Chapter Text
Peering off the edge of the flight platform, Shouyou watches his classmates take off, their wings spreading in an array of different colored feathers. He shakes his own wings, feeling ready to join them, but someone bumps against him with their wings. He flinches, turning his head toward the person, but all he hears is a whisper: "Don't fall and break those pretty feathers."
He doesn't respond. He just stares back down at the drop-off, his wings twitching against his back.
The platform is high; high enough to make his stomach flip with nerves, but he's used to it by now. This is where they line up for flight training, in which students leap off the edge and practice aerial maneuvers in a designated flying corridor that mimics real-life flight patterns. It's not competitive, at least not yet. It’s just to make sure everyone has the skills to use their wings. It's the one thing his mother couldn’t keep him from doing. She had begged the school to prohibit him, for his own safety, but only Wingless students are exempt from practicing.
His wings flutter involuntarily, a fast ruffle of white. He knows they’re iridescent in the sunlight, nearly blinding in a sea of brown, black, and gray hues. He hears someone snicker behind him.
"Like a dove at a hawk convention," they murmur.
Shouyou’s cheeks burn, but he says nothing. He just steps back from the edge, shaking his wings out one last time before folding them close. He doesn’t jump. Instead, he walks back into the corridor, clutching the strap of his flight bag a little too tightly. It’s easier to say he wasn’t feeling well—his mother asks him to lie at least once a week. She says it's better than admitting his wings were too small and impractical to compare to those around him.
🪽
Karasuno University feels like a new beginning.
His check-in day is warm, the late-summer sun casting a gentle glow over the main quad. Shouyou adjusts the strap of his duffle bag and takes a deep breath, white wings tucked tightly against his back under his jacket. He doesn’t even try to hide how he gapes at the sight of people flying overhead—some weaving between the dorm buildings in lazy arcs, others shooting like arrows toward the distant towers.
He’s already memorized the map. Building C on the third floor. He passes a few students on the way, all of them giving him glances he pretends not to notice. His wings tend to draw attention, though it’s not always the good kind.
When he finally finds his door, he punches in the code, heart pounding. Inside, the dorm is surprisingly spacious. There's a small couch with a low table, as well as a shared kitchenette. His side is empty except for a bed and a desk, with sunlight streaming in through a high window. He sets down his duffle bag and pushes in the rest of his suitcases, grateful that he packed light.
"Oh. Hi."
Shouyou turns to see a tall, slightly hunched boy hovering in near the doorway. Tawny-brown wings hang limply at his back, feathers neatly groomed but clearly kept more for function than flair.
"Yamaguchi-san?" Shouyou asks, hopeful.
The boy nods, shuffling in with his duffle bag and suitcases. "Yeah. You must be Hinata-san."
And that’s how their friendship starts.
Within a week, they discover they both sneak out at night to watch the flight students. Not to party, study, or meet up with anyone like most students.
The aerial courts are still active, even after hours. The official training grounds lock up at ten, but the upper fields—the older ones, slightly worn and mostly abandoned—are easy to access through a broken side gate.
Shouyou and Yamaguchi bring snacks while they lie in the grass, whispering observations about takeoff angles and aerial rotations. When the students leave the field, wings bustling as they roughhouse with one another, it's their turn to practice.
While they're clumsy due to their lack of teaching and practice, they try their best to apply what they saw.
Yamaguchi is hesitant at first, wings stiff from years of being unused. But Shouyou eggs him on, and he watches as Yamaguchi slowly realizes what it feels like to fly without fear of being judged or laughed at.
As for Shouyou, he's already breaking the rules he promised his mother he wouldn't, so there isn't much for him to fear anymore.
But how could Shouyou not fly? He desperately wants flying to be his "thing", considering he's constantly looking up at the sky, wishing he was alongside the students studying the air patterns.
🪽
It's sunny when he first overhears the rumors.
"Did you hear?" someone says at lunch. "About the black-winged flyer?"
Shouyou glances up from his sandwich to look at the table adjacent to his, wings ruffling beneath his oversized jacket in interest.
"Tobio Kageyama, right?" an underclassman asks, taking a sip of soda.
"Shh, don't say his name! It's cursed," someone else whispers. "His wings are huge and black, with feathers as sharp as blades!"
A couple students laugh at that, playfully pushing each other and mimicking huge wings with their arms.
"Isn't it weird that he only flies at dawn and midnight?"
"Yeah, but considering he trains on the south court, y'know, the one that's haunted? It adds up."
Yamaguchi nudges Shouyou, his eyes widening slightly with terror. "Isn't that the one near your jogging route? I didn't know it was haunted…"
"Yeah, but it's just a rumor. They're probably just trying to scare the other freshmen." Shouyou says with a shrug, but his ears are burning with curiosity.
