down through a gap in the block that hadn't fully closed.

"Nine-seven," the book kid called.

"There he is," Cassie said, grinning, jogging past. "Glad your hand still works."

"It works fine."

"Good. Because Tim looks like he might actually combust if you get hurt again."

Kon glanced across the net without meaning to, and Tim, unbothered, mid-conversation with Greta about the next rotation, still managed to look entirely too pleased with himself for a guy who'd just been called out for it.

"He's fine," Kon said.

"He is extremely not fine, and it's the best thing that's happened to this team all season."

Cassie served next, a flat, heavy ball that clipped the tape on the way over, and their libero had to lunge to keep it in play, the pass sailing high and short. Their middle attacked it anyway, testing the block, but Bart was already there, clean, digging it up high enough that Tim had all the time he needed. He ran a quick to Slobo, punching it through before their block had reset.

"Ten-seven," the book kid said, and the small pocket of bleachers that belonged to Young Justice made a noise entirely too big for a three-point lead in the middle of a set, though nobody on the bench seemed to mind the enthusiasm.

Cassie served again, same tape-skimming float, and this time their pass came up clean, giving their offense room to actually run something. Their outside hitter went up for a real swing, but Cassie's block had already closed the corner Red told her to close, and the ball deflected off her hands out of bounds.

"Eleven-seven," the book kid said.

Cassie served a third time, and their libero shanked the pass wide enough that their setter had to run it down near the antenna, sending up a rushed, high ball that gave their hitter almost nothing to work with. She hit it into Kon's block anyway, and it dropped dead on their own side before anyone could save it.

"Twelve-seven," the book kid said.

Cassie served a fourth time, still the same corner, and their libero finally read it, digging it clean and setting up a real swing from their outside hitter— the one with the grin, still testing the same line she'd tested all match. Slobo and Anita were there together, no signal between them that Kon could see, and the stuff block landed clean on their side of the net.

"Thirteen-seven," the book kid said.

Up in the bleachers, Jaime had abandoned all pretense of narrating the actual match, phone still raised but clearly aimed less at the court and more at the general vibe of the evening. "I got the whole hand thing on camera. In case anyone was wondering."

"Nobody asked," Kyle said.

"Somebody will. Historically."

Dick leaned forward over the row in front of him, grinning at nothing at all, delighted the way older siblings always got delighted by things that were none of their business. "I'm going to bring this up at every family dinner for the rest of his life."

"You bring up the ‘flirting with Kon’ thing at every family dinner too," Roy said, not looking away from the court, one hand still resting light against Lian's back.

"I have range. I can bring up multiple things."

The gym rolled on around them the way it always did— other whistles, other scoreboards, someone else's parents cheering someone else's kill three courts down— but none of it registered the way it should have, not with Kon's hand still faintly warm where Tim had held it, not with the whole set still ahead of them and somehow feeling, for the first time all tournament, like something they were absolutely going to win.

Cassie served a fifth time, and their coach finally called his second timeout, unwilling to watch the run stretch any further without stopping it.

"Fourteen-seven," the book kid said, penciling it in with the plain satisfaction of a kid who'd started rooting for Young Justice somewhere around the fourth point of the run and had stopped pretending otherwise.

"They're rattled," Anita said, jogging past, not bothering to keep the satisfaction out of her voice.

"They're trying to regroup," Slobo said, smugly.

"You're both wrong," Cassie called from a few feet down the bench, without turning around. "They're annoyed. There's a difference. Annoyed teams make worse decisions than rattled ones. Rattled teams panic and get lucky sometimes. Annoyed teams just get petty and sloppy."

"When did you become a sports psychologist?" Cissie asked.

"I've always been one. I just don't usually share for free."

The whistle called them back before anyone could argue Cassie's credentials further, both benches drifting toward the net for the resume, the other side visibly regrouping, tighter and quieter than they'd been all set.

Kon rolled his shoulder once at the net, flexing his hand out of habit more than necessity now, and glanced down the line to find Tim already watching, unbothered, steady, the same look he'd worn since the timeout and hadn't put away since. Kon didn't look away first this time either. It felt, for once, like something worth not flinching from.

Somewhere behind him, up in the bleachers, Traya was already narrating the score to Lian, who had finally woken up enough to blink blearily at the court and ask what she'd missed. Kon didn't catch the answer. He didn't need to. Whatever it was, it was probably about him, and for the first time all night, he found he genuinely didn't mind that either.

v. 

"Serve," the ref's assistant called, and Cassie was already at the line before he'd finished the word, ball tucked against her hip like she'd never set it down for the timeout at all.

"Same corner?" she asked to no one in particular.

"Same corner," Bart said, from somewhere behind her, still toweling off a forearm that had taken four straight serves in the last set alone. "It's working. Don't overthink a working thing."

"I never overthink anything."

"That's factually incorrect and everyone here knows it, but sure, whatever you say.”

Her serve went in low and mean, catching their libero mid-shuffle, and the pass came up short enough that their setter had no real options left, dumping a soft, defensive poke over the net that Slobo put away before it had finished crossing.

"Fifteen-seven," the book kid called, and Slobo allowed himself the small, private version of a smile that lasted exactly as long as it took him to jog back into rotation.

"Nice babe," Anita said, delighted, elbowing him on the way past.

"No ‘babe’ on court."

"Sure, babe."

Cassie's next serve finally broke the streak, their libero getting a clean read on it at last, and the rally that followed ran long enough that both benches were back on their feet before it ended— their outside hitter finding a gap Cissie hadn't quite closed in time, cutting the lead down before Cassie relinquished the line.

"Fifteen-eight," the book kid said, and their side of the gym made a small, disappointed noise that had nothing to do with the actual state of the match.

"We're fine," Cassie said, mostly to herself, rotating back.

"You keep saying that," Cissie said from the bench.

"Because it keeps being true."

Their outside hitter served next, and this time it was Kon who read it wrong, stepping the wrong direction off a serve that broke late, and the ball caught him in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind loose for a second before it dropped, dead, at his feet.

"Fifteen-nine," the book kid said.

"You good?" Tim called, from his spot at the net, not turning fully around.

"I'm good."

"You made a noise."

"I did not make a noise."

"You made a whole noise. I've heard it before. It's the one you make when Cassie spikes at your head in practice."

"I do not make a noise."

"Sure," Tim said, already turning back to the serve, entirely unconvinced and not bothering to hide it.

The next stretch blurred the way it always did once both sides settled into a rhythm neither of them was winning outright— serve, pass, set, attack, dig, reset, the gym around them narrowing down to the sound of the ball and twelve voices calling for it across two nets. Kon put down two more kills off Tim's sets, one clean and one that clipped a blocker's fingertips on the way through, and their outside hitter answered with a pair of her own down the same line she'd been testing all night, until the score climbed in fits and starts toward something that had stopped being close a while ago without anyone declaring it out loud.

"Nineteen-eleven," the book kid said, somewhere in the middle of it, sounding faintly amazed at his own handwriting.

Up in the bleachers, Jaime's phone had not come down once. "This is the part of the documentary where the underdog makes a run," he narrated, low, mostly to Kyle. "Any minute now."

"We're not the underdog," Kyle said. "We're up by eight."

Jason, from where he leaned on Kyle’s shoulder, groaned, "You've been saying 'documentary' for two hours. It's volleyball, Jaime."

"Everything's a documentary if the lighting's bad enough, and this gym has upsetting lighting."

