author’s note : hi!! this is my very first fic posted on tumblr, so i hope you enjoy. i’m actually really proud of this one, as it was inspired by my favorite song “play this when i’m gone” by machine gun kelly. also, thank you for the support on my masterlist! it means the literal world. also my favorite writers followed me and i am freaking out. sorry for the this long note,,, i tend to ramble. enjoy!
( disclaimer : gif is not mine! )
It had been months since the war had ended. While the wizarding world was still healing, the future for it had become hopeful. The threat of war had hung over the heads of the community, so once it had been taken away, everything was reborn. Bustling crowds and children’s laughter had filled Diagon Alley once more; the boarded up shops had now opened up, gleaming with pride. Many felt grateful for this new age.
The last person people expect to be so devastated was Harry Potter. Afterall, he was the one that killed Voldemort. Good things don’t happen to heroes, as someone had once told him. He gave everyone that hope, but he couldn’t find it in himself. Why, you may ask? Well, my friend, he found out you were among the missing people in the aftermath of the war. The love of his life, his sunshine, his darling had been snatched from him.
Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but sometimes he wishes that he hadn’t gone to the forest to face Voldemort. Sometimes he wishes he had hid away in Shell Cottage with you and grown old together. When he decided that was selfish, he tried to find other ways he could have won that war with you by his side.
He knew he couldn’t. What happened was the only true ending.
A sigh fell from his lips as the bottle was barely held by the tip of his fingers. The bedroom reeked of firewhiskey, which wasn’t a surprise since there was a surplus of them scattered across the floor. He took a final sip before letting this bottle join the rest.
Of course, Ron and Hermione had attempted to help. They had kept it up for a couple months through staying at his home and making meals for him. Hermione tried reading to him, while Ron kept his friend updated with Quidditch and the Weasley family. This had come to an abrupt halt, though, after a particularly angry outburst from Harry. They had given him one last look of sympathy before apparating.
That had been months ago, and since then, Harry had been trapped inside his mind and flat.
“You never do anything fucking right. First, you lose the love of your life. Next, you ruin the relationship between you and your best friends. You’re fucking alone, and you’re going to die that way.” He seethed with anger just looking at himself in the small mirror. He continued to glare at himself for a few more minutes before grabbing the mini dresser and slamming it into the floor.
Glass shattered, while his old Hogwarts uniform and merchandise tumbled out. Violence was an often thing for the items in his home. Usually after a bottle and self-degrading speech, he’d destroy something to let the anger fizzle. The aftermath of this, though, was a bit of a coping mechanism, as he would fix things by hand instead of using magic. It let his mind breathe; focus on anything but his self-hatred.
He crouched down to pick up his Gryffindor scarf, wrapping it around himself and relishing in its warmth with shut eyes. It reminded him of the freezing wind that nipped at his skin whenever he went out to visit Hagrid, or the times his roommates were challenging who could put on the most layers. These memories let him be at ease. They always transported him from the harsh reality to the happier days.
Once he allowed himself to come back, his eyes scanned for something that would ground him to the real world. He expected to find a bottle to do so, but instead laid eyes on an unfamiliar envelope at his feet. It couldn’t have been his Hogwarts letter, as this one did not bear the mark to close it. However, there was a date written at the top in an all too familiar handwriting. Then, it clicked.
Your handwriting.
Harry scrambled to grab the paper. It was sliding all over the hardwood floor when he kept grabbing at it recklessly. After a struggle that felt like forever, he held the envelope in his shaking hands. Yes, that was definitely your handwriting within the date that read “31 July 1997.” He flipped it over to find “To My Beloved” written across the front.
It felt as time had stopped, as he carefully pulled the flap from its seal. To him, it was like he was touching a part of you. Granted it was written over a year ago, but the small spark of hope held onto it anyways. Slowly, he pulled out the folded up paper inside. Deep breaths, he thought. He did quite the opposite, though, as his breath hitched when he read it.
Hi there, Harry. I hope you’re doing well.
If you find this, there’s a good chance something happened to me.
Already, tears pricked his eyes. He continued, despite his semi-blurry vision.
Please don’t fret though. Things happen for a reason, remember? If you hadn’t stayed in the hospital wing after your bone disappeared, you wouldn’t have met me and my major clumsiness. I’d like to think that’s another reason Lockhart’s git self had ended up as teacher; for our chance to meet.
It’s ok to cry, but please don’t think that it’s your fault. I am so in love with you, Harry James Potter. I dedicated my life to you. I promised you I’d follow you until the end, and I followed through.
Since I filled my promise, please promise that you’ll live; that you’ll find that happiness in your life again. You’re the best damn seeker I know, so don’t go telling me that you can’t. I mean, I’m sure you killed Voldemort and brought light into the dark world. You deserve to be in that light. Don’t dwell on the past, my love. Focus on the future. All I want is for you to be happy.
I know we never got married, but I knew you were mine from the beginning. The box with this letter; I thought I’d give it now before it was too late. In marriage, you want the best for your partner. That’s exactly what I want. When you wear this, please remember to do whatever you can to be happy. If not for you, then for me.
I love you, Harry Potter. I am so proud of you.
Yours, Y/N
The letter would be covered in wet spots if his glasses hadn’t taken the fall. He let out a choked sob as he clutched the letter to his chest. His eyes scanned the area for the aforementioned box, and found it between a few bottles. One hand darted out and snatched it up, while the other kept a tight grip on the now wrinkling letter. Slowly, he flicked open the lid with his thumb.
