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“I think we’re almost there,” Shouyou says, breath fogging the window as he presses his face against the glass.
“This is the third time you’ve said that in the past two hours,” Tsukishima says. “Just admit that you have no idea where we are, it’ll be less embarrassing for you.”
“But I really mean it this time!”
“Rookie mistake believing him on the first,” Yamaguchi stage whispers — to Tsukishima, of course, because about seventy percent of the time the two of them just act like tittering, gossiping eighty-year olds. “You gave him too much confidence.”
“Don’t blame me ,” Tsukishima whispers back, loud enough for Shouyou to hear.
Shouyou resists the urge of kicking the back of his seat until Tsukishima’s spine snaps, because the team would unfortunately be in a very dire place without their tallest middle blocker right now. If it were the off season, Shouyou might not have exhibited such capabilities of self-restraint, so Tsukishima should count himself fucking lucky. Thank the goddesses of volleyball, maybe.
He’s drawn away from staring at the back of Tsukishima’s stupid head by Kageyama shoving his shoulder so hard he nearly topples off his seat. “You’re not driving the bus, idiot,” he says, catching Shouyou’s wrist when Shouyou tries to shove him out of his own seat. “Quit trying to prove you know the way, you wouldn’t know how to find your — find—”
Kageyama visibly struggles with whatever sort of insult he meant to throw Shouyou’s way, which is delightful, because now Shouyou can make stammering noises at him until Kageyama’s face turns purple and starts steaming, like a sweet potato that’s just popped out of the oven. He draws his eyebrows together in a mock imitation of Kageyama’s pissed off eyebrows, ready to rock.
“Um,” Yachi says, a couple seats away from them across the aisle. She’s got a double seat on the bus by herself, but instead of enjoying it like Shouyou certainly would, she’s watching everyone’s conversations wide-eyed, as if waiting to be invited. “I think what Kageyama-kun means to say is — you couldn’t pour water out of a boot even if the instructions were written on the heel?” Her eyes widen as soon as she’s finished saying it, cheeks growing pink when Tsukishima starts cackling. “ Ohmygod I’m so sorry, Shouyou-kun, I didn’t mean it at you , I was just—”
“Yeah,” Kageyama says loudly, cutting her off. He all but grabs Shouyou by the neck, too, winding his fist on the front of Shouyou’s hoodie until he chokes. “Not even if the rules were written on the heel. Because you can’t read. ”
“ I can’t read? You’re the one who can’t read, Stupid-yama, ‘cause as far as I remember I wasn’t the one who failed our Japanese final—”
“At least I got double digits in Maths—”
“But not in Biology! I got a passing grade in Biology, you got what, a nine out of a hundred—”
“I’m bad at Biology because animals hate me, I don’t understand them—”
“Holy shit,” Tsukishima says to the whole bus at large. “We’re witnessing the world’s first dick measuring competition for stupidity. Please leave me at the next gas stop.”
“I’ve always wanted to hitchhike,” Ennoshita-senpai mutters. He’s sitting on the aisle seat right next to Shouyou and Kageyama, a sleep mask pulled over his eyes and jacket zipped all the way up to his chin.
“There will be absolutely no hitchhiking,” Coach Ukai yells from the front of the bus. “No matter how idiotic any member of the team is acting, as discussed before you rascals boarded this goddamned bus.” There’s some muttering up front, then Coach Ukai heaves an audible sigh, and then he’s standing up from his seat, making a come-forth motion with his hand. “Hinata, come here. Your teacher says we should separate students who are riling each other up, because it’s dangerous to be too rowdy while in a moving vehicle or whatever.”
“Why do I have to move?” Shouyou complains, although he’s already standing up to do so. Challenging authority has never been much of his forte, at least not intentionally, so he pouts and sulks but grabs his things — his phone and some plastic bags (for emergencies, given by Tanaka-senpai) — and starts shuffling towards the aisle. “Kageyama is the one being aggravating. ”
“The hell did you just call me?” Kageyama barks. “Stop making up words!”
Shouyou watches Tsukishima hit his head against the window several times in a row.
Honestly, Shouyou wasn’t lying when he was talking about their grades. Blessed be Yachi and her vocabulary lessons: it’s always fun to find new ways to insult Kageyama, even if Kageyama won’t always understand how he’s being insulted.
Although he will probably never achieve half decent marks in math, Shouyou has gotten noticeably better in Japanese and English — he got good grades on their finals, not just passing, and his teacher had loudly congratulated him in front of the whole class while handing back their exams. You’ve changed so much this past year, she had said, giving him an appraising look. Sometimes I barely recognize you!
It’s weird to hear it spoken out loud. Shouyou has worked very hard to change old habits and create new ones since the end of his first year of high school, but of course, it’s hard to tell if those changes have had any outward effects when he’s only able to see himself from his own perspective. He hasn’t gotten noticeably taller, although his hair is longer, sometimes falling in curly clumps over his eyes; his face is still the same when he looks in the mirror; every day he wakes up and plays volleyball, tries to run a little further and not be so hard on himself when he can’t manage to be that much different from what he was yesterday.
But he has managed to run a little further, as a result of those every days, and he has managed to jump higher. Every so often he realizes, and it’s like a funny, small warmth in his chest, a butterfly unfurling its wings. Oh. I’ve changed.
