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Kageyama is really stupid. Not in the academic sense, obviously; he isn’t in the college preparatory class for nothing. He mentally chides himself over and over again, biting on his bottom lip as he pushes a mop down the school hallway.
He didn’t mean to be late. This was the first time in his entire academic life that he had overslept, and he was so sure he had remembered to set his alarm, but he woke at 7.45 a.m., giving him only fifteen minutes to get out of bed, run to school, and have his ass on his chair by the time the bell rang. Unsurprisingly, things were not smooth sailing. In his attempt to make it through the school gates before they closed, he had knocked into an old man, who was, to his chagrin, the Dean.
Five hours of school service was his punishment, which equated to about an hour a day for an entire week. Kageyama accepted this without complaints; he’d rather five hours of chores than a black mark on his school records. He could already imagine both his parents screaming into his ear for being the family disappointment.
So Kageyama found himself with the scum of the earth, the usual delinquents that participated in “community service” so frequently it almost became their extracurricular activity. He tries not to talk to any of them, fearing for his safety and his sanity, and continues mopping the floor in silence.
“Oi, you.”
Kageyama spins his head around to see one of them staring at him. The boy looks nothing like a highschooler. At best, he looks like he’s in his third year of junior high, what with his short stature and kid-like voice. But he also looks dangerous; Kageyama notices that half of the boy’s shirt is untucked, and he also notes the orange hair, pierced ears and black fingernails. He really, really doesn’t want to associate with any of them.
He keeps silent, staring back awkwardly with the mop still in his hands.
“You can talk, right?” The boy quips, leaning lazily on the doorframe. He’s on trash duty, so it probably explains the trash can in his hand.
Kageyama nods.
The boy gives a condescending snort, and he lifts the trash can and turns it upside down, spilling its nasty contents all over the floor that Kageyama had just mopped. He smiles in a way that reminds Kageyama of the Chesire Cat, “Welcome to the club.”
He walks away with a half-assed wave of his hand, and Kageyama is left to confront the harsh reality of his circumstances. Kageyama looks at the boy’s retreating back in the distance; he can already feel chills going down his spine. If this is Day One, he can’t bring himself to imagine the next four.
Day Two is just as bad as Day One. They had pulled names out of a hat, and Kageyama was unluckily assigned toilet duty. It should have been okay; all Kageyama had to do was hold his breath for half an hour and drown the sinks and urinals in bleach.
He had naively accepted a bucket of soap and water from the same orange-haired boy from yesterday, and he was about to turn off the lights and leave when he realized, to his absolute horror, that the urinals were glowing in the dark.
Kageyama’s mouth falls open and he is barely breathing.
He looks into the bucket and curses out loud, wondering if his day could get any worse. The orange-haired boy probably emptied a whole bottle of glow-in-the-dark dye into his bucket of soapy water.
He storms out of the boys’ bathroom to find some paint thinner from the janitor’s closet, and doesn’t notice the orange-haired boy squatting behind the wall, wiping the tears from his eyes as he laughed.
On Day Three, Kageyama and the pesky troublemaker are assigned trash duty in the staff room. While Kagayama focuses on emptying trash cans, the orange-haired boy has taken the liberty to rearrange the things on teachers’ desks, swapping photo frames and other lame memorabilia between tables.
When Kageyama finds out, he nearly screams.
On Day Four, Kageyama manages to avoid the orange-haired boy entirely by completing his hour of chores in the morning before school started. He sweeps the leaves in the courtyard in peace, without anybody to bother him or mess up the good work he has done.
By the time Friday rolls around, Kageyama is already trembling with excitement. He’s counting down the seconds on his digital watch, and when it beeps at 5:00 P.M., his heart almost leaps out of his throat. Freedom has never felt so satisfying. He returns the cleaning equipment back to the janitor’s closet and bounds down the stairs, this time careful not to run into anybody important. He’s about to run out of school when he sees the orange-haired boy sweeping the leaves in the courtyard.
Internally, he is cackling. But then he sees some menacing third years approach him, hands stuffed in their pockets and acting as if they were cool as shit. They kick the huge pile of leaves the boy had swept and ruffle the kid’s hair, then push him over. Kageyama stands still and watches from a distance, trying to figure out if that was the same orange-haired kid he knew.
When the third years have left, the kid dusts off the dirt on his black uniform pants and stands up. He shifts his body to pick his broom up and that’s when Kageyama catches the side of his face and realizes that is actually is him.
Before he notices it, Kageyama is already jogging over. He doesn’t know what compelled him to do so. Just thirty seconds ago he was celebrating the fact that he never had to see these faces again, but here he is now, running towards the source of his frustration for the entire past week. He wordlessly picks up another wooden broom that was left standing against the wall, then starts sweeping some of the leaves into a pile.
The other boy is surprised by Kageyama’s actions, and he looks at Kageyama with his eyebrows knotted until he finally says, “What are you doing?”
Kageyama looks up and deadpans, “Helping you out.”
The boy tightens his grip on his own broom, and Kageyama watches those ugly black fingernails sink into his skin.
