Work Text:
Kageyama has never been one for grand gestures. The one time Hinata presented him with a huge bunch of roses on Valentine's Day he blushed so furiously that he thought he might actually die from all the blood rushing to his head as he struggled to come up with a coherent response - the words, "Thank you," seemed inadequate somehow. Hinata seemed to realise, when he'd stopped laughing, that Kageyama isn't really like that, and his fit of mortification kind of put an end to Hinata's attempts at romance.
Back when he was small, when his father would bring home fresh flowers for his mother and sweep her into a movie star kiss, when he would watch the lead actor in a TV show run desperately through a station after his true love, who was about to leave for ever, Kageyama came to the conclusion that love was all about grand gestures and embarrassingly dramatic deeds, and he swore he'd never fall for it. When he pressed a pillow, sometimes two, over his head so that he couldn't hear his parents' shouting matches all the way from his bedroom, he swore he wouldn't put himself through all that pain, much less inflict it on other people. When his father packed up and moved out and his mother refused to get out of bed for three days he swore he'd never let anyone get close enough to break his heart.
And then Hinata comes along. Hinata with his ridiculous hair and his even more ridiculous technique. Hinata, with his lopsided smile and his irrepressible optimism and his honesty and his big brown eyes. Hinata, who is a bundle of undirected energy, who jumps too high and shouts too loud and eats too much and is nothing, nothing like Kageyama had ever imagined on the few occasions he had imagined being with someone and caring about them in any capacity. Hinata, who one day - he doesn't know precisely when - suddenly becomes the centre of his universe, the one person he will actually go out of his way to be nice to. Hinata, who kisses him and holds his hand and smiles like a kid on Christmas whenever he sees Kageyama waiting for him under the tree in the courtyard where they eat lunch together.
Kageyama isn't sure when it happened, or how - after they lost in the Inter High preliminaries, perhaps, or in that period during training camp when they stopped speaking and Kageyama realised how much he missed Hinata's laugh and Hinata's voice and Hinata's constant presence at his elbow, or maybe after they finally won against Seijou and on the bus ride home, in the exhaustion, he felt an odd conviction that even if they lost to Shiratorizawa in the next round he could survive whatever happened next so long as that messy, red-haired boy didn't leave his side. The why is a puzzle he isn't even going to try and begin to solve because he knows he'll never figure it out, that, as his mother says, logic and love don't mix, and he thinks she's probably right. He and Hinata should not work well together; they are a mismatch if there ever was one, from their heights to their temperaments, and yet they are strangely compatible both on and off the court. Most people don't know it, because they aren't loud about it, but Hinata's lopsided grin when he bounds up to Kageyama like some docile but energetic little puppy, the way he always seems to know when something is wrong, even though Kageyama's expression never changes even when he's happy, are the foundations of something so secure he sometimes thinks it really could last for ever. They are the roots of a tree that only grows taller and stronger with age, and no matter how fierce the wind, or how rough the storm, it cannot, will not ever be blown over.
He often watches Daichi and Suga together - outside of practice, obviously; on the court they are nothing but professional - watches Daichi present Suga with a freshly picked flower, watches Daichi's hand caress Suga's cheek as Suga leans in to his touch and laughs. He notices the way the second button is missing from both of their uniforms.
Sometimes he thinks about giving Hinata his second button, but even imagining it makes him feel incredibly embarrassed, and Hinata's never mentioned it so he thinks it probably doesn't matter. Big things don't matter to them. Grand gestures mean very little. He loves the little things about Hinata, like his laugh and his wide, innocent eyes and the way his hair is a mess no matter what he does with it. At the end of the day, roses are just flowers that will eventually wilt and die; a button is nothing more or less than a button. Hinata, on the other hand, is a permanent fixture and he's made it plain that Kageyama isn't allowed to leave his side. Honestly, Kageyama thinks he couldn't if he tried. He never tires of the sound of his voice, he spends hours thinking about Hinata's smile and the way, when they hi-fived after performing a perfect oddball quick, Hinata had squeezed his fingers just the tiniest amount - undetectable to anyone else, but still enough to make Kageyama's heart beat that bit faster.
