Chapter Text
Tsukishima Kei liked things that made sense.
Not in any abstract, philosophical way. He just preferred it when outcomes followed effort, when actions had predictable results. You did something, something happened. Cause. Effect. Done.
Volleyball, at least, tried.
There were rules. Systems. Patterns you could study until they stopped being patterns and started being habits. Even failure had structure—mistakes you could trace, correct, avoid repeating.
It was manageable.
Most things were.
Hinata Shōyō wasn’t.
“Tsukishima!”
The shout cut clean through the gym—too loud for the distance, too bright for the hour.
Tsukishima didn’t look up.
He didn’t need to.
“Can you toss for me after practice?”
“No.”
A pause.
“…Eh?”
Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, eyes still on the court. “No.”
“Why?”
There it was.
Persistence. Predictable, in its own way.
“I’m busy.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
A few seconds later, the floor creaked closer. Tsukishima caught the movement at the edge of his vision—Hinata stepping in, hands on his knees, leaning forward like proximity would somehow improve his chances.
“Doing what?”
Breathing.
“Homework.”
“That’s okay!” Hinata said immediately. “I can wait!”
That wasn’t how homework worked. Or waiting. Or time, generally.
Tsukishima sighed, slow and deliberate, and finally looked at him.
Hinata was already smiling.
Not hopeful—worse. Certain.
Like the answer had changed somewhere between asking and hearing it.
“I said no,” Tsukishima repeated.
“Oh.”
Hinata’s shoulders dropped.
Just like that.
No argument. No negotiation. No attempt to push.
He straightened, nodded once—like he’d simply received information—and turned away.
“Okay.”
And then he was gone, jogging toward Kageyama, already asking the same question with the same energy, like nothing had been lost in the process.
Tsukishima watched him for a moment.
Frowning.
That…
shouldn’t have worked.
Practice ended later than expected.
It wasn’t unusual. Still annoying.
By the time they were dismissed, the windows had darkened into that dull, early-evening blue—light fading faster now, the season shifting whether anyone paid attention or not.
The gym lights felt harsher because of it. Too white. Too artificial.
Tsukishima packed his bag slowly, without really thinking about it.
Kneepads folded with practiced precision. Towel stuffed in. Bottle capped. Glasses removed, wiped clean, set back in place.
Routine.
Reliable.
Something that didn’t change.
“Tsukki.”
He paused.
Only for a second.
Then continued zipping his bag.
“What.”
Yamaguchi stood beside him, fingers loosely hooked around the strap of his bag, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Hm… Hinata’s still practicing jump serves.”
The zipper caught slightly near the top.
Tsukishima pulled it closed with a sharper tug than necessary.
“And?”
Yamaguchi hesitated.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a small pause—but noticeable, if you were paying attention.
“It’s been… a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’.”
“…Like forty minutes?”
That—
was longer than usual.
Tsukishima glanced up before he could stop himself.
Across the gym, Hinata was still there.
The court lights cast long shadows behind him as he moved—jumping, landing, chasing after the ball, then resetting again without hesitation.
The rhythm wasn’t clean.
Serve—miss. Retrieve. Reset.
Serve—net. Retrieve. Reset.
Serve—out. Retrieve. Reset.
Over and over.
There was no frustration in it. No visible annoyance.
Just repetition.
Like he’d decided that if he kept going long enough, something would eventually change.
Everyone else had already left.
Kageyama. Nishinoya. Tanaka.
The echoes in the gym had softened, stretched thinner without the usual noise to fill them.
It made the space feel larger than it actually was.
“So?” Tsukishima said, looking away first. “He’s an idiot. We know this.”
Yamaguchi didn’t respond immediately.
“He said he wanted to get better faster.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Tsukishima didn’t look at him, but he could feel it—that look Yamaguchi got sometimes. Quiet. Thoughtful. Slightly too perceptive for his own good.
Like he was waiting.
Tsukishima didn’t give him anything.
“Go home.”
Yamaguchi blinked. “Huh?”
“I’ll lock up.”
“…Really?”
“Yes,” Tsukishima said, sharper than necessary. “Before I change my mind.”
Yamaguchi studied him for a second longer than he should have.
Then he smiled.
Small. Knowing.
Annoying.
“Okay.”
The doors closed behind him with a soft click.
The sound lingered.
Then faded.
For a moment, Tsukishima didn’t move.
He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, shifting his weight slightly, like he was about to leave.
He didn’t.
From across the gym, the sound of the ball hitting the floor echoed again.
Followed by footsteps.
Then another attempt.
Another miss.
Tsukishima exhaled through his nose.
“…Tch.”
He set his bag down.
