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Tsukishima always thought Kenma was odd.

He was too small for volleyball. Well--not really. Little players were pretty common in high school. Going pro was different, of course, but Kenma wasn’t interested in going pro.

No, and that was the odd part. Kenma was too short to play, didn’t seem to have much athleticism, and also didn’t really care about the game. Tsukishima got backed into it because he’d been born perfect to play. He was tall and athletic and good at the damn game without any effort. He didn’t care about volleyball really, not at first.

Neither did Kenma, seemingly.

He was a damn good setter, though. Tsukishima felt like the matches Karasuno had against Nekoma were his entire team versus Kozume Kenma. (Perhaps the same could be said for Nekoma; their matches were versus Kageyama, the freak.)

All of that was weird, yeah, but when Tsukishima considered Kenma odd, he really meant it outside of the game.

Tsukishima had been told, more than once, that Kuroo was Kenma’s best friend. Childhood friends. Attached at the hip.

But Kenma didn’t seem to care about Kuroo. Or the rest of the team. Or school? Or anything?

They had one conversation outside of volleyball, during his final year of high school, when Tsukishima visited Tokyo with Yamaguchi to tour some college campuses. Kuroo and Kenma met them for dinner at a diner near the station. It seemed likely that Tsukishima and Yamaguchi would attend XYX university next year--the school Kuroo and Kenma studied at--and they’d all wind up on the same team for the first time.

Well, not all of them.

Kenma didn’t play volleyball anymore. It’d been two whole years since his last match, supposedly. He was still trim as ever, though--Tsukishima noticed Kenma’s pale, flat belly when he reached up to accept a glass of water from the waitress and his sweatshirt lifted without his notice.

In recent months--since his eighteenth birthday, when someone on the team jokingly gave him a BL manga--Tsukishima found himself noticing things like abs, thighs, and, humiliatingly, on occasion, the shape of a man’s dick through his pants.

He was pretty sure he was gay. And like with volleyball, he really, really hadn’t asked for this.

It was in this silent moment of despair--the fifth time he’d had one of these moments that specific day--that Tsukishima found himself alone with Kenma for the first time ever, actually.

Kuroo stepped away to use the bathroom and Yamaguchi got a call from his sorta-kinda-girlfriend and had quietly slipped out the front door to chat with her in the half-empty parking lot.

Tsukishima stabbed a french fry into a pool of gravy, snapping it in half. He scoffed. Perfect. Now he had to fish out a fry from the sauce, getting it on his fingers, and then he’d have to go wash his hands, and--

“You don’t have to eat them,” came Kenma’s quiet voice.

Tsukishima jerked his head up and narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You’re staring at the fries like you hate them. You don’t have to eat them if they’re bad. Kuroo will finish them for you.”

“I don’t hate them. What the fuck?”

“Why are you glaring like that, then.” It wasn’t a question.

“Maybe you should stop staring at my face and mind your business.”

Kenma didn’t reply to that. Instead, he turned to his gaming console, and began to click around.

“Why are you here?” Tsukishima asked.

Kenma didn’t look up from his game. Eventually, he shrugged.

“Why are you even friends with Kuroo? You have nothing in common. All I ever see you do is play some game when you’re with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Kenma seemed to entirely ignore him this time.

“It’s rude.”

That got a reaction, and Tsukishima’s heart skipped a beat when Kenma’s honey-brown eyes snapped to him and he said, “I’m not the one being rude right now. Are you the one that doesn’t want to be friends with Kuro?” He looked back to his game, clicked a few buttons, and sucked his teeth as a game-over noise trilled quietly from the speakers. “Or me. You don’t have to be friends with me.”

“Great,” Tsukishima said, belatedly, after he found his voice again. “I’m so glad I have your permission.”

Kenma exhaled a sound that almost sounded like a laugh.

For some reason, the way Kenma’s eyes latched onto him in that moment--that stuck with Tsukishima for weeks. He revisited that big golden stare inside his own mind again and again.

Kenma was… odd.

Months later, Tsukishima started university in the fall, and he felt like a completely different person. He was gay, in fact, and was now “out.” He hated that word. He hated explaining it to people. He hated how his teammates pretended to be okay with it but definitely carefully turned away from him in the locker room. He hated that he was attracted to men.

He liked the sex, though. That part was nice.

Going to school in Tokyo opened up a whole new (gay) world and because he moved down a week before classes started, he had a week to experiment, explore, and feel out the new life he’d be living for the next few years while earning a programming degree and playing college ball. Presumably, anyway. Tryouts were in two weeks.

That gave him a very specific window of time to have carefree “fun” before his life would be too busy for regular hook-ups. Tsukishima meant to take advantage of it.

“Be careful tonight, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi said on the second evening in Tokyo, seated on their shared apartment couch, wrapped up in a blanket, sipping a cup of tea.

Tsukishima didn’t bother to contain his eye roll. “You look like a grandmother in retirement. Why don’t you go out with me?”

“To a gay club?”

“Yes. No. We don’t have to go to a gay club--” Tsukishima’s lip curled at the name. Gay club. Ugh. His life was humiliating, sometimes. “Let’s just go to a bar.”

Yama seemed to consider it seriously for a minute. And then said, “Nah. I’m already settled in. You go. But be careful.”

Tsukishima walked out the door and said, “Whatever, Nana.”

He walked quickly down the street, to the neighboring block that had a row of bars and clubs suited to his tastes. He took a minute to wipe clean his glasses and straighten the shirt he’d opted to wear--more fitted than normal. During one of his earliest fumbling hook-ups, the other guy said, “It’s unfair that you don’t need to do anything but put on a fitted shirt so men can see how fit you are. The rest of us have to spend hours getting ready, you know.”

Tsukishima took that to heart. He wore a pair of dark denim jeans, a black t-shirt that was maybe one size too small, and a splash of cologne that smelled a little like figs and smoke.

“So unfair,” said the memory man.

Born to play ball and fuck men--yes, Tsukishima agreed. That was unfair. He nearly stopped and turned around to go home. He didn’t want to do this. Why was he? Any bar he went to would be too loud. Smelly. Full of drunk idiots. Slowly, stubbornly, he continued to march forward, to the strip of bars and clubs with varying flashing lights and rainbow flags and pretty young men hanging outside, vaping and laughing amongst themselves.

Hot drunk idiots.

No, that was worse. A wave of irritation made Tsukishima turn away. A combini, glowing with bluish light, beckoned him inside. A safe haven right at the beginning of the gay strip. Quiet and clean.

Tsukishima made his way to the back corner of the combini, to the refrigerators. He needed a drink. As he turned the corner around a snack shelf, he noticed another person looking at the sodas. This person--a short, long-haired man--was blocking the way, crouched as he looked at his options.

Tsukishima crossed his arms, tapped his foot, and when the man still didn’t notice he had blocked the path to the liquor shelves--he finally cleared his throat. 

Kozume Kenma looked up. And blinked, wide-eyed, a handful of times, before standing up. He held a white can of Monster in one hand and a pack of gum in the other, his little fingernails long, manicured--painted black. “Tsukishima Kei,” he said, almost devastatingly formal, and Tsukishima felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

He’d forgotten about Kenma’s stare. “Kozume Kenma,” he said in reply.

Silence stretched as they looked at one another and Tsukishima had the distinct impression of being back in one of their intense matches from years ago. Who would move first? Who would speak? Who would explain? He knew the moment Kenma clocked him--from his fitted pants. To his muscle-showing shirt. To the specific gay-bar-filled street they were on. 

And the moment Tsukishima clocked Kenma in return was reflected in Kenma’s big gold eyes widening the moment Tsukishima spoke: “Your hair’s cleaner than usual.” A clean hoodie. Skinny jeans. Combat boots. And pretty, feminine nails, freshly done.

They were both gay.

An utter deluge of thoughts cascaded down Tsukishima’s mind at that moment, making it impossible to speak or move or do anything because Kenma was gay, too. How many other players from their generation were gay? Did Kenma sleep around too? Would he sleep with Tsukishima? Was he into Tsukishima like that? He was so quiet normally; would he be that quiet in sex? Did Tsukishima want to find out? Could they try it tonight? Would he--

“I guess you’re here for school now,” said Kenma, breaking what was undoubtedly an agonizing awkward silence. Even for him.

“Yeah. I didn’t expect to see you first, out of everyone, though. I would have texted.”

“You don’t have my number.”

“You never gave it to me.”

“You never asked.” Kenma stared at him with that analyzing, almost--intimidating look. It was unsettling and, mostly, unreadable.

Tsukishima snorted. “Why would I? We’re not friends.”

“You weren’t friends with Kuro when you exchanged numbers.”

Was he asking Tsukishima to ask him for his number? Fuck, he couldn’t tell, and it was, unfortunately, pissing him completely off. He felt like a cornered animal somehow, uncertain how to escape. Or how to attack, to save his skin.

This was worse than the noise and stink of a club. He never should have come into the combini like this.

Still at a loss for what to say, Tsukishima crossed his arms over himself--and just like in ball, he caught Kenma’s calculating, fast, absorbing stare. Tsukishima had really nice arms, long, lean, and muscular from years of sports, and they were on full display this way. Kenma’s eyes snatched across them before moving back to the floor.

Fucking caught. But he stepped away before Tsukishima could properly respond, because this was just like one of their games, and Tsukishima being able to read Kenma’s mind was useless if he couldn’t keep up with the way he moved.

By the time Tsukishima got his feet working properly, Kenma was at the counter, paying for his stuff. 

“Hey,” Tsukishima said, following him out the door afterwards.

Kenma stopped but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Where are you going?”

Kenma seemed to watch the gutter for a moment before he said, “I don’t know.”

Let’s go somewhere together, Tsukishima didn’t say. “Okay.”

