Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What we’re starting is so powerful, it’s reshaping everything. Even the emotional remnants of what came before. I know it’s intense, and I know it’s complicated, but I’m here in the thick of it with you.

Arriving in Tokyo 

The train rocked gently beneath Akaashi’s feet, the steady click of tracks ticking like a metronome in his chest. His eyes stayed fixed on the window, forehead brushing the cool glass. Outside, the world was shifting. Countryside falling away, concrete and glass taking its place.

He watched the edges of the city rise slowly. First came the silhouettes of far-off buildings, then the glittering teeth of traffic, storefronts glowing dimly in the late afternoon light. Neon flickered in places he didn’t remember, and he smiled faintly at a coffee shop he did from the few times he went to the city. 

Tokyo was always like this. Too fast, too much, too familiar to feel like home, too strange to feel like anything else. Still, something in him stirred. Like an ember shifting in soot. He didn’t know if it was dread or relief.

The train began to slow, announcing its final approach with a mechanical sigh. Akaashi sat up, fingers gripping the strap of his bag. The intercom buzzed a destination he already knew.

The doors hissed open.

He stepped off the train with practiced ease. The platform was exactly how he imagined it. Tiled floor, overhead beams, clusters of people who all seemed to know where they were going. The air was colder here, edged with the kind of breeze that slid under scarves and down the spine.

He paused. Let the others pass.

No one was waiting. Not that he expected anyone to——

“Hey.”

He turned.

Kuroo stood a few feet away, back leaned casually against a steel column, hands tucked into his coat pockets. His hair was longer than Akaashi remembered. Unstyled, just wild enough to suggest he’d been running his hands through it while waiting.

But it was the smile that undid him.

Soft. Familiar. Not loud or smug. Just enough to say: You made it.

“You always hated carrying your bags,” Kuroo said, pushing off the column and walking over.

Before Akaashi could respond, Kuroo reached for the strap on his shoulder.

“Let me,” he added. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a performance.

Akaashi didn’t argue. Just let go of the weight.

The contact was brief. The brush of fingers against fabric, the hand-off of something heavier than luggage. But it still caught Akaashi off guard.

“You didn’t say you’d be here,” Akaashi murmured, once they fell into step. “To pick me up.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

They didn’t hug. Just started walking side by side, the city folding in around them like an old coat. Well-worn, still warm in the lining.

~~~

The car ride was quiet.

Outside the windows, Tokyo passed in motion. Red brake lights like bleeding stars, figures hunched against the wind, glowing signs advertising ramen, shoes, karaoke. Akaashi leaned his head against the glass again, the chill grounding him. The world moved, but time felt still.

He snuck a glance sideways.

Kuroo’s face was half-lit by the passing streetlights. Every time they passed beneath one, it flashed across his cheekbones like a film reel. His jaw was a little sharper now. His hands on the steering wheel steady, but not tight. There was music playing. Faint, instrumental, something piano-based. But it sounded far away.

He looked calm.

Akaashi couldn’t tell if that made him angry, or grateful.

He wondered if Kuroo had always looked like that. Not just physically. But… steady. Neutral. Like someone always waiting to be asked what they were really thinking.

Maybe that’s what made everything so hard. Kuroo was always the storm after the silence. The choice made too late.

Akaashi glanced back out the window.

“It feels different here,” he said, his voice almost lost to the music.

Kuroo didn’t turn his head. “Good different?”

Akaashi didn’t answer right away. He was too busy watching a pair of headlights dissolve in the rain-streaked glass.

“I don’t know yet,” he said finally.

Kuroo’s voice was soft. “You will.”

Akaashi stared forward again. A beat passed. Maybe two.

He could still feel the ghost of Kuroo’s hand brushing against his when he took the bag. Still feel the smile, tucked into the corner of his own mouth like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep.

~~~

The lock clicked softly, and Kuroo pushed the door open with the side of his arm. “Be careful,” he said. “Watch your step.”

Akaashi stepped inside.

The apartment was clean. Not in a sterile, showy way, but in that careful, quiet way that comes from someone trying to make a space feel like theirs. The kind of neatness that isn’t natural, but practiced.

Hardwood floors, soft lighting, a bookshelf sparsely filled. A single photo on the wall, black and white of a city skyline, clearly chosen more for aesthetic than sentiment. There were no shoes by the door. No clutter. Nothing personal, except a guitar leaned carefully in the corner and a gray hoodie draped across a dining chair.

It felt like a blank page.

“You live with someone?” Akaashi asked, stepping out of his shoes.

“Yeah. Friend from way back. He’s cool, but he’s in Kyoto right now visiting family.”

Kuroo bent to pick up Akaashi’s bag again, motioning him down the hall. “Room’s this way.”

They passed the kitchen, spotless, and a small nook with a futon rolled up against the wall. Akaashi noticed how untouched it all looked, like furniture waiting for life to happen.

But then Kuroo opened a door near the end of the hallway.

And everything shifted.

His room was different.

Still neat, but real.

Boxes were half-unpacked near the closet, one of them open with a stack of mismatched books inside. His desk had notebooks fanned out in that organized chaotic way Kuroo always operated. A worn mug rested near his bedside table, and an unlit candle sat beside it with the lid off. Sandalwood.

The bed was made. Not military perfect, but carefully. Fresh sheets. A folded blanket at the edge like he’d remembered at the last second.

Akaashi stepped just inside. The air here smelled like laundry and shampoo and something else. Something familiar.

Kuroo set the bag by the dresser. “You can take my room. I’ll sleep out on the couch.”

Akaashi looked up, surprised. “You don’t have to do that. I can take the couch.”

Kuroo shook his head, already backing toward the door. “Nah. It’s fine. I’ve been crashing out there when I don’t feel like dealing with this mess.” He gestured vaguely to the boxes. “Besides… I made the bed. For you.” He cleared his throat. “So.”

That last line was softer. Like he wasn’t sure if it counted as effort or apology.

Akaashi took another step in. His fingers drifted along the corner of the desk. He noticed a framed photo on the dresser, turned face down.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. Akaashi glanced at him again.

“You cleaned.”

Kuroo gave a breath of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I tried.”

His eyes flicked toward the bed, then back to Akaashi.

“If the sheets smell weird, it’s because I bought the detergent on sale and it might be aggressively citrus. No one warned me.”

Akaashi smiled, quiet. “Citrus is fine.”

Another silence. Softer this time.

“Bathroom’s across the hall,” Kuroo added. “Towels are under the sink. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. And, uh— if the heating clicks weird, just hit it. Works every time.”

He lingered at the door for a second longer than necessary. His hand resting on the frame. Not quite ready to leave. Not quite saying anything else.

“This okay?” Kuroo asked.

“It’s fine.”

Akaashi ran a hand across the duvet. It smelled like the citrus detergent and nothing else.

He didn’t sit. Just stood in the middle of the room, as if waiting for the floor to tell him whether he could stay.

Kuroo still lingered in the doorway.

“I can, um…” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I can give you space, if you want. Or—if you’d rather not be alone—I could put on a movie or something. No pressure.”

Akaashi looked over at him.

It was strange, seeing Kuroo here. Not loud, not posturing, not surrounded by their band, or Bokuto, or the noise of history. Just Kuroo. A little more still. A little older. A little unsure.

“I’ll come out in a bit,” Akaashi said.

Kuroo nodded, stepping back. “Cool. I’ll be in the living room.”

“Thanks,” Akaashi said finally.

Kuroo nodded once. “Yeah.”

With the door clicking shut, he disappeared down the hall, footsteps fading into the open space of the living room.

Alone, Akaashi sat gently on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath him, faintly warmed from its last occupant. He looked around slowly. At the stacked books, the empty corner of the closet, the shirt slung over the back of a desk chair. He could see the edges of who Kuroo was trying to be now. It was quieter than before. Tidier. But still him.

He lay back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

A strange thought passed through him:

He gave me the room with his scent still in the sheets.

Not on purpose. Not to make a point.

Just because he thought Akaashi might sleep better in a space that felt like someone had lived in it.

It was oddly… kind.

And it made it harder to hate him.

~~~

The soft click of the bathroom door opening broke the quiet.

Akaashi stepped into the hall, towel slung loosely around his neck, hair damp, socks muffled against the floorboards. Kuroo’s hoodie hung off one shoulder, borrowed without asking, sleeves too long but comfortable.

The apartment was dim except for the kitchen light and the flickering TV in the living room. Music played softly from Kuroo’s playlist. Mellow, lo-fi, enough to fill the space without needing attention.

And there, at the counter, was Kuroo.

Two takeout containers sat open. Steam rising. A can of iced green tea next to them. Kuroo didn’t look up right away, just stirred something with chopsticks and set out a napkin.

“You ordered food?” Akaashi asked, voice still a little scratchy from the shower.

Kuroo finally looked over his shoulder. His hair was a little messy, sleeves pushed up, socks mismatched.

“Figured you’d be hungry.”

Akaashi walked closer, peering over his shoulder.

He stopped.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

Laid out in front of him: kinoko soba with tofu, miso soup, a tiny container of pickled daikon on the side, his exact favorite order from a spot a few towns away. The place he used to beg them to stop at after nearby shows, Kuroo being the one to give in first and take him one-on-one, while the others waited. Something that Bokuto noticed early on but never thought much of. Just stayed silent, hoping the two most important people in his life were getting along. 

“I had to call three times to get them to answer,” Kuroo added. “Guy was like, ‘Keiji? That guy with the polite voice and judgy eyes?’ I said, yeah, that one.”

Akaashi tried, and failed, not to smile.

“I’m not judgy!”

“You are,” Kuroo said, handing over a pair of chopsticks. “But in a mysterious, intimidating way. It’s part of your charm.”

Akaashi slid onto the stool and picked up the container. The warmth in his hands felt good. Grounding.

Kuroo watched him for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. “You look… good in my sweatshirt.” 

Dark blue eyes tore away from the food and up to meet the others, peering through his eyelashes. A single water droplet slide down a strand of hair and plopped on the counter, not enough to break the tension in the room. 

Not needing a response, Kuroo sat next to him but didn’t reach for any food of his own. Just watched him with that quiet, familiar sort of amusement.

“You’re not eating?”

“I already did.”

“When?”

Kuroo shrugged. “Earlier. I got nervous and ate a protein bar. You know— classic meal.”

Akaashi snorted under his breath, but it faded quickly.

The food really was his favorite. Even down to the pickles. It made something tug in his chest, not hard, but undeniably present.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“But I wanted to.”

They sat there for a while, side by side, steam rising from their food, soft music playing in the background. Kuroo didn’t press him with questions. Didn’t look at him too long. Just existed next to him like they’d done a hundred times before.

And that… made it easier.

Made everything that followed feel inevitable.

~~~

The apartment was dark except for the soft blue glow of the kitchen light, the kind left on for comfort, not function.

Akaashi padded down the hallway in bare feet, hoodie zipped halfway up, sleeves tugged over his knuckles. He hadn’t meant to come out here. Not really. But sleep wouldn’t stick. His mind kept chasing loops, half-memories and almost-questions.

He turned the corner.

And stopped.

Kuroo was on the couch, not asleep. Not watching TV. Just sitting upright, guitar resting across his lap, one leg stretched out, the other bent to balance the instrument’s weight. His fingers moved slowly, delicately, plucking out a pattern so quiet it barely made it past the strings. There was a notebook open on the cushion beside him, scrawled lines visible in the spill of kitchen light. Some scratched out. Some circled.

He didn’t notice Akaashi at first.

He was humming. Low, aimless, words still half-formed in his mouth. His brows were drawn, but not in frustration. Focus. Like he was trying to name something he hadn’t said out loud in years.

The sound was soft.

Not polished. Not meant to be heard.

Just… real.

Akaashi didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He watched him. This version of Kuroo, quiet and unguarded. He held the guitar like something precious, something fragile. And Akaashi felt the air shift in his lungs.

Then Kuroo looked up.

