I like coffee jelly 😼

I didn't know that I liked writing (AO3: 0rum)

[fffries]

Moral of the Story

➥ Granted with all his intelligence and sardonic nature, a volatile blond falls for the imbecile who stumps his quiver.

𝄞⨾𓍢♬⋆˚♪ Also On AO3: Moral of the Story

[PAIRING/S]: Tsukishima Kei x Fem!Reader (Presence of unrequited/one-sided Hinata Shōyō, Kageyama Tobio, & Yamaguchi Tadashi x Fem!Reader if you squint)

[AUTHOR’S NOTE]: This turned out longer than I thought.

✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧ Part 01

Part 02 (月が | Kung Ayaw) <-

Part 03

Part 04

Part 05

Part 06

Part 07

Part 08

Part 09

Part 10

Part 11 ✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧

Word Count: 20,329 words Warning/s: None (unless you include eventual angst)

ACT 2 Minute 1: 月が | Kung Ayaw

月島蛍　と　吉野[下の名前] 運命に結ばれながらも

February 01 [Third-Year High School] Sunday | 10:55 AM

ONLY a local park in the small town of Karasuno could turn the patchwork of late-winter browns and muted evergreens into resembling a landscape straight out of a post-impressionist painting. The sky hangs low and overcast. Standing at the edge of an asphalt court, near a chain-link fence, your hands nestle into the pockets of your old Kitagawa Daiichi windbreaker. You should have brought a heavier jacket instead. Hinata may be capable of peppering a volleyball back and forth with Kageyama in humbling temperatures—sporting only rayon long-sleeves and a puffy vest (that his mother surely bought him, bless her heart) for his upper ensemble—but your momentary lapse in critical thinking might just turn you into a statue adjacent to the steel wires you rest against. Albeit the fact that you were the one who allowed yourself the incursion of being threaded to such an impromptu gathering. If only this spontaneity was not "organized" by people who consider hypothermia a competitive sport. The violent roughhousing of a mere volleyball with each dig, set, and roll is on the same level of percussive shock that powers a concert stadium's crowd; if one were delusional. Within the context of that Freak Duo's shouts, they are only loud enough to deter small children and meek birds away from the nearby playground. Theoretically, their volume may even be able to open a tightly shut jar of pickles. Normally—or the norm of three years ago—this is exactly what corresponds to a sighting that would make you walk in the opposite direction. As of late, it had become the ambient track you have grown accustomed to as it plays in the background of the comings and goings of your life.  You watch the two idiots who somehow got along, all the while Yachi Hitoka undergoes what appears to be a spiritual crisis involving a few index cards, a Gampus notebook, and a mechanical pencil. Her eyes frantically sweep across graphite as if the words have an otherworldly probability of rearranging themselves into a curse. "[N/n]-chan, listen to this part," Yachi rambles, somewhat trembling. "Uhm. 'As we leave these halls, we carry determination shared in the heat of past summers and the quiet resolve of bygone winters into the unknown…' Is that too much? Does it sound like I'm trying to be a poet?! I'm just a manager of a volleyball club! Like you! Though you sometimes sound like an effortless poet…ah! Why'd they have to choose me as the student representative to give the Farewell Address?!" You look toward her on a small mat splayed over the ground—at the way she is actually worried about giving a speech a month from now. "It is fine as it is, Yacchan," you note, your own words feeling leaden on your tongue. "It is honest. That is simply what they want anyway." "Honest," Yachi repeats, a sigh of relief escaping her. A small, melancholic smile etches itself onto her face as she fiddles with the crumpled corner of a 76 mm x 127 mm, 1/8 Kokuyo index card. "Yeah. I guess it is. It's hard to be honest about saying goodbye though, isn't it?"

Ouch.

You observe wind catch the bindings of paper on her Gampus notebook; its lined sheets of white pages flutter like the wings of a bird deliberating whether or not to fly. "…I can't do it, [N/n]-chan!" Yachi shudders. "If I don't trip while walking to the stage, I will probably trip over the microphone cord, then the feedback will deafen the vice-principal's toupée off, and I'll be known as the girl who declared war on the Board of Education just as we graduate!" "That's nonsense, Yachi-san," Yamaguchi chimes in from a nearby bench to your right, attempting to offer the girl some form of affirmation to ease her mind. “Nonsense? Oh no…! What if my speech turns out to be straight-up nonsense, too?!” “It’s already a step forward that you’re working on your speech so early.” Yamaguchi scratches his neck. “I’ve been procrastinating on an English assignment that’s due tomorrow…” he mumbles. "Tadashi is correct," you yawn. “About it being a step forward. I do not suggest copying his habit of leaving things pending.” Turning your attention back toward the center of the asphalt court, you no longer spot the orange and raven blur.  Hinata and Kageyama have abandoned their one-on-one passing, opting for a battle of Vertical Tag at the playground a couple meters away. It is…exactly the same as watching Tom and Jerry run around a house. Kageyama's sneer twists into an expression of terrifying focus, meanwhile, Hinata laughs with hair ever defiant against the cloudy sky. "CAN'T CATCH ME!" Hinata shrieks, evading an outstretched arm by leaping with a force that seems to defy the very laws of physics that you are supposed to be studying for finals. "LIKE HELL I CAN'T, DUMBASS!" Kageyama gibes, seething at the failed attempt at tagging the orange-haired boy. You are not surprised. You look back to Yachi, pointing out toward the two fools. "If you have survived managing the most chaotic team in the prefecture for this long, a microphone cord is nothing. I also do not think that it is possible to…'deafen a toupée.'" "…What are they up to now?" Yamaguchi deadpans; a sweat practically falls from his temple as he observes the childish scene of two of his best players chasing each other around a set of monkey bars, then a slide. The green-haired captain of the boys' volleyball club turns to you with an exasperated smile. Even Yachi takes a gander away from writing her speech. "Hinata-kun did say he'd be able to jump higher than a streetlight before Kageyama-kun today." "He did? They're gonna blow out their knees before our practice match against Datekō this week," Yamaguchi tuts lightly. "Hmph. Let them. It's improbable either way," a bored huff comes from beneath the tree to your left. Tsukishima does not move from where he leans against old bark, arms loosely crossed over his chest. The late-winter sky meets ambient leaves that filter cascading rays of sunlight on the mask of apathy and lassitude. The blond magnum opus of God's brushstrokes of indifference. To most, he is the physical embodiment of rolling one's eyes.

A blessing or a curse, Yoshino [F/n] knows better than most.

You did not mean to notice. You did not plan to contain such a vivid remembrance of habits, but you have observed many things firsthand that a majority of people would not be aware of in their entire lifetime. With absolute certainty, you know how Tsukishima hums in D-flat when he ponders, which turns into an E-natural when he is amused. How—when eating his favorite dessert—he always saves the strawberry topping last for the absolute "perfect bite," and that it is his subtle way of apologizing for a snarky comment that comes off too strong when he offers you the entire fruit. How he does not tap his fingers on the surface of a table, but instead taps the nail of his index against the side of his own thumb, and that it is always in a perfect succession of a 4/4 time signature. The list goes on, because there are too many things that you know about him now. "Hah! Tsukki's just jealous 'cause he's a lazybum dinosaur, and dinosaurs are extinct!" Hinata stops to yell from the top of a slide, pointing a sweaty, gloved finger at Tsukishima. Although, in hindsight, this does give Kageyama the leeway of tagging him, which the raven-haired boy did…in the form of shoving Hinata down the slide, face foremost. Ay, natumba. The skin of Hinata's cheek drags against the slide's plastic with an uncomfortable squeak similar to rubbing a balloon. Hinata. Tanga. Hinatanga. Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, retorting, "Dinosaurs left behind fossils. You'll just leave behind a mark of your skidded face on that slide. Which is the more dignified legacy?" Hinata lifts his head only to be appalled, jaw agape in taking offense. "HE'S INSULTING ME! [N/n], do something!" "Shut up and fight your own battles, dumbass." Kageyama slaps him across the back of his head. You let out a slow, weary breath, choosing to look away from the circus. You may be fond of them, yes, but their tomfoolery is still an exhausting display of juvenile energy; a stark contrast to the stillness just a few feet away. There, under the shade of a tree, blond hair nearly resembles the cream batter of a shortcake winding down a whisk into the twine of harp strings. Your gaze lingers too long.

How annoying.

You cannot help but find yourself at such a predicament. It is a habit you have not been able to break. He is so haplessly ethereal without any exertion. Is this glazing? Whatever it is, it could not be more of an insult to your common sense. At this point, staring at Tsukishima has become less of a conscious decision, more so of a physiological defect. It reminds you of an avalanche. A pointedly personal avalanche against your otherwise reasonable judgement. Naturally, he notices your blatant gaze. Much like his looks, he puts no effort in shying away. Instead, he pushes off the tree, and walks toward you in long, minimal strides.

He reaches out; his gloved hand brushes faintly against the sleeve of your windbreaker. Tsukishima flicks away a stray leaf—taking his sweet time in doing so—before draping his left arm around your shoulders. "Alright," he says. "We're leaving," Tsukishima announces to the group, paying no mind to the two idiots on the playground. "Eh?! Why?!" Hinata's entire frame deflates, much like a punctured volleyball. "We were gonna get pork buns…and chips! It was gonna be a feast for us third-years!" "Some of us have lives that don't revolve around processed meats and sundries that come in crinkly bags, shrimp," Tsukishima returns, a mocking brag of arrogance lacing his tone. He draws you in closer, lightly fiddling with the windbreaker's sleeve as he does. His side is warm against the thin fabric of your jacket despite the crisp air. "The Cold Manager has errands to fulfill before dusk. And unlike you lot, she deigned to invite me along with her." Hinata opens his mouth to spout another loud, dramatic protest, but his throat dries. His bright eyes flit—first to Tsukishima's hand securely around you, then to the unthinkable way you lean into him. The incessant, childish complaint he was about to make suddenly filters into the reminder of the existence of a space where he cannot follow. One that has long been around since September of being a first-year. "Why…?" Hinata trails off. "Only because he bribed me with a merchant's voucher," you expound blankly, correcting Tsukishima's earlier cockiness. "Ah, yes," the blond nods solemnly, his expression entirely grave. "Nothing professes romance quite like '20% Off on Frozen Goods.'" "Seems like bullshit." Kageyama stands with arms akimbo, fixed in a glower that ticks at the space between you. Yet, while his countenance signifies a distinct annoyance of your departure, it is layered with an utter bewilderment; his singular mind simply cannot fathom the concept of domestic chores on a Sunday morning. Without him. Even when you regularly do so.  A few paces away, Yamaguchi and Yachi exchange a knowing look—having spent too many seasons acting as the third and fourth wheels to offer any real protest now. "You guys go on without us," you needle them. "I have to pick up a few things for my father, regardless." "Awh, man…[N/n]…" Hinata pouts, his lower lip heavy. He shuffles his feet in the gravel, eyes tracing you slowly with an uncharacteristic gravity to ensure that you are not just going to poof into thin air. The gloom lasts only until Kageyama issues a sharp challenge to race toward Sakanoshita Mart. He delivers a smile, though smaller, and lacking its usual unobstructed heat. The sudden spark of competition gives Hinata a safe place to hide his weird behavior, and he perks up instantly. Your friends have always been a bit peculiar with their fluctuating emotions. It must be the late effects of puberty, scientifically speaking…although, that really is the only approach you knew to utter. They vanish down the lane of the street in a flash of reckless motion, leaving Yamaguchi and Yachi to trail quietly after. Left to a park with silence coating asphalt like falling snow, you stand there, indulging in the certainty that trips you into a false sense of a comfortable reality. Of there ostensibly being no future where Tsukishima did not have his arm slung around you. Fraud, you swallow. There is nothing scientific or reasonable about that "certainty."

Sunday | 11:11 AM Aisles upon aisles, the automatic doors slide open with a hiss, inviting you into a bombardment of discordance. The whirring electronic clack of how cash registers belt, the incoherent jabberwocky of other shoppers, and the otto of fresh produce.

…This is overstimulating.

You organize your thoughts, rationalizing that the first task you should accomplish is to acquire a basket or shopping cart—however, it turns out that you did not even need to speak. Tsukishima already has it taken care of as he procures a silver cart from the long corral. Specifically, one that barely squeaks along the tiles as you push it around, and has decent wheels, meaning minimal chances of spinning out. It just so happens to be the exact type of shopping cart that adheres to all your unspoken rules of the preliminary ways that lead to a smooth and successful trip to the grocery store. He browses the hanging wayfinding signs before leading the way. The blond did not resemble a high school student out and about, unpretentiously doing errands; when did Tsukishima become the person who has walked these aisles with you more instances than you could count?

Irrelevantly, there is a different kind of aisle that you have thought about walking down to see him at the end. Hypothetically, merely hypothetically, of course.

”Don’t wander off,” Tsukishima remarks, steering the cart with one hand. “I’d rather not spend half the day putting out an Amber Alert just because you got distracted by the seasonal clearance on energy bars to get for the team. Or those pretzels that your father relishes.” ”I am right here,” you mumble. You fall into step beside him. Hell, there is this…invisible equation to the way the two of you move. It is freakishly weird that you are able to successfully predict when he is going to turn left into the Dairy section, along with how he can sense when you are going to stop randomly because you spot a particular item at the shelves with Imported Goods. The moment the wheels of the cart smoothly cross the threshold into the next aisle, Tsukishima reaches up for a product that bypasses local brands completely. When his hand descends, he drops two yellow bags of metallized film into the silver cart. They land with a crinkle of heavy foil. Boy Bawang? You stare at the cartoony garlic mascot on the packaging. Something in your chest tightens. "I never told you I liked those." "As if you need to," Tsukishima motions, eyes already drifting back to scanning the shelves for other items. He does not even look at the price. "I see the empty wrappers stuffed at the bottom of the bin every time I study at your house. That, and Kyōjiro always had the garlic breath to prove he's been snatching them from your pantry." Six. Words stall—you cannot even muster saying a brief thanks. It is such a stupid thing to be surprised about, Tsukishima has consistently been observant thus far.

However, at the same time, you had only mentioned it once in passing, a long time ago—how your mother used to bring them home from her trips as a pacification for a childhood you never quite got to have in the Philippines. You had not thought he was listening, that he cared about a hundred grams of a salty, sixteen-peso snack.

Did you think he was done?

Well, he was not.

"Oh, coffee." Tsukishima continues on, pushing the cart. He stops, spotting the item of purchase located on a tier of the same shelf of Imported Goods that most people in this town would need a step stool to reach.

"What?"

"Your mother mentioned her stash running low of the Barako blend during New Year's," he states plainly, almost as if discussing the weather.

"But she is in the Philippines right now. She could buy it herself."

"Hm, I'm aware of that. And knowing your mother, she probably will. But she'll be pleasantly surprised to find an extra batch the second she gets back, won't she?"

You blink. "…Uh-huh. Sure.”

.

.

.

The bag of groceries dangles from your fingers. Its plastic sways to the rhythm of your stride. With every step, the handles bite a little deeper into the folded joints of your digits. Air surrounding you remains to be frigid. February in the midst of Karasuno's quaint town does not pull its punches, but the space between you and Tsukishima is a pocket of engineered warmth.

You watch him from the corner of your eye. He complains about Hinata's earlier stupidity and inability to conduct a normal volume for speaking, breath flourishing in white puffs of vapor.

It is unfortunate that the smoking gun to his existence, the indication of an exhale, lacks the same permanence of his visage.

"You're staring," he remarks without glancing your way, like he has eyes sprouting from the side of his head. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I am not," you quip, with the cadence of denial as rehearsed as a recording.

”You are. It’s the glasses, isn’t it?” He adjusts them with a deliberate flick of his hand. The lenses glint teasingly as they catch the post-meridiem sun. “After three years, you’d think the novelty would have worn off.”

You look away, unable to deny that same peculiar, treacherous pulse which your very own cardiorespiratory system learned in Class 1–4. It never wore off, you think, wanting to escape how you bite your own tongue. It only got worse.

Alternatively, you tighten your grip on the groceries. “Shut up.”

”Make me, pretty manager.”

What a cunning prick. Of course, you just had to have tolerated the first no-nonsense, sly, infuriatingly competent, glasses-wearing jerkwad that you came across.

Would you ever trade his arrogance for anything in the world?

No. Not at all.

Tragically, the current state of routines that you wade through can only be truly summarized to its most raw degree merely by a single word.

February 02 [Third-Year High School] Monday | 06:54 AM

Normalcy.

The Yoshino household wafts with the scent of freshly brewed coffee—Kapeng Barako—and isopropyl alcohol.

Staring blankly at your toast, you sit at the dining room table, already in your school uniform.

Diagonal from you, your father casually flips through a thick orthopedic journal; his reading glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Your mother is not here to reprimand him for bringing work to the dinner table.

In all candor, he is not the looming, rigid patriarch most people would associate him with and subsequently mistake him for. That antiseptic brand of impersonal, undemonstrative indifference had died—or perhaps merely stagnated—with his own male progenitor. In other words, your grandfather.

With memory serving you well, your grandfather is that of a fastidious man; stone-faced, with a sharp attention to detail, and an even sharper tongue. A traditionalist who had not so much raised his three sons as he had curated them into a matched set of surgeons.

Yoshino Daisuke, M.D., Division of Orthopedic Surgery, Department of Surgery, Tohoku University Hospital.

A shame he had to marry that foreigner, your grandfather ridiculed. He would have been the perfect son otherwise.

Granted, to your grandfather, the family name had been a medical legacy to be enforced harshly—a Japanese lineage to be preserved; to the current Dr. Yoshino, however, it is simply what he signs in a logbook as he clocks in and out of work.

Thus, contrary to popular belief, your father is the kind of man who lives to seize the day with a heartfelt smile. Although…he did use a stuffed bear to demonstrate the precise biomechanics of resetting a dislocated patella over breakfast to his once five-year-old daughter.

”Your mother’s mission in the Philippines got extended by another month due to their project manager,” your father mumbles around the edge of his coffee mug without glancing away from a jarringly graphic diagram of a fractured femur. “She’ll still be back just in time for your graduation.”

If your father is the odd, albeit stationary, backbone of this household, his wife would be its fleeting orbit.

“Ang kagandahan niya ay tila panaginip lang,” is what your father would sing, that is, if he were able to speak a lick of Tagalog fluently.

Mayari Isalyn Liwanag Alba, Senior Project Analyst, Department of Southeast Asia, Asian Development Bank.

She became the fleeting eye of night to his eye of heaven as she changed her name to Yoshino Mayari. The Moon to his Sun. Cliché, but true.

Your mother is a woman of perpetual motion and kinetic force. Holding such a position at an international bank, without any qualms, is no easy feat, even under the standards of a person as dedicated as her.

The lady manages regional development with the same petrifying extroversion she had once used to sweep her high school awards when graduating at merely sixteen years old back in Manila. You had heard of your mother’s tales, of her achieving Valedictorian and Best in Religion—perhaps one too many times—with the better part of it all being over a phone or video call due to the woman’s travels.

It has never been lost on you. To you, your mother is a living, breathing piece of paradoxical evidence true to ruthless ambition and a lifestyle exerted with maximum effort; a woman who had spent fifty years being the smartest, most ingenious, and most capable person in every last room she has stepped foot in.

She is affectionate, unquestionably, but she is fundamentally nomadic. Your mother functions under an unyielding efficiency you had certainly inherited, even if you refuse to apply it to anything productive.

The rudimentary source of why you find the concept of your own “potential” to be less of a gift, and more of a threat.

You give a noncommittal hum in acknowledgment to your old man.

Feeling abrupt by such odd unreceptiveness, your father continues as he sets his morning coffee down on narra. “She also told me to remind you that international mail usually arrives in the town’s sorting facility on Mondays. So. You know.”

”I am well-informed,” you manage to say, with a clipped tone remarkably steady. Though conversely, your stomach churns at the implication with a violent, acrobatic flip.

”Why, hello to you, Well-informed. I’m your father.” Snickering to himself, the man lowers the journal, peering at you over the thin metal frames of his glasses with dark-colored eyes that only held glee—entirely lacking in the aspect of crushing, suffocating expectations that your mother occasionally projects.

Your gaze flickers from the plate directly in front of you to your blithe father with his…unpopular dad jokes.

He had always been carefree in a way that only a man who dedicated his years fixing broken bones could be, saying that as long as the spine was intact and in good condition, everything else could be managed just fine.

”Preparing for a wake, princess?” your father joshes.

“Only for your sense of humor.”

A hearty laugh full of mirth flows out of him while drumming the cover of his journal. “Improbable. You adore my sense of humor!” He reaches over the table, nudging your plate of untouched toast encouragingly. “Sweetheart, I know Mondays are tough, especially when you’re waiting on mail, but you don’t have to look so defeated. Your mother’s alma mater is a phenomenal institution.”

You do not answer, zipping your lips. You simply watch the steam rise from your father’s coffee as silence starts to affix itself on the narra between—stretching thin and taut.

”I’ve actually had a few international colleagues who graduated with a Bachelor’s in Sports Science from the University of the Philippines. That’s what you applied for, yes?” he continues, undeterred by the lack of a response. Your father’s persistence only elicits for your fingers to fidget near the rim of your abandoned plate as it traces the ceramic edge in incremental, nervous circles.

”…”

”You’re very clever, princess. So if you get in, it’s a victory.”

”…”

”If not, it doesn’t take away from your intelligence. Your local placements are still quite solid—such as your backup, Sendai University.”

”…”

”And most of all, your synovial fluid won’t dry up either way.” He swirls the dregs of his coffee. Clearing his throat, his gaze drops to the way you currently crack your knuckles, one after the other. “Stop stressing the joints, sweetheart.”

Your father’s call-out was delivered with the sterile detachment of a man who reads charts of the human body all day, but its translation remains loud and clear. It is his medical shorthand for “I am worried about you.”

Maybe your father’s unconditional support is expected to be interpreted as nothing terse of a blessing, but as of late, it scratches your epidermis like a curse—a trap laid by a supernatural being that is particularly out to get you.

If your parents would only force your hand, or push you toward a specific path, you may be able to wrap this unventilated anxiety under the guise of adolescent rebellion with a neat and tidy ribbon.

But that is not the case, is it?

Neither of them strictly gives ideals for you to push against.

If only, right? If only you were able to stamp the blame onto your parents for this, you could have channeled everything you feel into a rare, productive spite. Instead, you are left with yourself and the knowledge of being the one to mar your own life with every independent decision that you will make.

“I am not stressing anything, Pa,” you parry.

You finally pick up the piece of toast—slightly burnt while concurrently too cold to the touch, if you are to be honest—and you force yourself to take a few perfunctory bites before stacking your plate over his finished one.

”Just focusing on the day ahead,” you mutter, carefully rolling up the sleeves of your uniform before taking on the task of washing the dishes.

”Mhm, sure you are, princess. You’re weird.” He jests a dry, affectionate sound as he helps you by bringing the stray cutlery and his coffee mug over. He leaves the stack by the sink for you to handle, humming as he strides toward the genkan.

Monday | 07:04 AM

Finishing the last of the dishes, you dry your hands on the towel appended to the refrigerator’s handle. Making your way back to the dining table, you grab your school bag near the foot of your chair.

Your father is already adjusting his tie by the time you reach the door. You toe on your loafers, and only then did you process his earlier statement, brows furrowed.

I am the weird one?

The house clicks shut as you head out in tandem. While your father makes his way toward the imported sedan idling in the garage’s driveway, you unlatch the smaller iron gate at the front of the property.

The metal groans as you pull it open.

