The Weight of a Mask

The gym lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, painting everything amber and gold, but the warmth couldn’t touch the chill that had settled in the air. Nekoma’s practice match had ended thirty minutes ago. They lost. Badly.

The team sat scattered across benches and floor, sweat-soaked and silent. Water bottles rolled aimlessly. Towels lay discarded. The scoreboard still read 25-18, 25-21. A testament to their failures. Coach Nekomata had already left, shaking his head with a quiet disappointment that cut deeper than any yell.

Yaku sat with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, replaying every missed receive. His palms were raw from diving, his thighs ached, and his pride stung worse than any bruise. Next to him, Kuroo had his head in his hands, fingers raking through his disheveled black hair.

“Fuck,” Kuroo muttered. The word hung heavy in the silence.

Nobody disagreed.

The door creaked open, jarring against the quiet. All heads turned.

Lev Haiba stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his practice jersey untucked and dirty. A fresh scrape along his jaw, another on his elbow, his knees red and raw through holes in his kneepads. His hair was a mess—silver strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. And his face was completely bare, makeup washed away, revealing tired, vulnerable features underneath.

He looked like he’d been running for miles. Which, knowing Lev, he probably had.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry I’m late. I—I fell on the way here, and then I realized I forgot my lunch, and my notebooks—they’re all at home, and I—”

He stopped, blinking rapidly. The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

“Late?” Inuoka said, incredulous. “The match is over, Lev.”

“Over?” Lev’s face crumpled. “But I—I wanted to play. I wanted to help. I—”

Kuroo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Haiba, we lost. You weren’t here. It doesn’t matter.”

The words hit Lev like a physical blow. His shoulders hunched, and he looked smaller than his 192 centimeters had any right to look.

“Get changed,” Yaku said, voice flat. “You’re dripping sweat on the floor. Someone’s going to slip.”

Lev flinched, nodded, and shuffled toward the locker room. The door swung shut behind him. The silence returned, heavier than before.

“Maybe we should—” Fukunaga started, then trailed off.

“Let him get dressed,” Kuroo said. “We’ll debrief after.”

The debrief never came. Lev returned within five minutes, changed into his tracksuit but looking no better. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he refused to meet anyone’s gaze as he sat on the end of the bench, as far from the group as possible.

Inuoka tried to lighten the mood, because that was what Inuoka did. “Hey, Lev, at least you didn’t have to experience that disaster of a match. We got destroyed. You kind of dodged a bullet.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto added, attempting a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe you’re smarter than we thought, skipping out like that.”

The words were meant as a joke, but they landed wrong. Lev’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wounded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The room went still. Yamamoto’s grin faltered.

“I didn’t—”

“You think I’m stupid,” Lev said, his voice trembling. “You all think I’m stupid. I know you do. ‘Not smart but tall.’ That’s what you always say. ‘Should be good at sports at least.’ I heard you. I always hear you.”

Nobody spoke. The air grew thick.

Kuroo stood, running a hand through his hair. “Lev, nobody thinks you’re—”

“Yes, you do!” Lev’s voice rose, cracking at the edges. “You say it all the time! You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t know I’m the dumb one? The clumsy one? The one who can’t do anything right?”

His chest heaved, his hands shaking. Yaku watched, frozen, something cold settling in his gut.

“Lev, calm down,” he said, but his voice came out harsher than he intended. Reflex born from years of being the one to enforce discipline.

“No!” Lev’s eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill. “I’m tired of being calm! I’m tired of smiling and pretending it doesn’t hurt when you all make fun of me! I’m tired—”

He stopped, jaw clenching, and turned away. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then he was crying—not silent, dignified tears, but great, heaving sobs that wracked his whole body. He sank to his knees on the gym floor, hands covering his face, and wept like a child.

The team stared, stunned.

Yamamoto looked like he’d been struck. Inuoka’s mouth hung open. Even Fukunaga’s usually impassive face cracked with shock. Kuroo stood rigid, his captain’s composure crumbling.

“Lev?” Kuroo’s voice was soft, uncertain. “Hey, Lev, come on—”

But Lev didn’t respond. He just kept crying, his sobs echoing off the walls, raw and broken and utterly unguarded.

Something cracked in Yaku’s chest.

He’d been harsh. He knew he’d been harsh. But he’d been having a bad day—a terrible day—and he’d taken it out on Lev the way he always did, with sharp words and sharper looks, because Lev was tall and loud and clumsy and sometimes Yaku forgot that underneath all that height and noise was a boy who felt everything too deeply.

Your spikes are even worse than usual.

The words echoed in his mind. He remembered the way Lev’s face had fallen, the way his ears had turned red, the way he’d ducked his head and mumbled an apology.

And Yaku had just walked away.

He thought Lev would shake it off. Lev always shook it off.

But Lev hadn’t shaken it off. Lev had been carrying it all day, on top of forgotten lunches and scraped knees and the shame of being late to a match that had already ended in defeat. He’d been carrying it until it became too heavy, and now he was on his knees, sobbing on the gym floor, and it was Yaku’s fault.

