#hinata fluff

₊˚ෆ SUNA RINTAROU is a generally expressionless guy. It’s gotten him into trouble more times than he can count.

When he sprained his ankle in middle school, he barely winced. When his little sister was born, he yawned. When he landed his first spike as a professional athlete, he hummed.

No matter the scenario, a disinterested look is permanently etched into his features. (The only exception is the upturn of his lips when he sees his friends doing something particularly idiotic.) 

It’s not that he doesn’t care– it’s just how he is. This is a truth that all those close to Rintarou have come to understand. 

This truth is why, when he introduces you to his loved ones for the first time, they’re stunned. They’re shocked when they see the bright red his face burns after you give him a kiss on the cheek. They’re floored by the smile that possesses his lips as he steals glances at you from across the room. They’re surprised by the look of absolute adoration in his eyes whenever you do really anything. 

Rintarou’s always been difficult to read, but for you, he’s feelings are entirely transparent.  

₊˚ෆ HINATA SHOYO always stays late to practice. Being the dedicated player that he is, he will train until his legs shake and his breath gives out. His teammates know never to approach him when he’s in his groove; otherwise, he’ll find a way to coax them into another round of drills. He’s an immovable force, immune to persuasion, and entirely impossible to convince to slow down.

“Leaving early” is not in his vocabulary. 

So when, one day, his teammates see him trek into the locker room before the sun has even set, they worry he’s gone ill. 

But when Shoyo reassures them, with a bright smile, that he’s just leaving early to meet with you, the new person he’s been seeing, for dinner– his teammates think he’s lost his mind. Their expressions of concern morph into ones of complete disbelief. 

What curse have you placed on the rigid player to compel him to act in such an uncharacteristic way? Have you threatened his family? Are you blackmailing him? 

The answer is none of the above. 

Shoyo doesn’t stay late to practice out of obligation. He does it because he adores what he does. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on the court.

But recently, he’s come to discover that there’s one place he loves being just a smidge more. 

With you. 

–a/n: just smth quick i wrote to procrastinate studying! LMAO

nothing is wrong enough to justify how empty you feel and that makes it worse. 

you go to work, you come home, you scroll, you repeat. weeks blur together until you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt something. 

at night, you lie awake with your phone inches from your face, thumb moving on autopilot. you see video after video of streets drowning in warm sunlight, laughing strangers, girls your age spinning in foreign cities with perfect outfits and careless smiles. 

every caption goes along the lines of travel in your 20s before it’s too late! or money comes back but time doesn’t!

you know it’s not a sign, just the algorithm doing what it’s designed to do—but something in your chest aches anyway.

you’ve always wanted to leave.

teenage you had held onto maps and language apps like promises. spanish, french, portuguese, and duolingo streaks that lasted thousands of days. you loved the way foreign words sounded and how they felt hopeful in your mouth. 

but you never really believed you’d make it out of japan alone and unplanned like this.

the decision didn’t come gradually. it hit you all at once. 

you’re the type of person who budgets carefully, saves everything she can, and thinks things through. you’ve never been this reckless.

but one night—numb and restless, you open your savings and realize you have just enough. 

not enough to be comfortable. maybe not enough to stay too long. but enough to leave for somewhere far. 

it’s definitely irresponsible. maybe it’s stupid. but the thought settles into you with a strange calm, like it’s been waiting. like this was always going to happen eventually.

so you book the plane ticket before you can talk yourself out of it.

after that, you have to make calls you don’t feel like making. 

your boss answers on the third ring, clearly surprised to hear from you.

“you’re taking time off?” she repeats.

“yeah,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “three and a half weeks? i want to use my vacation days… and maybe some of my ptos.”

there’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

“you’ve never used either before,” your boss says, genuinely surprised. “are you sure everything’s okay?”

you hesitate.

everything is not perfectly okay. but not in the way she’s asking.

“yeah, of course” you say finally. “i just need a break. sorry for the short notice.”

“alright. it’s fine. have a great time! we’ll manage to hold things down here,” she resonds.

when you hang up, you feel lighter than you expected. 

the flight itself feels long and quiet. you watch clouds drift past the window, listening to music low in your headphones, watching movie after movie, thinking about unfamiliar streets and ocean air.

rio de janeiro feels unreal the moment you arrive. 

it’s loud and humid and too alive. 

the language flows around you but nothing like the slow portuguese lessons you practiced alone in your room. you understand almost nothing, and yet you feel more awake than you have in months. 

it’s overwhelming but oh so beautiful.

the drive from the airport to your airbnb is a blur of color and movement—bright storefront signs, apartment buildings stacked close together, hills rising in the distance, the ocean appearing suddenly between gaps in the city like a deep blue surprise. palm trees line some of the streets, their leaves moving lazily in the humid breeze.

your airbnb is small but feels safe in that quiet, anonymous way cheap rentals sometimes do.

the hallway is thankfully narrow and cool compared to the outside heat. your key turns in the lock with a soft, mechanical click. inside, the air smells faintly like cleaning spray and something floral.

there’s a small living space with mismatched furniture. a worn couch pushed against the wall. a kitchen with cabinets that don’t quite close all the way. a window with thin curtains that move slightly when the breeze comes through.