Kenma started to walk away again.

“I think Kuro--” He shook his head, “Tetsurou is meeting us for dinner Sunday. You should go.”

“Okay.”

“If you give me your number, I’ll invite you properly.”

Kenma looked up, finally, and Tsukishima tried to remain unaffected by those big, calculating eyes. “Alright.” He held out his hand.

Tsukishima fished his phone from his back pocket and handed it to Kenma, who deftly opened a message, and added his number. He tapped send--a swooshing sound indicating it sent--and a responding ping rang from the pocket on his hoodie.

He held the phone out, gaze dropped to the pavement once more.

Tsukishima didn’t want that, though. Impulsively, stupidly, he reached out, and slid his long, strong, calloused fingers along the side of Kenma’s palm as he pulled the phone back. 

Kenma looked up at that, meeting Tsukishima’s eyes, and it felt like spiking a ball for the final point in a game.

As Kenma walked away, it took a significant amount of willpower to not punch the air in victory. He read the message Kenma sent to himself: tell me what time on Sunday. Later that night, he fucked his anonymous partner with more enthusiasm than he’d ever mustered before, his core lit up like an engine in overdrive. But maybe that was unrelated; maybe that was just the atmosphere of thumping music and liquor and sweat-slicked men.

He did see that big gold stare inside his fuck-drunk mind when he came, though.

“Wait, what’s that mean?” Kuroo asked, head tilted curiously at Yamaguchi.

“Oh, uh--” Yamaguchi’s cheeks flooded in color and he shot a panicked--and apologetic--look Tsukishima’s way. He mentioned Tsukki having no interest in dating women, not just no interest in dating in general, when talking about his future at university, juggling demanding classes and a career on the volleyball team. “I shouldn’t have said--”

“It’s fine,” Tsukishima said, waving off his concern. “I don’t care if they know. I’m gay.”

Kuroo’s big black eyes blinked only once in shock before he immediately burst into a sunny, almost unsettling, smile. “No way. So’s Kenma!”

Kenma, at his side, gave him a withering stare so severe that it could probably melt glass. 

“Yeah,” Tsukishima said. “I know.”

Yamaguchi and him exchanged a look; Tsukishima told him all about the combini encounter a few days earlier.

“That’s so crazy. What if you two dated?” Kuroo said, stupidly, like the big stupid idiot that he was. He was lucky he had good looks to supplement his utter lack of brain matter--

“Don’t be stupid,” Kenma said, voice more audible than Tsukishima had ever heard it.

Oh, okay. Tsukishima snapped out his reply like blocking an attempt at a spike. “Are you kidding? Kozume’s so short. Look at him.” He met Kenma’s unreadable eyes, heart thundering in an echo of them together, mid-match.

Kuroo seemed genuinely confused, head tilting. “Yeah, but he’s really hot. You look at him.”

“I’m leaving,” Kenma said with a simple immediacy, sliding out of the booth. Both Yamaguchi and Kuroo reached after him, snatching his shirt, keeping him from escaping. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kuroo said, voice growing more pleading. “You’re right; I’m being stupid. It was a stupid thought. You two are a terrible match. Terrible.”

“Glad we’re all on the same page,” Tsukishima said.

The waitress arrived with their food, putting a much-appreciated end to the talk. After a moment, eating in silence, Yamaguchi spoke again. “Tsukki’s not really the dating type anyway. Right?”

Tsukishima exhaled, grateful for his best friend for not the first time. “Right.” He passed a look to Yamaguchi that was easily readable as thanks.

Yama smiled into his milkshake.

Later, as they walked home, Yamaguchi said, “You could try being nice to Kozume, you know. Even if you two aren’t compatible. He’s really nice, actually. He’s just quiet.”

“I’m nice to him. I invited him to eat with us, didn’t I?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s really not a big deal. I’m really not going to see him hardly ever. I’m not going to have to ‘play nice’ for the sake of our friend group or whatever.”

On the first day of classes, in the first class Tsukishima had on his schedule, inside the computer lab, at his assigned seat--

There sat the sleepy-looking, soft-looking, not-at-all-welcome Kozume Kenma. They both froze in surprise as Tsukishima pulled out his chair and found themselves face-to-face less than twenty-four hours after dinner last night.

Fuck.

“Why is your computer beside mine?” Kenma asked, staring wide-eyed at the machine displaying Tsukishima’s name.

Tsukishima looked at each of his neighbors, sighed deeply, and said, “Because my name is Kei. The professor sorted us by first names. Kairu. Kei. Kenma.”

“Wow,” said Kenma. “What’re the odds?”

Tsukishima took his seat and sighed. “What’s your major?”

“Programming. Like you.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“We aren’t friends.” He mumbled. “We’re in different years, anyway. I didn’t expect I would see you. Why are you in such an advanced class?”

With no ego, Tsukishima said, “Because I’m advanced in the coursework already.” His senior project in high school had won awards, actually.

“Hm,” said Kenma.

“What?”

Kenma, facing his own computer, began to enter his credentials. “You’re really good at everything you do.”

Tsukishima’s heart nearly skipped a beat. He said, behind his teeth, “I’m just not an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean it positively. It’s to make up for the other thing.”

“What thing?”

“The whole--unpleasant personality thing,” said Kenma, near-whispering, speaking in a tone that was very matter-of-fact.

“What the fuck?”

Tsukishima found himself shushed by the arrival of the professor. He shot a wide, murderous glance Kenma’s way, but he got no look in return.

“Okay, so, you’re in the same classes. We’ll see him sometimes at volleyball, when he attends our games to lend moral support. But that’s all, right?” Yamaguchi asked, sounding unconvincingly optimistic. 

Tsukishima sighed deeply. “That’s right.”

“You could still try to make nice, if you wanted. It might make things easier.”

“He’s fucking rude. And weird.”

“Odd, I think, was the word you used.”

“He is,” Tsukishima said. “You can’t say you disagree.”

“No, no. You’re right,” Yamaguchi said. “He’s definitely quirky. But he can’t be that bad once you get to know him. He wouldn’t have so many friends if he was a total nightmare.” Yamaguchi’s upward glance at Tsukki seemed to have a million meanings baked right in.

Tsukishima glared in reply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to say it, asshole.”

“I only meant that--” Yamaguchi wheeled his hands in the air, the bottle of rum he held sloshing about as he spoke. “You don’t have to be so ready to attack him at every turn. No one likes being bullied.”

“You certainly don’t mind being bullied.” Tsukishima took the bottle away. Not because Yamaguchi was drinking--no, in fact, the bottle was brand new. Unopened. They were bringing it to the party Kuroo invited them to attend, to celebrate the completion of their first week of classes. Kenma wasn’t going to be there--Yamaguchi found out, subtly, using his own gentle touch.

It was the only reason Tsukishima agreed to attend.

He continued, “I refuse to pretend to be polite to someone I don’t even like.”

“Alright, alright,” said Yama. “Forget about it. Hey, maybe there’ll be some nice guys at this party for you.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes so hard he nearly pulled a muscle. “Yeah, cool. Maybe there’ll be some nice girls for you.”

“I’m taken,” Yamaguchi said in a huff.

“Long distance rarely works. Ami is all the way down in Kyoto.”

“We’re making it work.”

“Sure you are.”

Yamaguchi pouted. “Shut up, Tsukki. Like you would know anything about love. You can’t even remember the name of the last guy you slept with.”

“One of us is doing this right. Time will tell who,” Tsukishima said, very confident that it was him. Yamaguchi was the love-struck idiot there. Tsukishima was the pragmatic, fully satisfied, unproblematic one. Sex without strings was easy, simple, and left him avoiding the vicious-looking cycle of heartbreak.

Yeah, one of them had it figured out.

They arrived at the party just after ten PM--held at a big, contemporary style home belonging to one of the players on the team that Tsukishima hadn’t really gotten to know yet. But he was, apparently, loaded. Music bumped through several speakers. Dozens of men and women mingled around every corner. And the liquor flowed--he and Yama didn’t need to bring the bottle after all, but at least it was polite.

“Shots!” Kuroo exclaimed to a chorus of cheers. Tsukishima accepted one as it was passed to him. He and Yama clinked cups before downing the drink. Yamaguchi gagged, Tsukishima held steadfast, and Kuroo cackled. “Another?”

“God no,” said Yamaguchi.

“Hit me,” said Tsukishima. He wasn’t going to get laid hanging out at a house full of straight men, he resolved. So getting drunk would be the activity for the night.

They stumbled into Kuroo and Kenma’s shared apartment shortly after four in the morning. Kuroo wobbled drunkenly into the shoe cabinet, knocking off a bowl full of keys and other loose ends, and immediately cackled. Tsukishima muffled a laugh of his own behind his biceps, vision swimming.

“Shh!” Hissed the still-sober Yamaguchi. “Do you want to wake up Kozume?”

“I’m already awake,” Kenma said, turning his seat in the living room. He looked cozy in an overstuffed swivel chair, and the glow of the television cast him in soft streaks of blue and purple. He was wearing an oversized shirt and short, baggy shorts--pale thighs pink knees soft thighs little bare feet pale thighs thighsthighsthighs, Tsukishima’s stupid drunk brain helpfully supplied. Kenma also had, in one hand, a PS5 controller. The game was paused on the screen. 

“You’re sitting in the dark?” Yamaguchi asked.

Kenma said, “The TV’s on.”

“Gaming allllll night. Bad for your eyesssss,” said Kuroo.

Kenma’s lips flattened into a line. He looked from Kuroo, to Yamaguchi, to Tsukishima.

Tsukishima stopped breathing, for a moment, as those beautiful gold eyes did their familiar, unsettling scan. What did he see now? He could read Tsukishima’s movements when they played ball. He clocked him as queer the moment they met in the combini. He even knew, really, where Tsukishima’s academic ability stemmed from.

