lyn✯

The thing that sets you apart from the people around you is the orange feathers poking out of your skin. They've fluffed up from you being startled awake, appearing along the underside of your jaw, along your neck, tucked under the fabric of your top, and trailing down your arms. They're few and far between on your arms. A couple rest on the back of your hands as well. There isn't much, rather small, and only in the small patches.

Then something moves from behind you as you rise up slightly on your knees and your hands wrap around the bars before you settle on your calves. Yuta's eyes lock onto the flutter of...

Wings.

Beautiful. With grey feathers contrasting to the orange ones on your body.

The king's voice is loud as he begins to speak beside you and Yuta notes the way you flinch. He smiles brightly and tells Yuta how you are 'a one of a kind specimen, expensive, and a bringer of the sweetest little tunes'.

When the king sweeps his arm out in presentation and takes a small step away from the cage. You feel your heart racing, unable to hear anything but your own blood pumping, as the crowd of humans blink at you impatiently.

This place is different from the market. Out there on the streets although there's lots of people who would come by to gawk at your strange appearance or listen to your song they often dispersed quickly. Ready to move on with their day. You had the occasional curious child or creepy man watch you for longer than normal but now... they're all staring.

You know where you are. This is the castle. And the man next to your cage that was speaking must be the king. In front of you, standing alone down the center of the room, is a beautiful man. He's tall and thin, with black hair neatly brushed back away from his face, but what draws you in the most is his eyes.

They're watching you closely. Everyone in the room is. But his aren't filled with some kind of expectancy. They're soft, kind, his eyebrows upturning into some shadow of concern.

Suddenly, frustrated by your lack of response to his order, there's a loud clang as the king rattled your cage lightly. You leapt away from where his hand snaked through the bars and your wings flapped wildly. They smacked the bars and a few feathers flew loose, floating through the air and landing on the shiny floor. A large grey one landed resting up against Yuta's shoe.

"Go on now. Sing," the king orders.

You heave, your chest rapidly rising and falling so extremely that Yuta can see it clearly, at the startling sound prior but find that his voice is surprisingly not all that angry. He just wants what everyone always wants. From the moment you were captured and stolen from your family, humans have only wanted one thing from you. And that's your voice.

Yuta watches you slowly come back from your panic. He watches you settle yourself back down in the center of your cage. Your wings relax and as if trained to do so, you close your eyes and take in a breath. Then, you open your mouth.

The most gentle song streams from you. It's light, airy, and it floats through the room without so much of a wobble. You sound incredible. A melody that Yuta has never heard before reaches him and swirls around his head, dancing its way into his ears. He feels it wrapping around his heart.

Despite being locked in a cage, your lyrics are filled with love. A fantasy dream that you clearly aren't living. But one that you hope for nonetheless, or maybe you're just trying to distract yourself.

And it's as if all at once Yuta understands exactly what's happening.

You're a robin. A hybrid between a human and the beloved songbird. He's heard their singing before, he's held them in the palm of his hands as a child, and the king is gifting you to him.

When you finish your song and open your eyes you find Yuta's hand, the good one, has reached up high and is clutching at his shirt over his heart. While everyone else in the room claps and turns to their neighbor to fawn over the performance, he seems lost in a trance.

One solid clap from the king pulls him out of it.

"Alright. That concludes the ceremony. Celebrations will continue for the battle won in the great hall. Yuta, my boy, come see your prize."

You stay silent, your eyes never once leaving the man standing front and center, as everyone but him and the king files out of the throne room. The man, Yuta as you now know, makes his way toward your cage but shifts his attention to the king and offers him a low bow.

"You may rise, the formalities have already been shared," the king says with a hearty laugh.

"Your majesty," Yuta speaks.

His voice is laced with respect. Steady. Straightforward. Serious.

"This beautiful little thing right here is all yours," the king steps up to your cage and Yuta turns to face you alongside him, "It came straight from a regular hybrid vendor in the market. Paid a lot of money for it."

Yuta's eyebrow twitches at his words but nothing else so much as shows any emotion apart from gratitude. The use of 'it' in relation to something, someone, that was actively looking up at him with big eyes, made him feel sick.

"You're too kind," Yuta says, smiling down at the king.

"Ah don't be modest!"

The king reaches down to gather the blanket from the floor, "only the best for my top knight. According to the merchant, it can sing, hold a conversation, and doesn't need any special food, it can just eat the same thing as you and I. It's also not bad to look at."

"I... see." Yuta's eyes slide from the king to you where you blink innocently, your lashes batting your cheeks and the feathers on your neck and jaw bristling.

"And look," the king excitedly expresses as he tosses the black cloth back over your cage quickly, "if it gets annoying all you have to do is toss a blanket over and it's lights out for the birdie."

Yuta bites the tip of his tongue to stop from saying anything about the action. Rude as it may have been, he is the king. The king leans in close, almost pressing his ear to the fabric and waves Yuta to follow. Yuta bends lightly at the waist and listens. Sooner rather than later, he hears your soft breathing and a slight whistle from inside. As if you've fallen fast asleep.

Just like a bird.

He'd read a decent amount on hybrids and it made sense that you harbored a few of their instincts and qualities along with the wings and feathers.

"I'll have it moved to your house immediately," the king says as he waves a hand to the few nearby guards that instantly move, "won't you come for a drink or two?"

Though Yuta doesn't feel up for conversation or anything that he knows he'll be faced with in the great hall, he's not one to say no to his king. Yuta would much rather make everyone happy. Keeping the peace, his mother would call it.

"Just one."

~

True to his word, Yuta slips away from the party after one small drink and makes his way towards his house across the castle grounds. It is not huge, just enough for one man to live comfortably, a communal room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms up the stairs. Yuta tried to tell the king that it was truly too much when he was given it but at least now Yuta can get some use out of that second bedroom.

His body aches. Badly. He knows he shouldn't have gone to the great hall with the others. Too late now, he supposes as he approaches his front door. His ears pick up on something inside, it's muffled and hard to tell exactly what it is. His eyebrows pinch and he cracks the door open carefully.

He knows the guards were bringing you to his house. Was it possible they hadn't finished yet?

No.

It's not speaking. It's singing.

Soft, like a gentle whistle that glided through the empty space, filling Yuta's typically silent home with a sound of life. It felt so strange to return home to something so sweet and present. Yuta is no stranger to the loneliness that he resides in. But this... this is a shock to his body he wasn't expecting.

He spends a moment listening before he shakes himself from the stupor and it clicks in his head. He shuts the door quietly and enters the communal room to find your cage strung up on the ceiling and you sitting up tall as you let out your song. The blanket that once covered your cage is nowhere in sight. Had the guards removed it and taken it with them?

Oh dear, how long had you sat there trapped and alone? Is that why you sang so?

The moment you notice him standing around the corner your song cuts short with a high pitched chirp. A few seconds pass in complete silence with nothing but the two of you staring at each other. Surprisingly, you speak first.

"It's you."

It comes out hushed and Yuta can hear the slightest curve to your voice. Almost instantly after you say it your hands shoot up to cover your mouth and your eyes widen. He sees the feathers on your hands puff up and wonders just what has you so scared all of a sudden.

Maybe he can ease your anxiety. Slowly, Yuta steps closer to your cage, only a foot or so away now, and offers you a smile. A kind, caring one that you haven't experienced since you were young. It's different from the ones that passing children often showed. Those are wide, toothy, energetic and excited. This is something entirely new.

With his eyes still closed, Yuta says, "I'm so very sorry for being gone. If I had known the guards were going to leave you like this I would have come home immediately."

His voice is so much softer than when you heard him speaking to the king. It's angelic, silvery, lovely. Something you could listen to for hours if he would grant you that.

Your hands lower to rest back on your thighs and you say nothing. You aren't used to being apologized to, for anything. Every owner you've had, every person who has handled you, passed you around, paid for your songs to become theirs to wield, wasn't kind. Not like this man. This stranger who stands before you and speaks without an ounce of authority to his tone. Not controlling. Not commanding.

Friendly.

Though, you have been fooled by people before. You know not to put your trust in someone so fast. Yet it feels so much more real than those other times. Your eyebrows knit together for a second as conflicting feelings pass through your mind and, more confusingly, your heart.

His eyes flutter open and your lips part slightly at just how beautiful they look. Dark blue seas with the lights shimmering in them like stars observe you.

"I'm sure it was lonely," he says.

There's personal experience in his words.

When you don't respond, simply blinking down at him, he cocks his head slightly to the side and you watch his eyebrows twist up in concern. You let your gaze fall to his arm, tucked against his chest with a sling and wrapped in a bandage beneath his sleeve. He's been in battle recently. Is he a knight? A soldier? At first you thought maybe he was a prince with the way he was dressed and how beautiful he is. But surely he wouldn't have bowed to the king before if he was and called him 'your majesty'.

Yuta follows your eyes and lifts his arm slightly, not enough to be painful, and explains, "This? Just a little fracture. I'll be good as new in a week or so."

Again, just like before, you don't speak. The king had claimed your previous owner said you were 'able to hold a conversation' but part of Yuta was starting to wonder if that came with restrictions. Or rather, it's conditional. You'd been so quick to silence yourself before.

"Are you afraid of something? You can speak to me. It's alright," Yuta assures, ducking to try and meet your eyes but all he's met with is you casting your attention to your hands where you grip your clothing.

You always hate this part of getting a new owner. He seems genuine but you can't risk angering him. It's dangerous. Humans who see you as lesser always are.

"What's your name?"

There. Finally. One you can answer without fearing backlash.

You clear your throat and answer, voice melodic and sweet to Yuta's ears, though a bit different from your singing one. He repeats your name back to you, testing the way it feels on his tongue in a whisper. Your feathers bristle as blood rushes to your head. It sounds so... special when he says it.

One of the few things you got to keep when you were kidnapped is your name. Nobody saw it as an issue considering you had no family to go back to. It's something you cherish and somehow, though you've only just met him, it sounds like he does too. Does he offer this kind of care and respect to everyone he meets? Or is it just to get you on his side? To make you think you're in a safe place?

"My name is Yuta Okkotsu. I'm a knight of the current reigning king's guard."

He's so hard to read. Or is he maybe too easy to read? It's confusing you. Surely it can't be that simple. He can't be this open.

Yuta sees the blatant hesitance in your body language and especially on your face. Despite appearing so well cared for on the outside, clean clothing and healthy wings, you're clearly not. Only someone who has been hurt by people's words and actions would be so distrusting. What's worse, Yuta thinks, is the way you're clearly trying to not let him see it.

You're trying to keep him happy. With the way you blink and wait patiently, listening to him, not speaking unless prompted. Yuta has to force his lips to stop from slipping into a frown. He doesn't want you to mistake his concern for upset.

Yuta's head nods in the direction of your cage and then toward the room, "Would you like to come out here?"

That seems to earn him a visible reaction from you as your feather's prick up sharply and he sees your wings twitch. You look from him to the open living room then back to him with growing skepticism. You swallow thickly at the idea. You've rarely ever been willingly let out of the cage. And you know how it goes when you are.

"Oh, no I wouldn't want to burden you with that," you respond with a soft smile and a tilt of your head.

Again, you're trying to please him. Yuta flashes you this incredulous look, "Burden me?"

