The noise didn't die down after the final whistle. It just shifted. The roar of battle turned into a swell of claps, cheers, and even laughter as both teams began to process what had just happened.
Akira landed lightly from that last spike, rolling his shoulders once before turning to high-five Hinata, who was still grinning so wide it looked like his face might split. Tanaka was howling something incoherent in the background, pounding Kageyama's back so hard it made him stumble forward.
Across the net, Kuroo smirked through the sweat dripping into his eyes. He took a long look at Akira, then over at Kageyama, then finally at Hinata, as if mentally filing away notes for the next time they crossed paths.
Kenma didn't move at first. He just stood there, letting his breathing even out, eyes still locked on Akira. When Akira noticed and tilted his head in that lazy, almost teasing way, Kenma gave a tiny, rare smile. No words — just a small nod, the kind that said, Yeah… you're worth paying attention to.
Nishinoya bounded up to Yaku, grinning like they were old friends instead of opposing liberos. "That last save of yours, man — thought you broke physics for a second!"
Yaku scoffed but couldn't hide his smirk. "Right back at you, little guy."
The referees called for the formal line-up, and both teams stepped to the net. It was the same polite bow they'd done a hundred times before, but there was a different weight behind it now.
When Akira clasped Kuroo's hand, Oikawa's voice drifted from the stands, half-teasing, half-proud: "Don't crush his hand, little brother." Akira rolled his eyes without looking up, but there was the faintest curve of a smile.
As they left the court, Tanaka and Yaku somehow fell into banter about who had the scarier serve receive face, while Kageyama and Kenma ended up walking side-by-side in silence. Kenma broke it first.
"…That quick. You've been running it long?"
Kageyama shrugged, not looking at him. "Feels like forever. Still getting better."
Kenma's lips twitched like he almost wanted to say more, but instead, he just muttered, "Keep doing it," before veering off toward the Nekoma bench.
Up in the stands, Karasuno's alumni were buzzing. Takeda-sensei's hands were clasped in front of him, knuckles white from excitement. Beside him, Ukai was leaning forward, eyes sharp. He could see it — the way the pieces were coming together, the way Hinata's quick was sharper, Akira's presence was bending the rhythm of the entire court, Kageyama's setting choices were expanding.
Across the gym, Nekomata leaned heavily on his cane, chuckling low to himself. "Peak era, huh?" he said to no one in particular. "Guess they might actually make it there."
Part of him wanted a rematch tomorrow. The other part knew that waiting would make the next one even better.
The tunnel out of the court still echoed with the thrum of the crowd, like the energy of the match had soaked into the walls and refused to let go. Karasuno's players were still flushed and grinning, a little dazed from the adrenaline. Hinata was practically bouncing as he walked, his shoes squeaking with every exaggerated step.
"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor," Akira muttered, hands in his pockets, posture loose in that annoyingly casual way that somehow didn't look tired.
Hinata spun around mid-step. "How are you not—" he gestured vaguely at Akira's whole body "—like, dead after that?! You went full angel mode and demon mode in the same match!"
Akira smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Trade secret. You're too short to understand."
"HEY!"
Kageyama snorted before quickly pretending he hadn't.
The managers had been waiting just outside the tunnel, and the Nekoma players, still lingering nearby, couldn't help but notice. Yaku was mid-sentence with Nishinoya when his eyes landed on Kiyoko and Hitoka, and he faltered for half a second before coughing into his fist.
Kenma, standing beside Kuroo, mumbled, "Huh. Managers."
Kuroo grinned like a cat. "Pretty, aren't they?"
Tanaka, who had definitely overheard, practically teleported into the conversation. "Yes, they are. And—HEY, City boys, back off!"
The Nekoma bench collectively blinked. "City boys?"
"Yeah," Tanaka said, pointing at Kuroo like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You've got that Tokyo swagger. Think you're all cool—"
"Tanaka, you're bald," Yaku deadpanned.
Tanaka gasped like he'd been stabbed.
Before the bickering could get truly ridiculous, a familiar, smooth voice cut in from the stands above. "Don't tell me you're already starting a street fight without me, Akira."
Oikawa was leaning over the railing, grinning in that older-brother way that was equal parts teasing and quietly proud. Akira didn't even look up at first — he just walked until he was directly under Oikawa's line of sight, then leaned back slightly, hands still in his pockets.
"What are you doing here, Toru?" he asked, voice deliberately flat.
"Came to see my little brother destroy a defense that was supposed to be 'impenetrable.' And you didn't disappoint," Oikawa said. His eyes flicked to Kageyama, a smirk curling on his lips. "And Tobio-chan—looks like you've learned a thing or two since I last crushed you."
Kageyama's jaw tightened, but before he could snap back, Akira muttered, "You still owe me ramen from last time, Toru."
The casual call-out drew a burst of laughter from the Karasuno bench.
The alumni were gathering now — Takeda-sensei introducing them to a few of the current players. Old teammates clapped shoulders, swapped exaggerated retellings of rallies that had happened barely an hour ago, and argued over whose block was the turning point.
Nekomata had wandered over to Ukai, his cane tapping softly against the polished floor. "You've got something dangerous brewing here," he said, not unkindly.
Ukai smirked, his eyes still scanning the court as if the echoes of the game were still visible. "And you've still got a defense that'll make any offense sweat. But…" He glanced toward Akira and Hinata, who were in the middle of miming out some ridiculous moment from the match, complete with exaggerated slow-motion jumps. "…I think we're only getting started."
Somewhere in the back, Yaku was still trying to explain to Nishinoya that he wasn't "mad" about being called short — but his voice kept rising in a way that suggested otherwise.
The air felt lighter now, but it was only because both sides knew this wasn't the last time they'd meet.