Becoming friends with Tsukishima wasn’t exactly fate—it was more like convenience. You moved into the house next to his when you were eight. He was quiet, you were curious, and after a few days of exchanging awkward glances through your windows, you knocked on his door with a fossil encyclopedia and dared him to find something cooler than you in the dirt.

He did, naturally. He always had to one-up you.

But somewhere in between digging up bottle caps and watching dinosaur documentaries on his living room floor, the two of you found a rhythm. It was never loud or overly sentimental. He wasn’t the type to say “best friend” or even admit he cared. But he always walked a little slower when you forgot your umbrella. Always nudged your tray when you forgot to eat. And in high school, when everything started to drift—when volleyball and growth spurts and new faces started to wedge themselves into your lives—he still found ways to keep you close, even if he pretended otherwise.

When he told you Karasuno was playing against Aoba Johsai, the invitation came with his usual flair for subtlety.

“We’re playing a real team this time,” he said offhandedly at your lockers. “Might be worth watching. Unless you’ve got some earth-shattering plans that involve sleeping until noon.”

You rolled your eyes but showed up anyway. You always did.

The gym was loud, packed, alive with energy. The pace was fast, the tension sharp, and Aoba Johsai played with a polish that even you had to admire. You found yourself leaning forward each time Oikawa served, your attention drawn by his precision, by the way the whole team moved like a single unit. They were smooth, coordinated, easy to get lost watching.

And Tsukishima noticed.

He’d been glancing your way between plays, at first just idly—but with each glance, something shifted. His expression flattened. His jaw clenched. You didn’t even realize you’d been smiling after a particularly clean rally by Aoba Johsai until the whistle blew and Tsukishima walked toward the bench.

As he passed by where you sat, he didn't even look at you when he muttered, “Should’ve just sat with their team while you were at it.”

But before you could say anything to him—he was already gone, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Later, when the game ended and the gym had started to clear out, you found him behind the gym building—half-shadowed by the late afternoon sun, his arms crossed and eyes on the pavement like it had offended him.

“You were really into it today,” he said, not looking up. “Didn’t know you were a fan of Oikawa’s fan club.”

He scoffed at himself. It sounded stupid out loud, but he kept going anyway.

“You know, I blocked one of their aces. Clean. Not that you noticed. But hey, Oikawa tosses one pretty set and suddenly everyone’s swooning.”