Chapter Text
Lame. It’s lame. If he gives into this, it will be the lamest thing he could possibly do.
Hinata brushes against him as they’re leaving the court and jumps back with a wild look in his eyes. “Sorry, Tsukki!”
Here is where you deliver the insult that goes over his head, thinks Kei. Say something cool. Make it so that if Tadashi were here, he’d smother a laugh.
“S’fine,” says Kei.
Nice going, idiot.
All he can think about is heat. Skin so warm he can feel it through the fabric of Hinata’s shirt. This guy… tch. He’s sweating so much and still hasn’t cooled down one bit.
So much sweat, too much. It drips down Hinata’s temple, his neck, beads in the roots of his bright hair and falls like rain into soft lashes.
“Feeling magnificent today, huh, Tsukki?” he beams.
“What.”
“I think he means magnanimous,” says Yachi. She holds out a towel in one hand and a water bottle in the other. “We learned that one just last week.”
Hinata gratefully scrubs at his forehead, his cheeks, raises his chin and runs the towel down his neck. At this angle Kei can see the tender place where jaw meets ear and there’s something so enticing about that view—
Kei tilts his bottle upright, staring at the water that has leaked from the valve. A second longer at the previous angle and it would have spilled onto his shirt.
“Hey, Yachi,” says Hinata, “Would you stick around a little longer and throw me and Kageyama some tosses?”
“No,” says Kei, at the same time that Yachi cries out, “I’m sorry!”
Hinata gives them that dumb little double blink that he does when his one braincell is running at two times speed around his empty head. He’s not cute, or anything. His big round eyes are not beautiful. The way his hair sticks straight up from the towel does not make Kei want to run his fingers through it.
“Sorry,” Yachi repeats, “Since Yamaguchi-kun is sick, we’re going to go drop off some food for him.”
Hinata’s eyes get even bigger and rounder and Kei wishes he would stop, stop shining so brightly; his own eyes hurt from looking. “Ohh? What are you going to bring him?”
Yachi opens up her bag to show Hinata the flask. “I made soup!”
Too late, Kei realizes what’s coming next. Goddammit. He’d been so distracted—
Yachi holds up an index finger, smiling sweetly in a way that, under the circumstances, feels psychopathic. “And Tsukishima baked cookies.”
Here it comes. Kei braces himself for the disbelief, the noise, the way Hinata will bounce around and encircle him like he’s some kind of new and exotic zoo animal. Ehhhhh?! You can bake? You baked cookies? With your own hands?
“Huh?” says Hinata. “Don’t you mean he bought them?”
What?
Kei bristles. Is it really that unbelievable? Rather than even entertain the idea that he baked something, Hinata would immediately leap to the conclusion that Yachi, of all people, misspoke?
“No, I baked them,” says Kei. “Baked like made the dough and rolled them out and put them in the oven. Or can’t you speak Japanese?”
“Ehhh?” There it is, though not necessarily with the energy Kei was expecting. “That’s so cool! I’ve never baked anything before—or, there was the bread I had to make in Home Economics, but it came out burnt and raw at the same time. You really are impressive, Tsukishima.”
Kei feels heat rise to his cheeks and hates himself for it. Why does Hinata have to say it like that? Why not compliment the baking itself, or the cookies (which he hasn’t even tasted), why him?
“Well,” he says scathingly, “You’re easily impressed.”
“Isn’t it cool?” exclaims Yachi. “When he suggested it, I was so surprised!” And there they go again, beaming at each other like tiny little stars.
Kei can only scowl and hope they attribute his blush to annoyance. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
“Well, we should get going,” says Yachi, “Practice already ran a little late. Have fun, Hinata, Kageyama-kun! See you tomorrow!”
Kageyama waves stiffly from his spot by the net. “See you.”
“Bye,” says Hinata, and shoots a blinding grin Kei’s way. “Save me one for tomorrow, Tsukki.”
The nickname is too much. Kei feels himself about to snap. But Yachi’s small hand is already at his back and guiding him toward the door.
Kei glances over his shoulder. Behind them, his fellow middle blocker is bounding toward the net. He clenches his jaw as without effort, with impossible speed, Hinata drives Kageyama’s toss into the ground.
“Say, Tsukishima-kun…”
It’s hard to be annoyed with Yachi. Like everyone on the Karasuno team, she speaks way too earnestly, but at least she has the brains to back it up.
