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The sand has become kind, trustworthy even. The beach is a warm welcome, gleaming beneath the blazing sun.
“Ninja Shouyou! Ninja Shouyou!”
The chants swell, claps building in tempo, taking over the distant sound of the waves and the rustle of the trees in the wind.
For Hinata, all the cheers fade. Not a single word registers in his mind. All his focus wholly concentrated on the ball—spinning and spinning in the air.
He dives. Bumps it up clean. Sends it over to Heitor. In that graceful arch.
Then Hinata sprints. He kicks off the sand. And like the friend sand has become, it ensures he flies. And Hinata flies.
His posture—the movement of his hands—is enough to remind the gathered spectators of the wings of a bird—a crow, to be specific. The black, glossy feathers against the endless blue sky.
He scans the opposite court, one coming up for a block, and the other positioning himself in the centre for greater coverage.
The corners of his mouth twitch—just slightly. From all his available options, he takes his pick. He aims the ball at the line.
“Out,” the blocker calls.
But the wind—another new friend—nudges the ball. Lightly, just enough to drop it squarely inside the court—It’s in.
And surely, the sand holds the mark of the ball on it. A circular, hollow depression saved for everyone to see.
The crowd erupts in cheers once again.
Heitor runs over, a huge smile on his face and hands already coming down with all the force.
Hinata knows. He extends his hands, receiving the high-five, and it stings. More than the spike.
But he is beaming. His energy, the orange of his curls and his tinted sunglasses all rivalling the sun—and winning.
“Heitor, swap with me!” One opponent shouts. “It’s my turn to play with Shouyou!”
“Carl. Come join me!” Hinata laughs. His Portuguese flows fluently with a slight hint of an accent. “We’re going to beat their asses.”
“Already switching sides,” Heitor grumbles, a small pout forming and then vanishing just as quickly. “Try and win—”
“Mind if I take your spot, Heitor?” Another player chimes in from the sidelines. “I want to play against Ninja Shouyou. I’ve been itching to dig a spike of his.”
Heitor throws his hands up in defeat. “Why is it always me—”
“Because you always get to play with Ninja Shouyou!” a few of them say in unison.
Then, without missing another beat, the crowd nods in agreement.
Hinata chuckles, giving a thumbs up. “Don’t worry, Heitor. Next set. Just don’t forget to treat me to dinner later.”
“In your dreams. You won’t win,” Heitor shoots back, then grabs the whistle and takes over as referee.
It starts with Hinata’s serve. He tosses the ball high. The late-afternoon sun pours down, wrapping around him, catching on the sand grains clinging to his skin, warm and golden.
Truly, Brazil has embraced him with open arms.
Later, after the sun has dipped and disappeared into the ocean, they head towards a nearby restaurant.
Hinata is practically bouncing, weaving through the crowd, and navigating the streets without a second thought. All memorised like the back of his hand.
“Don’t tell me, we’re going to that place again,” Heitor murmurs as realisation dawns on him, though—
“Too late,” Hinata says, bounding towards a small, cosy restaurant tucked around the corner. He holds open the door. “You know. I can’t fly back to Japan before coming here one last time.”
Heitor huffs a small breath and then simply follows him inside.
The staff greets them. Hinata smiles, waving at a familiar face and engaging in a conversation. Asking about their day. Telling his own.
Then, to no one’s surprise, Hinata doesn’t even glance at the menu. He knows what he wants. He knows the flavours. He knows it’ll be amazing. Like always.
He places the same order, the words flowing out—easy and practised. A fish stew, with rice. And a drink.
Carl leans in, elbows on the table. “You never get bored of that, do you?”
Hinata shakes his head. “Never—”
“This guy here,” Heitor adds, “comes here and orders the exact same thing when he’s happy. Or tired. When he wins a match. Or loses one… basically whenever he wants to.”
Hinata nods. “It’s so good. I’m going to miss this…” He gasps and lowers his voice, whispering dramatically, “Do you think I can ask them for the recipe?”
The table bursts into laughter.
“Worth a try, I say,” the waiter chuckles as he brings their drinks.
Conversations flow easily, the table overflowing with vibrant dishes and sweet, savoury aromas.
The food disappears, and all that’s left behind is happiness, contentment with a tinge of bittersweetness.
They step out of the restaurant, and the cool night air washes over them.
A few steps in, and Heitor turns sideways to look at Hinata. “You’re coming to the beach tomorrow, right? For some friendly match.”
“Of course. My usual time,” Hinata answers, head dipping in a small nod. “My last day in Brazil can’t end without some beach volleyball, can it?”
“Very true,” Carl says, sliding an arm around Hinata’s shoulders in a side hug. “We’ll be there to see you off the next day too.”
For Hinata, the bike ride home feels cold. Maybe it’s the breeze. Or maybe it’s the end of summer. Or maybe it’s the last ride on this bike.
