Archive of Our Own

Kei hears the taunting voices behind him, the scuffle of sneakers on dirt.

The boy on the ground is small, even for a third grader: freckled cheeks, chestnut hair falling past his ears, wide eyes brimming with tears.

He looks apologetic–pitiful, even.

“How lame.” Kei remarks to no one in particular.

____

There was nothing special about that day when Kei had stopped on his walk home to utter those words, sarcasm rolling off his nine-year old mouth. No school festivities or afternoon volleyball practice or classroom cleanup duty, not even a homework assignment to get irritated at.

It was a perfectly normal walk home: hands stuffed into pockets, shoes dragging along the pavement, school bag slung over a shoulder.

But then there was Yamaguchi.

And he was anything but ordinary.

____

A block away from school, and tucked away in the meager parking lot behind Shimada Mart–where the winding narrow road of Kei’s neighborhood turns into the main street–there is a single vending machine that sells an assortment of fruit-flavored beverages: grape fanta, lychee yoghurt, melon soda, lemon-peach tea. A colorful variety that rivals its schoolyard counterparts, which always seem to lack the specific strawberry milk that Kei is in need of.

It’s hardly a detour from their usual walk to Karasuno, so Kei and Yamaguchi treat themselves to a drink on Friday mornings before homeroom period. (Evenings after volleyball club are reserved for visits to Sakanoshita Market and strolling through the aisles for whatever salty snack they’re in the mood for).

Not many people seem to know of this particular vending machine, its paint peeling into a faded blue, led lights half flickering behind carton displays. Kei prides himself in being able to share this secret with Yamaguchi. It’s with a stubborn insistence that he tells his best friend not to indulge in this fact with anyone else.

“I think I’m gonna get something different this time.” Yamaguchi comments, index finger tapping against his chin. Rows of cans and bottles stare back at him.

“What are you gonna get?”

“I’m still deciding,” Yamaguchi tilts his head towards Kei. “What do you think I should get, Tsukki?”

“Hmmm..” Kei pockets his wallet and presses the button for strawberry milk. “The lemon soda looks good.”

“Ahh but I don’t like soda.”

“Then, melon milk.”

“I don’t like melon flavor either.”

“Green tea.”

“I’m not into tea either”

“Why’d you ask me for suggestions if you’re just gonna reject all of them,” he grumbles.

Kei is used to this. Yamaguchi has always had a particular streak of hesitancy when it comes to inconsequential matters of snack choice or flavor. He thinks of it as a balancing scale, where Yamaguchi’s forward determination in volleyball, his stubborn insistence on pushing forward regardless of the outcome, weighs positive against his other indecisive traits.

It’s something that Kei has always admired in him, and only recently came to understand (as if tenacity and perseverance are qualities that can be understood and analyzed like the meticulous plays in a volleyball court.)

“Sorry, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi smiles at him sunnily, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll just get what I usually get then.”

Kei pockets the smile, returns it with a curt nod.

Yamaguchi sorts through his wallet, sorting out a 100 yen coin. He presses the button for a Lemon Calpis.

The early morning dawn filters a pink-orange through the tiled rooftops and the tangle of telephone lines above. Shafts of light seep through the wire fence behind them and settle on the chestnut tufts of Yamaguchi’s hair. A couple strands fall haphazardly across his cheeks.

Yamaguchi straightens up and clinks his canned yoghurt drink to Kei’s carton of strawberry milk, fingertips brushing against knuckle and bandage.

“Alright! let’s go, Tsukki.”

They walk side by side, leisurely and meandering. Bright blue sky dotted with white clouds, grayed out peaks of mountains in the distance. The scenery unfolds with a certainty that Kei has known for his entire life.

The low rumble of passing cars mixes in with the steady stream of conversation that Yamaguchi provides. Today’s topic is a long winded story about his dream last night–an extravagant narrative where an older Kei was a bus driver and angry dinosaurs were his passengers. (Yamaguchi played as one of the reptilian passengers).

Kei isn’t too surprised by the bizarre subject matter. Most of Yamaguchi’s dreams tend to feature him as the main character along with a colorful supporting cast of peculiar individuals. And, if he were to be completely honest, he’s flattered to be given the leading role every time.

He gives hums of acknowledgement in between sips of strawberry milk, gripping the carton carefully with three fingers. His pinky is still recovering from their match against Shiratorizawa, but, thankfully, the intense throbbing that had occurred immediately after the injury has mostly died down.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the orange dinosaur turned out to be Hinata,” Kei replies after the story reaches its conclusion.

“Too bad I woke up before I could find out,” Yamaguchi grins, nudging him in the shoulder.

“A pity,” Kei sighs. “I would’ve liked to hear about a dinosaur Hinata.”

The statement sends Yamaguchi into a round of laughter.

Kei’s mouth quirks up into a grin. He likes it when Yamaguchi laughs-

As if Kei is the funniest person in the world, as if Kei could conjure up an audience for a one-man comedy show, as if Kei’s biting remarks could be anything but hilarious.

As if Yamaguchi had always believed in him.

There are dive receives and blocking drills today, and Ukai is relentless as ever, even if they had just won against Shiratorizawa in the qualifiers.

Kei isn’t so enthused about practice, as his method of trying to block and keep his right pinky finger intact is rather troublesome.

So Yamaguchi helps him wrap more tape around the injury, eyes downcast and frowning, chiding him to be more careful in the next tournament.

“There’s gonna be a lot more spikers like Ushijima at nationals, Tsukki,” he says in a worried tone, fingers carefully pulling at the tape. A hint of guilt, maybe. He inches closer to Kei on the bench, kneepads brush against Kei’s thigh.

In the periphery, he sees Hinata running up for a spike, perfectly synced with Kageyama’s toss. A clean blockout.

Kei utters something noncommittal in response, “Yeah, I know.”

As if Kei doesn’t already know the weight of his own responsibilities: middle blocker, core defense, height and strategy. He knows exactly what he has to do, what people want from him–the ever present burden of expectations.

“There’s no way that you were lame! Are you stupid?!” Yamaguchi said to him after their momentous victory, equal parts anger and desperation. Kei stared at his blurry reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tap water sloshing in the faucet, knuckles gripping the rims of the sink.

Yamaguchi’s voice is loud, grips him with a dangerous fervor.

–––––

That night, he dreams that he is back on the court, playing against Shiratorizawa again, facing off against Ushijima in a one-man block. Each spike drills into his hands with an intensity that nearly tears his fingers apart.

The stadium is dark, illuminated only by a single spotlight, muddy faces swirl in the periphery. Where is everyone else? No matter, it is his burden alone to bear.

Another spike, then block. He’s not strong enough

Another toss, and then a powerful spike. Too far.

How stupid. If only I could reach further-

Spike. Block. Miss. Repeat-

Lame. Try again.

Another spike. Miss-

And then his legs give in, and it seems that he is falling–a view of the audience cheering in the stands, blurry.

The bright spotlight blinds him, and a familiar face silhouettes against it (tuft of green-brown hair, freckled cheeks, eager smile), holding out a hand, calling out his name...

Kei wakes up with a start, his alarm beeping loudly beside him. He sits in bed for a moment, still mulling over last night’s dream, trying to regain his composure.

