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If there’s one thing that Tsukishima thinks he should know by now, it’s this. This being the sudden fuckening that happens and his life decides to throw him the most wicked googlies right when he needs it to behave and give him easy-to-hit short pitches.
He should be used to it with the sheer number of times it happens, but the sad reality is that he’s not. Especially not when it happens on days he needs it not to.
Freshest case in point: today.
He’d left his house at least an hour earlier than he’d strictly needed to, to get to the job fair center on time, and it was just his luck that there had been an accident on his train line, delaying the entire system by more time than what would give an average healthy and punctual Japanese man an aneurysm. And of course, they’d diverted the trains after his, so it was only his that had been stuck on the tracks for the longest time.
He’d bolted as soon as the train doors opened, practically sprinting up the escalators and through the ticket barriers, cursing whoever decided to make the Tokyo metro like six stories underground and the most confusing of labyrinths.
He rues the day he thought that it would be a good idea to quit volleyball and give up any and all exercise because his sides are killing him by the time he runs across the intersection in the last few seconds while the light is still green, to reach the right compound of buildings.
It happens when he has almost reached the large glass doors of the building of the job fair office, when someone walking past brushes against his shoulder and immediately whirls around to apologize.
Tsukishima finds himself staring at dark brown hair and narrow slit eyes, the grey-yellow that he hasn’t seen in several years but that he still remembers having seen through a volleyball net, and the same face that has been the subject of countless adolescent dreams, some more embarrassing than others. He sees the eyes widen a split second before there is a loud pop! and a blast of confetti hits Tsukishima in the face.
It feels an awful lot like deja vu when the world stills as both Tsukishima and the other (oh-so-familiar) man pause for a few seconds and then slowly look down to see Tsukishima’s suit, ruined now with confetti stuck all over it. A confetti cloud falls off Tsukishima’s head when he moves it.
“Oh my god, I am so so sorry, I- I didn’t--I will--”
There are fumbles and sputters and attempts at apologies, but Tsukishima’s heart stutters when the familiar voice reaches his ears, the same voice that he paired with taunting smirks and lilting remarks, the same voice that still haunts his dreams sometimes.
Can I have your number?
It only takes him another second to have an earth-shattering epiphany through confetti-clad glasses and decide that he can’t do this, not right now. It’s too much, he is too confused, too lost, too late, so he does what he does best.
He brushes Suna Rintarou off once again and flees, leaving behind a trail of confetti as he enters the building and loses himself in the crowd.
--
Somewhere down the circle of life, nature decided that it had had enough of incompetent two-legged creatures having too much freedom and choice and ruining its work by stifling their emotions, and pop! went the heart of the first human.
It was chaos.
People all over the globe taxed the already overtaxed health system by going in for tests, complaining of severe heartburn, only to discover that there was apparently a regenerative confetti chamber in their chests that popped and showered everything and everyone in the general vicinity of a foot or so with it every time they really liked something or someone.
Awkwardness levels had been through the roof in the beginning, what with literal strangers looking at each other and popping their confetti all over each other (or worse, just one person dousing the other), then everyone got used to it because a confetti pop seemed to be a universal indicator of something someone liked, romantically or not. Where it used to feel like broadcasting a dirty secret in public, now, it really wasn't that uncommon for people to just ignore the random pops as they went about their lives.
Tsukishima has been on the receiving end of this all too many times. Puberty had done him ugly for a couple of years but come high school, it hadn’t been uncommon for him to pop confetti hearts of girls and boys alike even as he just walked through the corridor. It used to irritate the hall monitors to no end because they were the ones who had to sweep it all up, even if all the confetti vaporized in a day or two.
(Surprise surprise, evolution wasn’t as dumb as humans, so the confetti didn’t really cause any harm. It wasn’t toxic, it wasn’t plastic, it all disappeared within a day. Tsukishima’s even read of some turning into seedlings and taking root.)
All through his adult life, even in college, Tsukishima is used to inducing a minimum of five confetti pops in the train alone (three, on the days that he's bleary-eyed and only combs his hair with his fingers after pulling all-nighters to finish assignments).
Tsukishima only needs his two hands, however, to count the number of times his own confetti heart has popped in all his life of twenty-four years. The first time had been as a five-year-old when his mum had placed a slice of cake in front of him, and his eyes had literally sparkled in glee before there was a loud pop! And then there was confetti all over the cake. He'd cried, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but his mother had helped him take them out and make it confetti-less again. It had been a pity to waste all the icing stuck to the confetti though so he'd even licked some while his mother's back was turned. Years later, he still can’t guarantee he hadn’t accidentally swallowed some bits.
