Archive of Our Own

Yamaguchi realized that Tsukishima had a sort of special relationship with music shortly after they officially met. Or rather, that, unfortunately, Tsukishima would prefer to have a relationship with music over anyone else.

They were in the same volleyball club and their homes were in the same direction from the school. Yamaguchi had hoped that this might cause them to become friends. They shared their path home after practice, after all. And then, of course, Tsukishima had (unintentionally) saved him from his elementary school bullies not that long ago. Yamaguchi wanted desperately to form a bond after that, and fate seemed to have the same idea.

But those hopes were squashed the second time that they walked home together. Tsukishima brought along some headphones and an old cassette player that probably used to belong to his big brother (the one person he actually seemed to enjoy talking about to anyone who was willing to listen), and he tuned Yamaguchi out as they walked along the familiar streets until they parted ways at the fork in the road that lead to each of their homes. Yamaguchi took the hint. Tsukishima must have been pretty annoyed by the conversation the first time they walked together--Yamaguchi had talked a LOT that day--and made his own contingency plan. Yamaguchi could be fine with that. He never really had friends before. He could make it through his last two years of elementary school without one. Middle school could be his fresh start.

They spent the next several months playing volleyball together and walking home together after school in silence, lives parallel, but never intersecting. Until one day, seemingly out of the blue, Tsukishima asked Yamaguchi if he wanted to come over after practice and do a little extra work on their receives with his beloved older brother. Yamaguchi stuttered his affirmative answer. And when they got to his house that afternoon, even as Yamaguci wrung his hands together anxiously, Tsukishima introduced him to his brother and mom as his friend. So Yamaguchi apparently had a different conception of what it meant to be friends than Tsukishima did, but he was happy anyway. He had a friend. One who liked music and solitude more than him, but Yamaguchi wasn’t going to be picky. Even if he was going to be picky, Tsukishima wasn’t a bad friend to have. He was tall, smart, cool, and scared away pretty much anyone who would otherwise want to hurt Yamaguchi.

So he, Tsukishima (who he started to occasionally call by his given name, Kei), and Kei’s older brother Akiteru spent evenings passing the volleyball around in the backyard. Then Yamaguchi started being invited to dinner. And they started doing their homework together, (which caused Yamaguchi’s grades to go up significantly since Tsukishima was actually a genius and wasn’t so cold so as not to offer help). Before long they were watching movies at each other’s houses, going to the arcade together, having sleepovers, and sharing inside jokes behind the others’ backs at volleyball practice. And Yamaguchi was okay with being second place to the soundtrack that Tsukishima played privately in his ears whenever they walked anywhere together.

When their last year of elementary school started, they were happy to find that they would be in the same class this time. Yamaguchi felt the pressure of being in the “smart” class, but was sure that Tsukishima would help him. But Tsukishima wasn’t always able to guide him through their homework. So Yamaguchi struggled. His grades began to slip. It wasn’t that the work was too hard, but it was harder than it had been the year before, and he could no longer zip through assignments like he used to. And the longer the homework took, the harder it became to focus.

One day after lunch, Yamaguchi was found slumped into his desk, half asleep. Tsukishima poked his head with the end of his pencil, right in front of his permanent cowlick. “Oi, Tadashi, wake up,” Tsukishima scolded.

Yamaguchi wiped his drool off his chin with the back of his sleeve. “Sorry, Kei-kun,” he apologized reflexively.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Sleeping at school is lame,” he quipped.

Yamaguchi yawned. “I stayed up late doing homework,” he said.

Tsukishima cocked his head. “Why?”

“Couldn’t focus.” Yamaguchi scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, making stars appear behind his eyelids. He felt fuzzy all over, especially now that the contents of his bento sat heavy in his stomach.

Tsukishima scoffed again and took his seat, showing his usual level of care.

But Tsukishima hadn’t forgotten about Yamaguchi’s plight. Two days later, when they met at the junction that led from their respective houses to their school, Yamaguchi noticed that Tsukishima didn’t have his headphones snapped over his ears. They were hanging around his neck, though they were still plugged into his portable CD player, which was also a hand-me-down from his older brother, but a significant upgrade from the old cassette player he had been using the year before.

Yamaguchi didn’t say anything, opting instead to quirk a curious eyebrow at his friend by way of greeting.

Tsukishima pulled a jewel case from the zippered pouch on his shoulder bag. “Here,” he said, handing it to Yamaguchi.

Yamaguchi turned the CD case over in his hands and saw in Tsukishima’s signature illegible-to-anyone-else scrawl a title: Tadashi’s Study Mix. Written in black permanent marker on the front of the disc. “Kei-kun?” Yamaguchi said.

“To help you focus. It’s classical music,” Tsukishima explained.

Yamaguchi’s eyes lit up and a blush spread over his cheeks. “Thanks, Kei-kun!” he cheered.

“Shut up, Tadashi,” Tsukishima said as he began walking toward their school ahead of him, but he didn’t pull the headphones over his ears this time.

Yamaguchi tucked the CD into his bag. “Sorry, Kei-kun,” he said as he trailed behind.

The next morning Tsukishima asked Yamaguchi, “What did you think of the mix?”

Yamaguchi wanted to hug Tsukishima, but he didn’t. The music had really helped, and he managed to finish his homework in half the time it typically took. And even though classical was usually boring, the songs Tsukishima had picked were pretty cool. Fast enough to keep Yamaguchi awake but not distracted. “It was perfect, Kei-kun!”

And thus began a tradition between the two of them, though neither realized it at the time.

It was a few months later when Yamaguchi first complained to Tsukishima that he hated running laps more than anything. They were still playing volleyball together, and Yamaguchi was getting much better given the extra practice with Akiteru, and especially since he was beginning to hit a growth spurt. But the growth made his legs burn and his muscles ache. And running laps was torture.

Tsukishima scoffed, as was typical for him. “My legs hurt too,” Tsukishima said as they loped home together, Tsukishima a few steps ahead like always.

“So how do you deal with it?” Yamaguchi asked.

“I don’t think about it,” Tsukishima replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Yamaguchi frowned, though Tsukishima couldn’t see it. “My brain just doesn’t work like that. All I can think the whole time we’re running is ouch.”

Tsukishima tilted his head back to look at Yamaguchi, but he didn’t say anything, opting to shrug at him instead. Really helpful.

But Tsukishima surprised Yamaguchi again when the next morning he had a CD case in his hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Yamaguchi’s hand. It was again labeled in black marker with Tsukishima’s awful handwriting: Tadashi’s Running Mix.

Yamaguchi gave Tsukishima a sad smile. “Thanks,” he said, his voice muffled. He would listen to the CD, of course. But he would have to listen to it at home, on his boombox in his bedroom. He didn’t have any way to listen to it while he ran.

Or so he thought. Tsukishima pulled a device from his pocket that was the size of a thumb drive and shaped like a pill. “My brother got an iPod last week,” Tsukishima said. “So he gave me his MP3 player. I finally got all my songs loaded into it. So here.” He pulled his portable CD player from his bag and handed it to Yamaguchi along with a tangled pair of earbuds.

