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Amber eyes, so often called “cat like” by Kuroo, classmates, and even opponents alike, stared at the cluster of buildings before him.
This wasn’t Shinzen Academy. Nor was it Nekoma High School or even Karasuno High School in Miyagi. And yet, the scenery reminded him so much of his visit.
The mountains, the lush trees and fields in the distance, the utter lack of the vast expanse of the Tokyo megalopolis, even the state of the streets harkened back to that short trip they’d taken to have a practice match—or twelve—against their friendly rivals from the north.
So, how the hell did he get here?
Kenma made a dissatisfied sound in the back of his throat and pulled out his phone so he could check the map, only to be met with a blank screen. Of course. Apparently, he couldn’t come to Miyagi without his phone dying.
Spectacular, truly.
He blew a breath through his nose and opted, instead, to walk through the front gate and head toward the familiar sounds of children’s voices, raised in excitement. Maybe he’d get lucky and someone might have the same model phone, and he could borrow a charger.
That his red and white Nekoma Volleyball Club warmup suit, coupled with the equipment bag slung over his shoulder, made him as conspicuous as a billboard didn’t exactly do wonders for his shyness and general social anxiety.
Sticking out just seemed to be a thing he couldn’t avoid here.
As the sounds of their voices grew louder and blended with those of balls being kicked or bats connecting, tennis shoes thumping against the ground or squeaking against hardwood floor, and, every now and again, the familiar sound of a ball bouncing against the floor. Despite his general disinterest in volleyball and sports in general, Kenma found it an odd comfort, counterbalancing his confusion.
Now, if only he could find someone to talk to, and hopefully not feel like he would have to partake in too much socializing, he could maybe figure out what was going on.
But then, a boy’s voice floated through the air. “I’ll toss a couple for you in a bit, Shō-chan!” the boy said, his tone that of one who was trying to placate a friend. “Coach’ll lose it on me if I don’t get over to the pitch!”
Kenma turned toward the source, and his breath hitched in his throat.
There, standing with a look of blended disappointed understanding and a volleyball tucked under his arm, watching as a boy dressed in a practice soccer uniform and cleats jogged off to join his team, was a redheaded boy with big, brown eyes and a smile Kenma knew all too well. Even if that smile looked every-so-slightly off, in this moment.
“Shōyō?” Kenma murmured.
He was smaller than Kenma remembered. Both in stature and in muscle development. The Shōyō he knew was somewhere around six centimeters shorter, while this one looked to be nearly nine. His Shōyō’s arms and legs were well-defined, from countless hours spent running, jumping, riding his bike to school, and mercilessly spiking balls like he was trying to bombard enemy positions into submission.
His Shōyō was a force of nature, on and off the court—okay, maybe not as much when it came just to talking about non-volleyball things with people outside his teammates or friends group. There, he was like a chicken on an iced pond. But this one …
Kenma watched as this smaller Shōyō tried to maintain a smile upon his face, even as he watched the other boy jog off. The redhead began turning the volleyball about in his hands, spinning it with a flick of his wrist as though he was using the movement to busy himself lest he dwell on the disappointment of his own loneliness.
He turned, then, and stepped around the corner of the building. Curious, Kenma followed this younger figure of his friend, his catlike eyes taking in the details as he watched the boy seemed to ready himself to toss the ball at the ceiling.
In fact, that’s exactly what he did.
The redhead bent at the knees and swung his arms upward in an underhanded toss, rising as he did so. He launched the ball in a high arc that saw it bounce off the highest point of the wall, already moving himself back a few steps as he tracked it with his eyes.
His movement was perpendicular, like he was trying to simulate lining up for a spike without a net. Without a setter, either. And when he moved …
Kenma watched, his brilliant, cat like eyes taking in every detail as he watched this younger version of his friend dart forward, his arms swinging back as he readied for a jump.
