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It’s the first truly sweltering day of spring. It comes late, but promises summer’s imminent arrival. Yamaguchi has dragged the whole team out to the little patch of grass behind Coach Ukai’s shop after practice, and somehow manages to convince the third years to buy pork buns for the entire team. There’s something magical to his skills as a captain, because neither Tsukishima, Kageyama, nor Hinata complain about it. Hinata does it with a smile, though that’s unsurprising. Kageyama and Tsukishima don’t look entirely pleased, but then again, that’s equally unsurprising.
The whole group has settled into low hums of polite conversation, except for Kageyama and Tsukishima, who spend their time conversing with passive glances and various subtle scowls. Kageyama is half-listening to something Hinata is babbling about, arms and legs crossed where he sits on his jersey. Tsukishima is lying down, propped up on his forearms and half-listening to something Yamaguchi is babbling about.
Tsukishima relishes in the tiny bloom of pink whenever Kageyama looks over and finds that he’s already being observed. Maybe at first, they did hate each other in their own way, but soon it was acceptance, then it was synchronicity, then it was friendship, and then it was something else. Something they don’t often name. But all the while, there remained a few thorns, mostly because it felt good to be willingly pricked on them. Like familiarity, if that doesn’t sound entirely ridiculous.
“No way,” says one of the first year’s, sitting a bit further away.
“Quiet!” urges the other, leaning in, but somehow not lowering his own voice. “It’s true! I saw them holding hands yesterday after practice.”
“Dumbass. He was handing him a water bottle.”
“No, no, after, I swear! After Yamaguchi closed up the club room, Kageyama was about to jog home when Tsukishima took his hand for, like, a second.”
“You’re so lying.”
“Am not!”
“Are, too. They’re always fighting and bickering.”
“So, what? We’re always fighting and bickering, too. We’re literally doing it right now?”
“Aww, are you saying you’re in love with me? That’s so sweet, come here, let me kiss you.”
He then proceeds to make exaggerated kissy noises at the other one, reaching out to grab his shoulders or face or shirt. Meanwhile, the other is just barely fighting it off, tongue sticking out in apparent disgust.
When Tsukishima looks back, he finds Kageyama already looking at him, clearly having overheard the conversation as well. It’s his turn to feel his cheeks and ears burning, but he doesn’t look away. His response comes in the form of a raised eyebrow. He thinks about smiling, which is as close to it as he’ll get out here, which is enough for Kageyama to look away, bright red and pouting and disgustingly adorable. What’s worse is that he never means to be, never tries to be, and yet Tsukishima finds his skin itching with the simultaneous disgust and affection that Kageyama’s bashfulness evokes.
It’s hilarious that no one knows. Honestly, that’s his main motivation for why he doesn’t tell anyone. Except Yamaguchi. He doesn’t hide things from Yamaguchi. It’s neither possible nor plausible nor does he at all want to. And Kageyama has the same thing with Hinata. But for how obvious and loud and open Hinata usually is, he’s never given them away. He’d be grateful, but that’d detract from his facade a tad too much, so he lets the secret remain exactly that. As a result, the rest of the team has no idea. Not really. If someone sees something that might make them think otherwise, they’re never believed. Even when the very same people will see something new the next day, they will be equally as disbelieved. As an added bonus, neither Tsukishima nor Kageyama are approachable enough for the second years or first years to dare ask them to their face.
But there’s something not even Yamaguchi knows, something he doesn’t think Hinata knows either. It is, undoubtedly, their best kept secret. Maybe secret is the wrong word for it. Private might be better. Intimate, if he’s feeling brave.
They make their way home after all the pork buns have been eaten and conversations finished. Tsukishima is on the bike he’s started taking on days he knows Kageyama is coming home with him, and Kageyama is jogging right along. He always refuses to admit it, but he’s as restless as Hinata. Calm, level-headed, methodical are all words he has used to describe himself, or words that have been used to describe him. It’s not that they’re not true, it’s just that Kageyama and Hinata are the same sort of monster. Wild and hungry and always scrambling higher and higher.
“Can’t believe I’m finally home after a long day and I’m panting like a dog,” Tsukishima mutters, slamming down the kickstand with enough force to satisfy his annoyance.
Kageyama glares at him, stretching an arm behind his head and down the center of his back, then doing the same with the other. “How many times do I have to tell you that I can just walk with you?”
“Shut up.” He throws his bag to the floor, takes off his shoes, and throws his jacket onto an empty hook. “I’m taking a shower. You should, too. Akiteru’s gone for the week, so you can use his.”
“Okay,” Kageyama says, surprisingly without protest or even reluctance.
He soon realises why, when he finds Kageyama splayed out in his bed, wearing a stolen hoodie and stolen sweatpants. Something about the sight is equally annoying and endearing, but that’s par for the course where they’re concerned. Tsukishima rolls his eyes, already dressed in an old t-shirt designated for home use only and some pajama shorts.
