Work Text:
Life, thinks Hinata Shouyou, is a painful thing. Three years of his young life— what the heck have you been doing the past three years?! —over in 31 minutes at the hands of this snarling, gangly, angry boy. Shouyou stands at the top of a concrete flight of stairs and looks down at this boy, this Kageyama Tobio. Kageyama is walking away, back turned to Shouyou, and Shouyou feels his eyes sting as he holds back tears, the pain more acute than the dull ache in his leg and back from his careening fall.
“You!” He shouts at Kageyama before he can stop himself, and Kageyama turns. “If you really are the king of the court-,” Shouyou feels the tears burst forth, falling in earnest, but he keeps going, “then someday I’m gonna beat you! And I’m gonna be the one who gets to stay on the court longer than anyone else!”
Kageyama tilts his head up, dark eyes catching the light of the sun and issues the challenge that will follow Shouyou for the rest of his life:
“If you want to win, then get stronger! Get better!”
He turns, bag swinging on his lanky frame. For the first time, but not the last time, Shouyou watches Kageyama’s retreating back. Huh , he thinks.
Today, he has lost. But yesterday he wasn’t sure he’d have enough teammates to play at all, and tomorrow— tomorrow —who knows?
______________________
That’s the thing about life, isn’t it? It is full of a great many losses. But, with determination and a team on his side of the net, Shouyou thinks that he might someday learn to win more than he loses.
______________________
Sometimes, life is like this: the dull, deafening smack of Hoshiumi’s serve striking Tanaka’s forearms and Shouyou is in motion before his mind truly processes the sound, legs knowing this court, this game, better than his mind does. Blood pounds in his ears in time with his footfalls and— there —he pivots— run-up distance acquired —and the ground is solid under the soles of his sneakers as his knees bend and his arms stretch out behind him. The lights far above cast shadows like wings unfurling. With an audible DUN! Shouyou leaps. Shouyou flies .
At his apex, time freezes. Sendai Stadium is cast in amber, quiet and still and gleaming. Shouyou sees the net, sees the giants rendered small beneath him, sees Kageyama’s dark eyes burning into his, Kageyama’s hair whipping around his head as he turns in slow motion, watches a drop of sweat drip off the tip of his nose. Kageyama’s arms are outstretched, his ten fingers reaching up towards the lights, towards the ball, towards Shouyou.
SMACK!
Shouyou’s palm stings a bright red, joyous pain as the ball hurtles between Hirugami and Gao’s outstretched fingers and into the Kamomedai court.
After the whistle blows a point for Karasuno, Shouyou holds Kageyama’s hands in his as the world swims in and out of focus.
“The ball! The ball was there!”—he’s rambling, he feels unhinged, he’s vibrating, he thinks his bones might be, must be, bouncing about under his skin—“It was really there!”—it wasn’t there and then it was —“How did you do that?!”—he thinks he must have wings, that Kageyama must have given him wings—“Are your hands magic?!”
Kageyama whips his sweaty hands away and looks at Shouyou like he’s lost his mind and maybe he has , but Kageyama was right , doesn’t he see? So long as Shouyou has Kageyama, Shouyou is invincible. He has wings, he can fly. Shouyou feels dizzy with the knowledge. He feels high on the vicious victory pumping through his veins, the taste of it on his tongue. He’s hungry, he’s starving for more.
But sometimes, Shouyou has learned, life is like this: the court is glowing, streaks of orange and blue flying past Shouyou almost faster than he can track. There’s—
He hears from far away the squeaks of volleyball shoes on the gymnasium floor. He hears the vicious caws and screeches of seagulls circling. It’s too hot, it’s too cold, there’s something—
Tanaka reaches towards him with bright eyes and a wide smile. Hinata grins, reaches for him, but—something wrong—
Tanaka is flying away as the ground rushes up and the gymnasium tilts wildly and Shouyou hears a gasp, hears a sudden silence, feels his legs liquify beneath him.
And this. This is life, too. This is still volleyball.
______________________
Sometimes, life is like this: Shouyou chatters a mile-a-minute at Kageyama as he ostensibly sorts his manga into “leave” and “take” piles. He thinks that if he finishes before Kageyama then that probably counts as a win (his 650th!), but really he mostly watches Kageyama.
