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It was the start of a new term at Karasuno High. The grass was growing, the volleyball team was losing, and all Mr. Tsukkishima's students were failing. The students of Karasuno generally got pretty good grades, (with the exception of a spectacularly dumb volleyball enthusiast who shall remain unnamed.) Failing Mr Tsukishima's class is a rite of passage for Karasuno seniors, each one transitioning into adulthood with fond memories of their sour, dry, latin teacher. Mr. Tsukishima hasn’t even been around that long, maybe seven or eight years, but already he's the stuff of legend.
This year, though, someone decides to disturb the peace. Mr. Tsukishima's 9 am class contained one student who vowed to get to the bottom of all this Mr. Tsukishima business. Cynicism that raw that is not natural. There had to be a catch. An embarrassing habit, a quirky hobby, anything to prove he was human. Hinata Shoyou made it his business to uncover this and exploit it mercilessly. Mr. Tsukishima didn’t like him. Mr. Tsukkishima didn’t like anyone, but especially not Hinata. He’s never been a wellspring of untapped potential, but he’s been told he's pretty personable. Mr. Tsukishima’s a hard nut to crack, though.
His classroom didn’t exactly reveal much. While some teachers ( Mr. Sugawara, who insisted his students call him “Suga”, for one) went out of their way to make students feel welcome, it was as if Mr Tsukishima tried to make students feel distinctly unwelcome. Hours zoning out had familiarized Hinata thoroughly with every last absence of decoration. However, the four things that Mr. Tsukishima did have were burned in his brain and went as follows: his small dinosaur statue. A staple. Hinata loved that thing. Mentally he called it Super Green Awesome Asteroid Destroyer, which struck Hinata as both ironic and clever. Everytime Goshiki translated the nominative case, Mr. Tsukishima’s hand visibly twitched and he picked up the figurine with a grimace.
The second was a poster of the stars, devoid of writing, just a picture of the milky way. The third was a small foam volleyball, whose existence plagued Hinata like nothing else. On the one occasion he had tried to touch it, Mr. Tsukishima had coolly informed him that if he were ever to lay a “grubby little finger” on the ball he would personally see to it that Hinata scrubbed the entire floor with a toothbrush. His hand still itched to touch it in particularly dull moments.
The fourth item, and the most puzzling, was a small sticky note on the top of Mr. Tsukishima's monitor. It had been placed there in early November, and was innocuously resting on the monitor one morning when he had sullenly shuffled into class. Hinata had thought they would all die that day, but he had picked up the sticky note, blinked at it, and placed it back on the top of the monitor. Astounding. Hinata thought he had catalogued all of Mr. Tsukkishimas expressions(Eye twitch-apoplectic with rage, singular eyebrow raise- amused at the students expense, eerie chuckle-run). From his vantage point, Hinata could glimpse the small strawberry doodled on it, but he couldn’t read the accompanying scrawl underneath. The existence of this note suggested the existence of a real live person who not only tolerated Tsukishima but liked him enough to write him an entire note(love sticky?).
To set the scene: 8:55 on a monotonous Monday morning, mid March. Before class was Mr. Tsukishima’s quiet time. The classroom was like an unpopular tomb.
Then, suddenly, noise: thumping, muffled music and a laugh that sounded like crumpling up paper. It was coming from the neighboring classroom, Mr. Tadashi’s French class. Mr. Tadashi, the pushover of the language department, a lanky individual splattered with freckles, soft looking hair, and sleepy brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was one of those teachers who was liked without trying, who nodded sympathetically and teased gently. People laughed in that class and drew shapes on the board and picked their own partners and watched movies that were not “Julius Caesar'' before break. Bastards.
Mr. Tsukishima looked up, mildly peeved(which was the Mr. Tsukishima equivalent of overcome with fury), and heaved a sigh. He walked over to the door. The class watched with dread. He knocked on the door. It was flung open. Mr. Tadashi beamed up at him, and the class. Bubbly French pop wafted out of the room a little more loudly.
“Hey, Tsukki! What can I do for you?”
Tsukki?
Hinata watched Mr. Tsukishima(Tsukki’s?) shoulder blades for tension, but they seemed to relax, and he put one hand on the door above Mr. Tadashi's head, while Mr. Tadashi slouched into the doorframe. When he spoke, he used a low voice tinged with amused exasperation.
