Chapter Text
Some of his memories were fleeting, disappearing as quickly as they formed, and Shōyō could count the amount of people that left a mark on his soul on his hand. As of lately, a certain captain has been rearing inside of his thoughts. Their first meeting wasn’t savory, what with Shōyō vainly trying to protect his uncomfortable manager from a captain with a tongue ring. In the end, they went their separate ways, but the memory of Terushima Yūji didn’t fade from his mind. It seemed that everything bright and boisterous reminded Shōyō of Terushima, and it was getting dangerous. Thoughts of that illustrious tongue ring caused him to miss many tosses during practice, and he knew his teammates were getting worried.
It was lust; teenage hormones; but damn if Shōyō didn’t imagine what that tongue ring would feel like.
Of course, all Shōyō could do is imagine. Like the rest of the world, Terushima would look at Shōyō and think, this here is a child.
Music pulsed on the walls, the beat rattling his lungs. It crawled over every crevice it found, and hummed against the earth. Shōyō sighed, tipping his cup back. The alcohol curled in the pit of his stomach, warm and pleasant as it pooled in his veins. There was a pleasant buzz humming inside of his mind, but Shōyō could still go for a few more drinks before he stopped himself and called it a night.
He snorted into his solo cup (red, of course). If only the team could see me…A laugh slipped off his tongue. If his teammates saw him in a scene such as this, he didn’t think they’d survive. Hell, even Tsukishima made snide remarks over his “innocence”. His upperclassmen seemed hellbent on preserving his alleged purity, going as far as to cover his ears when unsavory topics floated in the air (i.e., sex and the like) or scolding him for cursing.
It’s not harming anyone, Shōyō thought to himself as he walked pass the dance floor to the kitchen, in need of another drink. Karasuno could keep their delusions if they’d like, so long as it didn’t bleed into Shōyō’s private life. Surprisingly, few loitered the kitchen. Unless they were extremely intoxicated, or refilling their cup, most were either crammed on the dancefloor or littered around the house. As he noticed a puddle of puke in a corner, Shōyō felt a twinge of pity for the owner of the house. The pity didn’t last long, however, and Shōyō busied himself with another drink.
It was barely ten, and Shōyō had already lost sight of his friend. Knowing Kōji, he’d found his nightly partner. Shōyō didn’t care, so long as everything was consensual on both ends. Expertly creating another masterpiece, Shōyō hopped onto the counter and munched on a few snacks that had survived the hours.
It wouldn’t do to get drunk on an empty stomach.
As the song changed to a catchy, upbeat western song, one that Shōyō was unfamiliar with, cheers boomed from all corners of the house. A stray thought entered Shōyō’s mind. Do I have morning practice tomorrow? If he did, he was screwed. Practicing a sport with a hangover was never on Shōyō’s to-do list. He shot off a quick text to Sawamura, making sure his typos were limited to one or two, and felt his ease relax. If there was practice, he’d leave in an hour or so (probably not, because midnight was when the shots would commence and fuck if Shōyō missed that). If there wasn’t, well he’d already told his parents he’d be gone for the night (and that there was a chance he’d miss school).
Surprisingly, his parents were alright with him attending parties as long as he didn’t do anything extremely reckless (“Like drugs,” his mother had said). That was also the night his parents went over safe sex and the like (fully equipped with a PowerPoint Presentation and many, many pamphlets). Shōyō was puzzled over why they gave him the sex talk specifically for men, given that his fifteen-year-old self was perfectly happy in the closet, and his parents told him that he wasn’t subtle in any way.
Natsu, his little sister, just demanded that he buy her “souvenirs” like he was going to a damn amusement park (he bought her key chains but, whatever).
His phone buzzed with a text from his captain.
[23:25] Dadchi: We do. Please go to bed, Hinata
“Fuck me,” Shōyō said before draining half of his cup.
“With pleasure,” a voice, deep and sultry, spoke.