A wedding band glistened against the little light peeking through the blinds. Upon seeing it, he hesitantly let the letter fall onto his lap and went to take the jewelry instead. His hands shook as he grabbed it and slipped it into his finger. A perfect fit, of course.
Maybe, just maybe, the ring was magic. It must be, as there was a strange feeling bubbling in his chest. Happiness? Love? Hope? He sifted through a few emotions before landing on a feeling of content. This letter was the closure he had been subconsciously grasping for. Now that he had it, he felt reconciliation with his mind.
Harry pushed himself up to stand, and with shaky legs, he made his way to his home phone. He made sure one hand held the paper that brought him much peace, while the other dialed the number. It rang a few times before a familiar voice answered. A final deep breath before he responded.
“Hermione? I think.. I think I’m ready to change.”
you're not saying you're in love with me (but you're going to)
❤ ao3 link in replies ❤
ship: kageyama tobio/hinata shoyo
words: 2,173
tags: Present Meets Future, Prophetic Dreams, New Year's Day
summary:
Shoyo meets a version of himself that has yet to come, and has a lot of questions.
---
“Wanna meet me at the shrine?” Shoyo types, as he watches the sun rise on New Year’s morning. It’s orange and a little foggy, and he’s bundled in blankets upon blankets to resist against the January chill. He doesn’t expect a reply immediately - Tobio doesn’t usually bother with the sunrise - but he gets one, the signature beep-beep-bzzz quietly interrupting his peace.
“Sure,” Tobio responds. He’s always been a dry texter, but this on its own makes Shoyo smile; he has only just started joining Shoyo on his suggested outings, after spending years of refusing on principle. Third year came with changes, Shoyo knew that, but his favourite was finally being closer to his - his - setter.
They walk together, the air still cold, Shoyo breathing out puffs of condensation. He remembers being young, only eight or so, pretending to be a dragon for his baby sister - he takes a hefty breath just to recreate that moment, and swears he sees a smile on Tobio’s lips.
Tobio is so beautiful. He’s tall, even with the inches Shoyo has gained - his skin is pale, with a yellowish tint. It seems as if his skin is preparing itself for a tan, but it hasn’t got one, like olives waiting for summer to ripen or sand waiting to be washed over by the waves. His hair is black, inky black, cut short so it doesn’t fall in his eyes anymore - Shoyo misses when it was longer, when his fringe brushed the bridge of his nose and the strands would flutter when he jumped. Staring at them made Shoyo feel fuzzy inside. Back then, he didn’t understand why.
Long fingers poke out of his sleeves - how on Earth did he manage to find a sweatshirt too big for him? - reminding Shoyo of the old white hoodie Tobio gave him back in first year. He’d grown out of it, he claimed, and Shoyo looked cold, and don’t read into it because that’s all there is - and Shoyo didn’t read into it, as he slept in it every night, wishing it still smelled like him.
This time next year, they’ll be on opposite sides of the world. Tobio’s managed to get himself picked up by the V-league fresh out of high school, because of course he has, and he’s got a guaranteed place with the Schweiden Adlers. Shoyo hasn’t been so lucky. His fate rests somewhere in Brazil, a trip set up by a family friend, where he’ll practise his jumps on sand instead of solid ground. Sometimes, the other side of the net felt like they were continents away, but Shoyo has come to realise that this is going to be more than the ache of his hands against the ball. It’s going to be total abandonment.
The shrine is busy. They’re lucky they got there as early as they did, but even with their haste it’s packed - people, couples, families swarm the grounds. Young women are here, holding hands with their lover, looking up at him with adoring eyes - Shoyo’s tummy can’t help but turn at the sight.
Tobio closes his eyes to make his wish. His eyelashes are so long, so dark, stark and contrasting against his pale skin. He looks peaceful, like a statue, like a petrified angel, like a hero carved in stone. Shoyo feels his heart sink into his chest, and himself fall deeper and deeper in love. He wants to tell Tobio, wants to tell everyone, wants to scream it from the rafters and yell it from the balconies and let the whole world know how he feels - but he’s not going to. Not yet.
His resolve hardens as he stares, like he has for years, at Tobio’s sloping nose and high cheekbones. This year, just this once, he’ll be selfish.
As long as he can remember, all those memories past, he’s wished for other people’s, his loved ones’, prosperity. Since the first time he did this, this old tradition from generations ago, he’s asked for his sister to grow up happy. Two years ago, he begged for his mother’s health to improve. Last year, he told the universe that he needed Tobio to grow into the man he always wanted to be. This time he changes his tune.
"I need to know how all this ends,” he prays to whoever is listening, silent but passionate, despairing but eternally hopeful. He wants the confusion and the fear to stop. He wants to know that the risk that he’s taking, moving away and leaving the man he’s sure is his soulmate, is all worth it. He needs - before he needs health before safety before riches - he needs certainty that this decision is the right one.
When his eyes open, Tobio is staring at him. His wish must’ve been much briefer than Shoyo’s - he assumes it must be something like, “please give me extra time to play volleyball. Thanks.”
He waits for Shoyo to finish, and they leave together, hands interlinked and buried in Tobio’s pocket.
They don’t talk about their wishes.
Sometimes they touch each other in ways they touch nobody else. They hold hands, sometimes, when Shoyo drags Tobio along - they linger in hugs and, once or twice, they've shared kisses.
They never talk about those touches.
It's a situationship, more than anything. They kiss sometimes, to relieve tension, but they aren't together - people who are together talk about the kisses, why they happen, when they want them. For Shoyo and Tobio, they might as well be secrets.
When they get this close, it’s just a transaction, and Shoyo tells himself that he’s content with that. Shoyo tells himself that there’s nothing more to it.
