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one.
The first time it happened, they were still more rivals than partners. It was the summer training camp in Tokyo.
Shouyo was a creature of vibrant energy. He didn't know how to throttle down. Even when the practice matches were over, he was pestering Kenma for tosses or racing Nishinoya up the hill.
Tobio, stubborn and equally obsessed, followed him like a dark shadow, refusing to let the dumbass get an extra inch of practice ahead of him.
The warning signs were there, but Kageyama was too young and too focused on his own breathing to see them. Hinata’s face wasn’t just flushed, it was a terrifying shade of beet-re, like a tomato tobio thought, His movements, usually sharp and bird-like, had become sluggish, his jumps losing that explosive snap
"One more!" Hinata yelled standing at the edge of the court.
"You’re late on your timing , sumbass" Kageyama snapped, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs. "Fix your timing or I’m not tossing to you."
Hinata opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. Instead, his eyes rolled back, and he tipped forward like a felled tree.
The world went silent for Kageyama. He didn’t think; he lunged. He caught Hinata just before his head hit the hardwood, the heat radiating off the smaller boy’s skin feeling like a literal furnace.
"Hinata? Hey, dumbass!" Kageyama’s voice cracked, a rare note of genuine panic bleeding through his usual stoicism.
Hinata’s skin was dry—dangerously dry. He wasn’t sweating anymore. Kageyama remembered his middle school coach talking about heatstroke. If they stop sweating, they're in trouble.
"Water! Get water and ice!" Kageyama yelld at the gathered players, startling even the Nekoma seniors.
He didn't wait for permission. He scooped Hinata up—he was lighter than Kageyama expected, all wiry muscle and bird bones—and carried him to the shaded area near the equipment shed. He stripped Hinata’s sweat-soaked jersey off and began dousing him with cool water, his hands shaking as he pressed ice packs to Hinata’s neck.
For the next hour, Kageyama didn't leave his side. He ignored Takeda-sensei’s offers to take over, ignored the worried glances from Daichi. He sat there in the dirt, Hinata’s head resting on a folded towel on Kageyama's lap, forcing small sips of sports drink into Hinata’s mouth whenever he drifted into semi-consciousness.
"Don't... stop... tossing," Hinata muttered at one point, his voice a ghost of itself.
Kageyama gripped the water bottle so hard it crinkled. "I’ll toss to you until your arms fall off, you moron. Just stay awake."
It was the first time Kageyama realized he actually worried about shouyo but he dismissed it as caring for his players like he always does.
two.
It was their second year. The stakes were higher, the games more brutal. During a practice match against Date Tech, Hinata went up for a broad attack and landed awkwardly on Aone’s foot. The sound of a pop echoed in the gym, a sickening noise that made the hair on Kageyama’s neck stand up.
Hinata didn't scream. He just crumpled, clutching his right ankle, his face going white.
Kageyama was the first one over the net. He didn't ask " you okay?" because the answer was obvious. Instead, he shoved Hinata’s hands aside to inspect the damage. The swelling was already starting, a cruel distortion of the joint.
"I can still play," Hinata hissed through gritted teeth, trying to stand.
Kageyama put a heavy hand on Hinata’s shoulder and shoved him back down. "Shut up. You're done."
"It's just a twist!"
"It's a grade-two sprain, at least," Kageyama said,
" What do you know about that ur not a doctor!!"
"If you play on it now, you won't play in the qualifiers next month. Is that what you want?"
Hinata went still, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a devastating, quiet sadness.
For the next two weeks, a gloomy cloud followed Hinata, having been suspended from playing volleyball, he was still coming to practice but just watching from the bench.
Tho what made shouyo feel better , is that tobio still hanged out with him , still waited for him after class and they would walk together after practice, tbio even was helping shouyo with carrying his bag and fetching things for him.
"You don't have to do this, Kageyama," Hinata said one afternoon, they were walking home " I mean walking with me, I'm just slowing you down you know, if you walk in your pace you'll reach home faster."
" I don't have a reason to walk faster , plus daichi told me to get you home so you don't fall and break ur other ankle "
Hinata smiled, a small, tired thing. "You're a terrible liar."
