Archive of Our Own

Paris should be noisier. Rintarou first thought it the moment he escaped the airport, and didn’t stop all through getting checked into the hotel, unpacking, and letting his teammates drag him twenty flights up, to a rooftop patio swaddled on all sides by celebratory shades of crimson and white. Leave it to Komori and Bokuto to figure out how to throw a party while confined to the hotel, eve of preliminaries.

“Not too late,” Iwaizumi had insisted even as they herded him up the elevator, too. “Not too loud” came soon after.

Front and center on the patio, some poor concierge had hauled up a banquet table and covered it in a mountainous arrangement of Iwaizumi-approved snacks. No booze adorned the refreshments table, just water. In the middle, a life-sized, vaguely swan-shaped centerpiece roosted with a sash draped over its neck and one wing declaring ‘Team Japan, 2021’ like it was gunning for Miss Universe. One of Komori’s contributions to the evening—though he was belligerently insistent the centerpiece was a goose and no one could convince him otherwise.

The view from so high up was incredible: champagne lamps shot lightning bolts along every city block, lining each in fizzy stripes of molten gold. Headlights crawled between pinpoints of vibrant red and green blinking at intersections. Every time the breeze shifted, Rintarou caught the familiar tang of oil and asphalt wafting up from the streets after baking all day in late spring’s heat. A celebratory swell arced around Rintarou’s back. Picking Aran and Atsumu’s laughter from the crowd was easy as nursing the void where Osamu, Kosaku, and Ginjima’s used to fit. If this were high school, Kita would drag him back to the party, but Ushijima seemed content to leave Rintarou fidgeting with his water bottle by the patio railing.

Caught up in the scenery, Rintarou startled at a sudden throat-clearing and spun in place to find Hyakuzawa looking sheepish and lost, hands loosely tucked into the pockets of a not-quite seasonal denim jacket, worn at the collar and elbows. Behind him, the rest of the team gathered around a folding table nearby the food with a worrying level of chaotic glee. Rintarou would have to see what that was all about later.

“Sorry,” Hyakuzawa said, shifting his weight to his heels. “Didn’t realize you were so into the sights.”

“I’m not, really.” Rintarou was into the mood. Was caught up dancing between the nerves in his belly and dreamy fantasies of flawless quick after quick with a few block points thrown in between for fun. At Hyakuzawa’s skeptical look, Rintarou admitted, “More stuck in my head than anything else. I don’t know if I’m excited or terrified.”

“Yeah, I’m with you. Mind if I hang out?” Hyakuzawa asked, carefully restrained like if Rintarou told him ‘no,’ he’d listen. He pulled his hands from his pockets and laced his fingers together, alternating between bending back each side until just shy of cracking. First his right, then his left.

Rintarou itched to crack his knuckles for the sheer satisfaction of it.

“No worries.” Rintarou waved a broad invitation, cocking his hip on the railing and turning in enough to avoid the impression of ignoring Hyakuzawa. A pause carved for social niceties ballooned as Hyakuzawa gnawed on his lip and glanced between Rintarou and the rest of Team Japan. EJP did a fine job finishing what Inarizaki started when it came to bullying a sense of team compassion into Rintarou’s conscience, so he schooled his tone and asked “You okay?” like Hyakuzawa obviously needed him to.

“Just nervous.” Hyakuzawa let his hands fall apart and draped his forearms over the patio railing, letting his hands dangle atop Paris. “Been a while since I’ve had a first match with a new team and it just kind of hit me all at once, you know? There are… There are a lot of people watching who I want to make proud.”

A private worry Rintarou shared. His parents, his sister, two sets of teammates—Rintarou had scores of people who believed in him long before he wanted to do anything with it. Allowing that weight to become supportive rather than crush him was one of many hard-earned lessons wedged between high school and the big leagues. “I’m kind of nervous, too. It’s not like it’s a big game but it’s kind of a big moment. At least for me.”

Hyakuzawa dipped his head over the radiant bolts drawn through Paris’ streets. The lights weaved a glittery dance through his hair. “Right? If one more person tells me it’s just the first round of prelims, I’m gonna lose it.”

“You’d think none of ‘em ever choked on anything shy of finals.”

“Definitely never served directly into the back of someone’s head,” Hyakuzawa tacked on.

“Or missed the buzzer.” The fuzzy outlines of days spent laughing in Inarizaki’s gym and club room effervesced happily in Rintarou’s memory: months spent practicing the timing to wedge his serve right up against that buzzer, in the pocket, no mercy. Rintarou could do it easy as breathing now.

“Who’s your first one going out for?” Hyakuzawa asked. Then, when Rintarou fell silent instead of blurting an answer, rushed to add, “Sorry, that’s kind of personal, isn’t it?”

“Not so much when there’s so many options right here,” Rintarou answered carefully, unsure of how to quantify the Inarizaki-to-EJP-to-Team Japan pipeline in one flimsy, eight-second dedication.

Aran, Atsumu, Washio, Komori—each was formative in Rintarou’s lifetime of volleyball, but sometimes he wondered if the most meaningful moments were buried with those who chose different paths. Back with Kita coming onto the court to settle them down in tough rallies; with Osamu, sticking around for late-night practice, third year, because whenever he did, Rintarou did, too; with Akagi, always taking them for food after, no matter how tired they were.

None of it felt quite right for this moment, though. “My sister. She always believed in me. Has always been so thrilled to see me play no matter who I was playing for or how big the match was. She’s made it easy to have fun. How about you?”

A wary glance back to the gathering milling closer to the food and drinks. Hyakuzawa bent his head into a chuckle. “Is it weird if I say everyone who taught me to take this seriously?”

