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Training camp, Day Three.
Kageyama hadn’t been touched in nearly 72 hours.
Not a head pat.
Not a shoulder squeeze.
Not a kiss goodnight.
For an Omega who'd spent the last two years wrapped in the warmth of a six-person pack, it felt like sensory deprivation.
And no one noticed.
Oikawa had been running strategy sessions from dawn to midnight.
Iwaizumi was acting like the camp's unofficial enforcer.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa had been swallowed by logistics and setup.
Kunimi and Kindaichi were stuck playing errand boys between groups.
And Kageyama? He was alone.
In the middle of everything.
And it hurt.
Not physically. Not quite. But something tight had taken root in his chest — something that made his scent go flat and his mood go quiet. He stopped seeking them out. Stopped looking for comfort.
Stopped asking.
Because he’d learned early — even with them — that sometimes, being "needy" made people leave.
Day Four. Late evening.
Kageyama sat alone in the corner of the communal gym, tucked into a hoodie that wasn’t his. Matsukawa’s scent still clung to it faintly, but it was faint — days old. Fading.
He buried his face in the collar and curled his knees to his chest.
There was noise all around him. Laughter, shouting, the sound of volleyballs bouncing and sneakers screeching on the polished floor.
And yet, he had never felt more out of place.
He barely noticed when someone knelt down beside him.
“Tobio.”
It was Oikawa, voice low and worn.
“Hey… what are you doing over here?”
Kageyama didn’t look up. “Resting.”
Oikawa sat slowly, scanning him. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
“I haven’t.”
“You didn’t come to team review. You skipped lunch with us. You didn’t even reply to Hajime’s text.”
Kageyama shrugged.
Oikawa narrowed his eyes.
Then sniffed.
“…Your scent’s wrong.”
Kageyama winced, but didn’t deny it.
Oikawa leaned closer, pressing his forehead gently to Kageyama’s temple. “You’re touch-starved.”
“…I know.”
That broke something in Oikawa’s chest.
“How long?”
“Since we got here.”
There was a pause.
Then Kageyama finally whispered, “I missed you.”
Within minutes, the rest of the pack had gathered in the same corner — instinct pulling them like gravity.
Iwaizumi knelt on one knee and cupped Kageyama’s cheek. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, voice paper-thin. “You’re all so busy.”
“You come first,” Matsukawa growled.
“You always do,” Hanamaki added, arms already pulling Kageyama into his lap.
“I didn’t feel like I did.”
That hurt more than any wound Iwaizumi had ever taken on court.
Kunimi sat down behind him and pulled his hoodie back just enough to touch the back of Kageyama’s neck — cool fingers grounding him.
Kindaichi took his hand, holding it gently between his own.
“You needed us,” he said quietly, “and we weren’t there.”
Kageyama nodded, finally letting himself sag forward. “I didn’t even want much. Just… touch. Scent. A minute.”
“You’re getting the whole night,” Matsukawa said, eyes dark.
“Starting now,” Hanamaki said, already tucking the blanket over him.
They didn’t care who saw.
Alpha, Beta, Omega — it didn’t matter.
Because right now, Kageyama was their center. And they had let him go cold.
They piled close around him — behind the equipment shelf in the quietest corner of the gym. Iwaizumi and Oikawa on either side of him, Matsukawa and Hanamaki stretched behind him, Kunimi pressed gently to his back, and Kindaichi resting his head on Kageyama’s thigh like a loyal shadow.
Every one of them touching him.
Every one of them scenting him.
Quiet murmurs, fingers in his hair, soft apologies and whispered reassurance.
“Not letting it happen again.”
“You’re our Omega. You don’t ask for comfort, you get it.”
“We’re sorry, Tobio.”
“You’re everything.”
By the time the gym lights dimmed for lights-out, no one moved.
They stayed like that, tangled together on old mats and spare blankets.
Warm. Present. Together.
Kageyama finally slept — surrounded by the people he loved, the ones who had found their way back to him.
By the time morning came, something had changed.
