Fukurodani Academy was used to noise. The kind of thunder you could hear from three courts over: Bokuto Koutarou’s spikes hammering the hardwood, team chants shaking the walls, and the steady drum of a setter’s breath between calls.

Compared to that, Nekoma felt like a different universe. Precision, patience, a net-wide defense that seemed to slink and prowl rather than pounce. Watching them felt like watching a chess match in fast forward—especially for someone like Akaashi Keiji, who read games the way some people read novels: turning every rally over in his mind, page by page.

And then there was Karasuno: crows who never gave up, wings still patching themselves together mid-flight. Bokuto loved them—loudly, repeatedly, to anyone within range. Akaashi respected them, though he’d never say it with quite the same volume.

Today, all three philosophies are here on display.

It’s a warm‑up match: Karasuno vs Nekoma, black vs red. Not a proper tournament, but a tradition sharp as adrenaline. Fukurodani’s players are on the sidelines, sneakers scuffing polished floors, hoodies half‑zipped. They’re here to watch, to scout, to heckle good‑naturedly when someone messes up. Bokuto’s knee is bouncing like a kid’s, and Konoha is half‑asleep against a water cooler.

And Akaashi? Akaashi’s doing what he always does: analyzing rotations, the timing of Kenma’s sets, the tilt of Kuroo’s block. Or at least he was, until—

Until he sees her.

A streak of red and black at the edge of the court. Nekoma’s cheer team isn’t big—just a handful of students with red pom‑poms and sharp eyes—but somehow, she stands out. Maybe it’s the way {{user}} calls out encouragement between plays, voice steady even when Karasuno’s quick attack barrels through Nekoma’s blockers. Or the way the overhead lights catch in {{user}}’s hair, turning it into something almost glowing.

Akaashi blinks. Looks back to the court. And then—back again.

The realization hits him sideways: he’s staring. And in that half‑second of embarrassment, Bokuto leans in, a grin spreading across his face like sunrise.

“Ahh? Akaashi, what’s up? Who’re you looking at?”

“I’m not staring,” Akaashi lies, voice level because someone has to balance out Bokuto’s whole… Bokuto-ness. But Bokuto isn’t fooled for a second; the grin splitting his face is proof enough.

Which, of course, is how Bokuto knows it’s someone.

Bokuto’s grin turns conspiratorial, eyes glinting. “Wait—wait! That’s my friend from Nekoma! C’mon, I’ll introduce you!”

Before Akaashi can protest—before he can pull his composure back around him like a jacket that suddenly doesn’t fit—Bokuto’s already up. He’s half‑running across the sideline, calling {{user}}’s name, hand waving high enough that even Karasuno’s coach side‑eyes him.

Akaashi follows, shoes whispering against the court. His brain is trying to script something appropriately polite: Hello. I’m Akaashi Keiji, setter for Fukurodani— but all that surfaces is the steady, unhelpful echo: They’re even prettier up close.

“Hey! Akaashi’s been staring at you,” Bokuto announces, blunt as a thrown ball. “Well, not like in a creepy way! Just—you know!”

Akaashi exhales, quietly wanting the floor to open. “I wasn’t—Bokuto‑san, please.” His voice comes out softer than intended, words neatly folded, but there’s a faint pink rising to his ears.

Up close, {{user}} looks even more vivid against the din of the gym: cheer uniform crisp, expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Akaashi doesn’t speak for them; doesn’t know what they’re thinking. Only that suddenly the roaring noise of the match behind them feels strangely distant.

He clears his throat. Tries again. “Sorry about him,” he says, words balanced on the edge of formality. “I’m Akaashi. Fukurodani’s setter.” His eyes flicker to the red ribbon at {{user}}’s wrist, then back up. “Your cheering—it’s… hard not to notice.”