Archive of Our Own

When Kageyama sees Hinata for the first time after Nationals, he’s not thinking of volleyball. 

Well, not really not-volleyball. With him, with them, everything in life is either about volleyball or not-volleyball. Or as much as life can be defined for a fifteen-year-old anyway.

But Kageyama obviously doesn’t think that. What he thinks is how utterly muted Hinata’s presence is during English class, at the desk he sits at that’s perfectly diagonal to the other’s position right at the front, both seats blind spots in any teaching classroom. 

His teammate isn’t paying attention to class—Kageyama knows he never does because they both get tutoring from Yachi—unfocused staring directed towards a faraway point in the early morning sky. No side jabs or discussions about their past few matches before Ōno-sensei came in, not because Kageyama ever thought about how Hinata might take it badly today, but rather because the initiator of said conversations has never been him. 

In fact, Kageyama isn’t sure if they’ve ever had a conversation that didn’t involve volleyball. It’s not an unpleasant revelation but it is a revelation, and Kageyama really doesn’t have many of those beyond volleyball. 

A tearing noise redirects his attention to his desk. The section where he had been writing random English words had torn, a jagged triangle among parallel lines. Kageyama dips his eyes from Hinata’s orange hair to refill his pencil, mind now focused on this train of thought. 

But thinking about Hinata is thinking about volleyball. He shoves his pencil lead back into his pencil case. It is. 

Kenma had messaged him when he went home that night, having somehow procured his number, about Hinata watching the rest of their match against Kamomedai after leaving the court. It was then followed up by a ‘don’t know why I’m telling this to you. good night, kageyama-kun.’. 

Kageyama is sure he’s supposed to do something with this information, per social conventions. Some considerate action like asking Hinata if he’s okay, maybe, or dragging him to refine the imperfections in their plays this Nationals, next year already in sight. He’s more inclined towards the latter, because he’s simply never seen Hinata in any other light. 

Today, however, in light of recent events, in the dimmed sunlight setting Hinata’s orange hair, aglow just like how it looks under the fluorescent lighting of the school gymnasium’s changing room—Kageyama falters. 

The bell rings then, almost a cue as Hinata stirs, flicks his head towards the clock that hangs beside the classroom door. Kageyama doesn’t think twice before sweeping the contents of his desk into his bag, standing up from his desk. 

And instead of going for his next class, he goes to Hinata. 

Hinata doesn’t say anything either, blinking owlishly at his hulking figure over a desk splotched with drops of drool. Gross.

“Meet me at the convenience store after school.” Kageyama says. “At four.” 

They both know this, because the team had pushed back training timings on Wednesdays based on the timetables the year ones had been cursed with. They both know this but Kageyama doesn't know if Hinata remembers. 

“Four.” Hinata’s voice has an edge of raspiness. He doesn’t ask why. “Okay, Baka-yama.”

For some reason, Kageyama can’t find himself to be irritated. “Boke,” he mutters back, just to have the last word. 

The insult is half hearted, just like Hinata’s, seeking that familiarity prior to the aftermath of Nationals. 

They part ways when the other students start streaming in, and Kageyama spends the rest of his classes filing his nails to perfection. 

Kageyama chases Hinata into the convenience store when he sees the other’s bundled-up figure beside the vending machines. 

“Boke,” he rebukes, Hinata’s nose the same reddish shade like the clown he is. The warmth from the heater by the counter raises involuntary goosebumps on his skin, the temperature difference palpable. What an idiot. “You’ll fall sick.”

“Won’t,” Hinata shakes his head, eyes shining stubbornly in delight. “I was faster than you. I win.” 

His eyebrow twitches at the familiar phrase. Everything’s a competition with him, Kageyama’s (somehow, somehow) forgotten. He stares at Hinata’s proud face, still accentuated by pinkness, and walks out of the door. 

“Oi!” Hinata yelps, indignant. 

“Shut up.” He dusts off the snow that’s accumulated on Hinata’s bicycle seat, before parking it under the store’s awning. Walking past Hinata’s jaw-dropped figure back into the store is terribly satisfying. 

Kageyama blows at the snowflake caught in his bangs, before turning to the other. “Are you gonna move anytime soon?” 

They exit the store holding two piping-hot nikuman each, Hinata still grumbling beside him.

The snowfall is light, courtesy of January, but this year’s temperature is still colder than average. Kageyama had checked when scheduling his outdoor practices. It makes the steam wafting on his face from the buns a nice addition to the trip back home. 

“Wha’ didya want?” Hinata asks through a mouthful of ground pork and cabbage. It takes considerable effort for him to swallow the big bite, pushing his bike steadily all the while. “You wanna play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses, thinking. He’d like to, Hinata’s clearly interested and they haven’t played together in a week, the longest since, well, Karasuno. 

“I want to watch all the matches at Nationals,” Kageyama states. “Together.” 

Hinata doesn’t say anything, only giving him a side look. He takes another bite of his second nikuman before he utters, through stuffed cheeks, “but we can still practise a bit, before the snow gets heavier, right?”

Kageyama nods, because it would be incomprehensible to give any other answer. He knows their practice won’t just be a bit. 

Hinata smiles, eyes sparkling. They always sparkle like that when he talks about volleyball. “My house?” 

They reach the section where the road starts to incline upwards, indicating they’ll soon reach the T-junction where they part ways. Kageyama shoves the remaining nikuman into the depths of his Karasuno windbreaker pocket and without missing a beat, deadpans—

“Race you.”

Hinata calls him a bully incessantly when he finally catches up on the end of the hill, the paper bag holding his half-eaten nikuman crumpled beyond salvaging; and in return for the dinner he’ll probably have at Hinata’s, Kageyama compromises by pushing his bicycle with the other handlebar grip in a not-apology. 

☀︎☾

As they step off the coach back onto the familiar grounds of Karasuno High, Kageyama looks towards Hinata. 

Though he had been the first to suggest sending a copy of the match’s recording onto a shared drive, chattering non-stop all the way back to the school campus, even someone as socially-dense as Kageyama can tell his high-strung energy is fading. And even with the warmth of the dinner Coach Ukai had treated them near Date Tech lingering in his belly, Kageyama finds himself missing the staple of post-volleyball night.

Their leaving now-third years clearly feel the same, because the team all find themselves congregated outside Sakanoshita Market as Ennoshita emerges with a bulging plastic bag of nikuman, tears glittering at the corner of his eyes. Tight grips, hugs, boisterous laughter, choked words. Some old lady buying bread chuckles about the joys of youth. 

Kageyama feels the same as he did last year, standing under the fluorescent lights of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium hallways, skin still prickling from the scalding spotlights of the court. I wanted to go even further with this team.

There are areas they should improve on, mistakes that were made, perfected moves that were not-quite-perfect in the heat of the moment—but there are no regrets. This year’s journey for the Spring Tournament ends with a 2-3 defeat for Karasuno, every round past the second going beyond twenty-three points. Date Tech may have clinched the Interhigh Prelims, but Karasuno hadn't gone down without a fight.