Caught him.

His fingers stilled, mid-chord.

“You okay?” he asked softly, no embarrassment in his voice. Just concern.

Akaashi nodded, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Kuroo gave the faintest smile. Set the guitar gently aside, letting it rest on the floor against the couch. He closed the notebook without looking at it.

Then shifted, making space beside him.

“Want to sit?”

Akaashi hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and sank into the far corner of the couch. Not touching. Not close. Just near enough that their shadows overlapped.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. The TV was off. The silence felt intentional, held between them like breath.

“You always used to knock on the wall,” Kuroo said quietly.

Akaashi turned his head, brows furrowed. 

“When you couldn’t sleep. At the old apartment. You’d knock three times on the bedroom wall and I’d come out and pretend to make tea.”

The dividing wall of the old apartment between Bokuto and Kuroo’s rooms was thin, Keiji always lying on the inside of the bed. When he was restless and his boyfriend was captive in deep slumber, he began to knock. Just to see if Kuroo was awake. Sometimes he would get a knock back, a gesture, a knowing that Kuroo was awake too. Any other time, when Kuroo didn’t knock, he instead went into the kitchen waiting for Keiji to come out. 

~~~

It had been after another argument.

Bokuto’s shoulders were stiff as he stood between them in the narrow kitchen, a takeout container dangling from one hand like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Can you guys not do this tonight?” He had asked, voice cracking just slightly. “Just… can you try?”

Akaashi was leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes hard. Kuroo stood across from him, barefoot, hair still damp from a too-hot shower.

“You’re impossible,” Akaashi snapped. “Every time we try to have a normal conversation, you have to be a condescending ass about it.”

Kuroo scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry! Am I not bowing low enough for the Great Keiji Akaashi?”

“No. But if you could stop treating me like some project to fix, that’d be nice.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, I don’t even care that much.” Kuroo said sharply. 

“Kuroo!” Bokuto snapped. 

But the taller man continued anyway. “I’m trying to have a basic adult conversation without getting iced out like I’m some kind of inconvenience.”

Akaashi laughed, dry and humorless. “Trust me, if I wanted to freeze you out, you wouldn’t have to guess.”

“Keiji!” 

“Oh, yeah? Then why don’t you do it?” Kuroo took a step closer. 

“Guys!” 

Akaashi tilted his chin up ever so slightly. “Like you said, I don’t care about you enough to go through all that trouble.” 

Daggers were being thrown, eyes glaring and mouths hot. Chests were rising up and down, as if they were train engines and the smoke was visibly leaving their ears. 

Bokuto moved suddenly, setting the takeout on the table louder than necessary. “Okay,” he said, voice louder now, tight with frustration. “I’m not doing this. I’m tired. You two need to figure it out or shut up about it.”

He walked out without another word. The silence that followed clung to the walls like humidity.

Kuroo muttered something under his breath and turned away. A minute later, his bedroom door shut, a little too firmly. Akaashi stayed in the kitchen long enough to feel foolish about it all, then crept into Bokuto’s room, lying rigid beside him in the dark.

He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. The words he’d thrown around sat thick in his chest. Bokuto’s breath was steady, grounding, but it didn’t help much. He turned to face the wall.

Three quiet knocks.

He waited.

At first, nothing.

Then: three soft taps, like a reply in code. His breath caught. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the blanket aside and slipped out of bed.

The apartment was still except for the buzz of the fridge. He padded into the kitchen and found Kuroo already there, leaning over the counter like he’d been waiting.

Neither of them said anything right away. Kuroo reached for the kettle, filled it, and turned it on without asking.

Akaashi stood near the doorway, arms loosely crossed, gaze fixed on the floor.

“I wasn’t trying to fix you,” Kuroo said finally, voice lower now, more careful.

Akaashi didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I know.”

Kuroo glanced over. “You just piss me off.”

“Likewise.”

Steam began to curl up from the kettle. The kitchen was dim, but not cold.

“I’m not good at this,” Kuroo said. “The… sharing space thing. I’m trying.”

A lie. 

Kuroo could share space. 

He couldn’t share space with someone he wanted.

Akaashi looked up at him. The edge was gone from his voice. “I know.”

The kettle clicked off. Kuroo reached for two mugs and started pouring hot water like it was muscle memory. He passed one over without a word. Akaashi took it, even though he hated chamomile.

They stood there in silence, sipping tea they didn’t really want, but it was easier than going back to sleep.

~~~

Akaashi exhaled a short, amused breath. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

Silence again. Not heavy. Just… full.

Akaashi pulled his knees up slightly, resting his chin there. The hem of his hoodie sleeves covered his hands. He didn’t look at Kuroo, but he felt him. Every shift. Every inhale.

“You ever get tired of remembering?” Akaashi asked, voice soft.

Kuroo didn’t answer right away.

“Only the parts I ruined.”

Akaashi’s breath hitched. Not audibly. Just enough to catch in his chest.

“I didn’t come here for that,” he said.

“I know.”

Another silence.

The movie played on, a dull hum in the background. Kuroo’s hand reached for the remote, clicked it off. The sudden quiet made the room feel smaller.

Akaashi glanced sideways. Kuroo was already looking at him.

Not pleading. Not apologizing. Just… looking.

“You really don’t have to sleep on the couch,” Akaashi said.

Kuroo gave a small shrug. “Didn’t feel right asking to stay in the same room.”

“I wouldn’t have said no.”

“You wouldn’t have said yes either.”

Akaashi turned away, gaze drifting toward the dark kitchen.

“You always do that,” Kuroo murmured. “Say something almost honest and then retreat.”

“You’re one to talk.”

That earned the softest smile from him. “Touché.”

Akaashi shifted slightly, curling into the cushion a bit more.

“You ever think,” he started, voice low, “about how things might’ve gone if we just… told the truth?”

Kuroo’s reply was immediate. “All the time.”

Their eyes met again. Not sharp. Not questioning. Just… aware.

The space between them was maybe two feet. It felt closer.

Kuroo’s hand twitched at his side, the smallest movement.

Akaashi noticed.

Neither of them reached out.

But the wanting was there. Thick in the air between them. Unspoken, but not unshared.

Kuroo looked at him like he wanted to say something else. Not I miss you. Not I’m sorry. Something worse. Something softer.

Instead, he asked:

“You want me to turn the TV on?”

Akaashi shook his head. “No. Just stay.”

Kuroo nodded. Settled back.

And for the first time in a long time, they sat together in silence that didn’t ache.

It just was.

Day 2 in Tokyo 

Akaashi woke slowly.

The room was wrapped in the soft, hazy light of early morning, that muted blue-gray that makes everything feel quiet. Gentle. Like the city hadn’t quite woken yet. The sheets were slightly rumpled around him, still warm from his sleep. The pillow beneath his head held the faintest trace of a scent that wasn’t his.

He exhaled, rolled to his side.

The other half of the bed was empty.

Of course it was.

Not that he expected—

No. No, he hadn’t expected anything. That was the point.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, and let the silence stretch around him. The room, Kuroo’s room, was still dim, just beginning to bloom with daylight. One of the boxes near the dresser had been left open, its contents half-unpacked: books, a black hoodie, a tangle of charger cords. A framed photo was facedown on the dresser. Akaashi didn’t touch it.

He stood, stretched, and pulled on the hoodie draped at the end of the bed, one of Kuroo’s, too long in the sleeves and warm with leftover body heat. It smelled like him.

He ignored that.

~~~

The kitchen lights were on.

And Kuroo was shirtless.

Standing at the stove like some ridiculous creature from a dream, back turned, low-slung sweatpants hanging just enough to be rude, shoulder muscles shifting with every flick of the spatula. His hair was an absolute disaster. Like he’d run a towel through it once, said “good enough,” and moved on with his life. Freckles dotted the slope of his back. The steam from the pan curled around him like a damn movie shot.

Akaashi stopped mid-step, immediately regretting his life, his decisions, and probably the entire act of waking up.

A small, involuntary sound made it out of his throat, halfway between a cough and a choked apology.

Kuroo turned just slightly. “Morning.”

Oh god.

His voice was still sleep-rough. Warm. Like he hadn’t used it much yet today.

“Hope you’re okay with eggs and rice.”

Akaashi swallowed hard. “Sure.”

It came out half-choked.

He coughed again. Attempted recovery. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

Kuroo didn’t comment, just flipped the burner off and moved the pan like nothing was wrong.

Akaashi remained rooted in place.

“You can sit, you know,” Kuroo said, amused. “The chair won’t bite.”

“Right.” Akaashi crossed to the kitchen table and sat stiffly. He kept his eyes locked on a cabinet. Or maybe the ceiling. Anywhere but the half-naked man standing over the stove like it was a photoshoot.

Kuroo leaned over the counter, assembling two bowls. “You want coffee?”

“Please.”

Kuroo slid a mug toward him a minute later. Their fingers brushed.

Akaashi nearly dropped it.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

~~~

They ate in silence. Not awkward. Not exactly. Just… charged.

Akaashi couldn’t help but glance over occasionally, quick flickers of the eyes when he thought Kuroo wasn’t looking. But every time, every single time, Kuroo was looking. Always with that maddening, quiet grin. Not smug. Just patient. Like he was watching a tide roll in and choosing not to warn the shoreline.

Kuroo finally broke the silence. “You’re blushing.”

Akaashi didn’t look up. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Akaashi took a longer sip of coffee to hide the way his ears turned pink.

Kuroo leaned his chin into one hand, elbow on the table, shirtless and completely unbothered. “It’s cute.”

“You need to stop talking,” Akaashi muttered.

“Why?”

“Because you’re being… distracting.”

“I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re not wearing a shirt.”

“I didn’t realize that was a requirement in my own kitchen.”

Akaashi looked up sharply. “It should be.”

Kuroo just smirked. “So what I’m hearing is — you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You’re wearing my hoodie and calling me a health hazard.” 

“I am not flustered.”

Kuroo’s grin deepened. “Sure.”

He stood, reaching across the table for the soy sauce. Akaashi shifted to help, moved his hand at the same time, and their fingers collided. Not a graze. Not a brush.

A full, palm-on-palm, warm skin contact.

Time stopped.

Akaashi jerked back instinctively, knocking his chopsticks off the table in the process. They clattered to the floor.

“Shit. Sorry—”

He crouched to grab them, and Kuroo moved at the same time. They nearly bumped foreheads. Kuroo’s hand braced on the underside of the table to avoid it. Akaashi sat frozen, chopsticks in hand, face on fire.

Kuroo tilted his head, just enough to make it worse. His face inches from Akaashi’s, breath fanning on his cheek. He couldn’t help but smirk a little, noticing the way Keiji was unusually shy and avoiding eye contact. 

“You okay down there?”

“I’m fine,” Akaashi hissed.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Akaashi shot back up to standing, too fast, knocking his knee on the underside of the table.

“Fuck—”

Kuroo was already laughing.

That low, infuriating, warm laugh that made Akaashi’s chest hurt for reasons he refused to name.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, accusing.

Kuroo picked up his coffee and took a slow sip, eyes bright. “I’ve never seen you short circuit this hard over eggs.”

“It’s not the eggs,” Akaashi muttered under his breath.

Kuroo smiled behind his mug. “No?”

Akaashi grabbed the soy sauce and turned away, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left.

Kuroo didn’t press further.

But the air between them had shifted. Undeniably.

