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“I’ve got lots of friends in San Jose...” the voice of the nearby radio trills. Tsukishima would turn the damned thing off, if it weren’t for Sugawara liking it so much.
He flips through the magazine he’s picked off from the shelf. It’s full of banal Hollywood couples, veneered teeth and fake disputes, and he’s disgusted by the hedonism of it all.
Still, he reads it. There’s not much else to do when the shop’s empty.
“When she says ‘friends’,” somebody asks, and it causes Tsukishima’s head to snap up irritably, “does she mean the people who made it in Hollywood, or the ones who failed?”
The person asking has a cowlick. His brown hair is cut and orderly, stopping just above his chin, but the cowlick ruins all of the neatness. “Hello?” he asks again, waving his hand in front of Tsukishima’s face. He holds a few candy bars in his hand. “I was just wondering -”
Tsukishima sets the magazine down neatly. “I heard.” He juts his head towards the candy bars, prompting the cowlick guy to put it on the counter. “You planning on getting those? Anything else?”
Cowlick guy looks taken aback. “Uh,” he states, in plain confusion. He puts the candy bars on the counter. “No.”
Sighing, Tsukishima rings up the total. “Twenty cents.” He watches Cowlick guy rummage through his pockets for coins in mild interest. He looks young. Far too full of hope, which bodes badly for him.
“When she says ‘friends’,” Tsukishima finally responds, watching Cowlick haphazardly stack coins on the counter, “she means the ones who didn’t make it.”
Cowlick guy pushes the stack towards Tsukishima, satisfied with the amount of money he’s taken out. “Why?” he inquires, and he sounds incredibly naive. “I always thought it was the other way around.”
Tsukishima clicks his tongue. “Because they’re stuck there.”
Cowlick guy doesn’t respond this time. Instead, his eyes watch the way Tsukishima puts the spare change into the cash register.
Pushing the candy bars towards Cowlick guy, Tsukishima picks up his magazine again. “Thanks for your patronage,” he rattles off, unable to contain the dryness in his voice. His words suck out the energy from the shop. Sugawara was so insistent on his customer service, but this is the best he’s going to get out of him.
“No problem,” Cowlick guy responds hesitantly, shooting Tsukishima an indecipherable look. He stuffs the candy bars into his pocket.
The doors shut quietly behind him as he leaves.
For some reason, Dionne Warwick always plays in the convenience store Tsukishima works at. She’s a favourite, apparently, and Sugawara refuses to turn off the radio whenever her songs come on.
Tsukishima hates her music. It’s gimmicky and tacky, just like the city he lives in.
“With a dream in your heart you're never alone / Dreams turn into dust and blow away...”
He huffs. Gimmicky and tacky. He could think of a thousand ways that verse could be written better.
“Um,” Cowlick guy says, interrupting the silence. He has an armful of food this time, and all of it is unequivocally unhealthy. “I was wondering…” he trails off, dumping his stuff delicately onto the metal counter. A tin of chips clangs against it.
“What?” Tsukishima asks, drumming his fingers against the metal. The resistance his fingernails meet is grounding.
Cowlick guy watches Tsukishima’s hands. They’re getting blurry with each second he stalls, increasing their tempo. “About the song.”
Tsukishima sighs. “Yeah?”
“When she says that you’re never alone with a dream,” Cowlick guy starts, and Tsukishima wants to correct him, because it’s ‘a dream in your heart’, “...and then she says how dreams turn into dust.” He hands Tsukishima money, matching eyes with him. His own are a deep brown. “Why?”
Tsukishima rings up his total. The cash register sings and shimmies as he puts cash away, just like Dionne Warwick. “Because all dreams are dust.”
Cowlick guy puts each item into his arms. “But I thought it meant something else.” He balances the tin of chips on top of an assortment of candy bars. “Like, dreams turn into dust, but they stay in your heart.”
“You headed on a road trip?” Tsukishima asks. Cowlick guy is doing a good job of balancing everything. It’s almost like he has experience.
“Dreams aren’t dust,” Cowlick guy says, squinching his eyes to read Tsukishima’s nametag, “Tsukishima.”
“Everything turns into dust,” Tsukishima snipes, his voice increasing in its bitterness, “guy with a cowlick.”
Cowlick guy’s cheeks redden slightly. “Is it that bad?” he asks, tugging at the stubborn piece of hair. “I can’t seem to control it.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes. He’s given up tapping his fingers, and now he just presses them against the counter. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Cowlick guys puts the last item into his arms. “Oh,” he says, and his voice sounds muffled over all the stuff he carries. “Okay. Thanks.” His previous self consciousness has disappeared, replaced by relief.
That’s not what I meant, Tsukishima thinks belatedly, as he watches Cowlick guy’s form walk to the exit.
Cowlick guy hums along with Dionne Warwick. He gets every pitch of the notes correctly, and Tsukishima is loath to admit how nice he sounds.
He probably sings, Tsukishima figures. From the way he speaks, all soft and smooth and sonorous, he must.
“I've been away so long, I may go wrong and lose my way,” Dionne Warwick trills. Cowlick guy hits every note she sings, leaning on the counter as Tsukishima rings up his total. His head sways slightly to the rhythm of the song.
“Tsukishima,” Cowlick guy suddenly says, “what do you think about this line?”
Tsukishima sighs through his nose. “It’s ironic.”
Cowlick guy frowns. “Why?”
“Because she’s already lost her way.” When Cowlick guy looks at him questioningly, he adds on, “In San Jose.”
Cowlick guy hums in thought. “But she lost her way before.”
Tsukishima punches the numbers in with more force. “That’s the irony,” he drawls, as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.
There’s silence as Cowlick guy rests his head in his hands. His elbows are on the stainless steel counter, nudging into the food he buys. “I don’t think it’s ironic,” he finally decides to say. He doesn’t look offended at Tsukishima’s sarcasm. Rather, he looks more deep in thought than before.
“Why?” Tsukishima asks, stopping himself from pushing more buttons. “The whole song is ironic,” he states, with absolute certainty. That’s why he hates it so much. If people weren’t so ironic, he figures, things would get done much more quickly.
“She’s lost her way before,” Cowlick guy answers easily, “and she’s come to San Jose to find it.”
Tsukishima scoffs. “Do you know anything about songwriting?”
Cowlick guy grins. His teeth gleam a perfect white in the fluorescent lighting of the shop. “I know a thing or two.”
That causes Tsukishima to busy himself once more. “Are you a singer or a songwriter?” he asks, making himself look engrossed in his work.
“Both.”
Oh, Tsukishima realizes, ripping his eyes from the cash register to give Cowlick guy a once over. He has a fresh face and delicate, graceful shoulders. He stands with some sense of trepidation in his posture, unlike so many singers Tsukishima’s come across, but he looks more solid than all of them combined.
