“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Captain,” Tsukishima said with a smirk, “After all, Hinata’s the only one stupid enough to try and hit your tosses.”

“Lies!” Hinata broke in. “You hit them too.”

“Now that he finally tosses like I want. I-” Yamaguchi’s hand came down on Tsukishima’s back with a loud smack that resounded through the gym, and Kageyama grinned as laughter bubbled out of Hinata. The tall blond scowled at them and hissed in pain, but Yamaguchi just beamed at his friend and smacked him on the back once more for good measure.

Even after three years Hinata was surprised to see how close they’d grown. He knew Kageyama and Tsukishima would never be friends, but they had settled into some antagonistic relationship that only Yamaguchi could interrupt through words or, as he’d learned from Sugawara, a good blow somewhere on the body. And, considering how Yamaguchi’s serves had reached a strength Hinata had last seen with Oikawa, it was quite terrifying. Despite that, they got along well. When their upperclassmen had departed they hadn’t floundered for structure or leadership. Kageyama had unanimously been put up for the position, and he had taken to it well. Too bad the Great King and his old teammates can’t see him now.

A finger poked his temple, prodded him out of his thoughts, and Hinata blinked and refocused. Kageyama scowled at him, but it was easy-going, not nearly as intimidating as it had once been. “Stop spacing out, idiot. The first years will be here soon.”

“I know,” Hinata murmured as he smacked Kageyama’s hand to the side. He brightened up a second later though, a grin on his lips as he turned to the other two third years. “It’s gonna be great, isn’t it? We’ve got so many people wanting to join this year!” Four third years, six second years, and eleven applications from hopeful first years.

“Let’s hope they’re good,” Tsukishima grumbled, but even that cynical comment couldn’t bring Hinata down. Though, naturally, the next comment out of Tsukishima’s mouth managed it. “Maybe one of them will actually be shorter than you.”

“Rude.” He couldn’t help that though - he hadn’t grown, not even a measly millimeter, and that was a fact that Hinata grumbled about every time he remembered it. It didn’t help that Tsukishima had only grown taller and neared two meters, while Yamaguchi and Kageyama had gained height as well. Only one person was remotely close to Hinata’s height, and that was their libero, and that was still a ten centimeter gap. “You guys are just giants!”

Tsukishima and Kageyama just smirked at him while Yamaguchi patted his shoulder sympathetically, and Hinata shuffled closer to him. “Yama, you’re the only nice one here!”

“You’re just saying that because I don’t make fun of your height or hit you.”

“Exactly!”

Yamaguchi rolled his eyes and ruffled Hinata’s hair before he reached back to tie his own back into a little ponytail. The door rattled open and they all glanced over as the second years stepped in and called their hellos - and then a loud voice and something made them scatter. Someone flung themselves inside with a loud whoop of joy, hands in the air and legs tucked into their chest. A first year. Kageyama snorted behind Hinata, and the spiker glanced back with a grin. “I’m glad I didn’t have an entrance like that.”

“Right,” Yamaguchi laughed, “You and Kageyama just fought and were almost kicked out! Or Kageyama wouldn’t have been able to set.”

The captain groaned and buried his face into his hands. “Don’t remind me, please. I still want to kill Hinata for that.”

He just blew a kiss at Kageyama and flicked a middle finger and mouthed “traitor” at Yamaguchi. They tossed him a scowl and a smile in return, and Hinata laughed. Slowly but surely more people filtered in. Something in his chest tightened as he watched. They shook hands with each other and chattered, they waved at Yachi and crowed about their luck, they eyed the third years, intrigued.

Karasuno had grown, had turned into something far greater than Hinata could have imagined when he’d first joined. Their success in his first and second years had encouraged more people to come to the home of the once flightless crows, and they were on the verge of becoming a powerhouse strong enough to rival even Tokyo’s best. I want to see that. He turned back to his fellow third years, chest tight and something in his eyes burning. “Guys,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I can’t wait for the first practice match.”

Joy churned his stomach, left him breathless as Kenma moved through the short-cropped grass. Leaves fluttered down, green and full, and Kenma spared a glance up as he drew closer, closer. And then he was right in front of Shoyo. His eyes were damp too, but he'd managed to hold them back, and his lips were curled up into as tiny smile.

“Hey, Sho.”