”I will be taking my leave,” you announce to your old man, stepping out into the world before any sort of mail has a chance to seek you.

”Tell the lanky one I said good morning,” your father calls out ribbingly.

.

.

.

The crisp breeze tingles as a sharp spike of oxygen jumpstarts your lungs and drags you out of your mental fog. The lingering weight of your drowsiness dissipates instantly—not due to the cold, rather, to what awaits you on the other side of the gate. 

You nearly stutter verbally, much like the way your heart rate jackhammers idiotically.

You hate the rhythmic irregularity that has nothing to do with biology, but has subsequently everything to do with the boy standing there for you.

Of course.

Tsukishima leans against the exterior brick wall just outside your gate; a svelte silhouette of towering, perpetual sarcasm.

You keep forgetting that he had hit what would presumably be his final growth spurt over the winter. He had pushed past the 190-centimeter mark and now stands at a staggering 195.3 centimeters.

He would not be complete without his white Somy headphones resting around his neck. His eyes flick up from his phone screen the second the hinges creaked, and his habitual lour softens the exact instance his gaze lands on you. His girlfriend.

You peer over your shoulder, catching your father’s regard just as he unlocks the sedan.

”Or you could tell him yourself, Pa,” you suggest back at him, stepping aside.

Your father pauses, looking through the open gate. “Oh! Good morning, Kei-kun. Please ensure that my weird daughter walks at a medically acceptable pace today.”

You scoff at such baffling commentary, “I beg your finest pardon—“

”Good morning, sir. I’ll do my best.” Tsukishima’s slouch vanishes in the blink of an eye. Standing incorrigibly tall, he pockets his phone as he offers an uncharacteristically respectful bow without sarcasm.

Your eye twitches imperceptibly at such a seamless interjection. Huffing, you try to cool your head from your father’s harmless comment and your boyfriend’s disruption. Ultimately, you let it slide. The irony of your father describing anyone else as “weird” is palpable enough—he is quite odd himself despite having a doctorate. As for Tsukishima, you have grown used to his antics.

”Have a good day at the hospital, Pa,” you bid your adieu absentmindedly, nudging the iron gate shut with a heavy clack.

The moment the latch catches, severing you from your father’s line of sight, Tsukishima’s overly typical, “ideal-of-grace boyfriend” persona liquifies back into his comfortable, cynical baseline as the subtle slouch returns to his posture.

He looks down at you, narrowing amber as he studies your face.

”You’re tardy,” Tsukishima states as he synchronizes with your pace down the street.

”What are you, a teacher? I…misplaced my lip balm before breakfast,” you retort, unnecessarily adjusting the straps of your bag. A white lie, considering how your ChapStick rarely leaves the small and useful inner-mesh pocket of your sukuba.

His discerning scrutiny drops to your lips for a fraction of a millisecond before lazily snapping back to meet how dark lashes pleasantly frame those eyes of yours.

Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. “And yet, you aren’t wearing any. God, you’re hopeless. Do you need me to do everything for you?”

”Hah? No? What the hell are you on? Are you high on potenuse or something?” you retaliate, leaving his suggestive innuendo helpless for you to make heads or tails of it.

Your strange capacity to be a dense airhead permits him the perfect opening. Tsukishima holds out his hand expectantly for the small tube of ChapStick as that familiar and maddeningly devious smirk reigns over his expression. “Want me to apply it for you?”

He draws closer by a mere fraction.

”Or perhaps…you’d rather I use it first,” upping the ante, Tsukishima cranes his neck downward just to drop his voice into a low murmur right next to your ear, “then you could follow up by asking me for a taste?”

Perking up, your face flares hot. He must think that he is oh-so criminally smooth. Unbelievable. You drive an elbow directly into the epigastric region of his abdomen. “Pervert.”

Tsukishima lets out an exaggerated, theatrical wheeze, clutching at his sternum as if mortally wounded. “Alas, such grueling heartbreak! To be struck by my own—“

”Idiot, that is not where I ‘struck’ you.”

”Hm, is it not?” Tsukishima pauses, then corrects himself, adjusting his hands a segment lower for the sake of anatomical accuracy before continuing. “As I was saying—ahem—to be struck by my own girlfriend! Must I call Raijin to beat his drums and vanquish me with a thunderbolt as equally desecrating?”

You roll your eyes. “Seems as though someone picked up a book for leisure that was not about paleontology for a change.”

Tsukishima drops the act; the dramatic hand-wringing halts as he straightens his spine. “Ha-ha. You’re awfully defensive today, princess. Which means you were just keen on keeping me waiting. Allow me to guess—did The Good Doctor lecture you on broken bones over breakfast?”

”It is unsurprising that it is his love language,” you exhale, though the sound comes out significantly weaker and more hollow than intended. The humor of the moment drains away as you look down at the passing concrete, desperate to hide the heavy, convoluted ink of guilt pooling in your eyes.

”Right. How…loving.” Tsukishima hums. His teasing lilt slows down just enough to let you know he notices the shift in your mood.

Monday | 07:34 AM

The rest of the walk to school settles into your typical routine.

Tsukishima has impossibly long legs. Intrinsically, he should be a few paces ahead of you. However, over the span of your relationship, he has subconsciously calibrated his gait to be attuned to yours. Never stepping a millimeter too far forward or falling a millimeter behind.

Its proximity and beat feel painfully “domestic.”

Why would it not? You make the silliest observations now and then. Especially with it being woven so intricately into the norm of your day-to-day, it should be expected.

Although, when you arrive at the Third-Year Corridor, the torture of that proximity—of his adjacency—only sinks its teeth deeper into the back of your neck.

Is he aware that the distance between the sliding doors of Class 3–4 and 3–5 is precisely two and a half meters? you wonder. Personally, you know this because you have spent the entire school year involuntarily measuring it.

Every morning of every school day, you exist with Tsukishima in a shared, overlapping orbit. That is, until the both of you hit that invisible divide.

He stops just outside of Class 3–4.

You spot Yamaguchi already inside, waving frantically through the half-opened door, no doubt panicking about the advanced English homework he left in the hands of God from yesterday’s hangout.

It is an awful shame that the three of you are no longer classmates for your senior year. Administrators must have decided to spice things up or whatever. At the very least, you have Yachi with you at Class 3–5.

Preparing to traverse the remaining two and a half meters to your own homeroom, you face him before bowing out. “I will see you at—“

You are interjected by a sudden array of motion.

A pack of rowdy first-years (having presumably zero business being in the Third-Year Corridor) come sprinting down from one end of the hallway. Being a mass of complete obliviousness with no regard for their immediate surroundings, they were barreling toward you.

They are not notably quick. They are actually significantly slower than the average pace of a Shiratorizawa junior high school varsity student, funnily enough. What a lousy stampede.

Your brain has no trouble computing the necessary movement required to evade—it is well within your capabilities to simply pivot and take a single, minute step backward—but Tsukishima’s reflexes are faster.

His hand shoots out to you.

Slender fingers wrap securely around the bicep of your sleeve, and with one fluid, effortless tug, Tsukishima derails your center of gravity. You collide directly against his torso as he diverts the front plane of his body to face the wall next to Class 3–4, taking the brunt of a first-year's shoulder to his back without so much as a flinch. Thus, he sequesters you against the textured tapestry of a school hallway, utterly marooned as he becomes your entire horizon.

A student council member—Mr. Slicked-Back Try-Hard—practically leaps out of Class 3–4 to bark after the first-years; he chases the stampede down the corridor until the commotion fades completely.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Shaken up, your hands brace flat against his dark gakuran to stabilize yourself. Beneath the ironed fabric, you can discern the thumping tempo of his heartbeat running steadily under your palms.

Why does he have to do everything so dramatically? you think, raising your chin, only to find Tsukishima already staring right back at you. He is scanning—assessing—you for any underlying injuries. He…thinks about me thoroughly too much for his own good.

You cannot mathematically quantify the sheer amount of "luck" your life used up to have had a guy like Tsukishima Kei confess to you first. Given how your dynamic started because of a stupid chair, for all his snark met with your heedless dismissals in Class 1–4, the fact that he immoderately grew to care about you this deeply is statistically absurd.

It almost appalls you.

Sometimes you wonder if you will wake up to find yourself back on the synthetic grass of Kitagawa Daiichi's football pitch, lacing your cleats pragmatically before your final club training session, only to realize that high school has yet to occur.

An erstwhile scenario you have once considered.

Utterly idiotic and irrational.

You "hate" losing, but how can one possibly hate something they have yet to experience?

Affection is a gorgeous veil; it obscures the edge of the cliff.

Regrettably, whatever you feel for this blond boy…it makes you incredibly stupid.

Tsukishima does not let up so soon. He stays there, ensnaring you to the plaster with his left arm propped against the wall beside your head, peering down at you from behind his lenses.

Those stupid, stupid lenses.

You also internally curse at the clear substantiation of his family's genetics; the cervical extension required just to sustain eye contact with him is intensively unfair.

"Careful," he murmurs. The plain word draws Tsukishima into a breathlessly hushed register meant only for your ears.

His free hand slides up your arm. He pretends to adjust the lapel of your blazer, thereupon unnecessarily fidgeting the collar of your blouse—neither of which needed to be fixed—latterly followed by the agonizingly slow drag of his knuckles along the line of your jaw. Judging by the sly expression on his features, it was intentional by all means.

Gingerly bringing his right hand to the side of your face, he tucks a stray strand of dark hair behind your ear. The pad of his thumb brushes deliberately against the tense muscle of your sternocleidomastoid. Is he being a tease? In public? On Purpose? Your asinine nervous system misfires a vivid, undeniable flush to prick at your cheeks. Your stomach performs its second ridiculous, acrobatic flip of the day. And it is not even eight in the morning.

It is all a physiological cliché.

And you hate it.

Despite the reaction's status as "warranted." It is only elicited by the absolute, unguarded tenderness in those starkly amber eyes; a tenderness wholly contained within this exact, narrow gap between the two of you.

But still, it is irrefutably, unquestionably special.

To the rest of the school, he is just some tall, unapproachable, glasses-wearing third-year from the volleyball club.

Except as you inhale the clean, distinct scent of his detergent and fabric softener, mixed with the familiarly soft aroma of his shampoo, the truth is localized in a whisper.

To you, he is simply just "Kei."

.

.

.

"Go to class, [F/n]," Tsukishima drawls, his voice exhibiting that teasing lilt from earlier that morning. His hand lingers, cupping your cheek for a fraction of a second longer than the crowded corridor necessitates as more students file into their classrooms. "I'll see you at lunch. That's what you were going to say earlier, yes?”

You roll your eyes, tilting your face just enough to lean a minuscule iota into his mitt. The sensation of a mild chill from his palm against your cheek is becoming hazardous to your cognitive functions. Conscious of the passing third-years beginning to glance over, you lightly swat at his forearm, forcing his hand back to his side.

”Anyway,” as he speaks, Tsukishima spots how your sukuba must have come unzipped along the way of dilly-dallying.

Its gaping canvas shifts under your tucked arm, open to reveal that lone and scrappy (yet concisely solid) notebook of yours, along with dubiously organized handouts and study guides of miscellaneous nature in a singularly clear folder, briefly taking in the loose-leaf papers.

Tsukishima clicks his tongue disapprovingly as he catches sight of a few of your peers poaching the door to your homeroom. He casually reaches down, leaning further in, to zip your school bag shut for you, unprompted. Those vultures ought to tone down their opportunistic gaze at your brain and school paraphernalia. “Yachi’s an exception, but don’t let your other classmates trail after you for your notes again. Those second-rates really need to learn to suffer.”

You huff, “Hypocrite. You allowed for Tadashi to copy your physics homework last week.”

”Hence the need for exceptions regarding close friends. But then again, Yamaguchi was also just charity,” he counters, as a microscopic grin eggs him on to proceed. “This is academia. There’s a difference, my dear, sweet girlfriend.”

”Uh-huh. Just like there is a stark difference between margarine and butter, you suck-up. G-Get off,” you stammer.

Tsukishima steps back, raising both hands in mock surrender. Bothersomely, the absence of his general body heat leaves your skin prickling.

The things you have to say about your integument yearning to be embraced by him again may set women back by twenty years…would be a hyperbolic expression. Of course, there is nothing quite inherently wrong with wanting to be held, especially when it stems from your perspective; underneath all that monotony and tedium, you are still a teenage girl.

Nevertheless, it does remain to be irking that it has come to this.

Tsukishima angles his head to the side, feigning deep thought. “You know, there actually is a difference. On a molecular level. But I won’t bore you with the gory details of their lipid structures right now, since I’m such a suck-up. So go.”

You sigh, in the fullness of time, finally retreating to walk those remaining two and a half meters to your homeroom. Though you mend your stride, a sharp, somatic truth follows your departure. Why, you can discern the anchor of his gaze clinging to your back like a physical impression—how it refuses to yield—with that unwavering vigilance, so subtle yet fiercely warm. It had been the very foundation upon which you had built the citadel of your high school existence around, after all. Nothing is a hair out of place. It is a normal, mundane day.

An easy visual for what a Monday morning is regularly like, encased within a synchronized pace of bantering. A kid should draw a picture of a landscape with the sun in the top corner just by how a Monday like this makes you feel.

You feel sick.

You are sick, maybe.

You want to expel the perfunctory bites of toast that you forced down earlier for breakfast.

It would have been more pleasant if you had choked on your food, rather than knowing with a choking certainty that you are actively running out of Mondays like this.

Monday | 03:39 PM

The Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Club’s afternoon practice is nothing short of being a stabilizer for your overactive senses recently.

It injects a sense of security and typicality.

The second gymnasium’s ecosystem is always consistent in the way its air tells a repetitive story. Over and over again, you are exposed to the same things. Not that you have any violent complaints…even if the same things were the stench of Deep Heat, stale sweat, and whoever is running around with 48HRS Axe Body Spray: Dark Temptation under their armpits (which certainly did not smell tempting at all).

The overpowering squeak of rubber soles gripping onto polished wood and the echoing, percussive thwack of volleyballs provide a haphazard white noise that keeps you from going haywire.

You stand by the manual flip-chart scoreboard, with your sensible clipboard clutched under your arm.

On the court, not to be biased, but Tsukishima is performing exceptionally well. Perchance, you did not dismiss the natural talent he holds for volleyball in the same manner that his own self-deprecatingly sarcastic ass did back when Kiyoko-senpai first urged you to attend that Saturday three-versus-three fixture…although it still does not fail to shock you when witnessing just how far he has come.

He is no longer that lanky, easily rattled sixteen-year-old. Tsukishima has crystallized into the role of being the indisputable core of the volleyball club’s defense—a terrifying, intelligent middle blocker who reads the opposition like cheap picture books.

You watch as he leaps, extending those ridiculously long arms over the net, shutting that god-awful spike back down onto the other side of the court.

Tsukishima does not fail to make such athletic feats look so effortless. You would never want him to quit volleyball.

”Nice one, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi cheers from the service line.

Tsukishima lands with meticulous grace, adjusting the band of his sports goggles at the back of his head. He does not feel the need to celebrate; his gaze cuts sideways, immediately seeking you out near the scoreboard.

The sight of you is enough to satisfy him.

Especially when he catches you staring so blatantly. He shoots you a faint, arrogant smirk—a cheeky and smug demand for verbal validation later on, presumably when the two of you would be alone.

You scoff, taking note of how the point was obtained on your clipboard, but your chest unwittingly betrays you with a pathetic, aching flutter that you would rather surgically extract with your bare hands…or squeeze the living daylights out of. Whichever is more convenient.

Five.

Tsukishima is too profoundly embedded into your routine and physiology. Have I not said that before?

By what means are you supposed to learn how to breathe in a sweltering, tropical country without the scent of bergamot and the tantalizing, sarcastic cadence of his speech?

”[N/n]?”

Yachi’s soft voice snaps you back to reality. The blonde manager peers up at you with wide, concerned eyes.

”Are you okay? You’ve been glaring at the rotation sheet on your notes for three minutes. You didn’t even notice Kageyama threatening to rip Hinata’s head off with that last receive.”

”I am fine, Yacchan,” you lie smoothly, clicking your pen. You hate making the poor girl worry. “Please do not fret. I solely try to crunch the statistics for how we will fare against Datekō in the upcoming practice match this Thursday. The numbers are…complicated.”

”Oh! I see…well, if anyone were to figure it out, it’d be you!” Yachi’s soft voice beams, accepting the excuse without a sliver of a doubt.

You offer a stiff nod in acknowledgment before directing your attention back toward the court.

A glaringly big mistake on your part.

Tsukishima is currently using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The motion raises the fabric high, pulling it up to expose a stark, distracting glimpse of his pale, toned abdomen.

He spots you locking onto his waistline as he raises an eyebrow in entertainment. Instead of dropping his shirt, he intentionally holds it up to his temple a second longer. A deeply obnoxious and knowing smirk spreads across his features.

”Take a picture,” Tsukishima whistles to you over the squeak of sneakers, his voice dripping with mock-courtesy as he finally lets the hem fall. “Print it, and it’ll last longer on your clipboard.”

How absurd!

Your face nearly ignites. Does he not have a gland to produce secondhand embarrassment? You aggressively bring your hand over your eyes to shield your gaze down to your notes, refusing to look at him as his terribly amused chuckle reverberates from the net. He is such an exhibitionist. A menace—no—a provocateur! Goddamn it.

Complicated does not begin to cover it.

Monday | 06:01 PM

On the surface, the commute home is nothing but ordinary.

The cold feels like shit. The sun already dipped below the horizon by the time you leave the club room, painting the sky in tiresome hues of violet and navy blue. The late-winter air is brutal, nipping sharply at your exposed cheeks, but you shrug it off. At the very least, thanks to Tsukishima’s earlier interrogation this morning, your lips are not chapped.

Tsukishima takes the outermost side of the pavement, walking closest to the bustle of the road. His hands bury themselves deep into the pockets of his Karasuno tracksuit. He had insisted on carrying your bag—ruthlessly ignoring all forms of protest—and that is how the straps of your sukuba casually hang off of his shoulder right next to his own.

”I could have carried my own things, Kei,” you fuss, with your exhale blooming into a white cloud against the darkened sky.

”Mhm. You say that now, [F/n], but you were walking out of the gym like your center of gravity was severely imperiled,” Tsukishima yawns, not missing a beat. He glances at you, and that aggravating smirk from the court slowly creeps back onto his face. “I figured you might faint from all that unabashed gawking you did earlier. I don’t need my precious manager tripping over her own feet and filing an incident report. Yamaguchi might come to the conclusion that I can’t properly take care of the club’s sweetheart.”

You glower, staring firmly at the path ahead. “Cringe. I was discerning the net. Not you. It looked to be fraying from my angle.”

”I see…yes…of course. The net, fraying, angles, and whatnot,” he repeats, thoroughly unconvinced. “You do know that I’m your boyfriend, don’t you? The Cold Manager doesn’t have to wait for me to wipe sweat off my face just to catch a glimpse. She could just ask.”

”Absolutely not,” you refute, though the wind does nothing to cool the sudden treacherous rush of blood to the tips of your ears. “Why would I ever want to do that? You are delusional.”

”Your face seems flushed, [F/n].”

”It is the draft. Plus, you are blind.”

He snorts softly. It briefly cuts through the freezing air.

You glance at him sideways, silently mapping the sculpted corners of his profile. He is wholly the caricature of permanence. Overwhelmingly so. Tsukishima appears to resemble a cast of carved marble. In the fading light, Tsukishima is a fixture of the Karasuno landscape, as steady and immovable as the mountains surrounding you.

The two of you pass by Sakanoshita Mart, where the volleyball club usually congregates. The vestiges of your younger selves—loud, messy, and certain of your own immortality—still seem to echo throughout the empty streets.

A bit further down the road, you pass by a small concession stand. Occasionally, Tsukishima would stop to buy two fresh strawberry sticks, silently handing you one without looking. Unfortunately, the metal shutters are already pulled down for the night.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Every instance that your sleeve brushes against the abrasive nylon of his jacket, you feel absurd. Like an invisible timer is ticking down to zero within the cavity of your chest, brimming with heavy words unsaid.

”Exams end on the 26th,” Tsukishima brings up, breath pluming like smoke in the frigid billows.

You blink, distinctly pulled out of your own head. “Yeah, they sure do. Good job.”

”As I was saying, our exams ending on February 26th gives us about a week of dead air before graduation…and an entire month before starting college,” he proceeds, eyes focusing on the passing luminescence of the street. “I was thinking…”

”You? Thinking? Careful, Kei, you might overheat your CPU.”

He shoots you a withering side-eye, but the bitter façade of his initial reaction quickly falters into a faint, reluctant smile. “Shut up. I’m trying to be accommodating. I was looking at train schedules.”

”And why is that?”

”There’s a new exhibit opening at the Sendai City Museum in the second week of March.”

He pulls out his phone, scrolling hastily through a related article.

“Something about prehistoric marine biology. It’s entirely tedious, but I know you tolerate that kind of academic posturing.”

He skims the screen further.

“Opens March 8th. Say, we could go the day after graduation, assuming your family hasn’t monopolized your schedule.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

It had been a totally idle evening on a school day.

You were on your cellular device, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, with your chin propped on his mattress while he lazily flipped through a volleyball magazine above you.

Your thumb had been aimlessly scrolling through your feed until a post made you pause—a promotional video of a small pastry shop downtown, its storefront draped with fairy lights and unnecessary pastel-colored confections.

”Look at this,” you had muttered, nudging his shin with your elbow and angling your phone screen upward. “The markup on these tarts is inane. Inflation is crazy.”

Tsukishima had not even glanced at the screen. He had merely looked down over the edge of the bed, his amber eyes tracking the soft, digital glow illuminating the curve of your subtle smile, and the curt, adolescent wonder you tried so hard to mask behind your clinical critique.

”Hmph,” he had grunted, turning a page of his magazine. “Silly.”

You had pursed your lips, locking your phone and immediately filing the memory away under “Things Kei Does Not Care For.”

But you had made a miscalculation.

Because Tsukishima never forgets a single piece of data when it comes to you.

”Or,” he goes on, sliding his phone back into his pocket, completely oblivious to the sudden, jarring halt of your internal organs, “we could go to that ridiculously overpriced café you showed me on Instagram last week.”

He actually remembered something so minuscule?

”The one with the monstrosities of absurdly decorated frappés and corny lights out front. I’ll let you pick. As a reward for surviving local university placement exams.”

He even recalls the specific reason as to why your interest was piqued by that singular café?

.

.

.

The blond stops walking when he realizes that you have fallen behind. Curious, he turns to look at your form bathed under the flickering halogen of a street lamp. His expression is that signature blend of feigned boredom and sagacious, undeniable attachment.

Tsukishima is planning dates. Out of everything his brilliantly analytical mind could be focused on—his rigorous university prep, finishing his pending requirements, or checking his school clearance—he has been looking at train schedules for March. He took note of a fleeting Instagram post. He had catalogued a piece of digital trivia, archiving information of a shop he claimed to despise, simply because you had brought it to his attention once.

Why are you like this?

Fundamentally, Tsukishima operates under the unquestionable assumption that when the remnants of snow completely melt and the deciduous trees bloom full of life, you would still be right here, to walk beside him on pavements just like this.

You should communicate it with him.

The shattering, devastating innocence of his future-blindness holds a terrible mercy. It lands honed steel crushing your ribcage. You can feel the structural integrity of your sternum, your seven pairs of true ribs, your three pairs of false ribs, and your two pairs of floating ribs all beginning to buckle under the atmospheric pressure of your cowardice.

It is only a matter of time before the fracture splinters and punctures a lung.

