Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    age (n./v.)

1.     to grow, to become mature.  
2.     a period of the human life. 

Once when he was younger, he had gotten lost in the shopping mall and he had thought he was going to die. All around him were elevators and strangers and lights that seemed to think nothing of his fear. He had been ready to level the whole world just to find her again.

The world back then being a bookstore in a shopping mall in a city on an island in the middle of the sea.

It’s weird how you grow up without noticing.

He brushes his fingertips against the hair on the back of his neck, trying to figure out when he had stopped fearing the world outside. He feels like he’s in a monstrous world now.

It’s an unpleasant feeling and he shifts from one foot to the other, scanning the crowds as if she’ll appear just because he wishes it so.

And then, with a flash of childish relief, he sees her, and the flood of familiarity makes him breathless for just a second. She has new lines on her face, or maybe she’s always had them and he just never noticed, but he recognizes her instantly. She tiptoes, holding her hat to her head as she searches for him. And then she turns and he raises a hand to greet her and everything in her face grows light.

The tightness in his chest gets a little worse.

It feels like the moment she had passed the end of the aisle and her expression broke into relief and she had scooped him up into his arms like she wasn’t ever going to let him go again.
He catches himself smiling and he pushes his way through the crowd towards her. As soon as he’s near she murmurs a small “hey there,” and spreads her arms wide, beckoning him into a hug. He could swear her eyes are a little watery, and he wants to ask if she’s worried he had gotten lost somewhere, but he doesn’t.

But he doesn’t.

He has to stoop to reach her height, but somehow he still feels tiny in her arms, her fingers petting down his hair like he’s four years old. “Congratulations,” she whispers into his ear, and he has to fight a sudden, strange tightness in his throat.

Of all days to cry. Today’s the day even the government has decided he’s an adult; he ought to be better at keeping his shit together, right?

She’s holding him so fiercely part of him thinks she’s not going to ever let go. And then she does, only to look at him from arm’s length, her eyes dry and her expression wry. “Is it just me or are you getting more handsome?”

“Just you,” he pushes his bangs aside absently, but he takes her hand gently and protects her as he guides her out of the way of the crowd. Tobio’s careful to stand beside her so he blocks the brunt of the traffic. She seems not to notice though, her gaze directed out over the crowd, her eyes light beneath the brim of her hat. “Everyone looks so beautiful,” she says wonderingly, her attention fixed on the red and gold dresses, the heavy furred kimono, the elaborate hairpieces. Without looking, her hand finds Tobio’s arm and she slides her hand through his elbow, like she’s trying to anchor herself to something.

“Are you hungry?” he studies her. “Or tired?”

“Mmm,” she seems enraptured by it all, but then she eventually turns back to him and tilts her head thoughtfully. “You don’t want to go celebrate with your friends? You’re officially adults now, after all.”
He shakes his head immediately. “I told them you were coming for the ceremony.” When she keeps staring at him, he adds, “they’re probably spending the day with their family too. Most of them are from Kyoto.”
He can’t tell if she believes him or not, but she nods, smiling slightly at him. “Shall we do a late lunch then? Do you have any recommendations?”

Tobio has to be careful to keep from getting too excited, because yes, actually, I do. He had to ask Oikawa for help, but it was worth it. “Yeah,” he says neutrally, purposefully, tucking a little sheet of paper back into his breast pocket, “this way.”

His mother keeps her hand on his arm. “Is this the only day off you have?”

“Practice was cancelled today for seijin no hi, but it starts again tomorrow.”

“I see. And I realize this isn’t as important as practice, but what about classes?” she asks wryly.

Tobio feels a flush, but he stubbornly refuses to meet her eye. “No classes tomorrow. And then I’m off early on Wednesday.” He changes the subject. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Oh no, I’m easy to please.”

He returns her stare at her until she breaks down.

“Well maybe I’d like to see the bamboo forest? Or if there are any nice teahouses? You really don’t mind spending your days off with me?”

“I want to,” is all he says, leading her down an alleyway. For one thing, it’s the first time anyone’s visited him in Kyoto, so he’s particularly excited at practicing being a good host and showing them all the sights. He wants stars in their eyes. More importantly though, it’s his mother, and even though he’s seen her only a couple weeks ago back at home, having her come down for his Coming of Age Day is a gift he’s not going to waste.

And maybe a small part of him wants to practice being a proper tour guide, just in case.

“Right here,” he beckons to her, holding aside the drapes over the entrance with one hand, and then pushing open the door to the izakaya open with the other arm. She murmurs a thank you as she ducks under his arm, and then he hurries to shut the door behind him and take her coat before she can start to take it off herself.

It’s a cramped little room, that smells heavily of oil and fish. But the interior is clean and the seats are all positioned invitingly. He follows his mother to a couple of seats at the counter after hanging up their coats on hangers left on the wall.

“Welcome! I’ll be right with you!” comes a cheery call from inside, as they take their seats at an open table.

His mother seems enchanted with the atmosphere, poring over an odd-looking wooden mask that’s propped up at the end of their table as decoration. “How’d you find this place?”

“Suggested by someone on my team,” he says truthfully. “He comes here every week or something.”

“Welcome, welcome!” The voice belongs to a kind-looking woman, her pink apron somehow perfectly in place with the decor. She sets down two small glasses of water in front of them, then recognition lights up her eyes as she takes in his suit and neatly-combed hair. “Oh! You must be Tooru-kun’s friend! Tobio-chan, was it?”

He stiffens up, pretending not to hear his mother’s snort of laughter. “Oikawa-san said your food is really good.”

The woman blushes, waving him away with a hand. “This is your mother then? Just call me Hanako.” Even as she speaks she bustles around the kitchen, hardly stopping as she sets clay plates and paper chopsticks in front of the two of them.

To his astonishment, his mother seems perfectly at ease in all this. “Only if you call me Aya,” she returns cheerfully and Hanako beams at her. He’s only ever imagined his mother in the context of his childhood--taking him to volleyball games, standing with the other parents during sports festivals, waving at him from the gate of the day care. Something about this woman sitting next to him is different.

He can’t decide if it’s a new haircut, or if it’s the difference in scenery, or if it’s something in himself that’s changed too. But the tightness in his chest starts to unwind and he feels a little more twenty years old, a little less nineteen.

Hanako sets two matching cups down on the counter, then produces a frosted bottle of something clear. “On the house,” she winks, pouring them each a cup. “To celebrate Tobio-chan’s coming of age day.”

“Oh!” His mother claps her hands, looking delighted. “That’s so generous!”

“Kaa-san, do you even drink?”

She only slides him a smile.

“Of course, of course. Drink up. That’s special umeshu. Homemade, you know.” She stoppers up the bottle again, storing it away someplace behind the bar that Tobio can’t see. And then she gestures to him, urging him to pick up his cup like his mother.

From above his rim, he watches his mother take a drink first. Then her eyes widen and she licks her lips. “Oh, this is delicious! You said it’s homemade?”

While the women talk, Tobio sniffs his drink, then presses the rim against his lips and takes a careful sip. The first note is sharp and strong, but the second is almost fruity, a sweet flavor spreading across his tongue.

He looks up to find both women staring at him, Hanako looking knowing, his mother looking like she’s ready to laugh.

“How is it?”

He swallows first, licking his lips. “May I have another?”

*****

    midnight (n.)

1.     the best time for snacks, secrets. 
2.     when souls are most talkative and honest. 

“Niichan?”

He startles so bad he nearly falls out of his chair, just barely catching himself on the edge of his desk. “Natsu!” He shortens his voice into a whisper. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Can I sleep with you, Niichan?”

“Here?”

“Mhmm.”

