A/N: This is the second last chapter! Thanks for sticking with me; although this is not my best writing I hope you all enjoyed it.


Two minutes in, his legs give way, and he tumbles, headfirst, into a patch of grass. They tickle his nose as he breathes, the fresh scent sears his nostrils and an euphoric feeling bubbles up, until it is countered with his guilt. It forces him in a crouching position, far into a stuffy corner, and pins him to the ground. He tries to take in air, but the iron weight pushes down on his chest.

Akaashi can't replace him. He isn't competent enough, for his jokes lack mirth, his movements are anything but powerful, and even his voice: soft, mature for the age he appears to be, does not match. Lead fills his veins, and he hears his own sound of defeat crash upon the grass, a bedlam of jangling, discordant notes.

In all the decisions he'd had to make for his entire lifespan, the one, suggestive voice that had told him to accept Bokuto was the worst.

The reason why he had accepted the offer isn't nominally important; it's the following flash of anger that blinds his hollow, emotionless eyes, later giving way to an abhorrent wave of regret, cerulean topped with white foam crashing against promises like broken glass. Each breath is a forward step into a depression of jagged splinters, and the blood is not flowing, not trailing behind and burying itself in the past, no, it was splayed in ribbons before him, twisting this and that way. And Akaashi doesn't bat an eye; his depleted energy has left even his eyelids motionless and wary.

He'd made a promise, under the limitless span of sky. Now, he has reached that limit, and the promise breaks itself into dust.

He's regretting every moment of his sorry life with his charge.

He wants to be relieved of the burden pressing his chest.

He wants to be reassigned.

And this time, out of all the wishes he's made, this one is granted, and his head is submerged completely in glass, translucent head to toe. The timer goes off in his head, a ringing bell shimmering. His arm starts to peel away into scintillating particles, blown away by the wind weaving through the treetops, and he sighs in pure contentment and bliss.

Whatever punishment he's been assigned to, due to using the forbidden technique, Akaashi can handle it. He's just glad he's going back to where he came from, his home.

Home.

Akaashi blinks open eyes he doesn't remember closing. The streets of Tokyo faces him, lanterns glowing with red, a beating heart. People clamoring over a hearty dinner. A little girl showing her mom of a picture she's drawn.

Going north, Fukurodani Gakuen resides by a ravine. The gym is packed today, as a neighboring school has requested a practice match. Komi is receiving every powerful spike with his bare arms, Konoha and Sarukui are gaining points for the team. Onaga and Washio defend the six, and one of their benchwarmers must be setting. And Bokuto's plays make up at least a quarter of those points, if he hasn't gone through his dejected mode yet.

Bokuto.

His spine snaps upwards in a sudden hurry. Where is he right now? Bokuto isn't at club, he was arguing with Akaashi. And due to his duplicitous nature, his rapid mood swings, could be anywhere now. And Akaashi has denied that fact for a long time.

Akaashi stamps his palm to the ground, and pushes himself up with a grunt. He needs to hurry, before anything bad happens. The street scenery paces at his sides, of dilapidated buildings, deciduous trees, and windows spilling squares of light on the sidewalk.

Reassigning could wait.


Bokuto squeezes his eyes shut while he walks, knowing the sidewalk is empty and he would not collide into anything.

The air is humid, dripping with moisture. It's going to rain soon. Flashbacks of the accident pummels his head and steals the darkness of his vision, and even without meaning to, images and sounds begin their playback.

Kuroo had been texting that day, while driving.

They've agreed to meet at the corner store, and they were looking forward to this, as both of them have not seen each other for a long time.

The moon had been hidden behind ominous clouds, but other than that, nothing had hinted at what was going to happen next.

And Bokuto, oh, he could've done something, maybe tell Kuroo to focus on the road; it was raining, for heaven's sakes! But Bokuto didn't, and the next thing he knew, his best friend got into an accident.

And the headlights were blinding, taking vision and sorrow prospects of joy away from him.

He rubs the memory from his eyes and looks forward, stomping his feet while walking. Akaashi... he had tried to be like Kuroo, in order to ease Bokuto back into his regular self. All this time, Bokuto has thought the change in Akaashi's stoic personality at times, even though scarce, was due to him warming up a little bit more during the spring season. Or when he had cried that silent night, showing a side to him Bokuto has never seen before. Not because of this.

