clumsy

He clipped your nails gently, his hands steady, fingers long and precise. He held each of yours securely, guiding you through the process like a practiced routine. It wasn’t rushed; Kageyama took his time, carefully aligning the clipper, checking the angle twice before making a cut. After each nail, he paused to brush the trimmed bits into a little ceramic bowl they kept nearby.

“Do you do this often?” You asked after a long pause. “For yourself, I mean?”

He nodded once. “Every few days. I have to. My fingers are everything. If I don’t keep my nails short and clean, they can catch on the ball or split. It’s stupid how much one little crack can mess with your whole game.”

You gave him a look, eyes wide with something like quiet awe. “You take this so seriously.”

“It’s part of taking care of myself,” he said, and his gaze lifted to yours. “And now it’s part of taking care of you too.”

Your breath caught for just a moment. How did you ever get so lucky to snag this man?

Kageyama picked up the small file next and began to smooth the edges with slow, even strokes. The motion was rhythmic and tender. You watched the way he focused so intently on the task—the slight pinch in his brow, the way his lower lip pressed into a thin line when he was trying to be especially careful.

“You always do this when you’re nervous,” you said softly, brushing your free hand against his hair.

“Do what?”

“Zone in. Like the world disappears except the thing you’re trying to control.”

Kageyama was quiet for a moment, then exhaled. “That’s… true.”

“Are you nervous right now?”

He hesitated. “Not nervous. Just… I want to get it right.”

“Because it’s me?”

He gave the tiniest nod, eyes still trained on your thumbnail. “You’re important. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his for a beat. “You won’t.”

The silence between you grew comfortable. The kind of quiet that speaks in glances and gentle touches. After he filed the last nail, he gently ran his thumb across each fingertip, checking for snags, tiny splinters, anything he might have missed. Then he reached for the cuticle oil and unscrewed the little bottle with a slow, almost reverent motion.

“I’m going to massage this in,” he said, almost shyly—yet still determined.

You nodded, watching him carefully as he dabbed a small dot of oil on each nail, then rubbed it in with soft, circular motions. His touch was warm, so warm, like the atmosphere during mornings in a bakery. The way he held your hand wasn’t just careful—it was reverent. As if your hands were something sacred. Something worth protecting.

“I like your hands,” he said suddenly.

You scrunched your nose, barely. “Really?”

“They’re soft. And warm. And… I know them.” His voice dropped lower, murmuring. “I know the way you hold my wrist when I’m anxious. The way you press your palm to my back when I come home late. How you run your fingers through my hair when I can’t sleep.”

You swallowed. Your chest ached in that lovely, terrible way when someone says exactly what you needed to hear without knowing it.

“I want to take care of them,” he added, brushing his thumb along the side of your pinky. “Because they take care of me.”

“Tobio…”

He looked up then, eyes a little wide like he was afraid he’d gone too far. But you leaned forward before he could pull back and kissed him softly. When you pulled away, your voice was barely a whisper. “You are the gentlest man I’ve ever known.”

He shook his head, a breath of laughter escaping. “I’m not.”

“You are. Maybe not with words. Or… you know, strangers. But with me? You’re gentle in all the ways that matter.”

You sat like that for a long moment—hands still entwined, foreheads nearly touching, the world outside fading into white noise. Then Kageyama cleared his throat. “I could… maybe paint them next time? If you want?”

Your eyes lit up. “You’d paint my nails?”

He gave an awkward little shrug. “If you like it. I’d have to practice.”

You hummed, pulling him forward into another kiss, lingering and full of affection. “You’re already perfect.”

Kageyama flushed from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears once again. He’s so easily flustered—it’s almost illegal to be this cute, you think.

It didn’t register for anyone until Kageyama himself caught several of them betting in the locker room about when you’d confess.

“Why would she confess when we’re already dating?” He tugged on his coat, scoffing under his breath as he exited. “Idiots.”

It was like he dropped a bomb in the room.

When they overcame their shell shock, the group of boys hunted you down. It shocked them that you were shocked by their questions.