“Because your birthday is closest, which means you’re the oldest of their lot and you should know better,” Coach Ukai calls out as a response from up front, and Shouyou, out of sight, rolls his eyes so hard he’s pretty sure he sees the inside of his brain. If he had a hundred yen for every time he’s heard that as a justification.
He trips over Kageyama’s legs and nearly strangles himself with something — is that a cord? — on his way down. This time, Kageyama acts to stop him from dying, instead of the opposite, grabbing him by the back of his hoodie and pulling him upright. “What the hell,” Shouyou wheezes, rubbing his throat. There’s something tangled around it, but he can’t see what it is when he looks down.
Kageyama is frowning so hard his eyes are slits. He reaches for Shouyou’s neck and none too gently unravels the — ah, yeah, the earphone cord that Shouyou forgot about before he started moving. Sheepishly, Shouyou helps him undo it, and then hands it back.
“You’re buying me a new one if it stopped working,” Kageyama grumbles, kicking the back of Shouyou’s knee, who stumbles out the seats and into the aisle, finally. He almost bumps into Ennoshita-senpai, but holds himself before he can do so because he likes being alive.
“I forgot we were listening to music!” Shouyou exclaims, shaking his plastic bags as he argues. They listen to music from Kageyama’s phone together pretty much every bus trip where they aren’t conked out and asleep, but when they’re not asleep they’re talking almost all the time, and it’s easy to lose track of what song is being played when annoying Kageyama is so much more fun. “I bet you don’t even know what we were listening to, you weren’t paying attention either.”
“Fuck off and die,” Kageyama says, which means Shouyou is right.
“Hinata, Kageyama,” Takeda-sensei says from the front of the bus, gently, “do I have to go over there to separate you two?”
With one final round of glaring, Shouyou huffs and starts the long, long track to the front of the bus, because Takeda-sensei is one of the most terrifying beings he has ever encountered, and Shouyou has literally had a one-on-one conversation with Ushijima Wakatoshi, who’s thirty centimeters taller and whose arms are as thick as Shouyou’s entire head.
Well, Ushijima isn’t really that scary if you look beyond his physical appearance. He’s actually a lot like Kageyama — or at least that’s what he sounds like, from Tendou-san’s descriptions over text. Just someone who’s honest to a fault, confident but not arrogant, and a little crazier about volleyball than most people are.
(Shouyou keeps it a secret, very tight against his chest, that he once received a text message from Ushijima Wakatoshi. He and Tendou-san have texted sporadically since Hinata invited himself to the training camp at Shiratorizawa last year — Tendou-san was extremely amused by that, and he none too subtly asked for Shouyou’s number one night before Shouyou headed home. A part of him had thought about what it would mean to fraternize with the enemy, but then he remembered that Tsukishima literally got private practice with Kuroo, Akaashi-san and Bokuto-san, and the thought went away. Tendou-san is already in college now, anyway, and he’s not playing volleyball anymore.
But it was through Tendou-san that Ushijima got Shouyou’s contact. That’s what the very short, four line message Ushijima sent him last January had said: Hinata Shouyou from the concrete. Tendou said this was your number. I hope you recover well from your illness. I hope you have learned.
What the fuck? Shouyou remembers thinking on repeat for a solid twenty minutes. What the fuck?
In the aftermath of his fainting and fever during the last Spring Tournament, several people from teams Karasuno had played against personally reached out to Shouyou to ask him how he was doing, which is probably the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to him. The entirety of Nekoma texted him at some point, plus Akaashi-san and Bokuto-san; Hoshiumi Kourai from fucking Kamomedai, too, Kindaichi from Seijoh, Goshiki and Tendou-san — and at last, Ushijima Wakatoshi himself.
Shouyou remembers the sting of bitter tears in his eyes when he read it. Flew too close to the sun, didn’t you? It seemed to say. But Shouyou knows of Ushijima, even if he doesn’t really know him, and everyone says he has never been mean-spirited, and he is not one for I-told-you-so’s. A couple days later, Shouyou had replied, Thank you. I’m doing better.
Now, a year past, he thinks he really has learned, just like Ushijima said.)
Since the bus is still moving, Shouyou walks to the front very carefully, trying to keep his eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t get as car sick in buses as he does in cars, but he’s still a little queasy. Arguing with Kageyama usually helps to distract him from it.
It’s the first time they’ve been able to get on a real bus for an away game, too. Since they went to Nationals last year, their school did start putting a little bit more funding into their team, but most of it had gone towards raising Coach Ukai’s salary (he used to get paid a symbolic value, or at least that’s what he said, just so the school couldn’t say he was working for free), making team jerseys for the new members who would join, and buying new materials for practice. They managed to get some brand new Mikasa volleyballs, a new net, and they no longer have to argue with the basketball team for gym time.
Going to Nationals for the second year in a row, though? Well, it would be kind of embarrassing if Karasuno didn’t at least provide their team with an actual bus to get them to Tokyo, instead of the van Coach Ukai uses for his part-time job at his family’s convenience store.
