Chapter Text
The bus ride back from Tokyo is never as loud as the one that carries them there.
Not because the team is capable of silence—far from it, with Nishinoya’s laughter still ricocheting from the back rows and Tanaka loudly committing to an argument that has long since lost its point—but because the energy has shifted, softened at the edges, dulled into something quieter, heavier, like the aftermath of something well spent. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t ache so much as it settles. The windows hum faintly with the rhythm of the highway, evening light pouring in low and golden, stretching itself across fabric and skin as though reluctant to leave.
Tsukishima takes the window seat.
He always does.
It is not a preference so much as a habit, and habits, once formed, become something close to armor. His head tilts just slightly against the glass, earbuds in place, eyes half-lidded—not asleep, never asleep, but positioned carefully somewhere just out of reach. A curated distance. Accessible, but only in theory.
Hinata drops into the seat beside him without asking.
He always does that too.
“You’re not even listening to anything.”
The accusation comes quickly, almost immediately, accompanied by the familiar breach of space—Hinata leaning in just a fraction too close, like proximity is something that exists to be tested rather than respected.
Tsukishima does not turn.
“I am.”
“You’re not,” Hinata insists, already certain, already committed. “Your screen’s off.”
There is a pause—long enough to suggest annoyance, short enough to remain intentional—before Tsukishima opens one eye, tilts his phone just slightly, a gesture that proves nothing and everything all at once.
“It’s called conserving battery.”
Hinata squints, unconvinced in the way only Hinata can be—earnest, stubborn, completely uninterested in subtlety.
And then, as if a switch flips somewhere behind his eyes, his entire expression brightens—sudden, dangerous, the kind of brightness that usually precedes a bad idea.
“Do you want to listen to my playlist?”
Tsukishima closes his eye again, as though the question itself is enough to exhaust him.
“No.”
Hinata nudges him anyway.
There is no hesitation in it. There never is.
“Come on,” he insists, voice threaded with something persistent and unreasonably hopeful. “It’s good. I made it for the trip.”
“I don’t trust your taste.”
“Rude,” Hinata mutters, though the offense lacks any real weight, softening almost immediately into something quieter, coaxing. “Just one song.”
Tsukishima exhales slowly, the kind of breath that carries resignation more than irritation, already aware—unfortunately—that this is a negotiation he is going to lose.
“…One.”
Hinata lights up.
Not subtly. Never subtly.
It is, Tsukishima thinks distantly, a reaction far too large for something so small.
It takes less than ten seconds for him to regret it.
The first song begins gently—acoustic, understated, familiar in a way that feels vaguely irritating, like something he has heard before but never cared to remember. Tsukishima frowns slightly.
“Is this...”
Hinata nods immediately, as if he has been waiting for recognition. “Yeah.”
Tsukishima’s mouth presses into something unimpressed. “You listen to Taylor Swift?”
“So?” Hinata shoots back without hesitation, a spark of defensiveness rising instantly. “She’s good.”
“She’s...” Tsukishima gestures vaguely, dismissively, searching for a word that encapsulates his distaste. “Overdramatic.”
Hinata inhales sharply, scandalized in a way that is almost impressive.
“You’ve just never listened properly.”
“I’m listening now.”
The words are flat, but the song continues anyway, slipping past him in pieces—melody first, then lyrics, then something quieter that lingers longer than it should.
Can I go where you go? ...
Can we always be this close?
The line slips in easily, almost unannounced, carried along by the melody in a way that makes it difficult to dismiss outright, and Tsukishima finds his brow tightening just slightly—not enough to draw attention, but enough that he registers it himself, the faintest disruption in what should have been indifference. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react in any way that Hinata would notice, but he doesn’t remove the earbud either, even when the song fades into the next before he has a chance to make that decision.
Hinata hums along to this one, softer than before, the sound unintentional and barely there, like something that exists more for himself than for anyone else, yet persistent enough that Tsukishima becomes aware of it anyway, aware of the way Hinata leans ever so slightly forward, the way he seems to settle into the music rather than simply listen to it.
Please don’t be in love with someone else…
Tsukishima’s fingers tap once against his knee, a small, absent motion that he doesn’t consciously think about, only that the lyric lingers longer than it should, longer than something like this deserves, and that in itself is irritating. There is something about the tone of it—too earnest, too unguarded—that makes it difficult to take seriously, and yet not quite easy to dismiss either, which might be worse.
Still, he doesn’t take the earbud out.
By the time the third song begins, he expects the irritation to settle into something familiar, something he can categorize and ignore, but it never quite does, and somewhere between the fourth and fifth, he realizes that he has stopped reacting entirely—not because the songs have improved, but because he has, without noticing when it happened, started listening properly.
The pattern becomes difficult to ignore after that.