Could he read Tsukishima’s dumb, horny thoughts right now?

Did he catch him looking at those cute, pink, knobby knees? Or his little painted toes? Black to match his nails. Imagining Kenma carefully painting all of his nails was hot for some weird--unfamiliar--reason. Tsukishima wasn’t a feet guy. Maybe he was just, in general, a Kenma guy. 

Ah, fuck. He really was wasted.

“You’re nice to take care of Kuro and Tsukishima while they’re drunk,” Kenma said. “You can dump Kuro on his bed.” He pointed down a dark hall. He turned back to his game.

Yamaguchi began to walk Kuroo down the hall and when Tsukishima didn’t follow, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Tsukki. Come on.” Tsukishima didn’t move from his position in the living room, standing barefoot on the shiny, warm wood floor. Yamaguchi tutted, immediately giving up on goading him forward, and continued on alone. Tsukishima heard him shush Kuroo as he started to sing. Yama’s voice, down the hall, said, “Neighbors. Neighbors, Tetsurou.”

Alone in the living room with Kenma, Tsukishima swayed for a brief moment before he stepped forward. One foot in front of the other. He wasn’t even really sure what he was doing until he reached Kenma’s chair. He stood there, waiting, his big looming presence unmistakable.

Kenma’s fingers clicked on his controller, stubbornly continuing to game even as his shoulders raised like a cat arching its back in alarm.

“So, you never go to parties, huh?” Tsukishima asked.

“No,” Kenma said, fingers clicking away.

“But you go cruising at bars.”

“No,” Kenma said, again.

Tsukishima waited for a moment and when it was clear Kenma wasn’t going to elaborate--explain his presence on that very gay street a little over a week ago now. Tsukishima grabbed the corner of the chair and spun it. Kenma deftly clicked the pause, sounds and motion from the screen freezing. “Liar,” Tsukishima said.

“I’m not.” Kenma focused on the blue blinking light of his white controller.

“I saw you.”

“At a combini?”

“A combini in the gayborhood. While all dressed up.”

“I was wearing a hoodie.”

“A clean one. And your hair was all--” Tsukishima looked at the messy bun Kenma had curled his hair into, effortlessly stylish and messy and definitely dirty. The words escaped him; Tsukishima mimed long, flowing hair instead, hands dancing down his own shoulders. Kenma glanced up to watch the pantomime and immediately went back to his hands.

His voice was a half-mumble as he said, “One of my friends was performing at a bar. You know that those places are for more than hookups. Right?”

Tsukishima scoffed, feigning disgust. “You’re lying.”

“You’re stupid. And drunk,” Kenma said.

“Do you think you’re too good for those places?”

“No. I just don’t want to sleep with strangers.”

“You could try it.”

“Try what? Having sex with a guy like you?”

“Would that be so bad?” Oh, Tsukishima didn’t want to have said that. His regret turned, immediately, into bold aggression. He said it. He meant it. “You could hook up with someone like me. Guys like me are good at sex.” He felt a cocky, half-fake grin pull at himself. “I’m very good at sex.”

Kenma still wouldn’t meet his stare. “Okay?”

“Oh. Oh, I get it. I should have figured it out already. You’re a virgin.” Tsukishima leaned in and placed both hands on the armrests of the chair, bracketing Kenma in place, leaning in so their faces were eye to eye. Still, Kenma didn’t look. 

Tsukishima wasn’t going to give up.

He was going to make Kenma look.

He wanted Kenma to look.

“Are you scared of sex?”

Kenma’s bold, near-glowing eyes startled Tsukishima back. Even though he wanted it, had intentionally goaded Kenma into it. Even though he expected that he’d win, eventually, and get Kenma to meet his eyes--Tsukishima was still taken completely off guard. Kenma, gaze completely arresting, said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tsukishima didn’t respond, but he did stand up straight and take a step back from the chair.

“I’ve had sex with guys like you, Kei.” Kenma placed his controller on the arm of the chair and pushed out of the seat, standing up, and even though objectively Tsukishima knew that he was only five-seven--basically a foot shorter--he somehow felt towering, tall. “I know exactly what you’re like in bed.”

Tsukishima took another step backwards, nearly tripping over the area rug behind him. He believed Kenma entirely. He did know. Somehow, he knew. It was that analyzing stare. It was experience speaking, then.

“All talk,” said Kenma. “Bullies like you.”

Oh, this play was hard. Dangerous. Stupid, even. But Tsukishima was drunk, and if he couldn’t predict Kenma’s next move--he wouldn’t let Kenma predict his, either. In a quiet, sincere rush of air, Tsukishima said, “Let me show you, then. It’s not all talk.” He mustered every ounce of confidence he had in himself; in all the men he’d brought to screaming release before, to his fat cock and muscular body, and the stamina he had from years of athletics. “Let me fuck you, Kenma.”

Kenma’s eyes widened marginally, but before he could respond, Yamaguchi came into the room and said, “Tsukki. Let’s go.” He stopped short as he realized there was a weird, unfamiliar tension between them. “Oh. Okay. Yes, let’s go.” He stepped forward and snagged Tsukishima by his upper arm. “Sorry, Kenma. Don’t listen to him. He’s drunk. I don’t know what he said, but he didn’t mean it.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Kenma mumbled, sitting back into his chair. “Don’t worry.”

“Good. Good. Tsukki?”

Tsukishima let himself be pulled away, vision blurring, swirling. Vertigo-drunk. 

For some reason, the next day, the only part of the conversation he remembered was when Kenma called him Kei.

Days later, back in the computer lab, Tsukishima took his seat beside Kenma and mumbled, “Good morning.”

“Tsukishima,” said Kenma in cool reply.

Everything about him irritated Tsukishima, and especially now--because Tsukishima knew that Kenma remembered their conversation, and despite Tsukishima racking his brain for the entire weekend--he still had no clue what they said. It had to have been embarrassing though. Right? Fuck if he knew. “I thought you were calling me Kei now.”

It was a bluff. Kenma couldn’t know that Tsukishima didn’t remember what they said. Blind, bold bluster had gotten Tsukishima far in ball. It’d gotten him far at bars.

It’d get him--somewhere--right now.

“I’d rather just not call you anything,” Kenma mumbled, clicking at his keyboard absently.

“Aw,” Tsukishima said, overtly sarcastic. “And here I thought we were getting closer and closer to being good friends.”

“Friends?” Kenma’s thumb depressed the spacebar repeatedly. “You’ve got a weird definition of friends.”

“I’m mean to my friends,” Tsukishima said honestly. “You know that.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Kenma paused, looked up, and did another one of his calculating stares. He blinked. “You don’t remember.”

Tsukishima sucked on his teeth. Caught. Again. “Remember what?”

His eyes tracked across Tsukishima’s face, making some type of decision. Fuck; he was about to go for the kill. And Tsukishima could do nothing to counter. “You have a crush on me.”

Tsukishima froze. They were doing this. Here? Now? At nine in the morning, in the computer lab? Surrounded by classmates? Moments before the professor arrived to lecture?

Kenma’s small, mischievous smile was more haunting than his pretty, intense eyes. “You really don’t remember. You confessed.” And then--he laughed. 

The sound tickled some dark, dusty corner of Tsukishima’s brain that rarely got attention. It felt good in a new, unique way. It was like a shot of smooth whiskey or the first bite of a hot, delicious meal or the feeling of being inside a wet, wanting body--but, weirdly, pointed directly at his heart.

“You don’t need to be fucking mean about it,” said Tsukishima.

Kenma’s smile disappeared instantly. And he blinked. Many times. His face seemed to reset--hard reset--and when he booted up again, his eyes were very wide. “I was teasing you. It was a joke.”

Another long, painful silence.

Kenma whispered, tone concerned. “You have a crush on me?”

Tsukishima pulled off his glasses and placed them beside the monitor in order to massage his eyes. “No.” Fuck. “I don’t know.”

“You hardly know me. You just--you think I’m hot.”

“So? You thought I was hot first.” He remembered the way Kenma’s eyes skirted over his arms. But that wasn’t quite the same. Tsukishima liked Kenma’s eyes, specifically, not just--staring in general. Tsukishima’s arms weren’t that special. Kenma liked men; liked men’s arms. Tsukishima liked Kenma.

“You are objectively good looking,” Kenma half-whispered. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tsukishima imitated, rudely, sounding closer to a squeaky toy squeezed by his childhood dog.

“You have a crush on me?” Kenma restarted, turning in his seat to face Tsukishima full-on.

“I said I don’t know.”

“I thought you just wanted to have sex.”

“I can ‘just have sex’ with anyone I want. I’m objectively good-looking.”

Kenma hummed in thought. “Right.” He paused for only a moment before he said, “This is a terrible confession.”

“I’m not confessing.”

“Ask me on a date, then.”

“No.”

“But you want to.”

Tsukishima ground his teeth together as he thought about it. A date? A fucking date? No. That was pathetic. And weird. “I--”

The professor arrived, as poorly timed as ever, and they were forced into an hour and a half of weird, tense silence. And when the class finally finished, and all the students were quietly packing their bags and preparing to leave, Tsukishima made up his mind.

“Fine,” he said.

Kenma didn’t look up. “Fine…?”

“I’ll ask you out.”

Kenma paused in the middle of placing his notebook into his backpack. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Then…”

Tsukishima wanted to puke as he said, “Go out on a date with me.”

Kenma’s smile teased on his lips for a brief moment before he mumbled, “Alright.”

“Tonight?”

“So soon?”

“Fine, tomorrow.”

“Tonight’s fine. Do you--”

“I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

There were very few things Tsukishima didn’t like to tell Yamaguchi. He trusted Yama implicitly; he wasn’t judgmental, except when he needed to be, and he always had Tsukki’s back. No matter the situation--Yamaguchi was, as it’s often said, ride or die.