“Interesting,” he replies instead. He watches the way Cowlick guy’s throat bobs when he swallows - a freckled, smooth column that undoubtedly houses perfect vocal chords.
He’s jealous, in a way. Jealous that the calluses on his fingers aren’t as pretty as Cowlick guy’s vocal chords. Jealous that they aren’t worth nearly as much.
“Tsukishima?” Cowlick guy asks. He looks at Tsukishima with slight concern. “Uh,” he begins, far too nervous to be a singer, “I think you’re done ringing me up.”
Tsukishima stares at the total in front of him. The number is accurate. He knows because he calculated everything beforehand. “Right.” He holds his hand out for change.
Cowlick guy has the money ready, and he drops it all into Tsukishima’s ready hand. Tsukishima realizes that he missed his entire act of rummaging through his pockets.
A perfect amount. Tsukishima doesn’t bother checking it as he opens the cash register, sorting all the money. “Need a bag?” he asks, listening to the way the coins clink with each other.
“No thanks.” Cowlick guy, despite having bought so much stuff, still insists on carrying it all.
Tsukishima stares at him over his mountain of food. “Alright,” he replies, unimpressed.
Cowlick guy doesn’t say goodbye before he leaves.
“L.A is a great big freeway...” Cowlick guy sings along. He’s gone from humming and swaying to singing, and Tsukishima isn’t complaining. He stops in the middle of the verse, turning towards him.
“What?” Tsukishima asks, staring at him from over the cash register. He’s not ringing anything up, because Cowlick guy hasn’t brought anything to him yet. “I forgot the lyrics. Don’t look at me.”
Cowlick guy scratches the back of his neck. His posture droops into something hesitant instantly, as if the bravado from singing has been sucked out of him. “I,” he starts. His talking voice is just as pretty, but far more choppy. “You don’t know my name.”
Tsukishima crosses his arms, leaning against the cigarette shelves behind him. They jab into his bony shoulders. “I mean,” he says, blinking. “You never told me.”
“Oh.”
Sighing, Tsukishima uncrosses his arms. He’s being difficult, even for someone as tenacious as Cowlick guy. “Tell me your name, Cowlick.”
Cowlick guy raises his eyes slowly from the floor. “Cowlick?” he asks, incredulous. “That’s what you’ve been calling me?” His face turns into something accusatory. “I thought you said it didn’t matter to you.”
“I don’t know your name.” Tsukishima crosses his arms again. He feels bad for Cowlick guy - what if he decides to get rid of his cowlick now? It’s not that bad, to be quite honest. “So if you want me to stop calling you Cowlick, you’ll introduce yourself.”
Cowlick guy’s posture straightens. His face morphs into something serious, and the way he tries to set his expression is adorable. “Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
Tsukishima nods.
“That’s -” Yamaguchi stutters, his face crumpling into self consciousness, as if he’s regretting what he’s just done, “that’s my name.”
A smirk breaks onto Tsukishima’s face. “I figured as much,” he replies, “Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
Yamaguchi realizes he’s being toyed with. He frowns playfully, taking a nearby candy bar without looking at it, and slaps it on the counter. “You still didn’t tell me yours, Tsukishima.”
Suddenly, a strange feeling bursts through Tsukishima: amusement. “Tsukishima Kei,” he answers, tilting his head. Yamaguchi deserves his response. He’s worked quite hard for it.
“Tsukishima Kei,” Yamaguchi repeats. His singer’s voice goes over Tsukishima’s name, smoothing all the cracks and crevices. “I didn’t expect that.”
Tsukishima picks up the candy bar, which is something Yamaguchi hasn’t bought yet. He punches the value into the cash register anyways. “Why not?” he asks, making sure to keep his voice neutral.
Yamaguchi snickers. “I thought it would be meaner.”
Tsukishima pauses in the middle of pressing the last number. “Why would it be mean?” he prods. “How can a name be mean?”
“Because - I don’t know,” Yamaguchi reasons, gesturing with his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“It was just a thought!” Yamaguchi defends. “You called me Cowlick. We’re even.”
Tsukishima’s lips curve upwards, ever so slightly. “Sure,” he says, drawing out the word. “If you say so, Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
“He’s the one?” Sugawara says, nodding towards Yamaguchi, who makes his way into the shop.
Tsukishima looks up from the cigarette packets he’s organizing. “What do you mean, Sugawara?” he asks, voice carefully flat.
Sugawara, damn him, sees right through Tsukishima. “The singer.”
A packet gets shoved too far back. Tsukishima stuffs his head into the shelf, trying to retrieve it. “How’d you know that?” he inquires. He pushes up the shelf with his other hand.
“Just because I’m in the back,” Sugawara teases, grabbing the stray cigarette packet between his index and thumb, “doesn’t mean I can’t hear anything.”
Tsukishima watches the way the cigarette packet sways. He snatches it out of Sugawara’s hand, placing it in its respective spot. “I’d appreciate it if you let me do my job, Sugawara,” he drawls.
Sugawara smiles. There’s an edge to his grin that shines in the fluorescent lighting. “I’m just a senior helping his junior out.” He leans back against the shelves.
Tsukishima rolls his eyes as imperceptibly as he can. “Some help,” he mutters, pushing a stack of packets forwards.
“What?” Sugawara asks, raising his eyebrows. A flurry of footsteps makes him stand up straight. “Oh.”
Looking up, Tsukishima gives Sugawara a questioning look.
Sugawara juts his head in front of him. “Singer’s coming this way.”
Tsukishima hums. “So?”
“I have to do stuff in the back.”
Tsukishima’s face contorts into a frown as Sugawara disappears. He sighs, shaking his head, and continues to fix the shelves.
Yamaguchi strolls over to the counter. “Why the long face?” he asks, leaning over to look at Tsukishima.
The packets are already organized, but Tsukishima fixes them anyway. “My face isn’t long.” He lines everything up neatly. It’s going to become messy by the end of the day. “You wanna buy something?”
“Hm,” Yamaguchi ponders. He rests his elbows on the counter. “Not yet.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Then why are you here, Yamaguchi?”
“Because I’m going to buy something.”
Tsukishima turns to face Yamaguchi. “Astounding revelation,” he deadpans. The shop’s AC isn’t working at the moment, and his shirt is starting to stick to the back of his neck.
From the corner of the store, the radio starts up.
Not Dionne Warwick, he mentally pleads. Yamaguchi perks up at the static of the channels changing.
“You know what’s weird?” Yamaguchi asks, switching from hand to hand as he holds his head. “Whenever I come here, I always hear -”
“Do you know the way to San Jose?” the radio crows.
Tsukishima groans. “Not again.” He pats his hands of tobacco dust and stands up. “I’m going to turn the damn thing off.”
Yamaguchi looks scandalized. “Seriously?” he demands. He looks borderline offended. “This is the only good song that plays.”
