Chapter Text
In the summer, Tsukishima burns.
Tsukishima burns like coals beneath a campfire whereas Yamaguchi bronzes, quick and even, long limbs and taut skin dripping with summer sun. Sweat sparkles from twelve exhausted bodies on the grass. As it passes, a whisper of wind grabs at the hems of yellow jerseys. Tsukishima plucks a blade of grass from the dirt, the tallest in a particularly pigmented patch.
“I was at the top of the hill first, Kageyama.”
“Were not.”
“Was so. Ask anyone.”
“It’s supposed to be a punishment, not a game,” drones Tsukishima, rolling the blade of grass between his forefinger and thumb.
“Not a game,” Kageyama pants, “a competition.”
Hinata interjects, “A competition that I won. Right, Yamaguchi?”
Yamaguchi lifts his hands in surrender, his breath coming back to him.
“Definitely not getting involved.”
“C’mon,” Hinata whines.
“Nope. Nope, nope.”
“He’d side with me anyway,” says Tsukishima.
Yamaguchi leans back onto his hands. His grin is easy, lazy, tired. Tsukishima places the mistreated blade of grass on his palm and flicks it. They both eye where it lands on Yamaguchi’s thigh.
“Thanks.”
The sun glitters from Tsukishima’s lenses. When Yamaguchi blinks, he sees their imprints.
“Free of charge,” Tsukishima replies.
He doesn’t get the words out before a breath of wind takes the gift. Yamaguchi watches Hinata and Kageyama’s shadows bleed onto the grass under their feet. Across the field, Sugawara and Daichi stand up, prompting the rest to do the same. Mind and bones heavy, Yamaguchi sinks into the dirt. Tsukishima’s proximity pins him in place. More shadows bleed darkly into the green grass as the others stand, scattered on the hill.
Yamaguchi eyes the pigmentation in Tsukishima’s fingertips—the faintest green from the sole blade of grass rolled between them.
_____
Heat invades the gym always, regardless of soft breezes that swing inside through sets of open doors. The back of Tsukishima’s neck is burnt pink. Yamaguchi ogles the color as they leave the court. He adds nape of neck to his running list of places Tsukishima should apply supplementary sunscreen, his mind rolling over the others lest he forget: the tips of his ears, the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, the backs of his knees and hands.
The pink is cute but Yamaguchi misses Tsukishima’s paleness.
It shines so nicely from him; cool pale against warm blond, liquid gold beneath black frames. He could melt Yamaguchi in an ice storm. He thinks of pressing ice to Tsukishima’s sunburns. He ponders on a rushed intake of breath at the moment of contact. He sees drops of ice water slide over smooth, pink skin.
He doesn’t see the blur of an incoming volleyball until it’s deflected, spinning from Nishinoya’s forearms with a satisfying pop. The second-year whirls on him. He boasts a wide, prideful grin. Yamaguchi blinks back to life.
“Yamaguchi, you seriously lack a little something I like to call situational awareness.”
“Sorry, Nishinoya-san, thanks, I—”
“But you are practicing your jump floats a lot,” Nishinoya continues, “so I’ll let it slide.”
“Really?” Yamaguchi wonders.
“For sure. Practice makes better, right?”
He peers past Nishinoya’s brunet spikes to where Tsukishima stands by the gym doors and steps into his sneakers.
“Better?” he repeats curiously.
Nishinoya nods. “Yeah, well, perfect can be really tricky.”
Yamaguchi nods back. He offers his teammate a bright grin in return, its wattage pathetic in comparison. Nishinoya spins on his heel and hops to join the others in the doorway. He grants Asahi a hard slap between his shoulders and the third-year groans, twisting to massage the abused spot. Yamaguchi stretches his hands out in front of him and watches a stray volleyball roll past his planted feet. He feels the weight of it on his palm. He sees it float.
Perfect is unattainable by nature, but Yamaguchi reaches for it still.
_____
“Back of your neck,” Yamaguchi mentions, slinging on his t-shirt.
Tsukishima turns over his shoulder to look at him. The fresh, familiar scent of sunscreen hangs around the room, empty save the two of them and Ennoshita and Narita at the corner diagonal. Tsukishima uncaps the bottle he holds with a soft click.
“Oh,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing, Tsukki.”
“This is getting annoying,” he tells Yamaguchi, unwinding forgotten athletic tape from his left ring finger. He squeezes out a dime-sized spot of white and marks the nape of his neck. His fingertips make slow, lazy circles. Watching them dizzies him, so Yamaguchi turns away. “Consider yourself lucky.”
He turns back. “Why’s that, Tsukki?”
“The sun kisses your skin,” Tsukishima elaborates, and his diction sends Yamaguchi’s mind reeling. “But mine, it bites. Hard.”
“Maybe it’s a love bite,” Yamaguchi offers, playful.
Tsukishima huffs his amusement—the kind of laugh he does only in the mornings, more air than anything.
“Doesn’t feel so lovely.”
“Yeah,” Yamaguchi agrees, “the sun’s kind of a dick.”
He gives Tsukishima’s sleeve a quick tug. Tsukishima sways his way.