This Shōyō wasn’t as fast as his; this one couldn’t jump nearly as high as his; and when his hand made contact with the ball, that sound, like a gunshot in one of Kenma’s FPS games, was just slightly off in telling evidence that he hadn’t hit it quite right. Every one of his fundamentals was, unquestionably, more unpolished than Kenma’s Shōyō during that first practice match.
And yet, there was that little spark. Those hints of who he would become, soon enough.
A menace of the court, the hungriest of the so-called Monster Crows of Miyagi, Karasuno’s Number Ten—Kenma could see it.
And then, at the last second, he saw the ball ricochet off a rock and hurdle toward his face.
Little Shōyō’s voice rang out, “Look out—”
Kenma threw his arms up, his elbows low and forearms braced so he could protect himself and receive the ball at the same time. As soon as he felt the familiar sting of impact, he pushed up from his heels and powered through his elbows, popping the ball up in a high arc.
Which carried it but a couple steps away from the redheaded middle schooler who stood, jaw slackened and eyes wide as it bounced and rolled to a stop at his feet.
“Oh. Oh, wow.” Young Shōyō’s face seemed to light with one of those brilliant, wonder-filled smiles. The sort that made you feel like springtime would never end. “That was awesome!”
Kenma exhaled slowly as he stood, a soft smile played upon his lips. This certainly wasn’t his Shōyō, but he still had that same love of volleyball. That same love for seeing and learning from better players, taking their example to drive his own evolution.
He chuffed a small laugh. “Odd place to practice spiking,” he mused, arching a brow at the younger boy. “You might hit someone if you’re not careful.”
Shōyō had the grace to look sheepish. He bowed low, rubbing at the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, senpai! I wasn’t paying attention, and—I mean, well, this isn’t the best place, to practice, like you said. But the gym is still—”
“Don’t call me ‘senpai,’” Kenma interrupted, his voice rising just slightly from his typical volume. Enough to convey his annoyance.
Seniority honorifics meant little to Kenma as it was. But coming from Shōyō? No matter the age, it didn’t sit right.
He sighed and said, “You may call me Kenma. Just Kenma.”
The redhead perked right back up. “Got it! Kenma it is!” he chirped. “But, uh, yeah. The gym is gonna be in use for like—” he stole a glance at his phone “—five more minutes? Then once the girls’ team heads out for their cooldown jog, I usually sneak back in to practice.”
Kenma furrowed his brows. That didn’t make sense.
Shōyō and Kageyama had mentioned playing against one another in their final year of middle school. That rather required him to practice in an actual gym. With an actual net. And drills. Which, as one might imagine, required a team.
He thought back to the boy who’d gone jogging over to the soccer field, apologizing over his shoulder as he left. A picture began to come into view.
“Why do you have to sneak inside while they’re out for a jog?”
Before the younger boy could answer, his eyes flitted to something. He let out a gasp and pointed at the bag slung over Kenma’s shoulder.
“Th-those are volleyball shoes!” the boy cried out. Oh, how familiar that was. “You play volleyball, too?”
Kenma blinked. A fond smile tugged at his lips.
Hello, friend.
“I do,” he said, his voice soft but carrying with it a slight hint of amusement. He couldn’t help it, seeing how starstruck this younger version of his friend became as he said it. How quickly the boy zipped over to stand before and gaze up at him. “I’ve played since I was a kid. Younger than you.”
The redhead started bouncing on tiptoe. “That is so cool!” He looked Kenma up and down, those big, bright eyes of his widening almost impossibly. “You’re a high schooler, right? You must be from outside Miyagi, though—I don’t recognize your warmup color scheme, so you definitely can’t be from around here!”
Perceptive, too. And apparently he’d paid enough attention to catch onto Karasuno’s competition.
“Well spotted.” Kenma gave a slight nod, turning slightly to let the younger boy see the side of his pant leg. “I play for Nekoma’s team in Tokyo—Nerima Ward,” he supplied, helpfully.
And just like his Shōyō, this one seemed to radiate excitement at the mention of Tokyo.
“Oh, wow! I’ve never been to Tokyo!” He stopped bouncing for a moment and furrowed his brows. “Wait. Do you play against teams from Miyagi?”
