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The first time Ran noticed it, he thought it was a coincidence.
Hand brushing against his side during a rotation change, the faintest press of fingers through the fabric of his practice shirt as they crossed paths at the net. A guiding nudge when they walked past each other in their red-and-black Japan jerseys, the subtle pressure at his waist steering him without a word. Fingers grazing his waist when Ran leaned too close on the bench during a national team meeting, the touch so light it could have been accidental.
Small things—barely a breath of contact, fleeting and innocent enough that no one else would notice. The rest of the team kept moving without a second glance. To anyone else, it was nothing.
Except it kept happening.
And it wasn’t just anyone. It was his team captain, Ishikawa Yuki.
—
The national team bus rattled along the road after a late practice match at Kyoto.
Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks through the tinted windows, the night gripping close around them. Inside, it was a cocoon of exhaustion and low chatter. A few players were knocked out already—Yamamoto sprawled dramatically with his jacket over his head, legs sticking out into the aisle until Larry nudged him with a muttered complaint. Kai scrolled on his phone, while Sekita bent the back of a seat to chat with Kento.
Ran slouched against the window, earphones in but no music playing, the thin wire draped loosely across his chest. His breath fogged faintly against the cool glass, eyelids heavy, his body still buzzing with the leftover ache of the game. He was half-asleep when he felt it again.
The warmth of a hand steadying him as Yuki leaned forward to grab something from the overhead rack. It was casual, almost absentminded, but the touch anchored itself in Ran’s awareness.
Ran smirked to himself, eyes still closed. He does it without thinking.
When Yuki finally sat back down, Ran shifted slightly, turning sideways and propping his chin in his palm. “Yuki-san,” He said unhurried. “You like touching people when you talk?”
Yuki blinked at him, his brows knitting in genuine confusion. “Hm? I don’t think so. Why?”
Ran only hummed, long and noncommittal, eyes slipping closed again as if retreating back into his half-doze. He didn’t press further. Not yet.
—
The morning scrimmage was intense, it left no room for drifting thoughts. Coaches barked over every mistake, their clipboards snapping sharply whenever a point slipped away. Sweat beaded down temples and soaked through jerseys, the echo of sneakers squeaking across the gym floor.
Ran had just landed from a hard spike, chest heaving, the ball thudding to the ground on the other side. A bright cheer rose from the bench—Keigo cupping his hands around his mouth, “Nice one, Ran!” in a tone that was both praise and teasing. Tatsu gave him a quick smile before yelling for the next rotation.
Ran turned back, grin tugging at his lips—then felt it.
Yuki’s hand, firm but brief, pressed against his waist. Just enough to hold him as they bumped against each other, just enough to keep him from stumbling in the after-momentum of his spike.
It lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough. It felt good—too good. A contact that set sparks crawling under his skin. But when he turned his head, Yuki was already gone, sliding seamlessly back into position like it was nothing more than muscle memory.
“Unfair,” Ran whispered under his breath, lips barely moving.
—
The locker room buzzed with the usual post-practice chaos. Showers hissed in the back, steam curling into the air. Yuji and Yamauchi were already bickering in the corner, voices overlapping—something about who had scored more aces that morning. Eiro sat on a bench, half-dressed, humming under his breath as he tapped a rhythm against his knee. Some members debated dinner plans, tossing suggestions back and forth over the clatter of lockers slamming shut.
Amid the noise, Yuki stretched out his shoulders, towel draped loosely around his neck. He wasn’t paying close attention to the chatter, just letting it wash over him like background noise. The soreness in his muscles was settling in, the satisfying weight of a long day of drills.
That’s when Ran’s voice went through—clear, aimed straight at him. “Why do you always touch my waist?”
Yuki’s heart jumped hard enough to throw him off balance. For a second, he thought he must have misheard.
He turned, and there was Ran—standing a few lockers down, still in half his uniform, hair damp with sweat, gaze sharp and unwavering. He wasn’t smiling, not teasing. Just looking at him, waiting. “Eh?” He managed, dumbly, as if buying himself time.
Ran didn’t soften. “You do it all the time. Like it’s your favorite hobby or something.”
Heat rushed up the back of Yuki’s neck before he could stop it. His pulse quickened, loud in his ears, and his fingers tightened unconsciously around the towel. He tried to replay the last few weeks in his head, all the times he’d reached out without thinking. I did? That often?