It’s a big bus, and their bench isn’t that deep yet, to be honest. With Sawamura-senpai, Sugawara-senpai and Azumane-senpai having graduated, only three new years joined the team: Tokita and Shoji, one middle blocker and one baby setter (as Tanaka-senpai calls him), plus Yaotome, a libero who looks at Noya-senpai like he put the stars in the sky, which Noya-senpai enjoys a great deal. There’s also Minato, tall and lanky with glasses that cover most of his face, who joined the club as a prospect manager halfway through last semester. The four of them are currently engaged in a fierce battle of Uno across the seats — they keep passing around the pile for the played cards hand in hand, and it’s a miracle they haven’t dropped it yet. They’re quiet as mice, though, very different from what Shouyou was as a first year. Maybe they’re just nervous.
Shouyou wonders if he should be that nervous, too. The only thing he can feel is excitement, mixed with a good dose of anticipation. His heart keeps lurching in his chest, like when he’s waiting for the other team to serve, thinking, Come at me, come at me. Come at me, Tokyo Metropolitan Stadium, I’ll swallow you whole.
After nearly being tripped by both Yamaguchi and Narita-senpai on his way (Tanaka-senpai would have tried too if he weren’t absolutely dead to the world, snoring against Noya-senpai’s shoulder, who is also fully passed out), Shouyou makes it to the front. Coach Ukai pats the empty seat beside him, on the left; Takeda-sensei is talking to the driver, but nothing can be heard from their conversation due to the divide between the driver’s seat and the rest of the bus.
“Sit down before you fall over,” Coach Ukai says, and Shouyou flops down next to him, clutching the plastic bags to his chest. Ugh. “You look a little green.”
“I promise it’s not going to affect my performance,” Shouyou says almost immediately. Coach Ukai raises an eyebrow at that, and Shouyou feels himself flush.
“Your sensei really made you work to get to play full matches, huh, kid?” Coach Ukai says, chuckling a little. He looks the same as always: a bit sleep deprived, a bit stressed, mostly young. He hasn’t dyed his hair in a while, and his dark roots are fully visible, all the way down to his ears. He looks like a grown up version of Kenma, if Kenma looked like he got sunlight on a weekly basis and was several times buffer. “Months and months, but you still say exactly the same thing every time.”
Shouyou tries not to pout. It doesn’t work. “Takeda-sensei was just looking out for me,” he says, reluctantly, because he does know that. It still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, though. Like shame.
After last year’s Nationals, they’d had no official matches ‘til the end of the semester, only practice ones. Most of the regulars were benched, and Coach Ukai tried out different combinations of players in games, trying to give everyone on the team enough time on court. Then April began, with a slew of practice matches from teams in the region, all wanting to see what Karasuno was on about — and it was fine, Shouyou was fine, everything was great. Until right before their first game at the Interhigh, when Takeda-sensei pulled him aside to the hall, and said, very seriously, The moment I get the impression you’re pushing yourself too hard, we’re taking you out of the match.
And Shouyou, recently seventeen and all fire, had suddenly felt very, very small.
In hindsight, he understands the difference between a practice match in the comfort of a high school gym and a qualifying match with all the pressure of a serious tournament. What people didn’t seem to get about him is that it had never been about the pressure or anyone’s expectations, not even his own: when he got sick during Nationals, it was because he hadn’t known how to properly take care of himself, not because he hadn’t cared. Adrenaline killed his appetite, so he figured he would just eat later. He didn’t feel thirsty, so he simply didn’t drink water. He was too agitated to sleep, so he got little of it. And little by little, his body broke down on him.
But he has never been able to properly verbalize that, so it’s his own fault. Takeda-sensei did good on his promise, too, because his words made Shouyou so insecure and distracted during the match that he did end up being subbed out by Yamaguchi, after one too many mistakes that nearly cost them the first set.
I never thought I’d see the day , Tsukishima had said, on the bench, subbed out while Noya-senpai was on court. Dare I say you look insecure?
Shouyou hadn’t replied, staring at his own legs like they had betrayed him. There was a beat of silence, and then, with a softer tone than Shouyou had ever heard come from him, Tsukishima said, That’s good. I was starting to fear that you weren’t human.
Shouyou never went back in that match, and even so, they won. While the team was resting outside the gymnasium, after the game, he sat alone, taking sporadic sips from his water bottle as he waited to be directed where to go next. Then, Kageyama had approached him, kicked his knee hard enough for him to yelp, and then handed him a bottle of strawberry milk that he’d bought from the vending machine nearby. He sat down next to Shouyou, knee to knee, and said, It really would be a waste if your fear of getting hurt got bigger than your need to play. Even though that would mean I won.
The next match, Takeda-sensei off-handedly said that maybe they should start someone else instead of Shouyou. And Shouyou just said, No. I’m not going to let anything affect my performance this time. I want to play. You’re going to let me play.
And he did. They won.
“Ah, he gets overprotective,” Coach Ukai waved off. “He’s got a soft spot for you.”
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
“And it’s going to get worse,” he continues, pointedly looking out the window. They’re on a highway lane, but the province border is right in sight; they should be in downtown Tokyo in about an hour or so. Shouyou wasn’t that far off in his predictions. “This is where we had the showdown last year, so beware that you’re gonna hear a lot of ‘regardless of what happened last time’s and making sure being back here doesn’t bring back old habits. Our little first years are in for a treat of cautionary tales.”