Tanaka says something that makes everyone burst out in laughter. Ennoshita congratulates Nishinoya on his ticket into the All-Youths Japan Training Camp, and in return, Nishinoya claps his back. Yachi pinky-promises Hinata to upload the recording the instant she gets home.

And as they leave the ruckus that is their promising Year Ones behind, Kageyama turns to Hinata.

Hinata doesn't seem to notice. He faces the front, looks beyond the road but not quite at the sky either. They learnt its name once, as Yachi wore out her infinite patience with them in the club's storeroom. Kageyama finds the name for it, eventually, the phrase having somehow wedged itself into his memory. The horizon line.

Kageyama stops. Hinata turns, a curious noise emerging from him, a prompt.

"I want milk." Kageyama declares, at 9.03pm in the night. His muscles ache, body calling for his bed that's a mere ten minutes away.  

The wheels of Hinata's bicycle skids to a halt. Hinata looks at him like he knows. He does know, they both feel their bodies on the brink of collapsing after going to the extreme of their physical abilities, for that one more point.

"Why didn't you buy it just now?"

Kageyama shrugs. "Didn't feel like it."

"Didn't feel like it," the other boy mimics, before sticking out his tongue. "Baka-yama."

Irritation surges, the same profile that Kageyama has learnt to associate with volleyball. Sometimes with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. Mostly with Hinata. "Are we going back or not?”

There's a pause, like Hinata hadn't expected his response. Kageyama gives him three seconds, because Hinata has that face where he's thinking and he doesn't do that very often outside of volleyball.

Thinking about Hinata is the same as thinking about volleyball though.

"Oi!" Kageyama snaps his head down to meet Hinata's blazing eyes, further up the street than he remembered, his bike now facing the direction back to the convenience store. "Let's go back and get your stupid milk."

“It's not stupid." He opens his stride to catch up. "You're stupid."

And so they call each other stupid all the way back, when Kageyama digs the display for a colder carton further back, when Hinata tries to remember the exact soy sauce brand he needs to buy for his mother last minute. They only shut up when Coach Ukai raps their heads sharply and sends them flying.

The automated greetings beside the door chime as Kageyama touches the back of his head, wincing. That'll be tender for a while.

"This is all your fault!"

He does feel properly chastised, mainly because Hinata's got one arm wrapped protectively around the soy sauce bottle, the main source of Kageyama's guilt. It's a big bottle that also happens to be made of glass. They had argued about it, Kageyama finally proving his point by googling that yes, it's glass that makes a tinkling sound when its surface is tapped by fingernails and no, no plastic of any kind produces the same sound.

It's been a long day and he's won enough times today, on things that count. Things like volleyball, proving Hinata wrong, and proving that he's smarter than Hinata because he proved him wrong. "Sorry."

Hinata gasps like Kageyama had declared his undying love for something that’s not volleyball. He rolls his eyes as Hinata splutters, arms flailing, mouth opening and closing like the world's ugliest goldfish swallowing food pellets. He looks stupid. "You look like a bloated goldfish."

"You look like an idiot." He had set himself up for that. Kageyama regrets telling Hinata to follow him. "Let's just go already."

"Can't," Hinata supplies, voice smug. He points to his bike leaning against the wall. "I haven't gotten my bike."

He's coming up with a retort when the movement in the corner of his eye interrupts his thoughts.

They both turn to see Coach Ukai turning the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED" before the lights in the store abruptly go out.

Kageyama blinks. The silence of the night is deafening now that they have stopped talking, save for the soft buzz of humming electricity powering the vending machines. He's never seen Hinata like this, lit by weak, greyish-white lights of the vending machines' displays. It makes his eyes look sunken, his face paler. More surreal, somehow.

"It's 9.30pm already," Hinata gripes, grabbing the handlebars of his bicycle roughly, but he looks at Kageyama like he's expecting an answer. "Let's go."

Kageyama sticks his straw into his carton of milk, tossing the plastic wrapper into the nearby dustbin in place of responding. They walk in complete, uncharacteristic silence, all the way to the T-junction that branches off onto the highway leading Hinata and his bicycle back home.

Hinata doesn't get on his bike. He's looking into the distance again, at the horizon line. The shine in his eyes is different under moonlight.

"Is it dumb to say I'm disappointed?"

You're always dumb crosses his mind, but Kageyama has the basic social awareness and decency not to say that now. He crosses his arms, listening, under the traffic light. "We lost some aggressive plays with Asahi-san leaving, but overall, Karasuno has improved a lot."

The weight of his carton in his hand grows light. It's going to be empty soon. He takes a long sip. "So has Date Tech. It would be naive for us to think everything would stay the same."

He sees the sigh Hinata releases in the air, a cloud of breath hanging mid air. "Yeah." The word leaves like it's punched out of him. "I'm disappointed that we can't go to the Spring Tournament this year."

We're running out of time.

"Next year." Hinata looks at him, a dark pit in the light of his eyes. "We're going next year. And we're getting first in Nationals."

"Yeah." The dark pit is the heart of a roaring fire, its dancing light rivalled only by a similarly ambitious, burning passion opposite its owner. "Next year."

"Next year." Kageyama repeats, firm and certain. Not a mantra or a promise, but a reminder of the inevitable. Next year, Karasuno will overthrow Date Tech, overthrow everyone, and go even further than their first year. Together, they'll make it happen; he's sure of it.

There's white on Hinata's shoulder. Kageyama looks at the horizon line and sees snowflakes peppered between the stars in the sky. Ah. "It's snowing."

Hinata has his hand outstretched, neck craned upwards into the sky, simple marvel painted across his face. "First snow of the year."

Kageyama walks down the road once Hinata pushes his feet off the ground on his bike, having shoved the glass soy sauce bottle into his school bag, wrapped inside Kageyama's Karasuno windbreaker. At least the idiot offered to discard his emptied milk carton.

Only a boke like Hinata would leave his windbreaker in the club room during December.

☀︎☾

“Aaack!” Hinata splutters as he presses a chilled bottle of Pokari on his neck. “That’s cold!” 

Kageyama drops it past his shoulders and amuses himself at the sight of Hinata’s arms fumbling for the drink. “For you,” he states, dropping beside Hinata on the concrete stairs, yoghurt already in hand. “I saw you practising after dinner.” 

“You’re a cheapskate.” Hinata retorts, waving the bottle in front of his face. “This is the smaller bottle.” He unscrews the cap nevertheless. 

Tokyo’s early December isn’t as cold and dry as Sendai, and Kageyama misses the familiar taste of nikuman that Yamaguchi surely bought their team after the practice session today. He’ll watch the training video Yachi uploaded when he gets back to their dorms, preferably with Hinata. Sometimes, he actually gives decent suggestions. 