His mouth opened, but the words stuck. He had to clear his throat before something shaky finally slipped out. “I—” He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Ran’s eyes. “I didn’t realize.”
Ran had noticed. Really noticed. And worse—maybe it wasn’t just embarrassing. Maybe it actually bothered him.
The thought squeezed at Yuki’s ribs, and forced the next words out, though they felt heavy on his tongue. “Sorry. If it bothered you...”
Ran didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, thick, louder than the locker room noise surrounding them. Yuki could only nod to himself, sealing the decision in his head. Stop. That’s the safest route.
So he did. From that moment on, his hands stayed firmly to himself, no matter how badly the habit itched.
—
It drove Ran insane.
Every time they passed each other now—during warmups, lining up for serves, heading into the arena—Yuki’s hands stayed firmly at his sides. No guiding touches at his waist, no casual nudges, no brief flickers of comfort grounding him in the chaos of court. It was like someone had erased an unspoken ritual Ran had grown addicted to without even realizing it.
And now that it was gone, Ran felt the absence everywhere. Each empty space at his side was louder than a shout. It gnawed at him.
He finally snapped during a break in practice. The team was scattered around the gym—Oya and Shoma huddled on the floor over someone’s phone, hollering at a a new anime episode like their lives depended on it. Their voices bounced off the high walls, enough to drown out the hiss of the water cooler.
Taishi had claimed a quiet corner of the bench, cross-legged with a volleyball magazine balanced in one hand.
Ran stalked over, and dropped dramatically onto the bench across from him. “So, say you have this… friend,” He began, tone dripping with irritation, hands gesturing wildly in the air. “And that friend had another friend who used to do this one thing all the time—without thinking, you know? Like it was second nature. But then when it got pointed out, he just stopped. Completely. Like it never happened. And the first friend got really mad.”
Taishi lowered his magazine a fraction, peering at Ran with a look that was all flat calm. “You mean you’re mad.”
Ran scowled instantly, throwing his head back against the bench with a groan. “That’s not the point. And, it's not me!”
“It’s exactly the point,” Taishi said dryly, marking his page before shutting the magazine entirely. “And if you’re going to drag me into your little drama, at least admit it’s about you.”
Ran sat up, jabbing a finger at him. “It’s not me, okay? And, it's hypothetical.”
“Sure,” Taishi said, voice painfully patient, “And hypothetically, this friend of yours could stop sulking like a kid and actually tell the other friend what he misses. If something mattered enough that its absence is making you stomp during practice like a grumpy cat, maybe it’s worth saying out loud instead of whining about it to me.”
Ran’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. His ears turned a little pink. “I’m not whining.”
“You are.”
“I’m—venting.”
Taishi pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was regretting all his life choices that had led to being on the same space as Ran. He just wanted to read his magazine. “Right. Here’s some advice, hypothetically. Stop making this my problem and go talk to him. Because if you keep stewing like this, everyone else is going to notice, and then you’ll never live it down.”
Ran kicked the bench half-heartedly, grimace glued to his face. But deep down, the words burned in his chest, stubbornly refusing to be ignored.
—
Training camp tussles didn’t pull punches. Every rally was treated like it could decide a championship match, every mistake dissected in real time.
Ran leapt up for a block, hands high, timing just a beat off. The ball slipped past his reach, and when he came down, his foot skidded slightly on the sweat-slick court. His balance tipped, landing harder than he should have, body jolting from the awkward impact.
Instinct kicked in. He expected it—the familiar weight at his side, Yuki’s hand catching him before he could stumble.
But nothing came.
Ran righted himself alone, jaw tight. The space where that touch should have been felt colder than the rest of the gym.
Ran’s teeth clicked together as he jogged back into position. His fists curled, unclenched, curled again. It wasn’t just about the block, or the mistake.
It was about the missing hand. The one that used to be there. Always.
—
Late at night, the gym’s noise that seeped into the walls had drained away. Yuki relished the quiet. He was standing in front of the vending machine, eyes flicking between rows of bottled water and neon-colored sports drinks, indecisive. His body ached pleasantly from the day’s training and for once he wasn’t surrounded by chatters. He at least wanted a drink before going home.
