Maybe Not Alright

A/N: This is a random idea I had, I can get some pretty dark ideas sometimes, and this is one of them. I don't really know anything about psychology, so I didn't really give a name to what Hinata is experiencing. Just a kind of warning, could be trigger for some people; Anxiety I guess? Could be seen as PTSD maybe but its not really. But basically warning for dark thoughts and what is probably some sort of psychological disorder I don't know the name of. More or less inspired by listening to Control by Halsey. Completely disconnected from the previous chapter, this is going to be a series of Hinata-centric one-shots. AU where Dumb Hinata is a façade that keeps his darker thoughts at bay, and Kageyama is the only one who knows.

Shouyou pov: Breathe. I thought. One, two, three. Get it together.

This isn't normal. I know.

I crouch in the bathroom stall, half praying no one will notice that I've been in here for twelve minutes already. Half wishing they would.

My head's on my knees, my nails digging into my shins, breath coming in shallow not-quite-gasps between my chest and thighs.

I choke down the laughter that wants to bubble up from my lungs-because I know what comes out will not sound like the laughter of a teenage guy. It would be uncontrollable, ringing cackles that give away just how much I was not quite alright.

I didn't know what it was. I's lived with it for years, these sudden…boughts, episodes. Things.

The sudden presence feeling invading my head, the one that whispers things that make me want to vomit and scream and just get out. The itch that settles itself over my body, the feeling of something crawling under my skin and it just wont stop. The urge to yank out my hair and scream at the top of my lungs and just laugh. Or cry. Or all of the above.

I have to pin my hands to the floor with my feet because the urge to scratch is just too much, and everything is just too loud and yet somehow it not there at all. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

And now I'm biting my shirt because I know that if I bite my tongue or lip I won't stop until its bleeding. That would mean someone seeing. No. I'm fine. I can handle this. I have always been fine. Control my breathing. Shove that goddamn voice thing into the back of my head. Smile stupidly. I'm fine. Just don't think. I think too much.

One, two, three. I'm fine.

Except its not working.

Thirteen minutes.

My chest feels too tight. I cant make it stop. My heart is racing with something familiar that I refuse to recognize. Fear.

I pant silently through clenched teeth and flaring nostrils, and suddenly I just want to run. Because this bathroom that was my sanctuary only seconds ago-one, two.-is suddenly suffocating me because now I cant breathe and I just want to scream.

This shouldn't happen. I'm normal. I am a normal fifteen-year old boy, from a loving household, with supportive parents, and an amazing sister, and-nothing is wrong. Right?

Fourteen.

I could go to mom about anything. She's always smiling. Always so kind and gentle and-she doesn't mean it-Stop. If I told her-ha. You'll never say anything.-she would be sad, and worried, and do whatever she could to help-but I don't need help. I'm fine-. Natsu was probably too little to understand, but she would still try to help however she could-You want to be the one to tell your baby sister that her brother's not normal?You coward Shut up.

I had supportive friends and teammates would accept anything-no they wouldn't.-.

I'm fine. No I'm not.

I can handle this. No I cant.

Fifteen.

I don't need anyone. Someone help me.

My lungs are burning. I'm not fine.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize that I've started to hyperventilate.

The door creaks open, and sneaker-clad feet shuffle in.

Shut up. Don't hear me.

Someone get help.

They stop outside of my stall.

No. Go away.

Please save me.

"Shouyou?" The voice is sudden and calm and like water over a burn.

Suddenly the itch wasn't quite so bad, and the voice wasn't quite so loud, and I could breathe.

I shoved the door with my foot in that way I knew would unlatch it and cause the rusty think to swing open-they should really get that fixed.

Sixteen.

Then there's a shuffle of feet and limbs and a clicking of latches again. A body is pressing against mine and an arm is around my shoulders.

One, two, three. Breathe. Inhale, exhale. The pressure starts to leave.

