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First came the sound: the squeak of rubber against floorboards, the hollow thud of volleyballs dropping to the ground, the shouts of “Nice pass!” and “Next!” in voices Asahi hadn’t heard in months. Then the sight: green-and-red Molten balls arcing towards the gray ceiling, dim blurs in contrast to the sunny outdoors. Asahi took a tentative step across the threshold, back in time, and it hit him: the smell. The indescribable, unmistakable Gym 2 Smell—too rubbery to be wood, too sweet to be sweat, laced with the sterile dustiness of air conditioning—
“Takes you back, eh?”
Asahi opened his eyes to discover Ukai standing before him. Ukai lifted his head and took a deep breath. “The smell of nostalgia, Sensei would say.”
“Coach! S-sorry I’m late.”
Ukai flapped a dismissive hand. “Sawamura and Sugawara just got here.” He pointed at the nearest corner. “Join them for warm-ups and—”
“Is that Asahi-san?” someone shouted—Hinata, judging by the volume.
On the court, the steady rhythm of the passing drill shattered as the players all looked around.
“Asahi-san? No way!”
“Did someone say Asahi-san?”
“Who now?”
“ASAHI-SAAAAN!”
A missile shot out through the maze of players. Nishinoya launched himself off two feet, nearly knocking Asahi back out the doorway as he wrapped his arms around Asahi’s neck.
“Why didn’tcha tell me you were coming?”
Asahi staggered as Nishinoya koala-ed both legs around his back. “Sorry,” Asahi said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”
“—and why did it take you six months to visit, huh?”
“Sorry, sorry—”
Conversation became impossible as the rest of Asahi’s old team flocked around them. Out of the corner of his eye, Asahi saw Daichi and Suga approach the edge of the crowd.
Daichi crossed his arms. “Where was the warm welcome when we showed up?”
“We should move to Tokyo, too,” Suga said. “That’ll teach our juniors to miss us.”
“A little help?” Asahi called. He let go of Nishinoya while trying to return Tanaka’s fist bump and nearly dropped him; Yachi rushed in to stabilize them but tripped into them instead; Yamaguchi flailed his arms in indecisive panic and hit Kinoshita in the face.
“Not my hoodlums anymore,” Daichi called back.
Divine salvation in the earthly form of Ennoshita Chikara waded through the crowd, herding his teammates back as he went. “Alright, that’s enough. Asahi-san needs air to survive.”
With a mighty tug, he dislodged Nishinoya and handed him to Narita. Nishinoya beamed at Asahi, full force, and Asahi nearly fell over again.
“Coach told me you’d be visiting,” Ennoshita said. “Apologies about everyone else.”
“It’s fine, really. I still need to warm up, so you guys can keep on…” Asahi waved towards the abandoned court.
Ennoshita nodded. Barely raising his voice, he addressed the team, “Everyone who was still in line for passing finish up, then we’ll play a practice match. Bring your best game so you don’t embarrass yourselves in front of your seniors.”
With a collective “Yes, captain!” the players scattered to obey, leaving only Asahi and Nishinoya facing each other by the doorway.
Asahi scratched his cheek. “It seems the new team is settling in nicely.”
Instead of returning the platitude, Nishinoya stared him down for a long moment before muttering, “If you were there, we would’ve won Interhigh.”
That was the last thing Asahi had expected to hear. “W-well, I’m sure you all played your best, and…” He grasped for the right words. “There’s no point in dwelling on the past, right? All you can do is move on to the Spring tournament.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t moved on?”
Something in Nishinoya’s stance changed. His hands clenched at his sides, and his shoulders hunched forward defensively. He looked… uncertain, or as close to uncertain as Nishinoya Yuu ever appeared.
Asahi said, “What do y—”
“Noya, come give us a hand, will ya?” Tanaka said, pushing a cart past them.
Nishinoya’s gaze flicked off to the side. “I’ll tell you later. But first, I’m gonna crush you!”
He pointed at Asahi, then dashed back onto the court.
+
After a few weeks without playing, Asahi had forgotten how loud he got on the court.
There was plenty of time for self-consciousness before and after games, or between points. But once the whistle blew, he had space for only two thoughts: keep the ball off your side, and land the ball on the other side. Be aggressive. Communicate.
“Yaotome!” he shouted as Tanaka’s deflected spike sailed to the back.
The first-year libero got to the ball—good reflexes, but rough technique. The pass went short. Suga dashed to the middle of the court to get under it.
Asahi ran a few steps back. “Suga, left!”
“Asahi!”