when you walk over to the window, you realize you can see parts of the city stacked below you—lights starting to blink on as evening settles in. distant rooftops. movement far below that you can’t quite focus on.

sleep doesn’t come that first night.

you lie on the unfamiliar sheets, staring up at a ceiling that isn’t yours. the plaster is cracked near the corner, faintly yellowed by age, and you trace the lines like they might lead you somewhere familiar.

outside your window, the city breathes.

music drifts from somewhere down the block—muffled bass voices you can’t quite make out. laughter rises before dissolving into the hum of traffic. cars roll past. a motorcycle cuts through the night. someone taps their horn impatiently, even though it feels like the world should have gone quiet hours ago.

by morning, you’re exhausted and restless, pushed out the door because you’re scared of staying still in a place so beautiful.

you step out into the streets with your phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline, google maps open, heart beating erratically. 

you don’t go looking for the landmarks everyone expects first—you’re not ready for anything that grand. instead, you walk without a destination, letting yourself be swallowed by streets and unfamiliar sounds.

it’s gorgeous. of course it is. what surprises you is that it’s somehow even more beautiful in person than in the photos you’ve saved on pinterest.

sunlight spills over rows of colorful buildings. laundry sways from open windows. the air smells like salt and something fried you can’t quite name. everything glows—warm, alive, and cinematic.

and yet, even though you don’t want it to, your chest aches.

every word you can’t understand is a quiet reminder of how alone you are. every wrong turn feels heavier because there’s no one beside you to laugh it off, no familiar voice to say it’s fine.

once, someone brushes too close behind you and your heart lurches. fingers graze the zipper of your bag and panic surges before you can stop it. you twist away just in time, pulse racing, hands trembling as you check your things again and again.

after that, you slip into a small shop and linger longer than necessary. you pretend to browse, tracing the edges of things you won’t buy while you try to steady your breathing.

the heat suddenly feels suffocating, pressing in, clinging to your skin. 

the thought comes back, sharp and unwelcome.

you’ve made a terrible mistake.

this trip was supposed to make you feel something.

instead, you feel raw—hyperaware of your body, your breath, and the space around you. you feel hyperaware of how alone you are.

the videos never showed this part. almost no one films the panic. the second-guessing. the urge to disappear into something familiar.

the videos never showed this part. almost no one films the panic. the second-guessing. the urge to disappear into something familiar.

the girls online always look untouched by it all—perfect hair, effortless smiles, languages rolling off their tongues like they belong anywhere. you wonder if they ever felt this small or if they just learned how to edit it out.

by the time night falls, you’re exhausted in a way that doesn’t have to do with jet lag. your feet ache and your head throbs. 

you wanted to feel something. but you weren’t prepared to handle this.

the next few days blur after that.

you walk a little. you rest a lot. you eat when you remember to, drink water because you know you should. sometimes you sit in your room, staring out the window, listening to the city, wondering if you should have stayed where life was dull but predictable.

you feel like you should be having more fun in a place as beautiful as this. you feel like you’re still wasting time... you feel like you’re not doing enough.

at night, sleep continues to evade you.

your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to slow—thoughts looping endlessly, circling the same doubts. eventually, you’ve lost count of the days you’ve wasted. 

then sometime before a random dawn, you give up. 

you change quietly, slip your shoes on, and step outside with only your phone while the sky is still dark without thinking.

at five in the morning, copacabana beach is nearly empty, offering just that.

the sand is cool beneath your feet and the ocean steady and endless. you stop at the edge of it like you’ve reached the end of something.

the sky begins to soften, darkness giving way inch by inch. 

you sit down and realize this is the first time since you arrived that the air feels gentle.

you breathe, listening to the waves. the ache in your chest loosens enough to remind you that you’re capable of feeling.

you remember sitting on your bed weeks ago, staring at your packed suitcase, wondering if you were brave or just running away. even now, you’re not sure. you think about how badly you wanted a moment like this before you came—quiet and meaningful. something that would fix the dull ache you carried for months. something that would prove leaving was the right decision.

instead, you just feel… human. unsure.

your thoughts are loud when there’s nothing to drown them out—even though the ocean is right there.

you don’t notice the footsteps at first, lost in all your consuming thoughts.

the sound reaches you before you see anyone—uneven and hurried against the sand. too close. your shoulders tense on instinct, every warning you ignored replaying itself all at once. 

you’re alone. it’s still dark. you don’t know this place, or this language.

a voice cuts through the quiet.

it’s threaded with urgency—portuguese spilling out in a rush you can’t keep up with. your brain scrambles, grasping at familiar sounds, the half learned phrases you practiced in your room back home. 

you catch only pieces. shouldn’t. dangerous. alone.

well shit.

you knew that. 

your stomach twists as you whip around. for half a second, sharp fear tightens your chest. you’re already bracing yourself, rehearsing apologies and planning how fast you could get up and run.

but then you see him.

he stops short the moment your eyes meet.

the tension on his face falters, surprise flashing across it so clearly it startles you. he looks around your age, maybe a little older, hair bright even in the dim light. there’s a volleyball tucked under his arm, fingers still curled around it like he forgot he was holding it at all.

he stares.

you stare back.

there’s a beat—long and awkward—before his eyes widen,

“hello. where are you from?” he asks slowly, still in portuguese. but it’s a phrase you thankfully know.

