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Hinata says this with confidence, like an unyielding, scientific fact that sits in the same category as his beating heart and endless passion for Volleyball. He can say it without a moment of hesitation as the team crowds around him, not too close because his hands are still shaking and there's sweat dotting his skin even after being rugged up in every blanket possible.
A single breath, matching the drum of his heart as he tiredly sweeps his gaze to their wide eyes that are a tad swollen, a little red, matching their flushed cheeks. Bustling and jolting and yelling a little, voices blurring into a song he tucks away into the corner of his heart to which he promises he'll remember it forever.
Earnest, and a little delirious, but that's okay because he means it anyway.
Quietly, when the voices lull only for a moment, there isn't a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Thank you.”
The air is sucked from their lungs. The world stops spinning as everyone stills, eyes locked on the larger-than-life boy who looks too small, too pale and still shivering under blankets. But, Hinata has always been brave.
He doesn't shy away when he looks them in the eye and forces the corner of his lips to twitch up. Hinata doesn't have the energy for his usual, sunshine smile and he hopes that this will do.
“Thank you for everything.” He thinks Suga is crying. “For being my first team.” There's someone else who's crying, but Hinata isn't sure because his gaze has ducked to his fingers that curl around the edge of his blankets. Knuckles bright red against pale, pale fingers. He still feels a tad woozy.
“For loving volleyball. For letting me stand on the court with you. And—”
Someone shoves a spoon full of curry past his lips and Hinata almost chokes as Tanaka is at the end of it, tears unabashedly streaming down his cheeks.
“You're such an idiot,” he chokes out before Hinata is also crying under the ruffles of his hair and quick squeezes of his hand. Noya almost tries to crush him in a hug before Suga bats him off, hissing something about the fever but still wraps an arm around Hinata for the quickest yet softest hug he's ever received.
And it's all of them, together. Each and everyone with tears in their eyes (Tsukishima isn't slick as he runs a hand over his face) and talking and talking and talking, and Hinata (still mildly delirious) isn't sure about what exactly. And his chest tightens and his tongue feels heavy because there is more he has to say. There is so much more he wants to say because this is his first-ever team with actual volleyball players, to which they got to Nationals and the last time he'll ever play with the third years and—
I love you, he wants to yell, with every hand that ruffles his hair and whenever someone hikes his blankets up higher or squeezes his hand. I love you and thank you and— but the words are trapped in the ridges of his ribs and he just can't.
The sunsets, and it starts to get cold and soon the ruckus has filed out of his room with their bidding goodnights. And then, it's just him.
Hinata is cocooned in blankets, tucked in and on his side with a small wet towel slowly slipping off his forehead. He doesn't have the energy to fix it, because, from this very angle, he can spot the first glimpse of distant stars through his window. So far away and straining against the Tokyo lights but they're still there. Only just.
It hardly does anything to illuminate his room but Hinata doesn't mind. In fact, he prefers it. The darkness is a well-hidden veil for his eyes to twist shut and teeth to gnaw at his lips. There's nothing to hold back in the dark. So, he doesn't.
The words are bright and loud and utterly heavy in his throbbing head: you fucked up. And the tears spill on to his cheeks, dampening his pillow and he's a little bit surprised he still has tears left to cry. Turns out, he has a lot left to cry as the hollowness in his chest just grows, shovelling into a deeper hole and the ache leaves tremors in his hands, his arms, his legs, and he's biting down on his lips to stop crying but he can't because I fucked up and Kageyama—
Hinata sucks in a breath, flickering open his eyes. Kageyama wasn't there. He wasn't there. (Hinata's hands can't stop shaking). Where is he? Where did he go? Why didn't he—
The door creaks and light spills into the room. Someone is shuffling near the entrance, indecisive and somehow hitting every creaky floorboard under their feet before the door clicks shut and the light flickers away.
Hinata's voice is small. “Kageyama?”
A weight dips down on the edge of Hinata's futon and a familiar scent is filling the room.
There's a small nudge in his back. “I'm here.”
Kageyama is all sharp lines in the dark when Hinata turns to lay on his back. Hair falling into eyes and shadows lingering over the curve of his neck and apple of his cheeks. He's clutching something, a paper bag of sorts and rests it gently on Hinata's stomach. Heat radiates from it and Hinata almost sighs.
He looks up and catches Kageyama's gaze. There's a moment before the other boy drops them to the bag.
“Meat buns,” he mumbles. “Bought them on my way back.”
Hinata doesn't feel very hungry, he barely finished his dinner but he still slowly sits up. If too quickly his head takes a tumble but Kageyama is silent bar his breaths, a tad shallow, a little quick, as he rests the bag of meat buns in his lap.
“You went running?” The silence lingers for a moment too long. Then, a sigh.
“Yeah.”
He offers one to Hinata before pulling the covers around the smaller boy's shoulders and then takes one out for himself.
They're warm, and of course, delicious but it makes Hinata's stomach swirl after a few bites. He tries, once more but then sadly lets the food grow cold in his hands.
“You really are sick if you couldn't finish that, huh.” Hinata supposes he has just enough energy to jab Kageyama in the side with his elbow, so he does. The boy yelps, hissing a garbled curse under his breath before plucking the bun from Hinata's hands and finishing it himself.
“I'm sorry,” Hinata mumbles and Kageyama knows it's not about the meat bun. Yet still—
“Don't be.”
Hinata isn't sure if it's the night. If it's the darkness which has wrapped them up into some sort of bubble. Maybe it's the medication the doctors gave him or his fluctuating emotions which sink and rise in all the wrong ways.