“I guess.” He covers the papers on his desk with an arm, as if afraid she can see his thoughts.

“Yay!” Immediately, she throws herself onto his bed, burying herself in his blankets. And then she peers up at him, eyes bright in the light from the hallway shining through the slit in the door. “Whatcha doin’?

He fumbles around for a textbook he knows he has somewhere. “Studying,” he says, then changes the subject. “How am I supposed to sleep if you’re taking up all the space?”

Natsu lies back down, squirming as she burrows deeper, making herself a permanent fixture. He has to admit: the princess star blankets suit her a little better than they do him. “I’m making myself tiny.”

“I don’t think you can make yourself tiny.”

“You’re tiny, I’m tiny. It’s okay,” she says, matter of factly. “You already said I could.”

It’s true. He did. He folds up the half-finished letter on his desk, sliding it into his backpack on the floor. Then he unfolds himself from his desk chair and shuffles to his bed with careful steps to avoid stepping on the crap he’s still got thrown around his room.

“Mama said you have to pack,” she says, watching him dig around in a pile of clean clothes for a blanket. “She’s gonna beat you up.”

“Don’t tell Ma then. Move over. Lift your--lift your butt, Natsu, I’m trynna get the blanket.” He huffs as he flaps it out, then lays it over her, and kneels on the mattress as he tucks it under her body, wrapping her up like a cocoon. “Good?”

“Good!” she says and he shushes her with a stifled laugh, flopping onto the bed himself with a contented sigh. “What about your blanket, Niichan?”

He rolls over, fumbling around for a blanket amongst the piles of clean laundry on the floor. He recognizes a blanket by touch and he pulls it out, gently at first, then in one sharp yank, upsetting all the piles of clothes his mom folded for him.

Immediately, Natsu snuggles closer to him, scooting close like a little worm with her arms pinned under the blankets.

“Ouch,” he mutters, as she kicks him in the shin. “Aren’t you too old for this?”

“Never,” she says, with utmost seriousness.

Obediently, he holds himself still, letting her make herself comfortable first, curling into a ball with her warm breath against his collarbone and her knees bumping his stomach. Then he gently eases into the spaces she’s left for him, tension flooding out of his body.

It’s so immediately nostalgic, even though it’s been like four years since the last time she slept in his room, that he’s struck with this sudden urge to cry. She had slept with him every night after the move, sneaking into his room and pulling at his covers until he woke up and let her crawl in next to him. And then she had stopped, when she started school and made her friends and their definition of home finally changed.

Now his definition is changing again, and he not sure at all where it’s going.

With a muffled grunt, he pulls his blanket up over her head, hugging her tightly against his chest.

“Niichan!” Natsu protests, noisily, fighting her way out of his arms.

“What’s up? I’m sleeping.” His voice is a sleepy grumble.

“Niichan!” She pops up through the blanket at the top with a loud inhale, blowing in his face, her arms still pinned in the blanket against her side.

“Yes?” he asks innocently, and he pokes her in the side until she’s laughing, fighting to keep her gigglefit quiet while he does nothing to help.

“Niichan! Niichan, stop! Stop!” She fights one arm free of the sheets and uses it to push him away.

“Shhh,” he murmurs again, like it wasn’t his fault in the first place. “Ma’s gonna wake up.”

“You!” she says, exasperated. He’s a little certain that the elbow he gets in his stomach was on purpose, but he lets it go. “Fine.” It takes another minute for her to get settled again. Kicking out the blankets, fluffing up (his) pillow, forcing him to the very edge of the bed as she balls herself up again.

“Good?” he asks, after a while, and he takes her non-reply as answer.

He’s going back to school soon, which means there are probably things he ought to be saying. Like good advice from an older bro, or how to survive the parents while he’s gone, or how much he’ll miss her and how he’ll promise to call. But he can see her cheeks and her eyelashes, dusted with light from the hallway lamp, and he doesn’t have the heart to disturb her.

Instead he whispers, “bathroom,” and pats her hair with his fingers. And then he pushes himself out of bed, tiptoeing around the mess he’s not going to think about until tomorrow, sliding out the door and closing it behind him as quietly as he can.

“Shouyou?”

He jumps badly. “K-Kaachan--” and then he traps the word before he can make any more noise. He points at his door, whispering, “Shh--Nacchan’s sleeping.”

His mom beckons him from the end of the hall and he follows, avoiding the creaky panels with measured steps. Automatically her arms open, and automatically, Shouyou falls into them, not that he knows why. Just that mothers are polarizing creatures. “She did say she was going to sneak into your room,” his mother murmurs absently, touching down the hair curling around his ear.

And then she pushes him back, holding him at arm’s length and squinting at his silhouette in the dark.

He can see a critical expression on her face, but before he can ask she interrupts: “Hungry?”

He grins. “I can eat.”

“Of course you can,” she gives him a slap on the shoulder, leading the way into the kitchen.

“Midnight snack or something? Do you do this every night?”

“Not every night.”

“Oh, then you didn’t like dinner either?”

“Watch it you.”

He laughs.

“It’s an excuse to spend some extra time with you, of course.”

That makes his laughter stop, only because it sits pleasantly in his chest, all tingly and warm. He’s been feeling like that a lot lately, but his mother’s brand of affection and Kageyama’s are still entirely different things.

Shouyou scoots his butt onto the counter, watching as she rummages around in the dark. “Lights?”

“No need. What do you want, chips or chocolate?”

“Chips.” He catches the bag that’s tossed his way, and then she settles herself against the counter opposite him. There’s a lot of noisy rustling as they open their snacks.

“Oh I shouldn’t need to tell you but--”

“--don’t tell Dad, I know.”

“Mhmm. I suppose university is really working for you.” She eats her second piece more slowly, the almond inside crunching. It’s quiet for a moment save for the sound of their chewing, the bag crinkling in Shouyou’s hands. “I don’t like this.” He can feel her watching him. “It’s going to be so lonely again without my favorite son.”

Shouyou laughs. “I’m your only son.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re my favorite, isn’t it?” She smiles as she says it, just as she always does, and he feels a sense of warm affection spread through him.

“I can come back and visit every weekend if you’re going to be that sad.”

“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want that.”

Shouyou pretends to be hurt. “I thought you said you were going to be lonely without me.”

“Of course I will. But I’ll survive, and you have things to do, places to see, things to learn.” She waves a hand. “You are learning things, aren’t you?”

“Of course!” he splutters, insulted.

His mother is unperturbed, hushing him almost reflexively, speaking around the chocolate in her mouth. “Sometimes I thought you only wanted to visit Baachan’s because you wanted to roll in the dirt. And now look at this, we’re paying for you to learn how to do it professionally.” She sighs dramatically.

“Only my rooming,” he reminds her. “I have a scholarship, remember?”

“To fling yourself across a court and whack a ball around. Of course. How could I forget?” He listens to the smile in her voice.

“Ma,” he makes sure to hit the right note of petulance in his voice.

Laughing, she sets her box of chocolates down on the counter and moves to stand in front of him. Her hands are cool on his cheeks, and he swallows his mouthful, tilting his head into her palm, letting her brush the tips of her fingers through the curls of his hair.

“Shouchan, are you happy?”

“With volleyball?” He doesn’t even need to think. “Of course.”

She shakes her head, looking more serious than he feels. “With everything.”

“University? Or life or something?”

“Everything,” she repeats very seriously, and he starts to wonder if this is an interrogation with the way she studies his expressions carefully.

But he doesn’t complain, only taking the question and considering it obediently. He is happy, is the most automatic response, because he’s always been happy. Not blindingly, of course; not like he can smile when he fails a test and laugh when Igarashi’s breathing flames in his direction, but happy in a softer way. In the way that knows tomorrow is an impossibility come true.