“Tadashi, can you turn the music down a bit?” A sheepish grin broke out over Mr. Tadashi’s face and his cheeks went a bit pink.
“Yeah, sorry Tsukki!”
There it was again.
“Mhm...”
Mr. Tadashi grinned again, mischievously, waved, and whirled around. Mr Tsukishima(Tsukki) shut the door and stared at it, his back to the class for a moment before turning around, bored looking as ever, surveying the various measures of shock on the students faces.
“Tsukki?” Lev was either really, really brave, or really, really stupid. What he had in height he lacked in brains.
“Say one more word and I will fail everyone in this room for the term.”
Mr. Tsukishima made his way back to his desk. Stone cold.
---
A windy day. Mid April. The faint drone of the video being played by Mr Tadashi’s substitute next door. Mr. Tsukkishima curtly informs them he’ll be leaving five minutes early before delving into a long winded rant about Catullus.
“So, does this mean that Catullus never loved her?”
“It doesn't really matter, he thought he did.” Mr. Tsukishima winds his scarf around his neck a little aggressively.
“Why doesn’t it matter?”
“Because it doesn’t in the context of the poems, and also it doesn’t matter in the context of life.”
“Why doesn’t it matter? I thought it was true love?”
“True love is not a thing that exists. It’s a neurochemical con job.”
“Oh. Where are you going, Mr. Tsukishima?”
“To pick up my spouse from the airport.”
“Your wife? I thought you said love wasn’t real?”
“I don’t have a wife. No more questions, Hinata.”
The door shuts with a resounding slam.
----
The mystery of who Mr Tsukishima is married to tugs at Hinata's mind even as he plops down into one of Mr. Tadashi’s beanbags.
His new teammate, a transfer and a stupid jerk, is late for their meeting to go over the practice schedule. Mr. Tadashi smiles kindly at him and Hinata decides to pry some information out of his unsuspecting hands.
“Mr. Tadashi, can you believe Mr. Tsukishima is married?”
Mr. Tadashi hums, smirks. “Yes, I did know that.”
“How did he even manage that? He's like the meanest guy ever! He's all like -” Mr. Tadashi laughs his crumbly laugh at Hinata's poor imitation of Mr. Tsukishima's scowl. Then: muttered so quietly that Hinata almost doesn’t hear,
“Tsukki’s not mean. He’s the sweetest guy in the whole world. Just a bit of an...acquired taste.”
Mr Tadashi smiles a small, secret smile into his salad. What could that mean? And who is Mr. Tsukishima's “spouse?” Does Mr. Tadashi know them personally? What kind of person would call Mr. Tsukishima “sweet”? Probably the same kind of person who would call him 'Tsukki.' Just how close are they? What does “acquired” mean? So many questions. He stares vacantly at the wall. There’s a poster: the crescent moon.
“Hey, dumbass!”
“Oh, it's you, finally.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, dumbass Hinata? I was waiting in the cafeteria”
“You’re the dumbass, dumbass!”
Mr. Tadashi chuckled lowly and began to slip through the conjoining door. A bony hand yanks him the rest of the way in.
----
The man in question was pacing, long, skinny fingers weaving through the air as he talked about the Dido saga and subsequently quarreled with Hinata.
“Homework is not a way to torture you. It is a way to improve your latin skills and...why am I even doing this...why am I wasting time with you..”
It was a gooey late spring, Hinata’s shirt stuck to his back. It smelled sticky, two day old air, and graphite. May comes in like a lion, or whatever. The air conditioner didn't even delude itself that it worked. Mr. Tsukishima was stockpiling electric fans in the closet like the paranoid and cutthroat person he was, and blinked blankly at any teacher who came to ask if he had any. Hinata had checked the skin peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt for wires and/or panels. Nothing.
The sound of the door creak cut short Mr. Tsukishima's feverish mumbling. Mr. Tadashi stood in the door. His bangs were sweat-stuck to his forehead and neck, his face flushed, shirt unbuttoned a few inches, collarbone damp. Mr. Tsukishima usually got snappish when his incoherent hatred tangents were interrupted, but now he just stared like he was surprised, eyes a little wide. Sort of like he had just hit his head. Mr. Tadashi looks down at the floor, then back up, then smiles, a little thing.
