the last dream

The sterile scent of antiseptic always clung to Hinata now, a constant, unwelcome companion. It had replaced the familiar tang of volleyballs, the sweat and exhilaration of a good spike, the earthy smell of the gym floor. He lay in the hospital bed, a pale imitation of the vibrant, sun-kissed boy Kageyama remembered. His usually spiky orange hair, once a beacon of energy, was now thin and dull, a stark contrast to the IV drip snaking into his arm.

Kageyama sat by his bedside, a silent sentinel. The plastic chair, hard and unyielding, dug into his back, but he barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on Hinata, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach. He’d seen Hinata through countless scrapes and bruises, watched him bounce back from every fall with an almost infuriating resilience. But this… this was different. This was a monster Hinata couldn’t simply jump over.

“You know,” Hinata’s voice was a whisper, raspy from his recent treatments, “it’s pretty boring in here. No volleyball. No running. Just… staring at the ceiling.” He attempted a small, crooked smile, a ghost of his former cheerfulness.

Kageyama grunted, a sound that in his usual state would be dismissive, but now carried a heavy undertone of concern. “Shouldn’t be talking so much. You need to rest.”

Hinata chuckled weakly. “Resting is all I do. My muscles are going to disappear. I’ll be even shorter than I already am.”

The attempt at humor fell flat. Kageyama didn’t even manage a sarcastic retort. The usual banter, the playful insults that defined their friendship, felt like a distant memory, a luxury they could no longer afford. He just stared, his dark eyes clouded with a helplessness he rarely allowed himself to feel.

“Stop looking at me like that, Kageyama,” Hinata said, his voice gaining a touch of its old exasperation. “You look like someone just stole your last milk carton.”

A flicker of annoyance, a familiar spark, momentarily ignited in Kageyama. “It’s called concern, dumbass. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

Hinata’s smile widened, a genuine, if fleeting, display. “See? There you are. For a second I thought you’d been replaced by a robot.”

The small victory of evoking a genuine smile from Hinata was bittersweet. Kageyama clenched his jaw. He wanted to scream, to rage at the unfairness of it all. Hinata, who lived and breathed volleyball, who was pure, unadulterated energy, confined to a bed, slowly fading.

The doctors had been blunt. The cancer was aggressive, advanced. There was no cure. Palliative care was all they could offer, a gentle easing into the inevitable. Kageyama had heard the words, but they hadn’t truly registered until he saw Hinata like this. The vibrant orange, slowly dimming.

“Remember that time you spiked the ball so hard, it went through the net?” Hinata mused, his eyes distant, lost in a memory.

Kageyama’s lips twitched. “It didn’t go *through* the net, dumbass. It just hit the tape really hard.”

“Details, details,” Hinata waved a weak hand dismissively. “It felt like it went through. You had that triumphant look on your face, like you’d just conquered the world.”

Kageyama remembered. He remembered every single one of Hinata’s wild, impossible jumps, every perfectly connected spike, every moment they had defied expectations on the court. Those memories, once sources of fierce pride and a quiet camaraderie, now felt like sharp shards of glass in his heart.

“We should have gone to nationals again,” Hinata whispered, his voice tinged with regret. “We could have won. I know we could have.”

Kageyama’s chest ached. He knew. He believed it too. They were an unstoppable force, a freak duo that defied logic and physics. They were meant to conquer the world, together. Not… not this.

“We still can,” Kageyama said, his voice rough. It was a lie, a desperate, hollow promise, and he hated himself for it.

Hinata looked at him, his eyes clouded with a wisdom that belied his fifteen years. He knew it was a lie too. “No, we can’t, Kageyama. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Kageyama finally snapped, his control cracking. The words burst out, raw and unfiltered. “It’s not okay, Hinata! You’re supposed to be… you’re supposed to be annoying me for practice, begging me for tosses, jumping so high you hit your head on the ceiling! You’re not supposed to be… here!”

Hinata flinched at the sudden outburst, his eyes widening slightly before softening. “I know,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I know.”

A heavy silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the machines. Kageyama ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration and grief warring within him. He was a setter, a strategist, a master of control. But here, he was powerless. Utterly, agonizingly powerless.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Hinata asked, changing the subject, a familiar tactic to diffuse tension. “You were such a jerk.”

