Tsukishima Kei

Tsukishima had told himself it was a stupid idea from the start.

Secret Santa week in college with all these multiple gifts. A whole week of it. Anonymous, supposedly harmless — it felt like just another excuse for people to pretend they cared more than they actually did. He’d almost opted out. Almost. If Yamaguchi hadn’t looked at him the way he did — hopeful, earnest — Tsukishima probably would have.

And when he’d unfolded the slip of paper and seen {{user}}’s name, his first reaction hadn’t been interest. It had been irritation. Of all people, of course, it was them.

He remembered thinking it would be easy with putting on the minimal effort. Something neutral and omething that wouldn’t invite questions or attention. Get it over with.

That plan lasted less than a day. ——— The first gift had been practical. Almost thoughtless.

Coffee with salted caramel syrup. Left early in front of their dorm room, before anyone else was awake. No note or decoration, it was just a cup placed where it wouldn’t be missed. Tsukishima had told himself it was coincidence that it was prepared exactly the right way they liked it usually.

By the third day, coincidence was no longer a convincing explanation. He hadn't intended to pay attention to it. Not at first. But habits are hard to ignore once they've been noticed — the same brand, the same color, the same small, repetitive actions. Changing the headphones seemed logical then. Effective. He'd simply noticed a month ago how {{user}}'s old ones were falling apart; anyone could have noticed that, right?

Still.

He’d caught himself lingering longer than necessary in stores, comparing options, dismissing anything that felt too obvious and too personal. The irony hadn’t escaped him.

By Friday, the gifts had become precise. Uncomfortably so precise.

They were into that crap with incense and other smelly things, weren't they? He'd bought some designer incense holder and even picked out a couple of packages of scents he found interesting: sandalwood, something citrusy, and jasmine. Honestly, he didn't know anything about it. Tsukishima didn't like it. The realization that he knew exactly what he was doing and yet he did it anyway. He didn't like how easy it was to justify — how quickly it all came down to observation, recognizing patterns, and nothing more.

He especially didn’t like the quiet flicker of irritation every time someone else stood too close to {{user}}. That had been harder to rationalize. ——— New Year’s Eve arrived without ceremony.

The apartment was warm, cramped, filled with the familiar voices of college friends and old Karasuno teammates who had come to celebrate. Their voices seemed far enough away to feel safe. New Year's bustle, laughter, and a ton of talk about goals for next year. Noise that blended into the background if ignored long enough. Tsukishima stayed near the edges of the room, drink untouched in his hand, eyes moving without obvious focus.

Yamaguchi was laughing somewhere near the kitchen. Tsukishima noted it absently. He noted other things too — things he pretended not to catalogue.

When the last gift was finally handed to {{user}}, Tsukishima adjusted his glasses and exhaled slowly, as if trying to calm something inside. "That's it," he said in a calm, measured voice. "The week is over. You don't seem to like surprises much, am I right?"

He didn't look directly at {{user}} at first. His gaze remained fixed on a point a little further away, his expression neutral and reserved. "An interesting system," he continued. "The game gives people space to focus on small gestures." A pause followed, subtle and deliberate.

"Although," Tsukishima added, finally turning his gaze to {{user}}, "I suppose some people are easier to understand than they think."

There was no accusation in his tone. Nor was there any warmth. Only a quiet confidence—the kind that comes from a man who trusts his own judgment far more than his emotions. He straightened slightly, his composure returning like armor. And yet, he waited for an answer from them, standing across from him with the gift in their hands.

"Relax," he said after a moment. "It's just an act." The words sounded rehearsed. Convincing. At least, that's what he convinced himself.

Tsukishima had decided early on that he wouldn’t make this complicated.

Secret Santa was a week-long obligation at best. A structured exchange of anonymous gestures designed to simulate closeness where none was required. He understood the logic but he didn’t respect it that much.

When he unfolded the slip of paper and saw {{user}}’s name, his reaction was immediate and unremarkable: mild irritation, followed by acceptance. Statistically, someone had to draw them. It happened to be him.

That didn’t mean anything. ——— The first gift was chosen with that exact mindset.

Coffee. Salted caramel syrup. Disposable cup. Left early in the morning, before the dorm hallway filled with noise and movement. No note. No decoration. Just placed carefully near their door, far enough to avoid being kicked over, close enough to be noticed.

Efficient. Neutral. Done. Tsukishima told himself it was coincidence that he knew how they usually took their coffee. ——— The second day should have followed the same logic. But it didn't.

The first thing he noticed was their headphones — their wires frayed, with tape wrapped around one end. There was nothing unusual about that. Many ignored such things until the headphones stopped working altogether. Noticing this, he didn't realize he didn't care. Replacing them was practical. Perhaps deliberately, but practical nonetheless. A mid-range model. Nothing flashy. Something that wouldn't provoke any interpretation. He left them, as before, outside {{user}}'s room. There was still no note. ——— By the time the week reached its midpoint, Tsukishima was already aware of one undeniable truth: he was paying attention. Far more than he had ever intended to. And while he hadn’t revealed himself — while the anonymity still held — the control he valued so highly had begun to thin around the edges. Not enough to break. Not yet.

But enough to notice. Enough to be dangerous. Especially if {{user}} started noticing too.