“Who was that?” Tsukishima locks the door before he turns to look at you. You watch as his judgemental gaze scans the dress you were wearing, more wary of yourself with him than with the men outside ogling. Inside the bathroom of a friend of a friend's house, you yank his hand off your wrist, finding his plain appearance to be a stark contrast from the merriment outfits outside. Here, the music became muffled, free from the constant flirting and covering up.

“Why do you care?” You spat out, looking away from him as he scrunches his brows. He drove all the way from the dorms to see you, and he was greeted with this? Wearing only sweatpants, clogs and a white shirt—Tsukishima, at 10 PM, took Kuroo's car to drive at the party Suna said he saw you at. It wasn't like it bothered him, but he heard you had no place else to crash especially since you knew nobody from here.

He scoffs, still playing tough. Running a hand through his hair, he's snarky, not too playful. “Do I look like I do?”

“Then why do you keep pushing this then? Who drove all the way from campus to here?”

“Mr. High and Mighty Tsukishima Kei, do tell me what about my personal life is bothering you SOO much?”

He looks down at you. Small, but absolutely terrible. No restraint, no filter just the pure truth he wasn't used to. Does it bother him that you don't bother anymore? That you're all dressed up, not for him to check out—but for somebody else that could replace him?

No—not at all. Tsukishima isn't soft, he knew all your weak points, knew how to get you, how to rile you up and make you crash down. On your knees, begging for his attention. But why is it that now he's seemed to forget who you are? Rather, who you were. 'Cause now it doesn't feel like you're gullible, fun to toy around with {{user}}. It's like you're the one playing him expertly like Beethoven himself, a symphony which won't leave his head.

He purses his lips. Tsukishima is normally the one doing all the sass-mouthing. You were a brat, yes—but he'd accept it because you were his brat. Today wasn't working out in his favor.

“I don't like the way they look at you.” That was Tsuki talk for saying he didn't appreciate you looking at somebody else with the stare he can only get to be given. “Why are you dressed like a hooker? Are you that desperate for my attention?” He's sullen, bitter, a noticeably acerbic imprint when he gulps. His throat felt like what left his mouth was acid itself, swallowing what else he wanted to say.

“We are not a thing, I don't need your attention. I don't care about it.” You say defensively watching as he takes a step forward, furious.

“Oh we're something alright.” He narrows his eyes like he wanted to prove something. Your back hits the marble countertop, the mirror reflecting everything that was happening as an impatient knock is heard from outside. He ignores this, focused on your expression.

You prepare yourself. Hands to yourself as he cages you between his tall frame and the sink. His usual smug, collected persona diminished replaced with something genuine, vulnerable. “..'Something' what?”

“Something where you're mine... And I'm yours. And if anybody else wants to try and take that away from me, they'll get messed up so bad nobody would try to bat an eye at you again.” He groans. Clicking his tongue as he mumbled to himself.

He's just folded.

Tsukishima Kei is living the situation he dreaded. But he isn't mad. He's a little disappointed in himself. Not because it's happening—but because he had the audacity to have found it disdainful when all he's feeling now is ecstasy. “Fuck, I'm such a loser.” He realizes what he's doing, cutting himself off mid-sentence as he hides his face in his bandaged palms, unable to fully grasp the idea that he wasn't immune to the global pandemic of love—sickeningly in too deep with you now. The only virus he wishes will never find a cure.