The rest of the times were spread out over a span of years. That time when his heart had popped at Yamaguchi’s birthday present for him in middle school had cemented their friendship. The confetti that littered the pages of the dirty magazine he’d sneakily read in high school after finding it in Akiteru’s room wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as the way his heart had popped after seeing a random heavily tatted biker dude some days later at the bus stop.
Tsukishima does not consider himself an anomaly but is forcibly saddled with the label when his last boyfriend in college proclaimed him so, when his heart did not pop for him even once in their relationship of eight months. There had been an exchange of a few choice words when Tsukishima had quietly pointed out how he’d popped confetti all over the book the boyfriend had gifted him, but the bitter accusations hurled had ultimately been the basis of a bad break-up.
“You don’t like me, you just like what I do for you.”
Tsukishima had long admitted that it did take him some time to warm up to people, and his then-boyfriend had been understanding, but apparently, those promises came with expiry dates and he was “making him wait too long”.
Like the only way for Tsukishima to show his affection for someone was confetti-popping. Like other acts of service was not a love language at all.
And Tsukishima is almost tempted to lie, pretend like this whole thing didn’t make it even more unlikely for his heart to pop for the boyfriend, but the only person he can lie to is himself, when he tells himself that it didn’t hurt when they’d broken up for good, that it didn’t hurt when those words had pierced him like daggers, that he didn’t feel more inadequate than he ever did.
But life goes on, yadda yadda yadda, and Tsukishima locks all his sour feelings up in a box and throws it away in the yawning gape of his heart, cradling only the hit his self-worth has taken. There were larger problems in his life (like finding a job in this godforsaken economy).
So, as hopeful as his traitorous heart makes him feel, Tsukishima has been showered with confetti way too often for him to take Suna’s heart popping too seriously, as much as it hurts.
If Tsukishima is good at anything though, he is a pro at listening to his mind over his heart, so in the three minutes that it takes him to find the nearest restroom, he convinces himself that Suna’s confetti probably popped over something he saw on his phone that he liked a lot.
--
Tsukishima spends five desperate and futile minutes trying to dust his suit and get the shiny bits of confetti out of his carefully-styled hair, and ultimately gives up with an annoyed sigh. You'd think after years of this phenomenon humans would have invented a better cleaning gadget but no, they were as useless as ever.
Thankfully, his interviewers aren't that concerned and laugh it off even as he paints every chair he sits in with bits of confetti. He's positive that everyone is being really polite and not letting him know that there's some stuck to the seat of his pants, and he tries really hard to ignore it instead of trying to subtly smack his ass and toss his dignity down the drain.
How well his five interviews go ranges from a mild okay to a fucking negative why-the-fuckity-fuck-did-I-have-to-say-that, but he tries hard to delete that particular interview from his memory. He’s trying not to stew in those berating thoughts like he’s promised Yamaguchi and Akiteru that he wouldn’t, when a familiar crop of brown hair sitting at the nearby bus stop catches his eye.
Tsukishima stops short. Blinks thrice, counts two tiny confetti pieces that fall from somewhere on his person with each blink, and almost goes to clean his glasses before realizing that the micro-fiber cloth in his pocket has probably not survived the confetti shower.
Suna seems to be fiddling with his phone (thereby solidifying Tsukishima’s earlier theory) and hasn’t noticed him, so he still has the chance to bolt the other way and never look back, courtesy be damned to hell, and Tsukishima almost turns around, tempted to do just that.
(But he’s already done this not once but twice, and it makes him wonder if it was really worth it a third time too.)
But then familiar eyes are poring into his, and even from a distance, Tsukishima finds himself pinned to the ground, feeling like he’s sixteen again and he’s just so so fucked.
He hates his fucking life. (He loves that he ran into Suna again.)
Suna scrambles to collect his things together and bounds towards Tsukishima who resists the temptation to half-raise a hand lamely in response.
Suna drowns Tsukishima in a deluge of apologies the millisecond he plants his feet in front of him. “You have no idea how sorry I am, I did not mean for that to happen, trust me. I can’t believe it was right before your interview too! I mean I’m assuming it was an interview because you’re wearing a typical recruitment suit, but still, I hope they weren’t too harsh on you. But I am so so --”
“It’s fine,” Tsukishima finds himself saying to stop Suna, partly because he doesn’t think he can take another hit to his dressing sense with the way he is right now. (It was not a typical all-black recruitment suit, he’d specifically made sure to wear a black jacket with subtle pinstripes on it to distinguish himself, and Suna would have seen it had he not sprayed confetti all over him.)