Dick, a row down, didn't look back at either of them, eyes on Tim instead, tracking him across the net the way older brothers did when they weren't going to admit they were doing it. "He's not even breathing hard."

"He's breathing plenty hard," Jason said. "You just can't tell because he's too busy being smug about it."

"That has to be a medical condition, being that smug while sweating."

"Runs in the family," Roy said, without looking up from Lian, who had drowsed off again against his shoulder somewhere around point fourteen. “How late were you up last night?” he muttered. 

Kon served next, a flat, heavy ball that clipped the tape, and their libero had to lunge to keep it alive, the pass sailing high and short enough that their middle could only get a defensive touch before Slobo and Anita closed the block.

"Twenty-eleven," the book kid said.

Red didn't call the timeout right away. He let one more rally play out— Cassie serving again, the point running long before Bart ended it with a dig that had no business staying in bounds, Tim turning it into a quick to Anita that punched through before the block reset— and only then, at twenty-one to twelve, did he lift his hand for the ref's attention.

"Timeout, Young Justice."

The whistle cut the rally short before the next serve could even start, and the team drifted toward the bench without much urgency, riding the lead instead of needing the break to survive it.

"We don't need this timeout," Cassie said, dropping onto the bench anyway, reaching for the water cooler.

"I know," Red said. "I'm using it anyway."

He waited until the water had gone around once before he said anything else, clipboard tucked under his arm the way it always was, more habit than necessity at this point in a match this lopsided.

"Greta." He didn't build up to it. He never did. "You're in for Tim."

Greta set her water cup down without any fuss, already rolling her shoulders once. "Okay."

"Cassie, you're sliding outside for Kon. Cissie, take right side."

Cassie's eyebrows went up, more surprised by the second half of the sentence than the first. "I'm outside now?"

"For a few rotations. You've hit outside before."

"I've hit outside at practice. Twice. Under duress. We have Kon for a reason."

"You'll survive."

Cissie was already nodding, unbothered, already crossing to a different spot on the bench like the reshuffle cost her nothing. "I've covered right side plenty."

"You covered it for one rotation a month ago and got yelled at for drifting offside."

"I've grown as a player since then."

Bart, from the end of the bench, raised a hand like he was in a classroom. "Question. Are we losing anything by doing this, or is this just Coach flexing that we can win with our backups running things?"

"We're resting our setter and our outside before the score gets embarrassing enough that the other bench starts filming it out of spite instead of hope," Red said. "That's the whole strategy."

"Rude, but fair."

Slobo, still catching his breath from the last rally, glanced sideways at Anita. "Are we losing anything?"

"We're up by nine and about to be run by Greta, who reads a set the way you read a defense," Anita said. "I don't think we're losing anything."

"I was asking rhetorically."

"You should stop doing that. It never lands."

Greta, already jogging in place once, twice, like she was testing whether her legs remembered how to do this after a whole match on the bench, glanced over at Tim without any real urgency to it. "Anything I should know?"

"You know everything already. You've been calling their sets from the bench for two sets straight, I know you have."

"I like hearing you say it anyway."

"Don't get used to that."

"I won't," Greta said, glancing over at Kon with a faint smile.

Kon hadn't said anything yet, still standing half a step off the bench with his kneepads still on, the way a body kept expecting to be sent back in even after being told otherwise. Tim was already dropping down next to the water cooler, unbothered in the way that meant he wasn't actually unbothered, just better at hiding it than most people bothered to be.

"You good with this?" Kon asked him, low, mostly out of habit at this point.

"I'm always good."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting during a thirty-second timeout." Tim glanced up at him, something easy behind his eyes that didn't match the flat delivery at all. "Sit down. You've been on that hand all set."

"My hand's fine."

"Your hand got hit by someone trying to end a career fifteen minutes ago. Sit down."

Kon sat, mostly because arguing about it cost more energy than it was worth, and their knees knocked together on the bench the same way they always did, automatic, no thought behind it.

Red raised his voice for the last of the thirty seconds, more out of habit than need — nobody on the bench was actually listening to him anymore, they were watching Greta shake out her wrists and Cissie test her footing at a spot she hadn't stood in since October. "Same defense, same coverage rules. Greta, you know the calls."

"I know the calls," Greta said. "I just haven't gotten to use them."

"Try not to sound too pleased about that."

"I'm not pleased. I'm ready. Those are different things."

The whistle called them back before Red could argue the distinction, and the new lineup jogged out to their spots with the loose, slightly self-conscious energy of players who hadn't expected to be tested tonight and were about to be tested anyway. Greta found her spot at the net without hurrying, chalk already dusted on one palm, and looked down the line once— not at Tim, who was watching from the bench with the kind of attention he usually reserved for game film, but at Cassie, still adjusting to a new angle on the same six feet of hardwood she'd played from all match.

"You'll be fine," Greta said, flat, unbothered, already turning back toward the serve.

"I know I'll be fine."

"I was talking to myself."

Cassie didn't have a comeback for that fast enough, and the whistle blew before she found one.

Kon watched the first point from the bench with his knee bouncing, the ache in his hand finally allowed to register now that nobody was asking it to catch a spike. Greta's first set went to Cissie instead of Cassie, a clean, unhurried ball that landed exactly where it needed to, and Cissie put it down the seam before their block had finished shifting over.

"Twenty-two, twelve," the book kid called, and Bart let out a whoop loud enough that a coach three courts down actually turned to look.

"She's fine," Tim said, quiet, mostly to himself, watching Greta reset at the net with the same flat expression.

Kon flexed his hand once, testing the sting, and found it had settled into something duller, more annoyance than actual pain. Tim's eyes tracked the motion without him seeming to look for it, the same reflexive attention he'd been paying Kon's hand since the timeout twenty minutes ago, and Kon caught him at it before he could pretend otherwise.

"It's fine," Kon said, before Tim could ask.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you needed water. That's it. Very innocent question."

"Uh huh."

Tim's mouth curved, unhurried, and he didn't push it further, just leaned back against the bench rail and watched the court with the stillness of a guy who'd spent an entire tournament running an offense and had genuinely no idea what to do with his hands now that nobody needed him to hold a ball. He cracked his knuckles once, then seemed to catch himself doing it, and folded his arms instead like that solved anything. He lasted through exactly one more point— a scrappy rally that ended with Slobo stuffing a quick dump at the net, twenty-three to twelve— before he pushed up off the bench, stretching once.

"I need the bathroom," he said, to no one and everyone. "Kon, come with. I don't trust you not to reinjure that hand doing something stupid like clapping too hard."

"I wasn't going to clap that hard."

"You clap with your whole body. It's alarming to watch."

"That's not a real critique."

"It's a completely real critique. Ask Cassie."

"He claps like he's trying to start a fire," Cassie confirmed, not even looking over.

Kon got up mostly because there wasn't a version of this argument he was going to win, and because some part of him— the part that had spent an entire match tracking exactly where Tim was on a court from a few feet away— didn't actually want to sit here without him for however long a bathroom break took. He told himself it was about the hand. He didn't believe himself for more than a second.

"We'll be right back," Tim told Red, who didn't even look over, just lifted two fingers off his clipboard in something that might have been permission or might have just been acknowledgment that Tim had spoken.

