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As the cusp of the school term hits, Yachi, Yamaguchi, and Tsukishima picking up the pieces and each other from the brutality of exam season, they decide that they deserve a break. So, naturally, the three of them take a little trip to the Schweiden Adlers’s gymnasium in Tokyo. It’s hardly a trip. A little more than an hour out from campus, an easy commute via train, and Yamaguchi gets to bother his best friends the whole way, too. Win-win-win.
“Gotta see how the pros do it,” Yamaguchi says on the train, poking Tsukishima in the ribs, to which he hardly pays attention to.
“Gotta get Romero-san’s signature,” Tsukishima replies, an equal deadpan to Yamaguchi’s mirth and a much harsher jab to the ribs, to which Yamaguchi yelps and Yachi sighs at the both of them.
“Can’t we do both? This is a good idea. Great, actually! Kei, you might train in a place like this soon.”
“Yeah,” Yamaguchi snickers, dodging another wicked blow. “This is for you, Tsukki.”
“And you.” Yachi delivers her own, sharp poke to Yamaguchi’s side, his blind spot. “You’re the one who actually wanted to go. Don’t make it our problem, too.”
“What she said,” Tsukishima says, putting in an earbud and turning to glance out the train window. After a beat, he offers Yachi the other ear. She takes it, white cord hanging loose between them.
Yamaguchi sticks his tongue out at the both of them before lowering his head to rest on Yachi’s shoulder and falling promptly asleep. No one has talent like Yamaguchi when it comes to catnaps. He could probably find a way to close his eyes while standing, draping his lanky frame over Yachi’s shoulders or forcing Tsukishima to hold him upright by the waist. Something or other. Yamaguchi has always had his ways.
Yachi, as it turns out, has her ways too. Tsukishima has no time to react before the song changes through his earbuds, Yachi having sneakily lifted the phone from his pocket and turned on whatever bubblegum cybergirl lo-fi girl-group K-pop she was into lately. Tsukishima can’t keep track of Yachi’s ever-changing music taste, can’t make sense of anything she likes at all, but the song filtering through sounds vaguely familiar, so he lets it play. The day is nice, after all, and their schedule is free with no deadlines to count, so, Tsukishima decides, he’s happy for the soundtrack to be whichever biggest hit is storming South Korea, and Yachi’s algorithm by proxy, for the day. As a treat.
And, another treat: Tsukishima gets to hold the map, having snatched it deftly out of Yachi’s well-meaning but incapable hands, and they don’t get lost like he was dreading, instead finding themselves on a swift journey onwards.
“I can do it,” Yachi protests, swiping uselessly above her head where Tsukishima squints at the map. “Let me do it, I want to do it.”
“Let her do it,” Yamaguchi echoes, chewing noisily around a pink lollipop. Neither of them know where he got it, and it was rude of him not to offer them anything, too, but they let it slide, fighting fruitlessly for the map.
“Shut up, Tadashi,” they both snap his way, and he raises his hands in surrender.
“Fine. Get us lost. See if I care.”
Yachi barters. “I can do it this time. Last time was a mistake.” To no avail.
Yamaguchi groans at the both of them. “Give me the fucking map,” he demands, pulling the lollipop from his mouth to speak over them. Tsukishima snaps back to reality just in time to tighten his grip before Yamaguchi can sink his claws into their precious, precious directions.
“I said, I can—”
“Give me the fucking—”
—
They get there, eventually. The gymnasium towers above them all, and they tilt their heads back to read the signage, three cooing bobbleheads. Well, two cooing, and one pretending that he doesn’t care, not really, but internally, he’s cooing just as much as the other two.
“This is so fun,” Yamaguchi announces.
“This is great,” Yachi agrees politely, whose girlfriend is the nationally-proclaimed ace of the nationally-proclaimed professional Division 1 team Hikari Pharmaceutical Red Rabbits. This is nothing new to her.
“Fun,” Tsukishima echoes, who plays on a collegiate-level volleyball team and is already being scouted for numerous professional teams, once he graduates. He’s thinking of jumping straight to Div 2, actually, skipping Division 3 entirely. This is research, if nothing else.
