It starts not too long after Natsu enters primary school, and their father is shipped off overseas.

The throwing up, that is. Some other things come first, reshaping him until he thinks throwing up is part of his life now.

He's been in middle-school for oh, maybe a year at that point. The Small Giant still lingers in his mind, but to be anything like that- it just seems too far away. His friends try to help him, of course. He's so happy for any of their time- of course they're busy most days with other clubs or their families, but still. Every toss, receive, or "Nice one!" he gets feels like a win.

For a few hours at least.

Then it's dark and quiet at home, Natsu's snores mixing with the wind, and his mind churns out every little detail he'd done today and how it was probably taken wrong. Because Shouyou is wrong, no wonder he can't have a real team, or close friends, or good grades. In those unfathomable night hours that seem to span weeks, he can't seem to sleep. He's afraid his mistakes won't allow him to wake up. He doesn't dream.

It's before a generalized science test that the vomit starts coming up.

There's some part of his brain that wants to freak out when (semidetached) he notices the ice cream he'd eaten at least two days ago comes out. It's still blue. But he stays calm through his last dry heave. His stomach prickles with emptiness, sharpening his focus. The bathroom tiles are cool, as is the rim of the toilet bowl.

Straightening up, Hinata walks back to class and pulls out his shoddy notes for a quick reminder. He needed to pass. The needles that line his stomach agree, pricking angrily at his insides.

His test comes back with 73 gleaming points. Passing, by a wide margin. He starts throwing up before every test he's worried about. 65. 79. 82. 71. Yes, yes, yes.

Friends seemed concerned when he doesn't quite grow with them. Shortie, they tease, with concern bending their eyebrows. He makes them laugh it off, pouting about how his father had never even reached 170 centimeters. Secretly, he admires the sharp cut of his shoulders, the smooth contours of his ribs against his skin, the lightness in his bones. This was one thing his mind never attacked him for.

Maybe he should have been worried about that.

But that's the problem with mental illness- you always know something wrong, but you don't think you can fix it. That it's worth fixing.

(If it was worth fixing, some part of him mutters, someone would have helped him by now. Nevermind how he had started hiding it with a running tap, carried mouthwash in his pockets, bought his own pain pills and dry swallowed through his sandpapered throat.)

Karasuno only aggravates the situation somehow. He doesn't feel good enough- he practices harder than he'd ever been able to do before, every day. They look at him and say he can't be Ace. He doesn't have a chance, he's just a Decoy that depends of Kageyama.

'That's right,' something inside rumbles. That voice again, the one that he'd listened to for years now. It still sounded nothing like him. 'You aren't good enough for that. You don't even have the option. You never will.'

He vomits up the meatbuns he'd crammed into himself as a treat from the senpai. It feels better when it comes up somehow. Less like cardboard.

He starts vomiting before all his big matches, too.

He apologizes to Tanaka (for not making it to a hiding place instead).

Yamaguchi catches him hiding it first and seems to know, somehow. But he doesn't ask. He doesn't seem to tell either, because Tsukki never tries to seek him out.

Oikawa watches him leave the bathroom with shrewd eyes before their first tournament match. Iwaizumi's eyes trail after him as well.

Kageyama doesn't notice how he runs on adrenaline and twitches towards the end. But that's good. He shouldn't- couldn't know.

Kenma peers at him with eyes too sharp, talks with a voice too quiet. Kuroo watches how Kenma watches him, eyes narrowed at the teetering delight shining in Kenma's eyes and the concern clenching his hands. But he doesn't see what Kenma sees, and he forgets to find a quiet moment to ask.

When Hinata gets back home from the training trip, he texts Kenma between vomiting spells. He's eaten far, far too much, and had barely had the chance to cough any of it up. Dark circles lie under his eyes as he sends selfies to his new friend.

Yachi looks at him and ponders.

She'd noticed he wasn't looking well, but the nurse was off duty. She'd dragged him in the room anyway, thrusting the trash bin towards him when his cheeks puffed up and he lurched forward. She was worried when she could drag him there, how light he felt. She shouldn't have been able to carry him alone. And still, he throws up.

Birds throw up food for their babies with the same ease as him.

It's almost like the most grotesque art piece, the way he throws up everything in a few moments and goes for the Listerine calmly, swirling it around one, two, three before spitting it out and popping two pain killers down his throat with a visible swallow. Routine. His eyes seemed to catalog what he'd relinquished and come away with a horrible satisfaction.

She couldn't quite cut off that line of thought in time to wonder what exactly he was trying to feed when he threw up.

Nishinoya is the one who catches him when he faints, blood and stomach acid coming up but nothing else. His eyes are cold as he drags him to the nurses office, going unnoticed as they pass the full classrooms by. He props Hinata up with pillows too soft, hands pausing over pointy elbows and bulbous knees.

"Hinata. When did this start?"

"Eighth grade, before a science test." He still recalls the blue swirled in his bile. "I was nervous because I thought I wasn't going to pass."

"Okay." Nishinoya seems to think about what to say next, eyes wandering the room. "You see that chair?" Dull eyes slide over the fold-up metal chair, just like any other the coaches would sit on. "14 year old you is sitting there."

"What's the point in this, Noya-senpai?"

"Look at him, Hinata." His tone is steel. A pause as his eyes slide back over to the chair. Tiny him, in that awful blue and white jacket he had loved. Okay. "He's nervous, because his friends have been busy lately, and no matter how much he studies he can't seem to get it. He has a test in oh, five minutes. If he doesn't pass, the volleyball club that's his will still be there, but he's still worried." Yeah, he remembers that. It's strange how Nishinoya just seems to know... "Tell him to go throw up."

"Wha-"

"Tell him he'll never be good enough to play with Karasuno. Tell him he's too weak for the team, too dumb for school unless he starves. When he eats, walk him to the bathroom and make him throw up with your own hands."

"No!" Hinata's voice wavers, and he can't seem to look away from the chair. "No, that's sick, why are you-"

"Hinata, that's you. You're doing it to yourself right now. Please, I want to help you."

"I don't want help." He murmurs, looking at the floor, the ceiling, anything but the chair or his friend. 'You don't deserve it yet, you haven't fixed anything yourself. But you can't, can you? You should just tell them no, make them-'

"Yes, you do."

"How do you know?" The words come out weak, defeated instead of the challenge they could have been. "How do you know what I..."

"I did the same thing for only slightly different reasons. Control, mostly- but this is always about control. The rest was because best libero couldn't fail." His words sound hollow. "I know you want help, because that's what I wanted. Needed, in the end. I'm not short just because of genetics anymore."

"Who... who helped you?"

"Old Ukai." It's said softly. "He noticed somehow. He never told anyone about it, either. But he made sure I couldn't throw up. Made me talk instead." Nishinoya's eyes flickered up to Hinata. "I don't know if I can do the same for you. But I can try, if you agree."

"You won't tell?"

"Unless I'm unable to help, I promise. But some of them may already know." He laughs humorlessly. "Asahi noticed mine. He already knows what to look for. But I won't tell."