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The overcast sky in his range of vision tells Kageyama he should have taken this morning’s weather report more seriously. Throughout his classes and lunch breaks, he wills it away with his mind, refusing to look at it in obstinate denial of its existence. He does acknowledge it, eventually, trying to visualize it suddenly clearing by the time school ends, though the shadows in the corners of his eyes only darken further as the day drags on, crushing futile hopes with a menacing promise of waterlogged clothing and a possible cold to match.
They were often wrong—the weather people—and the chance of rain was reportedly only thirty percent, so that morning Kageyama had ignored the umbrellas sitting in their stand and shut the door on his mother’s caring reminder to bring one, already having convinced himself that there was absolutely no way the clear blue above him would entertain even a single cloud by three. He loses that thirty percent gamble by the looks of the white-gray veil consuming half his vision.
However, Kageyama, ever resilient, doesn’t lose hope, even as he marches from the school building to the gym area with light droplets of water assaulting any skin left unprotected by his uniform. Volleyball practice ends at seven today, and by that time the dismal weather will have definitely either dissipated or wrung itself dry of any more offending liquid. So with renewed optimism, damp clothes are thrown in his sports bag to be replaced by a volleyball jersey and shorts, knee and arm pads following soon after. When he pulls his jacket out and pushes an arm through one of the jet black sleeves, he registers that his upper arm feels constricted, and his wrist and more stick out, exposed. Remaining parts of the jacket hang dumbly from his right shoulder as he ponders.
For some time, there is serious deliberation to decide whether his arm grew several inches or the jacket shrank a few, or maybe something in between sometime during the day. He wouldn’t mind the former if it didn’t get in the way of his setting. After thinking of what he could do with some extra centimeters which took precedence over the logical analyzing of the situation, Kageyama frees his arm from its confines, judges the measurement by eye, and becomes aware that the garment is a size small, and could only belong to either Nishinoya or Hinata.
He usually changes right next to Hinata, and yesterday the dumbass challenged him to see who could change faster, and for some reason he took that stupid challenge (Kageyama won, but at the heavy price of a wedgie he wouldn’t admit to having plus an unzipped fly), leading to the conclusion that the owner was most definitely Hinata and their jackets must have gotten mixed up in the scuffle.
The thought of he’s tiny crosses Kageyama’s mind as he studies the article of clothing, but that he already knows. It’s something he’s reminded of every day whenever he watches that form dart across the court to meet his toss, those legs pounding across the ground until they execute one final contact, and then Hinata jumps with an infallible trust that the ball will reach his hands. It looks impossible. In theory it should be. It seems like he can barely even breach the barrier known as the net with his meager stature; but then midway through, imperceptible wings sprout majestically from his shoulder blades and lift him higher, high enough to blow away any traces of doubt from all witnesses because it’s no longer accurate to call it a jump, when what it really should be called is flight.
Long since, Kageyama has rescinded his skepticism regarding the matter, choosing faith over fear that he’ll set into empty space. Seeing the sight time and time again emphasizes that while Hinata is short, the extent of his potential is massive, and he proves to Kageyama that he’ll always be there at the top, waiting.
Kageyama zips open Hinata’s bag with the jacket on his lap, all the while ignoring any feelings of guilt and instead placing blame singularly on Hinata for suggesting the contest in the first place. Therefore his invasion of the smaller boy’s belongings is fully justified. Towels and clothes are pushed to the side, then more towels and something strangely squishy, until he finds his jacket crumpled messily at the bottom of the pile. Timely simultaneous to his miniscule triumph is a startling, practically groundbreaking discovery—which is overdramatizing it to most people but this is Kageyama about Hinata.
Of all the things that could have been found in that bag that would be exponentially more believable, such as porn mags or baby animals or a jumbo-sized bottle of pure canola oil, and of all the people that could have had it, like Sugawara or Ennoshita or Yamaguchi, it just had to be Hinata to own this particular item. In disbelief, Kageyama rubs his eyes and does a double take.
Because Hinata actually has an umbrella.
