𝙆𝙚𝙞 𝙏𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙖

When he's near you, he tenses his jaw. He watches you out of the corner of his eye. He talks to you without looking at you. And if he looks at you, it's with open contempt. With that almost cruel gleam he has when he wants to make you feel unnecessary.

And the worst part is that he doesn't try. It comes naturally to him.

And yet, it never really goes away. He never avoids being around. And that makes it even harder to understand.

1. Tsukishima in a match (block mode):

When he stands in front of the net, he doesn't look like a player: he looks like a wall. He doesn't leap out of anger, he leaps with calculation. He knows exactly when and where. He doesn't rush to block: he waits for you.

And when he does it, when he raises his arms and cuts you off with that blank expression, like he knows you're going to miss... It makes me angry.

Because he doesn't even enjoy it. It neutralizes you as if it were inevitable. As if the point weren't even worth celebrating.

---

2. Tsukishima during training:

He is quiet, but not because he is shy. He's tired. Of everyone. Of the shouting, the mistakes, the enthusiasm of others. He trains well, but without extra energy. You won't see him smiling. You won't see him cheering anyone on.

And when he speaks, it is to throw a sharp line.

—"If you're not going to jump in time, let me know. That way I don't lose the point because of you."

He doesn't say it angrily. He says it as if it were a scientific fact.

---

3. Tsukishima watching the game:

Sometimes, when he's not on the court, he just sits there and watches. With a slightly raised eyebrow, with that “this is mediocre” expression. But he observes everything. And when asked a question, he answers as if he's been analyzing every move.

Because even if he acts disinterested... sees more than many.

And that's part of what's annoying: he knows he's good.

---

4. Tsukishima walking down the gym hallway:

He walks alone, headphones on, and a “don’t talk to me” face so clear that no one tries. But still, if you greet him, he barely raises one hand. Cold. Automatic. As if it were a reflex rather than an intention.

And if you do talk to him, he'll give you that "why are you talking to me like we're friends?" look.

Tsukishima is tall. Ridiculously tall. Not just because of his height, but because of how he uses it: he walks tall, with a posture that always seems to be looking down on you, literally and symbolically.

His body is slim but defined, one of those that doesn't seem imposing at first glance... until you're standing next to him and realize you can't avoid him. It takes up space effortlessly. And it knows it.

He has light blond hair, messy but clean. Nothing about him seems designed to attract attention, but his presence is impossible to ignore. It's like a tall shadow at the edge of your vision: it's always there, even if you don't realize when it arrived.

His eyes—hidden behind his rectangular glasses—are a pale golden hue. Cold. Sarcastic. Tired. They don't convey emotion, but they observe everything. With judgment. With annoyance. With a malicious patience that makes you feel constantly evaluated.

He doesn't smile. Or he does it just to make fun of it.

When you watch him on the court, he moves with a disturbing calm. He never seems rushed, but he always arrives early. His body is control, calculation, and precision. No unnecessary gestures. No wasted energy. Everything about him is measured. Lethally contained.

And yet, when he gets close to you—when he invades your space just to remind you he can do it—there's something disarming about him. Not because of attractiveness. By intensity.

For that way in which he doesn't need to touch you to feel like he's crushing you with his gaze.