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Are you watching this?
Hinata promptly stops chewing on the mochi Tanaka had scavenged for all of them, squinting at the screen of his phone. Why is Tsukishima texting him, and now? He said he would keep close to the stage to sort out the last details—which was usually code for, I can’t fucking deal with your mess anymore. Stay away from me until this thing ends.
He swallows the rest of the mochi and licks his fingers while typing with one hand, wtf u talkin bout?
Surprisingly, the answer comes in seconds. Stop texting like the Neanderthal you are. And pay fucking attention, you moron. Linx’s onstage.
Hinata scoffs. He has no idea how Tadashi deals with this 24/7, really.
“Dude, who pissed in your cornflakes?” Noya asks from where he sits on one of the couches, beating a vaguely familiar tune on the edge of the center table with his drumsticks.
“Tsukishima,” Hinata grumbles while typing a petty, so fuckin what?
Tanaka barks out a loud laugh, because that’s answer enough for all of them. As if in consolation, he throws Hinata another mochi while still scavenging through the meager buffet offered by the venue. The redhead easily catches it, eyes still stuck on his screen, waiting for an explanation.
It doesn’t come—of course it doesn’t. That’s usually Tsukishima’s code for, I won’t suffer fools anymore.
Still, against his better judgment, his curiosity’s been sufficiently piqued. He turns to the only remaining member in the room, who’s been quietly reading a book as if there aren’t three rock concerts currently happening outside their door, or a bunch of harried roadies running up and down the hallways in a panic.
“Hey, Suga-san. Do you mind turning on the screen on Kuroo and Bokuto? Wanna check something.”
He blinks up at Hinata before closing his book. “Sure. But I think it’s mostly over by now.”
Their vocalist switches on the small screen between his armchair and the couch, where Noya is still drumming away at a private, imaginary concert—probably psyching himself up before they go onstage.
Hinata watches, growing strangely antsy, as Suga flicks through the internal channels. They pass two empty stages, then Miya setting up for their own gig, then another group Hinata’s never even heard of. There are a few of those at the festival this year. It’s a strange feeling, though not really surprising—The Crows had sort of gone AWOL over the past year, after all.
Then Suga stops on a familiar set of faces. Just as expected, there Kuroo and Bokuto are, doing their usual thing in front of a booming, bellowing crowd. Nothing seems strange about the backing band eit—wait. Hinata frowns and comes closer.
“Where’s Yamamoto?” he murmurs, but Suga picks up on it and leans closer to check the screen as well, book slipping to the side forgotten.
“Huh, can’t see him either, and he’s hard to miss,” Suga comments lightly, eyes sweeping over all the moving pieces on the stage under the flickering lights. “Maybe they have someone standing in for him? Must be sick, he never misses a gig.”
Hinata’s gaze locks onto the one strange element in the mix—a guy in dark clothes standing off to the left with a nondescript guitar, half-hidden in the shadows and just going through the motions. The grainy quality of the green room’s screen makes it hard to see much, but Hinata doubts some random backing guitarist would be enough to catch Tsukishima’s attention.
He’s about to move on—but the lights flash suddenly, following the sharp increase in pitch as Kuroo screams out on the vocals, pulling the crowd into a wild frenzy with him. And that random guy leads them expertly into it with a fierce yet elegant riff Hinata has only seen one person attempt before.
His lungs freeze, expelling all air in one long whoosh, as if he’s been punched.
Hinata must he delirious. He must be.
As if mocking him, his phone vibrates in his hand right then. His numb fingers barely manage to open the new message.
Have you seen him yet?
He can’t muster up the will to answer Tsukishima, and when he looks up again, Suga is also staring sort of glassy-eyed at the screen.
There’s no fucking way, some nasty, resentful little voice hisses from the dark recesses of his bones, while his mind dissolves into white noise.
Kuroo’s voice interrupts his internal meltdown. Hinata realizes they are between songs, teasing the audience for what’s probably their last performance of the night. Kuroo surveys the expectant crowd with pride and something almost predatory in his shark-like gaze.
“So, some of you may have already noticed we have a guest with us onstage tonight… but he’s been a bit too quiet, hasn’t he, Bo?” Kuroo’s Cheshire cat smile meets Bokuto’s megawatt one, beaming down on all of them even from way behind his drums.
“Yeah, and we want to make a lot of noise today! Don’t we, guys?” The other man turns his full attention to the crowd, which erupts in response. Bokuto’s magnetic presence never fails to draw the loudest reactions at any Linx show. So it was no surprise that, paired with Kuroo’s devil-may-care swagger and radical vocals, the two rocketed up the charts with their very first record.
It was both amazing and maddening.
“That’s right!” Kuroo laughs into the mic, picking up Bokuto’s cue without missing a beat. “We want to see everyone go wild for this very special guest tonight! Please welcome our very own Serene King—it’s been too long! Let’s give him the warmest welcome—come on, let him hear you!”
There’s a brief but heavy suspension of all sound—Hinata can almost taste the disbelief, because it’s currently burning on his tongue as well. But then… Everyone does go fucking wild.
