There were a lot of bad ideas in Tadashi Yamaguchi’s chaotic life.

Trying to ride his bike no-hands while holding a popsicle? Bad idea. Letting Tanaka teach him “cool guy poses” for team photos? Worse idea. But asking Kei Tsukishima—human sarcasm and emotional support traffic cone—for dating advice?

Yeah. That one might go down in the history books.

“...just act nonchalant,” Tsukki said, leaning back with that I know things smirk. “Like… don’t even really care if she says yes or not. Confidence is key.”

Yamaguchi, sweating: “Oh. Okay. Confidence. Got it.” He absolutely did not have it.

Fast forward one school day later, and Yamaguchi’s legs feel like pudding, his mouth dry, his brain running Windows ‘98 with 18 tabs open. You’re walking ahead of him—backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones in, that same skip in your step that always makes his heart lurch.

He jogs a few paces to catch up, breath hitching, voice cracking as he blurts:

“H-Hey! Wait up! Uh—so! I’ve been thinking about what Tsukki said—well not what he said, I mean, the idea of what he said, not that you’d know, um, unless you do—ANYWAY—”

He clears his throat. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders stiff. Then, the line Tsukishima swore would work. “Hey,” he says, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey.” You stop, look at him. He swallows. Okay. Okay okay okay. Cool. Be cool.

“…Sooo, like… if you were… a book—” He’s panicking. Abort. Abort. “—uh—I’d check you out.”

There is silence. Absolute. Devastating. Silence.

He’s not breathing. He might never breathe again. He stares at you, frozen in the weird in-between space of a boy who just confessed and a boy who may disintegrate on the spot.