He doesn't believe in curses or myths, let alone baseless rumors from flying students obviously scaring their new underclassmen.
But the next morning, he can't help but check out the abandoned court and see what the fuss is about. He takes a sip of his water, slightly panting as he stands in a somewhat hidden area, presumably where the old takeoff walkway was before the new courts were made on the other side of campus.
It's nice, and Shouyou takes a moment to look at the lush greenery around him before he sees him in the sky.
Surprisingly, the rumors are true; however, they're flawed. They don't quite capture the entity that is Tobio Kageyama. Yes, he has huge black wings. Yes, they make him have an intimidating aura, but there's so much more to his looks than his wings. He has ink black hair, tousled from flying around yet looking like it was perfectly styled that way. His broad shoulders taper into a lean waist and long legs with strong calves. His arms have biceps that should be illegal, and Shouyou does not spend a couple of seconds ogling his collarbones. The most striking detail of all is his blue eyes. It's crazy enough that Shouyou can see them from this far. They're endless, and Shouyou thinks if he gets closer, he'll be able to see multiple shades of blue and black.
Kageyama is flawless with his flying; not only is he fast and precise with his turns, but he makes it look as easy as breathing. The way he maneuvers through the sky, seamlessly passing through the obstacles that many flyers have a hard time practicing in.
He continues watching Kageyama for the rest of the early morning, then quickly fleeing once he sees Kageyama gently land as the sun makes its full appearance. However, after this instance, he can't stop watching him.
He starts jogging even earlier so that he can make it to the courtyard in time to see Kageyama begin his pre-flight stretches. He even goes so far as to bring a journal, just so he can note down Kageyama's technique and form in real time.
He's mesmerized by everything Kageyama does to the point where Yamaguchi notices how obsessed Shouyou is with finding out more information through the rumors.
One night, when Yamaguchi has to study for an exam, Shouyou goes out on his own to practice.
Somehow, his legs take him to where he knows Kageyama trains at night. He heads to his regular spot by a walkway, hidden by bushes and trees. After watching yet again another flawless solo routine, Kageyama lands, wings folding in neatly. Shouyou is utterly spellbound, and he gasps a little too loud. Kageyama's head snaps up, his gaze pinning Shouyou. There's no anger behind his gaze, just calculation.
"You've been watching me," Kageyama says. It's not a question, but a statement. "I figured I was along your jogging route in the morning and you got curious, but now it's night. Are you spying on me, or what?"
Shouyou panics at this, stumbling over his words: "N-no, I just— you fly really well— I didn't think of it as spying per se—"
Kageyama just stares at him with an apprehensive gaze as he rambles through excuses, and he just sighs, interrupting his spiel.
"Then don't hide like a creep next time."
"I'm not a creep!" Shouyou exclaims, mouth gaping before huffing at him.
He tries to fly off to escape Kageyama, awkwardly launching off and tripping, due to his lack of practice and his oversized jacket hiding most of his wings. A few leaves get knocked loose as he continues muttering under his breath.
He lands a couple yards away, jogging the rest of the way back to his dorm. His heart is pounding by the time he puts in the keycode, trying to make sense of the whole situation. Luckily, Yamaguchi is asleep, so Shouyou doesn't have to feel embarrassed about staring at the wall of his ceiling as he silently fumes.
And eventually, he sits up, reaches over the edge of his bed, and digs under his mattress for the little battered notebook he definitely does not keep for emotional emergencies. He flips to a fresh page and starts scribbling furiously, the pressure of the pen so heavy it tears a little in the top corner.
Shouyou was not spying. He knows that he seems like a weirdo basically hiding in the bushes watching him stretch every morning (it's not on purpose! He just happens to be along his new running route) but who wouldn't want to watch Kageyama fly? The way he moves is insane. He turns corners as though there's no wind resistance, like gravity decided to take a personal day off. It's unfair. it's not just a skill, it's—
It's like Kageyama belongs in the sky.
Shouyou has never seen anyone fly like him, with the passion and skill to back it up. Not even the pros back home. Not the students here training to be said pros. Kageyama’s wings are dark, and they shimmer under the moonlight differently than they do in the sun. It's ridiculous how gorgeous they are.
Shouyou scrawls harder, half lying on his stomach in bed, trying to work through the hurricane in his chest. He's not obsessed, he's just invested. Intrigued, even. He can't stop thinking about how clean his technique is, how every flap of those massive wings seems to cut through the air with purpose.
And okay, yeah, the way Kageyama looks doesn't help either. Broad shoulders, sharp eyes, that totally unfair height. He's like one of those perfectly sculpted flyers in propaganda posters, except better.
Shouyou groans quietly, putting his journal next to his head before flipping onto his back, pen clutched in his clammy palm. While the ceiling still doesn't offer answers, at least it doesn't call him a creep.
Because that's the main point: he's not a creep.
