UshiOi Week 2026

Tooru steps forward and addresses the coaches. “How about before we start drills, Ushijima-Nippon and I give everyone a demonstration of some jump serves and spikes?"

Shortly after, Ushijima finds himself serving ball after ball as Tooru commentates and points out the smallest details of his form. The familiar rhythm of throw, run, jump, smash calms him and gives him a focus outside the staring faces. Tooru’s gentle touches when he lifts Ushijima’s arm to demonstrate the correct angle for contact, or nudges his ankle to highlight the line positioning are oddly pleasant. Best of all, he doesn’t have to say anything. He can let his body do the talking for him.

Then comes the spiking drill, something his body can, and does, do in his sleep. Tooru sets the ball for him over and over and he accepts each pleasing, effortless toss gladly, alternating line shots and cut shots with varying placements across the opposing court. He stops only when Tooru pauses to point out aspects of his technique or asks him to repeat a particular movement. He notices the way Tooru’s honey-brown eyes glide over him, taking in every detail of his form.

Tooru’s sets feel... good. Easy. Sweet. Like the peach-flavoured kisses they shared on the too-hard hotel sofa last night, inhaling other’s breaths. Nothing at all like Kageyama’s cool, demanding precision.

Ushijima realises mid-flight that, in all their long years together, he and Tooru have never played like this together. They have played against each other, yes—many, many times, rivals and enemies, each driven by hunger and the will to dominate the other, to win at any cost.

But they have never played on the same team.

They have never cooperated like this.

“Your hot chocolate is getting cold,” Ushijima says after a minute.

“What makes you think I wanted hot chocolate?”

Ushijima doesn’t answer, focuses on the TV and waits.

After another minute, he hears the rustling of the quilt as Tooru drags it over with him and slots himself wordlessly into the space Ushijima has made for him on the couch. He reaches for the milk bread, tearing open the packet and picks at it delicately. “I still don’t forgive you,” he mumbles quietly.

The feeling of victory in Ushijima’s stomach is tinged with a quiet relief. “I know.”

They watch for a while, Ushijima struggling to follow the overly-dramatic story. There are too many unexplained details, plot holes and inconsistencies. He focuses on the warm, breathing body leaning on him instead.