"And you're a terrible patient. Don't put pressure on that."
Kageyama didn't tell Hinata that he spent his nights researching rehabilitation exercises and anti-inflammatory diets. He just showed up every day, a silent, grumpy pillar of support, carrying Hinata’s bag and making sure he didn't lose his shine.
three.
The third time was the hardest because there were oceans between them.
Hinata was in Rio, playing beach volleyball, living in a cramped apartment and pushing his body to the absolute limit. Kageyama was in Japan, a rising star in the V.League, his face on posters and his name in the mouths of every scout in the country.
They talked via video call twice a week. It was usually Hinata shouting about the sand or the food, and Kageyama grunting in response, though he never missed a call.
Then came the night Kageyama picked up, and Hinata didn't say a word. He was wrapped in a duvet, his hair a mess, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Hinata?" Kageyama leaned into the camera. "What's wrong?"
"Just... a cold, but you know nothing could stop our calls," Hinata whispered. "The rain during the tournament... I think..." He broke off into a hacking cough that shook his entire frame.
Kageyama felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He knew Hinata’s "colds." Hinata didn't do anything halfway; if he was sick, he was dying. He muttered a dumbass in his breath
"Have you eaten?"
"Not hungry."
"Have you taken medicine?"
"Ran out of the stuff from Japan. I don't know what the Brazilian brands are... the labels are confusing..."
Kageyama cursed. He spent the next four hours—ignoring his own sleeping schedule—on his laptop. He translated Brazilian pharmacy websites. He found a local grocery delivery service that accepted international credit cards.
He messaged Pedro, Hinata’s roommate, in broken Portuguese and frantic English, giving him a list of instructions that read like a military manifesto.
For three days, Kageyama kept his phone on his lap during team meetings. He sent Hinata messages every hour:
Drink water.
Check your temperature.
Eat something warm.
If you go outside I will fly there just to hit you.
On the fourth day, Hinata finally looked human again.
"You spent a lot of money on that delivery, didn't you?" Hinata asked, his voice still raspy.
"It was a business expense," Kageyama muttered, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. "I can't play against you if you're dead in a gutter in Rio. It would be a waste of my time."
Hinata laughed, and for the first time in a week, Kageyama felt like he could breathe again. "I missed you, Bakageyama."
"Just get better, dumbass."
four.
The fourth time wasn't physical.
It was during their first year as professionals. The pressure was immense. Hinata was struggling to prove that his height wasn't a liability in the pro leagues, and the media was being less than kind.
After a particularly rough game where Hinata was blocked five times in a row, the light in his eyes seemed to flicker out just a bit.
That evening he didn't eat out with the team as usual.
Kageyama saw it before anyone else. He knew the shape of Hinata’s soul better than his own.
He showed up at Hinata’s apartment uninvited in the middle of the night. He didn't knock; he used the spare key Hinata had given him months ago for emergencies.
He found Hinata sitting on the floor in the dark, watching game tape of his own failures.
He walked over, unplugged the TV, and grabbed Hinata by the back of his shirt, hauling him up.
"Get your clothes on c'mon "
"Kageyama, I'm tired—"
"I didn't ask if you were tired. Cmon."
He drove Hinata to an empty park that had a net for kids to play with
"Hit," Kageyama commanded.
"I don't want to."
"Hit. If you can't hit a single toss, then quit. Give up. Go be a teacher or something. But if you want to be a pro, you hit this ball."
Kageyama threw a ball up. It was a perfect toss—the kind that felt like a gift. Hinata’s instincts took over. He swung.
Whack.
They stayed there for three hours. Kageyama didn't offer comfort, He just tossed. He gave Hinata the one thing he knew could heal him, the feeling of the ball meeting his palm. He took care of Hinata’s broken confidence by being the one constant in his life—the setter who would never stop believing in him. Which by Hinata's standards was more than just comfort, it was the whole kit of warm tea and rainy days.
When they finally stopped, Hinata was sweating, his chest heaving, but the hollow look in his eyes was gone.
"Better?" Kageyama asked.
Hinata looked at his reddened palm and then at Kageyama. "You're so annoyingyou know that?" He stared at his setter.