“Sometimes.” His smile turned a bit sly. “One, in particular. You might say they’re something of a rival of ours.”
“Really? Which one?”
For once, Kenma understood Kuroo’s love of setting up friends for harmless jokes. He shrugged and mused, “A school from the town over—Karasuno, if you’ve heard of them?”
Another gasp. Little Shōyō leapt back from Kenma, so much like a little bird darting away from a cat. “You play against Karasuno?” he sputtered.
“I do. Is that a problem?”
The boy narrowed his eyes. Then, he stood up to full height—goodness, he was even shorter, now—and pointed a thumb at himself. “I’m gonna play for Karasuno one day! Just like the Little Giant!” His eyes shone with that fire, the one that Kenma saw before those big jumps. “I’m gonna play just like him!”
A part of Kenma wanted to tell him that no, no he wouldn’t play like the Little Giant. He would play like Hinata Shōyō, the boy from Miyagi who evolved so rapidly, he helped his team take down some of the best teams in all of Japan. His presence on the court helped make Karasuno fly again.
Instead, he let himself play a little longer.
Kenma hummed, stepping forward and looming over his friend. That playful, sly smirk sharpened. “I suppose that means we’re on rival teams,” he mused. Then, he gave another little laugh. “A friend of mine would say you’re already a little, Baby Crow.”
A bright red blush spread across the boy’s cheeks. “I-I-I am not a Baby Crow!”
His laugh turned into a bout of snickering. Even easier than he’d be in a few years. Oh, if Kuroo could be here, he’d have a field day. Shōyō would’ve died by teasing.
But much as Kenma found him annoying, on occasion, Kuroo knew when to stay on task. Namely, a question that hadn’t yet been answered.
Kenma raised a brow. “You never answered my question,” he said, letting his smirk fade. “Why do you have to sneak inside while they’re out for a jog?”
That sheepish look returned. Shōyō’s gaze fell to the volleyball resting at their feet. He reached down and picked it up, turning it about in his hands.
With a sigh, Shōyō said, “A sporting club can only book the gymnasium for practice if they have enough members to form a team. Otherwise, it’s considered an appreciation club.”
Slowly, that picture gained shape. Kenma frowned slightly. “I saw you with a boy in soccer gear …”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Shōyō supplied. “He’s … well, he’s on the soccer team, but when he gets time, he’ll come over and set for me sometimes. But if push came to shove …” He gestured vaguely with a hand, the point clear.
If push came to shove, his friend would go join soccer practice with the rest of the team. The rest of the boys from that team he’d spoken of so fondly, would do the same.
Shōyō didn’t have a Kuroo to pull him outside to practice—no, that wasn’t quite right. Shōyō would’ve been like Kuroo, wanting a friend to come outside and play and practice with him. But he didn’t have a Kageyama or even a Sugawara, yet.
But right now, he did have a Kenma.
From there, the solution was rather easily found.
Kenma turned so he could pick up the ball, spinning it about in his hands. He stood, smiling one of those small smiles of his at the boy. “Would you like to practice with me?” he offered.
For a moment, Shōyō just stared. Then, his words registered.
“Wait, what?” the boy yelped.
“You’re working on your spiking, right?” Kenma gave the ball another spin, this time to get the feel and grip. “I’m Nekoma’s setter. Would you like to practice with me?”
Shōyō’s face lit up so brightly, Kenma felt almost like he was staring into the sun. “Y-Yes!” the boy cried. “I mean—I mean, yes, Kenma-sen—”
“I told you not to call me senpai,” Kenma chided gently.
“Sorry! Yes, I would like to practice with you!” Little Shōyō bowed low as he finished speaking.
With a nod, Kenma turned and motioned for the smaller boy to lead the way. “Come along, then. Bring your water bottle, if you—”
Shōyō was already dashing over to collect his belongings, hastily stuffing everything into his bag and running back over as fast as he could move.