“You’re kidding me,” Tsukishima deadpans. “This is the worst song they play.”
As Tsukishima makes headway to the radio, Yamaguchi leans in front of him. “But we live in San Jose,” he defends. “It’s a good song.”
“The fact that we live in San Jose,” Tsukishima shoots back, “is the reason I hate this song so much.”
In the background, Dionne Warwick sings about L.A’s freeways.
“Huh,” Yamaguchi says. He takes the nearest candy bar and puts it on the counter. “Interesting.”
Tsukishima looks at the candy bar. He huffs, taking it in his hand to look at the price. “You’re petty, Yamaguchi.”
Yamaguchi gives him a little smile. “Sorry, Tsukishima,” he apologizes, and his eyes take on an impishness. His foot taps to the rhythm of the song. He looks around the shop, eyes roving over the sales and the neatly arranged products.
Two can play at this game. Tsukishima reads the information of the candy bar, flipping over the wrapper. “Yamaguchi,” he says, “do you like nougat?”
“What?” Yamaguchi asks, his face slipping into slight confusion. “Nougat? No. It’s too sweet.”
Tsukishima waves the candy bar in his hand. “Then why are you buying a Charleston Chew?” he asks, and his face betrays him by breaking into a lopsided smirk.
Yamaguchi looks like a deer in headlights. “Um.” He scuffs the floor with his shoe. “Y’know what exposure therapy is?”
“Exposure therapy?” Tsukishima prods. He knows exactly what Yamaguchi means, but of course he won’t let that be known. “No idea. Tell me.”
“Like,” Yamaguchi hesitates, eyes looking upwards as he tries to find the words. “You take something you don’t like, and you…”
Tsukishima snickers. “Expose yourself to it?” he finishes. He sets the candy bar down, resting his head in his hand. “That sounds exhibitionistic.”
Yamaguchi’s cheeks redden instantly. “Quit interrupting.” He pauses for a moment. “If you don’t like it, you keep on going near it. So you…” he looks incredibly embarrassed, but he soldiers on, saying, “eventually like it?”
“Wonderful explanation.” Tsukishima pushes the candy bar towards Yamaguchi. “Don’t let me get in the way of that.”
Yamaguchi snatches the candy bar, and shoves a random amount of money towards Tsukishima. “Whatever. You know what I mean.”
Tsukishima raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Yamaguchi retorts, opening the candy bar’s wrapper. His face takes on determination as he analyzes the chocolate covered nougat. “I come here all the time. Wanna know why?”
Dionne Warwick belts out her last verses. “Because you don’t like me?” Tsukishima asks. He can’t help but begin to grin. “That’s mean of you to say, Yamaguchi.”
Yamaguchi flakes away the chocolate coating with his fingernail. He looks unimpressed by the candy bar, but he holds it in his hand nonetheless. “Because I’m trying out this whole exposure therapy thing,” he corrects.
“I know. But that’s not the whole reason, is it?” Tsukishima teases, knowingly pushing Yamaguchi’s buttons.
Ignoring him, Yamaguchi takes a bite of the candy bar. He chews uncomfortably around the nougat, and when he swallows the bite, his throat stutters around the bite.
Tsukishima smirks. “The whole point of exposure therapy is to like something,” he begins to say, and Yamaguchi looks at him, his eyes widening. “So you’re meaning to tell me…”
“That’s not -”
“That you want to like me?”
Yamaguchi’s face gets strawberry red, his cheeks turning into a darker shade of rouge. “That’s not what I meant.” He folds the wrapper of the candy bar shut. He hasn’t even eaten a third of it.
“According to your previous explanation,” Tsukishima pushes, “that’s exactly what you meant.”
“Walk on by”’ plays in the background. It’s Dionne Warwick again, which is probably Sugawara’s doing.
“Because…” Yamaguchi reasons, and from the way his face flickers through several emotions at once, he’s been caught. “You’re a piece of work, Tsukishima,” he decides to huff, stuffing the candy bar into his pocket.
Tsukishima shrugs his shoulders. He gives Yamaguchi a little wave, going back to organizing the already organized cigarette packets. “So I’ve been told. Have a good one, Yamaguchi.”
Yamaguchi mumbles something, and makes his way to the exit.
“If you see me walking down the street, and I start to cry each time we meet…” the radio sings.
Tsukishima leaves his counter to turn it off.
“Do you ever get bored?” Yamaguchi asks. He slumps over the metal counter, voice muffled because of the way he’s cradling his face in his arms. It’s midnight. His eyes are droopy and dark amidst the harsh lighting.
Tsukishima can’t help but snort. “Of course. You think I want to be here?”
“Forgive me,” Yamaguchi drawls, running his nail through a dent in the metal. “I thought you loved working at a convenience store.”
“I say a little prayer for you..” Dionne Warwick sings. Her voice takes on the airy quality Tsukishima has grown to be annoyed at.
Yamaguchi taps his finger in the dent to the drums. “While combing my hair, now,” he sings along. His voice is half singing, half talking, but it still sounds just as nice.
“Say the next line, Tsukishima,” he suddenly says.
Tsukishima stacks the stamps behind the counter, aligning them neatly. “You just talked over it.”
Yamaguchi sighs in annoyance. “No, Tsukishima,” he complains. “Wait.” He holds his finger in the air, counting the beats until the next verse starts.
“I say a -” the radio trills, partially static.
“Little prayer for you,” Tsukishima finishes, under his breath. His voice is slightly out of tune, slightly off kilter, and it makes embarrassment flash through him.
The calluses on his hands itch. This isn’t his medium to conquer - how dare he attempt to do so?
Yamaguchi cracks a grin. The tension in the room dissipates. “That was good.” He leans his head to the right, making eye contact with Tsukishima. “Your voice is cute.”
Tsukishima feels his cheeks heat up. “What do you mean? How can a voice be cute?” he asks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
From the way Yamaguchi’s grin widens, he failed in doing so.
“Dunno,” Yamaguchi answers, shrugging his shoulders. Since he’s hunched over the counter, it barely shows. “I always thought that.”
Tsukishima hefts the stamps in his hands. “Doesn’t answer my question, Yamaguchi.” He feels a rush of something (adoration?) flare through him. He tries to hide it with the attention he gives to the stamps.
Yamaguchi sighs. “Your voice is so soft.”
Oh, Tsukishima thinks, hands stuttering on the stamps.
“And it’s so smooth. It’s calming, you know,” Yamaguchi continues, looking elsewhere. “The kind of voice a singer would have.”
Tsukishima opens his mouth before the rest of his body catches up. “I’m not a singer.”
Smirks aren’t common with Yamaguchi, who settles for small grins and gentle laughter. They should be, though. His eyes take on a mischievous glow as he says, “Could have fooled me.”
Clearing his throat, Tsukishima sets the stamps in their designated spot. “There’s no loitering, you know.” He points to the sign outside the door. “Punishable by jail time, from what I’ve heard.”
