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Tsukishima fidgeted in his seat across from Yamaguchi, staring intently at the cafe menu in an effort not to look around him. He crossed his legs, grimaced at the discomfort and settled for crossing his ankles instead.
When Yamaguchi had told him he wanted to go to their bi-weekly coffee ‘dates’ (because he couldn’t think of a better way to describe them, even though that didn’t really fit) in a skirt, he hadn’t blinked; it had been a long time coming, really, and he’d almost been hurt by Yamaguchi’s surprise that he was okay with it.
When Yamaguchi had asked him for moral support, however...
This isn’t awkward, he told himself, clenching his fists against his thighs.
The skirt he’d borrowed (from Tanaka’s sister, of all people) was too short, but luckily the denim was fairly stiff, and when they’d changed (in the bathroom of a train station, far away from Karasuno - they’d both agreed on that, at least) he found it didn’t ride up too much, even if his fingers itched to pull it down. Yamaguchi had brought thigh-high socks, too, which helped with the cold, but his sneakers looked out of place in the ensemble. They were scuffed from practise, and he didn’t think he’d ever paid any attention to how big his feet were before this. The opposite of delicate, but then he’d never been accused of that in the first place.
He looked out of place. People were staring, he was sure of it. He looked up from the menu, catching Yamaguchi’s gaze across the table, and found himself flushing at its intensity. Yamaguchi was practically vibrating in his seat, brimming with nervous energy, even though it didn’t seem like he noticed the people around them at all. His face was twisted, and it almost looked like a frown, but Tsukishima could tell that he was just trying to suppress his excitement.
“Relax, Yamaguchi,” he said, keeping his tone level in spite of the heat he could still feel across his cheeks. Yamaguchi startled at his voice, bringing his hands up from his lap and clasping them together on the table. He smiled warmly, and Tsukishima reminded himself why he was there.
“Sorry, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi said, laughing nervously, “I’m just really happy, you know? And I didn’t think you would do this, I’m...kind of touched.”
Tsukishima looked down sharply, tugging at the hair behind his ears. “It’s not that big a deal,” he said, even though he thought exactly the opposite.
“It is, though,” Yamaguchi insisted, reaching across the table and catching Tsukishima’s wrist. “You’re sticking by me, and that really is a big deal. I didn’t think -”
“What? That I’d accept you?” Tsukishima asked, frowning. “Did you think I’d call you disgusting?”
“Well, I…” the way Yamaguchi hesitated stung a little, and Tsukishima tried to hide it by snorting.
“When we were 12, our parents took us to the beach, and you got car sick and threw up in my lap. This,” and he gestured to Yamaguchi, wearing a chiffon blouse and three thin bracelets, the mint green skirt Tsukishima knew he had picked out with carehidden from view beneath the table, “isn’t entirely unexpected, and it’s certainly not disgusting.”
There was a long pause as Yamaguchi stared at him, processing what he’d just said, and Tsukishima directed his attention to a crack on the tiled floor.
“You think it suits me?”
“I didn’t say that,” Tsukishima spoke instinctively, and then bit his lip, gaze still focused on the floor. He took a breath. “It does, though.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Yamaguchi ordered for the both of them when the waitress arrived. People always described Yamaguchi as the more shy one, but more often than not Tsukishima felt too uncomfortable to speak, and Yamaguchi had never failed to talk for him.
When the waitress brought them their drinks - hot chocolate for both of them, he didn’t even know why they bothered calling them coffee dates, really, they weren’t that pretentious - Tsukishima pulled his towards him slowly, idly toying with the spoon on the accompanying saucer before Yamaguchi spoke again.
“You look good too, Tsukki,” he said, and then swallowed, like he’d just insulted him. Tsukishima laughed.
“Hardly,” he said, and he sounded bored, but his toes curled in the bottom of his sneakers, “This...I’m not exactly built for these kinds of things.”
“No, Tsukki, really! You look like a model,” Yamaguchi said, and Tsukishima grit his teeth.
Yamaguchi always complimented him so earnestly and so easily. The words would fall out of his mouth before Tsukishima had the time to finish his sentence, any self-deprecation hit back before he could form it. It made him so difficult to believe, and even more difficult to ignore.
“I know you didn’t want to do this, and it’s probably hard for you, so... I’m really glad,” Yamaguchi continued, “you look amazing, Tsukki, honestly, and I’m sorry you have to suffer through this because of me…”
“That’s not it.” Tsukishima hadn’t realised he was speaking until he’d said it. He blinked, startled, and then moved to clean his glasses, focusing on the lenses. He searched for the words, “It’s not uncomfortable.”
“You like it?”
“I…” Tsukishima put his glasses back on to see that Yamaguchi was leaning across the table, lips parted in a kind of eager astonishment. He frowned, taking a sip of his hot chocolate, “I don’t hate it.”
And that would be it, for everyone else, but this was Yamaguchi, and even though he didn’t press, Tsukishima watched him sit back with a gleam in his eyes he hadn’t seen since the time Tsukishima ended up joining the same volleyball team he’d told himself he wouldn’t support, and he knew.
He was fucked.
Walking back from the station, skirts folded and placed carefully inside Tsukishima’s gym bag, Yamaguchi caught his hand, lacing their fingers together with a sigh.
“Thank you, Tsukki,” he said for what was probably the sixth time since the day had started. Tsukishima huffed.
“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” he replied, and Yamaguchi looked up at him, “there’s nothing to thank me for.”
Yamaguchi’s face broke into a smile, and Tsukishima thought that he didn’t really mind what they were wearing, as long as he kept making that face.