Tsukishima would rather die than explain his date that night.

Fortunately, he had a very simple cover.

“Out to the bars again?” Yamaguchi asked, glancing up from his pile of homework on their kitchen counter. “On a school night?”

“I already finished the coursework for tomorrow. I won’t be out late.” It wasn’t technically a lie; just an omission. He was going to a bar. The quiet, relaxed one at the very end of the strip, because both he and Kenma shared a distaste for excessive noise. And, since this place was so slow, there would be less of an audience to the fucking disaster that was about to unfold.

Tsukishima had never, not once, been on a date.

As he walked to the bar, hands tucked into his jean pockets, he wondered if he should stop to get--something? A gift? Not flowers--that’s fucking stupid--but a video game? Some trading cards or something? What would Kenma like, anyway?

He really didn’t know Kenma.

He was already flustered and annoyed by his own thoughts by the time he arrived.

Kenma was chatting with the bouncer outside--Tsukishima caught the very tail end of the conversation.

“--I had no clue you were so good.”

“I’m not, really.”

“Entertaining, though. I seriously didn’t get the appeal until I watched your stream. I kinda thought people who watched those were sad losers without friends.”

Kenma rolled his eyes. “And now?”

“It was really fun. I tipped you five.”

“Thanks for the dono,” Kenma replied, almost automatically.

The bouncer laughed. “When are you on next?”

“Tomorrow after--” Kenma noticed Tsukishima then. His eyes dropped to his shoes. “Hey.”

The bouncer turned and Tsukishima got a good look at him--portly, middle-aged, but with a handsome squarish jaw and full lips. He was good-looking in a strange way. Was this Kenma’s type? “Started without me, I see,” said Tsukishima.

Kenma didn’t respond, so the bouncer stepped in. “I met Kozume a few weeks ago at a show. He told me he was a streamer, so I finally checked it out. The stream, I mean. It was awesome.”

Tsukishima kept silent, and slowly crossed his arms, his face neutrally blank.

“You got an ID?” The bouncer glanced Tsukishima up and down.

Not once since moving to Tokyo had Tsukishima been carded--he was six and a half feet tall, well-dressed, and undeniably confident on his feet. Bouncers undoubtedly assumed he was near thirty--not nineteen. He hesitated before pulling out his wallet.

Nineteen wasn’t old enough to get into a bar. The age to drink, in Japan, was twenty.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Tsukishima said, stopping short of pulling out his ID.

The bouncer raised an eyebrow, and Kenma gave him a once over. Gently, he asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“Three weeks,” said Tsukishima.

“Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing,” Tsukishima snapped. “I was the one that suggested the bar.”

The bouncer caught on, then, and said, “You’re only nineteen? Jesus. You hit puberty at eight or something?” Neither he nor Kenma confirmed. He snickered, perhaps a little cruelly, and said, “Come back in a few weeks. We’ll let you in then.”

“Gee, I can’t wait,” said Tsukishima, turning away.

“The diner down the block is fine,” said Kenma, taking a few jogging steps to catch up to his side. He looked over his shoulder and waved to the bouncer. “Bye.”

“Later, Kozuken. Have fun babysitting.”

Tsukishima was going to kill himself.

“What did he call you?” he asked behind tightly grit teeth.

“He said my username wrong. I stream under Kodzuken.”

“Kodzuken,” Tsukishima repeated, fists tight at his side. “Okay.”

After a minute of silence, their feet tapping along the half-wet street, Kenma asked, “How have you been getting into bars without a fake ID?”

“It’s not rocket science.” Tsukishima jammed his hands into his pockets again, making his way to the diner down the damp, humid street.

“Oh. Was that the first time you got car--”

“Yes,” Tsukishima snapped. “I never get carded. Are you kidding?”

He and Kenma fell back into silence the rest of the way, until they reached the diner doors. Tsukishima opened one and held it for Kenma to pass through. That earned him one of the coveted looks, but he really didn’t understand why.

The hostess sat them in a booth near the back, and after ordering two coffees, they were finally left alone in a small, silent, awkward bubble.

“Tryouts are this week,” Kenma said, finally.

“Yeah.”

“Kuro hasn’t shut up about how excited he is to have you on his team, finally. He even called you his son the other day.”

“What a freak.”

“Right?”

Tsukishima chuckled before he could stop himself--and then forced himself to shut up. He’d embarrassed himself enough without laughing like an idiot at Kuroo’s weird brotherly affection--affection Tsukishima definitely hadn’t earned at any point.

This would all be much better if he was drunk. Liquor was called liquid courage for a reason. Why was he even there? He didn’t want to date. He wasn’t even sure if he actually liked Kenma, anyway.

As previously established, they were a terrible match.

“I’m amazed,” Kenma said, taking a long sip of his coffee. His half-cream, half-coffee mixture, anyway.

“What?”

“You’re so stiff and weird. I can’t believe this--” Kenma made a vague gesture over Tsukishima’s whole form, “--works on so many guys. Yamaguchi said you’ve got someone new basically every weekend for the last several months.” Another sip. “It’s amazing.”

“I’m good at that,” Tsukishima griped, spinning his coffee cup between his hands on the table. “I’m not good at this.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’re not some stranger in a bar.”

“You can pretend if you want. If it’s easier.”

Tsukishima’s eyes tracked over Kenma. His hair was clean, again. Down and shiny. Black on the top, fading to a platinum blond at the ends. His pale face was clean-shaven and delicate but still distinctly handsome in the way only men could achieve. His nails were black--glossy, like he’d just repainted them. He probably had.

Tsukishima had also prepped himself--shaved above and trimmed below. Gelled his hair into a stylish up-do. Dabbed on that winning cologne and, this time, his one-size-too-small shirt was charcoal gray. He’d actually done a handful of sit ups before leaving his room--brief, intense exercise made his muscles a little more pronounced.

And, at that point, he was pretty sure his muscles were the only reason Kenma had even entertained this whole stupid shitshow.

“You want me to hit on you like I would some random guy at Club XLY?”

“I want,” Kenma started to say, and then paused. He stared into his drink, watching the creamer swirl gently around the white rim of the mug. “I want to figure out why you’re so weird.”

“Me?” Tsukishima scoffed. “You’re the odd one.”

Kenma opened his mouth to reply, but his cell dinged, cutting him off. He pulled his phone up to his face and--and he smiled.

That smile, like in the lab. Friendly and soft and rare. Fuck.

Tsukishima felt a little like he’d gotten shocked by an electrical outlet. “Who are you smiling at?”

“Shouyou got his starter position on the team at GLT Uni. He used a significant number of emojis to let me know.”

“Who?”

Oh, another one of those stares. Kenma’s eyes pinned Tsukishima in place. “Shouyou. Hinata.”

Tsukishima’s bafflement was quite genuine as he said, “You’re friends with that idiot?”

“How did you not know this?” Kenma continued to stare, eyes boring into Tsukishima’s soul.

Tsukishima, if he concentrated very hard on his memory, could perhaps recall Hinata saying something about being best friends with--with-- “Oh.” The Nekoma setter. Kenma, Kenma, Kenma, said Hinata’s obnoxious little voice. God, Tsukishima had gotten so good at tuning Hinata out over the years, he hadn’t even registered the connection. “I guess I did know.”

Kenma went back to his phone and started texting a reply. He mumbled, “He’s one of my best friends.”

Tsukishima got to a point where he begrudgingly enjoyed the company of Hinata--and Kageyama--by the time they graduated. But the fact that Kenma and him were close? It made him feel--

How often did Hinata make him smile like that? Why hadn’t Tsukishima managed to do it himself tonight?

God, this date was a total fucking disaster. He never should have done this.

“Will you take a picture with me?” Kenma asked.

Tsukishima’s brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For Shouyou. He’ll think it’s funny we’re on a date.”

Tsukishima sucked on his teeth before throwing his hands up. “Fine, I guess. It’s not like he doesn’t already know I’m gay.” Hinata was probably the most accepting one on the team after Tsukishima came out--though he suspected Hinata’s acceptance was actually just that he forgot Tsukishima liked men. He’d wander around the locker room bare-ass naked, without a care in the world, while the other guys seemed to carefully point their asses--and dicks--away from Tsukishima whenever possible. There was even one afternoon when Hinata gave Tsukishima a full-frontal scolding, wet from the shower, utterly unconcerned that he was on display to a dude that could have found him hot.

(Tsukishima didn’t, but that was beside the point.)

He supposed Hinata’s response to going-on-a-date-with-Kenma would be confirmation one way or another. 

Kenma slipped out of his side of the booth and sat at Tsukishima’s side. He held his phone up, camera on, but his short arm had them both cropped uncomfortably.

“Here.” Tsukishima took the phone without waiting for permission, and held it out farther, and at a better angle. They were both entirely visible now, straight on.

“Oh,” said Kenma. And after a beat, “Thanks.”

“Are we smiling for the camera?”

“You seemed mad that I smiled before, so no,” said Kenma. He held up two fingers, big eyes blank.

Tsukishima used his free hand to flip Hinata the bird.

Click!

Kenma reached for his phone, after, and leaning in like that let Tsukishima smell his clean, fragranced hair, and see the pale skin of his neck, and even down the overly large gap at the neck of his hooded sweater, into the dark smooth expanse of his chest.

Tsukishima held the phone up, out of reach.

That took Kenma by surprise--victory enough by itself, but Tsukishima was nothing if not a certified pain in the ass. He smirked. “I should treat you like one of the guys in a bar, huh?”

Kenma stopped reaching for his phone and leveled a flat look Tsukishima’s way. “You can, I guess, if it helps.”