They cut along the edge of the gym, past the low rail where Dick had been perched twenty minutes earlier, past the concession stand still frying whatever it had been frying since check-in, past three other tournaments still running their own scoreboards, their own whistles, their own small, contained dramas that had nothing to do with a set already decided at twenty-three to twelve. The noise thinned out gradually the farther they got from their own court — sneakers squeaking, a coach barking a rotation two courts over, someone's parent yelling a name that wasn't either of theirs — until they hit the hallway that ran along the back of the building, and it dropped off almost entirely, replaced by the flat hum of fluorescent light and a vending machine cycling its compressor somewhere down the corridor.

A pair of younger kids barreled past them in matching warmup jackets from a team neither of them recognized, chasing a stray ball that had rolled clean out of whatever gym it belonged to, and a mother somewhere behind them called a name that wasn't either of theirs, sharp and unbothered, the exact register of a parent who'd been saying it all day and expected to keep saying it for several more hours yet.

The line for the men's room wound halfway out the door, four other tournaments' worth of teenage boys apparently having reached the same conclusion at the same time. Tim took one look at it and kept walking.

"There's a single one by the training room," he said. "Nobody ever uses it because nobody knows it's there."

"How do you know it's there?"

"I looked it up before we even got here. I look up every venue's bathroom situation before a tournament."

"That's the most you thing I've ever heard."

The hallway past the training room was narrower, dimmer, one bank of fluorescents out entirely so the light came in uneven stripes across the floor. A single door marked with a faded wheelchair symbol sat at the end of it, and past that, nothing — a dead end, a fire exit sign glowing red over a door that led out to a loading dock nobody used this late on a Saturday.

Tim went in first, and Kon leaned against the wall outside, listening to the water run, the fluorescent hum filling the space where the gym noise usually sat. It was strange, how loud quiet could get once you'd spent three hours inside six overlapping tournaments. His ears kept expecting a whistle that didn't come.

Kon studied the water-stained ceiling tile above his head for a while, mostly because it gave his eyes something to do that wasn't the door Tim had disappeared behind, and tried not to think too hard about why a bathroom break had turned into the loudest ten seconds of his night. Somewhere behind him, faint through two sets of doors, a whistle blew for a point he wasn't there to see.

The door opened again a minute later, and Tim didn't step past him the way Kon expected — just stopped there, close enough that Kon could see the faint sheen of water still on his hands, and didn't say anything for a second longer than felt entirely accidental.

"Your turn," Tim said, finally, tipping his head toward the door.

"Right."

Kon went in, ran the water mostly out of habit, and came back out to find Tim leaning against the opposite wall now, arms crossed loose over his chest, watching the empty hallway like it had personally earned his attention.

"You didn't actually need the bathroom, did you?" Kon said.

"I needed the bathroom."

"You were done in like forty seconds."

"I'm efficient." Tim pushed off the wall, closing the two feet of hallway between them without any real hurry, the same unhurried certainty he brought to a set he'd already decided where to place. "Give me your hand."

"It's fine."

"Give me your hand anyway. I like knowing for myself."

Kon held it out, and Tim's fingers were cool from the water, careful in a way that had nothing to do with checking for damage and everything to do with just wanting to hold it, turning Kon's palm up under the stuttering fluorescent light like there was something there worth studying. The mark from the spike had already started fading into a dull, unimpressive redness, nowhere near as dramatic as it had looked twenty minutes ago under the gym lights and six witnesses.

"See," Kon said. "Fine."

"I see." Tim didn't let go. His thumb moved once, slow, along the heel of Kon's palm, the same path it had taken during the timeout, except there was no bench full of teammates watching this time, no scoreboard demanding either of them get back to the court in the next thirty seconds. Just the hum of the lights and the faraway, muffled sound of six volleyball games happening somewhere behind them, through two sets of doors. "You should still be careful with it. For the rest of the match."

"I'll be careful."

"You won't. You never are. You dove for a ball in warmups last week that was clearly out."

"It was borderline."

"It was six feet out, Kon."

"Borderline six feet."

Tim's mouth curved, and he still hadn't let go of Kon's hand, thumb resting now instead of moving, just holding the contact like it cost him nothing to keep it there. The hallway light buzzed once, dimmed, steadied again. Somewhere down the corridor, the vending machine's compressor clicked off, and the quiet that followed felt bigger than it should have for a hallway this narrow.

"You know we're probably about to win this," Tim said, apropos of nothing, watching Kon instead of the hand he was still holding.

"That's the general idea, yeah."

"Twenty-three to twelve. Greta's not going to blow it. Cassie's not going to blow it, even playing out of position. We're going to win this match tonight."

"Okay," Kon said, slower now, watching something shift behind Tim's eyes that had nothing to do with volleyball at all. "Where's this going?"

"I want something if we win."

"You always want something if we win. Last tournament you wanted Bart to carry your bag for a week."

"That was a good bit. I stand by it." Tim tipped his head, considering, like he was choosing words with more care than the sentence probably needed. "This is different."

"Different how?"

"If we win," Tim said, and his voice had dropped somewhere quieter, steadier, none of the usual joke folded in at the edges to soften it, "you owe me a kiss."

The hallway didn't get any louder. If anything it seemed to get quieter, the fluorescent hum receding somewhere Kon couldn't quite locate anymore, his own pulse suddenly doing all the work the room had been doing a second ago.

"That's—" Kon started, and stopped, because he didn't actually know how the sentence ended.

"That's a real request," Tim said, before Kon could find it for him. "Not a bit. Not a joke I'm going to pretend I didn't mean five seconds later. I want a kiss if we win tonight, and I want you to actually think about that for the rest of the set instead of blocking angles."

"That seems like bad strategy. Distracting your own outside hitter mid-match."

"I have complete faith in your ability to be distracted and still hit a clean line. You've done it all night."

"I have not been distracted all night."

"Kon." Tim's thumb moved again, slow, deliberate, along the same spot on his palm. "You served short on purpose in the first set because I made a joke about kissing you in front of the other team. You have been distracted since the opening whistle. I'm just finally being honest about wanting to be the reason."

Kon opened his mouth to argue that, found the argument wasn't actually there, and closed it again. Tim watched him do it with the patience of a guy who already knew he'd won and wasn't going to rush the part where Kon caught up.

"What if we don't win?" Kon said, mostly to have something to say, because the alternative was standing here in a fluorescent-lit dead-end hallway not saying anything at all while Tim looked at him like that.

"We're going to win."

"But what if?"

"Then you don't owe me anything, and I ask again next tournament, and eventually the math works out in my favor because we're good, Kon, and you know we're good." Tim's grin edged back in at that— familiar, dangerous. "I like my odds."

"You like your odds on everything."

"I'm rarely wrong about them."

The gap between them had closed somewhere in the last minute without either of them appearing to move for it, close enough now that Kon could count the individual stray strands of hair stuck damp against Tim's forehead, close enough that if this were a different hallway, a different night, a version of tonight that didn't have a match still technically in progress two hundred feet away, there wouldn't be any question about what happened next.

Tim's eyes dropped once, unmistakable, then came back up, and something in his expression went almost soft around the edges of all that certainty. "I'm not going to kiss you right now," he said, like he could hear exactly what Kon's pulse was doing and had decided to narrate it out of spite. "Not because I don't want to. Believe me, I want to."

"Then why not?"

