#how was this 700 words | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kareofbears · 1 year ago

Text

never been a natural

"Usually," Oikawa starts, shoving the wires in his pockets, and Hinata flinches for no good reason. It dawns on him that he's never had a one-on-one conversation with Oikawa before. "Reconnaissance is supposed to be a secret, chibi."

---

Or, Hinata gets lost and runs into an Oikawa he isn't quite familiar with.

read on ao3 or below the cut

Mondays are days of misery for Hinata.

It didn’t used to be. Mondays used to be filled with volleyball. Receives, spikes, sets, strategy. Bike up the hill, shower, pretend to study, then crash for the night. Rinse and repeat. It was his life, and he's fiercely protective of it.

Hinata’s pumped every minute he possibly can into cramming more volleyball. Every bubble of open air in his schedule is inflated with volleyball, body slick with sweat and eyes trained on the ball in front of him. More, more, more, until—

“From now on, Mondays are off.”

Silence rang across the gym, the incessant squeaking of shoes coming to a halt at once.

"...Of what?" Nishinoya tried, question bitten off short with a sharp laugh. A nervous tick, a dead giveaway of what everyone had hoped they misheard.

Coach Ukai looked each of them in the eye. Seeing him serious outside of a tense match has them all kept quiet. There isn't even a hint of a smile on his features. "I've decided that practice will only be on Tuesdays to Fridays." Hinata takes a sharp intake of breath, and Ukai's gaze flickers at him, eyes sharpening further. "Is that clear?"

It was probably the most unclear thing Hinata's ever heard in his entire life.

Obviously, they didn't take the news lying down. Immediately after that practice, Hinata and Kageyama locked eyes before nodding, no words needed. Monday rolls around and they walk up to the gym doors, bleary-eyed and geared-up, to find the door locked.

They expected this. Kageyama silently leans down and Hinata clambers onto his shoulders, movements steady and practiced. This isn't the first time they've broken into the gym to get extra practice time, and—Hinata sticks his tongue out in concentration, aggressively patting Kageyama's head when he needs more height, reaching up to shove his hand in the third broken light bulb where he knows Takeda-sensei keeps the spare key—he refuses to let it be the last.

When he pulls his hand out, what's in his fist isn't a dusty silver key, but a folded piece of paper:

Try it again and you're off the team.

He doesn't know what's more impressive—the foresight to do this or the fact that it was signed by Coach Ukai, Faculty Advisor Takeda, Captain Daichi, and Vice-Captain Sugawara.

Hinata lets out a frustrated yell and forces himself to run faster, early morning jog turning into a dead sprint. That was two weeks ago. Two entire Mondays of feeling like he's skipping practice, of having to endure that gnawing feeling that he's being left behind with every passing week. An entire day where other teams are combing through strategies to figure out how to improve and beat them out of the Nationals lineup.

His feet hit the pavement hard, throat tight and breath coming hard and fast. Running. At least they can't stop him from doing this. Even when he didn't have a team, he had this. He had himself. And they can't stop him from improving. There's a tight feeling in his chest, a bitterness that he hasn't felt since he lost that match in middle school. A tidal wave of emotion that comes from being face to face with the fact that the world isn't fair. That there's always going to be something in his way, something that prevents him from being where he wants to be. His only remedy against that was practice, and somehow, he lost that too.

Finally, he has to hunch over, skin covered in sweat as his lungs try to catch up with him. Idly, he looks up, relieved that the sun is barely up, soft rays of sunlight peeking out through the mountains in the distance. The last thing he wants is to go to school today, but he doesn't know how far he can push his luck before Daichi really brings the hammer down on him.

Turning around to head home, Hinata pauses. Turns around again. Swivels left. Then right. Then, out of desperation, up and down.

He smacks his hand over his face, scrubbing roughly.

He doesn't know where he is. Again.

A sigh comes from the deepest part of his gut as he resigns himself to his new fate. Slowly walking around, he counts himself lucky that he's somewhere that's pretty populated. Actually, he looks around, mildly curious, this entire neighborhood is...nice. Stores and their shopkeepers starting to open businesses with a yawn, a few keeners making their way to classes early. He glances around, starting to get excited at his new surroundings. There's a playground, empty but of a much higher quality than anything his neighborhood has, and a dirt patch that looks just big enough for a volleyball scrimmage if he was desperate.