Someone had called his name. Had it been Yamaguchi? That would make sense; features correlate perfectly: tuft of green-brown hair, freckled cheeks, eager smile.

As usual, the kitchen is quiet at this time of the hour, too early for anyone else in the house to be awake. He likes it like this, the hazy dawn settling in through the windows, barely illuminating the kitchen countertop, casting faint streaks on the wood floors.

In the refrigerator, there are leftover fries from last night when Kei’s mother had brought home takeout from the American burger restaurant near her workplace. A note in her hastily scribbled handwriting mentions for him to pack them into his bento. (“Tadashi likes them soggy, right?” she had asked him yesterday. Kei had replied in the affirmative.)

As expected, Yamaguchi is enthusiastic, thanks Kei with a wide grin, mouth still stuffed with fries.

Kei just shrugs and mutters something about his mom insisting on it (not entirely untrue).

He grimaces as Yamaguchi gorges on fries a little too quickly; a few bits drop onto the desk. He’s always been a sort of messy eater, though he certainly isn’t as bad as Hinata or Nishinoya. (Kei has his limits).

There is a crumb stuck on his chin, and Kei finds himself almost bringing a hand to his friend’s face to wipe it off, leaning forward imperceptibly, fingers reaching out to brush at his mouth-

Kei stops himself abruptly, heart beating out of his chest.

Don’t be stupid, he mentally berates himself. He shoves the feelings down a box, locks them carefully away, never to be uncovered. (Yamaguchi is his best friend, after all).

“You’re getting food all over your uniform, Yamaguchi. You should eat slower,” Kei says, holding out a napkin, averting his eyes. A slight blush is forming around Yamaguchi’s cheeks, and Kei hopes he isn’t in a similar situation as well.

“Oh, yeah haha,” Yamaguchi smiles sheepishly, taking the napkin. “Sorry.” He dabs at his front, brushing away a few bits.

Kei takes a bite out of his sesame rice, and it tastes like the salty-oily tang of fries.

––––––

Practice today is loud as always, but particularly so after Takeda-sensei utters the results of the training camp selections. Hinata is seething, but Kei doesn’t bat an eye when he is chosen to attend the Miyagi Prefecture First Years Training Camp in December.

He finds it irritating–having to put in extra time outside of the usual training for a sport that he believes himself to be less than committed for. But then, the match against Shiratorizawa had sparked something in him, a vague idea of trying harder and putting his all.

He wonders if it is simply just a phase of life, if things will ever go back to the way they were. It’s a fact that he will have to quit volleyball anyways, move on from his tumultuous high school years, graduate college in Sendai, and get a real job.

“Ahh it’s so cool that you’re gonna play against the top players in our prefecture!” Yamaguchi tells him after their convenience store sojourn. It’s quiet on the walk home, and the nighttime cool settles comfortably around Kei’s sports jacket.

“Who said that I was gonna go?” Kei mutters. The prospect of attending additional training doesn’t seem particularly appealing. Besides, he probably won’t know anyone there, and it’s not like Yamaguchi got an invite too.

“I did. You’re definitely going, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi jabs his elbow against Kei’s. “It’s a good opportunity and I think it would be very good for you and the team if you went. Besides, you’re our main blocker! You gotta keep up your skills if you wanna stay in the lineup!”

“You’re just trying to guilt trip me.”

“I’m not guilt tripping you. I have your best interests at heart, ” Yamaguchi replies matter-of-factly, almost pridefully. “Plus, who knows, maybe there’s someone from a school we’re gonna be up against. It’ll be good to meet people from different teams.”

“I don’t want to meet people from different teams.”

“Why not?”

Kei replies with an exaggerated hmph.

Yamaguchi stops in his tracks and looks at him, eyes piercing intently through his skull, as if sifting through Kei’s thoughts. Light from a nearby streetlamp pools dimly on the top of their heads. Up above, a crescent moon glows faintly behind a curtain of clouds.

“Tsukki, if you’re worried about not knowing anyone or being the only one from Karasuno there, we can always call, you know,” he says steadily.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Kei responds, keeping his tone nonchalant.

“Then, you should go. I’ll still call you anyways.”

There is a brief pause, drawn out to minutes, maybe even more. He meets Yamaguchi’s gaze, earnest and intense, dark pupils and furrowed brows. The back of his neck grows warm; Kei fiddles with the bandage on his finger and exhales.

It really is hard to say no to Yamaguchi when he gets like this.

“Okay, fine,” Kei says.

His friend brightens, grabbing both of his hands. “Really? You’ll go?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Kei averts his eyes, pulling his hands back, “I don’t know why you’re so excited about this when it’s not even about you, though”

“That’s because I’m so happy for you, Tsukki! Can’t I just be excited for my best friend?” Yamaguchi pouts.

“Well, yeah, but...” Kei fumbles for words. “You’re just overreacting. Being chosen for the training camp isn’t even a big deal anyways.”

“Well I think it is. It’s a pretty big deal to me.”

Kei shrugs, not exactly sure how to respond to Yamaguchi when he says things like this. Those heaps of unwarranted praise have always been embarrassing for him to accept. He should be used to it now, take the compliments with a smug satisfaction as if he were the most deserving person in the world.

After all, Yamaguchi is the kind, appreciative friend, and he plays the mean one–sarcastic and cynical, always taking and never giving.

As always, they part ways at the intersection of Kei’s street, Yamaguchi smiling at him as he waves goodbye, lamplight flooding his features, walking backwards and then turning around to cross the empty lane to his house. He watches as Yamaguchi makes his way up the driveway, automatic lights illuminating his distant figure; he turns and waves again, shouting indistinctly.

Kei holds up a hand, waving back. He only starts heading home after seeing Yamaguchi’s figure disappear under the garage doors.

Kei’s mother barges into his room before he even finishes changing out of his damp practice clothes.

“Mom! I’m changing here!” he protests, hastily shoving a pair of jeans over his boxers–the only article of clothing he had been wearing when his mother intruded.

She disregards his complaints and walks over to him, phone in hand outstretched, sighing, “Kei, your brother wants to talk to you.”

“Oh.” He takes the phone, balancing it on his shoulder as he rummages in his drawer for a clean shirt.

Noticing his endeavors, Kei’s mother throws a t-shirt at him from the laundry basket outside before shutting his door in some semblance of privacy.

“Hello?? Kei?” Akiteru practically shouts into his ear.

Kei wouldn’t describe his relationship with his brother as close, not in the way Hinata and his sister were, with their mutual affection and boundless adoration. He remembers attending a study session at the Hinatas, being surprised by the way Natsu had excitedly leaped into Hinata’s arms after her brother came home–bright, joyous giggle, flaming orange hair.

In some ways maybe Kei had been like that as a child (though not as physically affectionate), heaping praise and adoration onto Akiteru as if he were the coolest person on earth; the way most younger siblings thought about their older brothers. But a lot has changed since then. They had gradually drifted further apart, their bond muffled by a stale air–whether it was simply due to Akiteru moving away for college or a lingering distrust from childhood, Kei didn’t know.

But then again, Akiteru had never been one to take coldness as outright rejection, and Kei appreciates the initiative more than he lets show.

“Nii-chan, hi,” Kei says.