Like a truth had been pulled taut between them, trembling. Still unsaid. But no longer invisible.

~~~

The last bite of rice was long gone. Coffee mugs sat empty between them. The kitchen had quieted, even the music in the background had run its course.

Akaashi stood first, wordlessly stacking their bowls.

Kuroo watched him with a faint smile, then rose to join him, brushing past in that not quite necessary way that made Akaashi freeze in place for half a second too long.

“I’ll wash,” Kuroo said. 

“But I’m your guest. I’ll wash.”

“How about you just sit there and look pretty?” 

Akaashi said nothing to this. His body was on fire. And Kuroo, Goddammit Kuroo. Still no shirt.

He gave him a sharp look. “You really couldn’t put one on?”

Kuroo smirked over his shoulder. “Thought you were over it.”

“I’m repressing it.”

Kuroo turned on the water. “That explains it.”

Akaashi sighed, but moved in beside him anyway, picking up a dish towel.

They worked in near-silence, just the hum of running water, the occasional clink of dishes, the soft shuffle of their arms brushing when they passed something between them. Akaashi tried to focus on the rhythm. Water, plate, towel, repeat.

But Kuroo’s arm was warm. His posture relaxed. He hummed under his breath once, off-key and casual, and Akaashi almost dropped a bowl.

“You’re doing it again,” Kuroo said softly, not looking at him.

Akaashi blinked. “Doing what.”

“Blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Right there!” Kuroo pointed gently at his cheekbone. “That’s new. You didn’t used to do that.”

“You didn’t used to be this… unbearable.”

“Didn’t I?”

He passed him the last bowl, fingers brushing again. Akaashi dried it with unnecessary intensity.

Kuroo turned the water off, wiped his hands on the towel hanging from the oven door, and leaned back against the counter.

“You wanna go out?”

Akaashi looked up.

Kuroo shrugged. “Show you around. This part of the city’s still new to me too, but I’ve found a couple places. Thought you might wanna see it when it’s not… in here.”

He didn’t elaborate what “in here” meant. The silence, the bed, the morning-that-wasn’t.

Akaashi dried his hands and nodded. “Sure.”

And just like that, the kitchen exhaled.

~~~

They stepped out into the chill midmorning air. Akaashi now in his own hoodie, beanie tugged low, Kuroo properly clothed (finally), denim jacket over a faded band tee. The sidewalks were still damp from an earlier rain, sunlight barely piercing through scattered clouds.

Kuroo didn’t try to fill the silence.

He just walked, a half step ahead beside him, hands tucked in his pockets, pace unhurried.

They passed a corner bookstore, a tucked-away bakery, and a tiny park with crooked benches and graffiti-tagged swing sets.

“I come here sometimes,” Kuroo said, nodding toward the park. “It’s dumb, but… it’s quiet.”

Akaashi didn’t laugh. “It’s not dumb.”

They paused there for a minute. Watched a stray cat leap over a fence. The breeze ruffled the edges of Kuroo’s hair, and Akaashi’s fingers curled slightly inside his sleeves.

From there, they wandered through back streets and narrow alleys lined with vending machines and old posters. Kuroo pointed out a bar with no sign that made “the best grilled eggplant,” and a tiny music store that still sold cassette tapes.

“You have a tape player?” Akaashi asked, eyebrow raised.

Kuroo grinned. “No. But the guy gave me one for free when I bought six tapes and didn’t leave.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Kuroo shot him a look over his shoulder. “Still came with me though.”

Akaashi didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either.

~~~

Eventually, they stopped at a riverside walkway, narrow, half-empty, the water low and slow. Kuroo sat on the railing like he’d done it a hundred times before. Akaashi stood beside him, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket.

“This is the part,” Kuroo said, “where I tell you I’m totally fine. That everything’s cool. That I’m glad you’re here and there’s nothing else under the surface.”

Akaashi looked over. “Is any of that true?”

Kuroo’s smile was small. “Not a word.”

Akaashi looked out over the river. “Good.”

Kuroo gave a faint smile. Not smug. Not teasing. Just real.

“…Besides the part where I’m glad you’re here.”

A pause. Then, a little softer:

“Of course I am.”

Akaashi felt something catch in his chest. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, eyes on the water, breathing as steadily as he could manage.

Kuroo looked down at his hands, then back up. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“I didn’t think you’d come, you know.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Kuroo’s eyes flicked up, catching his.

And they stayed there.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said, voice barely above the wind.

Akaashi didn’t move. “Then don’t.”

Kuroo’s fingers curled around the edge of the railing. He looked like he was holding on to more than metal.

“I just—” He stopped. Jaw tight. Brows knit.

He shook his head, let out a small laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Akaashi said.

Kuroo glanced over. Met him again.

There was something in his gaze, raw and unguarded, like he was finally standing on the edge of something he didn’t know how to name.

“I still think about it,” he said quietly. “Us. What we were. What we weren’t.”

Akaashi swallowed. “You’re not the only one.”

Kuroo’s mouth twitched like he was about to say something else, maybe something real this time. But then a group of cyclists passed behind them on the walkway, laughter echoing, tires humming over the pavement.

The moment snapped. Kuroo blinked. Looked away. His voice, when it came back, was lighter. Back to safe ground.

“You hungry? There’s a place near here with good udon.”

Akaashi looked at him for a beat longer, heart still half-lodged in his throat.

Then: “Yeah. I could eat.”

And just like that, they turned and walked away from the river.

But the moment stayed behind, suspended in the breeze, unfinished.

Waiting.

~~~

The udon shop was tucked into a back corner off a quiet street, the kind of place that didn’t advertise but never struggled to fill seats. Paper lanterns glowed softly in the window, casting warm light onto the sidewalk.

Inside, it smelled like broth and fresh noodles, like comfort in a bowl.

They sat at a small table near the window. Kuroo ordered for both of them, confident and unceremonious, and when the food arrived, Akaashi blinked down at his tray with visible surprise.

“You remembered my order.”

“Photographic memory,” Kuroo said, tearing his chopsticks apart. “Only for things that matter.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes but smiled. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It was warm. Barely there, but there.

The first few minutes were quiet. Just slurping and sipping and the occasional hum of approval from one of them. Then Akaashi asked something, some offhand question about Kuroo’s job, and the answer spiraled into a stupid story about a modeling shoot, a spilled smoothie, and someone mistaking him for the building’s IT guy for a full three weeks.

Akaashi laughed. First a quiet one.

Then another.

And another.

And eventually he was leaning back in his seat, eyes crinkling, hand covering his mouth like he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

Kuroo just watched him.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Akaashi laugh. But something about this… now, here, months later, away from everyone else, no performance, no band, no friends commentary in the background… made it different.

Real.

Soft.

Free.

Akaashi looked at him and caught the stare.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Kuroo said, still smiling. “You just… don’t always laugh like that.”

Akaashi blinked. The flush rose slowly on his cheeks, but he didn’t deny it.

“I guess I forgot how to,” he said.

~~~

After lunch, they wandered for a while, full stomachs, warm coats, the afternoon sun slanting between buildings.

Kuroo stopped suddenly in front of a narrow staircase leading to a basement.

Akaashi eyed it with suspicion. “What is this?”

“You trust me, right?”

“No.”

Kuroo grinned. “Great. Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, they were in an underground arcade, lit by rainbow LEDs and pulsing music, walls buzzing with nostalgia. There were claw machines, rhythm games, racing simulators and, most importantly, a private karaoke booth in the back.

Akaashi stared at the list of songs on the touchscreen, deadpan. “Why are there this many enka options?”

“Don’t question greatness.”

“You are not singing enka.”

“Oh, but I am.”

Kuroo stood, grabbed the mic, and proceeded to perform the most dramatic, off-key rendition of an 80s enka ballad that has ever cursed the Tokyo underground.

He was terrible.

And he was fully committed.

He threw himself across the booth, clutching his chest, voice cracking on high notes, dropping to his knees like he was in an old music video.

Akaashi tried to hold it together.

He really did.

But halfway through the chorus, Kuroo changed the lyrics to include Akaashi’s name, and that was it.

Akaashi lost it.

Loud, uncontrollable laughter burst out of him, echoing off the booth walls. The kind of laugh that made his whole body shake. The kind that didn’t care how it sounded.

And Kuroo just stopped and stared.

Because in that moment, with Akaashi doubled over, cheeks pink, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, laughter spilling out like it hadn’t in months. Kuroo couldn’t breathe.

He felt everything in him go still.

Like the city stopped moving. Like the lights dimmed just a little. Like the world tilted toward this moment and said: look. this is what you wanted to save.

Akaashi finally caught his breath, wiping at his eyes.

“You’re—so bad at that.”

Kuroo laughed too now. “You’re welcome.”

They collapsed onto the booth bench side by side, still breathless, still grinning.

And Kuroo thought to himself: God, don’t let this be temporary.

~~~

The elevator up from the arcade was too bright, buzzing faintly. Akaashi stood beside Kuroo, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall, still smiling faintly from the aftershock of laughter.

Kuroo watched him in the reflective chrome of the doors. Not openly. Just enough.

There was a lightness in him now. Real. Not performative. Not just good timing or relief.

It was him.

Coming back to himself.

They stepped out onto the street again, the sun lower now, the sky painted in the early stages of dusk. It was quieter, that in-between time when the day hasn’t ended but the city is starting to change costumes.

They didn’t say much.

Just walked.

They ended up back in a small corner park, not on purpose, just part of the loop Kuroo had walked a dozen times before. There was a bench there, rusted slightly at the edges, and a patch of sunlight catching through the trees.

Kuroo dropped into the seat, leaned back. He glanced up at Akaashi, who stood for a beat longer.

Then sat beside him.

Their shoulders didn’t touch.

Not yet.

The quiet settled in, not heavy, just present. Birds chirping somewhere. A dog barking in the distance. A breeze brushing the edge of Akaashi’s hood.

Kuroo looked ahead, content to let the moment sit.

And then—

Akaashi shifted.

Subtle.

Deliberate.

He leaned, just enough for their arms to brush, for their sides to meet. His shoulder resting into Kuroo’s, warm through two layers of fabric.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look over.

But he stayed there.

And Kuroo didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, for a second.

Then slowly, not to startle it, he let his hand rest on the bench between them, palm facing up. Not close enough to ask for anything. Just close enough to offer.

Akaashi glanced down.

Looked at the hand for a moment too long.

Then, quietly, without ceremony, he reached out and slid his fingers into Kuroo’s.

He didn’t hold tight.

Just held.

Like it was second nature.

Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Like it had never been strange.

Kuroo didn’t say anything. He turned his palm slightly, let Akaashi’s fingers settle comfortably, and then rested his head gently against Akaashi’s.

Not leaning. Not clinging.

Just being there.

It wasn’t a declaration.

Wasn’t a confession.

It was something softer than both.

A return.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

~~~

The sun had dipped lower by the time they stood again.

Akaashi hadn’t said much, not with words. But the warmth in his hand, the way his shoulder stayed against Kuroo’s just a little longer than needed, said enough.

They left the park slowly, steps loose, like neither of them had anywhere to be.

Akaashi’s phone buzzed as they reached the corner. Once. Twice.

He didn’t check it right away.

Didn’t need to.

Something in the weight of it made his stomach twist before he even pulled it out of his pocket.

Kuroo was saying something, half-joking, about vending machines or buying canned coffee, but it blurred slightly in Akaashi’s ears as he glanced down at the screen.

Bokuto: hey

Bokuto: i miss you.

Bokuto: can we talk soon?

Bokuto: i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.

Bokuto: i still want this, Ji. us.

(Sent 5:43 p.m.)

Akaashi stopped walking.

Kuroo didn’t notice at first, as he took another step before realizing the shift. He turned, mid-sentence, brows lifting when he saw Akaashi frozen on the sidewalk, screen still lit in his hand.

“Everything okay?”

Akaashi blinked. Then he locked his phone.

“Yeah,” he said too quickly.

Then softer: “Just a message.”

Kuroo nodded. Didn’t press. But something in his gaze lingered.

Akaashi slid the phone back into his pocket, but the words didn’t leave. They sat heavy in his chest.

Bokuto had texted before, twice. First message a week after they ended things, another after a show he skipped. Always soft. Always hopeful. Never angry.

But this one—

This one was more.

He knew Bokuto meant it. Knew it came from the same heart that had loved him loud and without shame.

And yet—

He looked up at Kuroo who was still watching him, hands tucked into his jacket, hair soft in the wind, eyes patient. Waiting. Not for an answer, just for him.

Akaashi took a slow breath. His fingers itched. He didn’t reply to the message. Didn’t delete it either.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And they turned the corner together.