Yamaguchi pouts, and his expression should be illegal. “Come on, Tsukki,” he ribs, “you wouldn’t send me to jail. We’ve known each other for so long.”
“Since when does ‘so long’ mean a few weeks, huh?” Tsukishima parries. He raises his eyebrows tauntingly, but his mind skips over Yamaguchi’s response like a double sided coin. “Wait.”
“What?” Yamaguchi’s still poking at the dents in the metal counter.
Tsukishima narrows his eyes at Yamaguchi. “You called me something.”
Yamaguchi lifts his head slightly. “Yeah, your name. Don’t tell me you -”
“No, no,” Tsukishima corrects. “You called me Tsukki.”
Yamaguchi blushes instantly. The freckles on his cheeks melt into its red hue, just like chocolate shavings on a bed of strawberry compote. “I - I did? Sorry. It happens sometimes, you know, and sometimes it -”
“Now and then I call your name, and suddenly your face appears -” Dionne Warwick croons.
Tsukishima shakes his head. “It’s not bad,” he replies distractedly, trying to get Dionne Warwick’s lyrics out of his head. “I don’t mind it.”
Yamaguchi stands there, his mouth hanging open.
“You can call me ‘Tsukki’,” Tsukishima reiterates.
“Okay.” Yamaguchi shuts his mouth, fixing his eyes to the ground.
The act is uncharacteristic of him. Singers are ramrod straight, their backs stretching towards the sky. How else would they support their treasured vocal chords?
“You gonna buy anything?” Tsukishima asks again. “Shop’s closing in a few minutes.”
Yamaguchi shoves his hand into the candy section under the counter. “Here,” he says, slapping a candy bar onto the counter. “I’ll have this one.”
Tsukishima picks it up in his hand, hefting it. It’s another Charleston Chew. “Still trying out the exposure therapy?”
“What exposure therapy?” Yamaguchi asks. He looks incredibly sleepy, as if the last few dialogues sucked the life out of him. His eyes go to the Charleston Chew, widening slightly. “Oh. Yeah.” He stuffs his hand into his pocket, retrieving a handful of change. He uses his other hand to push it towards Tsukishima’s general direction.
Tsukishima brings it towards him. Coincidentally, it’s the exact amount he needs. “Thanks,” he drawls, placing the Charleston Chew directly in front of Yamaguchi’s face.
Yamaguchi wrinkles his nose. “Take it.”
The cash register clicks as Tsukishima locks it. “What?” he asks. He twists the key to take it out.
“Take it.” Yamaguchi’s eyes droop with exertion.
“You bought it, though,” Tsukishima says. His sweet tooth perks up at the glorious chocolate covered nougat, but he suppresses his urges.
Yamaguchi huffs. “I don’t even like Charleston Chews. I threw out the last one.”
“Jeez,” Tsukishima says in mock surprise. “What happened to exposure therapy?”
Yamaguchi pushes the candy bar back to Tsukishima. “Doc said I should take a break.”
Tsukishima takes the bar in his hand and immediately opens it. “Alright,” he replies, mouth starting to salivate, “if it’s the doc’s orders.”
A smile cracks Yamaguchi’s face into two. He hums the melody of the song in the background, watching Tsukishima annihilate the Charleston Chew.
“I’m not meant to live alone, turn this house into a home…”
“Not the worst of her songs,” Tsukishima mentions offhandedly.
“Mhm.” The light settles into the corners of Yamaguchi’s face. “One of my favourites.”
Tsukishima folds the wrapper into a square. He finished the candy bar in a matter of a few minutes, since he barely ate lunch today.
Yamaguchi perks up. “Wait, wait,” he talks over the instrumentals. “This is my favourite verse.” He makes a fake mic with his fist, holding it in front of him.
“When I climb the stairs and turn the key,” he belts out, and Tsukishima can’t help but be amused at how quickly his energy changes, “oh, please be there.”
“Sayin’ that you’re -”
Yamaguchi shoves his fist under Tsukishima’s face.
Tsukishima would be annoyed, but he’s currently caught up on matching the radio’s verse. “Still in love with me?” he asks, words stilted and awkward, voice blocky and full of gracelessness.
“See?” Yamaguchi crows. “Singer’s voice. Told you.”
Blinking, Tsukishima plays with the wrapper in his fingers. Yamaguchi finishes the rest of the verse, going so far as to sing the saxophone’s melody.
It’s well past closing time. Tsukishima knows that, but he hasn’t looked at the clock since before Yamaguchi came.
Yamaguchi taps the counter to Dionne Warwick’s “Walk on by”. He hangs around idly, striking Tsukishima as strangely taciturn.
“D’you smoke, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks. He watches the way Tsukishima orders each of the cigarette brands - the Camels, Parliaments, Newports, Kents. There’s so many of them, and they look like cards from a deck.
“Not really.” The last cigarette Tsukishima had smoked was outside a record label’s building. It was technically his first, but for some reason, it didn’t sting or burn. “You?”
He looks over at Yamaguchi. Cigarette smoke would clog the bellows that power his voice.
“Nah,” Yamaguchi replies, and Tsukishima feels oddly relieved. “But Newports seem nice.”
Tsukishima moves onto the row with Newports. They’re a candy blue, and they look more like tins of high end makeup. “I guess,” he acquiesces.
Yamaguchi pokes at the candy bar he’s placed on the counter. “The people in the ads look like they’re having fun.”
“That’s why you want to try out Newports?” Tsukishima asks.
“Who said I wanted to try out Newports?”
“You implied it.”
Yamaguchi runs his finger along the frilled edge of the candy’s wrapper. “I mean,” he defends. “They have mint in them.”
“If Newports made my life fun,” Tsukishima says dryly, aligning the Newport’s stack with the Kent’s, “I wouldn’t be here.”
The edge of Yamaguchi’s mouth lifts. “You’d be chain smoking somewhere.”
Tsukishima envisions it: him chain smoking outside the convenience store, fingers dusty from the tobacco packets he sorts through on a daily basis.
“Probably.”
Yamaguchi sighs. “You know,” he starts, and his voice takes on a quality Tsukishima immediately hates, “the more I think about it, the more San Jose seems ironic.”
Tsukishima’s hand stops in the middle of sorting the Newports. “Ironic?”
“I put a hundred down to buy a car.” Yamaguchi closes his eyes. His voice gets deeper and sleepier, which is reflective of how late he comes to the shop these days.
“So have I,” Tsukishima says slowly. He sold his car two weeks after coming here.
“And I’ve waited for more than two weeks.”
Tsukishima looks at the tobacco blackened ground. He gave up waiting after two weeks.
“And I keep on coming here.” Yamaguchi’s voice is laid out bare, reverberating against the shop’s walls. He clings onto his jacket sleeves, arms crossed, head lying between them on the counter.