There’s a foreignness to their juniors that Kageyama feels, unable to connect the way he does with Yamaguchi and Tsukishima—and Hinata. He didn’t really feel the distance when the second years were still around. Tanaka had told him, not unkindly, that since he's now officially the star of the team (because I’m passing it down to you!) the year ones and twos will look up to you, two-time All-Youth Japan Training Camp Invitee, and sometimes barking and scowling doesn’t make you a good teacher or senior. 

Even Tsukishima, of all people, has learnt to be tactful and understanding. Kageyama didn’t think he’d have it in him when the Year Twos appointed him Vice Captain, but Yamaguchi has always been able to strike Tsukishima in places Kageyama and Hinata can’t quite seem to reach. They had reached a balance that way, leaving Kageyama and Hinata without the responsibilities that come with being leaders, destined for greater heights beyond high school volleyball.

It’s only been a month but Kageyama doesn’t know how to criticise their juniors, opting to just assign them to different practices that target their weak areas respectively. He directs his bluntness to the other three, leaving them to translate and convey his intentions. 

Now, he envies Hinata’s easy going nature, the closeness he fostered between them to sling his arms around their shoulders, putting them in headlocks—even if his legs leave the ground. He envies Hinata’s speed and reflexes more though, has ever since he met him on that court during junior high. Even until now, during the matches today, playing opposite Hinata instead of side by side. 

That’s enough thinking about non-volleyball stuff today. His attention is caught by the person moving beside him. Elbows planted on his knees and hunched over, Hinata’s staring at the ground, half-emptied bottle hanging between his fingers. The whiter light of Tokyo’s streetlamps ripple in his lowered gaze. 

Hinata’s having a moment. He gets that look that Kageyama has learnt to pin down to ‘processing his emotions.’ Coach Ukai had strong-armed them into attending a programme about effective communication and observation that goes beyond the court, for leadership. For volleyball. He supposes it's been helpful.

“I’m the weakest spiker here.” 

Kageyama blinks. Hinata’s eyes have a laser-sharp sheen, like he’s focused on something. He looks up, and sees the horizon line framed by towering buildings.

He recalls the past two days of training. “You are.”

Hinata’s head whips towards him then, cheeks puffed out in indignation. But Kageyama steamrolls on, ignoring his glare paired with the gentler chirps of city cicadas. 

“But you’re here. And last year, you weren’t, and they were. You’re the weakest spiker here because the spikers here are the strongest.” 

Hinata looks at him, face scrunched up. “My insides feel all— squirmy —hearing you say that.” 

He turns his gaze back down to the other. “It better not be a stomach ache. You ate too much rice.” 

“I didn't.” The retort lacks heat, siphoned away by tiredness, turned down as the year slipped by. They stopped being at each others’ necks all the time. It’s unfamiliar, another thing changed, but it’s not exactly unwelcome either. “And it’s not.”

When Hinata looks back down, there’s a strange tinge tinting his face. A line of warmth radiates against his side. “I’ll get stronger. I promise.” 

Kageyama finds himself wanting to see the infinite stretch of the horizon line in Sendai, on that road with chatter, nikuman, and the crunch of gravel under bicycle wheels. “You better.”

He misses it. Karasuno was only ever meant to be a stepping stone towards going professional and wearing an Olympic medal.

And now, with Hinata beside him in Tokyo and the volleyball club’s messages on his phone screen, it feels incomprehensible to have thought that way. 

“We’ll go even further with this team for Nationals.” His carton is empty. He wonders if Nishinoya would take a snack as compensation for waking him up earlier tomorrow. “We’re unstoppable.” 

“You’re being weird today,” Hinata grouses, glaring at him with a flush on his face, hand pressing the condensation-covered bottle against his neck. “Weird-yama.”

He’s taken to calling Kageyama all sorts of made-up names recently, like ‘weird-yama’ and ‘oddly nice-yama’ and ‘first year-yama’. Kageyama doesn’t really understand why but it’s another change he can’t really stop, these evolved variations of “baka-yama”. 

“You’re red.” Kageyama puts a hand on his forehead which is quickly batted away. “It’s colder in Sendai. Don’t fall sick.” Like last time.

“‘M not.” Hinata mumbles. Neither of them have their windbreakers. “I’m sleepy.” 

The lights of the kombini flicker. The nikuman they have here tastes different, foreign like everything else that’s beyond Sendai, beyond Karasuno. Beyond volleyball. Before this camp, he’s never seen Hinata so humbled, so defeated, so quiet, so determined, so hungry; hungry eyes tracking every single move, taking every single chance—chasing every second, sprinting after every one more point. 

Maybe this hasn’t changed, because he isn’t put off by these sights. Perhaps, he’s just seeing these different sides to Hinata, like how Hinata talks with his sister and how Hinata sulks under his mother’s scoldings of “ Come and eat before the food goes cold, Shouyou! ”. 

In between the days of the year, thinking about volleyball and thinking about Hinata Shouyou have become not-the-same. It’s yet another change that comes with growing up, he supposes. It’s a growth on his end and he’s not sure what it means, if it even happens to mean anything. 

But change can’t be that bad if it means he’s one step closer to being a part of Japan’s national volleyball team. Everything not-volleyball is just relative to volleyball. 

The tell-tale prickles in his legs signals him to leave. But somehow, Hinata’s head had found its place against his shoulder without his knowledge. The empty Pokari bottle is set precariously near an edge, and there’s a cool wind blowing the last leaves of autumn off the streets. 

The nights in Tokyo are not completely silent like the ones in Sendai, he's learnt, filled with the sound of traffic and occupied apartments, all densely packed together. There's no silence even now, cars beeping on the streets somewhere beyond them, in a hurry to go home, no doubt. 

Kageyama goes to touch Hinata’s forehead again; it’s not hot anymore. His arm swings back to his side, feeling displaced. This is different from the usual touches that they have, shoves and smacks and grabs and high-fives teenage boys their age do. The realisation sits strangely in his chest.

He doesn’t understand the feeling, so he doesn’t try to analyse it. That focus should be saved towards tomorrow, when they’ll be graced with a former Olympics coach's presence for three precious hours. Instead, he stares at the horizon line until it’s ten minutes to ten, startling Hinata with a “Wake up, boke.”, and they end up racing all the way back down to the dorms, the space between them alight with breathless laughs and yells and exhaustion. 

He wins the race, as always. Hinata’s never beaten him before, and he wasn’t going to start now. 

☀︎☾

On the final night in Tokyo, after Karasuno places third in the nation, Hinata finds him buying yoghurt. 

“Guessed it,” He declares and Kageyama looks up at him from the display; there’s a satisfied look on his face, like he’s won a lifetime’s worth of egg-cooked rice. “Predictable-yama.”