You're starting to get a little frustrated with whatever game it is he's playing with you. You aren't stupid. You know the rules.

"If you let me out," you start, fingertips brushing over the feathers on your forearm, "then you'll have to keep a close eye on me. To make sure I don't run."

"Why would I need to do that? You aren't a prisoner."

You hate the sincerity in his sweet voice.

"I'm a pet," your voice lowers into a grumble and you eye the floor through the golden bars, "it's the same thing."

Yuta visibly tenses at your harsh words. Despite coming from such a beautiful voice they're filled with sadness and spite he knows all too well. He's heard so many knights in battle offer the same bitter realities. He supposes he should have expected such a response.

Your heart drops into your stomach at his silence. Now you've done it. Crossed a line. It's only a matter of time now before he begins to chastise yo-

"Not here you aren't. Not with me."

Your eyes widen involuntarily and you meet his quickly. That's a first. You don't think even once you've been told such a thing. Not even with the ones that did play with you and try to trick you. It's a step slightly too far to be untrue. It's too heartfelt.

Yuta steps up to your cage and digs his good hand into his pocket where he fishes out a golden key. He reaches up towards the lock and you feel your throat tighten. Is he really about to open it?

The lock clicks and Yuta tugs on the metal bars and the door swings open until it clangs against the side of the cage. And there you sit. Right in front of the exit. Goosebumps trickle their way across your flesh as you suck in a shaky breath.

It's a game.

He's playing with you.

He has to be.

"C'mon," Yuta whispers, "it's okay."

You rise to your knees, the sound of rustling fabric filling the air, as your hands grip the metal bars for dear life and you peek over the edge of the cage floor to the hardwood of the living room only a few feet away. Your knuckles go stark white from the way you're gripping and your stomach twists into terribly nauseating knots. Yuta can feel the anxiety coming from you in waves.

If he can feel it so well he only imagines how much you must be drowning in it.

He sees your pupils dilate into pinpricks and your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. Your wings are flapping a bit behind you. It must be a fear response.

Your name falls from Yuta's lips softly and you react with a sharp snap of your neck. He glances at the floor where you were previously focused and his lips part with a small 'ah' like he's figured out a particularly rough math problem.

He took a small step to the side and knelt down a bit stiffly. With one knee pressed firmly to the floor the other was perfectly situated between the cage and the floor.

"Don't be afraid," Yuta said, hoping you couldn't see the pain in his eyes.

His body wasn't healed enough yet and the action had sent a ripple of aching through his muscles and bones. But he ignored it and held his good hand out for you to take.

"What are you..."

"Take my hand. You can step right here," Yuta says, motioning to his thigh.

He... wants you to use it as a step. To use him.

You stare at him for a moment and think. It would be very nice to get out of the cage and stretch your legs for once. And it wasn't like you could fly away if you wanted. And no matter how hard you try to see through Yuta's act it falls flat. It's impossible to think he's planning anything when he's got such a calm expression. When all you can feel coming from him is kindness.

You can't trust him. Not yet. But you can accept the opportunity to breathe.

The cage shakes lightly as you shift your position and swing your legs out the open door.

Yuta notices in an instant that you're barefoot. He knows there's no reason for you to have shoes inside the cage but the trained knight in him knows exactly why you don't. It makes it much harder to run.

You reach your hand toward his slowly before yanking it back against your chest in a panic.

"I'll get your fancy clothes dirty," you say.

Yuta thinks that's just an excuse considering you're as clean as a whistle currently. But he offers you a small wave, "They aren't that special."

Which of course is a lie, but you don't need to know that.

Once more, you reach out. This time your hand connects with his and you startle slightly. He's so warm. And his hand is rough, with callouses from years of training, a heavy contrast to yours. Your hand fits comfortably against his and for a moment you forget what you're doing. You sidle to the edge of the cage and let your foot rest on his thigh. When you feel ready, you slip off the metal and put your weight on Yuta's leg.

Unfortunately, you didn't account for the fact that you haven't used your legs properly in a while and your knee buckles under the sudden pressure and a loud yelp, more like a squawk, escapes you as you topple toward Yuta. He stumbles to his feet and catches you. His arm wraps around your waist tightly as you crash into his chest. Your cheek presses against his chest and the sound of a heart fluttering steadily fills one ear, your racing one in the other.

You struggle to breathe for a moment as embarrassment courses through you. You brace yourself for his reaction, will he shove you away? Shout? You hate not knowing.

"Careful now," Yuta says softly, his fingers brushing your feathers gently, "I got you."

You suddenly realize how warm he is. It's not just his physical temperature, the body heat spreading from him into you, but his aura. He's holding you so gently, so careful, so respectfully.

"Can you stand?"

You shift on your feet and lean back, neck craning to look up into his eyes, a deep blue that shimmers. Your legs feel a little like jelly. If you were honest, you think trying to stand might be troublesome. But you don't want to burden him any longer by asking him to help you. You're already overstepping. So you nod and push away from him.

At first you wobble and Yuta's hand steadies you. The moment he knows you're stable, he retracts it.

You clasp your hands in front of you and drop your head, "Thank you."

His next words throw you for a loop.

"Feel free to wander around. I need to change out of these clothes but I won't be gone long."

He's going to... leave you alone? Raising your head, he sees the puzzled look on your face and chuckles lightly. Your eyes bounce around the room in curiosity but then return to his. You didn't realize how tired he looked until now.

You step until your wings meet the cool metal of your cage, it's a chain sure, but it doubles as an anchor, "You aren't worried I'll run away?"

Yuta shrugs his shoulders, "If you would like to leave then you're free to do that."

Acid builds up in your throat. You've been on the receiving end of this joke once before. Never again.

He leans close, black strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, and whispers with an almost playful lilt, "But if I were you I'd take the back door. The front door leads to the castle."

Swallowing a thick lump of saliva, you nod. You don't know what else to say. There isn't much to if you're being honest.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?" Yuta says, heavy boots loud on the hardwood as he heads to leave the room.

"Yes sir."

He pauses. A strange feeling bubbles up in his chest as he looks over his shoulder at you. You're standing like a statue with your back to the cage and your eyes distant. Like you've done this before.

"Oh no, please. Yuta," he corrects with that smile that makes you feel sick. It's too... selfless.

Humans are selfish beings. That's what you've learned. So why is this one so intent on making himself seem like he's not?

"Yes, Yuta sir."

Yuta sighs out a 'good enough' before disappearing around the corner. This is years of training, of grooming, and Yuta hopes deep down that, if you decide to stay, he can help you unlearn it. You're as much of a person as he is. He won't treat you any less.

For now, he supposes, he should see if you stick around.

~

You do.

It surprises him little when he returns to find you standing in the same exact spot, having clearly not moved a single inch. After all, how would you convince yourself to leave when experience told you it was safer to remain?

Your first few days with Yuta are rough to say the least. He should have figured it would be.

The first morning after he set you up in his spare bedroom he woke up to find it empty, the bed as neat as he'd left it, and you tucked safely in your cage fast asleep. And when he asked about it you told him it was more comfortable.

Comfortable. On the floor of a hard metal cage with no blankets or pillows, curled in on yourself with your wings protecting you. There's security in pattern. And yours unfortunately lies behind gilded bars. It makes things... troublesome.

But not in any way that's particularly obvious. Not to someone who doesn't know how to read people the way Yuta does. He hears it in the way you speak, often quite feathery, sees it in the way you try to not take up space, feels it in the way you always agree with whatever he says.

Your lack of autonomy is worrying. But Yuta supposes a caged bird often forgets how to spread its wings. Once it realizes it's trapped, it stops trying.

You eat what he eats and you talk when he does. The only time you make any noise at all without him prompting you is when you sing. He doesn't know if you're doing it because you want to or because you think you're supposed to. Though, he won't complain when your songs are so lovely. They do help him feel more at ease than he's used to.

"I have to go into the market today. Would you like to come with me?" Yuta asks, collecting your plate alongside his.

While his is empty, yours has only been pecked at. You either have a small appetite or aren't used to being given so much. He assumes it's the latter considering the way you grow fatigued after little exertion. You're malnourished. But not enough for any typical outsider to see. It doesn't help that you have a softer figure. Anyone else would assume you're wonderfully healthy.

Yuta is not just anyone.

His question rattles around in your head for a moment. You haven't left the house once since you were brought, not even having the courage to step into the backyard for some air, but Yuta definitely notices the way you slowly shuffle toward the open window when you think he isn't looking. You watch his back as he moves to the sink.

You're beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this man isn't what you thought he would be. That his generosity and his care isn't some kind of act. If it was, he was very committed. He has been nothing but kind to you so far. He makes you food anytime he eats even if you aren't hungry. He always asks if you need anything before he goes out or to bed. He never crowds you. He even let you bathe yourself alone.

And now, he's not rushing you for an answer as he cleans the dishes you two just used. He's standing there, ear trained on you, but he's focusing on something else entirely. He's giving you space. Offering you patience. And privacy.

You aren't used to it.

It might be nice, you think, to go with him. Scary, but nice.

"Are you sure?"

A gust of wind comes through the open window and rustles his hair when he looks over his shoulder. He looks so relaxed. He must be happy to finally have someone else to spend time with in his home. It seems even as sweet and handsome as Yuta is, he's not free from loneliness.

You're waiting for the moment the other shoe drops. For him to tell you that it's his chance to show you off or something like that. Most of your past owners liked that part. Although more often than not it was from the confines of your cage that you became an attraction.

But once again, this man, Yuta Okkotsu, the cherished knight of the kingdom, proves you wrong and sows seeds of doubt in your mind.

"It's alright if you don't want to. I was just thinking it might be a good idea so we can get you some new clothes."

Your wings rustle and though he sees, he pretends not to. He said 'we'. He's including you as a part of the decision making process. He's not choosing for you. The word alone ignites a pesky flame in your heart that spreads throughout your body.

You look down at your outfit. It's the same one you've had since the king bought you. You've only ever really worn whatever your owners have given you. Occasionally, they like to use you as a doll and you've had a wide array of clothing in your life. But your most recent one, the market vendor, preferred the single matching set. Yuta had tried to offer you some of his own clothing but unfortunately they didn't fit very well. Especially with your wings.

"Do you... not like it?" you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers and lifting it lightly.

Yuta spins around quickly, his hands, wet and soapy, raised in defense, "Oh no. No, that's not it at all. I just figured you may like a few more options to choose from."

His speed is enough to make you tense up. You hope he can't see it.

"If that's what you want," you say.

Yuta's soft smile lowers and he begins to dry his hands on a nearby dish towel, "Is that what you want?"

'What you want'. When have you ever gotten something you want? As a child maybe, with your mother, before those men kidnapped and sold you. You haven't felt want for a long time. Since you realized those wants mean nothing and they were unobtainable you've pushed any thoughts of desire away.

But now he's giving you that option.

It would be nice. The fresh air and the walk. The experience.

"Okay," you say, "If you're sure."

The next thing you know, you're standing at the front of the market entrance. There's a basket in your hand and one of Yuta's cloaks over you, covering your wings, and Yuta stands beside you with a bag over his shoulder. The market is a bit busier than he expected. He was hoping to bring you at a time when there weren't many people. But now that you're here you may as well finish what you came for.