It's not like he was trying to spy maliciously or anything; he just wanted to get better. Yamaguchi watched the flying students practice with Shouyou to figure out footwork, flight patterns, and takeoff speeds. Kageyama just happened to be the one worth watching the most. He can't blame Shouyou for changing his running schedule just to catch more glimpses of him.
Shouyou taps the pen against the side of his face, then slowly puts the cap back on. He’s not going to think about Kageyama anymore. He definitely won't be dreaming about his stupid wings. Or his stupid eyes.
(He does. He dreams of Kageyama flying through dark skies, illuminated by the stars with a serene expression on his face.)
While Shouyou may or may not have dreamed of Kageyama, this doesn't deter him. The next morning, Shouyou is up early as usual, tucked into his usual hiding spot.
He's a little late to the stretches, but as Kageyama goes through his regular spiel of flying, he stops mid-maneuver. He slowly turns in midair, staring directly at where Shouyou is "hidden." He flies lower than usual, just once. Close enough that Shouyou can hear the rustle of feathers and see the blues of his eyes.
A beat passes and Shouyou freezes, eyes wide.
Kageyama doesn't say anything, he just keeps flying… but slightly different than usual (Shouyou would know after weeks of watching him). He looks flashier than normal, almost like he's showing off.
"What the hell," Shouyou mutters to himself, feeling confused at this turn of events.
Kageyama doesn’t look at him again, but Shouyou notes the deliberate tilt of every turn, the way the morning sun makes Kageyama's wings look impossibly cool. He’s flying differently, like he wants to keep Shouyou's eyes on him.
It’s a ridiculous thought to have, but Shouyou’s pulse won’t slow down once it gets in his head.
A rush of air sweeps over him as Kageyama spirals down, the gust reaching where Shouyou is hidden. Shouyou’s feathers flutter from the force of it, and he ducks lower behind the bush, heart hammering against his ribs.
When he peeks out again, Kageyama’s descending, landing softly and folding his wings in one smooth motion. From this far away, Shouyou can’t make out his expression, but the tilt of his head feels… deliberate. Like he knows.
For a breathless second, Shouyou wonders if their eyes meet.
Then, just as suddenly, Kageyama turns away.
Shouyou stays crouched in the brush until the last of dawn disappears, the sun shining bright.
Only then does he unfold his wings, slow and careful, wincing when one catches a low branch of the bush.
“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath, not sure if he means Kageyama or himself. Maybe both.
By the time he slips back through into his dorm, the halls are already buzzing with the noise of people getting ready to leave for their classes. He moves quietly, head down as he rushes to his own room.
That night, he finds himself outside again after his "practice" with Yamaguchi, notebook balanced precariously on his knees as he crouches in the grass. The moon painted the world silver, every blow of the wind sharpening his nerves.
He’s only written two lines of notes before the air shifted, like a storm cloud was rolling in overhead. Shouyou freezes, pen trembling in his hand.
A shadow eclipses the moonlight, and when Shouyou looks up, Kageyama is there, hovering in the air with his wings outstretched. His feathers were glinting in the moonlight, and the way his wings fluttered to keep him in the air was precise.
Shouyou feels his throat tighten as his pen slips from his fingers and falls soundlessly into the grass.
Kageyama descends in one smooth motion, folding his wings as he lands. The ground barely seems to notice the impact, not a blade of grass moving aside from the ones squashed under his feet. His expression is unreadable, sharp and quiet, but his voice, when Shouyou hears it, isn’t laced with anger.
"So you do want to learn."
“I wasn’t—I mean—maybe—no—yes?” Shouyou’s brain trips over itself. He scrambles to his feet, hands flailing as he drops his notebook.
Kageyama steps closer, the space between them minuscule. Shouyou can see now that his eyes aren't just blue, but have flecks of black and silver.
“Show me,” Kageyama says simply.
Shouyou blinks. “What?”
“Show me what you’ve got.” His tone is flat, not mocking nor kind. Just… expectant.
Shouyou’s stomach lurches. Every instinct screams at him to bolt, to laugh it off, to hide behind some stupid excuse. But the weight of Kageyama's gaze pins him in place.
“Fine,” he mutters, cheeks burning. “But don’t laugh.”
"Why on earth would I— Oh." Kageyama's voice trails off as Shouyou shrugs off his jacket, and stretches out his wings with a gentle flutter.
He can only imagine what Kageyama is thinking, considering his wings look lame in comparison to Kageyama's huge ones.
The moonlight shines off of Shouyou's white feathers, but his wings are far from pristine due to months of not grooming them. They look frail, but luckily his feathers cover the scars he knows are hidden underneath.
"You don't have to say anything, I know," Shouyou grumbles before walking forward to prove to Kageyama that he's a great flier.
The attempt itself, though, is disastrous.