Unbidden, he thinks of Kageyama, and he smiles.

It’s his answer.

His mother smiles back at that, her thumb brushing the side of his nose. “You should always do what you want, alright?”

He laughs, “I thought you complain about me doing that.”

“That darn hypocrisy.” There’s a trace of a smile, but she gives his head a little shake with her hands, making him laugh. “We like to pretend you’re all a lot of trouble, but we like our bull-headed boys.”

“‘We’?”

“Mothers universal.”

“Then I’ll be the bulliest-headiest boy ever.”

Her own laugh is a whisper. “Oh Shouchan,” she sighs his name like a lullaby, “precious boy.”

He can feel her breath as she sighs, but every word she speaks is affectionate and proud and Shouyou’s throat gets a little sore with the effort it takes not to cry. Every time.

She rises up on her tiptoes, and he bends for her, letting her kiss his forehead. Automatically, he’s four years old again, but when he covers her hand with one of his own, her fingers feel so small under his and he wonders how long that’s been the case.

“Good,” she says as she settles herself back on her feet. Her hands are still on either side of his head and his back starts to hurt with the effort it takes to lean down. “Good,” she repeats, more warmly, and she pats his cheeks gently as she finally lets him go. “Are you already packed?”

“Of course,” he know it sounds like a lie, and it is, but he has to clear his throat to get the lump out of it. “Are you going to sleep?”

“I think so. Don’t stay up too late, y’hear?”

“Mhmm.”

His chest suddenly aches, thinking of all the nights he misses this while he’s away. He’s missed this sort of easy love. Simple, unselfish, endless love. He’s missed this feeling. Suddenly, he braces his palms against the counter, leaning forward with the intention of saying something meaningful and important. Things he’s never realized before, things he’s never said, secrets that he’s kept with him for so long he doesn’t even know how to bring them to life.

But then she waves at him one last time from the doorway, and says “goodnight,” in her sleepy, yawning voice, and all the words seem useless.

He smiles back, “Night, Kaachan.”

*****

    to learn (v.)

1.     to acquire knowledge, skill, by study, instruction, experience.
2.     to discover.

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa sings from the other side of the court, one finger levelled at him, “this one is coming for you!”

“Stop flirting, Oikawa, and just serve the damn ball,” Niiyama snaps.

Tobio tunes out the bickering, already used to it. Five years later and Oikawa hasn’t changed much. He only gives his attention to Oikawa enough so that he can read the angle of his body, the height of his jump, the arc of his arm, and then his own body is moving, adjusting to the serve incoming.

“Nice!” someone on his side calls out, but Tobio’s moving again, calling out for a toss.

“Left!” he calls--he chases the afterimage of a small, orange back--and jumps, feeling his palm connect hard with the ball. It slams down another point before he even drops to the ground, and he clenches his fist only for a second before he’s being tackled, someone forcing down his head as they ruffle their fingers through his hair.

“Nice one,” he hears their captain’s voice and Tobio tries to keep from grinning. “Maybe we actually can leave the team in your Tobio-chan’s hands, Oikawa?”

Across the court, Oikawa’s expression is as hard to read as ever. But then he meets Tobio’s eyes and puts a smile on. “Maybe,” he says, loftily, and turns away. “Alright, freshmen clean up quick so I can make it in time for my date tonight, everyone.”

“Kageyama-senpai,” a voice interrupts his thoughts. “Coach is calling you.”

He glances up, startled at first to find somebody’s still here, recognizing vaguely a first year on the second string. When their gazes meet, the boy flinches and looks away quickly, but Tobio doesn’t dwell on it.

Instead he nods, only to show he’s heard. “Thanks.”

He unwinds the tape from his fingers little by little, rewinding it in reverse on his opposite hand. There’s something satisfying about the faint tingles as his blood flows back into his fingertips; it feels like he’s still hitting the ball and it makes it easier to relieve the last few plays of the game.

He could fix up his speed and his approach, and there was a moment of hesitation with the setter that he ought to try iron out. Not to mention he nearly hadn’t been able to change direction. Flexibility then, or perhaps some exercises to work on striking to the inner line.

“Y-yeah,” the boy stammers, and then he backs out quickly, leaving Tobio alone again in the room.

Left alone again, Tobio pulls a shirt over his head quickly and stuffs everything else into his bag, pulling it onto his shoulder as he slams his locker behind him. He leaves the locker room behind, striding down the hall until he reaches the door marked ‘Volleyball Club’ and knocks as he pushes it open.

“Oh, Kageyama,” his coach half-rises as he enters, then sinks back down and waves a hand at one of the open seats on the opposite side of his desk. “Come, sit, sit. You know why I wanted to talk to you?”

Tobio sits. “I messed up during the second game--”

Their coach interrupts him with a laugh. “If I spoke one on one to someone every time they messed up a serve, I’d have no time for anything else. Come on now, can’t you guess?”

Tobio stares blankly back.

“Alright. So,” he clasps his fingers together in front of him, “I understand you intend to continue on to a professional league?”

Tobio sits a little straighter, leaning forward in his seat. “Yes, sir.”

“Will you tryout?”

“If I don’t get recruited before summer--before I’m a third year I mean.” He already knows his timeline is ridiculous, but he can’t help disliking the thought of anyone telling him he can’t before he even begins.
Hinata would be pissed if he was anything else.

His coach laughs, “You have this all planned out then?”

Tobio tries to decide how much can be divulged. Eventually he settles on the plainest truth. “I want to make the team before I graduate.”

“And you will graduate?”

“Y-yes,” he says stiffly.

Coach snorts, “I’ll believe you when you bring up that math grade.”

“Y-yes, sir,” he mumbles.

“Anyway, you said, ‘the team’? So you already have one in mind?”

It doesn’t even occur to him to lie about this. “The national team.”

“Oh.” Coach stares at him for a beat too long and Tobio tilts his head.

“Oh,” he echoes.

“Are you--no. Of course, you are. Okay. Hold on--” he presses his hand against his forehead, “I need to rethink this a bit.”

Tobio waits obediently, until he starts to think that their coach isn’t going to say anything at all, and then he asks, carefully, “Coach?”

“Okay,” the man sits up straight again. “So national team is our goal.”

Our goal, Tobio lets that run in his head. He watches as the coach sits up, reaching for an already-opened envelope sitting in his tray of paperwork. When he’s nodded at, Tobio reaches over and accepts it.

“Go on,” he chews his thumb pensively, “read it.”

The paper crinkles as he shuffles it out of the envelope, and then again as he unfolds it, feeling the wrinkles under his thumb where Coach had opened it the first time. He reads. And then he glances up sharply and the man gives him an encouraging nod, and Tobio leans back over the letter, this time trying his best to read it as carefully as he can, as if the words are playing tricks on him.

“What do you think?”

He looks up, his eyes wide. “Is this for real?”

His coach blinks at him, “Why would I joke about this?” Tobio tries to think of an answer, but the man cuts him off. “Alright, don’t answer that. Answer my other question: what do you think?”

“Of trying out?”

“Well yeah. Do you have a team you want to play for?”

He shakes his head, “As long as I can play.”

“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes his chin. “Next practice, you’ll be starting then. Recruiters will be there, so no fooling around.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Kageyama.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, I’ll let you know again then if anything else comes up for you, but for now, at least know you have this to fall back on.”

He manages to make it sound like a dismissal and Tobio gets to his feet, folding the letter up in his hands and stuffing it back into its envelope hurriedly. He makes to hand it back.

“No, keep it.” The coach waves it away, “I doubt it’ll be the last.”