“Hey there Kenma,” he sniffed quietly as he reached up and plucked a leaf out of Kenma’s hair. He'd let it go back to black years before and it suited him - framed his face, brought put his liquid gold eyes, make him look even paler like porcelain. And Shoyo just wanted to cup his face and kiss him already, wanted to shove cake into it and laugh and sip champagne and tumble into a nice car with “JUST HITCHED” scrawled on the back. But instead he caught Kenma’s hands and they glanced at the priest, who smiled at them.

“Alright guys, after you're up here we'll read the vows - you've both prepared your own, correct?”

“Yes,” they chorused with a glance at each other. He knew Kenma’s were done - he'd told Shoyo as much. Shoyo’s consisted of wadded up balls of paper that filled the wastebasket by his desk, and that terrified him. No words felt right, like they could encompass every little thing that Shoyo loved. There's just so much.

He wiggled his hand free and wiped his eyes as the priest ran through what else there would be in the official ceremony, and Shoyo barely heard a word he said. He didn't even realize the priest was finished until Kenma gently tugged on his hand and led him back down the aisle. Everyone gathered around them when they reached the end - Tobio, Shoyo’s parents, Natsu, Tetsuro, Koutarou, Kenma’s parents, their grandparents - and tugged them into big hugs.

“One more day,” someone whispered into his ear, and Shoyo nodded dumbly, dazed.

He and Kenma were passed around from one set of arms to another until he collided with Kenma, and those slender arms settled around his waist as he wrapped Kenma up in a tight embrace. A smile snapped into place, sunny and sure, but Kenma couldn't see because Shoyo buried his face into those dark tresses, but he knew Kenma could feel the way he trembled. “Kenma,” he breathed, “I really love you.”

“Well I'd hope so since you're marrying me.”

Laughter spilled out from around them, and maybe it was just the thought of all that was going to happen, but Shoyo felt weightless as he let his hands fall, then caught Kenma’s hands. A kiss to each finger, still calloused from his days of volleyball, to palms sweet with the scent of lotion. “I think I know what I'm going to write.”

“About time,” Kenma smiled, and his fingers curled over Shoyo’s hand, locked them together for a moment before he let his hands fall free. And Shoyo just grinned when he stepped in and scooped Kenma off his feet, the movements well practiced. And so were the soft kisses he peppered across Kenma’s cheeks, forehead, lips, with soft “I love you”s breathed between.

That night, when they took Kenma to Tetsuro’s house - “Might as well keep with the tradition of separating the spouses,” he'd teased, and even Tobio had agreed - Shoyo found a new sheet of paper and wrote.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before feet landed on the steps, heavy and slow. The door opened a minute later and Noya stared, apathetic, as two men stomped in with a low bed frame in their hands. Their eyes glossed right over him - hell, one of them even stepped through him as they maneuvered the frame until it was stretched out beneath the window, the head of the bed tucked into the corner. A mattress came up next, and then a dresser.

Noya watched them come and go, listened to them grunt and huff as they hauled things through the house. And then the noises stopped. The moving truck drove away, left the chunky red van and the low black car in the driveway of Noya’s home. And the new occupants were down below. Right until more footsteps reached him, quieter, and a little sniffle.

The bedroom door eased open and Noya tucked his legs in tighter, the mattress soft beneath his feet. Softer than anything he'd felt for months, but it wasn't like he could really feel it. The boy nudged the door open, his head down and a box cradled in his hands. He shuffled forward and dropped it at the foot of his bed - and then he froze. Brown eyes flicked up, widened when they landed on Noya - and Noya froze too. And then he smiled, let out the breath he'd been holding. The boy couldn't see him, no one- “Who are you?”

Fuck. The boy looked scared, but he didn't move, and his eyes were definitely on Noya. And the young man felt something in his heart twist as faint tremor worked through him. “You can see me?”

“Yeah, of course.” The boy's eyes widened even more, but rather than turn and scream and run away he stepped closer. “Are you… dead?”

“That's rude,” Noya teased, and the boy's face fell until Noya sighed and nodded. “Sorry. Yeah. I… forgot how to deal with people. You're the first in thirty years to see me.”

“I'm sorry,” the boy murmured, and he genuinely looked it. It was strange, baffling. And Noya liked it. Hated it. He was used to the silence, to having eyes slide past. And yet some little kid stood a few feet away who could see him, who wanted to talk to him. It was strange. But the boy thrust a hand out before he could say anything. “I'm Asahi Azumane. I'm ten.”

Noya eyed the hand warily, then the boy. “You can't touch ghosts.”