“—have one,” Kenma deadpanned. “Let’s find an actual court. I don’t much care to have to sneak in and out of a gymnasium at as school I don’t attend.”
That his younger friend perked up and immediately chirped that he knew just the place, didn’t even phase Kenma. He simply nodded once, falling into step with the redhead as the boy bounced ahead and turned backward so he could launch a fusillade of questions about volleyball and Kenma’s time playing that were so quintessentially Shōyō, that he felt right at home.
***
As promised, Shōyō did indeed know of a place where they could practice and not get yelled at by school staff.
Kenma probably should’ve guessed that the boy had meant a public recreation center. The ladies on the other courts were polite and understanding when Shōyō had gone up to them and asked if they could use one of the courts for practice. They seemed to find his earnest nature rather adorable, much to his dismay when a couple succumbed to the urge to muss up his hair.
A scene that Kenma had been quite entertained to witness when he emerged from the changing room in his Nekoma practice uniform.
The petulant glare his little smirk had earned when Shōyō caught him watching had been worth it. Though he had felt just a touch of guilt when the boy shared that the ladies had offered to let them borrow a few of their warm up balls to practice.
Naturally, they tucked Shōyō’s ball into his bag, just to be certain it wouldn’t get mixed into the lot by mistake.
Kenma helped Shōyō set up the ball basket near the back line, then he moved to take up a setter’s position in front of the net, just about in the middle of their side of the court.
From his place on the line, Shōyō clapped his hands together. “Kenma!” he called, so much like his older self someday would. “Give me a toss!”
He couldn’t help it. Kenma laughed to himself. Familiar territory for both of them.
“That is my job,” he drawled. With a little twitch of his fingers, Kenma motioned the boy to begin.
Shōyō plucked a ball from the basket and gave it a high, underhanded toss. Kenma tracked it through the air, using his peripheral vision to see the boy start his run up so he could judge the speed and distance for his set.
Not quite as fast as his Shōyō, and quite a bit shorter, too. Which meant Kenma would need to take a little off, put it just a little lower and then—
A familiar sound. The sudden squeak of volleyball shoes against the floor as he planted his foot, the way he planted his feet and leapt in a blur of motion. One of those crazy jumps—one of Shōyō’s jumps. It was all there, but just slightly …
Not. Not yet, at least.
But Kenma could see its beginning.
The redhead’s hand swung and made contact with the ball, hitting it with the edge of his palm and sending it on a wild flight that landed just inbounds on the right box. A fair ball, but in a game, that spike would’ve cost them a point.
“Ah! Sorry!” Shōyō bowed to him. “That was such a good toss, and I didn’t get all of it! I’ll get the next one!”
Kenma gave a low hum. That wasn’t on Shōyō, but him. He’d misjudged the boy’s speed and pulled his toss to try not to lead him too much.
Even at a young age, his friend seemed destined to surprise him.
He gave his head a slight shake. “It takes time for new teammates to find chemistry. It’s my job as setter to adjust for your speed and jump.” Somewhere in the middle, Kenma would find Shōyō there. If he recalled, his didn’t do much altering tempo in his run ups and his height was rather consistent. “Go again.”
As he spoke, Shōyō fixed him with one of those wide eyed stares, like he needed to see more, somehow, to etch them into his memory. He nodded and gave an affirmative “Got it!” before dashing back to the line and plucking another ball from the basket so they could try again.
This time, when Shōyō began his run up, Kenma worked to match his timing. If the height was right and his toss was just slower, then if he could give it just a little more—
He would hit the opposite edge of Shōyō’s palm, brushing against his pinky. His spike sailed out of bounds.
Too fast. Now he was leading the boy too much.
And this time, Shōyō didn’t immediately apologize. He hesitated, an almost questioning look on his face.
Like he was asking Kenma if he’d come up the way he was meant to.
Kenma just nodded and motioned for him to go again. One behind, one ahead, but the height was on target—a testament to Shōyō’s jumping consistency, even at this age. He could still get impressive height, and he’d get there every time.