Kageyama has realised the not-so-new nicknames mean exactly what it says on the tin, not just different ways to call him “baka-yama”. He ignores the skip of his heart knowing that Hinata had guessed where he’d be, pointing towards the discount display instead. 

There’s a one-for-one going on and it just happens to end today. It feels significant, symbolic, for some kind of reason. “Want one?” 

“The nikuman’s sold out,” Hinata laments, squatting down beside him. The buzz lingering from their win this morning still thrums in his bones, turned low. “And yeah, duh. Gimme the honey one.”

He knows the other boy is just complaining for the sake of it. Kageyama checks the prices before noticing the box in Hinata’s hands. “No.” 

The other boy follows his line of sight and sticks out his tongue. “It’s not for you. Yamaguchi asked me to get it for the team. He said he’ll put it on the school’s budget.” 

Kageyama stares at Hinata’s face but doesn’t find any trace of guilt, and picks up a carton of honey yoghurt. “We’re checking out the yoghurt with the ice cream.”

“It's literally yoghurt ice cream, stuck up-yama.” The pit-pattering of worn-out sneakers follows behind him. “We need to bring back the receipt for Yachi to get a refund.” 

“I know,” Kageyama says because he does know, thanks the cashier who slips two ice gel packs into the plastic bag. Hinata’s not beside him, so he goes back to the frozen food section. He’s drawing volleyballs and smiley faces and squiggly threes into the condensation of the glass of the chillers, and the emotion that surges in his chest is one of affection. 

This has changed too. Somehow, along the way of this year, the feelings Hinata evoke in him had shifted from mild annoyance to—this.

The feelings he has for Hinata aren’t new, exactly, but acknowledging them is. He’s simply gotten comfortable with Hinata, his presence now second place in Kagemaya’s thoughts, so much so that whether or not he’s volleyball or not-volleyball doesn’t really matter anymore. 

Their relationship hasn’t changed, not exactly. He didn’t let this newfound revelation distract him from volleyball and Nationals either. But times like this, Hinata’s face lit by blue chiller lights and the resurging high from winning third, third at Nationals—he’s reminded how large these feelings are. 

“Boke.” Those brown eyes he’s become accustomed to meeting look at him then, radiant. They’ve done it, taken flight. Just like he said they would, in these three years. “Let’s go.”

Kageyama lets Hinata bug him into drawing one three on the last complete sheet of condensation Hinata had saved "just for you!" apparently. He draws a big one, adds a ‘RD’ on its right and traces a ‘Tobio’ right at the bottom with his pinky. 

He looks up to see Hinata staring with a lopsided smile. “Come here.” 

The smile drops, his expression morphing into one of curiosity. Hinata’s approaching footfalls match the drumming beat of his heart. “What?”

“Your name.” Kageyama points at the door, and wonders if his heartbeat is audible from this distance. It's past eight and the three’s already half-disfigured, water droplets running down sure lines. Even without these feelings, this choice would still be the same. 

Hinata’s looking at him like he’s surprised, like this is a moment where he'd call him 'oddly nice-yama'. 

But as much as Kageyama knows him, he doesn't know him enough. So he doesn't expect Hinata to squat down right next to him, raising his own pinky to trace 'Shouyou' right next to the melting characters of his name. 

The squeak of water and skin against glass isn't as distracting as his mind noticing Hinata's pinky finger is proportionately small. Watching his profile lit by the cool blue lights, in a convenience store that's familiar and unfamiliar all at once, Kageyama can see every miniscule flutter of Hinata's eyelashes; how the shadows they cast stretch across his cheeks, making them look longer under the trick of light. 

Kageyama's never been more glad to have the ability to compartmentalise his feelings, because if he had noticed this under the spotlights of the center court—he wouldn’t have, but it's the principle of the thing. The third, other thing beyond volleyball and not-volleyball in his life. Hinata. 

He’s not sure if that third thing will stay once they leave, in January. What are the chances they’ll be together again, first years again in some other school campus, in some other gymnasium? It feels surreal just thinking about it.

Kageyama knows he’s not going to University if even one decent volleyball team scout extends an offer into the V League, and knows he’ll have plenty.

Having had him though, a third thing beyond volleyball and not-volleyball because Hinata’s so inexplicably both—it’s enough, for high school memory, for the first time in his life. 

“Third.” Hinata’s voice is loopy, high on dopamine and victory, like he still can’t believe it. The ice cream is probably melting in the plastic bag, their yoghurt cartons too wet when they finally get ahold of them. 

“Karasuno’s third—in Nationals.” 

“Yeah.” Kageyama laughs, because he knows. You think the realisation has sinked in until it sets in again, the gravity of it all hitting harder each time. “We did it. Third place.” 

Their eyes meet, and he hears Hinata’s breath hitch. And now the warm contact spot between their knees is too loud, like the heat on the back of his neck and the sound of his racing heart.

They stare at each other silently for about two seconds too long, before an abrupt pain blooms in his knee. Hinata’s standing, face turned away from him, arms stiff by his side. The moonlight illuminates the lines of his throat, renders his tan skin with a milky lustre.

“Let’s go,” he declares, voice on edge like it wasn’t him who insisted they stay, like Kageyama’s the one at fault. “The ice cream’s melting.”

“I got ice packs.” He offers in truce, and tries not to panic when Hinata’s expression still remains shuttered, the energy between them off-kilter. “Do you… want to race?”

“Race?” At least he’s distracted now. “Back to the inn.” The same inn Karasuno ate and showered and slept in their first year, exactly two years ago that now feels like light years away, yesterday. 

Hinata makes a sound that seems involuntary, outside the convenience store. “Now?” There’s disbelief coloured in the sound of his voice.

He remembers their yoghurt in the bag. Kageyama takes one—its sides are slicked with condensation, just like he predicted—and holds it out to Hinata, an olive branch. “Or we see who can finish their yoghurt first.” 

Hinata gives him a look that sets his senses on edge and next moment, his shadow is streaking down the street. 

Kageyama curses under his breath, drops the carton and sprints after the head of orange hair.

They chase each other down three streets, narrowly missing a cyclist because the nighttime streets of Tokyo aren’t empty like Sendai’s, bell ringing reproachfully behind them as they continue on after apologising, laughter unbridled. They run and yell and shout and then run some more before finally collapsing, delirious, at an empty bus stop, the city lights flashing around them. 

Hinata’s laughing non-stop between pants, and Kageyama finds he can’t imagine any other silhouette filling these memories other than his. The footfall of passing pedestrians doesn't matter when they're together, like this. He does cool down stretches while catching his breath, fishing their yoghurts out of the bag. 

Hinata takes his, multicoloured mirth in his eyes. There’s a carelessness in the way he rips the lid off, almost sending his spoon flying down the road; Kageyama snorts. After some time, Hinata’s head whips up, fingers finding their way in his sleeve, and in the most alarmed voice he’s ever heard the other use, asks how far they are from the inn. 

