#giiants

tendou holds his index fingers up — side by side, far enough apart that he can imagine a string of electricity connecting them. he holds up two fingers & names them two endpoints of a scale. ‘ careful, ‘ he hums. ‘ this might be a trick question. ‘

he’s sixteen, then twenty, then twenty-two.

at that time, he would ask silly questions — would you rathers that either deepdive into absurdity or that intrude. example: would you rather have someone read your thoughts for an hour or see your entire search history ? communicate through emojis or never text again? if you had another hair color would it be? what kind of friendship is the best friendship? what do you wish your family did differently? what do you wish your friends did differently? what would it feel like to feel miserable every time you won?

there were never good answers to these questions.

he’s sixteen, then twenty, then twenty-two. sometimes tendou asks these questions to excavate answers he thinks he wants to hear or knows he doesn’t want to hear. he has always had the tendency to scatter pushpins in a circle around him, to see who might navigate past the hazards / who might be stopped / whom tendou can justify keeping at arm’s distance.

tendou is no longer sixteen, twenty, twenty-two. he refuses to play his old game, though he wants to. the game sometimes leaves a lingering sour taste that helps no one, so it . . . is something worth resisting.

sometimes he’s tempted to play again.

sometimes he forgets his old pattern trick questions entirely.

but today he asks ( in spanish ) : if you could live anywhere, where would you live?

it turns out : ushijima has apparently not forgotten the trick questions. tendou’s brow wrinkles; he figures that ushijima didn't mean to imply trapdoors & hostage situations & ducktape sorts of traps that may show up in manga. but they've agreed recently ( since they travel & are uncertain about next steps ) to talk for 15 minutes (when they manage to talk) in a language other than japanese.

it's a stupid agreement because tendou misses the feeling of japanese on his tongue, but it's easier to practice a language when there's someone who understands that you're confused so --

today they've settled on a rundown of spanish, & neither of them are really saying what they mean but

still, tendou translates: ' is this a trick question? ' from ' could this be a trap? '

the translation makes him dance a little in place, changing the distribution of his weight between left-right, right-left —- tendou deflects by tripping up the rhythm of his steps just enough that he can cut off ushijima's stride.

' absolutely could be a trap, ‘ he agrees. star-spread, tendou brings his arms to wide points & takes a standing split. ' you should tell me about that. what kinda trap are you thinking ? ' his fingers wiggle in the air - they do a terrible impression of the dances performed by inflatable men at car dealerships. tendou sometimes snags into moments where he smells a whiff of ushijima's imagination on the wind. it's usually a false-lead, but it's fun to entertain.

it’s also easier than answering too honestly. at sixteen, twenty, twenty-two, & even now . . . tendou snips away tethers at his feet. he answers from a distance & balloon-dips through conversation. it doesn’t help anyone.

ushijima is a bit of a monster, of a superhero, in the way that he doesn't stumble over pushpins or balloon choreography.

maybe that’s why it feels like a shit move to leave ushijima’s question unanswered. tendou runs a hand over the short crop of his hair. he has to reconsider what he was really asking ushijima before their language-practice fell flat.

' i mean. usually, yeah. but usually a trick question for me used to be . . . would you rather be right handed or give up volleyball? would you prefer a to speak spanish in japan or japanese in argentina? ' this is not entirely true . . . trick questions used to be intentional. & tendou hadn’t asked anything intentionally, but ushijima is right.

tendou asks a question, & he’s not prepared to know the answer.

remember: ushijima & tendou split ways once. they split ways twice. the idea of splitting ways three times feels like swallowing tree bark.

it’s a hard question, & tendou feels like a jackass for asking it without realizing so — for old time’s sake, he holds up his index fingers side-by-side. electricity pulses somewhere between. it sucks.

' yeah, i mean. i guess that's what i asked, isn't it? if you could live anywhere, where would you live? would you rather live in japan or here ? in poland or here ? in italy ? in argentina? thailand ? '

but he admits that he's been on edge the past few days. walking on tiptoes when he welcomes himself into ushijima's home, trying to pinpoint the minute that they have a conversation (again) about how they had previously tackled distance & again what distance might mean.

it’s hard to tell what patterns persist. what ambitions may have changed.

tendou cuts his tethers. ushijima builds foundations. tendou is growing older. ushijima is growing older.

pride looks like the consequence of late-night promises. yamaguchi, much to his dismay, had been out drinking with his coworkers. to this, tsukishima is not terribly sympathetic - clucking his tongue in poorly disguised laughter & pulling his blanket up to his shoulders. he alternates between skimming game scores ( & memes ) on his phone & listening to yamaguchi pretend he's sober enough to make conversation.