Shōyō found himself choking, blinking dazedly at a smirking Terushima Yūji. Apart from seeing him dressed in casual clothes, Terushima hadn’t changed—actually, that was a lie. Dressed in dark, tight jeans, and a shirt that accentuated his muscles, Terushima looked less like a volleyball captain and more like a delinquent. Well, Shōyō thought as he calmed his racing heart. He does have a tongue ring.
Shōyō ignored the tiny voice in his head that wondered if Terushima had more. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, raking his eyes approvingly over Terushima’s figure, and purred, “Are you offering, Terushima?”
Terushima’s dark-haired teammate—Futamata Takeharu; second-year setter—snickered at Terushima’s gob smacked looked. The teen didn’t expect Shōyō to reply with anything else other than embarrassed stutters. “You say it but you can’t take it, Yūji, that’s just sad,” he said, laughing quietly.
“Takeharu,” Terushima whined, an overexaggerated pout on his lips. “So mean!”
Their other friend, Bobata Kazuma, had already polished two cups of alcohol. “What’s Karasuno’s Decoy doing at a place like this?” Bobata questioned, sliding two cups in Terushima’s and Futamata’s direction, and saw Shōyō’s expression cloud.
“I’m not a child, if that’s what you’re asking,” Shōyō said, in a voice that could freeze the ocean.
The three teens raised their hands in the universal symbol of peace.
“Seeing as how Yūji wants to fuck you,” Futamata said, “I highly doubt he sees you as a kid. I’d punch his teeth out if he did.”
Terushima scrunched his nose. “That’s just gross. I mean, I’m nasty but I’m not that nasty.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, uh, Hinata,” Bobata said, running his fingers through his hair. “I just didn’t think Karasuno held the party types.”
Shōyō snorted, but it was the truth. One would think Tanaka’s and Nishinoya’s idea of a party would consist of the scene Shōyō was in but, in reality, it was filled with video game marathons that they’d rope the other second years into attending. (their idea of a “wild” night was beginning and finishing a game in one night). He loved them, but his upperclassmen would be completely lost and overwhelmed at a party like this one.
“As far as I know,” Shōyō said, “I’m the only one attending these things.”
His phone buzzed once more; though this time it was a text from his fellow manager, Yachi Hitoka. Shōyō furrowed his eyebrows together, why was Yacchan texting him?
[23:46] Yacchan: please don’t forget morning practice Shō-kun!!! You’ll make Daichi-san mad!!! Also, b careful!!! I saw your story so I know your out!
By “story”, Shōyō knew the girl was referring to his snapchat. Out of Karasuno, only Yachi, his childhood friend Acchan, and a few other partygoers knew his snapchat. If he gave it to his team, they’d wreak havoc. Sometimes, Yachi would follow him to a party and stick to the few other introverts that dared to come. Like him, Yachi was tired of people looking at her as something pure and innocent—Shōyō saw how competitive the blonde got with beer pong and body shots; she was no innocent. She’d made fast friends with Kuribayashi Runa, ironically Johzenji’s manager, that way (those two dominated drinking games together—Shōyō was both amazed and horrified).
But he definitely shipped it.
[23:49] Me: don’t worry, Yacchan!!! But I just met some1 lol so who knows
The reply was instant.
[23:49] Yacchan: oml Shō-kun b safe
[23:50] Me: always
Shōyō made himself another drink, right as someone started calling for jelly shots. “We should get out the kitchen,” Shōyō said, hearing the impeding footsteps. “Unless you want to get trampled.”
“Jelly shots?” Bobata smirked, downing the rest of his drink.
“Hell yes,” he and Futamata chorused.
The air was sweltering from all the body heat, so Shōyō made his way outside. On his way, he spotted Koji leading someone to one of the many bedrooms littering the house. He caught his friends’ eye, and gave him a thumbs up. Koji smirked in reply. Terushima trailed behind him, a shadow at his heels, and Shōyō felt eyes upon his silhouette. He snickered. If Shōyō was unsubtle, Terushima was transparent.