The gym was still cold. The thin mats still uncomfortable. But Kageyama was warm — wrapped in the cocoon of his pack. Arms slung over him. Chests pressed to his back. Someone’s breath was slow and steady against his throat.
But deeper than warmth, deeper than sleep, there was something else stirring.
A low, coiling pressure under his skin.
Not quite a full heat. But his body had tasted too much affection, too suddenly. His biology was responding.
He whimpered softly before he even realized it.
“Mm?” Hanamaki blinked awake, lips brushing against Kageyama’s shoulder.
“’M hot…” Kageyama mumbled.
Hanamaki blinked again. Then lifted the hoodie edge and sniffed the nape of his neck.
“Oh. That’s not heat-heat,” he muttered. “It’s a spike.”
Iwaizumi stirred at once. “Tobio?”
“I think it’s a reaction,” Hanamaki said quietly. “We overloaded him.”
Kunimi sat up, hair a mess, but his instincts sharp. “It’s a scent-balance thing. He was cold for too long, and now he’s surrounded.”
Kageyama whimpered again, curling inward.
He wasn’t in pain.
But everything was too much.
Too sensitive. Too warm. Too full.
He needed…
“Scent,” he murmured. “Please.”
They moved without question.
Matsukawa was the first to wrap him up, chest to chest, rubbing his cheek slowly against Kageyama’s gland.
“Easy,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”
Oikawa pressed into his side next, hands firm on his hips, breath low and constant against his throat.
“You smell like us again,” he whispered. “Perfect.”
Iwaizumi joined next, strong arms looping around his back. “Let it settle, Tobio. You’re safe.”
Kindaichi combed his fingers through Kageyama’s hair, nuzzling behind his ear with practiced gentleness.
Kunimi kissed the back of his neck, his voice calm as always. “You’re over-sensitized. We’ll ground you.”
Hanamaki knelt behind him, slipping Kageyama fully into his lap. “Just breathe. Let us hold you.”
And Kageyama did.
He let his breathing slow. Let the sounds around him blur. Let the touches guide him out of the fog.
His scent began to even out again — no longer sharp with need or too thick with want. Just… his.
Blended with theirs.
Everywhere.
Later, when the sun was higher and the camp was beginning to wake, the group remained tucked away in the same corner of the gym. Someone had pulled curtains down over the windows. Someone else had brought blankets from the dorms.
No one spoke too loudly.
No one moved too quickly.
Because Kageyama was dozing in the center of them all — relaxed, soft, finally content.
They didn’t talk about practice.
They didn’t rush to meetings.
They didn’t leave him alone again.
Because now, they remembered.
This wasn’t just instinct.
Wasn’t just hormones or rut or heat.
It was bond.
Built over two years of stolen time and secret rooms and quiet love.
And for the first time in days, Kageyama didn’t feel forgotten.
He felt like a pack Omega.
Held. Protected.
Loved.
The training camp was crowded — teams everywhere, hallways packed with noise and movement. Karasuno and Seijoh weren’t even staying in the same building. Meals were taken in rotation. Coaches hovered. Alpha suppressants were monitored.
There was no room for mistakes.
But the pack had made one anyway.
It started small.
Kageyama wore Matsukawa’s hoodie.
Oversized, faintly Seijoh-blue, and unmistakably not Karasuno-issued.
“I forgot mine,” he told Yachi quickly.
She blinked. Didn’t question it.
But Kita noticed. So did Sakusa.
Then came the next slip.
Iwaizumi crossed the court during break time. No one else approached players from other teams, but he didn’t hesitate — hand brushing Kageyama’s elbow, voice low.
“You eat yet?”
Kageyama nodded stiffly. “With my team.”
Iwaizumi’s fingers lingered. Too long.
Kenma narrowed his eyes from across the gym.
The worst, though, was when Kindaichi shoved someone during blocking drills.
The guy — a third-year from Itachiyama — had grabbed Kageyama’s waist after a stumble.
