Chapter Text
Yamaguchi Tadashi thinks that there are two types of people. The first type are the drunks. When they want to stop thinking, they get drunk, or get high. The second are the workers. When they want to stop thinking, they throw themselves into some task until their dreams are filled with that task. Yamaguchi is of the latter type.
This is why the Traditional Arts teacher finds him at his canvas at six in the morning. He doesn’t notice her at first, because he has his music up loud enough to effectively shut out the rest of the world. Generally, Yamaguchi likes the quiet of early morning, and if he does have music playing it’s quiet – background music. Not today. Over the semester, the Traditional teacher likes to think she’s gotten to know him fairly well, so she simply lets him paint his feelings. She does the same, after all.
Yamaguchi is not exactly a morning person, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. He kept tossing and turning, fading in and out. He probably only got around two hours of sleep total. He couldn’t stop thinking about how ridiculous his situation was. Had he really stepped far enough out of his comfort zone to flirt with the college radio DJ he’d only been listening to for weeks? That was not his way. A treacherous voice in his head makes him frown and turn up his music a little.
What if you never liked anyone else as much as you do him?
Preposterous. He smacks his brush down a little too forcefully and it splatters on the canvas. He grunts and steps back, staring at it. It’s fine, he decides, and doggedly continues to drown out his thoughts with music and paint.
Yamaguchi has no morning classes, because he’s not a morning person, so he stays in the Traditional Arts room for some time. The teacher doesn’t kick him out when her first class shuffles in, mostly yawning but he saw a few annoyingly bright eyed students, so he stays, tucked into a corner with the sun streaming just behind his canvas. No one pays him any mind.
At exactly ten thirty, Yamaguchi sets about cleaning up his space. He washes the brushes and pallet. He tosses the apron in a little washing machine that the teacher had sprung for herself because she said “you’re not finished until you’ve cleaned up” and she considered washing the aprons part of that. Then comes the canvas, which he stores carefully and after he puts the easel away. He washes up and finally pulls off his headphones.
“Morning, Saito-sensei.”
“Good morning. Are you feeling okay?”
“How are we defining okay?” He asks, lip curled up at one edge. She smiles in response, eyes sympathetic. Yamaguchi hitches his bag on his shoulder and leaves, uncomfortable with the way she smiled at him like she knew. Girl troubles, she probably thought. Well. The basic point wouldn’t be wrong. Yamaguchi sighs and wanders towards his next class.
Yamaguchi is the type of person who throws himself into work, and he does this in his classes as much as he had one his latest piece. Already a good student, his teachers are still surprised by the bright, unyieldingly intent gaze turned on whatever Yamaguchi is doing. Several recognise the look; people with passions tend to be the second type.
Yamaguchi goes back to his room to eat lunch. After his last class, he goes back to the Traditional Arts room and fetches out his canvas. He isn’t bothered by the students and he doesn’t bother them. He puts his canvas on an easel in the back of the room and leans against the wall a while, staring at it and listening to the lecture being given about the European Renaissance. Eventually, his thoughts come wandering back and he plugs his ears with music, erases his mind with paint.
Are you in love, Tadashi? Have you fallen into a fairy tale, love at first sight? What are you going to do now?
Yamaguchi’s hand hovers a few centimetres away from the canvas and he stares at it, eyes blank, trying to work through his feelings. Anxiety, something warm and fuzzy, more anxiety, butterflies, fear, and some internalized homophobia – going to have to work on that one.
Yamaguchi looks up and starts back a couple steps. There, leaning against the wall, watching him with an amused expression, is Tsukishima Kei. Yamaguchi mumbles a greeting, trying to rub dried paint off his cheek and put his paintbrush down with the same hand.
“Been a while,” Tsukishima says, smiling. Yamaguchi fumbles, stutters a little, then finally forces out a greeting.
“Um, yeah, Hello again.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Tsukishima says, pushing away from the wall to step closer to Yamaguchi, who steps back instinctively. “Why don’t you go out with me Saturday? There’s a new café opening and it looks really nice.”
Yamaguchi opens and closes his mouth, flailing mentally for something to grasp onto, anything. Tsukishima raises an eyebrow at him and Yamaguchi realises he’s fisted a hand into Tsukishima’s jacket. He really looks very nice, Yamaguchi reflects, snatching his hand away.
“I, um, sure,” Yamaguchi manages, hands fluttering at his sides nervously. His heart beats heavily in his ears and he knows his face has darkened from a dark gold ochre to a more maroon sepia colour. Tsukishima seems perfectly in control of himself, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. Yamaguchi swallows. “I’d like that,” he finishes, voice trailing off into an uncertain whisper.
Tsukishima has up to now leaned down a few inches, closing in on Yamaguchi. They’ve ended up crowded against the back wall with Tsukishima’s face only inches from Yamaguchi’s. Yamaguchi feels like perhaps he should be embarrassed but all he feels is the normal anxiety. In fact, he feels oddly calm, comforted by the heat of the man and the calm, self-assured way that Tsukishima speaks. Now that thought frightens and embarrasses him, and he pushes Tsukishima away, feeling his face darken another couple shades.
“I’d like that,” he repeats, sliding past Tsukishima and heading for the sink. Tsukishima watches him clean the brush and pallet and Yamaguchi feels lightheaded with all the blood in his body setting up shop in his face rather than circulating correctly. Yamaguchi goes to put his canvas away and Tsukishima stops him with a hand to his chest. Yamaguchi’s heart beat skyrockets.
“Saturday, remember. Meet me in the quad around noon?” Tsukishima suggests, dropping his hand. Yamaguchi feels a distinct pang of longing at the loss of contact and stamps it down furiously, nodding instead. He stands and stares dumbly after Tsukishima as he leaves. They've only known each other the last two days and he already thinks he might have a heart attack.
Yamaguchi rubs his temples, getting water from the paintbrush tucked between his fingers on his forehead. Saito-sensei has already left, telling him to lock up once he finishes up with his painting. Yamaguchi feels a little bad because he thinks she’s worried about him. He locks the door behind him and gets the very distinct feeling that the rest of the week is going to pass in particularly distracted fashion.