*****

    sunset (n.)

1.     the close, or final stage of any period. 

“I thought fourth year was supposed to be your busiest time, Shou-chan.”

Shouyou looks up from the garden, streaks of dirt running down his cheek. “It is. Whatcha mean?”

“Well it’s been just so long since you visited, I thought I wouldn’t get to see my grandson until I had a fall or some sort like that.”

He hops to his feet immediately, expression twisted up. “Baa-chan, don’t say stuff like that! Hurry, find some wood, knock on wood!” He scrambles through his tools, looking for a shovel or something with a wooden handle.

The old woman interrupts him with a sharp rap of her knuckles against the wall she’s leaning on, “Shou-chan, my entire house is wooden. My lord, what are they teaching you there in university?”

“Baa-chan, it’s not funny! You’re not allowed to get falling or getting hurt. Okay? No getting hurt or sick,” he repeats himself firmly, brandishing his shovel like a rulerstick and a lecture.

Just to pacify him, she nods and crosses a finger over her heart, but her smile is somewhat reassuring. “Would you happen to have a remedy for old age in that garden of yours, Shou-chan? I’d like to avoid that too.”

Against the better part of him that still worries regardless, he catches himself laughing.

“Maybe something for your Jii-chan’s farting, while you’re at it.”

Shouyou abruptly stops laughing. “Actually! Peppermint tea helps out with bloating and gas, you can always try that. I planted it to help grow your zucchinis. It’ll probably keep those bugs away that you were talking about. If you pick some and steep it--”

“Alright,” she waves him into silence, “Come in and tell us over dinner instead. Are you hungry?”

Shouyou pulls off his wide-brimmed hat, wiping his face with an already dirty towel. “Starving,” he admits, and peels his gardening gloves off one by one. “You guys can start eating! I’ll go wash up!”

“We’ll wait,” she calls after him, “but hurry! Your grandfather wants to eat the table setting already.”

“Oh! You know what? Actually, cornflowers are edible if you--”

“Hurry,” she repeats, and he snaps off a salute, gathering up his tools and trotting down the stone steps away from the house to the garden shed by the edge of the trees. A heavy musty smell hits him as he pushes open the door, but he props it open with a flower pot and lets the dust motes pour out into the fading sunlight. That’s the same light that illuminates his hands through the window as he dumps everything into the rusted sink and runs the water, washing his tools, his hands, the dirt on his face.

And then he hears his name, Natsu’s clear voice ringing out down to him. He shuts off the faucet, cold water dripping from his chin.

“Niichan!”

“What?” He pads to the door, drying his face with his shirt.

“Niichan! The sun’s setting!”

“What?” He trots to the door, drying his face on his shirt.

“The sunset!” She yells back, and he gasps, dashing back to the sink and ignoring the water dripping down his shirt.

Hurriedly, he sweeps everything into a bucket and drops that by the door as he leaves, pushing the flowerpot back into place and letting the shed door bang shut behind him with a rusty creak.

He takes the steps two at a time, his bare feet slapping on the smooth stones, and then he reaches the top, almost collapsing when he reaches the top. Natsu stands a few feet away from the edge, staring at him expectantly.

Without missing a beat, he crouches and lets her climb onto his shoulders, the two of them facing the house, away from the steps.

“Ready?” he asks, a little breathlessly.

“Ready,” she pats the top of his head. “You’ve got dirt on your face by the way.”

“I’ll get it later,” he replies, and then they both close their eyes--he can feel her hands holding on more tightly beneath his chin--and he turns around, feeling out the edge of the first step with his toes.

“One.” -- He counts in a singsong voice.

“Two!” -- Natsu chimes back.

“Three.” -- They open their eyes together and Natsu’s gasp above him captures all his feelings and the sudden tightness in his chest.

Above them, the sky slopes from blue to red to orange, the clouds stumbling low over the sky in another spectrum of bright color. And when the little village he grew up in starts to glow with little lights, twinkling on one by one, he feels like a king and this his world.

He imagines the wind tugging at his clothes is just for him, calling, asking, begging him to fly.

And then Natsu nudges him in the ribs with her heel and he blinks like he’s waking up. “Don’t drop me, Niichan,” she warns, and he hums a reply, too busy trying to press all of this into his memory so that he can tell it to Kageyama again at some point.

He only realizes he’s stopped breathing when his lungs start to protest, and then it takes him another moment to remember how to work them, inhaling quietly until he feels less lightheaded.

“Okay,” he breathes out, “Let’s go to dinner.”

He turns back around, bending over until Natsu can step off his shoulders. “Niichan, don’t forget the dirt on your face--”

“Oh, right.” He finds a damp spot on his shirt and scrubs at the mark until his cheek feels raw, trotting after his sister into the house. “Sorry for the wait,” he says as he drops into his seat.

“Nice sunset?”

Shouyou pauses scooping rice and then doling them out in bowls.

“Eight outta ten,” she judges.

“I’d say ten,” Shouyou amends, and Natsu shakes her head.

“No no, definitely eight.”

“Solid nine.”

“Eight,” she insists, shoveling food into her mouth with her chopsticks held in her fist. "But it is better now that Niichan's taller."

“Solid ten,” Shouyou tells his grandparents, and Baachan smiles indulgently at them both as she sips from a cup of tea.

“Strange tradition, that,” Jiichan adds, and Shouyou’s inclined to argue, but he doesn’t.

It sits inside him. The feeling of the wind at his back, the quiet of the whole world spreading out beneath him, and somewhere between the dawning black and the fading red, that exact shade of blue that’s his, all his. 

*****

    honeymoon stage (n.)

1.     oh, bliss. 

“Kageyama Tobio.”

He says his whole name like a fact, but Tobio isn’t sure whether or not he’s supposed to nod like ‘yes, that’s my name’ or greet him back.

“Ushijima-san,” he finally says, throwing in a little bow just because even if he doesn’t love the guy, he recognizes him. Like a good contribution to the sport. Doing something for them all. Certainly playing on one of the top teams of the international league counted as “a contribution”.

Then there’s a moment of silence, the two of them regarding each other quietly. It’s not like Kageyama can ask what he’s been up to, because the name Ushijima Wakatoshi is synonymous with the word volleyball, plastered on every magazine, heralded as the new great ace of Japan’s national team. How could he not know what he’s been up to? A little jealousy rises up in him; Hinata is a better ace. 

For a single moment, Tobio wishes Hinata were there beside him, because Hinata had done the talking the last time they were facing off like this and Tobio wants to let him do it this time too. 

But then Ushijima bows a second time. He gives a small nod as he passes, and Tobio watches him go and rejoin the few members of the first string that came to watch the tryouts.

In turn, he shoulders his bag and heads in the other direction, pushing through the double doors and squinting his eyes closed against the bright light outside.

“Kageyama!”

He shields his eyes with a hand, but only catches a blur of motion before something’s tackling him around the middle, nearly driving him straight into the wall.

“How’d it go? How was it??” Hinata barely lets him pick himself up. “Did you do well? Did you show them your serve? What team are you going to be on?”

Tobio pushes him back with one hand, a physical defense to Hinata’s exuberance. “Watch it,” he grumbles, but it’s only half-hearted, because Hinata’s enthusiasm is infectious and sweet and surprise—who would actually mind Hinata fawning over them like this? It's just a pity his timing was so off. He would have shown Hinata off, volleyball or no. 

“Did you set? How did they run the tryouts?” Hinata grabs his wrist and from there his fingers slide down, tapping against Tobio’s palm, inches, centimeters, milimeters away from twisting between his. He asks very seriously, “Was there anyone as good as me?”