“I hate both of you.” Yamaguchi spares them both a withering glance before striding through the doors. Offended, and also kind of endeared, Yachi and Tsukishima follow.
The courts aren’t hard to find. It’s a sports facility, after all. What’s harder than finding the courts, though, is getting in.
“You can’t get in right now.” A security guard stops them at the entrance. “Court’s been reserved.”
“Yes,” Yamaguchi says patiently. “You see, we’re trying to see—”
“Sorry.” The guard doesn’t budge. “The Adlers are training right now. No one’s allowed in.”
Security is tight, it seems, for V.League Division 1 professionals Schweiden Adlers.
“Yes, we know,” Yamaguchi repeats. “That’s exactly—”
“It’s okay,” a voice cuts in. “They’re my friends. Let them in.”
A head of shaggy, dark hair pokes around the gym door. The smile that breaks out on Yamaguchi’s face could rival Hinata’s.
Kageyama Tobio, number 20 on the Schweiden Adlers and the team’s main setter of the 2016 season, nods to the guard, who relents.
“You’re lucky we’re on break right now.” He turns to the three of them, shaking dark hair out of his eyes. “You could have been kicked out.”
Kageyama Tobio has gotten better at learning to smile. Just a bit. A bit goes a long way though, for three old friends.
“Kageyama!” Yamaguchi exclaims, grinning ear to ear, and Kageyama’s smile widens.
“Tadashi. It’s good to see you.”
Yachi breaks out into a smile of her own and Kageyama ducks in to give her a quick side hug, towering over her with all his one-eighty-eight centimeter glory. She laughs, delighted.
“Sorry,” he laughs back, quiet. “I’m sweating.”
“It’s good to see you, Kageyama,” Yachi replies, happy, and it is. It’s always good to see Kageyama. How far apart their group of five seems now.
The three of them stayed together, Hinata flew all the way across the world, but Kageyama moved only slightly, the outskirts of the city just out of reach. Nonetheless, they are here. They’re sure that the sands of Brazil are kind to their voracious hitter, but often they feel two voices too less, and Kageyama’s long-limbed awkwardness before them right now feels a little like the sun, peeking out from behind two twin Miyagi hills.
“Your hair’s gotten long,” Yachi comments, reaching up and pulling a dark strand between her fingers. Kageyama’s eyebrows twist a little, but he lets her. How far they’ve come from high school, indeed.
“A little,” he replies, brushing his hand awkwardly over his head. “Need a cut.”
“I can do it,” Yamaguchi offers, voice still airy and happy, and Kageyama shrugs.
“Sure,” he says, at the same time Tsukishima scoffs his skepticism out loud.
Kageyama’s eyes narrow beneath his fringe. Yachi and Yamaguchi hold their breaths.
“King,” Tsukishima greets.
“Megane,” Kageyama says back.
They stare at each other for a long moment, a cool, blank expression on Tsukishima’s face and a small frown on Kageyama’s, before Yamaguchi strides up between them and slaps them on both their backs, hard, with large open palms.
“Alright,” he exclaims, “Enough posturing,” and Tsukishima and Kageyama break out into twin sheepish grins.
“Old habits die hard,” Tsukishima says dryly, and Kageyama nods, equally abashed.
“Hi, Tsukishima,” he says, “Good to see you.”
“You too,” Tsukishima offers back, and both of them miss the look that Yachi and Yamaguchi shoot each other. It’s always a relief when the two of them put aside their high school differences and get along, a little like ensuring that one’s child will get along with the kid next door. Tsukishima is Yachi’s, in that case, and Yamaguchi would be paired off as Kageyama’s handler, as do such old captain and vice-captain relationships go.
“So,” Yamaguchi drawls, looping an arm around Kageyama’s shoulder and dragging him down a couple centimeters. Just a couple. He’s grown taller, too. “When are you giving us the tour?”
Kageyama looks a little sheepish, curled up under Yamaguchi’s elbow like that, but he doesn’t fight it. Their favorite gold medalist.
He clears his throat. “A tour? Right now, if you want. I’m on break anyway.”