Something is prying my hands from under my sneakers, and rubbing the tread-marks out of the skin.

I can't hear it anymore.

The stall is clearer now-when did it get hazy?

I let go of the shirt between my teeth, letting out a shaky, shuddering breath.

The itch isn't there anymore.

Seventeen.

He doesn't say anything, just presses his nose into my hair and pulls me a bit closer-finally my heart stopped pounding.

My eyes fall shut, and my head raises up from my knees, I let it fall back onto a well-muscled shoulder, feeling the steady breath of the person beside me.

One, two, three. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

My bearings are beginning to come back, numbers and words and all those things that make me think too much and feel too little are carefully slotted away where they belong, under careful lock and key of I'm-not-going-to-think-about-this-right-now.

Finally, the bought, episode, thing, is gone. I can breathe again.

He hums, the vibrations of his chest getting my attention as much as the sound- and I'm grateful, because I could breathe but I wasn't sure how well- and gets my attention, a silent question written in every movement.

Nineteen.

I just move my hands in his-changing the pattern from rubbing the marks from skin to lacing fingers through fingers. Callouses rough against callouses.

I stop counting.

"Yeah, I'm good Tobio,"

And we both know it's a lie, because I'm not alright, but he wont call me on it. He never does. He knows my ticks, and somehow he knows as much as I do that the use of his name isn't one of panic or persuasion, but of honesty and thanks. It's inconceivable, really, how someone I swore up and down would never, ever, be called a friend, is now the one who knows me so well. The one who I know as well.

Maybe I'm not alright, but we're making it work, because somehow Tobio sends the voices packing, and becomes the calm that I can't create for myself.

People say that he's dense, unobservant, stupid even, to anything that isn't volleyball. And maybe he is-his grades suck as much as mine-but he's not. He's not dense, because he knows when I'm not ok. He's away when I need to keep my distance, and there when I'm on the verge of losing it all. He can see it with only a glance. He doesn't need me to tell him that I just really need a hug or really need to not be touched. He sees that I'm not normal. He knows all about my darkness-knows it all too well- and gives me an outlet.

So when we walk together to that spot in the woods that's just off the road sometimes, and he sits me there-and sits with me, even in the rain- and just lets me let go, its not awkward. Despite my laughter turning from loud and obnoxious to sanity-void and empty. He's just there. Not judging, not worried, not asking to help or get help. Just there.

Its inexplicable, unusual and strange. But it was us. And it was probably all that kept me kind of sane(he's always insisted otherwise).

But those words get the point across, and so much more-some that I probably don't even understand, that manages to compute to him in a way that just explained. Everything.

He shifts beside me, and pulls me up, unlatching the door again and walking away. I'm still picking myself up when he returns with a damp towel and helps me wipe the sweat and stress from my skin.

Twenty-three minutes.

I plaster that grin onto my face, the one that we both know is so fake and so not-me-at-all, and he gives me the slightest, gentle smile, that just relieves any worries that lingered, and maybe made my smile a little more genuine. He could always tell.

"Well come on bakageyama, we have a match to play don't we?" I say, my voice a little too loud, and a little too cheery, and a little to sharp. Not like anyone else would notice. That's what I always sound like.

He just smiles again, and finds my hand briefly, tugging me forward, and squeezing tightly, dropping it just before the doors swung open with a push of his hand.

I square my shoulders just a little, and force a bounce into my step. Held my head a little higher.

Let's play volleyball.

A/N: I'm so mean to the sweetest characters. IDK, Its four in the morning and I've kinda been on an angst kick lately. Hopefully this wasn't too dark for most people. I have a few other story ideas lined up, both for this series, and some other, multi-chapter fics. Might be up before school starts in the fall. Sophmore year begins hell again for me, so updates will be more sporadic than my usual inconsistency. Sorry. This chapter probably made no sense, but its something. Reviews are greatly appreciated, and constructive criticism is very helpful. Thank you for reading!-RandomViolets