" And you're stupid" , the tension was high, shouyo breathed in & out, still in a staring compétition with each other.
Shouyo jogged over, the ball tucked under his arm. But as he closed the distance, the air shifted. The park's quiet intimacy wrapped around them, the moonlight casting long shadows that danced across Tobio's sharp features—his dark hair tousled by the wind, his blue eyes steady and intense.
Tension coiled in Shouyo's gut, warm and insistent, like the pull of gravity before a spike.
'You... you didn't have to do this,' Shouyo said, voice softer than intended, stepping closer until the heat radiating from Tobio's body mingled with his own.
Tobio swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. 'Shut up. Just... get your head straight.' But his words lacked bite, and he didn't move away. The space between them shrank, breaths syncing in the still night. Shouyo's pulse thundered in his ears, every nerve alive, drawn to the setter like a magnet. He could smell Tobio's scent—clean sweat and faint citrus from his shampoo— and it made his mouth water, his fingers itch to reach out.
Shouyo's eyes locked on Tobio's mouth, parted slightly as if in invitation. The world narrowed to this moment, tobio and his spiker, on the edge of something irreversible. With a sudden, impulsive surge, Shouyo lunged forward, tackling Tobio against the fence. The metal rattled under the impact, Tobio's back hitting it with a soft thud, his hands instinctively grabbing Shouyo's shoulders to steady them both.
'Tobi—' Shouyo's protest died as he crashed their lips together, fierce and unyielding. It was messy, all heat and desperation, Shouyo's mouth pressing hard against Tobio's in a kiss that tasted of salt and midnight promises. Tobio froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, then melted into it, his grip tightening on Shouyo's shirt as he kissed back with equal fervor.
Their lips moved hungrily, tongues brushing tentatively at first, then bolder, exploring the wet warmth of each other's mouths.
Shouyo moaned softly into the kiss, his body arching closer, hips slotting against Tobio's in a grind that sent sparks racing down his spine.
Tobio's hands slid up, one tangling in Shouyo's damp hair, the other cupping his jaw, tilting his head for a deeper angle. The kiss deepened, tongues sliding together in slick, rhythmic strokes, breaths mingling in hot pants. Shouyo's fingers dug into Tobio's waist, pulling him flush, feeling the hard line of his arousal pressing against his thigh through their pants. The tension exploded into pure sensation—lips swollen and slick, the faint scrape of teeth, the shared gasp as they broke for air only to dive back in.
When they finally parted, chests heaving Tobio's eyes, dark and dilated, searched Shouyo's face. 'Dumbass,' he whispered, but his thumb traced Shouyo's lower lip, voice rough with want. Shouyo grinned, breathless, the weight of the evening lifted entirely. 'Yeah... but you like it.'
Shouyo tackled tobio , putting his lips on his ,
five.
The fifth time was after the Tokyo Olympics. The adrenaline had carried them through the matches, but once the closing ceremony ended, the bill came due.
Hinata had played every single set. He had jumped thousands of times. He had dived into the floor until his hips were a map of purple bruises, and even with him being and obsessive freak, he somehow got distracted and forgot to stretch out .
The day after the finals, Hinata was unable to get out of bed. His back had seized up so badly he couldn't even reach for his water bottle.
Kageyama didn't call the team doctor. He knew Hinata hated the fuss. Instead, he went to the training room, borrowed — more like stole— a high-end massage gun, some medicated patches, and a bucket of ice.
He spent the afternoon on the floor of Hinata’s room. He worked the knots out of Hinata’s calves with steady, practiced hands. He applied the patches to Hinata’s lower back, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt.
"You're getting good at this," Hinata mumbled into his pillow.
"I’ve had a lot of practice with a certain accident-prone idiot," Kageyama replied. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, kneading the tension out of Hinata’s shoulders. "You pushed too hard in the fourth set. I told you to let the libero take the deep balls."
"Had to... help you," Hinata whispered. "You looked... tired too."
Kageyama paused, his fingers digging into a particularly nasty knot. " Even so , you also forgot to stretch "
"Oh c'mon , I forgot plus I got distracted by someone kissing the life out of me."