Tobio shrinks the gap himself. He shakes his head. “There was a guy who was a little better at--” He gets a fast punch in the stomach that leaves him doubled over and breathing hard. “You didn’t let me finish,” he wheezes.

“I’m sorry--what were you about to say?”

“He was better at receives,” he catches his breath with some difficulty, “but you’re still the best. For me,” he adds the last bit, not wanting Hinata to get too large a head. “Besides, everyone is better than you at receives.” He eyes Hinata’s fist warily.

But instead of retorting like Tobio expects, Hinata only makes a small humming sound and looks away, almost absently patting Tobio’s back to help him recover.

“Hinata?”

“Mm?” He turns around, his gaze taking a moment to center on Tobio. He seems to realize he’s been weird, cause he tilts his head and tries to play it off. “What?”

“Are you…” Tobio frowns, trying to decide the right word. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Tobio’s eyes narrow suspiciously. That was almost immediate, but there was a pause, a moment of indecision, something swallowed and unsaid. “Hinata.”

“What?” Hinata tilts his head to the side, his voice kept light. 

He studies Hinata for a second longer, and then gives in, tousling a hand through his hair, slightly stiff from sweat. He should have showered, but Hinata had said he was coming and Tobio hadn’t wanted to make him wait. “What do you want to do?”

Hinata looks relieved, just for a second. “I’m starving. Are you?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“Okay good. My favorite ramen place is opening a new branch by your house! Do you wanna go?” He smirks, “Does your diet allow ramen?”

Tobio frowns, “I can eat whatever I want.”

“You just choose to only eat pasta and drink milk.”

“Do you want ramen or not?”

Hinata laughs, jumping onto Tobio’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Yes please!” He kisses Tobio’s cheek, “Please take me to eat ramen. Also please pay for me, I get my paycheck at the end of the week.”

“Only cause I did well in tryouts,” he gives in all reluctantly like, and if Hinata can see through him, he doesn’t say so. 

*****

    to bare (v.)

1.     unconcealed, undisguised. 
2.     as in, to bare the truth, to be honest, even when it's terrifying. 

“Just say it.”

“But it’s...not a good thing.”

“So? Just say it anyway.”

Honest to a fault, really. Shouyou bites his lip, gazing at the calendar above his desk. Dates and reminders scrawled all over its pages, smeared in some places where his hand was too hasty. Near the bottom, he has the whole week circled nearly a thousand times, marked with ideas and plans and every single spot he’s ever thought ‘I wish Kageyama were here to see this’.

He wants to get this out into the open before Kageyama comes, because he’s not sure he can handle seeing Kageyama’s reaction in person.

“You don’t want to live with me later?”

“I do!”

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“Kageyama, that’s just—”

“Then do you not like me anymore?”

“No!” Shouyou says immediately, horrified to even hear the words in that order and in that tone. He’s not sure if he imagines it, but on the other end of the line there’s a sigh of relief and he grips the phone tightly, mind leaping to some romantic gesture that he can use to convince him otherwise.

Kageyama speaks before he can. “Then there’s nothing you can say that would bother me.”

Shouyou’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse, because how can Kageyama make such a decision when he doesn’t even know what’s coming? He makes a small sound, just to say he’s still there, even though now he feels guilty just because he’s been dragging it out for too long. He keeps dancing around the truth, and he can sense Kageyama on the other end of the line growing impatient.

Finally, he forces himself to take a breath like he’s about to speak, hoping it’ll loosen his tongue. “I—” he starts, and stops, and he can half hear Kageyama’s voice. Let’s break up then. It withers his heart inside his chest and all of a sudden he wants to cry, which only makes him feel even worse.

“Hinata,” Kageyama’s voice is softer now. “It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is the gentlest Shouyou’s ever heard, “you don’t have to say it if you don’t want to.”

For whatever reason, it makes him feel stronger. He pinches his nose and says in a nasally voice, “I’m not sure I’m going to keep playing after we graduate,” so quickly that some of his words blend together.

“Keep playing...” The longest pause in the world, “...volleyball? You’re going to quit?” There’s disbelief written between every word. “Hinata, are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t—” he struggles, and his voice sounds strangled, “I wouldn’t joke about this.”

And it’s true, he wouldn’t. Volleyball has always been his first love. The thought of losing it fills him with an almost sort of dread and sometimes over the last few days, he’s found himself wishing he could go back in time. But then he thinks that maybe that’s just nostalgia, that maybe it’s just a different sort of love.

He doesn’t know quite when it’s happened himself. What he does know is sometimes he misses a practice because he’s studying for this final or this test or when he needs to take care of something for his garden and somehow, somewhere, he woke up one day and thought, with an alien feeling, that it wasn’t the end of the world.

He also doesn’t know how to say any of this, not to Kageyama.

There’s another echoing silence, and then the inevitable question. “Why?”

“Because…” Shouyou catches himself drumming his foot against the ground and he pushes a hand against his knee to make himself stop. “Because I don’t know. I don’t have time.”

“You can just make time, can’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t make another excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he snaps back, a little too defensively. He pinches his nose again since it seemed to work the first time. “I’m just busy with other stuff. That-that I like doing a lot.” He releases his nose once it gets hard to breathe, trying to get air back into his lungs and keep talking before Kageyama can interrupt him. “And I still like—no, I still love playing—really—but I’m—”

Not a kid anymore.

Okay not being the greatest volleyball player in the world.

“Busy,” Kageyama says stiffly.

“...Right.” He wants to deny it, but it’s true. If the days were a hundred hours long, he’d never stop playing until the day he died. But he thinks of his team, of Kyoei. Of catching the first bus up the mountain just to get to campus, of watching the gym lights flicker on while the snow falls outside. He thinks of the way the heaters hum, how their shoes squeak, the sleepy unfurling of nets and stretching of muscles. That’s what volleyball is to him now. The ritual.

He thinks of Karasuno, of Kageyama. Of breath unfurling in plumes of smoke, of the need to run. Time passing so incessantly that he feels like he blinks and they were all over. Something aches in his chest in an old, almost forgotten way. He wants to feel like that again when he plays, that’s what he wants. A part of him would give anything for it.

But then another part softly says that he’s just as happy where he is now. That he’d rather have it exactly like this, on the phone with his boyfriend a week before he comes to visit, flowers and ferns tacked to his walls, the world muffled outside with snow.

Kageyama sighs on the other end of the line. Cloth rustles through the phone and Shouyou sits still, listening hard, trying to scratch an image out of these soft sounds. Is he getting dressed? Is he going out? Is he getting into bed?

“Are you still there?” He asks, scratching his ankle with his toe anxiously.

“Yeah.”

That’s all. Just ‘yeah’.

He picks at a callus on his heel.

“...And?” he prompts, cautiously.

“And what?”

Shouyou resists the urge to smack his forehead with his palm.

“Kageyama,” he begs, “you can’t just stop talking.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks. Shouyou recoils from the words, but Kageyama’s tone is frank and weaponless. “Am I supposed to try and make you change your mind?”

“N-no. Does that mean…are you okay with it?”

“Okay with it—no, dumbass. Why would I be okay with it?” Kageyama snorts, and Shouyou gets the distinct vision of his boyfriend rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, brows furrowed.

“Oh. Right, right.” he replies, chastened.

“But okay, I guess. Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No. Uh, yes. But I still-I still want to talk to you. Unless you’re mad—”

“Stop telling me I’m supposed to be mad,” he snaps, voice low and irritated. “I’m not mad.”

“You sound sorta mad.”

“I’m not mad!” He controls himself. “Stop saying I’m mad. I’m not. I’m just-I have to get used to it.”