Shoyo lies.
His bed sheets are clean, dry, warm from his body heat. Stretching himself out, Shoyo yawns, his eyelids heavy, and pats over the left side of his bed. There’s a human-sized space under the blanket there that’s never been filled; he’s saving it for someone.
He doesn't feel the peace wash over him, like he thought he would. He's not instantly comforted, believing in the future or cosy in the uncertainty. He's the same as always, the same dusting of freckles on his nose and the same stuffy bedroom and the same longing ache that never seems to leave. He’s the same as always; he wonders if this is the result of his New Year’s Wish.
Shoyo isn’t sure when he drifts off, into his usual fervent sleep, his legs starfishing out underneath him, but he soon works out that he’s dreaming.
The walls around him are almost unseeable, sterile white and concrete. Leather seats, black and uncomfortable, sit in rows that never seem big enough, and the sounds of jet engines and chatter and tannoy systems fills the air. Before he deciphers where he is - an airport, he assumes, but he’s never quite sure which one - he sees the crowds, hundreds or even thousands of people rushing from one end of the lobby to the next, pushing through strangers and paying unimaginable costs for duty-free snacks. There are people in heavy trenchcoats, briefcases by their sides, checking their watches like a ritual - and families of five or maybe bigger all huddled in circles, sharing body heat and flight details.
Shoyo doesn’t know these faces; he knows he's seen them all before, and that he’ll never see them again. They're strangers, as they always have been; people he's passed in the street, shop clerks and train passengers.
When he sees himself, he has dainty hands. His wrists are small, and his legs are skinny - he's twelve, in his old favourite t-shirt. It doesn't fit anymore - bulking up will do that - but he kept it for the memories; he never thought he'd see himself in it again.
One of the strangers walks up to him, and he's familiar - he knew this stranger once, or perhaps he has yet to know him.
The stranger isn't much taller than he is - he's got a broad chest, tanned skin, brown eyes. He smiles and there's something in his grin that feels embedded in Shoyo’s past. His hair is short, but it's clearly been a while since it was last cut - it gets in his eyes slightly, sweeping over his freckled ears and curling loosely at the base of his neck. His hair is unmistakable - it's hair Shoyo knows as well as his own, sees in the reflections of puddles and storefronts. Shoyo knows for certain that this hair is his, and yet the man in front of him - bulky arms, thick thighs - is someone he has never met. He knows Shoyo, though, and such a thing is evidenced in the crinkles by his eyes.
“...what will happen?” he asks the stranger. He has a feeling he knows, better than anyone - he’s certain that this is his one chance to know the truth. “How will it all end?”
“It won’t be easy,” confesses the stranger, who isn’t a stranger at all. “You feel… like you might just break. You'll go about your routine - one foot in front of the other. You'll jump high and you'll make stupid jokes and start stupid fights. It won’t feel any different, for a while.”
And then the stranger - the friend, really - says something Shoyo knows.
“You can fly even higher."
"I know," Shoyo responds - Tobio told him that in first year, and he internalised it, wore it as both an achievement and a challenge. He remembers that day, hearing those words, and longing to fall into Tobio's arms. "But will I?"
Three little words. How much of his life, the friend wonders, has been ruled by the strife of these words. It’s three tiny words, but it makes the friend falter - he sees insecurity, strife, the worries of a boy who daren’t stop shining.
“You will soar.”
There are three more words that Shoyo needs to hear, but not from the friend. There’s someone else who needs to say them.
As for the friend-
“Brazil,” he starts, “is warm at night.”
“And the beaches-”
“You feel the sand beneath your feet. It’ll make your wings stronger.”
Shoyo’s spine starts to tingle, as if arching black wings will sprout from them any moment. He pauses; there’s one more thing he wonders about. The friend - a man who may even be a brother - knows just what he’ll ask.
“Tobio is stupid,” he responds, before Shoyo even opens his mouth.
“I know.”
“Even more than you think,” the brother barks a laugh. “You’ll text him sometime soon, it may even be tomorrow - you’ll tell him, and he won’t respond.” A frost forms in the brother’s voice, but he continues: “He’ll see you at practise, but he won’t say anything. You’ll… hate it. You’ll think he hates you.”
The brother is welling up. This isn’t what Shoyo needed to hear.
“Those moments will be some of the worst of your life.”
“Does he feel the same?" Shoyo rushes, infuriated that the brother is so cryptic. Just tell him, dammit, don't make him wonder.
The brother smiles, and it seems to be confirmation. “Yeah, and he’ll tell you, so hang tight.”
Heaving a breath, Shoyo tries to relax, but the brother starts on a tangent.
“The day you return to Japan-" he says, "he'll meet you at the airport. His hair will be messy." He sounds like he's recounting a memory, and his eyes glaze over. "And he'll put his hands around your waist."
"And?"
"And his hands are big. Strong. You won't remember them being as strong as they feel in that moment. He lifts you up, and," he sounds dreamy, "kisses you then and there. Everybody is watching and it doesn't matter at all."
A kiss other people can see, thinks Shoyo. He's never been kissed that way before.
"He puts you down and holds you close. You feel his hands on your back and breath on your neck."
Shoyo sharply intakes air. He's not sure he can still breathe. Whatever the brother describes next, Shoyo thinks he might just faint.
"And then?"
"He kneels... and you know the rest."
"What? No, tell me-"
The stranger, friend, brother, all of these things at once, looks Shoyo in his brown eyes. Eyes that he shares. Eyes that belong to him, because the stranger is him, has always been, down to the creases in his palms.