He ups his pace to an easy jog, feeling good from the run despite the initial inconvenience. Maybe he can ask someone here how to get back home. His stomach grumbles, and he fights the urge to sigh again. A snack, too, would be pretty good right now.

Turning the corner, neck craning to see what awaits him. There's a cafe at the end of the street, mostly empty except for a few businessmen darting in and out for a quick coffee. Through the big glass windows of the cafe, there's a few booths visible to Hinata, predictably vacant, except for one right in the middle.

Then Hinata stops in his tracks. He takes a step backwards so that he’s hidden again. Rubs his eyes. Peeks around once more, just to make sure.

Oikawa Tooru glances—earphones visible even from here—in his direction and Hinata scrambles back, clambering behind the wall, jaw slacked.

His luck.

The only player that gives Kageyama Tobio—his best friend and nastiest guy alive—the heebie jeebies, is sitting in a cafe in some unknown neighborhood. Only unknown to you, his mind supplies unhelpfully. This is Seijoh's turf and you just strolled right into the Great King's throne room.

Slowly, Hinata backs away, carefully walking backwards into the opposite direction. It's fine. There's no way Oikawa saw him. All he needs to do is leave as quietly as possible and get back to Karasuno.

—

He's walked past the cafe six times before he admits defeat.

Hinata—properly sweaty again, not from the run but from the nerves—can't figure out which direction he even came from before. This bookstore looks familiar. That lamp post is one he's seen before, right? He swears that child is the same one he keeps running into. The only thing that’s changing is the sun’s position above him, mocking him for the time he’s wasted wandering around, directionless.

The whole time, Oikawa's still there, mug to his right, papers scattered across the table and pencil tapping on the wood to whatever undisclosed song is playing in his earphones. With each pass, Hinata expects someone to join him—he's never seen Oikawa without his team, or at least without the stern-looking Iwaizumi by his side. But nobody ever does.

Taking a deep breath, puffing his chest up as big as he can, and mustering all the bravery he can hold in his frame, Hinata meekly knocks on the window of the cafe.

Oikawa looks up at him, expression unsurprised and almost offensively disinterested, pencil still loosely gripped between his fingers.

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Hinata raises a hand. "Hi," he mouths.

It's enough to pull a quirk of a brow from Oikawa. Setting down the pencil, Oikawa points to the seat across from him. An invitation.

WIth a gulp, Hinata enters the cafe, bell ringing above, the scent of coffee beans almost overwhelming. After a quick greeting to the barista, he warily makes his way to Oikawa, who'd taken out his earphones. Their eyes meet and for a split-second, he's back in the inter-high gym, his freak quick getting blocked, getting read. He blinks and suddenly he's back in the cafe, in direct line of Oikawa's gaze.

He hesitates, mind whirling at the implication. "What?"

“I’ve been seeing your little feet skittering around my block for the past twenty minutes.” Oikawa gives him a look. "I guess secret isn't really your style, though."

"What?" he repeats, before realization dawns on him. "Oh! No. I'm not here to spy, I just got lost on my run, and—" he cuts himself off as he takes in Oikawa's appearance. White blazer, sweater vest, red tie pressed immaculately against both. "Wait, what are you doing here?"

Tilting his head to the side, his expression morphs into one of intrigue. "You got lost to the point that you accidentally made it to Seijoh?"

Hinata isn't listening. He glances around until his eyes land on the calendar against the far wall, just in case he's mistaken. "It's Monday," he states.

"So I've been told,” he waves off. “You accidentally ran 12 kilometers?”

"It's Monday," he insists, confusion coated thick in his words. And then, uneasily, he asks, "Are you skipping practice?"

Oikawa levels him with something that isn't quite disappointment, but close to it. "Think about it very hard before you accuse me of something, chibi." He starts collecting his scattered papers, and Hinata catches a glimpse of numbers across the pages. "We don't practice on Mondays."

Surprise runs through his body. "Your coach made you guys do that, too?"

"Coach?" It was Oikawa's turn to look surprised. "Coach doesn't make us do anything. I instated it."

This time, he can't keep his jaw from dropping. "What?" Any nerves about being in front of the Great King leaves his body. He flops into the booth, sitting across from Oikawa with his palms pressed against the table. Is he crazy? "Are you crazy?"

A snort gets pulled out of Oikawa. "Tobio-chan really did find his equal, didn't he?"