He launches too hard with his legs, wings flapping out of rhythm, and immediately tilts sideways like a broken kite. The ground comes rushing up, and he lands shoulder-first in the dirt with a loud grunt.
Flat on his back, staring at the stars, he groans, “That was a warm-up, I swear I'm usually better.”
Kageyama doesn't laugh. He just says, “You’re tilting too much left.”
The next attempt is worse. He barely makes it three meters before panic locks up his wings, and he plummets nose-first into the grass. Dirt fills his mouth and he spits it out with a pout.
Again, Kageyama doesn't make fun of him.
“You’re fighting the wind. Stop fighting it.” Kageyama’s voice is steady, and purely analytical.
Shouyou tries again. And again. And again. Each fall stings more than the last, his elbows scraped with blood, his shoulders ached, but every time he forces himself up. His notebook lays forgotten in the grass, pages fluttering with the light breeze.
Kageyama stays silent for most of it with his arms crossed, offering sharp corrections only when Shouyou is ready to collapse.
“You’re flapping too fast for your skill level. Slow down, you can use more speed in the future."
"You’re wasting energy that could be used later."
"Wait for the air current before you try swerving. Just because I do it doesn't mean you should.”
By the time Shouyou finally falls onto his back for good, the sky is paling, streaked with faint pinks and oranges. His chest heaves and every muscle in his body is screaming.
“You’re stubborn,” Kageyama says, standing over him.
Shouyou braces for an insult, thinking that Kageyama had held back, but instead Kageyama says, “That’s good.”
The words settle in his chest, unfamiliar and warm, brighter than the sunrise that is currently crawling over the horizon.
Shouyou doesn't sleep that morning. Even after dragging his sore body back to the dorms, collapsing face-first into his mattress, his mind doesn't quiet.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Kageyama’s silhouette against the sky, wings slicing through the air with impossible ease. He hears that voice again, flat but weighted with something that clings stubbornly to his chest: That’s good.
🪽
Shouyou hits the ground harder than he means to. The air leaves his lungs in one sharp gasp, feathers twitching in pain.
“Damn it,” he groans, rolling onto his side. His wings ache all the way down to the bone, and for a split second he can almost hear his mother’s voice—you’re going to ruin them if you keep this up.
But then there’s a shadow in front of him. Kageyama doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, wings half-furled, watching Shouyou catch his breath.
“I told you to pull up earlier,” Kageyama says finally.
Shouyou scowls up at him. “I was pulling up! The wind shifted.”
Kageyama kneels down, one knee pressed into the dirt, and looks him over like he’s assessing damage.
“You’re fine.”
“I know I’m fine,” Shouyou says, defensive. “Everyone always acts like I’m about to snap in half.”
Kageyama raises a brow. “Who’s ‘everyone’?”
Shouyou hesitates. “Just… people.” He shrugs, embarrassed to even bring it up. “They say my wings are too fragile. That I shouldn’t push too hard or I’ll break them. So usually when I fall, someone runs over and starts fussing over me like I’m five.”
Shouyou’s used to people pulling him back, to the worried glances, the gentle hands that say don’t strain yourself, the half-whispered warnings that he’ll hurt his wings if he tries too hard. It’s always been like that—his mother, his teachers, even the few friends he had growing up. Everyone treats his wings like they’re glass just because of their size and color.
Kageyama doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he reaches out and smooths a bit of dirt from Shouyou’s sleeve. “If you’re hurt, say so. If not, get up.”
Shouyou blinks at him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
There’s no pity or condescension, just simple expectation. Somehow it feels even more grounding than a thousand reassurances ever could.
Shouyou pushes himself up, brushing grass from his clothes. His wings shake once, shedding dust into the air. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“You say that like it’s new.” Kageyama says as he huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.
Shouyou grins despite himself. “You’re the first person who doesn’t treat me like I'm weak.”
Kageyama looks at him for a long moment, unreadable, then says simply, “Because you aren't.”
And just like that, the ache in Shouyou’s chest isn’t from the fall anymore.
“Feels weird hearing someone say that.” Shouyou says with a laugh as his wings flare out behind him.
Kageyama glances skyward. “Then you better get used to it.”
Shouyou follows his gaze, his heart thudding against his ribs. For the first time, the sky doesn’t feel out of reach, it feels like something waiting for him.
At this moment, Shouyou realizes it's the first time in his life that someone hasn't tried to hold him back from his own dream.
The days bleed into weeks, each session adding bruises, scraped palms, and feathers aching from overuse. Yet Shouyou craves every second of it.
Kageyama’s presence becomes a constant, though he never explains why. He simply arrives, never wasting any words—just corrections and analysis.
“Too much force in your shoulders.”
“Your rhythm’s off.”
“You’re leaning too far forward.”
