Chapter Text
Miyagi has changed since Shoyo was last here. He's next to Tobio, watching their shoes walk beside each other, perfectly in sync; his white-and-orange trainers a sharp contrast to Tobio's black-and-blue ones. Their shoulders brush against one another's, the city loud and bright around them.
November in Miyagi has always been crisp and cold; going for a run in the dimness of 5 AM was a favourite pastime of theirs. Tobio nudges Shoyo and asks, "Wanna go inside?"
His thumb juts towards a bar. Shoyo looks at Tobio, one hand stuffed into his pocket and the other pointing at the hole-in-the-wall liquor shop, with pink on his cheeks that is most definitely from the autumn chill (but Shoyo hopes, oh, how he hopes), and then shrugs and says, "Why not?"
He's the one who dragged Tobio out for a walk after their match, anyway. He might as well indulge him in return, following him into the bar and sliding into the booth. They get a round of sake to start with. Tobio's finger traces the rim of his now-empty glass, and Shoyo looks around the little booth.
"How was Brazil?"
Shoyo snaps his gaze to meet Tobio's. There's a question in his eyes, on his lips: How was Brazil, really? Not the generic crap you tell people, not the smoothed-over 'it was great, I learnt a lot' - how was it?
Was it worth leaving?
He chooses his next words carefully, but honesty has never been soft. "I needed to leave," Shoyo explains, quiet. "I needed to get out there and learn. I needed to leave," he breathes out, "So I could come back and beat you."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier, then?"
Three years into the aftermath, and it always comes back to this. Tobio's lower lip is set in a firm curve, but it wobbles under the heft of his own hurt. Shoyo would be a fool if he had hoped that his grand return, that his V-League debut, that his win over Tobio, would have distracted them from the conversation that they have both been running away from.
"I didn't know how to tell you," Shoyo takes a slow, long sip of his drink. "I didn't know how not to hurt you with it. Looking back," he chuckles, "That wasn't the smartest thing."
"No shit," Tobio grumbles. He leans back, crosses his arms over his broad chest. Shoyo watches his biceps flex, his shirt stretching to accommodate, and then downs his shot in one gulp. "Don't choke."
"'M not going to," Shoyo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He grabs the bottle and pours himself another shot. He asks, trying to play it cool, "Why didn't you tell me earlier, Kageyama?" The edge of his voice cuts either way. I could ask you the same thing. "If you say you forgot-"
Tobio grins, and Shoyo shivers, because he still hasn't learnt how to smile, somehow. "I really did forget for a while."
The silence stretches for a moment. Shoyo's mouth falls open, glass halfway to his lips. Tobio stares back at him, serious as ever.
"…Are you a fucking idiot, Kageyama-kun?" comes Shoyo's flabbergasted response.
"That's a lot of talk from you, dumbass," Tobio defends himself, indignant. "But at one point," he sighs, "I didn't know how to tell you, either."
A man of few words; Tobio has always been someone who spoke through actions and in interstices. Shoyo has mastered the art of picking through his layers, primed himself to hear the words that lodge in Tobio's throat: I didn't know how to tell you I was leaving you behind, too.
Heitor once said something about healing never being linear. It's like a circle, he then clapped Shoyo's shoulder after a particularly brutal loss. You'll come back to the same place with a fresh set of eyes, and it'll be better the second time around.
He thinks he gets it, now, as Tobio blurts, "Truce?"
Neither of them has called it a draw, not ever, much less have they declared a truce. Tobio's arm is stretched out towards Shoyo, palm waiting to be grabbed and shaken, and his sweet blue eyes are ethereal and hopeful under the dusky bar lights.
"Truce," Shoyo extends his own hand and shakes Tobio's, gingerly at first. His fingers wrap firmly around Tobio's wrist, as they did under the net at the match, not even 12 hours ago. He smirks as they untangle their hold, "That's 1100 to 1096. And one draw, then."
"Hmph," Tobio grabs the bottle from next to Shoyo and pours. "I'll get you next time."
"Sure," Shoyo ends up pulling the sake out of Tobio's grasp, downing the last of it straight from the bottle. Then, he sets it on the table and stands up. "Let's leave."
Pulling out his wallet, Tobio asks, "Where?"
"My room?" Shoyo shrugs, observing as Tobio slip a 5000-yen note under the emptied bottle. It's a generous tip; Nice would be proud of him, even if she never met him outside video calls. He makes a note to himself to make them talk in person sometime, somehow. "We're at the same hotel, anyway."
"Leaving in the morning, you know," Tobio gets up, towers over him. "You better not be hungover as hell."
