i've been working on this for a while now and so i'm both relieved but also in disbelief to say that at last it's finally done. it's a long read ahead (my longest oneshot to date) but this is a story that is very, very dear to me and i hope you guys enjoy it too :)
many many thanks to the keepers of my heart: Hal for thirsting with me over god's gift to man Akaashi Keiji and for being my beta again, and E for laughing at me when she stumbled across my mess of a draft during that one sleepover that one time lmao jk thank u for helping this protozoan i couldn't have done this without u guys mwah i love u both loads! x
disclaimer: i don't own haikyuu!
"Oh."
"Oh," Keiji says and it starts like this:
Koutarou comes home.
§
The first time Keiji sees Koutarou in eighteen months, it is on a crisp, late morning in the heart of fall.
"Sorry, Konoha-san," Keiji murmurs nonchalant, eyebrows slightly raised as he takes in the sight of the man before him. His companion's curled hand is frozen in surprise as it hovers above his shoulders. Keiji jolts him back to his senses, the tone of his voice as cool as the night. "I guess this is where we part ways after all."
"O-oh, yeah...uhm," Akinori splutters. "Sure."
The man in question stares back at their two figures. Bokuto Koutarou stands at a humble distance of a mere three meters away, clad in a faded volleyball jersey from the tournament they held last season – a pint of ice cream in hand and a wooden spoon in his mouth, his left foot wrapped in what seems to be a week-old cast.
Akinori's slanted eyes are now as wide as saucers, and the agape expression that paints itself vividly on his face equally mirrors the shellshock that is evident on Koutarou's very own.
"I'll call you," Akinori manages to let out in haste, just as Keiji ushers him out the apartment.
"Yes, that would be nice. Thank you," Keiji replies warmly as he shuts the front door. He slides the lock promptly into place before he turns his attention back onto the other man.
"Hi, Keiji! Bet you're wondering what I'm doing here, huh? Funny story, you see, the season's over and so I–"
Keiji doesn't listen. Instead he steels himself for this moment; holds back his tongue and swallows down his heart as he looks Koutarou in the eye with a gaze as sharp as a dagger, promptly cutting him off. Simply, he says:
"Welcome back, Bokuto-san."
§
these are the things that remain:
1) a worn out coat
2) a crumpled post-it:
"we're out of eggs. please don't forget to buy maple syrup on your way home, bokuto-san."
§
They don't talk about it, almost.
Keiji doesn't ask Koutarou about what happened, nor does he shoo his prodigal roommate away. Instead, he ushers the older boy to join him in the kitchen and brews them some coffee in the french press machine he'd gotten on an impulse purchase he made last week. Koutarou seems equally unwilling to talk – either that, or he could also be blissfully ignorant. Regardless, given his current prospects, Keiji is pretty fucked.
"I cleaned up your room when you were gone," Keiji says to Koutarou instead, skirting around the issue as he hands him the coffee, a steaming cup served in one of the common mugs they had saved up for guests.
Koutarou follows his lead by taking his drink and cupping it carefully in his hands, leeching off its warmth as it spreads towards his fingertips. They settle for the dining table. Keiji reaches over for the sugar and empties a sachet into his drink; he hands his roommate two packs of sweeteners for his own, before resuming the act of stirring his cup.
"Just last month," Keiji recalls, "Hinata came over after a fight with Kageyama looking for a place to spend the night. He stormed right out their apartment without so much as a hundred yen coin on him, much less a wallet, so I offered he come here rather than spend an evening moping on the streets. I let him use your bed since it was more comfortable than the couch, do you mind?"
Koutarou shakes his head. "Not at all, I–"
"Good. I figured. But I had the sheets washed after he left the next morning," Keiji continues, downing the coffee in careful sips in between his tale. "I didn't touch anything else there, don't worry. Everything is exactly as you left it."
§§
"He just wants to get into your pants," Tooru declares after Keiji shares to him his woes the next day at the office, the two of them falling into line at the printers to mass produce the flyers Kenma had wanted to hand out for the live event next week.
"He already had my pants," Keiji tells him off as he pinches the bridge of his nose, faintly annoyed. Tooru watches as Keiji positions the original flyer into the scanner window and grabs a fresh stack of paper to load into the printer cart.
"Honestly, Oikawa-san," Keiji mutters as he punches in the keys for fifty copies, and slams the scanner cover down with mild force. "If I told you that the old obaa-san from the market yesterday gave me some fresh eel for cheap, you'd remark she only did so solely for the same reason. You'd say that she had wanted to get into my pants. You say everyone wants to get into my pants."
"He's not wrong," a glib voice butts in as a pink-haired man sidles up to the pair mid-conversation. "Who wouldn't?"
"Hanamaki-san?" Keiji half-gasps, feeling almost betrayed. "What the hell?"
The raven-haired turns to Takahiro with a furrowed brow. The taller salaryman gestures the timeliness of his presence as a quick attempt to squeeze in a small print job for some documents due on the twenty-fourth.
"I'm just saying, Akaashi-kun," Takahiro tells them as he raises his arms in mock-surrender, promptly fleeing after he retrieves his print-outs from the next printing machine over. Tooru hollers a quick Thanks Makki! in his direction, before Keiji shoots him another irritated glare. The printer beeps and promptly cuts off his train of thought.
"Another paper jam," Keiji mutters in an exasperated sigh.
Tooru returns the look with a halfhearted shrug and takes half the stack of flyer copies off the printing tray. "Relax, Aka-chan," he says as he hands the rest of the pile to Keiji, opening the printer cover and peering closely inside. "Let's try it again, shall we?"
§
The rest of the week passes them by just as quickly as the breeze. Keiji spends his mornings speeding out the apartment to catch the first train to Nishi-Eifuku while Koutarou sleeps through the chaos of the other's daily salaryman routine. When Keiji comes back home after clocking out of his usual eight-to-five, he's greeted by a hot plate of dinner prepared by no less than his roommate himself – which more often than not consisted of matching plates of yakiniku and a bowl of lettuce drowned in heaps of sesame dressing, far more than what could be considered healthy.
(The old Keiji would have pestered Koutarou for standing up and making dinner considering his condition in the first place, but the better part of him now chides himself for the thought and bites back his words.)
They eat together in silence for the most part. Koutarou downs his plate in quick gulps while Keiji takes his in smaller bites, though at an equally alarming pace. They loiter around the room for a while longer after their appetites have been satisfied, with Keiji washing the dishes by the sink and Koutarou sitting by the table, either scrolling through his phone feed or flipping through another issue of Number.
Keiji makes no complaints.
(It's not his place to say anything anymore, after all.)
§
Keiji declines Tooru's offer to head out for drinks at the local izakaya one night, instead opting to head back home after a long day. But it's Friday, Aka-chan! Tooru had whined when he first rejected the older boy's offer. The younger man would have normally given in and allowed himself to stay for at least one round, but right now Keiji's tired. He'd been tense for the past twenty days, walking around on eggshells with his latest live-in partner until his social and emotional battery was drained to the core. All Keiji can do to muster himself to keep on living is the thought of his bed welcoming him to a good night's promise of blissful oblivion.
So when he opens his apartment door to be greeted by the sight of his roommate slash ex-boyfriend in a post-shower state and clad in nothing but his boxers and two-week-old cast, struggling to undo a too-tight knot of plastic wound around his leg, Keiji is too tired to attempt polite conversation.
"Okaeri, Akaashi," Koutarou greets.
"Give me your foot," he answers back, and Koutarou complies.
§
"You were very thorough with this," Keiji notes, observant, cradling the injured boy's leg in his lap as they sit together on the living room couch. The former setter bites his lip, furrowing his brows as his eyes quickly assess the situation. "Too thorough, I think."
"Why don't we just cut the plastic with some scissors, Ke––...Akaashi?"
"You wound it too tightly, Bokuto-san," he replies, "If I were to cut the knot now, where it's so close to your skin, I might injure you further in the process. But if I just cut another part of the bag and tear through it, then you'd have an awkward band of plastic tied around your leg."
The former setter's slender fingers brush gently like a shy caress against the surface of Koutarou's skin as he undoes the first knot of two. Koutarou squirms in his seat.
"Patience, Bokuto-san," he murmurs, "I'm halfway done."
Keiji works with practiced ease, a meticulous precision. His hands are careful as they work, gentle with Koutarou in the familiar kind of way that they always have. Cautious. Patient. Firm.
"Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Koutarou asks.
"No."
"Really? You're not the least bit curious, are you?"
"There's no need for me to be," Keiji answers with a faintest shake of his head, tucking out the loop of Koutarou's second knot. "I already know, Bokuto-san."
How exactly, Keiji doesn't say. Instead, he takes his time to lift the other boy's leg gingerly off his lap and unwrap the plastic. He utters a quick Done, and at last he lets go.
"Okay," Koutarou hums in acknowledgement as he stretches his leg, satisfied. "Thanks, Akaashi."
(Later, when Keiji tells Koutarou politely that he is welcome, he doesn't quite manage to look at him back in the eye.)