It's not that he forgets about the shiny new volleyball Hinata buys him for Christmas, or the cake he presents Kageyama with on his birthday ("Natsu helped," he shrugs apologetically, when Kageyama raises his eyebrows at the eye watering, psychedelic swirls of brightly coloured icing) - it's just that the everyday stuff is somehow far more interesting. The way Hinata crosses his legs and bites the corner of his bottom lip when he's concentrating, the way he argues about maths homework, his longsuffering sigh when they're doing English and everything he says is met with a blank look and he has to start over and explain it all again. Kageyama loves all these things, and more - Hinata's bad jokes that he's read off crisp packets and sweet wrappers, the glint in his eye when he steals Kageyama's water bottle and waits for him to notice, the blush that creeps up his cheeks when Kageyama doesn't notice and drinks from Hinata's bottle without realising, even though he's generally weirdly possessive about his stuff. He loves the clicking sound Hinata's bike makes when he pushes it along because he's walking home with Kageyama instead of riding alone; he loves the sound Hinata's shoes make when he dashes across the volleyball court - a sound Kageyama is somehow able to distinguish from the eleven other pairs of shoes squeaking on the wooden floor; he loves the way Hinata looks at his palm every time he hits a spike, like it's the first time he's ever done it, even though he's hit hundreds and hundreds by now. He loves the way Hinata still looks at him like it's the first time ever, even though they must have looked at each other like that thousands of times. He loves the way he can't stop looking at Hinata like that either.
Some of the little things are different. Hinata's palm against his cheek, Hinata's grabby hands all over his chest and stomach and in his hair, Hinata's breath speeding up as Kageyama brushes his lips across places he hadn't even known were supposed to be sensual - Hinata's fluttering, half-closed eyelids, the crook of his neck, the patch of skin just behind his ear. Hinata trailing kisses down from his cheek to his collar bone, slipping his hands under Kageyama's shirt and stroking his fingers over Kageyama’s ribcage in a way that makes Kageyama groan in the most compromising manner, but Hinata doesn't seem to mind because he does it again. And then again.
These things are different from the other little things because they make Kageyama shiver and sigh, and heat pool in the pit of his stomach the way other things don't, but he knows they are no more nor less important than the other things, like the way Hinata silently traces his fingertips along Kageyama's cheekbone sometimes, the way his eyes light up when he talks about volleyball or Natsu, the way he gazes at Kageyama like he's trying to drink him all in at once when he thinks Kageyama can’t see. These things make Kageyama feel a different kind of warmth, elsewhere in his body - a sort of glowing in his chest that spreads through his limbs and into his face and sometimes causes him to smile without realising (until Hinata comments on it). There are two kinds of little things, he concludes, and he would rather die than miss out on either one of them.
The little things are unfamiliar and complex. They never get dull because he never really comes close to understanding them or why they are so intriguing, and every day there is something he hasn't noticed before. It is fascinating and terrifying all at once. It is the way Hinata's slender fingers wrap neatly around his own, the way he chews at his pencil before screwing up his face and declaring that maths is too hard and altogether entirely unnecessary. It's the way he kisses Kageyama, long and hard and slightly sloppy, the way he texts him past midnight with random and often nonsensical musings ("Do you think flowers have feelings?" "Hey Kageyama, if you were a dog, what breed do you think you’d be?") - and Kageyama pretends to be grumpy even though he can't help the warm, fuzzy feeling and the way his stomach flips whenever his phone flashes with a new message - even though he never fails to reply. It's the way Hinata is somehow always available to talk, even when Kageyama calls him at three in the morning after a bad dream just to hear his voice, groggy and sleep-addled and soothing.
It's the way he doesn't flinch when, on the bus after a big game, he feels Hinata's head on slump onto his shoulder in his sleep; he doesn't prod Hinata awake or push him away like he used to - instead he takes Hinata's hand, his own palm sweaty and shaking because they are in full view of the entire team, and squeezes it ever so gently. It's the way, when Hinata eventually wakes, Kageyama's shoulder is damp and sticky and slightly gross and he doesn't mind nearly as much as he thought he would. It's the way, when Tsukishima, with mocking eyes and a smirk on his lips, asks them in front of the whole team if they're dating, Kageyama says, "Yes, obviously," and challenges him to make something of it. Hinata doesn't say anything, but he gives Kageyama's hand a soft squeeze, and when Kageyama looks at him his eyes, big and brown and beautiful, are shining with gratitude. And that, Kageyama thinks, that's another little thing.
It's the way Hinata's lashes, black as midnight, flicker ever so slightly, and his breath flutters across Kageyama's face as he murmurs softly in his sleep. It's the way, Kageyama thinks as he watches him dream, he looks so serene, so peaceful, so utterly different from the daytime Hinata who has sunshine in his heart and fervour in his bones; and it's also the way Kageyama is the only person in the world who gets to see this side of him, the Hinata who is warm and soft and calm as a summer's evening. And then Hinata rolls over and punches Kageyama in the stomach and Kageyama thinks, I'll get you back for that, you little shit, but he already knows he won't. Because he knows Hinata is dreaming about that toss that only Kageyama can send him. And he can't be mad at him for that.
