Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s too many fucking people here.

Kageyama has to call upon the strength of his ancestors to not lose his shit in public. He just barely manages to hold in an irritable sigh, the crowd of people ahead so dense that it looks more like an undulating sea of bodies than a group of people. Paparazzi cameras are constantly flashing, the lights blindingly overstimulating. Music blasts through huge speakers, the bass so uncomfortably loud it feels like it’s affecting the cardiac rhythm in his ribcage. People chatter and shout, trying to capture celebrity attention or bits of viral interviews along the red carpet. It all looks like a shitshow to him, but he can’t turn around and leave, no matter how badly he really wants to.

This isn’t his first rodeo at LA’s grand Dolby Theatre, but the Oscars seem to get busier and busier every year. At one point it must’ve been a respectable award show to truly acknowledge and celebrate excellence in film. These days, it’s all for show, a cesspool of vanity where fools bid for clout and fame and the people parade themselves in pomp and circumstance to show off glitzy displays of wealth as a measly distraction from the world’s suffering. It’s more about what designer you’re wearing and how many followers you have on TikTok rather than what movies moved you. Needless to say, Kageyama had never been a big fan. If he could have it his way, he’d be asleep in bed at home in Japan, not screwing around in Hollywood. But “Let There be Light”, the latest film he’d composed an original soundtrack for, was one of the biggest movies of the past decade, much less the year it was released in. It was a box office hit, smashing records and earning so much critical and social praise that people were already eagerly deeming it a classic in the genre. It was almost a given that Kageyama was going to be winning the award in the category he was nominated for: ‘Best Original Score’ in ‘Best Music’. Not to look down on his fellow nominees, given that they were also highly respectable musicians; but Let There be Light was expected to perform a clean sweep. Kageyama had vaguely heard of another foreign movie’s success this year—one of the songs in an animated children’s movie had been nominated, unexpectedly—but Kageyama never kept up with any of that. It was all noise to him. He created every soundtrack he composed with everything he had, just like he always did; everything he’d ever done had been made of all of him and all he had to give, or nothing. That was the binary system of life that made sense to him. On or off, yes or no, good or bad, win or lose, black or white. Grey space was too confusing.

“Mr. Kageyama! Tobio Kageyama! Look this way, please!”

“Over here, Mr. Kageyama!”

“Gimme a smile over here, Tobio!”

He refuses to smile. His older sister said he looked like a creep when he tried, and he believed her. Smiling just wasn’t his ‘thing’. Instead, he did his best not to scowl, the compromise he’d arrived at with his PR agent who’d had to come to terms with Kageyama being sorely unphotogenic.

Kageyama glances at the couples in line both ahead of and behind him as the guests slowly shuffle into the theatre. The women are radiant, decorated like birds of paradise. The men smoulder as the perch she sits on. He’d received a plus one invitation, too, but had nobody to bring. Miwa might’ve been interested, but at 36 weeks of pregnancy, it wasn’t feasible for her to fly across the globe just to attend the Oscars. His parents were even more avoidant of the public eye than him. And his grandpa wouldn’t be able to make an RSVP, having kicked the bucket years ago. So, he stands here alone. Surprisingly, his name is remembered, and people bid for his attention. It must have something to do with winning the award for best soundtrack last year. And the year before that. Kageyama already holds 3 Oscars despite his relatively young age. If not for that feat, he knew nobody would bother calling out for him.

Somebody far more famous than him arrives all of the sudden, some hunk of an actor whose washboard abs do more talking than his sculpted face. The flock of reporters and photographers immediately forget about Kageyama’s existence and run to the left in a clamour, much to his relief. The camera shutters have left black spots in his vision, striking holes in it as dizzyingly starry as an open country night sky.

He always wonders the same question to himself during these kinds of events. If he did have somebody to bring—somebody that wasn’t family, wasn’t a mentor, wasn’t a friend—somebody like a lover—who would that be? What would that person look like?

The same answer always comes to mind. It’s the manifestation of his first—and maybe even his last—love. New York, New York. 2012. It had been a searingly hot summer. The sixteen year old boy in front of him was short and scrawny, knees knobby and bruised, skin freckled and golden with a hundred kisses from the sun. The boy’s hair was this bright orange, unkempt and wild, as if fine copper threads in a wire had unravelled with fire preserved in the strands. His eyes were brown, fierce and energetic, making you feel that if you looked into his eyes for too long, you would start to see too much of your own thoughts. It was equally frightening as it was alluring. He was always smiling. Smiling came easily to him. It was a smile that urged you to chase after him so that you could watch what he was doing—do what he was doing—because maybe then you’d catch a glimpse of what it means to live life so loud and so confidently instead of feeling suffocated, like he did. The kind of person that makes you think you’d finally be able to understand why people write love songs about holding people as objects of desire.

Kageyama reflexively blocks out the image before he can start to ruminate or even recall the person’s name. It fizzles out on the tip of his tongue, lost again as it presses back into the mosaic of repressed memories. It’s the first time tonight that he’s actually thankful to be distracted by an interviewer as somebody flags him down in the press room.

It sends an uncomfortable itch up his neck as he struggles to focus on the generic questions he’s being asked. That summer during his early teenage years still haunts him to this day, to the point where he’s already used to having to shut down the memories before he has time to remember the emotions he’s kept buried since that time. How many years will it be before he’s finally free of this self-imposed cage of torment? It’s already been ten since he was sixteen. A whole decade ago, and he’s still not over a boy he met once and never again. It’s a bit pathetic, really, which is why he’s never told anybody about it. Kageyama planned to let the memories die with him, whenever that might be.

Things had been going swimmingly, in that consideration. Kageyama’s career as a professional musician had already taken off in his youth, given his prodigal talent when it came to playing instruments or performing difficult music. He was classically trained before his nuts dropped, playing for high level symphonies while also dabbling in composition as a bratty kid. His grandfather was also a musician, having been the one who taught Kageyama his first instruments of piano and violin. In a sense, Kageyama’s entire life was music.

For a while, that was enough. Math and science didn’t make a lick of sense, but the theory of music and scrawls on a score were elementary to him. History was a failure, unless it was related to figures in music. He wasn’t good at much, but he was good at this one thing. Really good. Music moved him in a way words could not. It was the one language he understood fluently, where he could speak freely without worrying about his feelings being rejected. It loved him when nobody else was around; filled the silence that sank him with emotions like loneliness and despair; gave him the lightness and strength of faith and joy. He had to learn as much as he could and practice as much as he could to be as good as his grandfather was. When his grandfather died, he had to continue the legacy of his name. He spoke to the world in the only way he knew how, in the private bid that somebody might hear and speak to him back. It only happened once. He’d never let it happen again.