When Shōyō tossed the ball up for him a third time time, Kenma had the timing well in hand. He jumped up to meet the ball and gave it a good toss.
Thunk—bang!
The ball hit inbounds with enough force to carry it toward the wall in a blur of blue and yellow. A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. Ah.
Speed, jumping ability, and raw instinct capable of bridging the gaps in his fundamentals. Perhaps not quite as much as they would in a few years.
But Kenma saw the way Shōyō’s eyes glittered with delight, the broad smile that spread across his features as he jumped and cheered like he’d just won a set on the national stage. That want for more, always more.
The boy turned to him and grinned. “That was perfect!” he breathed. “Give me another?”
Kenma nodded. “Another, the same way.”
And on they would go in much the same manner. Again and again, Kenma would set the ball and this younger version of his friend would leap through the air and spike the ball, those big brown eyes of his brimming with unbridled joy.
With every jump, every spike, his confidence in his skill development seemed to grow. And with it, Kenma caught a glimpse of that drive to keep evolving his skills—in the form of constant questions.
Should he run faster? Or try to slow down?
Was there a way to change where the ball might go? Or get more behind his spikes so he could try to power through a block?
How would he know whether a setter was going to toss to him instead of a teammate?
Kenma thought carefully about each. How best to answer without giving away too much of what his Shōyō hadn’t yet known?
“It can depend on the situation and what you and your setter are comfortable with, together.”
“A lot can change where the ball will go—where your hand strikes it, whether you use your palm for power or your fingertips to tip it over a block. Even if you change the angle of your swing.”
“In the middle of a game, you won’t. Your setter will decide based on what he reads. You have to go up like you’re going to get it, so when he does toss to you, you’re ready to get the point. If you do that, teams will have to think of blocking you.”
The redhead was a ready listener, eager to hear his advice even if he didn’t yet fully understand it. Right now, Shōyō didn’t have the skills to help supplement his uncanny instinct and speed. So he couldn’t make use of these tricks just yet.
And if Kenma just so happened to butterfly effect his friend into a better volleyball player down the line, then their games would be even more interesting than ever.
A notion that brought one of those rare, sly grins to his face.
Shōyō laughed and took a step back. “Geez, Kenma!” he said through his mirth. “You look like a cat who just figured out how to open a birdcage! Should I be worried?”
“So long as you stay interesting,” Kenma drawled, which only served to redouble the boy’s amusement.
“Ha! I’ll be more than interesting!” came his reply, determination flashing across his features. Then, something seemed to shift in his eyes. Gone was that look, the same Kenma knew from any time someone dared tell him that he couldn’t do something, and in its place …
Another, almost eerily familiar one.
Now, it was Kenma who felt like he was being examined. That piercing gaze Shōyō could have, when his competitive side had come out and he was starting to see all those little intricacies in the game that he might have previously let pass him by, flashed in his eyes.
Gone in an instant.
The boy blinked, canting his head slightly. “Hey, Kenma,” he began. “Do you mind if I ask … how do you seem to know so much about how to help someone so …” Shōyō gave a sheepish gesture toward himself. “Someone like me? Who wants to be a spiker instead of libero or, well, setter?”
Kenma took a moment to chew on that thought. How best to answer?
Honestly, of course. But only as much as needed to be said.
“A friend of mine is like you—short, but quick and determined.” Kenma offered a slight smile. “Once upon a time, I thought speed was his weapon. And when I played against him, I tried to take that away, make it harder for him to run up and jump, and his wings would be clipped.” He shrugged. “You remind me of him.”
“I do?” Shōyō seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, his eyes lit up. “Wait! You said you thought his speed was his weapon? So … isn’t it?”
“It’s one weapon in his arsenal. Yes.”
“So … what’re the rest?”
“Agility, for one,” Kenma said. “I’d be stupid not to include his jumps, too. And his relationship with his setter, for another—complete trust in one another, that he will be where his setter needs, and that his setter will deliver the ball to his hand.” He snorted, adding, “I’m not arrogant enough to say that setter doesn’t have more talent than me. He has far more. Together, they’re a problem.”
