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He trails after you. In practices, in matches, and during lunchtime as you routinely pass the vending machine for your boxed juice. He'll jump at you from behind – it doesn't surprise you anymore but he doesn't care; it's no longer about surprising you anyway – and invades your headspace, your thoughts, until there's nothing but orange and bright smiles. It irritates you, yet your first thought is always Good. Keep doing that. All you have to do is follow me.
Sometimes, when you're in a particularly good mood, you'll buy him milk from the vending machine. He'll thank you for it – he's always grateful of everything you give him. Tosses, food, time. Trust. He shines brighter because of you.
He doesn't understand it – not completely – but that's fine. That's good. You bend backwards so he can spike your toss; all he has to do is shout your name. Tell you he's there. It's okay to toss; he's there. You're not sacrificing anything, not really. He's the one calling you, after all.
Everything's fine as long as you follow me.
And he glows. Shines like the fucking sun until the whole room is filled with his smile, his presence. Your vision blurs because there's nothing else as important as the curve of his back, the sweat rolling down his skin, his bated breath and the slow exhale he releases as the ball falls on the opposite side of the net. There's a penetrating look in his eyes; he does that often in matches and it overwhelms you sometimes. Reaches your head, your heart, and crawls slowly down below your stomach.
It's the way he needs you (steals your breath and basks in your attention, filling your world with more than just volleyball) that gets you restless. Hinata Shouyo practically commands your attention.
And that's fine. That's good. All you have to do is follow me.
When he's alone, he whispers your name sometimes. Practices the way it sounds off his lips. “Tobio. Tobio,” he'll mumble (as if you couldn't hear him). It's a kind of worship, but not quite. You're his enabler. His partner. If you try hard enough, you can conquer him. Control him.
He is my weapon, you say to yourself. It's not a lie, not quite. You know him well enough to wield him; etched his name in with slow, fading strokes even though you don't have any intention to hide him. (But you do.)
(You like keeping him to yourself, sometimes.)
But he's brilliant and loud and everyone sees him. You tell yourself it doesn't matter because he has your attention, and that should be enough, shouldn't it?
(It is, and he makes sure you know it. But even so–)
You push yourself and move forward. Run faster, serve harder, toss better because you're not good enough. You're not perfect and you have to be. He has to shine bright, after all.
Your breathing is always labored these days, but your mind is always on full alert. You see Hinata, see a second into the future visualizing the highest point of his jump, the position of his hand, the speed with which he is approaching the net. It's irritating and infuriating and exhausting, but it doesn't matter. He's calling you and he has your attention.
Sometimes you find yourself thinking, I'm still better. But when he jumps, he flies for a moment. The world slows down around him, and he soars. Hinata runs and jumps as if he has mastered the art, and you have watched him enough times to have memorized his form.
(He knows this; sends you sidelong glances and watches you watch him, shamelessly and without effort.)
You follow him and make him better, stronger. Make him need you, because he's not anything without you. I'm still in control, you tell yourself. And he looks at you, demands your focus and your skills and your whole being in just a single glance.
(And you give him everything.)
You have no idea how much control he is taking away from you. And it haunts you.