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Kageyama hasn’t slept a wink at all tonight. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for what feels like forever, but according to the calendar it’s only been eight weeks.
Every single night Kageyama has done nothing but toss and turn in his bed, making excuses for the inability to shut his eyes and drift off into the land of dreams. Some nights he’s too hot, having to pry his shirt off his back and tossing it into a lump in the corner, skin sticky in the middle of one of the coldest Decembers. Other nights he’s too cold, wearing layers upon layers before getting into bed and still not being comforted by the plush fabric of the three sweatshirts shielding his torso from the supposed chill. He had his thermostat looked at, even got his roommate to check if it’s working correctly and it hasn’t changed from twenty degrees in that room since yesterday. Are you sure the temperature is fluctuating that much?
Why would I lie about that?
I’m not saying you were… his roommate side-eyed him before groggily going back into his perfectly climatised bedroom, irritated at how he was sprung awake at 2am to check if the functioning thermostat was, well, functioning.
Kageyama has tried it all too. He’s put on white noise, listening to it either from his phone speaker or through headphones. He’s searched for the most boring current events article he could find and read all about the discovery of a cross stitched sampler in the UK from the Victorian period that a workhouse girl would use as her embroidery resumé. This ended up being so fascinating to him, it resulted in him doing a Wikipedia deep dive on needlecraft and other types of crafts, where he landed on an article all about how, during the second world war, women would work as spies and knit morse code into garments with specific intel that would change the course of history. Even after all of that reading, he laid on his bed, back flush against the plush mattress, hands folded across his chest as he tried to count anything he could think of – sheep, different setting techniques that he could put into practice when he’s on the court, calculating how many kilometres he’s ran within the last twelve months. Nothing helped him lull into a deep slumber but instead, kept him wired throughout the night and tired during the day where everyone noticed how sluggishly he moved during practice.
Everyone would watch Kageyama being slower than his normal active self, how often he would lose his train of thought, and on top of that, how easily irritable he became. Lashing out unprovoked at his team members’ improper form, how they’re moving slower than he is, how they keep missing his sets. They would all look amongst each other, hiking a brow and brushing off Kageyama just having one of his moods, too tired from practice to even argue back at Kageyama (but also half in fear that his rebuttal would be a blow to the ego). But Ushijima and Hoshiumi, his nearest and dearest, would exchange a glance between themselves that would speak louder than any word said, paying careful attention to Kageyama off the court. The way he would constantly pick up his phone, fingers flying across the screen in search of something, ardently typing for at least for five minutes before they would hover for a moment, flickering with hesitation. He’d then toss the device into his gym bag with a haphazard thunk.
When the three of them would go out for dinner together, Hoshiumi insisting because it’s a Friday they should treat themselves to something delicious and Ushijima reluctant at first, but, after a little pondering, deciding a nice meal would satiate him so he is better fuelled for his independent training session the next morning, they would see Kageyama. His head hung low, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, shrugging his shoulders in apathy and trailing behind the duo who would try to turn around and engage with him, only getting one word answers back. The way he would pick at his meal slowly, sipping on his milkshake, eyes gazing off into the distance without much to add to the duo’s conversation. The duo who would walk back from dropping off Kageyama at his apartment, wondering amongst themselves on what they could do to make him feel better.
There is only thing Kageyama would think about at practice, in the mornings, out grabbing food with Hoshiumi and Ushijima, while he’s showering, while he’s eating and right now, lying in bed. It would run laps around his brain, doing double time when his heart would ache even more than usual, especially on nights like this, his eyes drifting off to the space next to him that’s empty. A space that would warm up with another body, her knees curled up to her chest, hair fanned across the pillow. She’d slip into sleep so easily, her rhythmic breathing a lullaby for Kageyama as he would watch her, gaze soft as he would slot his hands into her face-up palms. It felt like a perfect fit. And he would join her, getting his daily dose of a restful sleep with her beside him, holding onto her tight so he would drift off far, far away, the cushioned duvet pulled up to their chins as a heavy anchor to keep them forcibly pressed to the mattress and to each other.
Yet now, the space has grown cold. The warmth in the room that would be swathed in a golden light no matter the time of the day has been drenched from ceiling to floor in a bitter steel blue, a darkness that engulfs Kageyama. The only thing that just about illuminates the room is the blinking digital clock to his right on the bedside table, his phone sat next to the clock, insisting to be picked up, to continue with the message he’s typed and re-typed for the umpteenth time these last eight weeks. Tonight is a night where he cannot muster the courage to pick up his phone and open his messages app, to actually hit send, but tonight is a night where he isn’t going to go to sleep either. So he reaches across and unlocks his phone, his home screen reminding him of what he had.