Hinata opens his mouth, dozens of questions on the tip of his tongue, when Oikawa continues. "As much as I'd love for you to disappear off the face of the planet and get rid of that nasty quick of yours—" he points out the window, almost bored. "Go past that yellow house there. Three blocks down, there'll be a bus stop. It should take you back to your flock."

What? he almost says again, before realizing that it's directions to go back to Karasuno. Directions he isn't quite interested in anymore. "Oh, thank you," Hinata says distractedly, still unable to process that a top four school in the prefecture doesn't practice for an entire day every week. "Um—"

Oikawa’s eyes flicker to Hinata, taking in his sweat-slick forehead and running outfit still sticking to parts of his torso, and grimaces infinitesimally. Hinata stays quiet. There's something familiar about this, and it dawns on him that he feels this way before every Nekoma match. The intense feeling of being watched, of being studied, dissected.

After a moment, Oikawa shrugs, almost to himself. "Try not to get lost again," he tells Hinata instead of whatever he wanted to say. "Don't want your team to think I've kidnapped you or anything. Despite what Tobio thinks, I do fight fair."

He feels his eye twitch. There's something that deeply irked him about being left in the dark about himself. It reminds him of Tsukkishima. Or Kageyama, earlier on in their partnership. Or maybe, that run wasn't enough to wipe Hinata's frustrations clean from the world.

When he doesn't move, Oikawa claps his hands together twice. "Go on, now. Time for the crow to fly back home."

"Tell me," he says, voice coming out harder than he meant it to.

Oikawa pauses, hand still raised, a flicker of surprise in his features. "Tell you what?"

"You..." Hinata deflates, whatever bravery struck suddenly seeping out all at once. "It looks like you wanted to say something. Sorry."

Oikawa studies him for a long moment, enough that Hinata has to fight not to shift in his seat. Then, he sets the stack of papers down on the table, leaning back into the cushion of the booth. "I don't talk shop unless someone asks me to," he says finally. "Unsolicited advice is the worst."

Hinata doesn't know how to answer that. Most of the advice he gets is unsolicited—or maybe because everyone knows that Hinata soaks up volleyball like a sponge and would never see advice as unsolicited. "I'm asking."

"You're running on your team's rest day." It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a praise, either. "Running isn't resting."

Hinata clenches his fists under the table. "It's better than sitting around and doing nothing."

"Resting isn't nothing," he scoffs. "Especially you. Sprints in every match, decoying a real spike, jumping high enough to make it all look convincing. You think it’s magic that keeps you flying?" Oikawa leans forward, elbow on the table and chin resting on his palm. "It's muscles. Tendons. Flesh and bone. Physical stuff that breaks down if you let it. Don't make that mistake again."

Hinata bristles, the urge to argue equal to his urge to curl in on himself. "But—"

Oikawa crosses his arms and waits, and Hinata feels his words die in his throat. The usual exaggerated levity in his eyes was absent. He wonders for a moment if this is what Kunimi and Kindaichi feel when they're being scolded. The moment is long and tense, Oikawa's gaze surprisingly heavy and Hinata unwilling to relent.

Then Oikawa sighs, leaning back into his seat. Taking out a folder, he files his scattered papers away, stows them in his bag before throwing something at Hinata.

He catches it without thinking, bewilderedly taking in the banana in his hands.

"Potassium after runs, always," Oikawa slings his bag over his shoulders, scooting out the booth. "You look like you're going to fall over. Can't have you forfeiting the game because you're malnourished, of all things."

Hinata watches as Oikawa makes his way out, thank you stuck in his throat. He’s not sure what to make of this strange version of Oikawa.

The bell rings as he leaves, and Hinata eventually exits, banana peel in hand and deep in thought. At least the bus stop was easy to find this time.

—

Next Monday, Hinata slides into the booth with no hesitation. "I took the bus here," he says in lieu of a greeting. "So I'm still resting. Don’t yell at me."

Oikawa sighs, overexaggerated. He's wearing glasses today. Thick, black rims that he pushes up his nose as he continues writing. "This isn't exactly open practice," he says. "I'm not taking questions. Or giving free advice, for that matter."

Hinata lets his gaze settle on the paper's scattered once more around the booth, attempting to read upside down kanji. Half the papers, predictably, are volleyball tactics, success statistics, or general notes (Mad-dog —> low sets + flexible shoulders. Note: Iwa's presence non-negotiable). The other half is filled with—

"Is that math?" Hinata asks, nose scrunching.