They panic, because already in Sendai they’re terrible, dreadful with directions, until Google Maps under shaky fingers tells them the inn is just a stone’s throw away. Kageyama bursts into laughter, and laughs some more when Hinata chokes from laughing too hard until they’re both wheezing. 

When the hilarity of the absurd events die down, Kageyama looks over to see Hinata already looking at him. His skin prickles and he wonders if this is how Hinata might have felt back at the konbini, under his gaze that he could never see. 

They’ve never been like this, ever. Doing not-volleyball things, like not-volleyball friends. Staring at each other like this, the multicolour blur of nightlife Tokyo surrounding them, his throat is thick with this revelation.

The plastic bag rustles in the night wind, and as if on time, Hinata’s lock screen buzzes to life with Yamaguchi’s name. The moment is lost once again, Hinata shoving his phone into the crook of his shoulder and his jaw as Kageyama stands up, hand scooping up the plastic bag left on the floor. 

They make it back to the inn, where restless hands reach for their after-dinner ice cream, and Kageyama barely remembers to take out the receipt before tossing the plastic bag into the inn’s recycling bin. Hinata had slipped away amid warm lights and chattering voices and somehow, somehow, it's only an hour since he left to find the konbini. 

When he retires for the night in the team’s shared room, Hinata’s already on his futon covered by his blanket, tucked away and facing a snoring Yamaguchi. Tsukishima looks at him like he’s thinking, and that’s always a bad sign so he just flicks the final light switch off. He’ll deal with the grouchiness tomorrow. 

His side remains warm no matter how many times he shifts to get comfortable, and Kageyama falls asleep to the sight of Hinata’s back. 

☀︎☾

“Kageyama!” He looks up to see Hinata’s beaming face through the chiller’s glass door, and tries not to jerk the door into said face.

“Hinata.” 

There’s no reason for them to interact anymore once they’ve stepped down as the third years of the volleyball club, except he finds Hinata at the gymnasium without fail every single Wednesday. Their Year Twos, soon-to-be year threes, shoot them knowing looks, and their lockers in the club room remain staunchly unoccupied. 

“Predictable-yama,” Hinata had said, his eyes knowing the first time and in lieu, Kageyama had nodded back, his heart doing backflips in rapid succession. 

And it's as though the universe wants to tell him something, because the day before they graduate, Hinata’s here in Sakanoshita Market. 

“Gungun yoghurt, isn’t it?” Hinata offers, tipping his head towards the display. “Your favourite.” 

Kageyama blinks, but he supposes it’s something easy to remember the brand of the drink someone’s been drinking near-religiously for the past three years. “Yeah.”

He turns his attention back to the chiller. Hinata’s sneakers scuff against the titles, still hyperactive and impatient about everything that isn’t volleyball and family. As always, he scrounges for the coldest carton tucked at the back of the chiller, rising back up only to bump into something solid. 

Instinctively, Kageyama reaches out and steadies them, before stilling at the face under his. The rumpled surface of the Karasuno uniform, creases on the uniform sleeve marred by a black streak—it’s Hinata’s. 

Hinata’s eyes are wide, pupils blown open, his Karasuno jacket zipper clacking against the glass door. They tether on the edge of falling over, before Hinata shifts a foot backwards and Kageyama draws his arm to his side, separating them. 

“Sorry.” The edges of Hinata’s taut tricep lingers on his palm, and Kageyama flexes his fingers. The feeling clings, stubbornly, like its owner. Hinata’s looking everywhere but at him, his face pink, and for once, Kageyama wonders if today has finally given away his affections. 

“No—” It’s somewhat gratifying to see Hinata need to clear his throat. Because of me. “ ‘S my fault.” 

“Okay,” Kageyama accepts, because they’re third years now and not the grubby fifteen-year-olds who never knew to let things rest. “Nikuman?”

Just the mention is all he needs to make Hinata look at him again. He holds out his fingers. “Two.” 

Kageyama closes the chiller door, the corner of his lips worn from suppressing smiles. “Okay.” 

Hinata looks at him with the same wide eyes when Kageyama takes his bicycle. The same look he's been giving him in increasing frequency these days, as the winter wind bites their cheeks, punishing Kageyama for choosing to wear his PE shirt and forgetting his windbreaker.

“Take mine.” Hinata insists, uncaring about stretched seams and the general implication of lending someone who likes you their jacket. Kageyama tells himself to not assume anything and just listen, so he complies. 

He soon realises trying to shove his arm through Hinata’s windbreak sleeve really isn’t going to work out, and Hinata holds his drink in one hand while pulling the edge of his windbreaker over his shoulder, muttering all the while. “Baka-yama.” 

His ears are flushed, and Kageyama knows his own fingers are clenching around the handlebar grips. The windbreaker’s literally useless, hanging open at the front, the gap even wider since his shoulders are broader—but against all the laws of nature, his chest is warm. 

Kageyama finds his feet glued to the road outside the Market, like something’s ending right now even though they’re graduating tomorrow. “Thank you.” 

Half of Hinata’s face is bundled by a yellow scarf and he’s further down the road, brighter than the afternoon sun on the horizon line, but the smile in his voice is clear as day. 

“Let’s go.” 

They play two rounds of one vs. one until the snow starts falling heavy, which then calls for dinner back into the Hinatas’ house. Sometime ago, in the Hinatas, he’d ended up calling Hinata “Shouyou”, just to spare Natsu and his mom’s voices from all the confusion. He kept it exclusive in their yard, because he was afraid of overstepping, and far more afraid the inflection of his voice around those two characters would give him away. 

He doesn’t come over often, but Hinata’s mom remembers him, acquiescing easily when he asks for another egg white and more rice in his portion of tamago kake gohan. “Freak,” Hinata grouses, cheeks flushed and stuffed over his own steaming bowl. Nastu asks for tips for volleyball, and Kageyama gives them gladly, rounding his words at their edges at her eagerness.

He picks up the jacket he’d forgotten last time, folded up neatly on a chair, smelling of sunshine. 

And despite the day playing out like how he sometimes imagines, they never go up to Hinata’s room. But that’s just how they’ve always been, and it would feel strange if anything changed on the final day of what will be their fateful high school days. 

Hinata's standing on the edge of his family's gate, bouncing on his feet like he wants to say something. 

“Do you want to say something?” Kageyama cues, because his legs are starting to fall asleep and the night’s cold, and it's almost ten in the night. 

“We’ll keep in touch, right?” Hinata blurts out, hands under his armpits. “Right, Kageyama?” 

He looks down, at the sneakers Hinata crammed his feet into without socks just to walk him out the gate, and Hinata’s face, flush visible under the familiar streetlights of Sendai. 

“Yeah.” Kageyama says with finality. “We will, Shouyou.” 

And he turns, walking down the street, going home to prepare what little things he’ll bring for their graduation ceremony tomorrow.

The horizon line on the night sky looks different. He figures the reason is because Hinata’s always beside him when he recalls the term for it. 