When he reaches home, he locks the bike into its place. And he lingers there. His fingertips brushing against the handle a second too long before pausing on the bell.
“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly. “For the two years.”
His bike doesn’t respond, and the silence settles louder than he wants to. So, he taps the bell—it clinks.
Hinata chuckles to himself and walks to the front door. He pushes it open.
He makes his way across the living room where none of his belongings scatter the place anymore. Instead, a large bag is pushed into the corner, stuffed with volleyballs, his yoga mat, his dumbbells, and more. For donation.
The kitchen’s the same. All his dinnerware and cutlery are stacked on top of each other, set aside for donation.
Though his bedroom is in a different state—a state where the floor is invisible. A big suitcase is laid open. One side jammed with clothes. The other empty.
The candidates for that empty half are scattered across the floor—messy, indecisive.
Hinata’s shoulders drop, a breath catching in his throat.
His eyes land on the bed—still untouched, nothing packed away. Yet. The only part of this house that still holds him.
He manoeuvres through the clutter, careful not to trip on anything, and then just collapses face-down onto it.
It smells of the fabric softener. Like himself, like comfort. Like home. He buries his face into the mattress, emotions welling up, growing heavy in his chest—
A chime. Then, his phone vibrates. Relentlessly. In his pocket. Shaking him, nudging him back to the present.
Hinata pulls it out. He doesn’t even look at it, just swipes it on before dropping it beside with a soft thud.
“Shou.” Kageyama’s voice bursts into the room. There’s a pause, then the voice returns louder. “Shou. All I can see is your ceiling, dumbass. Where are you… Say something at least.”
“Tobio,” Hinata says softly, shifting closer until his face lies beside the phone. He cracks an eye open to look at the screen—flooded with sunlight, and Kageyama’s face, his brows drawn together. “Would you miss this ceiling?”
“No?” comes the immediate answer. “Why would I?”
“Why won’t you? You’ll never see it again once I move out.”
A sigh drifts through the speaker, sounding louder than it should. “Because… you’ll be here with me. I don’t think I’ll miss your ceiling when I’ll finally have you back… after what—two years.”
Hinata props himself up on his elbows, barely appearing over the edge of the screen—only his tousled curls.
Kageyama’s face softens. “I miss you more than enough already, Shou.”
“I’ve missed you… a lot too,” Hinata chokes out.
“So come back. Quickly.”
Hinata flops down again, faceplanting onto his phone.
“What?” Kageyama squawks loud enough to crackle the speaker. “I can’t even see anything now… what’s wrong, Shou? Tell me…” Then, more quietly, almost hesitant. “Do you not want to come back?”
Hinata’s heart breaks at the tone. He sits up fully, squares his shoulders, and holds the phone up—finally, showing his face.
“Tell me,” Kageyama prompts again. “I won’t understand if you don’t.”
“It feels like…” Hinata begins, drawing in a shaky breath. “Like, I’m chipping away my life. Into small pieces. Breaking everything and just… giving it away, I guess.”
Kageyama leans in, a silent what written across his expression.
Hinata’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His eyes flicker across the space, searching, until they land on something. He pads over, camera panning to a round blue bowl.
“Do you know what this is?” Hinata asks, voice small.
“A bowl…”
Hinata waits patiently.
“You really like this bowl, don’t you? You use it for everything.” Then, with a small laugh, Kageyama adds, “Also, maybe because it’s the only one you own.”
“Exactly!” Hinata grins, then moves the camera to a pile of books—nutrition, training, manga, all mixed together, with colourful sticky notes poking out from each. “What about this?”
“All your hard work,” Kageyama replies immediately. “Only you’d learn Portuguese from One Piece and Dragon Ball.”
“It’s a great trick!” Hinata fires back, before his voice drops to a whisper, mostly to himself, “but they’re really heavy. Need to watch the weight limit.”
The camera shifts to a small cactus on the windowsill.
“You got that your first week there,” Kageyama says, matter-of-factly, before Hinata can even ask. With a smirk, he goes on, “You talk to it. Like it’s a person.”
A small smile tugs at Hinata’s lips. “Now look at this.” He shows the half-packed suitcase. “That’s all the space I have left… I can’t bring any of them with me.”
Realisation dawns on Kageyama, and a faint “Oh” escapes.
“Yeah,” Hinata nods. “I’ve so much I want to take back with me… they became a part of my life, you know. Now, I’m just giving them away.”
A frown forms on Kageyama’s face—the kind when he’s thinking. “You can at least… fit the bowl in your suitcase.”
A full, unexpected laugh bubbles out of Hinata. “I plan to try… to at least take something.”
“What about the plant, though?”
“Give it to my neighbour.” Hinata shrugs. “She has a lot of plants. At least, Spikey will find new friends.”
Wordlessly, Kageyama nods.