Not in the sound, which varies enough to avoid monotony, but in the sentiment that threads through each song with quiet consistency, each one circling the same ideas from slightly different angles, as though approaching something that cannot be said directly. There is a kind of deliberate selection in it, something curated rather than random, and the more it continues, the more that intention becomes impossible to overlook.
It isn’t just a playlist.
It’s a theme.
And that theme—persistent, almost stubborn in its repetition—revolves around something Tsukishima would much rather not examine too closely.
The eighth song begins more softly than the others, the shift subtle but noticeable, and beside him, Hinata goes still in a way that stands out precisely because he so rarely is. There is no humming this time, no restless movement or unconscious tapping, just a quiet kind of presence that feels, for reasons Tsukishima cannot immediately explain, heavier than before.
And then the lyric comes.
I once believed love would be burning red… but it’s golden…
It clicks.
Not in sudden and dramatic way, but with a slow, unwelcome clarity, like a pattern aligning piece by piece until it can no longer be ignored, and with that recognition comes a tightening in his chest that has nothing to do with the music itself and everything to do with what it implies.
He pulls the earbud out.
“…Oi.”
Hinata blinks, as if pulled back from somewhere distant, his attention snapping back a fraction too slowly. “Hm?”
Tsukishima gestures toward the phone in his hand, the motion sharper than necessary, though the irritation behind it feels less stable than it should. “Why is your entire playlist like this?”
“Like what?” Hinata asks, but there is a hesitation in it, a slight stiffness that wasn’t there before.
“Like this,” Tsukishima repeats, more pointed now. “All of these are..." he pauses briefly, as though the word itself is inconvenient, “...love songs.”
Hinata stills.
It’s brief enough that most people might miss it, subtle enough to pass as nothing, but Tsukishima notices immediately, notices the way the reaction is contained rather than absent.
“…So?” Hinata says, attempting nonchalance and not quite managing it.
Tsukishima studies him then, more carefully than before, his attention sharpening in a way that has less to do with curiosity and more to do with something he hasn’t yet named.
“Do you like someone?”
The question lands between them with more weight than expected, and Hinata’s reaction is immediate in a way that feels almost excessive.
“What? No!” The denial comes too quickly, too loudly, color rising to his face in a way that makes the answer less convincing rather than more. “I don’t—what are you even talking about—no.”
Tsukishima doesn’t interrupt.
He doesn’t need to.
He simply watches, letting the silence stretch just enough that Hinata begins to fill it himself.
“I don’t,” Hinata insists again, weaker now, his gaze shifting anywhere but forward, anywhere but toward Tsukishima. “They’re just songs. They’re popular.”
“Eight in a row,” Tsukishima points out, tone even.
“It’s a playlist!”
“That’s not how normal playlists work.”
“It is for me!”
Tsukishima remains silent and watches Hinata.
The way Hinata fidgets slightly, the tension in his grip around his phone, the subtle way his shoulders draw in as though bracing against something unspoken—all of it adds up to something that doesn’t align with the casual explanation he’s trying to give.
And without intending to, Tsukishima finds himself thinking—
Who?
The question settles in his mind with an uncomfortable kind of persistence, lingering longer than it should, repeating itself in a way that makes it difficult to ignore.
Who does Hinata like?
His gaze shifts back to him, slower this time, more deliberate, as though there might be something obvious he has overlooked, something that would make the answer clear if he only paid enough attention.
Someone from Karasuno?
Someone else?
Someone—
His jaw tightens slightly.
Who the fuck deserves that?
That kind of attention, quiet but unmistakable, woven into something as simple as a playlist, hidden in plain sight through songs that say what Hinata himself won’t.
The thought irritates him more than it should.
And then, before he can stop it, another thought follows.
A thought that is quiet and far less welcoming.
Why isn’t it me?
His fingers curl faintly against his sleeve, the motion small but grounding, and he turns his head toward the window before the thought can settle any deeper, the reflection staring back at him faint and indistinct, distorted by the dimming light outside.
The music continues, softer now, reduced to something distant.
Hinata says nothing beside him.
Neither of them does.
But the space between them feels altered in a way that isn’t immediately visible, something subtle yet undeniable, like a shift in pressure that can’t be seen but can be felt.
Tsukishima removes the earbud completely and hands it back without looking.
“…Your taste still sucks.”
Hinata lets out a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh. “You listened to eight songs.”
“That doesn’t mean I liked them.”
“…You didn’t take them out.”
Tsukishima doesn’t respond.
Outside, the last of the gold fades into blue.
Inside, the music continues faintly from Hinata’s side, no longer intrusive, no longer something he feels the need to reject outright.
And, whether he intends to acknowledge it or not, he doesn’t dislike it as much as he thinks he should.