The match ended in a victory for the shrimp and the King.
They both met the volleyball club manager, Shimizu Kiyoko, a first-year college student working for the school part-time. Tanaka was crazy for her. He wouldn't shut up about her shiny black hair, her cool glasses, the mole by her lip, her eyelashes, her cold stare when he annoyed her, etc. She barely spoke and her expression hardly changed, but she had the aura of a mature leader, scribbling stats down on her clipboard.
Life had never felt quite so sweet for the two boys. They'd gotten their paperwork accepted, signed out new uniforms, and created a new, though rudimentary move that allowed Hinata to spike. Life still contained their monotonous bickering, unfortunately.
"What do you mean, 'Kiyoko isn't that special.' If you say that in front of Tanaka, he might beat you to death." Hinata and Kageyama were walking back to their dorm, discussing the aura of the team manager.
"I didn't mean it like that. I don't even know her. She's pretty, I'm just not attracted to her," Kageyama said.
"There's a difference?"
"There's a difference."
Hinata mulled it over. "I guess I would need to get to know her a little better, too. But I still think she's attractive."
"That's not what I meant."
"Argh! What kind of standards to you even have?"
"Become a better and better setter. Until I'm the best. Win volleyball matches." Kageyama was facing forward, expressionless. Detached from this line of questioning.
"Um… yeah, sure. There's that. But isn't there more to life than volleyball?"
Hinata couldn't help but make a face as he said the last statement. Kageyama smirked.
"Exactly."
The two made their way to the front door of the dorm, but stopped suddenly at the sight of a wet-haired Daichi running to the main gate in jeans and a t-shirt, fresh from the locker room. The school entrance was open for students who wished to tour the city on the weekends. A girl was there waiting for him, her hands clasped behind her back, still in what looked to be a high school uniform.
"Hey loverboy! You don't have to rub it in our faces, y'know!"
Tanaka was on his way to the second-year dorms when he spotted the two students at the gate. The girl blushed and shouted something, but it was carried off with the wind. Daichi shook his head and led the girl down the street.
Her height matched Daichi's with legs long and sturdy—she had short brown hair, but that's all Hinata could see from a distance.
"Hey Tanaka, who was that?"
"Michimiya Yui, a third-year at an all-girls prep school. She's the volleyball captain there. She and Daichi are dating. Match made in heaven."
"Wow, I didn't know he had a girlfriend," Hinata said.
Tanaka shrugged. "They've known each other since Jr. High. It was bound to happen." His gaze intensified. "But no one holds a candle to Kiyoko!"
"You're repulsive," Kageyama sighed, headed towards the dormitories. Nothing anyone was saying interested him. Hinata took it as another one of his foul moods.
Behind the closed door of their dorm room, Kageyama fell onto his bed and opened a sports magazine on his nightstand, already showered from the locker room. Hinata began taking clothes out of his dresser, small things buzzing about his mind.
His mom and sister. That spike.
There's a difference.
He went into the bathroom to shower.
Kageyama let the magazine drop onto his face and he sighed. His blood still thrummed with the thrill of their 3-on-3 match. Hinata was infuriating, but he also gave Kageyama a reason to be more analytical, a way to throw a fast toss. He'd had fun this afternoon.
He looked at the wall behind Hinata's desk where an ugly painting of a house was pinned up with a tack. There were three stick figures in the front yard, two with orange hair, one with brown. The painting was probably done by his little sister, a piece of artwork that had made no sense to Kageyama until now.
People could leave a mark on you in strange ways. Hinata must miss the little sibling he'd grown up with.
At that moment, Hinata exited the shower in a cloud of steam. The boy was rummaging through his dresser when Kageyama looked over from under the magazine, turned away, and then did a double-take.
Hinata's bare back was the color of cream, the nape of his neck peppered with brown freckles that stretched across his shoulders and back, a map of constellations thinning as they trailed down his prominent spine. His hair was still dripping from the shower, his curls fighting gravity. A droplet fell onto the boy's shoulder and trickled off his arm, falling to the ground.
Something inside Kageyama made a small sound, as sharp and quick as a camera shutter. A tiny reverberation. He slowly drew his eyes back to the magazine.
"It's good to know you don't have a skin disease."
The back of Hinata's neck reddened. Kageyama's grip on the magazine tightened.
"I forgot a shirt, smart-ass." Hinata grabbed a yellow t-shirt; hesitated. "I don't like changing in front of people because I'm small."
At this, Kageyama lifted himself from the bed with his elbows, the magazine abandoned at his side. He looked Hinata straight on with an incredulous expression. "What?"
"I'm small! I don't have the same build as other volleyball players. Short, pale, speckled. I can jump, but—"
"—then what are you worried about? Just practice more and you'll get better. Who cares what you look like."
Hinata nodded slowly. A smiled crept across his face. "Your speech was definitely inspiring today." He screwed up his face, narrowing his eyes. "'Being alone terrifies me to my very core.'"
Kageyama threw his pillow at Hinata, knocking the kid back into his dresser. "Brat," he said, picking up his magazine. Hinata laughed and pulled his shirt over his head.
Constellations swirled in Kageyama's mind.
That night, Kageyama tossed and turned as he slept.
He was standing in the middle of a long, familiar hall. At the end of it was a shrine, a blurry photograph in a black picture frame compelling him to move forward. Following the impulse, his bare feet padded along the hardwood, cold from the unyielding surface. The unfurling incense and fluttering candles hypnotized him. Even as he got closer, the figure in the picture frame wouldn't focus. Another step forward made the candles flicker out, the hall changing into a small room in wisps of smoke and the smell of jasmine.
In this room, there was a door, in front of which stood a suitcase. Kageyama recognized it; he cringed. Trying to run, he realized the front door was his only means of escape. He didn't want to go outside—not that way. Though he couldn't place it, the world through that door held terrors he knew he had to protect himself from. The suitcase's presence clawed at his heart. He banged on the walls, dug at them with his nails until they chipped and broke, screaming, but the dream stayed solid, weathering his misery. Only until the boy fell to his knees, hands palm up on the floor, did he realize he was now on a volleyball court, empty and dark. Kageyama knew this part of the dream, looking up at the vacant bleachers and benches, the torn net with splintered support beams.
Then someone appeared across the court, a back facing Kageyama, the color of moonlight in the dimly lit gym. Kageyama stood. The person was as indistinguishable as the picture from the shrine.
Kageyama made his way towards the figure, recognizing orange curls that almost glowed in the dark, a set of shoulders that felt familiar, but resisted being named in Kageyama's groggy mind. He reached out to touch the back of this mysterious person and then he saw them—the galaxies of freckles emerging from pale skin, beautiful dark pinpricks that drew him near; a different propulsion than he'd ever experienced. This was terrifying.
Kageyama lifted his arm up, reached his hand out. Just under the whispers of orange, he put his fingertips to the milk-white skin.
They burned.
Kageyama cried out from the pain and startled awake, panting. He immediately listened for his bunkmate, hoping that the boy had not awakened. The hope was dashed when Kageyama noticed the glass of water on his nightstand. Sighing, he drank a few sips and rolled over, praying for sleep to erase his wounded pride, praying that the dreams would not return to confuse and hurt him.
