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The celebration at the pool had been a good day. The team was in high spirits after Nationals, everyone letting loose in a way they hadn’t in months. Tsukishima had stayed dry, perched on a poolside chair with his headphones in, watching the chaos unfold through his usual disinterested gaze. Hinata was running around like a maniac, cannonballing into the water every chance he got, while Kageyama halfheartedly told him to stop, his tone more exasperated than authoritative.
Yamaguchi, meanwhile, had been grinning from ear to ear, his laughter echoing over the splashes and shouts. He didn’t seem to care that he was getting dunked or dragged into every game imaginable, even when Hinata and Nishinoya teamed up to soak him relentlessly. He just laughed harder, his wet hair sticking to his face as he retaliated with wild splashes of his own.
Tsukishima had pretended not to notice, eyes fixed on the chaos but his focus inexplicably drawn to one person. He told himself it was just out of habit—Yamaguchi had always been his constant, the one he naturally gravitated toward. But something about the way Yamaguchi looked that day—completely unguarded, glowing with joy under the summer sun—made it harder to ignore the knot forming in his chest.
It wasn’t until later that the weight of it hit.
That night, Tsukishima tossed and turned, a heat curling low in his stomach that he didn’t recognize at first. His dreams were vivid, sharp in a way that left no room for ambiguity. He saw flashes of Yamaguchi: water droplets sliding down his neck, glistening as they traced the sharp line of his collarbone; his lean, defined sides catching the sunlight, his hand raking through his damp hair.
Then Yamaguchi turned to him, his eyes dark and half-lidded, the playful grin replaced by something deeper, something that sent a jolt through Tsukishima’s chest. His lips moved, his voice low as he murmured something—something Tsukishima couldn’t quite make out. But the look in his eyes said everything.
Tsukishima shot upright in bed, his heart pounding and his body burning with the remnants of the dream. He stared at the ceiling, his breaths coming quick as realization washed over him like a wave.
Holy shit.
He buried his face in his hands, groaning into the silence of his room. "No, no, no," he muttered under his breath, as if denying it might somehow undo the way his stomach flipped every time the dream replayed in his mind.
It didn’t help.
Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face. He gripped the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection like it might offer some kind of answer. His ears were red, his expression twisted between horror and disbelief.
"I’m so fucking screwed," he whispered, the words hitting harder as they left his mouth.
He paced back to his room, running a hand through his hair. Okay. Breathe. Think. Maybe it was just a fluke. A weird, one-off thing. Stress, hormones, something explainable.
But the more he thought about it, the more those excuses unraveled. This wasn’t just some random dream. It was weeks—months, maybe—of moments he’d been brushing off: the way his chest tightened every time Yamaguchi smiled at him like that, the way he found himself searching for him in a crowd without realizing it.
Flopping back onto his bed, Tsukishima stared at the ceiling again, the realization crashing down like a stone in his gut.
"This is so dumb," he muttered to no one in particular, his voice shaky. Then, quieter: "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
The thought of facing Yamaguchi tomorrow made his stomach churn. What would he even say? Could he act normal? Would Yamaguchi notice?
"Hey," he imagined Yamaguchi saying, that usual teasing lilt in his voice. "What’s with you today? You’re acting weird."
And he’d respond with…what? Oh, sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about how you looked half-naked and soaking wet. Yeah, that would go over great.
He groaned, covering his face with his hands again. Get it together. Just… don’t think about it. Pretend it didn’t happen.
But he already knew how that was going to go.
Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Yamaguchi’s water-slicked shoulders and that smirk would come back. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself it didn’t mean anything.
Because it did. And that terrified him.