It was quieter outside. In the house, cheers and shouts echoed from the kitchen. “Jelly shots!” was a repeated cheer. Despite the party scene, and the alcohol in their veins, Shōyō was quiet as he sat next to Terushima on the back porch. Terushima was oddly quiet, then again Shōyō didn’t know the teen very well outside of an official game.
“Shots! Shots! Shots!”
They chatted quietly with one another, finding volleyball as a common ground. Shōyō learned many things about Terushima that, normally, he’d never expect. Like how the teen was in Class 7 (college prep), or how he had two other siblings, and that, even with his body art, he was a fucking nerd (but Shōyō couldn’t talk because get him started on photography and he would never shut up). The moon rose higher in the sky, and a few drinking games commenced indoors, and they settled into comfortable silence.
Shōyō wondered how long they’d been speaking.
By the time Terushima spoke, Shōyō was finished with his drink. “So uh did you mean it?” he questioned. Shōyō glanced at him. From what little Shōyō knew of him, Terushima didn’t appear as a type to be vulnerable yet insecurity glittered in his eyes.
“I did,” Shōyō said. There was no use in sugarcoating or using flowery metaphors. “Before we do, though, is that tongue ring your only piercing?”
Terushima shook his head. “Nah, I’ve a few cartilage piercings—and a nose ring. I’ve a few tattoos, too.”
Shōyō flushed. If anything was his weakness, it was piercings and tattoos. Fuck. “Sexy,” Shōyō murmured, setting his drink aside. “How long have you been here?”
“I live here,” Terushima said, eyes crinkling with his smile.
Shōyō raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Do you always throw parties?”
Terushima laughed; it was a pleasant sound to his ears. “Johzenji’s not known as the party school for nothing, y’know.”
“Good luck cleaning up the puke,” Shōyō snickered.
“That’s Bobata’s job,” Terushima said flatly.
Shōyō snorted, before glancing at the light flush sprawling over Terushima’s cheeks. “How many tattoos do you have?”
“How many do you have?”
“One,” Shōyō replied. Only his parents knew of his tattoo, and what it meant. It was small, easily hidden by wristbands and the like. Seeing no harm, Shōyō showed Terushima the inside of his wrist. Two black, crow-like wings were inked onto the small of his wrist, delicate but strong. “I got it the day after Karasuno won against Shiratorizawa.”
Terushima whistled. “Nice.”
“Your turn, hotshot,” Shōyō smirked.
He expected Terushima to rattle off a number, but the older teen surprised him by pulling him close. They were flush against one another, noses bumping, and Shōyō saw the flecks of brown swirling in Terushima’s eyes. His lips brushed against Shōyō’s ear, causing him to shiver, and he whispered, “How about I show you instead, Shōyō?”
Mentally, he sent apologies to Yachi.
There was no way in hell he’d make it to practice in the morning.
When Shōyō woke, rays of the morning sun poked through Terushima’s room. He groaned, not wanting to deal with shit, and burrowed himself deeper against Terushima’s warmth. He was sweaty, but extremely sated (who wouldn’t be, after legitimately four rounds of sex). He had a small migraine (they had a few shots in the kitchen before escaping to the bedroom, but Shōyō drank water and ate snacks like it was the end of the world—he wasn’t going to have a terrible hangover, no thank you), and his throat was parched, but, overall, Shōyō was content.
(the sex was amazing, so that was a plus—Shōyō thanked the creator of tongue rings because goddamn).
Terushima snickered quietly, fingers curled in Shōyō’s hair. “Morning,” he murmured. Shōyō’s toes curled. Even his voice, when he was half-asleep, was sexy. What the fuck was this?
“Time?” Shōyō mumbled. His limbs were heavy.
“Eight,” Terushima said.
Shōyō hummed, noncommittal, before his eyes widened. He sat upright, but his urgency halted as pain sprawled over his lower body. “Fuck!” Shōyō said, panic erasing the last dredges of sleep clinging to his mind. “Fuck! I’m dead!”
