Annotations

The morning practice was brutal in the best way. Hinata’s arms sang with the familiar burn of a thousand receives, and the echo of Kageyama’s tosses still rang behind his eyes — perfect arcs that landed in his palm as if the ball had a will of its own. They played until the gym manager kicked them out, both of them panting and grinning like they’d never left. Kageyama drove. His car smelled like old coffee and the faint, clean scent of sports tape. Hinata slumped in the passenger seat, legs too long after years of growing, and watched the city blur past. “Hungry?” Kageyama asked, not looking at him. “Starving. But first I need a shower. Your place or mine?” Kageyama’s jaw tightened. “Mine’s closer.” It was a small apartment — tidy in a way that screamed ‘pro athlete with no time for clutter.’ A single couch faced a TV that was probably used for game footage. The kitchen was immaculate except for one thing. Hinata stopped mid-stride, towel slung over his shoulder, and stared at the refrigerator. A printed schedule — Kageyama’s professional season fixture — was taped to the door at eye level. But that wasn’t what caught him. Every single date had notes in blue ink. Small, precise handwriting that he recognized as Kageyama’s. *Oct 12 — H away in Jakarta. Check scores after.* *Nov 3 — H’s final match of Brazilian league. Watch livestream.* *Dec 24 — H lands? Confirm.* Hinata’s breath caught. “Tobio…” Kageyama appeared in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” “You’ve been tracking my games?” “Emphasis on ‘were not supposed to see.’” Hinata turned, and the smile that spread across his face was the kind that started in his toes and radiated outward. “You kept a schedule of me. On your fridge.” “It’s not a schedule of you. It’s a schedule of me with notes about you.” “That’s even worse.” Hinata laughed, bright and loud. “Why didn’t you just call me? Or text?” Kageyama looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. “You were busy. And sometimes… watching was enough.” The confession hung in the air like a perfect toss, waiting to be struck. Hinata crossed the kitchen in two steps and pulled Kageyama into a hug — sweaty, fierce, and full of everything they’d never said. “I watched your matches too,” Hinata murmured into his shoulder. “Every single one. I set an alarm.” Kageyama’s arms came up slowly, then tightened. “Idiot.” “You’re the idiot who annotated his own schedule.” They stood there for a long moment, the refrigerator humming softly beside them, the blue ink a testament to a partnership that had never needed words to prove its depth.