“Are you really sure I can have these?” Yamaguchi said.

“No givebacks,” Tsukishima said, scrunching up his nose. “That thing is garbage to me now. So please, take it.”

Yamaguchi knew this was just Tsukishima’s way of being cool about it. His face split into a huge grin. “Thanks, Kei-kun! And be sure to thank your brother for me too!”

“Whatever,” Tsukishima said.

That afternoon at volleyball practice, Yamaguchi clipped the twice re-gifted CD player to the waistband of his shorts, tightened his drawstring so the extra weight wouldn’t pull his pants off of his skinny body, and started running. The CD skipped a few times when Yamaguchi’s feet slapped the pavement a little too hard, but it didn’t matter much. The CD was a mix of techno songs. Yamaguchi glanced at Tsukishima’s back, who was pulling ahead of him several strides away. He had his headphones over his ears, his head bobbing to whatever song was motivating him to keep moving. Yamaguchi didn’t really enjoy the techno. Not like he enjoyed the classical music CD that he played every night while he studied. But he supposed that the electronic beeps and synthetic bass were a decent distraction from the pain that was radiating from his calves through his ankles and feet.

As the practice wore down to its conclusion and they started to change clothes, Tsukishima asked for Yamaguchi’s opinion on the tracklist.

Yamaguchi tried not to stutter as he lied. “I-It was awesome!” He smiled, then realized that he could be honest in one aspect at least: “I didn’t think about my legs at all!”

Tsukishima gave him a nod as he slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to walk home.

The first two CDs had been made out of necessity, as a service to Yamaguchi. Offered with no fanfare and little discussion. But they were the gateway for Tsukishima to offer more mixed CDs to Yamaguchi.

The next CD was a mix of J-Rock songs from the last decade which Akiteru had been really into, and by extension Tsukishima too. It was a Friday afternoon when Tsukishima handed it to him, like an afterthought, explaining that he figured that Yamaguchi needed more than just the techno CD to listen to for fun. Yamaguchi took it home and popped it into his boombox and laid back on his bed to listen to it. He found that he had recognized most of the songs on the CD and liked all of them. When Tsukishima asked him on Monday morning if he liked it, Yamaguchi gave an enthusiastic “YES!” and then went on to give his notes on his favorite guitar solos. Tsukishima nodded along, offering little else by way of affirmation, but Yamaguchi found that he didn’t mind.

That CD led to Tsukishima offering a few more J-Rock mixes which were received with equal doses of Yamaguchi’s gratitude.

Middle school started after a too-brief break, and Tsukishima and Yamaguchi were happy to be going to the same school again, though they weren’t in the same class. But they found each other in the hallways during breaks and sat with each other during lunch and they always had volleyball practice and the walk to and from school everyday, so it was manageable.

The first CD of their first year of middle school, handed to Yamaguchi before they parted ways for the evening on their first day of school, was all in English, which was a change of pace. Yamaguchi was horrible at English, and Tsukishima, even though he was good at it, was nowhere near fluent. But Yamaguchi realized it didn’t matter. The sound of the music, the tone and inflection of the voice told him all he needed to know. The CD was labeled 60s-80s Rock, so Yamaguchi didn’t know much of it. He recognized one song by the Who called “My Generation.” Maybe it had been in a movie or a commercial or something? But he loved it, and every other song on the CD. As he sat on the floor of his bedroom listening to each guitar riff and roll of the drums, he felt older and way cooler than he really was.

The next afternoon, Tsukishima came over to hang out. He snatched a book off of Yamaguchi’s book shelf and began reading it as Yamaguchi reclined on his bed, stomach down, feet up, with his own manga volume to occupy him. Tsukishima lazily opened the boombox to see his mix still sitting under the lid. “Did you like it?” he asked, glancing at Yamaguchi over the pages of the book in his hand.

Yamaguchi felt a little embarrassed that Tsukishima knew he had listened to it as soon as he had gotten home with it. But he did like it. “It was so cool sounding,” Yamaguchi said. “I mean, it was so… relaxed and fast all at the same time. Like, it kind of made me feel… sexy, listening to it.” Yamaguchi felt his face go red hot after saying that. He was twelve. What did he know about feeling sexy? But Tsukishima didn’t laugh.

“I could see that,” he said blandly. “Did you have a favorite song?”

“Um, the eighth track. I liked how it was kind of slow at first.”

“Bad Company,” Tsukishima said in English. Yamaguchi didn’t know what it really meant, but it sounded really cool the way that Tsukishima said it.

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi said, awed. “I think it’s my favorite song.”

Tsukishima nodded as he flipped the page of his book. “Lots of older groups are putting out album remasters right now,” he explained as he hit play on the boombox and the classic rock began to fill Yamaguchi’s room again. “I hope it gets a remaster soon.” Tsukishima flopped his tall body backward onto Yamaguchi’s bed and he turned another page.

Tsukishima really knew about everything, Yamaguchi realized. As he considered that fact and as the music pulsed against his ear drums, he tried really hard to focus on the manga in his hands rather than that sexy feeling clawing its way out of him from the pit of his stomach.

That first year of middle school barreled forward at a blistering and uncomfortable pace. Yamaguchi felt like he was drowning in his course work, and Tsukishima likewise seemed irritated. Probably because the rapidly progressing school year also signalled Akiteru’s impending graduation from high school. This would be his last year as the ace of Karasuno. The prospect of Akiteru moving out and moving on with his life seemed to make Tsukishima moodier than usual, but Yamaguchi wasn’t going to be deterred by Tsukishima’s bad attitude.

Perhaps it was Tsukishima’s ruminations on growing up that caused it, or maybe it was just because they weren’t little primary school kids anymore, when one day after school, as he handed Yamaguchi a new CD to add to his growing collection, he said, “I think you should stop calling me Kei-kun.”

Yamaguchi clutched the CD in his hands and turned it over. It was labeled “Dubstep,” which Yamaguchi had never heard of. He blinked, then finally seemed to register what Tsukishima was saying to him. “What?” he said rather stupidly.

Yamaguchi heard the familiar sound of Tsukishima’s tongue clicking against his teeth. “It’s getting weird. Just call me Tsukishima.”

“Weird?” Yamaguchi said, his voice sounding distant in his ears. He was used to being kept at arm’s length, but perhaps he had construed these gifted CDs as a sign that their friendship was not as one-sided as he once thought. But here he was, once again, being pushed away. Just close enough to be friendly. Not close enough to be comfortable.

“We’re getting older. It’s not a big deal,” Tsukishima said. “Let me know what you think of the CD when you get a chance to listen to it.” Then he flipped his headphones over his ears and made his way down the path toward his house.