Kageyama is stoic and focused as always. He is folding Shouyou’s t-shirts with steady hands. His fingertips tuck in a stray tag. He reaches blindly behind him for the next item and pulls out Shouyou’s Karasuno jacket. Shouyou watches as Kageyama’s fingertips flinch away from the black fabric, then clench it tight enough to wrinkle, just for a moment. Then, he lays the jacket across his thighs and smoothes out the impression of his hands. He aligns the sleeves, deftly flips the hood in, and folds the jacket more neatly than Shouyou ever has.
Shouyou tosses One Piece into the “take” pile.
______________________
Sometimes, life is like this: hot sand like quicksand drawing Shouyou in, his wings swamped in too-soft suction and he tries to jump, to see the other side, to fly, but. The ground gives way. Sand stings in a scrape on his knee, on his inner thigh and elbow. Above, the sky is heavy and the sun is so very far away.
He gets horribly sunburnt.
He gets hopelessly lost making a delivery in the maze of dead ends and haphazardly laid streets of Pechincha.
He gets a flat tire and spends a half an hour flat on his back, staring upwards. In the distance, he can see the outstretched arms of Cristo Redentor and wonders if he ever gets tired of holding the sky up.
Then again, sometimes life is like this: Shouyou dives and dives and dives and finally digs a ball spiked by a 57-year-old Brazilian woman named Matilde who’s been playing volleyball on this beach longer than Shouyou’s been alive. From the sand, he watches the ball arc high into the sky. Breathes. Stands. Creates solid ground beneath the soles of his bare feet, and flies.
Or, like this: Shouyou’s ears pick up the sound of Japanese before he understands the words or places the lilting, teasing tone present under the shock.
Like this: he launches himself into Oikawa Tooru’s— Oikawa-san! The Great King! Here! Why are you here?! —outstretched arms before he has time to process and they’re both laughing, giddy to be reunited an ocean, a language, a life away from Miyagi. They were never friends before, hardly knew each other, really, but Japanese tastes sweet and steady on Shouyou’s tongue, like pork buns from Sakanoshita Store or the chocolate milk that Kageyama always bought two of because he knew Shouyou would inevitably pester him into sharing one. It tastes of home mixed with the salt-tang of Brazilian air.
They take a selfie together with the Atlantic Ocean at their backs.
They share meals and stories of home, of Argentina and of Brazil. Shouyou talks of Kageyama and Oikawa talks of Iwaizumi. They talk of volleyball, of winning , and their eyes meet heavy across the table. Shouyou takes in the new muscle of Oikawa’s arms as he leans back, proud as ever. He thinks, maybe . But then—
“To come all the way to the other side of the world just to play beach volleyball?” Oikawa teases.
Shouyou grins.
Sometimes, life is watching Oikawa Tooru—Kageyama’s senpai, the Great King himself—land face first in the sand as Shouyou laughs until his sides hurt and Oikawa spits sand out into the night air.
It’s learning from and teaching an old rival, an idol. It’s the clink of glass and slosh of ice cubes in their caipirinhas as they laugh and drink together. It’s the way Oikawa tracks the bead of sweat that makes its way down the bronzed column of Shouyou’s neck as Shouyou tips his drink back, the way he laughs as an ice cube slips suddenly free and hits Shouyou’s nose.
“Hey, Oikawa-san, are you in a hotel with your team?”
“Sure am, chibi-chan.” Oikawa sing-songs.
“Wanna stay with me instead? We can play more volleyball.”
Oikawa twists in his barstool to face Shouyou head on, takes in the tilt of his chin and the challenge in his eyes, and smirks.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says, and raises his glass. Shouyou grins, teeth gleaming under the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling, and clinks his glass to Oikawa’s once again.
______________________
Oikawa leaves Shouyou with a trail of lovebites down his neck, a promise, and a challenge. Shouyou won’t disappoint.
______________________
Twenty months after Shouyou leaves Japan, he and Kageyama race to see who can finish their instant ramen first during their weekly video chat. Kageyama wins, but Shouyou makes it back from their bathroom break faster and manages to keep his lead. That’s 981 losses and 982 wins for him.
______________________
One month before Shouyou returns to Japan, Kageyama takes the lead by finally beating Shouyou in a game of online English Scrabble.
______________________
Sometimes, life is the smell of Icy Hot spray and fresh-cooked meat and rice. It’s the feeling of teammates, of five other guys on your side of the net. It’s standing once again on solid ground.
“Not gonna have any bowel issues today, are you?”
Shouyou turns.