”Kei,” you reluctantly whisper; the single syllable of his name wavers precariously.

”…Yes, [F/n]?”

He visibly frowns—those fervent saffron, golden-brown eyes easily picking up on the change in your demeanor. Tsukishima closes the distance, inching half a step closer that his tall stature blocks you from the biting wind.

”What? Is it the café? If you want to go to Tokyo instead, we can. I have enough saved from my allowance to cover the Shinkansen tickets. Would that suffice?”

”No!” you blurt out. The dissonance rings too loud, and you scramble to correct it. “I mean—no, prehistoric marine biology is perfectly fine. The museum sounds…it sounds really nice.”

You force your features into their standard, neutral geometry, mustering a subtle smile that feels as fragile as a vase with shallow fissures.

”But I have not really looked at my March calendar yet…” A cold, acidic spike of dread hits your stomach as you further weave such an evasive response. It does not help that hesitant words taste like old copper coins. “And the supplementary mock exams provided by our subject teachers are eating up all my mental bandwidth.”

Tsukishima examines your face for a long, agonizing second. With squinted eyes, he scrutinizes you for a lie.

In the end, he exhales profusely as he allows for his shoulders to drop. “As expected. You always over-prepare lately,” he murmurs, sighing longingly through his nose. His voice then softens into that rare, velvety tone that did more than ruin you into abstraction. “It’s not like you’re going to flunk your local placements, much less our finals, [F/n]. Your mother would probably move the school board herself, from a whole different country, before she’d let that happen.”

Correct. You do not fail…

The light joke evaporates, replaced by an earnest gravity. “So quit treating every optional mock exam like it’s between life and death. You’ve taken all the written exams you applied for anyway, right? It’s odd that you haven’t received your Sendai University letter. I got mine two weeks ago.”

”…Yeah. Mail must just be slow,” you breathe, returning your gaze to the sidewalk.

The final few blocks to your house pass by in a blur of localized disassociation. You move on autopilot, letting the crunch of your shoes on the pavement carry you forward.

When you step past the front gate of your household, the porch light emits a harsh pool of luminosity on the concrete. In the garage, your father’s sedan sits parked in the driveway.

Humming, Tsukishima slips the handle of your bag off his shoulder, handing it over.

As you take it, your fingers graze the pronounced joints of his knuckles.

Normally—how many times have you led with that?—this is the exact variable in the equation when he offers a sarcastic parting shot, tells you not to stay up too late rotting your brain with video games, and walks away.

But before you can turn toward the front door, Tsukishima inserts himself fully into your personal space with such effrontery that only belongs to a boy who is utterly secure in his territory. His staggering height eclipses the porch light, swallowing you whole in his shadow.

You are getting a sense of déjà vu. Only this time, instead of the smooth plaster of the Third-Year Corridor, it is the rough Venetian lime of your house’s exterior that clings to the back of your blazer.

”You were being weird today,” Tsukishima presses. His voice goes lower than its usual tenor, weaponizing the same adjective your father has so eloquently utilized earlier that day.

“I am just tired,” you deflect. “It is Monday, you know how it goes.”

He studies your face. He is too observant for his own good, but only to a certain degree.

He notices the way your gaze involuntarily flicks toward the slit of the mailbox, all for the wrong reasons, before snapping back to him. He catches the slight tremor in your lower lip.

“Well, whatever it is…” he reaches out.

Tsukishima’s hands rise to cup the flush of your freezing cheeks. His palms are uncharacteristically warm for a change, radiating a concentrated level of heat that forces your eyes to flutter shut on pure, unadulterated instinct.

“May I?” he breathes.

.

.

.

A hard, bitter knot rises to blockade your throat, and you mull it back down with a leaden force. “I guess so.” Tsukishima is not the type of guy who needs to be told twice. Without another word, he gingerly leans down to your level. If he were to be a tree designed to bend solely for the wind, let it be known to the whole world that you are the wind. To compromise so leisurely—it is a concession he has never made for anyone else. Something he never did for anyone but you. Honestly, for a guy who possessed such a profound, vocal distaste for physical affection just a few years prior, he is taking his devastatingly sweet time.

Tsukishima can be entirely too methodical. It is the furthest thing from a clinical, chaste peck. It must have been made deliberate by the universe, as the stars in the sky were subjected to lay witness to a kiss laden with the dense, accumulated mass of three years shared together.

The way his mouth moves against yours—in slow, measured successions—turns obstinate in begging for your undivided neurological attention.

It is excruciatingly soft.

Your hands subconsciously grip the collar of his inner shirt, bunching the fabric that peeks out from his half-zipped jacket. In reciprocation, your brain scurries to catalog the exact biometric data of—oh, for fuck’s sake, who are you trying to fool?

It is a simple and straightforward desire that makes the Heavenly Virtue of Humility blush. You wish to vividly memorize the precise angle at which he tilts his head to the side, the faint taste of mint and sweetened coffee on his tongue, and the way his heartbeat, thumping erratically, feels irrevocably complacent against your digits through the light fabric of his shirt.

It should be a standard, dull display of affection. No matter how long it actually spans for, the pressure and reassurance of his lips against yours only clarify three specific words louder and more transparent than the actual auditory phrase ever could.

He pulls back slowly, desperately taking in air. His breathing is slightly uneven; an imperceptibly small crack in his unshakable composure that only you hold the magnifying glass to.

”Go inside,” Tsukishima beckons below a whisper, with eyes deplorably dilated behind his skewed glasses. “Before you freeze, Cold Manager. Or before your father comes out here and gives the both of us a lecture on the cardiovascular risks of hypothermia.”

You sigh through your nose, letting your hands fall away from the round collar of his shirt. “Goodnight, Kei.”

”Goodnight, [F/n]. See you tomorrow.”

Retreating, Tsukishima properly realigns his posture. Shoving his hands once more into the confines of his tracksuit’s pockets, he turns back, exits the front gate, and walks down the street in the direction from which you two came.

He moves with his habitual, sauntering, and unhurried stride.

He always walks you to and from your home, despite living significantly closer to campus. It is nothing but a willful act of inefficiency that he has never once complained about "having" to do.

You stand alone under the porch light, watching his tall, familiar silhouette fade into the darkness of the street beyond your gate. The normalcy of the day had been flawless.

And as you insert your key into the front door—hyper-aware that local mail has been lying in your desk drawer for weeks, along with the idea that a certain piece of international mail has likely already been sorted and is currently sitting at the town’s post office—you falter.

Your illusion.

Your caricature of a life overflowing with normalcy.

Your life with him.

If nothing more could be salvaged, at the very least, it had been beautiful while it lasted.

February 03 [Third-Year High School] Tuesday | 05:18 PM

The cold has yet to soften.

The school day ended without anything of particular interest going on. Although, Yachi did share her bento with you during lunch period; all while Tsukishima intruded Class 3–5, borrowed a chair nearby your desk, then perched his head on her right shoulder to quietly nap.

Yes, that was hours ago.

The wind bellows around you and Tsukishima on your way home.

Even with the sun out—barely, just as the bleeding, golden hour of dusk through the rooftops begins to set—the air still carries the kind of bite that makes breath visible and elicits chatter from one's teeth.

However, for you, it is tolerable; a Prussian-colored scarf is being wrapped around your neck to sit neatly above the collar and red ribbon of your uniform.

"…Kei, this is legitimately unnecessary," you groan avidly, trying to get through him by side-stepping, only for your dribbling of an invisible ball to be proved futile as you get held in place.

"Hush. You know, I would be finished by now if you'd quit moving so much, [F/n]," Tsukishima retorts. With meticulous hands, he carefully tucks the ends of the scarf until it looked just right. A hum of satisfaction is the next thing to come out of his mouth right before uttering, "Alright, there. Impatient, are we?

"I was not cold…" you murmur, tugging lightly at the scarf. It is worn-in, specifically, in that comfortable and lived way. Its aroma emanates faintly of his laundry detergent, laced with bergamot and mint. At least it is not itchy, you conclude, fiddling with the fabric's hem between your index finger and thumb.

Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, scoffing. "My, my. I take it that having purple lips is normal for you?"

"Maybe it is just my natural color, doofus."

He huffs in exasperation, though the ends of his mouth curl upward. “Ah. If you say so, [F/n]. Then that’s definitely how circulation works.”

You feel no urgency to reply, only mystification as you discern how the faint mist of Tsukishima’s exhale abides by the concentration gradient, fading into the cold air. His hands drop from where they were situated near the blue scarf.

Without another word, the two of you carry on—Karasuno High and Sakanoshita Mart slowly disappear from view—with each step accompanied by the sound of crackling as the dusted-thin layer of frost on the pavement gives out beneath the weight of your shoes.

Side-by-side, like usual.

It is comparable to clockwork. A dark-haired girl languidly walks with a blond boy close to her right as he strides between her and the asphalt. Tuesdays rarely differ from Mondays’ mood.

The path narrows into your typical route. Pacing on the sidewalk, housing units can be seen on the other side of the small road. The sky, originally warm-toned oranges and reds, starts to blend into matching the color of an intoxicating scarf.

Your breath fogs into thin weaves.

His did, too.

Your shadows stretch long ahead of you as more streetlights flicker to life, one after the other, basking their surroundings in faint, precious amber.

Tsukishima’s hands, easily susceptible to such low temperatures, initially stayed buried in his pockets, idly rolling a bit of lint between his digits. Then, almost absentmindedly, he slips his left hand free. He allows it to swing once, maybe twice, before it begins to brush against yours with every other step taken, as though by accident.

The insignificant scrape met with the ends of your sleeves say plenty on their own. You do not possess the need to strip your eyes from the trek ahead.

It is when you do not move away from such nuisances that Tsukishima indulges for the next moment to trace longer—fingertips grazing, then curling ever so gently.

A subtle brace of a hammering drum roll thrums within him as he finally threads his fingers through, intertwining your hands.

At first, his grip was almost bashful, like he had not done this over a thousand times within the duration of your relationship, but its irony waned as it became more apparent and sure once it found its place.

In the warmth of your hands.

In every aspect of the word, yours.

Tuesday | 05:59 PM

The familiar neighborhood envelopes and appears into view almost suddenly for you. This is what you get for disassociating. As if all you could think of was how a certain matter pinches your thoughts at the back of your mind, similar to how the cold air does. Moreover, before you become cognizant, you have arrived in front of your house. The driveway is barren.

No, the both of you do.

But of course.

Right.

You and Tsukishima arrived in front of your house. Is it preposterous? That it slipped your mind how you are in his company, despite him having held your hand for most of the commute? It happened earlier during lunch, too, when you suddenly stood up from your seat and Tsukishima's forehead banged onto the hardwood of your desk. You had forgot that he was asleep on your shoulder.

Yesterday had been bearable. You thought you had already arrived at the feeling of acceptance, so why does denial surface unwarranted?

Maybe the stress of your impending finals are starting to get to you. Or maybe the thought of making sure that the newly recruited first-year volleyball club managers are competent enough to have everything under control after you and Yachi graduate has you overthinking.

It is needless to say.

Four.

Ain't that right?

Of course, of course, of course.

Wouldn't want to address the new elephant in the room now, would you?

Palpak mo. It is mainly your shortcoming for not having thought about it properly, but why not plainly state the truth? The undisputable reason? Conflict ebbs in your thoughts, because of the one who stands right beside—

"[F/n]? Hello? Earth to girlfriend?" Tsukishima frets, snapping his fingers in your face, bringing you back from the locomotive of your notions.

Eyes dart to take in the front door that you are well acquainted with. You had not noticed that you have been hollowly staring.

"Goodness, that walk never gets shorter," Tsukishima laments lightly. He unlaces his hold from your hand so as to cross his arms and lean against the wall, while also letting you fish for your housekeys.

You reach to unlock the door, already with a reply in mind, having come up with many past repartees to the blond drama queen's incessant drawling. "I always tell you that you do not have to walk me home. You just never listen."

"Hey—I listen. Besides, I would always want to walk you home. It's in the fine print to being your loyal boyfriend." His tone is not in that cadence of sarcasm that he is infamously known for. Genuine…may be the way to describe it; as things usually are whenever he spoke to you. "'Cause I'm going to have to continue doing this when we're both in university anyway."

.

.

.

One word. Two syllables. Seven letters. Four consonants. Three vowels.

You stiffen at the mention of university. The jingling of keys hush for a fraction of a second before resuming again. It is a mystery as to how it all flies under Tsukishima's perceptive radar.

He must be too busy daydreaming, maybe deep in thought.

"Honestly, why didn't you just ask for permission to sleep over at my house?" he tilts his head to glance at you momentarily, from observing the way your expression grieves and irks when the key does not comply to the slot in the know, to you glancing back at him as if trying to register what he just said. He lifts his gaze to stare across the road beyond your gate once more.

Tsukishima's observation entirely missed the easement that flickered within you.

How, comically, did you give a sigh of relief at how he quickly changed topics.

"Hah? On a Tuesday?" You are quick to dismiss his baffling suggestion, getting more hasty with jamming the keys into the doorknob.

This elicits the blond to snort. "As if you've never slept over on a school night. You should know that I do still have the spare uniform you keep in my room just in case—"

And he goes on and on.

A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Date ideas once more. Something to do with the upcoming exams again, although equating that it suggests busier schedules, that the two of you should spend more time together, especially with…Valentine's right around the corner. Despite the fact that the concept of Cupid's Holiday eludes and goes beyond both of your bare minimum asses.

It may come as a shock that the Tsukishima Kei—snarky, allegedly hates small talk and overly-passionate spiels, whose social battery is easily drained—had developed a strange habit of being more chatty (with you, specifically). It is definitely a stifling contrast to when you had met him.

It is humorous.

He became his own juxtaposition.

At first, most of your close friends did not even think you guys were dating. There had been no outward flare for the dramatics, no lovey-dovey PDA usual couples did (and got conduct-related infractions for) back when you both shared the same homeroom for college preparatory classes as first-years.

Frankly, the few telltale signs that did raise a few flags were being on a first-name basis and how Tsukishima always set aside his headphones the moment a conversation with you starts, that is, if he were wearing them prior.

Ruminating about it, the latter is such a small and pragmatically insignificant gesture. Some might say that it is basic courtesy. But from a guy like him? A guy who rarely cared enough and cannot be bothered to have one ear unoccupied by music to acknowledge the average student body? To have tangible proof of his unswerving regard to every word that came out of your mouth?

More so, Tsukishima never minded when you used his Somy headphones; to all intents and purposes, he voluntarily adjusts the cushions himself to rest comfortably atop your earlobes. In a classroom, bedroom, or on the bus ride to matches—the setting and time of day did not matter. He was always eager to make you listen to his playlists of obscure and alternative 90s deep cuts with the occasional Japanese city pop, shoegaze, and western tracks.

How did your life get sidetracked this badly? …Huh? The minute click of the lock pulls you back to the current scene. As trees rustle in the evening wind, with the occasional sound of a crow's caw; their feathers produce that flourishingly susurrus noise when flocking nearby.

"—don't you think?" Tsukishima's voice interrupts, or more accurately, do you remember he was speaking in the first place. Mhm… God, aside from the general ambiance of the environment, it is tied with the sound of whatever Tsukishima's been schmoozing about that you have not been paying attention to.

What do I say? The correct answer is intentional mediocrity and something generic.

Subconsciously, you start twisting the brass knob to swing the door open, almost as if in a rush to get inside. "Almost"? You are in a rush. "Yeah…totally, haha. See you tomorrow? Bye."

You manage to slip past the door, in the midst of closing it on him before the conversation and interaction can further develop, but alas…

"Hold on, jeez—" Tsukishima kicks up from leaning against the wall beside your house's front door expeditiously, with one hand situated on its wooden surface and a foot wedged between the frame to prevent you from fully shutting the mahogany in his face.

Those damned volleyball reflexes, fucking hell…

"Look at you…" he says, simultaneously staring from the crack of the door. "You really are impatient today, huh? Won't my dearest girlfriend even tell me to take care as I leave?"

Leaning down, Tsukishima cranes his neck so as to be leveled, give or take, with your mystifying stare.

Teasingly, using the delivery of a minx, he whispers by degrees. Slowly, just enough for you to hear (as he ignores how there is legitimately no one else around), he continues in a batted breath, "Or kiss me goodbye?"

Good God, why.

From the small opening of the doorway, you hope that he sees your grimace. Your jaw goes agape from cringe, resulting in a face bare with subtitles. "…I am trying to figure out which of us is the teenage girl here."

"Would you look at that, someone cracks jokes now," Tsukishima muses. "Okay, but seriously," he leans down even more, turning his cheek expectantly. As if he has not made it blaringly obvious with words already, he taps his index finger onto the skin atop the zygomatic bone for a kiss in feigned restlessness.

What a childish dipshit, honestly.

Tuesday | 06:15 PM

"I am home," you announce as you toe off your shoes by the genkan, one hand propped on the interior surface of the front door for support.

The statement merely bounces off of the walls and furniture; for a moment, you stilled. Guess not even the Yoshino name can help prevent the frown that begins to etch itself onto your face. Although perhaps your frown has always been present on your face, as the abode merely erases the neutrality of your exterior shell.

The heater is definitely on, but it may as well be the same temperature outside.

Before doing anything else, you got your phone from the pocket of your skirt. A few notifications flash on your screen, particularly from your father while you were out furthering your education.

6:18 PM Tue 3 February

💬 MESSAGES (10h ago) Pa Something came in the mail for you an hour after you left for school.

💬 MESSAGES (9h ago) Pa [F/n], I'll be working overnight at the hospital for the next few days.

💬 MESSAGES (9h ago) Pa I left you extra allowance on the kitchen counter to suffice for meals and other necessities.

💬 MESSAGES (9h ago) Pa Stay out of trouble. :-)

💬 MESSAGES (9h ago) Pa And let me know if anything happens. Love you, princess.

What a way to start February, you think as you walk over to the kitchen island, finding two envelopes.

The former on the left has "ALLOWANCE" written in your father's all-caps penmanship. You can tell that he just reused an envelope from one of the previous utility bills, presumably for the mere purpose of containing the money. Meanwhile, the latter on the right is affixed with a fancy looking maroon wax seal like time warped back to the 18th century…guess your father did mention mail coming in.

International mail usually arrives in the Karasuno sorting facilities on Monday.

Do you not [REMEMBER]?

You decide to open the petty cash your father left so as to not starve to death within the next four-to-five days first and foremost. Oh, swag. One, two, twenty…thousand…¥20,000…TWENTY-THOUSAND YEN?! Well, that definitely is more than sufficient to cover expenses for meals. Jesus Christ. What a doting man. Not to say that your mother is a stingy woman when it comes to money, but damn.

You choose not to open the other envelope as you go up to your room.

The moment you enter your space, you allow for your bag to drop onto the floor with a soft thud. Dragging your feet to your desk, you toss both envelopes onto the table in the similar motion of dealing a deck of cards. I would make one fine casino dealer. That was gas.

Moving to that one corner with your full-length mirror, you also begin to discard your clothes and other apparel, leaving you in your undergarments before staggering toward your dresser.

You just yanked whatever, ending up with your old Kitagawa Daiichi jogging pants and a random institutional long-sleeved shirt. You definitely would not end up on any cover of Teen Vogue with this botched outfit, but who cares? The comfort of your bed never judged. What a long day. Sighing, you look to your desk.

You will deal with the other envelope later…your soft bedsheets are so much more riveting to indulge in as they lull your eyes shut.

A brisk nap is now in session. Tuesday | 06:31 PM

When you woke up, your stomach rumbles. They mentioned this gluttony in the Bible.

Too lazy to cook, you decide to settle on buying convenience store food from the 8–Eleven that is stupidly forty-five minutes away by bus. Surely, cooking would have been less of a hassle compared to going all that way for instant noodles, one raw egg, a cold tuna mayo onigiri, and a sad can of Fanta soda…but whatever.

Throwing on a sherpa jacket of dark green hues, you snatch your wallet, wired earphones, phone, and keys, pocketing none of the petty cash provided by the courtesy of your father. Your normal funds are probably enough to get you through one visit to the konbini anyway.

By the front door, you barely take a moment to pay great attention to what footwear you were wearing.

Food is your number one priority. You could be wearing nasty DIY slip-ons made out of bread and five minutes of crafting for all the zero fucks that you would have personally given.

Tuning out half of the world, you wear your right earphone as you stroll to the bus stop.

When the bus arrived, you waste no time getting on.

It is not cramped. Thank God. Although, there are no unoccupied seats. …Drats. Bored out of your mind, you go to type what you plan to buy in your Notes app…which only took like fifty-eight seconds.

Well, the next best thing to do with a phone is to go bother your twerp brother.

Dependent

iMessage Today 6:46 PM

You [6:47 PM] Huy bata

You [6:48 PM] What are you doing

Dependent [6:50 PM] Studyin

You [6:50 PM] For

Dependent [6:50 PM] Math test on thurs🤢

You [6:51 PM] Lol That's unfortunate

Dependent [6:52 PM] Yah ik sohcahtoa kickn my butt "such my toe ah" ahh😭😭🙏 🥀🥀😂🙏😭🥀😭🙏🙏😭😭😂🥀

You [6:53 PM] If only you could take a penalty like how trigonometry's whooping your grades

Dependent [6:53 PM] Bruh Rude ssighs

You [6:54 PM] I'm on a bus

Dependent [6:55 PM] Ok

You [6:55 PM] To 8–Eleven

Dependent [6:55 PM] Okkk

You [6:56 PM] I may not survive

Dependent [6:56 PM] Ure goinh to a konbini brogg😭

You [6:56 PM] Exactly It's very spiritually taxing y'know

Dependent [6:57 PM] Then dont fo Go***

You [6:57 PM] I need soda

Dependent [6:57 PM] That aint an emergency🥀🥀🥀

You [6:57 PM] Well I'm already on the bus

Dependent [6:57 PM] U da real bus

You [6:57 PM] 😒 Anyway……… Besides, everything is an emergency when you're bored

Dependent [6:57 PM] ??. Im not bored Im studyn🤓

You [6:58 PM] Hello Studyn, I'm [F/n] Lol

Dependent [6:58 PM] … Ok papa

You [6:58 PM] Okay Studyn

Dependent [6:58 PM] Ur jokes r lame

You [7:00 PM] Okay Dependent

Dependent [7:00 PM] Quit callin me dat

You [7:00 PM] What can I do It's literally your name

Dependent [7:00 PM] It is not

You [7:00 PM] It is on my phone

Dependent [7:02 PM] Change it yoww😭😭😭😭

You [7:02 PM] Earn it

Dependent [7:02 PM] ????? Earn what

You [7:03 PM] Financial independence 

Dependent [7:03 PM] Im 15 bro💀 Jk waiyi forgot im 16 alr

You [7:06 PM] Skill issue

Dependent [7:07 PM] Dont u still get weekly alliwance from papa Read 7:07 PM

A content sigh escapes you. Tsk. He is getting wittier…pfft, yeah right. You smile to yourself.

The ride was smooth, save for the few and rare bumps on the road. You check your phone, and it displays "7:28 PM" by the time you arrived at your destination.

Stepping off the bus, the night air creeps up your spine—cool and thin—almost needling through the fabric of your joggers. The automatic doors of the small establishment slide open, playing that usual chime you hear from convenience stores once someone enters.

Not wasting any second mucking around, you look at the "super intensive list of things to buy" on your Notes app as you walk by stacked shelves and the familiar tiled floor.

