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“I was wondering, Tsukishima-san, are the sports clubs—well, I suppose you can only speak for the volleyball team, but do you know if they’re okay with… that kind of stuff?”
Tsukishima pauses, the practiced confession-rejection lingering on the tip of his tongue, instead only managing a “Huh?”
The first-year who’d pulled him aside on his way to lunch flushes to the roots of their wild hair. “I—I mean, I was at one of your matches recently, and I saw, well…” They lean in. “You and that dark-haired player. Which made me think—gosh, this is so embarrassing—maybe the sports clubs are more… open and allowing of certain things..?” They look at him with eyebrows raised.
Tsukishima doesn’t like feeling wrongfooted, and he likes even less when he can’t understand something that he’s supposed to. His displeasure must show on his face, as the first-year seems to redden further and mumbles some sort of apology-excuse-dismissal before sprinting in the other direction.
He blinks at the cartoonish trail of dust he imagines in their wake, shrugs, and continues to his classroom.
A couple of his classmates—he wouldn’t call them “friends,” but they’re the kind he talks to in class—call out at him upon seeing the plastic bag he’s carrying.
“Hey, can I have some? I know you got those extra-spicy chips.” Kubo smiles winningly.
Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “No.”
“You don’t even like that kind, c’mon.”
He feels kind of bad for not really registering them as friends when at least one of them remembers him saying he doesn’t like a certain flavor.
“It’s for—a teammate.” Tsukishima stumbles over his words, for some reason not quite able to just name Kageyama or call him “a friend,” either.
He raises an eyebrow. “You dashed all the way to the convenience store and back for a snack that you don’t even like just for a teammate.”
“I got myself a snack too, just finished and threw it away before I got back.” Tsukishima shrugs. “He gets grumpy when they’re sold out after practice.” He brushes past him on the way out, missing the quiet “Wow,” Kubo mutters in his wake.
“What, y’wouldn’t do that for me?”
A bark of a laugh. “I’m not gonna run like the wind up a hill on my break to get you more food, dude.”
Tsukishima had gotten some looks for dropping off a single large bag of chips at a classroom and immediately taking off for an advisory meeting. Kageyama had looked a little surprised too, which was a mixed bag for Tsukishima—sure, he likes catching people off guard, but if Kageyama made this look weird then… was it weird?
Mindless but grueling drills at practice are a welcome distraction. They’ve got a fiery, determined new wing spiker— do they come in any other kind? Tsukishima wonders idly—who’s bouncing around the nets while jabbering away to Hinata. Hinata—taller, messy-haired, and (Tsukishima is loath to admit) genuinely kind of a catch as a third year. He shakes himself out of thinking about the day as he catches bits of their onomatopoeia-peppered “strategy talk.”
After practice, unfortunately, no such distractions are around as he goes about the motions of unwinding—literally. He'd wound his tape a little tighter than usual today, still oddly irked at that underclassmen's comment.
"Your fingers are all blotchy," Kageyama notes.
"I'm aware.
"Are they cold?"
"No," he grumbles back, convincingly.
"I'll warm them." Kageyama pronounces this as if his intent is already set in stone, but he watches Tsukishima for a response.
"If you insist, King." He rolls his eyes and lets his hands be taken into Kageyama's warm warm palms. The latter starts a meticulous routine of rubbing heat back into his fingers.
Tsukishima catches some movement in his periphery. There's one of the softer-spoken first-years paused in an approach to them. He's tempted to ignore him and wait until the kid finds the courage to speak up, not particularly interested in sharing Kageyama's attention, but—that's ridiculous. Anyway, Yamaguchi's been hounding him to be less cruel with the power he holds as a senpai.
He nods behind Kageyama, indicating so to him.
“Your vice captainly duties call.”
Kageyama turns to face him, but doesn’t let go of Tsukishima’s hands. Tsukishima feels... oddly pleased about this.
“Need something?” he asks, eloquent as ever.
The first-year—Taro, he thinks—darts his eyes between the two, stepping back already to go. “Uh, it can... it can wait ‘til morning practice, Kageyama-senpai. Sorry for—”
“Are you sure?” Kageyama lets go and turns towards him fully. “The nets are still up and the carts are out.”
Tsukishima contemplates his mix of displeasure at his own now-unoccupied hands and the little spark of pride at Kageyama’s uncharacteristic helpfulness. Well, not so uncharacteristic—ever since he’s had juniors on the team, he’s been oddly (albeit awkwardly) willing to reach out and help them with their queries.