Yaku stood, his legs moving before his brain caught up. He crossed the distance between them and knelt in front of Lev, close enough to see the tears dripping off his chin onto the polished wood.

“Lev.”

Lev didn’t respond, just shook his head, hands still covering his face.

“Lev, look at me.”

“No.” The word was muffled, choked.

Yaku reached out, hesitated, then gently touched Lev’s wrist. “Please.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Lev lowered his hands. His face was a mess—red, swollen, streaked with tears and snot. Silver hair plastered to his forehead. The scrape on his jaw looked angry and raw. He looked nothing like the cheerful, exuberant first-year Yaku had grown used to.

He looked broken.

And Yaku realized, with a clarity that shattered something inside him, that he had never really seen Lev before. He’d seen the height, the clumsiness, the loud voice and clumsy spikes. An obstacle to overcome, a project to fix. He’d never seen the boy underneath.

“Come with me,” Yaku said, his voice gentle in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.

He stood, offering his hand. Lev stared at it for a long moment, then took it, his fingers cold and trembling against Yaku’s palm.

Yaku pulled him to his feet, and Lev swayed, wiping at his face with his sleeve. The rest of the team watched, frozen, as Yaku led Lev toward the locker room.

“We’ll be back,” Yaku said over his shoulder. “Don’t follow.”

The door swung shut behind them.

The locker room was empty, lit by a single fluorescent bulb that buzzed faintly. The air smelled of sweat and detergent and the lingering ghost of post-practice showers. Benches lined the walls. Lockers stood open, revealing forgotten jerseys and half-empty water bottles.

Yaku led Lev to the farthest bench, tucked into the corner where nobody ever sat. He gestured for Lev to sit, and Lev did, his long legs folding awkwardly as he slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging.

Yaku sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out quiet, raw, unfamiliar on Yaku’s tongue. He wasn’t used to apologizing. Wasn’t used to admitting he was wrong. But watching Lev fall apart had stripped away every defense he’d built, leaving him bare and uncertain.

Lev didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” Yaku’s hands clenched on his knees. “I was harsh today. I said—I said your spikes were worse than usual. That wasn’t—that wasn’t fair.”

“You were right, though.” Lev’s voice was hollow. “They were bad. I’ve been practicing, but I can’t get the timing right, and I keep jumping too early or too late, and my form is wrong, and—and I’m not good enough. I’m never good enough.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” Lev’s voice cracked again. “I’m the tallest one on the team, and I’m supposed to be good at blocking because of my height, but I’m not. I’m terrible. I miss more blocks than I make. My receives are worse than ever. And everyone—everyone keeps saying I should be better, because I’m tall, and I’m supposed to be good at this, but I’m not, I’m just—”

He broke off, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“I’m just a dumb giant who can’t do anything right.”

The words hit Yaku like a punch to the chest. He remembered saying something similar once, months ago, when Lev had first joined the team and kept messing up drills. You’re tall, Haiba. Use it. Don’t be a waste of height.

He’d meant it as encouragement, tough love, the kind of thing his own senpai had said to him when he was struggling. But hearing Lev repeat it back, hearing the self-loathing laced into every syllable, Yaku realized how much damage he’d done.

“Lev.” Yaku reached out, his hand hovering over Lev’s knee. “Can you look at me?”

Slowly, painfully, Lev lowered his hands and met Yaku’s eyes. His irises were red-rimmed, pupils blown wide, and there was so much vulnerability in that gaze that Yaku felt his own throat tighten.

“You’re not dumb,” Yaku said. “You’re not a waste. And you’re not a giant. You’re just—tall. There’s a difference.”

“Not to everyone.”

“To me.” Yaku’s voice was firm. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like there wasn’t.”

Lev’s lip trembled. A fresh tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away quickly, almost angrily.

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much,” he said, his laugh bitter and broken. “It’s just a bad day. I’m just—tired. And I forgot my lunch, and I fell, and I scraped my knees, and my makeup was all ruined, and I looked stupid, and then I got here and the match was already over, and I couldn’t even help, and—”

“Lev.”

“—and I just wanted to be good at something. I just wanted to be useful. I just wanted you to be proud of me.”

The confession hung in the air, fragile and exposed. Yaku’s breath caught.

“Me?”

Lev nodded, not meeting his eyes. “You’re always so hard on me. And I know it’s because you want me to be better, but sometimes it feels like you think I’m hopeless. Like I’m never going to be good enough. And I just—I want to be good enough for you. For the team. For—for everyone.”

Yaku’s chest ached. He thought of all the times he’d snapped at Lev, critiqued his form, pointed out his mistakes. All the times he’d been harsh when he could have been kind, demanding when he could have been patient.

He’d thought he was helping. Thought tough love was the only way to shape a raw, undisciplined first-year into a formidable player.

But he’d been wrong.

“Lev,” he said, his voice too thick, too heavy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—I didn’t see—”

He stopped, swallowed, and forced himself to speak the truth.

