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Playing with the national team is wonderful in its own right: the team spirit, the world stage, the pride of a country on your shoulders and in your heart.
But, for Shouyou, it’s mostly nice just to have Kageyama bellowing at him from across the court again.
(He hollers right back at him, naturally.)
He loves his teammates back in Brazil, loves everyone who comes up for selection on the national team. He does. He does. His inner cat purrs and preens when they shower their hands down his back after a particularly stunning spike or when they ruffle his hair or lift him into twirling hugs of joy. They’re friendly, supportive, and frequently complimentary of Shouyou’s skills despite his stature.
Which is all very nice and all – and don’t misunderstand Shouyou, he thrives on praise – but there’s just something extra sweet when someone cares enough to really yell at you.
It had weirded out their compatriots at first. None of them had had the misfortune of playing with them during their high school years. Up until now, they were known individually as professional teammates and as a pair only as a distant obstacle in years gone by.
So it had baffled every single one of them that one of the most devastating setter-spiker duos in modern volleyball also came with a healthy dollop of squabbling.
“I knew you had a rivalry thing going on, but I didn’t know it was – “ Atsumu-san gesticulates vaguely as though sign language may illustrate his point better “this…”
“Disturbing.” Sakusa-san contributes, dark eyes narrowing in what could be disgust as Kageyama launches into another rant about Shouyou’s receiving that practice session. Shouyou isn’t entirely sure on the specifics of Sakusa-san’s ire. He’s already spun away to get into his second favourite sport: verbal sparring with Kageyama in prime dickhead mode.
Some of their older teammates had stared at Kageyama like he’d grown a second head when his and Shouyou’s arguments got heated enough that the curses started falling free. Kageyama had long since shed his people-pleasing setting on the court, but he managed to stay quite firmly polite otherwise. It gives Shouyou a sick sort of thrill to see people’s jaws drop when Kageyama’s mean streak pops out. See? See what I have to put up with? He rants internally towards them as Kageyama bitches him out before sending him a toss so pretty that it nearly moves Shouyou to tears.
Because this is the volleyball that Shouyou misses when he’s in Brazil. The kind that really drives him to do better. Playing against some of the best in the world in one of the top volleyball leagues on the planet helps, of course, but at this point everyone’s a bit too… nice. Shouyou’s at a stage where people look to him for inspiration now. While endlessly flattering to his purring ego, he feels the endless yearning to get better stretching ever wider when surrounded by nothing but positivity.
Which is sort of weird to think about considering the quite literal blood, sweat, and tears that he’s shed to get here but Shouyou has always been something of a masochist.
He sighs happily when Kageyama shoves him for his spike being 1 millimetre off the back line and gleefully kicks him back. This is the life.
(Their teammates continue to stare, disturbed. No-one says anything, not while they still perform magic on the court week after week.)
“Eight more tosses, please,” he demands of Kageyama when they get another ball.
A suspicious squint. “Why eight?”
“Not sure if you can manage double digits, you were rolling your wrists earlier.”
The squint morphs into a glare. Invisible steam coils out of Kageyama’s ears. “I wonder why that was.”
Shouyou beams at him merrily. He doesn’t have the hardest serve but something in him feels extra vicious when he’s making Kageyama receive it. “My pleasure. Come on then, chop-chop.”
He gets a fist in his hair for the cheek but before he can whine and elbow Kageyama in ribs in retaliation, his favourite nemesis says the magic words:
“Let’s try something new.”
Shouyou’s pupils dilate like he’s just been administered a fuck load of drugs. The effect is the same – something new, something exciting, with the only setter insane enough to be as unhinged as he is. Cardiac arrest would be imminent from how hard Shouyou’s heart starts beating if he weren’t stupidly addicted to the sensation. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I saw something in Italy. If you move here…”
Kageyama’s fingers leave Shouyou’s scalp to point and illustrate, and Shouyou leans in giddily to listen, filling in the gaps whenever Kageyama pauses for breath.
(Their teammates shake their heads and wander off – the only thing weirder than the arguing is the rapid chatting in a code only Kageyama and Shouyou understand. The whiplash from ripping out throats to becoming perfectly in sync is exhausting.)