Tsukishima scuffs the tobacco dust with his shoe. It smears into a dark stain, and stays stubbornly put the more he prods at it. “Then go back.”
“Foolish pride / Is all that I have left / So let me hide,” Dionne Warwick helpfully interjects.
“Where?” Yamaguchi asks. The shop’s lights make him look like a hospital patient.
“Where you came from,” Tsukishima answers simply.
Yamaguchi lifts his head. “Where are you from, Tsukki?” he asks. The nickname, despite how soulless his voice sounds, still rings sweetly.
Tsukishima swallows as subtly as he can. “Toledo.” He gives up cleaning the tobacco smear. “You?”
Yamaguchi yawns, hiding his face in his arms. “Some place in Vermont.”
Tsukishima can’t take it anymore. He grabs a pack of Newports from the shelf, and pushes it in front of Yamaguchi. It makes a skidding sound that clashes with the backing vocals in “Walk on by”.
“Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima asks, more like states, “wanna try out a Newport?”
Yamaguchi’s eyebrows screw up in confusion. “What?” he asks, unfurling his arms to hold the packet of cigarettes in his hand. Tsukishima feels like he’s doing something illicit.
“You asked earlier.” Tsukishima crosses his arms and looks away. “I haven’t tried them either, so they’re on me.”
“But -” Yamaguchi stutters. His fingers are already tracing the seams of the plastic. His face sets into something resolute. “Sure.” He thumbs towards the exit. “Outside?”
Tsukishima can already imagine Sugawara’s wrath if he smoked indoors. “Yeah,” he answers, stepping outside the counter. He grabs a lighter from the countertop.
Yamaguchi straightens his posture, stuffing the packet into his jacket pocket. “You…” he begins, cocking his head. “You’re tall.”
“Walk on by” has ended, thank god. Olivia Newton-John begins “Xanadu” in the background. “It took you that long to figure it out?” Tsukishima teases. He unties his work apron and sets it on the counter. “It’s not like I stand on a platform behind the counter.”
“Shut up.” Yamaguchi stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking more lively after Tsukishima teases him. “I’ve never stood beside you.” He looks at Tsukishima, who stands by him. He’s around ten centimeters shorter than him, and he seems to shrink into himself even more.
Tsukishima nudges his collar to let in cool air. “Well,” he replies simply, looking at the way Yamaguchi stares at the ground, “now you know.”
Yamaguchi opens the door with his shoulder as they exit. “You have a lighter?” he asks, looking behind him.
“Course.” Tsukishima brings it out, giving it a few experimental flicks.
Nodding, Yamaguchi takes the packet out of his pocket. He uses his fingernail to split open the plastic sleeve, stuffing the trash into his jeans’ pocket. The paper packaging slides open neatly.
There’s two cigarettes in his hand, gleaming a pasty white against the dark night sky.
Tsukishima plucks one from Yamaguchi’s hand. “Thanks,” he says, placing it in his mouth. He clicks open the lighter, watching the way the flame moves back and forth amidst the slight breeze.
He brings the flame to the cigarette. Embers start to glow, paper smoking and tobacco burning. His nose starts to fill with smoke.
Yamaguchi waits patiently beside him. His hands crook in the way a rookie’s do, uncertain and loose, around the cigarette. Even the way he holds it in his mouth is naive.
Tsukishima’s chest feels tight as he brings the lighter to Yamaguchi’s cigarette. He holds it there until a puff of smoke escapes Yamaguchi’s mouth.
“Oh,” Yamaguchi chokes, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. His hand is suddenly gripping it like he’s a seasoned addict. “Shit.” He coughs, his body doubled over.
“You good?” Tsukishima asks, breathing in the tar and nicotine. His lungs seem to suck up the tobacco smoke. His exhales are peppery and prickle at his throat.
Yamaguchi catches his breath, leaning against the wall. Tsukishima imagines his vocal chords shrivelling up and blackening. “It doesn’t taste like mint.”
Tsukishima raises his eyebrows. “Really?” he deadpans, tapping the excess ash off of his cigarette. “You’re telling me that the ad was lying to us?”
Yamaguchi coughs some more. His eyes are trained at the ground. If he tries hard enough, Tsukishima figures, he could bore a hole right through it. “It doesn’t taste like menthol, either.”
The radio is barely audible through the closed doors. Tsukishima can make out “An everlasting world and you're here with me, eternally,” and he snorts slightly. “Xanadu” is competing with “Do you know the way to San Jose” for the song he hates the most.
“I’m not having fun, Tsukki.” Yamaguchi lifts the cigarette to his lips nonetheless. His breath stutters around the smoke, his beautiful singer’s lungs struggling.
It makes Tsukishima feel bad. His own lungs aren’t worth much. He knows this, he affirms this, as he takes another deep drag of the cigarette. He knew the moment he bummed a cigarette outside the record company.
He looks up at the sky. None of the stars are visible in San Jose, he notices scathingly. People come to San Jose to become stars, all because San Jose doesn’t have any of its own.
How pathetic, he thinks, to no one in particular. Himself, maybe, for wanting to make it big. Maybe to Yamaguchi, since he’s only just figuring out that he can’t make it. Or maybe it’s the blank skies of San Jose, that offer enough space for pretty sunrises and sunsets, but spare no more room for any other star in the Milky Way.
“Neither am I,” Tsukishima replies, giving a short laugh. The saxophone solo from “A house is not a home” rings through his mind, like an earworm trying to take over his brain.
With his foot, Yamaguchi scuffs at the ash that falls from his cigarette to the ground. “People are supposed to have fun here, though.” His voice is getting more and more rough. A spike of anxiety goes through Tsukishima. “That’s what the song said.”
Tsukishima’s had enough of his cigarette. The mint, as Yamagachi said earlier, is nonexistent. He drops it on the ground and crushes it with his foot, watching how the embers fizzle out and die. “The song never said that.”
He nods towards Yamaguchi, who looks at his cigarette’s embers with a newfound curiosity. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get back inside.”
Yamaguchi drops his cigarette on the ground. His fingers twitch as he crushes it out with his foot.
“You go ahead,” he replies. “I’ll just make my way back.”
Tsukishima hums. He pushes open the door to go inside, but part of him wonders if “back” means Vermont, or wherever Yamaguchi lives in San Jose.
“One less egg to fry, and all I do is cry -”
Tsukishima shuts off the radio. He unties his apron, fingers feeling heavier than lead.
Yamaguchi didn’t stop by today. Tsukishima’s shift is undoubtedly over, cemented by the way he shuts off the lights of each of the aisles and locks the cash register.
Maybe he’s on his way back to Vermont. Tsukishima can imagine the way he’d be sitting on the train. He’d probably read through all the magazines on the desk, and then he would sit there, looking outside the window.
“Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks. His voice has the chipper quality it was missing last night.
“Yamaguchi?” Tsukishima asks, his brow smoothing away any furrows. “Why’re you here so late?”
Yamaguchi checks his wrist. He has no wristwatch on, and he taps his foot exaggeratedly to the empty air. “Your shift ends now, right?” he questions. “I read the shop’s hours, by the way. I’m not a stalker.”
Tsukishima huffs, a smile causing his lips to curl upwards. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“But it ends now, right?” Yamaguchi presses. He hops from foot to foot.
“Yeah,” Tsukishima confirms, stuffing the key into a hole in the shelf. Evidently, Sugawara doesn’t care about his shop being looted. “It ends now.”
“Then come with me.” Yamaguchi starts to walk backwards, in the general direction of the exit. “I want to get food.”
Tsukishima pretends to look affronted. “Why not here?” he asks. He gestures around the junk food around him. “At humble Sakanoshita?”
Yamaguchi groans. “I’ve been eating Charleston Chews for three weeks straight, Tsukki,” he complains, bumping into a rack of chips behind him. “I’m done eating here.”
Smirking, Tsukishima nods towards the shaking rack of chips. “Be careful.” He unties his apron and stuffs it behind the counter. His hands are buzzing with adrenaline as he goes around the counter.
“Are you ready yet?” Yamaguchi asks. His freckles sit like gold flakes on his skin.
Tsukishima looks behind him. “Actually,” he says, thumbing towards the row of cigarette packets, “I think I forgot to organize these.”
Yamaguchi’s face crumples into exasperation. “Seriously?” he complains, throwing his hands in the air. “Tsukki, I swear to god -”
“I was joking, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima says, drawing out the “ing” in “joking”. “Where are we headed?”
Yamaguchi crosses his arms indignantly. “Quit playing with my heart like that, Tsukki,” he ribs. Tsukishima feels his face start to heat up. “And I have no idea. Do you have any places in mind?”
“Not really.” Tsukishima throws a look over his shoulder, making sure that everything is in order. “We could find something on the way.”
The store is blissfully silent after shutting off the radio. If he strains his ears enough, he can hear the way Yamaguchi’s words rumble and roll off his tongue.
“You wanna walk around?” Yamaguchi asks, perking up.
His hopefulness makes a small smile show up on Tsukishima’s face. “We kind of have to,” he says, and his face is already getting tired from how much he exerts his smile muscles, “if we want to eat out.”
Yamaguchi beams. It’s a good look on him.
San Jose has curly roofs and curved cars. In the nighttime, everything looks like one big whorl. If Tsukishima took his glasses off, his surroundings would probably smear into a singular spiral.
The synergy is laughable. It draws people in - young couples, the rich and the poor, the Hollywood stars who made it big in the 50’s and lost their momentum - and it spits them out half chewed.
“It’s different from home.” Yamaguchi kicks at rocks as he walks. The cool breeze flits through his hair, causing some of it to fall into his eyes.
“Vermont?” Tsukishima asks, imagining maple trees and frosty, cold winters.
“Yeah.” Yamaguchi shakes his head to get rid of the hair in his eyes. “It’s a nice change, I guess.”
Tsukishima hums. “You get sick of it after a while.”
Yamaguchi kicks a rock into a gutter, looking slightly accomplished. “I mean,” he says offhandedly, “you lived in Toledo, didn’t you?”
Tsukishima’s mouth curls into a grimace. “Don’t remind me.”
“So it's worse than here, right?”
If Tsukishima dwells on it, he can’t tell which is worse. Toledo is cramped and boxy, full of rectangular street cars and the smell of gasoline. San Jose is a neon hell where his dreams died a pathetic death.
San Jose. it’s San Jose that’s the worse of the two. “No,” he replies, and is reminded of how much he hated looking out the windows in Toledo. “It’s still not as bad as Toledo.”
Yamaguchi winces. “That bad, huh?” he asks. He stops kicking rocks to walk normally.
“Mhm.”
Yamaguchi stares at the ground, and his mouth moves several times with the intention of talking. “To be honest,” he finally forces out, “the more I stay here, the more plasticky it becomes.”
Tsukishima spares Yamaguchi a glance. “Plasticky?” he repeats.
“Like,” Yamaguchi explains, hands already gesturing. Something in Tsukishima’s heart warms up. “Those bags you sell at the shop.”
Tsukishima blinks. “Those bags?” he clarifies, turning his head so Yamaguchi won’t see his expression.
“Flimsy. Easy to tear through.” The consonants roll off of Yamaguchi’s tongue in a beautiful mess. They crash into each other mid air, haphazardly making their way into Tsukishima’s brain. “Something you can see right through.”
They’ve been walking for half an hour, but the scenery around them looks the same. Neon, curves, and the occasional bow of a palm tree.
“It’s like Dionne Warwick said,” Tsukishima suddenly mentions. “And all the stars that never were,” he begins, and Yamaguchi interjects before he can finish the verse.
“Are parking cars and pumping gas?” Yamaguchi asks, sounding slightly bewildered. “What does that mean?”
Tsukishima pushes his glasses up to his face. The sharper view is oddly something he regrets obtaining. “Think about it, Yamaguchi.” He straightens his metal frames. “Landlocked stars.”
Yamaguchi’s eyes widen in realization. “Parking cars and pumping gas,” he finishes. “Oh.”
“I mean,” Tsukishima says quickly, “I’m reading too into it. But the message is still there.”
“Guess you’re still right,” Yamaguchi mumbles. He seems to shrink into himself.
What are they both? Landlocked stars, travelers, hopefuls. They fall under each category, and yet they still can’t fit in San Jose.
Tsukishima laughs bitterly. His shoulders shake painfully. His body tells itself to reign it in, to compose himself, but he’s beyond caring. “San Jose steals stars,” he says, mirth and hatred rolling off of his voice all at once, “because it doesn’t have any of its own.”
Yamaguchi’s back straightens slightly. It’s a better look from when he was hunched. “San Jose doesn’t have any stars?” he inquires, automatically looking up. “Doesn’t the sun count?”
His throat is a tan, freckled column that contrasts the harsh neon around them. A flash of adoration goes through Tsukishima, because of how earnestly he searches for stars in the dead, static San Jose sky.
Tsukishima kicks at a stray pebble. “Nah,” he says, previous bitterness extinguished. He turns to face Yamaguchi, adding on, “Why are you trying to find stars? There’s too much light pollution here.”
Yamaguchi snaps his head down. Tsukishima mourns the loss of the sight. “Did you have stars in Toledo?”
Toledo’s skies were like a plate of charcoal sprayed with milk. “Yeah,” Tsukishima nods. Wistfulness tugs at him, and he tries to will it away. The more the neon lights attack his eyes, the more unsuccessful he becomes. “Did you get any in Vermont?”