“…ah— i’m from japan.”

relief breaks across his face instantly—bright and unguarded. it’s almost funny how fast it happens. the worry drains out of him and leaves something warmer behind. he laughs under his breath, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it.

“oh! wow! me too!” he says quickly, switching to japanese. “i’m sorry if i scared you. but you really shouldn’t be here alone this early—it’s not safe. people take advantage of others who are alone…”

you nod, a little embarrassed, hugging your knees closer. “oh. sorry… i mean— i know… i just…” you search for words but are unable to find them. you end up looking down in embarrassment, picking at the soft sand beneath you.

he hesitates, shifting his weight. out of your peripheral you watch his eyes flicking toward the ocean and then back to you.

“i’m hinata shoyo,” he finally says, slipping back into a cheerful, welcoming tone. you look up at him again and he tightens his grip on the volleyball slightly. “i come here to practice.”

you nod, following his gaze to the net nearby like you hadn’t noticed it before. huh. it was a little too early to play volleyball...

you tell him your name in return quietly, still a little awkward. but he still smiles earnestly when you do. 

something else in your chest loosens at that without meaning to.

for a while, neither of you say anything.

hinata settles into the sand a careful distance away from you, close enough to be there yet far enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s intruding. the volleyball rests beside his hip, half buried and forgotten. 

the ocean keeps its steady rhythm, waves folding in on themselves again and again, like it’s trying to soothe something you haven’t named.

the sky changes slowly.

the darkest blues soften to purple and pink and then into something warmer. you watch it all happen in wonder, breathing in the salt air.

hinata shifts once, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely over them. you can’t help but notice the shape of his arms—strong and defined, probably from years of volleyball. you look away quickly, hoping he hasn’t caught you staring.

unexpectedly, he’s quiet. every so often, you feel his gaze flick toward the horizon—then back to you—like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

when the sun finally crests, it’s slow and magical.

light spills out from behind him, and for a second it looks like it’s coming from him—golden and bright, catching in his hair until the colors nearly blend into the same warm orange. you blink, a little stunned by it.

he notices you staring and ducks his head, suddenly shy.

“i’m never used to how pretty the sunrise is here,” he whispers.

you nod in understanding, breathless.

another stretch of quiet follows, comfortable now. the city seems distant behind you, while the beach belongs only to the two of you and the morning. 

you think about how strange it is—how you felt so exposed walking these streets during the day, and yet here, at dawn, with a stranger you met by accident—you feel steady.

hinata draws shapes in the sand with his fingers, absently, lines that the waves erase almost as soon as they appear.

eventually, he speaks again.

“are you alright?”

it catches you slightly off guard, but you recognize the question isn’t intrusive. it’s offered gently with space to refuse.

you hesitate, then nod, even if you’re not entirely sure it’s true.

“i think so,” you say.

he smiles at that. something small and sincere.

the sun climbs higher, warmth beginning to seep into your skin. you sit there together, saying nothing little but sharing more than words ever could.

for the first time since you arrived, you don’t feel like you need to leave just yet.

time passes without you noticing again. the sun climbs higher, warming the sand beneath your hands. the shoreline slowly begins to stir—early joggers tracing the water’s edge, tourists appearing to catch the sunrise, a couple walking barefoot with their shoes dangling from their fingers, a vendor pushing a cart that rattles softly over the pavement. morning settles in gently, stretching its limbs.

you’re the one who finally breaks the quiet.

“have you been in brazil long?”

hinata hums, tilting his head as if he actually has to count. “yeah… almost two years now.” he nudges the volleyball lightly with his fingertips. “i came to train.”

you glance at his hands then back at him, “just to train for volleyball?”

he grins at that—bright, a little sheepish, but proud. “yep. it’s because beach volleyball’s different from indoor. it’s harder to move in the sand, and you have to cover more ground with fewer people. it forces you to get better.”

there’s nothing arrogant about the way he says it. it’s clear he and knows a lot about his sport. 

you nod again.

“two years is a long time,” you murmur.

he shrugs. “it didn’t feel like it at first. i came right after highschool and everything was new. i didn’t understand half of what people were saying.” he laughs under his breath.

“really?”

“uh huh,” he says, grinning. “i’d nod along and pretend i got it. then later i’d realize i completely misunderstood.” his smile softens. “it was frustrating. i felt stupid a lot.”

“really?”

“uh huh,” he says, grinning. “i’d nod along and pretend i got it. then later i’d realize i completely misunderstood.” his smile softens. “it was frustrating. i felt stupid a lot.”

you could already imagine how hard it would have felt from for him from being here for just a week. 

he brushes his thumb absently through the sand and continues. “but i wanted to be here. so i just… kept going.”

“that's brave of you,” you mumble.

the breeze lifts slightly, tugging at your clothes, carrying the sharp scent of salt between you. “did you ever feel like you made a mistake?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

the question lingers in the space between you.

hinata doesn’t answer right away. he looks out at the ocean instead, eyes tracking the endless horizon. you regret asking it without thinking, feeling a little obtrusive.