His hair is stark orange, fluffy, longer than Shoyo’s - and he shows his hand. A golden band, simple, probably engraved, lies around his ring finger. He gives a parting smile that feels like safety.
Shoyo's alarm wakes him up, and he's not in his bed - he's sprawled across the floor, having kicked off his covers, and he's confused, disoriented, asking himself the time.
He thinks of the future.
He may not remember the dream - but all of a sudden, he knows for sure that he’ll be okay.
He grabs his phone, opens his messages, and decides today's the day.
"Hey Kageyama," he reads aloud as he types. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Ra, Huītzilōpōchtli, Helios; culture after culture, age after age, through the ruins of empires and the births of nations, people have always worshipped the sun. They worshipped solar flares, the giver of daylight and life, worshipped the people who represented our most vital star.
Tobio, a man of modernity, in concrete cities and neon lights, is no exception.
Older than time, the sun is - it is older than life, than air, here long before us, and it will be here long after we are gone. The sun is as close as can be to eternal, incomprehensibly old and yet, in its scheme, marvellously young, a figure of fate and folklore. The sun, our sun, is as natural to humanity as waking, as breathing, as loving. Truly there is no version of life, of Tobio's life, without it.
Tobio flicks on the kettle, watching the horizon through one of the windows of his Roman flat. Shoyo, his sun, his Ra his Huītzilōpōchtli his Helios, is thousands of miles away. 4 hours behind, he eats takeout in his own living room, and he pines.
Tobio worships the gifts of the sun like no other, as he drinks his herbal tea, preparing for a night of troubled rest.
How long? he thinks - how long until the sun spirit, the love of his life, the bringer of his dawn, is in his arms again?
Indeed, how long. His husband is on the phone, rays coming through the speaker, the roar of Tobio's star stifled by the distance.
"I love you," he murmurs into the night, to the sun that's doomed to set. "You are my everything," he continues, to the sun that is destined to rise again, every morning.
Every morning, for the rest of his life, the sun will rise, and he will worship it. He would give his future to the sun. There is no god - no Ra, Huītzilōpōchtli, Helios - that brings the solar joy of his Shoyo.
tags: The Love is Recquited They’re Just Idiots, Amnesia, Medical Inaccuracies, Temporary Amnesia, Light Angst, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Enemies to Lovers, enemies to lovers speedrun, Getting Together, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, Tokyo Training Camp Arc (Haikyuu), Daisuga if u squint
summary:
Hinata doesn’t remember Kageyama, but he remembers how he feels - he loves him, he trusts him, and his heart beats ninety miles a minute when Kageyama is nearby.
Which maybe isn’t the best, because he shouldn’t feel any of those things.
---
It’s been nearly three weeks since Hinata and Kageyama had their fight. They still aren’t talking, and it’s tearing Kageyama apart. When he pictures what he wants to say to Hinata, when he tries to open his mouth to talk, he finds himself closing it and turning away. He fears making everything worse, he fears it so much that he won’t even try to make things better.
His teammate Hinata is back. They practise together. But his friend Hinata, the one he ate lunch with and would tease and would walk to his bus stop with… it’s like he still hasn’t come home. They don’t talk. They don’t laugh and joke. They don’t work tirelessly into the early hours because just one more set, Kageyama!
It rips Kageyama in half to think about it; how long has he gone without seeing that solar smile, that laugh that could power Miyagi for a week? How long has it been since he caused those smiles and laughs?
Tokyo is cold at night. His sweat mingles with bath water and he ponders, ponders, ponders - will things ever be the same between him and Hinata? He could've sworn he was getting Hinata to fall for him, but just when he was coming to terms with his own feelings, their relationship - their not-quite-but-nearly friendship - was destroyed like a soda can under a boot. Any hopes he had of getting this stupid crush under control were dashed, and any dreams of getting Hinata to like him back were more like fantasies.
Hinata opens his eyes, and his vision is blurry. Someone is standing over him - their head haloed by light, their hair only just recognisable as a dark shade of brown.
"Hinata! Hey, you with us?"
He blinks again. The voice feels familiar, but he can't place it. It feels like hope, and trust, and it's comforting. It's deep, but not scratchy - Hinata knows that he knows it, but he can't work out who it is.
"Who… are you?" He manages, and his head hurts like a bitch when he tries to speak.
The voice drops a second, and then picks back up. "Do you know where you are?"
"Um…" he doesn't know, but he tries to work it out - for some reason, he feels the need to do his best for the brown-haired voice, as if disappointing it was a terrible crime. A teacher, maybe?
"A gym… are we in… Karasuno?"
The voice gets more and more worried, and it frantically says, "Coach, he doesn't know where he is - this could be really serious."
Next thing Hinata knows, he's in a bed, surrounded by people in masks - and then he's in another one, and this one isn't as loud, and there are even more people in masks and a blue curtain drawn around him like a border between him and the world.
The voice is next to him again, and he can see who it belongs to - but the face of the boy (man?) beside him doesn't answer his question.
"Hey. You're awake, Hinata. That was a nasty fall you had there - you feel okay?"
He doesn't hurt. Not really. His head pounds, but only when he tries to speak, so he decides his mouth is better off closed.
He just feels… fuzzy. Like he should know what's going on, but he really doesn't.
"Yeah."
It's not a lie. He can't lie to the voice.
"Where is that little-" comes an angry tone, and it's one Hinata recognises. It makes his chest bubble, and his feelings are like chinese whispers, with every repetition more twisted than the last. He likes the way it sounds, the pitch of it, and his heart feels light, but he's scared and anxious and there's a little resentment towards the disembodied sound. What kind of person could make him feel all of those things at once? Who could it belong to, that it made him shy and flustered and lovestruck but fearful and annoyed and upset?
