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northofneverland · 2 years

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The first time Tsukishima sees you is through his camera’s lens. You’re perched on a park bench, wrapped snugly in a chunky wool knit scarf, sipping on a cup of coffee as you leaf through an art book on your lap. From his camera, time seems suspended, with you at the centre of the photograph, the rest of the park goers blurring together until they blend into a swath of muted colours and nothing more. As his fingers hover over the button to capture this singular moment, of what he deems is perfection, your eyes find his lens and the shutter flashes.

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The second time Tsukishima photographs you, his photography class is on a walking tour around campus with the goal of capturing beauty in mundane activities. His camera finds you first, your figure centred, once again, perfectly in the middle of his display. A strong gust of wind awakens the fallen leaves scattered on the cobblestone path you’re both walking on. In a whirlwind of autumn, the foliage dances around you, and you throw your head back laughing, looking up at the sky with a look of wonder and bliss. Without thinking twice, he takes the picture. The LCD screen doesn’t do the moment justice, he thinks, but as he zooms in on your face, a shaky sigh leaves his lips as he notices the minor details that make you so captivating. While his peers are focused on their walk, he falls to the back of the crowd and fastens the cap on top of his lens. He doesn’t need his camera for the rest of the class; he already has the perfect photo. As you walk past him, brushing the remaining leaves out of your hair, his eyes can’t help but follow your figure till you’re far out of sight. And for the second time in his life, he finds himself thinking maybe he’s found a hobby worth pursuing.

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The third time Tsukishima runs into you, he gets your number. He’s sitting in a cafe, uploading and editing the photos he’s taken this month for his class’ monthly update. He adjusts his headphones so that they only fully cover one ear before he leans back in his chair, closing his eyes as he rolls out his stiff neck.

“Holy shit, is that me?”. Immediately his eyes snap open at the sound of your voice, and he’s greeted by the sight of you leaning over his shoulder as you try to get a better look at his computer screen.

“So what if it is?” he replies, coming off a little harsher than he intended, but you don’t seem to notice as you move closer into his space. Your face is close, too close, to his as you press against his shoulder. The smell of your strawberry perfume floods his senses, and, suddenly, he’s nervous. Suddenly his heart is hammering harder in his chest. Suddenly he can’t think of any snide or sarcastic remarks.

“I look beautiful” you whisper, your fingers reaching out, hovering over his screen.

“Everyone does when there are filters”. He wants to kick himself for being so rude, but a part of him hopes that you can keep up with his snide remarks. You do look beautiful, he’d be the first to admit, gorgeous even, and that’s why he’s been stuck editing this photo of you.

“Yeah, I guess, but you haven’t put any on”, you smirk as you point to the title of the image, campus_muse_original_image (duplicate before editing).psd. You pull a napkin from the dispenser before fishing in your jacket pocket for a pen. Uncapping it with your teeth, you write down ten digits before signing off as ‘campus muse’.

“When you’re done editing the photo, I’d love to have a copy of it”. Your speech is muffled as you try to put the cap back on your pen.

You’re nothing like he expected you to be; you’re everything he’s told himself he’d never like, too touchy, too loud, too excited, too… beautiful. But as you settle into a nearby table and start to work on your laptop, he can’t help but look up at you once in a while. Maybe if you were more like him it would work out, he thinks to himself as he stares at the napkin before crumpling it up.

Three days later, he finds himself punching your phone number as he attaches the photo of you to his text. His phone buzzes immediately after sending the message before buzzing a few minutes later.

Campus Muse: Thank You!!! Campus Muse: I must be perfect in your eyes, or you must be the world's worst photo editor because you didn’t change anything. Campus Muse: Also, until you tell me your name, you’re going to be called Campus Creeper on my phone.