“Nah, I got you.” It wasn’t exactly the same but it was close enough. Rintarou spent too long spinning his wheels, who could say if that was better or worse than a late start in the end? They both made it—that was the part that counted. And now that Rintarou was here, there was a tacit duty to show off the world for all those piles of people he felt so much gratitude for. Rintarou’s souvenir checklist for this tournament was prohibitively long.

“I guess the real answer is my first team at Kukugawa. They taught me a lot and didn’t have to be half as supportive as they were.” Hyakuzawa nodded to himself. “I didn’t realize how much work it was for them until I got invited to this training intensive after we lost spring preliminaries. Best players in the prefecture, powerhouse coaches, full nine.” A chuckle. “Hinata was there, actually.”

“Was this the infamous camp he crashed?” Rintarou was fairly certain every volleyball team in the country had this story rumble through at one point or another. It was modern folklore by now. A fable woven through the annals by one shrimpy middle blocker. Don’t let closed doors stop you; never cower; don’t disrespect the ball boy. “Had no idea you were there, too.”

“That’s because I was nothing but novelty. Had one thing going for me and didn’t even know how to use it. And I had no idea how much of a burden that was on my team until I spent five days getting wiped on the floor by people I could literally hold the ball out of reach from.” Hyakuzawa’s fingers curled into fists before relaxing again. “So my first one’s going out for all the guys who got me here. The people who helped me catch up when I was late to the party.”

Rintarou felt that in his bones. It took him a while to muster his determination and put the gas on. “Might not even get to play.”

A spark lit in Hyakuzawa’s eyes. “Nah, we’re gonna play. Maybe not this first one, but this weekend for sure. No reason not to get it out of the way, you know? Break up the nerves during prelims, then have the big, official debut back home. It’s scary, but I can work with it. Just gotta do what I do.”

“You sound like my old high school captain.” Rintarou amused himself imagining Kita’s head on Hyakuzawa’s two-hundred-plus centimeter tall body, arms crossed over his chest. Kita would love the height. Would take only minutes to adapt his impassive stare for full effect. “He was always talking like that. Saying there was no reason to be nervous over what you do every day. What’s different serving match point? Nothing. It’s all the same motions.”

Hyakuzawa chewed on the concept much like Rintarou had, first year, in awe of Kita’s composure.

“Rookies!” escaped the commotion to crash over them. Rintarou’s water bottle crunched between his palms but Hyakuzawa didn’t even flinch; Washio would love having this guy around. When Rintarou glanced over his shoulder, Bokuto was already bearing down on them, waving what appeared to be a champagne flute overfilled with water and sporting a pair of New Year’s glasses from two years ago.

“You two better be done angsting.” Bokuto wagged a finger. “Tomorrow is day one! We should be celebrating!”

“I was not angsting,” Hyakuzawa protested with an ironic pout sandwiched between his lips.

Bokuto mouthed ‘liar’ in aggressive capslock to complement an over-the-top eye roll. He turned to Rintarou. “And what’s your excuse?”

Up until a matter of weeks ago, Rintarou would have said he wasn’t the type to play these sorts of conversational games. But a few months ago, he also wasn’t convinced he had the chops to do this Team Japan thing right. “I’m good. Was just thinking is all.”

“Never a recommended activity night before a game.” Bokuto shook his head in slow, sarcastic disappointment. “Well, what’s got you tangled up in your head, then? I’ll sort you out.”

“I just…” Rintarou swallowed. It seemed like such a small, silly worry but it’d been tumbling in the back of his head all night. “I really don’t wanna screw this up.”

“Been there.” A low whistle escaped Bokuto. “But nerves are just nerves, you’ll be alright. We all get ‘em.”

“So, how do you deal with it?” Hyakuzawa asked. “How do you shake it off with everyone you ever wanted to make proud watching?”

“Usually just hype up with Shouyou until I’m more excited than nervous.” Bokuto laughed. “But I think what helps most is just remembering that I’m proud of me. If you know that before you even walk out there, the rest doesn’t matter so much. Flub a receive, miss a spike, pull a low-energy crowd—it’s okay because we are at our best. This is the top of the mountain we’re on, we’ve made it. You’ve already done right by your people.” Bokuto grinned. “So, enjoy it. Have fun.”

What a comforting notion. Rintarou already climbed the mountain; now was the time to enjoy the view. “Thanks, Bokkun. That helps a lot.”

“No backing down with those two around anyway,” Hyakuzawa grumbled, jerking his thumb at Hinata and Kageyama settled at the folding table, seemingly in the midst of a rather high-stakes arm wrestling match. The others stood by in a loose, schoolyard circle, each with an obvious “next” dancing on the tip of their tongue.

“Never has been.” Bokuto threw his head back and laughed, hands planted on his hips. “God, they made us scramble for points, even in practice matches. Everyone loved playing them, they were the most frustrating team. Still can’t believe how hard they got Kenma to work for it.”

Rintarou cherished memories of Hinata and Kageyama crowding him up a level, too. Some people never accepted less than one hundred percent—and not just out of themselves and their teammates, either. Out of everyone. Karasuno ruthlessly punished every lapse, on either side of the net, and every team they played was better for it.

“C’mon,” Bokuto said before Rintarou or Hyakuzawa could dwell any longer. “Join the team for a bit.”

Neglected and unhappy for it, Rintarou’s stomach rumbled. Hyakuzawa clapped a hand on Rintarou’s back, gripping hard with his fingers like he was the one needing an anchor and encouragement, so Rintarou let a smile build and nodded toward the food.

“Okay, okay, we’ll feed you, first,” Bokuto agreed, knocking his shoulder into Rintarou’s.

Paris radiated a befitting mood in the background: new beginnings sparking away at every intersection; electricity resonating with the buzz in Rintarou’s chest. It was a fitting setting for the eve of Rintarou’s ascent. The perfect view to admire from atop the mountain.