Shouyou laughs. “You plan on using any of them in the first match? Give them a taste?”
“I’m telling Tokita he’s starting instead of Tsukishima. He’s too calm for my liking, I want to see him fear for his life.”
It makes him feel fond. He was so excited and nervous about being a first year starter at a national competition — teams like Karasuno were the exception, with half the starting players being first year students. Most teams only have one first year in the starting roster, sometimes none. Nowadays, all their starters are second and third years, but they try to be fair: Shoji got to play a full match as setter when Kageyama was at home with the flu, and Noya-senpai and Yaotome spent a series of games alternating in between sets last fall.
He can’t believe he’s a second year. He can’t believe the third years who are graduating are Tanaka-senpai and Noya-senpai, Ennoshita, Kinoshita and Narita. It’s too crazy to think about, and a bit too painful.
“I have to ask, though, Hinata,” Coach Ukai says. Outside, the sun peeks out from behind a darkish gray cloud, casting warm, golden droplets of early morning light over their laps, through the inside of the bus. “Considering what did happen last time we were here. You can talk to — well, I’d rather you talk to your teacher, but you can talk to me. Are you scared? Even a little bit?”
Shouyou thinks about falling. He had many dreams about it, after the fact: they were always tinged with fever and streaks of gold, fire and flame, the orange floor of the gym. Black, bloody feathers slicing his hands open, dizziness overtaking his vision until everything disappeared but the sound of his own panting, the ringing in his ears. Like the roar of an ocean. A wave about to crash.
He thinks about… food. The bento his mom packed for him to eat during the bus trip, egg rolls and tiny tuna onigiris, tiny tomatoes and cucumbers sliced into small stars. About the lunch that awaits them once they arrive in Tokyo, something filling and warm. He thinks about a full stomach, mostly, and how he’s stopped taking it for granted. How to differ his hunger for more from his physical hunger, from nourishment. He thinks about how he knows better now, and about how he’s going to take care of his body at every turn as a thank you for keeping him going, keeping him upright. He owes his body everything, because it has taken him everywhere.
I hope you have learned. “To be a hundred, a thousand percent honest, Coach?” Shouyou says, grinning. “Even if I were scared, I’d do it scared. But I’m really not. I’m just happy to be here again. I’m happy to play.”
Coach Ukai looks at him like he can’t quite figure him out, which is something Shouyou is very used to. Then he throws his head back and laughs, slapping Shouyou’s knee in amusement.
“You know what?” he says, still laughing. “I’m happy to be here again too, kid. Happy to watch you.”
Shouyou will give everyone two tries to figure out who exactly he ran into at the restrooms of the Tokyo Gymnasium within fifteen minutes of stepping inside the building.
The place is just as crowded as he remembers. Being in a building filled to the brim with high school volleyball players is a little like being an elementary schooler inside a middle school classroom, at least when you’re Shouyou’s height: he’s at eye-level with most people’s shoulder blades, and he had to both dodge and protect Yachi from oncoming elbows before they could hit them in the neck.
“Standard formation!” Ennoshita-senpai had called out as soon as they walked in.
It’s needed, really, in tournaments like this, so Shouyou can’t even complain about being shoved in the middle with the other short team members so they don’t get lost in the crowd, with Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei at the helm, followed by Tsukishima (working as a nearly two meters blonde beanpole, similar to a lamppost), with everyone else trailing behind like ducklings. Ennoshita-senpai covered the back of their little entourage, sharp-eyed to stop Noya-senpai and Tanaka-senpai from wandering off to peruse the souvenir stands.
In a shocking turn of events, Yamaguchi walked behind alongside him, instead of hanging by Tsukishima. Captain talk, Shouyou thinks, even though it’s not official that Yamaguchi is going to be captain next school year — but they all know, really, that there’s no better choice out of the four of them.
They all needed to stay together so they Takeda-sensei could formally inform the organizers that the Karasuno High School volleyball team had arrived, with everyone accounted for, no injuries to report on the bench, nothing amiss. Then, they had another thirty minutes or so before the opening ceremony, so Shouyou, knowing a cue when he saw one, decided to make a quick run to the restroom while there was still time. He didn’t even really need to go, it’s just a habit at this point. Some sort of pre-game ritual, although you will never catch him verbalizing that thought to anyone, least of all Kageyama, who will quite literally mock him to death.
Which is how Shouyou found himself here: warily hesitating before unlocking the door to the stall he’d used, because there’s voices coming from outside it and he very vaguely recognizes them, which is never a good sign for him when in a public restroom. He has a bad track record. It’s a curse.
But he can’t just wait until they leave, because it might take a while, and he promised Ennoshita-senpai before leaving the group that he would make no detours or delays and run into absolutely zero trouble. Of course he doesn’t want to assume those voices are trouble (God, he’s good with faces but so bad with voices, who the hell is it) — they could be friends! He has friends in this tournament! Maybe he should just stop stalling and go wash his hands and say hi, and it’ll be fine because they’re people who like Shouyou and will be happy to see him. Maybe.
“Pity about the draw this time,” one of the voices says. “I s’pose we missed our opportunity to play against you sooner last year. Tough luck.”
“Tough for you, maybe,” the other voice replies, sounding a bit snippy. “You missed it because you lost first.”