Kenma or no Kenma, nerves or no nerves--Tsukishima could do this part on autopilot if he needed. He leaned in, slipping his free hand along the edge of the table, bracketing Kenma in place. “You want your phone back?”

Kenma looked up to it, held aloft. “Yes.”

“Ask really sweetly, and I’ll think about it.”

The barest bit of color filled Kenma’s face. “No.”

“Then I guess this belongs to me.” Tsukishima spun the device between his fingers, deftly, with the practice of someone who’d often played, bored, with his phone. He pocketed it--back pocket, against his ass. “I’ve been wanting to try an iPhone. See what those blue messages are all about.”

Kenma’s face grew marginally more red.

“You got interesting pics on there?”

“No.”

“No? Come on. Not one?”

“Is this how you flirt?” Kenma asked, bluntly.

“Mmhmm,” replied Tsukishima. “And then you’ll say something like, no, I don’t even know how to do that. And I’ll say I could show you how. And then I’ll look--” He did, turning his stare out across the restaurant, towards the restroom signs. “--at a place we could go, right now.”

Kenma seemed even more baffled by that, as he traced Tsukishima’s eyeline to the bathroom. “Immediately? In public? You have sex with guys in the restroom like this?”

Tsukishima huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Where else?”

“At your home. In your bed.”

“Oh. Thinking about my bed, are you?”

Kenma’s face was fully flushed red, now.

Tsukishima felt drunk. He hated that it worked--that Kenma’s suggestion, to pretend to be in the type of situation he knew--allowed him to comfortably fit into a narrative he absolutely made up. He was swimming in a pool of confidence. “I can keep going.”

Kenma didn’t reply.

Finally, boldly, he reached out to gently run a finger along Kenma’s soft, inviting hairline, down his forehead to his ear, and then along his neck. “O~kay,” he said. He whispered, goading, “It’d just be a few pics. For me, not Hinata, this time. And if you want, I’ll leave you alone after that. ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ and all. You know?”

Kenma met his stare, flushed and wide-eyed, not nearly at his best. Whatever calculations he ran seemed to go amok. “Are you just--is this just--roleplay? Are you playing around? I can’t tell.”

“But you’re so good at reading me,” Tsukishima said, and he was quite proud of how sarcastic he sounded. He was taking this game home. Entirely. It was a bloodbath. Kenma’s side had an early start, but it was too late now. He’d never be able to catch up to Tsukishima again.

“You were right,” Kenma said, hesitating to continue. But he did, mouth opening and closing a few times before he admitted, “I’ve never taken photos like that.”

Tsukishima scoffed light-heartedly. “Really? I have.”

“Why?”

“They’ve been requested before. No one’s requested to see you naked and hard and waiting?”

Kenma finally looked away and mumbled, “Of course they have. I get emails every day.” The stream, right. 

This was supposed to be a date, Tsukishima’s pragmatic internal voice said--sounding suspiciously like Yamaguchi, in fact. You’re not gonna fuck Kenma tonight. You’re trying to figure out if you like him. 

Remember?

Tsukishima pulled Kenma’s phone from his pocket and held it for him to take. As Kenma’s hand closed around it, Tsukishima’s fingers stroked his hand. 

A date?

Fuck that.

“Come back to my room. I’ll show you how.”

Another practical reason Tsukishima had sex with men at the club was because the long walk back home cooled him off; made him see the whole thing in a cool, realistic light. As he and Kenma approached the third floor walk-up, he was entirely out of his horny-brain and back into the part of his mind that said he really, really shouldn’t wham-bam-thank-you-sir Kozume Kenma.

If he just wanted to fuck, he could do it with almost any other guy. Someone not connected to his future captain, or his former teammates, or that he’d see every single day in classes. There was no way it’d be good for either of their grades if they had to sit side-by-side the day after muffled, frantic, dormitory fucking.

When they reached the staircase, Tsukishima sighed. “Ke--”

Kenma’s fingers collided with his mouth, muffling him--stopping him before he could speak. When he seemed sure Tsukishima got the message, he lowered his hand, and said, “Yeah, I know. I’m not gonna go upstairs. This was weird.”

Tsukishima’s heart tumbled down every single rib and crash-landed on the hard pavement below.

Kenma stood up on his very tip-toes--that’s how much smaller he was--and placed a kiss upon the underside Tsukishima’s jaw--the closest he could reach. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Alright?” And as he took a step away, Tsukishima moved fast enough, for the first time, and grabbed Kenma’s wrist.

“Your smile doesn’t piss me off,” he said, the words spilling out of him in a rushed jumble.

Kenma looked at his hand, brows raised in concern.

“I just want you to smile because of me. Not because of some other idiot.”

A brief pause. “Sounds like you just called yourself an idiot,” Kenma muttered.

“I am, I think, when it comes to this. I don’t know. I just--I really like when you look at me.” His fingers squeezed, gently. “I’ve always really liked when you look. I liked it in our games. I like it even more outside of them.”

Kenma, as if beckoned, looked. His honey-brown eyes scanned Tsukishima’s face.

“Like that,” Tsukishima said. “I don’t know why I like it. I do. I like--” he looked from Kenma’s hair to his clothes to his hand. His hand--Tsukishima took it, instead of his wrist, and entwined their fingers. “I like your painted nails.”

Color had returned to Kenma’s face, turning him cherry-pink.

“I’m confused because I want to have sex with you. Like, a lot. You’re not even my type, really.”

Kenma mumbled, “Okay, thanks.”

“But I don’t want to just have sex with you? I guess.”

After what Tsukishima considered a haunting, devastating silence, Kenma pulled his hand away. Oh, Tsukishima thought. He’d won the game, but it hadn’t been a real match. Just another practice run, and it didn’t matter. Kenma was going to walk away, like every time before, and none of this had any point except to show Tsukishima how inadequate he really was, despite all his skill and innate gifts and, yes, effort.

“Hey,” Kenma said, finally. Tsukishima realized, belatedly, that Kenma hadn’t walked away. He was standing squarely in front of Tsukishima, in fact. “I can’t reach. You have to crouch.”

“What?”

“I can’t kiss you like this.”

Tsukishima started forward, paused, and then crouched down. Kenma kissed him without any preamble at all--and it felt somehow like this was the first kiss Tsukishima ever had. Kenma’s arms wound around his shoulders, and Tsukishima hugged Kenma’s middle, and he couldn’t keep crouching--he had to work on his squats, he noted--so he stood up, and they kissed with Kenma’s feet in the air.

Kenma made a little sound at that, which prompted Tsukishima to probe his lips with tongue. 

Okay, yes, this wasn’t actually his first kiss. And he hadn’t been bluffing--Tsukishima was very good at this. He turned to pin Kenma to the wall of the stairwell, helping to support his weight.

Kenma’s tongue was small, like his face, and it tasted like coffee and sugar. They continued to kiss--and kiss--and kiss--making out for minutes. This was, in fact, quite new. Tsukishima didn’t really do makeouts. Makeouts had a singular point--a purpose--to be met. They were brief preamble to sex.

Usually.

And as much as he wanted to fuck Kenma, he really, really liked kissing him, too. Kenma’s hands slid through the back of his hair, along the shortest part of his haircut, down the broad planes of his back, gripping his shirt. His knees hugged at Tsukishima’s waist, tight and strong and, ah. Tsukishima realized he was dizzy not just from victory, satisfaction, and want. He needed to breathe.

Tsukishima pulled his mouth away enough to catch his breath. Kenma, panting, took the pause to lift Tsukishima’s glasses off his face. 

“Hm,” he said, looking backward through the lenses. “You’re really blind.”

“Yeah, that’s what the glasses are for.”

Kenma spun the frames around and put them on. “How do I look?”

“Want me to take some pictures for you to see?”

Kenma’s little, quiet laugh turned Tsukishima’s heart into fireworks inside his chest.

“Do you want to come upstairs now?”

Kenma began to wriggle, and Tsukishima placed him back on his feet. “No.” He took the glasses off, held them up, and said, “I don’t fuck on the first date.”

Tsukishima sighed, deeply, and put his glasses back on his nose. “I guess this means I don’t, either.”

Kenma smiled before he took a step away. “See you tomorrow in class.”

“Yeah. Uh, yeah. Tomorrow.”

Tsukishima watched him go, and spent several minutes trying to decide how to even begin to explain everything when he got upstairs. Yamaguchi was going to be completely shocked.

(Yamaguchi wasn’t surprised at all.)

College sports are, quite literally, a different game. Tsukishima knew this. He thought he’d been prepared to approach the advanced levels in volleyball--after all, he played on one of the best high school teams in the entire nation, with some of the most dedicated (unhinged) players in the entire nation, and he was one of the best players on the entire damn team.

He was one of the best players in all of Japan.

Had been. In high school.

The loud, echoing crack of the ball hitting the shiny hardwood floors nearly made him jump, having been distracted by his thoughts. It sounded like a pistol fired in the gym. He looked out from his seat in the bleachers, watching the players sprint, jump, spike, block--they moved so quickly, it was almost hard to follow the practice set. 

He really shouldn’t have spent the last two weeks fucking his way through the neighborhood’s gay bars, and should have instead continued to practice. It wasn’t that he was worried he wouldn’t get a spot on the team, any spot, because he was the tallest one in the gym at the moment, but…

Hinata got a starter position, his memory supplied cruelly, and if he couldn’t do it too, that’d be humiliating.

“It was nice to get a few weeks break from playing, but now that we’re here…” Yamaguchi let out a sigh. “I missed this. I didn’t even realize it.”

Kuroo blocked a spike and roared an ecstatic yes. The group in the bleachers applauded for him, and Tsukishima couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Yeah. Me too.”

Yamaguchi laughed. “We’ve got two days to prep for tryouts. We can try to hit the gym before classes, but that’ll limit some of our time…”

“Before classes?” Tsukishima pushed his glasses up his nose and gave Yamaguchi a sidelong look. “Why not after?”