It's the little things, he reflects, that make up a relationship, and it's the little things that make up Hinata, whole and imperfect and wonderful as he is. Every little touch, every little smile, every little habit, however annoying or endearing, are what make the boy sleeping beside him irreplaceable. Every little thing, old or new, is responsible for Hinata being Hinata, and Kageyama thinks about how, if one tiny element were altered, even one thing even slightly changed, then Hinata wouldn't be the same. And Kageyama thinks about how lucky he is to have Hinata exactly the way he is, how undeservedly fortunate he has been that all the random circumstances in the universe came together to bring him this - a boy who is messy and noisy, who chews too loudly and trips over his laces and cries at the most ridiculous things. This boy, who is warm to his core, whose presence is like sunshine, whose hand fits perfectly in Kageyama's and whose head fits perfectly in the hollow between his shoulder and the crook of his neck. This boy, who is all his.
It is more than just novelty, Kageyama decides, because they're so close now that he's learned to read Hinata's every expression and he knows before Hinata even opens his mouth that he's going to complain about being cold, so Kageyama just tugs off his own jacket and holds it out to him. Hinata stares up at him, open-mouthed, and then he takes it and pulls it on over his own, smaller jacket.
"How did you know I was going to ask that?" he says in a tone of childlike wonder that Kageyama can't help but smile at.
"You only ever look that grumpy when you're cold," he replies, smirking at Hinata's expression.
"Well, in that case, you must be permanently freezing," Hinata retorts, dodging and laughing as Kageyama swats at him and then pulls him in for a kiss.
It's the little things, he decides. Love isn't about grand gestures and movie kisses and poetical heartache. It's about Hinata's laugh, Hinata's sharp wit and bad jokes, Hinata's body pressed against him in the cold spring air. It's about the things that other people can't see, about the way Kageyama never mocks Hinata for crying at kid's movies, the way Hinata holds Kageyama and promises he'll never let go when Kageyama cries about things that aren't kid's movies. It's about how, come what may, he knows they can survive anything. Nothing really changes between them with the passage of time, although every so often there are new little things that appear and take them by surprise - Hinata's uncharacteristic seriousness when Kageyama overhears him swearing to his mother than he'll never, never hurt her son; Kageyama's growing easiness with Hinata's parents, and the way he is surprisingly taken with Natsu (she, less surprisingly, is immediately attached to him); the breathiness in Kageyama's voice the first time he tells Hinata he loves him; and, equally unexpected by both of them, the way Kageyama is the first one to say it. Hinata doesn't take long to reciprocate, though.
Kageyama can't count all the things he loves about Hinata. He's tried, several times, but there are too many and some of them are hard to define, because there are some things that really irritate him about Hinata, but he knows that, in a strange way, he'd miss them if they weren't there. He tells Hinata about his eyes and his mouth and his nose and his freckles, but he doesn't tell him about his awful singing in the shower, or the way he's always far too energetic in the mornings, or the sound of his shoes on the court. It sounds silly and anyway, how do you even begin to describe why those things are precious? It makes no sense. But then, love and logic, Kageyama reminds himself, just don't mix. He doesn't need to say those things because there are words that encompass them already. Because he knows now, what love means. He knows it doesn't mean he has to get hurt, sweep Hinata off his feet, or chase him through a train station, begging him to stay. It doesn't even mean he has to give Hinata his second button, although he thinks he might one day, if he's ever able to imagine the prospect without feeling his face heat up to a thousand degrees and prompting Hinata to ask him what's wrong. It just means that he gets to experience the little things - the kissing and hand holding, but also the smiles and laughs and grumpy expressions, the words he says and the things he does that are like open secrets, because nobody else takes notice of them, but Kageyama treasures every one, stores them all up in his memory to play back later before he goes to sleep.
It's not that he doesn't think the big things should count. It's not that he doesn't appreciate them. It's just that the roses he kept in a vase of fresh water on his windowsill, the volleyball he tosses absently above his head (and occasionally drops on his face) when he's feeling contemplative, the cake that he forced down with a half-grimace because he doesn't really like cake but didn't have the heart to tell Hinata - they are all precious because they remind him of Hinata - of his misguided attempt at a grand gesture; of the enthusiastic expression on his face as he begged Kageyama to "Open it! Open it now!" even though they both knew by the shape what it was; of a week's planning and a day's home baking just for him.
It's just that really, Kageyama realises, the big things are just extensions of the little things anyway. And even when the last of the flowers has wilted, even when the time comes when they can no longer play volleyball together (hopefully not until the very, very distant future), even when Kageyama eventually works up the courage to admit that he doesn't care all that much for cake, he will still have Hinata's laugh to warm him, and Hinata's hand to hold, and Hinata's lips to kiss. Even when the big things disappear, the little things will remain, because it's all the little things that add up to Hinata. And because the little things add up to Hinata, it's the little things that Kageyama loves.