“Yes, we’ve been dating for months now. I thought it was obvious?”

No. No, it was not.

Sugawara had to hold Nishinoya back from thrashing out at the first-year over finding a girlfriend before him.

As if he hadn’t been rooting you two on to begin with.

Once the initial surprise of it all wore off, that’s when they started to notice the little things.

Like how he held the door open for you, offering a genuine smile as you hummed in gratitude. Or how the little doodles on your homework somehow always incorporated some symbol of Kageyama in them.

Or when Yamaguchi walked in on you both making out in the broom closet. Not like anyone else knew about that one, though, since he shut the door immediately, promising himself never to speak about what he witnessed.

So you two just weren’t a big fan of PDA. Not everyone is.

But it wasn’t always like that.

As Hinata followed Tanaka around in the morning, waiting for him to unlock the club room, they spotted you with several of your friends heading into the main building.

“They’re here early, huh?” Hinata said. “We should say hi, then brag to Kageyama that I said good morning to his girlfriend first!”

“Wait a sec—“ But the orange-haired boy was already gone, leaving Tanaka in the dust.

The group of you and your classmates was already halfway down another hallway when Hinata caught up. Still masked by the turn in the hall, he called out.

“Hey—“

“What’s next? I bet he’ll make you wait until marriage for—“

Hinata’s voice died mid-sentence as several of the girls giggled. Almost taunting you.

“Keep your voice down!” you hissed. Hinata was ready to jump into the conversation to hear more, but Tanaka was quick enough to hold him back. He made it just in time to prevent the rambunctious boy from revealing himself. The silence that ensued led the older boy to contemplate whether they should run, seeing as how their cover was probably blown.

“Besides,” they heard you whisper. “It’s not like that with Kageyama.”

“But it was like that with the last guy. And the one before that relationship, too.”

“Yeah, you two could never keep your hands off one another,” another girl chirped in.

“But Kageyama’s different,” you said. “And different’s okay.”

“Let’s go back.” Tanaka’s hurried whisper, coinciding with the tug on the younger boy’s shirt, left Hinata stumbling back towards the entrance.

“So what, PDA is suddenly not your thing, too?”

Hinata wanted to clap back at the girl for digging into an obviously private subject of yours, but you answered for him.

“Not if it makes my boyfriend uncomfortable. End of story.”

And that was the last thing Hinata managed to catch of the conversation before you were too far away.

Throughout the school day, Hinata was like a ticking time bomb, and it was pissing Kageyama off immensely.

“What the hell is your problem?” Kageyama couldn’t stand it past the second bell. “Concentrate on school work, dumbass.”

“You better not talk to Y/n that way,” he grumbled back.

“What did you say?”

Hinata scooted back in his seat, recalling the look of dead seriousness on Tanaka’s face when he made him vow not to bring up the morning’s incident.

“I asked if she’s coming to study with us during lunch again.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“Is too!”

The teacher walking in promptly ended the squabble.

When you joined them for lunch, the nagging sense of Hinata’s persistent staring left you squirming. However, every time you looked over, the boy would be staring off into the distance and not directly at you.

Truth be told, Hinata couldn’t stop thinking about what he overheard between you and your friends. How there always seemed to be a space between Kageyama and you. When he had a question about a particular answer, he tapped the section on the paper with his pencil, gaining your attention.

A missed opportunity to grab your hand or tap your shoulder. Any form of contact, really.

But that's just how the two of you operated. Which left Hinata puzzled, considering your friends had seen the relationship as a drastic change in your behavior.

“How are you doing, Hinata?” Your smile seemed strained when you made eye contact. Surely you hadn’t found out he had eavesdropped. Surely you weren’t plotting his death to keep him silent.

Truth be told, his staring was the only upsetting thing to you at the moment, the before-school events long forgotten as distant chatter, but Hinata would never connect the dots.

“I—uh—I think these are all right!”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that not a single thing was correct in the multiple-choice.

