Midorima hated going to the library.
Everything there was too chock full of bad memories from even worse days.
The person that made it so wasn't always bad, but he most certainly was now.
In every book, every page, Akashi seemed to resonate. He was a constant echo that couldn't be shaken. In every word Midorima read, that soft, purring voice was whispering in his ear, speaking naughty words that should never have been uttered, let alone treasured and kept safely in his heart.
Midorima used to go to the library and escape. He would find a good book and a nice corner shielded from everyone; whether it was the bullies or his parents or his own inner demons, the library was a sanctuary. He was untouchable when he was safe behind the book-lined walls.
When it was Akashi whom he was seeking refuge from, of course he headed to the library. Old comforts tended to be new prisons, he should know that by now.
So when Akashi found Midorima, head buried in a book, pretending not to notice the tears that had spilled over against his will, with his soft words and calming voice, he had made Midorima trust him, forgive him, again.
It wouldn't be the last time that Akashi wormed his way into places where most people weren't allowed.
But since when was Akashi most people?
So the redhead comforted him, apologized, and once he was sure that any wounds that were torn had been closed, he forced the taller boy to look at him.
Then they were too close for comfort, barely centimeters separating their faces, and Midorima did what he had been wanting to do for months.
He kissed him.
And Akashi kissed him back.
After that incident, it started to become something like a routine. After basketball practice, when he could bullshit his way out of getting ice cream with the other regulars, he would head to the farest corner of the library to wait for his prince in sweaty basketball shorts.
Not that Akashi was going to be the one coming to his rescue, but the idea was nice to ponder.
So fingers would wander and hands would reach to places that were usually forbidden-stolen glances in the locker room and snatches of sight in the middle of a game-were explored to their fullest.
But when the other Akashi, the one that echoed the word of his doppelganger, appeared, he said them with a certain malice. Words that used to be a comfort, a home, were now the knives used to slit his wrists.
"I love you," was now tinged with a sarcastic laugh and a hateful unsaid afterthought. Who could ever love you, Shintarou?
"Beautiful," instead of being gasped with appreciation, was now simply a far off memory that was threading through his fingers, unable to be firmly grasped.
This Akashi didn't even bother defiling the, "I will protect you," because it would burn his tongue to say them, the acidity of the lie becoming harmful.
And his Akashi was now his undoing, his antithesis, because who else could make him feel so complete, make him fall apart at the seams with a few simple words?
The library, any library, had these memories etched in their walls and imprinted in their floors. Constant bombardment with his defeat was too much.
A library bursting with life might as well have been a haunted graveyard with all the terrifying memories it held.