22:00 teeters tsukishima towards the brink of sleep; it’s his right to commander the couch. his legs are long, & they sprawl, & they wedge themselves beneath cushions. yamaguchi is good-natured & familiar enough with tsukishima's habits not to complain when he sits on a lopsided couch-cushion. but yamaguchi has to draw the line somewhere — tsukishima adjusts his feet again, & the whole cushion moves.

to his credit, tsukishima looks unapologetic for condemning yamaguchi to a rollercoaster ride. yamaguchi bounces twice on the couch cushion to try to reprimand tsukishima. his efforts are unsuccessful. pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, tsukishima continues to look unapologetic.

yamaguchi waves a white flag when he announces his decision to shower. absently, tsukishima watches him try to pull at the push door to the bathroom — it’s enough of a subtle spectacle that he feels duty-bound to remind yamaguchi:

‘ the hot water tank hasn't been working. ‘

yamaguchi pauses. he's finally managed to get the door open, & he pauses. enough time elapses that the door starts to swing closed.

yamaguchi announces something about being good with his hands, which makes tsukishima's brow skyrocket, & then yamaguchi swears beneath his breath & raises a hand to the deities & swears to fix the tank in the tomorrow. cold showers be damned!

tsukishima snorts & goes back to his phon & listening, politely, for yamaguchi's yelp when the cold water hit his back.

pride looks like the consequence of late-night promises. yamaguchi wakes up in the morning without a headache; he hadn’t had that much to drink, but he had been tired. tsukishima brews coffee, & he feels sweet enough to remind yamaguchi that since it’s your day off, it’d be a good time to try & fix the water heater.

yamaguchi is so indignant that he abandons his own cup of coffee.

so now they’re crowded in the too small bathroom — yamaguchi with his hands on his hips in the posture of productivity, & tsukishima’s being useless.

absently, tsukishima stares at the collage of freckles on the back of yamaguchi’s neck; their pattern is interrupted by yamaguchi’s shirt tag sticking right up. it’s a small bathroom, & tsukishima is hovering.

yamaguchi gathers his pride & self importance : ‘ i’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me. ‘

‘i’m moral support, ‘ tsukishima argues. if he were feeling particularly vindictive, he would make a comment that yamaguchi sometimes does a perfectly adequate job of distracting himself. but he wore out his vindictive spirit by cashing in on yamaguchi’s late-night handyman confidence — tsukishima satisfies himself by huffing half-hearted indignation & checking his nails. he only remembers to file them biweekly or when a nail is dangerously close to breaking during practice. there's nothing to see on his nails, but he keeps checking.

yamaguchi keeps staring at the water heater on the wall as though it were hiding secrets, as though it were mona lisa’s smile. this is how he pretends to be a maestro with pipes & electricity — tsukishima pretends only somewhat that he has faith in yamaguchi's handyman skills.

[ nb. to be fair, yamaguchi really is handier than tsukishima. he's got a better understanding of some sort of logic between engineered concepts, & he's good at what he does but -

understanding the technical work behind computers and devices is an entirely different game than working with the water heater. every time the thing breaks, tsukishima is increasingly convinced that there was never any hope. ]

it's true that tsukishima bathes himself in arrogance every day, but he's been honest enough to never claim that he knows how to handle tools or household fixes.

yamaguchi cracks his knuckles.

tsukishima sips his sugar-sodden coffee.

' yup, ' he drawls when yamaguchi touches nothing. yamaguchi's brow furrows in a way that tsukishima is privately fond of, & he presses the top of his index finger against yamaguchi's head. ' just so you know, if you really break it - then you get to call maintenance & foot the entire bill. '

it's an empty threat, mostly. tsukishima would make him call maintenance & try to explain the issue, but . . . they've been teetering on a non-conversation recently on how they split expenses. it's a difficult conversation. tsukishima feels reluctant to share his bank information with anyone, & he can't justify why.

another five minutes pass.

tsukishima presses his coffee into yamaguchi's hand.

' good effort. i liked the conviction. maybe tomorrow you can fix the draft in the window, ‘ the deadpan tease concludes tsukishima’s investment in the matter, but the mirror shows the upwards lilt to his lips &

sent ages ago | @giiants​

there are many, many negative outcomes of tsukishima’s having vanished ( for months, a year, whatever ) from yamaguchi’s life. every now & again, he can hear an internal reprimand whisper in his ear: ‘ well. your actions have consequences. ‘ & truthfully, the best response tsukishima has to that is a grimace. he’s never been an optimist, but someone somewhere might argue that every time a door closes, another one opens.

tsukishima can concede some truth to that — he thinks about side-by-side conversations in yamaguchi’s home, where they hummed together a jigsaw puzzle of how past expectations for relationships applied to here / to now / to the fact that they’ve known each other for

over ten years &

that conversation was negative in all that it resurrected, in the intimacy it implied. it was positive, in the intimacy it shared.