The move is difficult: Kageyama had watched a player no less than two metres tall pull it off but, as always, the height is never an issue in Kageyama’s brain. Not in the way it is in everyone else’s – a limiting factor, a problem. For Kageyama, it’s merely a case of recalculating; a new angle here, a different speed there. It still makes Shouyou breathless sometimes. Even now, he’s surrounded by players – teammates and opponents alike – who start so many of their sentences with “well, you’re short, so…”
The only time that Kageyama’s ever brought it up is when he wants to use Shouyou as arm rest.
Yeah, this is what Shouyou craves when he’s half a world away in Brazil.
The only problem is – and it’s not even really a problem, Shouyou’s just a glutton – he misses it all too much when he goes home after practice. Home being the small, convenient flat he was renting here in Japan before the national team ships out to whichever country is hosting tournaments.
For the first couple of years of their professional careers Shouyou puts it down to his unending thirst to be on the volleyball court. He clocks it properly later, when the notion of Kageyama going home somewhere else, separately, while they’re still in the same country really sours his mood. It’s not like he expects Kageyama to still toss to him in the living room or anything (although that would be pretty fantastic) so much as he misses… all the rest of it.
The bickering, the physical contact that could either be a jubilant hug or violent wrestle depending on the day and mood. The mind reading, the easy comfort of being exactly yourself. Shouyou never has any worries when he’s with Kageyama – they’re either soothed away or beaten out of him and never knowing quite which method he’ll get is an adrenaline rush.
And Shouyou is a junkie.
“Rent with me this year,” he says to Kageyama the second they see each other at the first national team meet up of the new season.
Kageyama, recognising that this is a demand and not a suggestion, gives it four milliseconds to consider before mumbling “sure” around his water bottle.
Shouyou beams, his next hit secured. He takes charge in handling the arrangements, Kageyama indulging him in a small argument about the location, and within a week they’re living in mutual turmoil in a roomy flat on the outskirts of Tokyo.
They fight over the best spot on the sofa. Shouyou prepares the meals and Kageyama rattles off critiques until Shouyou finds himself bitterly altering all of the recipes accordingly. Twice they end up in the shower together at the same time. Both too stubborn to let the other go first, nearly slipping and causing a career ending injury in the too-small stall for two childish men.
They argue over when alarms should be set and whether they should go for a run in the morning or the evening – god forbid they go alone – and if they should hire a cleaner.
Shouyou’s lived with plenty of other people. Quiet and thoughtful ones, messy and loud ones – all of them, fortunately, decent roommates.
But this is nothing short of bliss. No chore chart to work around (Kageyama won that battle and a cleaning company was contacted on week three). No concern about whether he needs to be dressed appropriately before leaving his room (after several shared shower exploits Kageyama probably knows what his ass looks like better than Shouyou does at this point). No worries about meals (they eat the same thing) or what to watch on tv (they watch the same thing) or even where to lounge half the time. Usually Kageyama uses his big, stupid body to win the spot and Shouyou promptly clambers into his lap in revenge.
Shouyou’s dopamine receptors, already a bit fried, are practically knocked offline entirely by the end of the first month. The buzz of having Kageyama all the time settles in his blood like oxygen, until it’s so diffuse that Shouyou starts to wonder if he’s missing something.
He’s not completely latched. They each alternate practicing with different team members during sessions. Shouyou visits family and his friends. Kageyama occasionally comes with and sometimes drifts off like a ghost.
Shouyou doesn’t really want to close this particular social gap. A little space is nice. But there’s definitely a hunger growing in his belly, like the dessert is missing after an excellent meal.
He takes to watching Kageyama in the quiet moments, as though observing the man that he knows better than himself will illuminate the missing piece.
It soon becomes another fixation.
Shouyou’s hungry eyes track Kageyama around the flat – cataloguing his little yawns and stretches, the clothes that he likes to wear when he’s relaxing, the fact that he’s completely immune to bed hair. Shouyou files these little titbits in his brain and feasts on them in his dreams, leaving him waking up even hungrier and even more confused.
Talking more doesn’t help. He already chews Kageyama’s ear off daily and if the man isn’t interested in quarrelling, then he’ll mostly stick to monosyllabic responses. Shouyou knows that he’s always listening, but that doesn’t translate much to speaking. Considering that Shouyou thinks he has mastered the art of reading Kageyama’s rather simple mind and his three moods (hungry; competitive; grumpy) this isn’t really fulfilling his growing craving.
He reverts back to staring for a week. Once he’s logged all of Kageyama’s behaviours like he’s Shouyou’s personal science project he moves onto other things to observe. Like breadth of his shoulders under his t-shirts and the thickness of his thighs beneath his shorts. The way his hair glistens and his eyes are a stupidly clear shade of blue. His hard-earned, effortless strength and the way his cheeks dimple slightly whenever he dares to crack a smile.