“yeah,” he admits quietly. “more than once.”

you hadn’t expected him to say that so easily.

“but,” he continues, turning back to you, “every time i thought about leaving, i asked myself why i came in the first place. and the answer was always the same.” he taps the volleyball lightly. “because i love volleyball.”

his gaze shifts, gentler now.

“what about you? are you here for just a vacation?”

you look down at your hands, sandy and warm from the sun.

“yeah.” 

but then you pause for a moment, suddenly wanting to share a part of you, the same way he did. 

“well, actually, maybe not just a vacation. i think i wanted to prove something,” you say slowly. “that i could go somewhere foreign spontaneously. that i wasn’t… stuck.”

he nods like that makes perfect sense.

“now you know you’re not stuck,” he says simply.

you huff a small laugh. “it doesn’t feel that way.”

“it didn’t for me either,” he replies. “not at first.”

another wave crashes, foaming at the edges before retreating.

for a while after that, neither of you try to fix anything with big words. you talk the way the tide moves. 

surprisingly, it comes natural. more natural than you’ve talked to any stranger before.

he tells you about the first time he practiced on this beach and how he underestimated the sand. “i could barely jump high enough,” he admits, grinning. “i thought i was strong because i was really good in highschool. well, now i'm even better with training. they call me ninja shoyo.”

you laugh and then tell him about your first day here when you almost got pickpocketed. he laughs—not at you, but with you—and somehow that makes the memory lighter. he tells you the same happened to him except he actually got his wallet stolen. it was even a wallet from his younger sister, natsu.

the sun climbs higher, heat settling over your shoulders. more people drift onto the beach now—groups of people spreading towels, vendors calling. 

the private stillness you had at dawn slowly dissolves into something busier. hinata doesn’t even seem to notice at first.

he’s telling you about a small bakery a few streets away that reminds him of japanese bakeries and about how the owner insists on correcting his portuguese every single time he orders. you’re smiling, knees no longer hugged so tightly to your chest. but eventually the world presses in.

the heat grows heavier and voices layer over each other. a whistle blows somewhere near the net.

“oi, shoyo!”

you both turn.

a tall figure is striding toward you, sunglasses perched low on his nose, posture relaxed in a way that feels almost theatrical. even from a distance, there’s something unmistakably confident about him.

“you were supposed to be warming up half an hour ago,” he calls.

hinata jolts.

“…oops.”

you glance between them.

the boy stops a few feet away, looking from hinata to you and then back again. you smile awkwardly and his one brow arches slowly.

“interesting,” he says, amused. “so this is why.”

hinata sputters immediately. “it’s not— i just— we were talking!”

“clearly,” he replies dryly, pushing his sunglasses up. “never thought i’d see you get distracted from volleyball.”

hinata looks almost offended. “i don’t get distracted, oikawa!”

the other boy who you now know as oikawa, laughs outright.

the beach is fully awake now. the sun feels sharper against your skin, the air thicker. you shift slightly, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting there.

hinata notices.

there’s a small pause. the kind that means something is ending.

you brush sand from your hands. “it’s okay, you should go practice. i’m gonna get going now since it’s getting crowded… and hot.”

“yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to.

you both stand.

it’s awkward suddenly—after hours of easy conversation, the simplest part becomes the hardest. neither of you quite know what to do with your hands. or your eyes.

“well,” you start.

“yeah,” he echoes.

his teammate sighs dramatically behind him. “if you two are done staring at each other, we have a game to get started.”

your face warms. hinata shoots him a look.

“good luck,” you say softly.

“thanks,” he replies.

another pause.

this is the part where you exchange numbers, you think.

but neither of you say it.

you give him a small wave instead, then turn, walking back toward the street. each step feels heavier than it should.

behind you, there’s silence for less than a minute.

“shoyo—” the other boy starts.

“wait!”

footsteps pound against the sand.

you turn just in time to see him sprinting toward you, hair catching the sunlight, volleyball abandoned somewhere behind him.

“hinata!” his teammate yells from the distance. “get back here!”

he skids to a stop in front of you, slightly out of breath but grinning anyway.

“hey,” he says, like he didn’t just run across half the beach.

you blink at him.

“can i—” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little shy again. “can i get your number?”

your heart stutters.

“i mean,” he continues quickly, words tumbling over each other, “since you’re new here i could show you around. like—a proper tour! rio’s better when you know where to look.”

behind him, his teammate cups his hands around his mouth. “if you don’t come back right now, i’m serving without you!”

hinata ignores him completely.

his eyes are fixed on you instead—hopeful and bright, and maybe just a little nervous.

you smile bashfully, pulling out your phone as quick as you can. “of course!”

the words leave you faster than your nerves can catch up.

you fumble your phone, fingers clumsy from the sudden rush of adrenaline. the screen nearly slips from your grip, and hinata instinctively reaches forward like he’s about to help—then stops himself at the last second.

he laughs softly. “sorry, you got that. it was reflex.”