“Ahhh Kei!! How’s my little brother doing? I kept trying to call you but you never picked up!” his older brother’s voice is too loud–too enthusiastic, and Kei turns down the volume.

“I’m doing fine,” Kei replies, sitting on his bed. “Why are you calling.”

“Because I wanted to talk to you! Do I need a reason to talk to my sweet little Kei-chan -”

“-Don’t ever call me that again.”

Akiteru ignores him. “Anyways, I heard some interesting news about you today...” he trails off, as if waiting for Kei to interject. (He doesn’t)

There’s a clanging noise on the other side, and Kei can only guess that his brother is attempting to cook something. “What news?”

“The youth training camp, Kei! Ahh I’m so proud of you!” Akiteru jaws into the phone, “and now I finally have something to brag about to my classmates! But really, Kei, a first year and being chosen for the Miyagi Prefecture youth training camp? Wow. That’s really cool.”

Kei is caught off guard for a moment. “Wait, how did you know?” he asks, then a realization. “Did Yamaguchi tell you?”

“Yup. Texted me ten minutes ago.”

“I didn’t know you guys suddenly became best friends,” Kei says.

He doesn’t even text his own brother that much outside the occasional cursory monosyllabic responses. But considering Yamaguchi’s affable personality–and the way his timid outbursts would make anyone want to get closer to him–it shouldn’t be much of a surprise.

“You better watch out, Kei. Who knows, maybe Yamaguchi will start calling me Tsukki, haha.”

“If that ever happens, I’ll make mom disown you so you won’t have the family name anymore.”

“That’s not how disowning works-”

“Bye, I’m hanging up now, sorry got to-”

“-Kei!-”

He presses the ‘end call’ button and flops down onto his bed, exhaling loudly, feeling irritated for no apparent reason.

Dinosaur figurines on top of his bookshelves stare back at him. He grabs the yellow t-rex plush from the top of the stack. Its wide glassy eyes reflect his own.

Since when did Yamaguchi and Akiteru become close? Without him knowing? It strikes him as odd, though not entirely improbable. It was most likely his older brother’s way of trying to keep tabs on him through his best friend, which, though unwelcome, was understandable.

He recalls a particular moment during the bus ride back to Karasuno when he had looked over Yamaguchi’s shoulder to see him texting a certain Tsukki Nii-chan. Catching his glance, Yamaguchi quickly shut the phone and uttered some instinctual apology.

He wonders what other things he doesn’t know about Yamaguchi.

_____

“By the way,” Kei keeps his tone nonchalant. “What do you and Akiteru text about?”

“What we text about?” Yamaguchi looks up at him, slightly caught off guard by the question.

“Yeah.”

“Oh! Well, not much really, haha. Just, stuff about school and volleyball,” he answers sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “And, uh, we talk about you.”

It’s cold the next evening, and their breaths puff soft clouds into the air on the walk home.

“You guys talk about me?” Kei says.

“No! It’s not like that. I just text him for, like, advice I guess.” Yamaguchi stuffs his hands into his pockets. “And Akiteru always asks me about you since you never pick up his calls. It’s only been going on since last week ‘cause he wanted updates about you throughout the match.”

“Oh. I was wondering why you kept checking your phone during the breaks.”

“It was only once or twice!” Yamaguchi protests.

“You checked your phone at least seven times.”

“Sorry, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi says, smiling apologetically. “It was for a good reason though.”

Kei just rolls his eyes and lets out a hmph.

Yamaguchi continues offhandedly. “Akiteru was pretty worried when you injured your hand, you know.”

There’s something in Yamaguchi’s tone that changes with the admission. Kei senses it and feels his insides twisting.

“I know he was worried,” he says brusquely. “Everyone was.”

A brief pause ensues. Kei looks down at his hands and traces over the bandage with a finger.

Yamaguchi breaks the silence. “It’s not your fault for getting injured,” he says quietly. “I thought it was rather admirable of you to keep going even after that.”

“Really.” Kei repeats sardonically, “It was rather admirable of me.”

“Tsukkii, you know what I mean,” Yamaguchi pouts, knocking Kei’s elbow with his own.

He opens his mouth to say a sarcastic quip that springs to mind just as Yamaguchi unexpectedly grabs his arm.

“So, has it healed yet?” Yamaguchi asks. He holds up Kei’s hand, angling the bandages on his fingers for a closer look.

“Yeah I think so. I’ll probably take it off when I get home.”

Kei flexes his fingers. The injury he had gotten from their match against Shiratorizawa no longer throbs painfully, and he’s pretty sure it’s been enough days that the wound has most definitely healed.

“Can I do it?”

“What?”

“Can I help you take off the bandages?” Yamaguchi peers at him through his bangs, still clutching at his hand. He notices, then drops it quickly, embarrassed.

“Why?”

“Cause I want to.”

“Uh, okay, I guess.”

Kei isn’t sure why he agreed to it, even if he’s perfectly capable of handling these things himself. Maybe it was the suddenness of the request that had caught him off guard, made him too startled to refuse.

The walk to Kei’s house is short, dusk settling into the sky, orange wisps of sunset drifting around them. Yamaguchi, as usual, carries on the length of the conversation, stopping to greet Kei’s mother when she ushers them in at the doorstep.

“Oh if it isn’t Tadashi! Welcome!” she says cheerily, “make yourself at home!”

“Okaasan, thanks for having me!” Yamaguchi grins back, and Kei just mutters a vague greeting before he pulls the freckled boy down the hall.

Kei has always been meticulous about his room, taking care to dust off his dinosaur figurines every few weeks, arranging the bookshelves neatly after each study session, tidying up his blankets in the mornings. It’s just a matter of routine, a simple habit of minimal effort. Maybe it’s a trait that runs in the family, as Akiteru’s (now vacant) bedroom has always been one of a similar condition.

Yamaguchi plops down on Kei’s bed (so naturally, comfortably) as if Kei’s room is his. “So. Give me your hand, Tsukki.”

“Alright.”

Kei places his bandaged hand in Yamaguchi’s freckled one, scoots a little closer on the bed to make it easier for his friend, mattress dipping slightly under his weight; legs folded, leaning into the space between them.

The white gauze is frayed along the edges, strips peeling off already at the knuckle, worn at the tips from repeated blocks and hits. Yamaguchi gingerly pries the end off, peels it slowly, face heavy with concentration, mouth pressed into a thin line. His hands are feather light touches on Kei’s, one cupping his palm, the other snaking around his fingers, gently unwinding.

Kei finds himself staring absently at his friend’s fingers: shorter than his and callused with years of serving and spiking; his nails bitten down to a stump from his nervous habit before matches.

Kei recalls how they would compare hand sizes as kids, palms pressed together and fingers stretched in earnest. “Tsukki, your fingers are so looong,” Yamaguchi would exclaim, and then inch his hand up a little–almost level, tip-to-tip. “Just wait until I catch up to you!”

Kei would simply roll his eyes and pull away, flustered. Yamaguchi used to talk a lot about catching up to Kei. (As if he were someone worthy of admiration, someone to be lauded for).

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“That’s okay, I’m mostly done.” Yamaguchi pulls off the remaining strip of gauze and balls it neatly in his fist.