Little Shōyō’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. A look of awe spread across his features. “Wow,” he breathed. “Your friend sounds like a good player.”
Humming, Kenma nodded once. “He is now. But when I met him?” A chuckle escaped his lips. “He was sloppy.”
The boy snorted. Then, he bit his lip as if to hold back a fit of laughter.
How very ironic, when this Shōyō would experience that same reaction when he stood before so many of their peers. And far sooner than he realized.
“A lot of players laughed at him for it,” Kenma continued. “But what they didn’t realize, and what I didn’t appreciate enough at the time, was that his greatest weapon wasn’t his speed or his jump, or his relationship with his setter, though it does help.” His gaze flitted to the volleyballs littering the opposite side of the court.
In the back of his mind, Kenma wondered how often his Shōyō must’ve committed himself to a real life level grinding slog to reach the heights he’d managed at the national tournament.
More than Kenma wished to count. Give him a struggle through a new video game any day.
But that was just it, wasn’t it? The thing that made Shōyō stand out from the crowd.
“Resilience,” Kenma said after a moment. “And his constant need to get better than he is—when he sees better players, my friend doesn’t give up and accept that they’re better. He finds how he can bring himself to their level.” He turned, then, to fix his gaze on the younger boy once more. “That’s his biggest weapon: given the choice to stabilize or evolve, he will always pick—”
Little Shōyō’s eyes flashed with that competitive gleam, just like before. “Evolve,” he said, like the choice didn’t warrant a thought.
When he blinked, that gleam was gone once more.
Kenma turned to face him fully, his brows furrowing. Am I imagining things?
“Staying resilient and always evolving, huh?” Shōyō muttered, more to himself than to Kenma. The younger boy seemed to chew on the idea for a moment longer.
A small, determined smile tugged at his lips. The redhead clenched his hands into fists, so much like his older self might when readying to make some promise or vow to break through some barrier that stood in his path.
“I guess … along that line …” Here, his nerves seemed to return. Shōyō shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Could we try something? You’re kinda … the first setter who plays competitively that I’ve gotten to work with, so …”
Kenma arched a brow in silent prompting.
It seemed to work well enough to encourage the boy. Shōyō brought his hands together as if in prayer and asked, “K-Kenma, could you maybe do a high set for me?”
Kenma blinked. “I don’t …”
“I know! I know! I’m … short, and I’ll need to work on my jumps to make it actually something that works,” Shōyō said, ducking his head just slightly. “But I wanna try it. A good open set, and see how it feels. Just once.”
The older boy bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t so much that Kenma couldn’t do a high set, or that he hadn’t tried to indulge Lev now and again in the half-Russian’s constant quest to become Nekoma’s ace. But Kenma wasn’t Kageyama.
He didn’t have the sort of innate connection that the perpetually grumpy setter shared with Shōyō—crazy, mid game stunts that seemed like impossible developments was their thing.
But as little Shōyō started bouncing eagerly, Kenma sighed and shook his head, smiling to himself.
“You can have one,” Kenma said. Thank heavens Shōyō didn’t go to Nekoma, or he’d never let Kenma escape practice. “Then we go back to basics.”
With one of those familiar loud cheers, the redhead hurried back to the basket to grab another ball, spinning it about in his hands like the just couldn’t wait to take this chance.
Admittedly, there was a part of Kenma that rather wanted to see just how well he would do with it at this age. Call it intrigue, if you wished.
Hinata gave the ball one last spin before starting another underhanded toss, arcing high and slow, just like each time before.
Kenma took a step back to get under it properly, his hands already in setting position as he zeroed in on the ball. He timed his jump perfectly, as he’d been coerced to drill so many times by Kuroo or Coach Nekomata, and tossed it high, just like he’d watched Kageyama do at Nationals. And to help his spiker, he kept the path as short and the arc at the highest point that he could.
Practically straight up and down so it would fall into place for Shōyō’s point of impact, like he was setting a baseball on a tee.