“it’s okay,” you murmur, trying—and failing—not to smile too hard.

you hold your phone out to him. he takes it carefully, thumbs hovering for half a second before he types in his contact. his brow furrows in concentration, tongue pressing briefly against the corner of his mouth.

it’s so cute.

from down the beach, his teammate’s voice cuts through again.

“hinata shoyo, if you miss this serve, i’m telling everyone you skipped warm-ups for a girl!”

hinata flushes instantly, and not from the burning sun, whipping his head around. “i am not skipping warm-ups! i got here at five!”

“it doesn’t matter if you haven’t done anything!”

you can’t help it—you laugh. the loudest you have all morning.

his head snaps back toward you at the sound, like he’s surprised by it. then he grins, victorious, like that laugh was worth everything.

he hands your phone back.

“okay,” he says, a little breathless again, though he hasn’t moved. “now you have my number.”

you glance down at the new contact. his name looks oddly natural there already.

“please text me,” he adds quickly. “so i can save your number. and— um— we can figure out when you’re free. i’ll show you the good spots. not just the tourist ones.”

“a proper tour?” you tease lightly.

he beams. “exactly.”

the beach noise swells around you—waves crashing, people talking, a whistle blowing impatiently in the distance.

“shoyo!” comes the long suffering shout again.

he winces. “i really have to go.”

“you probably should,” you say, amused.

he takes a step backward, then another, like he’s reluctant to fully turn away.

“don’t disappear, okay?” he blurts.

you blink, heart warming. “i won’t. i promise.”

that seems to satisfy him.

“okay. good.” he nods firmly, like that settles it. then he turns and jogs back toward the net.

halfway there, he spins around and waves both arms dramatically.

you wave back and giggle.

another teammate—tall, exasperated, and clearly used to his antics—claps a hand over hinata’s head as he finally rejoins them. even from here, you can see him talking animatedly, probably defending himself.

but before he steps fully onto the court, hinata glances over his shoulder.

just to check.

and when he sees you still standing there, watching, he smiles.

this time, when you turn toward the street, the city doesn’t feel as overwhelming.

the boardwalk is already warming under the sun, patterned tiles stretching out beneath your feet. the beach noise feels farther away now—muted by distance, replaced by noises of the city.

you can’t see him anymore.

just scattered figures on the sand and movement near the net.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

don’t disappear either! you type. then you add, don’t get distracted because of me either, sorry

you press send before you can overthink it.

it barely takes ten seconds.

hinata: i won’t disappear hinata: and i’m not distracted 😭

you: hmm then how are you answering 

hinata: we’re just setting up rotations!!

you smile to yourself, continuing down the boardwalk.

you: mhm suree

three dots appear almost immediately.

hinata: okay maybe a little distracted hinata: but it’s fine! it’s not everyday you meet someone nice

you: aww you: you should probably focus now

there’s a pause before bubbles and a text appears. you know you should be more alert while walking on the streets of rio, but you can’t help yourself.

hinata: next time you should stay and watch

you glance back toward the beach even though you still can’t pick him out from here. your heart flutters, but you play it cool.

you: yeah i should! i’d like to see a professional play you: what time does your game end?

there’s a longer pause this time. you imagine him blinking at his screen, hot under the sun, sand stuck to his fingers.

hinata: yay! hinata: and probably around 9:30 hinata: wait why??

you try not to smile too obviously as you type.

you: just asking you: maybe i’ll meet you after

the typing bubble appears instantly.

disappears.

comes back.

hinata: really?

you can practically hear the surprise in it.

you: if you’re not busy?

he responds almost immediately.

hinata: i'm not! it ends at 9:30, don’t be late! hinata: i’ll come up with something we can do

oh?

you grin, excited but then another text comes before you can respond.

hinata: now i’m getting yelled at again hinata: i’ll text you after?

you: ofc ofc go play!

this time when you look toward the beach, you still can’t see him but you feel exactly where he is.

🌴 ⋆ ༅˚ ☀️ .࿓•

for the first time since you arrived, you spend the rest of your day feeling light and almost giddy.

you don’t feel as embarrassed about being alone, and you finally let yourself take everything in.

for the rest of the day, you walk without nerves.

you pause when something catches your eye—a tiled doorway painted in chipped blue, a stray cat stretched lazily in the shade. you notice the way sunlight spills down narrow streets like liquid gold.

you even duck into a tiny shop just to look around, running your fingers over fabrics you don’t need, smiling when the shopkeeper greets you.

you stop at a street vendor for something cold, mentally reviewing the prices you’d seen online so you don’t overpay. you order in careful portuguese. your accent is there and your grammar is imperfect—but when you stumble, you don’t freeze up. you laugh softly, correct yourself, and the vendor nods, patient.

it’s a small victory. but it feels big.

you wander without a strict plan. you let yourself get a little lost on purpose this time, trusting you’ll find your way back. you take pictures—not the posed kind you imagined before you came, but quiet ones. shadows against walls. laundry swaying overhead. your drink sweating in your hand against the bright backdrop of the street.

when you sit at a café table for one, you don’t immediately reach for your phone to keep yourself busy.

you watch people pass instead—friends leaning close in conversation, a mother brushing sand from her child’s hair, a man arguing with someone over the phone. you listen to the cadence of the language around you, picking out words you recognize.