§
these are the things that remain:
1) a worn out coat
2) a crumpled post-it:
"we're out of eggs. please don't forget to buy maple syrup on your way home, bokuto-san."
3) a faded scar, etched into the grooves of Keiji's left hand
§
Keiji spends Saturday evening lounging at Akinori's cafe bar. It's a cozy place – a nondescript hole-in-the-wall that buzzed with the hustle of the Suginami city rush in the early mornings and thrummed with the beat of the blues from live gigs they hosted in the late hours of the night. Keiji has always loved it here – the chatter of the crowd and noise of the clattering silverware were enough to remind him that he was never truly alone. This solitary thought, the impartial connection he'd shared with the indistinct weight of a nameless human presence, had always seemed calming to him. Comforting, even.
"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice calls out and snaps him out of his daze. Keiji looks up to find the bartender holding out a highball much to his pleasure. "On the house," Akinori offers, prompting Keiji to accept the cold treat.
"Thank you, Konoha-san," the salaryman replies, taking the glass from the bartender with a warm smile on his face.
"So how's the new living situation? Is our resident ace causing trouble again for you?"
Keiji shakes his head.
"No, I–"
The chimes by the store doorway signal the arrival of a new customer. A suit-clad man props himself up on the bar stool on the far end of the room, and raises an arm to call the bartender over.
"Sorry, hold that thought. One sec," Akinori grimaces. Keiji waves off his worries with a peck on the cheek and promptly shoos him away.
The taller man heads to the other end of the counter and takes note of the man's order. One red devil coming right up! he announces as he grabs the ingredients off the shelf. Keiji notes the way Akinori carries himself with a new sense of professionalism so different from how he once remembered his senpai from their golden days in Fukurodani. He's changed, he realizes belatedly.
They all have.
Keiji sits quietly as he watches Akinori work – observes how he pours the grenadine and rum and something else that Keiji can't quite recognize into the cocktail shaker, how his movements are precise and refined with a delicate speed that can't be matched by none other than sheer muscle memory.
Keiji catches himself attempting to jot it all down in a mental list – 35 New Things To Learn About Konoha Akinori. It's an old habit he finds himself unable to shake off, and wonders if that, too, counts as a result of sheer muscle memory on his part. He perishes the thought.
In the background, a pair of musicians make their way to the platform to set up the stage for their performance. Keiji allows his attention to waver to the two women – a bespectacled beauty, with a mole under her chin and flowing waves as dark as the night sky, together with a shorter blonde, whose hair was tied in a half-up ponytail that reaches just a little past her shoulders. They take a bow and introduce themselves, but the welcoming applause overpowers his ears before Keiji can make sense of their words. He fails to catch their names.
Then, the room falls quiet to a solemn, eager hush. Keiji recognizes the song as soon as the blonde presses the first two keys on the piano, long before the vocalist mutters any of the lyrics.
Sometimes I wonder, the woman purrs into the microphone in dulcet tones, why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song…
Keiji takes a sip of his highball and lets the music carry his mind away the whole night through.
§
(We are all stories in the end, his mother had told him once. Tell me, Keiji, of all the tales I've read to you in the past, which of them had been your favorite?
The one about Icarus, he confessed. It's a tale Keiji remembers well - the story of a boy who once reached for the sun only to fall to his most humble demise.
Keiji imagines himself to be the exact same way: a little boy with his store-bought feathered wings, dreams held together by nothing more than the stars in his eyes and dried superglue on his fingers.)
§
Monday finds a familiar mop of rooster-like hair in the waiting hall of Keiji's workplace. Tetsurou is loitering around the office again, flipping through what appears to be the latest edition of Jump which he probably bought from Lawson's on his way to their building.
"Yo," Tetsurou greets as Keiji walks past, not bothering to look up from his magazine.
"Good morning, Kuroo-san," Keiji returns his greeting with a frown, "I don't suppose you have any official business here this time?"
"I do actually. Have official business, yeah. Definitely."
A raised eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Delivering Kenma's daily fix of apple pie..."
"That's not–"
"Officially," Tetsurou quickly supplies with a less-than-helpful attempt of a finger gun pointed in Keiji's direction. "I'm officially delivering Kenma's daily fix of apple pie."
Keiji stares at the older man blankly, clearly unamused. "Uh-huh. Suit yourself, but that was a horrible attempt at a save, Kuroo-san."
"Bah! Everyone's a critic. Anyway," Tetsurou shifts the conversation as he tucks in the receipt between the spread of his current page and flips the magazine closed. "Word on the street is that Bokuto's back in town. Have you seen him yet?"
"Everyday," Keiji tells him wryly. "We live together, remember?"
"Still?"
"He came back to our apartment a few weeks ago with his foot wrapped in a cast because of a fractured ankle," Keiji sighs. "I couldn't exactly turn him away and leave him out in the cold like that."
Tetsurou's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Keiji holds himself back from rolling his eyes.
"Contrary to what you may expect of me, Kuroo-san, I may be strict but I'm not exactly heartless."
"Well, shit. He fractured his ankle?"
"I'm surprised he hasn't told you."
"We're in separate divisions," Tetsurou explains. "The season's over for Bo and I both, but our schedules still flow differently, you know. I've been pretty M.I.A. from the rest of society, since promo stuff with our sponsors went on up until two days ago."
"I see."
"So, how bad's the injury?"
"He still walks around the apartment fine, albeit with support, so I think he'll be healed in about a month's time or less." The younger explains, "I suspect it was because he overexerted his legs for the past two games preceding the finals. He probably failed to build the right momentum when he made that last jump for his slide attack against Suntory, which cost him an imbalanced landing."
"You suspect?"
Keiji shrugs.
"Consider it an inference, then. I don't know."
"That's oddly precise for an inference, Akaashi-kun. Pretty detailed, even, for it to be more than just a mere hunch. It almost sounds like—"
"You were there," Keiji snaps, cutting him off. "You saw it."
(But so did you, Tetsurou's eyes tell him, and his question cuts through the air clear and crisp even without him speaking: You were there too, weren't you?)
"I didn't feel the need to pry him for more details," Keiji declares to him instead, pointedly ignoring the older boy's tacit inquiry. "We're not exactly on the best of speaking terms, mind you. If you're not satisfied with my explanations, you can always approach him yourself to confirm my hypothesis."
Tetsurou hums, partly in acknowledgement, but partly because he doesn't seem quite satisfied with the other's answers. Like he knows something that Keiji – or perhaps more specifically, Keiji's pride – wouldn't allow himself to admit.
"So...roommates, huh," the rooster-haired settles for instead. "How's that working out?"
Questions, questions. And once again, more questions. What was this, a job interview? An appointment with a therapist? Keiji shoots the older man a petulant look in unspoken askance.
Tetsurou watches on, patient. There's a glint in his catlike eyes, a sly curve upwards tugging on the corners of his mouth. "Well?"
"It's quiet, mostly. Like we coexist in the same roomspace while he lives his own life and I live mine. It's different from before, but nothing very special..."
Tetsurou makes an effort to pull his expression together in an exaggerated pout, obviously unsatisfied. "Boo, boo, boring!" he tuts in complaint. "That's not what Oikawa told me."
"Oikawa-san is a liar."
"Is he now?"
"Yes. Don't believe him."
"Oho? Why not?"
Keiji can't help the way his lips instantly curl into a frown. "I'm afraid that whatever it is that he's said about Bokuto-san's current situation, unfortunately for you, is a lie."
"I'm not following...uh, wait– okay. Okay, Akaashi, I don't think we're on the same page anymore. You have to tell me: what did Oikawa say about Bo?"
Keiji's gaze narrows, hardens; gunmetal blue eyes as cold as an unforgiving steel.
"Oikawa-san says that he's doing it to get into my pants."
"Right," Tetsurou nods almost solemnly in a mock show of approval. "Right, okay. Yes. And–"
"And it's Oikawa-san."
"I fail to see the problem here."
"The problem here, Kuroo-san, is that it is Oikawa-san. You know how he is," Keiji groans, holding himself back from throwing his hands up in the air in sheer exasperation. "He says everyone wants to get into my pants."
The older man gives the salaryman a quick look-over, eyes skimming his lithe frame clad in a freshly pressed work suit, before flashing his signature smirk that Keiji wants no more to do with except to wipe off from his annoying face. The younger man feels a vein throb in irritation. Tetsurou does little else but offer him a lazy shrug of his shoulders and his ever-smug half-leering smile.
"Well," Tetsurou tells him, "where is the lie?"
§
Tetsurou calls him once.
It happens well into the evening, when Keiji is forced awake by a persistent buzzing, an ubiquity that rivalled even the heavy weight of sleep that begs at his eyelids to flutter back closed.
The clock reads 2:30 AM. Keiji's cellphone screen is as bright as the summertime sky when it reads out 'Pain in the Ass' in bold text on the caller ID. His brow furrows as he squints his eyes to read it.
He picks up.