. . . terribleterribleterribleterrible.

it makes tsukishima feel like sneezing.

in the ease of the evening, there’s intimacy shared tonight too. yamaguchi has got a pair of steamed work clothes hanging at tsukishima’s bedroom door; yamaguchi’s laundry is crumbled in a pile just outside of the confines of an overnight bag that looks like a gym bag from high school. tsukishima thinks about folding the soiled clothing, but he doesn’t care that much so

he showers while yamaguchi cooks a dinner that’s more flavorful than anything tsukishima would have concocted. it’s intimate, but it’s mostly familiar — it’s not the first time yamaguchi has cooked for him, & it won’t be the last. but the thing is . . .

tsukishima smells like soap when he pads socked feet across his kitchen floor to retrieve a glass of water. he smells like an overpriced bar of soap when yamaguchi accidentally squishes tomato juice & seeds across the counter. ‘ is that my shirt you’re wearing ? ‘ yamaguchi asks, like it’s a big deal. he asks, with pepper flakes of astonishment seasoning his tone. no matter how delicious yamaguchi’s cooking (potentially) could be, tsukishima feels as though he is more than justified in feeling a bit exasperated.

they have known each other for years. & for years they have shared locker rooms, sleeping quarters, whatever. if tsukishima were wearing yamaguchi’s shirt, then it’s hardly noteworthy. with all of those shared spaces, there have many occasions when tshirts were swapped or laundry was swapped or whatever.

a tshirt is a tshirt. tsukishima will wear whatever is available so long as it’s not one of yamaguchi’s tshirts labeled taco. the fact that they’re figuring out new dimensions of their relationship ( or whatever you want to call it ) doesn’t change that. it shouldn’t change that.

smelling like soap & with socked feet & furrowed brow, tsukishima starts to swipe at the tomato bits on his counter. a tshirt is a tshirt, & more importantly —- it’s not yamaguchi’s shirt. tsukishima distinctly remembers that this shirt has been circulating in his wardrobe for a couple of years now, & it’s a wonderful tshirt because the fabric is the kind of soft that makes you feel expensive. granted, tsukishima has no idea what the shirt is promoting, but that’s not the point.

he shakes his head to deny yamaguchi’s accusation. only then does he drop his gaze down to remind himself what exactly the logo looks like —

. . . turns out tsukishima’s exasperation is not justified. when he’s sheepish, his expression turns disgruntled. staring at the logo on the tshirt now reminds tsukishima of its nondescript origins. although tsukishima had just accepted & claimed the clothing into his wardrobe, it had initially been yamaguchi’s which is

undeniable, since the little logo beneath the fundraiser slogan scrawled across the chest is for yamaguchi’s university. not tsukishima’s. before tsukishima had vanished, he’s sure that yamaguchi had visited him & forgotten the shirt & planned to reclaim it ( ‘i like that shirt. it’s comfortable, tsukki!’ ) &

tsukishima had never given yamaguchi the opportunity. even when tsukishima had cut yamaguchi from his life, pieces of him were still integrated into his day-to-day:

messages never deleted

yamaguchi’s game files on tsukishima’s small collection of video games

photos & bad selfies still cluttering his photo library

the stupid lava lamp yamaguchi got him as a joke

old articles of clothing

. . . tsukishima swipes a cut of raw tomato from yamaguchi’s busy hands. sheepishness does not make him apologetic; now that yamaguchi has seen the shirt, tsukishima is certain that yamaguchi plans on stealing it back.

‘ finders, keepers, ‘ he drawls & knows that he’ll regret it when yamaguchi echoes the same thing back to him upon successfully stealing the shirt. tsukishima opts to barrel forward with a somewhat dangerous joke: ‘ you know, that’s why i disappeared back then. i was gold-digging our friendship for this shitty shirt. ‘

it’s not a shitty shirt. but truth be told ? tsukishima won’t complain when yamaguchi steals the shirt back. even when tsukishima had cut yamaguchi from his life, pieces of him were still integrated into his day-to-day. they’ve always played a bit of the game what’s mine is yours. & with this tshirt, tsukishima thinks the game is still on.