Tsukishima Kei — The Right Formula
(fluff / high school era / first crush) │the simplest equation was the one you didn’t see coming
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you spend the entire last half of practice thinking about it.
your stomach is tight, your palms sweaty, your notebook damp from how long you’ve been gripping it. tsukishima is by the door packing up his things, the late afternoon sun catching the edges of his hair, and all you can think is i have to ask now, or i’ll never do it.
you stand there for a full minute before your legs finally move.
“tsukishima,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.
he glances over, unimpressed at first… until he sees your expression. his posture shifts, subtle but noticeable, like he’s lowering his guard just for you.
“what is it?”
you swallow. hard. the words stick in your throat.
“i… um. i need help. with math.”
there’s a beat.
then another.
then hinata’s voice explodes behind you.
“WHAT? YOU? asking tsukishima for math help??”
kageyama folds his arms next to him, scowling. “he won’t tutor us. don’t bother. he’s a jerk.”
you cringe, the embarrassment burning hot under your skin. “i just— i really need to pass my exams or i can’t go to the tokyo training camp and— i know you’re good at math and i’m… really bad and i just—”
“sure,” tsukishima says.
hinata and kageyama’s jaws drop.
your brain stalls.
“s— sure?” you repeat.
tsukishima slips his bag over his shoulder, brushing past the two stunned first-years. “let’s go. before they start asking for help too.”
and that’s how you end up following him out of the gym like a startled little duck, heart pounding, mind racing, wondering what in the world you’ve just done.
his room is clean.
organized in that way only tsukishima could manage, like everything exists exactly where it’s supposed to be.
you sit at his desk while he pulls up a chair beside you. your notebook shakes on your lap and you hope he doesn’t notice.
he notices. of course he does.
“you don’t have to look so scared,” he says, voice flat but… softer than usual.
“i’m not scared,” you lie.
“you’re shaking,” he replies.
you choke. “i’m just— i’m really bad at this.”
“no one’s good at everything.”
you stare at your hands. “everyone thinks i am.”
that makes him pause.
when he speaks again, his tone is quieter.
“maybe that’s because you never let anyone see you struggle.”
your chest tightens. you don’t answer.
he doesn’t push.
instead, he takes your textbook and flips through it before pointing at a problem on one of the pages.
“okay. let’s start here.”
you try.
you really do.
but within three minutes, tsukishima realizes you are genuinely, catastrophically awful at math.
like… finger-counting. lost-in-the-middle-of-the-problem. staring at the page like it’s written in ancient hieroglyphics. that level of awful.
you wait— bracing for a snide comment, for that smug smirk, for a teasing jab you know you’ll be too sensitive to handle tonight.
but it never comes.
not even once.
tsukishima is… patient.
gentle.
shockingly soft.
“not quite,” he murmurs, leaning closer to point at the mistake. “you switched the numbers here. try it again.”
“no— don’t jump ahead. look at the exponent first.”
“slow down. you’re getting flustered.”
his voice is low, steady, careful. he doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes or make you feel stupid. he just guides you, piece by piece, until you can feel your brain chugging forward like a stubborn old engine finally catching.
over an hour passes.
your pencil taps.
your forehead scrunches.
you mutter apologies every five seconds.
and he quietly ignores every one of them.
then— somehow— impossibly—
you get a question right.
a hard question.
you blink down at the page in disbelief.
“wait. did i—? is that—?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back slightly. “you got it.”
you stare.
then you grin.
you launch forward with so much excitement you don’t even think before throwing your arms around him.
“tsukishima, i did it! i actually— oh my god, thank you!”
his whole body goes rigid.
like… frozen-solid rigid.
for a split second you think you’ve made an enormous mistake.
but then, slowly— carefully— his arms wrap around you. warm. tentative. almost shy.
your breath catches.
you pull back first, face flaming, panic rising in your chest. “s—sorry! i didn’t mean to— i just— it was stupid—”
you try to move back.
you can’t.
his hands are still at your waist, holding you in place.
he’s staring at you.
really staring.
his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, like something warm and unguarded is flickering behind them. something he’s not used to showing anyone.
“you’re cute when you’re excited,” he says quietly.
your brain short-circuits.
heat rushes across your face. you cover your cheeks with your hands immediately, mortified.
he clicks his tongue gently, reaching up to tug your hands away, thumb brushing your wrist with infuriating tenderness.
“don’t hide,” he murmurs. “i like seeing you flustered.”
your heart slams against your ribs.
“i’m— i’m not flustered,” you squeak.
he smirks, leaning just a little closer. “you’re bright red.”
“no i’m— i’m not—”
“you are,” he teases, voice low, warm. “it’s cute.”
you think you might actually combust.
your breath stutters, your eyes dart to his mouth, and his expression shifts— softening again, like he’s seeing something he likes. something he’s been hoping for.
his hand lifts.
tucks a piece of hair gently behind your ear.
his fingertips linger just long enough to make your pulse tremble.
“you know,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice steady, “i’m gonna tell everyone you have a soft side.”
he snorts. “i’ll deny it.”
“i’ll have proof.”
“you have nothing,” he murmurs, leaning in, “except bad math skills and a crush.”
you choke. “i— i don’t—”
he smiles— genuinely, warmly, beautifully.
“you do.”
your breath stops.
he leans in closer, slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.
you don’t.
your lips meet softly.
shy.
warm.
the kind of first kiss that feels like your heart is turning over in your chest, blooming into something bright and terrifying and wonderful all at once.
when he pulls back, your noses still brush.
your heartbeat is wild.
tsukishima’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“come over again tomorrow,” he says. “your math still sucks.”
you laugh— breathless, flustered, happy.
“yeah,” you murmur, cheeks burning. “okay.”
he smiles, soft and lovesick and unbearably gentle.
“good.”
the world quiets around you, his forehead still brushing yours, and the warmth between you feels fragile and bright enough to make your heart tremble.
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