Kindaichi’s snarl had been instinctual.
Unfiltered.
Alphas and Betas alike stopped and stared.
Kageyama flushed, scent spiking high with embarrassment.
The Seijoh boy stood protectively at his side, not even pretending it was about the drill.
Later that night, hidden behind the equipment shed, the pack regrouped.
Matsukawa sighed, fingers rubbing between his eyes. “We’re being watched.”
Hanamaki muttered, “Kindaichi, I love you, but you damn near tackled a guy.”
“He touched Kageyama’s hip,” Kindaichi shot back.
Oikawa leaned against the wall. “They’re going to figure it out.”
“They already are,” Kunimi said. “Kenma’s watching us. Kita doesn’t miss anything.”
Iwaizumi glanced at Kageyama, who was quiet.
“I’m not mad,” Tobio finally whispered. “I just… I didn’t want this to end like this.”
Matsukawa wrapped his arms around him from behind.
“This doesn’t end. Not unless you say so.”
“I just don’t want people looking at us like it’s wrong.”
Oikawa stepped forward. “Then we’ll fix it before it gets worse.”
Hanamaki added, “We tighten things. No lingering. No scent slips. No shared hoodies.”
“And if someone confronts us?” Kageyama asked.
Everyone went silent.
Then Iwaizumi said, “Then we tell the truth. If it comes to that, we choose you. In front of everyone.”
It happened faster than they thought.
Akaashi was the first to speak up — subtly, to Bokuto during a cool-down.
“Don’t look now, but there’s something off about Seijoh’s seniors and Karasuno’s setter.”
Bokuto blinked. “Like what?”
“Like they hover around him like a bonded pack.”
That evening, Yachi found them.
She’d been asked to pass on updated rotation rosters and spotted Kageyama behind the gym — not alone.
He was sitting on a blanket, pressed between Oikawa and Iwaizumi.
Matsukawa had one hand on his thigh.
Hanamaki was braiding a lock of his hair.
Kunimi and Kindaichi were at his feet, murmuring something quiet and familiar.
It didn’t look like anything she'd ever seen.
It looked like home.
It looked like a secret.
Yachi stepped back instinctively, but her foot hit a loose gravel patch.
Six heads snapped up.
Kageyama’s eyes widened. “Yachi—”
She froze.
“I—”
Her voice came out small. “You’re all…”
Kunimi stood slowly. “Don’t panic.”
Hanamaki held his hands up. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Please don’t say anything,” Kageyama said quietly.
Yachi’s gaze flicked over them — the way they sat close, the matching scents, the instinctual unity of it.
Then she nodded.
“I won’t.”
Kindaichi exhaled. “Thank you.”
“I’m just…” She paused. “Tobio-kun. Are you happy?”
Kageyama looked at them — his pack — and then at her.
“I’ve never been happier.”
But the next morning, things escalated.
Coach Washijo had heard a rumor.
Ukai narrowed his eyes when Kageyama returned from a “walk” smelling like unfamiliar Alphas.
Kita watched every Seijoh interaction with calm suspicion.
And then Sakusa pulled Iwaizumi aside after lunch.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.”
Sakusa folded his arms. “You’re not subtle. And you’re not invisible. If you don’t come clean soon, someone will do it for you.”
The pack gathered again that night.
“They know,” Oikawa said quietly.
Kageyama stared at the floor. “So what do we do?”
Hanamaki looked around the circle. “We make a choice.”
Kunimi nodded. “Either we hide until it breaks…”
“…or we go all in,” Matsukawa said.
Iwaizumi turned to Kageyama. “You tell us. What do you want?”
Silence.
Then Kageyama stood.
“If I’m yours,” he said, voice firm, “then show them. All of them.”
It started with a scent.
That was always the risk, wasn’t it?
All the verbal denials in the world couldn’t compete with the primal truth of scent trails. Especially in a camp full of sharp-nosed Alphas and observant Betas.
Kageyama had worn Oikawa’s hoodie again — his own had torn during serving drills. And Oikawa’s scent, strong and unmistakably Alpha, had clung to the fabric like a brand.