Ignoring Terushima’s questioning look, Shōyō reached for his phone. Somehow, it was charging? Checking his alerts, he winced as he saw the missed calls and text messages from his teammates around six in the morning. I’m going to die. Ignoring the others, he looked at Yachi’s.
[6:09] Yacchan: I kno ur fucking some1 rn
[6:09] Yacchan: I covered for u, saying you had a fever
[6:09] Yacchan: and ur parents made u stay home
[6:10] Yacchan: told sme bs of how you don’t get sick and they panicked
[6:10] Yacchan: which u don’t but not the pt
[6:10] Yacchan: but its cool
[6:10] Yacchan: your safe
[6:11] Yacchan: also
[6:11] Yacchan: Terushima??? Nice
Shōyō breathed a sigh of relief. He could always count on Yachi to cover his ass. After he texted his parents to let them know that he was safe, and found someplace to sleep, he fell back against Terushima’s chest. “We’re good,” Shōyō said as Terushima resumed playing with his curls. “Yacchan covered for me.”
“Yacchan?”
“Yachi Hitoka, my manager,” Shōyō said, feeling Terushima’s hand pause. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Yacchan is gayer than me.”
Terushima snorted.
“Don’t you have school?” Shōyō questioned as he scrolled through all his unread messages.
“A pipe burst,” Terushima said. “So we’re free until next Wednesday.”
“Lucky,” Shōyō said, pouting. “Wish I didn’t have school until then.”
Someone pounded their fist against Terushima’s room door. It was Bobata. “Yūji!” the teen yelled. “Get the fuck up and clean the puke!”
“That’s your job, Kazu!” Terushima replied with a laugh in his voice.
There was a short pause, and then Bobata barged into the room with flaming eyes. “Like hell it is,” he growled. “I’m not touching it, the fuck.” Bobata then blinked, noticing Shōyō’s obvious nakedness, and smirked, “Well, well, the decoy really is as tainted as he says.”
Shōyō rolled his eyes. “Go clean up puke, Bobata-san.”
Bobata’s jaw dropped and laughter floated from outside the bedroom.
“You picked a good one, Yūji!” Futamata laughed, pulling a spluttering Bobata out of the bedroom. He winked before he closed the door behind him. “Don’t wear him out too much, Yūji!”
By the time Shōyō managed to shower and redress, it was eleven. When he reentered Terushima’s surprisingly spotless kitchen, Bobata and Futamata were in a heated discussion over the supposed sexiness of high heels. Terushima watched them verbally leap at one another’s throats, enraptured, as he ate breakfast. Shōyō caught his eye, and Terushima motioned towards a plate that steamed with food.
He ate quietly, savoring the taste, and watched the verbal brawl before him. It stopped, however, when Bobata noticed him and narrowed his eyes.
“You,” he said, pointing. Shōyō blinked. “We’re exchanging numbers.”
“Exchange!” Futamata yelled, whipping out his phone with an alarming speed. As the exchange took place, Futamata giggled, “We’re going to be besties, Shōyō.”
Shōyō blinked. “Uh…”
Futamata’s eyes widened. “Oh, do you not want us to call you Shōyō?”
Shōyō shook his head, smiling. “I don’t mind.”
“Call me Takeharu!” Futamata grinned, and motioned towards Bobata. “Call this grumpy pants Kazuma.”
“Oi!” Bobata swatted at Futamata, who dodged the attack with a laugh. “Just Kazu is fine, H-Shōyō.”
Shōyō finished his breakfast before blinking at the three second years before him. In a fashion similar to that of Natsu, he pointed to Terushima—“Yū-chan.”—to Bobata: “Kacchan.”—to Futamata: “Haru-chan.”
There was silence, and then the three pointed at Shōyō and chorused, “Shō-chan.”
Shōyō’s laugh echoed in the hallways of Terushima’s home.