I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back.
That’s all he’s managed to type so far. And he stares at the words, grimacing at how insincere they look. More casually flippant than heavy with remorse, yearning, translating the perpetual ache in his chest that he can’t seem to get rid of. There aren’t enough words in Kageyama’s dictionary that could get across the hurt, guilt and desperation he feels in wanting to have her next to him once again. Tangled limbs, skin-to-skin, tethering the other to cushioned reality to keep the other drifting so far away in their dreams. No matter how much she’s pressing against Kageyama’s chest, she would whisper one night how she’s not close enough to him, I need to get under your skin, she would lightly laugh, her breath tickling Kageyama’s clavicle and causing his heart to shudder. He misses those memories of waking up at the witching hour, a rush of panic from a nightmare that would jolt him awake and suddenly feeling a tender embrace around his waist, humming for him to come here, stroking the top of his hair until his eyes began to feel heavy and he would suddenly be washed with peace.
He brings his left hand up to his chest to massage the skin, hoping it’ll alleviate the throbbing pain of the muscle beneath his ribcage. You would have thought after a long day of intense training and nursing a broken heart he’d be able to sleep. But he can’t, and he can’t peel his eyes away from the message staring back at him, wondering if he’ll hit send. He doesn’t. Instead, he tosses his phone to the foot of his bed, groaning, the heels of his palms rubbing circles into his eyes until all he can see are psychedelic phosphenes that result in a pounding headache.
The clock keeps blinking, from 04:02 to 04:24 to 04:43, until Kageyama decides enough is enough. He springs up and throws the duvet off his body, stripping out of his pyjamas and into his leggings and running shorts, pawing for his thermal in the dark and snatching his windbreaker from behind the bedroom door. He doesn’t care if he’s making a ruckus for his roommate, banging kitchen cupboards open and close in search of his water bottle while a banana hangs out of his mouth (he never goes on fasted runs anymore, learning the hard way one day when he went into struggle city eight kilometres in a twenty-five kilometre training session). He shoves a handful of gels in his pocket, unknowing how long he’ll be out for, lacing his shoes with speed and memory.
After warming up underneath the glow of a streetlight, not a soul in sight, Kageyama is off and he doesn’t know where his feet are going to take him. All he has right now are a muddled conscience and a pair of headphones, which he hopes will drown out the confused thoughts swimming around his cranium. He hopes the music will help clear the foggy feeling in his head where he can actually plan a strategic route, instead of running around aimlessly with no sense of direction. His running route has always been planned meticulously, but this time round, no matter how many minutes have passed, all he can think about is her smile, her laugh, the pads of her fingertips caressing his cheek, the tight grip around his hand as they sat on the edge of the sofa together, tears washing down her cheeks as she whispered her reasons for leaving, the words loudly crushing onto Kageyama’s chest. Hands limp, shoulders slack, heart slowing down to a despondent thud as he watched her slowly collect her things, giving him a smile, her watery eyes crinkling with care, free from malice or scorn or resentment. Even after all he did to her, she still crossed the threshold of his bedroom door still with love in her heart.
Without even realising, his pace has quickened, his feet pounding on the asphalt with each breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, it’s what he had always been told to do. But this morning, before the sun has even risen, that practice has gone straight out of the window as Kageyama erratically gulps for air, arms swinging behind him. Shaving almost a minute off his comfortable pace per kilometre, he is practically sprinting down the streets, the icy wind nipping at his nose, ears and fingertips, cheeks flush, legs throbbing with each stride. All he can think about is why he neglected her. He just expected her to be there for him, waiting, perched on the end of his bed, sat at the dining table, resting under the covers, brushing her teeth in the bathroom – he just eventually grew accustomed to her presence and the comfort of her just being there. Just like her strewn clothes on his desk chair, her skincare encroaching his bathroom countertop, the books she’d leave on his bedside and encourage him to pick up and at least read a chapter of but he’d just roll over to go on his phone instead, humming in a I’ll do it later sort of way. She was always there, no matter where he turned, no matter what time of day he’d text her, he knew he could depend on her.
Although, he wasn’t there for her.