“Why?” He asks, and Kageyama can tell, despite his social inadequacies, that the boy is confused, as if this were the first time somebody’s ever done something nice for him.
Kageyama shrugs. “It’s Friday and everybody wants to go home. It’ll be faster if we do it together.”
They stare at each other awkwardly until the other boy sticks out his hand and says, “I’m Hinata Shouyou. Year 2 Class 1.”
“Kageyama Tobio. Year 2 Class 4.”
Hinata makes a little “gwaahh!!” sound — Kageyama doesn’t have the words to describe it — and Kageyama muses that Hinata finally managed to sound like the way he looks.
“You must be like, a fucking genius!” He says as he starts sweeping leaves together.
And Kageyama wants to correct him — not like a genius, I am a genius — but he decides against it, instead awkwardly chuckling out a ‘yeah’.
They sweep in silence until they’re done. Kageyama picks up his bag, ready to leave, but Hinata stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me..” Hinata sounds like he’s choking, and Kageyama starts to panic internally. “Buy you ice cream.”
Everything in Kageyama’s head stops. He looks at Hinata, wondering if that was a question or an order. He’s not even sure if he’s talking to the same guy who had caused him so much grief.
“Um, yeah. Okay,” he replies against better judgement.
Kageyama catches the packet of ice popsicle thrown at him, and he sits beside Hinata on the front steps of the Foothill Store. He mumbles a thank you, then starts eating.
“Why didn’t you fight back?” He asks, genuinely curious.
Hinata swallows the ice in his mouth and scoffs, “I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid, stupid.”
He really sounds like a child.
“So what did you do to deserve five days of chores?” It’s Hinata’s turn to ask. He props one leg up on the step and rests his arm on it, cocking his head at Kageyama, waiting for an answer.
“I…” Kageyama stumbles on his words, “knocked the Dean’s wig off his head.”
Hinata starts roaring and he doubles over in laughter, slapping Kageyama on his back so hard that he almost spits his ice cream out. The storekeeper comes out to shout at Hinata and he’s holding his broom, so Hinata sticks out his tongue, grabs Kageyama buy the collar, and runs.
Kageyama struggles to keep up. Hinata doesn’t stop running even when the convenience store is out of sight. His lips are cracking into a smile; Kageyama just wonders if he’s laughing at how miserable he is. When Hinata starts slowing down, Kageyama realizes that he’s already run past his block. Hinata smiles at him, brimming with unbridled joy and mischief, and Kageyama feels his heart leap and bound in the exact way Hinata jumps when he runs.
Kageyama doesn’t think about Hinata until next Wednesday when Hinata shows up at his classroom. He strolls in with his usual slouchy posture, hands in his pockets and white shirt tucked out. Kageyama’s classmates have started staring, eyes trailing Hinata’s path until he stops in front of Kageyama’s desk.
“Yo, bastard,” Hinata says, chewing on a piece of gum.
Kageyama puts his pen down and stares.
“I heard you’re good at math.” Hinata looks down at the papers on Kageyama’s table and they are, indeed, math worksheets. He pauses, waiting for Kageyama to catch on.
“Do you… want me to help you?”
Hinata pops his bubblegum, grinning, “Well, since you offered. Rooftop, after school. Okay?”
After Hinata leaves, Kageyama’s classmate pokes his side with a pencil.
“You know him?”
Kageyama fingers unconsciously curl around his pen tightly and his thumb smooths over the engraving on the side.
"Yeah," he says after a long time, smiling to himself. "I guess I do."
Kageyama goes up to the roof after his last period with his pencil case and calculator. There's not really anywhere to sit, so he decides to stand near the stairs until Hinata arrives.
He shifts his weight from one foot to another. There's a small part of him that's unsure. Why does he want to help Hinata? Didn't he say a few days ago that he didn't want to be associated with the rowdy troublemakers in school.
Hinata shows up late with his school bag carelessly slung on his shoulder. He leads Kageyama to the edge of the roof. Why Hinata couldn't study in the library like a normal person, Kageyama had no clue. Hinata drops his half-zipped bag with a loud thud and some of his books slide out the opening.
"Is that... the school handbook?" Kageyama points at the black pocket handbook in the mess. There are little post-its on the sides in discordant colors, jutting out hapzardly in all directions. He’s visibly taken aback. Why would a pesky delinquent carry around the school rule book?
Hinata crosses his arms in pride and he stands tall, "I told you. I'm crazy, but I'm not stupid." His words mirror those from that night, and for the first time Kageyama acknowledges the fact that Hinata isn't as dumb as he looks.
"I'm still here, right?" Hinata continued.
"None of my pranks are expellable offenses. I play by the book," he said, getting more excited with every word. "I'm untouchable!"
Kageyama looks on with mock terror in his eyes and new found courage. "Sit down, Hinata."
"Whatever, loser." Hinata fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and rummages through his backpack for his lighter. He plops next to Kageyama and sticks out a lit cigarette.
Kageyama, probably upon realizing the danger of associating with Hinata, vigorously shakes his head, "No thanks.”