He took a moment to glance at the boy, and then, his breath caught in his throat.
Those weren’t the eager or unsure eyes of a little boy, unsure of his own skill. From the way his legs tensed and loaded to the setting of his shoulders, how his tongue flashed across his lips as they pulled into a smile, and his eyes—how they glinted, wide and full of fire. Fire and …
Oh. Oh. Kenma could see it. Kenma could see him in there.
He was there, as clear as the word he could read straight off the redhead’s face.
Hungry. Hungry. Hungry!
Shōyō didn’t run—he surged toward the net, his eyes tracking the ball as it fell. He threw his hands back, readying for that familiar leap, that unbridled joy of playing and spiking shone like the glow of a warm summer day. Then, when he planted his foot, it was like watching Nationals all over again.
Only this time, Kenma was standing right beside him when the boy seemed to spread his wings and soar.
And did he soar. Higher than he had since they arrived to practice, higher than he should have been able to do at this stage of his leveling.
That wasn’t little Shōyō’s jump. And that form, that intensity in those eyes weren’t his yet either.
Kenma felt like time had slowed. It was his Shōyō.
Thunk—BANG!
Ah. There it was. That high point spike that made Kenma recalculate everything he knew about his friend.
But when he landed, little Shōyō wasn’t there, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts anymore.
A familiar figure landed, nimble as a cat—oh, the irony—his red hair matted with sweat, his chest heaving as he stood and rolled his shoulders, the light glinting off the black, orange, and white of Karasuno’s primary uniform. And upon his chest and back in white, the number ten.
His Shōyō.
Shōyō pumped a fist and turned, that blinding grin spread across his features. “Nice toss, Kenma!” he cheered, holding out a hand for a high five. A playful glimmer danced in his eyes. “Still prefer me on the other side of the net?”
Slowly, Kenma’s lips tugged into a smile of his own. How could they not? Shōyō’s joy always felt so infectious.
He hid a laugh behind a hand as he reached out with the other to lightly tap his friend’s, returning the gesture.
“Always,” came his reply. “You keep things interesting.”
Shōyō beamed. Then, he shifted, putting his hand on his hip as he reached out to give Kenma’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Kenma-san,” he said in a voice that wasn’t his. He gave Kenma another shake. “Kenma-san.”
Wait a—
***
Golden, catlike eyes fluttered open as Kenma blinked the slip from them. He covered them with his hands, letting out a sleepy little groan.
“Whassamuh?” he mumbled.
“Kenma, c’mon,” Tora’s voice called. “We let you take your little lie in after gaming all night. Least you could do is get up and come greet Karasuno with us. The other teams have already lined up.”
Everything came back to him in an instant. Kenma let out a frustrated sigh.
Of course. Of course it had all been a dream.
Now he could at least make some senes of how he’d been standing with a much younger Shōyō—and then, the one he knew.
Actually, no. It was still freaking weird.
Kenma drew his hand down his face so he could look up at his teammates. Lev and Tora’s faces came into view, the former standing and stepping back after crouching down to nudge him awake, and the latter giving him a rather amused smile.
“Y’know, one of these days, you’re gonna have to get yourself a regular sleep schedule,” Tora teased.
“Never,” Kenma deadpanned.
Snorting, his friend bent down and rapped his knuckles against Kenma’s knee. “Yeah, well, c’mon. We gotta go greet the Crows and let ‘em know we’re gonna get ‘em back for the last few times. I’m not gonna hear Noya, Yamaguchi, Tanaka, and freakin’ Hinata getting rowdy and taking straight sets from us again!”
That made Kenma sit bolt upright.
Shōyō.
He let his teammates pull him to his feet and ran his hands through his hair to forestall any comments that he’d gone from “Pudding Head” to puffball in the months since they’d seen one another. Kenma was the one with witty and sly comments in this competitive friendship, thank-you-very-much!