There’s an awkward pause as Suna shuts himself up.
“So,” he begins again. “Karasuno’s glasses-kun.”
And somehow that irks Tsukishima so much, that he’d spent so much of his thoughts on this resurgence of feelings he’d felt for Suna, which apparently meant absolutely nothing because Suna didn’t even remember his name.
But before he can say a word, “Tsukishima-kun,” Suna hastily amends himself.
“You remember.” Tsukishima’s brain-mouth circuit and filter seem to be out of order today. (Maybe that’s why he tanked that one interview.)
“I do,” Suna replies, confused. “You’re hard to forget.”
And it’s those innocuous little words that render him speechless, and make him feel some ways that he isn’t sure is quite healthy frankly, because his heart does this hop, skip, jump, miss-a-step-and-free-fall-down-the-fucking-well routine that leaves him reeling.
Suna remembers. He remembers Tsukishima.
“Look,” Suna says. “I really am sorry about the whole-” he gestures vaguely towards Tsukishima here, stretching to brush yet some more confetti off Tsukishima’s shoulder, and Tsukishima clamps his lips shut right in time to contain the embarrassing sound which almost escapes him. “Anyways, you were in there for a long time, and I’m assuming you haven’t had any lunch, so… My treat? To apologize. Properly.”
Tsukishima can barely think past this huge realization that his brain now paints on a mental billboard: that Suna has been waiting for him at the bus stop.
Suna. Waiting. For Tsukishima.
Tsukishima agrees despite himself, trying not to think of how many hours Suna has spent waiting. (Exactly two hours and thirty-five minutes, his math brain responds. Two long fucking hours and some change.)
--
Tsukishima remembers seeing Suna across the nationals volleyball court as an itsy-bitsy sixteen-year-old, teenage heart palpitating almost dangerously. They’d been standing in the rotation of their starting order, and while Tsukishima had valiantly ignored Suna, the feeling of his sharp eyes staring at him had sent his heart thumping.
The ridiculous confetti-popping was so much worse during tournaments on the volleyball court, where so many people who'd meet each other for the first time gathered, and it was with vague annoyance that they'd often have to pause between rallies to vacuum the court quickly when some idiots popped their confetti either at a player or a particularly good play.
That day, Tsukishima had come close to becoming one of those idiots.
Then, behind a random staircase in the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym after the match, a fumbling Tsukishima had been doused by confetti by an equally and unusually fumbling Suna. Suna, who’d been all slant eyes and derisive looks on the court. Suna, who’d gotten on Tsukishima’s nerves like no other player had. Suna, who’d just asked for his number. And Tsukishima had been tongue-tied, like a fool, his mind putting him down again, and maybe he’d taken much too long because the silence spoke volumes of rejection than the hesitation that he felt, and Suna had gone away.
Tsukishima doesn’t pine. But the year after that, they’d lost, yet even through the misery, he had had the awful realization that his attraction to a certain twisty and bendy middle blocker was far from dead, but as much as he’d wanted to, he hadn’t tried to approach Suna. He’d almost been grateful that Suna hadn’t been there the next year.
Who knew high school crushes were this persistent.
But years had passed now, Tsukishima was no longer the awkward (debatable), lanky (he worked out now...and then...like once in two months?) teenager anymore, but apparently, all it took was one look and he was gone.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that Suna was no longer the same boy either - and Tsukishima gives him a quick mental once-over here - he’d become an infuriatingly good-looking man who’d only gotten prettier in the years after high school.
Call him shallow, but high school Tsukishima felt really vindicated right now.
And maybe, Tsukishima thinks, there really is something wrong with him, because he doesn’t know how or why his confetti has stayed put inside its little chamber, because the reappearance of a certain Suna Rintarou sure seems to have swept him off his feet.
--
They end up at the nearby Coco Ichibanya, which thankfully seems to be one of their bigger establishments and isn’t very crowded given that it’s post-usual lunchtime.
Suna settles in like he’s at home here, and only touches the laminated menu to hand it over to Tsukishima, rattling off an order to the waiter that makes Tsukishima worry slightly about his digestive tract and its way out tomorrow. He orders himself a safer, much milder curry rice.
The ensuing silence until their orders arrive is awkward.
Tsukishima doesn’t know what Suna is thinking, if he’s thinking about high school, if he even remembers what had happened, or if he threw all those memories away. (It’s times like these that Tsukishima really hates his overactive brain because there’s a splash of black in the back of his mind and the words who needs memories on a banner.)