Later on, with an hour left to go before home, Hinata was missing an extraordinary number of volleyballs during practice. You ended up not coming today, leaving him to rot in his thoughts of whether to spill the information he gathered to Kageyama or not.

He made it all the way to the walk home, where it ended up just being him and the intimidating setter, before something slipped.

“When’s the last time you held your girlfriend’s hand?”

Kageyama froze, remaining silent as Hinata bumped into his suddenly stilled frame.

“Why’d you stop walking—“

“What is going on with you today?!” No matter how far Hinata kept backing up, Kageyama was right on his toes. “You’ve been bothering Y/n a lot, too! Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Not risking a beating, Hinata reveals everything he heard.

The rest of the walk home went by in silence.

When you woke up in the morning and prepared for school, you expected everything to be normal. 

First surprise of the day?

Kageyama was waiting for you outside your classroom. 

He was breathing hard, as if he had run across the school the moment the bell rang to catch you. He presumably had.

“What do you need?” you questioned, perplexed over his sudden appearance. “I didn’t see a text or anything.”

Kageyama stayed silent, grabbing your hand without answering you. His grasp remained firm until you were led to your next class, his posture stiff as he released his hold.

“Have a good class,” he stated, turning and running off before you could question him.

He repeated his effort of showing up outside your classroom door several more times, rushing off before giving you an explanation for his abnormal behavior of leading you around.

Finally, having had enough and growing slightly worried at this point, you dug your heels into the floor, stopping him in his tracks.

Kageyama turned around, still keeping an iron grip on your hand. You’re surprised blood was still circulating into your fingertips with how tightly he held on.

“Tobio, what’s wrong?” You ushered him to the side of the hallway, allowing students to keep passing by. “You’ve been acting strange all day. Is there something causing you anxiety?”

“I’m walking you to class?” he said, though it came across more as a question.

“More like tugging me along,” you corrected, stepping in closer. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I just…” he sighed, his grip loosening. “I just figured I could walk you to class from now on. And we could…you know…” He kept mumbling off.

“What’d you say? I didn’t catch it.”

“I thought you’d want to hold hands!” Kageyama blurted out, causing some students to divert their stares your way. By now, he was beet red. As much as you tried not to, you laughed at the pure insanity of it all.

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, coughing as you tried to hold it back. “Why the sudden interest in handholding?”

“Because you like PDA and all that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, because my love language is physical touch. But yours isn’t, so why the change of heart?”

“It’s called a compromise.” Kageyama held up your intertwined hands, displaying the action proudly to any passerby who could possibly care. “It’s not fair if we both like each other and you can’t express yourself the way you’re best at. Communicating is key, right?”

You’re not sure why, but the slight disagreement you had with your friends yesterday popped into your head. Somehow, word must’ve gotten back to your boyfriend.

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly. But you don’t have to force yourself for my sake, Tobio.”

“But what if I want to?”

“And why would you do that?” you asked.

“Because seeing you happy makes me happy.” Kageyama put it so blatantly that you were now the one flushed in the face.

“How about we wait with all the PDA until you’re ready? And if that time never comes, that’s okay with me," you decided, waving off the sudden heartfelt exchange.

The bell rang, signifying to you both that class had started, and you’d be late.

Kageyama, despite your sentiment, tugged on your hand, this time more delicate than all the previously rushed affection.

After practice, you walk home together, the air cool and the sky painted in warm shades of orange and pink. Kageyama doesn’t think about it when he slows his pace to match yours; he just does. His bag hangs heavy from one shoulder, the sound of your footsteps falling into an effortless rhythm.

“Do you get cold easily?” he asks suddenly, staring straight ahead.

You laugh at him again, light and surprised. “That’s kind of random.”

“I’m just asking.” His tone is defensive, even though there’s no real reason to be.

“Yes,” you answered, still smiling. “Why?”

“…Nothing.” He shakes his head once. “Just—good to know.”

You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, clearly amused. Kageyama doesn’t say anything after that, because he could barely look at you—too focused on the thoughts that are running in his head.

The next day at lunch, he notices it without meaning to. The empty space on your table. The way you pause, looking around like you’ve forgotten something. Without thinking, he slides his unopened milk carton toward you.

