Chapter Text
He feels it before he hears it—a wrongness deep in his knee, a sharp, tearing snap that steals the air from his lungs. The world doesn’t slow down like people say it does; it just shatters all at once. The ball slips from his fingers, spinning away as the court tilts beneath him. He hits the floor hard, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream. The ceiling lights blur into streaks, the echo of the crowd a distant hum he can’t make sense of. All he can think, through the static and the pain, is that the ball didn’t reach Hinata.
When his eyes open again, everything is too still. The hum of machines replaces the roar of the crowd. The antiseptic smell burns in his nose. A sterile, too-bright hospital room. He remembers everything—the snap, the tears, the way his voice cracked when he screamed for help. Faces leaning over him, his teammates’ wide eyes, the weight of their concern pressing on him until he could barely breathe. The memory makes his stomach twist. He hates that they saw him like that—broken, begging.
“Tobio,” a voice murmurs—one he knows too well, soft but trembling. “Are you awake?”
He snaps his head to the side—almost spraining it in the process—but the sight before him makes it worth it. Miwa. She isn’t just his sister; she’s his best friend, his anchor, his everything. Not that he’d ever admit it to her face, but he loves her more than anything else in the world.
He opens his mouth, trying to speak, but nothing comes out—just a broken rasp. He doesn’t need to say anything, though. She’s already moving, practically launching herself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a trembling, desperate hug.
“I—I was so worried,” she breathes against his hair. “You weren’t waking up, and they said—” Her voice cracks. “Don’t scare me like that again, okay?”
Her sigh warms his skin, grounding him more than the hospital sheets ever could. He feels his heartbeat start to slow, the panic easing just a little. She keeps talking—rambling now, not giving him a chance to answer. Not that he could. But it doesn’t matter. She’s here. That’s enough.
“Ma is here. Dad too. But… you know what they’re doing.” Miwa’s voice is careful, almost stoic, as if she’s trying to keep her disdain under control. “Do you want them to come in?”
He knows that tone. She’s pretending not to care, but the flicker in her eyes gives her away. Miwa never got along with their parents—she was too independent, “too hardheaded,” his mom used to say. She never fit the mold they tried to force her into. She wasn’t quiet or passive, and she refused to let anyone walk over her.
Their parents were always moving—business trips, conferences, spontaneous vacations that never included their kids. They left the real parenting to their grandparents, checking in just enough to keep up appearances.
The moment Miwa turned eighteen, she left for Tokyo and never looked back. She chased what she wanted, and she was finally doing well for herself. Kageyama had always admired that about her.
All he can do is nod. He isn’t fond of their parents either, but he’s learned to tolerate them better than she ever could. Still, he hasn’t seen them in months—not since the last family dinner that ended in quiet arguments and too many things left unsaid.
“Ill bring them in” her voice is soft, thoughtful.
*
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of lying still, trapped in his own body. He wanted to move—God, he needed to—but every time he even thought about shifting, a sharp reminder of pain burned through his knee.
Was he afraid? Maybe. Probably.
Today was the day the doctors would finally give him answers—real numbers, real timeframes, something solid to hold on to. When he’d first woken up, everything had been a blur of white walls and sympathetic smiles. Someone had mentioned ligament damage, another had said surgery, and then everything faded again.
Now, with the swelling finally down and the scans finished, they’d know for sure. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it.
Miwa sat in the corner, her leg bouncing anxiously, pretending to scroll through her phone, holding on to their mom. His dad is somewhere, taking a phone call he thinks. The quiet buzz of hospital machines filled the room until the door clicked open.
“Good afternoon, Kageyama-kun,” a doctor says gently, pulling a chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling today?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to. What kind of question is that? He feels broken—hollow and heavy all at once. Miwa shifts beside him, her hands twisting in her lap.
The doctor exhales softly. “We went over your MRI results this morning. The damage to your knee is… extensive.”
That word lands heavy. Extensive.
“You tore your ACL completely, along with a partial tear in your MCL and a meniscus injury,” she continues, careful, measured. “We repaired what we could during surgery, but recovery will take time. A lot of time.”
“How long?” he asks before she can say anything more. His voice trembles—hoarse from disuse, from holding too much in for too long. He hasn’t spoken much since the accident, barely more than a word or two at a time. But this is different. Volleyball is his life. He needs to know when he can come back—when things will be normal again.
The doctor hesitates. He can see it in her face, the way her expression tightens, the way her eyes flicker down to the clipboard like she’s searching for softer words that don’t exist.
“Like I said,” she begins slowly, “your injury was… immense. Even with surgery, we couldn’t repair everything perfectly. There was extensive ligament damage, and we had to reconstruct most of—”
He tunes her out. All the medical terms blur together into meaningless noise. He just wants the number. The truth.
“It would take at least two years,” she finally says, her voice soft but certain. “Two years before you regain regular movement. And even longer before you can think about playing again—if your knee responds well to rehabilitation. Even then, you’ll need to rebuild strength, coordination, and trust in the joint. It’s… possible you won’t be able to play at the same level again.”
The world tilts. Two years.
He stares at her, but his mind feels static. The walls press in, the hum of the machines too loud. Two years isn’t recovery—it’s exile. By then, everything he’s worked for will be gone.
He jolts awake, drenched in sweat, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
Four years. Four long years since that day. But his mind doesn’t let him forget. Not the snap of his knee, not the pain, not the way everything—his dreams, his future, his game—was ripped away in a single, brutal five minutes.
