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KAGEYAMA’S POV
I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. I don’t even remember deciding to swing. One second he was laughing — that high, scraping sound that felt like sandpaper against my ears — and the next my fist was colliding with his cheek. The hallway had already been loud, lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, someone shouting across the corridor. It all blurred into one solid wall of noise.
He’d said something about the way I talk, about how I don’t look at people when they’re speaking, about how I’m “weird.”
Weird.
I can usually ignore it. I’ve trained myself to. Focus on breathing, focus on volleyball, count backwards in my head. But today my schedule had already been changed because of some stupid assembly. I’d been sitting in a different seat in math, my notebook was on the wrong side of my desk, the classroom smelled like someone’s too-sweet perfume instead of the usual pencil shavings and old books.
Everything had already felt tilted. Then he laughed. Then everyone laughed. And something snapped.
The teacher’s voice afterward was sharp and echoing, like it was bouncing around inside my skull instead of coming from her mouth. “Kageyama, that is unacceptable.”
Unacceptable. The word burned.
By the end of the day, they told me I’d be moved to a different class. “A fresh start,” they called it.
A fresh start.
They handed me a new printed schedule. The paper felt wrong in my hands — too smooth, too unfamiliar. Periods rearranged, different classrooms, different teachers.
Different.
I stared at the numbers. They wouldn’t line up in my head. My chest started tightening. Not pain exactly — more like pressure, like someone was inflating a balloon inside my ribs.
I nodded when they talked. I always nod. It makes them stop explaining faster. I don’t remember leaving the office, I just remember the hallway again. Too bright. The lights flickered faintly — I’d never noticed that before. How long had they been flickering? Why was I noticing now?
My breathing got louder. In. Out. Too fast. My hands felt wrong at my sides, like they needed to do something. I curled my fingers, uncurled them, my nails dug into my palms.
Don’t. Don’t make it worse.
I found the stairwell at the end of the corridor — the one hardly anyone uses. I slipped underneath it, into the shadow where the concrete smelled dusty and cool. It was darker there, quieter. I folded in on myself, knees to chest, forehead pressed down. The new schedule crumpled in my fist.
My head wouldn’t stop racing. Different classrooms, different seats, different noises. What if they move my desk again? What if I don’t know where to go? What if I’m late? What if—
The thoughts looped and overlapped, faster and faster until they weren’t even words anymore, just static. My breathing stuttered. I pressed my palms over my ears. Too loud. Even the silence felt loud.
A sound started in my throat before I could stop it — a low hum. Soft at first, then louder. The vibration in my chest helped a little. It gave the static something to cling to. I rocked slightly, back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm steadied something. My vision kept blurring at the edges. I squeezed my eyes shut.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s not fine.
Footsteps. I froze. Please don’t let it be a teacher.
“Kageyama?”
The voice was bright, familiar. I didn’t look up.
“I heard you got into a fight,” Hinata said, closer now. His shoes squeaked against the concrete as he crouched. I kept humming. If I stopped, the noise in my head would come back stronger.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. I tried to answer. Nothing came out. My throat locked up completely, like someone had tied it shut.
Hinata was quiet for a second. I could feel him looking at me. Then something shifted in the air — not physically, but the way he was standing, the energy changed. Less confused, more certain.
“Oh,” he said softly. Not the loud, dramatic “oh” he usually does. A small one.
I kept my eyes on the floor.
“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I’m gonna call my mom, okay? You can stay at my house after school.”
My head jerked up slightly. His house.
“It’s kinda small,” he added, scratching the back of his neck, “but I hope that’s okay.”
I couldn’t make my mouth work, so I nodded. Just once, fast. Relief flickered across his face like I’d given him the right answer on a test.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m gonna tell the teacher where you are. Stay right here.”
Right here. I could do that. I nodded again. Hinata gave me one more look — not the teasing one, not the competitive one. Something softer. Then he bolted up the stairs.
His footsteps faded. The stairwell went quiet again. I tried to breathe. My head was still spiraling. New classrooms, new smells, new—
But now there was one steady thought anchoring everything else. Hinata’s house. Small. Safe.
I pressed my forehead back to my knees and kept humming, holding onto that single thread while the rest of my world felt like it was rearranging itself without my permission.
———
HINATA’S POV
Kageyama was autistic. How did I not see it before?
The second I crouched down under that stairwell and saw him — folded in on himself, humming, rocking slightly — something in my brain just clicked. Not in a dramatic way, more like a quiet oh.
My mom talks about this stuff all the time. She works with autistic kids and teens. I’ve grown up hearing about sensory overload, routine changes, shutdowns, meltdowns. I’ve heard about how sometimes words just stop working, how sometimes the world gets too loud and too bright and too fast.
And there he was. Under a stairwell. Humming like he was trying to hold himself together.
I felt stupid for not connecting it sooner. The way he hates when practice times change, the way he lines up the volleyballs exactly the same way every time, the way he gets frustrated when someone interrupts him mid-sentence. Not because he’s angry, but because he’s lost the thread and can’t find it again.
How did I not see it?
I texted my mom while I waited for him to pack his bag.