Over static, the baritone of the older boy's voice comes out tinny. Soft. Keiji holds the speaker closer to his cheek; forces himself to strain his ears in order to listen. On the phone, Tetsurou asks:
Were you watching him, Akaashi?
It comes out of him like an admission –– the word tumbling out his lips sooner than he can stop it from reaching the other end of the line. Tetsurou ends the call instantly; clicks before Keiji can register that the line has gone dead and the dull noise of the dial tone is the only sound that he hears beeping mockingly against his ear.
Yes, Keiji had answered him, a confession plain and simple.
(Perhaps he never stopped.)
§
these are the things that remain:
1) a worn out coat
2) a crumpled post-it:
"we're out of eggs. please don't forget to buy maple syrup on your way home, bokuto-san."
3) a faded scar etched into the grooves of Keiji's left hand
4) an unsent memo:
"Have a safe trip, Koutarou."
§
Keiji comes home from work with a migraine, the stress built up within him over the past few weeks manifesting itself in an unforgiving ache at the backs of his eyes and an altogether throbbing head. He's grateful Tooru insisted he get off early when they saw each other at lunch earlier, because the dull ache he woke up with that morning had progressed into something more like a menace as soon as he stepped onto the subway back to his apartment.
It won't kill you to miss a day of work, Aka-chan, much less half of one! Tooru had nagged at him then, and Keiji clicks his tongue recalling the former's choice of words. Death seemed to be a highly viable option at the moment. In fact, with how sore and dizzy Keiji was right now, nursing his massive headache, he wouldn't really mind dying.
Keiji firmly jams his key into the hole and cracks the door to his unit open. The squeak of its hinges signal his arrival, and the sound has Koutarou hobbling over from his bedroom to the entryway in an instant, all beaming smiles and bright cheery eyes. His boisterous voice resounds loudly against the thin apartment walls.
"Hey, hey, hey!" he exclaims excitedly, and Keiji winces at the overwhelming volume of the boom of his voice. "Who's my surprise gue–...Akaashi?"
"H-Hey," the salaryman greets with a shaky wave of his hand as the door clicks shut behind him. Keiji's not really sure how much longer he can hold out by now, with the room spinning before him and dark spots floating in and out of his peripheral vision. He feels faint.
"You're back early," his roommate probes, amber eyes curious as he watches Keiji sluggishly strip off his coat and make an effort to remove his shoes at the genkan. "Is everything alri–...Keiji!"
His legs buckle underneath his weight, and Keiji collapses from the meager attempt – body slumping forward as he very nearly crumbles into a heap. A pair of arms reach out almost instinctively, and Koutarou is quick to catch him.
Damn it to hell, all Keiji wanted to do was just remove his shoes.
"Whoa there," Koutarou mutters under his breath, strong hands easing his former setter down as he gripped him by the shoulders. "You okay, 'Kaashi? Are you hurt? Do you feel sick or something?"
Koutarou feels Keiji's forehead for a fever, and then checks again by cupping the other's face in his hands. Keiji leans into his touch. He's a bit warm, sure, but the temperature isn't high enough for Koutarou to peg him an invalid. The athlete helps lower Keiji down to sit, and the raven-haired boy anchors himself with his palms to the floor in a feeble attempt to keep steady.
"Hey...Akaashi?" Koutarou breaks the silence to ask him what's wrong, stooping low to rub the other's back in soothing circles all the while. "You're kinda scaring me right now. Do we need to take you to the hospital? Should I call an ambulance? Hey? Akaashi…? Please don't pass out on me. Hey. Akaashi. Akaashi? Keiji?"
"K-Kou–" Keiji manages weakly, his quiet voice now falling faint. It's soft in a tone just shy of a whisper, like a sigh in his sleep.
Koutarou hovers over Keiji's wilted form in concern. His setter's face is worryingly pale, his eyes are clamped shut, and his brows are furrowed tightly in discomfort. There are dark circles nestled like shadows underneath the other's eyes. Koutarou peers closer and ceases his ministrations; Keiji lets out a small whimper of protest, his cry resounding in a muffled groan of pain.
Shit.
Koutarou relocates from the other's back to stroke the top of Keiji's head, familiar fingers running gently through tousled curls of ink black hair. With a practiced hand, the spiker shifts his thumbs atop his setter's cheekbones, movements kneading the other's temples with a firm, relieving pressure. The boy melts beneath his fingertips.
"Hey, hey, hey, Keiji," Koutarou murmurs, his voice levelling down to a steady, trained whisper. "Sorry I didn't realize it sooner. You have a migraine again, don't you?"
As Keiji stirs, Koutarou rushes to take the younger boy's hand, gingerly resting it atop his palm.
"No need to talk. I know you're tired and it hurts when things are loud. So just tap once for yes, twice for no... like old times, yeah?"
One tap. Koutarou mentally cheers for progress. Okay. This is okay.
"Great. Now, I'm going to carry you on the count of three. It'll rustle you a bit though, just a heads up. Ready?"
Two taps.
"Listen, Keiji. I'm gonna need you to work with me on this. You'll catch a cold if you stay out here and I need to bring you to bed."
Two taps.
"What do you mean 'no'?"
Silence.
"Is it the cast?"
One tap. Koutarou snorts.
"Silly Keiji, now's not the time to be worrying about me. My leg's healed up enough these past few days," he assures, "I can manage a quick deadlift to bring you to your room just fine."
Two taps. A pause. Two taps. Another pause. There really was no winning here. With a heavy heart, Koutarou reluctantly concedes.
"Ugh, fine, we're breaking tradition this time. No deadlifts. If you can stand, lean on me and we can walk to your room together. I'll support you before you fall again. If you feel dizzy or like you might pass out again, give me three taps and we'll take a quick break. Sound good? "
One tap.
Koutarou lifts him up again slowly by the shoulders and drapes an arm around him, taking on half the weight of the other's frame. He holds him like a fragile thing, firm yet careful, as though Keiji were a creature carved out of glass.
(Easy now, Keiji, he hears Koutarou say over the distant buzzing of his ears. I'm here, Koutarou reminds; his voice is a steady anchor that holds him safe amidst the haze, I've got you.)
It takes them twenty minutes to trek from the foyer to his bedroom.
Koutarou lays Keiji on his bed with great care, resting his head on the pillow and tucking him in, actions slow but steady. He doesn't turn on the lights, instead coaxing Keiji, saying things like it was safe for him to open his eyes now that they made it to his room.
Keiji complies and cracks a lid open to meet his gaze. Koutarou sits on the edge of his bed, his figure blocking out the glare that trickled through the ajar door, and again, places Keiji's hand atop his palm.
"Once for now and twice for later. Medicine? " he asks.
Two taps.
"Water?"
Two taps.
"Sleep?"
One tap.
"Hm. Yeah, I figured."
Koutarou chuckles.
"Okay, guess I'll let you catch up on your beauty sleep now. Unless you need me to get you anything–...S?" Koutarou pauses and looks back at him, puzzled. "Keiji, what's S?"
Keiji pays his query no mind. His finger keeps at its work, tracing deliberate letters on the surface of the other's palm.
S - O - R - R - Y
The athlete's brow creases, until he lets out a sigh and promptly dons a frown.
"Hey now, don't apologize. We talked about this. You have nothing to be sorry for, so don't worry about it. Really. I'm just glad I was able to catch you back there in time," Koutarou mumbles quietly, like a secret meant to be hidden in the shelter of the dark. "You can always trust me to take care of you whenever you need me to, you know."
Keiji hears him though, and catches all of it. He taps Koutarou's palm once in acknowledgement, grateful. They stay like that for a little while longer, a hand cradled in another's; merciful seconds ticking by as the dust settles between them.
The moment breaks as Koutarou stands. Keiji's hand slips through his grasp as he rises from his seat.
"Well," the athlete coughs once, awkwardly, in an attempt to clear his throat. "I think it's time for me to go. I'll, uh, leave you alone so you can nap."
Keiji reaches out and makes a grab for his wrist. Koutarou blinks back at him with a puzzled look in response, sheer reflexes allowing him to catch the other's grip.
Keiji squeezes his hand tightly, once, It's a message spoken in code they'd crafted together over the years – a language, intimate – built on staccato scenes and familiar hands, the shared medley of their history.
Thank you, Keiji tells him wordlessly, in the hopes that he'll remember.
"You're welcome," comes Koutarou's fond reply, as his golden eyes soften in quiet understanding. He squeezes Keiji's hand thrice back. "Now get some rest. If you need anything, just give a shout. I'll be near."
Before he leaves, Keiji almost imagines the faintest trace of Koutarou's lips, warm and chaste and pressed softly, gentle against his cheek. There's a feeling that spreads until the tips of his limbs; then, a mumbled whisper and a kiss goodbye.
(Keiji wonders, vaguely, if he is dreaming.)
§
Keiji sleeps like the dead.
He wakes up eight hours later, head still a bit sore, but at the very least feeling marginally more well-rested. His retinas aren't threatening to sear through to the base of his skull anymore, and for that alone he is grateful. Keiji counts his lucky stars.