"Calculus," Oikawa corrects, before finally looking up from his page. While Hinata isn't surprised that Oikawa is an early riser, it's one thing to get up early for volleyball; to get up early for homework is a different torture entirely. "Why are you here, chibi?"

It's a question he's prepared for, thinking about how to answer it on the entire bus ride here. "I hate rest days," he proclaims, unashamed in the slightest. "They suck and I hate them and I'd rather keep playing volleyball until all my bones break and I want to know why you—" he gestures wildly at Oikawa, "of all people are okay with it."

Hinata braces himself for the inevitable argument he's going to get into, but he has to know. The diagram in his head is simple—Oikawa taught Kageyama a lot about volleyball. Kageyama is crazy about volleyball. That means Oikawa taught Kageyama to be crazy, so Oikawa should also—

Oikawa bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Chibi," he smiles, mirth audible. "I bet I hate rest days more than you do."

Hinata brightens up at that. "Really?"

"Of course," he puts his pencil down, giving Hinata his full attention. "Why on earth would I rather be doing anything else if I could be on the court?"

"Right? I want to play!"

"I want to get better.”

"I want to spike."

"I want to set," Oikawa agrees, and there's a sparkle in his eye that Hinata's never seen on him before, or Hinata's just never seen it up close. A devout love for the sport. He knows exactly what it looks like, because he sees it in the mirror every single day. It dawns on him that he’s never had a practice match with Oikawa. Every interaction they had is a do-or-die, no room to breathe around each other. "I want to serve. I want to get better. I want to play tough teams and win hard games and touch the ball and play more volleyball until my fingertips are bleeding from setting."

Hinata’s grinning properly now, an idea forming in his head. "I saw a park nearby," he says excitedly, mind already whirling with possibilities. "I brought a ball in my bag, I think we can—"

"And, like I said before," Oikawa cuts in, tone still light. "I don't practice on rest days."

The grin on Hinata's face falters, his heart sinking. "But you just said—"

"Do you want to play volleyball forever?"

He can have his memory wiped and he's sure that his DNA strands can answer the question for him. "Of course."

"Past high school?"

Hinata bristles at the idea of doing anything else. “Yes.”

"And what are you willing to do to make that happen?" Oikawa asks, and he feels as if he's being tested in some way, but he's too excited to care. This is the closest thing to volleyball that he’s gotten on a Monday.

"Anything!" he exclaims. And then, quietly: "I'll do anything."

"Then, unfortunately for you," Oikawa's smile turns smug and haughty and Hinata realizes, belatedly, he's stuck in a web that's been spun specifically for him. Kageyama's voice echoes in the back of his mind: He's got a nasty personality. "That takes a lot of hard work."

Hinata tilts his chin upwards. "I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“Yes,” Oikawa taps his pencil against the paper in front of them, calculus staring back mercilessly. “You are.”

An incredulous wave washes over him. “What does this—“ Hinata carefully pushes the paper away from him, afraid it’ll attack him somehow. "Have to do with anything?"

"Ever heard of university-level volleyball?" Oikawa asks, smile faux-pleasant as he takes in the blanched color of Hinata's face. "You think they'll let you in just because your vertical is impressive?"

Hinata blinks at him. "You think my vertical is impressive?"

Oikawa throws the pencil at his head. "Best in the prefecture, without a doubt," he sniffs as Hinata rubs his forehead with a pout. "But it's not enough. Good grades lead to good universities, and good universities have good volleyball teams."

His vision swims as he stares at the paper between them. Symbols he doesn't even recognize seem to mock him, numbers seemingly floating off the page as he gets dizzy just looking at these unknown equations. What even is calculus?

"Easy for you to say," Hinata mutters, toying with the pencil in his hand. It's short, almost sharpened down to the nub. He doesn't think he's ever had the same one long enough to get it to this length. "You're good at school."

A bark of laughter sounds like it came from Oikawa's soul and Hinata jumps at the sudden sound. "Oh, that's funny," he huffs, humor still sticky in his tone. "Say, chibi, tell that to Iwa-chan next time you run into him, will you?"