"Because I want it to be a thing you earn instead of a thing I just took in a hallway because I got impatient." Tim's fingers finally slid off Kon's palm, slow, reluctant in a way that undercut the whole practical explanation he'd just given. "And because if I kiss you right now, I'm not going to want to go back out there and finish a volleyball match, and Red would have a lot of very pointed things to say about that."

"That's— a surprisingly reasonable answer."

"I have my moments." Tim stepped back, finally, putting a real foot of hallway between them, and the air that rushed into the space where he'd been standing felt colder than it had any right to, given they were still standing in the same overheated fieldhouse. "So, think about it. All of it. The whole rest of the set."

"You're doing this on purpose. Right before we go back in."

"Obviously."

"That's evil."

"I’ve been told I can be," Tim said, and pushed off the wall, already heading back toward the noise of the gym like he hadn't just detonated something in the middle of an empty hallway and left Kon standing there to deal with the wreckage alone.

Kon caught up with him before the hallway opened back into the main concourse, because staying behind by himself felt worse than whatever was waiting for him on the other side of that conversation, and fell into step close enough that their shoulders brushed once, on purpose this time, no ambiguity about it at all.

"For the record," Kon said, "I don't need the incentive. I was going to want to kiss you anyway."

Tim glanced over, something flickering across his face too fast to name before the usual composure slid back into place over it. "Noted," he said, and if his voice came out a little less steady than he probably meant it to, neither of them mentioned it.

The noise of the gym rose up around them again as they came back through the doors— six tournaments, six scoreboards, a whistle blowing for a point that had nothing to do with theirs— and for a second it felt too loud after the hallway, too bright, too much all at once. Kon blinked against it, and by the time his eyes adjusted, Tim had already put a careful few feet of distance back between them, hands in his pockets, expression settling into something that could pass for unbothered if you didn't already know him well enough to see through it.

Their own court came into view past a cluster of parents crowding the concession line, and the scoreboard read twenty-four to fourteen, close enough to done that Kon's stomach did something complicated that had nothing to do with the score at all.

"They scored three points while we were gone," Kon said, mostly to fill the silence.

"Greta's better than any of us give her credit for."

"You've been giving her credit all season."

"I know. Everyone else needs to catch up."

They reached the bench in time to catch the tail end of a rally, though not the kind either of them had been hoping for — Cassie, still adjusting to a spot on the court she'd only ever visited under duress, went up a half-beat late on a set that landed exactly where an outside hitter should have been waiting, and the ball dropped untouched on their own side before she'd finished her approach.

"Twenty-four, fifteen," the book kid called, sounding personally wounded about it, like he'd been rooting too hard for a clean finish to want to write down anything else.

"That's on me," Cassie said, jogging back into position, jaw already tight in the exact way it had been every other time she'd been solved once tonight.

"It's one point," Cissie said, low, just for her. "You've been playing a position you learned twenty minutes ago. Nobody's mad."

"I'm mad."

"You're always mad. That's not new information."

Bart, still catching his breath from a dig two rallies back, shook his head from the bench. "They're not catching up from fifteen. I'm just saying. Mathematically, it's still over, it's just going to take a little longer to be over."

"It's not over until it's over," Cassie called back, though even she didn't sound like she believed the caveat mattered much anymore.

Red glanced over the bench once, doing the quick, habitual math he always did between points, and his eyes landed on Kon and Tim both, still catching their breath from a walk that hadn't required catching breath at all.

"You two good?" he asked, not looking up from his clipboard, the question aimed more at their legs than anything else.

"We're good," Tim said, easy, unreadable, dropping onto the bench next to Kon like the last ten minutes hadn't happened at all, close enough that their knees found each other again without either of them deciding to let it.

Red's eyes flicked toward the scoreboard, then back to the two of them, weighing something that had nothing to do with the walk they'd just taken and everything to do with a set that had started drifting, one out-of-position miss at a time, in a direction he didn't feel like watching unfold any further than it already had. "Good. Because I'm putting you back in next rotation. Greta's earned the finish, and Cassie's earned a break from a position she never signed up for. I want my starters closing it out clean."

"Copy," Tim said.

Kon didn't say anything, mostly because his brain was still somewhere back in that hallway, turning over four words that had rearranged an entire volleyball match into something that felt a lot more important than a scoreboard. He flexed his hand once, testing it out of habit, and found the sting had gone quiet enough not to matter, replaced by something else entirely— warmer, worse, harder to name.

Tim's knee knocked against his again on the bench, deliberate this time, and when Kon glanced over, he found Tim already watching him, unbothered on the surface and absolutely not underneath it, waiting on the whistle that would send them both back onto the court to finish what Greta and Cassie and Cissie had all but already decided.

"Ready?" Tim asked, low, just for him, and it wasn't about the match at all.

"Yeah," Kon said, and found he meant it more than the question probably intended.

The whistle blew down the line, calling the next rotation in, and Red's voice cut through the noise of six other tournaments to pull them both back up off the bench.

"Tim. Kon. You're in."

Cassie jogged off past them, already half-laughing at something Cissie had said, and knocked her shoulder against Kon's on the way by. "Don't lose my lead."

"It's not your lead, it's the team's lead."

"It's mostly my lead. I served eleven of those points."

"Go sit down, Cassie."

"Go win, Kon."

Kon rolled his shoulder once, the way he always did, and found his spot at the net across from Tim, who was already spinning a ball once between his palms, chalk dust faint against his skin, looking entirely too composed for a guy who'd handed Kon an ultimatum in a hallway ten minutes ago and hadn't said a single word about it since. He caught Kon's eye across the six feet of open hardwood between them and held it, unhurried, unbothered, the same look he'd worn all night right before doing something Kon had no defense against.

"Ready?" Tim asked.

Kon didn't answer that one either. He just raised his hand for the ref, and let the rest of it wait.

+1 

Their serve came in short and mean, the same corner that had eaten Cassie alive at the end of the last set— except Cassie wasn't standing there anymore. Kon was, weight forward, and the ball skidded off his forearms clean enough that Bart didn't even have to move for it, popping straight up into a textbook pass that gave Tim all the time in the world.

"Two," Tim called, already moving into it, and set Cissie a quick one instead of Kon, the kind of read that came from years of knowing exactly which hitter a tired block wanted to see least. She buried it crosscourt before their libero had finished moving.

"Twenty-five, fifteen," the book kid called. "Second set to Young Justice."

The bench came up off the rail in a loose, easy roar— not the wild, unhinged thing it would become in about twenty minutes, just the satisfied noise of a team that had expected to win a set and had. Cissie pumped one fist, jogging back toward the bench toward Cassie. Bart threw both arms up and immediately regretted it, wincing at whatever his shoulder had to say about so many digs in one night.

"Two sets," Cissie said, dropping onto the bench, already reaching for water. "We're basically done."

"We're not done," Red said, before anyone else could agree with her. "Best of five. First to three. You know this."

"I know, Red, I'm choosing to ignore it."

"You can't ignore it. That's not how this works."

"Watch me."

Kon toweled off at the end of the bench, chest still working, and glanced sideways to find Tim already watching him, unbothered. "You good?" Kon asked, out of habit more than actual doubt.

"I'm always good."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting with one more set standing between us staying here another two hours or going home." Tim reached for his own water, and something in the line of his shoulders had gone a little more focused than it had been ten minutes ago, the exact shift that showed up whenever a match stopped being comfortable and started being a thing he actually had to solve. "They're going to come out mean in the third. Down two sets, nothing left to lose. Teams like that get dangerous."