Yamaguchi was feeling kind of bitter about the exchange, even though he wasn’t really surprised. So he didn’t listen to the “Dubstep” CD when he got home. He sat it on his desk and let it sit there for days until Tsukishima asked him if he could show him how to do number seven on his math homework. And Yamaguchi, for whatever reason, couldn’t stay mad at him after that. So that night, after he finished his homework and pulled the classical mix out of the boombox, he loaded in the dubstep CD.

At first, Yamaguchi wasn’t sure what he was hearing could technically be called music. It sounded like computer errors and a dial-up tone mixed with a paper shredder. Yamaguchi thought maybe this CD was a prank or something. Then he thought that he might have been too quick to forgive Tsukishima, the horrible screeching electronic music making some liquid magma anger roil inside him. But he knew he was just overreacting. This was a kind of music, he supposed. There was a beat, at least. And if Tsukishima liked it enough to share with him, then Yamaguchi would give it a fair chance.

The next day at volleyball practice, as they finished running their laps, Tsukishima grabbed Yamaguchi’s CD player off his hip and popped it open. The classic rock mix was inside. “You don’t listen to the techno when you run anymore?” Tsukishima asked, seemingly offended that his designated mix wasn’t being used for his designated purpose.

“I do sometimes,” Yamaguchi lied, snatching the player back. He still hadn’t really warmed up to the techno, and the classic rock mix did just as good of a job distracting him when his legs ached.

“What about the new mix?” Tsukishima asked as he wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead with his towel.

Yamaguchi felt his blood run cold. He hated lying to Tsukishima. And he didn’t really want to have to do it twice in such a short span of time. But he supposed he didn’t have much choice. “It was different, but I liked it.”

Tsukishima cocked an eyebrow at him, like he didn’t believe him. “Oh yeah? What was your favorite track?”

Yamaguchi felt himself start sweating again, but instead of a hot, sticky sweat, it was a cold, trembling sweat. He racked his brain. He had listened to the whole thing, after all. He could answer this question truthfully. “Um, I think it was the fourth one? It had this really somber piano interlude.” It was the truth. That track had been his favorite, since it was the only one to even remotely resemble music.

Tsukishima seemed satisfied with the answer, though. Perhaps he had been skeptical as to whether or not Yamaguchi had really listened to it, and now Yamaguchi had proved that he did.

Yamaguchi sighed in relief and prayed that he wouldn’t have to lie again.

Unfortunately, Yamaguchi did have to lie again and again and again as Tsukishima seemed to take him at his word about Dubstep. Tsukishima explained that Dubstep was an emerging genre and that it was still pretty experimental. He produced three mix CDs containing what Yamaguchi would compare to incomprehensible robot screeching, but Yamaguchi was prepared each time that Tsukishima asked for feedback with what he thought were clever lies. Then things became even worse. Perhaps Tsukishima was encouraged by Yamaguchi’s lies, turning to European techno, mostly German. Yamaguchi would describe the electronic music phase of their first year of middle school to be one of the darkest times in his life. That is until things actually took a pretty serious turn.

“It’s going to be his last game in the prefecture,” Tsukishima explained as he asked Yamaguchi to come with him to his brother’s volleyball game. Yamaguchi liked Akiteru a lot, especially since he was the brother that still called him by his given name, so of course he wanted to join. He wanted to see this famous ace in action.

But when they got to the game, things didn’t go as planned. Akiteru apparently had lied. He wasn’t the ace. He wasn’t even good enough to be warming the bench. Yamaguchi couldn’t even count how many players would have to be injured before he would be put onto the court. And as much as it disappointed him, he knew it devastated Tsukishima even more.

“How lame,” he muttered as he made eye contact with his brother in the stands across the gym.

Yamaguchi followed Tsukishima out of the gymnasium and watched as he pulled some earbuds from his pocket, effectively shutting him and the rest of the world out.

Tsukishima didn’t make any CDs again for a while, but Yamaguchi was understanding. He was just glad that they still walked to school together and that Tsukishima still showed up for volleyball practice. He didn’t seem to be into it as much anymore, though. And his headphones almost never left his ears.

“Hey, uh, Tsukki--” Yamaguchi cut himself off, realizing that his friend still had his headphones even as they were walking away from the school. He remembered a few months ago when Tsukishima was still pulling his headphones down around his neck to let Yamaguchi have a conversation with him. He felt like he was back to square one. Another new school year, but old relationship status.

But still, somehow, Tsukishima heard him. He tugged the headphones down. “What did you call me?” he asked.

Yamaguchi realized he had only gotten out half of the name. But he kind of liked the way it sounded. “Tsukki,” he replied. He fumbled with his fingers as he felt Tsukishima glaring down his nose at him from behind his blackframe glasses. “C-can I call you that?”

Tsukishima clicked his tongue. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

It wasn’t exactly the warmest affirmation, but Yamaguchi still felt happy. A nickname. And he noticed that the headphones stayed around Tsukishima’s neck this time. Maybe things were getting a little better after all.

The next morning after the nickname “Tsukki” was established, Yamaguchi was given a new CD, simply labeled “Metal”.

“I’ve been listening to this lately,” Tsukishima said flatly. “You might like it.”

Yamaguchi was happy to have a new mix CD again, especially since it wasn’t more electronic music. A smile split his face. “I can’t wait to listen to it!” Yamaguchi said as he slid it into his backpack, excited to play it as soon as he got home.

The music was all Japanese, but Yamaguchi could barely understand the lyrics even as he strained his ears to decipher it. While the dubstep had made Yamaguchi feel angry, this music sounded angry. No wonder Tsukishima had been listening to it. Even though Yamaguchi didn’t really like it, he still appreciated it. This felt like the closest Tsukishima had ever come to expressing his emotions in all the time that Yamaguchi had known him. And it was a vast improvement to the electronic crap Tsukishima had been giving him before. Yamaguhi sighed contentedly, even as the vocalist started screaming some garbled sounds that he was unconvinced were any human language.

The next morning he gave Tsukishima a thumbs up as he approached him waiting at the corner. “Tsukki. Good music to feel pissed to, huh?” Yamaguchi said.

Tsukishima snorted. “Yeah. Damn right.”

And Yamaguchi supposed they were slipping into a sort of new normal.

The soundtrack of their final year of middle school was pretty depressing. There was a lot of metal, which Yamaguchi stopped appreciating so much when it became the only thing Tsukishima ever offered him. But eventually, the angry, heavy metal gave way to just regular metal, which Yamaguchi could honestly say he liked. It was like classic rock, but a little harsher. Yamaguchi made sure that he always thanked Tsukishima for the recommendations.

One morning, part way through the year, Tsukishima rather shyly handed him a disc labeled “Sad Mix.”

“It’s not as cool as the metal,” Tsukishima said as Yamaguchi put it away.

Yamaguchi just shrugged. “Anything you suggest is probably really cool,” he said. Yamaguchi had taken on a sort of worshipful attitude around Tsukishima over the last several months when he realized that a lot of Tsukishima’s self confidence came from his perception that he had a really cool older brother. When that turned out to be a lie, he wasn’t his usual cocky self anymore. So Yamaguchi bragged about him whenever he could. And it wasn’t just to try to re-inflate his friend’s ego, he really believed the compliments he paid him.