“You’re busy after classes. You’re seeing Kozume. Remember? Morning’s are the only time we’re going to be able to fit in practice.”

Oh.

Shit. 

“I forgot…” Tsukishima said. He lowered his hand into his chin. Should he cancel the dates? Maybe move the dates to the morning so he could practice into the night? Maybe they could do  lunch dates. Would Kenma consider them holding hands in class ‘a date’?

Yamaguchi gently bonked him on the head with the side of his fist. “It’s fine, Tsukki. We’ll practice in the morning tomorrow and the next day. You’re the one that’s always reminding me it’s actually a good thing to have a life outside of ball.”

“I want to be the choice-pick middle blocker.”

Yamaguchi paused. “There’s a lot of really good guys on the team. You might not be able to get on the court first ‘til next year.” He huffed. “I fully expect to be a bench player as a freshman.”

“I don’t want to do that. I want to be the middle blocker.”

Yamaguchi bonked his head again. “Benching with me wouldn’t be that bad.”

He thought about Hinata undoubtedly showing up as a wing spiker in their first competitive match while Tsukishima was trapped on the stupid bench--forced to watch him as he ran and jumped around the court like a piece of stupid, noisy popcorn. And then he thought about Hinata making Kenma smile when they talked on the phone. And via text. He probably got to see Kenma smile all the time.

He should have killed Hinata when he had the chance. Hip-checked him off the mountainside during one of the team’s hikes back home.

He couldn’t let Hinata have it all. He had to get on the team. Choice-pick.

“Wow,” said Yamaguchi, “You really mean it. You’re pissed off just thinking about sitting on the side of the court, huh?”

Tsukishima forced himself to exhale. It was just a game. It was just a text. He wasn't homicidal. He was fine. “I'm fine.”

Kenma arrived at the station straight after classes--he’d insisted that was fine--with a heavy-looking shoulder bag and hair that was disheveled in a half-up, half-down style that let little strands fall across his face. He approached the platform where Tsukishima waited, watching, and sighed. “Sorry. We missed the train because of me.”

“There’s another in three minutes.”

“Okay.”

They stood side-by-side, staring out at the tracks, and Tsukishima wondered if maybe he should have kissed him hello.

No, wait, that was stupid. They were in public.

He discreetly looked at Kenma’s hand. Was Kenma the type to like public affection? What would he think if Tsukishima held his hand? His memory of the night before, confessing while their fingers were laced, made him want to do it again.

Tsukishima forced himself to look away.

“What happened?” Kenma asked.

“Hm?” He turned to see Kenma looking at his fingers. Two were bandaged together and one had a plaster wrapped around the nail. “Oh.” He held up his hand and Kenma took it--Tsukishima ignored the way his heart raced--and examined the wrappings. “I started practicing again this morning after a few weeks off. Jammed this finger,” He motioned, “And I didn’t trim my nails short enough, so this one broke off.”

“You’re getting ready for tryouts.” His little black nails slid, phantom-light, against the bandages. 

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t you be working with Yamaguchi? Or Kuro? Right now.” Kenma still hadn’t let his hand go. “You don’t really have time to go to dinner.” His eyes snapped up, to Tsukishima’s face, to analyze his answer. 

“I have to eat,” he said. “I can practice in the morning.”

Kenma dropped his hand, and his eyes.

“I wanted to see you.”

Kenma, staring at the yellow dimpled partition on the platform floor, mumbled, “You saw me in class earlier.”

“Not the same,” Tsukishima said, shifting closer.

“Sure it is.”

“I can’t kiss you in class.”

That startled a reaction from Kenma, snapping his head up. “But--you can’t kiss me now.”

“I can. Can’t I?”

He could practically hear the rapid thump-thump-thump of Kenma’s pulse as he was too stunned to reply. Or maybe that was just his own heartbeat? Something about this felt more bold than any overt move he’d put on a stranger at the club, and he was just talking about a kiss. It was only a kiss.

Fuck it.

He leaned in and hesitated just before pressing his lips to Kenma’s--to give him a chance to duck away. Kenma, instead, closed the distance between them, surprising Tsukishima in turn.

It was somehow even sweeter than the night before. Perhaps because it was brief. Very. An innocent peck.

Tsukishima had never had a kiss like that. He stood up and knew, without seeing himself, that his face was red. Why was kissing Kenma like that more embarrassing than rawing some guy in a cramped bathroom stall?

A chime rang overhead and a voice cheerfully announced the train was about to arrive.

“Do you want to go practice instead of going to Restaurant Q?” Kenma asked, bouncing from one foot to the other, almost like he couldn’t stay still.

“No? I wanted to see you, I said. And we’re already about to board the train anyway.”

“I meant--I meant with me,” he said, sparing one glance up, and then back down. “I’ll go with you to the gym right now. We can grab bento on the way.”

“You want to watch me do drills?”

“No.” He shifted again, visibly anxious, eyes bouncing from floor tile to floor tile. “I’ll--I’ll set for you. If you want.”

Holy shit. 

The train swooped in with a rush of air and loud click-click, click-clicking as it pulled to a stop. When the doors opened, Kenma started to take a step forward. Tsukishima swiped an arm across his front, stopping him, and said, “Yes, set for me. Please. I think if I ever say no to that, even once, the spirit of Tetsurou would manifest before us and strike me down. You know?”

Kenma’s responding laugh made Tsukishima feel like he could single handedly win every single set he ever played from now on. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Holy shit. Kenma in the gym’s lost-and-found spare jersey (too big) and shorts (too small) was by far and away the hardest adversary Tsukishima had ever faced on the court. When Kenma jumped, Tsukishima got to see the soft curve where his thin white thigh met an astonishingly bubble-shaped ass. Tsukishima not only missed the first toss--the trajectory of his jump was off and he collided, full-body, into the net, nearly snapping it off the post, and he was thrown backward like an enormous fucking tennis ball smacked by an even more enormous racket.

He landed, whumph, against the reflective, shiny gym floor, and stared in dazed awe at the white criss-cross ceiling beams above. The underside of Kenma’s ass flashed every time he blinked, like a photonegative permanently seared inside his mind.

“Are you okay?”

Tsukishima pushed himself to his feet and shook out his arms and legs. 

“It was a bad toss,” Kenma said apologetically.

“No,” Tsukishima rolled his neck. “That was me. Not you. Let’s try again.”

“Okay.”

This time, when Kenma jumped, Tsukishima looked only at the ball. He slammed it--smack!--into the floor. A perfect spike. “Nice,” he said, palm stinging pleasantly.

Kenma pulled a ball out of the cart and prepared another toss.

They continued the rhythm of toss-spike, toss-spike, for a long while. No talking or music or anything at all. Just the squeaking of Tsukishima’s shoes, the sound of the ball hitting the court, and, eventually, Kenma panting for air.

Tsukishima finally allowed himself to look at Kenma again after nearly an hour of work. He was drenched. He held up another ball to toss and Tsukishima took a step towards him instead. “That’s good for tonight.”

Kenma tilted his head and looked down at the ball in his hands. His hair was pulled into a high ponytail, but some strands had fallen, sticking to the sides of his face and neck. His skin was damp, shiny, and Tsukishima could smell him from a few feet away. Even his sweat smelled good. The way he breathed now, panting quietly, and the flush on his face--

Yeah, it was no wonder at all that Tsukishima found Kenma ridiculously hot.

“Stop staring,” Kenma mumbled, placing the ball back into the cart. “I know. I’m not fit at all anymore.” He took a deep breath.

“That’s not what I’m thinking. Try again.”

Kenma scooped a ball off the floor and turned to look Tsukishima in the eyes.

Kenma read him correctly, this time, because he’d bothered to read him at all. It was obvious, Tsukishima knew, to see the things he imagined. Kenma naked, red-faced, sweating, but specifically under Tsukishima’s hands, lips, tongue, cock--

“Another weird date,” Kenma muttered, turning away, his face growing even more red despite him having caught his breath, finally. He continued to gather the volleyballs they left all over the court. Tsukishima joined him, picking them up and bouncing them from his wrist into the cart.

“It’s not that weird,” he said, finally, as the final ball dunked directly into the cart.

Kenma snorted. “You wouldn’t know.”

Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I guess. It’s my second date ever.”

“Exactly.”

“How many have you been on?” Kenma didn’t seem like the dating type, either.

Kenma reached up to the pole, to pull down the net. Tsukishima jogged over and did it for him instead, so he wouldn’t have to stand on his toes to reach. Kenma gave him another careful, unreadable stare as he did it. He looked at his shoes after a moment and said, “I don’t know. I don’t keep track. I’ve been on a few. I went on my first date in middle school. I was twelve.”

“What?” Tsukishima began to wind the net, approaching the second pole to release the fastenings there. He watched Kenma over his shoulder. “Middle school? Like, you tried going out with girls?”

Kenma frowned. “No.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“They weren’t serious dates… I was just seeing other guys like me, I guess. Going to the arcade and stuff. Normal dates.”

Tsukishima folded the net in his hands. “You knew you were gay that young?”

Kenma approached the cabinet at the end of the court. “You didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t know until--I don’t know. I don’t think it’s even been a full year.”

“You had to suspect.”

“No. I didn’t really care about other people at all. I didn’t analyze it or anything. And then I kinda figured it out last year. I guess there were signs earlier in life?”

“You’re really horny for someone who had no interest in men until a year ago.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and jogged up to the same cabinet. As Kenma opened it, Tsukishima placed the net in its designated spot. 

“What did you think about--” Kenma stopped himself short, eyes sliding to the side. “Nevermind.”

“What?”

“If you didn’t know you liked guys… What were you thinking about when you--you know.”