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know how they’ll keep in touch. Maybe in the first two months, but in April—it’s near-confirmed he’ll be in Tokyo. And unlike many other things they could do, they can’t play volleyball online, and it’ll never really be the same as these three years, in those winter months where lines blur so easily. 

He’ll miss this. The air dashed with sea salt in the summer from the coast, the winter streets lit by yellowed street lights, counting every single ice crystal on a snowflake. The handmade nikuman of Sakanoshita Market, the familiar inside of the chiller that holds his yoghurt drink, the unblocked horizon line with the moon and stars and sun. A familiarity beyond volleyball and standing on the court that he’d never thought he would miss.

There’s something in his pocket. He feels for it, then realises it’s in the inner side of his jacket. Inside his palm lies a bunch of name tags issued by his junior high, still stored in their worn-out plastic, a used staple hanging limply on one side.

“Oh,” he says outloud, just because it feels right. He chases that feeling because every step he takes back home builds up into something inexplicably, overwhelmingly wrong. 

Kageyama doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, just that he has. But every footstep he takes is heavier and there’s a persistent, nagging feel he’s learnt to not ignore in his gut, and it’s tugging towards a place behind him. 

“KAGEYAMA! ”

His neck aches at the speed he turns it. It’s Hinata’s voice, he’s sure of it, and that’s his name. 

It’s getting dangerously close to late, too late to yell, so he chooses to run. It's a surprisingly easy choice, lightweight. Runs, because even if he isn’t sure how they’ll stay in touch, he wants to. He leaves the Exactly how is that going to happen? for Future Kageyama to work out. 

Tonight, he’s running towards Hinata, wherever and why-ever the hell he’s out on the streets—because even if they’ve both grown up from being the emotionally constipated fifteen-year-old runts that they were, Hinata’s his third thing. The thing that’s neither volleyball or not-volleyball, the only folder in the personal hard drive of his heart with a name that doesn’t hold the letters V-O-L-L-E-Y-B-A-L-L, because its contents spell the word in every line and more.

And the familiar silhouette he sees on the horizon line is Hinata’s, he knows, because that’s the shape of the back that’s emblazoned with Karasuno's number 10, and then, number 5. He knows it with ironclad certainty, like how he knows every single inch of skin on his body on the court, like every single breath he takes in to keep his muscles running at this exact speed, like everything that's in relation to volleyball or otherwise, and Hinata.

They meet in the middle of the street, Shoyou’s feet tripping out of his sneakers that still don’t have socks on them. 

“Boke.” Kageyama pushes out, breathless with Hinata in his arms. Hinata’s hunched over, headfirst in his chest, the ten of his Karasuno windbreaker reflecting white lights. “Where are your socks?”

A dull, familiar ‘thud’ echoes between them on the road. Kageyama looks to the side, and freezes. 

It’s a volleyball, dirt-scuffed and worn, pit-pattering and rolling about in the gap of their feet. He looks back at Hinata, cheeks puffed out and inhaling cold winter air, tries, and fails, to contain his incredulity. 

“You’re going to lose if you play volleyball like that.”

“Like what?” Hinata gasps at him, lungs still short on air. The grip on his sleeve is tight and the cloud of Hinata’s breath is warm against Kageyama’s cheeks and oh, they’re really close.

He swallows the lump in his throat. Gestures at Hinata’s forlorn sneakers that’s an arm’s length away beyond their entwined arms. The warmth between their bodies is addicting; he wants to lean into it. “Without socks.” 

“Without socks.” Hinata repeats, and Kageyama watches the cogs turn in his head until they click. 

“Don’t move.” He makes sure Hinata’s steady before going over to retrieve his sneakers. He turns around and sees Hinata holding the ball between his palms, the same way he always does before he challenges him to a match except there’s no crackle of competitiveness in the air tonight, and the spark in his eyes is gentle instead. 

“This is for you,” Hinata declares, like Kageyama knows what he’s talking about. He stares at the volleyball, and takes it. 

The touch of it instantly registers as familiar, its shape slotting into his palms like a memory, having both worn out each other. He looks up to Hinata’s expectant stare. “This is the volleyball I left at your house.” 

“No.” Hinata shakes his head, eyes multicolour. “You gave it to Natsu, remember?” 

I do. It was the second time he had gone over; Hinata had scrambled into the house to load the bedsheets his mother had tasked him that morning before she got home, and he had felt a pair of eyes staring at him from a corner. 

He surrendered his ball to her hands because it felt wrong to snatch it back, even more so when he could probably beat both the Hinata siblings in a fight over said ball. And it was a newer one, not one of any particular significance and Hinata had another ball they could use anyway so he supposed it was fine if he picked it up the next time he came over. 

Kageyama never did, not because he forgot, but because it felt nice to think of his volleyball flying through the air of the Hinatas’ yard. And then, his mind shifted to thinking about it in their house, and then, in Hinata’s hands. 

“You could have given this back to me tomorrow.” He says instead. 

Hinata shrugs, hands shoved into his windbreaker. “Dunno, just—wanted to do it tonight.” 

“Okay,” Kageyama accedes, because he understands. Tonight won’t be the same as any other moment, the feeling at exactly 9.53pm on a Tuesday night, the night before their high school graduation. 

“Turn it around.” Hinata tells him. He does, and sees the exact same characters traced beside his own on that night in some Tokyo konbini, except now it's bold black. 

Oh. He gets that feeling again, the feeling that this is symbolic of something. He certainly knows the action’s significant. 

Kageyama traces the edge of hasty penmanship with his finger, conscious of the way the back of his neck radiates heat. His voice is too careful when it finally leaves his lips. “You’re giving this to me?” 

“Graduation,” Hinata says, like that’s explanation enough. “One day, when I’m playing at the Olympics level, you can sell this for a million yen.”

“Only a million yen?” He muses, tossing the ball up. “You’ll be worth at least ten million.” 

He notices the way Hinata’s legs had moved apart, instinctively, only coming back together when the volleyball fell into Kageyama’s hand. Three years ago, Kageyama would have met his eyes, and wouldn’t have hesitated to set the ball in Hinata’s direction and set off a one vs. one right on the streets, but then again, they weren’t year ones anymore. 

That wide-eyed stare graces his vision, and Kageyama hit with the impulsive want to do something.

So he does, grabs the only other thing he has right now that would measure up to the magnitude of Hinata’s sincerity, holds Hinata’s wrist, and puts them on his waiting palm. 

The crinkle of the plastic is loud as his heartbeat in his ears. Hinata’s looking into his eyes below him, questioning.

“I lied,” Kageyama states, a confession of the past. “When I said I didn’t remember you.”

The rapid blinking of Hinata’s eyes is kind of funny. “Huh?”

“That first time we met in Karasuno, when you asked if I remembered you. I did, just not your name. But I remembered—how you flew.”