With him. Today. Unlike Kageyama. Since when did he actually become more responsible, more sensible, than Kageyama? The yellow fabric stares up at him as if to taunt him. With a scowl Kageyama concludes, yanking his jacket out, stuffing Hinata’s in, and zipping up the bag at record-setting speeds, that the answer is he hasn’t. One of his parents probably packed it for him. It has to have been like that. Has to.
It takes a few minutes until Hinata bursts through the door and stumbles his way over abandoned clothes with no discernable owner and stray equipment, having finished a quick errand for a teacher before club started, and by then Kageyama is already in gear warming up in the gym. Generally they arrive together, trying to beat out the other in a race, deaf to any of the chiding tones by the upperclassmen warning them to simmer down until they were scolded or hit.
Half the team is already done changing into sportswear while the rest are finishing up. Hinata grabs his bag without noticing the changes to its contents and flings off his school clothes, getting momentarily stuck in his pants (it’s a lot easier to take them off when you remove your shoes first). He’s fast, but still the last one to leave the locker room, resulting in a snide jeer thrown his way by Tsukishima with a backup scoff featuring Yamaguchi as they exit. Dashing out once his socks were adjusted, he passes the pair and enters the gym two steps faster, sticking his tongue out in return.
He turns his head and avoids the ball cart by an inches’ width, only to be smacked with a volleyball right after. It just never is practice without Hinata getting hit in the face.
With misplaced anger fueling his irritation, Kageyama shouts, “hurry up dumbass!”
Hinata’s nose is pink, but the attack didn’t actually hurt much, having been thrown and not spiked, so he picks himself up and retorts, “Well maybe I’d be faster if you didn’t throw things at me, stupid!” Nevertheless he’s eager to practice, even with the burning glare directed his way, so he follows instruction while spouting out more mild insults like, “poophead,” and “jerkface.” He stops when Kageyama turns his head and glowers—a silent, 100% effective warning saying to shut up which has Hinata shaking for the next minute.
Why he even likes this guy is all Kageyama can think about as he watches the fear-stricken boy trying to stretch out his quivering legs.
Yes: like. Kageyama Tobio likes Hinata Shouyou. This connotation is one romantic and not completely platonic, and Kageyama himself isn’t sure what the words to describe it would be. He guesses that’s why sometimes, whenever Hinata isn’t being an extreme annoyance, he sees him as… kind of cute. Or maybe that’s the reason why he has this puppy crush to begin with. Because Hinata is cute, in a way, along with all the other positive qualities he possessed and all the things he’s done to change Kageyama’s life for the better.
But it isn’t as if awareness of his own feelings changed much about the way he treated Hinata. Some time ago, he just looked over and suddenly realized, “I think I like him,” which later turned into, “I like him,” and that was that. He didn’t gain a troubling affliction of a suspicious, constantly reddened face; his heart rate didn’t raise 50 BPM on sight, maybe like, 10 at most; he could still look at Hinata, even in the locker room, without an uncontrollable urge to jump his bones. What he did do sometimes was stare—which, to all who saw it, resembled a glare more than anything—and daydream about small things, like what might happen if they started dating (in a perfect, shoujo manga-esque setting). And then, if he lets his thoughts become bolder, that is when his heart rate raises and a blush might begin to saturate his cheeks, though he tends to avoid doing that to the point of physical evidence appearing outside the comfort of his room.
Resembling an overexcited child, Hinata bounds over with incessant energy and wide eyes and the familiar words are heard echoing throughout the gym: “Toss to me!”
Grabbing a ball, Kageyama debates the thin line between annoying and endearing before replying, “of course moron, get ready,” and he does, again and again.
Come the end of practice, the weather hasn’t let up like Kageyama hoped it would. The light sprinkle from earlier is now a full-out downpour, but he still takes a few experimental steps into it only regret his decision, jumping back under the shelter of a walkway canopy. The team already ran from the gym to the locker room and he did the same to get to where he is now, so he doesn’t really know what he expected. He just stands there, partially wet, cold, and wishing his clothes and skin were hydrophobic so that he could walk home and the water would just roll off his skin.
Behind him, he hears footsteps tapping against the pavement, followed by, “Kageyama, what are you doing?” and turns to see Hinata rolling his bike under the roof, more wet than Kageyama from having to retrieve it from the racks.