After breakfast was eaten, and dishes were washed, Shōyō helped the others in cleaning Terushima’s home. Instead of spreading out with different tasks, Bobata suggested that they clean with one another. Futamata agreed with enthusiasm, chirping about teamwork and the like. Surprisingly, they worked well with one another. While there were some distractions (i.e., when they all trudged to the living room, Futamata saw it fit to pull Bobata into a playful kiss, and Shōyō found himself getting pounced on a second later), remnants of the party disappeared in three hours.
“Oh, man, wait till you meet the others, Shō-chan,” Bobata said once they were all lazing about in Terushima’s bedroom. Bobata was on the floor, Futamata was twirling himself in Terushima’s chair, and Shōyō was on the bed with Terushima. It was weird; normally Shōyō would be home after he woke in someone else’s arms. They never asked him to stay, like Terushima did. Or let him use their shower, or make breakfast for him.
“Others?” Shōyō asked.
“There’s Higashiyama, Numajiri, Īzaka, Tsuchiyu, and Kuribayashi!” Bobata listed off. “Runa-chan is a first year, like—,”
“Oh, I already know Kuribayashi,” Shōyō said, then continued, at their puzzled looks, “We met at a party near…Datekō, I think? She hit it off really well with my friend, Yacchan.”
“Huh,” Futamata said, nodding. “Wait—is that the blonde chick I always see her with?”
“Short, a little clip in her hair,” Shōyō listed off. “Nervous?” mentally, he added: gay as fuck for your manager.
Futamata nodded. “Yup.”
“Yeah,” Shōyō said. “That’s Yacchan.”
Shōyō spent the next hour or so with the three members of Johzenji, getting to know them at a casual level. His phone had buzzed with a text from his mom, wondering when her son would “stop having sex and come home for dinner”. The three upperclassmen spiraled into laughter at the text, tears spilling from their eyes, and Bobata snickered, “Man, I wish my mom was that cool!”
“I’ll take you home,” Terushima said once the laughter subsided, stretching his arms above his head. Shōyō found himself distracted at the way the muscles flexed in front of him. “Don’t mind me taking you on my bike?”
“Kinky,” Futamata purred.
“Better watch out, Shō-chan,” Bobata said, a laugh on his tongue.
Shōyō’s stomach was beginning to hurt with all the laughter spilling out of his lips.
“Stop being nasty,” Terushima said, rolling his eyes. Shōyō collected his belongings (which consisted of his phone, jacket, and house keys), and Terushima grabbed his keys before pointing at his friends. “Don’t fuck on my bed.”
Futamata smiled innocently. “Fuck Kazuma? On your bed?”
Together, they chorused: “It’s more likely than you think.”
“Oh, my, God,” Shōyō gasped, laughter burning his lungs.
Terushima huffed, ruefully shaking his head, before pulling Shōyō out of the bedroom. “Wash my sheets!” he yelled, and there was a faint, “ok,” from Bobata. To Shōyō, Terushima sighed, “Can’t believe I have such memes as friends.”
“Best friends,” Shōyō corrected.
His smile was soft as he murmured, “Yeah.”
Terushima’s bike was dressed in black and silver, colors gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. As Shōyō climbed onto the motorcycle, helmet strapped on supportively (“Last thing we need is head injuries,” Terushima had said, handing Shōyō the dark blue headpiece), he realized that the vehicle was treated with careful, loving hands. The engine purred underneath him, and Shōyō tensed expectantly, grasping a tight hold on Terushima’s waist.
“Ready?” the older boy called over the engine.
Shōyō nodded. “Yeah!”
The motorcycle trembled beneath his thighs, and they were off.
There were many moments in Shōyō’s life when he felt like he grew wings—going for that memorable spike, hands slamming the ball onto the other side of the court—but wind whirled past, ruffling his hair, roaring in his ear, and, as he gripped Terushima tighter, there were wings sprouting from his back. Terushima was laughing, a jubilant sound floating to Shōyō’s ears, and Shōyō couldn’t help but laugh with him, shoulders trembling with mirth.