The long nights at the library, the extra shifts she picked up at the bar she worked at during whatever free time she had available between studying for her doctorate and being an academic support fellow for the undergraduates, the rigorous schedule that barely had room allocated for eating, sleeping, breathing that she still managed to squeeze any morsel of time for Kageyama. To say hello, to be there for him, to listen to him talk about his practice, making time to go to his matches, to travel to his away games. How could he be so selfish? To be so vain, so caught up in his own life that he couldn’t even see those around him are bending their lives to revolve around his? All he can think about is how he deserves the worst boyfriend award ever and he’ll receive it with shameful grace, embarrassed how he even got there in the first place, but concurring with how shit of a partner he had been to her for the last several months. He just expected his priorities to align with hers, failing to realise the only reason they synced up was because she made them fit.
All of a sudden he’s lurching forward to a staggering halt. Thigh wincing from the excruciating pain of the almost ten minute sprint, it immediately caves and gives up, resulting in Kageyama’s palms and knees connecting with the concrete. He wants to scream in pain, not from the cracking of the bone underneath him and the ripping of skin as he skids to a stop, but because his heart is ready to burst out of his chest, burning from exhaustion and a buildup of lactic acid pumping around his body. His heart is tired and weary, begging to heal, but every time he thinks of her, it breaks and bleeds all over again and has now turned into a bloody, useless pulp that can’t keep up with his runs. All it wants to do is rest, to momentarily be put to sleep, to heal.
Kageyama crawls to the curb, perching on the edge while massaging his thigh and knee with one hand, the other scrolling through his contacts as tries his best to stop the blood from pouring. His fingers hover over a number, glancing up at the time and back at the number, gnawing at his lip in contemplation.
Fuck it. This is the last time I’m being selfish.
-
Forty-five minutes have passed and in the meantime he has just been sat on the curb with his headphones on, thinking. Staring up at the sky, watching the glimmers of the day ahead brighten the horizon, the stars continuing to twinkle and twirl across the expanse above. The clock keeps ticking, on his phone, in his brain, but he doesn’t care. Because he can sense someone coming from his left and when he takes out his headphones he can hear the regular quickened footsteps that he knows all too well, the shallow, panic breathing he’s heard before when something goes awry. He thinks he doesn’t need to be worried or fretted about, but seeing her rushing towards him with the same fondness and tenderness that feels familiar to him, his heart ruptures and begs to be cared for. She collapses next to him, her hands grasping onto his to assess the cuts and bruises across his palms, turning to look over at his knee that looks worse for wear, the leggings torn and the knee covered in dried up blood.
“And you decide to call me instead of an emergency service? Or even Ushijima?”
“I knew who’d get to me faster.”
Her eyes snap up to look at his, heart stuttering at his softened gaze. But beyond that she notices how haggard he looks, even underneath the poorly lit streetlights. The dark circles, the ashy complexion, his already lean build looking frailer. His hands in hers feel cold, not just from the bitter chill. She continues to stare until it’s him who caves in first, sweeping his gaze across the tarmac and bashfully to the side like he had been foolishly caught in the act. He hates how vulnerable he feels sitting here, letting her eyes take in every inch of his body as she feels sorry for him, radiating regret. He swallows the large lump in his throat and continues to look away, ignoring the way she fishes into a small bag with alcohol wipes, gauze and bandages. He tries his best to ignore the way she brushes her fingers across the ripped skin, the stinging sensation going straight through him as the alcohol wipe makes contact with the open wounds on his knee, the blood beginning to vanish all from a little bit of care and attention.
He keeps his stare on the ground, paying no need to the way she leans across to inspect his hands, brushing away tiny rock granules for a clearer view. Right now, Kageyama can only think of trying to keep his breath steady but the second she looks up at him it all comes crashing down, his heart lurching up to his throat, demanding to be held once more. He wants to instinctively reach out to her, pull her into his embrace and say he doesn’t want to let her go, he wants to go back to the way they were, but different. This time round he wants to be there for her, he wants to be at her beck and call, to listen to her, to read her essays, to take some of the load off her shoulders and help her through it all so she has room to breathe, to live. To live with him once again, share the same space, the same bed and to feel her glowing warmth next to him. Kageyama just wants to sleep peacefully and wake up not only feeling satiated but to feel rejuvenated, and he knows the only way that could happen is if she comes back to him. But that’s selfish of him to expect her to be the one to return, right? Shouldn’t it be him going back to her, to the days of when they would have actual conversations, like when they were first getting to know each other? Shouldn’t Kageyama go back to the person he once was before he took her for granted?
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in between the winces of alcohol stinging the cuts.
