Hinata isn’t having a very good day. He’s fifteen, still young and fresh and still baby-faced and short. Still short.
He tries not to think of the looks he gets when he jogs alone, in his own clothes, tries not to think that the athletic shorts hug place on his body that’re too fat and too chubby and too soft without Kageyama there pacing along with him, making the whole duo seem alot more masculine. Guys stick together, right? It’s easy to catcall girls jogging on a highway with earphones in, eyes glazed, barely paying attention.
But he’s not one, he’s not one, he’s not one.
He tries to ignore the fear he feels when he rests under a bridge, the feel of wet grass tempering the hot vibrations of his blood trying to sort itself back together; send itself through his body fast enough while his binder stretches and pulls and gives him another thing to try to forget about.
He’s normally smiling, he’s normally happy, he really is, but sometimes it feels like he can’t yell loud enough and can’t stand tall enough and can’t suck in his butt tightly enough against his back like he wishes he could until he was as flat as all the guys were in the changing room when he peeks out after whipping his jersey off. He wishes.
Hinata tries his best to move on from the moments while they stretch and he can f e e l every soft part of him pushing against the cold floor-and he’s too hyperaware- and his stomach fights against a coldness he doesn’t want to believe his other teammates will look at him with if they ever learn he’s o t h e r.
Because he is normal, his brain is normal, it’s normal to want to be a boy, and be one, and live as one, because he is one, but there’s a fear nobody else will see it like he sees it. That he’s a boy like the other’s aren’t a boy. (HE’S A BOY!) His mind screams. But instead he can feel the cellulite and pale fat of his thighs so different from everyone else’s bodies that have muscles and hair and width and he feels like a baby chick while everyone else is sporting feathers and growing wings.
He wants to fly too.
He tries not to think of the moment under the bridge where he swore the man thought he was a girl and he nearly said yes because he i s but not like that, not in the way everyone means, but he means it too. He doesn’t want to have to mean it.
It’s hard to argue with strangers.
It’s worse when they’re people you know.
He thinks of the pictures of himself his mother still has up in the house, how sometimes his little sister still calls him onee-chan, uses his old name. He can’t bring Kageyama over.
He walks past a pile of sports bras he keeps in his closet and closes the door, wearing his binder, wearing his male shoes, his briefs, everything not-so-casually picked out. he tries to act casual.
He just wants to be casual.
It’s a liberty to forget.