“I’m literally trying to compliment you. I would’a liked playing against you, it’d’ve been fun.”
“Compliments don’t sound genuine coming from you. I think it’s your face.”
The sound of running water stops, followed by the noise of paper towels being pulled out. Shouyou inches close to the door a little.
“Well, we can still see each other at the quarterfinals,” The same voice who’d last spoken says. “If all goes right, of course. For you.”
There’s a little laugh. “I’m guessin’ it ain’t me you want to see on the other side of the net.”
“I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”
“Well, it’s always a pleasure,” the first voice says, sounding closer to the restroom door than it had been before, “but I gotta get goin’ now. Captain duties and all that, you know how it is — or I guess you don’t.”
“You know I’ve never had any interest in being team captain, go be full of it somewhere else. Or better yet, go find Kiyoomi-san and show him that number one jersey — he still thinks you were lying through your teeth when you told him you’d been named captain.”
“As if I’d know where to find him. He’s probably quarantined in one of the staff rooms.”
“His team colors are white and neon green. You’ll find him. You always do.”
There’s a scoff, then footsteps, and then Shouyou is ninety percent sure that the other person left — and he’s also eighty percent sure that he’s just missed Miya Atsumu, whose team Karasuno will in fact be playing against in the the round before quarterfinals, if everything goes right. Shouyou doesn’t know whether to feel relieved that he didn’t have to come up with the level of emotional energy to deal with someone like Miya Atsumu or if he’s now terrified because he has absolutely no idea who the remaining person could be.
Well. No time but the present. The only way out is through. Shouyou repeats these to himself three times in succession, and then he unlocks the door and steps out.
Hoshiumi Kourai’s gaze zeroes on him through the mirror immediately, his eyes widening, posture straightening like an animal who’s heard a rustling in the distance. A shiver goes up Shouyou’s spine, some sort of wordless recognition charging the air around them. If Shouyou opened his mouth, he’d taste lightning, ozone. Monster meets monster.
The first thing that Shouyou manages to say is, “Oh my God, am I taller than you right now?”
Hoshiumi turns around so fast Shouyou can almost hear his neck crack. “No! What the hell? Prove it!”
He stalks forward from the sink, not having bothered to properly dry his hands, and his cold, damp fingers make Shouyou wince when Hoshiumi all but hits them against Shouyou’s forehead, trying to parse out their height. It’s hard with the hair, but Shouyou has been around Kuroo-san enough times to know that people usually don’t appreciate when you imply they’re using the volume of their hair to lie about their height, so he doesn’t say anything as Hoshiumi flattens down his own whitish strands.
Regardless, Hoshiumi doesn’t seem to come to a conclusion that satisfies him. He tilts his head back so he can look down at Shouyou from his nose, hands on his hips as he stares him down. “You’ve got to be imagining things. How tall are you?”
Shouyou straightens his shoulders, puffing out his chest. “I made it to a hundred-sixty nine centimeters since last year!”
It’s the biggest growth spurt he’s had since he was eight years old. For years afterwards, the centimeters had trudged by very slowly, only ever one at a time, and he’d been elated to have reached a hundred-sixty five before last year’s Spring Tournament. His jaw was quite literally on the floor when they had to remeasure their heights for this year’s stats — he could barely believe it, and not even Tsukishima muttering about how he hadn’t even cracked a hundred-seventy yet could bring him down. Especially after Coach Ukai had said that this indicated he probably would crack it by the time he was an adult.
Can you imagine it? Hinata Shouyou, one hundred and seventy centimeters tall. What a pipe dream.
Hoshiumi narrows his eyes. “And?”
“Um,” Shouyou says, “one hundred-sixty nine centimeters point five.”
The look in Hoshiumi’s face is indescribable. At first he looks like he’s certain Shouyou’s spilling bullshit, but then his gaze sweeps him up and down again; he stands on his toes, circles Shouyou around like a predator sizing up his prey, all the while Shouyou remains there, hands clasped behind his back and chest puffed out. He’s been in weirder situations.
Finally, something in Hoshiumi deflates, and he stops in front of Shouyou again. He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his team jacket, and even his hair seems to wilt a little. “Fine, you win. By two millimeters.”
Shouyou wants to celebrate, but Hoshiumi is also older than him, and it feels a little disrespectful. He doesn’t always hold age hierarchy in the highest regards, but he’s keenly aware that this is likely Hoshiumi’s final high school tournament, and suddenly it kind of feels silly to try and rub it in.
“We’re the same height, Hoshiumi-san!” Shouyou insists, balling his hands into fists on his sides. “We’re going to play against each other again on — on equal footing this time!”
“Not planning on getting sick again?” Hoshiumi asks, but it doesn’t sound as mean-spirited as it should be, considering what they are to each other. His shoulders are relaxed, his expression open, but not earnest. He doesn’t dislike Shouyou, nor is he wary of him. They aren’t friends nor enemies. They’re just people who play the same sport. People who love volleyball unconditionally.
It’s hard to love the same thing and not find something else in it, something that ties you together. That’s what community means, Shouyou thinks. Everyone in this building — or at least most, or at least he hopes — loves the same thing, and that means something.
Shouyou grins. “I’m better than I was before.”
“At volleyball?”
“That, too.”