Quick Notes [⋯]

Fmart 2/3/15 at 6:45 PM

- inst ant npodles (Nissin Cup Noodles or whtv) -  1 egg (ask over ciunter mybe) - tuna  mayo - soda

…Thinking back, perhaps the bus ride did sway you a little more than occasionally when you jotted that down on your phone. But hey, it may have just been the pinnacle of your literary career; despite everything, you manage a giggle at all its unseriousness and "inst ant" glory.

It definitely contrasts against all the other things in your Notes app that generally conform to grammatical standards—heck, it looks like Kyōjiro's dookie typing skills.

You pause mid-aisle.

Actually, no. Even his typing skills are not this tragic.

Your phone buzzes; you did not need to check the notification to know who it was. Still, you do.

Dependent

iMessage Today 7:33 PM

Dependent [7:33 PM] Did u miss ur stop Wwwww Wwwwwwww wwww ww wwwww w

You [7:34 PM] I am literally inside the establishment already Bwiset ka

Dependent [7:34 PM] U didnt text I assumed thr worsy

You [7:34 PM] Behavior of a dependent

Dependent [7:35 PM] Bro stop oml Read 7:35 PM

Refocusing, you return to reality. You reach for a cup of noodles, squinting at the myriad of flavors like you were evaluating life decisions rather than sodium intake. Seafood. Curry. Original. Auhhh…you grab two before you can overthink it. Purely for peace of mind and efficiency, obviously.

Time is ticking, and your stomach acid is getting ready to rumble like WWE.

You walk over to the refrigerated foods section; conditioned air brushes over your hands as you scan for tuna mayo. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead.

Somewhere near the register, the cashier greets another customer with a polite and rehearsed tone.

Having procured everything but the egg and the last item on your list, you and your merry basket—embossed with a fading 8–Eleven logo on its plastic flank—walk toward the aisle for beverages. It is probably best that you save the egg for last, hence why you are here. Coca-Cola. Sprite. Iced coffee. Potari Sweat. Yakult. Pirukuru. Yo—?! Well, gurt.

You accidentally collide into a solid mass, almost dropping your phone so you promptly pocket it into your jacket for now. The impact is not violent, per se, but enough to jostle the contents of your basket. A distinct, sharp click of a tongue cuts through the narrow aisle. Woe is me, shit. Public execution incoming. So much for staying out of trouble.

"The hell?! Jeez. Watch where you're…[F/n]?"

"Tobio?" you blink at him, blindsided by such an encounter. You also take a gander toward what he has in his basket. Pork katsu curry and two small cartons of milk.

Since you just sort of zoned out, Kageyama follows the direction of your gaze, and immediate regret flashes across his face as he starts floundering when he tries to explain himself.

His posture stiffens like he had been accused of…treason? Fandom-induced mischaracterization? Whoa. Who said that?

His free hand starts rubbing the back of his neck. "Quit judging. I-I swear I like other things, too. Like you."

.

.

.

The refrigerators hum.

One of the doors to the alcoholic drinks click shut as a salaryman got three cans of Asahi Super Dry 330 mL nearby.

You jut your chin out. "Say what?"

He stops oddly gesticulating; his brain visibly blue-screens.

"WHAT! I said yogurt, idiot…! Clean your ears, for fuck's sake!"

Red. His face turns a humiliatingly tickled shade of vermillion. Like someone had manually adjusted his saturation slider to its maximum setting. His head has essentially exploded, actually. He looks like he wants the tiled floor to open up and swallow him whole—right at the exact same location where he got that stupid and expensive football magazine, too.

It is a poor, fickle crush that took root back in junior high school, and it really ought to dissipate sooner or later. He is six business years late to the party. With the addition of his blond teammate to the equation, the sentiment has officially overstayed its lease by at least three fiscal quarters.

Kageyama genuinely does not understand why he has not pulverized these weird feelings down into a fine powder, especially since you have been off the market—all thanks to Four-Eyes—for the majority of high school.

Currently, the dark-haired setter appears to be overheating in an adequately ventilated part of the convenience store.

Since you did not actually catch his initial blunder, and since he is now reduced to sputtering, you let it slide. Oh well. He always has been this odd.

Drawing closer, you squint at his basket again. "Yogurt, huh."

"Yes," he says stiffly, voice rigid enough to snap a glowstick alight. "Yogurt."

You point a finger. "There is no yogurt in your basket."

His soul leaves his body. "'Cause I was…just about to get it! Duh."

"You sounded quite affirmative, though," you reckon, finding the sheer panic on his face deeply entertaining. It is funny. Perhaps you, too, harbor a latent tendency to tease people. "Were you making a declaration?"

"I WASN'T DECLARING ANYTHING!" Déjà vu? A nearby auntie slowly wheels her cart past you and Kageyama, her eyes flicking between your faces with mild concern. Kageyama swears that he heard her mumbling under her breath about "teenage couples nowadays…" which does absolutely nothing to help the crisis his facial temperature is undergoing.

You clear your throat, breaking the tension. "Seems like I am not the only one who has not moved on from Kitagawa Daiichi."

…Wait. WHAT. Kageyama's internal monologue jump-starts. Has she known all this time? What a weird thing to say…unless she's bringing up the magazine? Or maybe she's aware that I've liked her? Was I that obvious?

"HOW DID YOU KNOW? Also, what the hell do you mean?" He looks about half ready to do laps around the other aisles if you do not start to explain yourself in the next five seconds.

"Your basket told me?" You point with your lips, circling the topic back to its physical contents. "You…still get the exact same things you used to order from the school cafeteria back then. Cute. As for me, I am literally wearing my old Kitaichi joggers."

Oh. Kageyama mentally slaps himself on the forehead.

While he ruminates on a wavelength where your guess is as good as a stranger's, you reach for a bottle of Sprite (because they did not have stock of Fanta Grape Soda) and drop it into your basket.

Since he is an old friend, you decide to indulge in the dreadful art of small talk.

"Ahem…uhm. So, what brings you here?"

"Dinner. I just live a few blocks down from here."

Your eyes widen. Metaphorically, a high-wattage lightbulb sparks into existence above your head. So that is why this neighborhood looks so familiar.

You have only ever been to the Kageyama residence a handful of times—certainly not enough to memorize and account for every bush and shriveled tree in their current seasons. Him living nearby; it makes perfect sense. Eh, sure, but logic is not nearly as fun to weaponize.

"…Stalker."

"I'm not a stalker!"

"Mm."

"[F/n], I swear."

"Sure, man."

Kageyama bristles, a comedic droplet of sweat finally rolling down his brow. "You're the one who walked into me."

You bring a hand to your chin, pondering the physics of the collision. "Yeah…well, you were probably standing diagonally. You may want to get checked for scoliosis."

"What? My back is fine! Everything you've said so far doesn't make any sense. Those aren't crimes either."

"Those are not your only crimes, stalker Tobio, but what do I know? Though you should really schedule a teleconsultation, dude." I am hilarious. And helpful.

Kageyama stares blankly at you for a long while. He clearly does not know what the hell is happening to the trajectory of this conversation, so instead, his brain defaults to observing you in…civilian clothes. Getting to see you during the weekend did not count. She only got prettier over the years as a volleyball club manager…damn it.  She looks so at peace or something while she's like this, picking out groceries…shoot. Tsukishima's the lucky idiot who gets to see her like this every other day. The bitter thought prompts the next words out of his mouth. "You've been good?"

You mimic his posture; the two of you sharing a brief, blank stare before you answer. "Guess so. You?"

"…You could say. I've had a lot of free time for volleyball since I don't need to do all that college stuff," he states plainly.

College…shit.

The word stabs a sharp reminder of the reality waiting for you at home.

Kageyama, acutely remembering that he is constitutionally incapable of handling normal human conversation for extended periods, straightens up. "I uh…need to pay."

"Oh—well, you do that." You step aside, granting him clearance toward the registers in the path behind you.

He takes exactly two paces past you before stopping dead in his tracks like those stick figures painted on pedestrian crossing signs. He turns around like a malfunctioning NPC, and attempts a forced, manual smile.

"…Get home safe, [F/n]"

The sentiment is well appreciated. Your gaze softens. “You too, Tobio.”

He freezes again. Why does she have to say my name like that? Shit, I’m no better than the late Tanaka-senpai.

With that final internal crisis, Kageyama robotically marches off toward the counter with the frantic energy of a man fleeing a crime scene he committed against himself.

For a second, you watch him line up before you feel your phone buzz in your jacket pocket.

7:47 PM Tue 3 February

💬 MESSAGES (6m ago) Dependent Ru on da bus

Six minutes ago? A delayed notification.

You snort. You cannot help but think it reads like a five-year-old is hijacking your chats, when in reality it is just your brain-rotted kid brother.

Dependent

iMessage Today 7:41 PM

Dependent [7:41 PM] Ru on da bus Read 7:47 PM

You [7:47 PM] No

Dependent [7:48 PM] Y

You [7:50 PM] I bet you’re wondering what to do with the time you saved from not typing the other 2 letters of the word “why”

Dependent [7:51 PM] U liealy took 2 mins to tupe tht keyboard warriro The lipn doesnt concern himself w spelling Like mufasa

You [7:52 PM] I’m typing with one hand, you dillweed I also think that the “lipn” should concern himself with trigonometry and studying Like Mufasa

Dependent [7:52 PM] Mufasa sukasa bruh Also nawhhhw Lions dont havw math neesan

You [7:52 PM] Lions actually do quantitative reasoning to survive in the wild So about that mathematics test?

Dependent [7:53 PM] Well Funny thing………………

Dependent [7:54 PM] Gave up Still on thurs anywayyy🥱🥱🥱

Dependent [7:54 PM] So y r u stillnat the konbini yow Ew dont tell me ur making out w ur boyfriend

You [7:55 PM] ??? I have literally never done that in a konbini, you sicko

You [7:56 PM] I’m just about to queue up at the cashier I’m not even with Kei right now

Dependent [7:56 PM] Oooooooo inchresting Wwwwwwwww Read 7:56 PM

Powering off your screen, you inhale through gritted teeth. Yikes. That last part was…let us not talk about it.

You look up, just in time to see Kageyama fumble with his wallet—nearly dropping a carton of milk in panic—and nonchalantly dart out the automatic doors.

Some things never change. Hm. He did not get yogurt like he said. Maybe yogurt declined him, like how Shiratorizawa Academy’s entrance exam for high school did.

Kageyama truly is odd.

Some things, at least, are constant. Tuesday | 08:47 PM

The long, tiresome ride from the convenience store and the walk back from the bus stop were a haze. When you enter the kitchen, you do not bother opening the main lights. You just flick the stove on; you twist the gas tank, turn the nub for one of the cylinders, and light a match.

The fire's ember and faint yellow glow makes the vast room appear…even lonelier.

Rummaging through the upper cabinets, you acquire a kettle, fill it with water, and set it to boil. While water bubbles, your form melts down against the counter, slumping onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. Sitting in the dark. Clutching your knees to your chest. The plastic bag from 8–Eleven crinkles beside you in pathetic rapport. Perhaps, this is ultimately the "calm and admirable manager" that the team does not see. Not as if they should witness such a thing. Goodness, that would be shit.

There is no resting bitch face, no clipboards, no witty barbs to keep a blond in check. Merely a girl in an institutional shirt made out of thin, worn-out fabric, waiting for the kettle to scream in a house that is utterly too big for one person. Distance. It keeps looping in your mind, like an interpolation. More so, a tumor spreading its cancer cells.

There was once a great distance that you ran…and it indisputably has no correlation to your current status quo. But you ran your mind to its death. You traded your cleats for refilling water bottles—ironic enough to stab you back to the drinking fountain four Septembers ago for a brief second.

On some days, you wonder what it would be like if you had not cut your time short. Would you even be at Karasuno? Possibly, you would be representing the nation as you attend Shiratorizawa, experience a tightly packed schedule because traveling is inevitable, and hounding your trail would be fame as more accolades get added to your collection.

But you did not play to make it big.

In truth, chasing and kicking stupid hexagonally patterned balls did give you a chance to breathe fresh air. And you hate to admit it, but an abdicated highness known for his scowl may have been partially correct. Better late than never, right?

Football was very dear to you, even behind an uncaring mask of an idiotic girl whose vision started to dull at the undiluted liquor of victory. Favoring convenience over appreciation…you still have a portion of your mentally stuck on this, but you have the capacity to understand that it was wrong to apply to something inherently recreational.

In another universe, at that age, maybe you get over yourself to search for a greater challenge just out of your repertoire's reach, experience a new sense of frustration, and follow where blades of grass point as wind flourishes over a girl with a genuine smile. Maybe you would have discovered the balance of being content, not complacent.

But in that universe, you would have unwittingly traded seeing blond hair so vividly, all for the sight of a colorful pitch.

You would have never been introduced to the sensation of knowing someone dearer than you knew your own self.

You would hum in D-flat right now, if only you could capture the way he does it.

It appears that life always throws you into making do with compromises. Your current status quo is oversaturated with the concept of distance. The distance between you and your parents. The distance between you and your kid brother. The distance between you and your boyfriend, whose scarf still pools onto the floor of your bedroom, discarded near your full-length mirror upstairs and— Shrillfully, the high-pitched whistle of the kettle interjects your lonesome.

You stand up, joints popping, and you begin to prepare your dinner.

Carrying the kettle over to the counter, you are met with a single paper cup of noodles that sits waiting like an afterthought. With slow, mechanical movements, you peel back the laminated lid just halfway—careful not to tear it completely off, clinging to that tiny bit of order.

The sharp, synthetic scent of dehydrated seasoning and salt rises from the dry brick inside. It is a poor substitute for a home-cooked meal and a balanced diet.

You pour the boiling water into the cup. It elicits a splash that grows muffled as the dry noodles submerge and begin to soften. You fill it precisely to the inner ridge, then press the stiff paper lid back down. To keep the steam from escaping, you weigh it down with a nearby ceramic plate—cold and unused.

…1

…2

You lean against the counter, upright, with arms folded tightly against your chest, observing tiny wisps of vapor slip from the edges of the sealed cup.

…3

…4

In the quiet kitchen, the ticking of the wall clock feels unnervingly loud, marking time for a meal eaten entirely alone.

Five minutes later, you once again stare at the steam seeping through the lid in the form of condensation. Putting away the plate, you gather your dinner and your haul of 8–Eleven items before heading up to your bedroom.

Nissin Cup Noodles. It is overly saline in taste (wow, how shocking…) and piping hot. Well, this is what you get for blindly grabbing Original for tonight, but at least it is a grounding sensor as you sit at your study table, eating in boredom and the drought of appropriate entertainment.

All you can do is look around your room. Bed. Old football. Mirror. Shelves. Trophies and medals. Windows with blinds. Door to the bathroom. Dresser. Closet. Door to the hallway. You spin in your swivel chair, only to end up facing your desk once again—as one should only expect when rotating three hundred and sixty degrees.

You eat another mouthful of noodles, ogling blankly at whatever meets your eyes atop your desk.

Lamp. School textbooks. A medical journal from my father. Notebooks. A red, high-end, heavy-duty, metal stapler from Tsukishima. A fossilized counterpart of a brachiopod whose other half belongs to Tsukishima. A brochure from Sendai City Museum from a previous date with Tsukishima…framed photos with Tsukishima…numerous Polaroids with Tsukishima…

He has occupied your desk—your life, really—more than you cared to dwell on.

Not in the form of teddy bears or grand bouquets.

Undeniably, there is a secondary layer to your personal workstation that has him written all over it.

After he lounged in your room on a random Saturday, watching you struggle for ten minutes with your feeble plastic stapler to fasten eight pages of a research proposal back in your second year—wherein you ended up having to reprint the stubbornness of your research after your cheap excuse ruined the upper-left corners anyway—he did not offer to help.

He just showed up to your house the next day, invited himself in after Kyōjiro's garlic breath had been the one to greet him at the door, barged into your room at nine o'clock in the morning, and slammed the new stapler onto your desk, saying, "Your old one was an affront to modern engineering, dork."

There is also that miniscule, unassuming piece of a prehistoric fossil. It looks like an arbitrary chunk of a rock that you just so happened to have picked off and adopted from the street, but it is sitting on a velvet-lined coaster.

It is one of the very first things that he ever gave you that was not practical or functional.

A matching set. He has the cast. You have the mold. Frankly, he is the true dork. You ran your thumb over the textured surface of the sediment. Almost every item on this desk is a grotesque tether. For the span of three years, you had been building a museum of Tsukishima Kei, curating treasures of a life that was meant to be permanent. Looking at the fossilized rock, you have to restrain yourself from throwing it out of your window. Your nail bites its plate; scratching it begrudgingly does nothing. Not even leaving a mark, it suggests that the sediment has a greater hardness than the second notch of Mohs' scale. You curse internally…at how it had survived millions of years of pressure, heat, and tectonic shifts. It is the pinnacle emblem of endurance. And here you are, proving that you are not as resilient as a piece of ancient debris. Shaking your head, your eyes continue to shift from one object to the next. Laptop. Noodles. Allowance. Phone— Letter.

It is neat.

Pristine, even. More so than the one that has been compiling dust in the drawer below.

The maroon-colored wax has its own unique way of taunting you. "Take the test, sweetheart. For me, please? Just take the examination, [F/n]. It is simply an alternative option—I would already be elated in just knowing that my daughter can at least get accepted with its competitiveness," your mother's sharp, unyielding voice echoes through your mind, an apparition from months prior.

You can still picture the high-pressure set of her jaw over the Skype screen.

The lady was entirely deaf to your light protests about wanting to focus on the preliminary schedules for Nationals and settling for local colleges. "The University of the Philippines is a premier institution. Don't you want to get in touch with your roots, too? If you truly intend to pursue sports medicine, you will sit for the UPCAT. This is non-negotiable, dear."

You had taken it, merely to pacify her.

To check a box.

To stop the endless badgering across time zones.

But you had underestimated your own merit.

Office of Admissions University of the Philippines T.M. Kalaw corner Quirino Avenue UP Diliman, Quezon City 1101 Philippines

Application No: 2015-9412 Reference No: XXXX-2015-XXXX-PT-0842 Date: January 22, 2015

[F/n] Yoshino 85-2 Dai-7 Chiwari, Karasuno-machi Shibata-gun, Miyagi-ken, 989-1601 Japan

Dear Ms. Yoshino,

CONGRATULATIONS!

Thank you for participating in the UP College Admissions with more than 70,000 applicants. We would like to inform you that your application has complied with the requirements and is APPROVED for entry into the University of the Philippines.

On the basis of the application and pertinent papers submitted, the UP Office of Admissions is pleased to offer you First Year Admission to the College of Allied Medical Professions - Bachelor of Science in Physical Therapy program for the First Semester of Academic Year 2015–2016 at the University of the Philippines Manila.

Special Provision for Early Admission (International Track): This physical confirmation has been expedited ahead of the general domestic release schedule to accommodate the academic calendar and visa processing timelines of applicants from Japan.

As an international student, your admission is subject to the clearing of the following mandatory conditions before enrollment:

Student Visa Verification: Submission of a valid Student Visa (9f) or appropriate visa issued by the Philippine Bureau of Immigration.

Academic Credentials: Submission of your official, original transcript of records and secondary school graduation certificate duly authenticated by the Philippine Embassy or Consulate in Japan.

Institutional Protocols: Compliance with the UP Manila College of Allied Medical Professions (CAMP) health clearances and the mandatory Return Service Agreement.

Please confirm your acceptance of this slot by returning the enclosed Reply Slip via registered mail or courier to our office on or before the indicated deadline.

The University of the Philippines is known for its strong commitment to academic excellence and highly competitive admission process. We look forward to welcoming you to the university!

Sincerely,

PROF. AURORA CORPUZ-MENDOZA Director, Office of Admissions

.

.

.

Damn it.

Your mother would be so proud the moment she finds out.

She would be over the moon. The meticulous trap that she set has sprung perfectly to her beckoning.

Suddenly, your phone vibrates on the desk.

8:57 PM Tue 3 February

💬 MESSAGES (22h ago) Shō d u think itd be funny if i told kageyama that milk gives ppl butt warts or nah

💬 MESSAGES (1m ago) Shō [N/N]!!!!!!!!!!!!! heyyyyyyyywww

💬 MESSAGES (now) Shō hey [n/n] r u awakw?

💬 MESSAGES (now) Shō uve been TOO quiet… unalso havnt replied 2 mu queschon the othr day

You stare at the notifications. It is just Hinata and his rambunctious texts. What a millennial. Come to think of it, he is the one person who had witnessed you fall into a destined fate on the pitch; who never minded how indifferent you seemed when he saw you for the first time in a long while during the start of high school, all because he had seen you get mildly upset over a flat football for the total account of one time when the two of you were six. Hinata is the only one you could talk to. Right now, at least. Hinata would not be quick to judge, and he just does not know how to keep a distance anyway.

Shō

iMessage Today 8:56 PM

Shō [8:56 PM] [N/N]!!!!!!!!!!!!! heyyyyyyyywww

Shō [8:57 PM] hey [n/n] r u awakw? uve been TOO quiet… unalso havnt replied 2 mu queschon the othr day

You [8:57 PM] I am awake, Shō Chill

You [8:58 PM] Just eating dinner Read 8:58 PM

You do not know what inclined you to send a picture of your sad meal, but you did.

The Nissin Cup Noodles are apparent on your desk.

Shō

iMessage Today 8:58 PM

You sent a photo [8:58 PM] Tap to view

Shō [8:58 PM] instant noodls again?.? [n/n] im tellin ur dad

Shō [8:59 PM] or better yet im tellin tsukki!!! hell give u a hippocritical lecture on what a proper diet is lmaoooz

Shō [8:59 PM] wwwwww w w wwww ww Read 8:59 PM

Your heart fell. Almost as if it cringed to that.

It would bury itself deeper into the cavity of your chest if it were physically possible, certainly.

Out of all the jokes to say, just…

Do not tell Kei.

You cannot fathom it yet.

Shō

iMessage Today 9:01 PM

You [9:01 PM] Maybe you shouldn't

Shō [9:01 PM] oh UWAHH dont worry [n/n] i wasnt actully gonna! u n him alr?

You [9:04 PM] Can we call? Read 9:04 PM

The phone fails to ring once before his face already unceremoniously appears onto your screen—a video call goes beyond what you intended, but okay…since he is sharing his camera, you might as well.

Hinata is in his room; his orange hair is messier than usual, and his bright face is leaning ever too close to the lens of his phone.

You inhale sharply, so as to moor your lungs. "Shōyō."

"[N/n]? What's wrong? Are you okay?" he wonders what gave you the urge to call him. You rarely initiate to call or text him recently, but he shrugs that off like it does not matter. Ride or die, he will always be there for his [N/n]. "You sound…hey, I'm not joking, but you sound like you're underwater. Unless that's just my connection? Oh, by the way, am I clear on your end or…?"

"I got accepted into college—"

"Whoa! Well, that's great, isn't it? I'm so happy for you! I've been hearing how amazing Sendai University's campus is from Tsukki's research on it and—"

"It's in the Philippines. Abroad…is what I was about to say. I just received my letter today," you go slack in your chair, leaning back and fixing your gaze on the blank ceiling. "I have not told my family yet, but once my mother hears of this, it is basically a sealed deal wherein I leave right after graduation."

The silence on the other end of the line drops dead.

Hinata does not bounce, whip, or shout in a raucous manner. He plainly watches you through the digital grid of the screen, his expression mellowing into that infrequently solemn version of himself that only occurs far and few in between the fabric of time.

"So…you're probably moving," he mutters.

"Yeah. And I have yet to tell Kei." You exhale a jagged, uneven breath. "How am I supposed to tell him, Shō? 'Hey, thanks for high school and the three years of being the only moron I have ever grown to like, but I am leaving to be across an entire ocean and we will never see each other again'?"

