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Big lights and loud screams filled the arena, pouring down from every corner of the packed stadium like a living, breathing thing. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was pressure, expectation, energy crackling in the air so thick it felt like it could settle into your lungs if you breathed too deeply. The court gleamed under the overhead lights, polished wood reflecting movement in blurred streaks of color as players warmed up, sneakers squeaking in sharp bursts that cut through the roar of the crowd.
It was a rivalry game. Not just any game—the game.
And everyone knew it.
On one side of the court, Yushi stood just outside the three-point line, rolling the basketball slowly between his palms as if he could feel the rhythm of the game before it even began. His team lingered close by, a familiar cluster of voices and movement that grounded him more than the noise ever could. Ryo was talking too loudly about nothing in particular, gesturing wildly as if they weren’t minutes away from tip-off. Riku leaned against him with casual ease, half-listening, half-scanning the court like he was already calculating plays three steps ahead. Jaehee sat on the bench behind them, tying and retying his laces with quiet focus, while Sakuya hovered nearby, bouncing lightly on his heels, nerves written all over him despite how hard he tried to hide it.
They were a mess, honestly.
Loud, chaotic, too comfortable with each other.
And Yushi wouldn’t trade them for anything.
“Stop looking so serious,” Ryo said suddenly, nudging Yushi’s shoulder. “You’re going to scare the freshmen.”
“I’m not trying to scare anyone.”
“You don’t have to try,” Riku added dryly. “It just happens.”
Yushi exhaled through his nose, but there was no real bite behind it. This—this noise, this easy back-and-forth—was the only thing keeping him from getting pulled too far into his own head.
Because across the court—
There was another kind of noise entirely.
Sion’s team wasn’t loud in the same way. They moved with a different kind of cohesion, quieter but no less intense. They didn’t need to shout over each other; their chemistry showed in the way they passed, the way they positioned themselves, the way they trusted each other without hesitation. It was controlled. Disciplined.
And at the center of it—
Sion.
He stood near midcourt, one hand resting on his hip, the other loosely gripping the ball as a teammate said something that made him smirk faintly. His presence wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It pulled attention anyway—steady, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Like always.
Like it had been since the first time they’d faced each other.
Yushi’s fingers tightened slightly around his own ball.
“Don’t tell me you’re already staring,” Riku muttered under his breath.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” Yushi repeated, sharper this time.
Ryo leaned in, grinning. “You two are actually insane, you know that?”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Jaehee added from behind them.
Sakuya, who had absolutely no business looking as curious as he did, glanced between them. “Wait… is this about the—”
“Don’t,” Yushi cut in immediately.
Too late.
Ryo snorted. “Oh, it’s definitely about that.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Yushi said flatly, even as he could feel the weight of their attention shift onto him. “It’s just—”
“A completely normal agreement,” Riku finished, completely deadpan. “That you have with your biggest rival.”
Sakuya blinked. “What agreement?”
“Oh just, you know, an agreement to fuck eachother before every big game for goodluck” Ryo butted in,
Sakura blinked, again. “For… good luck?”
“For good luck,” Ryo echoed, barely holding back laughter.
Jaehee didn’t even bother hiding his amusement. “Right. Very strategic.”
Yushi dragged a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now?”
The only reason his beloved teammates even knew about this from the first
But of course, they could.
They always could.
Because it was ridiculous.
A stupid, impulsive decision made after one particularly intense game that had somehow turned into a pattern—something unspoken but understood, something neither of them had backed out of since. No feelings. No complications. Just tension, rivalry, and the strange, unexplainable way it seemed to sharpen them both on the court afterward.
It didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal- it was just a little something that they both agreed on doing for the sake of the game and they both still hated each other.
They both agreed on not taking it further then fucking and they both agreed on not telling anyone.
The only reason his beloved teammates knew about this was because they once walked in on them in the locker room, a very, very embarrassing moment which Yushi had blocked out of his memory out of pure trauma.
“Does it at least work?” Sakuya asked, lowering his voice like this was some kind of secret strategy discussion.
Yushi paused.
Just for a second.
“…Yes.”
Ryo made a noise like he’d just been personally validated. “See? I told you. Psychological warfare.”
“That’s not what that is,” Riku said.
“It kind of is,” Jaehee added.
Yushi shook his head, already done with the conversation. “Focus on the game.”
But even as he said it—
He glanced up.
And met Sion’s eyes.
The whistle blew.
The game snapped into motion.
From the very first second, it was fast, aggressive, unrelenting. Possession changed hands like neither team was willing to let the other settle into any kind of rhythm, every play charged with the kind of intensity that only came from familiarity—knowing exactly how your opponent thought, moved, reacted.
And no one knew each other better than Yushi and Sion.
Every drive Yushi attempted, Sion was there to intercept or disrupt, reading him with an accuracy that bordered on infuriating. Every defensive shift Sion made, Yushi adapted to, countering just enough to keep things unpredictable.
It wasn’t just skill.
It was history.
“Left,” Riku called sharply as Yushi pivoted, and he moved without hesitation, slipping past one defender before cutting toward the basket—but Sion was already closing the gap, timing it perfectly, forcing Yushi to adjust mid-step.
“Predictable,” Sion murmured as they collided lightly, shoulder to shoulder.
Yushi didn’t slow down. “Then stop me.”
The shot missed.
The rebound didn’t.
Sion caught it cleanly.