~~~

The rooftop was quiet, except for the distant hum of the city below. A low wall wrapped around the edge, just high enough to lean on. A string of old bulbs zigzagged across the concrete, throwing warm, golden light over the metal chairs and the table between them. The sun had dipped fully now, the sky above them deep indigo, edges still touched with orange.

Kuroo twisted the cap off a bottle of convenience store Sojo and handed Akaashi the second one.

“To good udon and bad karaoke,” he said.

Akaashi clinked his bottle against his with a soft smirk. “And to your truly tragic voice.”

“Hey. You laughed. That’s a win.”

They sipped in silence for a moment. The wind tugged gently at the ends of Akaashi’s hair. Kuroo’s leg brushed his under the table, and neither of them moved.

The city stretched out beneath them, all glass and glow and the distant sound of life continuing.

Akaashi’s fingers tightened slightly around his bottle. He hadn’t checked his phone since the message.

He wouldn’t. Not yet.

Kuroo didn’t ask. But he watched him. Quiet, aware. Something about the way Akaashi kept his gaze on the skyline told him the silence wasn’t empty.

And still, he waited.

Akaashi finally spoke, voice soft. “I don’t really go out anymore. Not since… things ended.”

Kuroo nodded once, sipping his drink. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I just…” Akaashi hesitated. “It stopped feeling fun. Being around people who still expected things from me. Or worse… pitied me.”

Kuroo didn’t flinch. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Akaashi looked at him.

“And you?”

Kuroo held his gaze. “I don’t expect anything from you either.”

A beat.

Then, carefully: “But I do like being around you. That’s different.”

Akaashi’s lips twitched, almost a smile. His bottle rested against his knee.

“What if we made tonight fun again?” Kuroo said suddenly. “No expectations. No weight.”

Akaashi blinked. “What do you mean?”

Kuroo stood, finishing the rest of his drink in one go, then reached for Akaashi’s wrist.

“Come with me.”

“What—now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go out.”

“Where?”

Kuroo grinned, tugging him to his feet. “Somewhere loud. Somewhere stupid. Somewhere we can dance until none of this feels like it matters.”

Akaashi hesitated for a half-second too long.

But Kuroo was still holding his wrist, loose, not pulling. Just waiting.

And something in Akaashi gave way.

“…Okay,” he said.

And then again, quieter:

“Okay.”

Kuroo smiled, wide and genuine and nothing like the boy who used to hide behind sarcasm.

They left the bottles behind and descended into the city night.

This time, Kuroo held his hand. 

~~~

The bass hit before they even stepped inside.

Akaashi felt it in his chest. Low, rhythmic, like a second heartbeat trying to pull him forward.

The entrance was tucked into a back alley, half-hidden behind a ramen shop and a shuttered bookstore. Kuroo had known where to go, of course he had, flashing a lazy smile at the doorman like he belonged there. Like he belonged everywhere.

Inside, the light fractured into color. Pinks, purples, and golds strobing across shoulders and hair and hands in the dark. Sweat hung in the air like perfume. The music was loud enough to drown out thought.

Akaashi froze for half a second in the doorway.

He hadn’t done this in ages.

But Kuroo glanced back and didn’t let go of his wrist.

Just tugged once. Enough to say: stay with me.

And Akaashi did.

They found a spot near the edge of the dance floor first, a patch of floorboards that still vibrated with the bass but gave them room to breathe.

Kuroo leaned in close. “You want a drink first?”

Akaashi shook his head. “If I start drinking I might not stop.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Then let’s dance.”

He didn’t wait.

He just stepped forward, loose-limbed, head bobbing slightly with the beat, already half-lost in it.

Akaashi stood still for one full verse.

Then moved.

At first it was subtle. Just a nod, a step, a shift of weight.

But the music kept going. The lights kept changing. And Kuroo kept dancing, eyes half-lidded, body lithe and unbothered, like he was part of the beat.

And Akaashi couldn’t help it.

He followed.

The crowd pressed around them. Arms, sweat, laughter, someone singing too loud. Akaashi moved closer without thinking, like the rhythm gave him permission.

Then closer still.

And suddenly he wasn’t dancing next to Kuroo, he was dancing with him.

Their bodies fell into sync without trying. Shoulders brushing. Hips aligned. Kuroo’s hand found his wrist again, then his waist, guiding him just slightly, like gravity was magnetic.

Akaashi didn’t stop it.

Didn’t speak.

He just moved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking.

Not about Bokuto. Not about what this meant. Not about the message still sitting unread in his phone.

Just this.

Kuroo’s smile.

The lights in Akaashi’s eyes.

The music.

At some point, Akaashi threw his head back and laughed. Open, bright, loud enough to carry over the music.

And Kuroo stopped.

Just for a second.

Because God.

That sound.

It wasn’t polite or quiet or guarded. It was real. Joy in its purest form. And it was coming from him. From the boy who’d spent months flinching at joy, dodging it, hiding from it.

And now here he was. Moving, laughing, golden under violet lights.

Kuroo’s chest ached.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t reach out.

Just kept dancing. Kept orbiting. Kept staring like he was trying to memorize the shape of this exact moment.

Because whatever happened next…

This had been real.

~~~

The night air hit them like a breath of freedom, crisp and cool, wrapping around flushed cheeks and sweat-damp shirts. Akaashi stretched his arms wide as they walked, spinning once on the sidewalk like the stars had thrown their shine directly at him.

“I feel so light,” he said.

Kuroo watched him, smile soft, hands in his pockets.

“Like I could float.”

“You’re not that drunk,” Kuroo said.

Akaashi turned, walking backwards for a few steps, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes bright with leftover laughter.

“I’m not drunk,” he said. “I’m released.”

Kuroo snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.” Akaashi pointed at him dramatically. “I wanna run.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late.”

He skipped ahead, literally skipped, one foot hopping in front of the other down the quiet street, like a child trying to follow invisible cracks in the sidewalk.

Kuroo kept pace slowly behind, watching him move like he was weightless. Like the world had finally gotten off his chest.

“You’re not gonna remember half of this tomorrow,” Kuroo called after him.

Akaashi spun once, arms wide. “Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe tonight is just for now.”

And for a second, Kuroo believed him. Believed this moment could live outside the ache of everything else.

As Kuroo met his pace again, Akaashi stumbled slightly on the step.

Kuroo caught his elbow. “You good?”

“I’m…” Akaashi blinked. The flush on his cheeks was half heat, half buzz. “I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

His hoodie was tied around his waist now, shirt clinging slightly to his back. Hair messy. Eyes glassy in a way that wasn’t just alcohol. It was release. Exhaustion. Something looser than he usually let himself be.

Kuroo didn’t let go of his arm until Akaashi found his footing again.

They walked slowly. The streets were mostly empty, just the occasional car sweeping past, casting shadows that flickered and disappeared again.

Akaashi was quiet at first.

But his shoulder kept bumping into Kuroo’s.

Once. Twice. Then deliberately.

Kuroo looked over, amused. “You sure you’re not drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” Akaashi said. Then frowned. “I’m just… really soft right now.”

“Soft?”

“Like. Emotionally. You know. Gooey.”

“Ah. Gooey. Got it.” Kuroo grinned. “You sound like Hinata.” 

Akaashi laughed again, quieter this time, under his breath. The kind of laugh he let out when he was tired enough to forget he was supposed to be guarded.

They turned a corner.

Akaashi suddenly stopped.

Kuroo blinked, pausing with him. “What—”

“I have to tell you something.”

Kuroo’s breath caught.

The street was quiet. Empty. Just a closed flower shop beside them and the glow of a vending machine throwing pale blue light across Akaashi’s face.

“What is it?” Kuroo asked.

Akaashi looked up at him, and there it was again.

That wide-open expression, like everything he usually pressed down was now floating just beneath the surface.

“I think,” Akaashi started, then stopped. His hand tightened at his side. “I think I’m starting to feel—”

He didn’t finish.

Didn’t need to.

Because he stepped forward.

And suddenly he was close.

Close enough that Kuroo could see every flushed line of his face, every rapid blink, every careful breath.

Close enough that their foreheads brushed.

Kuroo didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Akaashi’s hand found the fabric of Kuroo’s jacket, fingers curling.

“I used to love when you looked at me like this,” Akaashi whispered, eyes dropping to Kuroo’s mouth.

Kuroo’s heart kicked.

“I never stopped,” he said.

And then…

Akaashi leaned in.

It was barely anything. A breath. A tilt.

But just before their lips met, Kuroo pulled back. Barely.

Just enough to break the tension.

Not enough to step away.

Akaashi’s eyes flicked open.

Kuroo’s voice was quiet. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“No I won’t.”

“I don’t want you to resent me.”

Akaashi’s fingers gripped his jacket tighter. “But I want—”

“I know.”

And God, did he want it too.

But Kuroo reached up gently, fingers brushing Akaashi’s cheek, tucking a damp strand of hair behind his ear.

“Let me be worth it,” he said. “Not just a substitute for what broke.”

Akaashi stood still for a long moment.

Then nodded. Slow, trembling, eyes glassy again.

And Kuroo pulled him in.

Not for a kiss.

But for a hug.

A real one.

Warm. Secure. The kind that says you don’t have to earn this.

Akaashi sank into it. Arms wrapping around his waist. Face tucked into his shoulder like he used to, back when things were simpler. Back when he didn’t flinch at being held.

And Kuroo held on.

Even when the city moved on around them.

Even when the moment passed.

Even when it hurt not to kiss him.

~~~

The door clicked shut behind them.

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt alive, humming with everything that hadn’t been said.

Kuroo tossed his keys on the counter. “You want water or—”

Akaashi didn’t answer.

He was standing in the middle of the room, arms slack at his sides, eyes locked on Kuroo like he was waiting for something. Like maybe if he stared hard enough, the words would say themselves.

Kuroo turned to him, something cautious flickering across his face.

“…Keiji?”

Akaashi stepped forward.

Just one step.

Then another.

Until they were standing inches apart, the same kind of closeness they’d danced in, walked in, slept in. But this was different. This wasn’t movement. This was stillness with intent.

His voice came low, soft, frayed at the edges.

“You’re not a substitute. You never were.” 

Kuroo’s breath hitched.

His eyes searched Akaashi’s, looking for hesitation, doubt, regret.

He found none.

Just flushed cheeks. Wild hair. That stubborn, trembling set to his mouth like he’d held this in for way too long.

“Keiji—”

But that was all he got out.

Because Akaashi kissed him.

No warning. No testing the water.

Just heat and hands and everything in him pouring forward all at once.

His fingers curled in the collar of Kuroo’s jacket, pulled him down. Kuroo met him halfway, mouth parting with a startled breath as Akaashi kissed him like he was chasing something. Like he had to.

Like he’d been holding this back for months.

And Kuroo kissed him back.

Hard.

Hands coming to Akaashi’s waist, then his jaw, tilting his head, pulling him closer. So close there was no space left between them. The kiss was messy, breathless, desperate and unfinished. The kind of kiss that had no plan.

Only need.

When they finally broke apart, Akaashi’s chest was rising fast.

So was Kuroo’s.

Neither of them moved.

Akaashi’s fingers were still tangled in Kuroo’s jacket, and his forehead rested just barely against Kuroo’s.

“I tried not to,” he whispered. “I really did.”

Kuroo’s hands stayed at his sides. Not restraining. Just… there.

“I know.”

“I was with him,” Akaashi said, quieter now. “But I always—”

He couldn’t finish it.

Didn’t need to.

Kuroo just closed his eyes.

“I know.”

They stood like that for a long time.

No music. No voices. Just the sound of two hearts trying to find the same rhythm again after too long apart.

This time, neither of them pulled away.

~~~

The kiss deepened. Without pause, without pretense.

Akaashi pulled him closer like something in him had snapped loose, like this wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A demand. A promise.