Kageyama didn't argue. He just kept working, making sure Hinata’s body was cared for, . He stayed until Hinata fell into a dee sleep
+1
Kageyama was rarely sick. He treated his body like a high-performance engine—premium fuel, scheduled maintenance, no exceptions. But even engines can catch a virus.
It was a brutal strain of the flu. Kageyama had tried to hide it during morning practice, but he’d missed three tosses in a row, his depth perception warped by a 103-degree fever.
The Adlers coach had sent him home immediately because he don't play bout no player of his.
Kageyama managed to stumble into his apartment before his legs gave out. He collapsed onto his sofa, shivering violently despite the heat of the afternoon. The world was spinning, a nauseating whirl of grey and white.
He woke up hours later to the sound of someone swearing in his kitchen.
"Where do you keep the ginger, you obsessive freak? Why is everything in your pantry labeled by caloric density? Even if I lived here I wouldn't get used to this"
Kageyama tried to sit up, but his head felt like it was filled with lead. " Shouyo?"
Hinata appeared in the doorway, wearing a ridiculous apron over his MSBY sweatshirt. He looked furious. "You didn't answer your phone for six hours. I thought you died."
"I'm fine. Just... a headache."
"You're a bad liar," Hinata said, walking over and pressing a cold hand to Kageyama’s forehead. He made a clicking sound with his tongue. "You're burning up. Sit back down."
For the first time in their lives, Kageyama was the one being handled. It was a bizarre experience. Hinata was surprisingly efficient. He didn't hover or panic; he moved with the same decisive energy he used on the court.
He forced Kageyama into a lukewarm bath to break the fever, ignoring Kageyama’s weak protests. He changed the sheets with lightning speed. He appeared every thirty minutes with a glass of electrolyte water.
"Drink," Hinata commanded, echoing Kageyama’s own voice from years ago.
"I'm not... thirsty."
"I don't care. Drink it or I’m calling your sister and telling her you’re crying for her."
Kageyama drank.
As the night wore on, the fever peaked. Kageyama became delirious, mumbling about hand signals and court dimensions. He felt a cool cloth on his face, a steady hand holding his own when the chills made his bones ache.
"I've got you, Kageyama," Hinata’s voice was soft, devoid of its usual competitive edge.
Kageyama drifted in and out of sleep. In his moments of clarity, he saw Hinata sitting on a stool by the bed, reading a manga but constantly glancing at Kageyama’s face, checking his breathing, adjusting the blankets.
Hinata stayed for two days. He made a bland rice porridge that actually tasted good. He fended off the Adlers' PR team. He even sat through a three-hour documentary on Italian setters because he knew the sound of it would soothe Kageyama.
On the third morning, Kageyama’s fever finally broke. He woke up feeling weak but clear-headed. Hinata was curled up in the armchair, fast asleep, a half-eaten apple on the side table.
Kageyama watched him for a long time. He thought about everything they've been with together, everytime tobio took it on himself to care for this stupid guy.
But looking at Hinata now—this dumbass who had rushed to him because he didn't answer his phone
He reached out, his hand still a bit shaky, and tucked the fallen blanket back around Hinata’s shoulders.
Hinata stirred, opening one eye. He saw Kageyama looking at him and a sleepy, triumphant grin spread across his face.
"I took better care of you than you did of me," Hinata whispered.
Kageyama rolled his eyes, the familiar warmth of their rivalry returning to his chest. "In your dreams, dumbass. You put too much ginger in the porridge."
"You ate three bowls!"
"I was starving. It doesn't mean it was good."
Hinata laughed, jumping up to check Kageyama’s temperature one last time. "You're definitely better. Your personality is back to being awful."
"Shut up and get me water."
"Only if you admit I'm the best at taking care of people."
Kageyama looked at him—really looked at him. At the partner who had become his world.
"You're the best at a lot of things, shouyo" Kageyama said, his voice unusually quiet.
Hinata froze, his face turning pink. "Whoa. Okay. You're still delirious. I'm calling the doctor."
Kageyama smiled, a real one, and closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was perfectly happy to let someone else take the lead.