"Hinata!" it barks, and as Hinata looks up, he sees what looks like a furious, dread-bringing angel. The boy it belongs to has black hair, silky smooth, and his skin is clear and pale. He looks handsome, gorgeous even, and Shoyo wants to see him smile so much his heart could rip itself out of his sternum with a single beat. He's frowning, though, and the lines on his brow make him look devilish, even though his body looks like a sculpture and his face looks like a painting.
"What kind of move was that, moron?! You could have gotten really hurt! What kind of idiot just leaps like that?! What if you'd broken something?! You'd never play again, dumbass!"
There's no recognition in Hinata's deadpanned stare, and the pretty boy backs down for a moment, before yelling again- "Say something! I'm talking to you, asshole!"
"Who… are you?" Hinata asks, because it's all he can think - he isn't paying attention to the fury, and instead notices the way his chest is heaving and his blood is drumming a solo in his ears. "I love you, don't I?"
That stuns the boy into silence. The brown-haired man stares at Hinata, and his mouth starts to hang open, before a third voice - masculine, but not gruff - starts to laugh. "What?"
Hinata tries again, begging this handsome, swirling rage to listen - he must be Hinata's boyfriend, he's decided, because why else would Shoyo long to be so close to the neatly manicured fingers and hang tightly onto the muscles in his arms?
"I don't remember you, but I remember that I trust you." His head starts to hurt again, really bad, but he soldiers on, because his boyfriend needs to know that he hasn't forgotten him, not really, not yet. "I remember that I love you."
The silence that follows is poison. Hinata's confession hangs in the air like a corpse swinging from a tree, and he starts to wonder if the boy really is his boyfriend after all.
The way the boy hisses his words, venom from a snake, proves that Hinata made a mistake. This boy isn't his lover, not in the slightest; he'd be surprised if the boy is even his friend. His chest drops as if tied to a stone and thrown from a bridge; his heart sinks like an anchor, and yet he can't fight the infatuation, and the love, that he feels.
"What."
Shoyo gulps, and he attempts an apology, but he can't help but feel that would make it worse.
"Kageyama," begins the maybe-teacher to Shoyo's left, and Hinata assumes that must be his not-boyfriend's name, as it's leaving a sour taste in his mouth but a fuzzy stir in his gut. "Leave him alone."
Kageyama glares at Hinata, at the man at his side, and then he strides out of the room, his dark jacket (Shoyo can't quite read the kanji on the back) rippling not unlike a furious waterfall behind him. Even as he power-walks away, Hinata can't help but focus on his shoulder blades as his arms swing with intense momentum, and although he'd deny it, he takes a few sneaky glances at Kage-something's butt.
Hinata's Unfortunate Crush leaves, and the room is silent again, if only for a moment - before it's broken by a deep, long-suffering sigh.
"Of all the times to confess, dude."
"Sure was ballsy!"
"Tanaka."
"Sorry boss."
The man to Shoyo's left sighs again, before trying to explain.
"You don't remember us?"
Hinata shakes his head, and he can't help the well of guilt in his tummy. "Sorry."
"We're in Tokyo. Training camp."
"You hit your head pretty bad, little man!"
Yeah. Yeah, Hinata had figured that. How else could he have been so stupid as to-
"You and Kageyama-" another sigh- "have been fighting for about three weeks. You won't even talk to each other. You really couldn't have picked a worse time."
"Can't imagine what's going through his head right now," says a guy, also on Hinata's left. Hinata doesn't know how he didn't notice him before - he's holding one of Shoyo's hands, squeezing occasionally, his arm wrapped tight around the first guy. His voice is kind, but there's some kind of quality to it that makes him sound like someone not to underestimate. He sounds… sassy?
"What d'you mean, Suga?"
"Well, you know! Kageyama's had a crush on Hinata since middle school, and now, after a fight that got physical and a month of hardly even speaking, his crush confesses? That'd mess me up too."
"He's had a- hold on, what?"
Kageyama leans against the wall, the door to Hinata's ward to his right, his head in his hands and his teeth clamped down hard.
"That idiot," he hisses, and he can't tell if he's happy or angry or confused, or some inexperienced barman's cocktail of all of it. "Why would he- that-"
Hinata didn't know what he was saying. There's no way he could l- l- love Kageyama. Not after Kageyama threw him across the gym, or yelled at him, or did anything he's done. He must have just been confused - the guy hit his head hard, it must have messed around the few braincells he had like a Dairy Queen Blizzard and turned them into some kind of milkshake.
Love. Kageyama scoffed. For a moment he'd allowed himself to believe Hinata, and to think that everything he wanted was coming true, but he knew better than that. Hinata didn't love him, no way, and once this stupid concussion was dealt with he wouldn't even remember he'd said it. What a troublesome little brat…
Still, though, whatever shreds of hope Kageyama couldn't set alight continued to plague his thoughts. Standing outside that ward for G-d knows how long, he thought about maybe telling Hinata, maybe giving a confession right back and kissing him square on his dumb stupid face. His mind kept straying back to the embarassing smile he gave Daichi just before he'd left and the lovestruck stars in Hinata's stupid honey-brown eyes.
Honey-brown, Kageyama heard himself think. He was becoming a poet over a mistaken love confession. He's never been so pathetic.