It mixed with Matsukawa’s scent from the night before.
And Iwaizumi’s from when he’d hugged Tobio that morning behind the cafeteria.
Three powerful Alphas. One Omega.
And the camp noticed.
Kita was the first to say something out loud.
He didn’t accuse. Didn’t yell. Just cornered Iwaizumi outside the locker tent with that calm, dead-center stare of his.
“There’s a bond happening under the radar.”
Iwaizumi didn’t flinch. “There are dozens of teams here. You’d need more than a feeling.”
“It’s not a feeling. It’s scent layering.” Kita’s tone didn’t change. “Oikawa. Hanamaki. You. Matsukawa. Betas Kunimi and Kindaichi. All overlapping one Omega.”
He paused.
“And unless I’m wrong, that Omega is Kageyama.”
Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened.
“I won’t report it,” Kita said, voice flat but not unkind. “But others will.”
“Why not?”
Kita looked off toward the courts. “Because the way you look at him doesn’t read like danger. It reads like claiming. And that’s not my business.”
He met Iwaizumi’s eyes again.
“But you’re out of time.”
Later that afternoon, Sakusa confronted Matsukawa with a similar tone.
“You’re playing dumb,” he said calmly. “But I’ve been tracking Kageyama’s scent all week. It’s not natural for an Omega to carry four Alphas and two Betas unless they’re in-heat, or…”
Matsukawa didn’t answer.
Sakusa narrowed his eyes. “Or you’re pack-bonded and hiding it.”
Still no reply.
“...You’re going to get him hurt.”
That — that — made Matsukawa turn.
“No,” he said low. “We’re the only reason he hasn’t been hurt more.”
By dinner, the whispers were spreading.
“Why was Kageyama sitting at Seijoh’s table earlier?”
“Was that Hanamaki scent-marking him?”
“I heard Oikawa threatened a Fukurodani player for getting too close.”
“Wait, weren’t Kunimi and Kindaichi with Kageyama at sunrise practice?”
“Are they all… with him?”
The word was out.
Pack.
And Kageyama was in the center of it.
Karasuno’s table was tense.
Daichi kept glancing across the dining hall. Yachi was pale. Hinata looked confused, bordering on furious.
“Did something happen with Kageyama?” he asked. “Why is everyone looking at him like that?”
“No idea,” Daichi lied.
But Yachi wasn’t so calm.
She leaned over and whispered, “They know. Everyone knows.”
Kageyama sat still, eyes focused on his tray. His shoulders were tight. His scent — even through suppressant layers — was beginning to spike with anxiety.
And across the hall?
His pack was watching.
By the time they made it out of the cafeteria, a crowd had started forming.
Not a fight. Just students — murmuring, watching, some outright staring.
Someone said the word “illegal.”
Someone else said “unnatural.”
Someone from Itachiyama said, “Betas too? That’s just greedy.”
Kageyama felt his skin crawl.
His throat burned.
His whole body tensed—
Then Iwaizumi was there, hand on his back.
Oikawa stepped in next to him, eyes sharp.
Matsukawa stood like a wall.
Hanamaki's voice was low and warning: “Say it again. I dare you.”
Kunimi and Kindaichi flanked him like loyal wolves.
They didn’t speak as a group.
They didn’t need to.
The entire gym saw it.
Seven people. One pack. One Omega.
Unspoken.
Undeniable.
Back in the dark of the field that night, Kageyama stood wrapped in Matsukawa’s hoodie again, but this time he didn’t hide.
“I’m not ashamed,” he said.
“I know,” Oikawa murmured, brushing his fingers down the side of his neck.
“They looked at me like I was a thing.”
“You’re not,” Iwaizumi said firmly. “You’re ours.”
“And we’re yours,” Hanamaki added.
Kindaichi looked at Kunimi. “They’re going to push for consequences.”
Kunimi sighed. “We’re already past subtle. We either claim him soon… or lose everything trying to avoid it.”
