Chapter Text
The email had arrived three weeks before the semester started.
"Dear Hinata Shouyou, we are pleased to inform you that your housing assignment has been confirmed. You will be sharing Room 214 with Tsukishima Kei. Please refer to the attached dormitory guidelines..."
Hinata had read it five times, bouncing on his heels. A roommate. A college roommate. This was it—the start of his independent life, far away from his family's small apartment in Miyagi. He'd imagined late-night study sessions, instant best friendship, someone to explore the campus with.
He'd imagined wrong.
Move-in day was chaos.
Parents clogged the hallways, students lugged boxes up and down stairs, and the elevator had broken down by noon. Hinata, sweat already beading on his forehead, hauled his duffel bag up the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door to Room 214.
The room was narrow—two twin beds separated by a thin desk, a closet barely big enough for one person, and a window that overlooked the parking lot. The far bed was already made: crisp white sheets, a single pillow, a neatly folded blanket. A laptop sat on the desk, closed and pristine.
And standing by the window, arms crossed, looking down at the chaos below, was a boy so tall that Hinata's first thought was he must play basketball.
The boy turned. Glasses. Blonde hair. Eyes the color of honey—cold, assessing. He looked Hinata up and down like he was inspecting a stain on the carpet.
"You're my roommate?" The voice was flat, uninterested.
Hinata dropped his bag. "Yeah! I'm Hinata Shouyou. Nice to meet—"
"I requested a single."
The words cut through the air like a blade. Hinata's smile faltered.
"I... what?"
"A single room." The blonde pushed his glasses up his nose. "I specifically requested a single. But the housing office decided it'd be funny to pair me with someone who barely clears five feet."
Hinata's ears went red. "I'm not that short! And you're just— you're freakishly tall! What are you, a giraffe?"
The blonde's lips twitched—not a smile, more like a reflex of irritation. "Tsukishima Kei. Try to remember it, because I'm not going to repeat myself." He turned back to the window. "Your side of the room is the left. Try not to clutter. I value cleanliness."
And just like that, the conversation was over.
The first night set the tone.
Hinata unpacked with manic energy, throwing clothes into his closet, stacking textbooks on the shelf, arranging his volleyball posters on the wall. Tsukishima watched from his bed, not offering help, not making conversation. He just... watched. Like a predator observing prey that wasn't worth hunting.
"Got a problem?" Hinata asked, catching his gaze.
"No problem." Tsukishima pulled out his phone. "Just wondering how long it'll take before you realize that wallpaper is against dorm rules."
Hinata's hands froze. "It's not wallpaper. It's posters."
"Same thing. The RA will make you take them down."
"Then I'll put them back up when he leaves."
"Suit yourself." Tsukishima scrolled through his phone. "But don't expect me to help when you get written up."
Hinata fumed. He pressed the last poster—a signed print of the Japanese national volleyball team—onto the wall with extra force, as if punishing it for Tsukishima's attitude.
The first week was a war of silence and small aggressions.
Hinata woke at six every morning, blasting music through his earbuds while he did jumping jacks. Tsukishima, whose classes didn't start until nine, would groan and pull his pillow over his head.
"Could you not shake the entire building?" Tsukishima muttered on the third day.
"I'm warming up! Some of us actually like to move our bodies."
"Some of us also like to sleep past dawn."
"Then go to bed earlier."
"I do. You just wake up at an ungodly hour."
Hinata grinned, bright and defiant. "Sounds like a you problem, Tsukki."
The nickname made Tsukishima's eye twitch. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? It's cute. Suits you."
"I will report you to the RA."
"For what? Giving you a pet name?"
Tsukishima sat up, glasses askew, hair ruffled. For a moment, he looked almost human. "For being annoying. I'm sure there's a clause against that."
"There isn't."
"Then I'll make one."
Hinata laughed—loud, unapologetic, filling the small room. Tsukishima stared at him like he was an alien species. Then he flopped back onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head.
It was the small things that built the resentment.
Tsukishima left his textbooks on the shared desk, taking up space. Hinata left his gym bag by the door, creating a tripping hazard. Tsukishima played classical music at low volume while studying—a deliberate choice, Hinata was sure, because it was boring. Hinata watched volleyball matches on his laptop with the volume just loud enough to bleed through Tsukishima's headphones.
Neither of them apologized. Neither of them backed down.
By the end of the second week, they had established a rhythm: coexist without coexisting. Two strangers forced to share a box, building walls of silence and passive-aggression.
But walls, as Hinata would later learn, have cracks.
One night, Hinata came back late from practice. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of Tsukishima's desk lamp. The blonde was hunched over a notebook, earbuds in, writing something with intense focus.
Hinata moved quietly—or as quietly as he could, his duffel bag slapping against his thigh. He dropped it by the door and tiptoed toward his bed.
"You're dripping sweat on the floor."
Hinata jumped. "I thought you were studying."
"I am. But I can still hear you clomping around like a herd of elephants."
"I'm being quiet."
"You're being loud while trying to be quiet. It's worse."
Hinata threw his wet towel onto his bed in frustration. "What are you even writing? A letter to your mom?"
Tsukishima didn't look up. "Notes on a lecture. Not that you'd understand."
"Try me."
That made Tsukishima pause. He lifted his head, eyes narrowing. "You want to hear about the structural dynamics of sedimentary basins?"
Hinata blinked. "What?"
"That's what I thought." Tsukishima turned back to his notebook. "Go shower. You smell like a locker room."
Hinata's face burned. He grabbed his towel and stomped toward the communal bathroom, muttering curses under his breath. But as he walked away, he heard something—a quiet exhale, almost like a laugh.
He turned. Tsukishima's face was expressionless, focused on his notes.
Probably imagined it, Hinata thought.
Three weeks in, the first real crack appeared.
It was a Saturday afternoon. Hinata had just finished a pickup game at the campus gym and was walking back to the dorms, still buzzing with adrenaline. He rounded the corner to Room 214 and froze.
The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Tsukishima was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a guitar balanced on his knee. He was playing something slow, melodic—a song Hinata didn't recognize. His fingers moved with practiced ease, and his eyes were closed, his head tilted back.
Hinata had never seen him look so... peaceful.
For a long moment, he just watched. The afternoon light slanted through the window, catching the dust motes in the air, painting Tsukishima in gold. The music filled the room like smoke, soft and warm.
Then Tsukishima's eyes snapped open.
He saw Hinata standing there. The music stopped.
"How long have you been standing there?"
Hinata's mouth opened and closed. "I— just got here. I didn't mean to—"
"Close the door." Tsukishima set the guitar aside, his expression hardening. "And don't sneak up on me."
"I wasn't sneaking! I live here, remember?"
"Then announce yourself. Like a normal person."
Hinata stepped inside, dropping his gym bag with more force than necessary. "You know, for someone who claims to hate clutter, you sure have a lot of secrets. A guitar? Really? What's next, a hidden poetry collection?"
Tsukishima's jaw tightened. "It's not a secret. It's just none of your business."
"We're roommates. Everything's my business."
"Wrong." Tsukishima stood up, towering over him. "We share a room. That's all. We don't share lives. We don't share hobbies. We don't share anything beyond this four-walled box. Got it?"
Hinata glared up at him. The air between them felt thick, charged, like the moment before lightning hits.
"Got it," Hinata said through gritted teeth.
He turned away, grabbing his shampoo and heading for the shower. But as he walked out, he caught a glimpse of Tsukishima's reflection in the window—the blonde was staring at the guitar, his fingers hovering over the strings, his expression unreadable.
And for the first time, Hinata wondered if maybe, just maybe, Tsukishima was as lonely as he was.