Hinata lets the silence stretch for a few seconds before shattering it like fragile glass. “I realised something, and… it made me really sad.”
“Packing your entire life in one suitcase is hard,” Kageyama offers.
“That too, but also—” Hinata lowers his gaze, not meeting Kageyama’s anymore. “I’m kind of… leaving behind who I am. No one would call me Ninja Shouyou. I won’t be playing beach volleyball. It’s like…”
Hinata ducks his head, as if physically hiding himself, voice so soft it hardly carries over all the way to Japan, to Kageyama. “I won’t be this me. I don’t even know who I’ll be in Japan.”
“That means,” Kageyama says, sure and confident, “you can be anything you want. The stage is yours. Take it by storm. Be Ninja Shouyou. Stand on the top.”
He pauses, eyes gleaming with that familiar, competitive spirit. “Just know, if you want the top, you’ll have to defeat me first.”
Hinata’s head lifts. “You’re so losing, Tobio,” he fires back, face lighting up—back to his usual energy. “Literally the first thing I’m doing in Japan is MSBY tryouts.”
Kageyama raises a brow, trying to look serious, but his expression cracks, and a laugh slips out. “We’ll see about that.”
“I’ll show you,” Hinata singsongs.
Kageyama shakes his head, then glances down and grumbles, “My breakfast’s cold now. Your fault.”
“Just reheat it.” Then, with a cheeky smile, Hinata adds, “Stay with me while I pack, Tobio. Until you need to go.”
Kageyama smiles softly. “Sure.”
The next morning starts early. Hinata wakes up to a room a little too clean, a little too empty. The shelves are bare, the walls stripped, the table cleared.
A faint morning light filters through the curtains, and it feels like the room has reverted—back to two years ago, when he first moved in.
His gaze sweeps across the space, tracing the shadows. Then, he notices them. The pale rectangles on the wall, the ghost outlines of photos taken down last night.
All the snapshots that featured his life, some from Karasuno, but most collected over the days in Brazil—volleyball, friends, beaches, everything.
The same goes for the shelves. Scattered patches of clean spots surrounded by a thin layer of dust.
Hinata slides out of his bed.
Outside, the morning air greets him the same, soft and fresh, lifting and swaying his curls.
He runs. Body moving on instinct, on habit, as the city wakes up around him. Each step firmer, steadier than before.
He follows his usual route. Past the red house, where a fluffy white cat naps by the window—he stops there for a moment longer today, waving. The cat remains asleep, unaware.
Then through the park, trees lining the path, where sunlight dances on the leaves and shadows on the soil. He jogs to the big, beautiful willow tree, snaps a picture of it, then a landscape shot of the garden beside.
By the time he reaches the beach, the sun is higher, and sweat clings to his skin. But he continues his run. This time by the shore, feet kicking up tiny clouds of sand.
After that, he finds his usual meditation spot. Sits cross-legged. Breathes deep until his lungs are full, then closes his eyes.
He stays there for a long time, breathing in and out, clearing his mind. The sound of waves lapping on the shore, the distant barks of dogs, the bustle of the city, all seem to quiet down.
When he opens his eyes, the ocean glitters before him. His hand moves to his pocket again, and he pulls out his phone. Another click. He sends the picture to Kageyama.
His thumb hovers over the call button, and without another thought, he presses it.
Hinata waits, phone pressed to his ear, heart thumping loud in his chest as it continues to ring—
“Morning, Shou.”
The corners of Hinata’s lips lift—slightly. “Back home?” he asks, just as a sizzle comes through the speaker. “Making dinner?”
“Yeah. Just some curry,” Kageyama says. “I stopped by the supermarket. Got all your favourite snacks. Tell me if you remember anything more.”
Hinata giggles, fingers drawing aimless circles on the sand. “You really love me. A lot.”
There’s a huff on the other side. Hinata can practically see Kageyama rolling his eyes.
“At this rate,” Kageyama starts, unmistakably teasing, “I’m going to win. I think I love you more than you love me.”
“Hey! I love you a lot too.” Hinata laughs. “I’ll never let you win this.”
Kageyama chuckles, doesn’t say anything more.
Hinata lets the silence stretch, just listening to the background sounds—the clink of a pot, the ticks of the stove, the low pat-pats of Kageyama’s footsteps.
“I’ll miss one thing,” Kageyama murmurs finally. “The sound of the ocean.”
A few beats pass, then softly Hinata says, “Let’s go to a beach together. We can play some beach volleyball too. I’ll teach you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Hinata digs his fingers into the sand, scooping some up, and watching it slip away. “Later… Pedro’s friend is coming over. I’m giving him my bike.”
On the other end, all the sounds stop. Something scrapes against the floor—that chair, Hinata thinks, it always does that—then Kageyama hums.