“I can! See?” Asahi leaned forward and poked Noya in the calf, and the ghost gasped, recoiled. His touch was fire, burning along his skin and radiating out from where he'd touched. But it didn't hurt - it warmed. It made him feel solid. And Asahi looked like he'd expected it, like he'd known Noya would lunge forward and grab his hand and close his eyes, practically purring at the warmth, and the sensations. I feel alive.

“My name is Yuu Nishinoya. Call me Noya. I was seventeen.”

Asahi had no friends and Noya couldn't exactly leave the property, so while his parents were at work Asahi dragged Noya through the house. He told Noya about all the little trinkets they had: the little ceramic elephant from India that his parents had gotten on their honeymoon; a perfectly round, white vase with pink cherry blossoms painted on it from Japan; glasses from Canada; little nesting dolls from Russia.

Noya was more interested in the pictures - he'd been confined to the house for so many years, and the grainy photographs he'd seen in school hadn't been nearly enough. When Asahi had told Noya about “Google Maps” Noya had been ecstatic. For nearly a week while Asahi slept Noya had clicked his way around the world and drunk in all the sights he'd never get to truly see. That had made him bitter, but the taste had faded quickly, and Noya had continued to explore for hours until he crawled into bed behind Asahi and threw his arm over the young boy, held him close and relished in the warmth, the heartbeat.

Their days were filled with Noya showing him all the little nooks and crannies of the house. There was a hidden room that they cleaned together and furnished, a little Spartan but still cozy. And safe. Then the loose floorboards that Asahi could hide things beneath. The little overrun garden on the edge of the property, strangled with weeds and rampant roses. Those and a dozen other things filled up the hot summer days as cicadas whirred and Asahi’s laughter filled the empty house and yard.

Noya wasn't particularly excited when Asahi started school - that meant more boredom - though it wasn't long before Asahi started to write him little notes or drew him things and left him notebooks so he could write and draw. It sucked more when he started to bring friends over, but Noya could deal.

The years slurred together like that, games of blackjack and Go Fish, hide and seek and tax drawing games and ones where they only wrote messages. Days were good: Asahi came home with sunny smiles and bursting with stories, and his mother or father would pat his head. Days were bad: Noya would ‘wake up’ to sobs, and Asahi would be tucked beneath his bed or in the little hidden room, red marks on his body where bruises still had yet to fade. And Noya knew a lot of those didn't come from school or from Asahi’s natural clumsiness. But for the most part they were okay.

One day Asahi came home with a volleyball, and Noya lit up - it had been far too long since he'd touched one, and when they could they practiced together. Asahi worked his serves and spikes, Noya worked his receives, and Asahi looked so surprised to see how good he was. Being dead obviously didn't rob someone of skills - just their sanity. But with Asahi it was easier to keep, though some days were fuzzy. Sometimes he forgot that Asahi was fourteen, then sixteen.

Only the long hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and the little stubble and the fucking height reminded him. And the way that something about Asahi kept drawing him in. How, when puberty hit Asahi like a freight train, Noya suddenly couldn't look away, particularly when he started to change because shit, a kid his age shouldn't have had such nice muscles. How he started to do things beneath his covers or in the bathroom, and Noya would pretend that he hadn't heard a thing even though he definitely had and it made him ache too.

How he started to bring girls over and kissed them, though he never looked happy. And then there was one boy, one Noya could never remember the name of. He didn't want to. He just wanted to trip the boy and those girls down the steps, just like he'd wanted to do to Asahi’s parents. But he didn't. He drowned himself in Asahi’s warm touch. He'd crawl into bed with the young man, press their bodies together, and he didn't even have to tug on Asahi’s arm to get it over his waist. It fell there naturally after so many years, and Noya smiled into the dark every time. Those people will never feel this.

The blonde spun around as a smile instantly grew, bright and easy, even though her stomach twisted with nerves. “Hi, Kiyoko,” she chirped, and though she didn’t mean to she ended up ogling Kiyoko anyways. Kiyoko’s hair was piled high on her head in an elegantly messy bun. She wore a simple light pink sweater and a black skirt that stopped above her knees with see-through tights and black stars stitched into them, and the sight made Yachi’s mouth go dry. Yachi was definitely thankful that her mouth stayed shut because that would’ve been far too embarrassing for her to bear. She was just so accustomed to seeing Kiyoko in her school uniform or her manager tracksuit that Yachi hadn’t even considered what she’d wear on the weekends - or how beautiful she’d look.