—
Number 20 on the Schweiden Adlers and main setter of the 2016 season Kageyama Tobio’s private gymnasium exclusive tour ends up being… somewhat lacking.
“Those are the bleachers. You can fill your water there. The storage closet has everything. Locker rooms, there.”
“We use Court 2, mostly.” He points to a far court on the right, where someone is practicing blocks.
“That’s Sokorofu-san,” Kageyama says. “He’s the tallest.”
“How tall?” Tsukishima asks, interested, and Kageyama frowns.
“Two hundred and one. Point eight.”
Yamaguchi elbows Tsukishima in the side. “Jealous?” He asks, and Tsukishima elbows him back. Yachi grabs the both of them by the arm.
“Don’t be embarrassing,” she says through a gritted smile, and they silence like schoolchildren. Kageyama shrugs it off.
“It’s okay,” he says. “We have Hoshiumi-san.”
Across the court, Schweiden Adlers number 16 outside hitter Hoshiumi Kourai currently has his water bottle held high in the air as he drinks with ferocity, eyes squeezed shut. His bleached hair has been cut short since high school, chopped above his ears and the nape of his neck. Must be a hard training session, today. The Adlers wait for no one, apparently.
Hoshiumi puts his water bottle down as quickly as he spots them, choking the rest of his water down and speeding towards them.
“Tobio-kun!” His eyes are bright and eager. “You brought friends!”
“I didn’t know they were coming,” Kageyama responds, and is promptly ignored as Hoshiumi elbows his way past him.
“I remember you!” He exclaims, looking them up and down curiously. “High school nationals!” He grins, crooked. “Tobio-kun brought his friends.”
“We remember you, too.” Yamaguchi grins back. Friendly. Confident. Commanding. How easily they slip into old roles.
Hoshiumi looks at him and lets out a loud, booming, bark of a laugh. “Captain-san! Look at you now!”
Yamaguchi smiles with all his teeth. “How’s our Kageyama-kun treating you?”
Hoshiumi laughs again. Kageyama’s eyebrows furrow as he opens his mouth to speak. “I’m—”
“Tobio’s great!” Hoshiumi ignores him again. “We love him!” He turns to Kageyama. “Don’t we, Tobio-kun?”
“Tobio-kun,” Tsukishima laughs under his breath. This time, Yachi elbows him.
“We do?” Kageyama responds haltingly to Hoshiumi, looking like he doesn’t really know what he’s responding to. Hoshiumi doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Seems used to it, in fact, leading Kageyama around and not waiting for him to catch up.
It looks a little similar to their high school days, if Yachi is being honest. Kageyama and Hoshiumi. But, not quite. Something looks a little off. Something is a tiny bit missing.
“He’s really warmed up.” Hoshiumi turns back to Yamaguchi, and company. “Best hands on the team, our youngest!”
“You’re like family, then?” Yamaguchi presses, amused, and Hoshiumi nods with all the eagerness in the world. He’s good for Kageyama, Tsukishima thinks, amused.
“Aren’t we?” Hoshiumi asks brightly, elbowing Kageyama. “Like family?” Kageyama startles back to attention.
“I guess,” he says, stilted, and Tsukishima’s mouth purses into a line, trying not to laugh again. Something about Kageyama just makes the room a little easier to be in, something about their favorite setter that they had forgotten, something they are all relearning now.
“Oh!” Hoshiumi brightens. “Wakatoshi-kun will want to say hello!”
Something about the name still sends a little spark of wariness down their spines, a jolt of excitement making them tense a little tighter, stare a little fiercer, but Kageyama seems to have grown immune to his ex-rival, his new teammate. He nods, turning to find him, but Tsukishima stands a little straighter as he spots Ushijima already making his way towards them.
“Ushijima-san,” Kageyama says, in greeting. “My old teammates came to visit.”
“I can see that.” Ushijima’s voice is a deep rumble, just how they remember it. His eyes glance over them, appraising, remembering.
“Tsukishima-kun,” he says first. His mouth betrays the ghost of a smile. “You look well.”