"My alcohol tolerance is rock-solid now," Shoyo snickers, "But thanks for the concern."
A huffed, almost shy (if Shoyo could delude himself enough), "Dumbass," is all he gets in reply.
Their steps sync up again as they make their way to the hotel. For the first time in years, Shoyo feels lighter, no longer weighed down by the words that they spilt, by the blood that pooled in his mouth as he stood in front of Tobio and yelled. He sneaks a glance at Tobio, who walks beside him, hands stuffed into the pocket of his jacket, his windswept locks reflecting in every mirror they pass in the corridor to his room. He seems gentler, now, too.
Maybe this was all he needed to finally move on from Tobio: a simple conversation in the booth of a bar that they don't remember the name of. He swipes into his room, Tobio following, and kicks his shoes off by the door. As he tugs his hoodie over his head, he looks at Tobio again, who has picked up his volleyball and is now observing it. It's worn from practice in random places, stitches peeking out through peeling leather. Shoyo watches as Tobio sits down, cross-legged, and holds up the ball to him as a peace offering. "Pepper drill?"
"You're on," Shoyo scrambles to the floor eagerly. He can hear Sakusa's judgemental voice already — don't you ever get sick of playing this game? I want to melt into the floor after a match, but there you are, raring to go again — and beams in invitation. "Start!"
They pass the ball back and forth. Tobio finds himself looking at Shoyo, really looking at him: his tanned skin and bright orange hair, made of sunlight itself. His eyes are bright with concentration, and his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he gently receives the ball and sends it back to Tobio. His lips are so soft and plush. Does he still use the same lip balm that Yachi gave him? Did he buy refills and replacements, even in Brazil? Are there still parts of Shoyo that haven't metamorphosed, parts that Tobio is still intimately acquainted with?
Absentminded, his gaze transfixed on Shoyo's tempting, and dreadfully so, lips, his fingers brush against the ball in all the wrong ways; his toss crooks in response. "Shit," Tobio hisses.
It lands on Shoyo's head with a quiet smack. As the ball bounces away, Shoyo mumbles, "Ouch."
Tobio's hand reaches out before he can help himself. He scooches forward, long legs caging Shoyo against the mini fridge in his room, then runs his fingers through Shoyo's hair. He rubs his scalp, almost nauseatingly tender, and breathes out, "Sorry."
"It's," Shoyo lifts his hand and curls it around Tobio's wrist. "It's okay, 'Yama," he murmurs, "Kageyama, I need to tell you something." His voice grows softer with each syllable.
"Me too," Tobio whispers, "I need to tell you something, too."
Have we been here before?
"You go first, then."
"No, you."
"Nuh uh."
I think we've been here before.
"Fine," Tobio is breathless, but all they are doing is sitting together. He's half in Shoyo's lap, his legs stretched out around Shoyo, who sits in between them, his hand still grabbing his wrist as their limbs fall to the floor. "Count of three?"
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"I love you, Hinata." "I'm in love with you."
As long as I'm here, you're invincible.
The new king of the court is here.
You can fly even higher.
As long as you've got me, you're the greatest.
When Tobio and Shoyo finally, finally kiss, the world does not end, nor does it stop spinning.
But Tobio is still all Shoyo has ever dreamed of, warm and giving against his mouth, as inexperienced as himself, but Tobio is Tobio, and he's perfect. He's always been perfect. If Tobio is the king, then Shoyo is his loyal knight; if Shoyo has wings, Tobio is the wind within his feathers. Shoyo draws back, but Tobio chases after him, large hands cupping his jaw and pulling him closer, as if his lips are the oxygen with which his lungs expand. Shoyo is as sweet as he always imagined, fist in the collar of Tobio's t-shirt as he tugs him into their shared heat, leaning back to let him take as much as he's needed — God knows that Shoyo needs him the same amount. They've always matched each other's intensity, met each other at the same place with the same passion; maybe all their lives, they have been fooling themselves into thinking that this, too, would be any different.
"Kageyama," Shoyo's palm flattens against his partner's heaving chest. He corrects himself, "Tobio."
Tobio reddens under his touch, but, like always, he never backs down without a fight. "Yeah," he fixes Shoyo with a smug look, "Shoyo?"
Something between them flutters to life, liquid-hot and electric. The vague, dreamy notion that they would compete for the rest of their lives stirs within Tobio — it feels good. It feels right. It feels like forever.
A laugh, then Shoyo leans up to press their lips together another time. "I'm home."
Years later, Tobio will always say that he kissed Shoyo first.
Shoyo begs to differ.