The room is dim, the only source of illumination being the glow of the streetlamps outside his bedroom window. Faint traces of brilliance filter through the crevices of the doorframe, indicating that the sconce light had remained open from down the hall. From his periphery, Keiji spots a glass of water on his night table and the blister pack of painkillers neatly tucked to the side.
He pops a tablet in his mouth and drowns it down with the water. His throat feels less parched, but the remaining dissatisfaction leads him towards the kitchen in search for a refill.
As he opens the door, Keiji's eyes are greeted by a familiar mop of grey-white hair streaked with slate black. Koutarou is conked out on the floor with his back against the wall, figure plopped down and leaning on the door frame as his head tilts dangerously to the side. Seeing this, the former setter promptly heads back into his room and to grab the spare blanket from his closet.
Keiji crouches down on his heels and drapes the fabric over his ace to help him keep warm. He dabs at the trail of drool that dripped down the other's chin, movements gentle so as not to rouse the older boy from his sleep. Koutarou's eyes are closed, lashes fluttered shut.
"Just like old times, huh," Keiji echoes to himself in a whisper, taking in the sight before him, eyes alight with a look that's almost fond.
§
When Keiji goes back to bed, he does not go to sleep. He lies there in the stillness, cold and awake, consciousness drifting by in the spaces between dreams that are cradled by the night.
He holds on to a memory.
It is a confession, solid though unspoken, unwavering as it is firm. This is how I love you, Koutarou would tell him with his hands. Do you understand? Koutarou would ask him with the ghost of a kiss. This is the way I want us to spend the rest of our lives.
And as the sun rises at dawn and the faint glow of its rays scatters on the floorboards while light peeks through at the blinds, it is then that Keiji allows himself rest. He pulls the duvet up and taut and over his chest, curling in on himself in an attempt to generate warmth.
When his eyes flutter closed, all Keiji can think about is this. Only this.
§
these are the things that remain:
1) a worn out coat
2) a crumpled post-it:
"we're out of eggs. please don't forget to buy maple syrup on your way home, bokuto-san."
3) a faded scar, etched into the grooves of Keiji's left hand
4) an unsent memo:
"Have a safe trip, Koutarou."
5) (a kiss)
(a memory)
the hollowed sound of goodbye
§
"Good morning."
"Hey, hey, hey!" Koutarou chirps from the dining area, taking in Keiji's appearance with his freshly pressed button-down and half-done tie. The older boy's usually upbeat tone is considerably softer than usual. "It's afternoon, actually. But don't worry, Akaashi, I asked Kuroo to tell Kenma you'd be out sick for today. How are you feeling?"
"Better now," is all Keiji manages in passive response as he unknots his tie. He reaches for the cup of coffee that rests on the table and takes a sip. "Thank you."
Koutarou gives him a quick look over before he gestures to a plate of nanohana leaves. "I figured you could use the rest," he smiles. "Now, eat."
"You don't have to go out of your way to do all these things for me, you know," Keiji begins, nonetheless seating himself across the older man and clapping his hands twice in silent prayer.
"So what if I don't have to?" Koutarou counters emphatically, "I want to."
A cool expression is plastered onto Keiji's face, though in his vision the larger man appears to drift further into the distance. The space stretches almost insurmountably between them. Keiji pays a visit to old skeletons in the closet – to their left-over messages, the remnants; the relics. At last, he decides to address the elephant in the room.
"Do you still not trust me to handle things by myself, Bokuto-san?"
"No! Uh, I mean. That's not..."
"Then why are you trying so hard? Need I remind you that we're no longer t–"
"Is it so hard to believe I just want to help you out, Akaashi?" Koutarou interrupts as his palm smacks loud against the table, and the sound of it echoes fiercely within the halls of their cramped apartment.
The former setter stares back at his ace with a small raise of his brow.
"Ah, shit. Sorry!" Koutarou squawks as he catches himself in the act. His voice sounds muddled, hazy. Almost like it had come from far away. "Your head still hurts right? Sorry, that was loud."
"No, it's fine," Keiji shakes his head firmly. He blinks twice and forces himself out of his daze, snapping his mind back into focus. "That was my fault. I shouldn't have tried to start a fight. I know you only meant well."
"Regardless of my intentions, Akaashi, I hurt you. I know I get too absorbed in myself sometimes, but I'm...er, I was your boyfriend. I should've realized–"
"The truth is, Bokuto-san, I think you're very admirable," the younger boy says to him right then. Keiji knows this for a fact. After all, he remembers, he'd fallen for Koutarou in the past for good reason.
"Yeah, but–!" the older boy protests. Keiji forces himself to pay attention to the food on his plate, if only so as not to look straight into Koutarou's eyes. He picks up his chopsticks in haste.
"I should be the one here to tell you that I'm sorry. Sometimes I wish I could be more like you, you know...warm, raw, honest. The kind of person who wears their heart on their sleeve." At the back of his mind, Keiji ponders on the thought and he thinks, Love comes easily for people like you.
"Even so," the older boy insists before he takes Keiji's hand in his and squeezes it once, grip firm and calloused and yet gentle in its hold. "I'm sorry, too."
It is a beautiful moment, achingly so – a snippet of what was once their everyday painted in a quiet afternoon that is both tender yet mundane. Keiji squeezes thrice back.
(He never wants to let go.)
Koutarou looks back up tentatively to meet his gaze. In return, Keiji flashes him a soft smile. It is tired and weary, yet warm all the same.
"Apology accepted, Bokuto-san."
§
these are the things that remain:
1) a worn out coat
2) a crumpled post-it:
"we're out of eggs. please don't forget to buy maple syrup on your way home, bokuto-san."
3) a faded scar, etched into the grooves of Keiji's left hand
4) an unsent memo:
"Have a safe trip, Koutarou."
5) (a kiss)
(a memory)
the hollowed sound of goodbye
.
.
.
6) a flickering ember
§
"Okaeri nasai, Akaashi-kun," a deep voice greets Keiji the moment he walks into the living room.
"Uh, yeah. Tadaima kairimashita," Keiji replies lamely, shrugging off his coat and placing the bag of groceries onto the kitchen table. "Did Bokuto-san invite you? I wasn't told we'd be having guests today."
"Kenma kicked me out," Tetsurou proclaims in apparent agony. "I'm banned from the office. He won't even let me get near the building."
"Ah."
"–threatened to file a restraining order to keep me from stepping within an eight mile radius. Eight miles, Akaashi-kun!" Tetsurou bemoans from his place on the couch without ceasing. "Eight miles! Do you know what that is if you convert it for us Japanese?"
"More than twelve kilometers, yes," Keiji answers dismissively as he unloads the beef strips into the freezer. He moves to transfer the vegetables into the refrigerator next. "I take it that means no more official deliveries?"
At this, Tetsurou slams his face into the satin throw pillow, his muffled screaming sounding off more like an anguished groan at half the volume.
"Did he at least explain why?"
"He doesn't want to make a scene," comes Tetsurou's half-muffled explanation. Keiji strains his ears to listen and parses out the older boy's words thanks to context. "You know how much he hates crowds."
"Mm."
Keiji walks towards the stove. Tetsurou raises his head, shifting away from the throw pillow for air.
"He's worried I'll attract attention. That me being there means people will gather," Tetsurou explains, and his face turns pale. "He says I have fans."
"Ah, yes. You, Kuroo Tetsurou, Japanese V-league Division Two starting player and official middle blocker for FC Tokyo, with fans," Keiji remarks in deadpan as he pours the oolong. "Wow, what a shocker. Who knew, huh. I never would have expected it."
"Quit shitting on me, Akaashi. I get your point," Tetsurou whines as Keiji serves the tea. "Oh, thanks."
Keiji waves his hand as though to tell him don't mention it. "But you make it seem as if you aren't already aware of your rapidly increasing popularity," Keiji notes aloud, settling down onto the couch next to the athlete.
"No, I already knew that much," the rooster-haired boy lets out a heavy sigh, positioning himself back upright. "I expected the fame that comes with being in professional volleyball. It's not just the glory on the court that helps you win games. Signing autographs and dealing with the press, finding sponsors by making people love you. That's part of the job."
"Precisely. So why do you sound so bothered?"
"Because…"
"Because?"
"Because Kenma! Kenma's bothered!"
"...Right."
"No, really! Since when did Kenma ever care about people gathering around me?"
"Since his mother brought him into this world," Keiji counters, tone as blasé as ever. "I can't think of a day where I haven't heard him not complain even once about being unable to meet you properly because all the people flocked your way whenever you tried to deliver pie to his office. Just last week he was telling me how frustrated he was about it since he was looking forward to seeing you again once your season ended. He's always been the introverted type, hasn't he?"
"Yes. But!" Tetsurou interjects, until a look of realization floods his features. "Wait, Kenma talks about me? Kenma looks forward to seeing me?"
"No, he was looking forward to seeing the pie," Keiji holds himself back from rolling his eyes.