Hinata keeps going. “Then… Pedro’s helping me move my stuff to the donation centre. After that, I’ll play lots and lots of volleyball.”
Kageyama stays quiet.
A breeze brushes past, and Hinata’s eyes shimmer. “I think I know why it’s hard to say Brazil… goodbye.”
“Why?” Kageyama asks, as gently as possible.
“Maybe because I really grew here. This place… this beach, this sand. It made me strong… a lot stronger. I’ve no regrets. Just a lot of… gratitude. I don’t know if I’m making sense.”
“No. You do. I understand,” Kageyama says.
“Yeah.” Hinata exhales. “Thank you, Brazil.” He lets out a small laugh—awkward, stiff. “I hope to come back here one day.”
“You will. You can always go back. To visit… or to play.”
Hinata blinks, his smile growing softer. “Tobio. Thank you.”
A quiet hum. Then, just loud enough—
“Proud of you,” Kageyama says, before cheekily adding, “dumbass.”
Later that night—his last night in Brazil—Hinata finds himself caught in the middle of a One Piece marathon with Pedro. The overhead lights are dimmed low, but the colours from the TV spill out, drenching them in its glow.
Hinata’s gaze drifts to the empty takeout boxes scattered across the table, then back to the screen. The scenes are familiar, but with exhaustion clinging to his bones and fogging his mind, the Portuguese dialogue and subtitles blur together, making no sense.
Instead, his mind fills in the original Japanese lines, and he relaxes—knees pulled up to his chest, eyes drooping, heavy with sleep—
A loud sniffle.
Hinata glances sideways.
“I’m not letting you leave until we finish One Piece,” Pedro murmurs, still looking straight ahead, not meeting Hinata’s eyes.
“All eight hundred episodes?” Hinata chuckles, low. “I’ll miss my flight.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Buy me a new ticket then.”
Pedro turns to him, brows raised in a mock disbelief. “Asking a student… I’m broke, dude.”
“Same,” Hinata laughs, brief enough to be swallowed by the TV sounds. “When you visit Japan, you’ll save a lot on expenses.”
Pedro blinks. “How?”
“No need to book a hotel,” Hinata answers, flashing a thumbs-up.
Pedro’s eyes shimmer, but a laugh slips out too. “True.” Then a little softer, “You’ll always have a place here in Brazil too.”
A plane waits on the other side of the glass, motionless under the bright afternoon sun.
On the inside, the airport hums around Hinata, the whirr of suitcase wheels, the murmurs of conversation, and the hush of people sitting quietly, waiting.
He sinks into a seat, facing away from the glass—from the plane, the sky, the sun. His heavy, overstuffed backpack thuds to the floor.
He swipes through his gallery, flipping past photos taken just an hour earlier—one with Coach Lucio, a selfie with Heitor, Nice, Pedro, another with the other members from the volleyball association.
He chuckles at Pedro’s photo—big tears, puffy eyes.
Then, he scrolls further, up and up, to two years back. Pictures with his family, Natsu’s nearly identical expression to Pedro’s. Yachi mid-sniffle, Yamaguchi with a small grin, Tsukishima wearing an unreadable face.
And then a few from the day before, taken at Kageyama’s apartment. His smile is strained, brows furrowed, eyes shimmering.
All the goodbyes. All the see-you-laters. All the safe travels.
His phone chimes, and a text message pops up—
Can’t wait to pick you up. From Kageyama.
Then, another pops up, from his mother—Text when you board the flight. Keep us updated. Come home safely.
A smile forms on Hinata’s face. He checks the time. Just ten more minutes, and he’d be boarding. It couldn’t come fast enough.
After travelling nearly thirty hours and halfway across the globe, Hinata weaves through the crowd of arrivals.
On one hand, his phone stays open on Kageyama’s chat, while the other tugs his suitcase, wheeling it carefully.
It weighs him down, heavy on his arms. But still, he keeps moving, solely letting his legs carry him forward—faster than the others.
His neck feels stiff, back aching, but his head turns—left, then right. Eyes searching and searching—he spots a flash of a familiar white hoodie.
Kageyama. Running towards him. He bumps into someone, dips his head in a quick bow, mutters something—
“Tobio!” Hinata calls, walking briskly before breaking into a run.
Kageyama stops and simply opens his arms wide.
Then, as naturally as the sun in the sky, Hinata crashes into him, arms locking around his shoulders in a tight embrace.
“Shou,” Kageyama murmurs, pulling him close, lifting him—just enough for Hinata to rise onto his toes, then a little higher, feet off the ground.
Hinata melts into him, pressing his face into Kageyama’s neck. And he just breathes him in. Hinata’s senses flood with the same old, comforting scent—his cologne mixed with fabric softener, and a trace of sweat.
“I’m home,” Hinata says, words slipping between breaths—light, airy.
Kageyama leans in, nuzzling into the orange curls. “Welcome home.”