Shouyou absorbs it all, throwing himself into every attempt like his life depends on it. And little by little, the falls grow less catastrophic. The flaps and glides look smoother. For the first time in his life, his wings don't feel like dead weight strapped to his back.
But it isn’t the lessons that make Shouyou most excited, it is the quiet moments in between. The way Kageyama’s gaze lingers whenever Shouyou brushes dirt off his arms, or the almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth when Shouyou stubbornly tries again after another crash. The way his shadow stretches long across the grass at dawn while Shouyou’s own stumbles after it.
It's addicting, in a way Shouyou doesn't know how to admit.
One evening, long after their “lesson” has ended, Shouyou collapses on his stomach in the grass with his feathers splayed awkwardly around him. His notebook is discarded, the ink smudged from sweat.
Kageyama stands nearby, silent as usual. But instead of offering another critique, he crouches down, his eyes flickering towards Shouyou’s wings.
“You don’t groom them right,” he says, his voice low.
Shouyou looks up at him, confused. “I brush them sometimes—”
“Not enough.” Kageyama’s tone is matter-of-fact. He reaches out before Shouyou can react, his hand settling near the base of Shouyou’s left wing.
Shouyou freezes. His breath hitches, every nerve screaming at once.
"Is this okay?" Kageyema asks, sensing his stiffness. "I should've asked before I touched you."
Instead of saying no, Shouyou just nods, allowing him to continue.
Kageyama’s touch isn't rough. His fingers move carefully, smoothing down a bent feather, untangling another. He's practical and efficient, but there is a gentleness in his movements, like he knows exactly how easily Shouyou could startle.
When his hand brushes near the thick scar at the root, Shouyou flinches. He silently braces for mockery and disgust.
But none comes. Kageyama doesn't even comment. His movements just slow down, growing even more careful, his gaze flicking up once, before returning to the feathers.
The world narrows to his touch: the quiet ruffle, the warmth of his hand, the strange, impossible safety blooming in Shouyou’s chest. For the first time, his wings don't feel like a burden, they feel like something worth tending to.
Shouyou has spent his whole life ashamed of how his wings were the blueprint of perfect wings, yet were scarred and unmaintained due to his family. At this moment, he can't stop thinking about the fact that Kageyama has touched them without hesitation, without pulling away.
Kageyama’s fingers suddenly still, lingering near the edge of a frayed feather. The silence stretches between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual.
“People don’t really touch me,” he says. “Not unless they have to. It's why I didn't even think to ask to touch your wings… I've grown unaccostumed to most wing standards."
Shouyou blinks, startled at the admission.
“Everyone sees my wings first,” Kageyama continues. “Big, black, and sharp-looking. So they decide what kind of person I am before I even open my mouth. I'm seen as cold and arrogant, but especially dangerous. I got tired of trying to prove them wrong.”
His thumb brushes lightly over one of Shouyou’s feathers, as if grounding himself. “So I just became what they expected. I stopped talking to people around me, and forced people away. It’s easier that way.”
“That’s stupid,” Shouyou says before he can stop himself.
Kageyama lets out a low breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah,” he admits. “I know.”
"When I first saw your wings, I was jealous of you, you know?"
Kageyama startles at this, hand frozen in place.
"What?"
"Don't give me that look, Bakageyama!" Shouyou says, swatting his arm. "Seriously, your wings are so huge. I know everyone always says stuff about black wings, but as someone who's on the complete opposite end of the wing spectrum, I used to try to put mud over mine to try to make them as dark as possible… Yet mud just slides right off, not even dying them whatsoever."
"You really think my wings are cool?" Kageyama asks, disbelief in his tone.
"Well, yeah, that's why I was watching you for so long. That, and you're a great flyer."
Kageyama blinks rapidly, looking unsure of what to do with that information.
Shouyou hesitates, staring at the curve of his own wings. “You know what my mom used to tell me?” he says softly, changing the subject. “That I shouldn’t be flying at all. That some people just aren’t meant to, especially with wings like mine.”
Kageyama’s gaze flicks toward him.
“I’m scared she’s right,” Shouyou whispers. “That I’ll stop trying. That I’ll wake up one day and not even want to anymore. Because if I lose that… then what’s left?”
There’s no pity in Kageyama’s eyes, and he reaches out again, gently moving a feather into place.
“Then don’t stop,” Kageyama says simply. "Let's keep flying together."
Kageyama finally pulls back, his hand lingering a moment too long.
“Go get some rest,” he murmurs. “You’ll need it.”
Shouyou nods, but he knows he won’t sleep much. His heart feels too full, his head too light.
🪽
"Wow, you look like shit," Yamaguchi says with a laugh, looking down at Shouyou on his bed. "I'm rarely out of bed before you. Did you miss your morning jog?"
Shouyou just groans, burrowing into his blankets.