“You didn’t bring a drink.”

You blinked at the carton, then looked at him, your expression soft albeit surprised. “Oh. Thanks.” You nodded. “You noticed.”

“…Yeah.” He looks away quickly, pretending to adjust his bangs, his heart thudding too loud in his ears.

You eat in comfortable silence for a while. Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. It becomes unbearable.

“What music do you listen to?” he asks.

“Soft stuff. Acoustic. You?”

“None.”

You snorted. That figures.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re cute,” you reply easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Kageyama immediately chokes on his rice, coughing as his face turns red. You pat his back between laughs, apologizing even though you’re clearly enjoying this. All Kageyama could think about was the pressure of your hand on his back as he almost had a near-death experience. Your hand was very light and gentle.

Later, when you’re assigned to clean the classroom together, the room feels quieter than usual. Sunlight spills through the windows, dust floating lazily in the air. Kageyama works quietly, but his attention keeps drifting to you as you wipe down the windows, humming softly under your breath. The sound sticks with him, like a lullaby.

“Do you hum when you’re happy?” he asks before he can stop himself.

You paused, turning to look at him. Your pout is thoughtful but fond. “Yeah. Do you ask questions when you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” he says instantly, too fast.

You shrug your shoulders, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

He doesn’t understand it. He just knows he wants to know everything—what makes you laugh, what you eat when you’re tired, whether you prefer sunsets or sunrises. The questions feel endless, and none of them feel unimportant.

You step a little closer to him when you finish. “You know, you can just say you want to spend time with me.”

Kageyama freezes, every muscle locking up as his face burns hotter than it ever has. He stares at the floor, fists clenched at his sides.

“…Is that ok?” he asks quietly, completely serious.

Your laughter is music to his hears—what is wrong with him? “Yeah, Tobio. It is.”

He nods once, like he’s made a decision in a match. “Okay.” He swallows. “Then—can we walk home together again tomorrow?” Tomorrow because he knows that volleyball practice today will end late, and he doesn’t want you waiting for him so late.

Your answer comes without hesitation. “Of course.”

KUROO TETSUROU — STUDIES IN ADVANCE TO IMPRESS YOU

When Kuroo Tetsurou has a crush, he becomes unbearable in the most subtle way possible.

He doesn’t brag outright—he’s not that obvious. Instead, he prepares. Thoroughly. With intent.

The night before chemistry class, he’s sprawled across his bed, textbook open, phone discarded somewhere near his pillow. He’s already finished tomorrow’s homework, but that isn’t enough. He rereads the chapter anyway, flipping pages with practiced ease, making mental notes of things that might come up. Not because he’s worried about the test. Because you sat one row ahead of him, and sometimes—sometimes—you turn around and ask questions.

He wants to be ready.

The next day, Kuroo leans back in his chair as the teacher drones on, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. To anyone else, he looks bored. Lazy, even. But he’s listening, catching every word, every concept he already knows by heart. Also because he’s studious like that.

Sure enough, you turn around, pen tapping lightly against your notebook. “Hey, Kuroo.”

He perks up instantly. “Yeah?”

“You get this part?” You point at an equation. “The coefficient change.”

“Oh,” he says casually, like he hasn’t memorized the entire section. “Yeah. It’s just adjusting for the reaction rate.”

You squint. “Just?”

He grins. “You’re overthinking it.”

You scoff. “I am not.”

“You totally are,” he says, leaning forward. “If you isolate the variable first, it’s way easier.”

You study the equation again, and then he sees your lips curl into a small, smug smile. Oh no. “That only works if you assume ideal conditions.”

Kuroo pauses.

“…Okay, yeah,” he admits, impressed despite himself. “But that’s what the teacher’s going for.”

“Still,” you say, chin lifting slightly, “it’s not wrong to consider alternatives.”

He laughs quietly. “Did you study ahead again?”

“Maybe,” you replied innocently, even batting your eyelashes at him. “Did you?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

If “maybe” was 96 hours of him studying non-stop and juggling that alongside volleyball, then yes, maybe he did study.