Your feet are cold against the cobblestone street. Yuta had promised to buy you some shoes along with new clothes. You don't quite mind the feeling. It puts you closer to nature. But they might be good for moments like this.

"I'm sorry there's lots of people. If it gets to be too much we can leave okay?" Yuta tells you in a hushed tone.

You simply nod. It's already a bit overwhelming and you haven't even started shopping but you aren't going to tell him that. It might upset him. Though, you're starting to think nothing you can do will piss him off. You don't want to test that theory.

Yuta leads the way towards a section of stalls with food first. Other than your clothing, food is the main reason Yuta wanted to make the trip. He wasn't prepared to start feeding a second mouth so it only took a few days to run low. He stops beside one with fresh produce and leans close to you.

"You should pick something for yourself. Get something you like," he suggests.

"I'm fine with whatever you get," you respond.

Yuta sighs and turns to face you, not just his head, his whole body. You prepare yourself to be scolded.

"Something you like," Yuta says, "what do you enjoy eating?"

He's not being mean or overwhelming. He's simply being persistent. You can recognize the difference. The line is drawn where his eyes meet yours.

You glance between the fruits and vegetables laid out along the table and try to think. It isn't often you're given the chance to even look upon so much food. There's so many options in front of you in all the colors of the rainbow and they're all beautifully ripe. You salivate simply by looking.

Yuta is watching you patiently, occasionally letting his gaze follow yours over the food. You seem particularly drawn in by the fruits. But he keeps his lips zipped. He wants you to take that first step. You have yet to ask anything of him.

Given the opportunity, you'll do so. He's sure of it.

"I like..." you trail off into silence as your eyes stop on some particularly juicy looking blackberries.

The edge of Yuta's lip twitches up.

This is stressing you out. Why couldn't he just choose? You would happily eat whatever he bought. It wasn't right of you to be selfish and request anything. He may not treat you like a pet but that's technically still what you are and you know it.

But you feel the invisible chains tightening only by your own hand now.

He isn't even holding them. Has he ever been? Or is it just you?

"I like berries."

Yuta breaks into a wide grin without any attempt to hide it.

"Berries. Got it," he says, and before you know what's happening he's conversing with the vendor.

You try not to stare but you know you must be giving him the strangest look ever by the way he side eyes you. He doesn't acknowledge it. He just keeps doing what he's doing.

What the hell is this guy's problem? You can't handle the mental gymnastics he's making you do.

Is he making you do them?

Damnit. You're so confused.

Currency is exchanged and Yuta faces you with a handful of berries wrapped in a cloth and string. He sits it down gently in the basket he asked you to carry.

Without your usual restraint, you ask, "Is that enough for the both of us?"

It doesn't look like it.

A soft chuckle leaves Yuta's lips and your stomach twists. It's not sinister in any way but... your body doesn't understand how else to interpret it. Accepting that he doesn't have any ulterior motives would be enough to make you sick. To send you into a spiral.

It's not possible. That's what you continue to tell yourse-

"It's enough for you."

You wonder if it's actually possible for every sound around you to have vanished in an instant.

It's for you?

Just you?

"Thank you."

That's all you can say. With your throat dry and your thoughts racing you at least offer him gratitude. You stare down into the basket. Something just for you sits there alone. Not something you're expected to tolerate but something you wanted.

Your heart swells and suddenly you're a child again. Your lips slip into a soft smile. One that nearly leaves Yuta winded. Before, they were mostly a farce. Something to convince him you were happy. To make sure he wouldn't want you gone. But this is real. This is the moon appearing in a night sky that's been nothing but black and dreary. A small break in the clouds that shows him more.

Eventually, you two depart from the strip of food stalls. Not before your basket has been filled with plenty of food for you and Yuta both to last a week or so. The market has become a bit busier which leaves you sticking closer to Yuta's side than before. More people mingle about in the square making it a bit stressful to move between areas and for a moment you two are stuck waiting for a group to disperse.

You watch the back of Yuta's head as it swivels this way and that. He must be trying to decide just where to go next. It would probably be so much easier if you'd stayed at the house. Then he wouldn't have to watch you. And it was clear he was trying to take the paths that had the smallest amount of people.

He was going out of his way for you.

And rather than hurting your head like it usually would, it goes to your chest. A dull ache.

A sudden burst of laughter from some children catches your attention and you turn to see what's happening. Within an instant, you wish you hadn't. Your blood turns to ice, your breath stolen, your breakfast from only hours ago rising up your throat and you snap your jaw shut almost painfully to swallow it back down.

A group of children and adults alike are gathered around a stall.

A familiar stall.

With the voice of a man all too recognizable to you.

You're frozen in place. Your legs unable to move, your voice unable to work, it's him. The chain that wraps itself around your heart, that coils around your body and poisons your soul yanks itself taut.

Fear riddles you as nothing but a flightless bird. What use are the wings that are strapped to your back by a mere presence?

Let go.

You want to be let go.

And there's only one thing that ever snapped those chains clean in two.

Your hand shoots forward before you can stop yourself and you grip Yuta's shirt. Stumbling forward in your panic, you stop a mere inch or two from your face pressing into his back.

Safety.

Security.

Warmth.

At first, Yuta doesn't realize it's you holding him. You're wary of him and that means it seemed unlikely you would make such a bold move. He pauses mid step and lets out a confused sound. Twisting his neck to glance over his shoulder he's met with a sight that sets off his instincts.

There's an expression etched into your face that's all too familiar to a knight like him. He's seen it time and time again. Trauma. Paralyzing terror. You're trembling so violently he can't just see it but feel it. Your pupils are nothing but pinpricks in your iris. You're barely even breathing.

What on Earth could have you this terrified?

Yuta speaks, "Hey, woah, what's wrong?"

It's innocent. He has no idea of the monster not far away from him.

You don't speak. Not that he thought you would. You just continue to shake. You're staring directly into his back so there's no way for him to tell just where the thing you deem such a threat is.

Until he hears a voice. Loud. Arrogant. Scummy. And he turns his whole body to face you while seeking it out. Not far away he sees the stall. Large and surrounded by people. And at the forefront of this makeshift stage is a cage with...

A hybrid in it.

A man stands to the side of it with a big smile as his voice entices more and more people to join. Yuta doesn't need to hear what he's saying to know. He can put two and two together. The man continues his speech but it fades to nothing in the back of Yuta's head while he focuses on you.

Your name falls from his lips once, twice, it's not until the third time that you react at all. He watches your eyes snap to his. You look like you're about to break. A wounded robin trapped in a storm with no saving grace to protect them.

But you aren't alone. Not with him there.

Yuta lifts his hand, slowly to not startle you, and speaks softly as you feels around for the hood of the cloak you're wearing, "why don't we head that way," he juts his head to the side of the market opposite of boastful man who is making it hard for you to even listen.

His fingers brush your neck and the trembling increases as a small chirp filled with fear leaves you. It's a cry. He can feel your pulse in that split second and it's racing. Yuta makes quick work of gripping the edge of the hood.

"That's where we can get you some new clothes," he whispers, tugging the fabric up, gently working it over your hair, until it sits pretty on your head. Instantly he pulls his hand away for your comfort.

You're hidden now. And he hopes that you can see that, that his actions may click in your head.

They do.

It's as if a shield has been lowered over you. You're not visible now. He can't see you.

Nobody but Yuta can. Nobody but Yuta has.

Still, it doesn't settle you all that much. Your eyes slip to the side and your head begins to turn to make sure he's not walking toward you. What if he saw you before Yuta put your hood up? What if he came back? What if he took you back to that stall? What if-

Yuta presses his fingers flat together and blocks your line of sight. A barricade. Keeping you on the safe side. With him.

"There's nothing over there for us," he says, his heart jumping as he hopes he can deter you, "okay?"

Your brain is running a mile a minute. You don't understand how he's doing it. Can't comprehend how this man knows what you need. All your life you've craved nothing more than to have someone see you, your pain, your fear. You've resolved yourself to never expecting to be given that. And yet here, now, that someone is standing in front of you.

Looking at Yuta, you finally release your tense jaw and he watches in real time as your pupils dilate back to a regular size. Everything goes quiet. You take in his face, his expression, the care aimed directly at you. The sun shimmers along his skin, his hair rustles in the breeze, his eyes feel like safety.

He's beautiful. Inside and out. Nothing but goodness oozes from him. It's in the words he says, in the glances he offers. He screams it. And you wonder if it's okay to let your guard down just a little if it means getting to feel that genuine heart.

Slowly, you turn your body until your back is to the stall, and Yuta lets his arm drop back to his side. He watches you shrink into the hood. He's glad he thought to have you wear it.

Yuta reaches out and, as gently as he can, takes your hand in his. He allows his thumb to brush over the feathers on the back of it. He soothes them down. You jump at the contact but don't say anything. But he feels it. The way your hand squeezes his just that tiny bit to tell him you need it. It's grounding to you.

An anchor.

Not a chain.

"I've got you," Yuta whispers against the side of the hood as he begins to walk.

You keep a hold of his hand. And you walk with him.

~

Your wings aren't nearly as neat as they appeared when you were in your cage. Yuta picks up on that very fast. He spends time observing every part of you and that includes the feathers, unkempt and damaged that are hidden beneath the fluffed up ones meant to make you look appealing. And the edges are clipped. Clearly a precaution to make sure you won't fly away.

He doesn't ask about it at first. He assumes if you want to tell him then you will. He catches you a few different times stretching them out and picking at them as best you can, shimmying your wings as a few stray feathers fall off.

He makes a trip to the market alone and does well to hide his purchase from you when he returns home.

It's nearly a month into you living with Yuta that he says anything about them.

It's late and you're seated outside in his garden, your back to the door, your wings flapping wildly as he hears a small whimper coming from you. The messy feathers aren't moving like you're hoping they will. Yuta knows what you're trying to do.

"I can help you."

You let out a startled squawk and your head spins around to look at him as he slips through the doorway.

"Your wings. They're bothering you aren't they?"

Ever since the trip to the market you've grown to trust Yuta just slightly. You're still hesitant, and wary, and he doesn't blame you for that. But you still refuse to talk to him about your own troubles even though he can see them clear as day on your face. Which is why you shake your head and say with a feigned smile, "Oh, I'm fine Yuta."

He crosses his arms, having been recently freed of his sling, and breathes your name out in that way that makes you remember exactly who you're talking to. Someone who cares. Someone who sees. You turn back to stare at the ground in front of you and Yuta sighs lightly as he plants himself on the concrete beside you.

"I've noticed some of your feathers are out of place. It's been like that for a while hasn't it?" he asks.

You play with the hem of your new shirt and nod. There's no reason to lie to him. And if he's asking then it's not like you're burdening him by answering. He picks up a stray grey feather from the ground, giving you plenty of open space to speak if you want. He's always like that.

Your voice is low when you do, "I can't reach them all myself."

"And your owners never helped you before?"

He knows the answer before you even shake your head. You've opened up to him, just a bit, about how you've been treated in the past. It sickens him to know just how little you were cared for. How not one of them ever truly seemed to look at you as anything more than a pet that looked pretty and sang well.

Suddenly, one of your wings flaps violently and your eyebrows knit together in frustration. Mild discomfort is easily read across your face.

"What can I do?" Yuta asks.