And just like that, the momentum shifted again.
By the end of the first half, the score was nearly tied, the tension in the arena stretched tight enough to snap. Yushi’s team regrouped near the bench, water bottles passed around, quick strategies exchanged in overlapping voices that somehow still made sense.
“You’re rushing,” Jaehee said, tossing Yushi a towel.
“He’s baiting you,” Riku added. “You’re reacting instead of controlling it.”
Ryo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Which is kind of his whole thing.”
Sakuya nodded quickly. “Yeah, you’re better when you don’t let him—”
“I know,” Yushi cut in, quieter this time.
And he did.
That was the problem.
Because Sion didn’t just play the game—
He played him.
Yushi believed there was none, absolutely nobody he hated as much as he hated Sion.
“Then stop letting him get in your head,” Riku said simply.
Yushi didn’t respond.
Because that was easier said than done.
Especially when—
“You look off.”
The voice came from behind him.
And there it was again.
That shift.
Yushi turned his head slightly.
Sion stood just beyond the barrier, close enough that it felt intentional, like he’d crossed the invisible line between teams without hesitation. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, scanning Yushi in a way that felt almost too familiar.
“You’re not focused,” Sion added.
Yushi held his gaze. “Worried?”
Sion huffed quietly. “You wish.”
A pause settled between them, heavier than it should’ve been, carrying something unspoken but understood.
Then, lower—
“You’re breaking pattern.”
Yushi’s grip tightened slightly around the towel. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”
Sion tilted his head, studying him.
“Don’t,” he said, voice cold and eyebrows furrowed.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
It was a warning.
Yushi’s pulse shifted, just slightly.
“Second half,” Sion added, straightening. “Keep up.”
Then he stepped back, like nothing had happened.
Like they were just players on opposite teams.
Like there wasn’t anything else threaded between them.
As the buzzer signaled the end of halftime, Yushi stood, rolling his shoulders once as his team regrouped around him.
“Alright,” Riku said, clapping once. “We adjust. Slow the pace, control the game.”
“Don’t let him dictate,” Jaehee added.
Ryo grinned. “And maybe win? That’d be nice.”
Sakuya nodded enthusiastically.
Yushi let their voices settle around him, grounding, familiar, steady.
Then he looked across the court one last time.
Sion was already watching him.
Of course he was.
And this time—
Yushi didn’t look away.
“Let’s go,” he said.
And stepped back onto the court.
Because whatever this was—this rivalry, this tension, this ridiculous agreement neither of them had bothered to question—
It didn’t matter right now.
Not yet.
Right now—
There was only the game.
And neither of them planned to lose, the final buzzer didn’t just sound—it tore through the arena, sharp and absolute, cutting clean through the roar of the crowd as the scoreboard locked into place.
For a split second, everything held still.
Then the noise came crashing back twice as loud.
Yushi stood near the free-throw line, chest rising and falling as the reality of it settled in. The score was close—too close—but not close enough to blur the outcome. Around him, the court erupted into motion; one side celebrating, the other trying to swallow disappointment quickly enough that it didn’t show too much.
He didn’t move right away.
Didn’t look at the scoreboard again.
Didn’t need to.
“Hey.”
Ryo’s voice broke through first, breathless but bright as he jogged over, clapping a hand against Yushi’s shoulder. “That was insane. You almost had that last drive.”
“Almost doesn’t count,” Yushi muttered, though there was no real edge behind it—just lingering adrenaline, frustration coiled tight in his chest.
“It does when you nearly broke their defense in the last ten seconds,” Riku added, stepping in on his other side, calmer but no less firm. “You adjusted. That mattered.”
Jaehee approached more quietly, handing him a bottle of water without a word, his expression thoughtful. “You stopped reacting,” he said after a second. “That’s why it got close.”
Sakuya, who looked like he’d just run the entire game himself despite barely leaving the bench, nodded quickly. “Yeah—like, you actually made him chase you instead. That was—” he paused, searching for the right word, “—kind of terrifying, honestly.”
Yushi let out a quiet breath, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink, the cold water grounding him just enough to pull him back into the moment.
They were right.
But it still wasn’t enough.
Across the court, the other team was gathering near the sideline, energy high, voices overlapping in celebration that felt just a little too loud from where Yushi stood. And at the center of it—
Sion.
He wasn’t celebrating the way the others were. There was no shouting, no dramatic reactions—just that same steady composure, slightly damp hair pushed back as he listened to a teammate talk, nodding once in acknowledgment.
But then—
Like he felt it—
Sion looked up.
And found him.
The noise around them didn’t fade this time. It stayed loud, chaotic, real.
But the focus narrowed anyway.
“Don’t start staring again,” Ryo muttered under his breath.
“I’m not,” Yushi said automatically.
“You are,” Riku said.
Yushi didn’t respond.
Because he was.
And Sion knew it.
There was something different in his expression now—not smug, not exactly satisfied. Something quieter. More deliberate. Like he was measuring the distance between them and already deciding what came next.
Yushi looked away first.
“Locker room,” Jaehee said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Before coach starts a speech.”
That was enough to break the moment.
They moved together, slipping off the court and into the tunnel, the noise of the arena fading into a muffled echo behind them. The shift was immediate—cooler air, harsher lighting, the sound of footsteps replacing the roar of a crowd.
And just like that—
It was over.
Or at least, the part everyone else saw.