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Hinata is five years old, and he is dying. At least, that’s the most reasonable explanation he can formulate. The world is exploding. It hurts his eyes. It had begun as a normal trip to the mall with his mother. The chubby fingers of one hand gripped hers and the others waggled in delight at every single kid he saw who was remotely near his age. That was when it happened. Everything was suddenly different and no one else seemed to care. His mother continued to glance through the store windows, oblivious to the fact that her son’s world was crumbling to bits around his feet.
His mother should know if he’s dying. That’s why he tells her, between hiccupping sobs, as soon as they get home. She’s confused at first, but then she’s crying too, and squeezing him so tight he can barely breathe. “Your colors!” She’s murmuring into his hair. “Oh, Shouyou, I’m so sorry.”
He isn’t dying. She explains that to him as soon as she has wiped the tears off her cheeks and blown her nose. He has his colors now. It means that the person he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with was in that mall and now he’ll never know who they are. It’s mildly concerning, but he’s too busy taking in all the new sights to let it seriously bother him. The world is so much brighter than he’d ever imagined, and he’s determined to take it all in.
*
Hinata is eight years old, and he squeezes his eyes shut and re-opens them five times. Something is wrong. At first he thinks that he’s woken up too early, and it must be raining outside, and that the gray almost-dawn must be seeping through his curtains. Then he cautiously draws the curtain aside – the curtain that has been blue for three years of his life. The sun is shining. He squeezes his eyes shut a sixth time. He opens them. Nothing has changed. The world is gray. This time he must surely be dying. Why else would his precious colors leave him?
He finds his mother in the kitchen, drinking her morning cup of tea. She lowers the cup from her lips without taking a sip when he tells her that, this time, he really is dying. He tells her that his colors have gone away. This is the second time his mother has cried in front of him. She pulls him into a too-tight hug until Hinata begins to fidget and protest. He gets to stay home from school that day. The world looks so different without the colors – so faded. He cries himself to sleep that night.
Over the next months, he hears more than one conversation he isn’t meant to. His parents’ friends look at him so mournfully that he might as well be dying. Everyone is treating him like a fragile blossom, like he’ll crumple at the slightest touch. He hates it. He wants his colors back, but more importantly he just wants to be treated like he isn’t about to shatter.
*
Hinata is fifteen years old, and he stares into the mirror with determination, trying to conjure up an image of just what his face looked like when its lines and angles, the tufts of his hair, were filled in with bright, warm colors. He can’t. His mother tells him he’ll be late for school. He scowls into the mirror one last time before turning away from the disappointing image with a sigh.
Volleyball is the one thing he can take solace in. When he’s playing, he can forget for a little while. He finally has a team to play with, and most of them are like him – for the time being. They don’t know the real truth about him, and that’s just the way he likes it. The last thing he wants from them is their pity.
He can’t deny the ache that settles into his middle when Suga and Daichi make their comments about the shade of his hair. He does his best to hide the stab of jealousy when first Tsukishima, then Nishinoya, then Asahi get their colors. He sees Kageyama taking all of this in with his calm, steady gaze. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that his teammates and friends are gradually finding their colors and their soulmates. Hinata takes a strange sense of comfort from the boy who doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by his lack of colors.
“Do you ever wish you’d meet your soulmate?” He blurts one day in the middle of a practice session with Kageyama. Deep eyes widen in surprise, a single eyebrow lifting in curiosity. “Do you ever wish you’d have your colors?” He went on, pushing because he suddenly desperately needs to know the answer. The boy shrugs.
“It doesn’t matter to me either way. I’m still me. I’m a whole person with or without a soulmate. With or without colors.” Hinata is floored. It’s the first time he’s heard someone suggest that not having your colors does not make you broken or incomplete.
“That’s what I think, too.” He agrees quickly. At least, it’s what he so desperately wants to believe. “We don’t need colors!” He says it as much to convince himself as in agreement.