There is a faint white scar that runs along Kei’s knuckle to his pinky–a fine line, a marker of failed effort.

“Oh.” Is all Kei says. He doesn’t care so much about the appearance, even if it is permanent and will never be fixed.

“It’s like a battle scar, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi smiles at him. “I think it’s cool.”

He brushes a thumb along it–slowly, deliberately–and Kei’s spine tingles, constellations swirl in his stomach. A fluttering of emotions.

What are you doing, he wants to ask. To render himself an objective viewer in the stands; to analyze all the possible outcomes; to wind up where he is most comfortable and safe and not the turmoil of nerves he is now-

But he doesn’t pull away. Not when Yamaguchi tilts his head down to pull closer, not when he grasps Kei’s hand and his fingers curl inwards-

Not when Yamaguchi presses his lips to the pale line along Kei’s fingers.

“Oh,” Kei says again, softly.

The world around him spins and dips, a blurry nebula of emotions; his heartbeat kicks loudly in his chest. He blinks and returns back to his familiar four-walled bedroom.

Yamaguchi peers at him shyly through his bangs. “Sorry Tsukki, was that too much?”

Kei shakily removes his hand from Yamaguchi’s grasp. “No, it’s fine,” he forces a chuckle, “you should give me a warning next time you kiss my hand like that.”

Yamaguchi just laughs, flopping against the bed. “Alright! I’ll be sure to let you know.”

_____

Kei has always known that Yamaguchi was slightly more inclined to physical contact than most people, especially when they were together. It’s a fact that he has long since accepted, regardless of his own initial aversions to it.

He recalls the moments as kids when Yamaguchi would inadvertently grab onto his hands in the school hallways, nonchalantly lacing those tiny fingers against his long ones. It hadn’t bothered Kei then. Though he remembers, at the start of middle school, the subtle worrying stares and concerning whispers in their direction that had led to Yamaguchi ceasing this habit of his. After that, Yamaguchi had instead adapted to other gestures of affection: hugging Kei on the doorstep when he’d come over for study sessions, resting his head on Kei’s shoulder on the bus rides back from their tournaments, patting Kei on the back after a hard won point (in which his hand often lingered a bit longer than necessary).

“You don’t hug your family at all?” Kei had asked him one time when they were walking back from a particularly long practice match. Being raised with an overly-sentimental older brother had trained him to accept gestures of love with much complacency.

Yamaguchi shrugged. “My mom and dad aren’t exactly the hugging type. The most I get is a pat on the shoulder, or something.”

“Oh,” Kei replied. It made sense, as Yamaguchi’s parents often gave him the impression of people who cared, but in a slightly more distant manner. “Is that why you’re always hugging me?” he asked.

Yamaguchi looked away, cheeks reddening. “I-I didn’t know you noticed.”

“I mean...it’s kind of obvious.” Now it was Kei’s turn to get flustered. He hid his embarrassment with a nudge to his glasses.

The afternoon sun was warm on the back of Kei’s neck. Bright yellow leaves fluttered into his vision.

“But yeah,” Yamaguchi continued slowly. “Maybe that is one of the reasons why I hug you.”

“Then what are the other reasons?”

“Cause it feels nice.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

A peculiar feeling stirred in the pit of Kei’s stomach, growing needy and restless before Kei attempted to shut it away neatly into the dark crevices of his heart.

He thinks that there are some emotions better left undisturbed.

_______

Kei walks home alone, again.

He’s not one to get particularly lonely, but he wouldn’t deny that he feels the slight jab of disappointment whenever Yamaguchi tells him that he’s going to be practicing serves with Shimada-san today and that Tsukki can go home without him.

It’s been happening more often now that the Spring Interhigh is coming up. The next few days are a flurry of practice matches and drills, and Kei wonders how Yamaguchi is able to sustain himself even with after-practice serve sessions.

He finds himself debating whether he should go directly home or sit somewhere and wait until Yamaguchi finishes practice and then walk back together. He circles around the block to Shimada Mart, then decides hastily that the latter would have been too much effort.

Constellations spill across the night sky, pulsing softly in the night. The sidewalk is barely illuminated by rows of streetlamps. Yellow-orange pools. Moths circling around the light. The neon blue ‘closed’ sign in the dark shop window, flickering in and out of consciousness.

Following the winding road between the auto shop and the Japan Post building takes him to a familiar clearing: the dim glow of a faded-blue vending machine, eerie and pale and illusory in the deserted clearing of overgrown weeds. An apparition from a dream.

If Yamaguchi were here, he would call it some sort of deja vu, a force of fate that brought Kei here. But Yamaguchi isn’t here. And Kei idly wonders whether Yamaguchi would have wanted him to stay and wait for him. If he would have done the same for Kei.

The playlist that Kei had been listening to–one for occasions such as these solo nighttime walks–ends abruptly. He clicks onto a new one. It’s an old playlist, filled with throwback albums, slow ballads, and odd melodies that he collects now and then.

The song plays quietly in his headphones; a gentle tune with long chords and muted piano. Kei trudges forward past the vending machine to the curtain of trees behind it. In there, the gap in the wire fence is more noticeable, rusted and twisting, broken railing sticking out at odd ends.

Kei is thin enough to fit through the space, though his backpack does get a few new scratches from the ordeal. The forest is more dense here, the smell of pine and damp moss permeating through the wood. He walks along the flat path towards the edge until he reaches a break in the shrubbery where the hill opens up at a slope overlooking the town.

The view would have been better at sunset, rooftops backlit with an orange-pink haze, the faraway mountains evaporating into a pastel purple against the sky. But now, the only light emanates from the distant windows below. Squinting, he can barely make out his own house from his vantage point. (Kitchen fully illuminated, living room partially aglow).

It’s been years since he’s come here with Yamaguchi. As kids, they would claim this spot as their own, a secret hideout known only to themselves. Standing on top of the hill overlooking the entirety of Miyagi. The self-proclaimed emperors of the world.

He had been nine-years-old and ignorant and full of purposeless confidence back then.

Clusters of tall grass. Dandelion flowers with jagged leaves. Crescent moon gleaming brightly behind a thin veil of clouds. Light barely glinting off the surrounding metal fence. Kei kicks at a small pebble with his foot.

Everything here is the same as he had remembered, yet different in some inexplicable way, as if time had taken his memory and replaced it with a slightly altered clone.

In the center of the clearing is a medium-sized keyaki tree, roots peeking through the grass, a dark outline silhouetted against the starry horizon. The branches are low enough to climb, sturdy enough to support the weight of two boys.

(offshoots grow outwards, beckoning motionlessly... )

“Let’s write it here, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi said to him, grinning. The excitement in his face was palpable. “Tsukki and Yamaguchi rule the world!”

Kei looked at his friend, upside down and hanging precariously from a low branch. He moved closer in case Yamaguchi accidentally fell.

“That’s too long to write. What about just our names? Tsukki and Yamaguchi,” he said.

“Oh yeah!” Yamaguchi thought for a moment, “or what if we shorten it to just two characters?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like ‘tsukki’ and ‘yama’ together”

Yamaguchi used his fingers to trace the characters in the air.

月山

Kei turns on his phone flashlight and shines it onto the marbled gray tree bark, dark shadows slanting in jagged angles.