Matsukawa turned to Kageyama.
“We can do it. Quietly. Just between us. Even if it’s not official. You’d be marked. Bound.”
Oikawa stepped closer. “We wait for your word. But no more hiding. Not from us.”
Kageyama looked at all of them — every Alpha and Beta who had held him, loved him, chosen him since he was barely more than a scared, unbonded second-year.
And then he nodded.
“…I want it.”
The stars overhead blurred through mist and shadow. The trees lining the field stood like sentinels, tall and silent. The training camp had quieted — lights out had passed hours ago.
But seven figures gathered behind the far storage hall, hidden from the world.
No words.
Only breath.
Scent.
Familiar heat in the air.
Kageyama stood in the center, heart thundering against his ribs, hoodie sleeves tugged over his fingers. He smelled like home — like them. Their scents layered over him from hours, days, years of secret touches, hidden kisses, buried longing.
Now, it wouldn't be hidden anymore.
“We’ll only go as far as you want,” Matsukawa murmured, his voice low and reverent as he stepped forward. “But once we do this—”
“I know,” Kageyama whispered.
His voice didn’t shake.
Iwaizumi stepped behind him, grounding. “We’re not marking you out of pressure. We’re doing it because we already chose you.”
“We’ve always chosen you,” Hanamaki said gently.
Kageyama swallowed hard, nodding once.
“I want it,” he said. “I want all of you. I don’t care who sees. I’m done pretending I’m not yours.”
The air shifted.
Kunimi and Kindaichi didn’t speak. They just knelt in front of him, foreheads resting lightly against his stomach — one on each side. Their Beta instincts humming quiet and steady, a soft bond of loyalty and calm.
“I’ll carry you if it gets too much,” Kindaichi murmured.
“I’ll anchor you if you drift,” Kunimi added.
Kageyama’s hands trembled as he placed one on each of their heads.
“I know.”
Oikawa stepped in next.
He pulled Kageyama’s chin up gently with his fingers — Alpha to Omega, king to prince, love to love.
“I’ve waited since you were twelve to claim you properly,” he whispered. “Since you beat me in middle school and glared at me like I hung the moon.”
“I hated you,” Kageyama whispered back.
Oikawa smiled.
“I know.”
Then leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Kageyama’s mouth — not for show. Not for passion. Just for belonging.
The bond marks wouldn’t scar. Not yet. This wasn’t full mating. It was scent-binding — the first claim, the soft bond, the declaration.
Permanent enough to feel.
Not enough to set off heat or official registration.
They had time for that later.
Tonight was for truth.
One by one, they approached.
Matsukawa — calming weight, fingers splayed over Kageyama’s ribs, voice warm against his neck:
“Breathe in. Let it settle. Let us in.”
Hanamaki — fingertips over his jaw, smile soft but eyes serious:
“You’re not alone. You never will be again.”
Iwaizumi — knuckles brushing his spine, heat pressed to his back:
“You’re mine, Tobio. And I’m yours. No one can take that.”
Oikawa — forehead resting against his, breath shared:
“You are loved. Every version of you. Especially the quiet ones.”
Kunimi — wrapping a scarf gently around Kageyama’s wrist, scent-laced and warm:
“We keep you grounded.”
Kindaichi — tucking a folded photo into his hoodie pocket, of their first group sleepover years ago:
“We remember everything.”
Then Kageyama stepped forward.
He opened the collar of his hoodie.
He tilted his neck, slowly, exposing the vulnerable curve — scent gland bare in the night air.
“I trust you,” he whispered. “Come claim me.”
No heat. No chaos. No Alpha rut.
Only mouths pressing to his scent gland one by one — six points of heat and devotion, warm and careful.
They didn't bite.
They didn’t mark skin.
They marked memory.
They marked scent.
They marked soul.
By the time the last kiss faded and the air calmed, Kageyama was trembling slightly — not from fear, but from release.
The bond was there now. Quiet and solid and real.
A string connecting seven people.