“That was one of the signs I didn’t think about, I guess. I imagined--like--coming. Just, in general, the feeling of an orgasm. In retrospect, I wasn’t really imagining myself. Just some big faceless guy.”

“Oh.”

“That’s probably why I’m usually attracted to big muscular types.”

Kenma pulled at the hem of the oversized jersey and nodded. “Oh,” he repeated.

Tsukishima leaned over Kenma, arm against the cabinet, backing him against it. “I said usually. You’re the one that asked, you know.”

Kenma, still refusing to look up, mumbled, “I know. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“It was rude to ask.”

Tsukishima grinned. “Yeah, it was.”

“I know.”

“So it’s only fair that you tell me, then. What do you think about when you masturbate?” he asked, and he got an immediate rush as the words escaped his mouth. 

“Perverted,” Kenma mumbled.

“So~rry,” Tsukishima said, leaning in.

After a brief, tense pause where Tsukishima was sure Kenma would walk away, he said, “Last night, I…” He looked up, finally, pretty gold eyes catching the big flood lights from the gym above. “I thought about you.”

At first, Tsukishima thought the trilling in the air was a chorus of angels singing in holy celebration of the hottest thing he’d ever heard in his life. Kenma had jerked off to thoughts of him. A million different questions crashed into his mind, making it impossible to speak. How’d he do it? What’d he imagine exactly? How long did he do it for? In bed? In the shower? Was it good? Did he want help with it tonight?

Kenma answered his phone, and Tsukishima blinked in surprise. The trilling had been a call. That made more sense. The types of things he wanted to discuss weren’t exactly sanctioned by Christianity. ‘I want to shoot a fat load across your short-shorts’ weren’t words from the bible.

“--yeah, I know,” Kenma’s voice interrupted Tsukishima’s inner monologue. He tucked under Tsukishima’s arm and began to pace the court. “Oh, I see. Mmhmm. Hmm.” He paused and then laughed. A laugh?

“Who are you talking to?” Tsukishima asked, stepping forward.

Kenma glanced at him and back down to the floor. “Yes, that’s him.” A pause. “No, I’m not telling him that.”

Tsukishima crossed his arms and grit his teeth. 

Kenma sighed and tilted the phone away from his mouth and said, “Shouyou.”

Pure shock followed by a white hot lick of anger flooded Tsukishima head to toe. “You answered a call from Hinata while on a date with me?” Kenma turned away to continue talking. Tsukishima stalked forward, stepped in front of Kenma, and said, “Give me the phone.”

Kenma blinked. And then said into the mouthpiece, “He wants to talk to you.” Pause. “Yeah. Okay.” He held the phone for Tsukishima to take.

Without hesitation, Tsukishima said, “If you interrupt another one of our dates ever again, I will find you, and I will hurt you. You remember when that middle blocker from VYV High fell down and his bone was sticking out of his arm? I’ll do that to you.”

“Bring it on, asshole!” Hinata screamed in response. It was so sudden, and so sincere, that Tsukishima actually went wide-eyed. 

And he laughed. He didn’t mean to.

“What!” Hinata cried. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious. I’m not scared of you.”

Tsukishima tried to keep from grinning while Kenma watched him carefully, eyes tracking every move he made. He turned away as if he could hide the conversation somehow. “Why are you even calling this late? It’s after nine.”

“I didn’t think he’d still be on this date. You’re so boring. I assumed he’d be home and in jammies by now.”

“Well, he’s not. So piss off.”

“Why are you doing this? For real.”

“Doing what?”

“Dating Kenma. If this is some kind of bullying thing--”

“I’m not bullying him.”

“Then why--”

“I like him, idiot.” Finally, Hinata went silent. Seconds ticked by. “He’ll call you tomorrow,” Tsukishima said, eventually.

“Tomorrow? Why not tonight? What are you doing tonig--”

Tsukishima ended the call. When Kenma stepped forward, reaching for his phone, he held it up, out of reach. “You knew that would piss me off.”

Kenma didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything except, “Give me my phone.”

“You’re the bully,” Tsukishima said. “Everyone thinks I’m going to bully you or something. You’re the one who’s mean to me.” Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you like him?”

Kenma blinked a few times and stopped trying to reach for his phone. “Shouyou? No.”

“If he was gay. If he would date you. Would you date him?”

“That’s stupid.”

“Do you like him more than me?” Tsukishima dug in.

Kenma tilted his head up, reading Tsukishima’s face. “You’re not kidding. You’re really jealous right now.”

Tsukishima stood steadfast, phone high in the air.

“I like Shouyou a lot,” he replied, eventually. He couldn’t hold Tsukishima’s stare as he said, “But I’m attracted to you.”

“So you don’t like me. You like how hot I am.” The words sounded absolutely absurd as Tsukishima said them out loud. Was he going to cry about a very beautiful man wanting to use him for his body? Please. Even if they couldn’t actually date, Tsukishima would say yes a million times to having meaningless sex--

“You keep making things weird,” Kenma said, bluntly, stabbing Tsukishima right in the gut. And then he mended the wound, immediately, as he added, “And I still want to spend time with you. Which means I like you. Get it?”

Hm.

Slowly, Tsukishima lowered his hand. He held the phone for Kenma to take.

“I like you too.”

“Yeah,” Kenma said, wiping the screen on his phone. “I gathered that. So jealous…”

“You’ve never kissed Hinata?”

“No.”

“Never made out.”

Kenma breathed out a gentle, amused laugh. “No, of course not.”

“Okay. Make out with me. Right now.” Tsukishima stepped close, until they were barely a few inches apart.

Kenma pocketed his phone and said, “In the gym?”

“We have it booked.” It closed at ten, too, which meant they’d be alone for the rest of the night.

Kenma seemed to consider it before he said, “I need to shower. We got sweaty.”

“I don’t care about that. You smell good.”

“Really?”

Tsukishima reached out to tuck some of the loose, now-dry strands of hair behind Kenma’s ear. “Mmhmm.”

Kenma, eventually, shrugged. “Okay.”

This kiss wasn’t the tender one from last night or the sweet one from the train that evening--this one was hot. And to the point. Tsukishima licked his way into Kenma’s mouth, sucking on his soft, full lips. Kenma, startled at first with a little shy noise, fell into it immediately after, kissing him back, pulling on his shirt for a better grip.

At some point, crouching to remain his height didn’t work, and they made their way to their knees, and eventually, all the way to the ground. Tsukishima laid flat on the hard floor, Kenma laid on top, knees once again tight against his waist as they kissed more, and wetter, and for longer.

Tsukishima reached for his glasses, pulling them off so they wouldn’t continue to hit Kenma’s eyes or nose, to really go in hard--they weren’t fucking, so he did the second best thing by making this kiss as filthy as he could. His tongue had a rhythm the very same way his hips would during sex. Their teeth met in a painful clink, and Tsukishima pulled back enough to suck on Kenma’s bottom lip apologetically.

Kenma whimpered and Tsukishima’s gym shorts tightened around himself as he got hard from that sound alone. His hands began to wander, completely of their volition, and they stroked up from Kenma’s ankle to his calves, thighs, and--they skipped over his ass, to his trim waist. He couldn’t fondle him openly like that, because they weren’t going to have sex on their first date.

Oh.

Wait.

Tsukishima pulled his mouth back, leaving Kenma panting in confusion, and he said, “You don’t fuck on the first date.” Pause. “We’re not on the first date, Kozume.”

Kenma sat up, shifting backwards to finally feel Tsukishima’s erection pressed against his ass, but before Tsukishima could feel any sort of embarrassment, he noticed the visible tent in Kenma’s shorts, too. Kenma wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and his shirt had lifted, folded over itself, revealing his belly that tightened and relaxed as he breathed.

Tsukishima stared up at him from the floor in total awe. In that moment, truly, he could have been convinced to do anything Kenma ever asked.

“You shouldn’t have sex right before an important match,” Kenma whispered, finally, when he caught his breath enough to speak.

“Yeah,” Tsukishima said dumbly. He had heard that before. He, actually, had practiced that before. Senior year--after coming out--he avoided sex for a day before big games.

Kenma shifted his hips backwards, eyes glinting mischievously. “So no sex.”

Tsukishima, cock now pressed firmly between Kenma’s cheeks, nodded--completely confused.

Kenma slid backwards, down the whole hard length of Tsukishima’s erection, and said, “It’s not sex if we touch ourselves, though.” His hand cupped Tsukishima through his pants and stopped to immediately place a hand down his own pants, fisting his own cock.

Tsukishima’s eyes rolled back. “Fuck.”

Kenma gave another one of his near-whisper laughs and the sound of it was enough to pull Tsukishima back in, entirely. He reached up, holding Kenma’s face, and pulled him back down to kiss, open-mouthed. He placed his feet on the floor, shoes squeaking against the wax film, and bucked Kenma perfectly in place, seated on Tsukishima’s belly.

Tsukishima reached down to free his erection from the elastic band on his pants, and stroked himself in time with the swiping of his tongue against Kenma’s mouth. He groaned, picking up the pace almost immediately, unable to stop himself.

The sounds coming from Kenma didn’t help. He sounded almost--embarrassed. Cutting off his moans with shameful gasps. Muffling a cry into Tsukishima’s neck. Tsukishima knew Kenma would’ve been loud--if he weren’t afraid of being heard.

“I can’t wait to get you alone, some day,” Tsukishima grumbled against Kenma’s temple. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to keep quiet like that.”

Kenma shuddered, the feeling trembling through Tsukishima like a reward. That feeling built from deep inside his gut and he fisted himself harder, jerking himself faster--

Tsukishima came with an exhaling moan. He hissed as his cum spit and dribbled over his fingers, waves of it crashing over him again and again, until he was totally spent.