“Okay, this is weird,” Yamaguchi announces, leaning against the doorframe with a mug filled with tea. “Seriously, in all the time I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep past dawn. Are you… sick? Dead? Possessed?”
Another groan comes from under the blanket mountain. Slowly, like a creature dragged unwillingly from hibernation, Shouyou peeks his head out. His eyes are puffy and rimmed with shadows, and his hair is an untamed halo of curls sticking out in every direction.
“I’m fine,” he croaks, voice hoarse from disuse.
Yamaguchi arches a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh… Totally believable coming from the guy who looks like he wrestled his mattress into submission.”
Shouyou makes another sound, something between a whine and a growl, and burrows himself deeper into the blankets.
“Shou.” Yamaguchi crosses the room and perches on the desk chair, swirling his tea like he was settling in for an interrogation. His wings twitch once, feathery and neat in a way that makes Shouyou want to kick him. “What’s actually going on? You never sleep in like this. And don’t give me the ‘I’m tired’ excuse, you’ve been tired all week. This is different.”
Shouyou hesitates. His stomach curls in on itself at the thought of saying too much. The weeks of training with Kageyama is off the table in terms of conversation, and he definitely can't tell Yamaguchi about the late-night spying, or the notebook filled with sketches of wing angles and Kageyama’s form.
So he says half of the truth.
“I've been flying out on my own in the morning and after our own practice. I just… want to get better,” he says finally, his voice shrinking at the end.
Yamaguchi tilts his head, studying him with that quiet, perceptive patience that always makes Shouyou nervous. He takes a sip of his tea, then sets the mug down.
“Then don’t do it alone. You know I can shift things around to go with you," Yamaguchi says, shaking his wings out to let some feathers fall.
Shouyou blinks at him, unsure whether to feel grateful or exposed.
"But I'd feel bad, Yama… I know you're studying hard and you have other things on your plate! I push myself to my limit and I don't want to do that to you," Shouyou trails off at the end, anxiously making eye contact.
"Okay, but you know the offer is always there… I won't push you on this, as long as you go to the party with me tonight!" Yamaguchi says, his eyes crinkling with excitement.
"What party?" Shouyou asks, tilting his head.
"Oh right, you weren't there! One of the flying students invited us to celebrate the beginning of the flying competitions."
"I guess I could make it," Shouyou says, already worrying about having to miss practicing with Kageyama.
"That's the spirit! Only part of the dresscode is wings must be out, but—"
"Wait what?" Shouyou interrupts, shaking away his blankets to gape at him. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah, supposedly it’s bad luck to hide your wings before competition season, but I personally don't know how much truth there is to that superstition."
"But…" Shouyou mumbles, glancing at his own wings before looking at Yamaguchi's.
"Hey, seriously, I won't let anything happen. People make comments all the time, but at least yours aren't like that shadow flyer’s right?"
Shouyou has to bite his tongue to defend Kageyama, knowing Yamaguchi would be able to connect the dots.
"I guess so," Shouyou responds half-heartedly, and gently places his legs on the ground, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. He lets his wings unfold from his back, shaking them a bit and noticing a couple of feathers falling to the floor. "I should probably get ready for my classes today before I even think of the party tonight."
"That's the spirit!" Yamaguchi says with a cheer. "You go do that. We'll have a blast tonight!"
Shouyou just laughs, feeling a little bit of weight fall off his shoulders at Yamaguchi's carefree attitude. It's a nice change from his slightly nervous demeanor, and it makes Shouyou have a skip in his step as he goes to class.
By the time Shouyou's out of his classes, the sun has already begun to sink. The air is cool and a little damp, the kind that clings to skin and feathers alike. Shouyou trudges down the main path, bag slung over his shoulder, head still buzzing from the last few days. His wings are tucked in tight against his back and his feathers feel especially brittle from overuse, but he's grown used to the discomfort.
He isn't really heading anywhere—just walking in hopes of running into Kageyama. He's still trying to do anything to shake off the echoes of his thoughts, of Kageyama’s voice in his head repeating that's good.
When he looks up, the courtyard isn’t as empty as it should be in the evening. No, Kageyama is standing there with his wings half-spread, dark feathers catching the last of the evening light. He's flexing one shoulder while seemingly muttering to himself, the picture of effortless focus.
Shouyou freezes halfway on the path.
He could turn back now, pretend he didn’t see him. He should.
But Kageyama looks up before he can make a decision. His eyes lock onto his with a sharp, unwavering gaze.
“What are you doing here so early?” Kageyama asks flatly.
“I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to have to skip practice tonight,” Shouyou blurts, heat rushing up his neck. “There’s a party tonight that I'm being dragged to.”
Kageyama raises an eyebrow. “You go to parties?”