*****

    home (n.)

1.     a heartbeat, a soul, a smile. 

This time, Tobio’s on the opposite side of the gate, the one waiting to be found instead of the other way around. He resists the urge to check his phone, keeping a tight fist wrapped around it in his pocket in case a message comes through, keeping his attention on the staircase, keeping an eye out for a tuft of orange hair and Hinata’s sunshine smile.

He feels even more out of place than usual, everything distinctly unfamiliar. He’s not even sure which direction he’s facing at the moment, only that he keeps getting odd looks from the people around him as they stare at the giant in their midst.

The next thing he knows, however, Hinata’s yelling his name from across the other way, cutting through the crowds and waving an entire arm at him like they do in the movies. His head pops up from among the crowd here and there, until he finally breaks free and shows no sign of stopping.

“Kageyama! Kageyama! Kageyama! You’re here!” are the first words out of his mouth, shouted in the tunnels so they echo. He forgets his self-consciousness immediately.
Tobio pushes himself off from the wall, hand on his neck. He was half expecting to see someone unrecognizable, absurd as it is. His strongest image is of Hinata in motion, in flight, arms thrown back and eyes alight. But volleyball or no, Hinata looks the same as ever, and he can’t help but smile as Hinata throws himself into a hug that nearly breaks Tobio’s bones.

“Mmmm…” Hinata’s voice is muffled against Tobio’s shirt and his chin digs into Tobio’s chest. “I can’t believe I didn’t die waiting for you to come.”

Immediately, Tobio is struck with the impulse to kiss this boy, but he restrains himself with a frustrated sigh.

“You’re talking too loud,” he murmurs instead, and he holds him just as tightly back.

When Hinata pulls back, he makes a valiant effort to lower the volume, touching a finger to his lips confidentially. They’re both faintly red as they look around carefully, and then Hinata gestures with a hand, beckoning Tobio towards the railway lines. “Want me to carry your bag for you?”

“I got it.”

Hinata takes it anyway, hauling it over his shoulder with so much force it nearly swings around and topples over a high school girl walking past. She just barely escapes with her life and Hinata trudges on, oblivious, leading the way down the stairs Tobio had been watching. They swipe their passes through the ticket gate and Tobio follows this confident, easy Hinata with mild confusion, shaken by the realization that this is Hinata’s world. 

There’s a dissonance. He already knew Hinata lived in another city, that he had friends and responsibilities and a life. It’s just odd to see the proof. To think of Hinata taking these trains every morning. Sometimes he forgets that they're living separate lives; he thinks of Hinata and it's always the boy from high school at his side, a presence that made him braver then and stronger now. The realization makes him feel distant, like an echo, and the next thing he knows, he’s reaching forward. 

To grab his bag, he thinks, but instead his hand finds Hinata’s and he squeezes it, relishing the way the shorter boy’s expression changes. First startled, then pleased. Hinata gives him a squeeze back.

And then the moment passes and their fingers drift apart. Tobio notices the way the tips of Hinata’s ears have turned pink and he feels a flush against his throat. As the train runs past and brings with it a wave of cool air, his fingers are still warm. Hot, almost. He blows gently on his fingertips as they board and Hinata automatically moves towards the door on the opposite side of the car, leaning up against the wall and settling Tobio’s bag between his legs.

And then he gestures, tapping the space against the door beside him, and Tobio fits himself in before its taken, his leg pressed against Hinata’s, their hands touching beneath their coats. Hinata grins up at him and the dissonance closes, the echo disappears, and it might as well just be the two of them on the back seat of an empty bus again for all Tobio notices of the world around him.

“Hey,” Hinata nudges him with an elbow. “You’re staring.”

Tobio leans down as if he’s about to whisper something secret and smirks as Hinata shifts, pushing himself up on his toes, one self-conscious hand on Tobio’s waist.

“What?” he asks in a soft whisper. He’s already smiling, like he’s already heard a joke.

But instead of speaking, Tobio just brushes aside a lock of bright hair and taps a kiss against Hinata’s forehead and watches, pleased with himself, as the skin turns red and Hinata drops back onto his feet and his hands become little fists in Tobio’s clothes.

“What are we going to do today?” he asks, pretending he hasn’t noticed his handiwork.

What he expects is a scuffle, Hinata trying to beat him up for doing something so embarrassing in public, but the next thing he knows, there’s a warm hand against the hot skin on the small of his back, just beneath the waistband of his pants and he starts violently, nearly knocking over the man who had the misfortune of standing next to him.

Hinata bursts into laughter, clapping his fingers over his mouth to try and stifle the sound, and then they’re both blushing, each acutely aware of others looking in their direction, but strangely fine with it, with the newness of it all, the rare novelty of being together in more ways than one.

It's almost dangerous. Sometimes, Tobio can't help but feel as if he's back in high school. He imagines that the years in between have fallen away and he keeps thinking Finally. Finally his feelings had gotten across. Finally they were together. Finally, finally, finally. He felt like it was the end to the waiting. Some sort of grand conclusion.

The thought of more, the rising of hopes, is dangerous. 

The train runs on. The buildings around them suddenly drop and then there are long, low gaps between trees, of school buildings with red roofs and white soccer fields beside wide rivers, and the houses grow lonelier, quieter, with bikes in the yard and empty glass bottles on the fences.

It empties out all of a sudden at just one stop, everyone on their car getting off, except for two old women. The women sit together in a little booth, heads together, speaking in low voices. Hinata revels in the emptiness, walking on shaky legs up and down the aisle as Tobio watches from his seat. He catches himself on the bar and spins back, while long lines of light slant across the floor.

“You’re going to fall,” Tobio says, just before the train gives a little shudder and Hinata barely catches himself in time, dropping into the seat across from him. “See? What did I tell you.”

“What are you, my mother?” Hinata rolls his eyes, letting his legs sprawl out until his toes nudge against Tobio’s shoes. “When do you leave again?”

He doesn’t want to think about it. “Wednesday.”

“What time?”

“Whenever.” He gives him a suspicious look and Tobio amends it. “By six, at the latest.”

“Twenty two...twenty three?...A hundred twenty three hours left?”

Tobio hates the sound of it. “Don’t say that. It makes it seem short.”

“Mmm. You like ‘five days’ better?”

“I don’t like any deadline,” he grumbles, and Hinata laughs, sliding across the aisle to nestle himself against Tobio’s side.

“Alright. We’ll try pretending you’re never leaving.” His hand squeezes Tobio’s briefly. And then he goes, “Oh! Oh, get ready!” Tobio finds himself pulled to the window. “Almost...almost….There! That building there, that’s my place!”

It whizzes past in a blur, a little three story apartment complex with only a handful of doors, pressed up against the rail crossing. He loves it immediately, for being Hinata's home, he hates it immediately for not being his. 

The next stop is just a wood-framed building with a post asking for tickets and no one manning the gate. They’re the only passengers to get off at this stop, and Tobio looks around, mystified by this much country in a place that’s not home. “Are we still in the city?”

“Of course,” Hinata says, twirling a hand in the air. “We were only on that train for half an hour.”

Half an hour is a long time, Tobio wants to say. Half an hour out of Kyoto is basically a new city altogether. But he doesn’t argue and he’s distracted anyway, when Hinata takes his hand and swings it between them. Their shadows flicker on the pavement before them. 

“Hinata…” Tobio says, looking around for any strangers, but the boy pays no mind.

“I’ve been waiting forever for this,” he says, voice warm. Tobio runs out of argument.