You hold eye contact for a second too long, and Kuroo suddenly feels the urge to blink because he thinks his face is growing hot. He feels something in his chest—that spark he always feels with you, the way conversations with you never feel dull or one-sided. You don't just listen. You push back, whatever that means.

After class, he falls into step beside you in the hallway, hands tucked into his pockets.

“You’re annoying,” you mused lightheartedly.

“Because I’m right?”

“Because you enjoy being right.”

He smirks. “I do. Sue me.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “Don’t let your head get too big.”

You stop by the lockers, and Kuroo leans against the metal casually, watching as you fumble with your lock. “So,” he says, tone intentionally offhand, “you like physics or chemistry more?”

“Physics,” you answered without hesitation. “It makes more sense.”

“Oof. Bold take.”

“You disagree?”

“Chemistry’s more fun,” he says. “More variables. More chaos. Plus, Lab’s fun when we get to do actual experiments.”

You laughed, nodding your head. “That tracks.”

He watches your expression, the way your eyes light up when you talk about school, about learning. He likes this side of you. Likes that you don’t dumb yourself down. Likes that you challenge him.

But he wants more.

The walk toward the school gates together was as mundane as can be, afternoon sun filtering through the trees.

“You always ask me about school stuff,” you pointed out suddenly, glancing at him. “Is that, like, your thing?”

Kuroo blinks. “What, being smart?”

“No,” you reply, amused. “Being… this.”

“This?” He gestures between you.

You shrug. “Debating. Studying ahead. Competing.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “I can ask about other stuff too, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Like what music you like. What makes you laugh. What you do when you’re not being ridiculously smart.

A million topics just went through his head.

Instead, Kuroo says, “Like… what you do after school.”

You nodded your head slowly. “I tutor my cousin. You?”

“Volleyball,” he replies easily. “Captain duties. Being awesome.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Naturally.”

He grins, emboldened. “You ever come watch?”

“…Maybe,” 

…

“If you promise not to show off.”

“No promises.”

You laugh and shake your head and start walking again. He follows, heart a little lighter.

“Hey, [Last Name]?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates, then asks, “What do you do for fun? Like—not academic fun.”

You think for a moment. “I like reading. Baking. Long walks.”

“Baking, huh?” He perks up. “What kind?”

“Cookies. Mostly.”

He nods seriously. “Important information.”

“Why is that important?”

He shrugs. “Just… wanna know more about you.”

Your steps slow. Just a little.

“Oh.”

You reach the corner where your paths split, and for a moment neither of you moves.

“Well,” you started, tucking your bag higher on your shoulder, “see you tomorrow, know-it-all.”

“Later, genius,” he replies.

As you walk away, Kuroo watches you go, smiling to himself. He still wants to impress you—always will—but maybe it doesn’t have to be just about textbooks and equations.

Maybe it can be about cookies. 

Oh, man. He was going to learn how to make the world’s best cookies.

AKAASHI KEIJI — THE CHALANCE IN NONCHALANCE

Akaashi Keiji is painfully aware of how conscious his breathing is.

In, out. Counted. The same way it always is—except today, it feels louder, like his body is betraying him with how aware it is of you. You sat one row ahead by the window, sunlight catching in your hair as you absentmindedly twirled your pen between your fingers. You aren’t paying attention to the lecture at all. Akaashi notices because he always notices things like that.

Patterns. Habits. 

The way people drift when their minds are elsewhere.

You look peaceful. Unbothered. And for some reason, that makes him want to disrupt it—just a little.

When the teacher pauses to write something on the board, Akaashi leans forward, voice low and careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal he doesn’t want to scare away.

“You’re going to miss the notes,” he says.

You flinch slightly, blinking as if you’ve been pulled out of a dream. You turn to him, eyes widening for half a second before softening. “Oh—sorry. What?”

“The last problem,” he explains, gesturing vaguely to the board. “It’s… important. Probably.”

You look back up front, then sigh. “I always zone out during explanations.”