“Do you…”
She’s blushing. What is this? What’s with the hesitation? Did she notice—no, Yachi’s just hesitant about everything. She blushes about everything. She’s come out of her shell around Hinata and Tadashi, but around him—well, he towers over her so much, of course she’d be nervous.
She pushes the words out forcefully. “Do you like Hinata?”
Kei’s no stranger to fear. His ego’s not so big that he can’t admit that to himself. He’s afraid of caring too much, he’s afraid he’s getting in his own way, he’s afraid that this club will destroy his future.
But these are simmering fears, irrational and slow-burning. They’re easy to tamp down with a little logic and time. What he feels when they’re up against Date Tech’s blocks or Oikawa’s serves isn’t fear, exactly, just adrenaline and the rush of the game.
He’s never terrified, not like this. His throat instantly tight, his pulse racing. Every one of his muscles is telling him to run, to take cover, to get out, but it’s not like there’s a monster on his heels. The threat is in his head. There’s nowhere to run to.
It’s just a moment before his instincts kick in, but that hesitation is telling. He laughs as if to mock her, but there’s a tremor in his voice, and it’s not slight enough that it will escape Yachi’s notice. In the end, she's almost as observant as he is.
Kei grips the strap of his book bag tighter. Don’t think that way. Don’t give up. The point isn’t lost until the ball has touched the ground. Mantras he’s had to repeat to himself for two weeks, mantras he still doesn’t quite believe. But “like” and “like” are the same word. He can just play dumb; it works for his teammates all the time. He clears his throat. “Not really, but I don’t like Kageyama either, and we play together just fine.”
“Oh,” says Yachi. She goes quiet. Fifteen seconds pass, and then thirty. At the minute mark, Kei’s pulse has slowed enough that he feels ready to take a jab with his usual dryness.
Just as he's opening his mouth, Yachi says, “I guess that’s not what I meant. Like, sorry to be forward, but do you want to kiss him, or something?”
This time, the momentum of his prepared sarcasm carries him through. “That is forward.”
“Sorry!” she exclaims. She steps to the side, creating some distance between them, and Kei notices her small fists are repeatedly clenching and unclenching around the straps of her backpack. She’s panicking. All of a sudden, he feels at ease. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I kept thinking maybe… And then I thought, if you really do like him, it must be hard not to be able to talk about it…”
Of course it’s the case that as soon as he cuts the old feeling down, a new one sprouts to take its place. Not that it’s really new. Kei pictures Kageyama’s toss heading straight into Hinata’s palm and narrows his eyes. “Are you speaking from experience?”
Yachi’s whole face goes bright red. She waves her hands in front of her frantically. “No, no, well, sort of—but it’s different for me! All the girls in my class think Shimizu-senpai is really pretty too, so we get to freak out together, like, hold hands and say ‘Isn’t she so amazing,’ or ‘I wish she would give me a hug,’ things like that… It makes me feel better, even if Shimizu-senpai might never think of me that way… So I thought. If you had someone to talk to, it wouldn’t—how should I put it—burn you up, as much.”
In silence, they turn onto Yamaguchi’s street. By now, the sun has almost set, casting the other side of the road into deep blue shadow; on this side, everything is golden, desperately clinging to the last vestiges of daylight. It reminds him of someone.
“Is that how you knew?” Kei’s voice feels low in his throat. “Do I look like I’m burning up?”
Yachi glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Sometimes.”
They come to a stop, staring up at Yamaguchi’s house.
To admit it is to give in. To give in would be the lamest thing he could possibly do. But even if he’s imagining it—well, he’s definitely imagining it—his arm still feels hot where Hinata bumped into him, and what’s the point of drawing out this pretense when it’s clear he’s in a losing battle? For months he’s tried and failed to crush these stupid feelings. Now that he’s been found out, whether he denies it or not, it’s not like he has any pride left to save.
“It hurts, right?” says Yachi. “Or more like—it’s overwhelming.”
Kei thinks of warm skin, compact muscle, sweat-soaked hair. A smile like daybreak flooding the valley. A jump so high you’d mistake it for flight.
Around them, dusk settles. Kei unlatches the gate.
“Yeah,” he says. “Though isn’t everything, with him?”