He searches for the inscriptions once engraved there, as if nothing should have changed here.

But it has. (Marks of past endeavors erased by time.)

The clearing is still, and Kei is suddenly aware of his own shallow breaths, his fingers clenching in the cold. Distant sounds of cars passing through the highway.

He steps on a pinecone under his feet, hears the loud crack resonate in his ears.

It’s all so ridiculous to him, so childish and silly–this inexplicable impulse to go back and recollect whatever scraps of the past that might have been caught in the inevitable sieve of adolescence; how his heart dulls when there is nothing left of that summer when Yamaguchi had carefully chipped out those two characters.

A slow annoyance builds in his chest, and Kei shoves the feelings down the pit of his stomach until they gradually dissipate on the walk home.

_____

“Ahhh I kept missing all my serves,” Yamaguchi groans after practice. “At this rate coach is gonna replace me as pinch server.”

This week had found Shimada busy with some sort of family affair, so Yamaguchi is putting off serve sessions for the time being. Maybe Kei would have been a bit pleased that he doesn’t have to walk home alone anymore, but the disappointment in Yamaguchi’s tone makes him feel otherwise.

“No he isn’t. And if he did, that would be a bad move on his part,” Kei replies.

Yamaguchi just huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “You never know. Everyone’s been getting really good lately,” he pouts, slowing his pace so he’s walking behind Kei.

Kei turns around, glancing back at the dejected brunette. He slows his pace to keep up with him.

“You know, I kind of get the basics of a jump-float serve,” Kei says slowly.

(A proposition, almost)

“You do? Even though you’ve never done one before?”

“I mean, I know enough about jump serves to help you practice them,” Kei finds himself saying. “I’m definitely nowhere as good as Shimada-san though.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t pay attention to the last part. “Wait, you would help me practice?” he asks incredulously, almost in shock–as if Kei had just said he was going to shave his head bald or go skydive off Mount Fuji.

“Well, yeah. I could,” Kei replies, shrugging.

“Really?”

“No, I’m lying,” Kei retorts sarcastically. “I’d never do anything to help you practice jump serves; I absolutely despise the thought of you improving in your abilities; I even-”

“Tsukki!” Yamaguchi admonishes him.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

The empty lot behind Shimada Mart is more subdued at night, dimly lit by the flickering lamp post next to the fence and the automatic lights in front of the storage door.

Kei grabs a shopping bag from the storage room (unlocked, for some reason), and hangs it on the post–the ‘reset signal’ that Yamaguchi had talked to him about.

“Just put it here, like this?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect, Tsukki!”

Kei watches Yamaguchi’s figure in the distance pause for a second, then, steadily, toss the volleyball into the air. The ball curves slightly, then dips a little low, probably would’ve gotten caught in the net if this were a real game. It lands a little ways behind the fence and Kei opens the gate to retrieve it.

“You should aim higher next time,” Kei tells him, throwing the ball back.

Yamaguchi catches it with both hands and grins, “Okay, Tsukki!”

The next few serves improve, and Kei offers a few comments of encouragement and advice (toss was a little too short, yeah that one was good, maybe a bit too high), to which Yamaguchi accepts all too easily.

Kei has always wondered if Yamaguchi had been taller–at least 190cm–would he have been chosen one of the first year starters on the team? Yamaguchi certainly has the drive for it, the dedication that pushes him to practice more than what most players are already doing, save for Kageyama and Hinata.

He wonders if anyone else on the team knows how hard Yamaguchi practices, how much effort and sweat and determination there is behind that endearing freckled face. Kei has seen the dark circles under his eyes when he arrives at school after a long practice day, the weariness in his voice masked by an overenthusiastic cheer, the nonchalance at which he brushes aside serve practice like it doesn’t take such a huge toll on him.

“What more do you need than pride!?” Yamaguchi had yelled at him at the training camp, shocking Kei to the core and shattering whatever was left of Kei’s restraint.

He still hasn’t forgotten the feeling of that moment: hands fisted into his t-shirt–the material stretched almost enough to break, Yamaguchi’s teary eyes transfixed on his, his breaths ragged and heavy on Kei’s face.

It was the first time Yamaguchi had gotten truly angry at him, and the memory haunts him still.

By the time they finish practice, Yamaguchi is tired and sweaty.

He sits down under the overhang of the Shimada Mart roof, pulling his knees to his chest. Kei takes a seat next to him, close enough that their legs brush. The air is silent, save for the sound of Yamaguchi’s labored breathing and the low hum of the automatic spotlights above them.

“If Shimada-san were here, he’d probably get us some cold Ramune,” Yamaguchi says, breaking the silence.

“We could always break in,” Kei suggests. “It’s not like there’s security cameras here or anything.”

“Tsukki! That’d be too risky!” Yamaguchi laughs, nudging him in the side.

“Only if we get caught,” Kei points out. “Which wouldn’t happen because no one would see us.”

“Still. I wouldn’t want to steal from Shimada-san,” Yamaguchi replies earnestly. “I would feel bad.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Tsukki!”

This earns another round of laughter from Yamaguchi. It takes him a few seconds for him to regain his composure, and he peers at Kei, face illuminated in the yellow spotlight.

“But anyways, thanks.”

“Thanks for what?”

“For helping me practice, what else?” Yamaguchi speaks as if it’s an obvious statement.

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.” Kei turns away, feeling his face grow warm.

Kei doesn’t think it’s something to be thanked for. Yamaguchi is always thanking him for doing trivial things-

and Kei has yet to repay that gratitude, that unconditional kindness.

The knot in his chest tightens, heavy and relentless.

_____

It’s damp and raining lightly the next morning, and Kei picks up Yamaguchi at his house, large umbrella in hand, squinting through his fogged up lenses.

The front door opens, and he can barely make out a blurry mop of dark brown hair and a black school uniform.

“Tsukki, you look like you’re having a hard time,” Yamaguchi laughs, noticing his current predicament.

“Well I’m not exactly having the time of my life if that’s what you mean,” Kei retorts irritatedly.

He shifts the umbrella to his other hand to grab a handkerchief from his backpack, but Yamaguchi is already reaching up to slide off his glasses.

“Here, let me help-”

“-No, it’s fine. Wait what-”

But Yamaguchi has already grabbed the lenses off of his face and started cleaning them with his sleeve. Kei huffs as Yamaguchi slips the glasses back on, tucking them neatly behind his ear.

“Really, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Tsukki, I don’t get a ‘thank you’ at all?”

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.”

Kei dislikes rainy days, especially when his shoes get slicked with grime and dirt that overflows onto the sidewalk, when the rainwater washes into the driveway and his socks get soaked up the ankle. He makes a mental note to wear his other sneakers instead of his white volleyball shoes next time–the ones that are currently muddied and brown from all the times he has forgotten.

His mood sours and is only partially lightened by the occasional chatter that Yamaguchi provides on the walk to school. It’s only when they get to the front gates of the school that Kei’s mood drops again.

“Tsukishima-kun!”

Kei hears a high pitched voice to his left and he turns to find a girl with shoulder-length black hair walking up to him, the customary letter and heart-shaped box of chocolates in one hand, the other holding a sweater over her head to shield against the rain.