"We've been dangerous all night."

"We've been good all night. There's a difference. Dangerous is what happens when a team stops caring about looking good and starts just trying to survive."

Red clapped his hands once, cutting through the bench chatter before it could sprawl any further. "Swap sides. Five minutes. Whoever's on the starting six, get water in the next five, because I'm not calling a break for it once we're rolling."

The switch had them past the low rail where Dick had been hanging over it half the match, and he didn't disappoint, already leaning in with both hands cupped around his mouth before Tim was even in range. "One more! You can do it, Timbert!" Roy grinned from the place next to Dick, rubbing one hand on his shoulder. 

"We know how this works, Dickface," Jason scolded. 

"I'm being supportive."

"You're being loud."

That earned a flick to his forehead from Kyle. 

"So is everyone else in this gym." Dick's eyes cut sideways to Kon for half a second, entirely too pleased with whatever conclusion he'd already drawn, and Kon decided not to look directly at that expression for longer than necessary, because he had a whole set left to play and did not need Dick's specific brand of delight rattling around in his head while he did it.

The bench on the new side of the net came together fast, muscle memory more than instruction— Bart's gear nearest the water cups, Cassie's half a foot too far from everyone else's, Greta's folded into the same precise square it always was. She looked up from her shoelaces as Red passed, unbothered, patient. "You want me in?"

"Not yet," Red said.

"Understood," Greta said, and went back to her shoes like the question had never been worth asking in the first place, though Kon caught the small, satisfied set of her mouth.

Red crouched in front of the huddle, clipboard forgotten on the bench behind him for once, elbows on his knees. "Two sets doesn't mean anything if you don't get the third," he said, flat, no theatrics in it. "They know that better than you do right now, because they're the ones who need it. That serve you just took to close set two— that corner— expect it early and expect it constant, because it's the only thing that's worked on them all night and they're not going to stop just because it's the last set they've got."

"Copy," Cissie said, and this time there wasn't any argument folded into it.

"Slobo, Anita — their middles are going to start crashing harder on quick sets. Desperate teams overcommit. Stay patient on your reads instead of jumping at ghosts."

"We don't jump at ghosts," Anita said.

"You jumped at one in the second set."

"That was a real threat."

"It was a fake."

"It felt real."

Red let that go, the way he let most things involving Anita's confidence in her own instincts go, and turned last to Tim and Kon, the way he always did.

"Keep running what's working. Don't get cocky just because you're up two." His eyes flicked to Kon, brief, businesslike. "And somebody make sure this one doesn't dive for anything that's clearly out. I'd like to go home with the same number of players I brought."

"I'll be careful," Kon said.

"You said that last week. You dove anyway."

"It was bordering the line!"

"It was catastrophically out," Tim said, without missing a beat, and Kon shot him a look that Tim met with absolutely no remorse whatsoever.

"Hands in," Red said, and the huddle stacked palms the way it always did, Kon's landing on top of Tim's without either of them arranging it.

"Young Justice on three. One, two, three—"

"Young Justice!"

They broke for the court, and across the net the other side was already lined up looking considerably less loose than they had two sets ago— no easy grins left on the outside hitter, no unbothered shrugs from the captain built like a door. Their coach was still talking as they crossed to their own baseline, voice low and fast. 

"Ready?" the head ref called down the net, waiting on hands.

Kon raised his, and down the line everyone else did the same, and across the net six more hands went up with none of the loose readiness from earlier— tighter now, more deliberate, the particular readiness of a team that knew this was the whole night distilled down to twenty-five points, win by two.

The whistle blew.

Set three.

Their outside hitter served first, the one with the grin that had finally, somewhere over the last set, stopped being a grin at all, and it came in exactly where Red had promised it would— same corner, same flat heavy topspin, except this time Cissie had her feet set half a stride early, and the pass came up clean.

Tim ran a quick to Slobo before their block had finished forming, and it punched through untouched.

"One-zero," the book kid said.

"Called it," Red said, from the sideline, to no one.

Their side answered fast, though— a long rally that ended with their middle finding a seam between Slobo and Anita that hadn't existed two sets ago, tying it before Young Justice had even settled into a rhythm, and then taking the lead outright on a tip that dropped two feet in front of Bart's dive.

"One-two."

"They found a new spot," Bart said, jogging back, breathing already harder than it had any right to be this early. "I hate when teams find new spots."

"Stop leaving spots" Cassie said.

"I'm working on it."

The set ran tight from there in a way the first two hadn't, both sides trading points in short, hard-fought bursts instead of the long comfortable runs Young Justice had built in set two. Their captain served three in a row that Bart had to dig at increasingly desperate angles, the third one skimming so close to the antenna that the ref actually paused to confer with the line judge before calling it in.

"Three-five," the book kid said, and for the first time all night, the small pocket of bleachers belonging to Young Justice had gone quiet enough that Kon could hear Traya asking Roy what was happening in a voice too loud for how quiet the gym had actually gotten around them.

Red called Young Justice's first timeout at three-six, and nobody argued about needing it this time.

"They're playing angry," Slobo said, chest still heaving, water running down his chin faster than he could catch it. "It's working."

"So play smarter," Red said. "Anita, you're slow on the transition. Close it up. Cissie, they've stopped serving that corner— watch for the switch, they're going to come back to it eventually just to see if you got comfortable."

"I'm always comfortable."

"Be less comfortable for the next twenty minutes."

Kon caught Tim's eye across the huddle, and something steady passed between them that had nothing to do with the scoreline, the same look they'd been trading across a net all match, except now it came with an edge of real focus neither of them had needed in set two.

"You good?" Kon asked, quieter, just for him.

"I'm always good."

"That's not an answer."

"It's true anyway," Tim said, and reached out to fix Kon's wrist wrap without being asked, quick and sure. "Be careful with it. Too hard of a hit or a block could hurt your wrist."

"I wasn't planning to hurt it."

"Nobody plans to. It happens anyway." Tim tightened the last loop, glanced up, and for a second the whole rest of the gym fell away the way it always did around him. "We're going to win this. It's just going to cost more effort than it did last set."

"I can afford it."

"I know you can," Tim said, and something in his voice made it sound like he meant more than volleyball, though there wasn't time to ask, because the whistle called them back before Kon could find the words for it anyway.

They clawed back from three-six to six-six on the strength of two clean blocks from Slobo and Anita and a serve from Cissie that caught their libero flat-footed, and the set settled into the kind of grinding, even fight that ate up the clock without either side pulling more than a point or two ahead at a time. Nine-eight. Eleven-eleven. Fourteen-thirteen. The book kid's voice had lost its earlier ease, calling each number now with a flat concentration of someone actually invested in getting it right.

Up in the bleachers, Jaime had stopped narrating entirely, phone still raised but his usual color commentary reduced to the occasional sharp intake of breath whenever a rally ran long. Jason had both hands pressed together in front of his mouth, elbows on his knees, watching with none of his usual noise. Even Dick had gone quiet, one arm around Roy's shoulders, both of them leaning forward at the same angle.

"This is stressful," Traya announced, to nobody, from her spot on the bench seat. "I don't like this part."

"Nobody likes this part," Roy said, not looking away from the court. "This is the part that makes the good part later feel like something."

Kon put down a kill at sixteen-fifteen that clipped a blocker's fingertips and stayed in by inches, and the bench erupted for exactly as long as it took the other team's coach to call his own timeout, cutting the noise off mid-celebration.

