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That Tsukishima has freckles is not something Tetsurou realizes for a surprisingly long time.
It’s a combination of a lot. There’s the weather for instance, and Tsukishima’s endless love for every sort of outerwear in existence. There’s the fact that Tsukishima drunk-kisses him in November and no one figures out that neither side regrets the whole affair until December. There’s the matter of space.
But above everything, there’s the simple fact of where those freckles are.
“Hey, Tsukki— are those freckles,” Tetsurou asks one day, rather incredulously, “on your neck.”
Tonight, Tsukishima’s bedroom is lit up like a firework display. He’s lying on his stomach on the bed, a book laid open on the pillow before him. Tetsurou is curled up beside him like a cat.
Or at least, Tetsurou was curled up beside him half a minute ago. But then he got bored of doing that, so he propped himself up on one elbow and started hovering over Tsukishima’s shoulder until trying to get into a sci-fi novel starting from page two-hundred-and-four got boring, too.
Thus, the freckles. They’re peeking out of the collar of Tsukishima’s shirt, a small scattering of stars creeping up the nape of his neck, stopping just short of his hairline.
They’re— lovely, to be entirely honest. Tetsurou is mesmerized, the way children try to scoop the moon out of the river at night. And it sounds kind of silly, he realizes, but when you’re essentially the human manifestation of a cat possessed with the attention span of a goldfish, it’s like that. It takes the sight of Tsukishima Kei blushing to the tips of his ears, shrugging his shoulders to try and hide the freckles on his neck, to stop you from falling.
Tsukishima clears his throat quietly.
“Um. No.”
“No,” Tetsurou repeats. He shifts slightly above the covers, goes back to lying on his side.
“I’m looking right at them, darling. Why hide them?”
Tsukishima folds his arms and puts his head down, turning to look at Tetsurou with cloudy, moonlit eyes. And then, in a small, clear voice:
“Because they’re ugly.”
The word ugly dissipates into the air like a snowflake of crushed ice, stirring up a snowstorm in Tetsurou’s chest. He raises his eyebrows. Behind that, Tetsurou studies the way Tsukishima’s gaze drops momentarily, a split-second shadow of emotion flitting across the blank canvas of his face.
He clicks his tongue softly. “Why do you think that?”
“My mother told me once. A few times. In passing.”
“Oh.”
See, here’s the thing— Tetsurou’s pretty good at reading people. They’re all made of the same stuff underneath the skin of their smiles and the bone-dry threads of their laughter. They’re all made of glass. In other words, everyone’s transparent if you look at them from the right angle, and Tetsurou’s been standing at the perfect vantage point all his life.
Tetsurou’s pretty good at reading people. He’s doing it now, even, with Tsukishima’s pretty pale face and the barely-there crease between his brows, but that doesn’t mean he always knows what to do with what he sees. There’s no point to knowing when the world’s going to end, if all you’re going to do is sit under the awning of a konbini and cry about it. There’s no point to asking why, why, why, if you’re not prepared to deal with the answer.
Seemingly done with the conversation, Kei slides his finger down the spine of his book, opens it back up to the last page. Tetsurou blinks.
Wearily, the night walks on.
::
Tetsurou never understood what people meant when they said they wanted something so bad, it hurt.
::
That Kei has freckles is something Tetsurou doesn’t realize for a good long time, but it’s a while longer before he discovers that they aren’t merely on his neck; they just begin there.
Kei walks out of the shower, wearing nothing but shorts and the wet glimmer of water drying on his skin. Frowning, he pulls open the closet door.
Tetsurou laughs at him from where he’s sprawled out in bed, his phone screen going dark in his hands. “Forgot a shirt?”
“Yes. Thank you for that astute observation.”
“Mmm.” His eyes wander from the damp mess of Kei’s curls to the jut of his shoulder blades, the soft shadow of his spine.
His eyes wander, and then they stop.
“Kei,” Tetsurou begins, and Kei freezes with his hands buried in a pile of sweatshirts. Kei recognizes this voice, is intimately familiar with every brand of peculiar Tetsurou advocates for depending on his mood, the time, and the color of his socks that day. Kei is wary. Tetsurou can tell.
“Your shoulders—”
“Tetsurou.”
“—Those are freckles.”
Kei sighs. He tries to step away from the closet, but before he can do that Tetsurou is all up in his space, leaning lightly against the closet door. Just lightly, his hip bumping against the plastic. Just lightly. He’s not trying to fall.
Tetsurou smiles weakly, all lopsided. “Can I touch them?”
For a moment, there is silence. Then Kei sighs again, heavier this time. He crosses his arms, looking away from Tetsurou.
“...Fine. But only because you asked.”
Tetsurou lifts his hands, and he feels like he’s pulling the ocean-tide away from the silvery line of the shore. He lifts his hands, and places them gently, gently, on Kei’s shoulders.
At first, he can hardly bring himself to move. Then he begins to trace each freckle, skimming the pads of his fingers across the broad expanse of Kei’s back. He feels like a cartographer, mapping every star-shaped secret in the universe. He feels like he’s six again, watching the white milk moon as it drowns in the surface of the sea.
Kei remains painting-still, not moving, not speaking. Tetsurou fights armies to stay on his feet.
Like this, Kei is all long limbs and smooth angles, delicate lines drawn across the planes of his asterism-kissed body, almost as if the stars fell in love with him and decided to make a home for themselves under his skin. Like this, Kei is softer, somehow, an early-morning daydream hovering on the water’s edge.
And it’s not as if he ever isn’t, as if Kei’s ever been anything short of the best thing that ever happened to Tetsurou— but like this, he’s breathtaking.
Tetsurou presses his lips to the curve of his shoulder; an act of reverence. He watches the world shudder to its knees.
Kei turns around. In that second, Tetsurou finally understands what it means to want someone so bad, it hurts.
“For what it’s worth,” he says hopelessly, “I think you're beautiful.”
“Tetsurou— ugh— you always just say anything—”
Kei kisses him something fierce. Tetsurou thinks of fireworks.
::
“I didn’t mean to kiss you that night at the bar, but if you’d wanted it too, Kuroo, if you’d wanted it too, then maybe I would have meant it.
“I mean, God, you’re beautiful. I don’t know what to do with myself when you’re around. I don’t know anything when it comes to you.”
“What are you saying, Tsukki, have you ever seen yourself? Just— look— can I kiss you again? Properly? Please. Please say yes.”
“I— Yes, a thousand fucking times. Yes.”