"Oh. No, it's alright. I can handle it," you respond quickly.

Yuta cocks his head to the side, using his sweet smile to his advantage, "just tell me what to do. I'd like to."

If he had asked you something like this when you first met you wouldn't have let him anywhere near your wings. But now, that seed of doubt that was once planted in your brain has grown to overtake your aversion to him. He's not a bad man.

It's how you end up with him seated behind you, his legs crossed, and your wings spread out along his thighs. He's observing the feathers from a distance, waiting for you to give him the go ahead to touch them. Unfortunately, the book he'd bought from the market only covered regular birds and not hybrids but it seems your feathers work the same as theirs. He can already see some keratin coated ones that need to be set free.

You're tense in front of him. Breathing in and out shakily enough for him to feel it through your wings.

"Yuta?" you ask.

He watches your head drop and says, "yeah?"

"I don't... actually know what you're supposed to do."

That would make sense. If you've not been properly cared for in years how would you know what he needs to do to help? He can hear the embarrassment in your voice. And see the flush creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears. He can't know exactly what you're feeling but he knows it must not be nice.

And it's not.

You feel ridiculous. How could you not know? Here he is offering to come to your aid and you can't even direct him. You're wasting his time. And abusing his kindness.

You feel pathetic.

Useless.

Like you can't do anything. You don't even know how to take care of yourself. He must think so little of you. Your heart twists and a burning hate builds in your stomach. Your wings itch so bad and you can't think straight.

"That's alright. I think I see the problem," Yuta's voice cuts your self deprecation in two, "if you want me to try."

The feathers on your neck puff up and Yuta smirks. He's come to notice that your feathers are a wonderful way to see the emotions you try to hide. Sometimes it's fear but other times, like now, it's from being flustered. He likes when your feathers react to that one.

"Okay."

It's all you say. That's all you can say really. Because he's being so kind. He's not mad. He's not giving up on you. He's offering you so much.

Yuta's hands move slowly toward your wings. His fingertips brush over a few feathers and you have a knee jerk reaction. You spring forward, curling in on yourself and yanking your wings out of his hold, eyes clenching shut painfully, and shout, "P-please be gentle!"

It's the first time Yuta's ever heard your voice rise to such a volume.

You sound... scared.

His heart clenches. For a beat or two there's nothing but silence. He monitors your position. You're shaking.

"I will," he says, "I promise."

When you don't move to sit back up he sighs. He can be patient. He'll wait as long as it takes for you to settle yourself.

You spend a minute folded down as your thoughts race. And the fact that Yuta doesn't push or rush you makes something inside your body buzz.

"If you want, we can try again later-"

"No," you cut him off, "No I..."

You find yourself rising to sit up again and let your wings flop down onto his thighs unceremoniously. A blush creeps over your cheeks and you're happy that he can't see it. You clench your fists in your lap until your knuckles go white. The next words you say are hard to get out.

They're true. But it's like you're trying to breach through water.

"I would like it. Your help, I mean."

Yuta's chest fills with so much pride at your words that he visibly swells. Ever since you came to live with him you've stopped yourself from ever asking for his help. If you couldn't figure something out alone then you often gave up. Afraid of wasting his time.

None of his time with you is wasted. And Yuta tries his best to make sure you know that.

"We'll figure it out together, okay?" Yuta suggests.

You nod, "Okay."

Together. Yuta always says things like that. He includes you. He makes you a part of the plan, a part of the decisions, he puts you in a position where you take up space. Where you exist as more than what you ever could have thought you were.

The gentle caress of the moonlight along your feathers reminds Yuta of their fragility. So he's even more careful when he makes his second attempt. You flinch once but remain sitting up this time. His fingers pick at a keratin coated feather and he squeezes enough to break the seal but not much more than that. He rubs the feather between his fingers until it's free and lays it out the direction it's meant to go.

You let out a soft sigh, one that he thinks you meant to hide given the way your hand slaps over your mouth directly after. He continues to search through your wings for more feathers and repeats the process. Slowly, you let your hand fall back into your lap, and your shoulders sag with small bird-like chirps of relief leaving you.

It feels so nice. Not only to finally have that terrible itch scratched but to have it be Yuta's hands. The one person who has ever earned the right to touch your wings is caressing them like they're the most expensive glass in the world.

He's treating you like that.

Like all the little fragile parts of your soul deserve to be cradled.

After a while, you feel his hands still.

You've never felt so calm in your life.

His hands leave your wings as he wipes them on his pants and says, "All done."

You flutter your wings a bit before tucking them in and twisting to look at him. The moon catches his eyes perfectly and you forget what you were going to say. Yuta's smile steals your breath and his hand rises to brush at a spare strand of your hair. You don't flinch. You don't pull away. Not even when his skin touches yours.

He admires the way you look. The relaxation in your expression is enough to make him feel like he's done a good job. He tucks the hair back out of your face.

"Feel better?"

Your lips part with a soft breath, "Much. Thank you."

There's tension between the two of you. But not in the way you're used to. It comes in the form of a string attached to your chest rather than a suffocating rope, strangling you to keep you in place. You aren't afraid of it.

Yuta cups your face in his palm, his fingers threaded in your hair and scratching at your scalp. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest. You wonder if he can hear it. He leans forward, so close that you can feel his breath, and mumbles something.

"You're beautiful."

For a moment, you don't breathe.

You've been told that before. But never, ever, has it felt so heartfelt. Never has it struck a chord in your chest so violently that you feel pressure. Your head goes fuzzy as you think about Yuta.

He's kind. He's gentle. He's only ever looked at you as a person. Your name has meaning with him. Your words mean something to him.

You are worth something. And not in a monetary sense. Not in the way you were worth the expense or the hassle to other people. Not in the way hunters traded you around, not in the way rich men stole your voice, not in the way people paid for your existence to be allowed.

But in the way that your heart beats all the same as his.

Yuta moves slowly to press his lips against the space between your eyebrows. He pulls back to look into your eyes as they gloss over. Something in your body snaps. Maybe it's your heart, maybe it's your brain, or maybe it's that final link of a chain that's been worn away by the sun and its rays. Your body fills with an emotion long locked away.

A soft cry slips between your parted lips before you surge forward and plant your head safely against his body. Your arms wrap around his waist, your wings surround the both of you. And tears wet his shirt. You press into him as much as you can like you'll somehow manage to merge yourself with him if you try hard enough. His arms encase you.

"Shh, I'm not going anywhere."

You cry into him like a child. Weeping as your heart places itself fully on display. You've never had anything to call yours. Not since before you became a pet. But since your life was completely flipped around by this knight it's like you've realized that the one thing you kept locked away is all yours.

Suddenly, you're a small robin trembling in Yuta's hands just the same as when he was a child. He kisses the top of your hair and mumbles your name with all the love he has in his body.

Yuta is warm.

He's always been warm.

Warm. And safe.

it was indifference.

volleyball had been good to you, yes, but it had never been the center of your world. and if returning to it required months of meticulous effort for something you only moderately missed, you found you didn’t particularly feel like fighting.

so you let it go.

#1 captain: sis u cant be fr rn ur my best outside hitter u gotta come back when ur fully recovered 😭😭

You: i deaduzz cant be bothered twas a good run 💔💔💔💔

your parents didn’t protest much when the conversation shifted from recovery to relocation. they had been discussing moving back to japan for years, always circling around the idea of giving you the chance to reconnect with your roots, of practical things like work and opportunity and timing.

the conversation about moving back to japan does not happen under dim lighting with tense silence and heavy sighs.

it happens in the middle of your parents arguing over whether coriander belongs in everything.

“it absolutely does,” your father insists, leaning across the kitchen counter like he’s presenting a thesis instead of a herb.

your mother rolls her eyes with theatrical disbelief, reaching up to flick flour from his cheek with unnecessary tenderness. “you only say that because you think it makes you sound cultured.”

“i am cultured.”

“you’re so dramatic, honey.”

you sit at the table watching them like you always do, somewhere between exasperated and deeply fond, because this is how they’ve always been: slightly unbearable, completely inseparable, incapable of finishing a disagreement without drifting back into shared laughter.

it’s in the middle of that nonsense that your father clears his throat in a way that signals a topic shift.

“speaking of cultured,” he begins, grinning at your mother as if this is all part of an elaborate performance, “we’ve been thinking.”

you immediately narrow your eyes.

“that’s never good.”

“that's rude,” your mother says lightly, sliding into the seat across from you and reaching for your hand. “it’s actually a very good thought.”

your father nods with exaggerated seriousness. “a brilliant one, really. groundbreaking.”

you wait.

“what would you think,” your mother says carefully, though her eyes are already bright with anticipation, “about transferring to nekoma in japan? just for the next chapter.”

“ew, mom, don't say chapter— this isn't some freaking wattpad fanfiction,” you cringe, trying to hold back your laugh.

“new country, new school,” your father elaborates, draping an arm around your mother’s shoulders as if they’re about to announce a vacation instead of a life change. “well— old country— but you get my point. plus, you'll be closer to family."

“and closer to proper rice,” your mother adds.

you stare at them both.

they stare back, clearly expecting some dramatic protest that never comes.

you lean back in your chair, considering it. the idea doesn’t feel threatening. it feels… interesting. a shift, yes, but not a loss. you’ve never been particularly attached to staying in one place simply for the sake of familiarity.

“nekoma’s good,” your father continues, softer now but still warm. “and your grandfather’s been pretending not to miss his dear, doting, princess granddaughter.”

your mother laughs. “he absolutely has not been pretending.”

you picture your grandfather squinting at a computer screen, muttering about volleyball and attendance and probably you, and you feel something that isn’t dread so much as curiosity.

“and you two are coming too,” you say, eyeing them suspiciously.

“of course we are,” your mother replies immediately. “did you think we were shipping you off like a parcel?”

“ooh, that's tempting though,” your father muses. "we could just send her off and we could finally have our alone time." he adds, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated rhythm, like he’s personally auditioning for the role of most annoying person alive.

"oh my god?? you guys are so nasty.. now i wanna go to japan alone." you physically recoil, dragging a hand down your face.

your mother elbows him without looking.

the kitchen falls into that familiar comfortable noise, cutlery clinking, your parents bickering about logistics with an ease that suggests they’ve already decided this will work because they’ll make it work together.

you watch them for a moment longer before shrugging lightly.

“okay,” you say.

they both pause.

“okay?” your mother repeats, almost suspicious.