“Excuse you, I can be social.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t," Kageyama states, shifting his wings as a faint shimmer ripples through the black. “Your primaries are bent again.”
“Huh?”
“From overusing your left wing,” Kageyama says simply, like it was obvious. “If you don’t fix it, it’ll hurt tomorrow.”
Shouyou blinks, opening his mouth to argue— argue that he doesn't need Kageyama fussing over his wings, but he stops short when he sees Kageyama hesitating.
“Come by before you go. I’ll fix it.” Kageyama says, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “I'm assuming you're going to the flight students party tonight, and they usually make you uncover your wings to get in.”
Kageyama’s tone isn't teasing, and he makes it seem like it was natural to look out for him.
This, somehow, is worse than when Kageyama was being short with him.
“I—fine,” Shouyou says, looking down at his shoes before making eye contact again. “But I’m not gonna be late because of you, okay?”
Kageyama’s mouth twitches, almost making up a smile. “You probably will be late either way.”
Shouyou sputters, ready to fire back, but Kageyama has already turned away, feathers rustling gently before folding neatly to his back.
The argument dissolves in Shouyou’s throat. He watches him for another second, his heart doing the annoying fluttery thing again. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking back towards his dorm, pretending his heart hasn't been pounding louder the more he thinks about tonight.
🪽
Shouyou hesitates outside of Kageyama's dorm, the hallway lights flickering softly. His hands are clammy, not from sweat exactly, but from the nervous energy that’s been buzzing through him since their conversation earlier. He knocks once, and the door swings open almost immediately.
Kageyama stands there in a loose shirt, wings half-unfurled presumably from the day’s flight drills. The dark feathers frame him like shadows come to life.
Shouyou suddenly feels overdressed in his white button up shirt and jean shorts, his face full of glitter that Yamaguchi convinced him to wear for the party.
“You came,” Kageyama says simply, gaze lingering on Shouyou's exposed legs.
“Yeah, well,” Shouyou mutters self-consciously, stepping inside. “Didn’t want you complaining about my technique tomorrow.”
Kageyama doesn't reply, grabbing Shouyou's bag and motioning for him to sit. The room smells faintly of rain and cedar oil, the same blend Kageyama uses to condition his feathers. Shouyou perches on the desk chair, trying not to fidget as Kageyama moves behind him.
“You don’t have to be so tense,” Kageyama says, voice low, almost distracted. “I’m not going to break them.”
“You’re really close,” Shouyou squeaks before he can stop himself. He feels like an idiot, considering they've done this before, but he's still so nervous.
“I have to be,” comes Kageyama's calm reply. “You can’t fix flight feathers from a distance.”
Shouyou swallows. His wings unfold slowly, feathers shining bright in the dim light. He can feel the warmth of Kageyama’s presence—his breath, his careful movements, his soft touch—as he works oil along the quills and realigns each vane with precise, practiced fingers.
The sound of feathers brushing fills the room. Shouyou’s heartbeat matches the rhythm, faster than he wants to admit.
When Kageyama’s fingers brush against a faint scar near the base of his right wing, Shouyou sucks in a quiet breath, but doesn't flinch like last time.
“Does that hurt?” Kageyama asks, voice quiet as he pauses momentarily to gather more oil.
Shouyou shakes his head, his voice smaller than he means it to be. “Not anymore.”
For a moment, neither of them speak.
Shouyou isn't used to people seeing the scars, so he's unsure if sharing his story would make Kageyama uncomfortable, but before he can say anything, Kageyama interrupts his thoughts.
"You don't have to tell me where you got them, but if you need someone to tell, I'm here," Kageyama says, gently brushing over the scars with well manicured fingers.
Kageyama’s words hang in the air longer than they should. Shouyou doesn’t know what to do with the offer. It feels heavier than it sounds.
“It’s not really… something people want to hear," Shouyou says, fidgeting with his fingers.
“I asked,” Kageyama says quietly.
Shouyou hesitates, his fingers curling in his lap. The memory rises before he can stop it— sharp, and bright, and too familiar.
“My dad,” he starts, his words faint but steady. “He’s the one who—” he gestures vaguely toward the scar. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Kageyama, whose hands are still on his wings, stops for an instant upon hearing the revelation behind Shouyou’s scars, yet doesn’t pull away.
“He was leaving,” Shouyou continues, the words tumbling now that he’s started talking. “I wanted to go after him. I thought if I could fly high enough, he’d have to look back. But he stopped me before I could even try. He said I wasn’t ready, that I’d fall, that my wings were just for display, that—” His voice catches before he reveals too much. “He grabbed my wing. Told me if I ever tried to fly again, I’d regret it.”
Kageyama’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, smoothing over the scar with the same gentleness as before. “He was wrong,” he says simply. “About all of that.”
“Yeah. Guess so.” Shouyou lets out a small, shaky laugh, more breath than sound.