it’s still unfamiliar, but it doesn’t feel sharp anymore. it doesn’t feel like somewhere you’re failing to belong. you’re slowly learning.

and ever so often, without meaning to, you think about 9:30 and bright hair in the sunrise. about someone who told you not to disappear.

as the afternoon melts into evening, the heat softens. the sky begins to tint pink at the edges and you find yourself drifting back toward the beach without consciously deciding to.

by the time you reach the boardwalk again, the beach is golden—the same way it was this morning.

you don’t immediately see him.

there are more people now than there were at dawn—families packing up towels, friends still laughing loudly, the distant thud of volleyballs hitting sand. you stand at the edge of the boardwalk for a moment, scanning the nets.

and then you spot him—bright hair easy to pick out even from a distance.

he’s playing in a way that’s focused and fast, moving across the sand with quick, efficient steps. you step off the boardwalk to get closer, sand shifting slightly beneath your sandals.

you check the time. 9:13. you’re not too early.

watching him in action is a little surprising, even though you already knew he had to be good if he came all the way here.

but watching him now? he’s really good.

he jumps—high and controlled—reaching cleanly for the ball before spiking it hard over the net.

he lands quickly, already moving again as if the motion is completely natural to him. sand kicks up around his feet when he stops and pivots to follow the play.

during a brief pause, he wipes sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. you quickly look away, feeling your face warm before you can help it.

you pretend to study the ocean instead.

he calls something out to his teammates that you don’t fully catch. one of them laughs, tossing the ball back toward him.

you watch for a while, impressed. he’s completely in his element. it’s amazing, really.

after another rally, there’s a short break in play.

that’s when he turns.

it’s almost like he feels you there before he actually sees you.

his eyes widen first when he sees you. and you give him a small wave. then his face breaks into that grin that’s so bright—it feels familiar already.

he jogs toward the edge of the court. a teammate says something behind him, probably teasing, but you can’t hear it clearly.

hinata stops in front of the boundary line, breathing a heavy from playing but still smiling.

“you came early,” he says, sounding a little surprised.

“yep— i was nearby anyway.”

his eyebrows lift slightly. he clearly doesn’t fully believe it—but he doesn’t push. instead he just smiles a little wider, like he’s pleased either way.

“uh huh,” he says lightly, in that tone that definitely means i see what you did there without actually saying it.

you shift your weight slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of you. there’s sand stuck to the sides of his legs, and a faint line of sweat along his hairline from playing.

“you were good,” you add.

his expression brightens like you handed him a compliment he didn’t know he was waiting for.

“thanks,” he says, happy yet rubbing the back of his neck with bashfulness.

behind him, someone shouts his name.

hinata glances over his shoulder, then back at you quickly, like he’s checking how much time he has.

“i should probably finish the game,” he says. “but hey—” he hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward the boardwalk. “stay around? i’ll be done soon.”

“yeah, i was going to,” you answer, smiling sideways.

he grins and nods like that was exactly the answer he wanted.

“good. and don’t disappear!”

your smile widens as he jogs back to the court, already calling something out to his teammates as he goes.

that phrase was becoming his thing already, huh?

you stay where you are for a moment longer, watching him move back into the game before you sit by the edge of the sand to watch the rest of practice.

you try to sit a good distance away so you won’t get sand in your face, or so you don’t get hit in the head.

the game continues at a steady pace—quick rallies, short shouts between teammates in a mix of portuguese and japanese. the sharp sound of the ball hitting hands and sand is oddly satisfying.

you don’t follow every play perfectly, but it’s still fun to watch. you start recognizing hinata’s movements —when he’s about to jump or when he’s about to move forward. you can tell by how he shifts his weight.

after a while, practice starts winding down.

the players clap hands, trade quick words, and gather their things near the net where water bottles and bags are scattered across towels and duffel bags.

hinata jogs back over to you, already pulling a towel from around his neck and wiping sweat from his face.

“hey so… let me introduce you to some of my friends.”

you stand up with a smile as he gestures toward a small group walking over with him.

“guys, this is y/n!” hinata says, then repeats it in portuguese to one man with tanner skin and a thin beard.

the first one waves lazily. he’s the one you recognize from earlier who kept yelling at hinata.

“nice to formally meet the mystery girl,” he says, smiling slightly. “i’m oikawa.”

hinata immediately points at him. “don’t listen to him.”

“ah but you should listen,” oikawa says smoothly. “you should know that shoyo suddenly became more motivated than usual during practice today.”

you can’t help but stumble and raise your eyebrows at the underlying meaning.

hinata glares at oikawa with a huff and gestures to the next person, a guy with a more genuine smile.

“this is heitor,” hinata says. “he’s from here, so maybe he can help you with portuguese.”

the man grins. “prazer.” {nice to meet you}

you say the word back with a smile and nod.

the last two approach a little more quietly.