Akaashi is his friend, and so was Kuroo. Both of them were dear to him, in different ways. As much as he is tormented with guilt over his best friend's death, he does not need Akaashi to change his personality in order to fit Bokuto's crumbling resolve.

Across the street, the lights glow, and Bokuto knows they're supposed to be red, yellow, or green, but the colors are blending into each other, a pasty grey smothered over the traffic. Someone is yelling, someone he recognizes, but only in his subconscious. Something tells him to pay attention to that voice, and he lifts his head in bewilderment.

Sometimes, there's this one moment where all your memories, all the mistakes, every feeling you've felt over the past few years, comes rushing at you in a dazzling torrent of emotions and colors, a showcase of the life you've lived. And time is just a construct to make it even more apparent that life is a limited thing, but that one moment can cause time to stop in its tracks. Bokuto is experiencing that one moment right now, and it's like deja vu: the grilles of the car, the brilliant white headlights burning in his eyes. Only this time, it's much, much closer.

And there is a large difference, because Akaashi is there, in front of the car.

Akaashi. Is. There.

The car screeches to a halt, a earstabbing pierce echoing off the streetlights, and time is stopped yet again. The world blurs and sways, lights dot his vision, and there are feathers, feathers littering the asphalt; he's done it again. He has done it again.

His voice is hoarse; it's not his, this voice, this pleading voice. Screaming his friend's name into the dead of night.

Akaashi hears his own name being called, and a pinprick of warmth slides down his stomach. It's Bokuto-san, he smiles inwardly; he's here, and everything is going to be fine, Keiji.

His wings are unfolding, brushing his back. He doesn't need to feel the feathers, coarse against his skin, to know that whatever extra time he was clinging to is up. Akaashi has to leave before it's too late. Before the memories Bokuto had of him could not be erased.

Bokuto would continue to live. Akaashi had, at least, made sure of that, and this is one thing he's not regretting, saving his friend like this. This gripping feeling, driven by impulse and shot with adrenaline, is this the feeling of accomplishment Bokuto-san had mentioned, in one of their earlier conversations? To describe the sensation isn't remotely important, but it's fulfilling, like "I've finally done something right, Bokuto-san." If Akaashi leaves on time, then Bokuto, as well as everyone who has seen or have met Akaashi, would cease to have him in their memories. He'll fade from existence, and if he were lucky enough, get another charge, a renewed situation, and the cycle would repeat. After all, Bokuto is a living human being, Akaashi isn't, and they'd never be able to coexist in one world.

But just to be amusing, Akaashi lets this infantile thought tickle his mindset.

Maybe they've always been in between material and immaterial. Maybe somewhere, will it be another lifetime or another existence, they could spend more time, both as humans, laughing and crying through their life together. Akaashi holds onto this sliver of twilight-coloured hope, keeping it close to his heart.

He can see it, a still image flashing before his eyes. April 7; He's gone too, the diary will say, before he remembers that it wouldn't even happen. When Akaashi leaves, there would be nothing to remember him by with, and Bokuto would wake up one morning with a bittersweet dream in his head.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, knowing the apology would never reach him, and even if it were to, what was the point? Apologies never cut it, it is only a mask, a cowardly way out, especially if you didn't mean it with your whole, exposed heart. There has to be a little bit more, like a hiccup to your voice, or an embrace, to show the genuity of it. Akaashi does not have enough time to fully express his sincere apologies, in a courteous way. Bokuto's knees are shaking, his cheeks red and slick with moisture, and the headlights frame his sturdy figure until he's glowing.

Akaashi will never get to have that dinner, and even if he knows his friend's birthday, would never be around to celebrate it.

Akaashi wants to say more, to let Bokuto know what he feels, about the strange feeling twisting his gut, all warm and aching and full of longing, but the words are not necessary, because Bokuto understands, somehow. And Akaashi sees his eyes, and they're intense, brimming with shock and grief.

They're made of starlight, and they are stars, in their own right.