It’s a wall of sound. Hinata registers a small gasp behind him—maybe from Tanaka or Noya, he’s not sure, and doesn’t manage to take his eyes off their shitty screen to check. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Suga covering his mouth with trembling fingers, his wide eyes locked on the surreal scene unfolding not far from them.
Kuroo’s manic laugh somehow cuts through it all. He all but skips across the stage to hurl himself at the shadowy figure who, until now, had lingered in an unassuming corner with a black Fender Telecaster in hand—barely a blip on anyone’s radar. (Except Tsukishima’s, Hinata thinks almost spitefully, though he’s not sure why.)
To everyone else, he’s just another faceless guy, probably helping out a few friends or filling in for someone.
Did fucking Yamamoto know about this, and we didn’t?
“That’s riiiiight!” With his arm possibly choking the poor by this point, Kuroo screeches into his microphone. “It’s been a long year, but he’s back! GIVE IT UP FOR KAGEYAMA TOBIO!”
The stage lights flare brighter, and suddenly it’s unmistakable—that disturbingly familiar profile. The man lifts his chin in a brief nod to the bellowing crowd, the same aloof response to screaming fans that had earned him the epithet of Serene King in the first place.
Japan’s own little guitar prodigy, who rose to fame like a star, and then fucking disappeared on all of them like a snuffed-out flame.
“What the actual fuck?” Hinata spits out, his voice coming out hoarse with shock.
“Seconded,” Tanaka pipes up, but he sounds faint. The usual fire is completely gone from his breathy tone.
In their grainy screen, the guy—Kageyama, Hinata’s faulty mind tries to wrap itself around the glaring reality—barely changes his posture. He stays mostly sideways, revealing only black hair and even darker clothes. Nothing remarkable: black jeans, a tight sleeveless shirt, combat boots.
It’s Kageyama, but it’s not. His glossy fringe drifts over his eyes now, casting them in shadow, and on his only visible arm, a large tattoo that still looks painfully fresh stands stark against pale skin. A lotus flower.
Hinata swallows with difficulty.
On the screen, the stranger leans in to exchange a few words with an excited Kuroo, then responds with a quick, jazzy sequence of chords on his guitar to the deafening chants of Serene King! Serene King! The screams only grow louder, and Bokuto laughs like a madman, pounding a random rhythm on the drums to keep the frenzy going.
“Some of you may have heard us play the next one before, but Kags here helped us rework a few things and, well… let’s just say you guys are in for a treat!” Kuroo’s playful wink is magnified by the wide screen behind them, though Kageyama’s profile is oddly cut off from the frame. “So sing along… if you can keep up with us!”
The flashing lights dim again, and Hinata’s frustration spikes as Kageyama fades back into the shadows. Kuroo is already singing about blades and being cut open, but for everyone in the green room—and a few stunned friends watching from the audience, or through their own phones and TVs—the only thing that matters is that dark silhouette standing to the left of the stage.
How it moves with familiarity—long fingers strumming tight chords, sending their heartbeats into total discordance. How he breathes as he leans over the old Fender Telecaster they all know the story of. How his dark hair now falls like a curtain, hiding those missed blue eyes from view.
Hinata blinks as, out of nowhere, glaring white spotlights flare on—focused on a microphone with no one behind it.
“The hell?” Noya mutters from right beside him. Hinata never even noticed him standing up and coming closer.
Bokuto is going wild, and the heavy drums support the crescendo of the guitars as they seem to announce something’s coming.
Kageyama steps into the spotlight abruptly. Before anyone can process what it means, he’s already taking over the vocals from Kuroo. Front and center, the wide screen finally captures him fully as he begins singing into the mic.
“Going around like a revolver… It's been decided how we lose…”
The left side of his face is a map of bruises. Stark and inflamed, swirling into disturbing shades of black, blue, and purple.
Suga gasps. Hinata instinctively sits and leans close until their shoulders touch, offering comfort through contact alone, since he’s lost his words. He quietly mourns that Daichi chose today to watch the shows from the floor with Enno and Asahi.
“What the fuck is going on, guys?” Tanaka implores, and it sounds close to a whimper. No one has answers.
“Already pulling me in, already under my skin… And I know exactly how this ends…”
It’s surreal how well Kageyama and Kuroo sound together. Their voices blend like a finely tuned machine, even though everyone in this room knows those two have never even played a jingle together.
But then Kuroo seems to relinquish the reins entirely, throwing a manic grin over his shoulder as he watches Kageyama start belting out the next verse.
“I let you cut me open just to watch me bleed… Gave up who I am for who you wanted me to be!”
It’s a punch in the gut.
It’s raw and imperfect, almost guttural, which only makes it more heart-wrenching. Kageyama carves through all the right emotional keys, making it impossible to look away. It knots Hinata’s throat.
He can’t ignore the lyrics anymore. Not now that Kageyama’s wounded, stripped-down vocals and battered face have brought them into harsh, horrible focus. Tearing all their wounds open.
“I only wanted to be part of something… I only wanted to be part of, part of…”
Sweat streams down pale skin, and Kageyama tosses his soaked fringe aside with an impatient swish of his head. Blue eyes are fully exposed, their feline gaze amplified by the wide screens around the stage, daring the audience to look away as he bares his insides for all to see.
