Chapter Text
The bus ride back from Tokyo is always quieter than the ride there.
Not silent—never silent, not with Nishinoya laughing three rows back and Tanaka arguing about something completely irrelevant—but softer, like all the energy they burned over the week has settled into something heavier, more satisfied. Windows hum with the low vibration of the highway, evening light stretching long and gold across the seats.
Tsukishima sits by the window.
Of course he does.
Head tilted slightly against the glass, earbuds in, eyes half-lidded—not asleep, just… unavailable. It’s a posture he’s perfected over time. A polite kind of distance.
Hinata drops into the seat beside him anyway.
He always does.
“You’re not even listening to anything,” Hinata says immediately, leaning just a little too close, like Tsukishima’s personal space is more of a suggestion than a rule.
Tsukishima doesn’t turn his head. “I am.”
“You’re not,” Hinata insists. “Your phone screen is off.”
A pause.
Then, with slow, deliberate irritation, Tsukishima cracks one eye open and angles his phone just enough to prove absolutely nothing. “It’s called conserving battery.”
Hinata squints at him, unconvinced.
Then—brightening, sudden and dangerous—“Hey, do you wanna listen to my playlist?”
Tsukishima closes his eye again.
“No.”
“Come on,” Hinata nudges him, relentless. “It’s good, I swear. I made it for the trip.”
“I don’t trust your taste.”
“Rude,” Hinata huffs. Then, softer, almost persuasive, “Just one song.”
Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, already regretting whatever decision he’s about to make.
“…One.”
Hinata beams like he’s just won something important.
It takes approximately five seconds for Tsukishima to realize this was a mistake.
The first song starts soft—acoustic guitar, gentle vocals, something vaguely familiar. Tsukishima frowns.
“Is this—”
Hinata nods eagerly. “Yeah!”
Tsukishima grimaces. “You listen to Taylor Swift?”
“So?” Hinata challenges immediately. “She’s good!”
“She’s—” Tsukishima makes a vague, dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Overdramatic.”
Hinata gasps, actually gasps, like Tsukishima has just committed a personal offense. “You’ve just never listened properly.”
“I’m listening now,” Tsukishima says flatly.
The first song—Lover—is… slower than he expected. Warmer. The lyrics slip past him at first, easy to dismiss, until a line catches just enough to linger—
“Can I go where you go? / Can we always be this close?”
Tsukishima’s brow furrows slightly.
He doesn’t comment.
The second song starts before he can take the earbud out.
Enchanted.
Hinata hums along quietly this time, almost under his breath, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Please don’t be in love with someone else…”
Tsukishima’s fingers tap once against his knee.
Annoying.
Too earnest.
Too obvious.
And yet—
he doesn’t take the earbud out.
The third song.
You Belong With Me.
Tsukishima almost scoffs when it starts, but then Hinata’s shoulders shake slightly beside him—silent laughter, like he knows exactly what kind of song this is—and something about that makes Tsukishima pause instead.
“If you could see that I’m the one who understands you…”
He exhales through his nose.
Still ridiculous.
Still—
not entirely bad.
By the fourth song, he’s stopped reacting out loud.
By the fifth, he’s stopped pretending he’s not listening.
The playlist continues—song after song threaded together with an almost suspicious consistency. The themes blur into each other: longing, choosing, waiting, hoping.
It’s excessive.
It’s obvious.
It’s—
deliberate.
The eighth song begins.
Slower.
Softer.
Daylight.
Hinata goes quiet beside him.
No humming this time.
No movement.
Just stillness.
Tsukishima notices.
And then—
the lyrics.
“I once believed love would be burning red…
But it’s golden…”
Something in his chest pulls tight.
Not because of the song.
Because of the pattern.
Tsukishima pulls the earbud out.
“…Oi.”
Hinata blinks, pulled from wherever he’d drifted. “Hm?”
Tsukishima gestures vaguely at the phone still in Hinata’s hands. “Why is your entire playlist like this?”
“Like what?” Hinata asks, a little too quickly.
“Like this,” Tsukishima repeats, sharper now. “All these songs are—” he hesitates, like the word itself is distasteful, “—love songs.”
Hinata freezes.
It’s subtle, but Tsukishima catches it immediately.
“…So?” Hinata says, trying for casual and failing.
Tsukishima’s eyes narrow.
“Do you like someone?”
The question lands heavier than it should.
Hinata’s reaction is instant.
“W-what? No!” he blurts, too loud, too fast. His face flushes deep red, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I don’t—what are you even—no!”
Tsukishima stares at him.
Long.
Unblinking.
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t!” Hinata insists, voice cracking slightly under the pressure of his own denial. He looks anywhere but at Tsukishima—at the aisle, at the back of the seat in front of him, at literally anything that isn’t Tsukishima’s face. “It’s just… songs! They’re popular!”
“Eight in a row?” Tsukishima deadpans.
Hinata sputters. “It’s a playlist! That’s how playlists work!”
“That’s not how normal playlists work.”
“It is for me!”
Tsukishima doesn’t respond immediately.
He just watches.
Watches the way Hinata fidgets, the way his grip tightens around his phone, the way his shoulders are just slightly hunched like he’s bracing for something.
And something in Tsukishima’s chest—
twists.
It’s abrupt. Unpleasant. Sharp in a way he can’t quite categorize.
At the back of his mind, a thought forms, uninvited and unwelcome.
Who?
The question sits there, heavy.
Who does Hinata like?
His gaze flickers over Hinata again, more critically this time, like the answer might be written somewhere obvious if he just looks hard enough.
Someone from Karasuno?
Someone from another team?
Someone from—
His jaw tightens.
Who the hell deserves that?
That kind of attention. That kind of… this. The flushed face, the nervous energy, the way even a song is enough to make him unravel.
It’s irrational.
Annoying.
And then—
worse.
Another thought follows, quieter but infinitely more dangerous.
Why isn’t it me?
Tsukishima’s fingers curl slightly against his own arm.
He looks away first this time, turning his head back toward the window, the reflection faint and distorted against the glass.
The song keeps playing.
Hinata has gone quiet beside him.
Neither of them speaks.
But the space between them feels different now.
Closer.
Tighter.
Like something has shifted—not enough to name, not enough to understand, but enough that Tsukishima can’t ignore it anymore.
He pulls the earbud out completely, handing it back without looking.
“…Your taste still sucks,” he mutters.
Hinata huffs softly, but there’s no real heat in it. “You listened to eight songs.”
“That doesn’t mean I liked them.”
“…You didn’t take them out.”
Tsukishima doesn’t answer.
Outside, the sky dips further into evening, gold fading into something deeper, something softer.
Inside the bus, the music continues—faint now, just from Hinata’s side.
And for the first time, Tsukishima doesn’t immediately hate it.