"They're rattled," Cissie said, jogging back toward the huddle.

"They're not rattled," Anita said.

"I'm choosing to believe rattled."

"You can choose whatever you want, it doesn't make it true."

"It makes me feel better, and that's basically the same thing."

The other team came out of their timeout mean, exactly the way Tim had promised they would, running three straight quick attacks that punished a beat of hesitation in Slobo's read and pulled them back ahead, sixteen-eighteen, their side of the gym finding a voice they'd mostly lost over the last two sets.

Red didn't call a timeout to answer it. He just raised his voice from the sideline, level, unbothered. "Same defense. You've solved harder problems than this tonight."

They hadn't, not really— nothing in the first two sets had asked this much of them, not with the stakes this specific— but Red said it like a fact instead of encouragement, and something about the flatness of it seemed to land harder than a pep talk would have.

Bart dug the next serve at an angle that shouldn't have kept the ball in bounds, sliding four feet across hardwood that had gone slick with a whole night's worth of sweat, and popped it up just high enough that Tim could run something. He set Cissie a quick set, and she buried it cross-court before their block had finished shifting.

"Seventeen-eighteen."

Kon served next, a flat, heavy ball he put right into the seam between their libero and their newly discovered soft spot near the sideline, and their pass came up short enough that their offense had nothing to work with beyond a defensive poke that Anita put away clean at the net.

"Eighteen-eighteen."

The set tightened from there into something that stopped feeling like volleyball and started feeling like two teams trading body blows, neither one willing to give the other more than a single point at a time. Nineteen-nineteen. Twenty-twenty. Both benches on their feet through every rally now, both sides of the bleachers finding volume again, the whole gym around them momentarily forgetting it had five other tournaments running through it too.

At twenty-one-twenty-one, Bart dove for a ball that had no business staying in play and got it anyway, popping it high enough that Tim had time to actually think about where to put it instead of just reacting, and he set high enough to Slobo that it punched through a block.

"Twenty-two, twenty-one."

Their side answered with a jump serve that caught Cassie deep in the corner, forcing a scramble dig that sailed too far off the net for a real play, and their middle finished the free ball before Young Justice's block had reset.

"Twenty-two, twenty-two."

Red called Young Justice's second and final timeout there, not because anything had gone wrong exactly, but because the set had narrowed down to the kind of margin where every possession mattered more than the last one, and thirty seconds felt like the difference between composure and panic.

"Breathe," he said, which wasn't tactical at all, and might have been the most useful thing he'd said all night. "You've been here before. Different score, same feeling. You know how to do this."

"We haven't been here before," Bart said, chest heaving. "This is objectively the tensest moment of the entire tournament."

"Fine. You know how to do this specific thing, because you've done other tense things and survived them."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't supposed to be comforting."

Kon found Tim's eyes across the huddle one more time, and this time neither of them said anything at all — just held it, steady, the same look they'd been trading across the hardwood all match, except now there was nothing performative left in it, no joke folded around the edges, just the plain fact of both of them wanting the same thing hard enough that it didn't need words.

The whistle called them back.

Their serve came in hard, aimed at the same seam that had worked twice already, and this time Anita read it early, sliding to cover before the ball had even fully cleared the net, digging it up clean enough that Tim barely had to move.

"You," Tim said, not to anyone in particular, already turning without looking, the same blind trust he'd run all night— except this time it wasn't a joke about falling in love with a connection, wasn't a deflection dressed up as banter. It was just Tim, turning his back on the play entirely, setting a ball behind himself into open air because some part of him had stopped needing to check.

Kon was already there. He'd been there every single time tonight, and something in his chest settled into the exact shape of that fact as he completed the three steps, airborne, palm cracking down through a gap in the block that closed a half-second too late.

"Twenty-three, twenty-two."

The rally after that ran long and brutal, both sides refusing to give an inch, Bart diving twice, Cissie closing a line she'd left open all set, Slobo and Anita timing a double block that got a touch but not a kill— and it finally ended on a ball that deflected off the top of the net, dropped, and rolled dead on the other side before anyone could get under it.

"Twenty-four, twenty-two."

Their side dug in, refusing to fold — a heavy serve that caught Cassie mid-shuffle, a scramble that somehow turned into a kill down the line before Young Justice's block had reset— and the gap closed back to one.

"Twenty-four, twenty-three."

Their coach was on his feet now, no timeouts left to call, just watching, and Kon could feel the whole gym narrowing down the way it always did right before something decided itself for good — the fluorescents, the squeak of shoes, six other tournaments running somewhere he couldn't hear anymore, all of it collapsing down to the six feet of hardwood between him and the net.

Their serve came in, and Bart met it low, scrambling, sending up a pass with almost no shape to it at all — too far off the antenna, drifting wide, the kind of ball that should have forced a defensive scramble instead of a real play.

Tim was already moving, sprinting to get under it before it had finished its arc, and from where Kon stood he could see the exact moment Tim made the read— no time to turn, no angle to check who was even coming in, just the same flat certainty he'd trusted all night.

The set went up behind him, blind, high and tight along the antenna, no hesitation in it at all.

Kon was already there. He didn't remember deciding to be. He just found himself airborne, palm cracking against the ball hard enough that the sound of it carried clean over the crowd noise, and it dropped in past a block that hadn't had time to read where the set was even going.

"Twenty-five, twenty-three," the book kid said, and then, standing all the way up this time, chair scraping back. "Game to Young Justice, three sets to zero."

For a second nobody moved.

Then the whole bench came apart at once— Bart already screaming something with no actual words in it, Cassie's fists thrown straight over her head, Cissie grabbing her arm like she needed something solid to hold onto.

Kon turned, found Tim already turning toward him from a few feet away, chest still heaving from the sprint that had saved the whole rally, and something in Kon's chest did the thing it had been doing all match— except this time there wasn't another set waiting, wasn't a whistle about to interrupt, wasn't anything left standing between him and exactly what he wanted to do about it.

So he didn't think about it. He crossed the few feet of hardwood in about two steps, caught Tim by the waist before Tim had fully realized he was moving, and dipped him.

It wasn't smooth. Kon had never done this in his life, had no actual plan beyond get to Tim and don't wait this time, and the mechanics of it came out clumsier than anything in a movie — one arm hooked low around Tim's back, the other hand finding the side of his jaw a half-second late, Tim's own hands flying up to grab two fistfuls of Kon's jersey on instinct because his center of gravity had just left the floor without his permission.

"Kon—" Tim started, somewhere between a laugh and an actual question, tipped back over Kon's arm with his kneepad halfway off his knee and his hair damp and stuck flat to his forehead, and Kon didn't let him finish it.

He kissed him.

It landed less careful than the timeout in set two, less deliberate than any of the times tonight Tim had made an entire gym disappear with four words and a look. It landed like a guy who'd spent a whole match being told he had an overthinking face finally running out of things to overthink, sweaty and a little too hard and entirely unpracticed, and Tim made a small, startled sound against his mouth before he kissed back like he'd been waiting three full sets for exactly this and had simply run out of patience for waiting on Kon to be the one to close the distance.

The gym did not go quiet. It never actually did— some other tournament's whistle blew three courts down for a point that had nothing to do with theirs, a coach somewhere yelled a rotation that wasn't Red's— but for a second Kon's hearing narrowed the same way it always did right before serve, down to just this, just Tim's hands fisted in his jersey and the ridiculous, undignified angle they were both holding, and it felt like something worth every single point it had taken to earn.

