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I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
—Failing and Flying, Jack Gilbert
When Hinata and Kageyama met, it was loud.
The noise of a volleyball court. The rush in Hinata’s ears like waves, the buzz of nervous anticipation swirling around him. Their relationship was defined by the noise.
There were shouted drill orders, called balls, hoots and high fives after a good rally. The cheers, the jeers, and everything in between; the static of the crowd and the thump of a spike in the midst of it all. A cacophony of sounds, woven into the symphony that was their lives.
But then there were the fights. The arguments, rising to a crescendo until the screaming could be heard outside the club room’s closed door. The silent treatments for hours afterward, sometimes even days. Slammed doors. Hurled balls. Furled fists.
The noise became staccato, and with a sforzando, it fizzled out.
When Hinata and Kageyama broke up, it was quiet.
There was no meltdown, no explosion, no tipping point. There was barely any noise at all, just the quiet acceptance of something past. There was no reason, and perhaps that was all the reason there needed to be.
The two had spent so long on a collision path, always pushing forward and toward the other, always running running running and coming together, that one day when they stopped and looked up, they didn't know when their feet had started carrying them in opposing directions.
Perhaps it had not been too late, then. Perhaps they had only needed a detour to find another path home. But neither of them had ever known to look back, and so they kept pushing forward, running running running and coming apart.
At some point, Kageyama had stopped looking up for Hinata. At some point, Hinata had stopped waiting for Kageyama to be there.
Time passed.
The quiet approached.
It was only once Kageyama was no longer looking directly at him that he realized. Hinata had always been the sun. They were always meant to burn out.
They say that anything worth doing is worth doing badly, but Hinata and Kageyama? Everything that had transpired between them had been perfect.
All good things come to an end? Perhaps. But something ending didn't make it any less important. And though there were no new shiny memories to create, that didn't dull the ones that Hinata already had, tucked away in their own little spaces within him.
Hinata didn't really know who he was without Kageyama. But if there was one thing Hinata could do over and over and over again, it was learn the things that he didn't know.
Hinata would always love Kageyama, sure. Kageyama was the boy who showed him he had wings, and later the man who taught him how to use them.
But there was more than one way to fly. There would be more than one way to love, Hinata was sure of it. Perhaps Hinata didn't really know who he was without Kageyama, but Hinata hadn't known who he was before Kageyama either.
And when he looks up into sparkling brown eyes and a mischievous smirk, he laces his fingers into a strong setter's grip and squeezes. Hinata didn't know who he was with Miya Atsumu yet. But he was going to find out.