“okay,” you confirm, reaching for your glass. “it’ll be good.”

and good it was, because— nekoma does not swallow you whole the way some new schools threaten to.

it opens instead, slowly and curiously, and you step into it with the kind of confidence that doesn’t demand attention but gathers it anyway. you don’t have to try particularly hard; you’ve always known how to hold eye contact just long enough, how to laugh without sounding rehearsed, how to ask someone about themselves in a way that makes them feel genuinely interesting.

the girls who approach you first are exactly the kind people would stereotype without thinking twice.

they're loud in the hallways, skirts slightly shorter than dresscode allows, lip gloss perpetually fresh. they know who’s dating who before homeroom ends and have opinions about everything from teachers to cafeteria food. they look, at first glance, like the type who would smile sweetly and slice you apart the moment you turn your back.

they do not. they're warm in a way that surprises you.

they ask about your move without prying, about london without romanticizing it, about your old team without turning it into some dramatic loss. they shove their phones into your face to show you pictures, complain openly about tests and boys and life in general. when you laugh, they laugh harder, not because they’re performing but because they genuinely enjoy the sound of it.

within a week, you are walking to class together. within two, they are saving you a seat at lunch without asking.

it isn’t calculated, and it isn’t fragile. there’s no tension humming beneath the surface, no secret resentment about your accent or the way people look twice when you pass. if anything, they seem faintly proud of it, as though your presence has elevated their collective aura.

they text you at night about trivial things and serious things in equal measure. they drag you to convenience stores after school and sit on the curb sharing drinks, talking about futures that feel both distant and uncomfortably close.

it was somewhere during those early weeks that you properly met kuroo.

you had noticed him before, of course. he was difficult not to notice, all sharp grins and lazy confidence. he watched people with an assessing look that suggested he enjoyed understanding the mechanics of social dynamics almost as much as he enjoyed poking at them.

your first real conversation happened by accident, if you could call it that.

you’d been leaning against the railing near the courtyard, half-listening to one of your friends recounting a story, when kuroo approached with the air of someone who had decided something and was now simply following through.

“so you’re the transfer everyone’s talking about,” he’d said, tone light but eyes curious.

“am i?” you replied, matching his ease without missing a beat. “should i be concerned?”

he laughed, and there was something approving in it.

you learned quickly that he enjoyed banter, that he sometimes pushed at people’s reactions to see how they held up. you also learned that he respected resistance, that he liked when someone didn’t fold immediately under his teasing.

you didn’t.

so a kind of understanding formed between you, not constant but steady. you weren’t inseparable, but you moved in overlapping circles, trading comments and glances across classrooms, occasionally finding yourselves side by side at school events without having consciously planned it.

he mentioned volleyball once, casually.

“you used to play, right?” he’d asked, leaning back in his chair.

you had tilted your head, considering how much you wanted to give away. “a little.”

“a little,” he repeated skeptically, as if he already knew that wasn’t the whole story.

you only smiled.

it never occurred to you that this small thread of connection, this shared understanding that you were more capable than you pretended to be, would eventually loop back around and tie you to the very gym you had so easily walked away from.

at the time, nekoma was simply a new setting, a fresh stage on which you could choose whatever role you pleased.

which, unfortunately, included the role of granddaughter.

your grandfather, yasufumi nekomata— or as students call him— coach nekomata, insists you visit his office at least once during your first week, claiming it is for “administrative purposes,” though you strongly suspect he simply wants to look at you in person and confirm you are real and not just a concept his son-in-law keeps mentioning on video calls.

his office is cluttered in a way that suggests he knows exactly where everything is despite appearances. papers stacked in uneven piles, old photos pinned to a corkboard, a half-finished cup of tea going cold near his elbow.

“hm,” he says, his signature smile on his face.

“that’s all i get, old man?” you ask, closing the door behind you. “no dramatic welcome? no tears?”

“you’re late,” he replies calmly.

“by three minutes?”

“unacceptable.”

you narrow your eyes at him before dropping into the chair across his desk without permission.

“my dear granddaughter, you’ve grown,” he continues.

you fight a smile and lose.

“that tends to happen over several years,” you reply, taking the seat across from him without waiting to be offered one.

he hums as if this is groundbreaking information, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone evaluating a long-term investment.

“you’re louder now,” he adds after a moment.

“i was like six back then..” you remind.

he just chuckles and reaches over to ruffle up your hair before he reaches for the cup of tea near his elbow, takes a slow sip, then grimaces faintly at the temperature before setting it back down without comment.

“so,” he says, steepling his fingers together in a way that immediately makes you suspicious, “how is nekoma treating you?”

“it’s fine.”

“fine,” he echoes, unimpressed.

“people are nice. classes are normal. no one’s tried to fight me yet.”

“that’s promising..?”

you tilt your head. “should i be concerned that you phrased it like that?”

he ignores the question entirely, instead pulling open a drawer with deliberate slowness. you watch his movements carefully, already anticipating some form of paperwork.

you are not disappointed.

he slides a single sheet of paper across the desk toward you.

you look down at it.

club registration.

you look back up at him.

no words are exchanged for a full three seconds.

“absolutely not,” you say finally.

he blinks once, calmly. “you didn’t read it.”

“i don’t need to.”

“students are required to join a club.”

“required is a strong word.”

“it is the correct word.”

you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs with exaggerated nonchalance. “i just transferred. i deserve a grace period.”

“you’ve had one.”

“it’s been only 19 days.”

“exactly.”

you stare at him in disbelief.

“what if i’m still adjusting,” you argue.

“you adjusted on day two,” he replies without hesitation. “your teachers already say you participate too much.”

“that’s because they ask easy questions.”

“hm.”

you eye the paper again but make no move to touch it.

“i don’t feel like committing to anything,” you admit, tone lighter than the statement sounds. “i like keeping my afternoons open.”

“for what.”

“existing.”

“you can exist in a club.”

“well— not peacefully.”

he studies you for a moment, and you recognize that look immediately— the one that means he’s two steps ahead of whatever excuse you’re preparing next.

“you’re avoiding effort,” he says, almost lazily.

“i’m conserving energy.”

“for what.”

“social obligations,” you reply promptly.

“you’re popular,” he says bluntly.

you blink at him.

“that was fast.”

“i hear things.”

“that’s mildly invasive.” you exhale through your nose, fighting the urge to smile again.

“just pick something,” he says, nudging the paper closer to you with one finger. “i don’t particularly care what it is. art. literature. chess. as long as you’re not wandering the halls after school pretending you’re above participation.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i am above participation.”

he raises one eyebrow.

you hold his gaze.

“…selectively above participation,” you amend.

his lips twitch.

“end of the week,” he says calmly. “you’ll submit that form.”

“or what.”

“or i will choose for you.”

the audacity.

you stand, snatching the paper from the desk with a dramatic sigh. “you wouldn’t dare, you old fart.”

he smiles— not warmly, not threateningly, but knowingly.

and that is somehow worse.

you pause at the door, glancing back at him once more.

“if you sign me up for something weird,” you warn, “i will hold a grudge.”

“don't say that like i don't know you— you're already holding one,” he smiles.

you narrow your eyes at him again before slipping out of the office, the form folded loosely in your hand. "whatever, see ya' later, love you."

you fully intend to ignore the form.

you do not yet realize that your grandfather has been coaching for decades, and patience is a skill he possesses in terrifying abundance.

but since you're you— you do, in fact, ignore the form.

for three full days, it lives folded in the front pocket of your bag, migrating between notebooks and loose worksheets as if trying to remind you of its existence. every time your hand brushes against it, you pretend you’re looking for something else. a pen. lip gloss. literally anything more urgent than commitment.

you tell yourself you’re weighing options.

in reality, you’re procrastinating with remarkable dedication.

by the fourth afternoon, the topic finally surfaces.

you’re walking out of the school gates with your friends, the late-day sun casting everything in that warm, forgiving glow that makes even concrete look cinematic. someone is complaining about a math quiz. someone else is scrolling through her phone, trying to decide where to stop for snacks.

“wait,” one of them says suddenly, turning to you. “what club are you joining?”

you groan softly.

“don’t.”

“what,” she laughs. “you have to pick one, right?”

“apparently,” you mutter.

“oh my god, join something fun,” another chimes in. “like dance. or drama with us. you’d be so good at drama.”

“i don’t want to rehearse things,” you reply. “that defeats the point of being naturally impressive.”

they laugh, shoving your shoulder lightly.

“what about sports?” someone suggests. “didn’t you used to play something?”

“a little,” you answer automatically, and the phrase feels suspiciously familiar.

“volleyball, right?” she presses.

you wave a hand dismissively. “that was abroad. and also inconvenient.”

“inconvenient,” she repeats, amused. “you make everything sound like it’s optional.”

“it is optional,” you insist. “that’s the beauty of it.”

“not clubs,” she sings.

you open your mouth to argue further when the friend walking slightly ahead of you stops abruptly.

“…no.”

the tone alone makes all of you freeze.

“what,” you ask.

she slowly turns around, eyes wide with dawning horror.

“i left my homework in my desk.”

there’s a collective pause.

“you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“it’s due tomorrow.”

“i know.”

you stare at her for a moment, calculating the distance you’ve already walked from the school gates, the effort required to turn around, the sheer injustice of it all.

she grabs your wrist before you can slip away.

“come back with me.”

“why me.”

“moral support.”

“you don’t need moral support to retrieve paper.”

“yes i do.”

you sigh dramatically but allow yourself to be tugged along as the group collectively pivots and begins heading back toward school.

the campus is quieter now, the end-of-day rush having thinned into scattered students and lingering club members. your friends peel off one by one, offering exaggerated condolences as they continue home, until it’s just you and her climbing the stairs toward your classroom.

“you owe me,” you inform her.

“i know,” she replies breathlessly. “i’ll buy you something tomorrow.”

“make it expensive.”

she laughs.

when she finally retrieves the forgotten homework, clutching it triumphantly like a recovered relic, she looks far too pleased with herself.

“see,” she says. “worth it.”

“let's agree to disagree..”

you both head back toward the entrance, but as you reach the gates, you pause.

“hey— your legs stop working or something?,” she says slowly. “are you coming?”

you glance toward the courtyard, then toward the administrative building where you know your grandfather’s office is.

you had overheard earlier that he was holding one of his practices today, something about extended drills and a stubborn team that refused to listen.

you hesitate for only a second.

“i’ll stay a bit,” you say casually. “my grandpa’s here.”

she nods, unsurprised. “text me when you get home.”

“i will.”

she waves once before disappearing down the path toward the gates, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of an almost-empty campus.

you don’t rush. you never rush.

you wander instead, taking the longer route through the courtyard, listening to the distant thud of something rhythmic echoing faintly from the direction of the gym. the sound is familiar, though you haven’t let yourself dwell on it properly since arriving.

the gym doors are propped open slightly when you approach, warm air spilling out along with the muted squeak of shoes against polished floor. you don’t step inside immediately. instead, you lean lightly against the outer wall, peering in just enough to catch the motion of drills unfolding.

your grandfather’s voice carries clearly, sharp but not unkind, correcting posture, calling out adjustments.

you’re still deciding whether to make your presence known when someone exits through the side doors.

you glance over without thinking.

he doesn’t see you.

his head is tilted down, attention fixed on his phone, steps unhurried and slightly distracted in a way that suggests this is a routine rather than a rare lapse.

you recognize him distantly from passing glimpses in hallways, from the way kuroo occasionally refers to a “lazy setter who's actually the brain of all of their operations.” with too much fondness.

he looks entirely unremarkable in this moment.

until his foot catches.

it happens quickly.

too quickly.

one misstep against uneven pavement and suddenly he’s tipping forward, hands shooting out too late to prevent the inevitable. the impact is loud in the quiet courtyard, palms scraping harshly against concrete, knees following with a thud that makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.

for a fraction of a second, you simply stare.

then you’re moving.

“oh my god—” you drop to a crouch beside him without hesitation, reaching for his arm. “are you okay?”

he’s sitting upright, staring down at his hands like they’ve personally offended him.

there’s a shallow scrape along his palm already beginning to redden.

