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revasserium · 1 year

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reqs are open :)

the butterfly effect

tsukishima; 1,285 words; fluffy as all living fuck

he has always noticed the little things - the deep, rumbling hunger of the earth, the repeating shuffle of the summer wind, the soft tectonic movements of falling leaves, the velocities of birdsong. and even though he’d never admit it out loud (alright, maybe once or twice to yamaguchi, but does that even count?), he thinks that these are the important things. things that normal people wouldn’t notice, things that normal people take for granted.

“well, it’s just a high school club.”

is it?

“ah, i’m the normal guy, nice to meet you.”

are you?

after the match, you find him hunched over the basin in the boy’s bathroom, panting, his bandaged fingers clutching at the time-stained ceramic, his shoulders shaking as he tries to relearn the meaning of breath, of air, of only and just.

“you’re a liar,” you say, leaning against the bathroom door, keeping it propped open with your shoulder.

“and you’re not suppose to be in here,” he deadpans, glancing at you in the watermarked mirror. he sighs, splashing his face with his good hand before twisting off the faucet. slowly, he unbends himself, straightening up to his full height, dragging the back of his injured hand over his lips as he turns towards you.

“c’mon, they’ll be wondering where we are, and i don’t need anymore rumors of us dating going around school.”

his voice is calm, his expression neutral as he brushes passed you, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes follow him like motion-based trackers; he can almost feel the crosshairs on his too-flushed cheeks, on his water-logged lashes. he turns back to raise an eyebrow. his heart is the flatline of an earthquake city, his stomach a tangle of twisted phone lines, all static and electricity and unsaid words.

“ah… so you have heard of them,” you muse even as you fall into step next to him.

he scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair.

“people at school aren’t known for their tact, especially not about things like this.”

you grin, linking your hands behind your back as you dance three steps in front of him, reveling in the way he narrows his eyes, in the way his steps stutter. he isn’t the only one who’s learned to listen to the language of silence, to the spaces between the words that give them meaning, that make them whole.

“and by people you really mean the second years, right?”

tsukishima sighs, tugging off his sports glasses to polish the lenses with the edge of his sweat-soaked shirt. you watch as he diligently wipes down one lens, and then the other, before stretching it back over his head, adjusting the straps.

“well, tanaka and noya, first and foremost.”

your laughter shakes through him like silver bells. he thinks he’d never get tired of the sound, and suddenly, it is winter and the sky is dark and the first snow of the season is falling around you and you’re laughing, spinning in circles beneath the snow-drift sky, your face turned up to the heavens, arms stretched out as if you’re three seconds from taking flight —

“tsukki! look! look! snow!”

he resists the urge to smile so he rolls his eyes instead; his breath comes out in a puff of white and somewhere out there, he knows that a hundred thousand other kids just like them are lifting their faces, marveling at the falling snow. he knows that somewhere along a stretch of land only 73 miles wide in mexico, a hundred million monarch butterflies are settling in to roost for the winter, and that each flap of those hundred million wings might shake a summer storm into existence, somewhere down the line.

“yeah. i see it.”

but right here, right now, in this rapidly emptying gymnasium hall, filled with the effervescent echoes of teenage dreams, he wonders if you are the hurricane. if you are the summer storm, and he is just the seismograph doomed to record your wreckage.

“so, what are you gonna do about it?” you ask, as the both of you resume your walk down the hall, towards where you both know the team is waiting, the third years still crying, hinata still hollering, kageyama too bloated with happiness to tell him to shut the hell up, yamaguchi probably preening beneath the praise of all his teammates.

“about the rumors, or about us not actually dating?”

you purse your lips, you shrug, but you blush as well. he doesn’t miss the way your shoulders lift up towards your ears, sweet and shy as sunflowers reaching for the last drop of sunlight.

“either. both,” you turn with a devious grin and flash him a wink, and not for the first time, tsukishima thinks he feels that deep, rumbling hunger; he knows the repeating shuffle of his thoughts about you, the soft tectonic movements of your body and his.

he knows the velocity of your voice, the resonance of your smiles, the way it shakes loose the sky within him till he almost tastes that sweet first snow, all that wake and wonder.

“hm… i dunno. you did call me a liar earlier.”

his grin is savage, satisfied. he almost laughs as your entire body inflates with indignation. he wonders how long he can tease you for before you float right off the ground — someday, he wants to try.

“well you are.”

“what, by saying i was normal?”

“yes, and that this was just a club.”

he blinks, he didn’t know you’d remembered. but then again, he should’ve known.

“well. it is, and… i am.”

you frown, taking three steps closer, caging him in even though he knows that he’s got at least a foot over you — a whole head and a half taller, and still —

“liar,” you say.

“hm… and what are you gonna do about it?”

he knows it’s coming three seconds before it does, but it doesn’t feel any less shocking. the warmth of your lips on his, the half-stolen breath still poised in his chest, the widening of his eyes before they flutter closed. there are no fireworks, no explosions, no earthquakes or natural disasters. there’s just this moment, just him and you and your lips on his and —

you take half a step back.

he allows himself a smile.

because he’d never wanted them to just be rumors and he knew that he’d never, ever be considered normal. not by you, or him, or anyone else.

“ahhh… now you’ve done it,” he says, with a soul-rumbling sigh, reaching out to jab his finger into your cheek. he marvels at the way your eyes still widen, as if you never saw that coming.

“done what?” you ask, even as he reaches out to tug on the ends of your ponytail, making you laugh.

“tch. you know what,” he scoffs, tucking his hands into his pockets as he slinks passed you, his eyes cast up, his cheeks tingling with a blush he can’t quite tamp down. and when you hurry to catch up with him, bumping your arm into his, he doesn’t make to move away. instead, he bumps you back and basks in the way your footsteps sound, ringing out against the empty gymnasium halls.

because, sure, this might just be a high school relationship — or it just might be falling in love.

and as he reaches down, hesitates, and finally, finally grabs your hand, somewhere out there, he feels a butterfly flap its wings.

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