Me: Can Kageyama come over? Rough day. I think sensory stuff.
Mom: Of course. I’ll be there in 10.
Ten minutes later, she pulled up outside the school gates. She didn’t rush him. That was the first thing I noticed. Most adults do that — they talk too loud, move too fast, ask too many questions. My mom just rolled down the window and smiled gently.
“Hi, Kageyama-kun,” she said softly. “You can sit in the back if you’d like.”
He nodded and got in without looking at her. She didn’t comment on it, didn’t try to make eye contact, didn’t fill the silence. The car ride was quiet except for the low hum of the engine. I could see Kageyama’s fingers twitching against his thigh like he didn’t know what to do with them. He wasn’t humming anymore, but his shoulders were still tight.
When we got home, Mom unlocked the door and spoke in that calm, steady tone she uses at work. “You two can go to Shoyo’s room. I’ll grab something.”
I flipped the light switch in my room, then immediately winced. Too bright.
“Wait,” I muttered, rushing to turn it off. I switched on my desk lamp instead and angled it toward the wall so the light bounced softly instead of hitting straight down.
Kageyama stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“You can take the bed,” I said quickly. “I’ll be on the floor.”
He hesitated for half a second, then stepped in and sat down carefully, like he was testing if it was real. I grabbed the spare cushions from the closet and dumped them in a pile for myself.
Mom came in a minute later with the weighted blanket we keep for when I get restless. She didn’t ask, she just draped it gently over Kageyama’s shoulders. The effect was immediate. His breathing slowed, his shoulders dropped a fraction, his fingers stilled. I swear my heart did a weird flip. He looked relieved. Not dramatic, just subtle. Like someone had taken ten kilograms off his chest.
Mom adjusted a few things quietly — she cracked the window slightly to let cooler air in, then checked the thermostat and lowered it by a degree. Kageyama runs warm when he’s overwhelmed, I’d noticed that before during practice. She placed a glass of water on my desk within reach.
“If you need anything, I’m downstairs,” she said gently. Then she left.
We just lay there in the dim light for a while. The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. I watched the way the blanket rose and fell with his breathing.
After a few minutes, his voice came out low and rough. “Sorry.”
I shot upright so fast I nearly headbutted my own knee. “No — no, don’t apologise!” I blurted. “I want you to feel okay! I know sometimes things like that can make people really anxious, so it’s good to have time like this.”
He blinked at me, then nodded. A small nod.
Silence again. Then, like he was forcing the words out one by one, he said, “I have autism.”
I didn’t react dramatically, didn’t widen my eyes, didn’t say I know. I just listened.
He swallowed. “It makes things loud,” he said. “And when they change stuff without telling me first, I can’t —” He cut off, jaw tightening. “I can’t think.”
I nodded slowly. He stared at the ceiling.
“My parents didn’t know what to do with me,” he continued, voice flatter now. “So they sent me to my grandpa’s most of the time. They said I was difficult.”
My chest squeezed. Kageyama, difficult? He’s just Kageyama.
He went quiet for a moment. I didn’t interrupt. Then, almost too softly to hear, he asked, “Do you want to lie here?”
My brain short-circuited. “With you?” I squeaked, immediately regretting how high my voice went.
He nodded once.
“Of course!” I said way too quickly.
I slid onto the bed beside him, trying not to think about how close that was. We lay there stiff at first, shoulders barely touching. Awkward. Very awkward. I could practically hear his thoughts racing.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. “You’re not weird. You’re just you.”
That sounded better in my head. He didn’t answer, but his hand shifted slightly, hovering uncertainly between us. I took it. His fingers were cool. He flinched for half a second, then relaxed. I squeezed gently.
He turned toward me slowly, like he was testing if it was allowed. Then he shuffled closer, pressing his forehead against my collarbone. My entire body went beet red. I could feel it, heat everywhere. He tucked himself in against me, one hand fisting lightly in my shirt.
“I’m only doing this because I had a bad day,” he grumbled.
“Sure,” I whispered, grinning into his hair.
I started stroking it without thinking — slow, steady passes. The dark strands were soft between my fingers. His breathing deepened. The tension left him in stages, like someone loosening knots one by one. Within minutes, his weight went heavier against my chest. Adrenaline crash, probably. His mouth parted slightly as he fell fully asleep, a faint snore rumbling out of him.
I froze. He was asleep. On me. I didn’t move.
Mom peeked in a while later, careful and quiet. She took in the scene in one glance — Kageyama sprawled across my chest under the weighted blanket, my hand tangled in his hair. She smiled, not surprised at all. She stepped forward, kissed my forehead first, then gently brushed a kiss over Kageyama’s hair.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispered. Then she slipped out again.
A little while later I heard the front door open and Natsu’s voice burst into the house. “I’m home!” Her shoes thudded against the floor. Mom shushed her softly.
The everyday noise drifted up the stairs — dishes clinking, Natsu chattering about preschool, the kettle boiling. White noise. Safe noise.
Kageyama didn’t stir. He just burrowed closer unconsciously, face pressed to my chest, breathing slow and even. I tightened my arm around him just a little, careful not to wake him. I let him rest.
I love him so much.