It’s strange to be at eye level with another player. He and Noya-senpai were close to it at one point, but now Shouyou is almost ten centimeters taller, having to bend down when his senpai tries to wrap an arm around his shoulders. He’s still shorter than everyone else on the team, and it’s almost a reflex now, to look up when talking about volleyball. Volleyball is a sport where you should always be looking up.
It’s strange, then, to not have to. It feels more vulnerable, in some strange sort of way. Hoshiumi’s eyes are very big, and they seem to track every twitch of Shouyou’s expression, every movement of his body. He knows what the other is doing: sizing him up, seeing what’s different from the last time they saw each other. Shouyou is, too.
Hoshiumi hasn’t grown any taller since last year, and his hair is still the same. His jersey number hasn’t suffered a drastic change, merely going from a five to a three, since Kamomedai’s number four is also always the libero. In Karasuno, the shifting of numbers had mostly gone on with the third years — Shouyou had insisted on keeping his number 10 jersey for a year more, knowing he’d inevitably have to change it in his third year, and Kageyama had decided to keep his as well. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima are now seven and eight, with the number six having gone to Yaotome.
There’s nothing outwardly different about Hoshiumi. Granted, Shouyou hasn’t seen him play yet. Kageyama didn’t mention anything from the All Japan Youth camp this year, but then again, he hadn’t been super forthcoming with information the first time around either.
But there’s just something about him now, as a third year. It’s the same thing Shouyou had noticed about Atsumu at the Interhigh, with his number one jersey, or even Ushijima, during the first and only time they’d ever played each other. There’s no doubt in Shouyou’s mind that although this is Hoshiumi’s last high school competition, it’s far from the last time he’ll step into a volleyball court, and the next time he does, it’ll be on a different stage than Shouyou’s. One step ahead. The world beyond, if you will.
A shiver crawls up Shouyou’s spine, part excitement, part lightning strike.
“Hinata Shouyou,” Hoshiumi says, “Miya told me you’re not a middle blocker anymore, but I don’t believe anything that comes out of his mouth.”
“Which one?” Shouyou asks.
Hoshiumi throws his had back with a laugh. “Oh, I bet he hates that.”
Shouyou grins. It’s not like he and Atsumu are friends, but they had a pretty long conversation during last semester’s Interhigh, waiting in line for the bento stall outside the gymnasium. Tokita had forgotten his bento at home, so Shouyou, being a good senpai, had given him is own food and gone out to buy some during the break in between games, only to run into Miya Atsumu, looking like some sort of runaway idol trainee with his bleached blonde hair in the middle of the mostly dark-haired Sendai crowd. And Shouyou, because he has never internalized a thought in his life, yelled out, Miya-san!
The line was long, but the people behind Atsumu parted ways for Shouyou so they could stand together when Atsumu beckoned him over. Perks of being the nation’s number one high school setter, maybe. Shouyou never expected Atsumu to be, like, a nice person, and he isn’t, really, but he wasn’t an asshole to Shouyou, and even sounded like he meant it when he said he was looking forward to playing him again. To which Shouyou took a giant leap and said, Thank you… Osamu-san?
I’m going to walk into the ocean now, he’d promptly continued, as soon as a look of abject horror started to dawn on Atsumu’s face.
People around them heard it, of course, and because everyone is a gossip, news had already traveled back to his own team members by the time he made it back inside with his bento. It’s still a sort of inside joke sometimes.
“But is it true, then?” Hoshiumi presses. “You’re not a middle blocker anymore? What gives?”
“Nope,” Shouyou says, popping the word. He scratches his head. “It’s not a super tragic story or anything. After our third years graduated, we had too many middle blockers, but we were down two wing spikers. Our coach said he was going to call up people he thought would be a good fit to fill the positions, and — I’m an opposite hitter now.”
It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. He was attached to the position of middle blocker because it was what had allowed him to be a starter as a first year, but when it came down to it, everybody knew that while he had become average at blocking, it wasn’t really what he was on court for. He was on court to attack.
So it hadn’t really come as a surprise when Coach Ukai had called out, Hinata. Next match, you’re starting as the opposite hitter. Yamaguchi will start as a middle blocker. We’ll see how it goes, but I’m planning to make these changes permanent.
Tanaka-senpai was the most visibly excited to hear the news. He’d been complaining since the beginning of the school year that it felt lonely to be the only wing spiker on court, and he hadn’t wasted a second to start clapping Shouyou on the back, saying, I’m going to teach you everything I know, Hinata, you’re going to carry on my legacy after I’m gone!
Stop talking like you’re about to die, Ennoshita complained, throwing the practice jersey at his head.
Behind them, near the bench, Shouyou had caught Kageyama’s eye over Tanaka’s shoulder. They were smoldering, heavy rain clouds thundering before a storm. There’d been a twist to his mouth that almost looked like a smile. Finally, he seemed to be thinking, and Shouyou found the same sort of relief and excitement settling on his stomach. There was an odd feeling of certainty that he hadn’t felt since he first spiked a ball over the net, a sense of, Yes, I’m supposed to be here, this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Hm,” Hoshiumi says. There’s something appraising in his eyes, and he nods, seemingly to himself. “Well. That makes more sense. You were shit at blocking.”
Shouyou squawks. “I had my moments!”