That night when he listened to the CD, he felt tears begin to sting his eyes. Tsukishima’s labeling had been accurate, but maybe it undersold exactly how sad the music really was. The CD could have been labeled “Music to Make You Wish You Were Never Born” and Yamaguchi would have agreed. But there was something kind of pretty about the way the singers on each track sounded haunted or haunting. Like ghosts trapped watching everyone around them act happier now that they’re gone. There was a song called “Somebody That I Used to Know,” and Tadashi figured that Tsukishima had probably been thinking about his brother when he included that one in the playlist. Yamaguchi didn’t know enough English to tell if it was a break up song or what, but the title alone conveyed a lot.

The next morning, Yamaguchi didn’t give Tsukishima his review, instead opting to wrap his arms around the taller boy in a long overdue hug.

“What the hell, Yamaguchi?” Tsukishima complained as his back stiffened. But after a moment, his arms found their way around Yamaguchi’s back and his hands gave it a small pat. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Yamaguchi released him and looked at his blond friend’s face. He watched as he adjusted his glasses over his eyes, a pitiful attempt to conceal the blush spreading over his cheeks.

Tsukishima never asked Yamaguchi what he thought of the playlist. Yamaguchi supposed the hug had been a good enough answer.

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima chose their high school together, opting, for some reason, to attend the same as Akiteru. Tsukishima said it was because of the close proximity to their homes, but Yamaguchi wondered if there was maybe something more to it than that. He never asked.

Yamaguchi was happy that when he suggested joining the volleyball club that Tsukishima just gave him a look that said, “well, duh.” The other first years challenged them to a three-on-three right off the bat, something about the dark haired one needing to fight for his right to be a setter? Yamaguchi didn’t care about the circumstances that lead to the match, he was just thankful for an opportunity to play with Tsukishima. He was always more of a benchwarmer, but he always liked to hit Tsukishima’s sets. And he liked when Tsukishima hit his sets too.

Yamaguchi was a little surprised to hear how much Tsukishima knew about the dark haired kid already. His name was Kageyama, and he had a reputation for being a selfish player with a nickname to match. “The King of the Court.” Yamaguchi vaguely remembered Tsukishima muttering about him when they were playing in the Middle School Tournament, but he didn’t make the connection until he heard Tsukishima’s relentless taunts. Yamaguchi himself tended to be a little more merciful, but a part of him really did enjoy the teasing. As long as he wasn’t on the receiving end. Tsukishima’s acid tongue had always been a part of him, even before the stuff with his brother happened. It was like seeing flashes of his old self.

Regardless, they lost the match. Yamaguchi was not that surprised when he realized they were playing against a prodigy, but he was still a little disappointed. Especially when he saw how much Tsukishima got into it. He hadn’t seen that drive in a long time.

“That sucked,” Yamaguchi remarked as they neared the turn off toward their houses.

Tsukishima merely shrugged. But there was something like a fire in his eyes, betraying his true feelings about the loss. Well, maybe it wasn’t a fire. Maybe just an ember or a spark. But there was something there that hadn’t been there in a long time. “Whatever,” he said finally. “I wonder how long we’ll be able to tolerate such idiotic teammates.”

Yamaguchi snorted a laugh. “They do seem a little… One track minded.”

“As always, you’re too generous,” Tsukishima replied before turning to walk down the road to his house.

Yamaguchi felt his face warm at the almost-compliment he had just been paid.

The next school day morning, Yamaguchi got a true picture of just how much that meaningless three-on-three had really meant to Tsukishima when he handed him a new mix. Apparently, the game had been inspiring. Yamaguchi decided not to tease Tsukishima about it, opting instead to thank him for it.

At lunch time, Tsukishima chose to listen to music instead of talk, which was okay because it meant that Yamaguchi could do the same and figure out what Tsukishima had prepared.

He pulled out the old CD player and slotted the CD into place. He put his secondhand earbuds in and listened as something softer than he expected filtered into his ears. Something acoustic, something nice. Tsukishima never gave him anything nice before. The CD wasn’t just acoustic instrumentals, though. It was truly a mix, escalating gradually until the final track, which could be described as properly upbeat pop-rock. The music was… Happy, almost.

Yamaguchi felt his eyes widening as he realized this, looking instinctively at Tsukishima in his seat across the classroom.

Tsukishima seemed to sense his eyes on him, even as he slumped on his desk, chin resting on his folded arms. He turned his head slightly and locked eyes with Yamaguchi. He must have registered some kind of telling expression on Yamaguchi’s face, since he responded with rolling eyes. A slight pink appeared just under his eyes for a split second before fading. Was he embarrassed to have made Yamaguchi a CD that wasn’t utterly depressing or angry for the first time in years?

After practice, as they walked home together, Yamaguchi wasn’t sure if he wanted to broach the subject, but Tsukishima normally wanted to know his opinion on his mixes. So he cleared his throat. “I especially liked the last track,” Yamaguchi said. “I think I may listen to it when we’re running laps next time. It makes me feel kind of fired up, actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck and felt a blush rising to his cheeks.

Tsukishima grunted. “Okay,” he said, ice cold as ever.

How Tsukishima could act so unaffected by the playlists he crafted, pretending he didn’t feel anything when he listened to the songs he hand-selected to form his soundtracks, Yamaguchi could not understand. Especially when they so clearly matched what was going on in his life. But that was just Tsukishima’s nature, Yamaguchi supposed. He had feelings in there somewhere, but he was very selective about how and when he revealed them. Yamaguchi smiled as he considered that he was one of the only people Tsukishima shared them with, even if in a roundabout and secretive way. “Thanks, Tsukki,” he said after a moment.

“It’s nothing,” Tsukishima said, pulling the headphones over his ears from his neck, and turning off to walk down the street to his house.

Tsukishima produced more upbeat mix CDs after that. Nothing overwhelmingly saccharine. Mostly punk-pop type of stuff. Still overwhelmingly cool. Nothing too mainstream. All very Tsukishima, and Yamaguchi ate it up. Tsukishima wasn’t exactly acting like an optimist or anything, and Yamaguchi doubted he ever would. But something about this new volleyball team was changing Tsukishima. Slowly, slowly. Yamaguchi didn’t want to try and rush him so he didn’t say anything.

Meanwhile, for Yamagchi, those first few months of playing volleyball with the Karasuno High School team were a mix of exhilaration and frustration. He realized he would probably never get to be a regular, but after some time, he decided he could become a weapon if he could just do one thing right: his serve.