Hinata takes a hand off the handlebars and uses it to poke at Kageyama’s side. “Did you forget an umbrella?”
He doesn’t receive an answer, but the silence and embarrassed grimace confirms his question. “No way? Seriously?” he laughs, which is a pretty bad idea because Kageyama flares up and gives him a painful, open-palmed press to the top of the head, and he can feel himself shrinking from the force.
The hand stops after Hinata manages to squeak some frantic apologies, shimmying away at the closest chance and rubbing his aching scalp. He’s almost teary when he says, “Fine! I was gonna ask if you wanted to share but you can just go and walk home in the rain yourself!”
Huffing all the while, he finds his umbrella and opens it up, then walks into the rain, one hand on the umbrella and the other unsteady on his bike. He glances back at Kageyama, who crosses his arms and arches a brow, as if expecting the brunette to yield as easily as he does and to beg for some space in the small refuge. Obviously, Kageyama is too stubborn to—his pride wouldn’t allow that, so he just watches Hinata trudge forward and turn to check him again. A few more paces, another peek.
Three more steps and Hinata stops, and Kageyama can hear his throaty groan as he kicks the stand of his bike and marches back to the overhang, umbrella in hand.
“Are you coming or not? Stupid Kageyama. Bakageyama,” he says, and Kageyama can tell he’s proud of his little portmanteau even while he’s pouting, “I’m not mean enough to leave you in the rain...”
He’s close enough that Kageyama could slip under the umbrella without much damage from the rain, but he still doesn’t move until Hinata says, “come on, I need someone to hold this,” thrusting the umbrella his way. Drops fall on him freely now that the barrier is gone, beading on orange hair until Kageyama takes the damn thing and holds it over them.
Hinata smiles up at him, though it’s more a victorious, satisfied-he-got-a-reaction grin than a happy-you’re-here face, saying “took you long enough.”
They walk over to the lonely blue bike standing in the rain. Hinata grabs the wet handlebars and begins wheeling it away, wiping his hands on Kageyama one at a time. He gets yelled at, but the brunette is surprisingly mellow, perhaps because he feels indebted, and Hinata gets away with just that.
They walk, making small chatter about randomly memorable things that happened during the day, such as a discussion about what Tanaka would look like with a full head of hair and another about Sugawara’s apparent ongoing obsession with spicy crackers. Hinata hadn’t been there at the time and Kageyama hadn’t been paying much attention, but Sawamura had reprimanded him after finding three boxes of the snacks hidden behind their stock of water bottles.
It’s not long before Kageyama notices his left shoulder is practically drenched, and so is half of Hinata’s right side, though he’s sticking it out in the rain anyways, having given up on trying to fit his bicycle under the umbrella.
“Walk closer,” Kageyama says, minutely flustered but covering it up with the usual gruff tone, “I’m getting wet.”
He hadn’t really expected Hinata to listen to him, but he feels a soft pressure against his shoulder, and when he twists his neck to look, he nearly bangs his chin into Hinata’s forehead. There's both a sense of disappointment and another of relief that Hinata isn’t tall enough for them to do the cliché scene where their lips are close, and they both know it, and they end up staring deeply into each other’s eyes with flowers blooming and sparkles popping up in the background before they finally lean in and—
Kageyama berates himself for reading shoujo manga.
“I don’t want to get sick. If I get sick I can’t play volleyball,” Hinata explains.
At first, Kageyama thinks Hinata is embarrassed, but he recognizes he’s more startled, scared, as he follows up, “w-what? Why are you m-making that weird face?”
Sometime during his imagination, his face had contorted into an expression terrifying yet vaguely resembling a smile, which really only made it more horrific. He can feel his facial muscles relax to how they usually are, and Hinata sighs in relief when he sees Kageyama isn’t mad. Most of Hinata is outside the barrier of the umbrella, so Kageyama takes two steps closer.
Hinata takes that as a sign he can move in again, and it’s a time like now that Kageyama feels the quickened, tell-tale palpitations in his chest, hoping that Hinata who’s on his right, can’t. If he sweats at all, he’s lucky since he can probably blame it on the rain.