“did you hit your head?” you press, leaning closer. “can you stand? are you dizzy?”

he blinks up at you slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere else entirely.

“my legs feel weird,” he says after a pause, voice quiet but oddly steady.

your stomach drops.

“what do you mean weird.”

he shifts slightly, attempting to push himself up, and there’s just enough instability in the movement to make your concern spike. his hands press against the pavement, fingers flexing once as if testing sensation, and you don’t notice the way his expression flickers— not pain, not quite— but calculation.

practice had run longer than usual.

you hadn’t been there for it, but he had, and the evidence is written in the slight slump of his shoulders, in the way his breathing is heavier than the short walk outside should warrant. coach had made them run extra laps that evening, and kenma had endured it with the quiet resignation of someone who hates cardio but lacks the energy to protest.

he’d come outside under the perfectly reasonable excuse of refilling his water bottle.

fresh air, a brief pause, a moment to delay the inevitable return to drills.

he had not, however, anticipated gravity betraying him.

“okay,” you murmur, already sliding your arm under his before he can protest. “we’re going back inside.”

he considers correcting you.

he considers saying he can manage.

he does neither.

instead, he allows his weight to tip slightly toward you, just enough to make the support necessary rather than optional. his legs do work. they absolutely work. they are simply protesting the idea of further exertion, and if your concern grants him a few extra seconds of reprieve, he sees no reason to decline the offer.

you don’t notice the subtle adjustment, the way he times his steps to seem marginally unsteady without fully collapsing. you’re too busy scanning his face for signs of dizziness, too focused on keeping him upright as you guide him toward the open gym doors.

“did you hit your head?” you ask again, frowning.

“no,” he replies quietly.

“are you sure.”

“yeah.”

he leans a fraction more when you tighten your hold, not dramatically, not enough to alarm you further, but enough that walking suddenly requires less effort on his part.

it’s efficient.

the gym doors swing open with more force than you intend, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances from the court.

practice immediately pauses, everyone's eyes snapping to the entrance.

you’re not entirely unfamiliar with nekoma’s boys’ volleyball team, not really, mostly because kuroo has a habit of orbiting your conversations whenever it suits him and dragging pieces of his team along in passing. you’ve seen them in hallways, heard their names tossed around in jokes, picked up fragments of inside stories that never quite included you.

and kuroo is the first to fully clock the situation.

he’s halfway through saying something to yamamoto when his gaze lands on you— specifically, on the fact that you are half-carrying their setter like he’s just returned from battle.

there’s a beat.

then his eyebrows shoot up so high they practically leave his forehead.

“…what,” he says slowly, dropping the volleyball in his hands without looking.

“he fell,” you reply immediately, tightening your hold instinctively. “his legs feel weird.”

kuroo blinks once.

then twice.

then, to your mild confusion, his expression shifts into something dangerously amused.

he strides over with exaggerated urgency, stopping just in front of you before placing a dramatic hand over his chest.

“thank you,” he says solemnly, voice ringing with mock gravity, “for rescuing our delicate little setter.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “i’m so serious right now.”

“so am i,” he insists, reaching out to take kenma’s other arm. “we nearly lost him.”

kenma, traitor that he is, says nothing.

kuroo smoothly transfers kenma’s weight from you to himself with practiced ease, though he gives you one last grateful nod as if you’ve performed a heroic deed.

“you’re safe now,” he tells kenma in an exaggerated murmur. “she carried you through the battlefield.”

“i walked,” kenma mutters faintly.

“barely,” kuroo replies.

you cross your arms, unconvinced but still watching closely in case he actually collapses.

kuroo straightens, clearing his throat as he shifts into something more formal.

“since this is apparently a life-altering moment,” he says lightly, gesturing between you and kenma, “allow me to introduce you properly. (y/n), this is kenma, our tragically fragile setter.”

kenma glances at you, expression neutral but eyes sharper now that he’s upright.

“hi,” he says.

“yup, hi,” you reply without thinking.

his gaze lingers a second longer than expected.

kuroo’s eyebrows begin doing that shameless, up-and-down waggle like he’s discovered a national secret.

before he can speak again, another voice cuts in.

“what’s all this noise?”

your grandfather approaches at an unhurried pace, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene.

his gaze lands on you first.

then kenma.

then kuroo.

he exhales through his nose in something suspiciously close to laughter.

“you,” he says, pointing mildly at kenma, “couldn’t even make it to the water fountain without incident?”

kenma blinks.

“i tripped.”

“hm.”

your grandfather’s eyes shift to you.

“and you,” he continues, “were escorting him like he’d broken both legs.”

“he said his legs felt weird,” you defend immediately.

kuroo coughs into his fist.

your grandfather looks between the two of you again, amusement growing.

“how ironic,” he murmurs.

you don’t like that tone.

“what.”

he gestures vaguely toward the court.

“you still haven’t joined a club.”

you freeze.

“gulp.”

“manager,” he says simply.

“no.”

“yes.”

“absolutely not.”

“you’re here anyway.”

“that’s different.”

“how.”

“i’m visiting. please don't start, grandpa."

you glare at him.

he smiles faintly.

“we could use a manager,” he continues calmly. “someone attentive. someone who notices when a player is about to collapse.”

you open your mouth to argue, but yamamoto suddenly appears at your side with the energy of someone who has just received divine revelation.

“WAIT,” he blurts, eyes wide. “you’d be our manager?”

you stare at him.

“no.”

“that would be insane,” he continues, already spiraling. “we’d finally have a pretty manager. karasuno wouldn’t be able to flex kiyoko at us anymore.”

“i am standing right here,” you inform yamamoto dryly.

“exactly,” he says earnestly, as if that proves his point.

“we are not recruiting based on aesthetics,” your grandfather interjects, though he does not look particularly opposed to the enthusiasm.

“i don’t even want to be in a club,” you protest. “this is coercion.”

there’s a faint snort from somewhere behind yamamoto, and you catch a glimpse of a tall first-year, who you know as lev, squinting at you both with growing confusion.

“wait,” he says slowly, pointing between you and your grandfather. “why are you talking to coach like that.”

inuoka nods. “yeah. didn't you just transfer?.”

“and you called him grandpa,” yamamoto adds, suspicion finally catching up to his enthusiasm. “who calls the coach 'grandpa.'”

you blink.

your grandfather looks deeply unimpressed.

“students usually call me coach,” coach nekomata says dryly.

“exactly,” yamamoto insists, gesturing wildly. “so why aren’t you?”

kuroo’s eyes light up with interest, clearly enjoying the unfolding mystery.

“oh,” he says slowly, like he’s assembling a puzzle in real time. “oh no.”

you glance at him.

“what.”

he looks between you and your grandfather again, eyebrows beginning to lift— not in the cartoonish waggle yet, but close.

“don’t tell me—”

“tell you what,” you reply flatly.

"(y/n), are you related to coach nekomata or something.." lev questions, earning himself a kick from yaku who questions how lev could be so impossibly clueless.

there’s a collective intake of breath.

you watch the realization spread across their faces in waves, starting with confusion, morphing into horror.

your grandfather exhales once, as if he’s been waiting for someone to catch up.

“yes. she’s my granddaughter,” he says calmly.

the silence that follows is immediate and deafening.

yamamoto’s jaw drops.

“WHAT.”

kuroo physically steps back like the information has force.

“you’re kidding.”

“i don't joke about family,” your grandfather replies.

you fold your arms, mildly amused by the chaos. “surprise.”

“since when,” yamamoto demands.

“since birth,” you answer.

“we’ve been—” he gestures vaguely around the gym. “—acting normal around you.”

“what were you planning on doing instead,” you ask dryly.

kuroo drags a hand down his face, then looks at kenma, who has gone suspiciously quiet.

“you,” he says slowly, “just fake-died in front of the coach’s granddaughter.”

“i did not fake-die,” kenma mutters.

“you said your legs stopped working,” you cut in, narrowing your eyes slightly.

kenma’s gaze flickers to yours for half a second before dropping.

“i said they felt weird,” he corrects.

kuroo makes a strangled noise that sounds very much like disbelief.

“this is insane,” yamamoto declares, running both hands through his hair. “we finally get a manager and she’s royalty.”

“i am not royalty.”

“you are coach royalty.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

your grandfather watches all of this unfold with poorly concealed amusement.

“if you’re done panicking,” he says mildly, “practice is not over.”

the team scrambles back into position, though the energy has shifted noticeably. there are still glances in your direction, still whispers that cut off when you look their way.

you feel none of the awkwardness they seem to expect.

you’ve been someone’s granddaughter your entire life.

it has never once intimidated you.

what does catch your attention, however, is the way kenma avoids looking directly at you now, shoulders slightly tense in a way that wasn’t there before.

you file it away without fully understanding why.

the decision becomes official the next day.

you sign the form with a pen borrowed from kuroo, who watches with open delight as if witnessing history in the making. your grandfather accepts it without ceremony, merely nodding once before announcing to the team that nekoma now has a new manager.

you feel, briefly, like you’ve just volunteered for something irreversible.

there is a moment— a small, dramatic one that exists only in your head— where you consider how easily you could have joined literature club instead.

and yet here you are.

official. responsible. required to show up.

you die a little inside at the thought of effort.

because effort means consistency, and consistency means expectation, and expectation means you can’t simply drift in and out when you feel like it. you now have a role. a title. duties.

you try to tell yourself it won’t be that bad.

it is worse.

managers, it turns out, actually do things.

you start with the obvious tasks first.

water bottles, towels, recording stats, collecting stray balls that roll too far during drills. you keep track of substitutions during practice matches and scribble down rotations with neat precision, telling yourself it’s purely administrative and not at all a sign that you’re invested.

nekoma doesn’t need help with strategy.

that becomes clear quickly.

their plays are deliberate, their formations calculated, and at the center of it all is kenma, who orchestrates everything with the quiet efficiency of someone who sees three steps ahead and finds no reason to explain himself.

you don’t interfere with that.

instead, your attention shifts elsewhere.

conditioning, fatigue, all that stuff.

you notice the way kenma’s shoulders start to slump long before anyone else does, the way he presses his lips together slightly when drills drag on too long. you see how he lingers a second too long near the water cooler, how he tilts his head back as if bracing himself before returning to the court.

he doesn’t complain loudly.

he doesn’t need to.

you begin timing his breaks more carefully, handing him his bottle without asking, refilling it before he can wander off again. you remind him— casually, always casually— to stretch properly instead of halfheartedly reaching for his toes and calling it a day.

“you’ll regret that later,” you tell him once, nudging his knee lightly with the toe of your shoe.

“…i won’t,” he replies, not looking up.

“you will.”

he sighs but stretches properly anyway.

it becomes a pattern.

you don’t hover, not exactly, but you pay attention. when your grandfather pushes them through extra laps, you’re already waiting at the sidelines with a towel in hand before kenma makes it back around. when he drifts toward the exit after practice under the pretense of refilling his bottle, you watch closely enough to ensure he doesn’t collapse again— strategically or otherwise.

“don’t trip,” you jokingly tell him one evening as he passes.

he pauses.