So Yamaguchi started practicing with the Shimada Mart guy after their regular practice. Tsukishima seemed a little irritated, perhaps. Or at least confused. He wasn’t interested in exerting any extra effort. But even if he wasn’t exactly supportive and occasionally poked fun at Yamaguchi for being such a try hard, Tsukishima still kept the pipeline of music open into Yamaguchi’s life. Sometimes, Yamaguchi would pop a CD in the boombox in Shimada-san’s stock room and let the music waft out into the alleyway behind the shop. A little extra motivation, a little mood-setting. Shimada warned Yamaguchi that he wouldn’t always have the music, but Yamaguchi disagreed. He’d have it in his head. And though he didn’t say it outloud, he knew he’d have it in his heart too.

And just like that, Yamaguchi screwed up. Aoba Johsai stomped Karasuno under their heel and they lost the interhigh. No one blamed Yamaguchi for it. In fact, some of them seemed grateful for his botched serve. Something about his failure motivated the others. That didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse. He didn’t want to have to be avenged or anything like that. He wanted to be the hero. He wanted to be the one they could count on, not the one they had to save. Maybe Shimada-san was right about the music. Maybe playing it in his head wasn’t enough.

He cried at dinner that night, he cried to Shimada-san, he cried in his bedroom. But he didn’t cry to Tsukishima. Tsukishima didn’t really care, Yamaguchi thought. He was the only one whose eyes weren’t even glossy when the game ended. It almost pissed Yamaguchi off. He knew he didn’t want to rush Tsukishima into caring about volleyball again. He knew it would take time. But he had all of middle school. And he had a new team, with compassionate upperclassmen and motivated peers. He had his height, his talent, his intelligence and capacity to improve. It was everything he needed to get a grip, to wrap his long fingers around the enthusiasm he once had and hold it close. At least that was Yamaguchi’s opinion. But he still didn’t say anything. How could he? When he was still such a loser.

The next time Yamaguchi saw Tsukishima, walking to school together in silence, he was handed a jewel case with a CD labeled, “Pissed Off 90s Grunge Mix.” Yamaguchi studied Tsukishima’s horrible handwriting and almost felt like smiling. So Tsukishima did care a little bit, at least. Yamaguchi didn’t even care when he listened to it and found that he hated it. He had hope that Tsukishima would get better. And when Tsukishima asked him what he thought of it the next day, Yamaguchi told him honestly, “I’m glad you gave it to me.”

Yamaguchi’s hopes were short lived, however, as Tsukishima was reluctant to show any desire to improve after that. Yamaguchi continued to train with Shimada-san, while Tsukishima just scoffed and rolled his eyes whenever they parted ways for Tsukishima to go home and for Yamaguchi to do his extra practice. In fact, the first time Yamaguchi went to practice at the Shimada Mart after their loss to Seijoh, Tsukishima didn’t just scoff. “Why the hell are you still doing that?” he had said.

“Because I want to win next time,” Yamaguchi replied plainly, as he adjusted his bag over his shoulder.

“Whatever, do what you want.”

And Tsukishima didn’t make any more mix CDs for a while.

It wasn’t like some unbearable tension, but it still sucked that Yamaguchi could feel himself getting closer to everyone on the team except for Tsukishima, who by all means was supposed to be his best friend. He was able to convince him to help Hinata and Kageyama with their grades, which was amusing to watch, so he knew that their relationship wasn’t in total shambles. Though, when Tsukishima, fed up with spending so much time on what he called a lost cause, told them to learn to study on their own from time to time and handed them each a classical music CD to help them focus at home, Yamaguchi felt a twinge of jealousy. (But Tsukishima was right about it being a lost cause, as Hinata and Kageyama both failed their exams and had to miss out on some Tokyo training time as a result).

As time marched on, Yamaguchi felt his love for volleyball increasing while as he observed Tsukishima become more frustrated. Tsukishima started insulting Shimada-san when Yamaguchi would split off from him to go practice serving, stinging Yamaguchi in the process. But Yamaguchi didn’t say anything, not wanting things to get any weirder between them than they already were.

When the big occasion arrived, the week-long training camp in Tokyo, they still sat beside each other on the bus.They still spread their futons out next to each other to sleep near each other at night. They still muttered about Hinata and Kageyama’s dumbassery behind their backs, and sometimes to their faces. But still, something wasn’t quite right.

Everyone was putting in the work, making the most of the opportunity to play with top teams from Tokyo. Everyone except for Tsukishima, who always acted too pitifully tired to put in any more work at the end of the day. As if he were more exhausted than anyone else. Yamaguchi was livid. Tsukishima had everything Yamaguchi ever wanted and didn’t even care. What a waste.

Finally, Yamaguchi got the courage, thanks in part to a conversation with the over-enthusiastic Hinata, to say something. Or actually, yell something. And Yamaguchi was shocked when he saw Tsukishima smile. And more shocked when Tsukishima called him cool. He had hope again, hope that Tsukishima might find his passion. He also had a twinge of irritation as he watched him march off toward gym three to seek advice from the captains of other schools. Yamaguchi wished he could be every answer Tsukishima needed. He knew he wasn’t.

But after that, the tension between them dissipated slightly. And when they got back from the training camp, Tsukishima made him another mix CD. Tsukishima was leaning his cheek on his fist as he watched Yamaguchi talk with his mouth full during lunch. Tsukishima cringed slightly, but otherwise seemed unbothered by Yamaguchi’s rudeness. When Yamaguchi finished his story about what stupid thing he heard Tanaka say during their last practice, Tsukishima reached into his bag and slid the jewel case across the desk.

“Oh,” said Yamaguchi. The CD was labeled with a single English word: Rush.

“It’s a Canadian band,” Tsukishima said. “They’re… interesting.”

“I’ll listen to it soon,” Yamaguchi said as he shoved the disc into his bag and continued eating. Normally, his curiosity would be pulsating through his mind, but now he was distracted by the cookie his mom packed into his bento.

Tsukishima raised an eyebrow as Yamaguchi popped the package open.

“You want some?” Yamaguchi asked.

Tsukishima clicked his teeth and looked away without answering.

Yamaguchi broke the cookie in half anway.

When Yamaguchi got home that night, he loaded the CD into his boombox and sat back to listen, perplexed. Tsukishima hadn’t lied. It was interesting. It was weird. It was classic rock, but there was something off about it. And every song was like ten minutes long. And Yamaguchi was still pretty crappy at English, but he was pretty sure there was some other language being sung too. Was it French? The vibe was overwhelming. Like each musician in the band was playing a separate song and they mixed them together. It wasn’t incoherent, but it was complicated. Yamaguchi couldn’t decide whether he liked it.

The next day when Tsukishima asked his opinion as they walked to school, he didn’t hesitate before replying, “It was okay. Really weird.”

Tsukishima snorted and smiled. A broader smile than Yamaguchi had seen in a while. “Yeah. It’s prog rock.”

“Prog? Also, were they singing in French at one point?”

Tsukishima was still smiling as he answered. “Well, they are Canadian, so yeah.”

“I couldn’t understand any of the English either,” Yamaguchi said with his eyebrows furrowed.

“Don’t feel bad. I don’t think native English speakers know what the hell they’re singing about either,” Tsukishima said.