Now they speak slower, the words previously flying back and forth exchanged for closer proximity. Conversation stops all together a minute before they reach the fork in the road where they usually part, the two walking in silence, shoulders bumping and the backs of their hands brushing together which they choose not to comment on. Or, at least, Kageyama chooses not to but Hinata looks as if he doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice.
The path begins to split.
Unabashed, Hinata looks up and announces, “It’s still raining. Your house is closer. Can I stay over until it lets up?” before Kageyama can hand the umbrella back, and although it didn’t catch him completely off-guard as Hinata has visited before, he still needs a few seconds before he can sputter out a reply that sounds close enough to be “okay.”
“Alright!” the shorter boy yells. “Ah, but will your parents get angry?”
They’re happy I even have friends, Kageyama snorts to himself in his mind. “It’s fine. They like you.” Years of him being unresponsive, moody, or otherwise problematic in some other characteristic of his teenage personality made them extremely welcoming to Hinata, who was his opposite when it came to outward expression of emotions. No doubt they would very willingly ask if he wanted to stay the night or if he needed a drive home. So they walk and they talk; Kageyama becomes paranoid that the sound of his heartbeat might have gotten louder so he speaks a little more to cover it up, just in case.
The rest of the trip to the Kageyama residence is relatively the same as the first half. Kageyama suggests Hinata stay overnight since it’s a Friday and he’s going there anyways. They argue about who gets to use the bed if he does, unable to fit comfortably unless they did something like cuddling. Whenever Hinata comes to his house, they choose to race to decide who gets the bed but they aren’t stupid enough to do so with all the puddles everywhere. They substitute it with janken.
Kageyama always has qualms about losing, but in this matter, no matter what the outcome is, he gets the short draw of the stick. If he wins, he gets the bed, but Hinata will complain until either the rare occurrence of Kageyama getting so fed up he lets him have it or sleep claims him, and his parents will probably chastise him for not being courteous to a guest—especially because that guest is Hinata and he’s almost certain they are trying to adopt him. By the way, they might not be the only ones as Kageyama may or may not have overheard Sugawara and Sawamura call Hinata their “son.”
Anyways, that’s if he wins. If he loses, he gets a different set of problems. In his sleep, there's a chance Hinata might roll off the bed and into Kageyama’s futon seeking body warmth, which confuses him to no end because the one-and-a-half foot drop should be enough to wake anybody, though he supposes the blockhead is dense even in slumber. If not, then Hinata stays there all night and, as creepy as this sound, leaves noticeable traces of his scent lingering for at least the next two days. Kageyama tries to disregard it, but that’s like trying to ignore a cold rain pelting against your skin, so again, mildly creepy, he lets himself enjoy the smell of citrusy shampoo (courtesy of Kageyama’s mother) mixed in with Hinata’s natural scent.
He ends up losing at janken, cursing himself for choosing rock instead of scissors, and waits for Hinata to park his bike somewhere it’ll stay dry. At the doorstep he collapses the umbrella and folds it up, opening the door and throwing it in the rack with the others. Well, other, because the only one there is his, which he left that morning. Speaking of which, his parents’ umbrellas aren’t there, meaning they must be out somewhere, so he investigates the kitchen while Hinata phones home to ask if he can stay the night.
Something yellow is stuck on the otherwise barren fridge; it's a note saying they were out enjoying themselves for the weekend and would be back tomorrow night. It also tells him there’s food in the fridge, though only enough for him. It’s not as if his parents are psychic to Hinata’s arrivals. Sure he’d been sleeping over more and more frequently, but it was still a maybe once-or-twice a week deal.
“My parents say I can stay over!”
Tears are beginning to form at the corner of Kageyama’s eyes at the shoujo manga development.
But it needs reiteration that Kageyama isn’t some starving beast and Hinata isn’t some piece of meat. They play videogames, badly, and eat instant noodles—Kageyama saves the meal in the fridge for the morning when he’ll be too lazy to make anything himself. They take their second showers of the day, shedding their rain-sodden clothing. The smell of precipitation in any form is great, but not when it’s soaking and sitting in your uniform for hours on end, so they throw them in the wash. And, no, Hinata does not borrow one of Kageyama’s shirts to drown in because he has extras in his sports bag. He does, however, carry the strong fragrance of Lemon-Orange Tang Splash Shampoo which fills the room and Kageyama’s nostrils.