Yamaguchi hums. It’s a wonderful sound, and it covers Tsukishima like a blanket. “Plenty.”
“Poor San Jose,” Tsukishima says half jokingly. “Got nothing to its name.”
A contemplative look comes over Yamaguchi’s face. “I suppose,” he replies, and Tsukishima can’t tell what he means by that.
The din of the diner they found grates at Tsukishima’s ears. “Really?” he asks, poking at his strawberry sundae. He asked for extra strawberries, and they gave him more syrup instead. “You chose a diner?”
Yamaguchi pokes happily through his fries. “You said you’d go whatever I wanted to,” he replies defensively. “And I wanted fries.”
Tsukishima sighs. “Alright. I’m deciding next time.”
Yamaguchi nearly drops his fry. “Next…” he stutters, face turning red at an alarming rate. He manages to gain his composure in a few seconds, assembling it into something he thinks is casual. “Sure, Tsukki.” He holds his fry up, pointing it at Tsukishima. “But it better have fries.”
“What are you, a child?” Tsukishima teases. He scoops up a bite that’s mostly syrup. “Fine,” he acquiesces, since Yamaguchi is turning him incredibly soft. “I’ll consider that.”
The fries rustle as Yamaguchi crows, “Alright!”
Tsukishima smirks. “I said I’d consider it.” He eats his bite as delicately as he can. “Not that I might implement it.”
A tiny furrow appears between Yamaguchi’s eyebrows. It only shows up when he teases Tsukishima. “You suck, Tsukki,” he whines. “But I guess that’s fair.”
Something akin to fondness grows in Tsukishima’s chest. He pokes at his sundae, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Yamaguchi’s expression lightens. His mouth quivers, as if he wants to say something, but he presses his lips shut.
Tsukishima watches him look down and poke at his fries, trying to settle his restless face.
“Wanna walk around after this?” Tsukishima asks. It’s odd, but for once in his whole month of staying in San Jose, he feels at ease. His fork clinks against his ceramic bowl. Between the gaps of noise, he can hear choppy words from nearby conversations.
This diner doesn’t play its radio, which he’s thankful for.
“Well,” Yamaguchi draws out, and a full smile breaks out on his face, “isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. “Who said I had a bedtime?”
Yamaguchi picks up a small fry, analyzing it closely. “It’s two in the morning, Tsukki,” he says, moving the fry from side to side. His eyes track the movement. “Aren’t you tired?”
Not with you, Tsukishima wants to say, but he stops himself just in time. “Nope. Are you?”
“Not yet.” Yamaguchi puts the fry in his mouth, and then balls up the paper lining of the fries’ basket. “I just had food, so I’ll be fine.”
Tsukishima snickers. “That’s supposed to make you tired, y’know,” he ribs. The sundae is settling into his stomach like sludge. His eyes are starting to droop, but every time he looks at Yamaguchi, they force themselves back open.
Yamaguchi simply smirks. “Not for me.”
Tsukishima scoffs. “You’re not a human.”
“So I’m an alien?” Yamaguchi shoots back disbelievingly. “Because I don’t get tired after eating food?”
“But who doesn’t get tired after eating food?”
Yamaguchi’s mouth curves into a grin that colours his voice as he says, “I dunno, Tsukki. Everyone. Maybe you’re just a heavy sleeper.”
The ice cream tastes incredibly sweet on Tsukishima’s tongue. “That’s not a bad thing,” he mumbles, shoving another bite into his mouth to cover his blushing.
Yamaguchi throws back his head and laughs. Tsukishima’s heart feels like it’s going to burst.
“When I climb the stairs and turn the key,” Yamaguchi croons under his breath. He looks at his surroundings wistfully, and there’s a hint of sadness behind his pupils.
He’s singing Dionne Warwick. He’s hitting the notes better than the radio or Dionne Warwick, and he’s breathing life into the lyrics as if he’s reincarnating them.
Tsukishima’s not complaining. Not now, not ever. He matches Yamaguchi’s stride as they walk seemingly nowhere. It’s three in the morning. His body is about to flop over, but his mind pumps it full of adrenaline.
“Oh, please be there,” he half sings, half mumbles. His voice is raspy with tiredness, and his posture and air flow is terrible, but he sings anyway.
Yamaguchi smiles. It’s a small thing. “Still in love,” he sings, leaving the phrase incomplete.
“With me.” Tsukishima finishes the verse with finality. Last time he did, it was a question. Now it feels wrong not to state it as an absolute truth.
Yamaguchi hums a nondescript note. “It’s a good song.”
Tsukishima shrugs. His eyelids droop when he stares at the ground for too long. “Not her worst song.”
Prodding Tsukishima in the shoulder, Yamaguchi teases, “Come on, Tsukki. You like the song. Just admit it already.”
The neon lights caress the soft curves of Yamaguchi’s face. “I refuse to admit it,” Tsukishima says, head held high. He sneaks a glance of Yamaguchi rolling his eyes and grinning. “I still don’t think it’s her best song.”
Shit. From the way Yamaguchi’s face lights up, he’s gone and revealed his greatest weakness: there’s a Dionne Warwick song he actually likes.
“What is it?” Yamaguchi asks, laughing. He whirls around to face Tsukishima, walking backwards the whole time. “You have to tell me, Tsukki.”
Tsukishima feels his face heat up. It goes far beyond something he can control - he’s sure his face is covered entirely by a red sheen.
Yamaguchi waves his hand in front of Tsukishima’s face. “Hello? Earth to Tsukki?”
“Close to you.” Tsukishima says the words quickly, as if they’ll immediately disappear afterwards. His fingers start to twitch with the intent on pushing up his glasses. He represses the urge.
“Close to you?” Yamaguchi inquires, some form of wonderment in his voice. “Really?”
Tsukishima is already retreating into himself. Part of him wants to skip the next few seconds of the future. What if Yamaguchi laughs in his face? What if it’s his least favourite song?
What if he hates it as much as Tsukishima hates “Do you know the way to San Jose”?
“On the day that you were born, the angels got together,” Yamaguchi sings. His voice is soft and delicate, like the doilies Tsukishima’s mother would crochet when he was a child. “And decided to create a dream come true.”
Tsukishima stares at him, suddenly relieved of all of his worries. How stupid of me, he thinks, to doubt Yamaguchi.
It’s Yamaguchi, after all. The one who hangs around Sakanoshita and sings along to the radio, despite there being far better convenience stores with far less prickly employees.
“So they...sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold,” Tsukishima adds on haltingly, words rolling off of his tongue awkwardly.
Yamaguchi gives him a little smile. It gleams brighter than the spray of moonlight on them. “And starlight in your eyes of blue,” he completes, not singing this time. His voice sounds equally as nice when he says the lyrics. “Those are the lyrics, right?”
