Work Text:
Miya Atsumu hates keeners.
He hates frenetic energy thrown haphazardly, littering his surroundings. Flaunting your energy like that, breaking his focus, is an act of waste.
He hates waste.
So when he sees the shorty prancing and bouncing around the arena, wide eyed and earnest, it makes him sick to his stomach. He knows the type. He’s played this sport long enough to recognize it: the type who believe with all their hearts that their passion is enough. The type to believe that volleyball has a place for them if they plead and run hard enough, fast enough.
Hinata Shouyou is that type. Shameless, naive, and parasitic.
The ones who didn’t play volleyball since they were seven like he did, who don’t focus like he does. Or how Kageyama Tobio does. It’s a shame, really. He enjoyed playing with Kageyama at training camp—all potential and skill. With how much he seemed to obsess over improving his sets, eyeing everyone else’s vertical jump, Miya assumed his spiker would be golden. He was curious to see him at nationals—to see the one who has this genius setter on lock.
Instead, he has this shorty.
Now, sitting in the arena during a boring match, he continues to watch Hinata as he prances from one souvenir booth to the other. He distastefully eyes the way he drags Kageyama along with him, forcing him to check out the setter t-shirts. What makes him sick to his stomach, though, is how Kageyama follows.
Kageyama seems...happy. He continues to read the program intently, but wherever Hinata goes, he follows. When Hinata stops, he stops without looking up. Like it’s instinctual.
How lame.