He pulled Tim back upright before his arm actually gave out, because he was strong but he wasn't a movie prop, and Tim came up laughing, breathless, hair a disaster, staring at him like Kon had just done something he hadn't fully believed Kon had in him.

"That," Tim said, "was not earning it. That was just taking it."

"You said no incentive needed. I listened."

"I said you didn't need incentive. I never said you got to skip the earning part."

"We won three sets. I think I earned it several times over."

Tim opened his mouth to argue that, found— visibly, in real time— that he didn't actually have an argument for it, and closed it again, which Kon was going to remember for a very long time, because it had taken an entire match, three full sets, and a blind backset to get Tim Drake to run out of things to say.

"Okay," Tim said finally, still a little unsteady on it. "Fine. You earned it."

"’BOUT TIME," Cassie's voice arrived before Cassie did, and then Cassie herself arrived a half-second later, colliding into both of them with an arm around each of their necks hard enough to nearly take all three of them down. "Do you understand how long I have had to watch you two dance around this? Months. Through an entire regular season that nearly gave me an ulcer—"

"We know," Cissie said, arriving right behind her, considerably calmer, though the grin on her face said she wasn't actually calmer at all. "Everyone knows. You've mentioned it at every given point when they’re not around."

"It requires repeating."

"It did not need to be repeated that many times."

Bart hit them next, no warmup, no announcement, just full impact from the side that staggered the whole cluster sideways, still mid-scream about something that had stopped being actual words a while ago. "That was the gayest thing I have ever seen on a volleyball court and I’ve seen C and C makeout before. That was gross. People need to stop kissing around me."

"Get over it," Slobo said, arriving with Anita a step behind him, considerably less loud but wearing the same look, the flat almost-smile he only ever let out for about a second and a half before reeling it back in.

Anita didn't say anything at all at first. She just looked at Kon, then at Tim, then back at Kon, with the expression of someone who'd decided months ago this was going to happen eventually and was mostly gratified to have been right about the outcome, if not the exact timing. "Four years," she said finally, to the general air. 

Greta arrived last, unhurried, and looked at the two of them with the same flat, patient expression she'd worn through three sets of chaos. She clapped once. Then, after a pause that felt less like an afterthought than like Greta personally weighing whether more was warranted, she clapped a second time. Then, after an even longer pause, visibly deliberating with herself in a way that was somehow the funniest thing she'd done all night, she clapped a third.

Bart's whole face went slack. "Three claps. I have never — in three years — seen you give three claps."

"It was a good match," Greta said, which was, from her, roughly the equivalent of setting off fireworks, and went back to gathering stray balls off the court like she hadn't just broken a personal record for public enthusiasm twice in one night.

Up in the bleachers, the noise had gone from tense silence to something closer to concerning in the span of about four seconds, and Kon didn't need to look to know exactly whose voices were doing most of it, but he looked anyway, because some habits from an entire match of glancing that direction weren't going to break just because the whistle had blown for the last time.

Dick was already on his feet, both hands cupped around his mouth, apparently having abandoned every previous attempt at restraint the coach three courts down had tried to instill in him twice already tonight. "That’s my brother! That’s my little brother—"

"Stop yelling," Jason called, not remotely bothering to lower his own volume either. "You do this every time something mildly emotional happens near you."

"This time I mean it."

"You meant it at Traya's dance recital too."

"That was also a great night!"

Roy hadn't stood, mostly because Lian had startled fully awake against his shoulder at the noise and was blinking around with the exact offense of a small child who'd slept through the tense part and woken up for the loud part, but he lifted one hand in a slow, approving thumbs-up, careful not to jostle her further. "Nice kill!" he said, to Kon, and then, a beat later, with the same flat delivery, "also nice kiss! Very good attempt at romance!"

"Thank you," Kon said, and found he meant it, mostly because Roy had somehow made it sound like the most normal sentence in the world, which helped, a little, with how much everything else in the gym had started to feel unreal.

Jaime hadn't lowered his phone once through the entire third set, still filming with the patient, professional focus of a man who'd known this footage was coming for weeks and had simply been waiting for the exact right angle. "Got it," he said, without looking away from the screen. "Got all three sets. Slow motion on the ending, too."

"You had slow motion prepped through an entire deciding set?" Kyle questioned, raising an eyebrow. 

"I had faith," Jaime said before vaulting the low rail before anyone could stop him this time, jogging straight past Kon and Tim entirely to grab Bart by the front of his jersey and kiss him too, loud and unbothered by the audience, like the whole gym owed him this one moment of chaos as a matching set.

"That's not fair," Bart said, when Jaime let him up for air. "I am sweaty and gross."

"I've been sitting through three sets of my heart trying to climb out of my chest. I earned this."

"You earned it? We won the game."

"Same thing, from where I'm standing."

Traya had climbed entirely onto the bench seat again, both fists in the air, screaming something that had long since stopped being actual words, and the woman two rows down— the one Kon only knew from Cassie's story about a referee's eyesight— was laughing hard enough that she'd had to sit back down, one hand pressed to her chest like the whole scene had personally wounded her in the best possible way.

Red let it run for exactly as long as he usually let anything run, which was to say, longer than he probably should have, and then his voice cut through the noise the same steady, unbothered way it always did.

"Alright. Line up. Shake hands. Three sets was a lot to ask of everyone's cardiovascular systems, and I'd like this over with before somebody actually does faint."

"Nobody's fainting," Cassie said. "We're thriving."

"You looked like you were praying during that last timeout."

"That's a form of thriving."

Kon glanced down. His kneepad had, in fact, slid halfway to his shin at some point during the last three minutes, and he had no memory of it happening, which felt like a reasonable summary of the entire last three minutes in general.

"Line up," Red said again, gentler about it now, and the team peeled apart from the knot they'd collapsed into, jogging toward the net where the other side had already gathered— quiet, spent, but not ungracious about it, the particular grace of a team that had made a real fight of it and lost anyway.

The captain — the guy built like a door, buzz cut, the one who'd asked Tim months ago if he was really the setter everyone talked about — met Tim's hand first, a real handshake, firm despite three sets of everything he had left.

"Good match," he said. "We almost had you."

"You did have us, for about ten points."

"Didn't feel like it helped much."

"It helped more than you think. If you'd folded easy, I wouldn't have had to run that backset blind." Tim's mouth curved, not unkind. "Good season. See you next time."

"Looking forward to it," the captain said, and glanced sideways at Kon. "That explains the last two minutes."

"It explains a lot of things," Kon said, moving down the line.

Their outside hitter— the one whose grin had come back, tired— caught Kon's hand next, shaking her head slow.

"You two are going to be insufferable for the rest of this tournament," she said.

"Probably."

"Good match, though. That last set— that was a real fight. I'm not even mad about the ending. Mostly."

"Thanks."

"Tell your setter that backset was a filthy move. In a good way."

"He knows. He'll want you to say it to his face, though."

"I'm not doing that, I have some dignity left," she said, and moved on down the line, and by the time the handshake finished running its course — eight on eight, brief and mostly wordless, punctuated by the occasional real compliment from a team that had wanted this one badly and gotten close enough to taste it — the gym had already started forgetting Young Justice existed, sliding back into its usual sprawl of other tournaments and other dramas that had nothing to do with any of them.