“Yuki-san.”
The voice cut through the silence of the night. Turning, he found Ran leaning nonchalantly against the side of the machine, except his eyes betrayed none of that casualness. They were locked onto him in a way that made Yuki overthink. Did I do something again?
“Ran?” Yuki’s voice came out softer than intended, the coins suddenly cold and forgotten in his palm.
Ran didn’t answer with words. He closed the distance between them in a few quick steps until Yuki had to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze. Before Yuki could make sense of it, Ran caught his wrist. The sudden warmth rattled him, spreading heat up to his arm.
And then—Ran guided his hand downward, pressing it firmly against his waist.
Ran’s practice shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to him in the most tantalizing way. Yuki’s fingers traced the curve of his waist without hesitation. Beneath the thin layer, muscle shifted under his touch—alive, and entirely his. The flush seeping into Yuki’s palm made it feel like he belonged there, like he’d always been meant to feel this.
“I love your hand here,” Ran said, his voice steady in a way that didn’t match the wild pounding in Yuki’s chest. His eyes never hesitated. “Why won’t you take responsibility for it?”
The words landed heavy. Yuki’s thoughts scattering in a panic. Love my hand here? Take responsibility? What is he saying?
“Ran…” His own voice betrayed him, breaking into a whisper that was too thin, too fragile with disbelief and something more dangerous that he couldn’t bring himself to name.
But Ran didn’t falter. His hold on Yuki’s wrist tightened, not painfully, just insistently. “You stopped,” He continued, the accusation burning in his tone, eyes blazing like he was ripping something out of himself and throwing it at Yuki. “And I hated it. Do you get that? I liked it. I like it, and it’s only ever you.”
The confession cracked something open inside Yuki. The memory of every unconscious touch—he was convinced Ran had been uncomfortable. Convinced he’d been overstepping. He had pulled away because distance was easier than the risk of being unwanted.
And now Ran was telling him the opposite, his voice raw with honesty. Relief surged through Yuki like a physical force, bracing so hard against his core that it almost ached.
Silence wrapped them tightly, vibrating with the tension neither dared break. Yuki swallowed hard, letting the truth slip free. "It felt natural. With you.”
Ran’s lips curled into a smile—a little dangerous, like he had just won a match no one else realized was being played. “Then don’t stop again.”
Yuki’s resolve shattered. His hand, still lingering at Ran’s waist, slid deliberately under the hem of his shirt, seeking the curve beneath. Fingers flexed possessively, clinging to the familiar heat, daring to stay longer than he should as a shivery thrill shot through him.
Ran’s breath hitched sharply, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and Yuki stopped for a second—heart thudding at the sound that seemed meant only for him.
“That… feels—” Ran let out an inaudible moan before he could stop it. His body shifted instinctively closer, surrendering into Yuki’s hand, inviting more even as his eyes widened in surprise at his own reaction. “Not gonna lie... I kind of like it when you sound like that, Ran.”
This time, Yuki didn’t pull away. And neither did Ran.
—
On court, Yuki’s guiding touch returned—gentle, like it belonged there. During rallies, when Ran stumbled from laughter after Kentaro’s ridiculous antics, Yuki’s hand was there, on his side, holding him until he regained his balance. When Ran brushed past him during rotation changes, Yuki’s fingers stayed just a beat too long, the contact casual on the surface but charged with something only they knew.
Off court, too. In the crowded hallways of the training facility, Yuki’s palm found its usual place at Ran’s waist, helping him through clusters of teammates and staff as if Ran didn't know how to stand both on his feet. On the bus to matches, Ran leaned sideways without asking, his shoulder pressing into Yuki’s arm until Yuki’s hand slid naturally to rest against his waist. Small gestures but unmistakably theirs.
Ran never admitted it to anyone, not even to Taishi when he asked how was the friend problem going, but those touches of Yuki anchored him in ways he couldn’t explain—reminding him of his center, of his place. It was less about balance and more about belonging.
And Yuki, shy as he was, hadn’t noticed how completely he’d gravitated toward Ran—how natural it felt to be drawn into his orbit—until Ran made him truly see it.
Now, with every touch that passed between them, they both knew one thing with startling clarity.
Neither of them would ever let go again.