Kuroo backed into the edge of the couch, and they stumbled slightly. Akaashi didn’t stop. His hands fumbled at Kuroo’s jacket, sliding it off his shoulders, lips moving from mouth to jaw to the corner of his neck, familiar paths rediscovered like instinct.

Kuroo’s breath shuddered.

“You sure?” he managed, voice hoarse.

Akaashi didn’t answer with words. Just looked up at him, flushed, eyes dark and clear.

Then nodded.

“I’m sure.”

They moved toward the bedroom slowly, half-stumbling in the low light. Clothes came off in pieces. A hoodie here, a shirt there, warm hands on warm skin, not rushing, just reaching. The kiss never really broke. It just changed angles, softened, sharpened again.

By the time they hit the bed, they were tangled.

Fingers trailing down spines, across ribs, learning and relearning what they used to feel like under layers of denial and distance. Kuroo’s hand cradled the back of Akaashi’s head like it was something breakable. Akaashi’s breath caught every time their hips aligned, every time Kuroo touched him like he remembered exactly how.

And he did.

He remembered everything.

Akaashi pulled him in again, whispering his name like it was something sacred. Over and over.

“Tetsurou.” 

Kuroo answered with his mouth, his hands, the softness in his voice when he said, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

He held him like he meant it.

Like he’d been waiting for this version of Akaashi. The one who didn’t flinch from closeness. The one who wanted to be seen, fully. The one who stopped thinking about the past and finally chose now.

Day 3 in Tokyo 

The room was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came from absence, but the kind that followed something full. Something that had made space.

Akaashi stirred beneath the covers, eyes fluttering open to the slow stretch of morning. Tokyo filtered in through the window, pale light and distant traffic. His body ached in familiar places. His breath still felt heavier than usual. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just real.

He rolled slightly and, this time, Kuroo was there.

Still asleep, one arm folded beneath the pillow, the other resting loose and open between them like he’d fallen asleep trying to reach for something. His face looked different like this, less sharp. Less clever. No smirk. No guard. Just breath and skin and sleep.

Akaashi stared at him for too long.

Then, quietly, he slipped out of bed.

Not to leave.

Just to breathe.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing Kuroo’s shirt. Wrinkled, too big, soft in the sleeves. The cold floor grounded him. He moved on instinct, filling the kettle, avoiding the mirror over the sink.

He didn’t want to see his face.

Not yet.

Not while everything still felt so…

Unwritten.

The kettle clicked on. He leaned against the counter, hands wrapped around the sleeves to keep them from slipping past his knuckles. A faint ache sat at the base of his spine, a pleasant echo of closeness. Of heat. Of Kuroo.

Of last night.

He didn’t know how to name it yet.

The soft shuffle of footsteps broke the stillness. Akaashi didn’t turn, just listened as the quiet padded up behind him. Then a hand landed at the small of his back, warm and loose.

“Hey,” came the voice. Low, hoarse with sleep.

Akaashi nodded slightly. “Morning.”

Kuroo came to stand beside him, arms crossing lazily over the counter, shirtless and not caring. He looked half-asleep still, hair worse than usual, eyes only half-open, but watching.

Always watching.

“Didn’t mean to sleep that long,” Kuroo said, voice rough.

“You needed it,” Akaashi replied. Then, quieter: “We both did.”

The kettle began to hiss. Akaashi moved to pour the water. Two mugs. Out of habit, not invitation. Kuroo didn’t stop him.

“Still like chamomile?” Akaashi asked.

Kuroo smiled, soft. “Of course you remember that.”

“I remember everything,” Akaashi murmured.

There was a pause. Not heavy, not strained. But aware.

Akaashi handed over the second mug. Their fingers didn’t brush this time. The space between them was still warm, but not charged. Just quiet.

Normal.

Except it wasn’t.

Kuroo took a sip. “You okay?”

Akaashi hesitated.

He didn’t lie. Didn’t dodge.

But he didn’t look at him, either.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he said carefully. “Last night… it was nice. Really nice. But I’m not going to pretend it fixes anything.”

Kuroo nodded slowly. “Wasn’t expecting it to.”

“But you want it to mean something.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo said, eyes steady. “I do.”

Another pause. The tea steamed between them. The city moved outside.

Akaashi finally looked at him.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I’m feeling. I came here to breathe. Not to fall apart again.”

“You didn’t fall apart.”

Akaashi smiled faintly. “You weren’t watching closely, then.”

“I was,” Kuroo said. “I am.”

His hand reached out. Slow and intentional. His landed lightly over Akaashi’s. Not holding. Just there. Solid. Present.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he added. “Not your forgiveness. Not a second night. Not a name for what this is. But you’re here and — and that’s enough.”

Akaashi stared down at their hands. Then, slowly, turned his palm up. Fingers brushing. Holding. Only for a moment.

Then he pulled away.

“I need to shower,” he said quietly.

Kuroo nodded again, stepping back. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Akaashi disappeared down the hall, and the warmth of the moment faded. Not gone, but set down. Left to cool.

~~~

The shower was too hot at first.

Akaashi let it scald him, water beating down on his skin like absolution. His palms braced on the tile, forehead pressed between them. He didn’t cry. He didn’t panic. But something behind his ribs felt loose. Like he’d unclenched too fast and now the feeling was catching up.

Sleeping with Kuroo hadn’t been a mistake.

But it had been dangerous.

He hadn’t checked his phone since the night before. Not even now. He knew Bokuto’s message was still there. Unanswered. Waiting. Still soft. Still full of a kind of love he didn’t know how to live inside anymore.

And what he’d found with Kuroo, whatever this was, it wasn’t safety. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

And he wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.

He turned off the water and stood there dripping for a long time.

~~~

When he came out, the living room was clean, as if Kuroo had quietly tidied the evidence of everything while he was gone.

The couch blankets were folded. The empty mugs rinsed in the sink. Kuroo sat on the edge of the futon, now wearing a clean shirt, legs loose, phone in hand.

He looked up the second Akaashi appeared.

“I didn’t look at your phone,” he said. “But it buzzed.”

Akaashi nodded, heart tight.

He sat down beside him. Their shoulders didn’t touch this time.

The distance was mutual.

“You want to talk about it?” Kuroo asked.

Akaashi shook his head. “Not yet.”

Kuroo didn’t push.

Instead, he offered something simple. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi said. “A little.”

“Good. I’ll get dressed. There’s a diner around the corner that serves actual good food.”

Akaashi huffed out a laugh — tired, genuine.

“Sounds fake.”

Kuroo stood, tossing on a hoodie. “Come prove me wrong.”

~~~

They walked in comfortable silence.

The street was brighter now, Saturday noise building up. Students with tote bags, couples hand-in-hand, dogs in vests. The city was alive, uncaring, sprawling.

Akaashi liked that about Tokyo. No one expected you to explain yourself.

The diner was exactly what Kuroo promised: real food, bad coffee, a half-burned menu nailed to the wall. They ordered pancakes and eggs. Neither of them looked at their phones.

Halfway through the meal, Kuroo broke the quiet.

“I didn’t plan on last night.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not sorry.”

Akaashi didn’t look up from his tea.

“I’m not either.”

He paused.

Then added, “But I still don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” Kuroo said.

Akaashi finally looked at him.

“I’m afraid of breaking something again,” he said. “Yours. Mine. Bokuto’s.”

Kuroo met his gaze with nothing but softness.

“Then don’t name it yet,” he said. “Don’t decide. Just… stay. Until you want to go.”

Akaashi let the words sit.

Then nodded once.

“Okay.”

~~~

Outside, the wind had picked up, cold against their sleeves. Akaashi tucked his hands into his coat. Kuroo walked a half-step beside him, not too close, not too far.

The silence stretched again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like something waiting to break.