“I am.” Tsukishima sniffs. This time, Yachi is the one suppressing a laugh.
They all grew amicable as time went on and high school fell into the past, a necessary end to the punch and bite of a long three years, but the open court seems to bring something else back to them besides the waft of air salonpas and the memory of linoleum beneath their feet. They know it so much as feel it, floating in the air between them now.
“Do you still play?” Ushijima asks, the question directed to Tsukishima, who nods.
“I play collegiate,” he replies, and Ushijima nods with him.
“So does Sakusa-san,” he says agreeably. “Itachiyama, if you remember. Collegiate-level is commendable.” He pauses. “Do you plan to join the V.League, after?”
Something in his eyes sharpens as he asks, and Hoshiumi and Kageyama straighten like clockwork. Yachi and Yamaguchi glance between them as Tsukishima seems to stand taller, too. The air thickens, or maybe they all zero in on the same thing instead, and the rising tension comes hand in hand with the thing that they all put first, rearing its head. This is a language they all understand.
“Of course,” Tsukishima says, simply, like nothing else in the world would do, and Yachi and Yamaguchi watch in delight as the corner of his mouth quirks up. Tsukishima Kei is biding his time. It is not missed by the Adlers.
As of the 2016 season, the Schweiden Adlers have secured the V.League Division 1 championship, but clearly, it has not made them soft. They are still on the hunt, and it shows. Their shadows seem long, all of a sudden, Ushijima and Hoshiumi suddenly towering, shifting from benign to predatory in a flash, and Kageyama appraises Tsukishima with a different kind of light in his eye, lost from the old teammates they were just a moment ago. Tsukishima, too, seems eerily, fundamentally different.
But of course, it’s never really about them. It’s only ever the stakes. The stakes are all there ever really are, for Tsukishima, for Kageyama, for Ushijima and Hosiumi. For the Monster Generation, and the sweat and tears that sank their claws into them, took them by storm. And, here they all are now.
“We look forward to it, then,” Ushijima says, finally, and it sounds like a deep, true challenge. “On the court.”
Hoshiumi grins, flashing canines and all. “You’ll do good.” We’ll do better stays unspoken, but they all hear it, anyway. There is nothing else to say, after all.
For a moment, the four of them watch each other, circling, and Yachi thinks with a small pang that a fifth is missing from this impromptu showdown. Tsukishima and Kageyama have always pushed ahead together, the eagerest of rivals, but they look a little out of place as a pair, together on the court, instead of as a trio.
Yamaguchi, too, thinks of bright orange hair, and stays deathly silent.
And, maybe, Tsukishima and Kageyama think so, too.
“It was good seeing you all.” Ushijima puts a hand on Hoshiumi’s shoulder, and the moment is over. “We’ll let you and Kageyama-kun catch up.”
Hoshiumi looks over his shoulder and adds, “We’ll see you on the court.”
Yamaguchi lets out a whistle once they’re far enough away. “You haven’t changed, Tobio,” he says, and Kageyama only shrugs.
“I guess not.”
Yachi smiles, endlessly fond. “How are you, then?” She says, lightly. “Just you. How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” Kageyama responds, genuine. He turns to face her as he talks, smiling back. They always, always smile for Yachi.
“The season was good. Really good. I want to keep my starting position. I’m ready to train hard. This team is… amazing. I feel good.”
And, he really does look good. His hair is longer, and he looks stronger, taller, harder. Whatever he had, brewing under the surface while they played together at Karasuno seems to have been growing, growing, growing.
“Still have enough time for us?” Yamaguchi asks, teasingly, and Kageyama looks him square in the eye.
“Of course,” he says, honest, and glances between each of them separately, like he’s memorizing their faces, eyes, smiles, the same way he learns hand signs and playstyles. Genuine, honest, truthful. Meticulous and dedicated.
Whatever he had brewing under the surface while they played together at Karasuno seems to have never really left, after all.
“Come visit us then,” Yachi says, poking him lightly in the arm. “Save us the trip.”
“I will,” Kageyama promises, taller and stronger than ever, dark hair shaking with movement, and it feels like home.