“Your form’s sloppy.”
Hinata startled so hard his landing stuttered, shoes squeaking against the floor.
“TSUKISHIMA?!”
He turned too quickly, nearly losing his balance before catching himself.
“You scared me!”
Tsukishima stepped onto the court, arms crossed loosely.
“If I wanted to scare you, I’d tell you you’re wasting your time.”
Hinata blinked at him.
Processing.
Then—
“You came back!”
“I never left.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“…Oh.”
Hinata scratched the back of his head, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that information.
Tsukishima frowned slightly.
“…Don’t read into it.”
Hinata tilted his head.
“Read into what?”
Tsukishima opened his mouth.
Stopped.
That—
wasn’t something he had an answer for.
“…Give me the ball.”
Hinata’s expression shifted instantly.
“Really?!”
“Unless you’d rather keep doing that,” Tsukishima said, nodding toward the ball rolling slowly across the court.
Hinata didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed it and pushed it into Tsukishima’s hands with too much force, like he was afraid the offer might disappear if he didn’t act fast enough.
Tsukishima adjusted his grip.
Annoyed.
They started slowly.
Tsukishima tossed.
Hinata served.
The first one hit the net.
The second went too far.
The third clipped the top of the tape and dropped back down.
Hinata let out a small sound—half frustration, half determination—and jogged after it each time, movements quick despite the repetition.
No complaints.
No dramatic reactions.
Just reset.
Again.
Tsukishima watched him more closely.
There were inconsistencies.
Small ones.
Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them.
His toss was off—sometimes too far forward, sometimes slightly behind. His shoulders tightened just before the jump, like he was overcompensating. There was a split second of hesitation before contact.
“…You’re rushing,” Tsukishima said.
Hinata paused, ball in hand, looking at him.
“Your approach is fine,” Tsukishima continued, gesturing slightly. “But your toss isn’t consistent.”
Hinata nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
No argument.
No questioning.
He adjusted.
Tried again.
Missed again.
“…Tch.”
Tsukishima blinked.
That hadn’t been him.
Hinata clicked his tongue lightly, more to himself than anything, before resetting his stance.
Tsukishima watched him for a second longer than necessary.
Then tossed again.
Time passed without either of them acknowledging it.
The gym grew quieter.
Colder.
The sounds sharper—the ball hitting the floor, shoes against wood, breath slightly uneven in the space between attempts.
Hinata got one.
Clean.
The sound was different—solid, precise, landing deep in the back corner.
For a moment, everything stilled.
Hinata didn’t move.
Then his shoulders lifted with a sharp inhale.
“I did it!”
The laugh that followed was quick, breathless, almost surprised.
“Yes,” Tsukishima said. “Once.”
Hinata turned anyway, eyes bright despite the sweat clinging to his hair, his face flushed from exertion.
“That’s still one more than before!”
Tsukishima looked away.
“…Don’t get sentimental.”
But he tossed again.
They kept going.
The rhythm settled into something steadier.
Not perfect.
But closer.
Hinata’s breathing grew heavier as they continued, more noticeable in the quiet gym. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand once, then twice, before resetting again.
Tsukishima checked the time.
Later than he’d planned.
Of course.
“…Last one.”
Hinata nodded.
Serious again.
He focused—tossed—
Missed.
The ball dropped short.
Hinata let out a quiet groan, bending forward, hands braced against his knees.
“…Sorry.”
Tsukishima frowned slightly.
“For what.”
Hinata gestured vaguely at the court, the ball, everything.
“…For dragging you into this.”
Tsukishima stilled.
That—
didn’t sound like him.
He looked at Hinata properly then.
Hinata wasn’t smiling.
Wasn’t frustrated, either.
Just—
quiet.
Like the energy had dipped, just slightly.
Tsukishima exhaled.
“…You didn’t drag me.”
Hinata glanced up.
“I chose to stay.”
There was a pause.
Hinata blinked.
“Oh.”
That was it.
No grin. No teasing.
Just a soft acknowledgment, like he’d been handed something he didn’t quite know what to do with.
He picked up the ball and held it out.
“…Thanks, Tsukishima.”
Not Tsukki.
Tsukishima took it.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Hinata’s hand was cold.
Tsukishima’s grip tightened, almost imperceptibly, before he pulled back.
“…Don’t mention it.”
They turned off the gym lights together.
The brightness cut out all at once, leaving the space dim and quiet behind them.
The air felt cooler without it.
Empty.
The distance between them stayed the same as they walked.
Not close.
Not far.
Just—
there.
But it didn’t feel the same.
Tsukishima noticed.
Which was the problem.
He preferred things that stayed the same.
And this—
was already starting not to.