Kiyoko smiled at her, and that made Yachi’s heart race as her cheeks burned and her knees went weak as Kiyoko stopped in front of her. “You look very nice, Yachi,” Kiyoko murmured, and Yachi nodded dumbly for a moment before the words registered, before she managed to find words as her cheeks burned and she tugged at her tank top.

“Y-you look great too, Kiyoko.”

That just made her tiny smile widen as her gray eyes flicked over Yachi before they settled on her face. “Are you ready to go?”

“Y-yeah! I’m ready.”

“Okay. Do you mind if I hold your hand?” It was baffling how calm Kiyoko could be, because Yachi could barely focus, let alone breathe in her presence, and she couldn’t even think past staring for hours and hours on end. She nodded wordlessly, vigorously, as Kiyoko flashed her that little smile and reached out. Her hand was small, rough from all the years as a volleyball manager and from the gardening Yachi knew she did, but her hand was still soft and warm. Their fingers curled together, interlocked, and Yachi was certain her heart would beat out of her chest or that steam would pour out off her ears because she was so hot. But Kiyoko looked calm and happy, perfectly at ease with Yachi’s hand in her’s. Oh my God. This is happening. And that made another smile burst out, wide and excited despite the nerves in her stomach, as they worked their way through the crowd.

She let Kiyoko lead her along, totally blind as to their destination, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like Kiyoko would take her anywhere that wasn’t nice - it just wouldn’t be like her if she did. They stopped outside an ice rink and Kiyoko glanced at Yachi as she stared up at the sign, mouth open. “Is this okay?”

Yachi’s head snapped back to Kiyoko so fast that her neck twinged, and the blonde winced before she nodded, her smile bright. “Yeah! I’ve never gone ice skating before.”

Slender brows arched up in surprise, and then Kiyoko smiled faintly, just enough to see a hint of dimples in her cheeks. “That’s good. C’mon.”

The cool inside was a shock after the warmth outside, and Yachi shivered and pressed closer into Kiyoko’s side as she strode up to the desk, cool and confident. God, how the heck did I manage this? They got their skates, the blades covered by blocks of plastic, and Kiyoko nudged her gently, eyes bright, as they made their way to the rink. It wasn’t very crowded, but there were enough people that Yachi swallowed nervously as they toed their shoes off and slipped the skates on.

“I still don’t know how to skate…”

“It’s okay. I do, and I can teach you. Have you ever rollerskated?” Yachi nodded, throat dry, as she studied the ice. She didn’t have long to be anxious about it because Kiyoko tugged her up with a smile and led her onto the ice. Even with the plastic covers she was wobbly, but it was worse when they took those off and stepped onto the ice. Yachi nearly tumbled to the ground the second she stepped on the ice, but Kiyoko kept her upright, even as she laughed a little. “Are you nervous?”

“Y-yeah.”

Warm fingers laced with hers, and Yachi felt her cheeks flush as she glanced up at Kiyoko, then at their feet, then back to her face. “It’s alright. Everyone falls. You’ve just got to get back up.”

And the confidence in Kiyoko’s gaze bolstered Yachi, gave her strength as she squeezed her hands. “I will.”

“Good.” The smile that came with that lone word made Yachi’s stomach twist with excitement. So much that she barely even noticed when they started to move - it wasn’t until she saw the border walls creep past that she realized and her breath caught, but she managed to stay upright and balanced. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was because of her own determination or because of Kiyoko’s solid grip on her hands, but she was positive that it didn’t matter.

“Yachi,” Kiyoko murmured, “When you skate what you want to think about is keeping your feet shoulder-width apart - be steady, like Nishinoya, though you don’t have to go so low.” Yachi nodded, and when Kiyoko paused their glide she slowly shuffled her feet apart until they were shoulder-width, and Kiyoko’s face scrunched up with a tiny little smile. “Good. Now try to move your right foot. Push it out and forward.” Yachi nodded and tried, a little uncertain at first, but she repeated the motion at Kiyoko’s urging, and then did the same with the other foot. And, surprisingly, it was only a few minutes before they began to glide along, and only a few more after that Kiyoko moved from in front of Yachi to beside her, their hands still firmly locked together.

“Fucking hell,” the setter whispered, and Hinata only buried his face further into the crook of his arms and between his knees. The spiker made a tiny little sound that Kageyama couldn’t even begin to identify, let alone react to, so he sighed again. “They’ll be back soon. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Hinata whispered, voice rough.