Hinata tries to find a foothold. "Well if you put it like that, you'd just spiral further. You don't actually know that it's going to be 'never'…" but even his voice sounds empty, unconvinced by its own doubt.

"Are the lights on with nobody home?"

The retort slips past your teeth too hastily. Out of everyone on this doomed planet, up until this exact moment on Earth, you have never verbally turned your clinical sarcasm against his intelligence. But the dam has broken. You snap, despite trying to delude yourself into thinking that there is no real heat behind its utterance.

"I—sorry, Shō. I just think that…long-distance does not work, does it?"

Another silence follows suit. It is not entirely awkward; it is the instinctive stillness between two people who once shared the same playground for almost half a decade.

Hinata does not offer another crappy, cheap platitude. And he is the most avid fan of jumping the gun to awe, to react, to emote, and to worry. He does not tell you that it will all be fine.

"Long-distance…with Tsukishima?" he clarifies steadily.

"Obviously. Am I in a relationship with you?" You close your eyes, your thumb aggressively massages the bridge of your nose. If it were not for the subpar bandwidth and the motion of you actively looking away, perhaps you would have caught how Hinata's bright expression crumples, his mouth parting in a breathless sort of ache unable to be brought up. "I am…damn it, please forgive me, Shō. You are a great friend," you murmur, as your defenses degrade. "This is making me say all kinds of irrational things. But truthfully, I do not think that relationships survive that sort of thing. We are only teenagers, and we are—well—I cannot exactly say, without lying to myself, that he and I are the type of people who can live through a screen for four years. He is too cynical for it, and I am too…practical."

"Would you want it to?" Hah? The question catches you entirely off guard. You have not thought about it before. You have not permitted yourself to take the time and reflect on that. Its nature has eluded you. You have been too busy running the pros and cons of an LDR; too busy calculating a definitive outcome to dwell on what-ifs.

"I do not know." Your eyes dart everywhere but the lens of your phone. Your voice cracks—a physical anomaly that can easily be discerned if one were to use a Sound Level Meter or a Spectrogram to analyze your delivery. "I like him, that much is clear. I like him more than the word sanctions for me to express. He is the only person that I have ever…"

Your train of thought violently forks into different routes. Ever…what? Ever wanted to exert the extra effort for? Ever thought to grab onto? Ever felt stupid butterflies in the acidic pit of your stomach for? Is he the only person that you have allowed yourself to be vulnerable around; to have ever romantically loved? "…Never mind. As I was saying, even with the variable of me liking him, I do not want to spend my early twenties waiting for a flight that is too much of a hassle to take. Nor do I want to watch him grow up through FaceTime calls."

Through the speaker, you hear Hinata shifting.

Without looking, you can picture him pacing back and forth across the small span of his bedroom floor—in the exact same way he did when he was eleven years old, trying to figure out how to climb a tree that held his new volleyball hostage.

"[F/n], I don't think you should stay somewhere just to make things work." Hinata's words ring out with a grounded calm. His voice is ironclad. It is steadier than your own, to be frank, which says quite a lot.

"What?" You blink, glancing back at the screen, thrown off by the gravity in his tone. It is devoid of its usual cheekiness; his features are pinned under the weight of deep thought.

"If you leave, then you should go because you want to, or because you have to. But don't stay for the sake of someone else, or because of the threat that you'd lose him." Hinata looks at his wall, then out the window of his room into the quaint nightlife of the street, recounting the endless afternoons that he spent pedaling his small bicycle to watch your local football matches. Back when the world considered him as your other half.

The sheer number of times that he stood behind a chain-link fence just to keep his eyes on you is more than he can count on his fingers and toes. Yet he does not regret a single kilometer.

Hinata marks his words. "That's not…that's not how Yoshino [F/n] plays. You don't play for a draw. You play to win, or you don't play at all." Again, what? Is that what you seemed like?

A dry, shaky breath hitches in your throat. "You sound like an adult. It is weird."

"Don't say that! That's so gross," he shoots back, and that familiarity finally edges its way back onto his voice.

But then Hinata sighs, and the room's energy skews on its axis once more.

"Gosh. At least the both of us are leaving," he says under his breath, so quietly that it nearly misses your ears.

A frown etches itself onto your features. You sit up straighter in your swivel chair, all too perplexed. "Huh? Shō, what are you talking about?"

"I mean—ah, shoot! Well, I haven't brought it up seriously to anyone yet. Not even Kageyama, and he was kinda the one who inspired me…after he declared that he's going pro straight after grad, y'know?" Hinata scratches the nape of his neck, eyes drifting back to the wall. "Like, honestly, I know it's kinda crazy, but there's so much more out there! I want to see how far I can go."

That look. The one on his face.

Despite what people think, Hinata Shōyō's level of consistency is extremely similar to how an analog clock's hands will always sweep around the dial.

That look is the same expression that declares to jump over mountains to see the ocean.

"I want to see the sun rise, from the other side of the world."

Hinata—the boy who pedaled through rain to watch your elementary drills before he ever even knew what a volleyball was—is chasing the horizon.

He is not being pulled away by geographic heritage or a mother's clinical ambitions.

As a matter of fact, Hinata may not be the most astute, but he is running toward the flame that fuels his impression for a concrete goal. So what am I choosing to run toward? "Where?" you ask.

"Brazil, maybe," he admits. "Not necessarily for forever, though. But the point is…we're both leaving, right? We may not be going to the same place, but at least we're gonna move on to a new chapter of our lives together! That makes things a little less scary."

"Mm." As idleness left your noodles to turn cold, the surface of its broth congealed, too.

Your eyes trail downward, away from your desk, to the foot of your full-length mirror. Towards his blue scarf scattered onto the floor along with your jettisoned uniform. It looks like a mourning shroud in the dim lighting of your desolate bedroom. "We would be the ones to leave. But Shōyō…Kei likes normalcy. He likes routines and regularity. Constitutionally, he would like the kind of person who stays." You have manually done the math several times already.

"[𝑥 + 3.4 = 𝑥 + 3.5]."

There is no numerical value that would satisfy it.

There is no solution.

"He is going to hate me," you mutter, with an aching chest. "He is going to think that I am just another person who lied to him. The same way his brother did." "I don't think anyone's actually capable of hating you," the orange-haired boy comments. It is entirely frank, yet almost bashful. "Especially that stingy guy. He'd be a dummy to do so." Hinata does not possess the empirical data to back it up; he is purely surmising based on instinct. But he knows for a fact that there is not a single fiber in his own body that is capable of harboring malice against you. "Which means you've gotta tell him. It'd probably be best…to do so before the snow melts."

.

.

.

"[N/n]? You still there…?" Hinata's fragile query hangs in the air, receiving everything but a comprehensible response. Yet, the answer comes anyway, bleeding through the speaker in the faint whisper of steady respiration. Squinting through the dim glare of his screen, it pains his emotional engine with a great yearning at the sight: you have been claimed by sleep, your head resting heavily atop your folded arms while a curtain of hair obscures your face from your camera. He cannot bring himself to break the connection. He stays on the call, as a silent guardian to a warmth he cannot touch nor have the passage to whisk away. As the minutes dissolve into the dark, a desperate sort of exhaustion settles into his own bones. He lies down on his bed, closing his eyes as he tries to force his restless mind to follow you into slumber. But the quiet of his room only amplifies the unanswered soreness in his chest. With a sigh so brokenhearted it feels rampant enough to shatter glass, he rolls onto his back and stares blankly at the shadows stretching across his ceiling. "…I kinda wish I were more than just a great friend to you, [F/n]."

𝄞⨾𓍢♬⋆˚♪

[fffries]

Moral of the Story

➥ Granted with all his intelligence and sardonic nature, a volatile blond falls for the imbecile who stumps his quiver.

𝄞⨾𓍢♬⋆˚♪ Also On AO3: Moral of the Story

[PAIRING/S]: Tsukishima Kei x Fem!Reader (Presence of unrequited/one-sided Hinata Shōyō, Kageyama Tobio, & Yamaguchi Tadashi x Fem!Reader if you squint)

[AUTHOR’S NOTE]: I regressed back to my Haikyū!! phase, dawg. You’ll learn the MC’s backstory pretty quickly (because I pour it over readers like a bucket of cold water). The MC is also heavily implied/stated as half-Filipino. So good luck with that.

✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧ Part 01 (Prologue) <-

Part 02

Part 03

Part 04

Part 05

Part 06

Part 07

Part 08

Part 09

Part 10

Part 11 ✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧

Word Count: 17,151 words Warning/s: None (unless you include eventual angst)

ACT 1 Prologue

"Of all God's gifts to the sighted man, color is holiest, the most divine, the most solemn." — John Ruskin

August 21 [Third-Year Junior High School] Sunday | 04:49 PM

THE field lamentably calls out to you.

Lustrous blades of grass reflect the dimming rays of sunlight, and its cast feeds back into your vision as deep hues of graying clover. Beneath the polyurethane studs of your boots, petrichor lingers on the soil. Effervescently so.

Shiratorizawa's goalkeeper had been all too slow as you crossed the ball to your team's forward.

In your ears, succeeding the satisfying swoosh of the ball rolling against the back of the net, a pitch of high frequencies attempts to drown out the grating and tearful celebrations that run toward you at the great execution of such an assist.

For the players of Shiratorizawa Academy Junior High, the end of the match rings with the same multitudes of a death knell. Several of them collapsed on neatly trimmed weeds, burying their crestfallen faces into their hands or their jerseys' inner linings, as the reality of a 3–1 defeat washes over miserably.

Well. That was a needlessly rough game.

You thread away from your teammates, coldly striding to the side of the field. As you sit on the turf, dropping onto the faintly damp soil beside your belongings, you immediately reach for your socks.

What a pain.

Peeling the thick, sweat-soaked fabric down to your ankles, you remove your shin guards and toss them to the patch of grass just shy of your Mizunyoro sports bag. The introduction of cool zephyr to the unsubtle sheen of moisture on your lower limbs illustrates congruency to the greatest sense of relief you have felt in a long while.

Not even the recent victory of Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High can trump its assuagement…which begs your mind the query to “impertinent” matters as you stretch on your own.

When did your personal enjoyment vanish from the poetry of the sport?

Ultimately, the world bleeds out in muddled colors, serving no contrast to your hollowed-out heart.

Did you unwittingly dismiss your future high school football career after the shrill blast of the referee's whistle, as it pierced through the field? Did it serve to apprise your psyche that you were no longer required to run after a silly ball? Or did it happen well before that finality?

"Senpai! The awarding ceremony's about to begin in a few minutes! Coach already got the others to line up!" A first-year reserve emerges from out of nowhere, calling for you to join the rest of the team.

Despite not having played a single minute, she seems ecstatic and prideful; brimming with adrenaline as it circulates throughout her entire body. Such blatant proof that enthusiasm only ever gets one so far.

With half-closed eyes, you stare at the first-year, then out at the center of the field where a stage is hurriedly being assembled by the tournament staff. It is rather mind-numbing; the concept of such affairs. Entirely tedious, too, that you are required to stand through prolonged formalities after a final fixture like the one very recently played.

You sigh tiresomely through your nose, fiddling with the aglets of your loosened laces.

The first-year huffs with pursed lips, perhaps a few seconds away from having a go at towing the team's captain across the football pitch herself. "Senpai—"

"Yeah…I will be there," you reassure whilst waving a hand dismissively.

Not motivated enough to retie your laces, you kick both cleats off entirely; haphazardly throwing them into your bag without a second glance. You slide your socked feet into a pair of worn-out tsinelas that have seen better days before shuffling languidly toward the center of the field.

Sunday | 05:01 PM

Standing in a deathfully condensed line of sweaty football players for awarding ceremonies is…in your semi-professional opinion, the absolute zenith of human inefficiency tied with the need to be loudly acknowledged as if one were an incessant toddler.

Time and time again, the stadium lights persist to inject a migraine into your skull while the humidity of stifling air beats down at the back of your neck. If that is not enough, the tournament director—a middle-aged man affiliated with the Japan Football Association possessing no limits in spewing anecdotal spiels and stating the obvious—currently gives a sweeping exposition entailing "youth," "women empowerment," "the spirit of the game," and "discovery."

You shift your weight over from one leg to the other. Tilting your head back, you gaze upon cinereous hues of rust at the mellow yonder; an infinitely more riveting scene compared to what you are subjected to endure on the ground.

The sky is a canvas never short of boundless discoveries…of which it is positive that your outlook concerning football did share at a certain point in the past. The distant past. So, what is there left to discover? Fanatics already associate your surname to be synonymous with the idea of winning; that Yoshino [吉野] truly lives up to its meaning of gracing a "lucky field."

Undeniably standing at the top of the junior high circuit, its sense of fulfillment is debatable at best. At worst, it is impractical to even mention.

"…After an intense and thrilling display of athleticism that kept everyone at the edge of their seats, this school continues to prove that they are not to be taken lightly." The microphone blares through the feedback-heavy PA system, with the tournament director finally getting to the point. "Ladies and gentlemen, our reigning JFA Regional Under-15 Women's Division Champions for the third year in a row…Kitagawa Daiichi Girls' FC!"

The subsequent eruption of chaotic squeals and roughhousing acted out by your teammates make for a rather unpleasant reception to the thin, centimeter-wide membranes of your poor eardrums. Even your vice-captain, who had been the one to score the landslide victory thanks to your assist, catches you by the heavy seams of your shoulders, twisting polyester and elastane into her palms as she jerks you back and forth to rattle the jubilation out of you along with her, as if she had not known you guys won twelve minutes prior. She ardently leads you by the hand toward the stage.

One minute, the weight of a gold medal settles flat against your chest as the synthetic ribbon scratches—itches—your nape uncomfortably; the next, you are getting dragged into the middle of a traditional lineup for a team portrait. Your…socks and sandals cannot be seen (whether this is something to be thankful for or not, it is rather unclear) as they get obscured by your kneeling underclassmen in complete and proper gear within the first row.

You barely find your footing before your vice-captain beckons you wordlessly (…you did not think that motor-mouth of hers was capable of being wordless, really). She gestures for you to hoist the left legs of the massively tiered trophy as she lifts the other side for the team's photo opportunity.

The onslaught of flashing cameras from the local press, capturing every single angle, threatens to sear fuzzy, white spots to your retinas.

Momentarily, as you regain clarity in your vision, you observe the glinting of a cheap veneer, of banner gold spray paint on plastic, under the shared influence of stadium lights and rapid-fire shots of multiple lenses.

Obviously, the trophy itself is merely a placeholder for the effort poured into triumph. Even if it were made out of real gold, paper pulp, or a dog's shit from concrete, it would scarcely change your opinion (although you would be a bit hesitant toward lifting that third material).

Back in your first year for the team, you certainly could not deny that being able to hold such grand awards did have its short rush of serotonin. However, redundancy becomes pertinent. After years of garnering the same exact result, it is just another heavy object to haul back to the bus; an extracurricular bullet point to reside under "Accomplishments" for your future curriculum vitae, and nothing more.

Can a girl not rest? you think, clenching your jaw. Running is tiring. Football is tiring. You regard winning virtually the same as the other two. Without embellishment, you want to go home and embrace the soft duvet of your bed with open arms, or better yet, eat food that practically melts in your mouth…

As the team gets down from the stage, your eyes start to flutter shut, conceding under the spell of visualizing the incomparable comfort of sustenance. Your teammates may have had to guide you through the better part of the menial trek.

"Furthermore, the JFA would like to express our recognition toward the individual of standout young talent who has showcased her exceptional skill, relentless work ethic, and unparalleled leadership," the tournament director continues, shuffling his cue cards in the process.

I am hungry.

"It is my distinct honor to announce that the Most Valuable Player of this year's tournament is none other than…Yoshino [F/n]! Jersey number ninety-nine from Kitagawa Daiichi Girls' FC!"

I wonder what my mother prepared for dinner—?! Ow.

A sharp elbow digs into your abdomen's right lumbar, where your gallbladder resides.

"Yoshino-sama!" heralds one of your second-year forwards directly into the shell of your ear. She persists on using that ridiculous honorific despite your repetitious threats of never ever passing to her anymore. "Yoshino-sama, wake up!"

Dazedly, your eyes blink open as they filter the same disappointing reality of the awarding ceremony. All of the spectators in the stands are clapping. Your teammates are punching your arms "endearingly." Not to mention the middle-aged man staring directly at you with a plastered smile which, to be frank, is quite unnerving. In his possession, he holds a crystal plaque and an additional medal.

"…Can we go home now?"

"Just get up there already!"

With the grace of a teenager being forced to do chores, you lackadaisically step forward from your line and proceed up the short steps of the stage. The outsoles of your sandals emit such an unambiguous slap against the black aluminum platform, you almost second-guess whether someone invited SpongeBob Squarepants to the function.

"Congratulations, Yoshino-san." The tournament director bows graciously, transferring the hefty weight and beveled edges of the glass award from his hold to yours, before draping a second ribbon over your head. "For your exemplary performance in controlling the midfield today."

He extends a hand.

You stare at it…briefly considering the rate of potential exchange of bacteria as if you were a germaphobe. But since you are not a germaphobe, you shake it with minimal firmness enough to be considered courteous.

"Uh. Thanks." You nod once, voice devoid of any inflections. Tucking the crystal plaque under your arm like a stray textbook, you curtly bow and immediately walk back down the stage before the man can offer more banality or clichés.

Sunday | 05:16 PM

After all that jazz—the niceties, the bowing, and the second "mandatory" team portrait (wherein you were more or less held hostage)—at last, it is time to cash in the nap that long awaits you on the team bus. You gather your belongings compiled in your Mizunyoro sports bag before heading to the vehicular property of Kitagawa Daiichi.

As you amble away from the field, your phone vibrates from the inside of your bag.

Tobio

iMessage Today 5:17 PM

Tobio [5:17 PM] Good job w the win Your cross during the 2nd half was ok but you couldve done it much earlier

Tobio [5:19 PM] Congrats on mvp btw Read 5:19 PM

Since when does that numbskull watch my games? you think, because to be candid, you legitimately held the idea that Kageyama Tobio was only ever really programmed to play volleyball, but alright. Guess he attends football matches now. Still, you quirk an eyebrow at the screen, thoughts mingling in your head, as your pace slows down near the parking lot.

"Excuse me! Yoshino-san! A moment of your time, please!"

…It is just your luck that a nap is further delayed.

Reluctantly peeling your gaze from your phone, you spot a man with a lanyard, a spiral notepad, as well as a daunting crew following closely behind him with a microphone and a camera, exuding frantic energy as they briskly jog toward you. They all have vests on, bearing a patched logo of a publication you have surely seen more than once.

"I'm from Japanese Football Monthly," the journalist pants, flipping open his small spiral notepad. "May we do a quick interview for a featured article in the next issue? Consecutive prefectural dominance led by your last name is historic!"

Oh. So that is what that logo was.

Japanese Football Monthly is the most widely read shūkyū magazine known for its intensive, domestic journalism about all things football (if that title is not a dead giveaway enough as is). Getting a short excerpt or footnote is easily the dream of every young and aspiring playmaker in the country, but a whole featured article?

Dude, I just want to sleep.

Although…you do have nothing else on your schedule besides a coveted siesta. Weighing the advantages and disadvantages, answering a few simple questions—you suppose—would be less of a hassle than rejecting him and his crew, which would probably consume copious amounts of energy in the form of absorbing an earful of one-sided begging on the whole way toward the bus.

"Make it quick," you drop your bag onto the concrete pavement whilst pocketing your phone.

"Excellent! Much obliged," the journalist clicks his ballpoint pen, eyes scintillating with the thrill of a fresh scoop. "First things first, any thoughts about that last fixture against Shiratorizawa? They were highly favored to break your streak this year."

The camera crew eagerly leans in with their Somy PXW-X70 Professional XDCAM Compact Camcorder and Somy 4GB PX Series MP3 Digital Voice IC Recorder With Built-In Stereo Microphone by a fraction of an inch.

Goodness.

Despite the encroachment of equipment, you shrug specifically at his choice of an opening question, and not the slight invasion of your personal space. Is the publication this predictable? Basic, even? "I mean, there is not much to say about the matchup. They put up a fight, but it ended up being futile. And that is all."

The journalist tentatively raises his eyebrows as if expecting you to expound with a theatrical breakdown of tactics or a passionate declaration of rivalry—to which he is left to be befuddled with the stillness of air.

Quickly recovering, his pen scratches feverishly against paper as he jots down notes. "I see…quite a minimalistic response. Quite…humbling! And what about the players of their lineup? Would you care to share some of your insight?"

The following question challenges you to think back to the girls in white and purple jerseys. Are they even worth wasting your breath on? Their defensive line had been a nuisance, to say the most.

They had not been terrifying.

They did not even hold a commanding grip on their side of the field.

Initially, when they scored the first goal within the sixth minute, you thought this would be the match to reform your perspective back to when a white-lined pitch was not so dreary…except, they fell apart all too easily just like the rest.

Turns out their goal was nothing but a fluke.

Whenever your friend—who happens to be part of the boys' volleyball club of Kitagawa Daiichi—described the Shiratorizawa Boys' Volleyball Club to you, he made them sound like a battalion of unfathomable titans led by a granite, olive-haired monolith. Granted, he has never played against them himself (accrediting everything that spouts from his mouth to his graduated upperclassman with light brown hair or whatnot), the grand picture truly wields the ability to paint itself.

You do not ask to face monsters, but their impression was distinctly too…human.

Or more so, elementary.

The football team you played against today did not fit into the same frame of phenomenal expectations.

"Well," you start, translating your thoughts into words. "If only they were as strong as their school's boys' volleyball club, then we likely would not have won."

The journalist lets out an unexpected, booming laugh. "My! That's rather daring, Yoshino-san! Wouldn't you say so? A little cross-sport commentary! I love it."

He scribbles the quote onto his spiral notepad animatedly, lightly bouncing off the ground by the tips of his Oxford shoes. He has well-obtained the components of what makes a good article so far, but he is still missing a certain spark. A conclusion—one that includes a forward-looking statement that will excite national scouts!

"Ahem, getting back on track with the topic at hand," the journalist motions for the crew to double-check their equipment and to make sure that everything is recording. Once he gets a positive signal, he smiles heartily at you. "With your junior high school career officially wrapped up in precious gold…do plan on continuing as you step into high school? Have you decided on which powerhouse to attend next spring?"

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8–Eleven

合計 　　　　　1点　　　　　 680円

2011年0​9月01日​(木​)​​　 07:21​ 　 ​​​​​​責09

[↺] 戻る　　　[Charge] チャージする

𝄃𝄃 𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄃  𝄃𝄂𝄃 𝄃 𝄁  𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂 𝄃𝄂 𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄃

Tsuji, K. (2011, September 1). MVP to MIA: Kitagawa Daiichi's Number 99 Suddenly Quits?! Japanese Football Monthly, 13(9), 11–12.

MIYAGI — The kit of a generational talent remained stained with the grime of the pitch long after Kitagawa Daiichi had dismantled Shiratorizawa's formation. At the focal point of the celebration stood Yoshino [F/n], encumbered by the two medals around her neck and an MVP plaque that, to her, seemed to act more as an inconvenient weight.

"She didn't even look happy holding the team's trophy," one spectator noted from the stands. "Like, it was definitely a spectacular match to witness—that kid's off-the-ball movement just can't be put into words. She defies description. But damn, it was like she was finished with the sport before the final whistle even blew."

While the rest of her squad celebrated a victory that solidified Kitagawa Daiichi's prefectural dominance at the top of the table, Yoshino appeared already kilometers away.