"Aka–"
"You know, Kuroo-san, if you're going to be so dense about this, it's no wonder Kozume-san would complain," Keiji remarks and calmly sips on his tea. "Best you stop living in denial of your emotions and start allowing yourself a chance at happiness. Whatever it is you're feeling, he probably feels the same way.'
Tetsurou raises an eyebrow and hums in response.
"You know, Akaashi-kun," the athlete nods sagely as he lifts the cup of oolong to his lips, "you should listen to yourself more often."
§
Thursday evening finds Keiji in the middle of a nameless crowd, abandoned by Tooru who is lost somewhere in the sea of strangers, having dragged his cranky boyfriend by the arm to join him on the dancefloor. On the opposite end of the room, Keiji spots Takahiro sharing a smoke with one of their regional managers from the company's Tōhoku branch. They start swapping spit. All of a sudden, the floor seems much more of an interesting sight to look at.
"Having fun?" Akinori asks as a hand rests itself against the small of his back. Music blares through the club speakers and thrums loudly against Keiji's eardrums. His pulse mimics the beat.
"Of course," Keiji answers, plastering on an overly-wide smile. The smell of cheap booze wafts through the air and Keiji remembers exactly why he was never the type of person to go to parties to begin with. He adds, "I know it was pretty sudden, but thanks for joining me tonight."
"No problem. I was just surprised," Akinori tells him with a shrug, "when your friend – what's his name? – invited me. I never took you for the partying type, Akaashi. You always seemed so quiet in high school, you know? All bookish and reserved."
"You mean Oikawa-san," Keiji supplies almost helpfully.
"Ogawa-san?"
"No," Keiji shakes his head and raises his voice in an attempt to speak louder over the noise of the speakers. "It's Oikawa."
"Ootawa?"
"Oi-ka-wa."
"Oh. Oikawa, huh. Okay then," Akinori says as he hands him a beer. "Want some?"
Really, all he wants is just to go back home.
Keiji smiles politely as he accepts the offer to take a swig. He clutches the Sapporo with white-knuckled hands and forces down the entire bottle.
Next thing he knows, there's hands in his hair and a little bit of mess and Keiji is gasping in the moments he moves away to take in a small puff of breath. The ignition is off and the lights are dim, and Keiji can hardly see anything in the cramped darkness of Akinori's Prius' backseat.
"Can I–?" Akinori half-whispers to ask.
"Don't leave a mark," Keiji warns curtly, voice stern.
"Okay," the older boy promises, hands pressed against the line of his jaw. There are butterfly kisses that trail down the base of his neck, arms slithering towards the hem of his shirt before sliding up deftly to make their way back to Keiji's chest. His cheeks darken with warmth and the flush of cheap beer. Another featherweight kiss. "Okay, I won't."
Keiji looks back at him with hooded eyes, lets himself sink almost effortlessly into the other's palms. An exchange of their breaths; Keiji leans into the kiss. It tastes of alcohol.
Keiji feels the weight of the older man press firmly against his side. It's a familiar feeling – the warmth of another, the heated flush of their bodies, broad shoulders that lock him in the firm cradle of their hold. Fingers brushing skin as they run down his spine.
"Kouta–" he calls out and Akinori stills. Keiji, too, stops and catches himself mid-act.
"Akaashi," Akinori calls out to him in reply, tone patient with quiet understanding, "it's okay." He says, "You can say his name." Akinori kisses him again. "You can pretend I'm him."
The bartender moves closer in an attempt to lock their lips. With a parted mouth, desperate for relief, the raven-haired rushes in to meet him halfway. His tongue darts out at the seams, seeking entry, and Keiji pulls the other close in the second he lets him in.
"Akaashi…"
Keiji tries again; smashes their lips together with the fierce weightlessness of reckless abandon. The younger boy wraps his arms around the larger man and yanks him in closer until there was no more space between them. His kisses are forced, stilted. Breathless. Keiji connects with Akinori sloppily – hungry and vicious, clumsily and open-mouthed – in ways that leave their lips stinging numb and knock their teeth against each other as they collide.
"Akaa–"
Keiji kisses him again; tries again and again and again. Until the pain overtakes the desperation. Until his breath hiccups, mangled and strained, with the tenor of his emotions. Until his heart rips right out into the open and his eyes sting with a feeling he's grown far too familiar with over the past year but doesn't know quite yet what else to give it as a name.
"Akaashi!"
He freezes.
"Get dressed. We can't do this," Akinori tells him, exasperated, as he tosses the younger man back his shirt and runs a hand through his ash brown hair; Keiji sits back up at his command. "I'm not angry, okay? I just–...nevermind, sorry, I was wrong. I'll drive you home. Let's just stop."
There are tears that stain his cheeks. Keiji hears the squeak of the leather as Akinori pulls away. He thinks, he feels, there is something inside of him that is broken.
§
His mind catches up to the night by the time he reaches home. Keiji stands alone in the middle of his apartment, drunk and crying, emotions laid bare as they shatter down to his feet. He cries about the hollow ache in his heart, the way that it hurts. There is nobody there to listen.
"Akaashi?"
There's a click of a knob; the sound of the door as it slowly creaks open. Koutarou calls to him groggily from the other end of the hall, his gruff voice more gravelly from having woken up from his sleep.
"Did you just get back? What time is it?"
Keiji's face crumples, his mask crumbling like a shallow facade. The dam breaks once again, raw and cruel and paralyzing, and it tumbles out of his chest and surges over ruthlessly like a riptide.
"Hey–"
There's a patter of feet, lopsided footfalls that plod against the floor as his roommate hobbles clumsily to rush to his side. The athlete gathers the weeping boy swiftly into his arms, his head resting against the other's shoulder. "What happened?" Koutarou murmurs gently into his hair, "Why are you crying?"
Keiji doesn't answer, just simply sobs into the other's quickly dampening shirt; feels familiar fingers carding through his hair in a feeble attempt to offer comfort. "Hey, Akaashi," Koutarou says instead as he briefly draws back, "I have an idea. Could you lend me your phone?"
He hands it over without a word. Koutarou taps at the keys – 0920, he registers from what is probably sheer muscle memory – and Keiji catches the older boy's momentary expression, a look of surprise, quick and fleeting, when the screen instantly flickers to life.
There's a crackle of static; the faint strumming of strings. An arm wraps itself around Keiji's smaller frame; the hand with his phone resting on the large of his back. He cries harder.
"Shh," Koutarou urges, shushing him, "it's starting."
[Wise men say…only fools rush in…]
There's a stagger of their footsteps; the shift of their weight. Koutarou steps forward in a steady cadence, soundless, as Keiji lets himself follow the older boy's lead.
[But I can't help falling in love with you…]
At this proximity, he can feel Koutarou's temperature underneath his fingertips; the worn callouses in his touch. Koutarou's hand is smaller than his – his fingers, shorter; his palm, less long than it is wide – but he cradles the younger's slender fingers in the square of his broad palm, holds him with a tenderness like the strong and gentle earth.
[Oh, shall I stay? Would it be a sin…]
Keiji stumbles and lets out a gasp, the brittle mumble of an apology; but Koutarou is quick to catch him and hold him up steadily.
"Careful now," he reminds before pulling Keiji in closer in his embrace. Strong muscles arch against his back, and the former setter remembers exactly how they feel beneath his touch even without the cloth separating their skin. They move to the tune of the melody, dancing a careful waltz in movements that are small but deliberate.
[Oh, if I can't help falling in love with you?]
Koutarou hums along to the music, anchoring the younger's movements impaired by the alcohol. There's the scent of sandalwood and cedar leaves, the faint traces of his cologne; Keiji lets his former ace guide him, lets himself lean in against the other's chest. Their figures sway in time to the song, syncing with his limp as the two of them rocked from side to side.
[Like a river flows, surely to the sea; darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be…]
There's a remote that lies askew on the coffee table, a half-emptied cappuccino that rests across from the TV. The ceiling lamp lies above them in the small vertical distance, a solitary sconce of artificial luminescence that hangs low over their heads yet shines brilliantly within the cramped space of their shared apartment. The light casts shadows on the circles beneath Koutarou's eyes.
Koutarou must have been up trying to wait for him, he realizes, and the thought fills Keiji's heart with something both sour and warm.
[Oh, take my hand, take my whole life too…]
"Ah–!"
Keiji snaps his head up to face Koutarou in concern, damp eyes wide with worry. The tip of his tongue is laced with an apology, ready if in case he'd stepped on the other's foot or brushed his leg against the injured boy's cast by accident. Koutarou flashes him a grin once he's grabbed his attention.
"Just kidding," Koutarou admits to Keiji softly, thumb brushing lightly at the corners of his eyes, "You've finally stopped crying."
[For I can't help falling in love with you…]
The younger boy looks back up to meet his gaze, drawn to the pull of golden flecks in amber eyes; footsteps slowing to a halt as the song plays its final verse in the background. Keiji, he almost hears Koutarou whisper, almost imagines it in the way he sees the other's lips quirk up playfully, mouthing along to the lyrics of a love song.