Pulled tight, but unbroken.
Oikawa kissed the crown of Kageyama’s head.
Iwaizumi curled a hand over his heart.
Matsukawa wrapped him in a blanket.
And the pack held him until the sky began to fade to blue.
They had no idea what morning would bring.
But for tonight — they were bound.
Morning broke slow, heavy with scent residue and unspoken tension.
The bond still pulsed under Kageyama’s skin — warm, steady, and terrifyingly real. Every breath he took felt… full. Not heavy. Not empty.
Full.
He could still feel them — the Alphas, the Betas — even from opposite ends of camp. The scent-marking wasn’t visible, but it hummed beneath the surface like a second heartbeat.
He smiled for a second.
Then he walked into the mess hall.
And it shattered.
The entire room quieted when he entered.
Karasuno’s table turned to stare.
Seijoh’s didn’t blink.
Nekoma, Fukurodani, Inarizaki, Itachiyama — all had heard.
Kageyama walked straight to the tray line, shoulders set, face blank. He didn’t tremble. Didn’t flinch.
He didn’t need to.
Because Oikawa stood up.
Iwaizumi joined him.
Matsukawa and Hanamaki flanked him.
Kunimi and Kindaichi followed silently.
They didn’t say a word.
They just stood — not beside, but behind Kageyama.
Protecting. Defending. Declaring.
Pack.
Hinata was the first to speak.
He stood up, voice loud in the silence.
“Tobio— What is this?”
Yachi’s hand clutched the table.
Daichi and Suga shared a look.
Then Daichi said, carefully: “Kageyama… you need to explain.”
But Kageyama didn’t.
Because Coach Ukai walked in.
Behind him: Coach Washijo.
And behind them: Seijoh’s coach, tight-lipped and grim.
“You three,” Ukai barked, pointing at Kageyama, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi. “Office. Now.”
The silence broke into murmurs. Dozens of players watched them leave — some curious, some disgusted, some worried.
Inside the back hall, the tension was ice-thick.
“We’ve received multiple reports,” Washijo said flatly. “That you’ve formed an unregulated, cross-team pack bond.”
He looked at Seijoh’s coach.
“Is this true?”
Oikawa’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“And who is the Omega?”
“I am,” Kageyama said.
Ukai’s head turned sharply. “Do you understand how reckless this is, Kageyama?”
“Yes.”
Washijo crossed his arms. “Seven members? Across teams? In violation of inter-school bond regulations?”
Kageyama stood his ground. “We didn’t mate. We scent-bonded. That’s not illegal.”
“It’s not registered.” Washijo snapped. “Which makes it a violation of supervision guidelines. If this causes a scent clash during matches—”
“It won’t.”
“—Or affects your heat cycles—”
“It won’t.”
“—Or compromises your performance—”
“I play better with them,” Kageyama said coldly. “Because they make me feel safe.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Ukai sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“Kageyama… this can’t go unseen. Teams are filing complaints. Some are asking for your removal from camp.”
“They can try,” Iwaizumi said darkly.
“You’re not on the same team,” Seijoh’s coach said flatly. “This is not sustainable.”
“But it’s real,” Kageyama whispered.
Oikawa reached out, placing a hand over his.
“We’re not leaving him,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
That’s when the door opened again.
Kita walked in.
So did Akaashi.
And behind them: Kenma, Sakusa, and Atsumu — each with varying expressions, but all united in their stance.
“We don’t see a problem,” Kita said simply.
Sakusa’s arms crossed. “They’re not endangering anyone.”
Kenma’s voice was soft but clear. “You want to punish a pack for protecting their Omega?”
Akaashi’s tone was calm. “This isn’t scandal. This is structure.”
Atsumu shrugged. “It’s weird, but it ain’t illegal.”
The coaches paused.
They weren’t expecting support.
They were expecting shame. Silence. Apologies.
They didn’t get it.
Washijo looked at Kageyama again.
“…You’re certain?”