His brown eyes widened, then softened, staring down at the embroidered blue threads lettering ‘Kageyama Tobio’, a reverence gleaming in his eyes that far exceeds the few made-up scenarios in his head. 

“Oh.” The roumaji of his name disappears into the depths of Hinata’s closed fingers. “You’re giving this—to me?”

Who else? “Yeah,” Kageyama says, because he hadn’t really thought of giving Hinata anything in particular for graduation, except discount coupons for that one local egg specialty restaurant he knows Hinata likes. 

He tells this to Hinata, word for word, and the other laughs at him. 

He knows they’d meet again, in center courts with spotlights hotter and brighter than the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, fighting for first place at the very top of the volleyball world. Hinata had promised, after all. 

“That would be nice,” Hinata says, eyes shining with levity. “Go with me, after training tomorrow.” 

Not after graduation. Because tomorrow is Wednesday. “Okay.” He resolutely doesn’t think about it being a date. “Happy graduation, Hinata Shouyou.”

Hinata’s face is flushed again. The veins on his arm appear as his fist clenches beside him, the same fist that’s holding his name tags. Kageyama finds his eyes tracking the action, hoping Hinata wants them to amount to something beyond volleyball too.

“Happy graduation, Kageyama Tobio.” 

They look at each other, reflected in the others’ eyes. A belated realisation hits him, with the edge of Hinata’s face cast in shadow—lit by that familiar, characteristic off-white lighting. 

He turns around to see a vending machine right by them, and just a meter away, a convenience store. He’s never noticed it before, until now. 

“Come on.”

“I don’t need them.” Hinata insists, an edge of competition in his voice, barefoot on the tiles of the convenience store. They had left his sneakers on the bench just outside the konbini. “Just say you wanna volleyball.”

“I won’t say no if you want to practice.” Kageyama looks up from a selection of socks, and tries to estimate the size of Hinata’s foot by eyesight alone. The other boy shuffles his feet to the next aisle, neck stubbornly stuck out to glare at him; Kageyama ignores his antics. 

Turning back, he surmises that bigger socks are the lesser evil and Hinata’s only going to wear them once anyway, so in the grand scheme of things, this whole thing doesn’t matter. He tries to keep things casual, but from the look Hinata’s giving him, he can tell he’s not disguising it very well. The signature “scary-yama” he’s subjecting the socks to, no doubt. 

His mind can’t help but inflate this sock-shopping to something dangerously close to buying Hinata a gift. He’s concerned about how comfortable they’ll be, wanting to guess Hinata’s foot size right, wondering whether he’ll be happy even if he’s grumbling about him buying them. 

So this is what it feels like. He whips his head sharply, and catches an orange blur ducking away. “I know you’re still there.” 

His words are only answered with silence. Kageyama turns back to the socks again, and ponders over the final choice between size S and M. 

“I’m going to get you yoghurt.” Hinata declares, still out of sight, like it’s divine retribution for Kageyama doing something nice for him. “The one you always drink.”

In all his three years of high school, he’s drunk Gungun yoghurt every single day, once. He’s already drank the one today, just only a few hours ago, bought it with Hinata’s face opposite the glass door of the chiller, the air between them not all that different than right now. 

“Okay.” Kageyama lets it happen because it’s Hinata who's buying it and unlike him, he’s always believed two is just nice. 

The sound of Hinata's bare feet stomping away pushes a laugh out of him. He looks at the sock selection once more, and grabs a pair in size M.  

The layout of any konbini is mostly similar, so it doesn’t take long to follow the path to the chillers. Kageyama finds Hinata leaning into a different chiller with those same bluish-white lights when he turns into the end of the aisle. 

He’s struck, all of a sudden, by the sight in front of him, how it looks like they could be in a supermarket. In a supermarket, shopping for eggs and fish and toilet paper and other boring, not-volleyball things, hands pushing the same shopping cart, together in more ways than one. 

Don’t get ahead of yourself. His emotions play a symphony with his thoughts inside the back of his mind as he strides towards Hinata’s figure. You don’t even know if he likes you like that.

Hinata’s reaching for the carton furthest in the back, back facing him and muttering furiously under his breath. Their positions are swapped from this afternoon’s, a film of condensation on cool glass between them. 

Kageyama’s brought back to Tokyo lights and easy laughter, traces lines from tiny droplets until the outline of a sun forms. 

When Hinata turns around, unsurprised because Kageyama hadn’t tried to hide his footsteps, carton in his hand, his face fits perfectly into the spherical center. 

“Is this…?” Kageyama draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “Like in Tokyo.” 

Hinata wears an expression that hangs between amused and wistful. “Tokyo.” He raises his finger to the glass, index instead of pinky this time. 

And he’s drawing a shape, draws it again—only he’s also on the wrong side of the glass door, and there’s only awkwardness and too much strength used to draw lines that won’t show.

Kageyama sees the moment he realises, stifles a laugh and tamps it down when he sees Hinata’s face flush. Revels in the sight because he’s never seen Hinata embarrassed, embarrassed like this. The blue chiller lights only serve to make his face redder.

“Don’t laugh.” Hinata doesn’t sound put-off, just flustered, arms flailing around him. “Don’t. Laugh.” 

“I’m not.” Kageyama puts on his poker face, keeps his voice light. “I’m not laughing.”

“Shut up,” Hinata mutters and looks down, the tip of his ears pink, shutting the door a tad too firmly. “Let’s just go already.” 

Kageyama lets Hinata brush past him, affection flying like popping candy in his chest. He looks back to the melting sun, thinks about the path of Hinata’s finger and—

Wait. His head whips towards Hinata. “Wait,” he says, hand finding Hinata’s wrist.

“What?” The word barely manages to sound like a question, half-strangled. 

“Was that…” He follows the sight of their tangled fingers up Hinata’s arm, to his tensed neck, the pink on his ears not yet faded. “Were you—”

Were you drawing a heart?

There’s a storm of emotions churning in his stomach, his throat closing off. His face is hot against the skin of his cheeks, Hinata’s looking at him and Kageyama keeps staring, searching for some sort of indication of what he's feeling.

Were you drawing a heart for me? 

And then Hinata’s moving, pulling him along out of the aisle, intertwining their fingers together. 

Oh, Kageyama thinks, and follows. 

The air outside the convenience store is colder, Kageyama notes, aware of every inch of skin in contact with the person beside him. 

He has Hinata’s socks, and Hinata has his yoghurt drink, their fingers still entwined. He holds the package up, plastic crinkling obnoxiously loud between them, in the direction of the bench. 

Hinata’s brows draw together and his mouth is shaped to something suspiciously close to a pout. Cute. “Fine.” 

He snatches it out of his hand, sprinting towards the bench even though it’s just a few meters away. Kageyama watches Hinata rip open the packaging, pulling the socks up with reckless abandon. 