Great, Kei grimaces. The situation is familiar, and he has half a mind to just pretend he didn’t hear when the girl calls his name again, rather loudly, that a few people around them turn their heads.

Yamaguchi looks at him worriedly, “Tsukki, do you want me to go? I can-”

“No, it’s fine.”

Kei internally reviews his usual response for these confessions. Look as preoccupied as possible, wait for her to finish the entire speech, and then choose from one of the usual rejections: I’m not interested; I don’t return your feelings at all; you’re not my type, sorry; please don’t bother me again with this; if you wouldn’t mind, I’m late for class, etc.

He stands idly by as the girl slows down and smoothes out a crumpled pink envelope and shoves it into his hands with a surprising amount of force that Kei is caught off guard for a moment.

By the time she’s finished with her speech, Kei has already chosen a reply:

“Sorry, but I don’t return your feelings at all, and, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m late for class.”

It’s the best he can do, and, if Yamaguchi hadn’t been there, he probably wouldn’t have added the apology in the beginning. (Yamaguchi is always harping on him being nicer to these girls for some reason, as if it concerns him).

He turns to leave, pushing Yamaguchi along with him, when the girl is calling him back again. Evidently, his rejection probably wasn’t enough for her.

“Wait, Tsukishima-kun!” she tugs him on the sleeve, and Kei casts a downward glance. Rain soaks into her navy-blue sweater, drips off the bangs clinging to her forehead. Her grip on his sleeve is insistent and Kei finds himself being pulled under a nearby overhang outside the class 1 windows.

Next to him, Yamaguchi fidgets nervously. Water from the umbrella drips onto the pavement between his shoes.

The girl lets go of Kei’s sleeve. “I needed to ask. Did you get my other letters?”

“What other letters?” Kei asks, feeling his irritation rising. This must be some prank of sorts, since Kei doesn't recall any letters having been handed to him.

“You know, letters like that.” She motions to the one already in Kei’s hands–light pink with a heart sticker on the outside, ‘To Tsukishima-kun’ written in flowing calligraphy.

“I didn’t get any letters”

She narrows her eyes and points an accusatory finger at Yamaguchi.

“I gave them to him.” She says, turning to glare at him. “So I’m guessing you didn’t give them to Tsukki like I told you to.”

Yamaguchi squeaks out something intelligible, “I-I don’t-”

The school bell chimes, and, before he can form a proper response, Kei is mumbling a hasty excuse about being late and shoving him along the front doors.

“What exactly was that about,” Kei mutters once they get to class. “Such a waste of time.”

He’s never seen that girl before in his life, and he’s pretty sure Yamaguchi would have recognized her if he had. In all likelihood, it could just be some pointless misunderstanding anyways.

Yamaguchi looks at him apologetically. “Sorry, Tsukki.”

“It’s fine. She probably just thought you were someone else or something.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Yamaguchi says. There’s a faint waver to his voice, but Kei just attributes it to his usual streak of hesitancy.

Kei mostly forgets the incident in the morning, and Yamaguchi appears to have forgotten too. But it’s only during the last period when he happens to cast a sidelong glance towards Yamaguchi in the seat next to him that Kei senses something slightly off.

His shoulders hunch forward, and he’s especially fidgety, tapping his fingers against the desk and fiddling with his eraser.

“Is something wrong.” Kei asks him on the way to the gym for practice. He notices Yamaguchi has been quieter than usual, and he keeps averting his eyes to the ground.

“Oh! Uh, nothing! I just-” Yamaguchi bites his lip, “I keep thinking about what happened this morning.”

Kei waits for Yamaguchi to continue, as his tone of voice had suggested he wanted to say more. But he’s silent, seems to be holding back.

They round the corner to the club rooms, Yamaguchi trailing behind him at the foot of the stairs. Kei turns around and stares at the tuft of hair sticking out at the top of his head.

“You shouldn’t let things like that bother you,” he says finally.

Yamaguchi keeps his head lowered. “Okay, Tsukki.”

During practice, there are three on three games, and Kei tries to put his concentrated effort on blocking Hinata’s spikes. But it’s difficult when Yamaguchi is currently missing almost every ball sent his way and his receives are too haphazard for even a c-pass. His jump float serves are no better, and most of them hit the net or veer unreasonably far out of the court that they end up losing terribly to the opposing side.

“Yamaguchi. It’s not just about today morning, is it,” Kei pries at him during the breaks. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Yamaguchi grips his water bottle tighter. “I-it was just that. Nothing else,” his voice comes out quiet, and Kei strains to hear him.

Ukai calls everyone to gather for a discussion on today’s practice, and Kei drops his current inquiry into his friend’s emotional state. There is much talk about their strategies for nationals, how each school is doing, what sort of players to look out for.

Usually, Yamaguchi would be attentive during these conversations, nodding in agreement to information being given, offering a cursory remark or two, but today, he’s focused on the floor, his knees pulled against his chest protectively. Daichi mouths an ‘is he okay?’ to Kei, who just shakes his head in return. Sugawara casts a worried glance between them and says something to the captain in a low tone.

Kei isn’t good at reading people’s emotions or providing some sort of comfort for them. He remembers when Yamaguchi used to cry about the bullies in elementary school, how he’d come to Kei in tears and sniffles and cling to his jacket like a blanket. Kei would just awkwardly stand there pat his back and mutter something vague about how stupid they were to think Yamaguchi’s freckles were ugly.

He recalls the way he’d stiffly extricate himself from his friend’s grasp and the unease that he felt at being laden with such outpour of emotion. Kei never experienced emotions as intensely as Yamaguchi did, but then again, he doesn’t think Yamaguchi had ever confided in anyone else as much as him.

Maybe that had been the cause for the hollow feeling in his gut when Yamaguchi had deflected all his attempts to figure out what was going on.

They walk back home in silence, Yamaguchi a few paces behind with his hands tucked into his pockets. Quiet footsteps and inaudible breaths. Kei looks behind him occasionally, checking to make sure Yamaguchi is still there and not accidentally swallowed up by the dark depths of the narrow street.

Kei wonders if he should say something, ask again about whatever is currently eating away at his best friend. But then again, maybe Yamaguchi will talk on his own, reveal it all to be one big misunderstanding, and then tomorrow everything will be back to normal, back to their spotless routine.

“So you’re just gonna let this thing–whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’re just gonna keep quiet about it and not tell me.” Kei says over his shoulder.

They come to a stop at the intersection of their two respective streets, and Kei pauses to let Yamaguchi catch up to him.

“I wasn’t not gonna tell you,” a small voice answers behind him.

Kei turns around to see Yamaguchi set his backpack on the pavement and kneel down. He carefully digs through his backpack and takes out a couple folded pieces of paper. Kei walks closer to find that they’re the same color as the one he’d received today.

Yamaguchi exhales shakily, “Ayako-san,the girl who confessed to you earlier, started giving these to me a few weeks ago and I just-” Yamaguchi takes a breath.

“I just couldn’t bring myself to give them to you then. But it’s all over now, so here. Just take them.”

He holds out the letters, and Kei takes them cautiously. “Is that why you were like this today? It’s just a bunch of letters, anyways. You don’t have to feel bad.”

“But I do feel bad. I felt bad when she confessed to you. I felt terrible.”