They stand, for a moment, in the wake, four out of five, until Kageyama blurts, suddenly, “Have you heard from Hinata?”
Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, saying nothing. Yachi, too, keeps her mouth wisely shut. Unfortunately, someone else has never learned how to do anything else but prod and prod and prod.
Yamaguchi squints. “Haven’t you?”
Kageyama’s imaginary hackles raise. “I’m busy!”
“There he is,” Tsukishima mutters, and Yachi laughs, shamelessly covering her mouth.
“We talk sometimes,” she says, amused and ever the mediator. “We talked to him a couple weeks ago maybe, but briefly. He’s also busy.”
“He’s playing beach,” Tsukishima adds, voice flat.
“Maybe we should try.” Yamaguchi. “Beach volleyball team-building.”
“What did he say?” Kageyama asks, and Yachi is eager to answer.
“That he was happy! He sounds happy. Tired, but happy. He’s learning a lot.”
“I think it was hard for him, at the start,” Yamaguchi cuts in. “But he seems to be doing good now.”
“Oh!” Yachi brightens. “He bumped into Oikawa-san, did you know? They’re playing together now, I think.”
Kageyama purses his mouth. “I saw that,” he admits. “Wakatoshi-kun and I both did.”
Tsukishima seems to find this funny, turning to the side to hide the laugh that bubbles up; Kageyama conjures up no similar sense of humor.
“He shouldn’t have gone,” he says, a little stilted. “He should have stayed.”
“Maybe,” Tsukishima agrees. “He would probably be playing now, if he did.”
Yachi hums. “He needed to go, I think. He’ll come back better.”
“Still,” Kageyama argues. “He went so far. He’s losing the culture. The—our volleyball culture. The way we play.”
“He’s losing us?” Yamaguchi suggests, an eyebrow arched, and Kageyama falls silent.
They had always believed that Hinata and Kageyama were just that, a pair of independents who could come together and create something huge, but maybe, maybe they had synergy that was more than coincidental. Maybe, it was necessary.
For one, tiny, alarming moment, Kageyama looks so small, standing alone.
“I’m just not sure what he’s doing,” Kageyama admits. “What if he’s wasting time?”
“I don’t think he is,” Yachi defends, as she always does, and Kageyama pushes. “How do we know?”
Yachi shrugs. “We just trust him.”
“Did he ask you to?”
“To trust him? He doesn’t have to ask.”
“Well, does he think about it?” Kageyama, strangely pressed, inquires further, over whatever intricacies fly above Yachi’s head. Still, she tries her best.
“I’m sure he does, Kageyama-kun. I’m sure he thinks about you, too.”
“How do you know? Has he—” Kageyama pauses, still suddenly, in the midst of some mental frenzy. “Has he said anything about me?”
“Tobio,” Yamaguchi laughs, putting a placating hand on the back of Kageyama’s neck. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Kageyama blinks, and looks so uncertain, suddenly, under bright gymnasium lights. “It’s not right.”
“Hm?” Yachi prompts, and Kageyama hesitates.
“We’re not… equal. Not anymore.”
All of Kageyama’s newfound confidence seems to have vanished, at the thought of his old teammate. Even in discussion of him, Kageyama seems to revert back to the shyness and uncertainty with which he navigated Karasuno.
There is nothing to do but take it all in stride. He is still Kageyama, after all.
Yachi prompts again, as gently as she can. “Why not?”
“We’re supposed to be on the same level.” Kageyama’s voice is quiet and stilted, but he continues. “Hinata is—Hinata is meant to match me. But he’s not. He’s not because I just won the season and he’s—”
He glances away, then back, like the words are coming faster than he can process them, and he has to look to see just where they’re from. Kageyama has always thought more than he spoke.
“It’s just not right,” he says, finally. “He doesn’t belong on a beach.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—” Kageyama grits his teeth. Only slightly, but they can tell. Kageyama has never grown out of wearing his bold heart on his fluttering sleeve.
“Because I can’t see him. Because I can’t be sure that he’s still here.”
“He’s playing with Oikawa,” Tsukishima says with a shrug. “I doubt he’s falling behind.”