The two of them lie together in the stillness, the gradual pause; a fractured heartbeat. Koutarou presses their foreheads together – breaths mixing and lips impossibly close, almost threatening to touch, face softening with a look worn with both fondness and hesitation.
Keiji wonders to himself, within the distant echoes of a memory, what it would be like to kiss him once again – to close their distance, gradually but with purpose, until their mouths meet, chapped and wetwarm, in ways passionate and bittersweet and perhaps even nostalgic. He wonders if Koutarou's lips were still as soft as he'd remembered; if his face would still wrinkle in disgust at the lingering bitterness on his tongue, the taste of cheap alcohol. Keiji wonders of the possibilities, and then wonders of their probabilities, and then he stops wondering, and then. And then.
[Oh, for I can't help falling in love with you.]
Koutarou kisses him.
§
Keiji wakes up to Tetsurou's arrival. His uninvited guest stands on the other side of his bedroom door, rapping his knuckles against the wood loud enough for the rest of his floormates to hear.
"Tone it down, Kuroo-san," Keiji half-hollers past the dull ache of his hangover. "My head hurts and you'll disturb the neighbors."
"I know, dipso," Tetsurou's smug voice mocks in rebuttal. Keiji imagines the rooster-haired boy outside with his signature slouch and lazy shit-eating grin plastered onto his face. He stops knocking. "That's why I'm here."
"I'm not a dipsomaniac." Keiji grumbles in protest, brows furrowed in a knot as he directs his frown towards the ceiling.
"Whatever you say," the athlete yells back, pointedly ignoring the younger boy's complaints. Keiji closes his eyes and prays to the divinities to grant him patience. "Let's get lunch together."
"No thanks," Keiji mutters and doesn't make an effort to move out of the bed. He buries himself deep into the fabric of his comforter. "Don't wanna go outside."
"Does that mean I can come in?" Tetsurou asks.
"No."
Keiji hears the sound of crinkling plastic. Outside, Tetsurou says, "I have riceballs from Onigiri Miya."
A beat of silence passes from both sides; then, a shuffle of bare footsteps. The faint rustle of the sheets.
Tetsurou's voice calls out to him in tentative concern. "Akaashi?"
"Door's not locked," Keiji hears himself say. "Make yourself at home."
§
They eat in silence for a good ten minutes. Beside him, Tetsurou nibbles on the salmon riceball. It's his third for the day, the athlete claims.
"Where is he?" Keiji asks, and his voice breaks the fragile quiet.
"At my apartment," Tetsurou answers, tone thick with caution. "Chibi-chan's bringing him to his friend's clinic later though. I think they gave him the clear to get his cast removed today."
"Good to hear," Keiji murmurs with a hum, focusing his attention onto the plastic bag the older man deposited at the foot of his bed.
Tetsurou shifts from where he sits, the gnawing discomfort evident on his features. Keiji feigns ignorance and wolfs down his sixth tuna riceball. He reaches for a seventh.
Tetsurou starts, "So."
"...So?"
"So aren't you going to tell me what happened last night?"
"What else is there for me to say?" Keiji retorts. "I'm sure Bokuto-san already gave you a thorough retelling of our events that had transpired."
"Yeah, but still...I want to hear what you think."
"Why does it matter what I think? We're not together anymore," Keiji snaps at the older man callously. "Bokuto-san broke up with me."
"Ohoho, no he didn't!" Tetsurou rebuffs, crossing his arms as he makes a showy display of disapproval. "You were the one who broke up with him. I don't even get why you're being such a wuss about it up to now when you're obviously still in love with the guy."
Keiji's feels a nerve pop at the remark. A heavy weight lodges itself in his throat and a knot twists tightly in his stomach. His eyes sting. His blood boils.
"How dare you?" Keiji seethes, and he hears Tetsurou force out a bitter laugh at the mere mention of his words. "Who gave you the right–"
"Oh, this is rich," Tetsurou chides with a sheer derisiveness in his tone. "This is rich coming from the man himself. Can I ask you the same thing, Akaashi? Who gave you the right to pine for my best friend after throwing his heart out on the street like that? Remember 'Shall we break up, Koutarou?'"
"Consider the nuance in my phrasing. Did I sound like I was making demands?" Keiji counters, "The only point of me asking what I did was because I wanted to clarify his intentions."
"And yet you still deny that you broke up with Bo," Tetsurou presses on.
"It's not denial if it's the truth," Keiji hisses. "He was the one who wanted for us to break up. His actions insinuated it, and my question only served as a means to confirm."
And it's true. Back then, Keiji didn't want to make any assumptions about their relationship and jump the gun on mere speculations alone. Nor did he want to direct the end to everything they've built upon by throwing out an immediate instruction of Let's break up to Koutarou.
Keiji knew he could never trust to do the break-up himself. He was clingy and needy and far too prideful to do that. Plus, he'd never had the heart. He'd never be as willing.
But, if the time ever came that Koutarou would tell him that he wanted out, then Keiji told himself he would be ready.
So instead, he asked. All Keiji ever did was ask. Koutarou had pointed the gun at him, yes, but it was Keiji who had asked him if he could be the one to pull the trigger.
"You're impossible."
"And you're a pain in the ass."
"You wouldn't be going through this pain if you'd just learn to get your head out of your ass, you know," Tetsurou sneers cheekily in contempt, "Akaashi-kun."
Fuck you, Keiji wants to say, though he'd already cussed Tetsurou out in a sentence prior. He'd pushed the limits and there's no way he was going to test just how much further he could max out his verbal displays of disrespect against the man who was most likely regularly fucking Keiji's boss.
He walks right out the door.
§
By the time he's returned, Keiji is greeted by the sight of Tetsurou on their couch once more, reading another of his favorite Lawson's-bought manga magazines. When the door clicks closed behind him, Tetsurou instantly looks up.
"I wasn't crying," Keiji declares, as if it weren't already obvious enough. The words sound grating against his ears. Like a sheer cry of denial. Like a lie.
But if Tetsurou has noticed, what with the hoarseness of his croaky voice and the swell of his bloodshot eyes and the very, very telling dampness of his flushed cheeks, he's kind enough not to call him out on it.
"Of course you weren't," Tetsurou agrees, dropping his gaze back down as he spares Keiji from further comment, and feigns resuming reading.
There's a plate of peeled mandarins on the coffee table, untouched in the way fruits often are when they're set up as an extended olive branch. Keiji drops his hardened expression and takes the seat next to Tetsurou. It's been an hour since their argument, and Keiji has already burned out most of the energy he had in his fit of emotional rage. He picks up the peace offering gingerly and pops it into his mouth.
He doesn't say anything, really. Neither of them do.
§
He spots a letter in the bin when he's washing the plates after dinner. The former setter fishes it out of the trash can out of curiosity, pointedly ignoring the desperate pleas and the ache in his heart that all tell him otherwise. Koutarou's bedroom door is shut and the telltale sounds of his snores indicate that the wing spiker had long since passed out.
Beyond his better judgment, Keiji reads it out loud.
I'm sorry, the letter tells him simply, and Keiji looks at the crumpled paper in his trembling hand as his eyes pore over the words again and again and again, almost obsessively, as he tries to convince himself that they are enough.
(They aren't.)
§
It's eight a.m. on a Wednesday morning and Koutarou is out on his daily jog while Keiji is running late for work. Their circumstances are far from ideal. The autumn wind leaves a crisp chill in the air as the cypress trees paint an image of warmth with the illusion of their fiery hues. The breeze nips at his skin. Still, Keiji holds his ground.
"Bokuto-san!" he shouts, and his breath mists like fog into the air.
A familiar mop of streaked hair whips back in his direction, as gunmetal eyes meet another's amber gaze. The older boy stares at him owlishly at first, recognition slow to paint over his features.
"A–...Akaashi?"
Keiji lets out a distressed nod then very quickly ducks down, clearly distraught; panic evident on his face as the heat of embarrassment colors his cheeks darkly.
"...Koutarou."
It catches them both off-guard. Keiji registers his past ace's visible look of surprise, and Koutarou blinks back at the sight of him briefly, dumbfounded.
"Uh, yes?"
"Do you..." Keiji begins, before cutting himself off just as soon as he starts.
The raven-haired lifts his gaze back up and catches the hopeful look on Koutarou's face while he waits for him to continue. The former setter can do little else but yield to his will, so Keiji seeks out a distraction and instead busies himself by wringing his hands.
(Keiji knows he must have loved him once.)
After all, this is Keiji that we're talking about. Keiji with his volleyball setter hands and clockwork nimble fingers. Keiji with his hooded gunmetal eyes and lips pursed paper-thin. Keiji with the origami heart that beats loudly in the hollow cavity of his chest, folded up like a fortune-teller, four sides marked with a confession that whispers for you, for you, for you, for you.
"Hm?" comes Koutarou's patient response, tempering his expression as he gently asks in turn: "What is it, Keiji?"