Being shorter than Tsukishima means the sleeves cover his hands and the fabric bunches up all over his chest, but his shoulders are only slightly more narrow than Tsukishima’s in comparison, so it fits him in an odd way. He looks smaller from some angles, which makes him almost cute. But from other angles it’s a gut punch, a dry mouth and dry throat, something that makes his fingertips itch with wanting. He’s somewhere in between now, which makes it easier for Tsukishima to look at him. In fact, it’s almost hard to look away, which should be frustrating, but instead it’s just comforting, like he knows he’s safe.
“Can we cuddle?” Kageyama asks. His face is pulled into a frown.
“You don’t look like you want to, honestly,” he replies with a sigh that edges on dramatic. Tsukishima sits down on the edge of the bed and stretches. It’s satisfying and slightly painful, and reveals the deep aching in his muscles. Evidence of a hard day.
“Stop being mean. We’re alone now, aren’t we?”
He swallows. Yes. Yes, they are. No one to pretend around. No one to hide secrets from. Not even Yamaguchi or Hinata. Tsukishima scoots deeper into the bed, closer to the middle, and then drags himself up to the pillows and the headboard. Wordlessly, he raises his right arm. Wordlessly, Kageyama sinks into his side like he’s melting, like he’s finally relaxing.
Tsukishima lets his arm drape around Kageyama’s shoulder, fingertips barely scratching over the bunched up fabric. It’s not so much scratching as it is a soothing and repetitive motion for them to unwind to. Kageyama turns his head, then his body, slowly facing Tsukishima more and more until his nose is digging into Tsukishima’s chest, his left leg sliding between both of Tsukishima’s until it’s wedged in there.
When there’s a head on your chest, it forces you to become mindful of your breathing, which is exactly what happens with Tsukishima. He can feel the slight anxiety he’d been holding onto all day in how shallow it was, he can feel his heart slowing down as they become deeper and slower. Does Kageyama know he has that effect on Tsukishima? Probably not. But it’s nice either way. It’s really nice.
Best kept secret , he thinks to himself. This is what no one knows. What no one will know.
He’s thinking about smiling, but they’re alone and Kageyama isn’t even looking at him, so he does. It’s small and brief, but it’s enough to prompt his hand to move away from Kageyama’s shoulder and instead graze over his scalp, feeling the soft hair between his fingers.
“Keep doing that,” Kageyama asks. His voice is quiet now, muffled by the cotton he’s mumbling into, and so soft. He barely sounds like himself, some might say. Tsukishima knows that it’s exactly himself, just a hidden part he only shows Tsukishima.
“Does it feel good?”
“You’re really good at head scratching.”
“Wow, is that all it takes for our king to let go of his harsh exterior?” It’s a pathetic attempt, really. He couldn’t sound spiky now even if he wanted to.
Kageyama scoffs, smiling. He says nothing. But he digs one arm underneath Tsukishima’s back, and drapes the other one across his midriff. They connect at the other end, and his thumbs begin rubbing soothing little circles into Tsukishima’s waist.
It’s entirely disarming, and he feels something warm bloom across his chest. His eyes slip shut, although he keeps imagining Kageyama’s face all soft and relaxed and line-less, keeps imagining the curve of his cupid’s bow, the slope of his nose. With a sigh, he relaxes, too. Tsukishima’s hand slides down Kageyama’s hair, past his ear, to rest at his jaw. His thumb makes soothing swipes over his cheek, while his other fingers gently caress the skin just underneath the jawline. His pinky finger can just barely make out a slow and steady pulse.
If Kageyama knows how much Tsukishima melts around him, how terrified he’d be to do this with anyone else, he doesn’t let on. Doesn’t even tease. He barely ever teases. Sometimes it’s almost unfair the way he’s only ever honest, even when that honesty comes in the form of yelling or scowling or complaining. That’s what makes this possible in the first place, Tsukishima thinks, that he knows Kageyama wouldn’t trick him, wouldn’t put on a face. He’s only ever honest.
With a sigh, he slides down the headboard, though Kageyama sleepily groans in protest. He settles soon enough when his head finds somewhere to burrow into, right between Tsukishima’s neck and shoulder. His arms wrap even tighter around Tsukishima’s waist, and Kageyama’s leg hooks onto Tsukishima’s and pulls it between his own. Tsukishima is properly stuck now. But comfortable. His eyes flutter shut, his body warm and heavy with sleep.
He falls asleep with unsaid words hanging on the tip of his tongue, stuck there for the time being. He dreams of scowls and sneers and fingers cupping his cheeks and bunched up hoodies. He dreams of bright blue eyes. He dreams of endless fields of grass. He dreams of a dream that never ends.