Hinata shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Kageyama tries to explain differentiation to Hinata. He tears a sheet of writing paper out and puts it between them, trying his best to differentiate while writing upside-down. It’s a bit hard, and frankly very distracting, when Hinata keeps heaving smoke in his face. He does it slowly, breathing with great labor as he blows the crap out of his open mouth. Kageyama believes he’s doing it on purpose, and it’s so infuriating, especially because Hinata isn’t even looking at his math explanation at all.
“Why do you do that?” Kageyama asks, pointing at Hinata’s hand.
“What, this?” Hinata raises his eyebrows, looking at his black fingernails with the cigarette still caught between his index and middle finger. “I colored it in with a Sharpie. Bad idea, I know. It’s been a week and this fucker’s still here.”
“No, no. I meant the smoking. Don’t you know it’s bad for your lungs? Why do you even smoke?”
Hinata returns the cigarette to his mouth and he takes a long drag, as if to spite Kageyama. He looks at Kageyama directly in his eyes and breathes out, filling the space between them with the gray smog. He says with an intensity Kageyama’s never seen before, “I do it for the same reason why you breathe. I do it to stay alive.”
Hinata is an enigma — he is a person of mysterious secrets and boundless potential, and it excites Kageyama nearly as much as it frightens him. In his head, he is pleading for himself to run away. But he’s still sitting in front Hinata Shoyou from Year 2 Class 1, holding his pen and writing down upside-down numbers for someone who isn’t even paying attention.
Hinata is a car crash waiting to happen, and Kageyama is willingly sitting in the passenger seat. There’s a mischievous glint in Hinata’s eyes. Kageyama knows he’s in for a ride.
After three days of math tutoring, Kageyama has managed to get Hinata’s math scores up by 6%. It’s considered an achievement, since Hinata did nothing other than twirl his pencil during those lessons.
“Do you even know how to use a calculator?” Kageyama sounds exasperated. Hinata literally takes thirty seconds to enter an expression into his calculator, and when Kagayama asks him to plot a graph on his graphic calculator, Hinata just says nah, opting to manually draw boobies on his screen instead.
“I think I’m going to cry,” Kageyama complains, burying his face in his hands.
Hinata gives him a derisive snort, “Go on and cry, you fucking idiot. You’ll piss less.”
Kageyama groans. “You know what, I think that’s enough math for today,” he says, stacking all the loose sheets of paper together.
“Great!” Hinata instantly perks up. He draws a cigarette from his box and lights it so quickly that it even amazes Kageyama. If only he could do math at that speed.
As usual, Hinata offers Kageyama a stick, and Kageyama shakes his head. Just because he hangs out with a delinquent, it doesn’t mean that he’s going to become one.
“Hey Kageyama,” Hinata asks, leaning his head back on the metal fence surrounding the school roof. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Kageyama’s back straightens and his eyes widen, then blink rapidly. “Look at you like what?”
Oh fuck, Hinata noticed. He wants to punch himself twenty, maybe thirty times.
Hinata takes the cigarette out of his mouth and starts explaining, waving the stick around in circles, “Like when you think I’m not looking and you give me that look. Like I’ve got something nasty on my face. But I totally saw that, dumbass. I’m not blind.”
Kageyama’s brain is in overload. He’s mentally flitting from one excuse to another, trying to come up with something that doesn’t sound creepy. Instead, he mumbles, “I think you smell nice.”
Kageyama wants to fling himself off the roof.
In all honesty, Hinata smells like burnt toast and toothpaste. He doesn’t even know why he said that. Thoughts about Hinata come at him in a swarm, and he thinks about a future, possibly with burnt toast for breakfast. And Hinata will wrap an arm around his waist and headbutt into his side while he brushes his teeth, leaving yucky toothpaste spit on his shirt. Kageyama feels warm thinking about this, and a rosy blush rises up the back of his neck all the way to his ears.
Yeah, Kageyama really doesn’t mind.
Hinata notices Kageyama blushing, and Kageyama is doing a terrible job at staying cool, wiping his sweaty palms up and down his uniform pants. He reaches over, fingers gently combing through Kageyama’s hair. Kageyama makes an almost inaudible gasp and his hands freeze.
Swiftly, Hinata swings his other hand across, looping his fingers through the holes in the wire fence. He climbs into Kageyama’s lap and presses his chest firm against the other’s. Kageyama gazes into Hinata’s eyes, and Hinata is so close that his pupils are blown up. Hinata makes the first move, pressing his open mouth against Kageyama’s closed, tight lips. He uses his tongue to pry it open, licking gently as if to coax Kageyama himself out of his shell.
Kageyama, being the social idiot he is, doesn’t know where to put his hands. So Hinata takes the initiative to guide them to his own waist, squeezing in a gentleness that leaves Kageyama surprised.
When they come apart, they are both panting heavily. Kageyama feels like he’s in a dreary fog that’s just begun to clear. If only Hinata were good at both math and kissing; he’d have one less thing to worry about.
Hinata still has his hand on Kageyama’s soft cheek, and he looks at him fondly, thinking back to the first time they had met, when Hinata had emptied an entire trash can to get a cute boy’s attention.
“Told you before, dumbass. I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.”