Tsukishima can’t help but scoff at the last message before replying with his name. You’ll text back and forth for a week, at most, he figures, before you both forget about each other, but for the moment, he lets himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

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The first photo of the two of you as friends is actually a strip of four black and white photos taken in a cramped photo booth. He was wrong about you only texting for a week, you were insistent and he, well, he was entertained. And within those conversations, he began to realize that you had a lot in common and a few mutuals, specifically two loud family friends, whom he was well acquainted with from a summer training camp a few years back. Soon those texts evolved into lunches, which evolved into dinners, which evolved into late-night phone calls, and after a month, he feels like he knows everything about you and is addicted to knowing more. Which is why, he’s not as prickly when you drag him into a photo booth at the campus carnival with Kuroo and Bokuto. Tsukishima watches the three of you situate yourself in the small space, yelling out different suggestions of poses to strike before each flash goes off. It’s chaotic and reminiscent of his ‘adventures’ in high school but he can’t help but smirk at how much fun you’re having. As he looks over the freshly printed photo strip, he realizes two things immediately. First, he needs to teach Kuroo and Bokuto how to pose as their bodies are blurry in all four photos. Second, and more importantly, he needs to be better at hiding his expressions around you, because the way he looks at you, he learns, is not how friends look at one another.

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There’s only one picture to mark your first anniversary as a couple, and it’s a picture of you. The date of your one-year together lands on the day of a highly anticipated volleyball match, and instead of letting him call in sick, you insist that the two of you celebrate after his victory. Which is why he finds you, sitting on his bed with a makeup brush in one hand and a hand mirror in the other as he emerges from his bathroom in his competition jersey. He watches silently as you puff your cheeks, painting a little green frog on the right and the number 17 on the left. And while he hates the tacky green and yellow hue of his team’s colours, they don’t look so bad on you. The letters of his last name seem to fit perfectly on your back, he muses for a second, before shaking the thought from his head. Those are ones he can indulge in later in the night, in private, after the game; your presence is already going to be a big enough distraction and he doesn’t want to lose. Not today, not in front of you.

“Take a picture” you tease as you catch him staring from the corner of the mirror “it will last longer”. He can’t help but roll his eyes at your comment, but he pulls out his phone and takes the photo, flicking your forehead lightly, after he gets his shot.

“If you get paint on my jersey, you better wash it”.

That night, as you sleep soundly next to him on his bed, he traces his name across the width of your shoulders. He was right, he thinks as he pulls up the photo he took earlier, setting it as his phone’s home screen, it does fit perfectly.

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Tsukishima’s 10,367th photo of you is the one that convinces him to put in the effort of figuring out the steps of setting up a gallery show. It’s a close-up photo of your face from when he took you to watch the fireworks from the roof of your shared apartment building. The photo perfectly captures your childlike wonder, your eyes sparking as they mirror the kaleidoscopic designs in the sky. It’s a stunning photo. One of his bests he’d argue, as he looks at the image projected on the mini screen. But for him, this image is an awakening. No, it’s a confirmation. It is at this moment he realizes he wants to spend his whole life showing you how he sees you. Instead of enjoying the night with his head tilted up towards the sky, watching the symphony of colours like everyone else on the roof, his gaze is on you as he mentally begins to sort through the shots of you he wants to feature in his gallery.

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The most recent photo, and the last-minute addition to the exhibition, is one he took this morning. It’s arguably his most daring one yet. For once, you’re not the focal point in it, but it ties the exhibit nicely and he hopes he’s making the right choice of adding it in. Straightening the frame one last time, he heads back to the entrance where you’re waiting for him, glancing one last time at this picture, at the end of the long corridor of photos. Even though it's technically not of you, his heart can’t help but flutter a little as he walks away from it.

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If you were to ask Tsukishima how he was feeling about his upcoming photography exhibit his workplace is featuring, he’d say he’s feeling indifferent at best. To be completely honest, he’s scared shitless and everyone, except you, knows this. But he made a promise to you when you started dating, that if he were to contribute to an exhibit, in any capacity, he’d give you a private tour of it the night before it opened. He made that comment in passing, tangled in sheets as you were drifting off to bed, never thinking you’d hold him to it. Then again, he never thought you’d stick around after all these years. To him, you were his muse. But what was he to you expect for the tall, grumpy boyfriend who could get things off of tall shelves? You’re here with him, he reassures himself, as you clutch his left arm and he leads you to the first photo of the exhibit. You’re with him, you have been for six years and you love him; he repeats this mantra twice over and his mind settles. His right-hand palms the small box he’s kept in his pocket for luck despite everyone insisting he won’t need it.