When this publication caught up with the prodigy heading toward the team bus, the air was electric with the expectations of a legacy in the making. Scouts from the nation's top powerhouses have publicly stated to accommodate and do whatever it takes to secure a surname like Yoshino as a first-year on their roster. Even within the Japan Football Association (JFA), a jersey was pragmatically considered pre-reserved for the young athlete.

We asked about the match. Her response—sparse and blunt—gave a chillingly brief dismissal toward Shiratorizawa's efforts.

"They put up a fight, but it ended up being futile," Yoshino stated.

When pressed for insight on the rivalry, she offered a striking, almost mocking comparison to the prestigious school's legendary volleyball club, suggesting that their football program lacked the caliber required to truly challenge her. It was brilliant! It was certainly the bold, elite-level confidence we have come to expect from a generational talent.

[Page 11]

But then the question that should have been a mere formality was raised: Where to next? Which powerhouse will host the tactical mind of Yoshino [F/n] for the upcoming school year?

For months, anyone tracking Miyagi's local rising star along with the JFA had anticipated the day this young playmaker would don the national colors. Yet, the high hopes of Yoshino serving as the cornerstone starter for the U-15 and U-18 National Teams have unexpectedly been left stammering in place.

"No."

One syllable. No hesitation. No flicker of regret.

With a single word—a single decision—Yoshino would forever alter the projected trajectory of Japanese women's football.

Winning, then walking out!

As she boarded the team bus to head home, she left the domestic football community in a state of shocked silence. What could possibly cause an innate genius to leave at the peak of her junior high school career? A change of heart? Burnout? A secret injury?

Seeped in the precipice of an abrupt, indefinite off-season, she leaves behind a haunting question to resonate throughout the autumn and winter: 

How can the girl who has everything decide she wants none of it?

Editor's Note: Sources closely linked with the Kitagawa Daiichi Junior High School Athletics Department suggest Yoshino has not submitted or tended to any sports-related scholarship offers or recommendation letters for the upcoming academic year. If the school's definitive Number 99 truly intends to hang up her cleats, Japan may have just lost its most promising playmaker before the national team could even reach her.

[Page 12]

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That's the stupidest thing I've ever read. This can't be true, a dark-haired setter thinks, reading the magazine article on his way to school on a Thursday morning.

Sunday | 06:44 PM

You swear as you collapse in a stupor onto your seat at the dining table, it is not the chair that is creaking. After how many years of training, your body is supposedly conditioned to perform; nobody ever said anything about feeling like a poorly oiled machine. Or having a geriatric back at just fifteen years old.

I can barely move…too sore to…

Damn. Every instance requiring of you to extend your arm just to reach for something as trivial as the soy sauce, your triceps curse by disobeying the signals from your brain. You definitely recall cooling down, so, what the hell?

The ache of your joints and the micro-tears on your muscle fibers must be staging a revolution; a physical tax for the three goals you orchestrated into Shiratorizawa's net earlier that afternoon.

Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness is truly the bane of your existence.

While the lactic acid burns wherever it pleases, at least it spares you generously by amplifying how much more savory food can get as its seasoning dances on your taste buds.

"[F/n] dear, don't slouch," your mother tuts as she sets down another serving of steamed vegetables, before darting her gaze to the boy to your left. "Kyōjiro, please help your ate and pass the koikuchi."

"Eh?! 'Pass'?! Ma! Don't use football terms right now…can't believe I didn't get to watch Neesan's championship finals today 'cause of a stupid make-up test! On a Sunday! Kitaichi's rigged. But a'ight." Your younger brother deflates as he places the sauce dish near your plate. "Also can't believe Neesan got interviewed by JFM…and that she's actually quitting!"

Unimpressed, your mother playfully rolls her eyes at her son's antics as the boy slumps further into his chair. The lady then taps her nails sequentially on the glazed narra-planked surface of the dining table.

Even without the need to lift your eyes from the teriyaki chicken you currently devour incrementally, the glabella of your skull can feel your mother's stare beginning to bore holes into its marrow.

"So, [F/n]," your mother starts.

"…Yes, Ma?"

"Have you heard from your friend?"

The weary hand that you use to articulate a pair of chopsticks into bringing a piece of chicken pauses halfway into your mouth. You look up from your food, peering at your mother in bemusement. "Friend? Like…Tobio? I guess he did congratulate me earlier."

"No, no," your mother throws her head back in outrageous laughter, amused in a way as if you had just told her chocolate milk comes from brown cows. "Not that walking scowl! Honest to God, that boy is just biding his time—I know he's obsessed with you. I meant the eccentric one! The orange one who used to follow you around everywhere! Oh, what was his name…?"

Hinata Shōyō.

You chewed slowly; the flavor of the home-cooked meal suddenly resembled the taste of cheap, dry, and lukewarm strips of karaage shared on the steps near Tohoku Elementary's playground.

Staring at the dated film of your memory, the view of the sun always appeared to be rising and setting behind a mess of bright orange hair. Like marigolds intertwined with marmalade maple leaves billowing in a meadow.

At first, you were reluctant at the idea of hanging out with him (a.k.a., the notion of gaining a friend), but the next thing you knew, it was the preeminent wind of first year elementary school when Hinata declared that "following you around" was his full-time job. Around the clock, he would chase after you.

He did not have a bike yet, either. So, he just ran.

You would notice how he threw his entire soul into the optimism of every single stride, which was why he always tripped over his own feet behind you, funnily enough. But the most admirable (albeit daunting) trait you took note of was how the orange-haired boy never failed to dust himself off afterward.

Every other kid eventually grew tired of Hinata's restlessness, yet you were somehow the only person Hinata did not exhaust…even when you did prefer resting in the shade over playing under the sun. Ironic, considering how you discovered football not long after.

One afternoon, at a local park within your neighborhood—wherein you had been unceremoniously dragged to, by the courtesy of Hinata—you lied on the ground with your back against a tree. That week's issue of Shōnen Jump was opened to a random double-paged spread as you used it to cover your entire face to initiate the secretion of melatonin with the absence of light.

"Psst, [N/n]," Hinata whispered, poking your arm.

"What…"

"Not just what, silly! What if…I jump over that tree you're snoozing on? D'ya think I'll be able to see the ocean?"

Remaining still, you yawned, "Hah? Baliw. This tree is like ten Shōyōs stacked on top of each other…and the ocean is too far. You would need to jump higher than a mountain or something."

"Okay, okay," Hinata nodded, undeterred. "Then I'll jump higher than a mountain! Will you watch?"

You lifted the manga off of your face just slightly, squinting one eye open. It was at that moment, lying under a ginkgo tree, that you witnessed the sheer sincerity and determination clearly written out on his expression. It was the same look he would later give to the towering walls of middle blockers on a volleyball court.

"Eh…if I am not napping, maybe," you shrugged, placing the manga back onto your face.

"[N/n], don't nap…! I'll wake you up!" Hinata hummed.

"I will kick you."

"That's mean! I'll just dodge!"

Of course, he would not have dodged—you cannot understand as to why he never did—but he would smile anyway, and you would go back to sleep.

Back then, as you resumed counting sheep, you knew that so long as Hinata was around, the world would never be quiet, but it would always be interesting.

Perhaps orange being missing is part of why your world seems devoid of color?

Eight cycles of the seasons back to the present, you realize you have been staring blankly at what is left of your teriyaki chicken. Clearing your throat, you finally reply, "Shō? I have not heard from him in ages. What goes on that you bring him up, Ma?"

"Well, [F/n] dear, I've been catching up with his mother," the lady states, enthusiastic with sharing parental gossip. Talagang Marites, a bona fide newsmonger. "She told me he's been working so hard on his own. And apparently, he plans to transfer to Karasuno High."

Karasuno High.

"Hm, isn't that the same high school you're planning to attend next spring, princess?" your father suddenly contributes, lifting his eyes from the medical contents of his work tablet. It is surprising that your mother has not berated him for bringing work to the dinner table. You can make the presumption that she is just too busy being engrossed in the rare opportunity of talking face-to-face with her family—too busy being present in the current conversation to care.

Speaking of "caring," why Karasuno High?

Honestly, you do not have any particular reason as to why you have your prospects set. Maybe it is the "decent" thirty-minute walk to and from campus, the reasonable tuition fee (though more accurately, its lack thereof as a public high school), or the institution's absence of expectations.

"Shō yapped about it a lot," you disclose, staring at a grain of rice. "When we were eleven, he passed by that one Yukigaoka Electric shop with the 'Little Giant' or something playing on a TV. He probably still thinks that the laws of physics will not apply to him if he wears a Karasuno jersey."

"It'll be nice for you to have a familiar face then," your mother sighs, at ease. "Especially after you shared with us how you told that poor journalist you were quitting. I was beginning to worry you'd get lonely without a ball to chase."

"Mama! Football references?!" your younger brother groans as he stands up from his seat. "I'm going up to m'room…"

"Don't forget to bring your plate to the sink!"

"Yes po…"

Finished with eating dinner as well, you also excuse yourself from the table. "Ma, Pa, I am going to go to bed, too. I have school tomorrow. Goodnight."

"ゆっくりおやすみなさい。"

"おう、おやすみ。"

.

.

.

Quickly—almost jarringly so—do the soft and padded steps along the staircase of your home become the rough, punctured grip of studs against turf.

The following week is an augmented whiplash of post-season drills and your teammates discussing how your interview "went" with Japanese Football Monthly…which quickly turned into disseminated confabulations—rumors that your friend, Kageyama, for one, refuses to believe without cold, hard proof.

Proof that, at long last, arrives at the local 8–Eleven a few blocks from his house on the first of the subsequent month.

September 01 [Third-Year Junior High School] Thursday | 05:31 PM

Not even a day after the article hit the nearby convenience store's shelves, the magazine is already being flailed right in front of your eyes. Just as you had wandered off to refill your water bottle at the drinking fountain that cuts between the football field and the volleyball gym, its glossy cover intercepts you.

"[F/n]. What. Is. This." Kageyama demands; his finger pins aggressively to the page featuring a candid shot of your apathetic, post-game visage.

"It is a magazine," you divulge, observing how the water swirls into your bottle. "It is made of paper coated in kaolin clay—"

"I know what a magazine is!" he barks out.

A pair of approaching first-years jump back, bug-eyed and intimidated, promptly scampering away to find a safer drinking fountain to use.

Kageyama scoffs, "What a bunch of wimps." He coughs nothing out of his throat—phlegm being the last of his problems—as he lowers the volume of his voice. "Back to this. I spent nearly seven hundred yen on this shit. It's not even Volleyball Weekly—it's a monthly 'bout football! And they're saying your ass quit. This stupid journalist is yammering about how you said 'no' to continuing!"

He emphasizes his bewilderment by being incredibly up close and personal; he shoves the page well-nigh, just about smacking your forehead with your own printed face.

It must be extremely "silly" to you, because to him, quitting on a sport you are exceptional at is a crime against the universe. An unatonable sin.

"Tell me it's a misquote, [F/n]. They probably didn't understand you and had no other idea what shit to write. Journalists are like—like a bunch of idiot teammates who don't know how to read a toss in the middle of losing against Kōzen Academy…tch, Kindaichi much."

You exhale through your nose, twisting the lid of your water bottle securely as you step away from the drinking fountain. "It is not a misquote."

.

.

.

"Hah?! But I—you…why?!" Kageyama's brows knit together as if constipated for a reason. "You won gold. You're a champion. You're the best! You should go on and win more!"

Where is all of this coming from? Last time you checked, this dude has a lone volleyball bouncing around in his skull. He is the last person you would think to care so much about your "early retirement." Frankly, it is quite painfully ironic that he had to catch you at a time wherein you still stand in your Kitagawa Daiichi football kit due to club activities, smelling of trimmed grass and sweat.

It makes you out to be a fraud.

It is such a confusing sense of loss misplaced.

Now, do not get things twisted into a knot; you legitimately do not plan to, as Kageyama so eloquently phrased it, "go on and win more" like your words to that journalist are of no substance. Like you are a flagrant liar. It is the sole fact that it is still around the middle of the school year—you still have a club to captain until the end of your term. You are just sticking it out until the end, you swear. At the very least, commit to the bit, right?

You merely deign to offer a faint gesture of your shoulders. "It became a waste of my time. Winning is boring when you already know the answer before a game starts."

Kageyama flinches as if you had slapped him with a leather glove. His hands, normally so steady and precise, shake as they ball up into fists at his sides.

Blue eyes narrow, turning cold below furrowed eyebrows.

This is the very first instance you have ever seen him glare at you.

.

.

.

For the boy named Kageyama Tobio, people are usually divided into two categories: Those who can keep up with his sets, and those who cannot.

Then you walked into his life during the first year of junior high school—or in actuality, sat in the same classroom, right in front of him.

You did not play volleyball, so you did not fit into his system.

The girl named Yoshino [F/n] was supposed to be an inapplicable component, and yet…he often found himself gawking. At you.

You, a random girl in a shared homeroom who could sleep through an entire lesson while still being able to answer a sudden recitation question, could not be torn from the visual cortex of his blue eyes.

Shortly after finding out you were into sports like him—albeit marginally disappointed that it was not volleyball—he began staying late. Later than usual. Just to catch the end of the girls' football club's training on the adjacent field.

Kageyama felt himself fall with an "illness" every time he was lucid enough to realize his eyes were always glued to the back of your jersey.

He blatantly admires you; profoundly too much for his own pride to bear at times.

But to call your own sport…

"…'Boring'?" He reiterates the word like it is part of a foreign language he refuses to comprehend. "How can winning be boring?! It's—it's the only time you can really breathe!"

Kageyama himself thinks you are the perfect love letter a higher being sent to nurture and inspire the current generation of players in your sport. How could you even say such a thing? How dare you.

"To hell with you knowing the answer right now, [F/n]. Search higher instead of looking down your pretty nose if you're so satisfied."

He takes a step forward, discarding the magazine as he pushes his body up against yours with the social grace of a vehement freight train, harshly making your lower back collide with the drinking fountain's cold edge. He smells like sudor, mild deodorant, and a hint of that Gun-Gun Milk you sometimes see him drink.

"I literally watched your match against that Singaporean team online," he splutters, words stumbling over each other in rapid succession. "Last year. During that invitational overseas. You were down by two points in the final six minutes. You made that—that crossing quick-step maneuver thing into a long-range spike—I mean, strike! Nobody else in that international tournament, much less in this prefecture, can do a kick like that or make it happen a second and third time. I watched the recording so much, I broke a mouse by clicking the playback button a lot on my sister's laptop—"

He stops abruptly, cheeks overheating almost as if a shade of scarlet ought to take over. He realizes, perhaps an entire spiel too late, that admitting he spent his weekends as a second-year junior high school student dissecting your footwork repeatedly, on loop, is a bit…much.

"I-I was just studying your spatial awareness!" he shouts, as if modulation can conceal the outright confession. "But if you quit, then that observation is useless! You can't just…leave the court—field! Shit! Who's going to keep the score moving if you're sitting idly, reading about rocks or whatever they teach us in class?!"

He grabs your jersey, firmly yanking its cloth into his hand, as if to shake the logic back into you—but as he grits his teeth, he refrains from actually rattling you like aerosol in spray paint.

He is insane.

 "…Tobio, are you just 'biding your time'?" you question, watching him struggle. "My mother said so. That, along with you being a walking scowl and how you are obsessed."

"I'm neither of those! I'm not a walking scowl!" Kageyama's voice cracks while trying an unfortunately forced smile…which results in an expression more akin to smelling a foul odor.

He faces away, looking to the side when even he realizes how strained he must have been, directing daggers at the thrown magazine on the pathway, all the while generating enough heat to theoretically melt all of its pages. "I just…I don't like it when people who can soar into the sky choose to walk on the ground. It's a waste of a good set."

He ventures a stolen glance, eyes darting to your attire; the white and steel blue that you both wear, though in assorted jersey styles, though for different arenas, volleyball to football. For a second, the King's mask slips, and he makes a show of being a boy terrified of losing the only other person who speaks his language.

If anyone were to ask Kageyama how many languages you were fluent in, he would say that there are actually four: Nihongo, Tagalog, English, and a Competency in Sports.

Kageyama has always felt an underlying connection to you because of that fourth tongue. Why do you fail to see how special it is? Is it not a neat thing to possess? He thinks it is. So why pull away from that?

You jerk your head back, away from his encroaching face nearly smooching yours from proximity. Arching a brow, you deflect. "Nothing you have said changes the fact that it is—"

"Boring? Or what, 'mundane' in English? Hah—even I know that word," Kageyama sneers. "Do you have any idea how arrogant that sounds? Do you know how many people would kill just to get on your fudging level?"

"Fudging"?

Before the last few syllables can leave his mouth, his frustration boils over. He further impinges into your space, entirely obliterating the boundary of air between you.

There is no gentleness to him—no tact. He yokes you by the collar of your jersey, bunching its material into a white-knuckled fist, hauling you brutishly against the metal frame of the drinking fountain with a blunt clatter as he anchors you there. His grip is so rugged and unyielding that it rattles a choked breath right out of your boots.

He handles you with that thoughtless, physical reprimand unique to boys who live on the court—the kind of rough, intense grappling meant to force a stubborn teammate to look him in the eye.

"Don't look down on it," he gripes, voice dropping into a low hiss that vibrates right against your sternocleidomastoid. Unadulterated fixation. His chest heaves against yours as he holds you by the seams of your kit. "Don't you dare look down on the game just because you got good at it a bit faster than others. Shit—hey—stay still, you're—"

"E-Excuse us, Kageyama-senpai…!" The sudden, squeaky voices of the same pair of first-years slice through the air. "But could you and your girlfriend please not make out in a public space…? And may we please use the drinking fountain? The other ones around campus aren't working and—"

"Scram."

"Y-Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" They bolt instantly, vanishing into the wind like dandelion seeds being carried away by a light gust.

As they round the corner, silence crashes violently between the two of you. And Kageyama freezes. Then, as if his nervous system finally catches up to the position he operated the both of you into, his entire body locks rigid.

His hands remain on your jersey's collar, your back remains pressed against the drinking fountain, and his face is—oh. Alarmingly close.

"Your nose is nearly touching mine," you point out flatly.

Kageyama virtually combusts, reeling backward so fast that he nearly slips on the concrete (somehow, while wearing shoes with supposedly good grip, "drip," and traction, but alright…) as he rips his hands away from you like he had touched an active Bunsen burner.

.

.

.

"I WASN'T TRYING TO KISS YOU!" He is quick to profess.

"…I did not say you were."

"Good! That's 'cause I wasn't! Those idiots—ugh, they're as blind as a bat's dung! We weren't even making out! Why would I not want to—I mean…?!" His voice fluctuates disastrously before he slaps his palm onto his forehead with a strangled noise of frustration.

Setting your water bottle aside for now, you stoop down to retrieve the discarded magazine from the pavement. As you inspect it, you notice the material has bent slightly at the corner, forming dreadful dog-eared pages of shiny paper.

"How tragic," you murmur. "Seven hundred yen, you say?"

"Stupid! Don't change the topic!"

You squint at him. His ears are not their usual clammy shade. It is…interesting. "You are emotionally compromised today," you remark frankly.

"I am NOT!"

"…You got flustered enough for two underclassmen to assume we were engaging in public indecency."

"Like I said, don't try and change the topic!" Kageyama snaps, in an octave too high. He may be standing a few meters away now, but he still clears his throat with the evident effort of not fixating anywhere near your mouth or lips again.

Clearly. He needs to win this. Not a kiss; the argument. Because if winning is apparently so boring for you, he wants to give you a taste of what it feels to lose for once.

"I'm not 'emotionally compromised,' or whatever the heck that is," he snarks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his club jacket so as to hide them shaking. "I'm just—I'm pissed off. You're conceding so easily, and it's an insult to my way of life."

He takes a deep breath through his nose, finally leveling his gaze at you. The blush still stains his cheekbones, but the King of the Court has returned, cold and demanding.

"I played some amateur shrimp once," he hisses. "Earlier this year, during the preliminaries of my athletics meet. His shitty team was the first that I was up against. He was a complete dumbass in an ugly lime jersey. No technique, no height, no sense—nothing but a pair of legs and a lot of jumping. He was so talentless, but he was begging for one more second of the match. He wanted to stay in the running so bad, it was pathetic."

…Okay? What a way to go off on a tangent.

"And then there's you," he expounds, his blue eyes turning into slits behind the flare of the afternoon sun. "You have everything—that's the one thing that stupid journalist got right in the article. You've had it since our first year at this godforsaken school. Do you think I'm too socially stunted to notice? I saw you get elected for that armband as a second-year. I've watched every single one of your games ever since, Captain. Just 'cause I think volleyball's the only sport worth playing, or that football is confusing as hell, it didn't stop me from attending. Every. Single. One."

The admission hits the pavement like thudding mercury. You blink, trying to process this odd information. Every game? It is hard to believe. Even random Tuesday qualifiers that had empty bleachers?

"My mother was actually right," you mutter, feeling strange. "You really are obsessed with the game."

"It's not just the game, you dense moron! It's also how I feel really strongly about…" He swallows the rest of the sentence.

About what, exactly?

Kageyama sighs. "If you're so bored, find a harder game. Find a field where you can't predict the outcome before the stupid whistle. But don't sleep on the last few years, calling them a waste, just 'cause you're too lazy to search for a new challenge—that you're complacent enough in letting them find you first, idiot."

He pivots sharply on the axle of his shoe, his back stiff enough to snap a twig between his scapulas.

"I'll be at the top," he whinges over his shoulder, the threat clear and stinging. "Next year, I'll be at Shiratorizawa. If you ever decide you want a 'different answer,' you'll know where to find me. Just…don't say it didn't matter. I won't let you."

Kageyama talks a big game. Regardless, has football really turned so stale?

Surely, knowing answers on a pitch is not as boring as sitting through Karasuno High's Entrance Ceremony, right?

April 09 [First-Year High School] Monday | 06:31 AM

“Sweetheart, I’ll make us coffee. I have a long shift at the hospital.”

“Alright, dear. Teka, I’ll just check up on—”

“MA, I CAN’T FIND MY PANTS!”

Brzzzt…brzzzt.

“Nasa plantsa, ‘nak.”

“AH. THANK YOU, MA!”

“Gising na ba ate mo? Silipin mo nga.” 

Brzzzt…brzzzt.

Maybe staying up past two o’clock in the morning was not the wisest decision ever. Four hours and thirty-one minutes later, your head is throbbing, lagging like a faulty browser with sixty-seven different tabs running, on the brink of undergoing the “Blue Screen of Death.”

Truly, exploring the relatively new Jungle biome and enjoying the release of Minecraft’s minor 1.2.5 version update admittedly could have waited.

The dampened blah-blah-blah combined with the thump-thump-thump of your parents and your younger brother’s frantic morning routine slithers—no, reverberates—through the thin plaster of your bedroom walls.

Everything is so loud.

The thought of opening your eyes seems like such a hassle.

I do not want to get up, I don’t want to get up, I don’t wanna get up, I’on wanna get up, I’on wanna—

Brzzzt.

It is the third…or fifth back-to-back alarm (set for every single minute past “6:30 AM”) ringing out from your phone. The one to display “6:35 AM” on a luminescent screen is the lucky alarm that provokes a visceral groan that you bury deep into the plush sanctuary of your pillow. Eventually, you sluggishly reach out to your nightstand to swipe the alarm off.

Rolling out of your bed—more so, stumbling your body onto the cold panels of wooden floorboards—you narrow your eyes at the light trespassing into your room due to the semi-opened entrance.