“Can we borrow one of your fans, please?”
Mr. Tsukishima looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes for a small second, lips moving. His face came down carefully blank.
“Lev, go get a fan.”
Hinata narrowed his eyes. Very suspicious. Something was definitely in the air. It breathed and moved between them, pulsed like a vein. Was there a teacher feud going on? Did Mr Tsukkishima coerce the kind French teacher into being his sidekick to take a hit out on one of his academic rivals? Hinata couldn’t imagine Mr. Tadashi throwing a murder weapon into a lake. Definitely coercion. Mr. Tsukishima, though, seemed like the type. Maybe Mr. Tadashi owed him a great deal of money.
“Here you go, Mr. Tadashi!” Lev chirps.
Mr. Tsukishima looks vaguely disgusted, and takes the fan from Lev and wipes it with his shirt before handing it to Mr. Tadashi, who beams at everyone. His head pokes out, cowlick slumping lazily, before he closes the door he says through a grin:
“Don’t work too hard, Tsukki.”
“Shut u-” Mr. Tsukishima looks down at the floor and huffs, then strides back to his desk, sits down and spins in the chair once, and fiddles with Super Awesome Asteroid Destroyer for a second before setting it down. He looks the most animated the A block has ever seen him.
“Where were we? Oh, Dido, and Hinata’s crippling incompetence. Yes….”
----
“Hey, Kageyama, you have Mr. Tadashi, right?”
“Yeah...why?”
“What’s his first name?”
“Huh? Why the hell do you need that? You have a crush or something, dumbass?”
“What? No! it's nothing like that, jerk. I’m just...writing him a thank you note, uh, for something?
“Oh. Well, sorry, I don’t know. He goes by his first name. He never told us his last.”
----
It's a Wednesday and Mr. Tsukishima is seventeen minutes deep in linguistic typology, and has moved into the injustice of verb endings. Hinata could point out how he's pushed his hair into a nervous cowlick, but he also wants to live, thanks. There's a knock and the door is pushed open, like whoever knocked decided they were gonna come in no matter what. Mr. Bokuto bounces into the room, Mr. Kuroo sidles in behind, wearing his sharky grin that Hinata has only seen when pop quizzes are slapped onto desks and two kids who will definitely start a fire partner up.
“Hey Hey Hey, Latin Children, Hey, Tsukki dude!”
Hinata thinks all of Mr Bokuto’s words start with a capital letter, no matter what they are. He doesn’t seem to own an inside voice.
“Morning, latin brats.”
Mr. Tsukishima(Tsukki dude?) scowls and sighs. Eyebrow twitch. Hinata shivers.
“Whatcha doing, Tsukki dude? Lemme guess, latin. Stupid latiiiiiiiin stuff.”
“I enjoy writing about latin grammar.”
“Of course you do, Tsukishima.” Mr. Tsukishima does not look up.
“So what are the plans for the big night? Taking our little sunflower somewhere special?”
Mr. Bokuto leans over the desk and they cock their heads in unison like sinister, six foot siamese twins. “What is it now, four years? Seven since you popped the question? Thirteen since you got together? So cute. Really, so cute, the paragon of domestic bliss.”
“We’re going to dinner at that Italian place on 6th. Osaka for the weekend. And shut up, Kuroo.”
“Reservations over there are always a pain in my ass. They only ever have 6pm open.”
“Aww” Mr. Bokuto cooed, “Freckles is gonna be over the moon.” Mr Tsukishima rolls his eyes.
“You are so whipped , Tsukki dude.”
“And you’re not funny, you can't talk. Get out of my classroom, idiots.”
---
The faux leather of the beanbags glues itself comfortably to the back of Hinata's thighs. He’s working on homework in Mr. Tadashi’s classroom. Kageyamas next to him, angrily scribbling something that doesn’t even look like Japanese, let alone French. He groans. He thinks Dido is dead, but she could also be rowing a boat. There is no way to be sure, really. The locative case is wrinkly like that. Latin is wrinkly all together. It’s hard to wrap your fingers around its throat. Mr. Tsukishima once said that there were 18 words for dead in latin, and that he knew every single one.
“Something, wrong, Hinata?” Mr. Tadashi peers kindly at him. “I know some latin, if you need some help.”