Kageyama is amicable enough to nod in return when he’s greeted at his table. He accepts their congratulations for winning the previous year’s award and for being nominated again with an awkward, yet humble bow. Despite their name cards being on full display, Kageyama doesn’t know his tablemates at all, and he doesn’t care to learn. The foreigner's ‘sorry, my English no good!’ card serves him well, despite him being fluent. Very soon, he is left alone as they resume talking amongst themselves.

He’s glad he’s had experience with these events and knows what to expect, unlike his first year attending one of these highly televised award shows. He knows that when his name gets called as a nominee for Best Original Score, there’ll suddenly be a camera stuck inches from his face, and that he should be prepared to pretend like he hadn’t been asleep for the past few hours. He awkwardly continues in the thunderous applause as the announcement “Tobio Kageyama, ‘Let There Be Light’!” rolls over the audience, the soundwaves so severe it feels like a commandment from God.

“We will also be introducing the amazing talents who wrote some of the year’s best hits… this year’s nominees for Best Music; Original Song are…”

Relief eases the tension in Kageyama’s shoulders as the cameraman scurries away to violate somebody else’s personal space. Already, Kageyama feels his interest withering away again. He’d heard in passing that there was another Japanese musician nominated for this year’s Academy Awards, though said musician could’ve been Bigfoot’s kid for all he knew. Let There Be Light had been a huge labour and time intensive project, so Kageyama had even less free time than usual when composing and producing the score to meet deadlines. He’d even spent a week living at the studio to perfect the score. Keeping himself updated with social media hadn’t been on the forefront of his mind.

“M.E. Ainesworth, ‘Time’s Out’!”

Kageyama checks his watch mid yawn as he continues to lazily clap, practically inaudible. Maybe he could sneak away after the category announcements and feign illness or something. His manager wasn’t too happy with him for pulling that stunt a few years ago, but Kageyama was quite sure that nobody here would miss him.

“Sage Finningley, ‘Good Luck’!”

Hopefully meal service starts soon. The miniature hors d'oeuvres provided earlier hadn’t made much of a meal, though the food was often dreadfully dry and bland at events like these. Even one as affluent as the Oscars.

“Shouyou Hinata, ‘July 4th’!”

The name, clearly Japanese in origin, jumps out. Kageyama’s brow twitches unwittingly as he jumps back to attention. Shouyou? Shouyou who? Hinata was a common enough name. Didn’t he know this person from somewhere? Why else would it sound so familiar?

On the massive jumbotron screen, a young man—similar in age to him, late twenties/early thirties—smiled cheerfully for the camera. He had a look about him that seemed carefree and casual. Like he’d be happy to have a conversation about the weather with anybody. A clean white dress shirt, unbuttoned in a playful yet tasteful way under a plain yet well-tailored black jacket. He looked good in black tie attire. Shockingly good. Somehow older, squarer in the jaw, but not so different he’d become unrecognizable. Kageyama’s heart felt like it had jumped into his throat, closing his windpipe. It took a moment. The memory all but snapped into place. Shouyou Hinata. New York, the summer of 2012. An orange haired boy who showed him what it means to not just be alive, but feel alive. The person who broke his heart; his first and last real love.

Holy shit. It’s really you.

New York, New York, USA. The Juilliard School. It was the summer of 2012. The east coast heat was searing by early July, though it was still not quite as muggy and unbearable as Sendai could be during this time of year. Tobio Kageyama was currently 16, going on 17, shipped all the way to his States from Japan by his grandfather who feared that his talented grandson had, quote-unquote, ‘no friends’.

Unfortunately, that much was true. Kind of. Personally, Kageyama didn’t see it as an issue. But apparently, the rest of his family was overly concerned about the state of his social life (or lack thereof). Even though he had far surpassed the skills of the other teenagers invited to Juillard’s annual, coveted U18 band camp, he was all but trapped here, forced to play along with the menial icebreakers and group lessons and hand holding. All that bullshit.

He was hiding at the moment, having ‘gotten lost’ on his way from the dorms to the bus. The rest of the group was on the scheduled excursion to tour the Statue of Liberty, but that had nothing to do with classical music, so Kageyama wasn’t interested. He had to be careful to show his face just enough to avoid being questioned for his absence, but he wasn’t sorry in the slightest to be missing out this time.

He wandered the few hallways his swipe card gave him access to, having felt cooped up in the small dorm room each person had been allotted for the month. It was eerily quiet for a school of music. He practically heard his footsteps echo behind him.

Kazuyo Kageyama, his grandfather, was a renowned pianist and violinist. He performed in solo concerts worldwide after a successful career that built the foundations of the modern orchestra. He was everything Tobio Kageyama wanted to be: inventive. Creative. Legendary. Cool. Kageyama never forgot the way he felt the first time he got to watch one of his grandfather’s shows. He was so young that his mother still had to hold him in her lap. Still, despite all this time, he remembered. The poise his grandfather held while conducting felt… magical. It was otherworldly. Badass, even. Kageyama idolized him from that day on.

Kageyama had a natural talent for instruments, and also for picking up music theory, which was a relief since the academics and mathematics of music were far beyond him. It was easier to say that it came naturally. He didn’t know how to explain how something made sense—it just did. The only time he felt that he was truly enjoying himself was when he was making music or learning how to play an instrument. He enjoyed the technical difficulty of it, the physicality of ‘creating’ and controlling a device to create beautiful, intentional sounds. It was fun to learn how to master something. He became very good at it, and the skill quickly impressed others. When he was younger, too small to even climb onto the bench himself, he’d beg his grandfather to let him hit the keys on the piano at random order. Nowadays, he was starting to find more interest in the actual composition of music rather than just playing other people’s music. The writing of emotion into media—bringing fragments, shards, and intangible ideas into cohesive storytelling—seemed like a new challenge he had yet to surpass.

In any case, Kageyama couldn’t help but resent his grandfather at the moment for forcing him to attend this rudimentary camp. It was like being surrounded by babies. He was bored out of his mind. He could’ve gone and tinkered away in his room at one of the pieces that he’d been drafting, but honestly, he was having a musician’s mental block, with no ideas on how to transition from the previous movement to the next. He was looking for a burst of inspiration. Sometimes, you find it in the oddest of places.

That’s when he heard it. The sound of an angel’s song.

It wasn’t actually. But there was a soprano beginning to practice somewhere, their delicate voice muffled from noise cancelling walls, but still very present. Sounds of music and song were more than common in a prestigious music school, but nothing had ever stopped Kageyama in his tracks like this before. He’d heard many talented opera singers, vocalists, pop idols… and nobody had quite snatched his attention like this.

He began to hurriedly peer through the glass of each of the practice room doors. Something was telling him to hurry up. It was like watching a butterfly land on you—you know it’s about to leave soon, in the fractional blink of an eye, and the moment will be over. Ephemeral. The way poets immortalized the sakura blossoms, because they’re beautiful and lush, but then they’re gone before you know it. When Kageyama turned the corner, feeling frantic, he finally spotted one of the doors cracked open.

“You!” he blurted out, losing all awareness of social tact as he barrelled through the door into the occupied practice room. The person singing stopped mid-song and turned, clearly not expecting to be shouted at. Orange hair. Brown eyes.

“Eek! I’m sorry!”

“Hey—why are you running away?”

“Sumimasen! Aah—sumimasen!”

Kageyama paused mid-chase, blocking the door behind him with his body. He wondered how he understood when he wasn’t hearing English.

“Omae… nihonjin ka?” he asked after realizing. The other boy finally stopped trying to flee, processing the native tongue. A smile of relief spread across his face.

“Oh, you speak Japanese too! I’m so glad… I haven’t been able to understand anybody since coming to America. My name’s Hinata. Hinata Shouyou!”

“Maybe you should learn how to speak English, then. Since they speak English here. And in most places outside of Japan,” Kageyama replied coolly, unaware of how blunt he sounded when it seemed like common sense to him. It wasn’t as if he was in a position to lecture others about bilingualism, given his most recent English grammar test grade, but being conversationally fluent was still good enough if he could use it to inflate his ego over this scrub.

“I know, I know… but I was lazy and slacked off on my English homework all year, so I didn’t really read through the itinerary carefully, and… my group left without me.” Hinata’s shoulders sagged with a dejected sigh. “I didn’t know we were supposed to meet up for the bus this morning…”

“Let me guess… they went to the Statue of Liberty.”

“No way, how did you—hey, wait. Are you in my group, too?” Hinata ducked in as if to analyze Kageyama’s face. He darted in so close, so fast, that Kageyama felt unnerved enough to step back. Hinata squinted. “Hm… how come I’ve never seen you before?”

It was because Kageyama had done everything he could to get out of the classes and group work. He took his meals before or after everybody else, citing a non-existent ‘accommodative learning plan’ whenever an adult approached him. He shrugged wordlessly, staring down at his feet, not having a preselected excuse for Hinata’s question. Kageyama had only thought of what to answer if an adult found him skipping, so he could avoid being ratted out to his grandfather back in Japan. Kageyama had never expected to actually run into anybody else from his group for the three weeks, even though that was the whole reason he was sent here in the first place. He wasn’t even sure why he’d so adamantly chased Hinata down after hearing his singing. He had no plan. It wasn’t like he had anything to say now that they were face to face.

Ugh, stupid Tobio… always ending up in these unpleasantly awkward situations… Kageyama thought to himself, groaning internally.

“You never told me your name.”

Hinata had leaned in again, undeterred from Kageyama suddenly closing himself off. Kageyama’s eyes widened. His body had frozen, his feet glued in place. He couldn’t lean back. Couldn’t get away. Couldn’t even take a breath. Why was this stranger so determined to be so close to him? Hinata just kept getting closer and closer to his face. His eyes felt like they were tearing Kageyama apart, laying him bare. And yet he couldn’t even bring himself to blink, his heart pounding outrageously quickly in his chest.

“K-Kageyama,” he stammered in return. He never stuttered like this. Swallowing thickly, he ignored how uncomfortably hot his face felt as he cleared the phlegm out of his throat. “Kageyama Tobio.”

“Huh? Eh? Eh?! Kageyama, like the Master Conductor Kageyama?! Like, the guy who mastered seventy bajillion instruments? Like, the guy who wrote all the songs for all those movies? Like—”

“Yes, like that Kageyama, because he’s my grandfather, genius!” Kageyama interrupted irritably. Hinata didn’t even seem to mind, his eyes practically sparkling.

“Oh my gosh! Your grandpa is like, my idol!”

“Well, duh. He’s amazing. He should be your idol.”

The small sense of familial pride in having somebody else react to his grandfather the same way that he idolized him made Kageyama’s heart swell. His respect for Hinata gained a few points.

“Even though I didn’t have any training or pre-reqs, your pops invited me all the way to Juillard so I could do vocal lessons for free. He’s such an amazing guy.”

“What do you mean you have no training or pre-reqs?” Kageyama scoffed. If it was an attempt to sound humble, it wasn’t working, especially from somebody who looked as naively innocent as Hinata did. Plenty of other child geniuses had been up to the same calibre as Kageyama. There had always been competition. He’d met enough brats who were even more insufferable than him during his years of recitals. The most annoying of the bunch were the liars who tried to downplay their skills in order to fish for sympathy validation or compliments. “I mean, I barely practiced, so like, don’t make fun of me guys!” with an almost childish pout, as if they hadn’t rehearsed for hundreds of hours. Trying to lower people’s expectations to coax validation from them. Always waiting for the ‘no, you were amazing’ line. Those people never appreciated when Kageyama agreed with their self-deprecating criticisms instead.

“Uh, I’ve never taken a music class?”

Hinata had already wandered to the far side of the practice room, having been in motion since the moment Kageyama walked in. His fingers drummed a delicate beat against the surfaces he touched while walking. Kageyama’s eyes followed his newfound companion, his brain still struggling to pick the right words. He had always been reprimanded for being rude or unkind with his words, and had learnt from experience that sometimes it was better to say nothing at all rather than say what he really wanted to say.

“Hey—you probably play the piano pretty well if Kageyama-san is your grandpa, right?”

It felt so minimizing of his accolades and achievements that Kageyama was once again stunned into total silence. If acing his RCM 10 exam before he was 10 counted as playing the piano ‘pretty well’, then sure, he supposed he was ‘pretty good’.

“You should be my accompaniment,” Hinata continued, without waiting for an answer. “I haven’t found anybody to partner up with, yet.”

“Uh, no. Why should I accompany you?” Kageyama scoffed, almost laughing. People would pay him hefty sums to accompany them in their performances. Even though he was only 16, he already had the credentials of the talented forty-something year olds who’d already invested years into their careers. And this random kid who’d supposedly never taken a music class wanted Tobio Kageyama to play an accompaniment for him? It was a joke that wasn’t very funny, only audacious.

“Well, with that attitude, nobody’s going to want to partner up with you for a duet. It’s one of the group projects, remember? For the recital? Uh… from orientation…? It’s in the booklet? Hello?” Hinata waved in Kageyama’s face. “Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“Group projects…? Recital?” Kageyama hadn’t planned on participating in any of the activities during this three week camp if he could help it. He’d already managed to play hooky for the first two days without being caught, but it was starting to sound like he wouldn’t be able to fake his attendance for the entire retreat after all.

“C’mon, Crappy-yama, you’re even more hopeless than me…”

“Cr-Crappy-yama?!” Kageyama spluttered. He’d faced his fair share of bullying—any kid who’s somewhat different does—but he’d never been called such a dumb name like that to his face. The gears in his head felt like they were rusty and gnashing up sparks and cobwebs. “Well… you’re a… moron! Hinata boke!”

“Seriously? Are you always like this to people you just met?” Hinata shook his head with disbelief, before bursting out laughing.

“You’re pretty interesting, Kageyama.”

Vibrato. An innocent melody, a fluttering, making you feel anticipation root in your gut. The way soaring would make you feel, if humans could fly in the sky the way they do in their minds. What does it mean to fall in love? What does that look like? Sound like? Feel like? Why do so many love songs exist, across all time periods and across all cultures? How can people hope to translate something so universal, so metaphysical as ‘love’ into language? Why bother?

The feeling of a humid summer’s night, people crowding streets and riverbanks to celebrate a summer festival; the murmur of crowd chatter, yet despite so many beings and so many worlds colliding together in one place, you’re only focused on the person at your side; the clock ticking forward, each second melting into an hour—how has it only been a few minutes?; the way your heart pounds in the heat, your skin warm and flush, your cheeks pink and your ears red; the way your fingers twitch, jumpy, wanting to hold theirs but afraid of making the first move; the first flash of light, streaking high up into the air; the silent, breathless fraction of a second; the moment your eyes meet before you embrace; the huge, impossibly huge bloom of colour exploding across the pitch black canvas, creating flowers of flame that turn into smokey meadows; the wave of thunder as it rolls back, meeting the crowd’s cheers as the sky splits open and the heavens pour out; the feeling of a primal joy, that you’ve become whole. A first kiss. He always thought there was no way to genuinely capture the feeling of something you’ve never experienced first hand. Not grief, not anger, and certainly not love.

Kageyama’s palpitating heart felt like it was going to burst with acid in his chest. His stomach had erupted into butterflies, nerves that ate at him worse than any stage fright or performance anxiety had. That was how looking at Hinata made him feel. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to be any closer. It was like he’d explode.

He was starting to think he might be on the cusp of understanding why people write love songs.

Kageyama and Hinata ended up spending every day together after that.

He’d refused to be Hinata’s accompaniment. At first. It was too sudden, too strange of a demand. But when you’re cut from the same kind of obsessive cloth as someone, you know exactly what to say to rile them up.

‘I guess this would be beneath somebody like you,’ Hinata had sighed dramatically. ‘Composing a measly piano accompaniment for a solo is obviously child’s play for somebody with talent like yours, my liege. Clearly, a greater endeavour would be better suited to you, milord. A king such as yourself needn’t trouble thyself with plebians such as myself.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?? Kageyama had asked, already lost before the whole medieval roleplay bit.

‘I mean, I guess something so easy is just a waste of your time, right? You must have way better things to do, like conducting the Philharmonic tonight or something, so obviously being my partner for this group project is way beyond—I mean, below you… A genius like you must crave a challenge, right?’

‘Fine! If you’ll just shut up about it, I’ll do the accompaniment with you!’

So that was how he immediately folded and ended up as Hinata’s pianist, after all.

It became dramatically clear that Hinata had been telling the truth about not taking music lessons. He had an innate sense of timing that was eerily perfect, but was clearly trained by instinct and habit rather than ear and sight. As beautiful as his voice was, he couldn’t even play hot cross buns on the piano. He didn’t even know you could read music. How do you not know that you read music to play it? While at a prestigious music school for aspiring musicians?

Kageyama ended up unwillingly becoming a tutor. So much for laying low for the month. He became Hinata’s translator, teacher, pianist, ‘you’re taller so go get that for me’ guy—why was he always on the short end of the stick? But suddenly, he’d have to go to the scheduled lesson to make sure Hinata was writing notes and paying attention instead of dozing off through the class. Suddenly, he got dragged along to the excursions, because all it took was for Hinata to call him ‘lame’ for him to feel annoyed enough to go. He went to the MoMA, the Empire State Building, and Broadway with him. He even spent time with Hinata when he wasn’t required to. Hinata had them sneak out for pizza, one night—he’d never forget it. They somehow managed to avoid getting caught, but he could still remember how nervous he’d felt. Teenagers, loose in New York, but all he wanted to do with his freedom was watch how Hinata’s face lit up the second he bit into the cheesy, greasy slice. He could live in that moment forever.

He’d never ‘hung out’ with people his own age before, really. For a time it only interested him to talk to other people who also lived their lives in classical music. He always had his parents, older sister, or grandparents, he’d rationalized—so why should he feel lonely, even if he didn’t have somebody to call a ‘friend’?

Hinata was the same age as him, only half a year older, yet his ‘childish’ outlook on life might be more mature than Kageyama had initially given him credit for. Everything seemed so… dynamic for Hinata. He’d cried during the musical, applauding in a standing ovation with snot and tears still running down his face. He was the type of guy to moan while eating food to show that it was tasty. His heart was proudly displayed on his sleeve. You knew everything he was thinking. He didn’t feel the need to hide from you. He was simple, but it was clear he enjoyed simple things. He took risks, enjoyed the rewards, and rued the consequences. He was bold.

Kageyama was jealous of that. For him, things were stagnant. At one point, you’re a prodigy, and everybody’s wowed and impressed no matter what you do. But then you just become extraordinary, and then you’re ordinary, and then eventually nobody gives a shit anymore and it was like nobody ever did. It didn’t matter what other people thought of him, as long as he had music to focus on. It was his only means of expression, and the only thing he loved. But at some point, it also became his way to hide. ‘Musical Prodigy’, ‘Child Maestro’—the titles bestowed upon him became his framework for identity, like shields. If that was how people saw him, then so be it. He’d retreat into his study, and he’d make more beautiful things, with the notes and chords and stanzas that were always honest and true; there for him, the same as he remembered, and comforting—the way people often aren’t.

Crawling out of a window and ducking around smelly garbage cans and street rats. Swallowing a spoonful of hot sauce because somebody dared you to, even though you already know it’s a terrible idea. Having it spurt out your nose, and it’s so painful to laugh, but you can’t help laughing anyways until your stomach hurts. Eating pizza with your friend in a foreign country at midnight, just because you wanted to. Kageyama hadn’t even written a note for the recital’s composition yet. It just felt like he’d never be able to capture how big his heart felt, no matter how hard he tried. He was changing. Hinata was making him change. Tender sprouts break through stone and concrete, just to meet the sun—is this what it feels like? Is this how you know?

“We should probably get back. Don’t want anybody to check on us and find out that we’re missing.”

It doesn’t feel like the right moment. When are you supposed to know when that moment is? There’s no cues in real life, the way there are in scripts and scores. They walked beside each other in the night, the yellowing streetlamps barely providing enough lighting to make out the blurred details of each other’s faces. Kageyama felt like he was about to throw up. His pulse roared deafeningly in his ears with anxious stacatto.

“Man, no wonder New York pizza is famous! I’m stuffed. Hey, should we go again tomorrow night, Kageyama? Heh. Just kidding. I bet you hate junk food and love eating salad or something since you’re such a freakily perfect musician—”

“I don’t hate it.”

Kageyama slowed to a stop. Hinata had kept walking forwards and looked back, confused as to why Kageyama wasn’t following.

“And even if I did hate it, I’d still go with you again tomorrow night. I’d go anywhere you ask me to. I… any time I’m with you, I just feel…”

It’s… not the right time. Clearly, he’d made a mistake and had a lapse in judgement. He was panicking. His breath was short and shallow, and each heartbeat made him feel like his vision was darkening. His hands were shaking, voice trembling and weak. He felt like he was falling through his own body. A panic attack.

Hinata suddenly grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard. The pressure grounded Kageyama. He swallowed, his mouth dry, seeking Hinata’s gaze. Hinata stared up at him, his eyes looking amber, the reflection of the concrete jungle’s lights swimming in his irises like dazzling stars trapped in a pool of honey. Kageyama couldn’t tell what emotion it was he was seeing.

“What do you feel?” Hinata asked softly. Kageyama felt breathless when he answered.

“...like… I’m normal. It’s like I can be myself around you and it’s okay. But not just that. I don’t know. You make me feel like… I can do anything.”

Hinata’s fingers twitched around Kageyama’s wrist. Kageyama wondered if Hinata could feel how fast his pulse was in his fingertips.

“You really think that about me?” Hinata asked, awed. The embarrassment was almost enough to make Kageyama faint on the spot.

“Whatever! So what if I do? I just—whatever. Let’s hurry and go back—”

“Don’t you want to know how you make me feel?”

There were tears running down Kageyama’s cheeks for some reason, hot and wet as if overflowing from his aching, burning, too-soft heart. He didn’t understand. Nothing made sense. These things in his chest, the things going through his mind and the things he wanted to do whenever Hinata was around him—it didn’t make any fucking sense. He wanted it all to go away and stop. But that might mean Hinata would have to go, too, and for some reason that was equally as painful as having him around. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense—!

“You said you feel like you can do anything, right?”

And when Hinata kissed him, just on his tiptoes, both hands reaching up to cup the taller boy’s face, to slide down to his shirt collar and pull Kageyama down to meet him… his world stopped. It clicked. The Fourth of July fireworks, the hanabi matsuri, the sparks, the eruption, the fortissimo at the end of a crescendo, the climax. The reason they’re clichés.

This might mean what it means to love somebody.

This might be the right time.

“Every time I think a person couldn’t be any more stupid, you surprise me again with your relentless goddamn uselessness. We’ve been over this! You always start half a measure too early, you’re sharp to boot, and you’re never counting. It’s a trip-puh-let pause—”

“Look, I don’t know how to do this any other way than to completely trust you!”

Kageyama was used to Hinata snapping back at him. In fact, he expected it. Hinata understood his position best as somebody who desperately needed to catch up on the literary and technical training his musical peers had already gone through. He was mouthy, in the way where it was almost tempting to tease him, just to see what he’d say back. Kageyama had finally found a person who was willing to stand their ground and wasn’t afraid to talk back to him. He’d given up, but there was somebody out there who was willing to match—and even try to exceed—his ego.

But this was different. Hinata was yelling back, but this wasn’t carefree.

“You’re right; I am stupid. Maybe I am completely hopeless. I’m never going to play the piano as well as you, no matter how hard I try. I already know that!” Hinata pointed an accusatory finger into Kageyama’s face from where he sat at the piano bench, silent. “But I can sing. Even better than you. This is something I do have, right now. It’s something I’m even a little proud of. So what if I started half a measure too early, and so what if I’m a bit sharp? Isn’t it more important that the music you listen to makes you feel something?”

Kageyama was flabbergasted. It felt like hearing blasphemy. His entire life had been chasing perfection. Anything short of it was unacceptable.

“How can something as clumsy as you possibly move people?”

Even after he said it, he already knew it was a lie. He’d been one of Hinata’s victims himself. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d been thinking or how he felt when he’d heard Hinata’s singing that one day. All he remembered was how urgently it made him feel like he had to find Hinata. Like the missing piece of his soul was around the corner, just within reach after slipping away in dreams, only the bittersweet scent of citrus peel remaining as a memory.

“What’s the point of you being here? Why should I bother to keep teaching you if you don’t care?”

Stop. Stop talking. Just shut your mouth. He pleaded with himself, but he’d already said it.

Hinata scoffed in disbelief. He shook his head.

“Don’t bother then.”

Kageyama saw that Hinata’s bottom lip was cherry red when he suddenly slapped Kageyama’s handwritten sheet music on the piano stand to the floor. Kageyama didn’t even flinch, despite the loud noise sharply echoing around the room. He didn’t even bother to look at the papers raining to the ground, too occupied with Hinata’s face. It was blood on his lip, from being bitten too hard. Hinata’s voice was shaking, too. It did that when he got nervous, sometimes. Unbeknownst to Kageyama, even extroverts can experience social anxiety. He’d found it endearing. Back then. The way Hinata’s voice trembled now made it clear it wasn’t from shyness anymore; rather, rage. It was anger at him. Hinata’s thoughts always showed across his face; he had always been an open book. The tears running down Hinata’s cheeks looked sad, but his words dripped with grief and vitriol.

“Forget the fucking recital, forget our song, forget everything we built together… just forget us. I guess I really wasn’t enough for you. I’m so sorry for holding you back and wasting your time.”

“Hinata, wait—”

It was too late. Hinata had already run off, and while Kageyama was slipping on the sheets of paper scattered on the ground, he’d vanished. Kageyama didn’t know where he’d even begin looking. Did he ever know Hinata at all? Or did he just think he did, foolishly falling in love with flimsy ideals and imagery? It didn’t feel flimsy, though. Hinata had always felt so warm. Sturdy, whenever they’d been next to each other… strong, despite being smaller in size, when he’d kissed him that late night some few days ago. Things had flipped so quickly. Dizzyingly fast, and all because of him. It was entirely his fault.

He wanted to apologize. He should’ve. But… he couldn’t bring himself to. The shame was excruciating; it paralyzed him in bed. He waited there, uneating, too afraid to even move, until the month was over. Every time he thought of it, he repressed the ache in his heart. It was too much to bear.

Kageyama didn’t know why he half expected that Hinata would still be there. As if, for some reason, he’d rip up his flight ticket home to say goodbye to the moody asshole who’d freaked out on him because of the stupidest shit, like counting rests. He thought that maybe, if he wished hard enough, and asked for nothing else in life, then this one miracle might come true.

But it didn’t. Hinata was gone without even a note or shadow to say goodbye. It was as if he never even existed. All that was left was the memory of him.

Kageyama never saw Shouyou Hinata ever again. All he knew was that Hinata also lived somewhere in Miyagi, based on their conversations. He could’ve looked, could’ve cast a reel to say I’m here. I’m sorry. Don’t forget me. I haven’t forgotten you. They were almost close. It was possible they’d find each other.

But he didn’t do anything. Why not, even if he wanted to meet him again? Because he was a young, stupid kid who couldn’t take the shame of being wrong. That had cost him everything.

Kageyama vowed to himself that he’d never love again. Opening himself up like that to anybody else would only guarantee this pain all over again. Maybe even worse. He hated that he learnt why it was called something as dramatic as ‘heartbreak’. It felt like a jagged edge, and every time he thought of it or remembered something that reminded him of it, he felt the same pain open him up and leave him right where he was crying his eyes out in New York. He felt like he was lying on an operating room table, being sliced open again and again.

He would have his work to distract him. It wouldn’t look at him with those tearful brown eyes, infinitely deep with betrayal. It was painful—every time Kageyama closed his eyes, he saw Hinata’s pained face.

It was the kind of face Eurydice could've made that made it so understandable why Orpheus turned back.

“And Jinyuan Wen, for ‘Glimpses!”

Kageyama shakes himself out of his reverie when the applause dies down into silence, causing him to shove his hands into his lap. He tries to look around surreptitiously, but can’t help but feel unhinged. Hinata’s here. He’s here, in the same room, and he has to know that he’s here (and highly accoladed… like, really impressively for his age). Kageyama’s sweating. Is anybody else sweating? Everywhere he looks, he can’t see that mop of curly ginger-orange citrus-peel summer-firework hair. He has no idea where Hinata could be sitting in this huge arena. But all of the sudden, the camera finds him and he sees himself staring around the room like a lunatic on the screen.

“Up first, we will announce the winner from the nominees for Best Music: Original Soundtrack…”

Kageyama hurriedly collects himself, crossing his legs and pretending to look composed by nodding for no reason. He’s going up against five other composers, one of them being Jans Timmerman, and Timmerman—a classical hero—is placed beside him on the compiled screen. He can’t look around for his ex-situationship like a desperate dog right now… not with Timmerman beside him!

“And it’s… Tobio Kageyama, for ‘Let There Be Light’!”

He hardly noticed the speaker unwrapping the envelope, too occupied with pretending to look normal that he probably looked even weirder than he needed to be. He remembers that he has to stand up only after hearing the applause of the people sitting beside him. They're clearly shocked that somebody as strange and silent as him was winning such a highly regarded reward. He hopes the camera doesn’t pick up on how sweaty his pits were.

Was Hinata watching this? His eyes scan the room, trying to find his face in the amalgamation before him. He couldn’t see a damn thing. The lights were industrially bright and blinding; he resists the urge to shield his eyes. Somebody thrust something into his hands. He jumps, almost dropping the precious award. It feels just like he remembered it. He mentally thanked himself for bothering enough to put in the effort for practice runs so that the muscle memory could carry himself to the stage in relative normalcy. The weight in his hand somewhat allowed him to focus on the moment.

Oh, right. A speech. The applause was dying down now, hundreds of people here and millions around the planet clearly waiting for him to say something. The pressure weighs on his chest. He had to get it together.

He leans into the microphone, a bit too close.

“My—”

EEEEEWHYYYYNNGGHHHEEEQQEEEE….

“...grandfather,” Kageyama continues awkwardly after being interrupted by the horrifically loud bit of feedback that had people wincing, covering their ears gingerly. He clears his throat. Right, get it together.

“My grandfather… was an excellent musician. He was perfect in tempo. Technique. He could do it all. He’d listen to something and play it back like second nature. It was magical. And he was an excellent conductor. I’ll never forget the way I felt, watching him—”

“Let’s see… what should you say next about him? Your grandfather? Since he’s your main inspo and childhood hero and all.”

“I don’t know, dumbass. Isn’t that why you’re making me write this stupid Oscar speech thing now before I’ve even composed a movie soundtrack?”

“I mean, it’s obvious you’re going to win some time in the future. Maybe soon, even… screw you for that, by the way.”

“Okay?” A bit confused as to why he was randomly being insulted, he gave Hinata the finger to equalize the score.

“And the way you are, you’re going to freeze up on camera when they give you the award and everybody’s going to make fun of you and then you won’t be remembered for your amazing composition anymore, only how you flubbed up the speech. Is that what you want?”

“...no. So tell me what I should say.”

“You’re making me do all of the work for you? Seriously? Fine…”

Hinata dropped his head back down against Kageyama’s chest. Kageyama ran his hand through Hinata’s hair, feeling how the soft yet coarse locks bounced against his palm. It was springy, how a cloud looks like it’d feel like to a child.

“At least tell me how you felt, then. When you watched him conduct as a kid.”

Hinata’s body was always so incredibly warm. He was bony, too. Like a bird, so delicate he almost seemed hollow. Kageyama was almost afraid to break him.

“Well…”

“I thought I was witnessing magic. I know I’ve said it a lot already, but I mean it. He showed me something so beyond words, a control over sounds that can move you past words… he changed my life. He taught me how to play, and how to write… he taught me how to achieve perfection. My grandfather taught me everything I know about music… and even after his passing, I hope to honour his legacy.”

Kazuyo Kageyama hadn’t died when Hinata had ghostwritten this speech ten years ago. He’d had to add that part in himself. But the rest of his acceptance speech was almost exactly what he’d rehearsed something like a decade ago, words that he’d never shared before, not even in his past victory speeches. He’d read off the bullshit his PR agent had fed him on a card back then (though in hindsight, it was probably AI generated). This was from his heart. It was raw. Vulnerable.

The silence from on stage feels captivating. Like a hummingbird, hovering. A ghost note, tension so taut you’d be able to cut it with a knife. It felt like he was watching his grandfather holding that baton in the air again, suspending time, holding your breath in his hand. Potential energy. It was the closest a person could get to having power over others.

“And… I owe the score of ‘Let There Be Light’ to somebody who, long ago, taught me about what’s most important. At the end of the day, my goal is simply to create music that makes people feel things. I wanted to bottle this feeling, from a summer memory… It was around the time of Fourth of July. Y’know, that feeling when you watch fireworks with somebody. And I…”

Kageyama feels like he can feel Hinata’s gaze on him from somewhere. Feel the tingling ghost of his lips on his skin. They had been ‘we’, at one point.

“A-and I…”

I’m here. I’m sorry. Don’t forget me. I haven’t forgotten you.

“Ahem. I hope I was able to achieve that, even just a little bit. Thank you for the award.”

Kageyama all but grimaces to cut himself off before he ends up rambling, stepping back with a stiff nod and bow. People immediately burst into thunderous applause. There’s even a standing ovation for him—seriously? Why so dramatic? His dead grandpa would certainly get a kick out of being used as a sob story. The applause drags on, even after Kageyama had been escorted backstage with his award like a dog with a bone banished to the backyard. He couldn’t help wondering if Hinata had stood to clap for him. Did he know those words were about him?

He didn’t even get to think about it for a second. There were immediately more hurrahs to attend to, more riff, more raff. He wished he could have opted out of photo ops entirely, but he was stuck with the rest of the Getty image sharks. Hinata wasn’t in this room, and for now, that was the sole object of matter to him.

After a few bullshitted interviews that would probably haunt him on social media for years to come, Kageyama manages to drag himself free of the media clutches for just long enough to scout a screen that was continuing to televise live. Best Music: Original Song is displayed in the bottom left of the screen. The announcer is just unfolding the envelope.

“C’mon…” Kageyama mutters, out loud without meaning to. His eyes are glued to Hinata’s on the screen, seeing nobody else. His hands are balled up into tight fists. He’s never wished for somebody else to win so hard before. It’s almost as if Hinata might feel his feelings through space-time if Kageyama wishes hard enough. At least, that all he can hope for.

“It’s Shouyou Hinata, for … wow, ‘July 4th’!”

The slight hesitation of the announcer reveals what everybody else was just thinking. Didn’t that last guy just mention Fourth of July for some reason? And this other Japanese guy just won for a song that happens to be called ‘July 4th’ for an unrelated Brazilian film? Isn’t that strange? Is the Academy being oddly patriotic this year or what?

Kageyama isn’t sure how he feels when Hinata appears on screen again, standing and grinning wide to walk onstage and accept his award. He seems much more natural at doing it. Kageyama exhales shakily, wondering if he feels relieved now. The tightness in his chest still hasn’t gone away like he hoped it would. It actually got worse, somehow.

On the televised coverage of the show, the song July 4th actually began to play. Kageyama thought his heart had frozen. Hinata’s voice was unmistakably clear and soulful. But that motif…

“Forget the fucking recital, forget our song, forget everything we built together… just forget us.”

A soft trip-l-et, rest. Hinata didn’t even know what that was called back then, but he could harmonize it, and Kageyama was smart enough to know how to score it from ear alone. In a way, Hinata needed him, and it could’ve only been him. And Kageyama needed him, and it would’ve only been him. Somebody that you could call a soulmate. Somebody that means that much to you.

Hinata smiles again, passing the award to his left hand so that he can adjust the microphone with his right. The camera zooms in. He cheers with the rest of the audience, pumping the award up and down enthusiastically. The iconic gold gleams brightly in the stage light. The light is so reflective it highlights all the jewelry he’s wearing. A silver necklace.

Even the silver ring on his left finger.

“Wow… to win my first Academy Award, especially in this genre, is such an honour. I honestly really don’t have words. But I have to thank all the people that supported me, especially while I was cooped up in the studio writing songs… firstly, to my partner, who held the house down. I wouldn’t be up here if it wasn’t for you. Seriously, I love you.”

Kageyama was experiencing the words like a firework. He saw them first. Read it on the lips he used to look at so carefully. Then he heard them, from a faint echo from the ongoing live show a wall away, as well as the slightly time-delayed video footage. And when that shock wasn’t enough, he saw them again on the closed captioning that popped up a half-second later.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Well, of course somebody like Hinata would’ve found somebody new. Somebody equally as charming, as motivated, as optimistic and resilient and warm and funny as he was. People were always drawn to Hinata. It didn’t matter what this partner looked like. All that mattered was that this person… wasn’t him. It would’ve never been him, he knew—nobody would willingly choose the moody, freak of a hormone-ridden sixteen year old from a month long band camp years back. But still, in the impossible way where he had nothing to lose by wishing, maybe a miracle would’ve somehow happened and he would’ve found his way back to Hinata and they would’ve rekindled their friendship and then maybe started a relationship in earnest and then—who knows?

But it never happened. And he’d just have to be okay with that.

“And then… to somebody who got me started on the theory I needed to know to produce music, to a rival who got me fired up and serious about music… cheers. I owe this to all of you. Thank you guys so much. I appreciate it so much. Arigatou gozaimasu!”

Kageyama choked on his breath. Hinata was walking off stage, waving as he left—that meant in a few seconds, he’d burst right through that press room door. The anticipation of a firework about to go off buzzed in his ribcage. Soon, they’d have a chance to meet again, face to face for the first time in years. The memory of Hinata, the current him, and the ten or so years he’d missed—what if he was selfish enough to want all of it, still, even after what he’d done?

Left or right. Good or bad. He loves me, he loves me not. Binary, yes/no answers were what had always made sense to him. Grey space confused him. Though it was dreadful, he knew what this was by the way the guilt ate at his stomach. His heart jittered in his chest. The ancient survival mechanism of fight or flight kicked in as if he was about to be chased by a lion on the African veldt rather than being scared of seeing his ex-situationship from a decade ago. At this point, he’d take the lion.

If Kageyama fled and left now, he might be able to escape without being seen… they’d know each other’s names, but then, Kageyama wouldn’t have to bear the pain of small talk with a stranger that he once used to love.

The door started to open.

“Kageyama! Wait!”

Kageyama freezes in his steps. The voice is familiar, but tones deeper than how he remembered it, fracturing his memory like a rock thrown through thawing spring ice.

He still hasn’t turned around yet. He hasn’t seen. He’s at the edge of the underworld, a fleeing Orpheus, with victory in sight before him. Jump into a taxi, and he’s gone.

But Eurydice is behind him.

He turns around. Hinata is there, bent over his knees, lightly panting for breath, pulling at his shirt collar to loosen it. His hair looks somewhat windblown. He’s incredibly handsome like this.

“I’m… glad… I caught you… man. You got a hell of a lot taller, you bastard.”

“…Hinata.”

The word sounds foreign in his mouth now. Taboo, like a curse. But Hinata just chuckles, straightening up with the same smile on his face that he’s always had. It’s the same one Kageyama had fallen in love with. They speak English to each other fluently now, even though that summer, they’d only spoken their native tongue. It makes him feel more distant now. More like a stranger than a friend.

The way they stand across each other on the street, dressed in expensive black suits surrounded by champagne and sports cars with Oscars hanging from their hands, feels dissociatively surreal. They’d grown up without each other. So much time has passed, but it also feels like none at all has gone by when they look at each other. They’re older, different, yet the same. They’d once been boys, and now they’re men, yet in a way Kageyama can’t help but feel the exact same boyish crush he’d felt all those years ago. Hinata’s gaze holds him the same way.

But he can’t. Not when Hinata’s a married man. The thought still shocks him just as much as it did the first time. He got married, and I had no idea.

“I wanted to congratulate you! I mean, I know it’s not your first Oscar anymore, but it’s still an achievement. Congrats on your previous Oscars… and you had a really good speech. I was impressed. Moved, even.”

Hinata winks at him, having no respect for Kageyama’s internal struggle at preventing infidelity rumours from spreading on TikTok. The flirtatious expression from him makes Kageyama feel faint in the knees, even now.

“Uh… yeah, thanks. Congratulations to you. For your first Academy win.” There’s so much he wished he’d said over the past decade, but none of it comes to mind now. Kageyama feels like he’s watching himself speak in some sick out of body way. He clears his throat awkwardly, drawing a blank. “And uh… for your marriage.”

Hinata’s smile drops subtly.

“Yeah. Thanks, Kageyama. There was a… I met a…” Hinata trails off with a short sigh before shaking his head. It makes Kageyama wish he’d keep talking and never stop. It’s like he’s hypnotized, put under Hinata’s spell.

“Yeah, it’s a long story.”

Kageyama couldn’t tell if Hinata’s clear evasion was an invitation for him to listen further, or an act of dismissal to wedge him out peacefully. It didn’t even really seem to matter. Kageyama was already talking before he realized he was doing it. He’d let his guard down.

“You still have one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. I’m sorry for what I said to you back then. You’ve done well for yourself. I’m happy for you.”

The words that had been living on his shoulders fell out of his mouth before he could stop them, the way they usually did. The same way he’d ruined things back then. But he’d been wanting to say this apology for so long that it was a relief just to be able to. Whether or not it was accepted didn’t matter. He just had to make it known.

Hinata’s eyes flashed with an emotion Kageyama couldn’t quite read. He took a step closer. Kageyama stayed still.

“Y’know, I always kept up with you. Checking which awards you were winning and which fancy concerts you were playing at… your name totally pissed me off. It drove me to be a better musician. I wanted to beat you, but I also wanted to win… with you. And see you again, somehow. You were my best enemy, in a way. Not everybody has somebody like you in their lives. I think I was really lucky to have you… as a rival.”

A rival. A childhood friend. A partner. A summer fling.

Everything but a lover.

Kageyama smiles at him. The expression comes to him easily in a way it doesn’t usually, due to its profound sadness. He raises his hand, stopping a cab. It’s time to go.

“I’m glad you’re doing well, Hinata. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Hinata smiles back. It’s also strained, heavy with the weight of unsaid words and feelings.

“Yeah. You too, Kageyama. I’ll see you around. Hey…!”

Kageyama swallows thickly, fingers clenching the car door. The taxi driver shoots back a look, clearly wondering why he’s half in the car and half not. He braces himself for Hinata’s words.

“I think, in another life… we would’ve finished that duet together. At least, I hope so.”

The words render Kageyama speechless. Nothing could’ve prepared him for that. Hinata’s voice is so soft the wind nearly carries it away. Again, like always, he’s moved past words, choked up with the sting of tears threatening to fall at his eyeballs. He can’t think of anything to say and stares at Hinata instead, wondering if the cacophony of all his regrets and feelings of the past were being conveyed to him. Hinata raises a hand to wave goodbye. Kageyama nods.

Before he can lose his resolve, Kageyama drops himself into the car and slams the door shut. He doesn’t turn around for a last look. He can’t, or else Hinata might see how pathetically he’s crying. He’d lost once and lost again, somehow, and yet despite all the crushing pain Hinata had put Kageyama through, and kept putting him through…

…like a sun pattern seared onto the back of his eye, Kageyama can’t help but see Hinata’s glowing yet regretful smile every time he closes his eyes.