You walk across your room to try and shut the door, though you feel a cold wire hooked on the brass knob.

Neatly draped on the hanger, steamed to a crisp, is your new school uniform. It may be quite dark despite the light from the hallway, but still, you could discern that there is not a single crease where one ought not to be. 'Di rin amoy kulob. All signs point toward your mother’s subtle and efficient handiwork.

“HEY, I JUST MET YOU​~♪​ AND THIS IS CRAZY​~♪​ BUT HERE’S MY NUMBER~♪​ SO—”

It is just Kyōjiro passing through the hallway. At the top of his lungs, he sings a particular western track that local radio stations recently spam…whilst only wearing the top half of his Kitagawa Daiichi gakuran, prancing in sagging football shorts as he flaunts his pair of slacks (presumably found on the clothing iron, just as your mother had indicated).

“It is too early in the morning for this,” you yawn somnolently, dragging a hand across your face. But at least someone is looking forward to their first day of school.

Shuffling into your en-suite bathroom, you bring the hanger with you.

Monday | 06:34 AM

The shower is lukewarm. Water, pitter-pattering against your skin like blunt needles before sliding down, serves as a compromise between your desire to go back to sleep and the unfortunate circumstance of having to be a functioning member of society (as a goddamn high school student).

Washing away any remaining suds of soap, you then decisively twist the metal nozzle into place—the eager supply of water fell to its abrupt pause, trickling behind small droplets.

After drying off and slipping into your undergarments, you take in the hanging uniform.

Structurally, it is barely similar to your junior high school’s fashion; trading the sailor-style motif for a more modern and modular blazer. Palette-wise, you went from white and steel blue to midnight black, gray, and red. Not like it will affect your education anyway.

You get ready. Buttoning every button of your blazer, combing your hair flat, and presenting as every bit a prestigious, uptight nerd.

Stepping out of your bathroom, you gaze at the high school student staring back at you from the full-length mirror near the foot of your bed.

She seems excited, you humorously thought, as the girl shamelessly reflects your resting bitch face ironically.

Well, you have your work cut out for you. Walking in with zero expectations beyond a quiet life, you have not a clue as to what the next three years will entail…though certainly, it will not include this getup that has the same spirit of saying “uhm, actually” with the Index Pointing Up emoji.

Is it the hair?

“I look stupid.”

“Pfft—!”

A snicker erupts from the hallway. You never did close that bedroom door, huh.

“Neesan, are you going to tell me about my car’s extended warranty?” Kyōjiro stifles a laugh at his own joke. “Who invited Mr. Gaylord Robinson from The Amazing World of Gumball? Wait—no, no. Neesan, are you a new investor for Shark Tank?”

Call it the instinct of an older sibling; your hand immediately goes for the threateningly thick anatomy textbook on the bookshelf near your full-length mirror, but the scuff of retreating footsteps chide that the rascal had already bolted.

Drats.

“Run, Kyō,” you mutter to the empty room. “Gravity will inevitably catch you.”

Turning back to your mirror, a sigh escapes you. Diyos, sa totoo lang, with the anatomy textbook in your hand, it completes the ensemble of a goody two-shoes; too formal and too commercial.

Setting the textbook back into its slot on the shelf, your hand reaches for your own shirt collar. Loosening the red ribbon, undoing the first two clasps of your white blouse, and then shucking open your blazer entirely. You roll the blazer’s sleeves up to your elbows—exposing your forearms—and tousle your hair until neat spikes are more lived-in, “placid,” and defiant.

“Better,” you conclude. At least the stiff salesperson is gone.

Monday | 06:52 AM

Downstairs, the house is…a microcosm of disarray that can only be fostered with the Yoshino family dynamic, you dare say. Your father is a silhouette by the kitchen sink, with one hand sporting a coffee mug as the other balances his work phone against his ear. Across from him, at the dining table, Kyōjiro gobbles his way through a bowl of steamed rice and grilled mackerel.

Your mother, with a life governed by exploratory projects and a series of deadlines, merely treats the first day of a new school year as yet another logistical hurdle to clear.

She pauses mid-stride toward the dining table just as she catches sight of you by the foot of the staircase.

One eyebrow climbs toward her hairline.

“Sweetie,” your mother begins, carrying a tone of maternal weight that brooks for no argument as she sits diagonally from your brother. “You’re a young lady now. Please fix your clothes. Or at the very least, wear your blazer properly for Schola Brevis.”

“…Okay po,” you mutter, fumbling with the stubborn buttons once more.

Kyōjiro snorts through a mouthful of rice (as your parents’ efforts to teach the young boy the manner of not talking when one’s mouth is full were definitely fruitless). “Waste of time, Ma. With that look, Neesan’s just gonna scare off the boys at orientation anyway.”

Your mother’s sharp gaze shifts from the lapels of your blazer to your face, and her expression suddenly melts into a woeful tug of heartstrings; into exhaling with a dramatic, heavy-handed sigh of lamentation.

“How is it that my lovely daughter doesn’t have a partner yet?” your mother murmurs poorly, leaning her cheek into the palm of her propped hand. “If your brother can see the problem, imagine what the neighbors think.”

“I thought you said it was better to focus on my academics before—”

“Nonsense!” the lady demurs. “Surely, if you’d only chosen to study high school in Manila, there’d be at least ten young men courting you by now! Diba? Dalagang-dalaga! Hay, ‘nak. Although…with your boyish mannerisms, you may even make girls do a double take.”

“That is not…never mind. Whatever you say, Ma.”

“You know, I do have a business trip to the Philippines next month. Bukod pa sa Boy Bawang niyo ni Kyōjiro, ikaw muna, ‘nak. Taga saan gusto mo? Luzon, Visayas, o Mindanao—”

“I am taking my leave to go to school…”

“[F/n]! Teka nga,” your mother reels you back before you have a chance to actually act out your declaration. “Could you please walk Kyōjiro to the bus stop?”

“Eh…is he not old enough to walk himself there?” you refute. Making your way across the humble abode toward the genkan, you continue. “Ma, he is already a second-year.”

“Wouldn’t you be passing by either way, dear? I’m aware that your route is generally in the same direction.”

Logic. Damn it. The singular weapon you cannot easily parry.

“Guess Neesan doesn’t wanna walk her baby brother anymore ‘cause she might get embarrassed, huh?” Kyōjiro quips, sticking his tongue out at you while surreptitiously checking his own reflection on the mirror-like surface of his bowl.

You shot him a quick, downward glance; eyes narrowing in the place of a flick to the forehead before pivoting away. “It is not even about that. Besides, you are not a ‘baby’ anymore. Cough, second-year junior high school student, cough.”

“Y’know, you’re s’pposed to pretend to cough and not actually say the word—”

“I do not care.”

You adjust the strap of your school bag as you slide into your loafers with practiced speed. Kyōjiro scrambles, nearly tripping over his own duffle bag to keep up. He knew his very own sister did not care for “waiting” either.

Monday | 07:01 AM

Along the edge of the road, in the mundane of morning air and the smell of damp pavement, you and your younger brother walk to the bus stop. You move to the outer side, situating yourself between Kyōjiro and the passing cars without much thought. It is rare and measured evidence of willfully being a “doting” older sister; a protective perimeter you have maintained since the boy learned how to stand on his own feet.

“Hoy, did you get allowance?” you nudge Kyōjiro’s shoulder whilst watching the yawn of the sky.

“Nah, I have packed lunch anyway,” Kyōjiro chuckles, patting his bag. The contents jostle lightly. Its specificity is unknown to you, but if you were to make an educated guess, the only thing he packed for his first day would be food, a pair of football cleats, and a change of clothes.

You halt, turning your head to stare at him with quizzed confusion. “The hell are you going to give the bus driver then? Thoughts and prayers?”

Before your doofus brother can respond, you reach into your skirt pocket and produce a handful of yen—enough to cover his fares for the next three days with a small margin for emergency snacks if he were to be a glutton.

“Do not blow it all off on Potari Sweat or whatever.” You shove the money into his hand.

“Uwah! Neesan…you’re the best!”

“I know.”

Trudging forward, the familiar route extends ahead. Spring has just recently started bleeding into the quaint town, whisking cherry blossoms onto the roadside like faint brushstrokes of drab pink.

Rounding a corner, the bus stop comes into view a few blocks away, and Kyōjiro’s usual chatter dies down. His shoulders tense up, and his grip on his bag tightens significantly. You even take note of the shift in his gait, replaced by the rhythmic hitch which suggests his mind currently plays back his worst failures, not on a cemented sidewalk, but on the pitch.

“Nervous?” you surmise.

“Yeah,” Kyōjiro admits. “I don’t plan on sticking to the bench this year…but that’s easier said than done.”

It is peculiar how such words have the ability to be so soft, yet so bulky. Like a kilogram of feathers.

It is also, without reservation, strange—the quiet, uninvited, and strangling hint of pain in your chest.

Junior high school was rough, not exactly toward you, but to someone who shares the same name.

“Yoshino, bring the ball forward.”

“Yoshino, good job.”

“Yoshino, you’re amazing!”

The Kitagawa Daiichi football field always echoed across that singular name.

Always for Yoshino [F/n], never for Yoshino Kyōjiro.

If only his love for football was a metric directly proportional to how well he could play…it is almost unfair. However, you are unable to relate to the boy. Only he knows the sting of that silence better than anyone.

He is not the fastest. He is not the strongest. He is not even the smartest player. Your younger brother is no genius that can see imaginary vectors or the invisible lines of force, but he loves football more than anyone you have ever met.

Love cannot do much, but much can be done with love.

Kyōjiro was barely above average, but you would never call him “mediocre.” There is merit in effort. Trying should be enough. You had spent many afternoons watching him from the other side of the field; you had seen him stay for thirty minutes to hours after his training just to practice his strikes until he came home with battered cleats.

“You will make the starting eleven this year,” you attest. It is not some sort of empty platitude. You state it as a matter of statistics and probability—devoid of the sugary confections any typical older sibling just spoon-feeds. You have witnessed his improvement; the data you have gathered simply supports your conclusion.

Kyōjiro peers up at you, eyes wide as if they were pools of a star-filled sky. “Seriously?”

By then, before you knew it, the distant view of the small bus stop’s roof became the same roof that is suspended atop your heads; the little shelter stands wonky by the overhang, and a clutch of other students already wait for the bus with sleepy faces and heavy backpacks. You say nothing more, raising a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair until he lightly swats at your wrist.

Your lips curl at its ends into the faintest smile. “Now, do you really need me here until the bus arrives? Big boy ka na, eh,” you taunt, mimicking your mother’s phrasing and tone.

With that—or at least before he could get all mushy on you—by the heel of your shoe, you turn to leave him under the awning as you start walking toward the hill.

Haha…

Big boy ka na, eh. You had meant it as a joke, but as you begin the commute toward Karasuno High—stretching ahead with thirty-five minutes of tranquil footfall and passing cars—the humor sours.

It is not your fault. Kyōjiro wants to stay in the game until his boots fall apart out of his own volition. It is not your fault he wants the noise, the pressure, and the very thing that has started to be a script you have already read a thousand times.

Without warning, Kageyama flashes across your mind—of that alarming, sunburnt shade powdering his features, of his nose grazing your own, of his eyes seething with a zealotry that makes your blood run cold.

You wonder where he is. Did he get into Shiratorizawa like he said?

It is fickle, your sickening realization.

To Kyōjiro, you are a special blade of grass next to him, an identical dupe lacking the same substance, that wishes to be just as special. To Kageyama, you are as cussed as they come; an animal at the top of the food chain, an apex predator, who still chose to starve. You sat beside a dejected, football-loving boy at a dinner table, stood in front of scrutinizing blue eyes near a drinking fountain, both fraudulent in a Kitagawa Daiichi football kit that had long been starting to feel like a costume. It is not your fault.

Kyōjiro is waiting for a bus to a future he may never conquer. Kageyama may be somewhere across the prefecture, waiting at the top of a mountain he refuses to climb alone. And what do you do?

You purely stroll up a hill, trying to articulate how to tell the world that the view from the top is not as beautiful as they all think it to be.

As the school gates rise in the distance, students in matching black uniforms begin to dot the sidewalks, like a murder of crows slowly converging on the hilltop. There is a tide of black blazers and gray skirts, all while red ribbons flutter in the unwilted breeze. You fiddle with your bag, tightening your grip on its straps before merging into the current.

.

.

.

If you—Yoshino [F/n]—actually thought you could just naturally blend in with the crowd, you are thoroughly mistaken.

Beneath a deadpan exterior, you start processing the new environment. Entering Karasuno High's campus is not anything worth noting. Making your way past the school's large [宮城県立烏野高等学校] sign is not accompanied by an orchestra's tune, nor the excitement that coming-of-age films often depict.

But is that all you felt?

Do the dozens of eyes, quick glances that linger too long, and the whispers darting between groups of students fly over your head?

"Hey, who's that? A first-year?"

"Wait! Ain't she that one football player from a famous magazine?"

"She's around our age? D'ya think she's single?"

Pursing your lips slightly, you click your tongue. So much for a low profile.

You maintain an equilibrated gaze—low enough to ignore passing faces, yet high enough to seem…purposeful.

The shoe lockers line the entrance of the building as a gauntlet of cold metallic grids. At your old school, the getabako was really more of a large wooden shelf with open slots to shove your outdoor shoes into; Karasuno's has hinged doors like proper lockers! Wow. Yes, very riveting indeed.

You scan the rows until you finally come across a label like [1–4 吉野]. Your class assignment and surname is printed into the plastic sleeve of Locker 1055. Thankfully, you took the time to be familiar with your student details on your returned and processed application form. It saves you the trouble of having to ask how things work around here.

The metal groans in the crowded entrance as you pull the door open. Stepping aside, you crouch down as you slide out of your loafers, tucking them neatly into the allotted space. Your new pair of white indoor shoes—rubber soles still pristine and unsullied—squeak faintly against the linoleum.

You are halfway through standing up straight when a bold second-year leans against the neighboring locker, his posture a curated display of lax and "casual" confidence. He wears a grin that has likely seen more mirrors than it did the opposite sex, teetering more on rehearsed charm than any genuine sincerity.

"Oi, first-year. Ya free after school?" He winked like a bug flew into his eye. Heedlessly, he scans you for a blush that will only follow suit when pigs fly. "I could show ya 'round. Call it a welcome gift."

Ew. Your spine becomes a rigid line of indifference. Your face remains…flat, regarding him with the same detachment of interest one might give a sauntering cloud.

"…Hard pass."

That is all. There is no need to make a scene. There really is no hesitation with you, is there? No stuttered apology? Just a blunt dismissal before you sling your bag over your shoulder and leave. Not even staying to watch his grin fracture either? Alright.

The boy rapidly blinks at your retreating form, with silence punctuated by his friends' cackles. A "hushed" voice drifts behind you, presumably to the second-year. "Shot down fast, man. New record?"

God forbid a girl who is efficient and merely wants a quiet life of isolation. Whispers follow you down the hall like a wake trailing after a ship. Seriously, you have no energy to waste on the ever-shifting perceptions of strangers. Though the whispers are not malicious—if anything, they are fueled by that dangerous brand of curiosity that can turn bum students into nominated leaders, athletes into worshipped idols, and boredom into desperate fan clubs. The attention yearns for you to address it as the elephant in the room, but you refuse pointless matters from being in your life.

If you recall correctly—in which case, you regularly do—after the Entrance Ceremony, there is Homeroom Orientation, a brief introductory with each of your subject teachers, lunch, and then Club Introductions. Your stomach twists into a subtle, unpleasant knot of dreaded anticipation. You can already visualize the club booths, the liable story that your reputation precedes you, and the energetic upperclassmen who will chase for an "answer" you have already given.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, you navigate your way to where they are holding the Entrance Ceremony without any hiccups.

The second you stepped a foot into the domain of the auditorium—also known as the "First" Gymnasium for some odd reason (that being, there are two gymnasiums)—the hubbub of hundreds of new students cramming into the organized formation of folding chairs berates your ears. A low, internal curse bites at your mind. You regret leaving your earphones in the drawer of your desk at home.

Some faculty members usher you in, directing the masses like shepherds guiding sheep into pens.

"Sit wherever you please, quickly," one instructs, uninspired, distracted by their watch.

Perfect.

You slip toward the back row immediately, selecting a seat with an empty buffer on either side. You go slack the instant you sit down on the semi-comfortable chair, arms interlocking, chin tilting toward the stage with feigned attentiveness. My, you can even squeeze in a short nap before this shindig officially starts, by the looks of things.

Monday | 08:30 AM

The stage lights flicker on, illuminating the vice-principal as he shuffles forward to the podium. His voice—booming through the microphone—prattles on about "responsibility," "honor," "the importance of diligence in your studies," and "upholding the core values of the school." His speech washes over you like sleep-inducing mist; it is harder to keep your eyelids open with each passing second.

Still, not even your drowsiness can prevent detail-oriented eyes from catching the almost indistinguishable shift of "hair" at the top of the man's head.

A toupée. Slightly crooked, further being betrayed by the stage lights blatantly reflecting off scalp where hair should have been.

Oh…that is…actually hilarious.

You cannot stop yourself from faint amusement; the corner of your lips quiver. You try to save the vice-principal a semblance of grace by covering your mouth—although, around you, a few other students have already taken notice as well. You hear the terms "Baldilocks" and "Magic 8 Ball" get thrown around as the most recurring favorites.

The vice-principal drones on about decorum whilst the back row of the auditorium ripples with muffled snickers and snide comments.

All in all, this is a situation dictating the misfortune of what happens when applied adhesive is lacking. He should try using egg whites if he has insufficient wig glue at home.

The speech drags on, and so does the ceremony. Formalities have a fun way of choking out life. After the vice-principal sadly leaves the stage, the principal shows up, followed by the head of the Parent-Teacher Association, more administrative staff, and then the student council president. One after another, their words stack like bricks; building a wall between you and the sweet relief of freedom.

At long last, the closing remarks end. You and your fellow peers are told to exit in an orderly fashion, but the unpreached law of convenience bests the former. Synchronously, the chairs grate as students stand up, as some stretch, and as others buzz with energy, all before they funnel back out the doors.

You rise at your own pace decisively, tucking your hands into the pockets of your blazer.

"Attention, students! Please be in your assigned classrooms before Homeroom Orientation starts! Thank you!" a random bespectacled faculty member wearing a green, half-zipped jacket announces.

You subconsciously remember the special schedule for the first day of classes like the back of your hand.

[08:30–10:00]

入学式

[10:45–11:35]

ホームルーム・オリエンテーション

[11:45–12:35]

教科担任紹介

[12:35–13:15]

昼休み

[13:15–14:30]

部活紹介

[14:30]

下校

God, the school's choice to use military time strains your mind just as you conjure the image of the timetable in your memory. Checking your phone discreetly, it displays "10:06 AM." Meaning…those bastards extended by six full minutes. Goodness. You pocket your phone into your blazer.

Well, that still gives just shy of forty minutes for you to take another nap—that is, if you get to your classroom.

Easy enough, you think…

Monday | 10:24 AM

…Until it was not.

You started down one hallway, following the direction and flow of most students, going up a flight of stairs near something called the "West Wing." You were so confident you would just automatically know where Class 1–4 should thematically be. Eighteen minutes of shrouded hallways and stairs later, you squint at the signage hanging from the ceiling of the corridor.

[4階　三学年通路]

…Hah? You scratch your head, as if you wore a pointy, imaginary hat with "Dunce" scribbled onto it. You know you climbed a flight of stairs, but how the hell did you end up on the fourth floor? At the Third-Year Corridor, too? The fuck? Of all the times to have a mildly bizarre adventure inconvenience you, this is the most annoying.

"Hey, I thought it was you! You're Yoshino, aren't you? From Kitaichi? Got featured on JFM about a few months ago?"

.

.

.

The voice is…oily. That, and the point of origin is far too close for comfort. You turn to find a third-year student, or frankly, one who shows concerning aspects that suggest spending too much time…crouching over a laptop, and not enough time honing his manners. It is like he is breathing down your freaking neck.

You attempt to withdraw yourself from more social confrontations, but you are met with the wall of a classroom. He looms over you—admittedly, you are average height—as he rests a hand against the dry plaster beside your head. Yuck. It is like a low-budget kabedon in a live-action adaptation of a Shōjo manga with godawful acting…and it goes without saying that he succeeds in making your skin crawl.

Lord, 'di naman ako masama. Ba't ba na ako pa talaga.

"Shoot, what was it…? Oh! 'MVP to MIA: Kitagawa Daiichi's Number 99 Suddenly Quits?!' right? Right. Not only do I memorize the article name…volume thirteen, number nine, I believe? I'm sort of a fanatic. Gotta say, kōhai-chan—or should I say [F/n] Sinag Alba Yoshino, former captain? Ah, details, but anyway…you really do look so much better in person than in the prints. You lost? I can take you the long way to your class."

…How does this walking-talking toilet paper know my second and middle name?

Not even your childhood friend knows your complete and rarely spoken government name. Oh, fuck. On bad days, even you sometimes forget.

Not to stereotype lightly, but you fear for your IP address.

His eyes wander in a way that is distinctly unwarranted; his gaze borderline leers, and that makes your jaw lock while wanting to call a trusted adult. You are about to express your torrid disgust when a shadow falls over the both of you.

"Excuse you, but she seems to be a first-year. She doesn't need the 'long' way from anything you're trying to insinuate."

Standing there is a girl with dark hair, elegant glasses, and a beauty so striking it resounds your systems with a physical impact. "Goddess" is the only word that fits. You have never been a "simp" like loud-mouthed fools who slobber on the floor, but you may have a documented weakness for attractive people. How can anyone blame you? With this girl, especially? Her glasses alone are a work of art. Surely, she is one of God's favorites.

The greasy third-year student pales, his hand dropping from the wall. "Oh, Kiyoko-san…I was just, uh, helping her out."

"I'll take it from here," she says. Her gorgeous eyes framed by those impeccable glasses do not leave him until he mumbles a half-hearted apology and scurries off toward Class 3–1 like a street rat.

She then turns to you, her expression softening. "I take it that you're lost? The first-years' classrooms are two floors down. The stairwell layout may be a little confusing if you take the West Wing by mistake. From the first gym, I presume? I'll show you the way."

"…Thank you po—" you bluster. Patay. The Filipino habit you usually reserve for your household, and had no trouble keeping under wraps until this very moment, slips out.

She does not question the foreign word, only gesturing for you to follow.

As you walk, the silence between you is significantly more comfortable than the blabbering of that earlier weirdo, though you also cannot help but notice how other students part for her.

“I’m Kiyoko Shimizu. Third-year student,” she mentions as you reach the same staircase landing you were at before getting jumped. “I don’t know about the magazine people have been mentioning around school, however, I do recognize you from a feature in the local newspaper. You have a very prominent reputation…and an organized way of thinking—or so the paper says.”

You shrug, looking at your shoes. “I guess so. I am Yoshino [F/n], first-year, Class 1–4. Still, I would not say I have an ‘organized way of thinking’ when I did just get lost.”

“Hopefully you don’t lose your way for the Bukatsu Shōkai this afternoon,” Kiyoko says, pausing at the top of the second floor’s stairs. She makes eye contact with you then, through clear lenses, with an inspecting stare. “I’m the manager for the boys’ volleyball club. Even though the school year has just begun, we’re already seeking a first-year to take over the managerial position after I graduate.”

“Well…”

“You’ve been a captain,” she continues, voice nothing but angelic and persuasive. “First I’ve read of a second-year becoming one, especially with active third-years present. That kind of vision is rare. If you know what it’s like to see an entire field in a split second, processing a whole court might be easier. The team needs someone who can think quickly on instinct.”