“Hinata,” Suga says, and he’s sincere, and quiet, and a little worried. Everyone else in the room looks immediately at him, and he commands the space; he seems powerful in that moment, as if his seriousness is something weighty, like a curse on a bloodline or the silence in a warzone. His silver hair is slightly reflecting medical lights, and Hinata finds it hard to look at him - his intense face doesn’t feel like him, somehow, and even the man to Suga’s left looks apprehensive. “What you said to Kageyama… was it true?”
The fourth guy - Takana? Tanuki? something like that - looks down at Hinata, and he seems concerned. His brow is furrowed, and his nose wrinkled up. Hinata thinks he might be angry, but it’s hard to tell.
It’s a serious question. He can tell, and he doesn’t feel like joking.
“...Yes. I don’t remember anything, but when he came in, my heart went fyoom and then he started talking and it was all pa-pow! I thought he was my boyfriend.”
Buzz Cut snorts and mutters to the floor, “we’ve all thought that about you two at some point.”
Ignoring him, Suga asks, “Do you want me to talk to him about it?”
“No!” Hinata bursts, and it comes out before he has time to think about it. "I- I just mean, you know, he looked angry." Hinata's stomach drops, but he soldiers on- "I don't think he wants to hear it."
When Hinata wakes up, it must be early morning, as there's no longer any light coming from the small ward window, and the lights are off - there's a few twinkling night lights embedded in the ceiling, and the whole room is bathed in a fuzzy dark blue. He can almost hear his own breathing, but it doesn't seem to be synced with his actual breaths, and he gets confused.
Looking down, there's a head lying on the bed, and its body seems to heave with the loud breathing. There's a faint recognition in Hinata's stare, and his hands seem to move by themselves, reaching down to gently hold the nearest limb - it must be a bicep? - of the sleeping form.
It shifts, suddenly, and becomes harder to make out. It blends in with the darkness around it, and its stark white skin embellishes a pointed nose and small, closed eyes.
Hinata's mouth pulls itself up as he recognises the figure; Kageyama, from earlier, that handsome boy he'd handed his heart to.
And then he remembers what happened after, and feels unbelievably guilty. Was he taking advantage of Kageyama by holding his arm, even though Kageyama had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Hinata?
But he's here, isn't he? He may not want anything romantic, but he's here by Hinata's side, even though everyone else has gone home. His head is resting on Hinata's calf, and he looks peaceful. For once, he doesn't look angry.
"Kageyama," Hinata whispers, hoping that hearing himself say it will bring back any of the wonderful memories he must have of the pretty boy in his lap. It doesn't work, though, and his chest feels heavier than ever, with the weight of his guilt and his pining weighing him back down into the hospital bed.
Kageyama stirs, and his long eyelashes flutter slightly, before his head turns away. Hinata can no longer see his face, but he makes heart-eyes at the back of Kageyama's head, indulging in the sleeping setter's inability to get angry. Just looking wasn't too bad, was it?
"What."
Hinata takes a second to register it, but he realises that Kageyama spoke - as quiet and resting as he seemed, he must have been woken up by Hinata's words, and Hinata feels like he's been caught in headlights.
Kageyama's head swivels back round to face Hinata, and if he could see Hinata's eyes he would be staring into them. His arm feels firm in Hinata's hand, and Shoyo can almost feel his pulse.
Not knowing what else to say, Hinata mutters a hushed "hey", letting go of Kageyama as if he'd been burned.
There's silence, and Hinata has to resist the urge to hold Kageyama's arm again.
Kageyama's heart beats like the bullet train. It's fast and it's on track, but it's loud and overwhelming and Kageyama can't really hear much else. He doesn't know why Hinata was holding him - hasn't he gotten over this stupid feelings thing yet? That idiot - but he wants him to do it again.
He shouldn't have said anything. He should've just let Hinata think he was still asleep, he thinks, because then that tiny, warm hand would still be on his arm and he'd be melting into its touch.
He feels guilty, thinking about it like that - isn't that taking advantage of Hinata's mistaken feelings? And wouldn't it just hurt him, later on, if he allowed himself those lingering touches?
"You shouldn't touch me," he says, and it comes out with a biting tone that he hates to hear. He knows Hinata will think he's angry at him, but he's not - the only person he's angry at is himself.
"S-sorry!" Hinata rushes, and he looks away, but Kageyama has already noticed the twinge of pain in Hinata's voice and the sob he poorly caught in his throat.
"I-" he starts, because he knows he should say something. Hearing Hinata cry like that, knowing it's his fault, knowing that whatever was left of what they had was being minced up and turned into budget dog food made him sick. "I like you. You shouldn't touch me because I like you."
There's a moment of silence, and something Suga said earlier rang through Shoyo's mind. "Kageyama's liked you for ages," it says, and Hinata hurts.
Then why were you so angry? he thinks to say, but before he can open his mouth, Kageyama is talking again.
"I like you so much. But you don't like me."
Of course I do, stupid Kageyama, Hinata would say, but Kageyama isn't finished.
"You don't like me. You just think you do because of this stupid concussion. You wouldn't even talk to me yesterday, so just- just shut up, okay?"
He gets angry, Shoyo can feel it, and the atmosphere turns nasty.
"I have feelings too!" Kageyama is yelling. "So don't tell me you like me when we both know you don't! Don't play with my feelings like that! Just shut up!"
Silence.
"You really… think that, don't you."
Shoyo's voice comes out in a husk, and for a fraction of a second Kageyama seems to cower.
"Yes! You hate me! You tell me all the time that I'm loud and rude and mean and that you- that you hate me!"
"I don't hate you!" Hinata forces, and it's shrill and high. "You're loud and rude and mean and I love you!"