Kageyama only fidgets, bangs falling into his eyes. “That’s not right, either.”
Still holding onto him, Yamaguchi shakes the back of Kageyama’s neck, lightly, kindly, like grabbing the scruff of a dog.
“Why not, Tobio?”
Yamaguchi’s voice drips a bit too much, he speaks a little too slowly, exaggerated concern, but they all let it slide, and Kageyama doesn’t even notice. They always fall into this, eventually, spoiling their youngest. Their baby, Kageyama.
Kageyama hesitates. “Oikawa-san. He’s just—we’re just—we’re meant to face him together. Me and Hinata. He’s going on without me.”
“Is Hinata only allowed to play with you?” Tsukishima asks, amused, and they can all hear the king tacked silently onto the end. Kageyama bristles, shaking his head.
“Not like that. Hinata plays with whoever he wants to play with. He can play with Oikawa-san. It’s probably good for him, like Ushijima-san is for me. But I should still be—be there.”
Something confused, something plaintive enters his voice, and all they can do is watch as Kageyama shakes his head.
“If Hinata and Oikawa play together, I want to stand opposite them. But he’s moving on without me.”
“Tobio,” Yamaguchi says gently, with all the patience that made him team captain. “Just give him a call.”
Absentmindedly, Kageyama cracks a knuckle. “I don’t want him to see,” he admits, “and regret.”
I don’t want to regret, either, stays unspoken, too.
The three of them had stayed together, Yachi and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, stronger as a trio, always, and they had always thought so much of their two brave, eager friends, but Yachi supposes that they failed to overlook something. That maybe, Hinata and Kageyama were exactly the same as them. Maybe they had been a three, and a two, but they were a five in this, too.
“We miss him too,” Yachi says, simply, and Kageyama flushes.
“It’s not that,” he protests weakly, but there’s truth in it, too. It’s not just that. Is it ever just about missing, when its about playing and loving and feeling the leather brush of a ball against fingertips and knowing it’s rooting you to the ground? When the one person who would understand that the most is nowhere near enough to see?
It’s always complicated, when it comes to volleyball. The easiest and hardest thing in the world. Hinata and Kageyama and volleyball have gone over and over, time and time again, before all three had become one and the same. Hinata is volleyball, and Kageyama is volleyball, too, which means that Hinata and Kageyama must, naturally, be one.
They know, Yachi and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima do—because they watched the whole season, always supporting their old vice-captain from wherever they could—they know that Kageyama receives a little like Hinata used to, now. Now that Hinata is far away.
They wonder whether it’s habit, learned and latent, or if its whatever part of him that misses his old teammate, rearing its head in the only way he knows how: on the court.
Whatever is on hold now, stretched between Japan and Brazil, Tokyo and São Paulo, Ninja Shouyou and the Schweiden Adlers, won’t be stagnant forever. Kageyama knows, just as well as the rest of them, that Hinata has always taken the harder route. It will be hard for him, to face the V.League as one, like it was hard for Kageyama, missing his other piece, but there are some routes they must walk separately, so their tracks will reconnect once more. Kageyama must know this, in some respect, even if he thinks he doesn’t.
Maybe they should have moved forward together. Stayed together. Whatever mix of anguish and confusion that hides just under Kageyama’s surface shouldn’t be there, Yachi thinks, and she finds herself wanting to play manager again, just to urge his discomfort away, to convince Kageyama, so much taller and stronger than her but so much smaller in so many ways, that it will be alright.
They’re never so far from high school. From the team. Yamaguchi slips into team captain effortlessly, time and time again, and Yachi and Tsukishima find themselves deferring to him more times than they can count. It’s only natural, wanting someone to lead the way. Yachi, too, always finds herself checking up on them. On everyone. They’re her team, after all. Her boys.
And Kageyama, perhaps, has found the transition the toughest of them all. They always thought that he would move quicker, faster than the rest of them, bounding forward before the rest had time to catch up, but they are never so far from high school after all, where Yamaguchi was captain and Yachi was manager and Kageyama was… Hinata.