Kenma stepped by Tora as he threw on his Nekoma warmup over his practice shirt. “Let’s go,” he murmured as though he’d been the one waiting on them, then continued on so they wouldn’t see the little smirk playing upon his lips when Tora, predictably, launched into one of his sputtering rants.
Maybe Kuroo had a point. Sometimes it was a little fun to needle.
As they stepped through the dormitory doors and walked into the sunlight, Kenma could see the rest of his teammates lined up and waiting to greet their northern rivals and friends from Karasuno. There, he could see Coach Nekomata shaking hands with Karasuno’s Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei, the former sporting a sly grin as he said something that made Nekomata throw back his head and laugh like they were old friends. And, weren’t they?
Coach Ukai had played against the teams Coach Nekomata put together, back when his grandfather coached.
One by one, the Karasuno players filed off the bus and walked up to greet the Nekoma club with smiles, high fives, hugs, and, naturally, a few exchanged taunts and jibes from the last practice matches they’d shared since Nationals. Kageyama walked straight up to Kenma and gave him a firm handshake and a nod before moving on to stand off to the side. Uneasy as ever without a volleyball in his hands.
Honestly, Kenma could empathize.
Last off the bus, though, came a flash of bright orange, a grin as bright and warm as sunlight, and a boy who’d forced powerhouse after powerhouse to keep their eyes firmly upon him.
Hinata Shōyō. No longer overlooked, no longer just the sloppy, over-eager beatstick for Kageyama’s ungodly tosses. He looked up, those bright, brown eyes of his locked straight upon Kenma, and his grin broadened.
He leapt off the steps and tossed down his bag. “Kenma!” he cried.
And then Lev and Inuoka tried to snatch him up in a double bearhug. “Shōyō!” they yelled as they descended upon him.
Shōyō, laughing, ducked under them and caught the pair with a light jab to the side each that looked suspiciously Sugawara-like. “No interrupting!” he taunted, not even breaking stride as he swept Kenma into a hug and squeezed him.
“Shōyō,” Kenma protested, his lips tugging treacherously into a fond smile. His arms were pinned to his sides. “I need to breathe. And I’ll need my arms unbroken.”
“Kenmaaaaaaaaa!” his friend’s eyes danced, ruinig his fake whining. Shōyō set him down on his feet and stepped back to give him a little personal space after his usual greeting. He’d remembered. “It’s great to see you! I’ve been working real hard to help get the firsties even better, gotta keep you on your toes for our big rematch at Nationals!”
Of course he was.
Kenma hid a laugh behind his hand as Inuoka and Lev used the distraction to try to crush the smaller boy between them, his golden eyes glittering as they teased him and asked him if he’d shrunk since their last match.
He hadn’t. Quite the opposite. Kenma could already tell he’d grown another centimeter or two.
A shame. He quite liked shorter Shōyō.
Once he’d managed to wriggle free of the two taller boys, Shōyō sidled up to Kenma again, that playful grin spread across his features. They both knew what was coming.
The redhead clapped his hands together as if in prayer and beamed at him. “Kenma! Gimme a toss during warmups?” he asked. “And more than five before you run off this time!”
Kenma eyed him a moment. Then, he shrugged and turned.
“Sure. Get changed.” The blonde-dyed boy had already started walking toward the gym, that smile of his playing upon his lips once again. Without looking over his shoulder, he called back, “I haven’t forgotten that you owe me gaming time later on—and I have horror games if you didn’t bring your handheld for PVP.””
Three. Two. One …
In the blink of an eye, Shōyō had zipped ahead of him, jaw agape and eyes comically wide. “W-Wait, actually?!” he squawked. “You’re not just gonna stop and run off to hide until the practice matches start? You’re actually—”
Kenma stepped around him, but not before he gave a low hum and said, “The longer you take, the fewer you’ll get.”
No more needed to be said. Shōyō turned and ran off in a dead sprint, no doubt to dump his bag in the first room he could find and get his water bottle filled before he joined Kenma in the main gym.
Whether a dream or in real life, some things would never change.
And Kenma rather liked them that way.