Yamaguchi smiled. Then he realized that he had been totally honest with Tsukishima about not liking a recommendation for the first time. For a moment, he worried that he should have just come up with something about how he liked the heavy bass line or maybe the changing time signatures. But Tsukishima didn’t seem mad about it. “Well, I’ll keep the CD. Maybe it will grow on me,” he said, mostly to himself.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, but there was still a little grin tugging on the edge of his lip. “Whatever.”

The next tournament arrived with a palpable excitement. And Yamaguchi managed to land a decent jump float service ace in a real game. But barely. Then he chickened out. And he hated himself. But Tsukishima didn’t give him a hard time about it, even if he deserved it for being a damn hypocrite.

So Yamaguchi redeemed himself. Finally, he did what he wanted to do. He played the hero in their rematch against Aoba Johsai. And it was so fulfilling. And Tsukishima was actually supportive, in his own icy way, which made the moment even sweeter. In the end they won. They got their revenge.

Any moment now, Yamaguchi hoped as the final day of the tournament arrived, Tsukishima will get his chance. Against the big boss, Shiratorizawa and their massive left-handed ace Ushiwaka.

Yamaguchi watched and waited until the moment finally arrived. Tsukishima shot down one of Ushiwaka’s incredibly powerful spikes and won the set. Yamaguchi willed the tears to evaporate from his eyes as he saw Tsukishima cheer for the first time ever during a game. He found it. Finally, he found his passion. Even getting injured twice didn’t stop him. After all, they beat Shiratorizawa and got their ticket to the Spring Nationals.

Tsukishima didn’t seem as happy as he ought to be, though, as Yamaguchi found him hunched over the sink in the bathroom, teeth grinding together in frustration. Before Yamaguchi could even register the words coming out of his mouth, he was yelling at Tsukishima again. As he slammed the bathroom door shut behind him, he realized he had just called Tsukishima stupid and felt a cold wash of regret surge over him. But Tsukishima deserved it. The tall blond moron was the MVP of the game and he had the audacity to complain that he hadn’t stuffed Ushiwaka more. Idiot. Yamaguchi shook the regret off of himself. No. Honesty felt good. Especially with his best friend.

The next time Tsukishima came over to Yamaguchi’s house, which wasn’t too long after their victory over Shiratorizawa, he brought with him another mix CD, perhaps the most surprising one of all. Yamaguchi didn’t read the handwriting on it before he popped it into his boombox as Tsukishima flopped back on the bed. He hesitated before hitting play, though, having something that he wanted to tell Tsukishima first. Honesty, Yamaguchi thought to himself as he turned around to face his friend who was reading some article on his smartphone.

“Hey, Tsukishima. You know I’m proud of you, right?” Yamaguchi said.

“That’s so embarrassing to say,” Tsukishima replied blandly as he swiped at his touch screen.

“Well, it’s true. But…”

“But what?”

Yamagichi steeled himself to spit it out. To tell Tsukishima what he really felt. “I wish that I had been the one to help you get there.”

Tsukishima furrowed his eyebrows and finally set his phone down. “What are you talking about?”

Yamaguchi wrung his hands. “I feel like you’re more into volleyball lately. I wish I had been the one to help you feel that way. Instead of those Tokyo guys.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Tsukishima said, sitting up now. “It was you, you idiot. When you told me about pride and all that.” He waved his hand like it was obvious. “But at least you know how I felt about that Shimada guy now.”

Yamaguchi felt his cheeks warm up at Tsukishima’s words. It was a lot to take in, but the only words that could fall out of his stupid mouth were, “You were jealous of Shimada-san?”

Tsukishima clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I wasn’t jealous. Just annoyed.”

Yamaguchi felt a laugh bubble up from his throat. “Tsukki, you’re an idiot too.”

“Whatever,” Tsukishima said, collapsing back onto the bed again and picking up his phone. “Just hit play already, would you?”

“Right. Sorry, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi said, turning back around to follow Tsukishima’s command. And the sounds that filled the room shocked Yamaguchi at his core. This wasn’t classical, metal, punk rock, prog rock, or even techno. This was idol pop music. Yamaguchi’s finger stayed hovering in its place over the play button as if it were frozen. His jaw hung open like the hinges were broken.

“What are you doing?” Tsukishima asked as though he were irritated.

Yamaguchi turned around with what he was certain was a very amusing facial expression. “What is this?” he asked.

“Do you like it?” Tsukishima’s expression meanwhile was totally placid, bored almost.

“Well, yeah. I really do, actually. I know the singers aren’t actually talented musicians or anything” Yamaguchi rambled as he sat beside Tsukishima on his bed. “But you know, there’s still a lot of talent in this overproduced music. There’s a whole team of people who work on these songs and a lot of layers and effects on the track.”

“Hm,” said Tsukishima as he clicked another article to read.

“I’m just surprised you like this kind of music,” Yamaguchi said.

“Oh, I don’t.”

Yamaguchi felt his stomach drop into his feet. Now he felt like the single lamest person on the planet. “What? Why did you make that CD then?”

“To see if you’d like it,” Tsukishima said. “I like to try out different genres, but I don’t like every CD I make for you.”

Yamaguchi felt like he was dying. All these years, he had been trying so hard to please Tsukishima by affirming his musical taste when in reality he had no clue what Tsukishima really liked. He felt like his whole relationship with Tsukishima was crumbling in an instant, dissolving into a puddle of miserable and embarrassing lies.

“I know you don’t like them all either,” Tsukishima said, a taunting grin lifting the corner of his lip slightly. “You’re not the best liar, you know.”

Yamaguchi was certain he really was dead now. This was hell. He was so embarrassed. “Well, this CD isn’t that great, really,” he tried.

“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima said. “I just told you that I know when you’re lying.”

Yamaguchi put his hands over his face and shook his head as he groaned in humiliation.

“I like when you’re honest with me,” Tsukishima said, his voice a little softer now.

Yamaguchi pulled his hands away from his eyes and looked at Tsukishima, whose face was gentler now. He looked younger, like when they were kids. Maybe their relationship wasn’t ruined. Maybe things were better than Yamaguchi thought. Then a realization flashed through Yamaguchi’s mind. “If you can tell when I’m lying, why the hell did you make me all those horrible techno CDs in middle school?”

Tsukishima snorted through his nose, a tiny laugh. “Honestly, I was trying to see if I could get you to like it. It’s one of my favorite genres. But it turns out you’re more stubborn than I originally thought.”

Yamaguchi shook his head and laughed. “You’re crazy. So what music do you really like?”

Tsukishima quirked an eyebrow. In all the years they had been friends, in all the time they had talked about music, this was the first time that Yamaguchi was really finding out what Tsukishima actually liked. It was sort of funny. “I like heavy metal and techno.”

“So the two genres I hate the most?” Yamaguchi said.

“Basically,” Tsukishima replied. “If I remember correctly, you didn't mind some of the metal."