It is then, Keiji realizes, that no matter how many years may pass them by, if Koutarou were to once more grant him the privilege of calling out his name with the same kind of longing, then Keiji would always find himself coming back to the boy in a heartbeat, without a second thought, or perhaps even sooner.
The former setter swallows down his thoughts and bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to hurt but not so much so as to bleed. When he tries again, the waver in his voice comes out soft and unsure.
"Do you...still–?"
Love me? the younger boy wants to ask, but he holds back the words beneath his faltering resolve. Keiji can't help but notice the way Koutarou looks at him after that, honeyed eyes soft and earnest as he stands before him patiently. His gaze is kind. Thoughtful. Forgiving.
He misses those eyes more than anything.
Koutarou is still watching him. Keiji's legs are rooted to the ground and the two of them stay frozen where they stand; the moment passes them by, restless but unmoving.
"Still?" Koutarou's voice prompts, and offers him a knowing smile.
Because Bokuto Koutarou is exactly the kind of person that Akaashi Keiji isn't: men who take the world on as it comes, not bothering to dwell on the realms of what ifs and countless possibilities. Keiji is objective, calculating; whereas Koutarou sees only what is and what always has been – never, or at least not yet, of what is to come.
I love you, he thinks but never quite manages to let himself say. I love you, I love you, I–
I'm in love with you.
(Still.)
"Still want to be friends again?"
§
In his sleep, Keiji remembers between dreams, an old conversation he once had as a child:
Okaa-san, don't go, he had begged between tears, crying fat droplets of saltwater that trailed down the flush of his chubby cheeks. Please stay with me.
You know I can't, she answered before she sent a guilty smile his way and picked up her luggage bag as she prepared to board her flight. Keiji had clutched tightly onto the hem of her skirt, a desperate attempt to delay her departure.
Why do you always want to leave? Keiji wondered out loud, Do you not love me anymore?
Oh, Keiji, honey, she had cooed, bending down lower to meet his gaze. It's not that I want to leave you, it's just the nature of my work, she explained, I'm always going to have to leave, but that doesn't mean I don't love you anymore. Your mother loves you very much, okay? Don't forget that. No matter how many times I'll leave.
He recalls his mother enveloping his small frame in her arms. Keiji remembers the scent of her perfume, how it reminded him of candied apples in summer and muted sandalwood in spring; the warmth of her hands as she cupped his childish crying face in her palms.
Sometimes, the people you love will have to leave, she had told him then. Love isn't always about staying, after all. Sometimes, love means letting go, if only to wait for a return. But never forget, Keiji, whenever you wait, to always find comfort in the knowledge that in time, the right ones will always come back soon.
So you'll come back? he had asked, while his mother dabbed away at the wetness in his wide and worried eyes. To home?
To home, she agreed with a nod, as she squeezed his hand thrice in unspoken promise. To you.
§
Koutarou calls him a week later. Keiji is at work, buried in sales reports he has yet to finish tallying before their monthly deadline, and the buzz of his cellphone catches him off-guard.
"Yes, Udai-san?" Keiji greets into the receiver as soon as he picks up.
"Hey, hey, hey, 'Kaashi!"
"...Ah."
"Aka-chan?" Tooru teases as he swivels in from the next cubicle over, "You know personal calls are off-limits during work! Should I tell Kenma on you?"
"You say that, Oikawa-san, as if our entire floor isn't aware of your hourly trips to the comfort room to send updates to your darling 'Iwa-chan,'" Keiji quips in retaliation before Tooru can sneak a glance at the caller ID. "Personal emergency though, I'll owe you?"
"Best cell reception is at the smoking lounge on the fifteenth, or the restroom on twenty-eight," Tooru grins triumphantly as he flashes him a peace sign. "Buy me two milk breads on your way back."
"Thank you, Oikawa-san,' Keiji says as he takes off his reading glasses and sets them on his table. Tooru clicks his pen then leans back on his office chair, sticking out his tongue with a playful wink.
"Of course, Aka-chan," he beams. Another peace sign. "Now go along. Your secret's safe with me."
§
"Hello?" Keiji mutters over the line as he sneaks into the empty restroom. "Bokuto-san...?"
"Hello, hello, hello, Akaashi!"
"Just greeting me once is enough," Keiji sighs, though he honestly didn't mind. "Anyway...is something the matter? You don't usually call."
"Oh, yeah! I just wanted to tell you we have a game tomorrow against EJP Raijin in Ariake. Coach gave me the okay to be on court again, 'cause Ennoshita-sensei was super cool and all and he gave me the clear. Washio's gonna be there too! I'm playing against him this time, can you believe it? So I thought you might be interested. I can get you a free pass if you want. Will you come?"
"Sure," Keiji answers breezily, as his mind helpfully tacks on, "if you're fine with me, Bokuto-san...I'd be happy to watch your game."
"Great! I'll score all the points for you, Akaashi!"
One of his coworkers walks into the room – a short man with cropped light brown hair that matches his eyes. Keiji remembers him as the quick-tempered manager who worked on product development together with a tall Russian trainee a few months back. He offers the other a polite bow in greeting before ducking inside an unoccupied toilet stall nearby.
"You do understand that all points in volleyball are collectively earned by the team, and never by one's solo effort–"
"Yeah, well, I'll do it better! My part in the team, I mean," Keiji hears Koutarou huff almost petulantly into the speaker. "I'm stronger now, you know! I improved. I fixed the way I spike and everything. I'll even show you how I jump. You're not allowed to miss it!"
The speech sounds terribly familiar, almost to the point of a cliché. Keiji smirks. "Don't get cocky, ace," he says.
"Hey, hey! Believe in me a little more, won't you, Akaashi?"
"Believing in the fruits reaped from one's consistent efforts in training versus operating realistic standards for goal achievement are not mutually exclusive activities, Bokuto-san," the former setter reminds. "Of course I believe in you."
More than anyone else, he thinks but holds the sentiment back. Instead, Keiji asks, "Do you remember what I once taught you in highschool?"
"Which? About my spiking technique? My jumps? How to alternate my straights and crosses?" Koutarou asks him in rapidfire succession. "Or do you mean that pre-warm up meditation trick you did before our first game in Nationals to calm me down? Don't you worry, 'Kaashi, I never forget! I remember them all because I'm the best! See? I keep your lessons with me wherever I go."
A smile tugs on the corners of his lips and Keiji hums lightly in agreement. "Whatever it is you learned from me then, if anything," he encourages, "I hope you can manage to keep them all in mind. I'll buy us yakiniku tonight. See you at dinner."
"What?! That's it, Akaashi? No good luck?"
"Yeah, sorry, none," Keiji answers. "Too bad."
Koutarou gasps almost dramatically from the opposite end of the call, and maybe that was all it took for the salaryman to give in to the capriciousness of the older boy's demands. Like always, Keiji indulges his spiker on his whims. After all, he'd never been one to deny Koutarou anything.
"Fine," he says, jokingly, "good luck then, even though I know that you know that I don't really mean it."
"Akaaaaashiiiii!"He can almost hear the other boy pout from the other end of the line. Keiji holds back a chuckle; stifles a laugh. "So mean!"
"You were never the type to rely on luck," Keiji observes aloud, thinking back to his own personal notes from golden days that had once gone by. "With all your diligent training, we all know you don't need it."
"Yeah, but! It's still nice, you know. To hear. When people, especially your friends, are cheering you on–"
The former setter leans against the wall, anchoring his elbow against his palm for support. When Koutarou lets out another heavy sound of a dejected sigh, Keiji cuts him off immediately and opens his mouth to speak.
"I've never met a star more talented than yourself, Bokuto-san," Keiji confesses, and he doesn't hide the smile that washes over the tone of his voice. Softly, he adds, "Simply do your best on the court and I know you'll play well."
§
Tetsurou is lounging around on their couch when Keiji returns home from the office, an issue of Number on his lap and a box of mandarins in tow. He's starting to become a regular at their apartment, it seems.
"Hope you like mandarins," the rooster-haired boy tosses to him in greeting. "Chibi-chan delivered these to our place the other day but Kenma thinks he'd sent over too many so we figured it wouldn't hurt to share."
"Oh, yeah, they're great, thanks," Keiji says, albeit distractedly, slipping out of his shoes as he scrambles towards his bedroom.
"What's got you in a rush?" he asks, tone thick with curiosity.
"Got a game tomorrow."
"You're playing again?"
'No!" he answers hastily, rushing. Keiji shakes his head in earnest. "No, just watching."
"Hmm."
The middle blocker peeks at him from his seat, cat-like eyes shining with a perceptive gaze as they fall on the growing bundle of fabric piling up in his closet. Keiji busies himself with his wardrobe, throwing away another clothing reject and adding it to the messy pile.
Tetsurou speaks to him with a lilt, coy, teasing and annoyingly sing-song. "You know," he remarks, "I don't think you've ever been this animated except when it came to Bokuto."