It felt like something learning how to breathe.

~~~

“I want to take you somewhere.” 

“And where’s that?” 

Kuroo looked at him, a smile tugging on his lips. “You’ll see.” 

Where they went was hidden, within the underground of tall buildings. The basement was warm. Cracked beams overhead, mismatched lamps perched like sleepy eyes along the walls, and the soft hum of amps testing breath filled the gaps between conversations. It smelled like dust, lemon oil, and heat from too many bodies. A place where memory could grow legs if you let it.

Akaashi leaned against the small table near the back, drink half-finished, eyes scanning the low-lit crowd. He’d just laughed at something Kuroo whispered into his shoulder, something stupid, probably about someone’s questionable choice of hat. And then, a moment later, Kuroo had leaned in and murmured, “Gonna hit the bathroom. Don’t go anywhere.”

He didn’t think twice about it.

Until the host reappeared near the mic.

She tapped it once. The low thud echoed off the exposed brick. “Alright, alright, settle down, my lovely creatures,” she said with a grin. “Next up is someone you all know. I don’t even need to say his name… but I will anyway, because I like the way it sounds.” She winked. “Tetsurou.”

Akaashi blinked.

His chest tugged.

There was a soft shuffle from the shadows, and then — there he was.

Kuroo.

Not heading back from the hallway.

Not smiling at a joke.

But stepping into the pool of warm light by the mic, guitar slung low, sleeves pushed up. His hair was tied back loosely, one curl slipping out near his temple. His eyes flicked up just once, toward the back of the room.

Akaashi froze.

Kuroo didn’t smile. Didn’t wink. Didn’t say anything smug.

Just gave the faintest nod.

Then he leaned into the mic. Voice low. A little rough, like he hadn’t used it for anything serious all day.

“Thanks for always letting me crash at this place,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve earned that… but I’m grateful.”

There were soft chuckles in the crowd, someone clinking a glass.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder.

“This one’s… a little different tonight,” he said. “I haven’t played it before. But I wrote it for someone who—” He hesitated. Swallowed. “—someone who means more to me than I know how to say.”

Another pause.

He looked up, and this time, his eyes didn’t waver. He found Akaashi in the dim light.

“This one’s for you.”

Would That I by Hozier (Used as a Kuroo original) 

Then, he began to play. Strumming notes and chords on the guitar that hung from his neck. 

“True that I saw his hair like the branch of a tree…”

Kuroo’s voice was low, almost whispering. The opening felt gentle, reverent. Like something precious being named for the first time.

Akaashi’s breath catched. The metaphor is old, familiar, how Kuroo used to talk about him without saying his name.

“A willow dancing on air before covering me…”

The strumming swelled slightly. Kuroo’s eyes dropped to the neck of his guitar. He doesn’t need to look at the crowd. He’s not singing to them.

Akaashi felt it. That image. Softness, shade, shelter. How something as fragile as hair can become a place to hide.

“Under cotton and calicoes, over canopy dapple long ago…”

Kuroo’s voice raised just slightly, a memory more vivid now. The intimacy not just emotional but physical. A life they nearly had.

And Akaashi saw the flashes: lazy mornings. Twisted sheets. Hands across skin that meant more than pleasure. More than need.

“True that love on withdrawal was the weeping of me…”

The pain wasn’t in losing love. It was in waking up without it. In the absence of sound. In the ache that came afterward, the weeping without tears.

“That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree…”

Kuroo leaned into the mic slightly, the phrasing more deliberate, each word laced with weight. He’s not hiding the hurt anymore, not even trying. This isn’t just poetic. It’s personal. It’s an apology carved into metaphor. Akaashi feels it like a cold gust down his spine, knowing what it is to stand still while something sharp tears through you.

“Must be felled for to fight the cold…”

Kuroo lingered on the word ‘cold’, his voice catching for half a breath. He doesn’t make a show of it, just lets the silence after ring out like an echo. And Akaashi’s stomach twisted. He knew what Kuroo meant. That loving him might’ve cost Kuroo something. That survival, once, had looked like cutting something down just to keep warm.

“I fretted fire, but that was long ago…”

Kuroo exhaled the line more than sang it, like it still smokes in his throat. His fingers slide gently down the frets, as if remembering the burn.

This is the surrender. The admission that he’d tried to turn grief into warmth.

At this point, the room is utterly still.

Akaashi doesn’t blink. He’s not just hearing the song… he’s in it.

Each line feels like a confession wrapped in something safer. A story. A melody. A night that would’ve felt ordinary if Kuroo hadn’t set it on fire with every word.

“And it’s not tonight…

Where I’m set alight…

And I blink in sight…

Of your blinding light.”

Kuroo lifted his head just slightly here, breath tight in his throat. His voice is a little louder. Not loud, but present now. Like he’s letting himself be seen.

Akaashi feels his chest rise. The denial in that line hits deep. It’s not tonight. This moment, this warmth, this chance… it’s not the one. Not yet. But it could be.

Kuroo’s voice trembled, but not from fear. From heat. Akaashi felt exposed. Like he was the one shining, and Kuroo was the one squinting through it. As if being loved back might blind them both. It feels like the truth Kuroo never let himself say out loud before tonight.

“Oh, it’s not tonight…”

He doesn’t realize it. It’s all too much — the restraint, the what-if, the way the song keeps holding the line but never crossing it.

“Where you hold me tight…”

Kuroo’s strumming slows here. Draws the moment out. He leans into the mic again, softer this time, as if the lyric is a memory he’s daring to want again.

“Light the fire bright…

Oh, let it blaze alright…”

And Akaashi, God, he remembers it too. The arms. The heat. The safety. How tight had felt like home. How tight had meant please stay. 

“Oh, but you’re good to me…

Oh, you’re good to me…

Oh, but you’re good to me, baby.” 

They’ve already struck the match. He’s just sitting in the room where, at any moment, it’s about to catch.

Kuroo stepped back from the mic to let the guitar speak for a moment. A low, full strum, richer than before. His voice followed like smoke rising.

“With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet…”

Akaashi could barely breathe. He knew this line. Not the lyric, but the feeling. Watching someone love you and burn for you and not knowing what to do with that heat.

“Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat…”

Akaashi swallowed hard. Because how do you argue with someone who sees ruin and still calls it beautiful?

“Settle soft and as pure as snow…

I fell in love with the fire long ago.”

No build. No crescendo. Just truth.

Kuroo almost whispered it. The admission is old. He fell in love with the part of Akaashi that consumed things. That made him feel alive even when it hurt.

“With each love you cut loose, you were never the same…”

The phrase ‘you cut loose’ wasn’t cruel. It was observant. It was intimate. It was spoken by someone who watched Keiji grieve and protect and survive by letting go.

“Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame…”

Akaashi flinched. Bokuto. The breakup. The still-living roots. He wondered how Kuroo knew. 

Then remembered: of course he knew. He always knew.

“I was fixed on your hand of gold…

Laying waste to your lovin’ long ago.”

Akaashi looked down. Not in shame. But in ache. That line… ‘laying waste’ named something he hadn’t dared admit. That sometimes… it had been him.

The silence after the last line of the bridge stretched. Kuroo’s head bowed slightly. His fingers hovered over the strings, like he was waiting to know whether the song bad more to say, or if it was done speaking through him.

And then, firmly, he played again.

“Oh, but you’re good to me…

Oh, you’re good to me…

Oh, but you’re good to me, baby…”

Kuroo looked up.

Not at the ceiling. Not at the strings.

At him.

He sang the line as if it’s the last thing he’d ever say. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… offered.

Akaashi’s breath catched. There was no wall left between them now. Not across the room. Not in their silence. Not in their shared history.

Kuroo finished the song with the gentle strumming of the strings. The last note landed like a fingerprint.

No echo. No reverb. Just stillness.

Kuroo held the guitar close to his torso, letting his hand rest flat on the strings to stop the sound from trailing. It ended all at once. Like a thought finally exhaled.

There was a beat of silence where no one moved.

And then, slow, soft applause.

Not polite. Not obligatory.

Just real.

But Kuroo didn’t bow.

He just stood there, eyes fixed on a single point in the room, on Keiji, like the applause doesn’t matter. Like the only thing he ever needed to hear was the breath caught in his throat.

He stepped away from the mic. Picked up the strap of his guitar. Walked back down into the crowd, where the lights don’t follow him.

Back toward the boy he wrote the song for.

Back toward whatever happens next.

Akaashi didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Kuroo sat beside him again.

They said nothing. Didn’t have to.

Their hands found each other beneath the table.

Not tightly. Just… enough.

To say: I heard you.

To say: I’m still here.

~~~

The hallway stretched long and narrow, lit by flickering bulbs that buzzed faintly overhead. Akaashi walked ahead, hand clasped tightly around Kuroo’s, tugging him forward with a quiet kind of urgency. His fingers were warm, sure, like he’d already made up his mind and just needed Kuroo to keep up. The floor beneath them thrummed faintly with the bass still leaking from the underground venue, but it felt distant now, like a different world.

Kuroo let himself be pulled along, not in a hurry, content to watch the way Akaashi moved. The roll of his shoulders beneath his coat, the way his hair caught the dim light. There was something heady about it, this feeling, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off but was softening into something sweeter, something slower. Akaashi’s grip on his hand tightened with every step.

Then Kuroo tugged back.

He moved without thinking, just acting on instinct, on want. A sudden pull that spun Akaashi around and into him, then pressing him gently, but firmly, against the cool wall. His breath caught when their bodies collided, chest to chest, hands still linked for a heartbeat before Kuroo slipped his fingers free and brought them up to Akaashi’s face instead. He kissed him. Quick, hungry, smiling. Akaashi made a sound against his mouth, a surprised laugh that turned into something breathier when Kuroo kissed him again, deeper this time.

There was no hesitation now. No tension curled in the spaces between them. Everything had already been said, in lyrics and glances and the silence between one song and the next. Now there was just this. The taste of salt and sweat and relief, Akaashi’s hands fisting in the front of Kuroo’s jacket, tugging him closer like it still wasn’t close enough.

Kuroo cupped his jaw, ran his thumbs along the curve of Akaashi’s cheek like he could memorize the shape of him through touch alone. He could feel Akaashi smiling against his mouth. That smile had wrecked him from the start, and now it was his. This smile, this moment.

He pulled back just a little, enough to look at him properly. Akaashi’s lips were kiss-bitten, his cheeks flushed. His eyes, dark blue and clear, never left Kuroo’s.

Kuroo’s heart stuttered, the words rising up like instinct, like breath.

“Keiji, I—”

Akaashi’s eyes flickered, and he said it first. Not the words themselves, but the invitation.

“Say it.”

It was soft. Not a plea. Just an offering.

Kuroo hesitated for a breath. Then he smiled, all teeth and tenderness, and leaned in to kiss him again. Slower this time, like a promise. He didn’t need to say it.

Keiji already knew.

~~~

Later that night, the lights were low again. Just the faint glow from the kitchen spilling into the living room, flickering gently against the walls. The apartment felt smaller in the dark. Quieter. Like it was holding its breath.

Akaashi sat on the floor between Kuroo’s knees, his back to the couch, his head tilted against Kuroo’s thigh. The space between them wasn’t space at all. It was skin, it was warmth, it was the way Kuroo’s hand slid gently through Akaashi’s hair, over and over, like he didn’t know how to stop.

Neither of them had spoken in a while.

They didn’t have to.

Akaashi turned slightly, one hand finding Kuroo’s knee, fingers curling there, grounding himself.

Kuroo’s other hand dropped to Akaashi’s shoulder. Slow, warm, the kind of touch you give someone you’re afraid of losing.

“I wish I didn’t feel like this is already ending,” Akaashi murmured.

Kuroo’s fingers paused in his hair.

“It’s not,” he said. Then, after a beat: “Not unless you say it is.”

Akaashi tilted his head up.

Kuroo looked down.

Their eyes met in that way that happens when everything is too quiet and too loud at the same time.

Akaashi shifted, rose to his knees slowly, pressing a hand to Kuroo’s chest as he leaned forward.

Their lips met softly. Like a question.

Then again. Like an answer.

Kuroo’s hands came up instinctively, one sliding around the back of Akaashi’s neck, the other curling at his waist. He pulled him closer, deeper into the kiss, like maybe if he held on tight enough, it wouldn’t dissolve when morning came.

Akaashi climbed into his lap without breaking the contact, arms wrapping around Kuroo’s shoulders, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like he didn’t trust it to stay solid. Their foreheads pressed together between kisses, breath catching, lips brushing even when they weren’t kissing.

“If I leave,” Akaashi whispered, “I’ll feel like none of this ever happened.”

“It happened,” Kuroo said. “It’s still happening.”

“But when I go home—”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Kuroo said, too fast, too real. “Or—or you don’t have to go yet. Just—stay. One more night. One more week. Just—”

Akaashi kissed him again.

To quiet him.

To thank him.

To ask for the same thing.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, when they finally parted, breaths mingling.

“I know,” Kuroo said. “Me too.”

They didn’t move for a while.

Akaashi’s head found Kuroo’s shoulder. Kuroo’s lips brushed the top of his hair.

And even though neither of them said it. Not directly, not out loud… every kiss, every breath, every desperate, quiet touch said the same thing:

Please don’t let this be all we get.

~~~

Eventually, they found their way back to the bedroom.

They didn’t turn on the light.

They didn’t rush.

It wasn’t like the night before, that frantic, breathless unraveling. This time it was slower. Softer. Full of reverence and fear and want.

Akaashi lay half on top of him, their legs tangled, one of Kuroo’s hands running gently up and down his spine like he was trying to memorize the slope of it. Akaashi pressed kisses to his collarbone, his throat, the corner of his mouth. Not demanding. Just… needing to leave pieces of himself behind.

Kuroo kissed back like he didn’t know what time it was.

Like he didn’t want to.

Like knowing would ruin everything.

“I don’t want to forget this,” Akaashi whispered. “Any of this.”

“You won’t,” Kuroo said, voice rough with feeling. “Even if you leave. You’ll remember.”

Akaashi looked down at him, silhouetted in the blue-gray morninglight coming in through the curtains, and for a second, he let himself believe that might be true.

That this could be real even when it ended.

That this didn’t need to be forever to matter.

That maybe, just maybe, they were allowed this. Whatever this was.

He leaned down.

Kissed him again.

Kuroo’s hands came up, one at the back of his neck, one at his hip, pulling him in like he could anchor him there.

“Don’t go yet,” Kuroo whispered. “Please, Keiji.” 

Akaashi nodded against his mouth.

“I won’t.”

Not yet.

And for this night, they let themselves believe that staying was still a choice.

That maybe tomorrow wouldn’t come so soon. 

Day 4 in Tokyo 

The next morning came late.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, pale and soft, dust speckling the beams that landed across the floorboards. The apartment was warm. Quiet. Still.

Kuroo stirred first, but barely. One arm flung loosely across the bed, around Akaashi’s back, the other tucked beneath the pillow, his breathing slow and even. 

Akaashi stirred against a warm chest, limbs tangled. Kuroo was still half-asleep, eyes closed, breath even. One hand rested low on Akaashi’s back, thumb moving in absent, lazy circles.

Akaashi didn’t move for a long time.

It wasn’t urgency keeping him still. It was the opposite, how easy it felt to just exist like this. As if nothing outside the room mattered. As if he hadn’t broken things, hadn’t flinched away from closeness, hadn’t fled anything at all.

Eventually, Akaashi moved gently beneath the covers beside him, trying not to wake him. The sheets were half-kicked off, tangled between their legs. His own skin was still warm from sleep, and when he stretched, the faint ache in his hips made him pause, smile faintly to himself, then exhale.

Eventually, he rose. Quiet, careful, the kind of movement made out of respect for both the morning and the person still wrapped in it.

The bedroom door quietly clicked shut behind him. He padded barefoot to the kitchen, pulled on the first thing he could find… a cotton T-shirt from Kuroo’s laundry basket, huge on him, the neckline sagging slightly off one shoulder. Nothing else but black boxers and the glasses he’d stashed in his bag. 

He sat on the counter.