Kageyama didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
When they walked back into the hall, the room wasn’t quiet anymore.
Some players stared.
Some whispered.
Some glared.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Kageyama walked not behind his pack.
He walked in front of them.
Head high. Shoulders square.
His.
And the bond sang.
The worst had passed.
The coaches didn’t separate them. The teams had stopped staring. There were still whispers, yes, but they no longer landed like knives.
And Kageyama had stopped flinching when someone looked too long.
Because now, when they looked, his pack looked back.
It was warm that day.
Late afternoon, soft light bleeding through the trees. Most teams had finished scrimmages early, and the grounds were alive with quiet conversation, towels thrown over shoulders, hair damp with sweat, the scent of exhaustion and calm.
Kageyama had somehow ended up in the Seijoh camp circle again. No one questioned it anymore.
He was half-asleep, head in Matsukawa’s lap, feet resting in Iwaizumi’s, and Hanamaki was gently painting lazy designs on his arm with a cold water bottle.
“Is he dead?” Kunimi asked flatly.
“Battery saving mode,” Kindaichi said, stretching beside him.
“He spiked thirty-six balls in a row,” Oikawa added proudly. “We’ve decided to keep him.”
“As if you weren’t already planning a mating ceremony in your head,” Hanamaki snorted.
“I was not.”
“You literally have Pinterest boards.”
“Private Pinterest boards,” Oikawa hissed.
Kageyama’s eyes opened slowly.
“Stop talking about Pinterest,” he mumbled into Matsukawa’s thigh.
Kunimi smirked. “You’re drooling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
Matsukawa chuckled, wiping his cheek. “You drool on me, and I keep letting you nap here. You must be special.”
Kageyama shifted, face warm. “You’re all gross.”
“And yet you’re in love with us,” Hanamaki sang.
Kageyama didn’t deny it.
Later, they gathered on the hill that overlooked the gym roof. A quiet spot. Hidden. Just them.
Kageyama sat wrapped in Oikawa’s hoodie, even though the air was warm.
“You okay?” Oikawa asked, voice quieter now.
“I’m good.”
Oikawa pressed his cheek to Kageyama’s temple. “You sure?”
“…I didn’t think I’d be. But yeah. I am.”
They sat there, watching the sun dip. No tension. No plans. Just seven people breathing in sync, occasionally brushing fingers or shoulders.
Kindaichi laughed at something Kunimi said.
Hanamaki was gently weaving grass into Matsukawa’s hair.
Iwaizumi was balancing grapes on Kageyama’s knee like it was a contest.
“Are we gonna talk about after camp?” Kindaichi asked suddenly.
Everyone quieted.
“Like… what then?” he continued. “We go back to school. Different places. Different prefectures.”
Silence.
Kageyama looked down at the grass between his knees. “We keep going,” he said. “We don’t have to see each other every day. I’ll still feel you.”
“You will,” Kunimi murmured.
“You always do,” Iwaizumi added.
Then Oikawa said, “We’ve done it in secret for two years. Doing it openly might actually be easier.”
“Plus,” Hanamaki said, grinning, “Iwaizumi and I can finally post group selfies without pretending Tobio’s a mysterious cousin from Osaka.”
“You told someone I was your cousin?!”
“It worked.”
“No it didn’t!”
The sun kept falling.
Eventually, Kageyama stood.
“Let’s go back.”
He turned to them — arms crossed, but cheeks pink.
“…I want to sleep in the same room tonight.”
Six heads snapped up.
“You— You what?” Oikawa stammered.
“I said what I said.”
Matsukawa grinned. “Someone’s feeling bold.”
“Shut up.”
Iwaizumi stood too, patting Kageyama’s head. “We'll figure it out. We’ll make space.”
And they did.
That night, in a spare room the Seijoh coach “forgot” to lock, they lay together — limbs tangled, no kisses, no heat, just warmth.
Kageyama in the middle.
Safe. Held. Known.
His scent was laced with six
others, soft and steady.
And for the first time in a long time — he slept without dreaming of running.