He’s exhausted, bone-deep tired, but sleep won’t come. He knows this all too well. The nightmare always finds him, dragging him back to the court, to the moment everything changed.
He shifts onto his back, eyes drawn to his dresser. He keeps it for nights like this—for when the anxiety and dread swell too high, when the memories of that snap and the lost court threaten to swallow him whole.
For days, the panic and hopelessness crash over him in waves he can’t control. But tonight, he has to do something. He can’t just lie here.
He throws himself out of bed, heart hammering, and searches his dorm with frantic urgency. Fingers shake as he rifles through drawers, knocking over notebooks and pens. He can’t go back. He can’t pick up the pills . Not yet. Not like this.
But he needs… something. Anything to steady the chaos in his chest before it consumes him entirely.
He hurries to the bathroom, the nausea rising fast. He needs to get it out—to shred this feeling, purge it completely. Hovering over the toilet, his gaze catches on a small box beneath the sink. The bleach. The same one he bought a long time ago during another spiral just like this.
That night, he’d given up and taken the pills. But tonight, he won’t be eaten whole.
He tears open the packet, gloves snapping tight against trembling hands. Every careful stroke, every strand lifted, every bleaching pass becomes a rhythm—a fragile, grounding beat that quiets the chaos just enough for him to breathe again. It won’t fix his knee. It won’t erase the accident. It won’t bring back the court. But it’s his choice. And for Kageyama, that’s enough.
The sharp chemical scent hits him hard, but instead of recoiling, he steadies himself. For the first time tonight, something is within his control.
When he’s done, his hair is pale, almost blinding in the bathroom light. He doesn’t look in the mirror. Not yet. He just sits back on the cool tile floor, heart still racing but mind finally quiet.
Tonight, he’s still broken. Still sidelined. But he’s still himself. And that, somehow, is worth something.
It doesn’t take him long to realize what he’s done.
His eyes widened in the mirror. His hair… It's orange.
He didn’t fully understand the mechanics of hair, but he remembers what Miwa told him once: hair like his—deep black—would turn orange when bleached.
He stares, frozen, the chemical scent still clinging to his clothes. For a moment, he just traces the strands with his eyes, taking in the impossible brightness, the stark change. It’s shocking. Almost alien.
A wave of panic hits him, but it’s quieter this time—more flustered than frantic. Why would I reach for bleach? he thinks, blinking at the mirror.
He moves around the dorm, searching for his phone, a little unsteady on his feet. The orange of his hair catches the light, making him blink again. It’s bright, surprising, and a little ridiculous.
There’s only one person who can make sense of this. Only one person can calm him down.
Miwa.
He picks up his phone and scrolls to her name, heart still racing, but not in that unbearable, panicked way. He just needs her—someone who’ll understand without questions, without judgment.
He taps her name, thumb hovering over the call button for a moment, then presses it. The ringtone is a small reassurance, a thread connecting him to someone who always understands.
“Hey… Tobio?” Miwa’s voice is soft, cautious, and a little sleepy.
He hesitates, words catching in his throat. “I… I messed up,” he says finally, voice small.
A pause. Then her frightened voice breaks through: “Messed up how?”
“I… I bleached my hair,” he admits. Even in the quiet of his dorm, his embarrassment feels loud, sharp.
He hears her sigh over the line. “Oh, Tobio,” she says, half relieved, half amused. “I thought something bad had happened… like you relapsed.”
“I didn’t,” he blurts, voice harsher than he intends.
“Call me back once you’ve lost the attitude,” Miwa says, her voice dipping, the playful tone gone, replaced with that sharp edge of worry she uses when she’s serious.
“W-wait,” he caves immediately. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be like that… but you know it’s a sensitive topic.”
“Tobio…” she says finally, quieter this time. “It’s okay. I know why you did it. You just… needed to take your mind off things, right?”
He swallows, the lump in his throat tightening. “Yeah,” he admits, almost a whisper. “Everything… everything’s just… too much sometimes.”
“I know,” she says gently. “I get it. You’re scared. You’re frustrated. And that’s okay. But bleaching your hair—well, it’s not the end of the world. You’re still you. Just… a little brighter, that’s all.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, the first in hours. “A little brighter…”
“Yes,” she says, a small smile in her voice. “Now sit down, Tobio. Take a breath. Everything’s not broken—just your hair for now.”
He flushes, hiding his face in his hands. “It’s… it’s orange,” he mutters.
“I know,” she laughs softly. “It’s okay. Really. You’ll survive, and so will your hair. We’ll fix it tomorrow if you want. Right now… just breathe. You’re fine.”
“No… can’t I come right now?” he asks, desperate.
“Tobio… what time is it?”
“Four… almost five,” he mutters, voice small.
“Yeah,” Miwa replies, amusement creeping back in. “Definitely not the best time for a surprise visit. You do realize normal people sleep around now, right?”
“I… I didn’t think about that,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze flicks to the mirror, and he freezes again. Orange. My hair is bright orange.
“You’re staring too hard,” Miwa teases. “It’s just hair, Tobio. Not a crime scene.”
“It’s… it’s orange!” he blurts. “I look like… like a carrot!”
“You mean a very handsome carrot,” she adds, almost instantly.
“Please…” he mutters, burying his face in his hands.
“…Fuck, fine. I’m up now anyway,” she sighs, half-exasperated, half-amused. She’s always had a soft spot for her baby brother—how could she possibly say no?