The ball arced towards him, high, a little out from the net. Tsukishima sidestepped out of the way as Asahi made his approach.
“Three blocks!”
In the blur of arms before him, Asahi spotted a hand lower than the rest and swung at it. A satisfying SMACK echoed through the gym as the ball slammed onto the court and bounced into the air.
“Yes!” Asahi shouted, then winced at his own volume.
The first year opposite him watched the ball hit the far wall. “Whoa.”
“Hinata, you idiot!” Kageyama chopped a hand on Hinata’s head. “Stop jumping so early!”
Asahi turned back to his team. Tsukishima gave him a bland, “Nice shot.” Daichi was fending off Yaotome’s flustered apologies, so that was taken care of.
“Thanks, Suga,” Asahi said.
“Yeah, yeah, nice point.” Suga shoved him towards the end line. “Now go score another.”
Asahi took his place behind the end line, dribbling the ball as he surveyed the other side of the net. Even without looking, he could feel the dangerous energy radiating from the middle back where Nishinoya stood. The moment before a serve was the one time Nishinoya went completely still. No fidgeting, not even a twitch of the fingers. A coil of pent-up motion, ready to spring the instant the ball went into play.
The goal was to aim anywhere but there.
While Ennoshita’s passing couldn’t quite compare to Daichi’s, it was still nothing to sneeze at. And it would be good to remove Tanaka as an attacker. Better go for Tanaka, then.
Asahi clenched his right fist as tight as he could, then released it. He tossed the ball up. The toss was a bit far forward; he adjusted his jump and hoped for the best. Not at Nishinoya, not at Nishinoya—
He swung. The ball whizzed safely to the left of Nishinoya, to the left of Tanaka, and out.
Daichi patted Asahi’s arm as they passed each other. “Shake it off, shake it off.”
Suga slung an arm around Asahi’s shoulders. “You’ll get the next one. Keep that chin up.”
“Stop babying me, you two!”
Across the net, the first-year hitter, Shoji, blinked at them expectantly with ball in hand. The three alumni scooted to their positions like chastened grade schoolers. Once everyone was in place, Suga signed behind his back for a pipe.
A grin crept onto Asahi’s face. He’d missed playing with Suga.
The whistle blew. Shoji’s serve whistled towards the right back, but it hit the tape and veered to the left.
“Mine!” Daichi called.
As he lunged forward, the three available hitters backed up for their approaches: Tsukishima to the middle, Kinoshita on the left, Asahi in the back. Suga put the ball up to the middle, and Tsukishima swung. Both Kageyama and Tanaka bit on the decoy and jumped to block him.
As Tsukishima fell, Asahi soared into the air. For an instant, he could see everything with startling clarity: the set coming towards him, the court opening before him, the glare off the floorboards as he sent the ball whistling into the empty middle back with a resounding—
The SLAM never came. Instead, a muted thump, a blur of green. Where a millisecond before there had been empty space, Nishinoya rolled off a dive and onto his feet.
Before Asahi could even think about transitioning into a block, Hinata was driving a spike straight down to his right.
The instant the point ended, Nishinoya’s deadly calm evaporated. “ROOOLLIIINGG THUNDER! Boo-yah, suck on that!”
“Language,” Ennoshita said.
Nishinoya ignored him in favor of chest-bumping Tanaka, then chest-bumping Hinata. He whirled around and pointed at Asahi with both hands. “I toldja I’d crush you, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”
Asahi couldn’t help but laugh. “You never let me down.”
+
Asahi watched Narita flip the scoreboard from 25-21 to 0-0. Despite the win, he wasn’t optimistic about the next set—his legs were already killing him, and chugging a bottle of water hadn’t eased the burning in his lungs. Ah, this must be what people meant by “I peaked in high school.”
“Did you see his serves?” Yaotome asked the cluster of first-years by the ref stand. “My arms hurt just watching them.”
“Forget that; try getting a hand on his spikes.” The tall middle blocker, Tokita, ripped a piece of tape with his teeth. “I’m glad I still have my pinkie.”
Shoji rubbed his chin. “So that’s what it takes to be Karasuno’s ace?”
Nishinoya caught Asahi eavesdropping and whacked him on the back. “Don’t listen to them, your vertical’s shit! You’ve been slacking off!”
Dammit, nothing got past him. Asahi rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s, ah, been a while since I last played.”
“With that college club, right? Are they good? Is their libero better than me?”
Asahi pretended to consider it. “Hmm, I’m not sure…”
Nishinoya hit him again. “You’re supposed to say no!”