Shouyou’s not blind and – contrary to Tsukishima’s assessment – not totally stupid either. He knows that Kageyama is attractive. Plenty of girls and boys ogled him in high school. Legions of fans line up at games to get a selfie over his autograph. He’s topped the sexiest volleyball player lists multiple times (Shouyou’s best entry so far is five and he’s livid about it.)
He’s perfectly aware that Kageyama is a good-looking man. And Shouyou himself is only human, and his mind has possibly strayed over into sinful areas in the darkness of his bedroom more than once. The curve of Kageyama’s spine from his broad back down across his waist and sweeping back over the swell of his ass. The ridges of his muscles and the callouses on his palms and how they feel on Shouyou’s skin. All manner of illegal thoughts one shouldn’t have about their best friend in the dead of night.
But Shouyou is still an addict, and he’ll take the forbidden hit.
Even though it’s not enough, even though it makes shame coil a little in his belly and leaves wanting more, more, more.
Weirdly, it’s easier to be satiated when he’s tackling Kageyama in the bathroom or throwing his legs across his lap on the sofa. High fives and fist bumps and brief hugs on the court. A lingering grasp of fingers when they lose, Kageyama’s fingers carding through his hair when they win. Wrestling on the living room floor when yoga gets boring. That one evening around the time each year when Kageyama gets sad and quiet and Shouyou had just stepped into his space and hugged him.
It’s different from a victory hug after a match. No fists in shirts or the brief lift of Shouyou’s feet from the ground. No sweaty arm around his shoulders pulling him into Kageyama’s side.
Kageyama is unexpectedly warm, almost cosy when he’s not drenched from exertion. Broad shoulders the perfect height for Shouyou to rest his chin on (his crown the perfect height for Kageyama’s). The way he can hear the steady thump of Kageyama’s heart, a quiet reminder that his favourite person is in fact, still just a human.
They snap back to normal the next morning. Kageyama rants about Shouyou’s serves and Shouyou challenges him to a service ace competition that he has no hope of winning just for the pettiness of it all. They bite and snap at each other and Shouyou would be high on the delirium if he weren’t the greediest creature ever to prowl a volleyball court.
Because as soon as he had it, he misses it – that touch, that closeness, that little bit of extra Kageyama that made his cravings still for a moment.
An idea comes to him on their last night in a hotel, right after a successful run of games before shipping back home. Into training for another short spell before flying out again.
Shouyou has always roomed with Kageyama. This time didn’t feel any different than before, even with the ravenous monster in his belly. It only hits him now, right when they’re about to go back to separate bedrooms in their rented flat that’s felt more like home than anywhere else Shouyou has been. No more soft snores on the air. No more whispered jibes in the dead of night. No more waking up to a shared alarm and cackling at Kageyama’s complete lack of any coordination and grace as he tries to smack it silent.
The idea is abhorrent to Shouyou. The feeling only deepens when they’re home the following night for what should be the best sleep that Shouyou’s had in days. Everyone always raves about how super fucking fantastic it is to finally get in your own bed. Normally, Shouyou would agree. But now his bed is too quiet, too empty, and his mind is made up before he realises that there was even a choice.
Shouyou gathers up a spare blanket and a pillow and walks with purpose down the hall until he reaches Kageyama’s room. It doesn’t occur to him to hesitate before he knees open the door. If Kageyama tries to throw him out, he’ll just plant his feet – he’s been working on his core strength and centre of gravity.
Miraculously, Kageyama is still awake at the late hour of 10pm. “What.”
Some of Shouyou’s bravado falters briefly. He’d been about to throw his pillow down (because Kageyama is psychotic and sleeps with three) and clamber in but Kageyama’s eyes are less grumpy and piercing and more so sleepy and baffled. Something in Shouyou’s chest turns a bit gloopy.
“Can we share?” he asks, tucking his bedding under one arm so that he can helpfully point at the unoccupied side of Kageyama’s bed.
Kageyama blinks slowly at him. “Uhh…” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “Why?”
Because me in one bed and you in another is driving me nuts. Because I got addicted to sharing a room. Because we have to go back to different countries soon and instead of weaning myself off of you I want every scrap I can get before you go.
But he says none of that. If Kageyama knows the depths of his depravity then Shouyou will never get what he wants.