Hinata tilts his head to the side, brow furrowed. He peers down at the table once more, this time with a different perspective. The people in Karasuno who are natural academics (Tsukkishima, of all people, come to mind) are almost never surrounded by flashcards. Backpack never more than half-way full, never staying behind for extra studying lessons from the upperclassmen. Eyes drifting back to Oikawa, who's cheat sheets and notes are surrounded by eraser shavings, brightly colored sticky notes, and pale hands gray from where his skin slid across still-dusty pencil led.

"You're stupid?" Hinata blurts out. Something light flutters in his chest, and it pulls the corner of his lips upwards.

"I am no such thing!" Oikawa flares out, snatching his pencil back from Hinata. "And you're rude. I may not be your senpai, but I'm still older than you."

"No, it's okay!" he points at himself, proud and eager. "I'm stupid, too."

That only seems to rile him up more. "I'm fine in most subjects," he insists. "It's just calculus, and these damn—" he shoots a glare at nothing, face twisting. "Derivatives. I've been at it for weeks, and there's only so much Mattsu's willing to explain to me before he makes me buy him ramen for his time. I mean," he continues babbling, words pouring out of him like an unstoppable current, a build-up of pressure that's rushing to be let out. "I'm their captain, and they can't even spare me time to break down the rate of change. I'm sure Mr. Refreshing doesn't give your captain a second thought with homework, because that's what a team is for, isn't it? Argh!"

Oikawa looks the most frazzled he's ever seen him, matches included. To be honest, Hinata has no idea what he's even talking about anymore (is this still math? Maybe they moved onto chemistry without him realizing), but the more he talks, the more the thing in Hinata's chest is taking flight.

"Is…" he hesitates, not sure if now's a good time to bring the conversation back on track. Or if Oikawa would listen to him, still lost in the sea of his own rant. "That why you don't practice on Mondays? For… homework?"

Stopping suddenly, Oikawa visibly refocuses back on Hinata. "It's part of it. The other parts are physical—" he kicks Hinata's knee from under the table. "Mental—" he points the pencil at Hinata's head again, who rushes to block this time. "And emotional,” Oikawa taps two fingers over his own heart. “Take care of all three and you can play forever.”

Nursing over his freshly-bruised knee, Hinata grimaces. “Then when’s practice?” he grumbles. “There’s no way you have enough time for all that.”

The look in Oikawa’s eyes is unflinching. “You make time.”

It’s a slap in the face. Oikawa, third-year captain of a powerhouse team, telling him to make time.

What have you been doing for three years?

The fluttering feeling his chest wilts, and what gets resurrected is this ugly, now-familiar twist in his gut. Being locked out of his own gym just when he felt like he was making progress with himself. Height always, always, always a wall for him to overcome. Losing the preliminaries to the boy in front of him.

"I don't think it's fair of you to say that, Oikawa-san," he mutters, struggling to keep his tone level. But it’s as if his tongue was loosened from his building frustration, years of isolation and drowning in inadequacy crashing down on him all at once. "You have the talent. You have the confidence. People know who you are. You're the captain of Aoba Johsai. Everybody in this prefecture knows about your serves. You have no—" Hinata lets his eyes slip close, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry if I'm rude. It isn't fair to compare you to me. Not when our experiences are—are—basically opposites of each other. Not when it took everything I had to get this far."

It was probably too far. He's never been this upfront with someone from another team, even Ushijima. But Hinata doesn't regret saying it.

Opening his eyes, he meets Oikawa's stare dead-on. He doesn't seem angry, at least, but there’s something there that Hinata doesn’t can’t read. Somewhere behind them, the barista sneezes. A clock ticks. Morning rays pour into the cafe, and idly, he remembers when Mondays used to be simpler.

Then Oikawa huffs. Shoving a hand into his bag, he ruffles through its contents for a few moments, papers audibly crinkling, before sliding a notebook across the table. It's an old thing, the binding fraying in several places and the cover bent this way and that. Gingerly, Hinata picks it up, carefully spreading the pages—

Only to be met with a page of Xs. Dozens of tiny Xs, dutifully crossed across the Campus lines, written in with various pencils and pens, different colors and sizes.

He glances up at Oikawa, who crosses his arms, and Hinata takes that as an invitation to keep going. He flips to the next page, and it's the same thing. And the next. And the next. And the next, until he starts to get impatient and flips to the middle, where, finally, there's a highlighted yellow circle, followed by countless exclamation points.