“You’re not supposed to have moments as a middle blocker, you’re supposed to do your fucking job,” Hoshiumi exclaims, and he almost sounds like Tsukishima. It’s unsettling. “I wondered why they were letting you play a position you clearly weren’t suited for, and not because of height. You were on court to score, clearly, not block.”
“The third years deserved to play,” Shouyou argues. Not every school is the same, he knows, but usually older players will get priority over the younger ones, regardless of ability. It was unorthodox for Coach Ukai to put Kageyama as a starter instead of Suga-senpai.
By the look on Hoshiumi’s face, Kamomedai does things differently. “You deserved the chance to grow.”
Shouyou has no idea what to say to that.
Hoshiumi kicks the floor with the tip of his shoe. Outside, the murmuring of voices has grown to an almost deafening cacophony, anticipation seeping into the very foundation of the walls around them. The next time they stand face to face with each other like this, it’ll be as players on the opposite sides of a net. If they make it that far.
“It isn’t really fair,” Hoshiumi says, looking at the floor next to Shouyou. “But everyone will always expect twice as much from us as from everyone else, and we will always have to show up and give them twice as much as that just to have a chance to be at the starting line. But you know that already.”
Of course Shouyou does. It’s good to be underestimated sometimes, because it’s easy to break people’s expectations of you when they aren’t very high. It’s fun at the beginning, seeing people be impressed by his abilities because they thought he had none, based on his height. But the second he loses, it’s the same: it couldn’t have been helped. Well, what did he expect? Volleyball is a game of height. It was brave of him to try, though.
Shouyou isn’t easily angered, even if he is easily riled up by Kageyama. But few things make his blood boil as much as the condescension, the knowing smiles of people who think they know anything.
“You know, my brother was a basketball player when he was in school,” Hoshiumi says, conversationally. He leans back against the sink, hands still in his pockets. “Went to college on a scholarship and all, not really ‘cause he loved it or anything, but for convenience. He’s really tall. Playing was easy for him. I hated him for it sometimes.” Hoshiumi hunches up his shoulders. “I brought him along to watch one of my practices once, in middle school. When we were done, one of my teammates asked my brother if he wanted to try spiking. And I was all like — it’s not like he can just waltz in and play, I’ve been playing for years and spiking is still hard for me. But there he goes, and…”
Shouyou can read between the lines. Tsukishima doesn’t need any head start to see above the net, whereas Shouyou can only get there with the momentum of running halfway across the court. He can do it; it’s just harder.
“We’re always going to have to put in double the amount of work,” Hoshiumi says, “if we want to be on equal footing. That means you can’t just be good at one thing. Sure, you can spike; the middle blocker six heads taller than you can do the same, and he can block. The other one can do the same, and he can get a service ace. What else can you do? What else can you bring to the table?” Hoshiumi’s eyes are intense, jaw clenched. He seems frustrated. Maybe a year ago, Shouyou would have cowed away, feeling the jab at his abilities for what it was.
But he’s not the same as he was a year ago.
“More than anyone,” Hoshiumi continues, “we need to know how to do everything else too. Otherwise we don’t get to the starting line.”
“Hoshiumi-san,” Shouyou says, and Hoshiumi blinks, startled at the formality, maybe. “Have you seen any games Karasuno has played since the last time we saw each other?”
Hoshiumi raises an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have.”
“Good,” Shouyou says, vehemently. Then he smiles. “I want to surprise you.”
Hoshiumi looks at him, unblinking, for a few long moments. Then a sharp-toothed grin grows on his face, so wide it squeezes his eyes into slits. “I suppose you’d heard this whole spiel enough times before me, huh?”
“Yeah. But it’s nice to hear it from someone who understands. Really understands.”
There’s an odd glint in Hoshiumi’s eye at that, something Shouyou can’t really discern. It isn’t common to find someone who has gone through exactly the same things as you have, who has come out the other side stronger for it, whose footsteps you can trace and follow. But they won’t be the same person, the same type of player. Opposite hitter and outside hitter, looking at each other at the same height, diametrically opposed on the court.
“Hinata Shouyou,” Hoshiumi says, and he reaches out to cuff Shouyou on the side of the head, softly, like Noya-senpai does. “I’m looking forward to playing you.”
Shouyou bounces on the ball of his feet. “I’ll win this time around!”
“Kourai,” a voice says from the restroom door, and they both turn around at the same time. Shouyou recognizes him — it’s that one tall player from Kamomedai, with droopy eyelids and brown hair. Shouyou, of course, cannot recall his name for the life of him. He looks exactly the same as he did the last time around; maybe the bags underneath his eyes are a bit bigger, and he looks a little tired as he rests his elbow on the door frame. “Stop antagonizing random people.”
“He’s not random people!” Hoshiumi yells, which is very flattering. He puffs up in the direction of his teammate, hands on his hips. “And I’m not antagonizing anyone! I’m making a promise!”
“I didn’t feel antagonized,” Shouyou offers. They both ignore him.
“Come on,” Hoshiumi’s teammate (Hiru-something) says, making a beckoning motion with his hand. “Coach is calling you, the ceremony is starting soon.”
“Fine,” Hoshiumi sighs. He throws Shouyou one last look over his shoulder before he leaves, nodding slightly. “See you on the court,” he says. “Shouyou.”
