Haikyuu: Crimson Ascent

Chapter 2: Following the Noise

The door closed behind him with a click, silencing the outside world in a moment.

The apartment greeted him as always: with silence. Not just silence, per se—there was the muted rumble of the refrigerator, the gentle creak of wood beneath his entrance—but it was a silence that penetrated deep. The sort you didn't appreciate until it closed in around you.

He let his keys fall into the bowl by the front door and kicked off his shoes with smooth familiarity. His volleyball duffel slipped from his shoulder and fell against the wall with a thud that sounded just a little too booming.

This was home.

A small two-room flat nestled in a quiet neighborhood, walls still covered with the same furniture his grandparents had utilized for decades. He hadn't changed much after they left. The old checkered curtains, the low tea table, the neatly stacked bookshelves of books and tea tins—all remained unchanged.

His grandparents had brought him up after his parents died—he was too young at the time to know what grief was, but they never gave him the impression that something was lacking. Their love wasn't boisterous or melodramatic. It was consistent. Comforting. A cup of tea left out for him, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck before school, gentle urgings in a voice that never hurried.

A year before, they moved to the suburbs, claiming they'd had enough of city sounds and stairs. They gave him the apartment, telling him it was his now. Telling him they trusted him.

He hadn't been ready then. He still wasn't, really. But he survived. He cooked, he cleaned, he took care of himself. And when he was lucky, volleyball filled the spaces that felt too big.

He entered the compact living room and flopped down on the futon with a sigh, leaning back against the cushion.

That game… it still resonated in his bones.

Thirteen to twenty-five.

They'd never had a chance.

Not today. Not against a team that was this sharp.

But that wasn't what was preying on him now. It wasn't the loss—it was the end.

He had begun volleyball late. Joined the team only in his second year of high school. He could still recall how it was—the first time his hand touched the ball, the first time he jumped higher than he ever thought he could, the first time he experienced the rush of a clean spike finding its mark.

And like that… it was over.

"I should have begun earlier," he said to no one.

The words lingered in the air for a moment. No echo. No response.

He stood up, his body heavy with exhaustion and emotion alike, and walked toward the bathroom.

The mirror fogged immediately as hot water washed through the tiny room. He shed his clothes and climbed into the shower, allowing the heat to seep into his sore muscles. The steam enveloped him like a blanket, fogging the world.

It felt good. To just… be. No pressure. No noise. No whistles. No scoreboard.

After a long rinse, he stood in front of the mirror and brushed his teeth, leaning forward slightly, watching the mirror slowly clear around the edges.

His reflection looked tired.

Hair damp, eyes heavy-lidded, shoulders drooping.

Still, he gave himself a half-smile. It was crooked. But real.

He slipped into some casual clothes and padded barefoot down the hall, the ground cool against his toes. When he walked past the thin bookshelf, he noticed something.

A frame.

He stopped.

Within the photograph, his grandparents were standing together under a strand of festival lights. His grandfather was dressed in a yukata and lounging with a fan held negligently in one hand, while his grandmother smiled next to him, holding a small soft toy that they'd won at a ring toss.

They seemed content.

No, not content—happy.

He stroked the rim of the frame with two fingers.

"Thanks," he whispered, almost inaudible. "For all of it."

Next to it was another picture.

Washed out now, colors softly faded by time. His parents. Young, smiling, arms around a tiny toddler—him.

He couldn't recall the day it was taken. Couldn't recall their voices distinctly, not anymore. Just snippets. A warm lap. A lullaby sung off-key. A protective hand enclosed his in a crowd.

Memories that seemed more like dreams.

He gazed for a long time, and then he turned away before the pain seeped too deep.

The apartment was colder now. Or perhaps only the silence.

He went to his room, flipped off the light, and burrowed into bed.

As the blackness closed around him, he gazed up at the ceiling, lids heavy.

His body was weary, but his mind drifted.

No more practice. No more games. No more team meetings or bus rides home.

But…

Tomorrow, they were going to get together again. At school. Just to mess around, hit a few balls, laugh like nothing had ended.

He smiled again, softer this time.

It wasn't over.

Not entirely.

The curtain swayed gently with the breeze slipping through a cracked window.

Sleep tugged at him, and this time, he didn't fight it.

(End of the chapter)