Kei blinks. “Yamaguchi, it’s fine. I don’t care about her at all or whatever you think this is. They’re just letters anyways.”

“But that’s the thing, Tsukki. I wish you cared, just a little.”

Yamaguchi sits down on the sidewalk and draws his knees to his chest. “Maybe if you cared about someone I wouldn’t have been so stupid. I wouldn’t have tried so hard.”

Kei furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t get what you’re saying. Do you want me to go out with her? Is that it?”

“No! Of course not, Tsukki!-”

“-then what is it?”

“Isn’t it obvious already?”

“No.” Kei crosses his arms over his chest. “It isn’t.”

Yamaguchi buries his head in his hands. “I’m in love with you, Tsukki.”

The statement shocks Kei to the core, and he stands there, looking down at Yamaguchi, with his face hidden in his arms, back hunched over and sitting on the hard concrete. Kei feels his chest grow tight with some unfamiliar emotion, one that he forces down without afterthought.

The words tumble out of his mouth without warning. “No, no. That’s not true. You shouldn’t like me. You don’t-”

Yamaguchi peels his head from his arms and looks up at him, eyes pleading. “But Tsukki!-”

“-You’re not supposed to like me. This is all some mistake-”

Yamaguchi gets up from his position on the floor and grabs Kei by the collars of his uniform. “That’s not true at all, Tsukki!-”

“It is!” Kei practically shouts at him, voice ringing loud through the empty street.

“-You’re wrong!-”

“The only reason you’d like me is because I saved your sorry ass from those bullies when we were kids!”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widen as he registers Kei’s words. He’s breathing hard, blinking away tears, and his eyes are red around the edges–cheeks blotchy and wet.

A waning crescent moon hangs low in the nighttime sky, surrounded by pinpricks of stars.

Kei feels his chest tighten, and he suddenly wants to run far far away, wants to take a train to the ends of the world, anywhere but here.

“If that’s what you think, then I’ll just go,” Yamaguchi says.

“Fine,” Kei replies evenly.

Yamaguchi casts him one last look and then he’s pushing past Kei without a backwards glance.

Kei is still holding onto the stack of letters when he gets home, and he throws them in the trash when he opens the door to his room, plopping onto his bed with a sigh.

Moments from earlier replay in his mind, rewind and repeat-

Kei thinks about the way Yamaguchi’s face had fallen when he had uttered those lines, lips trembling and eyebrows furrowing together.

He plants his face into his pillow and feels the hard rim of his glasses dig painfully into his cheek.

Yamaguchi is in love with him.

Kei knows how dangerous this line of thinking is. He shouldn’t hold on to it. Yamaguchi is someone who deserves better. Not the calloused, unfriendly, person he is. He’s seen it happen before, the gradual realization that would come with finding out whatever darkness lies underneath his unaffected exterior.

Yamaguchi is someone who could have liked anyone, and Kei has no idea why it would be him, of all people. It doesn’t make sense to him at all. The possibility of anyone liking him is so bizarre and unfathomable that he feels intimidated and exasperated all at once.

He gets up, slipping on his noise-canceling headphones and opening a song to play on almost full volume–a bass melody with loud drums and an even louder vocalist.

His thoughts clog up and dissipate through the blaring music. Inaudible lyrics mix with shouts and thumping electro. Kei waits until his breathing evens out like a tide.

And he thinks of nothing at all.

–––––––

Kei leaves for school earlier that day, not stopping by Yamaguchi’s door to pick him up.

An emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach as he walks, a sickening gut-punch feeling that only grows louder when he puts on a playlist.

It comes with a sort of belated realization that he should have waited for Yamaguchi, that he probably would have appreciated his apology and the awkward reconciliation that would ensue more than whatever evasive ignorance that he’s putting on now.

Kei dials up the music in his headphones and walks faster.

Yamaguchi arrives late to class, stumbling in just before the morning chime. Kei doesn’t look at him, but he can feel the eyes glancing at him. Roaming over him hesitantly.

Kei doesn’t know what to say.

Their desks are only a row apart, but the space between them feels suddenly like a chasm.

During lunch, Yamaguchi discreetly slips out of class with his bento and only returns when the period ends. He doesn’t pay attention to Kei when going back to his seat, only keeps his head lowered onto the tiled floors.

__

“Tsukishima, I know this might not be my place to pry, but is there something going on between you and Yamaguchi?” Daichi corners him during the practice break and crosses his arms.

The rest of the team are stretching or doing serves, and the loud thud of volleyballs hitting off the floor only irritates Kei more.

“We’re fine,” he says brusquely. “There’s nothing going on.”

Daichi just eyes him critically, and Kei can see the concern and disappointment settling into his shoulders. For some inexplicable reason, Kei feels like he’s letting the captain down.

“We just had a…” Kei looks at Yamaguchi out of the corner of his eye, preparing for a serve. “Disagreement. That’s all. He’ll get over it.”

The statement seems to be enough for Daichi, and he gives Kei a firm squeeze on the shoulder. Kei almost flinches at the sudden contact.

“Just let me know if you need anyone to talk to, okay?”

“Okay.”

________

The training camp starts the next day, and Kei is swept into a whirlwind of drills, serve practice, blocking practice, three on threes, more drills, and then whatever activities washijo-sensei has them do. Not to mention the utter second-hand embarrassment at seeing Hinata try to assimilate himself into the camp, like the dumb idiot he was. (‘What kind of warped hamster maze do you have for a brain?!’ he had shouted, finally letting go of his reservations.)

By the end of it, he’s more than exhausted, too weary for the extra blocking practice that some other students have conjured up. (“No, I’m not going to practice blocks with you, Hinata. There’s a bunch of other half-brains who probably want to practice with you, though,” Kei had replied, exasperated.)

Koganegawa’s incessant chatter during the dinner break doesn’t help at all, and Kei just leaves the cafeteria early and heads to the assigned dorms. The Shiratorizawa campus is large, and it takes a while before he finally reaches his destination.

“Yo! The normal guy from Karasuno!”

A voice rings through the corridor, boisterous and eccentric. Kei turns around to see the Shiratorizawa middle blocker, Tendou, walking out of the baths–bright red hair dripping wet and a towel slung over his t-shirt. It takes Kei a second to realize that it was himself that the redhead had been referring to, and, when he does, he gives Tendou an irritated glare.

“You know I have a name, right?” Kei sneers back, “And I would hardly call it normal for us to have won against you guys in the prelims.”

Tendou just claps him on the back and does some sort of devilish chuckle that irks Kei more.

“Oho? You still think that you’ll beat us next year?” he leans forward slightly, and Kei can see his red-rimmed pupils more clearly now. “Especially if you’re running away from extra practice right now?”

“I’m not running away.”

Tendou makes some sort of humming noise as he leans against the wall, seemingly nonchalant.

“Hmmm, but it seems to me that you are. I think you’re avoiding it because you think you don’t need it.” He glances at Kei. “But you do, don’t you?”

“I wasn’t saying anything about-”

Tendou just ignores him and continues, “-It’s not good to run away. People will eventually do the same to you.”

The tone of his voice makes Kei believe he’s not just talking about extra practice.