He sees Kageyama and time stops like it sometimes does at the apex of his jump. As Shouyou meets Kageyama’s eyes, he’s two years ago, here, in Sendai Stadium, he’s five years ago outside of a bathroom like this one, he’s crying at the top of concrete stairs, he’s panting, racing down the walkway to gymnasium #2, he’s two years from now, three years from now, on top of the world, he’s now, he’s two hours from now, arm straining with his hand pressed tight to Kageyama’s, he’s winning, he’s losing, he’s winning .
“Heck no, I’m not the kind of guy who gets stomach troubles before games anymore.”
“You’d better not, you runt.”
“Kageyama-kun, you… you’ve grown up!” Shouyou teases him, before bending back to dodge Kageyama’s inevitable swipe. He grins. It’s good to be home.
It’s good to shake Kageyama’s hand—bigger than it was in high school—and to see that small, sure smile on his face.
It’s even better to feel the solid smack of Kageyama’s serve against his forearms and— up fast, up fast! —the gleaming wood beneath the soles of his sneakers as he pounds his way across the court. Beneath him, the ground holds steady. Above him, the stadium lights shine. Shouyou plants his feet, bends his knees, and flies .
Sometimes, life is this: Kageyama’s fierce grin from the other side of the net, the impact of his serves time and time again. It’s Kageyama’s eyes piercing Shouyou’s from above the volleyball he spins in his hands, and it’s his black hair whipping around his face as he pivots and sets, this time to Ushijima. It’s leaping up, fingertips just a hair’s breadth above Kageyama’s, the ball suspended in midair above the net in the center of the stadium. It’s the burning elation of the ball against Shouyou’s hand, against Bokuto’s hand, and the Slam! as it strikes the wooden floorboards. It’s the final buzzer and Shouyou immediately seeking out Kageyama. Kageyama, whose eyes are squeezed shut and who’s biting his lip so hard it must be nearly bleeding. His face wars between crushing defeat and fierce pride. Shouyou watches in wonder as he tilts his head back and laughs into the lights of Sendai Stadium.
______________________
That’s 1,096 wins for Hinata Shouyou, and 1,100 losses.
______________________
Finally, Shouyou’s life is this: it is getting horrendously drunk with his teammates and calling Kageyama at four in the morning to pick him up, and it is Bokuto and Atsumu shamelessly whistling and whooping as Kageyama wraps his jacket around Shouyou’s shoulders. The sound of their raucous laughter is drowned out by Kageyama’s quiet smile and pretty eyes and big hand on the small of his back, leading him to their cab. Kageyama tucks him into bed that night. He leaves Shouyou with a pat on the head and a glass of water on his nightstand.
It’s vomiting in the morning.
It’s an actual, honest-to-god first date a week later, which feels bizarre, because surely he and Kageyama have been dating for years? Or maybe not, because their first kiss is a stumbling, awkward thing, with Hinata pushing up onto his toes too fast and knocking his forehead hard against Kageyama’s.
The second is better.
The third is better .
It’s a year of being cooped up, of going crazy, of wanting to play, of missing being part of a team . But also, of bickering with Kageyama about which set of sheets to buy and where to order take-out from, and revelling in the time they suddenly have together. During those many months shut indoors, Kageyama becomes Tobio, and Shouyou and Tobio lay on the floor with tangled legs, lazily tossing a volleyball back and forth as Shouyou teaches him his favorite phrases in Portuguese. They order a scrabble board to practice their English and play with real pieces. They cut each other’s hair and Shouyou’s actually turns out okay so it seems that Tobio managed to learn something from Miwa after all. Mostly though, Shouyou crawls into Tobio’s lap and kisses him until they’re both breathless.
Life is the Olympics in 2021 after that lost, wonderful, horrible year.
It’s grabbing a beer with Oikawa in the Olympic village and laughing with him even as Oikawa’s win still stings. And then, returning to his shared room with Tobio. Tobio, whose hands are possessive on Shouyou’s waist and hips and thighs, and whose mouth against Shouyou’s throat is equal parts despair at having lost and elation at having been here at all.
It’s crowing at his victory when he beats Tobio to their hotel shower. It’s playing against him in Italy, in South Korea, in Germany, in Brazil. It’s his 1,702nd win and 1,707th loss.
______________________
Most of all, Shouyou thinks that what matters in life is not, at the end of the day, winning more than you lose. What matters, he thinks, is to love life like this: unconditionally through all its many losses.