Neither of them say anything for a while. The only sound is the quiet rustle of feathers as Kageyama finishes realigning the last of the bent vanes. Shouyou focuses on the touch, on the weightless rhythm of it, until the tightness in his chest finally starts to ease.
When Kageyama steps back, the air feels cooler somehow.
“You’re good to go,” he murmurs. “Your primaries are even again.”
Shouyou nods, standing too quickly and brushing his hands down his shirt. His wings twitch, lighter now, freer. “Thanks. I should, uh, get ready for the party.”
Kageyama’s gaze flicks up, lingering a second too long. “You look good,” he says before his ears turn pink. “For the party, I mean.”
Shouyou laughs at his reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corner.
“See you there, then,” he says, grabbing his bag and fleeing before the silence can swallow him whole.
The hallway air still feels cool on Shouyou’s skin as he steps outside, the soft hum of dorm lights fading behind him. His wings twitch once, but for the first time, the movement doesn’t make his scar ache.
He doesn’t realize how long he’s been walking until he spots Yamaguchi leaning against the courtyard railing, his own feathers glinting faintly gold under the lamps.
“There you are,” Yamaguchi says, grinning. “You okay? You look… tense.”
Shouyou huffs, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Yeah, fine,” Shouyou says, sighing. “It’s just been a long day.”
“Come on, the party’s already started. You promised you’d show up,” Yamaguchi says, unconvinced by Shouyou's demeanor.
Shouyou nods, following Yamaguchi as the sound of music reaches them. The low thrum vibrates in his chest, and colored lights spill through the open windows of the hall. His thoughts wander back to Kageyama: the warmth of his hands, the soft brush of his fingers, the quiet weight of care in every motion.
He shakes his head quickly, blinking. Not here. Not now.
The party is bright, louder than he expected. The scent of the obviously spiked fruit punch mingling with the faint tang of everyone's wing oil feels like too many scents at once. Wings shimmer in every direction in an array of browns, golds, and speckled grays. His own white feathers feel conspicuous, too obvious under the lights.
“See?” Yamaguchi says, handing him a fizzy drink. “Not so bad.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, but the flutter in his chest won’t settle. Shouyou quickly takes a sip of his drink, letting the sweet taste slide down his throat.
Then he hears it, just faintly, near the snack table.
“You think they’ll let him compete this year?” someone murmurs.
“The cursed one? Hell no. Who cares if he's any good, nobody would feel safe at the competitions.”
“He's scarily dangerous,” another person adds, voice loud. “Didn’t you hear what happened to his last team? He—”
Shouyou doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he hears Yamaguchi’s voice somewhere behind him, startled.
“He didn’t do anything,” he says before thinking, his wings puffing instinctively. The motion makes him look larger, though his frame is anything but large.
The group turns.
“You’re defending him, little dove?” one of them sneers. “Don’t tell me he’s got you under his spell too.”
Shouyou straightens, heart hammering. He hates the nickname, little dove, the way it’s always said like a joke, as if the white of his feathers equates to fragility. But tonight, something in him refuses to shrink.
“You don’t know him,” he snaps. “You just want someone to hate because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared of someone who doesn’t fit your perfect little sky taking your position.”
The laughter dies quick. The boy who’d spoken first opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The room hums with murmurs of people, conversations slowly dying out as people turn to see the commotion.
Shouyou’s wings flare wider, the light catching on the pale edges until they almost glow. He knows he looks too small to be threatening, too bright among their muted tones, but maybe that’s the point. Purity isn’t the same as weakness.
Yamaguchi arrives at his side, his hand light on his arm. “Shouyou, hey—let’s go.”
But Shouyou doesn’t move. Not yet. He holds their stares, lets the silence stretch as they all squirm uncomfortably with his gaze. Smiling with fake politeness, he calmly folds his wings neatly onto his back.
“Next time you want to talk about someone,” he says quietly, “make sure you’re not the one who sounds cursed.”
Only then does he turn, brushing past them without another glance.
The whispers start again as soon as he’s gone, sharp and breathless, but they don’t touch him this time.
Outside, the night hits cool against his face, grounding. He exhales, watching his breath bloom white under the lamps as he unfurls his wings, trembling faintly; though not from fear, but from the echo of adrenaline.
Yamaguchi trails behind him, silent for once. When Shouyou moves ahead, his wings catch in the light again, and if Yamaguchi hadn't noticed Shouyou's scars inside the party, he surely must see them now— the thin, raised lines are obvious against the base of his wings in the moonlight.
Shouyou doesn’t explain, and Yamaguchi doesn’t ask.
He keeps walking until the music fades to nothing, until all that remains is the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of Yamaguchi walking beside him with his wings outstretched. The ache in his scar is still gone. All that’s left is the weight of his wings; his own, unhidden and unashamed.