Tsukishima/Kageyama semi-angst that doubles for saso AND a remix, so I'm really hitting a lot with this one. It's a remix of this poem, for context.
“Besides, we never decided who was going to drive the getaway car!”
Hinata is bouncing around with his usual surplus of energy as they walk to school, chatting a mile a minute at Yamaguchi as they revive a conversation from Saturday night. Tsukishima flinches at the thought of Saturday, flinches again at the word car. He tries to keep his face passive, himself aloof, but his eyes betray him and he finds himself looking over at Kageyama anyway.
Kageyama’s fingernails are immaculate again, the blood on his hands gone. Tsukishima knows from crime dramas that traces of blood stay on floors and walls for weeks, even if they’ve been cleaned with harsh chemicals, but he doesn’t know if that’s true for skin. Tsukishima doesn’t know enough about the human body.
“Tsukishima, you should have come to the movies with us!” Hinata says, trying to nudge him in his ribs, but only reaching his hip. “The criminals had a robot that wore glasses, and I told Yamaguchi it looked just like you.”
“It didn’t,” Yamaguchi assures him. It’s not assuring. Robots don’t have feelings; that might be nice sometimes. “Tsukki doesn’t like movies with car chases.”
“I don’t like dumb movies with car chases,” Tsukishima says, still looking at Kageyama. He finally glances back, and Tsukishima looks away. Kageyama’s eye is bruised, the fresh black and blue of Sunday morning already fading into a sickly green today. “That movie looked stupid. Anyway, I was busy.”
“It wasn’t!” Hinata protests. “See if we let you be the robot on our team of clever criminals.”
Tsukishima ruffles Hinata’s hair, only because he hates it. The corner of Kageyama’s mouth quirks up. “If I’m not there, who makes the team clever? Yamaguchi’s clever, but he’s not a team all on his own.”
“Yachi!” Hinata exclaims immediately. Tsukishima snorts because he loves it when Hinata admits he’s dumb.
“What were you doing?” Yamaguchi asks, and Tsukishima winces, not because Yamaguchi means any harm in asking, but because he knows better than to admit things like that when Yamaguchi’s around to dissect them.
Saturday night comes back to him in a flood of images: carefully driving his mother’s car until he’d found Kageyama, Kageyama’s filthy fingernails, the questions that died on his lips after Kageyama stopped answering them. His clammy fingers squeezed tight around Kageyama’s knee. The smell of soap and disinfectant in Tsukishima’s bathroom, Kageyama’s hands twisted up in Tsukishima’s shirt in the hall outside his room where anyone could see them. Kageyama’s mouth. Kageyama’s restless sleep in Tsukishima’s bed, the floor hard and cold under Tsukishima’s back on their spare futon.
“He was with me,” Kageyama grunts. He touches the bruise on his face, scratches it. “We were fixing my mom’s car.”
Yamaguchi makes a surprised noise. “Tsukki was?”
“Yes, I can be helpful sometimes,” Tsukishima says. “Is it really that unbelievable?”
orangegreenlove, you're up!