"Why!"
It's not phrased as a question. Hinata isn't sure Kageyama even wants an answer, or if he just wants to yell and shout and fight some more.
"I DON'T KNOW!" Hinata sobs into his hospital bed sheets. "I don't know! I don't remember, okay? But I remember that I really, really like you, and when I see your dumb face I get all SHOOP and then you talk and my heart beats really fast like DA DUM DA DUM DA DUM and you make me giddy and I REALLY LIKE YOU!"
Kageyama's mouth is opening and closing but nothing is coming out. He's staring at Hinata, and his jaw finally stays still, fully dropped. He's really sure about this, isn't he? He's really, really sure about this.
For a second, Kageyama lets himself dream - because he knows what Hinata means. He feels like that too! Although he'd describe it as a fwoom not a shoop, but for Hinata... he'd allow a little wiggle room.
And then he sighs. "You better be serious, Hinata, because I am."
"I am, too."
"Do you remember when you promised me we'd take on the world?"
Shoyo looks distraught. "No. But I still want to be by your side, when we do."
That's… heavy, Kageyama thinks, but he feels the same.
Shifting his chair so he's closer to Hinata's top half, Kageyama puts his hands on Hinata's cheeks, his long fingers brushing against his cheekbones. Their eyes meet, and there's a moment of silent understanding.
Closing his eyes, Hinata moves towards Kageyama, and it's like no matter how close he gets Kageyama just isn't there. The moment or two before their lips touch feels like an eternity, but as soon as they're connected, Hinata decides it's worth it; Kageyama feels warm, and Shoyo knows his cheeks are blushing red. He knows that no matter how many collisions he has on the court, he will never forget this moment.
"Kageyama…" he breathes.
"Call me Tobio."
Hinata's smile drips golden, and he throws it at Tobio's mouth a second time.
He remembers something - he doesn't know where it comes from, but he's sure it rings true.
"With you around, I'm the greatest."
He whispers it into Tobio's lips, and Tobio's hands shift from Shoyo's face to his neck, pulling him deeper into a love-filled moment.
tags: Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Post-Time Skip, Fluff
summary:
Kageyama and Hinata have never really talked about marriage, and they don't need to.
---
Kageyama and Hinata have never really talked about marriage - it was never a topic they needed. For them, spending their lives together was a given, and being at each other's side for the rest of time was never something they needed to confirm. They both knew how the other felt, and they never doubted that that was the only hand they'd hold, til death do they part.
In a way, they'd promised to marry each other a long time ago, when they vowed to never stop competing, and racing around the world to be together. That was marriage, no? A promise that can never be broken, a heartfelt oath to love, to always love, to always be themselves, to always be together?
So when Nishinoya mentioned it to them, 30 years after they first met, at a reunion, it seemed slightly strange. Just because no rings tied them together didn't mean they weren't partners for life, or that they weren't soulmates. The truth is, Hinata told him, they never considered marriage, because why would they need to? Their love spoke for itself.
But as Hinata lay awake that night, his lover's quiet snoring making indents in his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about it - he traced the base of his ring finger, wondering how it would feel if something sat there. Wondering how the metal would feel against his skin. Would they wear silver ones, or gold? Diamonds? Inscribed?
"Will you marry me?" he says over breakfast the next morning. Kageyama stays quiet for far too long, and Hinata knows why - he's thinking, that rare process, the same as Hinata did just last night. Were they different people - Sugawara and Daichi, maybe - there wouldn't even have been a pause, because the question was so long awaited, the answer so well known.
"Why?"
"Well, because I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
"That's not what I mean." He pours from a jug into a blue-and-green cup, because he knows without needing to ask that it's Hinata's favourite. "I want to spend my life with you too. You know that, and you have for twenty-five years. Why would I need to go through a ceremony, when I already know what our future looks like?"
"Because… because it'd be official. I'd call you my husband. We'd be- our relationship would be taken seriously."
"Nothing would change, Shoyo."
"It wouldn't need to." He breathes in, for a second questioning his next sentence. "I suppose I just want there to be some official record that we're together. That you're mine, you know? And… and I guess I want to wear rings."
Tobio says nothing, as the rusted, unused gears in his mind try to click into place. "Yes," he concludes, eventually, as he turns around and slides a hot cup of coffee across their dining room table. "I will marry you."
He looks down at his ring finger - something Hinata has touched a thousand times, as they held hands - and imagines Hinata touching it again, as he slides a ring into place. "I really would like that, actually."
Kageyama wants to tell Hinata how he feels, but right now, he doesn't have the courage.
---
“You know,” Kageyama murmurs, Hinata asleep next to him, the team in varying states of rest. Nishinoya’s covers have completely come off, and he’s splayed out like a water balloon that hit the wall too hard - his leg is positioned on Asahi’s chest, and his entire fist is shoved in his own mouth, and Kageyama has no idea how he can be comfortable.
“I think I-” and he hushes himself. It hurts to say it, but it hurts more not to, and Hinata is so heavily asleep Kageyama wouldn’t be surprised if he never woke up. If the snoring in the room, like a tractor ploughing through a minefield, couldn’t wake Hinata, then surely three little - or three really rather big words, actually - wouldn’t do it.
"I think I love you."
An owl makes a sound outside the high-up window, and the stars are just visible against the midnight blue cloak of night. It's quiet for just a second, the gap between heaving breaths creating an ever so slight moment of serenity.
Hinata stirs, and Kageyama prays it's just the natural movement of his sleeping self. His arm brings itself up, and a speck of drool wells at the corner of his mouth; he exposes his pale stomach, and his knee twitches under the only part of the blanket not already discarded.