They make the five minute walk back the way they came, following the tracks, counting the trains as they pass and listening for the crossing bell. They pass beneath the tracks once, a low pedestrian walk that seems too dangerous to be allowed, and Tobio has to stand there uncomfortably, ducking his head while Hinata waits. The tracks throw slats of light on Hinata's face and dust begins to shake down on them as the bell starts its warning and still he waits for the train to come.

It roars by overhead with a thunderous sound. Tobio feels his bones shake, but he can’t take his eyes from Hinata, from the way he stands, arms held out, eyes closed, expression caught up in soundless laughter.

He’s sweating by the time they stop at the low apartment they had seen before. Its stairwell is cramped and poorly lit, but Hinata passes it by, walking through the cool shade of the entryway and down the first floor walkway to the second room from the end.

Here, Hinata pauses, turning around with his back to the door and his arms crossed in front of him.

“Are you sure,” he begins to say in a grave voice, “you’re ready for this?”

Tobio leans against the banister, fanning himself with his shirt. “Ready for what?”

“To see my home. Your home. For the next few days.”

“Do you have air conditioning?”

“No, who do you think I am? I’m a poor college student—”

“Then I’m going somewhere else.”

“Whoa wait! Come back here.” He doesn’t let go of Tobio’s arm even while he pulls open the door, twisting his body around it to get them both in. “Okay, just...just know I’m a poor college student.”

“I heard you already,” Tobio mutters. Hinata’s got three pairs of shoes lying haphazard in the doorway, but Tobio notices immediately that his volleyball shoes are resting properly against the wall, heels together, laces tied. For whatever reason, Tobio is immensely charmed by this, and he takes a moment to put his shoes together the same way, pushing them out of the way before he steps into the hallway and peers his way into the living room/bedroom/dining room/everything else. Hinata’s already there of course, having not bothered.

He throws open the curtains and the sun comes pouring in, illuminating every lift of dust so they looked like embers, sparks, fire that dances and then settles, all around his shoulders. Tobio thinks, jeez, and averts his eyes because his heart can only take so much at once.

“Where do I put my stuff?” he asks, clearing his throat carefully.

Hinata pops open the sliding door and the stale, hot air in the room grows warmer but lighter, the curtains lifting every so often with a soft breeze.

“Right this way, sir.” Hinata’s all waving hands and bowing at the waist. He takes one step back and gestures grandly around him. “Our top suite. I hope it will meet your high expectations, my Lord—”

"Don't call me that." 

He feels a smile tug his lips as he drops his duffel on the ground next to the coffee table, pulling off his backpack and dropping it on top. The table itself is already occupied, by little clusters of potted plants and a watering can.

There are more plants outside on the balcony as far as Tobio can tell. No desk, just pillows on the ground and a volleyball, settled against the wall. But there are pictures. A trio of large corkboards, studded with colorful tabs that each have a picture pinned in place. The larger two are full of notebook tear outs and polaroids, people Tobio doesn’t recognize on many of them; he doesn’t linger long on those. But the smallest one, the closest, seems to have been reserved solely for people back home. There’s one of their team, when Daichi was captain, another with Yamaguchi at the helm. Strips of purikura, Hinata and Yachi grinning up at him with cartoonish eyes. He feels a pang of nostalgia.

Tobio knows he’s hardly posed for pictures, so he’s not expecting much, but he’s surprised to see that there a multiple ones of him, though they seem to have been cobbled together, a collection of sorts. Hinata’s mother seems to have been the photographer for most; the two of them at sports festivals, or ones with Natsu tagging along. Some Tobio doesn’t even know where they’re from: him staring out the window in some car, him eating lunch where they always sat, him sleeping in the classroom, sun spilling across his back. There seems to be an entire corner of the board dedicated to Kageyama and it makes him feel funny, caught between embarrassment and amusement.

Hinata is watching him, shy smile on his face.

“What’s—” Tobio starts to say, then finds he has to clear his throat. He touches a post it note that’s been folded up, it’s writing obscured, pinned right at the edge next to the same poster Yachi had made of them in high school. “What’s this?”

“Oh, nothing. Notes from school.”

He’s so perfectly flippant about it that Tobio doesn’t inquire further. He’s careful to flatten all of the postings down again, so they don’t fall, clearing his throat again to get rid of the knot that’s somehow formed. His touch lingers on a hand-drawn volleyball. "Want to play later?" He is hopeful, but not expectant. They haven't played together since 

"Do you even need to ask?" Hinata grins. "I've been playing with the college team still and they said to let them know if we wanted a full practice match. I didn't brag exactly, but I may have let them know they might be able to play with a league one player." 

Tobio snorts, though he's secretly relieved to hear Hinata's still playing. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but then again, he doesn't know a life without volleyball. "They're opening the gym for us?" 

"Yeah, duh." Hinata circles around into the kitchen, pulling out a couple of bottles of tea that almost immediately condense when he sets them on the table. All of a sudden, Tobio watches him carefully, not sure why he's gotten the feeling Hinata's bothered by something. There's perhaps an odd cadence to his step. "Who wouldn't want the chance to play with you?" 

"What's wrong?" he asks, taking a step closer. 

Hinata looks up and laughs, but there's something guilty in the way he does it that makes Tobio's blood spike. "Nothing," he says airily. 

At once, he understands. There is a moment where they both carry those thoughts and feelings and another where they place them gently back into their boxes, replaced on dusty shelves from their youth. Neither of them have room inside for regret, but sometimes they think wishful thoughts. Tobio almost feels guilty for thinking his was the only world affected. 

It takes him a moment, but he gives a soft sigh of acceptance and is gratified to see Hinata's reflexive relief.

“Where do I sleep?” he asks instead. 

Hinata gestures at the bed with wide, innocent eyes.

“Then where do you sleep?” he asks, even though he already gets the answer.

Hinata gestures at the bed again, this time with a sly, little smirk.

He eyes the bed dubiously. “It’s the same size as a bathtub.”

“We’ll make it work,” Hinata says flippantly. “Come, look.” He leans forward and pulls Tobio by the hand, pushing him insistently until he’s sitting on the fold-out futon, back against the wall. He resists as much as he can, since he’s been traveling all day and his feet must stink, and the last thing he wants is his socks to touch his bed, but then Hinata jumps onto the mattress too and straddles Tobio’s outstretched legs and he notices with a delayed sense of time that his legs are too long for the bed in the first place.

Hinata cups his face in his hands and it’s hard to tell what's from the summer heat and what’s from the other boy’s skin and what’s just the usual flush, what Hinata’s mere presence does to him.

“Man.” He presses sweaty forehead against sweaty forehead. Tobio’s lips feel abandoned. “I can’t believe you’re finally here.”

“You said that already.” He presses his face into Hinata’s chest and breathes in, thinking maybe he can’t believe it either.

“Yeah, well.” Hinata hugs Tobio’s head to his chest and his narrow chin rests uncomfortably on top of Tobio’s head. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this you know.” He can feel Hinata speaking just as much as he can hear him, a hum against his ear, a vibration on his skin. 

He holds him a little tighter, just so. 

“See?” Hinata says. “Good, isn’t it? Or do you want more room?” 

This is it. This is what he wants for the rest of his life. This inexplicable feeling that he doesn’t know what they’re doing tomorrow, only that they’re doing it together.

Finally they were together and there was no going back.

Tobio links his hands behind Hinata’s back, interlocking his fingers so there’s no escape. “No,” he says, “I’m good.” 

*****

    beginning (n.)

1.     the point of time at which anything starts. 

This is how he knows:

Everything is reduced to dark lines and hard angles. With all of his furniture gone, the apartment feels so wide that it makes him feel small.