He just stands there, unsure of what to say, as Tendou gives him a final pat on the back and walks off.

When Kei gets to the assigned dorms, he’s relieved to find that it’s a single and not a bunk bed. The room is small, slightly cramped with the desk and cabinets taking up the main space. The hallways are quiet, as most people are probably back at the gym still practicing.

He still remembers Yamaguchi’s promise to call him during the training camp. How he’d been so insistent on Kei coming here, like it was some important matter that he couldn’t miss.

“Then, you should go. I’ll still call you anyways.” Yamaguchi had said.

Kei glances at his phone: no new messages or calls from him in the past few days.

He sighs, settling into the bed. He isn’t good at these things. He’s not good at figuring out other people’s feelings, let alone his own.

There are words he should have said, things he should have known.

After a few more minutes of staring blankly at the tiled ceiling above him, Kei decides to shower quickly before anyone else comes back.

He’s in the middle of rummaging through his backpack for a change of clothes when an object buried under his towel falls onto the floor with a resounding thump.

It’s a carton of strawberry milk.

The drink he always gets when he and Yamaguchi stop by the vending machine every Friday.

He recalls yesterday, and realizes, with consternation, that he’d skipped out on their vending machine sojourn because of how upset he had been. They hadn’t even said a word to each that day.

Sentiment tugs at his chest, and he finds a dampness settling in at the corners of his eyes.

Yamaguchi shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have even bothered about Kei, who had told him off and kicked away his confession like it could have hurt him, who had pointedly ignored him the day after he’d confessed like he’d been the one to suffer.

Kei brings his knees to his chest and sets his glasses on the floor.

It had been Yamaguchi who came to him first, befriended him despite his cold demeanor, laughed along at his snide remarks, helped him get back on his feet after their last match. It had been Yamaguchi who stayed by his side when he’d found out Akiteru had been lying to him, who had wrapped his arms around him the minute he’d seen Kei start to lose composure.

It had been Yamaguchi who had convinced Kei to take confidence in his own abilities, take pride in the things he’d achieved.

It had always been Yamaguchi.

Kei thinks of their countless study nights, the inside jokes, the numerous times he’s told Yamaguchi to shut up, that one time when Yamaguchi had kissed his hand after he unwrapped his bandages, and the soft fluttering of his heart that had threatened to burst through his ribcage then.

And then he realizes-

Maybe he'd always been in love with Yamaguchi.

(The tightly wound box in his chest unravels like a spring.)

________

The rest of training camp progresses easily, and Kei puts more of his strength into his blocks. He stays afterwards for extra practice, forces himself to integrate a little more with the other camp members, and joins them in the casual competitions that sprout in between sessions. (Kei wins for most blockouts, but loses to Goshiki for spiking. Hinata is the overall winner in Most Receives, surprisingly).

And by the end of it, Kei is even more exhausted and worn out and too tired to decline Koganegawa’s unrelenting requests for his contact info. They all promise to text each other, make it to nationals, and definitely win against Karasuno at the Interhigh Prelims next year.

Kei thinks about first impressions, new friends, and old rivals.

But most of all, he thinks about Yamaguchi.

It’s dark by the time Kei hops off the bus that stops near his house. The full moon shines bright in a cloudless sky. The low rumble of the engine as it prepares to leave.

Kei doesn’t go home just yet. Instead, he’s picking up his pace and walking briskly in the opposite direction towards the main road.

He still has the unopened carton of strawberry milk, buried beneath all his clothes that he’d stuffed hastily into his backpack on the last day. It sits there, waiting resolutely like some undisturbed fossil. For some inexplicable reason, Kei hadn’t wanted to drink it, only kept it there as a silent reminder of what he needed to do.

At this hour, he is certain where Yamaguchi is, and, as he nears the entrance of Shimada Mart, Kei can hear the steady tone of Shimada-san’s instruction mingling with Yamaguchi’s affirmations. A whizz of a jump floater flying through the air, then a resounding crash as it rattles against the fence.

He sits down on the curb out in front, under the glass doors with the faded sliced pig mascot in center. A nearby street light illuminates it in a slant, bathes the surrounding area in a pale yellow. His breaths puff soft clouds into the air, and he feels his heart beat faster, buzzing with anticipation.

He waits for almost an eternity before he hears the telltale scuffle of shoes on pavement.

“Tsukki?”

He gazes down at Kei with wide eyes, hesitant and careful.

Kei gets up from the curb. There’s a nervous shake to his voice, “Yamaguchi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The drink. Did you put that in my bag.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you like it.”

His answer doesn’t make sense.

“But you didn’t have to.” Kei says, averting his eyes to a spot above Yamaguchi’s shoulder. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me after what I said. I thought you hated me.”

Yamaguchi takes a step towards him. “You shouldn’t think like that, Tsukki.” He says indignantly, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

I’ve never hated you.

“But why? Why me? I don’t get it.” Kei isn’t just talking about the strawberry milk anymore. “I’m not someone you’d want to like. All I ever do is drag you down. You’re the one who deserves someone better, not someone like me, not since I-”

“Are you stupid!?” Yamaguchi cuts him off, gripping at the collar of his jacket. “Why do you think so low of yourself, Tsukki? You don’t need to be better because you already are! Even if you are mean sometimes, or you act cold, or you pretend to hate everything, it’s all fine to me.”

Yamaguchi wraps his arms around Kei and pulls him closer. “And even if you don’t like me back, I’ll always like you for who you are now, Tsukki.” He laughs a little, “not the lanky nine year old Tsukki that didn’t even know my name the first time I saw him.”

Kei buries his head into Yamaguchi’s shoulder. He gets it now. Something in his chest clicks open, and emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

It was true, after all.

“Thanks, Yamaguchi,” Kei says quietly, the words slightly muffled against Yamaguchi’s jacket.

He loops his arms around Yamaguchi, hands clenching at the back.

“I-” Kei’s voice trembles, and then he exhales slowly. “I should have realized I liked you back sooner”

Yamaguchi goes still in his arms. He leans back to look at him. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.”

“You like me back?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said, Yamaguchi.”

Yamaguchi slowly breaks into a wide grin after the confirmation. He laughs, “Ahh Tsukki! I’m so happy!”

Kei smiles. “Me too.”

“Does that mean I can kiss you now?”

“Oh, uh. Sure.”

And then he does, and it’s messy and filled with giggles and noses knocking into each other and Yamaguchi’s warm breath ghosting over Kei’s lips.

But in all honesty, Kei thinks it wasn’t that bad of a first kiss.

______

Thud!

The sound of the ball hitting two palms.

The utter silence that ensues, deadly and cautions.

The score: Inarizaki - 30. Karasuno - 32.

And then, the explosion of cheers that erupts throughout the stadium.

The stands are loud. The steady beat of taiko drums blends with deafening cheers. A blur of orange uniforms fills his vision.

“Tsukki!”

A poignant cry rings next to his ears, and Yamaguchi envelops him in a tight embrace. Kei leans into it, despite how sweaty and weak and tired he is.

Yamaguchi kisses him on the cheek, drawing him even closer, and Kei feels like he could just play a hundred more matches, run a lap around the gym, block a deadly spike.

Kei turns around to face him and touches their foreheads together.

“Yamaguchi. We won”