Work Text:
The gym lights were too bright. They always were lately, but today they seemed to vibrate, humming a low, electric frequency that settled right behind Tsukishima’s eyes. He stood at the back of the court, hands on his knees, watching the fading blur of the ball. It felt distant. Everything felt distant—the screech of sneakers, Hinata’s exuberant yelling, the heavy thud of the spikes.
"Tsukishima! Watch the gap!" Daichi’s voice pierced through the fog.
Kei moved. Or he tried to. His legs felt like they were made of dry kindling, stiff and hollow. He jumped to block, but his timing was off. His fingers weakly grazed the ball, but he didn't have the strength to push back. He landed heavily, his vision swimming with falling snow. Too heavy, he thought, the familiar, caustic voice in his head rising above the exhaustion. That’s why you’re slow. You’re still too heavy.
He walked to the bench to grab his water bottle, his fingers trembling as he unscrewed the cap. He didn't drink. He just let the cold condensation press against his skin. He looked down at his arms; the pale, thin limbs that his teammates praised for their height… all just a lazy cover up for a failure of discipline. The thoughts didn't come as a sudden urge to stop existing. They were quieter than that. They were a slow, rhythmic pull, like the tide. It was the thought that if he just kept going, if he just trimmed away enough of himself, eventually, there would be nothing left to feel tired. There would be no more expectations to meet, no more brother to live up to, no more heart that beat too fast when he felt like he was failing.
He wanted to feel a sense of control over something, anything, in his life. He wanted to reach a place where the internal noise would finally quiet.
"Tsukki?"
Yamaguchi was standing there, a towel draped around his neck, looking at him with that expression Kei hated most: perceived fragility.
"You didn't eat lunch again," Yamaguchi said softly. It wasn't a question.
"I wasn't hungry," Kei snapped, the mask of saltiness slipping back into place, although heavier than usual.
"The heat in the gym is making me nauseous."
"You’re shaking," Tadashi stepped closer, his voice dropping so the others wouldn't hear.
"And you’re... you look exhausted, Tsukki. I can see it. You're pushing yourself too hard."
Kei looked away, staring at the scoreboard. 0-0. A clean slate. He wondered if he could ever feel that way – a feeling of starting fresh, a feeling of not being constantly weighed down by his own thoughts.
"I’m fine, Tadashi," he lied, though his voice sounded thin, like paper tearing.
He stood up, ignoring the way the world tilted dangerously to the left. He forced himself back onto the court, stepping into the white lines that felt more like a cage every day. He looked at the net, then at his own hands, and waited for the next whistle, wondering how much longer he could keep pretending he was okay.
The practice ended, but the ringing in Kei’s ears didn't. He moved through the post-practice routine on autopilot, mopping the floor, putting away the nets, dodging Hinata’s loud declarations of improvement. Each movement felt like he was dragging his body through deep water. Every time he bent down to pick up a stray ball, his heart gave a frantic, uneven flutter against his ribs, protesting the lack of fuel.
In the clubroom, the smell of sweat and sports drinks was stifling.
"Meat buns!" Hinata chirped, grabbing his bag. "Coach is treating us since we worked hard today. You coming, Tsukishima?"
"No," Kei said, his voice cold and clipped. He didn't look up from his locker, focusing entirely on the task of buttoning his shirt. His fingers were numb, fumbling with the small plastic discs. "I have things to do."
"You always have 'things to do,'" Tanaka teased, throwing an arm over Nishinoya’s shoulder. "Live a little, Four-eyes! One meat bun won't kill you."
The irony tasted like copper in Kei’s mouth. He didn't respond, just grabbed his bag and slipped out into the chilly night air before anyone could push further.
Yamaguchi caught up to him at the school gate. For a few minutes, they walked in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows of Kei’s frame onto the pavement… shadows that didn’t belong to him.
"You're going to the library?" Yamaguchi asked, his voice hesitant.
"No. Home," Kei replied.
"Tsukki..." Yamaguchi stopped walking. Kei took three more steps before he realized he was alone. He turned back, the effort of the movement making his head spin.
"What, Tadashi?"
"I saw your bento today," Yamaguchi said, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I didn't mean to, but I saw it in your locker. It was full. You didn't even open it."
Kei felt a flare of white-hot irritation, a desperate defense mechanism. "So? I told you, I haven't had an appetite. It’s probably the flu."
"It’s been three weeks since you had an 'appetite,'" Yamaguchi countered, his voice rising with a rare flash of anger. "You’re fading away. You missed three blocks today that you could have made in your sleep. Your eyes... you look so distant."
Kei stared at him. He wanted to laugh, to mock him, to tell him he was being dramatic. But he didn't have the breath for it. Instead, he felt a terrifyingly hollow sensation in his chest. It wasn't just physical hunger anymore; it was an emotional void that felt like it was consuming him from the inside out.
He looked down at his shoes.
"It’s just easier this way."
"Easier how?"
"To be light," Kei whispered, the honesty slipping out before he could stop it. "To be quiet. If I don't give it anything, maybe the noise will stop. Maybe the pressure will just... stop mattering."
He was talking about the hunger, but he was also talking about the weight of being himself; the smart one, the tall one, the one who wasn't supposed to care, yet cared so much it felt like it was poisoning him. The thought of simply fading until there was nothing left to hurt seemed less like a tragedy and more like a relief.
Yamaguchi stepped into his space, grabbing his arm. His grip was firm, grounding. "It doesn't stop the noise, Tsukki. It just makes you too weak to fight it."
Kei looked at his friend, and for a second, the charcoal spots in his vision cleared. He saw the genuine terror in Yamaguchi’s eyes, and for the first time in months, the cold, distant thought of "not being" felt less like a comfort and more like a threat.
"I'm tired, Tadashi," Kei admitted, his knees finally giving out. He sank onto a nearby stone wall, his head in his hands. "I'm so tired."
"I know," Yamaguchi sat beside him, not letting go of his arm. "But you have to stay. We'll figure it out, but you have to stay."
Kei sat there in the dark, the cold air biting at his skin, listening to his own shallow breathing.
He wasn't okay. He wasn't even close.
But as Yamaguchi sat there, a silent anchor in the rising tide, the void felt just a little bit smaller.