Kageyama scoffed, a weak attempt at normalcy. “You were a loud, obnoxious shrimp.”

Hinata giggled, a fragile, beautiful sound. “And then we became the best duo ever! Who would’ve thought?”

“I still think you’re a shrimp,” Kageyama muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

“And I still think you’re a king,” Hinata retorted, but the usual bite was gone, replaced by a gentle affection. “My king.”

The words struck Kageyama with the force of a physical blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t break down here, not in front of Hinata. Hinata needed him to be strong, to be Kageyama.

“What are you thinking about?” Hinata asked, his voice soft.

Kageyama opened his eyes, meeting Hinata’s gaze. “I’m thinking about all the tosses I still owe you.”

Hinata’s eyes lit up, a flicker of the old fire. “You owe me a lot! Hundreds! Thousands!”

“More than you could ever hit,” Kageyama said, a small, sad smile gracing his lips.

“I bet I could hit every single one,” Hinata challenged, a ghost of his competitive spirit returning. “Even the weird ones you do sometimes.”

“Those aren’t weird,” Kageyama mumbled defensively. “They’re advanced.”

“Sure they are,” Hinata chuckled. He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. When he opened them again, they were a little more distant, a little more tired. “You know, I’m not scared.”

Kageyama’s breath hitched. He wanted to deny it, to tell Hinata he was wrong, that he couldn’t be brave in the face of something so terrifying. But Hinata’s gaze was steady, unwavering.

“I mean, a little bit,” Hinata admitted, a tiny frown creasing his brow. “But mostly… I’m just sad I won’t get to play volleyball anymore. Or see everyone. Or eat meat buns with you after practice.”

Kageyama swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to reach out, to hold Hinata’s hand, but he was afraid of breaking the fragile peace that had settled between them.

“You’ll still see everyone,” Kageyama said, his voice rough. “They’ll be here. They’re always asking about you.”

“I know,” Hinata said, a faint smile touching his lips. “They’re good guys. Even Tsukishima. Sometimes.”

Kageyama actually let out a small, humorless laugh. “He’s still a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah,” Hinata agreed, his smile widening. “But he’s *our* pain in the ass.”

The conversation drifted, punctuated by long silences, filled with unspoken thoughts and shared grief. Kageyama talked about school, about the team’s recent practice, careful to omit anything that might make Hinata feel worse. Hinata listened, his eyes occasionally closing, his breathing shallow.

As the afternoon wore on, a nurse came in, her movements gentle and efficient. She checked Hinata’s vitals, adjusted his IV. Hinata gave her a weak smile, thanking her. Even in his illness, his kindness shone through.

When she left, Hinata turned his gaze back to Kageyama. “You know, Kageyama,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I’m really glad I met you.”

Kageyama felt a jolt, a cold dread seizing his heart. It sounded… final. “Don’t talk like that, dumbass.”

“No, really,” Hinata insisted, his eyes earnest. “You’re the best setter. And… and you made me better. You made me believe I could fly.” He closed his eyes again, a tear escaping and tracing a path down his pale cheek. “Thank you.”

Kageyama couldn’t speak. The words were lodged in his throat, a painful lump. He reached out, his hand trembling, and gently took Hinata’s. It was thin and frail, so different from the strong, calloused hand that had spiked his tosses. He squeezed it, a silent promise, an unspoken farewell.

Hinata’s hand weakly squeezed back. He opened his eyes, the light in them dimmer now, but still holding a spark of their shared history. “Don’t stop playing, Kageyama. No matter what. Keep flying.”

“I won’t,” Kageyama choked out, his voice raw with emotion. “I promise.”

He sat there, holding Hinata’s hand, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the hospital room, painting the walls in hues of orange and gold – the color of Hinata’s hair, the color of a setting sun. The color of a fading flame.

Kageyama stayed until the nurse gently told him visiting hours were over. He reluctantly released Hinata’s hand, the warmth lingering on his skin. He looked at Hinata one last time, memorizing the pale face, the fragile smile, the way the last rays of sunlight touched his thinning orange hair.

He walked out of the room, the sterile scent of the hospital suddenly overwhelming. The hallway was empty, silent. Kageyama walked, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. The world outside felt too bright, too loud, too vibrant. Because for Kageyama, a piece of his world, a vibrant, orange-haired, gravity-defying piece, was slowly, irrevocably, fading away. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.