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On sunny days, it is guaranteed that you see Tsukishima’s shadow a good few seconds before you see Tsukishima.
It’s because he’s so damn tall, you think, grudgingly.
You wonder if that gives him a sense of satisfaction; you’ve never seen Tsukishima exceptionally grumpy on a sunny day. Like with groundhogs, the sun can forecast the arrival of spring. With Tsukishima, the sun can forecast his temperament. You’re not sure if he’d appreciate the comparison, so you keep it to yourself.
On this particular sunny day, the cheap lead of your mechanical pencil pauses over your calculus homework as the long shadow of Tsukishima Kei creeps over the desk’s surface.
“Yes?” you inquire, looking up from a rather tricky problem (implicit differentiation is a bitch). He cocks his head, the lobe of his right ear brushing the thick earpads of his headphones. There’s a pause as he squints down at your notebook and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your messy scrawl and crossed-out lines.
“Did you want to compare answers?” you try again. Tsukishima isn’t social with most people in your class (or most people at all), but you've attended the same schools all your life so he probably feels more comfortable interacting with you. While he frequently appears standoffish, and means it, you had begun to pick up on small behavioural cues that indicated when he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it was worth the effort.
“No,” he says, brusquely, looking slightly annoyed. Or maybe that’s just his face. You can never tell.
Tsukishima Kei is a puzzle box of a person, complete with ancient artisanal finger traps and self-exploding false switches. Few have attempted to solve him and much fewer have been successful.
Yamaguchi had once assured you that he wasn’t that much of an enigma but despite their differing personalities, you’re sure their brains are just wired the same way.
He clears his throat and you fold your hands over your desk, looking up at him expectantly.
“I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,” he starts, his tone even and deliberate. “Today, ideally, if you have no other plans.”
Your response sticks in your throat like chewed dango . This is not what you’d anticipated.
“Sounds good,” you respond, as casually as possible. With many years of familiarity comes a rudimentary knowledge of how Tsukishima works; anything less than cool will be met with mild to great annoyance (relative to your distance from “cool”).
“I’ll be on the roof,” he informs her. “Oh, and your work for number four is correct so far,” he remarks before walking away.
You can’t fight the smile playing on your lips. By Tsukishima standards, it’s glowing praise.
Tsukishima leans against the chain-linked fence, his eyes closed. The sunlight weaves into the soft locks of his hair, turning them into spun gold. The soft scent of sunscreen tickles your nose and for a second you see a new side of him. It’s soft and more peaceful, but mysterious nonetheless. Not unlike the dark side of the moon.
After lunch has been done and dealt with, you sit beside him in silence, anticipating.
“I have something for you,” he says. He produces a crisp white envelope from a zippered compartment on the side of his bag. Indeed, your name is printed neatly on its front in no-nonsense black ink.
You accept it with bated breath, your fingers finding the seam to open it. When you unfurl the paper inside, you find yourself smiling out of amusement.
What you find is a carefully typed letter; 12 point and double-spaced with the page number indicated on the bottom right hand corners. The font is crisp and even with no frills. It’s so very practical and so very Tsukishima .
“Please don’t read it out loud,” he requests, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
You nod, reading the contents of his confession as quickly, but thoroughly, as you possibly can. Expectantly, it is structured and coherent, with an introduction, body, and conclusion. There are careful metaphors and elegant prose; not a word is awkward, yet not a word betrays emotion rawer than well-done steak. There is effort, but also hesitance.
“What do you think?” he asks, when you fold the letter up again.
“Tsukishima-sa—,” you falter, a thought occurring to you, “Tsukishima-kun?”
His brow doesn’t furrow in immediate disgust so you take it as a sign of allowance.
“Tsukishima-kun...,” you begin, hesitantly, “Are you scared?”
Tsukishima swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in the tall column of his throat. You’re reminded of marble statues; priceless pieces in museums.
“Yes,” he sighs, frustratedly, “I believe I—yes. I’m not good at...I’m not good at things like this . Expressing myself and whatnot.”
You smile warmly, placing your palm on the much larger back of his hand. “It’s okay to be scared,” you start, your voice surprisingly clear. “And it’s okay if the words don’t come to you easily. We can work on that together.”
“Together,” he repeats, a small smile on his lips.
“Tsukishima Kei,” you declare, smiling, as you both descend the third floor stairwell. “Who knew you were good at calculus, but terrible at romance?”
He snorts lightly, intertwining his pinky with yours.
“I’ll have you know,” he replies, with rare amusement, “I’m actually great at calculus.”
“Really?”
“I have the awards to prove it.”
“Show me.”
“You’re welcome to come by and see them in my room.”
“Oh?”
There’s a pause.
“ Ohhh .”