Shōyō had never ridden on a motorcycle before, and adrenaline hummed a song in his veins as Terushima twisted and turned through corners, ripping through streets. His fingers were trembling, but he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t terrified. Shōyō had never felt so safe, and so alive, as he did in that moment, cruising through the curling streets of the Miyagi Prefecture.
“You good, Shō-chan?” Terushima asked, breathlessly, stopping for a moment by the roads that led to the mountains. “You live here, right? By the mountain trails?”
“I’m okay,” Shōyō replied, “and yeah, I live in the mountains.”
“Alrighty,” Terushima said. “Tell me when to turn and everything. I’m unfamiliar up here.”
“I will!”
Five minutes later, Terushima pulled up in Shōyō’s driveway. Natsu was playing with the neighborhood twins, and the three four-year-olds scampered about the front yard underneath the watchful eye of Hinata’s father, Hinata Akio. All movement paused, however, when Terushima cruised into the gravelly driveway as though he belonged there. Natsu squealed Shōyō’s name when he took off Terushima’s helmet, his bright curls evident in the dimming sunlight.
“Thanks for the ride,” Shōyō said amidst Natsu’s shrieks.
“No problem,” Terushima said as Shōyō climbed off the bike. “I’ll text you.”
“Kay,” Shōyō said, laughter brimming in his eyes. “Don’t forget to wash your sheets.”
“I’m going to wash them twice,” Terushima laughed.
A minute passed—a heartbeat, a breath, a smile—and Terushima was fading along the outline of the trees, the sinking sun his horizon.
“Nii-chan!” Natsu yelled. “Play with us!”
“Play! Play!” the twins echoed.
The rest of his night was spent entertaining children, dodging his mothers’ prying questions, ignoring his fathers’ suggestive smirk whenever his mother asked about, “that motorcycle boy”, and sending a mass text to his teammates, apologizing about his “sickness”. Positivity poured into his phone from the members, full of well-wishes and get-betters. Tsukishima was the only one who didn’t respond, but that was normal. Yachi sent him a wink emoji, following a “had fun, Shō-kun?”, and Shōyō replied with: I’m feeling so attacked rn Yacchan.
His homework was finished, miraculously, so Shōyō plopped onto his bed. His thoughts whirled in his mind, and Shōyō found his mind drifting back towards a boy with a tongue ring and uppercut.
His phone pinged.
[20:15] Tsukki: bundle up from now on, idiot
Shōyō raised an eyebrow.
[20:16] Me: AWWW TSUKKI YOU DO CARE ABOUT ME!!!!!!
[20:17] Tsukki: I hope you die.
[20:18] Me: TSUKKIIII
His laughter floated down the hall, piquing Natsu’s interest. She barged into his room, and asked, exuberantly, “Nii-chan, what are you doin’? Who’re you chatting?”
“Tsukki,” Shōyō replied, helping his sister up on his bed. She curled up, tucked into his side, a warmth that made him smile. Her confusion was sprawled over her face, a question mark, as she pondered over whom this “Tsukki” was.
“The boy with the bike?” Natsu asked, shamelessly trying to peer at his phone.
Shōyō shook his head. “No. That was…someone else.”
“Who?”
“A boy.”
Natsu pouted. “Nii-chan!”
Shōyō smiled. “Natsu!”
“Nii-chan!”
“Natsu!”
“Nii-chan!”
“Natsu!”
His little sister stuck her tongue out at him, before leaving his bedroom with an annoyed huff. Shōyō chuckled, rolling over to his side. His phone pinged with a succession of texts from different numbers.
[20:36] Haru-chan: SHŌ-CHAN I AM BUT AN INNOCENT
[20:36] Kacchan: Yūji banned us from his bedroom :/
[20:36] Yū-chan: those sex fiends
[20:36] Yū-chan: had sex
[20:36] Yū-chan: ON MY UCFKING DESK
[20:36] Yū-chan: THEY HAVE BEEN BANNED BLOCKED UNFOLLOWED
Shōyō laughed, thumbing a reply to Terushima.