Steam from the kettle rolled around him in lazy spirals, warm and grounding. One hand curled around a mug, the other braced lightly on the edge of the counter as his legs swung absently. The light caught his glasses just right, softening the edges of his face.

And that’s how Kuroo found him.

Hair a little wild, face half-hidden behind the rim of his mug, legs bare and knees drawn up, perched on his counter like something out of a morning dream.

Kuroo froze in the hallway. He didn’t speak at first. Just… looked. And something in his chest went quiet. Not silent. Not stunned. Just… reverent.

“I want this,” he said finally, voice still rough from sleep. “God, I want this view every morning.”

Akaashi glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his tea. “You mean the one where I steal your shirt and take over your counter?”

Kuroo crossed the kitchen slowly, bare feet padding against the floor. “Yeah. That one.”

He stepped between Akaashi’s knees, hands finding the edge of the counter on either side of him.

“I’m serious,” Kuroo murmured, lower now. “You. Like this. It’s killing me.”

Akaashi tilted his head. “Because it’s hot?”

“Because it’s domestic,” Kuroo said, forehead dropping lightly against his. “Because it’s you in my shirt, drinking my tea, looking like you live here and maybe… like you want to.”

Akaashi didn’t answer right away. He just smiled against the rim of his mug, lips barely tugging at the edge.

And he didn’t move when Kuroo leaned in to kiss him.

It was soft. Half-asleep. The kind of kiss that tasted like heat and citrus detergent and maybe.

Kuroo didn’t press it. Just let it land.

And Akaashi let it stay.

Eventually, Kuroo wrapped his arms around him, head snuggling into Keiji’s hair. He murmured against his hair, still gravel-voiced from sleep, “Let’s do something today.”

Akaashi tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

Kuroo blinked at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Show you more of the mess I’ve made since you last checked in.”

“You mean your life?”

“Same thing.”

Akaashi chuckled softly, but didn’t argue.

~~~

Later, after the tea was finished and the sun climbed a little higher, they wandered out again.

The streets were quieter than the night before. Overcast, but not cold. A light breeze tugged at Kuroo’s hair, and Akaashi kept the sleeves of his hoodie pulled low, fingers tucked neatly inside.

Akaashi felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He ignored it, eyes set on the man beside him. Kuroo was tall, hair a little wild today. He had a gentle smile rested on his lips, almost as if he knew the younger couldn’t take his eyes off of him. It was comforting really, knowing Akaashi was there beside him. 

And these two, they didn’t have a plan. They never did, really. 

But Kuroo knew where to take him.

The café was tucked between two office buildings. Quiet, warm, almost too hip for its own good. Ivy climbed the windows, and the chalkboard menu had tiny doodles in the corners.

“Hey, Ren,” Kuroo called as they stepped inside.

The barista looked up from the counter. “Tetsu. You’re later than usual.”

“I brought a peace offering.” Kuroo tilted his head toward Akaashi.

Ren glanced at him. “No way! It’s the pretty boy from the club! Wow— you’re even more gorgeous when your not fucking plastered.” Then he nodded in approval. “Nice peace offering, bro.”

Akaashi raised an eyebrow, face a little red. His eyes furrowed, trying to place where he knew him, but the man had a face and name so familiar, just a little fuzzy. 

“Excuse me?”

Kuroo grinned. “He means you’re prettier than the guy I brought last time.”

“You brought someone else?”

“Not like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ren handed Kuroo a tray with two mugs. “Your usual. And Akaashi, yours is on the house if you promise to fix the EQ on our speaker.” 

Akaashi chuckled, amused to himself. “You bribe your customers?” 

“Yeah.” Ren leaned forward over the counter. “Only the ones who make Testu smile like that.” 

Kuroo snorted. Akaashi looked away, hiding the twitch of his mouth, a smile fighting to make way to his lips.

They took a seat by the window.

Kuroo blew on his coffee. “Ren’s good people. I mean you met him that one night. He let me crash here once when I didn’t have anywhere else — or well, didn’t feel like I had anywhere to go.” 

Akaashi grabbed his mug, letting it warm his hands. “You always have a place to go… with me.” He coughed. “I mean… yeah.”

Kuroo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “I appreciate you… a lot, Keiji.” 

Akaashi watched him over the rim of his mug, hiding his blush. “So,” He began, changing course, “this is your life now. Cafés and nicknames from baristas.”

Kuroo met his gaze. “And sometimes… you.”

The weight of it landed between them, unspoken.

But not unfelt.

~~~

Akaashi’s phone vibrated against the cafe table, shifting slightly. He didn’t even spare it a glance before he hit silence.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow, a question lingering on his tongue, but he swallowed it. 

Bokuto?

~~~

They spent the afternoon like that. Easy.

Wandering bookstores. Sharing bites of a too-sweet pastry. Kuroo introduced Akaashi to a music shop owner who handed him a dusty first-edition vinyl “just to see what that poker face looks like when it breaks.”

(“It didn’t break,” Akaashi argued.

“It trembled,” Kuroo grinned.)

They wandered through a secondhand bookstore next. Akaashi found a dog-eared copy of Letters to a Young Poet. Kuroo found a mint green notebook and bought it just to see Akaashi’s expression when he said, “I’m going to write a tragic slow burn in here.”

“I hope your main character has better impulse control than you.”

“Impossible. He’s based on you.”

And Akaashi laughed. Not the quiet one.

The real one.

And Kuroo wanted to hear it every day.

And then, as the sky darkened just slightly. Not stormy yet, but thinking about it. So they made their way back to the apartment.

By then, something had shifted.

Not outwardly. But in the quiet space between.

The air was softer. The closeness… heavier.

~~~

Keiji’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He huffed, clicking the power button twice to silence and then decline. 

Kuroo watched him with steady eyes, but continued to walk, leading him home. 

~~~

When they got home, it was late enough for the lights to come on early.

Akaashi flopped onto the couch, stretching full-length, hoodie bunched around his ribs. Kuroo wandered into the kitchen and returned with leftovers and a fresh pair of chopsticks.

“You’re spoiling me,” Akaashi said.

“You deserve it.”

“No one’s said that to me in months.”

Kuroo stilled for a beat. Then offered, gently: “Well. Get used to it.”

They ate with a binge-worthy show on. The windows darkened. The couch got warmer. Their shoulders touched again, not intentionally. But not accidental.

~~~

After the food, after the dishes were rinsed and forgotten, they stayed there.

A blanket was pulled across both their laps.

Akaashi leaned his head back on the couch and exhaled slowly. “I’m trying really hard not to want this.”

Kuroo didn’t move. “I know.”

“But you make it feel easy.”

“I know that too.”

Akaashi glanced sideways. His voice quieter now. “That’s what scares me.”

Kuroo looked at him.

Not urgent. Not afraid.

Just real.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said. “Or tomorrow. You don’t have to name this or fix it or make it permanent.”

“Then what do I have to do?”

“Nothing.” Kuroo reached over, fingers brushing the edge of Akaashi’s sleeve. “Just be here. For now. Until you’re not.”

Akaashi stared at him. Then he leaned in slowly. He pressed a kiss to his jaw, soft and unhurried.

It stayed there. Long enough to mean something.

Then he whispered, “Okay.”

And the night went quiet again.

~~~

Akaashi’s phone buzzed again.

He didn’t move.

It had been buzzing all day. Keiji knew it was going to be the same name. So it was always silenced.

It was face down, vibrating and shifting across the surface. 

Then, quietly—

“You should answer that,” Kuroo said.

Akaashi didn’t speak. Just drew his knees up tighter beneath the blanket.

Kuroo shifted behind him, arms looping slowly, gently around his middle. His chin pressed against Akaashi’s shoulder.

“Keiji,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to talk to him. You don’t have to decide anything. But you should know what you’re running from.”

Akaashi’s chest rose with a quiet inhale. “I’m not running.”

“No,” Kuroo said. “But you’re hiding. And you don’t deserve to live like you’re afraid of your own heart.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water. Slow. Sinking.

“I’m scared,” Akaashi admitted.

“I know.” Kuroo’s voice was steady. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

The phone buzzed again.

Akaashi exhaled. Slow. Tired. This time, he reached for it.

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone.

He turned it over.

Paused.

His brow furrowed slightly. “It’s not…”

Kuroo leaned in. “Not him?”

“No.” Akaashi blinked. Thumb hovering. “It’s—”

He opened the message.

Read it once.

Then again.

He sat back, stunned.

“What?” Kuroo asked, voice low, slightly concerned. 

Akaashi looked up, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

“It’s an agent. She saw my performance.” A beat. “She’s asking if I’m interested in working with her label.“

Kuroo’s mouth opened slightly. “Seriously?”

Akaashi nodded, still wide-eyed. “She sent a link. I think… I think she’s real.”

There was a long pause.

Then Kuroo laughed. Disbelieving. Grinning. “Of course he is.”

He nudged Akaashi’s knee with his own. “See what happens when you stop hiding?”

Akaashi looked down at the screen again. His reflection flickered in the glass.

Something shifted in his face.

Not joy, not exactly.

But possibility.

~~~

The apartment was quiet.

The kind of quiet that wrapped around the walls like a blanket. No traffic. No music. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock above the stove.

Akaashi stood at the counter, both hands curled around a half-drunk mug of tea (like his hundredth cup at this point), untouched for the last ten minutes. The screen of his phone sat dark beside him.

The message was still there. Waiting. The kind that didn’t blink or disappear. An agent. A real one.

Kuroo didn’t say anything when he came in.

Just crossed the kitchen slowly, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a late shower. He stopped behind Akaashi, watching him for a breath. Then two.

Then he stepped in close and wrapped both arms around his waist. He pressed his chest gently to Akaashi’s back, slow and warm, like he was trying not to startle the moment.

Akaashi didn’t move. Just let out a breath that felt like something deeper than air. Like surrender.

Kuroo leaned in. He pressed a soft kiss just below his ear. Then another, slower, at the edge of his jaw.

“You’re gonna change everything,” Kuroo whispered. Voice low. Close. Not for drama. Just for him. “And you don’t even realize it yet.”

Akaashi’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

Kuroo kept going. Gentle. Steady.

“You’re gonna walk into that room and say five words and everyone’s gonna shut up just to listen to you think.”

Another kiss. Cheekbone this time.

“You’re gonna write something that rips the floor out from under people.”

Another. This one lingered.

“You’re gonna stand on a stage someday, and no one’s gonna remember who came before you.”

Akaashi closed his eyes.

Kuroo’s arms tightened around his middle, anchoring him.

“And if you’re scared right now… good,” he murmured. “It means it matters.”

Akaashi’s voice, when it came, was soft. Wrecked. “Why are you like this?”

Kuroo smiled against his skin. “Like what?”

“So damn sure of me.”

He felt Kuroo’s breath against his ear. “Because I’ve already seen what happens when you don’t believe in yourself. And I’m never letting that version of you win again.”

Akaashi turned slowly in his arms. He set the mug down and let his hands rest lightly on Kuroo’s chest.

Kuroo looked down at him and smiled, like he could barely hold it in.

“I’m proud of you, Keiji,” he said again. Quieter now. Like a secret.

Akaashi didn’t cry. But the silence that followed was full of the weight of almost.

Instead, he leaned in. Rested his forehead against Kuroo’s.

And whispered, “Don’t let me run.”

Kuroo’s reply was instant. Steady. Sure.

“I won’t.”

And for a while, they just stood there, under the soft yellow light, holding onto the kind of quiet that only shows up when something is beginning.

Not ending.