“I miss training camp.”
A dirty fucking lie. Training camp was years ago. It had at least ten other people in the room and was hot and sweaty in all the wrong ways. But they were still side-by-side in futons that were practically touching and it’s the closest thing to the truth that Shouyou is willing to admit out loud.
Kageyama’s eyes lose a little of their sleepiness and his jaw tightens, the rusty cogs in his thick skull visibly turning as he considers.
“Fine,” he grunts, flinging himself back down on the mattress and rolling over onto his side like he usually does.
Shouyou gapes a little, unable to hide his surprised glee. He does normally get his own way eventually, but not usually with so little resistance. Scampering over before Kageyama can come to his senses, he climbs between the covers and arranges his brought in bedding. Splaying out like a starfish on his back, he brushes his toes against the backs of Kageyama’s calf. Kageyama promptly kicks back at him, signalling stay there but Shouyou just knees him back, a demented grin sweeping across his face. The gluttonous monster in his chest purrs in contentment.
It’s bliss for all of four weeks before they’re off and away in hotels across the globe again.
And this time when they return it’s only for a week. Enough time for debriefing with the team, last minute press duties, and interviews. Then it’s ending the lease on this outer Tokyo flat and flying off to opposite ends of the globe. Back to Brazil and Italy and if Shouyou said he wasn’t excited to have Kageyama as a competitor again he would be lying.
And yet. To have that means letting this go. The daily fights on volleyball tactics. Kageyama’s deep voice yelling in his ear and elegant fingers yanking on his hair. Elbowing each other to scrawl a tally mark on the whiteboard that they’d pinned to their fridge to log their ongoing point war.
Shouyou’s not ready to go cold turkey. He wants to kick Kageyama’s ass in volleyball in the mornings and link up with him in the afternoons and clamber into his bed in the evenings. Every day until they’re both forty and ancient.
He knows he’s being ridiculous and unrealistic and terribly dramatic, but the thing is – the thing is…
He’s also sure that Kageyama feels the same way. He doesn’t have any proof per se, but no-one can read Kageyama’s twisted up, ugly frowns better than Shouyou can.
Kageyama’s sulking, just like Shouyou is, and his sullenness radiates from him as they slip under the covers for the penultimate time that evening. It could be misconstrued as being pissed off that Shouyou is still clambering into his bed, but Shouyou’s not so easily fooled. If Kageyama didn’t want him here, he’d be slung out by the scruff of his neck by now.
And because Shouyou is reckless and foolish and swayed by his own endless desires, he opts not to starfish in bed tonight. He rolls over onto his side instead, so that he can face Kageyama, intending to stare at his back until he falls asleep.
He doesn’t expect to be met with Kageyama’s piercing gaze in the gloom.
Shouyou startles, unprepared for Kageyama to also break tradition and roll onto his other side. He swallows roughly, keenly aware of his steadily building hunger. “Hello. Fancy seeing you here.”
The weak joke falls flat, hopeless even if Shouyou had managed to nail the delivery. Kageyama’s scowl deepens further and Shouyou squirms, further thrown off by the unexpected intensity. Suddenly the observer has become the observee.
Shouyou’s tongue wets his lips, and he sucks in a quick breath, another pointless joke ready on his tongue before it’s abruptly smothered by Kageyama.
Kissing him.
Messily, clumsily, with too much forehead and noses bending out of alignment.
It is, objectively, the worst kiss that Shouyou has ever been on the receiving end of.
That doesn’t stop his blood igniting. Sucking in air through his squished nose, Shouyou reaches up a hand and cradles Kageyama’s throat, pulling him closer. Ever the quick study, Kageyama works out where to tilt his head to allow breathing to occur, correcting the angle so that their gasping mouths slot better together.
Shouyou’s toes curl as he clings desperately to his own personal brand of cocaine.
So this is what it was – what he’s been missing, what he’s been craving.
(He can never let Kageyama know. Or at the very least bin the whiteboard score chart so it can’t go on Kageyama’s tally for having the sheer audacity to figure it out first.)
Time slows and is muted out entirely as Shouyou lets himself ride the best high that he’s ever had in his life. This is almost better than when he finally went pro. Kageyama seems to agree, his big hands fisting in Shouyou’s night shirt, their knees knocking as he tries to drag them closer together. Shouyou’s hand slips up from Kageyama’s neck to his hair, digging his fingers into silky strands to not-so-gently tilt his head this way and that, perfecting their angle.