He wonders if he’s being entirely selfish to wish that Kageyama never sees his colors. Maybe it’s all in his head, but he can’t shake the feeling that they share something special. He feels a strange connection to Kageyama which started with their synchronized quick attacks and gradually became something deeper – at least in Hinata’s mind. He has to remind himself that it’s only a matter of time before Kageyama finds his soulmate and sees his colors and forgets what – if anything – he shared with Hinata.
*
Hinata is sixteen years old, and the whole thing happens in slow motion. He’s begging to stop and get pork buns even though the only reason they’d come to the mall was to get new shoes for volleyball. Kageyama is frowning and calling him a dumbass, and that’s why he doesn’t see the girl looking down at her cell phone who is headed right for him. Hinata calls Kageyama’s name, but he doesn’t have time to react. Hinata winces as the two collide, falling to his knees at Kageyama’s side in a bit of a panic. He barely notices that the girl, already kneeling across from him, has begun rubbing her forehead, blinking quickly.
“Kageyama!” He says his friend’s name for the third time, and finally his eyes flicker open and he squints up at Hinata. He finally mutters, “colors,” and Hinata’s heart falls into his stomach. He’s barely listening as the girl confirms that she saw them too. Kageyama is sitting up, and – what was it the girl just said? - after pressing an envelope into Kageyama’s shaking fingers she disappears into the crowd. Hinata shakes his head slightly and blinks in an attempt to clear the haze.
“What was that?” He finally breathes.
Kageyama’s expression has returned to its default cool, calm, and collected as he replies in a quiet voice, “That was my soulmate. And I guess it’s a good thing I said I didn’t need her, because it doesn’t look like she’s coming back.” Hinata hates himself for the spark of relief and hope that radiates from his middle.
*
Hinata is seventeen years old, and it’s almost as if his colors came back. Kageyama is surprisingly good at describing them and even more surprisingly willing to do so. Kageyama knows the truth now, but he hasn’t once looked at him as though he were any less of a person. It’s enough to make Hinata feel more perfectly content than he has in quite some time.
Sometimes he worries that Kageyama thinks he’s a bother, or that he is clinging too much where he isn’t wanted, but an almost soft smile, a not quite callous ruffle of his hair, or a practically good-natured dumbass are enough to convince him that his presence, if not fully appreciated, is at least not entirely unwanted.
One day the realization hits him like so many bricks. He thinks to himself, almost subconsciously, that he wouldn’t mind looking into those particular eyes and being called a dumbass by those particular lips for the rest of his life. He’s entirely too far gone to turn back now, and he wonders for a few fleeting seconds if someone who isn’t your soulmate should even have the power to make you feel so quivery inside. Maybe he should be terrified but the tender look he catches in Kageyama’s eyes one day when he glances up at him is enough to keep his heart afloat.
*
Hinata is eighteen years old, and Kageyama is approaching him with cheeks so flushed even he can tell that they are dark red. He’s holding something tight in his fist, and Hinata’s curiosity gets the better of him.
“What’s this?” He holds out his hand to receive it. Why does it suddenly feel as though his heart might hammer its way out of his chest? He looks from the button now cradled in his palm to Kageyama’s face screwed into a nervous grimace. The traditional symbol of devotion between soulmates is conspicuously missing from the front of Kageyama’s blazer and nestled pleasantly warm in Hinata’s hand.
“Look.” Kageyama takes a step closer to him. “Wherever my soulmate is, I hope she’s happy with the one she loves. I don’t need her, as long as I have you.”
Hinata can’t help the tears that spring to his eyes, and he can’t help the way his voice breaks over Kageyama’s name. The things he says to Kageyama next barely scratch the surface, but for now they’re all he can manage. The way Kageyama blinks, hard, is proof enough that they are sufficient. When Hinata finally reaches for his hand, the slight pressure of Kageyama’s fingers says more than words ever could.