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The Karasuno gymnasium breathed memories. Dust motes drifted in the amber haze of sunset, catching on frayed nets and the faint scuff marks of a thousand receives. Tsukishima stood at the edge of the court, throat tight, as Yamaguchi bounced a volleyball absently—thud, thud, thud—the sound echoing like a heartbeat.
“Why’d you drag me here, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi grinned, spinning the ball on his finger. “Nostalgia attack?”
Do it now, Tsukishima’s mind screamed. Before you combust.
“You… you remember your first match here?” he blurted instead.
Yamaguchi’s smile softened. “Against Seijou. I served straight into the net.”
“You cried in the supply closet.”
“You cried when I ate your melon bread after!”
“A crime against humanity.”
Yamaguchi laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and Tsukishima took a step closer. Then another. Until his shadow merged with Yamaguchi’s on the polished floor.
“But you stayed,” Tsukishima said, voice quieter now. “Even when I was… insufferable.”
Yamaguchi tilted his head, eyes searching Tsukishima’s face. “Where’s this coming fr—”
Tsukishima knelt.
The ball slipped from Yamaguchi’s hands, hitting the ground with a hollow thud before rolling away.
---
The ring box felt foreign in his sweaty palm. Tsukishima barely registered the way his glasses slid down his nose, his mind a whirlwind of this is stupid and this is terrifying and this is everything.
His carefully constructed logic—his carefully written speech—disintegrated the second he saw Yamaguchi’s face.
He wasn’t prepared for the way Yamaguchi’s lips parted in stunned silence, for the way his breath hitched, for the way his fingers twitched like he didn’t know whether to reach for Tsukishima or hold himself together.
“You—” Tsukishima started, but the words stuck.
He inhaled sharply.
“You once told me…” He swallowed. “You’d follow me to the ends of the earth.” His voice cracked, uneven. “Even when I was unbearable. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Yamaguchi sucked in a breath, shoulders trembling.
“I mapped out a 12-point presentation,” Tsukishima continued, his voice strained, almost desperate to fill the silence. “Historical precedents for non-legal unions. Cost-benefit analyses. But…” He let out a short, uneven laugh. “I can’t. I can’t—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I need you. Every day. Anywhere. Even here, in this dusty, haunted gym where you once tripped over your own shoelaces.”
A strangled noise escaped Yamaguchi’s throat. His hand flew to his mouth, fingers pressing hard as if trying to keep his emotions from spilling over. His eyes were already glassy.
“I don’t want a contract,” Tsukishima whispered, gaze locked onto him. “I want promises. To argue over coffee brands. To adopt that three-legged cat you keep eyeing. To grow old and blame each other’s hearing loss.”
He opened the box, the silver bands gleaming in the dim light.
---
Yamaguchi launched himself forward, tackling Tsukishima into a hug so fierce they toppled sideways, Tsukishima’s glasses skittering across the floor.
“Yes—yes—yes—” Yamaguchi chanted between hiccupping sobs, face buried in Tsukishima’s collar. “You—hic—you idiot—I had a speech too—!”
Tsukishima laughed wetly, cradling the back of Yamaguchi’s head. “Of course you did.”
“I was gonna—gonna—ask you under the Fukuiraptor! With—with dinosaur puns!”
“Disaster.”
“You’re a disaster!” Yamaguchi pulled back, tear-streaked and radiant, thumbs brushing Tsukishima’s own damp cheeks. “Look at you! Crying after proposing to me like this—!"
“Allergies,” Tsukishima muttered, but his voice broke as Yamaguchi kissed him—soft, slow, and syrupy-sweet, their tears mingling.
“You’re terrible—” Yamaguchi’s protest dissolved as Tsukishima thumbed his tears, touch reverent.
“Breathe, idiot. You’re hyperventilating.”
“You did this!”
“And you’re saying yes.”
“Obviously, obviously—”
---
The gym’s echoes softened to a hush, the only sound Yamaguchi’s shaky breaths as Tsukishima cradled his face, thumbs sweeping gently beneath his lashes. “Breathe,” Tsukishima murmured, voice low and steady, like the hum of distant traffic. “In… hold… out. Like we’re sixteen again, hiding from Tanaka’s terrible singing.”
Yamaguchi choked on a laugh, tears still spilling. “H-His… hic… high notes—”
“Were a war crime. Focus.”
Tsukishima guided Yamaguchi’s palm to his own chest, pressing it flat over his heartbeat. “Match me. Slow. Steady.”
Yamaguchi’s fingers curled into the fabric of Tsukishima’s shirt, clinging as his breaths deepened—ragged inhales smoothing to trembling exhales, until their rhythms synced. Tsukishima’s free hand drifted to the nape of Yamaguchi’s neck, fingertips kneading the tension there, a touch so practiced it felt like muscle memory.
“There,” Tsukishima whispered, forehead resting against Yamaguchi’s. “Better?”
Yamaguchi nodded, hiccups finally stilled. “Y-You… you’re good at this.”
“I’ve had practice. You’re a frequent crier.”
“You cried first,” Yamaguchi sniffed, but his smile was small and sunlit, breaking through the storm.
He fell quiet,the only sound being tiny hiccups and gasps, staring at their joined hands.
Tsukishima hesitated, then caught Yamaguchi’s wrist, guiding his fingertip to trace the engraved T&K. “Tadashi. Kei. No surnames. No roles. Just… us.”
“Sap.” Yamaguchi breathed.
"Dumbass."
Tsukishima kissed him—slow, achingly tender, a language only they knew. When they parted, Yamaguchi’s tears had dried, replaced by a soft, dazed glow.
“You’re stuck with me,” Kei said, thumb brushing Yamaguchi’s cheekbone.
“Promise?”
“Threat.”
Yamaguchi burrowed closer, his sigh warm against Tsukishima’s throat.
“Best threat ever.”