They answer his silent appeal by going even louder—through the small screen, it’s nearly shattering. Hinata can only imagine what it must feel like from the stage.
“I let you cut me open… just to watch me bleed!”
Each time, with each new verse, it feels like the last. Like Kageyama’s voice will break, and they’ll break with him. The bigger picture is starting to take shape in Hinata’s mind, and he doesn’t like where his thoughts are heading.
How many times had they asked him to sing? When The Crows were still a fledgling thing, barely hanging on. As they tried to figure out what kind of band they wanted to be, their roles, what their sound actually was, how to deal with so many ideas clashing.
How to deal with a prodigy who could do anything, but refused to take center stage.
I can’t.
It’s too much.
Suga is better at it.
I don’t want them to see. [Why? Why? Why?] No answer, never a concrete answer.
And finally, softly, imploring,
Don’t make me do it. Please.
Each fucking time they asked, until they learned asking only made his walls grow taller and harder to breach. And now—
“I don’t understand,” Suga murmurs, lost and dejected. Hinata knows he’s not the only one who constantly relives the reel of grueling emotions, fucked up conversations, and missed opportunities that created the perfect avalanche. One that swallowed all of them up one year ago, when Kazuyo-san passed away, and Kageyama seemed to die with him.
Standing over his grandpa’s grave like a wraith, turning immaterial right before their eyes. Shadowed by the face of a smirking stranger who had been slowly inching closer, pushing everyone out of Kageyama’s sphere in quiet increments. None of them realized how isolated he had become—not until it was too late. By then, their friend was already gone.
Out of reach, without explanation or goodbye.
All because of that disgusting, conniving shadow of a man. Endo.
“Gave up who I am… for who you wanted me to be!”
Hinata’s hands curl into fists, watching a shattered friend try to learn how to reshape himself in front of thousands of people.
“That motherfucker,” he growls quietly, but it still startles Suga beside him. Their screen may be small and the internal transmission shitty as hell, but the harsh spotlights are enough for Hinata’s eyes to fixate on those grisly bruises. On their jagged outline. The shape of fists. “This time I’ll fucking kill him.”
Kuroo comes in again, and in the brief respite, Kageyama lets his head fall forward, a curtain of glossy black shielding him from prying eyes for a moment. His fingers never abandon their familiar dance over well-worn strings, and then he pierces into the roaring crowd’s hearts and minds once more with the final verses, eyes locked forward.
“Don't know why I'm hoping, so fucking naive… Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine!”
The song ends too soon. In the ensuing silence, while an ecstatic crowd screams for more, Kageyama Tobio’s friends are left reeling, wherever they are.
Hinata feels unstable. Checking around, it’s obvious he’s not the only one. Part of him wants to punch Kuroo and Bokuto for doing what they never managed to, but there’s also an incongruous need to hug and thank them for giving Kageyama this. For somehow bringing him back to them.
“We all know who did that to him, don’t we?” Noya asks darkly, eyes fixed and unwavering. Staring into the void—or perhaps into memories.
Suga’s small whimper is all the answer they need.
A knock on the door startles the group out of the mind-numbing shock they’ve fallen into since Kageyama disappeared off stage and from their screen, with both Kuroo and Bokuto hanging off his neck.
Tanaka goes to answer, and when he comes back, they already know it’s time to go.
Hinata turns to Suga, amazed once again by their leader. All traces of the despondent man from a few minutes ago are mostly gone—except for slightly reddened eyes, which will soon fade under the stage lights. Catching Hinata’s worried gaze, Suga smiles softly and rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“We’ll be fine, Shou. He’s back. The rest will sort itself out.”
He’s back. Hinata clings to that thought all the way to the stage—and through the hours that follow.
Still, before leaving the green room, he takes the time to exchange a few last words with Tsukishima.
Don’t let him leave.
The answer only takes seconds. What do you expect me to do, you idiot? I’m a stage manager, not a fucking guard dog.
Hinata huffs out a laugh, and Tanaka glances at him curiously.
Tie him up. Lock him away somewhere. I don’t fucking care. I mean it, Kei. Just don’t let him get out of here. For good measure, he adds, Suga was crying.
There’s no cutting answer or promise of murder in return, so he guesses the message has been heard loud and clear.
It’ll all be okay.
They leave everything—the shock, the tears, the heartache—in the green room. Stepping onto the stage still reeling, the bad fades the moment they take their usual places. All that remains is the image of a good friend, once lost and now found. It brings a smile, makes the night feel special, and the audience is right there with them. In that moment, they hold everyone in the palm of their hands.
They have already won.
Suga pours himself into an old, familiar song. Hinata, Tanaka, and Noya are right there with him, holding everything together without fail. They soar as one, just as they always have.
And from a small, dark alcove somewhere around the stage, hidden from view, a pair of bright blue eyes follows their every move. A man murmurs along to the old, familiar lyrics etched deep in his mind and heart.
“It's so easy to sing it to a crowd… But it's so hard, my love, to say it to you out loud…”