Kageyama had never been the type to believe in superstitions.

But at times he would wake up in the middle of the night to the ringing in his eardrums, mouth parted in a silent scream and cold sweat beading on his forehead. For some reason, he felt like he was missing something when he went to the bathroom to wash his face; as if the empty space next to him once occupied a number that he couldn't remember.

Yamaguchi thought the nightmares were normal; after all, he'd had them on an almost daily basis, starting from when he was about twelve years-old. To his surprise and confusion, his mother was beside herself with worry, asking him questions about whether he'd been stressed enough to have nightmares everyday. No, he hadn't really been stressed—well, there were the bullies who picked on him often, but the dreams weren't about them.

Not at all.

So Yamaguchi laughed it off and lied—"Ah, schoolwork's been pretty heavy lately…"—so he wouldn't have to tell her about the sharp pains in his chest every time he woke up from those dreams, as if a bullet had been shot right into his heart.

There was something incredible about watching a service ace: the way the ball sliced through the air, the way it made contact with the ground with a resounding bang. It was an explosion of power, like a… like a…

Kageyama's mind went blank when the ringing returned.

He didn't notice the coach calling for him, nor did he notice that he was doubled over on the bench, clutching his ears with such ferocity that his muscles throbbed long after. To his frustration, they made him sit out the practice match—but he found that he didn't have enough energy to fume about it.

He also found that he wasn't concentrating properly, either.

Instead, his mind was clouded over with black smoke and falling buildings.

Like a bomb, he finally thought when he watched the ball hit the ground.

The colors of Miyagi Prefecture seemed so dull on the stillest of days.

The sounds of the early morning—birds chirping and leaves rustling and neighbors murmuring—emitted no colors for Yamaguchi's wistful vision to see. When he closed his eyes, he could still imagine a pale yellow voice: a voice that looked like the sunrise; and a gentle grey voice: a voice that looked like a peaceful cloudy day.

He didn't know why he started to cry. He told himself it was because of the pain in his chest again, although the nightmares had not bothered him that night.

When Kageyama was accepted into Karasuno, he ignored the painful flashing visions of crows flying overhead. Maybe it had been his poor academics that caused his rejection from Shiratorizawa, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe it was fate.

The black fabric of the Karasuno uniform might have looked cool to someone else, Yamaguchi thought as he tried it on, but it only reminded him of the darkness of a burned out Tokyo.

"Nine," Yamaguchi blurted out at the sight of the number on Kageyama's jersey.

The confused looks from his teammates and the expression on the taller first-year's face made him cringe in mortification—did he really say that out loud? But when he looked closer, he saw the brimming of recognition within those familiar eyes.

Eyes like ice.

When he responded with a quiet, "Twelve," Yamaguchi couldn't stop the smile spreading across his freckled face.

And a smile like the sun.

"We're different now," Kageyama said, punching a button on the vending machine and reaching for the milk carton that rolled out.

"You've said that before, haven't you?"

"That doesn't matter."

Yamaguchi shrugged his shoulders, uttering a meek, "I suppose so," before averting his gaze to the ground, fidgeting hands stuffed into his pockets.

"…I wonder if your voice is still the same color."

"That doesn't matter," Kageyama repeated, sticking the straw into his drink and lifting it to his mouth. "We're different now."

"You know," Yamaguchi sighed one day, "I wonder how Lisa's doing."

Kageyama didn't answer.

"…Five, too."

"I don't want to know," he said immediately. "I… don't want to know anymore."

When they reached Tokyo for their practice match against Nekoma, Yamaguchi uneasily glanced towards Kageyama's general direction.

The dark-haired boy's hands were clenched into fists, his jaw set tight and back straightened stiffly. The joking words from the rest of the team—"Come on, Kageyama, lighten up!" and "Geez, you never enjoy anything!"—fell on deaf ears.

"It's over," Yamaguchi tried to say, but the way the words came out, reserved and meek, could only leave him to wonder where Twelve had gone. The glare that was sent in his direction caused him to jolt painfully when he noticed the glistening of moisture around the corners of Kageyama's eyes.

Yamaguchi heard the sound of a distant explosion, in the back of his mind—saw the buildings crumbling down, saw the atomic bomb lighting up the sky.

Was this the meaning of resonance?

"It hurts a bit," Kageyama muttered after they had lost.

What does? Yamaguchi wanted to ask, but kept silent.

"Yeah," he chose to say instead. "It does."

"Ah, it's Kururin!" Yamaguchi's eyes lit up in recognition at the sight of the pink plushies.

Tsukishima raised an eyebrow in mild skepticism as he eyed the toys that lined the shelves of the store they passed by. "Huh, haven't seen these around where we live."

"Oh."

Yamaguchi glanced over his shoulder as they walked away, brows furrowed; Tsukishima snickered at him, asking, "What, do you want one or something?"

"A-Ah, no," the freckled first-year laughed nervously. "Just…"

His gaze flitted over to Kageyama, who was walking at the front of the group, surrounded by his teammates. An echo of a distant past shook him, then:

It was always just the two of us.

"No," he said finally, the tremor gone from his voice, turning back around.

We're different now.

We lived, distant voices breathe into a sunrise of pale yellow and grey. We lived.