As if Nishinoya needed confirmation. Asahi wouldn’t trust even the Brazil national team’s libero over him. “He can’t pull off all those crazy covers you do, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I am the greatest at those.” He turned to Tsukishima, who had walked over to grab his water bottle. “You should’ve seen your face when I stopped you from roofing Ryuu earlier!”
Tsukishima’s face went pleasantly blank. “Ah, forgive me. You must understand that your supernatural antics give us normal folk the creeps.”
“Hey, you dissing me or—”
Before Nishinoya could give chase, Asahi grabbed his practice vest. “Why don’t we get you some water?”
Asahi herded them safely in the opposite direction to where Nishinoya’s stuff sat. With the last few drops in his bottle, Asahi dribbled a patch of water on the floor. He dragged his shoes through it, then stepped aside to let Nishinoya do the same.
Asahi asked, “What was that earlier? About Interhigh?”
For several seconds, the only sound from Nishinoya was the ferocious squeaking of his shoes. Finally he said, “When I told you I’m gonna save up money and travel after high school, I meant it.”
If Asahi remembered correctly, his reaction had been admiration, not doubt. Which made the defensive tone of Nishinoya’s statement a mystery. “I know,” Asahi said. “You’re not really the type to say things just because.”
Nishinoya gave his left shoe a few more squeaks. The water had spread out and dried into streaks of dust. “Volleyball isn’t as fun without you.”
“Wh—” The words “volleyball” and “not fun” in tandem sounded apocalyptic coming from Nishinoya’s mouth. Asahi said, “It’s still the same sport, right? Just because a few people graduated— I mean—”
“Calm down, I’m not trying to give you a big head. Lemme finish. I always kinda figured that once you guys were done with volleyball, I’d be done too. But now that I’ve only got one tournament left…”
“Ah. Fall turns to winter, and you realize that it’s ending.”
Nishinoya chewed on the spout of his water bottle in thought. “It’s like, I’m so pumped to graduate high school. I wanna stop learning stupid lit comprehension and start learning and seeing everything else out there until I’ve learned and seen everything. But I also…” He gestured broadly at the gym. “I don’t wanna stop playing with you guys, y’know?”
A shout rose from the crowd of first-years as a ball bounced off Tokita’s head—a botched overhand pass from Yaotome. It was a smidge pathetic to feel jealous of fifteen-year-olds, but Asahi couldn’t help the wave of longing that washed over him. They still had three years to fix their platforms, and argue over who should’ve gotten that serve, and sow and reap that nebulous collective instinct called “teamwork.”
Asahi racked his head for a comforting sentiment to offer. “Even if you don’t go pro, you can still keep—”
“It won’t be the same.”
“It’s not, yeah.” Asahi thought of his already-deteriorating vertical. “I miss this. But no matter what I chase and how hard I chase it—even if I went pro, which, uh, obviously I couldn’t—it’s no use. No other gym smells like this.”
Nishinoya lifted his nose and sniffed. “Sweat?”
“No, it’s a unique olfactory experience! Like wood, but—never mind. My point is, since I can’t go back, I kind of have to trust in whatever direction I choose to go forward.”
Asahi glanced down to find Nishinoya watching him with mid-rally levels of focus. He abruptly realized how ridiculous he sounded, preaching to Nishinoya about indecision. “N-not that you need me, of all people, to lecture you about trust.”
Nishinoya threw his head back and laughed, and wow, how Asahi had missed the way that sound rang through the air. “You’re right, what am I doubting myself for? With you here, is there even enough self-doubt to go around?” He elbowed Asahi. “Hey, since you were too coward to aim at me earlier, wanna practice—”
He was interrupted by two sharp claps further down the gym, the sound of Ukai calling the break to an end. Asahi and Nishinoya set down their water bottles and shuffled over along with the other players. Even if it was only for the afternoon, the sight of Asahi’s teammates gathered around him soothed a months-old craving in his chest.
“We’re running low on time, so we’re gonna switch it up this set,” Ukai said. “I want Kageyama, Narita, and Tsukishima on the same team. Alums, any preferences?”
Nishinoya grabbed Asahi’s shoulder and jumped. “I wanna be on Asahi-san’s team so he can hit my back row set!”
“Should you be telling everyone what your move will be?” Asahi asked.
“Why not? You scared?”
Asahi met the challenge in Nishinoya’s eyes. In that shared moment, he discovered something he already knew: whether it was six months or sixty years, no passage of time could undo the teamwork they’d built on this court. With Nishinoya on his side, Asahi wasn’t afraid of anything.
A grin stretched across Asahi’s face. “You’re on.”