“kuroo,” the taller one says, raising a hand in greeting. “and this is kenma.”

kenma gives a small, polite wave, glancing at his phone in one hand. “hi.”

kuroo glances between you and hinata, then smirks slightly. “so you’re the reason he kept checking his phone.”

hinata turns slightly red. “i was not—”

“you absolutely were,” oikawa says.

you giggle, which seems to make hinata pout even more.

the group keeps talking for a few minutes, mostly teasing hinata but then asking you how long you’ve been in rio. it’s an easy, conversation—they’re all good people.

after a bit, the group starts heading toward the boardwalk, and you and hinata fall a few steps behind.

“they’re nice,” you say.

“yup. annoying, but in a good way.”

you grin.

the evening air is cooler now, the beach quieter than it was during the peak afternoon. the sky is turning deeper shades of orange and purple over the ocean, reflections rippling slowly across the water like soft brushstrokes.

hinata looks ahead for a moment, then back at you.

“sooo,” he says, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his shorts, “tomorrow, maybe i can show you more of the city. if you want.”

you perk up, “yeah? i’d love that.”

he nods and grins like he’s proud.

you walk a little farther down the boardwalk together. the lights along the path are starting to turn on, warm yellow circles glowing against the darkening blue sky.

“there’s a really good view spot near here,” he says suddenly. “not too crowded. tourists usually don’t go there.”

“sounds suspicious,” you tease lightly.

he laughs. “it’s not, i promise!”

you laugh and bump his shoulder lightly as you walk. he looks surprised for half a second, then grins, pleased, nudging you back.

maybe you trust him too much for a boy you just meant this morning.

after a few more steps, he slows slightly.

“hey,” he says, voice softer now. “i’m really glad you came back today.”

you glance at him. “me too,” you say softly. “of course i would though. you’re the first friend i’ve made here.”

“really?”

“mhm.”

he doesn’t say anything else right away—just walks beside you, comfortable in the quiet.

after another moment, he clears his throat a little, like he’s deciding how to say something.

“uh—” he starts, then scratches the back of his neck. “are you hungry?”

you purse your lips, “kind of, yeah. i haven’t had dinner yet.”

he brightens immediately, like that was the answer he wanted.

“perfect! i mean— do you wanna have it together then? there’s this place nearby that i love. it’s cheap and really good.”

he pauses, then adds quickly, almost awkwardly, “i mean, only if you want to.”

“of course!” you say. “i want to see the local gems too.”

“good,” he says. “i mean, it’s not really a secret, but the tourists don’t usually find it. but that’s good because it’s more authentic, right?”

“sounds about right.”

he leads you off the boardwalk and onto a side street where the noise of the beach softens into something distant.

the restaurant isn’t flashy. just a small place tucked between two brighter storefronts, plastic chairs, handwritten specials on a board out front, the smell of grilled meat and garlic drifting into the street.

“this is it,” he says, almost proudly.

you grin softly. “very exclusive.”

“extremely,” he nods seriously. “you need at least one volleyball related connection to get in.”

“seriously?” you laugh as he holds the door open for you.

“mhm. they check your vertical at the door.”

you shake your head, still smiling, and step inside.

it’s warm and bright in a comfortable way. a small fan spins lazily in a corner. there’s quiet chatter from a couple of tables in the corner, the clink of plates, the low hum of music playing somewhere behind the counter.

hinata greets someone behind the register in quick portuguese. the woman behind the counter smiles knowingly at him, glancing briefly at you before saying something that makes him sputter slightly.

“what did she say?” you ask as he leads you to a small table by the window.

“nothing,” he answers too quickly.

you narrow your eyes playfully. “that didn’t sound like nothing.”

he rubs the back of his neck. “she just asked if i was finally bringing someone instead of inhaling food alone all the time.”

you laugh, cheeks warm, realizing you’re the first person he’s brought here. “so this is a regular thing?”

“inhaling food? yes. i come here when i’m tried after matches.”

you nod in understanding.

you sit across from each other at a small wooden table. him up close, without the distraction of sand, teammates, and the sun, feels a little more real.

the same woman drops off two menus and you smile and thank her with an obrigada.

hinata leans forward slightly. “okay, so you have to try their chicken. and the pão de queijo if they still have it. and—”

“it’s okay, surprise me.”

he stops mid-sentence.

he blinks. “really?”

“yeah, i need to broaden my tastes anyway.”

he nods once, suddenly more serious than before.

when he gets up to order, you find yourself watching him again with your chin in hand. he fits here easily, looking comfortable in a place halfway across the world from home.

he talks to the older woman behind the counter for longer than necessary, slipping into portuguese. she looks stern at first, arms crossed—but after a minute, she shakes her head and laughs at something he says.

you guess he has that effect on more people than just you.

you can’t hear the conversation, but you can tell he’s trying. gesturing a little too much, nodding enthusiastically.

after a minute, he glances back at you.

when he catches you staring, you quickly look down at the table, pretending to study the aged wooden surface.

he returns a minute later, sliding back into his seat across from you.

“okay,” he says. “i ordered.”

“should i be scared?”

“nope. you’ll like it. it’s a classic must-have.”

the food arrives not long after—two plates set down with a soft clatter. grilled chicken, rice, something warm and golden on the side that smells buttery and fresh.

hinata immediately picks up his fork.