“I was having a bad day today. Classes were terrible, I got scolded by my parents this morning, and I was frustrated. And instead of dealing with it like a mature person, I took it out on you. I blamed you for my own failures. And that was wrong. That was so wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Lev blinked, confusion flickering through the tears. “You were having a bad day?”

“Yeah.” Yaku laughed, but it was hollow. “We all have bad days. I just—I forgot that you do too. I forgot that you’re not just a teammate I can push around. You’re a person. A person who’s trying really hard, and who deserves more patience than I’ve been giving you.”

Lev’s expression crumpled, and for a moment Yaku thought he was going to start crying again. But instead, Lev let out a shaky breath, and a fragile smile touched his lips.

“You’re being nice to me.”

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” A pause, then softer: “But I like it.”

Yaku felt his face warm. He looked away, focusing on the cracks in the tile floor. The silence stretched, but it was softer now, less suffocating.

“I could help you practice,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “After school. Separately. If you want.”

Lev’s head snapped up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Your timing is off, but that’s fixable. Your form is getting better—you just need more reps. And your receive—” He paused, considering. “I can teach you some drills that helped me when I was struggling.”

“You’d do that?”

Yaku met his eyes, and for the first time, he let himself see Lev fully—not as a project, not as a problem, but as a boy who was trying his hardest and drowning under the weight of everyone’s expectations.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d do that.”

Lev’s smile widened, tears still gleaming on his cheeks, but brighter now. “Thank you, Yaku-san.”

Yaku’s heart did something strange, something he couldn’t quite name. He looked at Lev—at his tear-streaked face and trembling lips and the hope flickering in his eyes—and felt a warmth spread through his chest, tender and terrifying.

“Can I—” He hesitated, then reached out, his hand moving toward Lev’s face. “Can I?”

Lev’s breath hitched, but he nodded.

Yaku’s thumb brushed across Lev’s cheek, gentle and careful, wiping away the tears that had clung to his skin. His hand lingered, cupping Lev’s jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight stubble that had started to grow.

Lev’s eyes were wide, his lips parted, his face flushed.

“Yaku-san…”

“Morisuke,” Yaku said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Call me Morisuke.”

And then, before he could think, before he could second-guess, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Lev’s.

The kiss was soft, tentative, a question more than an answer. Yaku’s hand slid to the back of Lev’s neck, fingers threading through silver hair, and Lev made a small, surprised sound before melting into it, his hands coming up to grip Yaku’s shoulders.

The world narrowed to the warmth of Lev’s lips, the scent of sweat and salt, the gentle hum of the fluorescent light above them. Clumsy and imperfect and utterly, achingly real.

When they broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Lev’s eyes were dazed, his cheeks flushed, his lips slightly swollen.

“Morisuke,” he repeated, and the name sounded like music on his tongue.

Yaku’s face burned. He looked away, clearing his throat. “We should—we should go back. The team is probably worried.”

Lev nodded, but he didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his long fingers intertwining with Yaku’s.

“Together?” he asked, his voice hopeful.

Yaku squeezed his hand. “Together.”

They returned to the gymnasium hand in hand, fingers laced together like an anchor in a storm. The team was still scattered across the benches, but the silence that greeted them was different—softer, waiting.

Kuroo stood as they entered, his eyes moving from their joined hands to their faces, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Lev. I’m sorry.”

Lev blinked. “Huh?”

“For what I said. Before. ‘Get your shit together.’ That wasn’t fair.” Kuroo’s voice was rough, genuine. “I was stressed, and I took it out on you. That’s not what a captain should do.”

The rest of the team murmured their apologies, scattered and awkward but sincere. Yamamoto rubbed the back of his neck, muttering about his stupid joke. Inuoka said he was sorry for not noticing how much Lev was struggling. Even Fukunaga stepped forward and patted Lev’s shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity.

Lev’s eyes welled up again, but this time the tears were different—lighter, warmer. He let out a shaky laugh, wiping at his face with his free hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “I—thank you.”

“We’re a team,” Kuroo said, his voice firm. “That means we support each other. Even when we mess up. Especially when we mess up.”

The team nodded, a collective resolution settling over them like a mantle. The loss still stung, and the bruises would still ache tomorrow, but something had shifted. Something had healed.

After the others had dispersed—some to showers, some to pack up equipment—Lev and Yaku lingered in the gymnasium, still holding hands.

“Morisuke?” Lev said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For—for today. For seeing me.”

Yaku looked at him, at the boy who had been carrying so much on his shoulders, and made a silent promise to do better. To be better.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said. “I won’t let you down again.”

Lev smiled, wide and bright, and the gymnasium didn’t feel so empty anymore.

“Practice tomorrow?” Lev asked.

“Practice tomorrow,” Yaku confirmed. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The last of the sunlight faded, casting the gym into a soft twilight. The air still held the scent of sweat and effort, but underneath it, something new had bloomed—fragile and precious, waiting to grow.

And for the first time in a long time, Lev Haiba didn’t feel so alone.