“I’ll protect you from the big, bad sun. You can count on me.”
“Unless you’re SPF fifty, I don’t think so.”
“Forty-five, actually.”
“Damn,” deadpans Tsukishima, capping the bottle and dropping it into his duffel bag.
_____
The team captains run the field behind the gym building. The Fukurodani and Nekoma captains remain outliers. The former zags crazily, hither and thither while the latter sprints a beeline in his wake, mounted hair impossibly dark under the warm orange tones of the setting sun. Daichi runs behind them with the others, perfect form, rigid with a sense of duty. Their heavy steps pack the dry dirt.
Yamaguchi stands in the doorway and watches. Fresh air cools the sweat on his face. Nearby, Hinata and Kozume lean against the outside of the building, the electronic glow from his PSP washing out their faces. Hinata jitters at his side. His eyes flick up to the captains as they rush by. He wants to run, too.
Yamaguchi could run. He’ll ask to join him in a lap around once Kozume retreats. If they wait much longer, they may leave late enough to hear the bullfrogs by the pond at the edge of the property.
“Hi,” lilts a voice behind him. “You’re from Karasuno, aren’t you?”
Yamaguchi jolts and turns. He stares up at emerald and silver, mouth parted. He nods.
“How tall are you? Five-eleven?”
“Just about,” Yamaguchi answers, impressed.
“I’m pretty good at that, you know. Will you help me stretch?”
Looking up at Lev, Yamaguchi flounders.
“You’re the tallest guy left in the gym. And I know Kenma-san is around here somewhere, but he’s kind of short, even if we are on the same team. And Yaku-san—he’s our libero—but he’s definitely too short,” Lev confides, leaning closer. “Don’t tell him I said that. So will you help me stretch? I'll help you, too.”
Yamaguchi’s subsequent laugh is genuine.
“Okay. Sure thing.”
A minute later, he feels the rumble of Lev’s voice where his knee presses to his back.
“You’re a first-year, right? Like me?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Isn’t it exciting?”
Yamaguchi moves to Lev’s other side.
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean this whole thing,” Lev answers, fists balling at his sides when he should have them flat on the floor between his legs. Yamaguchi doesn’t correct him. “I mean standing on the court and playing, getting to hit the ball, how fast it all is. Isn’t it the best?”
“I, um—I don’t really get to be on the court, actually,” he admits quickly. “I’m not a regular.”
Lev turns over his shoulder, green eyes bright under gym fluorescents.
“Oh, I got it. But you will be, right?”
Yamaguchi eases off. “I’ll be what?”
“You will be a regular, right?” Lev supplies effortlessly. “Isn’t that why you’re practicing so late?”
On the court farthest from them, Sugawara sets Ennoshita a steady toss. The ball skims the white band of the net and slams to the floor. The boom reverberates in the bare gym and Lev scoots around on long limbs to face Yamaguchi, grinning simply. Yamaguchi grins back.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he assures. “I will be.”
_____
Hinata and Lev push him farther than he wants to run, but whether he is surpassed in height or stamina, Yamaguchi is determined not to fall behind. Most players stay awake despite how the sun dips behind the gym. Groups congregate in hallways and open rooms but mostly outside; Hinata and Lev join the crowd seamlessly like it’s the easiest thing in the world, ears perked at the boisterous story Bokuto regales from where he sits cross-legged on the grass. At the edge of the crowd, Yamaguchi stands idle. The thrum of voices is constant, concurrently comforting and clamorous.
He heads inside.
Karasuno’s borrowed room holds only Tsukishima, pink nose in a softcover book. Yamaguchi kneels by him. His overworked leg muscles smolder from the stretch as he scans the page Tsukishima analyzes—a rigorous map and key.
“Tsukki,” he murmurs.
“What?” Tsukishima answers without looking up.
“Hi.”
“Have you been running?”
Yamaguchi sits. “How’d you know?”
“You’re all red.”
“You haven’t even looked at me yet,” he notes.
“Your breathing is off.”
Tsukishima looks at him then, eyelids heavy over a placid stare.
“Oh,” breathes Yamaguchi. “I went with Hinata and that Russian guy from Nekoma—Lev.”
Tsukishima turns the page in his book. “Oh.”
“I heard the bullfrogs by that little pond. They were so loud, Tsukki.”
“It’s a new moon,” he explains.
Yamaguchi hums. Tsukishima’s glasses perch on the very tip of his nose. He’s too busy with parchment and ink to fix them. Yamaguchi reaches out and, gentle and slow, presses them further up the bridge of his nose. He drops his hands into his lap, proud for being useful. Tsukishima hums his appreciation. Yamaguchi files it away and eyes the mats that line the room. They lie in disarray, twisted blankets strewn about and pillows half-out of their cases. His own is no different. Even as he sits upon it, Tsukishima’s mat is the neatest.
“We could go down there—just me and you,” Yamaguchi mentions.
“Everyone is out.”
“You could hear how loud they are, Tsukki, firsthand.”
“I’m going to bed,” Tsukishima says.
He shuts his book with an air of finality. Though right next to him, Yamaguchi is oceans away.