“See you, Hoshiumi-san!” Shouyou exclaims at his turning back.
When they’re gone, Shouyou gives himself about three seconds to process this entire interaction. His heart is pounding, and his hands feel sweaty. It’s not fear, though, he doesn’t think. It isn’t anxiety either. He places a hand over his chest, taking a few deep breaths.
I can’t wait to play, he thinks. My God, I can’t wait to be out there.
Then he thinks, Shit, how long have I been in here? And runs out of the restroom, hoping his team hasn’t moved since the last time he saw them.
He promptly runs into Kageyama as soon as he’s out the door, hitting his head against Kageyama’s sternum and all but bouncing back against the opposite wall. Kageyama has put on some muscle since last year, and it’s entirely infuriating.
At least the element of surprise seems to have worked, because Kageyama looks just as bewildered as him for a moment. Then it quickly shifts to annoyance, his default emotion when it comes to him, and he grabs Shouyou by the sleeve of his jersey so he can drag him out to the main hall. Shouyou starts yelling about stranger danger, tripping over his own feet as he tries to keep up.
Kageyama shoves him to the side as soon as they come upon a group of people. “That’s got to be a new record for you,” he mutters, angry. “ Five minutes, you said, and it’s been seventeen.”
“Aw, didja miss me?” Shouyou asks, smiling as he straightens his jersey. “Were you counting down the seconds to see me?”
The tips of Kageyama’s ears go pink, for some reason. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Never.”
Kageyama ignores him. “Were you talking to Hoshiumi-san? I saw him come out of the restroom before you did. You have the worst luck.”
“Hoshiumi-san is nice,” Shouyou argues. They almost run straight into the cluster of one of the girl’s teams from Hokkaido, but Shouyou grabs Kageyama’s arms and drags him to the side. It’s hard to navigate the stadium when it’s so full; they can’t walk in a straight line, ziggy-zaggying between concentrations of people. “We had a good talk!”
“You probably just bragged about beating him in his own game since you play the same position now.”
“Actually, no,” Shouyou says, honestly. “Hoshiumi-san just gave me some advice. He really is cool, Yama-yama, you’re just bad at people.”
“He kept making me move tables during mealtimes at the All Japan camp,” Kageyama says. “He’d take his tray and sit down in front of me.”
“You know what, I’m not even going to answer that. You’re really bad at people.”
They walk in silence for a few moments. Kageyama said the team moved closer to the doors of the main court, since the ceremony would be starting soon, which means a lot more walking for them. It’s okay, though. Shouyou really can’t get enough of the atmosphere, the buzzing of excitement, the voices and the smells and sounds. He has loved volleyball in every room he has ever been in, and it has soaked into the foundations of everywhere. This stadium is like that feeling embodied.
“Say, Kageyama,” he says. Kageyama hums in acknowledgement. “Today, let’s play like it’s the last time.”
Kageyama scoffs. “You moron,” he says. He stops walking, forcing Shouyou to stop in his tracks too. His gaze never leaves Shouyou’s, intense as it has ever been, as familiar as Shouyou’s own. “Let’s play like it’s the first.”
Shouyou feels like both sky and flame.
(What, he’s not a middle blocker anymore? Were they just trying out last year?
It’s a pity. I wanted to see him spike.
He’s not wearing libero colors, though. It’s the same jersey.
Opposite —
Opposite hitter?
He doesn’t really look like a threat.
Should be an easy game, the team isn’t even seeded.
They won against —
You heard that Miya Atsumu is going pro soon, right? There’s a lot of scouts here, but I heard he already —
Bokuto from Fukuroudani signed with the Jackals right out of high school.
Do you think that man with the glasses there is a scout? Who do you think he’s here for?
I hear Karasuno’s number nine —
Oh, look, the game is starting.
It’s starting!
Should have their strongest server go first, set the tone.
Wait, who’s number ten?
Not a libero?
Last year he wasn’t much to look at. But he could spike.
He could spike, alright.
Is he really the first to serve?)
The bright white lights will hurt Shouyou’s eyes if he looks up, so as he waits for the whistle, he keeps his gaze atop the net. The weight of the ball is familiar on his hands, like an old friend, and the nervousness he used to feel when coming up to serve is a distant memory now. He can still recall it if he tries, but he doesn’t, really. He doesn’t need it now.
He has eight seconds after the whistle blows. He usually counts up to four. It’s enough for him to step back and hear the murmuring of the crowd, because last time he was here, his serve was just a means to start a rally, and he didn’t need any momentum for it. He wouldn’t move, just hit the ball over the net.
Now, he takes three steps back. One, two, three. On four, he throws the ball high, high up. On five, six, he does what he does best: he jumps.
It’s nice, sometimes, to catch people off guard. He’s never done a jump serve in an official match before. The other team clearly hadn’t expected it to come from him. And so he lifts the ball and spikes, and it falls on the other side of the court with a dull thud.
Another whistle, this time for a point. Kageyama turns to look at him from the front of the court, and he’s smiling. He rarely ever smiles. Shouyou smiles back, feeling his entire body pulse with hunger, with need.
“Nice serve,” Kageyama mouths.
Shouyou catches the ball Yamaguchi throws his way, laughing.
This is the starting line.