Tsukishima tears his eyes away from Yamaguchi. “Yeah.” He knows all the lyrics by heart. It embarrasses him to admit it, but when he knows he’s truly alone, he’ll sing the song under his breath.
“They’re nice.” Yamaguchi’s still walking backwards while facing Tsukishima, but he’s paying attention to the landscape on his right. “You have good taste, Tsukki.”
Against his will, Tsukishima blushes again. “Thanks.” He looks to where Yamaguchi’s looking, and sees nothing but rolling hills and green, overgrown grass.
The backing trumpet’s melody rings through his mind. Suddenly, he’s back in Toledo, hogging Akiteru’s radio to listen to “Close to you.”
Suddenly, he’s back in Toledo, and full of hopes and dreams and what seems like happiness.
Yamaguchi’s freckles stand out in the pale moonlight.
Something strange comes over Tsukishima: he opens his mouth, and he sings, “Just like me, they long to be…”
Yamaguchi looks up. Some form of tacit understanding comes over him, and he tilts his head to look away shyly. The smooth column of his neck glows in the lack of light. The tendons on his neck stretch and strain gracefully, like the muscles on a ballerina’s legs, as he sings, “Close to you.”
The words ring through Tsukishima’s mind. They flow into his ears, through his brain, down his chest cavity, and they touch his very soul.
“Told you.” Yamaguchi’s sonorous voice breaks his singing effortlessly. “You have a singer’s voice.”
“So do you,” Tsukishima says, his voice choppy and rough and awkward, rustling and bumping around like a busted engine still being used. “You have a singer’s voice, too. More than mine.”
Something in Yamaguchi’s face softens, mollifies, soothes all of Tsukishima’s rough edges. “It’s not more than mine.” They’ve stopped walking, and Tsukishima’s just noticed this. “It’s your own voice, Tsukki. It’s not worse than anyone else’s.”
Tsukishima looks Yamaguchi in the eyes. Something presses against his ribcage. Maybe it’s his heart. “If you say so, Yamaguchi.”
Yamaguchi’s lips quirk up. “That’s the spirit.”
Tsukishima moves closer. His feet act like appendages of an octopus - part of his body, yet somehow autonomous. He manages not to get too close to Yamaguchi. (Although his mind is sorely wishing that it could be.)
“It’s nice here,” he mentions offhandedly. The words sound wrong in his mouth. “I’ve never walked here before.”
Yamaguchi’s face is open and tender. He picks at his coat’s sleeve, doing and undoing the buttons. “It is, isn’t it?” he mumbles, looking down.
“Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima, for once in his life, relinquishes his control for impulsivity.
“Yeah?” Yamaguchi asks, looking at him. Their faces are inching together, closer and closer. “What, Tsukki?”
Tsukishima can already feel Yamaguchi’s breath ghost over his lips. He lifts up one hand to hold the side of Yamaguchi’s face, fingers slipping underneath the expanse of skin under his jaw. “I…” he mutters, utterly confused. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Yamaguchi looks at him with blacked out irises, his eyes widen open, his pupils as soft as liquorice.
He leans in closely and kisses him. Yamaguchi’s lips are soft and sweet, just like his voice, and they melt into his so easily.
Just like me, they long to be close to you...Dionne Warwick’s voice croons, in the back of his head. He lets it ring, lips sliding against lips, tongues tracing over the bumps in each other’s gums.
Yamaguchi leans in more. He grabs onto Tsukishima’s shirt, hands scrabbling before they settle into a comfortable position.
He pulls back. “Tsukki,” he says breathlessly, panting slightly. “Tsukki.” He buries his head into Tsukishima’s chest.
Tsukishima brings a hand up to stroke Yamaguchi’s hair. “Yamaguchi,” he mumbles. “Tadashi. What’s wrong?”
He feels wet spots grow on his chest. Oh no.
“I’m leaving.” Yamaguchi’s voice comes out muffled and terribly sorry.
Tsukishima pauses in stroking Yamaguchi’s hair. “Where to?” he asks, and he stupidly hopes it’s to some place near San Jose.
“I don’t know. I was thinking about it for a long time. I came here to say goodbye, and -” Yamaguchi blubbers out, extending his arms so he’s hugging Tsukishima. His hands curl on Tsukishima’s shirt. “I don’t know.”
Tsukishima has no choice but to hug back. The unjustness of it all seeps into his skin, sinking into his pores, and bursts all of his cells into watery messes. “We…” he reasons, hands tightening over Yamaguchi, “we can still talk.”
“How?” Yamaguchi says, turning his head to face Tsukishima completely. All the sadness growing on in his eyes has finally materialized.
“I’ll visit,” Tsukishima says firmly. “I’ll visit.”
Yamaguchi shakes his head. “That never works out,” he mumbles, staring at the ground.
“I -” Tsukishima suddenly says, grasping at straws. He doesn’t want to let go of Yamaguchi. Not now, not ever. “I hate this place.”
Yamaguchi gives a sad chuckle. Tsukishima can feel it in his chest. “I know,” he replies, his voice reverberating through Tsukishima’s lungs. “You tell me all the time.”
“No,” Tsukishima states. “I hate this place.” He looks Yamaguchi directly in the eyes. “I’ve been saving up the whole time I’ve been here.” His hands shake as they scramble on Yamaguchi’s back. “I finally have enough.”
“What are you saying?” Yamaguchi asks, even though his eyes tell Tsukishima he’s beginning to understand. “That you -”
“I don’t care where you go.” The words come out of Tsukishima’s mouth, impulsive and stupid and possibly the worst thing he could say. “Can I come with you?”
Stupid. Impulsive. Dumb, stupid, pathetic, and so needlessly yearning. Yamaguchi’s going to say no and leave him, alone in these hills and grass he’s never been in before, and make his way out of San Jose.
“I -” Yamaguchi stutters. Tsukishima waits for him to say of course not, why would I ever want you to come with me? How dare you assume that I would ever -
“Of course,” he breathes out. His eyes take on a sheen of hopefulness. “Of course, Tsukki, of course. I’ll go wherever you want.”
Tsukishima’s heart stutters. Blood rushes through his fingers, slow and trickling, a cool wash of water. “Really?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his disbelief. “Really?”
Yamaguchi laughs. It’s half choked from his previous crying. “Of course,” he repeats, and he pulls Tsukishima down so they’re an inch apart. “We’ll go anywhere we want to.”
A smile breaks out on Tsukishima’s face. “Okay,” he agrees. His face hurts with how much he’s grinning - the corner of his mouth twitches in tiredness. “Okay.”
Yamaguchi pulls him down for another kiss. He smiles against his lips, hands tracing Tsukishima’s face gently.
Somewhere, in some convenience store, Dionne Warwick sings the lyrics to “Do you know the way to San Jose”, and that doesn’t bother Tsukishima in the slightest.
“Do you know the way to San Jose? I've been away so long. I may go wrong and lose my way.”