“…i won’t.”

there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

surprisingly, this is where the two of you fit.

not in loud exchanges or dramatic revelations, but in quiet, consistent proximity. you don’t try to fix his game, and he doesn’t try to impress you with it. instead, you exist in the in-between moments— during cooldown stretches, while the rest of the team argues about something trivial, while your grandfather lectures them about focus.

sometimes he’ll stand beside you while you update notes, glancing down at your handwriting.

“you’re writing a lot,” he murmurs once.

“it’s called doing my job.”

“you said you hated effort.”

“i do.”

“then why are you trying.”

you consider that for a second before shrugging.

“i don’t like doing things badly.”

he hums softly, as if that answers more than you intended.

it’s easy, unexpectedly so.

you’re louder with everyone else, sharper with kuroo, more animated with your friends when they visit the gym. with kenma, though, your voice lowers without conscious decision. you sit beside him on the bench without making a spectacle of it. you don’t ask invasive questions. you don’t force conversation.

and in return, he doesn’t retreat.

he lingers. he hands you his empty bottle instead of refilling it himself. he lets you fuss over minor scrapes without protest.

the irony is not lost on you.

you didn’t want responsibility.

now you’re monitoring the physical state of a setter who pretended his legs stopped working just to avoid running extra laps.

and, worse, you don’t entirely mind it.

it becomes noticeable before either of you intend for it to.

kenma has always been selective about what he listens to. when kuroo tells him to stretch properly, he grumbles. when yamamoto reminds him to hydrate, he ignores it entirely. when your grandfather pushes for extra conditioning, he complies with visible reluctance, as though every additional lap is a personal betrayal.

and yet.

“stretch.”

you don’t even look up from your clipboard when you say it one afternoon, watching him attempt to half-commit to a cooldown.

“…i am,” he replies.

“that doesn’t count.”

there’s a pause.

then, without further argument, he bends properly.

kuroo freezes mid-sip of water, lowering the bottle slowly.

“…interesting.”

you glance at him. “what.”

he walks closer, eyes narrowing slightly at kenma, who is very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“i’ve been telling him to stretch correctly for years,” kuroo says thoughtfully. “years.”

kenma remains bent forward, fingertips actually touching his toes now, as if deeply invested in hamstring integrity.

“and yet,” kuroo continues, “one casual comment from you and suddenly he’s compliant.”

“i am not compliant,” kenma mutters.

“you just folded.”

“did not.”

“did too.”

you roll your eyes lightly. “maybe he just respects proper instruction.”

kuroo’s eyebrows begin their obnoxious up-and-down waggle, enthusiasm radiating from every inch of him.

“ohhh,” he says slowly. “is that what this is.”

kenma straightens, ears faintly pink.

“shut up.”

“no, no, i’m fascinated,” kuroo continues, circling slightly like he’s studying an anomaly. “i, the captain, say stretch and he acts like i’ve personally insulted his bloodline. you say stretch and he listens immediately.”

“that’s because you’re annoying,” kenma replies flatly.

“and she isn’t?”

you blink.

“excuse me.”

kuroo grins. “present company excluded.”

you shake your head, but there’s no real irritation behind it.

“maybe he just doesn’t want to like.. eat shit infront of someone again,” you say mildly.

kenma shoots you a look.

kuroo gasps. “trauma bonding?”

later that week, your friends finally visit during practice.

they’ve been curious, of course. the novelty of you voluntarily committing to something structured has not gone unnoticed.

they lean against the wall near the entrance, whispering commentary that you pretend not to hear while organizing equipment.

“you look busy,” one of them calls lightly.

“i am busy.”

“you look responsible.”

“please don't. this feels like employment. and you know how i desperately love living life unemployed.”

they giggle, watching as the team rotates through drills.

it doesn’t take long for them to pick up on the pattern.

“why do you keep looking at that one,” another asks quietly, nodding toward kenma as he wipes sweat from his forehead.

“i look at everyone.”

“no, you don’t.”

you pause.

you absolutely do.

but perhaps not equally.

“you handed him his bottle first,” she continues, eyes narrowing with amusement. “and you told him to stretch. and you keep hovering near him specifically.”

“i do not hover.”

“you’re hovering.”

“i am monitoring.”

“him.”

“the team.”

“him.”

you sigh.

“he forgets things.”

“like what.”

“hydration.”

“so does everyone else.”

“not like him.”

there’s a beat.

one of them smirks.

“you’re weirdly attentive.”

“i’m doing my job.”

“sure.”

you glance toward the court again without meaning to.

kenma happens to glance back at the same time.

it lasts only a second.

but your friends notice.

“oh,” one breathes dramatically. “oh, this is so embarrassing.”

“nothing is happening,” you insist immediately.

but nothing doesn’t mean much when you’re standing closer to him than you stand to anyone else.

nothing doesn’t mean much when your hand finds his sleeve before your brain catches up, when your eyes track him even during rallies you pretend to watch objectively.

and nothing definitely doesn’t mean much after a match.

the gym is louder than usual during the practice game against karasuno, the kind of loud that settles into your bones. sneakers squeak sharper, serves crack harder against palms, and every rally stretches just slightly longer than comfortable. you stay near the bench, clipboard tucked against your hip, attention split between the scoreboard and the court.

kenma moves differently in a match.

more precise.

more deliberate.

his sets are clean, almost effortless in appearance, but you can see the strain building in subtler places— the way he exhales through his nose a second too long, the way his shoulders round slightly between plays.

you don’t interrupt.

you wait.

when the final whistle blows and the teams separate, energy dissolving into post-match chatter and towel-snatching and exaggerated complaints, kenma drops onto the bench with quiet resignation, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. he looks fine to anyone glancing casually.

you step into his space without announcing yourself, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder before sliding down to his forearm.

“congratulations, pudding hair.” you tell him.

“pudding hair..?” he questions.

you raise an eyebrow.

“…has no one ever told you your hair looks like pudding?”

"no.. trust me, people tell me all the time."

you step closer, close enough that your knees almost brush his. you adjust his hair so it isn't all sticky against his forehead. your fingers steady and practiced. your touch is careful but unhesitating, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

you tilt kenma’s chin up slightly when he looks like he might brush you off, your thumb grazing just under his jaw for half a second before you let go.

“don't forget to breathe properly, idiot,” you instruct softly.

he does.

without complaint.

and that, more than anything, is what makes kuroo choke on his water across the court.

because nothing might be happening.

but nothing doesn’t usually look like this.

you glance to the side briefly and catch a cluster of orange and black standing a little too close to the net.

karasuno— they’re pretending to be engaged in conversation.

they are not subtle.

hinata is openly staring.

kageyama’s gaze flicks between you and kenma with sharp assessment.

tanaka nudges nishinoya so aggressively he nearly stumbles forward.

“…is that normal?” you hear hinata whisper.

“for nekoma?” nishinoya replies. “no idea.”

kuroo notices them noticing.

and immediately makes it worse.

he strolls over with the air of someone about to provide commentary, resting an elbow casually on kenma’s shoulder.

“don’t mind her,” he calls lightly toward karasuno. “she’s our very dedicated manager.”

“i can hear you?” you inform him.

“good.”

tanaka leans toward daichi, eyes wide.

“since when does nekoma have a manager like that.”

daichi looks faintly exhausted already.

“focus.”

meanwhile, hinata is craning his neck shamelessly.

“she’s really close,” he mutters.

kageyama doesn’t answer immediately.

he watches as you press a bottle into kenma’s hand without being asked, watches the way kenma takes it without complaint, watches the way you say something low and quiet that makes kenma nod once in acknowledgment.

kageyama’s brows knit together.

“…that’s why,” he mutters under his breath.

hinata leans closer. “why what?”

“that’s why he doesn’t drop off in the third set,” kageyama says, tone tightening slightly. “he’s pacing better.”

tanaka blinks. “dude. what are you even talking about.”

kageyama gestures vaguely toward the two of you, though he makes it look like he’s stretching his arm.

“he used to slow down faster,” he continues, half to himself now. “but today he adjusted.”

hinata squints. “he was still annoying to play against..”

“i know that, you dumbass!,” kageyama snaps quietly.

his eyes flick to you again, narrowing. because to kageyama, that’s not romance.

that’s strategy.

noya slowly processes this.

“so you’re saying—”

“if that’s how he’s maintaining consistency,” kageyama interrupts, jaw tightening faintly, “then it’s an advantage.”

hinata’s eyes widen as he jumps to the absolutely wrong conclusion.

“are you jealous...?"

“i’m not jealous.”

“you’re jealous.”

“i’m analyzing.”

kuroo leans down toward kenma with a grin that spells trouble.

“congratulations,” he murmurs. “you’ve triggered kageyama’s.. setter rivalry mode.”

kenma follows his gaze lazily, remembering his first encounter with kageyama. hinata was really right. kageyama was exactly like a grumpy, scary sabertooth tiger.

“…why.”

“because,” kuroo says cheerfully, “apparently having a manager who monitors your hydration counts as a power-up.”

you catch only the tail end of that exchange.

“what counts as a power-up,” you ask.

“nothing,” kenma replies quickly.

kuroo snorts.

meanwhile, kageyama is still watching, eyes flicking between kenma’s posture and your proximity.

if this is how kenma maintains stamina—

if this is how he stays sharp—

then it’s something to account for.

and suddenly, what karasuno thought was just you being attentive looks suspiciously like a competitive edge.

you don’t realize you’ve just entered setter politics.

kenma does.

and for once, he doesn’t look particularly bothered by it.

because rivalry is familiar territory. competition makes sense. if kageyama sharpens up, if karasuno recalibrates, if someone across the net starts watching his tempo more closely, that’s predictable. that’s part of the system.

what does bother kenma, though, is when the attention shifts from the court to you.

this time, it was a training camp with other schools, the gym more crowded, air thick with the smell of sweat and polished floors. you’re near the bench again, taking notes, keeping score, doing your job with that quiet efficiency that makes everything around you run smoother.

earlier, though, you hadn’t been inside.

between games, you’d stepped out into the open-air corridor that wraps around the side of the gym, needing a moment where the noise didn’t press against your ears. a few other managers from different schools had gathered there too, clipboards tucked under arms, comparing schedules and complaining about how none of the boys refill their own bottles properly.

it’s easy, standing there.

easy in a way that feels different from inside the gym.

you’re laughing at something one of them says, leaning lightly against the railing, sunlight catching along the edge of your hair. no one’s watching you like you’re responsible for them. no one’s waiting for your signal. you’re just another student, just another girl talking about trivial things.

one of the managers nudges you lightly. “you’re coach nekomata's granddaughter, right?”

you groan softly. “unfortunately.”

they laugh.

it feels normal.

then someone calls them back inside, their team needing something, and one by one they peel away with hurried apologies, leaving you alone by the railing for a moment longer than intended.

you don’t rush back in.

you’re still smiling faintly when you turn toward the entrance.

and that’s when the guy from the opposing team wanders over during a break, water bottle dangling loosely from his hand. he doesn’t hesitate when he approaches you, doesn’t glance at the court to check if anyone’s watching.

“hey. you’re the manager, right?” he asks, leaning slightly against the wall beside you.

you nod, polite but distracted.

“yup, that's me.”

“you’re here every match?”

“well.. usually?”

his eyes flick over you in quick assessment before he smiles, pleased with whatever conclusion he reaches.

