Chapter Text
Sometimes Kageyama returns to their cramped apartment with its peeling wallpaper, drafty windows, and scratched countertops and finds Hinata bouncing around the kitchen to pop music turned just a hair too high; he shoots a wide, blinding smile in Kageyama’s direction, and just like that, he’s home.
They’re Tobio and Shouyou now, and have been for some time. The path here wasn’t silver-lined, and there are still days when the apartment reverberates with heated shouts and that end with as much space between the two as the sole bed will allow (or more), but all things considered Kageyama wouldn’t go back and change a single thing. Somehow his life continues to be so much greater than simply the sum of its parts.
*
It all started that day at the middle school tournament. Small and unpolished, Hinata was quickly categorized as not a threat but that didn’t mean that Kageyama wouldn’t give all he had to beat him anyway. Anything to the contrary went against his nature. It was what happened afterwards that stuck with Kageyama, the tears streaming down Hinata’s face and the hard edge in his voice despite them that left an unfamiliar hollowness in Kageyama’s chest. It was an indescribable feeling that Kageyama felt for the second time when Hinata had burst into Karasuno’s gym that day one month later, and one he’d eventually label as something akin to fate.
They’d been at each other’s throats from day one, mostly because Hinata was too abrupt, Kageyama was too serious, and feelings are hard to decipher when you’re fifteen, a victory whoop is coupled with a bone crushing hug, and maybe that odd twinge in your middle isn’t because you ate one too many pork buns. Slowly, the weight of everything Hinata was rested in Kageyama’s chest until it became difficult for him to breathe, much less reason with himself.
There was one thing of which Kageyama was absolutely certain: Hinata Shouyou should not have this power over him. It shouldn’t have been that easy to disarm him with a well-aimed smile, to take up residence in his chest and fill him with this peculiar warmth. Most infuriating of all was the fact that Kageyama Tobio, genius setter, couldn’t discern for the world whether his feelings were reciprocated or whether he should act on them.
The decision was made for him one day, fittingly smack dab in the middle of one of countless arguments. He couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about, but Hinata’s voice had gradually lowered in pitch until it faded out entirely. Kageyama’s scowl lost its intensity as he began to realize just how close their faces were and what a strange look had suddenly come across Hinata’s features. Before he had time to analyze the situation any further Hinata had wrapped his fingers around his collar and their lips collided with a jolt Kageyama wouldn’t forget any time soon. “Dumbass.” He’d breathed against Hinata’s lips. Hinata had the gall to chuckle before letting his face grow scarlet, and from then on there was no going back.
*
Their apartment is small, there’s no denying that, but most days it’s big enough. A ragged towel is stuffed beneath the rickety window in their bedroom, there’s a questionable stain peeking from the corner of the living room-kitchen-dining room, and on especially windy days the bathroom light flickers, but it’s theirs.
Life in Tokyo is comfortable – most of the time. The city is big and loud and so unlike home, but they have each other and they have volleyball and that’s all they’ll ever need. They get by on simple meals, quarters for the laundromat, borrowed time, and sleepy goodnight kisses. Some days are full to the bursting with feverish studying, long practices, and working to scrape together just enough to make ends meet, and those are the days when they collapse into bed exhausted, truly together only for the few moments before heavy eyelids fall shut. Those are the days when tensions run high, things slip out that aren’t meant to, and Kageyama feels like he’s wearing thin.
Then there are the days that Kageyama sometimes thinks he lives for. They wake to the mid-morning sun painted across their faces instead of the shrill cries of the alarm clock. Breakfast is a simple affair, but not rushed. They sip their coffee and laze around until, inevitably, one or the other sits up a little straighter and an unspoken invitation passes between them. That quickly, they’re racing to find a volleyball, clambering down the stairs, and elbowing each other out of the way as they sprint to the nearest park, already panting and breathless when they arrive.
“Toss to me, Tobio!” Hinata always demands, pressing and wheedling despite the fact that Kageyama had long since given up on resisting. It doesn’t matter that the entire week had been filled with volleyball. They practice for hours, until stomachs are growling, palms are stinging, and breathless laughter and stolen kisses interrupt the sanctity and seriousness of the sport. With warm, sweaty fingers now woven together, they return to their apartment. It looks softer, somehow, in the late afternoon light, with touches of Kageyama and Hinata spread throughout that make it less a cramped, tattered, inner-city apartment and more like home.
Hinata throws open the refrigerator and they pile the ingredients they’d splurged on for just such an occasion on the counter. Cooking still isn’t their strongest point, but necessity is the best teacher. Some minor bickering and a negligible catastrophe or two later, the table is set with its mismatched place-settings and the sauce mostly covers the flavor of the few burnt grains of rice (“I told you we shouldn’t have cooked it so long, Bakageyama!”). Beneath the table, their feet knock comfortably together until Hinata hooks Kageyama’s ankle with his foot and tangles their legs together. Kageyama frowns and mutters something, but he doesn’t make a move to extricate himself and Hinata smiles a mischievous grin at him from across the table. Kageyama is always torn between smacking it from his face and kissing it off, so he does neither.
Washing the dishes afterwards almost always ends with soap suds in Kageyama’s hair, a damp collar, and a welt or two on Hinata’s arm from a well-aimed towel snap, but they’re efficient enough to get the job done. The sooner they’re finished, the sooner they can choose a movie and curl together on the couch, doing nothing at all until the exhaustion of the week and the day catches up with them.
If he had to choose a favorite part of days like this, Kageyama would probably choose this one. It’s very rare that he has opportunity to wrap Hinata in his arms, bury his face in his hair to draw in the scent of him, and reciprocate lazy kisses to his jaw, his knuckles, his collarbone, and anywhere else Hinata can reach. It’s times like this that Kageyama feels nothing other than a warm contentment. The word “home” can have a number of definitions, but for Kageyama it’s nothing more succinctly than this person and the way he makes him feel.