The book kid was packing up the scorer's table when Kon passed him, grinning in a way that suggested he'd stopped being professionally neutral somewhere around the middle of the third set.

"Best match I've scored all season," he said. "I have never cared this much about a match I have zero stake in."

"High praise," Tim said, arriving with both water bottles already retrieved, handing one over without being asked.

"It should be," the book kid said, which got a laugh out of Bart loud enough that the kid looked entirely too pleased with himself for landing a joke on a team he'd just spent three sets rooting for.

The bench had turned into the usual postgame scramble, except slower this time, heavier — bags hauled off the low rail by hands that had nothing left in them, kneepads coming off in a pile nobody would sort until tomorrow. Red moved through it with his clipboard tucked under one arm and stopped in front of Kon and Tim before either of them had gotten far into packing up.

"Good match," he said. "All three sets. You ran the offense well tonight, even when it got ugly." A beat. "I'd prefer the celebrations stayed marginally more PG in front of the ten-year-old next tournament."

"Traya's seen worse," Tim said. "She watched Dick's whole engagement happen in a food court of a hospital."

"That's not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing, just a different court."

Red gave him the same long, flat look that had never once worked on Tim and clearly wasn't about to start now, and gave up on the argument entirely. "Get your gear packed. I'd like to leave this building sometime tonight."

He moved off toward Bart and Slobo, and Kon turned back to find Tim already watching him, the two water bottles forgotten between them.

"You okay?" Tim asked, quieter now.

"I feel like I was ran over by a train."

"You basically were." Tim's mouth twitched. 

"You are never going to let the hand thing go, are you," Kon said, before he could start in on it.

"Never. It's going in the wedding toast."

"That escalated fast. We’re getting married now?"

"I plan far in advance."

They packed up slowly after that, in the unhurried way a team did once the actual stakes were finally, completely gone. Cassie and Cissie left first, arms looped together, Cassie still narrating the third set to anyone who'd listen even though nobody actually was anymore. Bart left loudest, already mid-argument with Jaime about whether the slow-motion footage should go up tonight, losing on volume alone. Their voices trailed off into the general noise of the gym, and Kon found himself standing at the edge of an emptying bench with Tim beside him and nowhere left to be.

Up in the bleachers, the family cluster had thinned out too, drifting toward the exit the loose, staggered way families did, Traya still recounting the whole match to a half-asleep Lian. Dick trailed behind Roy, still talking, catching Kon's eye long enough to point two fingers at his own eyes and then at Kon, a gesture that could have meant I'm watching you or I'm proud of you or possibly both, which felt about right for Dick.

"He's going to bring this up every single time I see him for the rest of my life," Tim said.

"I don't think anyone's prepared for your brother."

"Nobody is. According to Roy, it's part of his charm."

Kon zipped his bag, unzipped it again to check he hadn't left a kneepad out, found he had, fixed it, and looked up to find Tim watching him do it with the exact fond patience he'd worn all night.

"You're stalling."

"I'm not stalling."

"You checked that bag twice." Tim slung his own bag over one shoulder. "You want to walk out together, or keep finding reasons to double-check it until the gym closes?"

"Walking out together sounds good," Kon said, and meant it more than the sentence probably needed.

The gym had thinned considerably by the time they made it toward the doors, the concession stand finally shutting its fryer down with a hiss of steam Kon had stopped noticing hours ago and now, in the sudden absence of it, noticed all over again. Their scoreboard still read twenty-five to twenty-three, a small, stubborn record of everything it had taken to get there.

Outside, the air had gone cool the way parking lots did after nine at night. Cars pulled out in a slow, staggered stream, and somewhere off to the left Kon could still hear Bart litigating the highlight-reel debate with Jaime, fading as they crossed toward a car neither of them seemed to be walking toward with any real urgency.

Tim's car was parked closer than Kon's, and they ended up there first without either of them steering it that direction on purpose, both bags dropped by the back tire while neither one actually reached for the door.

"So," Tim said. "Friday."

"You're still free?"

"I told you I was free three hours and three sets ago. I don't un-free myself in the interim."

"I just wanted to check."

"It’s cute. You’re cute." Tim leaned back against the car, looking up at him with the same steady, unbothered expression he'd worn all night right. "You've got the overthinking face on right now, by the way."

"I don't have an overthinking face."

"You do. It's the one where you're deciding whether to ask something and then not asking it." He tipped his head, patient. "Ask me anyway."

"Is Friday a date? Like, an actual one."

"It's been an actual one since I told you to ask me if I was free— which, if you'll recall, I said in the middle of a live rally. That should've been your first clue that I meant it." Tim reached out, caught the front of Kon's jersey, minus the momentum this time, minus the whole gym watching. "I like you. I don't think it fully landed the first time, given everything that happened after."

"It landed."

"Good. Because I meant it, and I'm going to keep meaning it Friday, and Saturday, and probably every day after, unless you do something catastrophic between now and then."

"I'm not going to do anything catastrophic."

"You dove for a ball that was six feet out last week."

"Everyone has to get over that."

"It was catastrophically out, and I love that about you, which is possibly its own problem, but not one I intend to solve tonight."

Kon laughed, quiet, and reached up to tuck a piece of Tim's still-damp hair back off his forehead, mostly because it had been driving him a little crazy since the third set and he finally had a reason to do something about it that wasn't hiding behind a joke.

"For what it's worth, I've liked you for a while too. I just didn't have your whole deflection thing going for me."

"You said it with a dip and a kiss in front of an entire gym instead. That's not exactly subtle either."

"I panicked."

"You panicked correctly. Do it again." Tim said, and pulled him down by the front of his jersey for a second kiss, slower than the first, no crowd left to perform for, just the two of them and a parking lot going quiet around them the way the gym never quite had. It didn't need to be dramatic this time. It just needed to be true, and it was, and something in Kon's chest finally settled into the shape of Tim Drake.

When they broke apart, Tim's forehead stayed resting against his for a second, both of them a little out of breath for reasons that had nothing to do with volleyball anymore.

"So. Friday."

"And Saturday, if you're not busy. And probably most days after that, if you'll have me."

"I think I can clear my schedule."

"Good. I already told Cassie we're carpooling next month, so you're going to need the emotional stamina."

"I survived three sets of you flirting at me. I think I can survive Cassie."

Somewhere behind them, a car door slammed, and Cassie's voice carried clear across the lot. "I can hear you talking about me!"

"We know!" Tim called back, not even turning around, and Kon laughed again, watching Tim's mouth curve into something that had none of the careful, deflecting edges it usually carried— just plain and unguarded and entirely for him.

"I'll see you Friday," Kon said.

"You'll see me before Friday. I have your number, I'm not above texting."

"I know you're not."

"Don't act surprised when I do it constantly."

Tim pushed off the car at last, reaching for his own door, and paused with one hand on the handle to look back at him — steady, unbothered, the same look he'd worn across the net all match, except there was no net between them now, nothing standing in the way of it at all.

He climbed into the car before Kon could say anymore, and Kon stood there a second longer in the emptying lot, bag over one shoulder, mouth still faintly warm— and found, for the first time in months of overthinking every single thing about this, that he didn't have a single question left he needed to ask.

He'd find plenty more by Friday. He always did.

But for tonight, he let himself just have the good thing without turning it over first to check it for cracks, and walked to his own car with the whole rest of the season laid out ahead of him like a set he already knew exactly where to hit.