When he stops in front of Hinata, the socks are already on. There’s a ping of satisfaction in him when he notices the black portion that’s supposed to outline the foot fits perfectly. 

Hinata looks up at him, before turning huffily to the side, grabbing his sneakers. Well, one, because he hadn’t calculated the force needed and now there’s only a singular shoe hanging off his fingers.

The puff that leaves his lips is humoured, and Kageyama grabs the other sneaker before bending down, undoing its laces. 

Above him, he hears Hinata inhale. He looks up, at the remaining sneaker in Hinata’s hand and that same, wide-eyed stare. After a few moments, Hinata sets the sneaker down with a deliberate carefulness, like he’s approaching a stray cat with food. “I can wear my shoes myself.” 

“I know.” He keeps his arms by his side as Hinata forces his feet into his sneakers. “I want to.” It feels right, somehow.

He watches Hinata’s face carefully, seeing no objection, before finally dropping his head and picking up the laces. Kageyama ties the first shoe, then the other, double-knots them both out of habit. 

When he tries to stand, Hinata takes hold of his wrists, keeping him in place. He looks up at Hinata’s face, and tries to recall if he’s ever needed to lift his head to meet his gaze like this. 

But Hinata’s looking at him, a glint in his eyes that tells him he’s going to do something. “My hands are dirty.” 

A noise leaves Hinata, a noise that’s coloured in affection and disbelief. But the expression on his face is soft, wanting, and Kageyama gets the feeling that this is significant, too. 

“Baka-yama.” And Hinata’s leaning down, lashes lengthening on his cheeks and eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” he says, tilting his jaw up just in time for their lips to slot together. Oh.

Hinata’s hands are warm on his, and there are sparks flying in his chest, the nighttime wind curls between their bodies, and time stands still.

So this is how kissing Shouyou feels.

He kisses Hinata, and kissing him is as easy as breathing. And then, they part and as he stares into Hinata’s eyes, head glowing under the silvery moon and convenience store lights, he slips his hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him like air. 

But Hinata isn’t air, and it’s getting later than late and they have graduation and training to attend tomorrow, so after a while, Kageyama leans back to stand, shifting his hands to Hinata’s shoulders when he almost falls. 

“Boke,” he murmurs, and there’s too much heart in it. His feelings for Hinata jostle for space in his chest, tight and on fire. Hinata looks up at him, and doesn't say anything like he’d thought he would; instead, he grabs his wrists and brings them down, again, to his knees. “It’s late.”

“I know.” Kageyama wonders how he looks from Hinata’s eyes, what he’s thinking, feels too acutely the minute movement of Hinata’s thumb against his pulse point. 

Hinata examines his palms, staring for answers seemingly hidden in every crease and callus of his hands, like he’s searching for something among the marks they’ve formed in the past three years with a volleyball between them. Kageyama is brought back to their first ever match with Inarizaki, his heart drumming loudly against his chest like the taiko drums that were behind them, increasing in rhythm. 

Him standing casts Hinata into shadow, and seeing him under him after the touches they’ve exchanged today, after the past three years of memories and emotions and calling each other idiots—he knows his breathing is ragged. 

It’s strange, how it’s only after kissing Hinata that his chest feels like it’s on the brink of exploding. 

And just as he’d assumed Hinata might have forgotten, there’s a heart traced on his palm. 

“Since when?” Hinata asks, looking at him. It’s stated plainly, a simple question. His lips are cotton candy pink. “How long?” 

Kageyama thinks of the races they had, how he’s always looked across his shoulder and Hinata's right behind him, every time. How he knows every practice, every match, every moment they’re on the court and fighting off it, they’re side by side; through the crushing pain of losing, the exhilarating delight of victory, sweaty arms on backs and tears dripping onto the court.

No matter who’s ahead of the other, evolving and improving and soaring—he knew they’d end up at the same heights eventually. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t felt the urgency to vocalise these feelings before graduation, before Tokyo.

Because even if they weren’t together past high school, the word ‘forever’ felt right for this, for them. The time they’ve spent in Sakanoshita Market, the horizon line with the sun and moon and snow; every night and light in Tokyo together, the sound of bicycle wheels on gravel, the T-junction where they part; Daichi chiding them in the gymnasium to go home, you guys have been practising for too long! and Hinata’s mom calling for them, dinner’s ready.  

“I don’t know.” Kageyama answers, because the real answer is coalesced in those three years of volleyball and not-volleyball and Hinata, more than a thousand days blurred together. “Long. Long enough that I didn’t intend on doing anything.”

They won’t be forever in the real sense of the word, he knows, but they’ll be forever for the rest of their lives—and that’s enough.

“I figured it out, back at training camp.” Hinata’s face is flushed, and his voice isn’t exactly smug, but there’s a thread of it. “When I saw you at night, training your floating sets like it was the most important thing in your life. Like I was the most important thing in your life.” 

He pauses, and the sound of cicadas fills the silence. “I think that’s when it was, anyway."

Our first year. When they had pushed themselves to the edge, figuring things out as partners on the court, and people off it. When they had held on for dear life in Saeko-san’s van, having grinded what’s left of their brains into pulp for make-up exams together. Giving it their all because this, and each other, is volleyball—and volleyball is both their everything. 

“You were.” Kageyama says, because it’s true. He gestures between them. “Did you know, like this?” 

“Kinda,” Hinata hesitates, letting go of his wrists. They fall to his side, and he misses their warmth, the closeness. “It was just feelings for a while. My insides getting all squirmy, jitter in my fingers and restlessness.” 

An expression blooms on Hinata’s face, then, one that Kageyama has learnt to decipher. It’s triumphant. “I win.” 

Somewhere in the depths of his heart, petty fifteen year-old Kageyama is keeping score of all these wins and losses. Surely though, that version of him has never considered this, a race of who realises their feelings for the other first. 

He snorts, laughs, letting it out. Of course. And when he looks back into Hinata’s eyes, they’re glittering the same way as when volleyball is mentioned. 

“You win this round.” He stresses because apparently, liking Hinata hasn’t gotten rid of the competitive streak flaring up inside him. He looks at his phone, the blinding white numbers of 11:11pm on his screen. Make a wish. Kageyama puts it away into his pocket and picks up the yoghurt carton that’s no longer cold on the bench. “There’s training tomorrow.” 

It’s a challenge he issues, and Hinata grins knowingly. “Competitive-yama.” In the end, some things never change. 

They’re both standing up, a silent agreement to go home. And when Kageyama turns around with his near-empty bag on his shoulders the night before graduation, Hinata’s gift in it—Hinata’s outstretched hand and twinkling eyes await him. 

“Let’s go.”

He takes the offered hand with his own, and they walk back down the street, towards the horizon line and the moon. 

☀︎ end. ☾

Delightful art by my delightful friend, whom I must say outdid themself splendidly—you have been warned. Anyway, behold:

And here's the second version, which is too good/cursed to not include: