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It is no lie Hinata wants to keep up with the others.
Heavy. Everything around him felt heavy - the ball, the air, even the floor beneath his feet.
It's not the first time he has felt this way. Hinata treasured the moments this feeling didn't claw at his chest. He'd grown used to it.
And sometimes, what truly brought him to the edge was his teammates, unaware, adding to the pressure.
But it's not like Hinata could blame them - how would they know their words affected him so much?
January 4th, that's when Karasuno Volleyball Team would take off to Tokyo for the Spring Interhigh. Right now, it was Monday, midth of December. It won't be long anymore, the time is limited, and every single day feels heavier.
Usually, Hinata loved practice—the sting in his palm after a clean spike, the buzz of his teammates around him, even the smell of the gym. This was his place, his zone. But now, for the first time, he wished he didn’t have to be here.
It felt like a constant reminder—he was always behind. Every single teammate gave their all, and all of them were getting stronger, faster, better. A twinge of jealousy crept up on him. Why… why couldn’t he keep up?
All right, let’s practice your serves!" Ukai’s loud, raspy voice cut through Hinata’s ears. Serves. No matter how many times he practiced his jump serve, he could barely even get the basics right. And then there was Yamaguchi and Kinoshita, sending crazy jump floaters over the net, and others with monster serves… how was he supposed to keep up with that?
Joining Nishinoya, Hinata already felt dread. If he wasn’t practicing his serve, he’d have to receive the insanely strong serves of his teammates—meaning he’d be up against Karasuno’s Guardian Deity, Libero Noya, whose skill in receiving was on a whole other level. Hinata could only look up to him, knowing there was no way he could keep up.
But he still had to work on his receiving. Hinata let out a long sigh and got into position, wincing as Suga’s basic serve hit his arms. It's not like it was a powerful serve. His arms were covered in bruises from all the receiving he’d done: countless hours in practice, more at home with Natsu occasionally pestering him, even his lunch breaks spent with Kageyama drilling him, just like at the start of the school year after Daichi kicked them out of the club. Now, with Interhigh looming, the training was even more intense. Hinata rolled up the sleeve of his beige Karasuno gym sweater and stared at the patchwork of purple, green, and blue bruises covering what felt like every inch of his arms
Lifting his gaze, Hinata glanced at Nishinoya. A few bruises here and there, but nothing compared to the state of his own arms. Still, that wouldn’t stop him. He had to get better—or he’d be worthless. Without Kageyama, he wouldn’t even be a regular, and that alone was reason enough to improve. He needed to keep up with the others. The thought of missing that crazy mix of anxiety and excitement on the court during an official match was like a nightmare. Hinata wanted to play as much as possible, but right now, practice was no fun. And yet… wasn’t volleyball supposed to be fun?
"Shouyouuu!" Noya called out, while so easily receiving a basic serve without even looking, his head tilted to the side ashe seemed to be examining Hinata, "You're spacing out bro, you're gonna get hit in the face!" he laughed loud, mockingly.
Hinata forced a chuckle. "Sorry," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and letting his eyes drift back to the other side of the court. Tanaka jumped, slammed his palm into the ball, and Hinata dashed toward it—too slow. The ball grazed his shoulder and rolled off the court. He scowled, disappointed. He had really thought he could get that one
He was about to glance at Noya to gauge his reaction when a loud, booming laugh stopped him. "BWAHAHA! At least you didn’t get it smashed right in your face!" Hinata looked over and saw Noya clutching his stomach, doubled over in laughter. He didn’t even need to look to know Tanaka was probably doing the same thing.
Thankfully, Ukai clapped his hands, and the two second-years immediately quieted. Noya headed to the left side of the court to practice receiving jump floaters, working on his overhand technique. Hinata stayed on the right, bracing himself for jump serves from Tanaka, Asahi, and Kageyama.
"Out!" Hinata called to Asahi, who clicked his tongue and went to grab another ball. His stomach tightened. Scary. And now… Kageyama’s serve. Easy, he told himself. He’d trained with Kageyama’s insane serves countless times. But as the ball hurtled toward him, his chest sank. This one… this one wasn’t going to be simple.
He stepped slightly to the right, stretched his arms, saw the ball coming perfectly toward him, and then it slammed against a raw bruise. Pain shot through his right arm, sharp and stabbing. Hinata flinched, tripped, and landed hard on his butt. The ball bounced off in a mediocre receive. Not perfect. Someone would have to cover. He couldn’t fall like that in a match.
The pain didn’t stop. It radiated through his arm, throbbed against his shoulder, pressed like a weight on his chest. He rubbed at it, uselessly. Bruises. Each one a sharp reminder of every failure etched into his arms—the missed catches, the weak spikes, all the times he hadn’t been good enough, all the moments he’d trailed behind, all the hours he’d spent fighting to catch up.
He forced himself up—but the world tilted violently. Black spots spiraled at the edges of his vision, then expanded until everything swam in gray and shadow. The gym blurred into streaks of color, the shouts and thuds of balls muffled, distant, like they were underwater. A faint whistle blew somewhere far away, almost swallowed by the spinning chaos around him. His stomach pitched violently, twisting and rolling with each heartbeat. Nausea clawed at him, sharp and sudden, and before he could brace himself, his legs gave out. He crashed to the floor again, head and left shoulder slamming hard against the unforgiving ground. Pain exploded in waves—sharp, stabbing, and all-consuming. He could barely breathe, barely think; the room spun, twisted, and he felt as if the very air had turned heavy, thick, pressing down on him from every side
He didn’t faint—but he could have. His heart pounded in his chest, hammering against ribs that felt too small, too fragile. Adrenaline clashed with shock, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes, unbidden. His chest heaved violently; every inhale felt like pulling air through mud. The gym was a blur—lights smeared into streaks, voices distorted, distant. A faint whistle drifted through the chaos, barely registering, almost mocking. Every breath burned.
Heat crawled over his skin, sweat slicked his hair, but his body shivered with icy tremors at the same time. The floor tilted beneath him. Shapes twisted and flickered, shadows stretching and collapsing like waves. He tried to focus, tried to push against it, but the world spun and surged, and nausea clenched his stomach in cruel knots. He felt as if he were sinking, drowning in the gym itself, every sense screaming and failing him.
And then—weight. Warm, solid, holding him up. The spinning slowed, just a fraction. He realized someone had his arms. He was being carried.
A cough tore from his throat, raw and ragged. His back hit something solid—a wall—and he sagged against it, knees weak. For a long moment, the world was still a blur—shapes smeared together, colors running into one another, the gym spinning faintly with every heartbeat.
Then, slowly… edges began to sharpen. Shadows pulled themselves into forms. The faint whistle, the distant thud of balls, the muffled calls of his teammates—they all started to make sense again. Light filtered through the blur, colors regaining their boundaries. Hinata blinked rapidly, struggling to focus, and realized he could see again. The spinning slowed, the chaos faded slightly, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could grasp his surroundings. He reached out, finding Yachi holding a towel. Fingers closing around it, he dragged it across his stinging forehead, then draped it around his neck. Pain radiated from his skull, hammering in waves.
It was unbearable. Every nerve felt raw. Every breath, a fight. But he remembered—breathe.
Slowly, painfully, he did. In. Out. In. Out. The gym’s oxygen filled his lungs like water into a dry sponge. Steady, finally steady. His body was still trembling, heart beating fast, arms screaming from bruises—but for the first time in moments, he felt… okay. Not good. Not healed. But alive. Able to move. Able to keep going.
Hinata spotted the crowd of people surrounding him, and the overwhelm hit him all at once. Ennoshita’s hand appeared first, holding out his water bottle. Hinata grabbed it gratefully, chugging the icy cold liquid, his throat thankful for the relief.
“Hinata-kun, do you need to see a nurse?” The soft voice came from Takeda-sensei. Hinata blinked toward him and shook his head. He opened his mouth to answer but realized his lips were trembling too much, no sound would come out.
With a squeal of frustration, he threw his head back, closing his eyes, and set the water bottle down beside him, still clutching it. His free hand lifted in a small shooing motion, signaling for everyone to back off. Questions and murmurs drifted around him, but he focused on the sound of footsteps retreating.
After a minute, he let his eyes flutter open, making sure he was alone. The gym lights were harsh, almost blinding, stabbing at his vision like tiny needles. Slowly, the world began to sharpen into focus. The worst of the pain ebbed away, but a dull ache still throbbed through his head and arms.
He exhaled, letting go of the water bottle and lifting a hand to run through his hair—but even that felt strange, light, disconnected. His fingers trembled, shaking as if they had a mind of their own. Cold tingled up from his palms, creeping through his arms, only to be interrupted by sudden flashes of heat that made goosebumps rise across his skin. Every movement was a jolt—hot, cold, painful, and numb all at once. Sweat slicked his hair, yet icy shivers ran down his spine, crawling across his arms and legs. His limbs felt foreign, fragile, and alive in a way that left him marveling at their trembling motion. He let his hand drop to his side, staring at it for a moment, feeling the mixture of warmth, cold, and lingering ache that was unmistakably his own body.
Holy shit. What just happened?
Hinata looked up. The gym was alive with practice again, teammates moving and shouting—but many eyes lingered on him. The attention made his stomach twist, an uneasy, almost creepy feeling settling in
And then it hit him. He almost fainted, and now he was missing out on practice!
This time, carefully, he got up. Everything seemed fine—his head spun slightly, a dull ache lingered for a few seconds, but it was manageable. Hinata was fine. Totally fine.
Just as he stepped toward the court, Ukai hurried over, blocking his path. "Woah, woah, wait! Hinata, sit back down. Are you okay?"
The whole gym seemed to fall silent, all eyes on them. Ukai placed firm hands on Hinata’s shoulders, looking him squarely in the eyes, guiding him back down to the ground. There was no doubt in Hinata’s mind—Ukai wasn’t going to let him move until he was truly ready.
But Hinata escaped his grip and forced a nod. "I’m fine. I can keep practicing, coach!" he said, offering a weak smile, his breaths shallow and shaky.
Ukai’s expression didn’t soften. He shook his head firmly. "You almost passed out. Take a break, kid."
Those words hit Hinata like a punch to the chest. Take a break? No way. He couldn’t afford to fall any further behind.
"No coach, I mean it! I can still p-practice!" Hinata’s voice cracked, his lip trembling, tears threatening to spill. His chest heaved, each breath shaky and uneven. Why didn’t anyone understand how important this was to him?
He hated himself for even thinking earlier that he didn’t want to be on the court. That didn’t matter. He couldn’t allow himself to slack off. What happened earlier had been a fluke, a total accident. It could never happen again.
Hinata’s hands clenched at his sides. He needed to be out there. He had to be on the court.
When Ukai opened his mouth to speak again, Kageyama stepped in, roughly pulling Hinata away from the coach. His strong grip left Hinata powerless as he fell back against the wall, plopping onto the floor.
“Go rest!” Kageyama barked. “It’s not like you’re any use in this practice right now. Your serves and receives both suck.”
He smirked at the last part. The words hit Hinata like a hammer. His chest tightened, stomach dropping, and for a moment, everything blurred. This. This was it. His ultimate breaking point.
Hinata’s eyes widened at Kageyama’s words, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face. Ukai patted his head lightly before returning to Takeda and the managers, leaving only Hinata and Kageyama. The setter still held a firm grip on Hinata’s shoulders, crouched low in front of him.
“K… Kageyama, let go,” Hinata breathed, wincing as the tips of Kageyama’s nails dug painfully through his sweater.
Kageyama rolled his eyes and finally released him—but didn’t move away. He stayed crouched there, silent, unmoving, the faintest shadow of his usual cold, unreadable expression on his face.
“What are you doing… go back on the court,” Hinata growled, voice shaking. He didn’t need Kageyama seeing him like this—not like this, raw and vulnerable. He didn’t need any more words rubbed in his face.
Hinata glared at him, chest tight, fists clenching at his sides, while Kageyama simply sat there, stoic and unfazed as always.
Kageyama lifted his hands, and Hinata flinched instinctively. But instead of harshness, his fingers rested gently on Hinata’s cheeks, brushing away stray tears.
Hinata’s face turned bright red, and he swatted at Kageyama’s hands. “Stop—” he whined, only to be cut off.
“Shut up, dumbass!” Kageyama snapped, rolling his eyes, yet his hands stayed, smoothing the orange strands of hair back into place, carefully wiping away tears. Hinata felt unbearably exposed, as if this was some form of torture, but he stayed silent, letting him do it.
“There.” Kageyama finally said, flatly, withdrawing his hands. His gaze met Hinata’s, steady and unflinching.
For a moment, neither spoke. Hinata’s chest fluttered, unsure what to make of the attention, while Kageyama simply looked at him as if nothing had happened. It was calm. It was strange. And somehow, it mattered.
Why..." Hinata’s words trailed off. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence—there were too many questions swirling in his head. The biggest one: Why are you doing all this?
Kageyama only shrugged and sank fully down beside him. “You’re warm. Sit out, or you’ll catch a fever,” he mumbled, leaning against the wall just like Hinata.
Sighing, Hinata finally gave in and nodded. As much as he hated it, getting sick would mean missing volleyball, and that was unacceptable. Better to sit out now than risk losing days of practice he couldn’t afford to miss.
"Shouldn’t you at least get back to practice?" Hinata asked, glancing at his setter.
Kageyama shook his head. “I just want to make sure you’re okay and don’t do something stupid.” His gaze flicked back to the court, and Hinata nodded, knowing Kageyama probably wouldn’t notice.
He looked up at the ceiling, voice barely above a whisper. “That… was scary.”
Kageyama’s eyes snapped back to him. “What?”
Hinata’s cheeks warmed. He realized he’d said it out loud. Sighing, he looked down at his shoes. “I almost fainted. It was scary… I didn’t know what was happening.” He hesitated, then added softly, “Sorry about all that…”
But Kageyama only smacked the back of his head, "Don't apologize dumbass, it's not your fault my serve was too strong for you to receive." he chuckled and Hinata's eyebrows knitted together in frustration. He knew it wasn’t the serve that had knocked him down, but Kageyama had no idea what had really happened. From the outside, it probably looked like it was just a strong serve—but Hinata remembered the spinning, the nausea, the aching pain, the bruises… the whole collapse.
"You idiot!" he grunted, gaining Kageyama's attention, "That wasn't why-" Hinata cut himself off, he didn't want to explain the real reason why.
Hinata cut himself off. He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to admit how close he’d come to truly fainting. He gave up, looking away, rubbing at his arms where the bruises throbbed, the pain sharper than ever under his fingers.
"Then why?" Kageyama asked, eyes following Hinata’s every move, still completely confused. "Did I break your arms or something?"
Hinata let out a laugh, probably the first one all day. He panted, shaking his head. "You’re so stupid! Of course not."
What Hinata hadn’t expected was Kageyama to grip his wrists and pull them toward him. Pain flared instantly, sharp and searing through his bruised arms, making him curse under his breath. Kageyama wasn’t gentle—his fingers pressed right against the swollen, tender spots.
Hinata winced, ready to pull back, but Kageyama only raised an eyebrow, letting one of Hinata’s hands go to lift the sleeve of the other he still held.
“Oi!” Hinata warned, panic rising, but it was too late. Kageyama’s gaze dropped to his arm, the green, and purple bruises, the angry red mark from the ball standing out like a warning.
“Hinata…” Kageyama breathed, voice tight, shock evident, as his fingers traced over the bumps and discoloration. Hinata shut his eyes, biting his lip and turning his head. He didn’t want to see the damage. He didn’t want to see Kageyama’s face either.
“What the fuck?!” Kageyama’s voice cracked, loud enough to make Hinata instinctively shush him, desperate to avoid attention. His fingers worked quickly, pulling the sleeve down again, but the image—his arms, his pain, Kageyama’s stunned expression—was burned into his mind.
Every throb, every tender spot screamed through him. It wasn’t just the physical pain; it was exposure, vulnerability, and the frightening realization that Kageyama now knew the full weight of what he’d endured. The gym, the court, the practice—they all felt impossibly far away. There was only the bruises, and the boy who finally saw them.
"That looks… oh my god… you can’t just—Hinata, just how did it even get that bad?" Kageyama stammered, clearly at a loss. His eyes flicked over the bruises again, lingering on each swollen mark, the red and purple mottling.
He remembered all the times he’d pushed Hinata to extra practice, the lunches spent drilling receives, the endless repetition since coming back from their camps. A pang of doubt hit him—had he gone too far? But he pushed it down, unsure of what to say, just staring at Hinata in stunned silence.
"Don’t… say anything," Hinata mumbled, turning his face away from Kageyama, still flushed and upset. He didn’t want anyone—especially Kageyama—to know the full extent of what had happened.
For the rest of practice, he focused desperately on his teammates, following the action on the court like a lifeline. Kageyama stayed close, for whatever reason, tossing in a teasing comment every now and then. Hinata forced himself to ignore most of them, though sometimes he couldn’t help but snicker along with his rival.
It wasn’t so bad after all. At least he had company, and being near Kageyama made it a little easier to recover from the horrifying experience earlier.
After a week mostly spent working on spiking and serving, Hinata glanced down at his arms in the middle of class and smiled. The bruises had faded, and pressing on them no longer sent sharp pain through his shoulders.
He refocused on the teacher, counting down the minutes until afternoon practice. For once, he was genuinely looking forward to it. His teammates had been kinder ever since—gentle not only in their actions, but in their words as well. Kageyama, of course, hadn’t changed a bit, but Hinata figured he was too stupid to notice the tone he used anyway.
When the bell rang, Hinata quickly shoved his book into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and bolted from the classroom. He stopped at Kageyama's classroom, peaking through the door. A few seconds later, the setter arrived, and Hinata’s impatient grin only grew as he waited at the frame.
The two of them walked down the hall, outside of the building, where they exchanged a glance and raced to the clubroom - a tie.
As they were changing after Daichi had arrived with the keys, along with the other third-years, Kageyama’s eyes landed on Hinata as he tugged at his sleeves, stretching his arms.
“What the—” Hinata shouted, but Kageyama just leaned in, examining his hands closely. “They’re healing. I haven’t done anything stupid,” Hinata reassured him, a hint of pride in his voice.
Kageyama nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and just like that, everything felt normal again
Practice started and Hinata asked Ennoshita to bandage his arms, so he could practice receiving again, then got his approval from coach Ukai.
“Chance ball!” Hinata shouted during their practice match against Suga’s team. He received the ball cleanly, sending it just above Kageyama’s head, then sprinted toward the net and jumped as high as he could. Two blockers appeared in front of him—but Kageyama executed a perfect dump, and just like that, they reached the 25th point.
It was already the sixth set, but it was going so steady, no one wanted to stop yet.
Or at least that was what Hinata thought.
Just as Hinata was about to tell Tsukishima to serve, he noticed everyone leaving the court, heading for their water bottles. Each teammate gulped down water, but Hinata froze in place. He didn’t feel tired at all.
“Oy, Hinata! What’re you standing around for? The set’s over!” Noya called.
Hinata spun around, glaring at him, drawing the attention of the others. “So what? Let’s play a seventh set!” He shrugged and bent down to grab a volleyball.
“Man, is he crazy?” Noya muttered, earning nods of agreement from the others.
“I haven’t felt this tired since the Shiratorizawa match!” Tanaka groaned, while Daichi let out a long, exasperated sigh
But Hinata couldn’t understand. Were they serious? He couldn’t believe his teammates were that exhausted. Even Ukai and Takeda shot him concerned glances.
“How am I supposed to train when you’re all this lame?” he snapped, spinning the volleyball in his hands. No way he could get better with everyone in such a state. Aren’t they slacking off?
He opened his mouth to yell again, but Kageyama stepped forward and snatched the ball from him. “Hinata, go take a break,” he said firmly, eyes locked on him.
"What? Don’t tell me you’re tired too! We didn’t even play for long!" Hinata rambled, reaching to snatch the ball back—but failed.
“Yes we did, dumbass! The hell is it with you?” Kageyama snapped.
Their bickering drew Tsukishima’s attention. He stepped forward, noticing the team’s worried glances and clearly unsure of how else to intervene. “Listen up,” Tsukishima said, voice flat but sharp. “You’re just as tired as the rest of us. You’re probably riding on adrenaline, so you don’t feel it. Chill out, shorty, or you’ll cause a scene like last time.”
The coaches’ expressions softened at his words, silently thanking the tall middle blocker for cutting through the chaos.
Hinata’s eyes widened. Full of adrenaline? he thought, raising a brow. He’d heard that before—from his mom, saying he was always loud, always overflowing with energy.
Now that he thought about it, his limbs ached, and sweat slicked his skin like the rest of the team. He’d been so caught up in grinding, pushing himself to improve, that he’d barely noticed his own body… again. Just like with the bruises.
No matter what he did, Hinata had this habit of tuning everything else out, focusing only on the one thing that mattered most: volleyball. And volleyball came with a team. Friends. Partners. Rivals. Those he constantly measured himself against.
All he wanted was to be on their level. To beat them. To beat Kageyama.
And then the frustration bubbled up again, the same one from youth camp—the one that never really left him. All those players who seemed faster, taller, stronger. All those drills where he couldn’t quite keep up, where no matter how hard he tried, he always felt a step behind. Every practice reminded him: he was still chasing, still struggling, still hungry. That hunger overrode the pain. That frustration fueled him, sharper than the aching in his arms, more persistent than the sweat running down his back. Nothing would stop him.
The warning signs were there—aching arms, fatigue, sweat slicking his skin—but Hinata barely registered them. He didn’t care. His mind was already running through the next spike, the next receive, the next point. Every ache, every burn, every throb was fuel—reminders that he was alive, that he was chasing, that he wasn’t done.
Shit.
Take it easy.