“Ah, really, it’s no trouble—”
“Is it your underhand serve? You were struggling with that,” Kageyama notes, not a trace of mockery in his voice, but Probably-Taro still winces at his bluntness.
“Yeah, um, if you could show me your technique for…”
Tsukishima leaves them to it and heads over to—nowhere, really, since their interaction was taking place in front of his duffle bag. He doesn’t particularly want to stick around near this first-year that he’s suddenly and irrationally irked with. See, he’s a good senior who doesn’t force his pettiness onto young and unsuspecting members.
“You’re sure comfy with him,” Yamaguchi says casually from next to him, taking a deep pull from his water bottle to punctuate his statement.
Tsukishima snorts. “He’s just trying to convert me to his fifteen-step hand care routine.”
“Uh… huh.”
Somehow, the familiar exchange of getting shit from Yamaguchi is what puts those earlier comments out of his head for good. Paying attention to what other people say is a skill that Tsukishima prides himself on not having. He’s honed his keen observation for things that actually matter, like read blocking and historical inaccuracies in childrens’ books about dinosaurs.
Kageyama catches him later, as he’s about to head out of the changing rooms for the night. “It was nice of you. The chips.”
“A peasant’s duty.” Tsukishima makes for a mock bow.
Kageyama’s mouth twitches, the corner turning up in something small and pleased. “Uh, sure. Thanks.”
Tsukishima’s one-liners about his old nickname have softened considerably over the years. If he were to think more about it, instead of the tiny grin tugging at the sides of Kageyama’s lips, perhaps he’d register that they’ve wandered into the territory of affectionate.
But, again, he’s honed his keen observation for things that actually matter.
Despite one’s best efforts, some comments stick around in your brain forever, and to Tsukishima’s unending ire, Hinata’s exclamation about the scent of spray-on pain reliever from two years ago is one of them. Walking into a sports center is always the same—casting an appraising eye at the other teams milling around, a blast of air conditioning ruffling his hair, smells like Air Salonpas—!
They come to a stop by a row of benches, Ukai motioning for them to drop their bags while he and Takeda go off to confer with other coaches. Tsukishima can feel the eyes of the team at the next bench drilling into them.
"They're got that dead-eyed setter."
"Ooh, scary!"
"Don't underestimate them," one of them chastises. "You haven't seen them on the court."
"And we never will again after today!" The two younger members high five and their senior sighs.
Tsukishima’s already tensing his jaw at that first comment. Sure, he’s called Kageyama scary-looking his fair share of times, but… that’s not for other people to say.
Unlike running shoes, trash talking is something one is incapable of growing out of. Tsukishima does what he does best— looms.
“Ah, don’t worry. We won’t spook you too much . It’s bad form to make the opponents need a change of pants.”
One of the kids makes a strangled noise upon (looking up to make) eye contact with him. It’s pleasing.
Taro materializes next to him. “Yeah, those uniforms sure reek of daddy’s money.”
He hadn’t even registered their private school status yet. Maybe Taro’s a half-decent ally after all.
“Boys!” Yachi calls, wrinkling her nose at Tsukishima for his clear bad influence. “Over here!”
He turns away from them, letting the dark aura dissipate, but he keeps those kids’ faces in mind. Dead-eyed.
Kageyama nudges him. “Stop infecting the juniors with your bad attitude.”
“He already had it in him, clearly,” Tsukishima fires back, but his nudge back is punctuated with a little grin. And Kageyama returns both.
They’ve earned a sizable cheering squad, so walking onto the court is hardly short of fanfare. Some of the school band is even there, since Tanaka’s taiko drum team is in a competition circuit of their own at the moment.
Even if Karasuno's reputation precedes them, they aren’t winning battles on hearsay alone. How delightful that the very team from before is about to learn that.
The other first-year seems to have more of a spine than his friend, as he meets Tsukishima’s eyes with an arrogant grin. He presses his lips together, unruffled, as his eyes scan between the green uniforms.
Even after the whistle blows, he doesn’t stop paying attention, cataloging set-ups, potential weaknesses, favored shots and spikes. He takes a little extra pleasure out of the spikers flailing for a save after his particularly well-executed read blocks. Maybe too much.
He gets a Look or two from Yamaguchi at how he’s reveling in plucking these points off that young spiker-and-setter duo in particular, but he doesn’t care.