Kenma had pushed up with one hand splayed between Tsukishima’s pecs, eyes closed, small white teeth biting his swollen lip to mask the sounds he couldn’t help.

Tsukishima caught his breath enough to say, “ You don’t have a game.” His hands--sticky and wet, but he didn’t care--gripped Kenma’s ass through his shorts. “You can fuck.”

Kenma said, “Not with you.”

“I could suck you off.” Kenma jolted at that, head tossed back. “I can fuck you,” Tsukishima said, pulling the shorts over his cheeks. The bare skin was soft as he grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed. “I can use my fingers.”

“I--” Kenma’s back arched, pushing himself farther into Tsukishima’s hands. “Oh. Kei.”

His name. His name. “Would that help you come, Kenma?” He slid his hand against Kenma’s hole. 

“I’m--” Tsukishima pressed his middle finger shallowly into Kenma, and Kenma cried out--an unfiltered shout, like he truly couldn’t stop. “I’m coming.”

Tsukishima continued to stroke his entrance as Kenma’s body pulsed, spurting hot white ribbons of cum across Tsukishima’s jersey-covered chest. He continued to pant out softer sounds--ah, ah, ah. Tsukishima would remember those the most, for the rest of his life. The dazed, pleasurable sounds.

Kenma was trembling when he finally opened his eyes. He looked a total mess--hair half-fallen from his ponytail, lips already bruising purple, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He was the prettiest thing.

Tsukishima sat up, using his grip on Kenma’s ass to keep him in his lap, and kissed him.

This kiss, this time--it was sweet.

Tsukishima walked Kenma back to his apartment. They were near-silent the whole time. An autumn breeze had just begun--chilling down their sweaty clothes--and distantly, Tsukishima could hear some other college kids near campus having a party. If he really strained, he could even hear familiar thump-thump-thumping music from the gay bars just a few blocks away.

They stopped in front of the building entrance.

Tsukishima didn’t know what to say. Did he need to ask Kenma out again? He should. He wanted to. After tryouts. On the weekend. Maybe he would be okay with holding hands in class, actually, if they did it under the desk--

“Should I actually call you Kei?”

Tsukishima adjusted the glasses on his face. “If you want.”

“You’ll call me Kenma?”

“That’s what I call you in my head, yeah,” he said, and then felt immediate regret.

Kenma, in response, smiled.

Okay, no regrets.

Kenma then cleared his throat. When Tsukishima didn’t seem to catch on, he gestured to the bag on his shoulder. Kenma’s school bag.

“Oh, right,” said Tsukishima. He handed the bag over. He’d picked it up as they were leaving the gym, to carry it for Kenma as they walked home. It was heavy, he already knew, since he’d placed it on one of the higher--safer--selves outside the gym when they went to practice. It probably had books and a laptop both, considering Kenma’s major focused so much on computing.

Kenma hugged the bag in both hands and said, “Thanks. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. See you.” Tsukishima turned to walk away, but he felt like a string tightened around his heart, connecting him back to Kenma, and he stopped. Turned around. Rushed back to him and kissed him against the lips. The string let go, then.

A kiss just for a kiss’ sake.

He stepped away and Kenma blinked those odd little eyes in some kind of surprise. Tsukishima walked away again, hands tucked into his pockets. 

Kenma always thought Tsukishima was odd.

He had a natural gift for sports--any sport, honestly, but volleyball was a particularly good match. He could have just as easily joined the basketball team, though, and that would have saved him so much irritation.

The irritation was why Tsukishima was so odd. He seemed to hate his team--Yamaguchi notwithstanding, of course. He seemed to love Yamaguchi. So deeply, in fact, that Kenma thought it was possible they were a couple when they all first met as teens, and he knew immediately that Tsukishima was gay. (Also odd: Tsukishima didn’t even know that about himself yet.)

But Tsukishima didn’t share any of those warm feelings for the rest of Karasuno. Even now, years later, he had some sort of burning dislike of Hinata Shouyou. Kenma understood, a little. Shouyou was a lot.

Kenma understood it a lot when they finally started to date in college.

Tsukishima was, secretly, a deeply passionate man. He had to act like he didn’t care about anything, day to day, to save his soft little heart from being beaten by failure. Sports didn’t make that easy--failure was key to gaming. 

Very odd behavior.

Odder still, Tsukishima didn’t really seem to understand this about himself. He was introspective. Thoughtful. Calculating. But he had no idea how tender-hearted he really was.

He opened doors for Kenma. Pulled out his chair. Bought his train ticket. Bought his coffee. Carried his bookbag. All without ever being asked--all without ever even realizing he was doing it. When Kenma arrived late to their computer lab--Tsukishima had already turned on the computer, pulled out his chair, and even placed a bottle of water on the side table for him to have, like he suspected Kenma would have had to run to make it to class on time. And he was right.

Very thoughtful. Completely oblivious to it.

What a weirdo.

Kenma didn’t tell anyone he was going to the tryouts--to watch, obviously; god, training with Tsukishima reminded him very deeply why he gave up the game. He was so sore he could barely climb the bleachers, to snag a seat near the back where he wouldn’t be spotted. Not to mention his knees.

Kenma’s blush was hidden behind a cold mask, thankfully. Straddling Tsukishima like he had left big brown bruises along both kneecaps. That’d been stupid.

He and Tsukishima were very stupid together, Kenma figured out. He had to be careful about that, or they’d stumble into a real mess, eventually.

The tryouts started with drills. Kuroo went especially hard with Tsukishima, Kenma noticed. He didn’t want to seem like he had favorites, and had swung a little too far in the other direction. Kenma cringed a bit as Kuroo snapped at Tsukishima to hit a marked jump higher.

Tsukishima did. He hit the mark perfectly. Other observers in the bleachers applauded for him.

Then they rolled into a practice set. And there was no contest--Tsukishima’s side won point after point after point. Kenma watched as everyone on the court got more sweaty. More tired. Another round of drilling, and one lightning-round practice set later--

Everyone, including Kuroo, was completely wiped. 

“We’re gonna tally up some of the scores and look at all the notes we took,” said Kuroo to the small crowd of hopefuls.l “Y’all can go change in the locker room.”

They filtered out. Kenma watched Kuroo meet with the coaches, the co-captain, and some of the current players, talking over things quietly. A small argument broke out at one point--

“Are you nuts? He was by far and away the best one out there--”

“He’s not as good as we are.”

“He’s a freshman, Tetsurou. Chill out.”

Kuroo huffed and seemed to acquiesce. They continued to talk, volume too low for Kenma to hear. While he waited, he pulled out his phone to boot up a game, and saw he had a text from five minutes ago.

Kei: Am I supposed to ask you out again? Because I want to.

Kenma smiled behind his mask.

Kenma: Shouldn’t you be worrying about making the team right now?

Kei: The next date can be a consolation for my failure or a celebration of my win.

Kenma didn’t respond. A moment later, another message buzzed.

Kei: Which do you think it’s gonna be?

A whistle, shrill and startling, interrupted Kenma before he could type a response. The freshman came jogging out of the locker room.

“Results are in. We’ll start from the bench and work our way up. Got it?”

Everyone nodded--including Kenma. He leaned forward, heart in his throat. It wasn’t that he doubted Tsukishima would make the team. He would. But he very clearly wanted to be a favored pick. Born--and trained--to be a middle blocker.

Kuroo called out several names. Every time, Kenma felt himself go tense, hoping it wasn’t Tsukishima’s name. He had to be at the end. He had to.

In the very middle of the list, Kuroo said, “Tsu--” And Kenma gasped. “--chiya Touru. Congrats, man. Next…”

As they got closer to the end, Kenma felt the excitement building in him. It was like at the end of an RPG, when the boss's health bar was in the red, and he had an entire potion left to spare, and he knew he was going to do it.

Tsukishima was going to be choice-pick.

“And finally--last, but not least, I guess. Tsukishima Kei. Welcome to the court.”

Tsukishima, not one for too much excitement, simply grinned. Yamaguchi--who’d also made the team, middle of the draft--slapped him excitedly on the shoulder. All the others who made the team--and the team itself--began to swarm in celebration.

“Congrats!” Kuroo called, throwing a thumbs up at the crowd. They all bustled to him, jumping around in an energy that was positively contagious.

Kenma stood up and started down the bleacher stairs. When he reached courtside, Tsukishima was outside the jumping-whooping-happy group, looking at his phone.

Kenma watched him for a minute, and noticed how his smile dimmed just a fraction. He hadn’t gotten a response, he thought. Kenma was too busy doing something else.

What an idiot.

Kenma silently moved to his side, lowering his mask. “I was watching the results, so I didn’t get a chance to reply. Obviously, it was going to be a celebration date. It was a stupid question.”

Tsukishima jolted, nearly dropping his phone. He caught it deftly in one hand, and stared with his big, brown, highly emotive eyes with very apparent surprise. “You were watching.”

“Yeah.”

Tsukishima’s many thoughts clinked around in the empty expanse of his mind.

Kenma smiled. “Congratulations.”

“You were here the whole time?”

Kenma nodded. “You’re very talented.”

Tsukishima seemed to take the words like a warm welcome wave of relief. “The next date, we’re gonna celebrate. Okay?”

“I’m free whenever.”

“Right now?”

Kenma barked a laugh, completely taken off-guard. He covered his mouth with a hand. “You just finished--”

“I don’t care. I want to kiss you.”

“Then crouch down. I can’t reach.”

He crouched, looking surprised--anxious--like he didn’t think Kenma would do that here. In public. Like he didn’t really know that Kenma liked him back that much.

Kenma kissed him gently, hugging his neck, and whispered against his mouth, “We can kiss whenever you want, Kei.”

Tsukishima was very odd, because how could he be so smart and still had not yet figured out that Kenma liked him back?