“i gotta say— you don’t look like a manager,” he says.

you tilt your head slightly. “what does that mean.”

he shrugs, grin widening. “just seems like you should be on the court instead.”

you let out a soft breath through your nose, amused but unimpressed. “retired early. tragic story.”

he laughs like you’re charming, like this is going somewhere. then, he smiles, easy and confident. “you joined recently? last time i checked, nekoma didn't have a manager.”

“mm.”

“figured. we wouldn't forget faces like yours.”

it’s bold, but not aggressive. practiced.

you offer a neutral smile, more amused than flustered.

“that’s convenient.”

the boy in front of you continues talking, unaware of the shift unfolding behind him.

“you should visit our school sometime,” he says. “we’ll give you a proper tour. might even convince you to switch sides.”

you almost laugh at that.

before you can respond, a familiar presence steps into your peripheral vision.

kenma.

he doesn’t wedge himself between you dramatically. he doesn’t glare. he doesn’t even raise his voice. he simply stops close enough that the space changes.

his gaze lands on you first.

“coach wants you to track the next game more carefully,” he says, tone neutral.

you blink.

“right now?”

he nods once.

there is absolutely no prior instruction from your grandfather about this.

the other boy shifts slightly, glancing between you and kenma.

“we were talking,” he says lightly, not confrontational, just pointed.

kenma finally looks at him then, expression unreadable.

“matches aren't over,” he replies, voice flat in a way that leaves little room for argument.

it isn’t hostile.

it isn’t loud.

it’s simply final.

there’s a brief pause where the air feels heavier than it should for something so small.

then a whistle blows, cutting through whatever tension had started to gather.

the opposing player backs away with a half-smirk, jogging toward the entrance of the gym.

“guess he needs you,” he calls casually over his shoulder.

you turn to kenma slowly once he’s gone, folding your arms.

“did that old geezer actually say that.”

his eyes glance around for a second then his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“…no.”

the admission is quiet.

you stare at him for a moment longer than necessary.

“kenma.”

he exhales faintly, like you’re the one making this complicated.

“you were distracted,” he says.

“i was being polite.”

kenma’s jaw shifts slightly, not in anger, not quite in frustration either, but in that subtle way he does when he’s trying to reorganize thoughts he didn’t expect to have.

“you don’t have to be,” he says finally.

you blink at him.

“i don’t have to be polite?”

“not to him.”

there’s something almost defensive in the way he says it, though he’s clearly trying to sound indifferent.

you study him more carefully now. the tips of his ears are faintly pink, his gaze refusing to settle directly on yours for more than a second at a time. he’s not good at disguising physical tells. not when it’s about something he doesn’t fully understand yet.

“why,” you ask, an eyebrow raising.

he hesitates.

this is the moment.

this is where it shifts.

kenma is good with systems, with rotations, with patterns he can predict. this, however, isn’t structured. there’s no clear input-output response to explain why the sight of someone else standing close to you tightened something unfamiliar in his chest.

“he was looking at you,” he says instead, like that’s explanation enough.

“people look at me, a lot, infact.” you reply lightly.

“not like that.”

the words come out before he can filter them.

and now he’s forced to commit.

you don’t say anything right away.

the gym noise feels distant for a second, like it’s happening behind glass. you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.

“and how was he looking at me,” you ask, softer now.

kenma finally meets your eyes.

it’s not confrontational. it’s not dramatic.

it’s honest.

“like he thought he could take up your time.”

the phrasing makes your breath hitch faintly.

“and that bothered you?”

another pause.

he could deflect here. he could say something about efficiency again. about distractions. about focus.

he doesn’t.

“…yeah,” he admits.

it’s quiet.

but it’s real.

something in your chest loosens at the same time something else tightens.

you don’t tease him.

you don’t laugh.

instead, you step just slightly closer, closing the space he tried to control earlier.

“well, you’re already taking up my time,” you say, voice gentle but deliberate. “on purpose.”

he goes still.

completely still.

the gym could be empty for all he notices.

“i am,” he says slowly.

“yeah.”

you tilt your head a little, studying his expression the way he studies plays mid-match.

“so you don’t have to lie about coach next time.”

the faintest flicker of embarrassment crosses his face.

“…okay.”

“you could just say you don’t like it.”

he swallows.

“i don’t like it.”

there it is.

the words land between you, and instead of feeling heavy, they feel strangely obvious— like something that had already been sitting there for weeks, waiting for one of you to finally say it out loud.

you blink at him once.

then twice.

kenma looks mildly horrified at himself, as if the sentence escaped without permission and he’s now watching it float away beyond retrieval.

you can’t help but smile. it's not teasing. not smug. just soft amusement.

“you know,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “most people would’ve just said they were jealous.”

his ears turn pink immediately.

“i wasn’t—” he starts, then stops, clearly realizing that arguing will only make it worse. “…maybe a little.”

the honesty makes you laugh under your breath.

around you, the gym is still loud— someone arguing about serves, a ball rolling across the floor, yaku shouting at lev somewhere in the distance— and somehow that makes this feel less serious, less fragile. just two people talking a little too close during a break.

“for the record,” you add lightly, “i wasn’t interested.”

kenma looks up quickly.

“…you weren’t?”

“no. i was waiting for my setter to stop being weird.”

he exhales a quiet laugh— surprised, relieved— and some of the tension leaves his shoulders all at once.

“i wasn’t being weird,” he mutters.

“you lied about coach.”

“yeah but…strategically.”

you grin.

the moment settles into something lighter, easier, the tension dissolving into quiet amusement instead of awkwardness. kenma looks calmer now, shoulders no longer drawn tight, though the faint pink at his ears hasn’t faded.

you watch him for a second longer than necessary.

then another.

a thought crosses your mind— simple, obvious, impossible to ignore now that it’s there.

“…let me ask you something,” you say.

he nods immediately, cautious but attentive. “yeah.”

you hesitate only briefly, surprising even yourself with how calm you sound.

“do you like me?”

kenma freezes.

completely.

it’s not dramatic— just a full system pause, like his brain has suddenly encountered an unexpected variable.

“…oh,” he says quietly, buying time.

you almost laugh.

“that wasn’t a trick question.”

he looks at the floor, then back at you, clearly running through several possible responses and discarding all of them in real time. there’s no strategic answer here, no optimal play, just honesty waiting uncomfortably at the center.

“…uh— yeah,” he admits finally.

the word comes out soft but certain.

your chest warms instantly.

“yeah?” you repeat.

he nods once, more firmly now, as if committing to the statement makes it easier.

“i think i have for a while,” he adds, voice quieter. “i just didn’t realize it was obvious.”

you smile. “it wasn’t. you’re very subtle.”

“…i thought i was.”

there’s a beat where both of you just stand there, the air suddenly charged in a completely different way — not tense, not heavy, just aware.

you shift a little closer without thinking.

“good,” you murmur.

his brows lift slightly. “good?”

“because,” you say, unable to stop the small smile forming, “i like you too.”

that does it.

kenma’s composure slips in the smallest way— surprise softening his expression, relief following immediately after, like something he didn’t realize he’d been bracing for finally settles.

he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“…okay.”

the space between you feels smaller now, comfortable instead of uncertain.

you reach out without really thinking, brushing a stray damp strand of hair away from his eyes where it’s fallen loose from his last game. it’s an absentminded gesture, the same kind of adjustment you’ve made a dozen times before, but this time your hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

this time, when your hand lingers, neither of you pretends not to notice.

his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then lifts again, silently asking a question he doesn’t quite know how to voice.

you answer by leaning closer.

the kiss is soft, tentative at first, more curious than practiced— warm and quick and unmistakably mutual. he stiffens for half a second in surprise before relaxing, fingers lightly catching at your sleeve like he needs confirmation this is actually happening.

when you pull back, both of you blink at the same time.

kenma looks faintly stunned.

“…oh,” he says again.

you laugh quietly. “you already used that reaction.”

“…i don’t have another one.”

and somehow that makes it even better.

you’re both smiling— small, almost shy smiles— when, just around the corner, out of your sight, absolute chaos is unfolding in complete silence.

karasuno has not moved.

they had originally followed hinata insisting he'd come to look for kenma.

they had not expected to witness emotional development.

“we should not be listening,” daichi murmurs under his breath, voice firm but noticeably quieter than usual.

no one moves.

asahi nods solemnly in agreement while also leaning slightly closer to the wall.

“…we’re not listening,” tanaka whispers.

they are absolutely listening.

hinata is frozen mid-crouch, both hands clamped over his mouth, eyes so wide they look physically painful. he is shaking violently with the effort of not making a sound.

nishinoya grips tanaka’s shoulders like he needs structural support to remain upright.

tanaka, meanwhile, is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like NO WAY over and over again without producing audio.

just behind them, tsukishima has stopped walking entirely, one eyebrow raised as he peers around the corner with open, undisguised curiosity. his expression doesn’t change much, but the slight upward tilt at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

“…wow,” he murmurs under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. “kozume kenma. didn’t think he had it in him.”

yamaguchi, standing beside him, looks like he doesn’t know where to focus— the wall, the floor, the ceiling— anywhere except directly at the scene they are very much witnessing.

“tsukki,” he whispers urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “we shouldn’t be watching—”

tsukishima doesn’t move.

“and yet,” he replies quietly, eyes still fixed forward, “here we are.”

yamaguchi turns faintly red, clearly torn between moral responsibility and overwhelming curiosity, ultimately settling for covering the lower half of his face with his hand while still peeking through his fingers.

behind them, sugawara has both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, while asahi looks like he has accidentally witnessed something deeply sacred and isn’t sure where to look out of respect.

daichi, meanwhile, slowly scans the entire group with the exhausted expression of a man realizing he has completely lost control of the situation.

“no one,” he whispers firmly, “makes a sound.”

everyone nods.

another soft murmur from you drifts down the hallway.

karasuno collectively leans forward at the exact same time.

the synchronized movement nearly causes hinata to lose balance, hinata nearly squeaks anyway despite the earlier instruction.

nishinoya slaps a hand over his mouth just in time.

everyone freezes.

luckily, you and kenma remain blissfully unaware.

behind the wall, daichi slowly turns toward the group with the exhausted expression of someone herding extremely emotional children.

“again.” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “be quiet.”

hinata nods aggressively.

too aggressively.

his water bottle slips from his hand.

and their hero, again, nishinoya catches it mid-air with reflexes worthy of nationals.

they stare at each other, silently celebrating.

tanaka wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.

“they kissed,” he mouths dramatically.

sugawara nods solemnly, like confirming a prophecy fulfilled.

kageyama crosses his arms, expression serious.

“…that explains his focus lately.”

daichi stares at him.

“that's your takeaway?”

meanwhile, just a few steps away, you laugh softly at something kenma says, the sound drifting toward them again.

hinata nearly ascends.

daichi physically pushes the entire group backward from the corner before anyone combusts.

they retreat in tiny, frantic steps, still refusing to break the sacred rule of silence until they’re far enough away—

and then—

silent screaming.

arms flailing.

pure chaos.

completely unaware, you and kenma remain standing in the hallway, the moment still warm and new, neither realizing that seven volleyball players have just collectively witnessed the beginning of your relationship.

LMAOOO I JS HAD TO ADD KARASUNO TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

I LOVE MY BABY KENMA SO BADD HES SO CUTE