Or maybe, it's just Kageyama. His rival. His teammate. His friend.
He breaks.
“I fucked up.” It comes out as a shuddered, broken breath and Hinata curls inwards, hands tumbling from the blanket to clutch and his head. There's still throbbing under his fingers. “I fucked up so bad and now we can't stand on the court and this the last time for the third years, and I—”
Kageyama yanks him upright, cutting off Hinata who whines under the grip which Kageyama has on his hair. It's not that iron-claw he usually has. Not even close, and maybe that's why Hinata stills into a silence.
“Yeah, you did.”
There go Hinata's emotions, soaring this time and he throws a lousy punch at Kageyama's shoulder, misses and ends up scraping against his chest.
“Asshole.” Kageyama, for once, ignores it.
“You're always going over hundred, whether we are on or off-court. Listen to what Mr. Takeda said and go learn from what happened.” He waves a hand rather dismissively. “And quit throwing a pity party.”
Hinata knows this. He knows all of this but he still throws another punch, this time at his chest because it's closer, and sulks a little anyway. But the ache that dug into every fibre of his being is shaken away, a little piece at a time.
“Still an asshole.” There's no heat behind his words.
Kageyama huffs, not in his usual exasperated way and works on pulling the blankets around Hinata's shoulders once again. He's muttering under his breath, something about “you should stay warm, dumbass” and “you should be resting, dumbass” and Hinata still believes that Kageyama's dictionary of insults is terribly lacking. Even if he's grown a little fond of it.
Hinata simply watches. Still, a tad dazed and exhaustion seeping into his bones but follows Kageyama's deft fingers as they pull up the covers. Kageyama's eyes, now a little clearer when so close, dart about with that tiny pinch between his brow. Kageyama, before him. Warm hands and shaggy hair and eyes that slowly lift to reach his.
His fingers around Hinata's neck still for a moment before brushing the underside of his jaw. Kageyama's eyes lingers on Hinata's then they're off wondering as if cataloguing every inch of the boy's face.
Hinata isn't sure why he whispers, but only that it feels right.
“I got better at receives.” Kageyama's gaze flickers back to his. The moon must be out because Hinata can make out an inky shade of blue.
Kageyama huffs a little, light and teasing.
“Don't get too cocky,” he says, as his fingers trace the edge of Hinata's jaw. “You've still got a long way to go.”
“I also did the boom jump.” Hinata leans in even closer and the closest thing to a grin spreads across his lips. “Successfully.”
Kageyama lightly flicks him in the forehead, sighing and Hinata merely giggles. His eyes are still a little sore and a ghost of an ache still sits square in his chest, but he feels a little better. A little warmer. A nice warmth.
Another bout of silence drifts between them, but it's not the heavy kind that weighs in your stomach. It's just the grazing of fingers against Hinata's cheeks and eyes lazily darting over sharp features flickered with faint rays of starlight. Quiet. Gentle. And it's enough for Hinata's eyes to feel heavy when Kageyama says it.
Hinata wouldn't know that the carefully crafted words are similar to his own in style — like a scientific fact. Definite. Unyielding and utterly real as the racing of Kageyama's skillfully hidden heart.
But it's said in the quiet of the night, and as gentle as the hand that twirls a strand of vibrant orange curls through his fingers.
“You were amazing.”
Hinata's heart almost stops. And then, so does Kageyama's when a grin blooms against Hinata's lips. There's a soft laugh which wraps around them, nervous and flattered and Hinata's cheeks are a little redder than what they were before.
He shoves a little at Kageyama's chest before letting his hands linger on his waist.
“I should have recorded that.”
Kageyama (lightly) whacks him upside the head and Hinata really is laughing now. And he's sure Kageyama is too, albeit is a tad more restrained considering the time.
Hinata tips forward, feeling light and tired and exhaustion really is dragging him down. His head falls onto Kageyama's chest and listens to the quiet drums of his heart.
“You were amazing too,” Hinata whispers into his shirt. A hand is playing with the curls on the back of his neck.
There's a beat, then, “I know.” Hinata whacks him lightly against his thigh.
“Asshole.”
“Dumbass.” Fingers gently card through Hinata's hair and he really is close to falling asleep and drooling all across Kageyama's shirt. He must sense that as he adds, “Tired?”
Hinata hums. “Yea.”
Then he's being tipped, slowly and carefully onto his back and he's tucked into the covers once again. Kageyama pokes him in his cheek, and Hinata can make out the smallest of smiles through his bleary eyes.
“Rest, yeah? Or else no tosses.” Hinata let's out something of a low groan, the closest thing to agitation in such a state and Kageyama's lips only twitch further.
Hinata pries his eyes open as much as he can, letting them catch onto Kageyama's and to try and hold him there without saying a word. He's back to that stage again, with the heavy tongue and words lodged in his throat.
But Kageyama, despite his shortcomings with understanding people, seems to read Hinata's book fairly well. So he shoves off his jacket and lays on his back beside Hinata, eyes to the blank ceiling. Fingers brush against his knuckles.
The darkness isn't as cold as it was before. And while all the words Hinata wants to say are ladened with guilt, there's enough warmth against his hand for some of it to trickle out. Dainty, like the starlight dancing across their eyes.
“I'm happy we all got here together.” Another secret whispered with messages hidden for only the stars to capture. Hinata tilts his head and Kageyama is already looking at him, with the stars firmly caught.
There's the smile again. Hidden in the safety of darkness and soft to his lips. Pinkies link together, connected.
A final whisper, before sleep tugs them both into a gentle dream. “Me too.”