They talk about volleyball between bites of food even if they’ve both given it up after high school, and what each of their friends is doing now. The conversation is very stilted, even as Suna reveals that he is a graphic designer living here in Tokyo and works really flexible hours nearby (which explains how he had the time to waste all his time this morning).
It’s halfway through the meal that Suna sighs like he’s fed up, and drops his spoon in his plate with a clink that would invite any Asian mother’s glare and just says, “Look, we both know what happened so we stop pretending like my years-old crush didn’t act up and I didn’t pop confetti all over you? Again?”
Tsukishima’s hand stops feeding him. All he registers are the words years-old crush and his brain just blanks out.
The silence cannot possibly be encouraging, but Suna trudges on.
“Look. I think the confetti makes it pretty obvious that I like you. If you hadn’t been in a hurry, I would’ve asked you out. Instead, I sat and waited and lost my nerves like a loser and only asked for lunch.”
A date. Tsukishima’s brain cells are working double-time trying to connect the dots when he realizes Suna had wanted this to be a date. He hadn’t popped confetti for something he saw on his phone (which, ok, in hindsight, was really stupid), he’d popped it for him.
Suna. Asking him out. Suna. Asking him out.
“I mean, I know Coco Ichibanya is a really cheap first date,” Suna is still rambling. “But I don’t mind if you don’t, you know?”
“I don’t,” Tsukishima blurts out. “I don’t mind.” If we go someplace better next time, is what he wants to say, but the words die in his mouth, the thought of a next time, the wild possibility that Suna would want to go out with him again, so so inviting and so within reach.
And also so impossible.
Suna deserves better. Suna deserves someone who won’t take ten dates at least for their confetti to pop for him, if it ever does. Suna deserves someone who wouldn’t make him wait or “string him along”, like Tsukishima’s been accused of before.
And usually, this would be the time that Tsukishima would usually politely refuse, decline, like he’s done before, but his brain cells are really firing differently today, and he ends up saying, “You’ll find better people.”
Suna cocks his head in confusion. “But I want to go out with you?”
Tsukishima tenses before taking a breath in the pause that follows. “It’s not that easy.”
And here is where Suna’s eyes soften visibly, making Tsukishima feel strangely vulnerable. His hands twitch where they’re resting against the table like he wants to hold Tsukishima’s in his own and Tsukishima traces them with his eyes, and finds himself wanting to too.
“Do you like me, Tsukishima-kun? I don’t care about anything else right now because I like you.”
It’s soft, the declaration, and although the words make Suna look softer, make Tsukishima feel softer, they hit him like a wrecking ball.
There’s an unfamiliar yet familiar tingling that rises inside his chest, tugging at his heart, and his eyes widen, but before he can say anything, his heart pops and he douses their leftover curry rice in confetti.
Top ten body betrayals.
Tsukishima feels his face heat up, and he’s sure that he has turned all red like a lobster right down to his toes hidden by his I’m-trying-to-look-professional-shoes and the cute froggie socks he’s sneakily wearing for emotional support.
Good-fucking-bye to Akiteru’s porno magazine that he’d returned with bits of confetti, this was officially the most embarrassing experience of his life.
There’s a waiter who hurries to clean up and fusses over them, but despite wanting to avoid his eyes, all Tsukishima can look at is Suna, who now looks like he’s stifling laughter.
(He looks so pretty.)
“Can I have your number?” Suna asks, after their plates have been cleared. “We can give this a shot if you’d like to. I’ll text you,” he says, sliding his phone across.
Unlike years ago though, this time, Tsukishima punches in his number silently, still red.
They wordlessly pay the bill (Suna does, while Tsukishima tries to dig a hole in the ground with the power of his mind and hibernate, preferably forever).
Maybe this is the only time they’ll both pop their hearts. Maybe Suna will again, but Tsukishima won’t. Maybe they’ll crash and burn like every other relationship Tsukishima has had. Maybe Tsukishima doesn’t deserve Suna. Maybe they both don’t deserve each other. Maybe they’ll break things off tomorrow. Maybe they’ll stay together for months and years ahead.
Maybe, despite all the negative nancy thoughts, they can still give this a good shot.
Suna’s eyes are still twinkling as the bell over the door rings merrily when they exit the curry house, and he deliberately sneaks his hand close enough to Tsukishima’s, brushing against his knuckles once, twice, before finally entwining their fingers.
There’s a trail of confetti that they leave behind in their wake.