The lights are flipped off around eleven. Kageyama grabs one of the two futon from the closet and lays it next to the bed, which Hinata has taken up roost in and is being bounced on mercilessly. More than an hour is spent just talking about anything, though volleyball-related subjects are most common, until they can hear each other’s speech interrupted by drawling yawns, and eventually Hinata dozes off first. Kageyama hears the snores and scraps of sentences escaping the redhead’s dreams, quietly whispers, “goodnight, Hinata,” and shuts his eyes thinking about more volleyball.
Of course, Hinata invades his mind ever so often, because now volleyball and Hinata go hand-in-hand, but he purely envisions the court and the rest of the team as well. They’re surrounded by thousands of faceless spectators facing unknown opponents, but they receive a ball and it comes Kageyama’s way, and he analyzes everything, sets it perfectly, and barely has to wait, because in the split second it reaches its place in the air, a loud slap is heard, and another when the ball slams into the ground on the opposing side of the net.
He falls asleep to those visions and the sound of the rain, still tapping erratically across his windowsill having never ceased nor declined. The weather people were wrong: thirty percent his ass.
Hours later, sometime in the night, the shower is still going strong when Hinata rouses up from his slumber. At home, he goes out like a light, but here, he’s more restless, as he’s found over the many times he’s slept over. It might have something to do with the smell; Kageyama doesn’t know, but he has a very unique odor and although Hinata has tried covering it up with the strongest shampoo in the bathroom, his efforts are proven to be in vain. He moves to the edge of the bed and rolls over to look at Kageyama on the floor.
When he’s awake, he’s scowling pretty much constantly, or making some dumb expression, and this agitated, stressed furrow situates itself between his upturned brows. When he’s unconscious, all the tension leaves, and Hinata can watch him without being glared at for staring too much. He likes watching Kageyama’s face when he sleeps, because when he does, he looks serene.
Yes: like. Hinata Shouyou likes Kageyama Tobio. But it’s more than just his appearance and not limited to his actions, and Hinata himself isn’t sure how to describe the way Kageyama makes him feel. He guesses that’s why, when Kageyama’s asleep and not yelling at him like a demonic slave-driver, he sees him as… kind of cute. Or maybe that’s the reason why these emotions appeared in the first place. Because Kageyama is cute, in a way, along with the socially-impaired but supportive ways he cares for people and all the things he’s done to change Hinata’s life for the better.
Nothing much changed when he realized he liked Kageyama, though for a few days he was a flustered, shaky mess. It was a simple, “I think I like him, oh god,” which became, “I think I like Kageyama, what did I do to deserve this,” which later turned into, “I like Kageyama,” and that was that. He didn’t feel shivers down his spine and turn into a puddle of goo whenever Kageyama’s hand grazed his; his chest didn’t open up and amplify the sound of his beating heart tenfold, maybe like, two at most; he could still look at Kageyama, even while they changed, without a wild urge to push him against a wall and kiss his senseless. What he did do sometimes was stare—especially in class where he could study that broad back and the nape of his neck when he stretched—and daydream about small things, like what might happen if one of them asked the other out (he’d turned to his sister’s shoujo manga for reference). And then, if his mind wandered to something more dirty, that is when his heart starts to bang violently on his ribcage and his legs jellify into uselessness, though he tries not to let it get as far as that unless he’s in his own room, alone.
As quietly as he possible can, which is actually very quietly if he’s careful, Hinata slides his legs off the bed, the rest of him following along, and lowers himself to the ground. He suppresses laughter, because Kageyama is a surprisingly heavy sleeper and still believes Hinata rolls off the bed unintentionally.
Steady hands lift the futon and he scoots underneath, satisfied by the warmth radiating off the body next to him after exposing himself to the room’s chilly air on the rainy night. Hinata hears the rhythmic breaths over the sound of droplets outside and the near-silent exhales, daringly whispers, “goodnight, Kageyama,” and closes his eyes imagining spiking those perfect tosses.
By the time they wake, the rain stops.