"Yeah, the not-so-heavy stuff, though," Yamaguchi said in a droll, disappointed tone.

Tsukishima scrunched his nose. "Well, we both like classical at least. And it’s not like I hate classic rock or whatever. Especially after you told me that you feel sexy when you listen to it.”

Yamaguchi whined. "You remember me saying that?"

"Of course I do."

Yamaguchi felt something between fondness and mortification. Then he gave Tsukishima a funny, half-teasing expression, complete with a lopsided grin and scrunched eyebrows. “So can we still be friends even though we don’t really like the same music?”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Obviously,” he said.

“Will you keep making me CDs?” Yamaguchi asked.

“Duh.”

Yamaguchi slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yay! Thanks, Tsukki!”

Tsukishima threw an arm over his face and mumbled, “It's no big deal, Yamaguchi.”

It was almost time for nationals when Tsukishima handed Yamaguchi his next CD, after a final late night practice before the tournament. "Try this one," he said.

It was a rap CD. Yamaguchi hated it. And, remembering that Tsukishima appreciated honesty, of course, and that he didn't necessarily like the CD himself, Yamaguchi told him as much when they got settled into their hotel in Tokyo the next day.

Tsukishima smiled when Yamaguchi ranted about how he hated music with no melody. Then he asked, "Wait, do you like it?"

"Still mulling it over," Tsukishima said. "But probably not."

Yamaguchi was satisfied with that answer. Tsukishima always considered things carefully, thoroughly.

And in spite of everything, a few days later, Yamaguchi was satisfied with their run at nationals too. He got to stand on the court with Tsukishima, to execute a serve and block. Even if their rise to the top was cut short, Yamaguchi rested well that night, knowing that he did everything he could.

It was the first weekend after they got home that Tsukishima gave him another playlist, this time in a different format.

Yamaguchi had been invited to Tsukishima’s house for a movie and a sleep over, and when the morning came, Tsukishima was unsurprisingly the first awake. He was sitting at the computer in his room, working on something, when Yamaguchi’s eyes fluttered open. He saw from his sleeping bag on the floor as Tsukishima reached down to the PC tower. He heard the faint sound of something being unplugged from the machine. "There," Tsukishima muttered to himself.

Yamaguchi yawned to announce that he was awake now too. "G'morning," he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Oh. Yamaguchi, this is for you, actually," Tsukishima said, standing from his desk with something small, white, and rectangular in his hand.

"What is it?" Yamaguchi asked, his words forming around another yawn.

"My brother's old iPod. I cleared all his crap off of it and put some stuff on for you." Tsukishima tossed it at Yamaguchi’s feet.

Yamaguchi blinked at it dumbly for a few too many seconds until his sleep-addled brain caught up enough to protest. "No way! I can't take that! It's too nice!"

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. "This thing is several years old. Besides, both him and I have smartphones now so we have no need for it. You'd be doing us a favor to take it."

Yamaguchi picked it up and observed the worn out scroll wheel and the scratches on the little screen. Still, even if it was kind of a piece of junk now, it felt special. "Thanks," he said. Then he frowned. "But I like listening to your CDs."

Tsukishima grunted. "Just turn them into playlists and put them on the iPod. It's not that hard."

"Yeah?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Yeah." Tsukishima cracked a small smile. "I already put a curated playlist on there. Listen to it later. And don't shuffle it, alright? It needs to be played in the correct order."

"Okay, got it," Yamaguchi replied, sticking the device and its charging cable into the side zipper of his backpack. Then a question popped in his head and it tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. "But you've had those smartphones for months. Why are you just now giving this to me?"

"I was waiting until I was sure you'd be honest with me," Tsukishima said. There was almost something scolding in his tone, but the way his eyes sort of sparkled implied teasing.

Yamaguchi scoffed. "You won't let that go, will you?"

"I just think it's funny that you thought I couldn't tell the difference between an enthusiastic review and a horrible attempt to try to find anything nice to say. I mean seriously…"

Then they both laughed together.

When Yamaguchi got home that afternoon, he swapped his ancient, electrical-taped-together earbuds from his second hand portable CD player into the used iPod. He slid the unlock key and scrolled to the Playlists. There was just one so far, named Tadashi's Ultimate Mix. It reminded Yamaguchi of the old days, of the first mix tapes labeled in a similar fashion. But he missed Tsukishima's handwriting, the way his name looked in that barely legible scrawl.

As instructed, Yamaguchi began to play the songs, in order, leaning back on his bed with his eyes closed, ready to focus on what Tsukishima thought would be his perfect playlist. He was off to a good start. Kind of an obvious pick, it was Bad Company, the song that Yamaguchi had declared was his favorite three years ago. He still liked it and knew better than to be surprised that Tsukishima remembered.

The playlist was long, 30 songs in total. It started with classic rock, then meandered through J-rock, pop-rock, and pop-punk, then something more just pop, then idol group songs, then something a little slower and kind of romantic sounding. The last ten songs were all love songs. It was sort of imbalanced, the other categories only being afforded two or three songs each. Yamaguchi wondered if this was because Tsukishima wanted to know if Yamaguchi liked this style of music, like how he oversaturated him with techno and metal CDs in the past. Until the last ten songs, Yamaguchi felt like Tsukishima had wrenched his way directly into Yamaguchi’s mind to dissect it and probe it until it spat out the perfect playlist. The last ten songs… Well Yamaguchi wasn't sure where they came from.

But it’s not like he hated them. In fact, each track made him feel like his stomach was doing somersaults inside of him. He listened to the lyrics and couldn’t help the vision forming behind his eyes. It was a face. His friend’s face, complete with glasses and a shit-eating grin. Oh no, Yamaguchi thought.

When they saw each other on Monday morning for their walk to school, Yamaguchi wasn’t sure what to say. What to think. Then, of course, Tsukishima asked, “Did you get a chance to listen to it?” His voice was even, his expression almost blank. Like it was forced.

“Yeah, I did,” Yamaguchi said.

“And?”

Yamagichi briefly observed the white puff of air in front of them, their breath mingling in the cold winter air. “I loved it,” he said. “It felt like each song was hand-picked just for me.”

“Well, they kind of were, you know,” Tsukishima said with a teasing voice. Duh, the playlist had been called Tadashi’s Ultimate Mix.

They walked a few more steps in silence, letting Yamaguchi’s curiosity build up a bit, before he spoke again. “Lotta love songs, though.” He didn’t want to insinuate anything, and it wasn’t exactly a question, but it was an opening.

“Yeah,” said Tsukishima. “Do you like them?”

“Kind of sappy… But, um, yes,” said Yamaguchi. His face felt like it was on fire at the admission. “Do you?”

Tsukishima’s shoulders bobbed with a shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I think I’m starting to.” Without turning his head, he glanced at Yamaguchi’s face from the corner of his eye.

Yamaguchi hated this. Did it mean anything? Was this like before? When Tsukishima would be going through something and the music would match his mood? Or was it just a new genre he was trying out? And if it was the first thing, who was he in love with? Their team manager, Yachi? Somebody from another team? A random girl in class?