“try the pão de queijo first,” he says, nudging the small bread toward you.

you tear a piece off. it’s warm and soft, slightly chewy. you take a bite.

his eyes are on you the whole time.

you swallow. nod once. “okay. that’s really good.”

he beams. “right?”

“okay,” you admit. “you can keep ordering for me.”

“dangerous thing to say,” he replies, grinning. then he points at your plate, “this is frango pinga.”

you eat slowly, humming at the delicious taste, talking in between bites.

he tells you about when he first got here he barely understood anything at the grocery store and then accidentally ordered something way too spicy and refused to admit it.

you laugh and tell him about booking your flight without really thinking it through.

“you just did it?” he asks.

“yeah.”

he leans back slightly, impressed. “that’s cool.”

“well, it was impulsive.”

“still cool.”

the conversation is easy and comfortable. you don’t feel rushed and you don’t feel like you need to impress him.

by the time the plates are mostly empty, the restaurant has gotten quieter.

hinata insists on paying before you can argue.

“you can get it next time— if you get to the register first that is,” he teases.

next time.

when you step back outside, the air is cooler than before.

“i’ll walk you back,” he says immediately.

“you don’t have to.”

“i want to.”

so you let him.

you walk side by side, not too close, but close enough that your arms occasionally brush. neither of you comment on it. the city at dusk feels different—calmer but just as alive.

“are you far?” he asks.

“umm, just a few more streets i think. it’s hard to tell the differences between these buildings at night.”

he glances around, pretending to inspect each doorway seriously. “yeah, they all kind of look the same. you could accidentally walk into someone else’s place and then start living there.”

“hey! don’t jinx me.”

you both meet eyes and laugh.

after another block, you slow down.

“that was the best meal i’ve had since i got here, by the way.”

his grin spreads slowly, like he’s trying not to look too proud and failing.

“see! the local knows best,” he laughs, gesturing to himself exaggeratedly. “this is exactly why we always have to eat together now.”

“always?” you raise an eyebrow.

“yeah,” he nods firmly. “so i can show you the best spots. it’s basically my responsibility now.”

you giggle. “is it?”

“definitely. you can’t be out here missing the good food.”

“that would be terrible.”

“exactly.”

you’re both still smiling when you finally recognize the small gate and the faded blue door.

“this is me,” you say softly.

he stops.

“okay.”

but he doesn’t leave.

“thanks for walking me,” you add.

“of course.”

the streetlight above casts a warm glow over him, catching in his bright hair. for a second, everything feels oddly still.

neither of you seem to want to be the first to end it.

“so… tomorrow,” he says quickly, like he just thought of it. “i might not have practice.”

“oh?”

“yeah. my coach mentioned maybe giving us a lighter week.” he shrugs. “so if that happens, we could—” he gestures vaguely. “spend more of the day together. not just a few hours.”

your eyebrows lift. “you shouldn’t skip practice for me.”

“i’m not skipping,” he says immediately. then grins. “i’m strategically resting. plus— i deserve a break once in a while, right?”

you shake your head, smiling. “you’re right. of course you do.”

he looks pleased with that.

“but only if you’re sure,” you add.

“i’m sure.”

a soft breeze moves down the street.

“i should go in,” you say quietly, though you don’t move yet.

“yeah.”

but neither of you say goodnight.

he shifts, rocking back slightly on his heels. “text me when you’re inside?”

your front door is right there but you smile and nod anyway. you open the gate and step just inside it, fingers still curled around the metal.

“goodnight, hinata.”

he pauses.

“wait.”

you look back at him.

he scratches lightly at his cheek, suddenly a little less confident than he’s been all evening.

“you can call me shoyo,” he says. “if you want to.”

it’s says casually, but not careless. like it matters.

you tilt your head. “shoyo?”

“yeah… we can be on a first name basis, right?”

you smile.

“okay,” you say. “then you have to call me by my first name too.”

“deal,” he says immediately, a little too fast.

you say your name softly, just once.

he repeats it back just as soft—but it sounds different in his voice.

“goodnight, shoyo,” you say again, this time without hesitation.

he grins, but it’s not teasing. it’s warm and a little shy.

“goodnight y/n."

something about that makes you feel giddy.

you finally step fully inside, starting to close the gate.

“text me,” he reminds you.

“i will!” you sing.

the gate clicks shut between you, but neither of you move right away. he takes a few steps backward down the sidewalk, eyes still on you.

“see you tomorrow,” he waves.

he keeps walking backward for another step—two—like he’s not quite ready to turn around yet. then he laughs softly at himself and finally pivots, heading down the street under the glow of the lamps.

you stay there longer than you mean to, watching until his bright hair blends into the warm blur of the night.

but then your phone buzzes in your hand. you know who it is. of course he had to get to it first.

shoyo: don’t forget to text me.

you: go home

three dots appear almost instantly.

shoyo: i am going! 

you shake your head, typing back.

you: lololl you: goodnight, thanks again for today :)

shoyo: goodnight. don’t disappear!

seriously, that again? 

you sigh aloud, but it’s only filled with fondness. you lean your forehead lightly against the cool metal of the gate, smiling to yourself. 

tomorrow awaited on the other side of sleep. but for once, you’re not thinking about what’s behind you—only about what’s waiting for you in the morning.