[20:37] Me: you poor thing
[20:37] Yū-chan: DON’T MOCK ME IM TRAMATIZED
[20:37] Me: sure, jan
[20:37] Yū-chan: I’m surrounded by fucking memes wtf tf is this
[20:38] Me: xD
[20:39] Yū-chan: no
Shōyō got up and walked towards his bookshelf. To others, it was surprising to see that his room wasn’t plastered with volleyball memorabilia. His room was spacy, and while there were sports magazines littering his desk, and two faded volleyballs in a corner, there was more odds-and-ends dealing with art and photography cluttering his room. One thing many assumed was that he disliked reading—Shōyō loved reading, in fact. What he disliked was reading a story for an assignment. In his opinion, it sucked all the joy out of the story, making it dull to his eyes.
His fingers gently brushed over old, used, battered sketchbooks. Its pages were filled to the brim with artwork no one ever saw before, the stained ink words he could never form. It’d been a while since Shōyō painted, or drew, because his time was consumed with volleyball. Taking one of them with delicate care, he flipped to an empty page. Ideas fizzled inside of his mind, images and designs burning before revitalizing like Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, who rose from the seafoam with grace unseen before.
The moon rose in the sky, almost smiling, as Shōyō lost himself in his art.
He woke to a buzzing phone, and paint-stained fingers. Shōyō blinked, strips of sunlight burning his eyes, and groggily sat upright. Scraps of discarded paper, pages of half-drawings, pages of full drawings, littered the floor around him. His phone buzzed annoyingly, and Shōyō mumbled, “I’m coming. I’m coming. Sheesh.”
He reached for his phone and squinted at the screen, dredges of slumber clinging to the edges of his mind. He yawned, and clicked on his inbox. Belatedly, he took note of the time. It was eight in the morning. The first text was from his mother.
[6:29] Mom: you were like the dead when I came to wake you, Shōyō, so stay home for the day and relax, ok? I’ve made you lunch! It’s in the fridge.
[6:36] Dad: please sanitize any furniture you use
Shōyō snorted at the way his father’s trail of thought continuously headed towards the gutter.
The next was from one of his teammates.
[7:54] Suga: Hi, Hinata-kun, I hope you’re feeling well! Daichi and I are going to visit you after practice, is that alright?
[6:52] Yamayama-kun: oi, dumbass, get beter
[8:12] Yamagucci: I’m bringing some worksheets to your place after practice, ok? Feel better, Hinata!
[6:16] Guardian Deity: RY Ū AND I ARE COMING OVERR AFTER PRACTIC KAY?!??! FEEL BETTER SHŌYŌ
There was a soft smile on his lips—Karasuno truly was another family. An oblivious one, but a family nonetheless. His phone buzzed once more; this time, though, it wasn’t from his family or teammates.
[8:34] Yū-chan: the sex fiends are on a date and I’m bored so whatcha doin
[8:35] Me: “whatcha doin” what are you, twelve
[8:35] Yū-chan: xcuse you im twelve and a half binch
[8:36] Me: considering the things we did a few nights ago, I’m concerned
[8:36] Yū-chan: XD
[8:37] Me: no
[8:37] Yū-chan: fkcin rood
[8:38] Me: lol what do you want??
[8:38] Yū-chan: get dressed I’m outside
[8:39] Me: wh a t
Shōyō raised an eyebrow, blinking, right as someone began to knock obnoxiously on his front door, chanting: “Shō-chan!”
“Why,” Shōyō deadpanned as he opened his door, staring at an unapologetic Terushima Yūji.
Terushima pouted. “How rude!”
“Why,” Shōyō repeated, stressing the words.
“Get dressed,” Terushima grinned blindingly. “We’re going shopping!”