“Don’t think so hard about it,” Tsukishima said, snapping Yamaguchi out of his cyclone of thoughts. Apparently, being super cool, talented, smart and good-looking wasn’t enough for Tsukishima. Now he was a psychic too. “Anyway, I want you to make one for me.”

“A playlist? M-me?” Yamaguchi stammered, his brain not quite able to catch up with Tsukishima’s advice to stop thinking so much. “But I don’t know what I’d put on it. I mean, we have different tastes and you’re the one who really knows music. I don’t know…”

Tsukishima shook his head like he was disappointed. “Come on, Yamaguchi. It’s not rocket science. I just want to see what you’d make for me. It’s not that complicated.”

“Right,” said Yamaguchi. “Okay.”

Weeks passed. Yamaguchi spent hours each night hunched in front of his old computer, scouring the internet for any songs that inspired him, that made him think of Tsukishima, that he thought Tsukishima might like. But what songs could Yamaguchi give him that he didn’t already know?

“Did you forget about me?” Tsukishima asked on the way home from school on a Friday afternoon as he passed Yamaguchi another one of his CDs, a mix titled “More Love Songs.”

Yamaguchi placed a hand over his face to try to conceal his blush as he slipped the CD into his bag. “N-no, I’m trying,” he said. “So far, I have two songs.”

Tsukishima nodded. “Take your time, I guess,” he said, his voice somewhere between impatient and taunting.

Yamaguchi didn’t want to languish over the stupid project anymore. Their first year of high school was almost over and he wasn’t going to let his grades slip by spending hours staring at iTunes every night anymore. So he decided to just go on instinct. He didn’t care if Tsukishima thought his selections were trite or too mainstream or vapid or any other insult that Yamaguchi could imagine the worst version of Tsukishima using. Besides, Tsukishima wanted Yamaguchi to be honest about what he liked and didn’t like. Yamaguchi should embrace the same, without fear of rejection. He already knew they didn’t share the same tastes. It would be okay.

So that night he picked the first eight songs to come to mind when he thought about his friend, plopped a CD in the CD drive, and started burning it. A folk song, a few classic rock songs, one song he heard on a commercial for strawberry ice cream once, and a handful of sappy love songs that he recently found. The CD drive ejected the disc when it was finished. Yamaguchi took a permanent marker between his teeth, ripped the cap off, and wrote in his sort of loopy handwriting on the front of the disc: My Tsukki Mix.

The next day, he walked over to the Tsukishima residence, wanting to feel the immediate relief of being done with his assignment. He raised his fist to knock on the door, but it swung open before his hand could make it.

“Saw you coming,” said Tsukishima as he waved Yamaguchi in.

Yamaguchi put the CD sleeve into Tsukishima’s hand while they were still in the doorway. “Here,” said Yamaguchi with a fierce expression. “I did it.”

“Thanks,” said Tsukishima with a tiny bit of genuine enthusiasm. “Can we go listen to it?”

Yamaguchi hadn’t considered listening to it together, but he supposed he didn’t mind. He hadn’t put too much thought into the song selections. If Tsukishima didn’t like it, he already decided wouldn’t be hurt. “Sure,” he said, as they made their way to the bedroom.

Tsukishima loaded the disc into his sound system and then settled on the floor, leaning on the side of the bed. Yamaguchi sat beside him. Tsukishima raised his hand and clicked play on his remote, and the sound of the plonky string instruments filled the room. “Folk music, huh?” he said.

Yamaguchi shrugged. “I just thought I’d try it.”

Tsukishima closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the mattress. Yamaguchi watched his chest rise and fall, his gentle breath syncing with the song. It was like he was enveloped in it. Tsukishima really did love music more than anything, Yamaguchi thought, jealous, though, for the first time at the realization. He knew that it was true from when they were kids. Back then he didn’t hope for anything else, but now he wished that he could be that useful and permeating in Tsukishima’s life.

The next song started, a guitar riff screaming out of the speakers.

“I waited for this forever,” Tsukishima said, his voice a low murmur, so as not to drown out the music. “But I think you were waiting longer.”

“Huh?” Yamaguchi said, dumbly. “What was I waiting for?”

“You were waiting for me to get my act together, while I was waiting for you to be honest with me.” His eyes were still closed. “You labeled this CD. That it was your Tsukki mix. So this music… it’s what you think of me, right?” His voice was so calm and even, calculating almost.

Yamaguchi swallowed thickly. Perhaps his lack of thought in the track list was more revealing than he thought. Tsukishima understood too well. “Uh, yeah,” he replied.

“Then I’ll pay close attention.”

Yamaguchi pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. Was this a confession? What was this thing he created? Yamaguchi made the CD, and he didn’t even know. But as each song played, Yamaguchi felt more and more on display, every opinion he had of Tsukishima laid bare for both of them. Tsukishima was steady, he was cool, he was sexy, he was soft… And Yamaguchi was probably in love with him.

As the last song faded, Tsukishima’s eyes fluttered open. “It wasn’t a bad mix,” he said as a modest appraisal. “A little random, but it was totally you.”

“Well, technically, it was totally you,” Yamaguchi retorted, raising his finger to punctuate his point playfully.

But Tsukishima looked a bit more serious. Yamaguchi could tell that he was biting the inside of his cheek, that he was really concentrating about something. Then Tsukishima spoke again. “Do you really feel that way about me?”

Honesty. “Yes, I do.”

Tsukishima looked between them, where their hands were resting just millimeters away from each other on the carpet. “Yamaguchi,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is why I like music so much.” His pinky closed the tiny gap between them, overlapping with Yamaguchi’s. “It’s easier to say things that way.”

“I can just say it, though,” Yamaguchi said, feeling emboldened by the gentle pressure of Tsukishima’s smallest finger. “I don’t need the music to tell you that... I love you.”

The corner of Tsukishima’s lips tilted upward slightly, even as his eyes were still trained on their fingers. Yamaguchi continued to lace them together until their hands were properly clasping each other. Tsukishima rubbed his thumb along the back of Yamaguchi’s hand. “Well, you’ve always been braver than me, I guess.”

Yamaguchi snorted. “You’re the one who’s been giving me love songs for the past few weeks.”

“That wasn’t bravery,” Tsukishima said, tugging Yamaguchi to sit closer to him. “That was cowardice.”

Yamaguchi rested his head against Tsukishima’s shoulder. “We have different tastes,” he said. “You like me and I like you. Who cares if you couldn’t say it out loud? I like the way you told me.”

“Even if it was vague?”

“It wasn’t vague. I’m just stupid.”

Tsukishima laughed, then Yamaguchi joined him. And the sound of their combined laughter was like a new, better song. As its harmony thrummed pleasantly against Yamaguchi’s ear in an otherwise quiet room, he considered that, perhaps, he could be just as important to Tsukishima as music after all.