POP IT DON'T DROP IT [grossover]

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doin' it to death

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when the sweat starts drying on his skin, hinata shivers. it's hot in brazil, too hot even. the muffled rattling of the fan and the delayed wave of air it sends across the room give no relief. the sweat dries, and hinata shivers as if he was cold. he curls on the bed, exhausted from the afternoon training and the work he had in the evening. he can still feel the sand burning his bare feet, and then the hard and smooth volleyball against his palm. he had to learn a lot of things about beach volleyball, one of them being—when the ball falls on the other side of the court, you don't hear a loud slam echoing off the walls, celebrating the spike. instead, you see a small splash of the sand. at fisrt, it felt weird when the sound he was expecting after the spike didn't come, scaring hinata with deafness. he got used to it pretty quickly, though. jumping felt different. awkward, stiff. sometimes it felt like hinata was bogged down. like he couldn't fly anymore. he couldn't get used to it.

hinata sighes. the smell of his own sweat and the mawkish, dusty exhaustion that he could feel on his skin make him dizzy and sleepy. when he first got home, the bathroom was taken, and so hinata went straight into his room, fell on the bed and never got up again. he could hear pedro leave the bathroom and move around the flat they shared, quiet noises of his presence slightly lulling hinata. he knows he has to take a shower, to scrub the sticky film of noise and fuss of the day off his skin. still, he can't make himself move.

playing on the beach was nothing like playing indoors. still, beach volleyball reminded hinata about volleyball he used to play before. how unexpected it might be and how sometimes you have to adjust, let the force of nature do it’s job. bend you one way or another, do something you never would’ve expected of yourself. something he'd felt when playing with kageyama. the constant challenge there, the bubbling excitement, the never ending more, quicker, higher.

hinata closes his eyes, letting his thoughts drift. he thinks of telling kageyama, how cool beach volleyball turns out to be—it's been over two month now, so he knows. he imagines telling kageyama how often he gets to touch the ball—he even tried counting, once. though he kept failing at it, getting distracted with the weight of the ball against his palms, and hot kisses the sun was leaving on his face, and sand packing between his toes. it has been a lot, even too much at times. too bright, too loud, to unfamiliar—and he told himself, he loved it.

he did love it.
not that he missed something, right?

pedro was shuffling again in the kitchen, tupperware clanking against the table, and then there was television on, murmuring in the background. hinata closes his eyes, giving up on the idea to get out of bed even to brush his teeth. his body feels heavy and foreign, too clumsy to obey. like the language, too new to speak it properly. like jumping on the sand. he can't fly, he thinks. not like this, not on his own.

his lips curl in a memory of a smile against his own will. he can’t really tell what he is smiling at now, he doesn’t feel like smiling. hinata thinks, the place could go on existing without him just fine. even better than before. the stuffiness of the air, the softness of the bed, the buzzing murmur of tv from the other room, everything would be the same, except he would be somewhere else. home, maybe. if he shuts his eyes tight enough, he can pretend that he is back home, he thinks. in japan, in his room, trying to fall asleep and failing, his head too loud with all the thoughts.

he isn’t sure how each thought of home turns into a kageyama-thought. it’s almost annoying. he still can't really wrap his mind at the abscence of kageyama, of all things. he used to be there—you just turn around, you just reach for his hand, you just—

now hinata is way more aware that kageyama isn't there.

hinata buries his head deeper into the pillow, and then he feels a brush of damp fabric against his cheek. when he reaches for his own face and finds traces of tears, he realizes: one, he was crying; two, it’s actually more sad than annoying.


“hey, kageyama-kun”, he says when he hears kageyama’s soft breath against the speaker once he picks up the phone. the words stumble in hinata's mouth as he hurries to let them out, to be the first to speak. “hey, did you know, you can’t really hear the ball slamming against the floor in beach volleyball? crazy, right? it’s all because of the sand. who would’ve thought? definitely not me. first i was kinda scared i was deaf. so yeah, that’s beach volleyball, baby!! also i get to touch the ball so often, i bet i beat you on that. so i feel like i could get a point for that, what do you think? what was the score, do you keep it?” he continues babbling for quite some time, while kageyama stays more or less quiet.

it's one of those nights, when hinata finds himself lying on his bed, or sitting on the floor, his back against the hard wall. one of those nights, when the reality seems to slip away, leaving him with stupid, loud, too-annoying-to-ignore thoughts. one of those, when he doesn't have enough self-control to think properly.

they've been texting already. hinata, sending pictures of the city and of the court, telling bits about the training and never really finishing the thought, leaving the abrupt threads. and kageyama, answering his texts blow-to-blow.

hinata isn't quite self-concious about his actions, when he hits the "call" button. kageyama was taking forever to answer his last message, which happened to be a silly sticker.

“hey, kageyama-kun”, he says when he hears the soft breath against the speaker. and that's how it all starts.


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