That made Kageyama freeze, and he glanced down at Hinata, eyes narrowed. His cheeks were flushed red and the eye he could see was clenched shut. Hinata’s lips were stretched thin into a grimace, and as Kageyama watched Hinata worried his lip and mouthed something to himself before his mouth shut firmly once more. “Oi, idiot.”

Hinata didn’t open his eyes, didn’t look up. Just remained hunched over his knees, the grip of his right hand in his hair so tight that his knuckles were white. His other hand was balled up into a fist as well, though it dangled, only held aloft by Kageyama’s hand and the metal cuffs and links that bound them together. Kageyama frowned and jiggled it, though Hinata’s arm only limply jostled along. “What the hell is wrong with you?” The energy that bursted from Hinata almost every second was strangely absent, and he looked lethargic.

“Are you sick?” Hinata just shook his head, though he didn't pull his head up or even crack his eyes open. Kageyama scowled, but he let his hand drop as he sagged back against the wall. Truthfully, the situation wasn't particularly good. The school was empty - perhaps a weekend practice hadn't been the best of choices - and it was dark. If they wandered around cuffed together they'd be more likely to get a door slammed in their face or the cops called on them rather than a pair of bolt cutters.

And then there was Hinata. He looked positively pitiful, and it made Kageyama’s chest twist as he stared. What's wrong with him? Sickness was the first guess, but Hinata normally voiced complaints when he felt ill, and he'd barely spoken a word since the second years had abandoned them in search of bolt cutters. He couldn't possibly have been tired because he'd been bursting with energy after they'd finished practice, and even when they'd initially been cuffed together.

Maybe he really does hate me.

Kageyama had changed a lot - at least, that was what he thought. Even others had verified that. Maybe I'm just not a good setter, and maybe he hates that. Or maybe he just likes me when we're on the court practicing or playing. Kageyama swallowed hard and pressed his free hand to his forehead. He didn't want to see Hinata so upset, didn't want Hinata to hate him. If anything, he wanted the opposite. Looks like that happened anyway. Words tingled on his tongue, burned his lips, and he turned away, dragged down a quiet, shaky breath. Don't say it.

“Hinata?”

He hummed, and Kageyama firmly buried his face into his palm. His nails dug into his scalp dragged at his forehead. “Do you hate me?”

His hand jerked, and Kageyama peeked to the side. Hinata had finally raised his head, and there was an arm print on his forehead, and his eyes were blown wide. The spiker had jerked his hand up, and the hand had slackened. There were nail imprints on his palm, deep and harsh, and Kageyama wanted to snatch his hand up and cradle it between his own. But he held himself still, breathless, as they stared at each other. “W-what?”

“Do you hate me?” The words tasted foul on his tongue, but he said them anyway. This time it was his hand that tightened up. “You look like you'd rather be losing a match. You've avoided me for the last few weeks. You don't even ask me for tosses after practice anymore. Last time it easy because I was trying to perfect my toss for you… so have I done something to make you mad? Is my toss shit?”

Hinata gaped at him, and his mouth moved, formed words that were nonsensical, unheard. A soft exhale. And he - shit, there were tears in his eyes. Kageyama couldn't breathe, couldn't think, but all he could do was stare as Hinata tried to find words, the chain tight between their hands. “Kageyama… I… I don't hate you.”

“Then why?”

“B-because-” He cut his words off with a sharp click of his teeth. Hinata’s cheeks were darker than his hair, and the blood red only spread as Kageyama watched. Up to his ears. Down to his neck. “I… because… I like you, okay?”

That sent a shock through his system, made him freeze, made them both freeze. Blue and gold eyes wide, locked on each other. He knew Hinata wanted to flee, that he wanted to bolt - he could see it in the way Hinata’s eyes flicked, in how his body tensed. And then he went slack. There was no way he could escape, not with their hands locked together. And Kageyama didn't want him to run.

“Hinata…” The spiker flinched at his voice, and again when Kageyama raised his free hand. His gold eyes screwed shut and he leaned back as far as he possibly could. And Kageyama’s chest bottomed out, constricted, even as he scooted closer and pressed his hand to Hinata’s face. A twitch, uncertain.

“Hinata. Look at me.”

Hesitantly his eyes slowly cracked open, and a tear trickled out as Hinata sniffed pathetically. “Hinata… don't cry.” He couldn't cover it with words, couldn't think. He just did. And Hinata’s mouth trembled beneath his when he kissed him, just a light press of his lips. It took a second for Hinata to move, to throw his arm around Kageyama’s neck - and that made heat drench his chest as he leaned closer and pressed their foreheads together. “You idiot.”