You open your mouth to give your standard, no-qualms rejection, but the words die in your throat.

She gives you a small, concise nod. “The transition from a sport, especially one you’ve once participated in, to an entirely new environment just to hold a clipboard does come across quite shrill, but please think about it. We’re in the second gym. If you come by, I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

[2階　一年生の廊下]

You finally stand beneath the correct signage, but your heart does a weird, traitorous thrum that lasts shorter than a nanosecond as she bids you farewell.

Holy shit, you think, rubbing your neck. Pretty people with glasses are dangerous.

Monday | 10:33 AM

The First-Year Corridor is hardly busy twelve minutes before Homeroom Orientation; most students already got absorbed into their classrooms, while only some prefer to loiter in the hallway with people they know from junior high school or whoever the fuck. You stroll at a leisurely gait, finally oriented with a crash course on the school’s magical stairwells all thanks to that helpful (and beautiful, glasses-wearing) third-year.

Your vision traces the windows of the hallway, noting how the sunlight spills across the floor; bright enough to make you squint after a morning in shadowed passageways. You rub your eyes, wishing you would have had the sense to eat a proper breakfast—

What was that?

Something ghosted at the edge of your vision. Something remarkably patent. Something brighter than the sunlit floor. Something…

Orange?

Your mind—lacking the necessary fuel, boost of cognitive function, and replenishment of depleted energy due to skipping breakfast—is lagging behind, but you can definitely feel it barreling toward you. The sound comes first; the pounding rhythm of sneakers running against tile, hurried breaths bouncing off of the walls, and the faint rustling of clothes as a bag swings around. 

You step to the side just in time to catch a flash of orange hair, wild and unmistakable, before it launched where you previously were.

“—???!!!”

The thing faceplants onto the floor of the hallway. Are they dead?

The thing wriggles before suddenly springing up again. Your body reacts faster than your brain; shooting out your arms as a weight collides with your chest. Legs wrap themselves tightly around your waist as arms cling around your shoulders. The force nearly knocks you down onto the floor, but you steady yourself, eyebrows raised, staring down at the human projectile now latched to you like a tarsier.

For one suspended breath, you did not register his face—just the blur of energy and the absurdity of how your first day has gone so far. Then he leans back, and the sunlight catches him in full.

Still the same as your memory had frozen him, with hair as vivid as a traffic cone, and a smile stretching from ear to ear.

You blink. “Shō?”

“[N/N]!!!”

Prying him off with some effort, it only takes unhooking his arms from around your neck until his feet touch the ground again.

Hinata bounces in place, essentially vibrating with unmeasured revelry.

“I knew it—I knew you’d end up here too!” he says, words tumbling so fast, it is a mystery as to how he does not trip over his sentences much like his feet. He should be a rapper. “My mom told me you might, but I wasn’t sure! Or, well, I wasn’t sure until I saw you, and I was like ‘No way!’ but then it hit me like BUWAH and then I was like ‘Yes way!’ and—”

“Slow down,” you interject, granted that your tone is passive rather than scolding. You scrutinize him up and down with appraising eyes. There is definitely a certain aspect that is off.

He is…taller now. Slightly taller than you. What has happened to the world?

Hinata notices your stare and puffs his chest. “Pretty cool, yeah? I grew! I mean, I still gotta catch up to everyone else, but it’s a start!”

“…Huh,” is all you give him, although to Hinata, it is as good as fireworks. He beams, hands gripping the band of his cream-colored canvas shoulder bag as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Man, I can’t believe it’s really you! I thought we’d lost touch forever after elementary, and then junior high was just super crazy—”

His rambling persists as a waterfall of enthusiasm that fills up the First-Year Corridor. You allow it to override you, not bothering to interrupt this time. Your eyes relax, albeit merely by a fraction, as you take in his hyper storytelling and gestures. Shōyō is still the same twerp.

When he pauses for a breath, you hum, “Without taking into account your growth, it seems as though you really have not changed.”

Hinata freezes, then laughs so cacophonously that a few nearby students turn their heads. “UWAH! But you have! You look so pretty. And very cool! Swag! Did I say that out loud? Ah, it’s true! Don’t mind! Not that you weren’t cool or pretty before! Seriously, everyone’s gonna stare!”

“If only that has not happened already,” you scrunch your nose, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder.

Hinata falls into step beside you in the blink of an eye, glowing like a joyful sunrise, eager to go about for the rest of the day so long as you are with him.

Years apart quickly dissolve in a heartbeat, as if you have never been separated at all.

And you, though you would not care to admit it out loud, found yourself oddly fine with it. Despite the world not flipping upside down and automatically turning colorful again.

He may be glowing, but that is not enough to alter your surroundings into something radiant.

Orange had not been the kindle to a life with greener pastures.

“C’mon, [N/n]! I can’t believe we’re in the same school again—GAH! This is the best! I missed you so much! Like, if you take a boat and fill it with how much I’ve missed Yoshino [F/n], the boat would sink! And the amount of me missing you would spill and take over the whole ocean!” The energetic boy has you by the wrist, dragging you with him as his steps bubble with excitement.

You let yourself be pulled along like you have yourself one hyperactive sled dog with orange fur—your pace is unhurried despite Hinata’s tugging. “You do not even know if we are in the same class, Shō,” you impart monotonously.

Hinata waves off your words with his free hand. “Ehhh, doesn’t matter! It’s gotta be fate! Childhood friends reunited after a billion years apart? We’re totally classmates! We can sit together, and you can explain the English and numbers stuff I don’t get!”

“Hm…”

The time prompts the few other dawdling first-years in the hallway to start shuffling in clusters to their classrooms. The air is thick with newness. You keep your gaze forward—until you catch sight of a neat placard above a doorway.

[一年四組]

“Oh. Class 1–4.” You dug in your heels, bringing Hinata to an abrupt stop. He jolts backward at the sudden resistance, nearly bumping into a passing student.

“Oof—hey! Why’d you stop?”

“This is my classroom.” You nod toward the sign.

Hinata stares at you hollowly, unblinking as his brain buffers. Then his jaw went slack, eyes rounding in delayed horror. “Eh?! No way! You’re in a college prep class?!”

“Yes.”

“Awh! But—but my homeroom’s all the way on the other end! Class 1–1!” He points miserably down the hall, like the number itself thorns him.

You scratch the side of your temple. “That…explains quite a lot. Your placement in the remedial-adjacent track is statistically consistent with your grades from elementary school.”

“[N/n]! That’s mean!” Hinata’s lips quiver—a devastation like this nearly turns him into the saddest puddle in the First-Year Corridor, though he still did not let go of your arm. His whole face scrunches up like a kid being denied their favorite dessert. “This sucks! I thought we’d finally be in the same class again after all these years. Does this mean I have to walk all the way over here just to see you? Well…it’s doable, I guess…but still! How can you just abandon me like this?”

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “It is not really ‘abandonment’ if we were never assigned to be together in the first place.” 

He slumps dramatically on the sliding doors to your classroom, blocking your path, hand theatrically dragging down his face. “You’re so cold…”

An unreadable expression marks you, remaining unfazed, but you did hold out your hand to ask for something. “Phone.”

“What?” he peeks out from behind his fingers.

“You have one, right? Cellphone. Number. Exchange?”

“Oh! Yes, yes!” In an instant, Hinata brightens again, fumbling a yellow…flip phone out of his pocket like a sacred treasure. “Back then, we didn’t own phones yet, I forgot—man! This is awesome! Now we can text all the time!”

You input your number onto Hinata’s phone and hand it back to him. Hardly ten seconds later, you feel your own device vibrate in your blazer’s pocket.

10:38 AM Mon 9 April

💬 MESSAGES (now) Unknown wwww lol its me shō XDD

💬 MESSAGES (now) Unknown heeeeyyyyyyyywwww

You stare up from the notifications on your screen, deadpanning whilst Hinata just gives you a cheeky smile.

“Could you not wait?”

“Couldn’t help it!”

“Then couldn’t you…go to your classroom? The teacher will be there soon.” You move Hinata aside with a single hand, similar to pushing your father’s favorite bag of pretzels out of the way to reach the Boy Bawang behind it in the kitchen pantry. He would just have to continue sulking in the hall if he does not get his shit together.

“Why’d you have to be so smart, [N/n]?!” he pouts after dusting himself off, but his face splits into that unrelenting smile again. “Fine! But lunch! I’ll dash here! I need to know everything that’s happened with your amazing football career! And I need to update you on my volleyball stuff! There’s this one guy that I need to defeat, [N/n]…some sort of King…you won’t believe it!”

You watch as he sprints away, orange hair flailing.

Monday | 10:40 AM

Sighing, you slide the doors open to Class 1–4, and step into your homeroom. The moment you do, the school’s five-minute warning bell rings.

Conversations overlap beneath the scrape of chair legs against wooden sugi floorboards. Someone laughs too loudly near you as another student hurriedly shoves several notebooks and worksheets into a folder under their desk as though Homeroom Orientation on the first day of school warrants that level of preparedness.

Your eyes sweep the room once. Five columns and five rows. Guess you have twenty-four people to try and tolerate this year.

Three seats remain unoccupied—the classroom’s attendance is already ninety-two percent complete—though you immediately dislike two of them.

The first option is actually quite close to your current location. It is within the column nearest to the wall, back row. The seat also has immediate access to one of the two sliding doors, meaning you can hypothetically book it out of class as fast as you would like without having to wait or scooch through your classmates.

However, it is to the right of a boy who seriously needs to lay off relying on deodorant to mask his body odor. He talks with his hands as if conducting an invisible sports panel.

Basketball; you caught the word three separate times within five seconds.

“Kobe! And then…if you pivot properly—”

His arm nearly clips the poor guy beside him in the jaw.

Jesus Christ.

He seems to like basketball, basketball, and maybe baking? Kidding, that third interest still entails baskets and shooting balls into them. By the decibel that he speaks, it is all the more reason to stray away. The seat makes you twinge.

God, no.

One adrenaline-pilled and overly enthusiastic athlete in your life is already more than enough.

Your gaze then shifts to the second option. Fuck, dude, it is in the third column, dead-center, second row. Honestly, the seatmates on either side do not convey the impression of being too bad.

The classmate who would be behind you if you do take that chair is actually quite cute, even. Dark grayish-green locks…maybe army-colored? Moss? Whatever. His hair additionally has a flyaway tuft sticking out like an antenna. He strikes as somewhat self-effacing from where you stand at the back of the classroom. Are those freckles? You are not too sure—could be acne—but it does complement his features well, forming constellations across his mug.

Click-click.

What you do have a problem with is the classmate who would be in front of you. The boy has combed, slicked-back hair, and he is already hunched over two notebooks stacked neatly atop his desk with pens galore as if finals are tomorrow. His foot taps against the floor with enough cadence to slowly eat away at your sanity.

Click-click.

He even clicks his pen.

Click-click.

If you had not noticed.

You can already envision him reminding a subject teacher about forgotten homework assignments six months from now.

“Shh!”

Oh, damn. He slapped a hand on his forehead, spun around in his chair, and grilled the people behind him. He certainly sticks to a strict regime…and speaking of sticks, does he have one up his ass? Or would it be a Grade A ruler instead?

This guy likely raises his hand often, and he would be directly in front of you, meaning more attention would be drawn to that vicinity. Jeez. It is a royal pain when you are well aware of your recurring habit of sleeping in class. You do not particularly need a stickler do-goody to pester you about waking up and “personifying the school values by listening attentively to the lessons being taught.” He is the type of guy who would definitely find a way to procure a student council armband around his uniform sleeve by the end of Schola Brevis, somehow.

Absolutely not.

That leaves the third and final option; fifth column, closest to the windows, third row. Okay. It appears to be quiet, to have minimal foot traffic, and to possess decent airflow. Cons? The only one you could think of is how far it is from the exit, but the trade-off is worth it. Your potential neighbors do not tick any boxes of being an outright nuisance. Most importantly, the guy occupying the seat to its right seems entirely uninterested in the existence of everyone around him. The third option is actually promising.

Your eyes linger.

Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy…

That guy. He has sandy-blond hair and—damn it, your brain must seriously be deprived of its essential nutrients if it is doing that tiny, treacherous stutter from earlier, only doubling down further because of—glasses. Dark, rectangular frames that sit perfectly on a sharply sculpted bridge. With specs, he stares absentmindedly toward the front of the classroom, toward the chalkboard, as if the entire Entrance Ceremony and subsequent Homeroom Orientation is beneath his notice.

Huh—and Freckles is beside him. Too bad Glasses has headphones on, Freckles is having the time of his life rambling to what might as well have been a decorative brick wall.

“…and did you hear about that Kitaichi football prodigy? Reminds me of the King. Looks to me like that school’s got a thing for producing strong student-athletes. Yikes,” Freckles fails to whisper confidentially. “But hey! People say she’s in our class, although I don’t know if they’re joking because—”

“Mm.”

Glasses barely acknowledges him.

You have to give a bit of credit where it is due; you respect the lack of hustle.

He looks competent. He looks like he minds his own business.

He looks…pretty. You blame Kiyoko-senpai for this development. It is an inconvenient sensitivity.

As you approach the empty desk, your attention briefly drifts downward. A moon-shaped keychain swings gently from the side of his red bag. Attached to the same metal ring hangs a small name tag.

[月島蛍]

Tsukishima? Moon-shaped keychain?

Ah.

You get it. Kind of dorky, but it is not illegal to be on-the-nose.

Wait. Hold on. Sure, the unassuming desk looks empty, however, who knows? Maybe there is some bullshit eraser on the floor near the leg of the table, or some other obscure item that stakes a claim for that desk.

It is patently burdensome to ask, but less so than having to get up as a forced retreat to those dire fallbacks you do not want to have. Alright, then you will plainly ask. Easy peasy. It is a task bereft of being difficult if your brazenness could huff a thing or two about it.

Dude, just say, “Tsukishima Hotaru, is anyone occupying this desk already?”

Well, actually, he does not really give the appearance of a guy named “Hotaru.” Something about his posture, that intellectual—almost sardonic and derisive—aura, or the fact that he exudes an expression that is perpetually unimpressed by the human condition…it makes you gamble on the alternative, less-common on’yomi reading.

You stand by the desk, quietly clearing your throat. He does not look up at first, though to be fair, those Somy headphones and the music filtering in his ears are a clear "Do Not Disturb” indicator. You wait at least six seconds before deciding to speak.

“Hoy. Tsukishima Kei. Is this seat taken?”

Instantaneously, the air within the 1x1 meter space around him crystallizes. Freckles stops mid-sentence.

The blond glances upward. For a skip of the heart, his headphones remain over his ears as a melody continues to leak, hinting a thin barrier between you…before his gaze settles properly onto your countenance.

And then, he pauses.

Behind dark frames, his pointedly cutting irises…they are a brilliant shade of amber. Honeyed dews that can deter an adult bear from consuming them just by how magnificent they are. By God, why are you so distracted?

There is an exact moment in the fabric of time where his “processor” stalls, almost in a similar manner to you lagging through your wake-up routine at home. You expect it to be an initial hint of him going to ignore you, to be ticked off, or maybe to offer the same fawning and gross recognition you have had the displeasure in enduring all morning long.

Instead, his narrow ambers audit you with a sterile intensity.

What is it? MVP? Former youth football prospect? The girl featured in a notable magazine?

There is a ripple in his composure; a microscopic clench of his mandible, a momentary thaw of his guarded expression, an imperceptible dart in those intimidating eyes—blink and you miss it. You do not require reading his mind to arrive at the realization writing its way in the instance he forgets to breathe.

There is something off about this guy. For whatever reason, he is not looking at some image conjured from whispers, a “prodigy,” or a “magazine article.”

He is…looking at you.

For the first time today, someone appears genuinely caught off guard by the sight.

His fingers reach up, lightly pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck.

“…Come again?” he asks, with a voice so smooth—like a low drawl that does not fail to give you goosebumps. What the fuck is going on?

The second the words left his mouth, irritation flickers briefly across his face as he clicks his tongue. He is bothered—at his own lack of attention, at the way your voice caught him so unexpectedly that his mental defenses tripped.

He is incomprehensibly bothered that, despite himself, he is actually beholding the view of you out of his own free will.

“The seat,” you repeat steadily. You find yourself staring a breath too long at how the morning light catches the corner of his lenses, turning corpuscles of dust around him into floating specks of gold.

Starkly different from spray paint under stadium lights.

For months—arguably a year—your world had been washed out in the heavy apathy of a girl who left her shadow on the muddy field. Quitting football turned your life into one that tasted like lukewarm tea steeped too short; one that looked like a faded photograph.

Color simply stopped trying.

You had an abundance of your mind set to expect your first day at Karasuno High to be more of the same drab itinerary.

So why?

In that moment, the world does not turn into a rainbow, but why is it unfortunately packed with more nuance than you could knuckle into a football with your non-dominant foot? As you lock eyes with him, the dullness of a kaolin-gray filter over your vision appears to sharpen. The contrast turns up. The edges of the room become more defined as pigments shift from muted monotony to a more vivid spectrum. And this stranger-classmate of yours is the catalyst of such impossible color?

How?

You were wrong.

Glasses—or Tsukishima, you mean—does not have sandy-blond hair. It is not singularly “blond” either. Except his hair is not the bright, mercantile sheen of city lights like imposing orange; it is softly the hue of a town in Miyagi with spring breaking through. Pale as the dried thatch of old barn roofs, yet catching April’s thin sun like fresh, unspun silk drying on an engawa. It is the exact shade of blond resembling cold morning light cutting through crisp air that hits Sendai’s foothills before snow fully melts.

You cannot place it exactly.

Perhaps, his hair is startling, warm ivory—the flush of early Ipomoea alba yet to bloom completely, laced with the clean chaff of the region’s fresh produce from lined rice paddies.

Precipitously, the boring chalkboard at the front of the class is not just a powdery desaturation of shamrock; it is a deep, intense slate of green.

Whatever it is, it must be the trick of the light…or the very first drop of pure paint in diluted, murky water.

It is weird.

Weird like a breath of fresh air in a congested room that has been sealed for years.

“Wow, Tsukki!”

Freckles throws himself over the wooden expanse of Tsukishima’s desk, his whisper conveying that winded, frenzied energy of a kagwang itching to glide. He drifts so far forward that the warmth of his presence threatens to breach the cold perimeter of your personal space. “She actually got your given name right on the first try!”

“Shut up, Yamaguchi. Obviously, there’s bound to be someone in this school whose tongue isn’t a butcher’s knife,” Tsukishima snaps. His voice is a thin, biting wind, sharp enough to cut, yet his unrelenting stare wavers naught away from you.

Oh.

So the gamble did work out.

A faint, inward sigh of relief tracks. Shit, dude, enter the lottery. You can be Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but with correct kanji readings as the Golden Ticket. You had pulled that reasoning right out of thin air as a desperately lunging play on a pitch you hardly see.

The freckled boy—Yamaguchi something—seems entirely undeterred. Instead, he faces you fully, his expression lighting up with a rustic, sheepish ardency. An azalea-pink hue dusts high on his cheeks. His weight leans so heavily against the wooden table that the legs of Tsukishima’s desk groan against sugi, inching a few millimeters closer to yours.

“I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi!” he intones, his voice leaping a pitch higher than it had been when he was gossiping just a scene before. “And, uhm, it’s really cool to meet you, Yoshino-san! I saw that one photo of you in the magazine where you were doing the—”

“Yamaguchi. Sit down. You’re hovering.” Tsukishima’s interruption is a bucket of well-water drawn directly from beneath ice.

Yamaguchi chirrups, a high, disconcerting sound, and nearly trips over his own lanky limbs as he recoils toward his own chair. “Ah—sorry! Sorry, Tsukki! I just—anyway, nice to meet you!” He offers one last dopey look; the kind of open-eyed wonder that tattles he had already decided you were the most interesting thing to ever occupy Class 1–4, before he hides his face behind a fan of spaced digits.

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. Then, he merely gestures with a vague, dismissive flick of his gaze toward the empty chair to his left. “It’s unoccupied. Sit if you want. It’s not as if I own the room.”

You pull the chair out. The screech of metal legs dragging against the old sugi floor cuts through the room. It is a sharp, scraping friction that, for a fleeting second, the receptors of your ears processed to be the only sound left in the entire world.

“Salamat, pre—”

The words run before you can catch them. Shit. That deep-set household habit, the casual vernacular of a life lived behind closed doors, spills out into a sterile Japanese classroom.

Whatever. You cannot un-ring the bell that demands future prodding inquiries now.

As you settle into the seat, the periphery of your vision becomes a canvas of high-contrast movement. Through his woven fingers, Yamaguchi peeks at you, gaze roving toward you for a brief, borrowed moment, as if trying to verify that a creature of flesh and bone had actually materialized beside his best friend—one whose flesh and bone, in particular, conglomerate into an appearance that is a sight for sore eyes, in his opinion.

Meanwhile, Tsukishima’s subtlety lingers in a mighty, quiet watch of vacancy. His eyes trace your profile for a stray tick of a clock’s hand longer than necessary—an analytical, studying contemplation that attempts to decipher an unfamiliar variable left in your wake—before he finally turns back toward the green swathe of the chalkboard. 

The desk beneath your palms feels smooth, real, and violently brown. For so long, the world had been a smudge of slathered chromatism, but the grain of this wood is suddenly distinct enough to prick.

Beyond the glass pane of the large windows, the young ginkgo trees sway in the gentle breeze; their early leaves catching the sun like pale green coins. Beneath your ribs, your cardiorespiratory system thrums with an abnormal rhythm—stuttering with a pulse that has absolutely nothing to do with the flights of stairs you had just traveled.

Pretty people with glasses, you think again, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as the ache of the sky outside large windows finally looks blue in its vast, celestial firmament. What could be the con of sitting next to one?

.

.

.

Back then, you did not know enough to ask better questions.

The beginning of spring always exhibits to be deceptively gentle, after all. Snow thaws. Tempests soothe. Vibrancy of rays mill about longer against classroom floors and the rim of clean glasses.

Perhaps that is why the passage of time never feels particularly grand while you are living through it.

At fifteen, it is easy to mistake the first return of color for permanence.

It is all the more easy to believe that the people who alter the texture of your world will simply remain there forever—beside classroom windows, below spring skies, at the desk to your starboard.

Before long, April, too, softened into the passing haze of bickered interactions, Tokyo summer camps, dragged study sessions, and shared autumn moon festivals with a first-name basis. To which somewhere amidst the quiet accumulation of ordinary days, the years disappeared from right beneath your feet, slipping into February's late winter.

What could possibly be the con of sitting next to one?

𝄞⨾𓍢♬⋆˚♪

[fffries]

Liverleaf

TW: Blood, Gore (?)

Live laugh love bro.

.

@/fffxelier on Instagram if you wanna check that out 🤷.

[fffries]

Saiki redraw from a year ago whew

[fffries]

Pew pew

Old drawing of Death the Kid from last year (head in hands).

[fffries]

Rero rero 🕺.

[fffries]

Xiao sketch RAHHHHHHH

[fffries]

Shidou.

FERTILIZE THE GOAL 🗣️🗣️💥⁉️💥⁉️⁉️🔥🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🗣️⁉️.

Bro is the one reason why it’s risky to read the U20 match in public.

[fffries]

Saiki 🤷

There’s really nothing else to it. I redrew screencaps of Saiki Kusuo 🕺🕺.

I also posted this on my Instagram @/fffxelier so go over there if you want 🧍‍♀️.