“I’m just not looking forward to tomorrow. Every holiday Mr. Tsukishima puts on “Julius Caesar” and then just puts on his headphones and ignores us. I hate that stupid movie. I think I would rather do sucky latin. I can’t even sleep through it, cause Mr. Tsukishima uses the kids that fall asleep as target practice.”
A frown. “Hmm, that's unfortunate.”
Apparently possessed by a brief bout of whimsy, Mr. Tsukishima puts on Hercules the next day. Fingers flying over the computer keys, he mutters irritably.
“They cut out my favorite part of the story. The part where Hercules murders his wife and children.”
“Mr. Tsukishima! Did you know that my sister knows the cousin of one of the ladies who voiced the nine muses?” Yachi hasn't learned the Mr. Tsukishima rules yet.
“That’s some useless info.”
Hinata finds himself thinking about Kageyamas dumb eyelashes and Kageyamas dumb collarbones and dumb spindly hands again and its only eight am and he has to pointedly try not to do that so he turns his thoughts decidedly to the Mr. Tsukishima matter. The disney logo bleats out of the projector.
---
Tying his shoelaces that afternoon, Hinata’s suspicions collide. The beginnings of an idea pop into his mind. A plan pops in right after.
First thought, best thought, right?
Hinata begrudgingly dials a number.
“I need a favor. You have a bike, right?”
The sky looks like one of the margaritas Hinata’s mom makes in the middle of the summer; it's 6 pm. His fingers curl into Kageyama's t-shirt, feeling his ribs constrict and expand around breaths under Hinata’s hands. They pedal down sixth. Hinata slides off and Kageyama dismounts, chest heaving a little. He's wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap and looks completely recognizable. Terrible espionage get up. Kageyama can’t do anything right. They crouch behind the bushes, knees in the dirt with the cigarette butts.
“So let me get this straight: you’re spying on your teacher because you think he’s lying about being married? Why the hell would he lie about that?”
“I just have a theory, I need to see if it’s true.” Hinata hisses as he pulls out pocket binoculars and fiddles with the dials. Kageyama leans in to look, hot breath and the smell of dried sweat on Hinata's heels, and okay.
A yellow Volkswagen buggy pulls up in the fading sunlight. Mr. Tsukishima gets out. He’s traded the slacks for jeans, white button down rolled to his elbows. Wow, that guy is like, at least seventy percent leg. He walks around the car and opens the passenger door. Hinata narrows his eyes, inhales. A cowlick bobs out of the car, a French teacher right after it. Kageyama’s surprised noise is right next to Hinata’s ear.
Mr. Tadashi’s in a t-shirt and jeans, all hapless grin and crumpled up laughter. He butts his head against Mr Tsukishima’s starched shoulder before twining their pinkies together and loping off through the parking lot. Mr. Tsukishima lags, reaches to tug at brown hair and drapes his gangly arm around sloping shoulders.
“No shit, huh.” Kageyama’s rhythmic inhales and exhales behind him.
“Jackpot.”
----
“Hello and welcome to the June edition of the Karasuno High newspaper, I’m Yachi Hitoka-
“And I’m Yahaba Shigeru.”
“-And we are interviewing Mr Tsukishima and Mr. Tadashi concerning allegations by an anonymous source that they are married. Do either of you want to respond?”
“We’ve been married for four years! We were wondering who would be the first class to figure it out. I mean, we don’t exactly hide it.”
“When did you two meet?”
“In Kindergarten. We went to this high school, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yep!”
“Were you highschool sweethearts?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who figured it out?”
“I have a few guesses.”
“Don’t mind him, he just lost a bet. I bet him that whoever figured it out gets an A in his class. Poor Tsukki, has to give someone a good grade now. Really sad for him.”
“Shut up, Yamaguchi.”
“Uh- Mr. Tadashi, is Yamaguchi your first name?”
“Mm, nah, Yamaguchi’s my maiden name. My surname is uhm, Tsukishima, I go by Mr. Tadashi, though, so no one gets confused.”
“Oh, so that must be why nobody knew you were together?”
“Or you can chalk it up to how un-perceptive and incompetent high schoolers are.”
[Crackling Laughter]
Hinata aces Latin. There was absolutely no foul play involved.