Keiji goes still. The words catch in his throat and threaten to spill out his lips. He almost lets them slip. But this is Kuroo Tetsurou he's talking to, ace provocateur, and Keiji knows better than to let his true colors show. He thinks better of it.
Instead, he pops his head in by the doorway, yelling, and answers back. He says:
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?"
Now, it's not the end of the world, or even the slightest bit of a catastrophe if Keiji were to ever be honest, but with the way that Tetsurou is acting, it might as well be. Still, the former setter thinks brightly, at least Tetsurou's being quiet this time. Keiji hates it when he isn't.
The rooster-haired middle blocker stares at him owlishly for a moment, brows raised and eyes opened to a point that's almost comically wide. Slowly, he blinks.
"Yeah," Tetsurou hums as his expression relaxes, looking pleased both with himself and at the turnout of events, all things considered. He looks at Keiji for a brief moment and smiles, almost solemn. Almost proud. "You are."
§
He's probably restless, Tetsurou can't help but think as he sits by his side. He'd been magnanimous to offer a free ride to the stadium, seeing as how he'd driven to Ariake Arena often enough to be familiar with the route. Keiji had accepted, and Koutarou had been more than willing to secure an extra free seat when he heard that another one of his good friends came to support his return on his post-recovery debut.
"Nervous?" the older boy asks as they settle into their spots by the bleachers.
"Not at all, Kuroo-san," Keiji answers, voice firm.
But Tetsurou sees through his lie. Even as the setter's voice had never once wavered, or how his tone had held steady and unfaltering throughout his whole – albeit four-worded – speech in an attempt to pull off his facade of an unshakable state of calm, Tetsurou never buys it.
Keiji has a tell. Tetsurou catches it everytime.
This is the deal when it comes to Akaashi Keiji: he'll say something even if he means the exact opposite and he's skilled enough to pull his act off so well that it almost always sounds convincing, until the older boy catches how the Keiji's body never fails to betray him somewhere, or someway, down the line.
Tetsurou notices it in all the little things – telltale signs of anxiety all pointing in one direction. It shows in his actions, the way Keiji fidgets in his seat throughout the game and worries at his bottom lip when he thinks his companion isn't looking. Tetsurou notices it in the ways that Keiji had fumbled with his fingers, whenever he'd pulled at a stray thread and his thumb toyed with the edge of his fraying sleeve.
(You see, Tetsurou doesn't miss it whenever it comes to Keiji: how his hands always give himself away)
The crowd cheers as Black Jackals score their first point, and Keiji watches as a familiar mop of orange hair scurries off to Bokuto's side as Hinata gives him an eager high-five. Their captain, Shugo Meian, heads towards the back of the court as he's called up to serve, while Hinata swaps out with their libero Inunaki. Meian's floater is received by Suna Rintarou, and Washio smacks the ball back towards the Jackals.
The former setter's usual calculating stare hardens with the concentration of something fierce. His gaze is more relentless than it is unyielding. He schools his expression; curls his fingers into his palm, hands balled into fists as he forces his focus back onto the court.
Now, Keiji doesn't think about the play that Miya Atsumu had just called; he doesn't think about how the ball reaches his ace, tossed across their side of the court – pinpoint, with utmost precision. Instead, he notes the projectile of the ball as it arced: high and veering a little closer to the left, just the way Koutarou had always liked it. It peaks just a ways away from the edge of the net and roughly ten centimeters from the spiker's open palm. The perfect sweet spot.
Keiji keeps his gaze fixed on Koutarou's form, taking in the height of his jump, the curve of his back, the angle of his spike, the shine in his eyes—
And the way he had leaped, fearless, to the heavens.
His fingers twitch on impulse.
Keiji watches intently, just the same as before, and the game trickles on until they're down to the last set. The setter calls out Bokuto! and Keiji watches as his spiker jumps instantly on his command, trusting.
And as the rest of the scene unfolds, Keiji keeps his eyes trained on Koutarou, as always.
§
"Hey, hey, hey!" Koutarou greets just as soon as he steps out of the Black Jackals locker room. Keiji waits for him outside by the hall, hands in his coat pockets as he pushes himself off from where he had leaned against the wall. The former setter waits for the rest of the team to disperse, bides his time until his ace manages to make his way back to him.
"Did you see what I did back there?" Koutarou beams. "When I received that ball? Man, Washio never saw it coming! Hey, Akaashi, did you see?"
"When I first met you," he starts all of a sudden, and stops just as abruptly.
The older man too, halts in his tracks. Koutarou looks at him, lost, a blank expression washing over his features.
"Akaashi, what are you–"
"When I first met you, Bokuto-san," Keiji forces himself to begin again, " I thought you were a star."
It should be easier than this, Keiji thinks. He'd done all the preparations, steeled himself for this very moment, marked the boundaries to guard himself against the erratic beating of his heart. He'd forced himself to be ready. So, really, by now, this should be painless; simple. Smooth.
But it isn't.
"I'm sorry I let you go," Keiji apologizes. "I was a coward to think we wouldn't ever make it in this world. Foolish to have tossed aside all reason and efforts to try and make us last. It's just– ...we were so different, you and I. You were always so bright...so headstrong, so free spirited. So different from me."
There's a lump at the back of his throat, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach – a heavy weight that gnaws at him from deep within his chest. But Keiji forces himself to go on. After all, these are the choices they've made. These are the paths they've carved out for themselves. Who else did Keiji have left but himself to blame?
"I went into this thinking immediately of the end," he says, and Keiji had never realized how odd it would feel to admit that fact out loud. "That we would end, just as all things do. That we were set up for failure. But even so, the truth is, I–"
I'm in love with you.
– is the sentiment he wishes to express but falters just as quickly in the moment that the words fail to slip out his lips.
There is no moon that hangs brightly over them, no heavenly body to allude to in the same romantic style as referenced by his revered literary idols of Natsume Soseki or Kawabata Yasunari. There are only the fluorescent lights in the cramped space of the arena hallway, the back door that leads the athletes to the courtside. Instead, Keiji is left to say the next best thing.
"Koutarou," Keiji begins with a small shudder of his breath. At last, he says, "You're beautiful."
He thinks this of Koutarou, honestly and truly, in all the years they've spent together and apart; past their tears and their hardships, past his flaws and imperfections. He is beautiful in this way – he always has been – in the moments he has seen his ace basked in the glitter of triumph, in days painted with gold; in nights, with fragility. Bokuto Koutarou is as breathtaking as he is human and Akaashi Keiji loves him for it, loves the times he'd spent with Koutarou through all of it – loves his glories and victories and mistakes and all.
Keiji has loved Koutarou since before, just as ardently today as he had in the past, and he admits this as much even though he knows the older boy may no longer feel the same. He knows this, and yet–
His voice catches in his throat.
Then, like an old and distant memory, Koutarou pulls him in without a word. Keiji leans into the space of his chest, body pressed flush and warm and closer against him. Koutarou holds him carefully – like a precious, fragile thing – and the emotions slip out from beneath him without so much as making a sound.
Keiji lets them dangle freely from his fingertips, allows them to convey his feelings in ways that simple words could never express. He speaks of it with the way he works his hands, in feather-light touches and the patient warmth of his caress. Where Koutarou once promised him a forever told in eager speeches and grandiose declarations, Keiji echoed back his vows with the intimate sincerity of his silence.
Because when Keiji tells Koutarou that he loves him, he has never had to say it out loud.
Keiji says it to him without burden, a sentiment unrivalled without the weight of their words. Keiji tells him he loves him in the rhythm of fractured heartbeats, in heated exchanges of shared, shuddering breaths. His actions speak louder than his words; it is in everything else that he always gives himself away.
The message lies silent but unhidden, a glaring reminder that stares point blank and looks the other boy in the eye, all signs pointing to Keiji's bleeding heart that whispers to him in a voice that is both shy and yet sure:
I love you, still.
Koutarou locks their lips as the raven-haired lets him in wordlessly; warm air mixing in tiny puffs of air as he slips his tongue in the other boy's open, parted mouth. Hands find their way up while slender fingers tangle themselves in tresses of black and grey hair, lithe arms wrapping themselves around the other's broader shoulders, emotions reflected in the act like a message traced in sand.
I could love you like this forever, he says. Theirs is an unspoken confrontation, a wordless exchange. But in this moment, at least for Keiji, it's the most truthful that he has ever been. The most honest he has for once allowed himself to be.
(Then later, when they sit beside each other in the silence, huddled close atop a ratty couch in the middle of a cramped apartment they had long since made their home, they will greet one another in ways familiar and unspoken, in a language they've crafted together from a time long, long ago:
Tadaima, Koutarou will tell him with a quick squeeze of his hand.
Okaeri, Keiji will answer, smiling, as he squeezes thrice back.)
§
Here is the place from whence you came.
Here is the place you will always call home.
.
thank you for reading all the way until the end! these are difficult times we are in atm but I hope you all find hope in the meanings of love and home and whatever else you managed to take away from my story. feel free to leave a review, i'd love to hear your thoughts :)
stay well xx