Kageyama sees the knife, and freezes.

"Alright, king, nice and easy." The person is too calm for someone threatening another, his eyes veiled with...contempt? Derision?

He can feel his wings agitate with his turmoil of emotions, but he can't stop them from shaking, can't stop the curl of fear in the pit of his stomach, can't look away from the boy he loves.

The boy he loves, holding a wickedly sharp knife to his own throat.

An unnatural laugh bursts out from Hinata—not Hinata, Hinata doesn't sound like that—and the former decoy changes the grip on the weapon, leveling it at Kageyama instead. A sneer, completely unsuited to the face he knows so well, curls itself into being.

"Ah, so different than what you expected, hmm?" The not-Hinata takes a step forward, still pointing the knife forward. "When your darling little crow asked you to come over, you weren't expecting me, were you?" He stops within inches of the boy, still silent, still shaking. "Right, Tobio-chan?"

He feels a prick of the knife at his throat, and he hastily steps back, never moving his eyes from the face he knows so well. "You—"

"Ah, yes. Me." The boy presses forward, and Kageyama's forced to keep retreating. "Long time no see, little king. I have to say, when you asked me how to fly, I never expected you to try to overthrow me!" The last few words are snarled, and he can see a glimpse of the demon that has taken over Hinata's body. It disappears just as quickly, and the boy takes a small breath in a body that's not his.

"I didn't try to overthrow you, Oikawa." Even his own voice is trembling. "I told you, all I wanted to do was fly—"

"Lies. They roll off the tongue so easily, don't they?" Not-Hinata grins, a feral one that stretches across his face. Hinata wouldn't smile like that, his smile's different from that. "I wonder which truths you kept hidden from this crow. You like him, don't you? Wanted him not to know this side of you?"

They keep on backing up steadily, until Kageyama can feel the breeze across his back, and chances a quick peek over his shoulder. There's a cliff there, where he learned how to use his wings, with Oikawa. Kageyama's not sure why the upperclassman suddenly grew so bitter towards him, and why this is even happening right now; there is a cliff, though, and the edge is getting closer and closer.

But he has wings; why should Oikawa think that this'll be a problem?

"Ah, so you've noticed." Oikawa stretches his smirk across Hinata's face, and it looks so wrong that Kageyama can't breathe. "See, I was originally going to kill you with the knife, or something along those lines, but I think that this will be more...personal, I suppose." He motions the knife, and Kageyama has no choice but to step closer to the edge.

"This isn't you, Oikawa." He croaks out the words, searching the face before him for any sign of emotion. "The Oikawa I knew wouldn't be like this."

"Ah, Tobio-chan." The boy sighs out the words, lifting the knife up, as if ready to duel. "How foolishly sentimental you are. I thought you were a smart little kohai—how mistaken I was."

Not-Hinata straightens up, and gives a leisurely stretch. "Well, we've talked long enough; let's get down to the business at hand. Shall I start?" His smirk has morphed into something more feral, and Kageyama is afraid, every instinct is screaming at him to run away—

—But then Hinata'll be left alone, he promised, they promised to be together—

—as not-Hinata wraps his arms around him, brings the knife up to rest at the wing joint, cool steel against feather.

"Goodbye, king."

And all Kageyama can feel is a blinding white, can see is a crippling pain; he dimly hears a thump of something, and a high keening sound—him?—he staggers back, and (this is why Oikawa wanted the cliff, he thinks dimly) feels air, insubstantial air under his feet—

—a hand grabs his, and he's left hanging precariously, one weak grip the only boundary from his doomed fall to the forest far, far below—

"Kageyama!" He dimly registers someone screaming his name, but his back is rippling with pain, and the weak grip that whoever has on his hand is loosening—

—he lets it weaken, slip away—

—and the wind's all around him, fleeing past him and watching him fall—

—the king fall—

—and as he's closing his eyes, he can see a spot of orange getting bigger in the field of his fading vision—

—arms, hands reaching out—

—blackness.