Oikawa yawns, reaching for his mug. "Landed my first jump serve," he says lightly.

Hinata's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, before closing it shut, teeth clacking together.

Nonetheless, Oikawa smiles, a touch sardonic. Caught. "No, you can say it."

Even with permission, he hesitates. "That's a lot of Xs," he says carefully.

"Took a while." He takes a sip of coffee, placing the mug back down onto its saucer. "Do you want to guess how many times it took for our dear Tobio-chan to do the same thing?"

Hinata stays silent.

"Four," Oikawa's smile turns twisted. "Four times. I saw it happen, actually. I was in the gym with him when the ball flew over the net. Good for him, I suppose."

“Kageyama trains hard, too,” he points out quietly.

Oikawa's mouth twitches. “As hard as you?”

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks, desperately, anything to get Oikawa to stop talking. Anything to keep him from shattering the illusion of the Great King. Because if he's not the Great King, if he's not the third-year who serves bullets at Hinata's team, if he's not the figure that convinced Hinata that unstoppable monsters exist—

"Because, chibi, no matter how hard you train, someone out there will be able to do what took you months to master in the span of an afternoon."

—Then he has to come to terms with the fact that Oikawa Tooru is just as human as the rest of them.

Oikawa points a finger. "But that doesn't give you the right to give up. That doesn't give you an excuse to let up, or to drown in despair. You'll get there. Even if it takes," he falters infinitesimally, before rallying himself with a bright smile. "Even if it takes a little while."

Stamina monsters, Ukai calls them sometimes. Hinata had reveled in it, shone with pride. But sitting in a cafe in front of Oikawa dutifully doing homework while the world is still deep in its slumber, Hinata pales in comparison. Because his approach to volleyball is a sprint, Oikawa's is a marathon, and he’s ready to play the long-game in a way that Hinata can't possibly imagine.

“Well!” Oikawa declares, arms stretched high into the air, breaking the atmosphere between them. “You've ruined my Monday routine more than anyone else has in the past few months." He points an accusatory finger at Hinata. "If this was Karasuno's plan to take me down, I'm not letting you have this victory. You know where the bus is. Shoo, shoo."

"I understand," Hinata says quickly, syllables bumping into each other clumsily in his haste to get the words out. "I understand rest days now."

Oikawa raises a brow, doubtful. "Do you?"

"I..." He knows what it is now, that thing in his chest, ballooning in him until he feels like he can float from it. Hope. Because it’s possible. Someone as incredible as Oikawa, a seemingly unsurpassable mountain on court, is somehow sitting at the same table as Hinata. The curtain fell away to reveal that there were never any super powers, no magic wand that made those serves. It’s grit. It’s diligence. It’s enduring Monday after Monday with nothing but an unwavering focus on what’s in front of him. The only thing that can bring them to the level of a genius is hard work, and hard work doesn't always take place on the court. “I think I’m starting to.”

"Humph," Oikawa shoves his earphone back in his ear, turning his attention back to his worksheets. "As if I care."

Disappointment rises in him, slow and heavy. There's still so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. When did you start learning jump serves? Why did you start learning jump serves? Did people look down at you, too? What’s Ushijima’s spikes like? Why is Kageyama so scared of you?

Sliding off of the faux-leather of the booth, he fights not to let the dismay too obviously on his already-readable face when Oikawa speaks again. "Did you find the bus stop last time?"

He pauses. “Yeah?”

"Good." Fingers finding his phone, Oikawa turns up his music, enough that even Hinata can hear the muffled sound from here. "Then see you next week.”

It takes a moment for him to understand what he’s saying, convincing himself he misheard. When it hits him, Hinata can't repress the garbled noise that spills from his mouth, words slurring together to make one long, string of excited noise. He all but runs out of the cafe, bell ringing shrill behind him, before Oikawa can change his mind. Hinata can't wipe the grin off his face, inspiration thrumming through his veins as he skips to the bus stop.

Mondays. He can’t wait for Mondays.

#“just a quick fic to get my feelings out maybe 700 or 800 words” HOW IS THIS 5K #if youre here for maze runner...............sorry #haikyuu is BACK baby #haikyuu #haikyu #haikyu!#fic tag #oikawa toru #oikawa tooru #hinata shoyo #hinata shouyou #theyre besties!!!!!!!!!!!! <3333 #never been a natural #mirrorball aka oikawas anthem

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