Kageyama's dink is right up Tsukishima's alley of annoying, even if he'll never say it. The desperation on their opponents’ faces as they dive forwards after oh-so-observantly positioning themselves for a hard spike...
And when that point is their ticket to Interhigh, well.
He’d rather die than admit it, but everyone saw. He’s the first one to pile onto Kageyama after the whistle is blown, though Yamaguchi is a very close second.
Amidst the quite literally earsplitting cheering (Taro and Hinata on either side of him as if their sole mission is to deafen him before they make it back to the bus), Tsukishima manages a level, “Nice one, King.”
Kageyama’s eyes are so, so bright.
He’s craned his neck up to look at him, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead, and that crazy grin is stretching out, the one that makes him look evil, the one that Tsukishima wants to press his fingers to and—
“They’re calling us to line up!”
The rest of the world, sweat-soaked and tumultuous, comes rushing back. Before he lets it, just for a lingering second, Tsukishima gives into himself and brushes Kageyama’s bangs back into place.
He turns before he can see Kageyama’s expression and allows the blinding lights and raucous hollers of reality to swallow him back up.
The sun-bathed road ahead of them has Tsukishima squinting his eyes, but he’s not particularly interested in keeping them open regardless. Kageyama has long since passed out in the seat next to him, neck craned over and drool beginning to make itself known at the corner of his mouth.
His gaze doesn’t move from that corner. Okay, maybe he’s a little interested in keeping his eyes open.
Well, I don't want him to pitch over at a turn and drool all over me, he reasons as he tugs a tissue out of his bag and swipes at Kageayma’s mouth. He hardly even pauses at the warm puff of breath across his fingers—but apparently lingers long enough for Hinata to turn around and catch sight of them.
Tsukishima groans and readies himself for an earful—but Hinata just grins his dumb little grin, nods, and turns back around.
As if this—god, as if this is expected. Normal.
Before he can devote far too much of his brainspace to this epiphany, Kageyama jerks and slumps over at a sharp turn, head knocking uncomfortably into Tsukishima’s upper arm. If Kageyama was conscious, he’d lord this difference in their heights over his head in a very literal sense—but if Kageyama was conscious, he wouldn’t be slumped over as Tsukishima carefully sinks down and allows his head a less precarious resting place on his shoulder.
Finally, the bus comes to a screeching halt. The team begins to file off. Tsukishima pokes at Kageyama’s side to wake him. “Hey. Get up.”
Kageyama blinks awake, jolting up off of his shoulder. He looks around and scrubs his sleeve at the corner of his mouth. Tsukishima’s eyes follow him. He imagines his own vision clouding over with fondness.
“Thanks. For letting me, you know.”
Tsukishima stands up, stepping sideways to allow Kageyama room. “Let you what? It seems I let you get away with a lot of things.”
“Huh?”
Tsukishima can hear it—the click of several things slotting into place. And if there’s something out of place… well, best to click it out of place right now.
“Or… we’ve both been like that. Right?”
Kageyama’s eyes are suddenly very, very awake. “Been like…?”
“You know.”
“Yeah.” His own admission seems to catch him off guard.
“So…” Tsukishima leans down, the same way he does when he’s ragging on someone (Hinata) for their height.
The sun warms the left side of his face, but Kageyama’s hand coming up to clasp at his jaw warms the right side—all to say, he’s warmed up from his head to his toes, tingling from their lips’ point of contact to his fingertips, feeling so, so right.
When they finally file off the bus, they’re not quite holding hands, but Kageyama’s shoulder brushes against Tsukishima’s, and Tsukishima is sort of leaning towards him, and Tsukishima realizes that the setting sun and clear glass windows have probably given everyone a well-lit view of what just happened, and—
There isn’t a trace of shock on anyone’s faces. Tsukishima feels rather robbed of an opportunity to have one-up on everyone else.
Ukai clears his throat. “Ah. I’ll lock up the bus, then.” He bustles off.
He doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of looking embarrassed, willing the heat on his neck to fade away.
“Well… everyone’s kind of assumed for a while now…” Yamaguchi says, not even bothering to hide his evil little grin.
Not everyone, Tsukishima thinks, noting Taro’s wide eyes and dropped jaw.
Hinata laughs. “Right! I mean, it’s been ages, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Kageyama speaks up before Tsukishima can say anything. “Ages.”
He may be speaking of the past, but Tsukishima’s (admittedly, still a little fuzzy) brain can’t think of anything other than what’s to come.
After all, the sun-drenched horizon only gives way to a moonlit road ahead.