Work Text:
It started as nothing.
Tsukishima Kei had a reminder on his phone, set weeks ago:
Haircut — Saturday, 3:00 PM
He always went to the same barber—the same chair, the same half-smile from the old man who knew exactly how short he liked the sides. It was a routine. Like cleaning his glasses. Like volleyball practice. Something that didn’t need thinking about.
He hadn’t meant to overhear anything.
It was just after lunch, and he was on his way to the gym with a folder Yachi Hitoka had asked him to drop off—updated manager notes or something. She was chatting with two girls from her class outside the clubroom. He wasn’t listening until one of them laughed.
“No, seriously, guys with slightly longer hair are so much cuter. Like, when it covers a bit of their forehead—”
“Yeah,” another chimed in, “it makes them look less stiff. More relaxed.”
Yachi made a small sound—nervous, probably. She was always nervous around her classmates.
Then, softly, she said, “I think so, too. Not too long, though. Just… long enough that it looks soft, I guess.”
He didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He had no reason to. Still, the words stayed lodged somewhere in his head, tucked between fragments of thought he didn’t plan to revisit.
By the end of the week, he was due for that haircut.
Saturday morning, his brother, Tsukishima Akiteru, showed up and tossed his car keys on the counter.
“Hey, Kei, you still go to that place downtown for your haircut?” Akiteru reached into the fridge to grab some barley tea. “When I’m done helping Mom, I can drive you—I’ve got errands near there.”
Tsukishima looked up from his cereal. Akiteru had that easy, familiar grin—the kind that always made Kei feel twelve again for a second.
He stirred his spoon around, thinking. The reminder was still in his phone. The time was still free.
“Nah,” he said finally. “Not going this time.”
“What, growing it out?”
“Something like that.”
“Never thought of you as the experimental type.” Akiteru laughed, clearly amused. “You used to cry when your hair grew past your ears.”
Tsukishima didn’t answer. He just shrugged, standing to rinse his bowl. The conversation slipped away, but his reflection lingered, faintly distorted in the kitchen window, where his fringe had started to dip closer to his brow.
By midweek, Yamaguchi Tadashi noticed first.
“You didn’t get it cut?”
They were walking home, the sun low and orange between the houses.
Tsukishima adjusted his bag strap. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Yamaguchi hummed, half-grinning.
“Weird. You’re usually so—” he gestured vaguely “—organized about that kind of stuff.”
Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “It’s just hair… No big deal.”
Yamaguchi laughed, but he glanced over again, probably comparing the slight difference—how it brushed against the back of his neck now.
Tsukishima didn’t like being noticed, but he also dismissed the next haircut reminder when it popped up two weeks later.
At practice, it was impossible not to notice everyone else’s hair.
Hinata Shoyo’s hair was growing out again—that bright, messy orange halo that always got stuck to his forehead during practice. He complained about it constantly but never actually went to cut it.
Yamaguchi’s hair was a little longer too, curling awkwardly at the ends when he forgot to brush it after showering.
It wasn’t like any of them thought about it much. They were boys—sixteen, almost seventeen—sweating through drills and yelling across the court. But now, every time Tsukishima pushed his bangs out of his eyes, he remembered Yachi’s voice—quiet and unassuming:
“Just long enough that it looks soft.”
He told himself it was just curiosity. Some odd, irrelevant experiment.
By late spring, his mother had started to comment.
“Kei, you’re due for a trim, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll start looking like your brother soon.”
That one stung, somehow. He wasn’t sure why.
When Akiteru visited again, he gestured at his lengthening locks.
“Look at you—the cool, brooding type now. Next thing I know you’ll start playing bass in a band.”
Tsukishima just muttered, “Please don’t project your failed high school dreams on me.”
Akiteru just laughed and clapped his back.
The thing about growing hair out, Tsukishima realized, is that it sneaks up on you.
One day it’s just a bit longer. Then suddenly, he had to start adjusting how he dried it, how it fell when he looked down to tie his shoes.
He wasn’t sure if it looked good. He didn’t care to ask.
But when Yachi waved to him one afternoon outside the gym, all sunny and earnest, something in him tightened.
“Tsukishima-kun! You’re early today!” she said, smiling. Then she blinked, a small, surprised pause. “Ah… your hair—did you grow it out?”
He froze halfway through unzipping his jacket. “A bit.”
“It looks really good on you,” she said quickly, like it was just an observation, not something she’d thought about. But she kept smiling, the kind of smile that reached her eyes before she looked down, flustered. “It suits you.”
He could’ve teased her. He could’ve said something sarcastic, brushed it off with a mutter.
Instead, he found himself saying quietly, “Thanks.”
Yachi blinked, seemingly surprised by the seriousness of his voice. Then she laughed—that soft, fluttery sound that always filled spaces gently. “You’re welcome!”
She hurried off to meet Hinata and Kageyama with her ponytail bouncing behind her.
Tsukishima stood there a second longer, then sighed and pushed his fringe back again.
That night, when he got home, he stared at his reflection for longer than he meant to.
His hair curled slightly at the edges now—not quite neat anymore, not quite messy either. His glasses framed it differently.
He looked… older, maybe. Or just less sharp.
He wondered, briefly, if that’s what she meant by soft.
From the hallway, his mother called, “Kei, did you reschedule your haircut yet?”
He glanced at his phone, where the reminder blinked.
Haircut — Saturday, 3:00 PM
He swiped it away. “Nah. I’ll wait a bit.”
A few weeks later, they were cleaning up after practice, the gym humid with summer air.
Yachi was stacking towels when he passed by with the ball cart. Her hair was tied up loosely, a few strands stuck to her neck.
She looked up, smiling again. “It’s gotten even longer, huh?”
He blinked. “What has?”
“Your hair. It’s—” she laughed, tucking her own strand behind her ear “—kind of unfair that it looks that good without effort.”
He snorted. “You think I’m trying?”
“Maybe not.” She tilted her head, eyes bright. “But… I’m glad you didn’t cut it.”
That caught him off guard. “Glad?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice change.” She nodded, a little shy now. “It suits you. More than the short look, I think.”
He didn’t answer, just turned away to park the cart, but his ears were warm.
And when he caught his reflection in the window later—sweaty, tired, and hair slightly messy over his forehead—he didn’t think it looked bad.
That night, Yamaguchi texted him:
[8:47 PM] Yamaguchi Tadashi: You ever gonna tell me why you actually didn’t get that haircut?
Tsukishima stared at the message for a while before typing back.
[8:50 PM] Me: Didn’t feel like it.
Then, after a pause, he added—
[8:51 PM] Me: Guess it just didn’t seem like a bad look.
He put his phone face-down and turned off the light.
Outside, the late summer wind brushed against his window, and somewhere in his mind, a quiet voice—soft and a shy—said again:
“It looks really good on you.”
And for once, Tsukishima didn’t argue with it.