Hinata Shouyou, eighteen years old, virgin and single, is putting on a skirt. By now he’s used to it, knees bent and relaxed while he pulls up the pinstriped thing in a single yank. He wriggles fluidly into a sailor top, the red dangly ribbon at the front as crimson as his cheeks. Scratch that – he’s not as used to it as he thinks.
Two knocks on the door, and he’s got minutes, seconds , before the whole thing comes flying off the frame, so Hinata throws on a wig and checks his makeup one last time.
“You ready?” He looks up, and it’s Kuroo in all his smug ass glory. He nods, and the taller man flashes a rare, reassuring smile.
“It’s show time.”
The brunet leads Hinata down the creeping hallway and mentions the guest as “vanilla,” and how he might even let Kenma talk to them since that’s how harmless they are. Except not really, since Kuroo and Kenma are an item and the former practically growls at whoever even dares to look at his honey. The taller guy motions for the door farthest down to the left. Room 621. His usual room. Hinata nods at the disappearing shadow of his coworker, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
“Evening, sugar. I’m Erika and I’ll be your girl next door tonight.”
And then all the color drains from his cheeks. Because sitting grumpily on the massage table is a kid from his class.
They lock eyes for a second, and surprisingly it’s the grumpy that looks away first, scowling and muttering under his breath about a “damn Oikawa,” ears red even in the dim of the ceiling lamp. Hinata, sensing that the guy somehow doesn’t recognize him yet, continues his pitch, albeit stuttering at first.
“P-please take your robe off and lay on your belly. Yes, like that - don't be shy. There’s a towel you can use to cover up. Or maybe…you don’t mind Erika looking?” He winks, wondering if it seems more like a twitch.
The taller boy pauses and coughs, slapping the skimpy cloth over navy boxers while glowering like a bear stung by one too many bees. The bleached robe slips down to his ankles. He lies with his head down, and Hinata is glad that they’re no longer facing.
“Beginner class or advanced?”
“Beginner it is.” Hinata lathers his hands with a sweet, lavender scented oil, enjoying the smooth, sticky feeling on his palms. Break the ice, break the ice, break the - “So, how old are ya?”
“Twenty.” Bullshit, thinks Hinata. They’re both freshmen in college.
“Ah, that makes you my senpai then.” He starts kneading his knuckles into the broad back. “You’re so stiff, senpai.”
“It's like feeling up a rock - wow. " His hands, a blur of feel-good just moments ago, now sit palm down on taut clear skin. There's a freckle, a freckle, splashed carelessly on the left longissimus dorsi region, and Hinata wonders if they'd be any more surprises hiding down the lower back...
"Don't tell me you work out?" His fingers hop back in action.
"I, ngh, play volleyball." The customer jerks, and Hinata catches the familiar flush on the former's earlobes. He vaguely remembers Kuroo complaining about needing to repair the central AC, and suddenly the room is hot.
"Maybe we should play some time," Hinata says, half truthful and half doing his job, wiping the little droplets of sweat off his forehead with a free wrist. Damn this wig.
The room is silent, save the soft gasps from his customer every time Hinata's hands knead over the right spot. He reapplies more of that sickening sweet oil, trying to do this right since the poor guy probably walked in thinking it was a professional massage salon.
"Dumbass," says Grumpy.
When the guest finally leaves, and Hinata finds a post it with a phone number wrapped in between fifty bucks, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He doesn't call; that's not part of his job description after all. Plus, Hinata's not so lonely to swoop that low. It was probably a joke: what kind of person hits on a random stranger like that? And then Hinata remembers Tanaka Ryuunosuke and Nishinoya Yuu, two of his best buds since high school.
He eyes the dark ball of snores one row down, to his right. It's the guy from yesterday. His head is flat on the foldable desk, note book still closed and on his lap. The Japanese Lit professor, standing at the front of the lecture hall, seems to have deemed him a lost cause.
The class is over in what seems like hours, and Hinata starts packing up his notes when he notices a group of people trying to wake up the slumbering beast. There's a guy with hair the color of dirt, hair that swoops upwards against gravity, and another shorter young man with darker spiked locks. They're taking turns poking the poor boy with a pencil, with the taller one cooing about how "Tobio-chan has the cutest sleeping face ever" and "Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan take a picture for memory!" when the sleeping guy shoots up like a rocket.
"Morning, Kageyama," says 'Iwa-chan,' Mr. Spiked Hair.
"You felt my lovely presence didn't you, Tobio-chan?"
"Ugh, shut up Oikawa."
They walk Hinata's way, and the short boy holds back his breath. Closer, closer, and...they walk right past him. No pause, no double take. Kageyama and co. don't even flinch.
At this point Hinata feels stupid, and he runs a hand through the orange tufts practically springing from his scalp. He reaches into his pocket, fingers feeling for the post it note and crumpling it in a single crunch.
So much for that.
The next time he sees Kageyama, it's at Marmalade, room 621 again, and he nearly drops his wig from jerking his head back in shock. He's still dressed as a school girl, but this time it comes with a pink blazer and solid blue skirt.
"Missed me that much, sugar?" Hinata hopes it's a smile on his own face and not a grimace. The taller boy scowls, craning his neck so to look away from the shorter figure, cheeks lightly flushed. Hinata's own face suddenly feels a bit hot, and he's grateful for the poor lighting in the room.
"My back still feels a bit stiff from volleyball. I-it's not like I asked for you, dumbass!"
Hinata blinks. Coincidence or not, this standing ball of grouch is still his customer, so he swallows the itty bitty grains of annoyance latching to his tongue. He rolls the sleeves of the blazer up and reaches for a jar of vanilla scented oil, when Kageyama clears his throat.
"Use the one from last time...please." So the baby's sentimental, huh? Hinata lathers the lavender bliss all over his palms and onto the flat of Kageyama's back.
"Still beginner, hm?"
"Uh, yeah I guess." A shrug, and soft breaths.
"So um," the taller guy moves his head to the side on the massage table, his eyes almost, just almost, visible to one Hinata Shouyou. "Did you see something? You know, in the wad of bills last week?"
Hinata almost stops what he's doing, but plays it off as a slowed tempo. "No, I didn't. Was there something I should've?"
The room is silent, and then the session is over like that. His classmate reclothes himself, hands him fifty, and walks out the room. Hinata thinks this nightmare is finally over, when a sweaty Kageyama rushes back in, strides long and rigid like a nutcracker. His cheeks are beet-red, and Hinata feels his own stomach drop.
"My name is Kageyama Tobio! Erika-san, please be friends with me prior to going out!" He hands Hinata a post it note with an email address and cell number, which the shorter male awkwardly accepts.
"Please excuse me!" And then he bows, briskly walking out the door.
Hinata Shouyou, eighteen years old, virgin, male, and single, stands by the doorway still as a lamppost as his wig falls off.