“It’s okay, I was going to get up in an hour anyway.” She hums, disposing the wipe to the side and fishing for a bandage out of the bag.
“No,” Kageyama’s voice drops an octave, as if he’s stopping anyone from overhearing him, but he seems to forget it’s only the two of them on the street at 6am. “I’m sorry for being the world’s worst boyfriend.”
She mellifluously laughs, dismissing his callous remark. “You weren’t the world’s worst boyfriend. I’ve had worse than you.” He looks up at her, eyes dotting around her face, searching for her white lie. Instead, she looks over at him and gives him a soft smile, lolling her head to the side. “What’re you looking for?”
Even in the cold, Kageyama feels a heat rising to his cheeks that turns into a bright beet pink. He whips his head to the side, eyes averted in bashful bliss with the fact she’s still sitting next to him and tending to his wounds, which have pretty much been patched and bandaged now. Yet she still continues to brush her knee against his, her hands fussing with the cuffs of his coat to ensure they don’t rub against the plaster across his palm, helping him up to his feet and assessing the mobility of his knee, instructing him to move it. It’s been eight weeks since they broke up and she’s still behaving like his girlfriend, still making time for him at six in the morning, pushing her schedule aside to prioritise him. Guilt begins to pool into the base of his stomach, washing him from head to toe in remorse and shame for being selfish, pulling her away from her own slumber to tend to his wounds, an injury he can easily walk (or well, hobble) off as he trails beside her to walk her back to her apartment.
This is the opportunity for him to make small talk and pry into her life, how the time between when they last saw each other and until now has treated her. And she fills him in on the details, of how she’s nearing the end of her doctorate studies and her research paper is nearly done, just a few minor tweaks need to be made. How she’s moved on from the bar and is now working at the university library instead, which is right up her alley and actually means she can work when it’s quiet, which is practically most of the time nowadays as most of the undergraduates have gone back home for winter break before the next term begins. Kageyama listens all the way back to her apartment, just listening, nothing else needing to be said because all he wants to do is relish in the moment right now. He doesn’t want to do anything else to interrupt this reality that feels too good to be real, in fear that if he speaks he’ll wake up and realise none of it was real. This whole last hour – her voice still laced with sleep when she answered, suddenly urgent and panicked when Kageyama explained the situation, her texting him for his location, her sitting next to him on the curb and caring for his cuts and scrapes, how she slowly walks alongside him to not push him into pain – it feels surreal to him.
“Well, this is me,” she stops in front of the large apartment complex, the lights on in the foyer, a few commuters making their way out of the building, suited and booted and ready for the day. “I much rather have walked you home instead.”
“It’s okay, the buses are running, I can get one of those.” He juts his finger behind him to a stop he saw ten minutes back that goes close enough to his own flat. “Thank you for coming to me.”
She shakes her head, tendrils of front pieces of hair slipping out of her loose ponytail that’s tucked into her scarf. “It’s okay. Thank you for keeping me company.”
Kageyama watches her walk inside the building and his heart, which was high in the sky on cloud nine, has collapsed in his ribcage, close to shattering again. He didn’t realise how cold the walk was until now, that familiar warm glow no longer next to him, but instead following her inside. He stares at the building, wondering if she’ll come running out, embracing him with open arms and beckoning for him to come back to her, for things to return to a new state of normal where he can prove he’s changed. However, after a few minutes of lingering outside, nothing has changed and things go back to the way they were before – she’ll keep moving forward, he’ll stay stuck in the past.
Begrudgingly, he trudges the route to the bus stop, until suddenly his phone begins to buzz erratically. Fishing inside his pocket, passing the tangled earphones and house key, he pulls it out and sees her face flash across the screen. A photo he took of her in the summer, pulling a funny face while drinking a milkshake out in the sunshine. Immediately, with no hesitation, Kageyama presses the phone to his ear and is already breathless.
“Yeah?” is all he can say.
“Are you on the bus?”
“No.”
“Do you want to come back? I have a bed with your name on it… if you don’t mind me in it. You look like you need the sleep.”
“I’m on my way.”
Kageyama hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks until this morning, lying on his side, one leg propped on a cushion to keep it elevated. Watching her watching him, whispering what can change, how they can work, Kageyama reassuring her that he’ll be there for her more. Baby steps, she whispers lightly, him nodding until neither of them realise they’ve fallen asleep. This time in a different bed, in a different point in their lives. But the familiar warmth beside him has returned, all the same, as if it never left.