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You meander through the quiet gallery with your boyfriend in tow, giggling and laughing at the hundreds of memories frozen in time for you to reminisce on. Most of the photos are ones that you’ve seen before or ones that you remember him taking, and Tsukishima’s heart swells seeing you so happy, seeing you so happy because of him. His pace slows as you walk ahead, to the end of the gallery, and your eyes catch a glimpse of a photo you’ve never seen before. Knowing what captures your attention, Tsukishima hangs back, giving you your own space, and watches you analyze the photo. It’s one that has consumed his entire being since taking it yesterday; it's one that can change everything. He blinks and the image is still ingrained in his mind. You’re in the background of the photo, back facing his camera as you’re washing the leftover dishes in the kitchen sink. In the center of the frame, in razor-sharp clarity, are his index finger and thumb holding up a dainty diamond ring.

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“So, what do you think?” he asks, weaving his arm around the shape of you as he comes up from behind.

“About the gallery? Not bad, but you could have picked a better subject.” Half-heartedly, you elbow his side but he barely budges, scoffing at your weak attempt at humour and show of strength as you both appreciate the art in front of you.

“And what about this photo?” he urges, his voice tinged with annoyance, as he nods to the frame.

“What about it?”

“What about it” he imitates, his voice octaves higher than your own.

“You know I’m not good with words, are you going to make me ask?” he grumbles, reaching into his right pocket. The velvet box feels heavy in his hand and he wants to know that you’ll say yes. He’s had this box for almost six months and each time he believes he’s ready, he backs out last minute. Tonight, despite the voice in his head that says to prepare for the worst, he feels ready- well, as ready as he’s ever been. As he opens his mouth, the box halfway out of his pocket, you interrupt him.

“Well, if you’re not going to, I will”. Your fingers grip the film canister that has found a home in your purse for the last six months. Taking his large left hand in yours, you drop the small container into his open palm, the cylidrical box rattling softly before it settles in his grasp. A second later, a small black box is shoved lightly against your chest. As your fingers wrap around it, your boyfriend looks away, his lips slightly pursed and his brows knotted as a pink flush blooms on his cheeks.

“I’ve, I’ve had this for a while, but I think it would look better on your finger” he stammers, as he opens the canister, shaking out the band you had picked out for him with Tadashi, admiring it for a few moments before sliding it onto his left hand.

“Ar…ar…aren’t you gonna put yours on?”. You haven’t moved, the black box still unopened in your firmly clasped hands. Tears are welling in your eyes, as your gaze shifts between the empty film canister and his left hand. I’ve messed up, he worries, pulse racing as his fingers begin to nervously thumb the new gold band that feels so right on his finger. This isn’t how you wanted him to propose, it’s too cheesy, too flashy, too unromantic, too harsh, too…

“Kei” you whisper, cupping his cheek before smoothening your thumb over his wrinkled brows, “it’s perfect, you’re perfect. I just want you to put it on me”.

And he does, in between kisses and whispers of your name, against the backdrop of all his memories of you.

A/N: First of all I don't usually ever think about Tsukki but I couldn't shake this idea out of my head. In my mind, University Tsukki is still snarky and cold, but it's muted in comparison to who he was at the beginning of high school. I do think he still has a lot of moments of self-doubt and these doubts extend past the volleyball court. Maybe I've got him all wrong and maybe this isn't how you see him but nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this. Second of all, I'm so tired of reading this over and I know I missed a few editing things but please just ignore them. It's hard to edit your own work especially when you've read the same few pages over and over again. psssst. @kagejima (as you requested, here's your tag)

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