Work Text:
There probably was a time, way back in primary school, where tosses really were just tosses. A ball pricking his skin, making it tingle in excitement, it wasn’t about the feeling how it laid between his fingers, weighing it gently, the bare second after he hit it with every force the air would give him. He enjoyed the simple satisfaction for these few seconds, the little pat he gave the ball, firmly gripping onto the rubber before hearing the strident whistle. There were no big thoughts, there was no crowd, it was just him and the other sun in his hands, treasuring it as if it were a second life. If it wasn’t for the pressure, it must have been for the passion. Perhaps about the will, and not the need to succeed. Now? everything felt eerie. The only feeling he was able to register was pain stinging his palm, empty eyes which were torn apart by the sight of the court. No matter how many points his single hand could grab, climb to the top and yield his passion unbeatable, something inside kept him going, perhaps it was a reputation to uphold. Perhaps it was the dim light of a candle which flickered dangerously when he slammed his hand towards the ground. If it was not perfection, it wasn’t worth it. And the ball was never perfect. It never was at the right spot at the right moment. It didn’t matter how high he jumped, how fast he ran, how his sneakers made that restraining, ear-piercing squeaky sound when he pushed against the force of gravity.
He remembered he used to love every single bit of it. Maybe he still loved it, but god, so differently. So differently, that he didn’t even recognize his own face when reading the articles about the best decoy, not seeing himself in the smile he posed with, at the moment of winning where the little joy which was left inside him sparked, lurking in the dark. For the second it lasted. Hinata didn’t recognize the hand he was slamming the ball with, unable to keep his feet steady when landing on full force. His eyes read the crimson number on the scoreboard, carved into it like flesh bleeding out, grimly smirking at him. Like the numbers was stuck to his feet, pulling him down to make him stumble, to make him unable to jump, to force him to stop. Distantly, he heard the pressure building on his shoulders, ‘push it, push it’, push it off, he told himself. Everyone was cheering for them, except for themselves. His feet tumbled over another, his comrades steady in a strong formation, fierce to get another point, to take the lead because they only needed two more.
Only two more.
Somehow it hurt how desperate his thoughts screamed out for everything to end. Hinata couldn’t make out whether it was the pressure of the arena weighing him down - but, somehow, he was numb inside his chest. There was only the pain that stung his hand like it was borne, like flesh. Like all nerves laid free and grasped the air with such force that even the slightest pinkie movement hurt. And he wouldn’t have thought there would ever be this point in his life. He thought he would strive, further and further and faster, higher. Flying, being equal with crows exploring the winds and skies. But there was only a limit to the sky.
Because Hinata fell. He fell and he tried to get up, but his hand struggled to keep up with the agony spreading from his wrist. It was the same routine, to slam the ball, seeing the blockers’ grim eyes switching positions to keep him inside his cage. Hinata saw the blocks, he saw the blank, bright spot, the spotlight, making everything so easy and possible for the moment. But it felt wrong. It felt like he didn’t hit the ball, it felt like spikes, steel spikes drilling through his hand. There was no reason for him to be, but it was there - he was afraid to hit it again. And again. And again.
Because they were the duo the world wanted to see. They were, Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou. That’s who they were. Two numbers.
There was a split second, between the announcement of the point, a piercing beeping noise, indicating more points for their team and where Hinata’s feet hit steady ground again. Wobbly, catching his balance as he felt sweat drops running down his cheeks like tears did. And he got caught in a crow’s gaze.
His gaze told millions of insults, calling him useless and prone to failure, to grab him by his hair and scream lungs at his face, to make him wince in pain of the volume his ears registered - but one thing that struck out to him, truly, was the word disappointment, weighing him down.
Hinata’s face remained unmoved, even as he grabbed his collar with such force, he felt the raven-colored fabric tear underneath his clenched fist.
"If you don’t jump higher. Or run faster. I won’t need you to win." The grim voice he spat these thoughts in made his stomach turn. Perhaps poison was easier to digest than his words. Maybe it was a reset, Kageyama letting go of his collar, calling him stupid and Hinata sticking out his tongue in return. It wasn’t like that anymore. This wasn’t a primary school fantasy. This was reality.
It was there again, pumping in his hands and drilling into his head. The fear of taking it, the restriction to feel his hands shake violently as Kageyama handed him the ball. And it was Hinata’s fault. And these were the nationals. And they were portrayed.
On a canvas, for everyone to see, to gasp at, point at, whisper at. So, he smiled. It never reached his eyes like it did when they had started, giggling and laughing until his lungs hurt. But they had to give the people some sort of show, shouldn’t they?
The second was over, the tone rang through his mind. His ankle hurt. His hand was bleeding. His legs burned. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs reached for air. He was dizzy. His head spinning. But he kept going.
Even a ball smeared with blood was a ball that brought a brilliant win.
They were there to intimidate the people around them. They were there to make them quiver in fear, to tear the blocks apart. They weren’t there to "sit it out on the bench". That’s not who the duo was. They were hope to their fans.
They were players. But they were alone. In their own conflict - no matter if on, or off court.
‘At least’ – Hinata thought, smiling down at the ball, hearing the umpire urging him to finally throw the serve - ‘there is someone shielding our backs on the court.’ This was Hinata’s last thought, before he blacked out. Before he realized that the bandage didn’t hold his fear inside his body anymore.
And maybe he was limping. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe it was the disappointment on Kageyama‘s face as he dazed into the bright lights of the ceiling. He didn’t hurry to help, he stared down at him, covering his head with his massive hands, mouthing “You’re done”.
That was when Hinata realized, that his tosses weren’t just tosses anymore.