Eventually, he recognises the tiny scream in the back of his brain as a need for oxygen and Shouyou tugs Kageyama back so that he can heave in air. Kageyama’s also panting, hot breath puffing over Shouyou’s face, his pupils blown so wide that it’s impossible to see the blue surrounding them.
Shouyou’s tempted – so very fucking tempted – to clatter them back together and slot his tongue between Kageyama’s swollen lips. Instead, he bonks his forehead against Kageyama’s and lets out a low groan of frustration. Kageyama’s hands loosen and tighten rhythmically in his shirt, unsure how to proceed with this.
“Why’d you do that now?” Shouyou whines, quickly scrubbing his fingertips over Kageyama’s scalp to signal he’s not really that mad.
“You fly back to Brazil the day after tomorrow,” Kageyama answers after a pause. He says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s in another interview, but Shouyou knows it as his ‘keep calm so I don’t scream’ voice.
“Exactly.” Shouyou punches out a sigh and briefly kisses Kageyama again, hot and fast and not enough. “Now I have to go back and think about this the whole time until I see you again.” More kisses – across Kageyama’s cheeks and nose and chin, making him squirm even though he’s held firmly in place by their tangled limbs. “You selfish bastard. Don’t you know how I’ve been going crazy these past few months?”
“Yes,” Kageyama replies, again so simply that Shouyou is tempted to headbutt him. “It’s been the same for me.”
Oh, well, that’s alright then. Misery loves company. Shouyou fumes quietly internally. Now they’re both going to go insane. The national team is doomed. Maybe Kenma’s oodles of money are enough to invent a teleporter –
Kageyama breaks through Shouyou’s rapidly spinning thoughts: “You’ll just have to visit.”
Shouyou pauses. His drugged-up brain skitters to a halt. Restarts. Yes, that probably is the easiest solution. He’ll still drive himself round the bend, wanting and needing and craving until Kageyama’s back with him again. Shouting at him and giving him the most beautiful tosses and taking him to bed where he holds him like a trophy.
“Why do I have to visit you?” Shouyou grumbles, just to be contrary. “Visit me.”
“I’ve already been to Brazil.”
Touche.
“And you still didn’t come and see me,” Shouyou sighs wistfully. “You clearly hate me.”
“Evidently.”
Shouyou hums as Kageyama’s hands skirt down his sides to fiddle with the hem of his shirt instead. These upcoming weeks are going to be a severe test of his patience. He wouldn’t trade Kageyama-the-opponent for anything, he thrives too much on trying to conquer his final peak. But it’s still going to suck – the waiting.
Kageyama slips a hand beneath Shouyou’s shirt and pinches his skin lightly. “You’ll cope,” he grunts, head jerking when Shouyou pulls at his hair in retaliation. “You waited long enough for volleyball.”
Yeah, and that nearly killed him. Now Kageyama wants him to do it all over again for the second love of his life? Torture.
He wriggles, encouraging Kageyama to do more with his hands now that they’re pressed up against his bare stomach and sides. Abs jumping at the obedient brush of fingers, Shouyou drags their lips back together again, kissing Kageyama lazily.
“You’ll have to call me,” Shouyou insists against Kageyama’s skin as he presses open mouth kisses along his jaw. “Like actually answer your phone. With video, if you can manage it.”
“Fine,” Kageyama agrees willingly enough, dragging his hands further up Shouyou’s torso. “I’ll send you my schedule when I get it.”
Which means his agent will, but Shouyou’s too preoccupied to call him out for a change. He shoves and pushes and prods until Kageyama rolls over onto his back. Sitting up and swinging a leg over Kageyama’s hips, Shouyou settles himself on top, leaning down to recapture Kageyama’s mouth as both their hands go searching.
He’s probably going to go bankrupt on plane tickets. Kageyama’s probably going to set the internet alight by accidentally posting some scandalous photo meant for Shouyou’s eyes only on his public Twitter. They’re both going to become deranged with all the waiting, but he supposes that will make the reunion all the more sweet.
Kageyama grunts complaints as he kneads his fingers down Shouyou’s back, getting grumpy that Shouyou’s taking too much of the lead. Cracking a grin, Shouyou doesn’t concede, relishing in Kageyama’s bossy tones in his ear. He kisses him silent again, fully intending on overdosing on as much of Kageyama as he can.
As long as he’s got him here, he’s going to have his fill.