And, Hinata was Kageyama too. They were simply each other, in the way that they were better together. It was always assumed that it, whatever it was, was necessary for them to grow. But maybe, it was necessary for them to just exist, instead. Or, maybe just for Kageyama, Yamaguchi thinks with horror, maybe it was Kageyama that couldn’t move on, when he should have, long ago.
Then, Yamaguchi thinks about how Hinata refuses to watch the Olympics, how Tsukishima had to relay the season results back to him over the phone; he thinks about how Hinata can’t bear to see Kageyama, playing, on screen, without him by his side, them together, and thinks, maybe not.
“When he comes back,” Tsukishima starts, and his gaze is hard, but they know just as well as they know him that he means anything but.
“When he comes back, you know he’s going to crush you, right?”
Kageyama’s gaze hardens right back, fire relit. “He won’t.”
Oh, Kei, Yachi thinks. Beautiful, genius Kei.
“He’ll be back,” Yamaguchi laughs to her right, equally gleeful, equally delighted. “Hinata’s coming back. Then you’ll be in trouble.”
They watch him, fond, always fond, of their stubborn, one-track-minded, old vice-captain. The benefits, of spending the most seminal years of their adolescence together—they can string him along like a doll.
Kageyama looks at them like the years never passed. They take care of Kageyama, they always have, lifted him up from behind as he took the brunt from the front, but maybe, he is their blessing, too. Him, and Hinata.
Hinata, they know, will be back. He’s crazy, their fifth, final, orange friend. Like an omnivore, devouring everything in his path, working only for the crazed, insatiable goal of his overwhelming hunger for growth. Toothy, wiry, oppurtunistic. A fighter and scavenger at heart. Like a jackal, almost.
When he’s back, they’ll be here. They’ll be ready. Kageyama will probably think it will have taken him long enough.
Because, how could they not wait? It’s Hinata, after all. Hinata and Kageyama, and Yachi and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, and the lot. They’ve always been together, even when they weren’t.
The three of them, Yachi and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, will leave today, Romero’s signature nowhere on their persons, Kageyama waving a goodbye in their wake. Once they turn the corner, he’ll get right back to business. Volleyball waits for no one, after all, and gold is an attractive color.
It’ll be okay. There’ll be another chance, and they’ll be back. They always tend to fall back together, anyway. The five of them. Yachi and her boys. Yamaguchi and his team. Tsukishima and his awful, favorite friends. Kageyama and Hinata and Kageyama and Hinata, around and around until the sun explodes and they take everyone out with them.
Kageyama scratches at the back of his head. “I should get back to practice.”
Yachi chimes in agreeably. “We should catch the six-thirty train."
“Will you come again?” Kageyama asks, in a rush, almost, like his voice is too big for his frame. He pauses. “I’ve missed you.”
Nothing in the world could hide Yamaguchi’s resounding grin. “Anytime, Tobio-kun. We miss you, too.”
“We’ll call you,” Yachi adds. “And Hinata.”
“You call him, too.” Tsukishima. “It’s just a call.”
Kageyama swallows. “He’ll see me on TV.”
They all pause for a moment, giving him the space. Then, Yamaguchi, with finality: “You know he won’t.”
Kageyama swallows again. “Right.” Another pause. “I’ll call.”
Yamaguchi’s gentleness for Kageyama is unlike anything else. He’ll tease Yachi, prod at Tsukishima, laugh at Hinata, but he and Kageyama led Karasuno to nationals, together in their third year. For whatever reason, and for every reason under the sun, they are a little bit of everything to each other. They are all, all five of them, a little bit of everything to each other.
“Okay, then.” Yamaguchi nods. “See that you do.”
Kageyama nods back, an age-old instinct, a deference to a high school team captain who will always be just a little bit of that.
“We’ll be watching,” Yachi says, a tiny smile. “On TV.”
“We will,” Tsukishima adds. “You’d better perform.”
“You will?” Kageyama asks, always needing to impress, always desperate to succeed. “You’ll watch me?”
He asks, then, already knowing the answer, “You promise?”
And of course, the answer is always yes.