"Actually, I know I do."
He fights the urge to stroke Hinata's lightly freckled cheek, and debates the risks of threading through his wild ginger hair.
"I'll tell you one day."
The owl outside calls again, interrupted by an unceremonious snore.
tags: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Getting Together, Confessions, Childhood Friends, Pining, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip
summary:
Oikawa and Iwaizumi have drifted apart. When they drift back together again, who knows what they'll say.
---
Drifted apart.
That’s what Oikawa’s mother always said happened. He and Iwaizumi just… drifted apart.
That wasn’t entirely true. Drifting implied it was slow, like a lazy river, where no one event could be highlighted as the exact moment they broke away from each other - but no.
If she knew what had happened, she wouldn’t say they drifted. She’d say they found a pair of scissors, and severed the red string binding them. She’d say that they ran away from each other, and from themselves.
Oikawa had confessed to him. On their last day of highschool, Oikawa had held Iwaizumi’s shoulder, had looked him in the eye, and had told him the truth.
“I like you,” he’d told him, uniform jacket smudged with tears and girls’ lipstick, “and I always have. I love you, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi hadn’t said anything. He’d just nodded. He didn’t look surprised, or upset, or flustered, or happy - he just looked blank, vaguely annoyed, like he always did.
They didn’t mean to stop talking. They just didn’t keep in touch. They had each others’ social media and all, but they just… stopped having conversations. Words stopped flowing so easily between them.
Iwaizumi hadn’t rejected Oikawa, exactly, but the look on his face, the plain glare he always held, hurt more than any rejection ever could.
Iwaizumi could’ve rejected Oikawa in so many ways. He could have been gentle, and let him down easily, or he could’ve been angry, or he could’ve been mocking, and every single one of those would’ve hurt far less than the blank stare, the “okay,” and then the silence.
Oh God, the silence. The way he'd gone radio flat, the way Makki and Matsunn had stopped hearing from him as well.
Apparently he'd moved to California. Good for him, Oikawa supposed.
Oikawa himself was back in Miyagi. Visiting his parents, or maybe he just missed the place - all the good memories, all the painful nostalgia, the person he'd been six years ago. Remember when he used to use way too much gel in his hair, or when his cologne smelled of watermelon?
And remember... remember his old friend, Iwaizumi?
If Oikawa was telling the truth, he still nursed a sweet spot for him. He came here not just to feel young again, but maybe, just maybe, to find Iwa, and become the people they once were for just one more day.
But he wasn't planning on telling the truth.
Sitting there, the wind flirting with his hair, the sun just acknowledging spring, Oikawa looked around the park he and Iwaizumi grew up in. Over there, under that tree, he'd had his first kiss - and there, that fountain, they used to splash around in in summer when they were ten. It felt like a fever dream, all the memories feeling so familiar and yet so foreign and so far away.
"Oikawa?" a familiar voice called. A familiar, foreign, far away voice.
"I...waizumi?"
"H-" he stammered, confused about how to start his sentence. "Hey? How... how have you been?"
"Fine."
"Good."
"You?"
"Same."
Their stilted, awkward conversation captivated neither of their attention; both of them dwelled in the past, in the memory of what was, in the thought of what could have been.
Before he could stop himself, Iwaizumi was sitting next to Oikawa, face turned slightly into the breeze, looking anywhere but the friend-turned-stranger beside him.
"I missed you."
He stared into bushes, or the horizon, or anything but Oikawa.
"I missed you too."
There was silence for a beat, and then,
"Iwaizumi?"
"Oikawa?"
They caught each others' eyes, stunned by their sudden, unified outburst.
"Let me go first."
Oikawa hesitated, but he allowed it. "Okay."
"About what you said... on the roof, all those years ago."
Here it comes. The rejection Oikawa had waited over half a decade for.
"Look, Iwa-"
"I feel the same. I did then, too." He breathed, and his heart was fighting up his throat, and blood thundered in his ears with the sound of balls ricocheting off the gym walls. "I hated myself for it." His fingers fidgeted and twitched, like spiders legs pirouetting on an invisible piano, and he continued, "So I tried to deny how I felt. I... I'm sorry I never told you the truth, Oikawa."
"Since when have you called me Oikawa?"
Oikawa was processing, still, and his mouth moved without him thinking.
"S...Shittykawa?"
A smirk graced Oikawa's pretty face, and he started to smile, but Iwaizumi wasn't done.
"I think... you know how they always say, you know, 'right person wrong time'? I think that's what happened with us. I think you were... the right person, and it might have been the right time, but I was so adamant it wasn't that I made it the wrong time instead. I forced it to to be the wrong time, so it'll never be the right time again."
He stood up.
"Anyway, Tooru- Shittykawa- see you around, maybe."
As he turned, his feet going one step, two steps-
"Iwa-chan, don't you go leaving now!"
Iwaizumi stopped, and Oikawa's heart beat like a train, like drums, faster and stronger than any spike or set or serve. That old candle that still flickered suddenly burned bright, as if dashed with gasoline, and every second Iwaizumi breathed in its direction, the flame grew from a flicker to a stovetop to a wildfire.
"We wasted nearly twenty years of our lives not knowing what to say to each other." He gulped, and then, "So what if there isn't a right time? The time is now, Iwa-chan, I don't care if it's right or not."
Iwaizumi didn't know what to say, but he didn't need to; soon, long fingers that used to send him sets all those years ago wrapped hard around his wrist and pulled him into a hug. They didn't face each other, but they didn't need to. They didn't speak.