He doesn’t feel like crying, but there is an emptiness inside him. Not sadness, he thinks, because sadness feels more...more. More heavy, more significant. Not particularly nostalgic, or anxious. He’s doesn't even think this feeling is something negative. Why all of a sudden though? He's been waiting for this day for so long, all he wants is for morning to come-- the sooner, the better.

And yet, he has the feeling that if he falls asleep, or at least if he ever manages to, his dreams will be uncomfortable. Wired and hyper-lucid, because morning is coming and—that's what he can't believe.

With morning, everything changes.

Accepting the inevitable, he resigns himself to wakefulness, shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor and fumbling for his phone on its charger.

And then he calls, the dial-tone echoing, going on forever and ever and just when he thinks about giving up (on the third ring), something gentle crackles and Shouyou says, first thing, is a lie. “I wa-n’t sl-eepin.”

Tobio doesn’t argue, even though everything about Hinata is sleepy: the way he breathes is slow, his voice smooths over something warm. “I- sw-ear.” His unused voice crackles over the words that are too hard, “—ou sad or somehin-? —why you calle—?”

Tobio struggles to get comfortable, shifting to his back and letting his shoulder blades dig into the floor, staring up at the ceiling, criss-crossed with lights from the window. “Talk to me,” he says—demands—trying not to let his voice get too far away from him. Once it starts to grow, he feels like the emptiness will become too obvious and overwhelming, like a voice in a cave that has no echo.

Shouyou sighs soft. “‘bout what?”

“Anything.”

“—mmkay."

He's quiet for a moment, long enough for Tobio to think he’s fallen back asleep. Until abruptly, he says, in a clearer voice, “You have three choices. Would you rather know what happened to me on the train today, what I want to do first when you get here, or the moment I really fell in love with you?”

He pushes himself up, shoulders pressing against the wall. “All of them,” he says, and Shouyou laughs.

“Okay," he goes, and Tobio stares at the empty room around him waiting for him to begin. Dark lines and hard angles, and so many quiet memories he's grateful he's not alone. "So I was at the sitting on the train, right? And get this, this little old lady who I know I’ve seen before. Like I could even describe the design on her favorite purse, that’s how many times I’ve seen her.”

“Okay,” Tobio says, because it’s gonna go on as long as he lets it.

“Right, so—” he pauses to yawn, “she comes up to me and I thought she was lonely or something and just wanted to chat, but instead. Instead! She asks me where my mother is! She said it was amazing I could travel on my own!”

There’s a stunned second of silence as they both relive the moment, and then Tobio laughs and Hinata sighs loudly.

“You’re not supposed to laugh,” he says, but Tobio knows the shades of Hinata’s voice better than nearly anything in the world and he knows when Hinata’s trying not to laugh.

“I’m amazed too sometimes.” He draws the blankets around him. “What did you say then?”

“Oh, well I thanked her,” Hinata says simply, as if it was obvious. “I can’t go arguing with a granny on the train. Okay, it’s not that funny. You can stop laughing now.”

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty five, which is older than you!”

“Not for much longer,” he retorts. Hinata hums in response with Tobio knows is a laugh tempered by another yawn. “Sleepy?”

“No, not yet. What else did I say I was gonna tell you?”

“First thing you’re going to say to me.”

“Mmm right.” There’s a moment of silence again and Tobio waits until Hinata speaks, this time with an unfamiliar voice. “What do you want first? Dinner? Bath? ...Me?”

“You,” he says, without a doubt.

Hinata bursts into laughter, bright as sparks and blinding. Tobio covers his eyes with his arm, trying not to give away just how sincere he was being. It’s all he can think about to focus on practice when all he really wants is to hold Hinata close. To feel his voice, not just hear it. “Kageyama, you’re embarrassing me.”

He rolls over and adjusts the phone, trying to control himself. He'd give the world right now to hold Hinata's hand.

“The last one. When did you really know?” He can't bring himself to say the last few words—when did you know you loved me?—because the night still stretches on and perhaps morning might never come if he pushes his luck too far.

“Oh,” Hinata says, then he repeats himself, more serious. “Oh.” Another silence, but Tobio can hear Hinata’s breathing, and curious, he finds himself listening closely. “A few years ago, before us,” the other boy says, speaking slowly, or as slowly as Hinata Shouyou ever speaks. “I came home from college for a week and—” Abruptly, he laughs, softly, lost somewhere in memory. “And I went to our park. Remember it?”

Tobio nods, ignoring that Hinata couldn’t see him. An old ache rises up beneath his breastbone at just the thought. No loss in life has ever been as great as that one in high school, with his first and dearest team. But the ache is familiar and not unwelcome, he presses his fingertips against it, pushing away old memories and imagining instead Hinata Shouyou, racing him to the top. 

Hinata says, “And I sat on the slide for a few hours and I realized I was waiting for you to pop up. And so I figured that if I wasn’t over you by then, I wouldn’t ever be.” A pause, and then, “I guess I didn’t want to be.”

*****

    voice (n.)

1.     an identity, a person. 
2.     expression, adoration, love. 

This is how he knows:

Something about the way he says his name.

Shouyou. Said so soft and so nervously. Kageyama’s shoulders are so tense it feels like he’s about to break, and his voice is rough, crumbling on the straightness of his spine.

Something about how his lips form the word, how his eyes face him, how they find him, and something about the way they shake him up, dark and blue.

“Say it again,” he says, clutching Kageyama’s hands tight. His own voice is a croak, it’s all he can do to hold himself together. “Say it again, I missed it.”

“You missed it?” Kageyama pulls back, his expression pained.

“I missed it,” Shouyou lies. I missed you. Even though he was careful to never miss a game, even though he recorded them, played back the moments with Kageyama on the screen. Nothing in life has ever been like being the center of Kageyama's attention. Being allowed to be selfish. “C’mon, say it again.”

This time, he pays careful attention to the construction of Kageyama’s voice. The knit of his brow, the flush on his cheeks, the visible softening of every line. He could find Kageyama in his sleep, in the dark, in a memory, but around this word his voice feels like new.

“Shouyou,” he says after what feels like a forever, and the way that Kageyama says his name makes him feel so fragile, so young, so loved, it’s embarrassing.

The only thing to do with his feeling is share it. He pushes himself up onto his tiptoes, stretching his arms out to wrap them around Kageyama’s neck, and then he hugs him tight, so tightly they’re both breathless by the time he lets go.

“Damn, I missed you,” Kageyama curses softly. “I’ll quit volleyball and stay home with you.”

Shouyou gives him a punch, holding up his fist ready for another. “Don’t even joke!”

Kageyama ignores him, because it is just that, a joke. He shuts his eyes and hugs him again and Shouyou loses the strength to fight. He pets Kageyama’s head instead, looking rather forlornly at the umbrella he had brought, dropped on the ground. “Want to go play tomorrow? Show me that new set.”

“Which one?” His voice is muffled against Shouyou’s shoulder.

“The one against that French team. Fourth game.”

“Mm.” Against his back, Shouyou feels Kageyama's hands shift into a signal he hasn't seen since high school. A flat hand with a gentle tap of fingertips against Kageyama's chest were Shouyou not between them. I'm tossing to you next.

Outside the lightning is shaking and they can both feel the rain soaking into their clothes, gathering in the abandoned umbrella, droplets on their skin. Kageyama’s lips are cold against his and his eyes when Shouyou pulls back seems brighter than usual. He laughs, using a hand to brush back Kageyama’s bangs and pushing himself up again to give another kiss.

“Shouyou,” Kageyama says again, and he wonders how a name can sound so loved. He wipes water out of his eyes. “Your plants must be loving this.”

“It’s been a long time,” Shouyou says, grinning. He holds out a hand, “Come on, Tobio, let’s go home.” 

*****