“I wrote everything down,” he adds quickly, then hesitates, realizing how eager he sounds. He clears his throat. “You can copy mine later. If you want.”

Your lips curve into a polite smile, familiar and practiced. “Thanks, Akaashi. You’re always so calm and prepared.”

Always. That word lands heavier than it should.

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not,” he says before he can stop himself.

You blinked again, clearly confused. “Not… prepared?”

“Not always,” he clarifies, then feels compelled—why does he feel compelled?—to keep going. “I forget things. Often. Yesterday I left my uniform at home. And last week I forgot my lunch.”

You stare at him for a moment, then let out a small laugh. “That’s it? That’s your big secret?”

He nods solemnly. “Yes.”

“That’s very normal,” you say, amused.

“I am,” he agrees. “Normal.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

Akaashi leans back, heart thudding a bit harder than usual. That didn’t go the way he planned—but you laughed. That counts for something.

When class finally ends, the room fills with noise—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, the familiar chaos that Akaashi usually slips away from unnoticed. Today, though, he times his movements carefully. When you stood up, he stood too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Are you heading to the library?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral even as his pulse spikes.

You look genuinely surprised, eyes flicking to him as if you hadn’t expected him to speak again. “Yeah. I have to finish my literature report.”

“I have a case study,” he says, then adds, “I could also… be there.”

There’s a brief pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he sounded weird and if this is the part where you tell him off. Then you smile. “Let’s get going, then.”

You walk side by side down the hallway, not quite close enough for your arms to brush, but close enough that Akaashi is keenly aware of your presence. He feels strangely stiff, unsure what to do with his hands, so he just clasps them on his front like he normally would.

“What’s your report about?” he asks, partly to fill the silence, partly because he genuinely wants to know.

“Romantic poetry,” you replied with a grimace. “Which is ironic, because I don’t really get romance.”

He glances at you. “You don’t?”

“It feels exaggerated. Like people overthink every little thing.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, choosing his words with care, “people don’t know how to express themselves properly. So it comes out… awkward. Or intense.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Is that your personal opinion, or are you analyzing human behavior again?”

“…Both,” he admits.

You laughed, this time louder and unguarded. The sound hits him square in the chest, warm and dizzying. Akaashi feels something loosen inside him. He did that. He made that happen.

In the library, the air is quieter, softer. They sit across from each other at a long table, sunlight filtering in through tall windows. You spread your notes out, chewing on the end of your pen, brows furrowed in concentration. Akaashi opens his notebook too—but instead of studying, he finds himself watching the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking.

“You’re not studying,” you pointed out without looking up.

“I am,” he replies automatically.

“You haven’t turned a page.”

“…I was thinking,” he admitted.

“About volleyball?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

The question hangs between you. His chest tightens, nerves buzzing under his skin. He could deflect. He usually does. But today, he doesn’t want to.

“…How to make you laugh again,” he says quietly.

Your pen stills. You look at him, really look at him, eyes wide and searching.

“That’s…” you paused. “That’s actually really cute.”

Heat rushes to his ears. “I’m not very good at it,” he admits. “I think I made it weird for the both of us.”

“I think you’re doing fine,” you tell him. “You’re just not what I expected.”

He meets your gaze. “Is that bad?”

You shook your head immediately. “No. I like it. You’re not just the calm, intimidating setter everyone talks about.”

“Intimidating?” he echoes faintly.

“A little,” you shrugged. “But now you’re just… Akaashi.”

The way you say his name—casual, familiar—makes his chest feel strangely full.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small juice box, setting it on the table like an offering. “I forgot my lunch,” he says flatly. “But I remembered this.”

You stare at it, then burst into laughter, covering your mouth. “Is that your proof of being normal?”

“Yes,” he says, utterly serious.

Your laughter fills the quiet space between the shelves, bright and genuine, and Akaashi watches you with something soft and steady in his chest. He thinks—this is enough. For now.

Being a little weird doesn’t feel so bad if it makes you smile like that, especially when he's being true to himself.