Beginning.

~~~

Later, in bed, when the lights were off and the world outside had gone still, Kuroo watched him sleep.

Akaashi’s back curled gently toward him, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, breathing even.

Kuroo didn’t touch him.

Didn’t press.

Just let himself feel it.

The ache of what they were.

And the impossible weight of what they might be.

Day 6 in Tokyo

For the next two days, this was their normal. Limbs tangled in the bed, explorations of Kuroo’s new life, soft kisses, hungry kisses, Kuroo celebrating Keiji, and something growing between them. 

“I’m so proud of you, Kei.” 

“Kei?” Akaashi couldn’t hide his rosy cheeks this time. Not with Kuroo staring at him any moment he gets. 

Kuroo smirked. “You like that?” 

Akaashi rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Kuroo’s neck. “Shut up and kiss me.” 

And he did. 

Kuroo swooped him up, pulling his body close, kissing him as their laughter tangled with the sheets, as he fell back onto the mattress with Keiji on top of him. The world outside their window could’ve been on fire, and neither of them would’ve noticed.

Keiji buried his face in Kuroo’s neck, pressing a kiss there—slow, deliberate. “You’re distracting.”

“Good,” Kuroo murmured, threading his fingers through Keiji’s hair. “I intend to be.”

They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in, hearts beating in sync. Keiji’s thumb traced lazy circles against Kuroo’s chest, his thoughts drifting somewhere between the future and this exact moment.

Kuroo broke the silence first. “So, this thing growing between us…”

Keiji glanced up. “Terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo chuckled, then kissed his forehead. “But kind of amazing, right?”

Keiji nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Kind of amazing.”

Kuroo tilted his head, studying Keiji like he was something rare and delicate. “So… are we calling this something yet, or are we still pretending we’re just casually making out five times a day?”

Keiji huffed a laugh, hiding his smile in Kuroo’s collarbone. “Is that your version of asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“I mean, if it works, yeah,” Kuroo said, voice low and soft. “Unless you have a better title in mind.”

Keiji sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbow so he could look Kuroo in the eyes. “How about… the guy who won’t stop calling me Kei as a nickname and thinks that counts as flirting.”

Kuroo grinned. “So, you’re saying it does count?”

“I’m saying,” Keiji said, poking Kuroo’s chest, “that while we take our time to figure this out, I’m yours. Title or not.”

There was a pause, just a breath, but Kuroo’s smile turned a little quieter, a little more serious. “Good,” he said. “Because I’m already yours, too.”

Keiji leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time. Familiar. Certain.

And when they pulled apart, he murmured, “Still calling me Kei, though?”

Kuroo smirked. “Forever and always, Kei.”

Keiji rolled onto his back with a sigh, arm still draped across Kuroo’s stomach. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you say things like that.”

Kuroo turned toward him, eyes dancing. “You think I’m cute?”

“I think you’re dangerously aware that you’re cute,” Keiji muttered, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

“Guilty,” Kuroo said, pressing a kiss to Keiji’s temple. “But for the record, you’re the cute one here. I’m just tall and cocky.”

Keiji laughed, soft and surprised. “You forgot ‘obnoxious.’”

“Oh right, that too,” Kuroo said easily. “But somehow, you still can’t resist me.”

Keiji let out a fake groan and threw an arm over his face. “This is my life now.”

Kuroo gently pulled the arm away so he could see Keiji’s expression. “Yeah,” he said, voice suddenly a little quieter. “It is.”

Keiji’s smile faded into something more sincere—still light, still soft, but with the weight of something real behind it. He reached up, fingers brushing along Kuroo’s jaw. “I’m okay with that.”

Kuroo leaned in again, lips brushing his, featherlight. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Keiji’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. He blinked, reluctant to move, not wanting to back away from another kiss, but Kuroo gave him a nudge.

“Better check that,” Kuroo murmured. “Could be one of your adoring fans.”

Keiji groaned softly but stretched over, grabbing his phone. The screen lit up with a string of messages from Oikawa.

Oikawa: where the hell are u??

Oikawa: thought u would be back yday???

Oikawa: i get it if you needed space, but not even a text??

Oikawa: everyone’s worried.

Oikawa: im worried.

Oikawa: bokuto’s been asking. a lot.

Oikawa: he misses you.

Oikawa: i miss you 2.

Oikawa: just tell me you’re okay?

Keiji’s fingers hovered over the screen. The warmth from Kuroo’s arms, still wrapped loosely around his waist, contrasted sharply with the tug in his chest.

Kuroo noticed the shift instantly. “Everything alright?”

Keiji nodded slowly, even though his throat felt tight. “Yeah. Just… Oikawa.”

Kuroo stayed quiet, eyes gentle.

“He’s freaking out. I kinda disappeared on him,” Keiji admitted, voice low. “I just needed to… not be there. Not for a bit.”

“Hey.” Kuroo sat up slightly, brushing a strand of hair from Keiji’s forehead. “You don’t owe anyone a perfect explanation, but… you are okay, right?”

Keiji hesitated, then nodded again. “I think I’m getting there.”

Kuroo smiled softly, pulling him closer again. “Then text him back. Let him know that.”

Keiji sat up a little straighter, Kuroo’s hand still resting at the small of his back. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second, then he started typing:

Akaashi: I’m okay.

Akaashi: I’m sorry I disappeared. I didn’t mean to worry you.

Akaashi: I just… needed a minute. Or a few days.

He paused, staring at the blinking cursor. Kuroo didn’t say a word, just gently traced circles on Keiji’s spine.

Akaashi: I know I should’ve said something. I wasn’t trying to shut anyone out. I just didn’t have the energy to be around everything. Around… him.

Another pause. Keiji closed his eyes for a beat, then sighed and kept typing.

Akaashi: Tell Bokuto I’m okay. Please.

Akaashi: And thank you. For checking in. I miss you too.

He hovered for a moment longer before pressing send.

The message went through, and Keiji set the phone down, exhaling slowly. Kuroo shifted beside him, not asking for more, just leaning his forehead against Keiji’s shoulder.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Kuroo said quietly, “but I’m proud of you for doing it anyway.”

Keiji turned, resting his chin on Kuroo’s shoulder. “It was overdue.”

“Most good things are,” Kuroo murmured. “But still good.”

Keiji let himself sink back into Kuroo’s arms. There was a steady comfort in the way Kuroo held him—no pressure, no questions, just presence. Safe, grounding.

“Are you always this good at knowing when not to talk?” Keiji asked quietly, eyes half-lidded as he rested his cheek against Kuroo’s chest.

Kuroo chuckled, low and smooth. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Keiji hummed. “Like stealing all my pillows in the middle of the night?”

“Strategic cuddling,” Kuroo corrected. “Totally different.”

Keiji smiled, and that ache in his chest softened—still there, but easier to breathe around. He reached for Kuroo’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“You know,” Keiji murmured, “I didn’t mean to fall into this. With you.”

Kuroo glanced down at him, brow raised. “Fall into what?”

“This,” Keiji said, squeezing his hand. “Whatever this is. Whatever we’re becoming.”

There was a pause before Kuroo leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to Keiji’s temple.

“Then don’t think of it as falling,” he whispered. “Just think of it as… finally landing somewhere.”

Keiji closed his eyes, heart aching in the best way. “Yeah,” he whispered back. “That sounds nice.”

Keiji yawned against Kuroo’s chest, his voice muffled. “You talk like that to everyone?”

Kuroo grinned, tucking the blanket around them. “Only the ones I plan to keep.”

Keiji scoffed, turning just enough to look up at him. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when you’re looking at me like that,” Kuroo said, brushing his knuckles along Keiji’s jaw. “All dreamy and in love.”

“I am not dreamy,” Keiji protested, even as he blushed.

“And yet,” Kuroo drawled, “here you are. Cuddled up to me. Swooning.”

“Swooning,” Keiji repeated flatly.

“Hopelessly,” Kuroo added.

Keiji smacked his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Kuroo said, catching Keiji’s hand and kissing his knuckles, “are clearly doomed.”

Keiji tried to glare, but the soft smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Goodnight, Tetsurou.”

“Goodnight, Kei.”

“…I’m never getting rid of that nickname, am I?”

“Not a chance.”

Keiji sighed, but he was still smiling as he tucked himself closer, Kuroo’s heartbeat steady beneath his cheek. And just before sleep tugged at him fully, he whispered—

“Fine. But only you get to call me that.”

Day 9 in Tokyo

The café was tucked in a quiet street corner, the kind of place where the windows are fogged from warmth and indie songs hum low beneath clinking mugs. A chalkboard sign out front promised “coffee that doesn’t judge” and “toast that will.”

Kuroo wore a hoodie, hood up, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. He stood just behind Akaashi in line, too close like always. Like he thought Akaashi might vanish if he was more than a breath away.

Akaashi, hair slightly mussed from the wind and scarf twisted half-off his shoulder, was squinting at the drink menu with the quiet intensity of someone who takes his small comforts very seriously.

He was in mid-debate with the barista.

“Does the almond milk foam better?” 

“Oat is smoother.” The barista offered, tired but gentle. 

“But almond is lighter…” Akaashi furrowed his eyebrows, deep in contemplation.

Kuroo leaned down so his breath ghosted against Akaashi’s ear, murmuring low enough only for the three of them to hear.

“You always pick oat.”

Akaashi didn’t look at him, just tilted his head slightly with a dry smile.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t explore.” 

“Mmm,” Kuroo hummed. “Wild side.” 

“You love it.” 

“You’re terrifying.” Kuroo chuckled.

They ordered two lattes, one with oat, one with whatever Kuroo mumbled at the last minute, and a chocolate croissant that Kuroo insisted was “for both of us,” though Akaashi already knew how that would go.

They took the corner booth with worn cushions and a little succulent on the table that’s half-dead in the way most plants in cafés are. Kuroo shrugged his coat off. Akaashi left his scarf on, loose around his neck, but it kept slipping. Kuroo reached over without saying anything and tugged it into place. When Akaashi raised an eyebrow, Kuroo shrugged.

“It was falling off.” 

“That bothers you?”

“No.” Kuroo huffed. “Okay, yes.”

Outside the window, the sky’s overcast in that soft Tokyo fall way. Just a quiet grey. Pedestrians drifted by. One girl paused outside the café window. Lifted her phone. Click. It was quick and casual. Unnoticed.

They split the croissant, which mostly meant Kuroo broke off a huge chunk and insisted it was “precise division.”

Akaashi’s half smile was warm and rare.

“Why do you still have your hood up?” 

“So I can be the mysterious guy,” Kuroo began after he took a bite of the croissant, “next to a really cute one.” 

Keiji rolled his eyes. “You’re so stupid. You look like you’re about to rob the place.” 

“Then it's working.” 

The barista called out another name. Coffee cups clinked. Somewhere in the background, someone laughed like they were in love.

And for a few minutes, neither of them was anyone’s ex-boyfriend, run-away-friend, prodigy, or the son of a legend.

~~~

Later, back in the apartment – small, warm, scattered with new vinyls and books and a few too many hoodies – Akaashi was curled on the couch. He was halfway into reading, glasses slipping down his nose, when his phone buzzed.

It was Oikawa.

Oikawa: HELLO??? TELL ME THIS ISN’T WHO I THINK IT IS 

Oikawa: (link) 

Akaashi squinted at the link. It’s not unusual for Oikawa to be dramatic, he was born that way, but the capital letters were a level up.

The article loaded slowly, and when it did, Akaashi felt his stomach flip.

Headline: Mysterious Figure Spotted with Tatsuo Akaashi’s Son – Music Legend’s Family Returns to the Public Eye?

The image was grainy, clearly taken through the café window. His own face is sharp, caught mid-laugh with a hand near his mouth, eyes half-closed in a way that makes him look younger than he felt. His profile was unmistakable.

Beside him, sat across the table, was Kuroo. Just his back. The edge of his hoodie. His hand mid-gesture, blurred slightly.

Caption: Keiji Akaashi, son of late rock icon Tatsuo Akaashi, spotted at a local cafe in Tokyo. Sources say the reclusive former musician resurfaced after his surprise appearance at the Composition Rounds Contest last month. Tatsuo fans speculate this outing confirms his quiet return to public life, or hints at something more. 

Oikawa: IS THIS REAL

Oikawa: I MEAN OFC ITS REAL BUT WTF KEIJI

Oikawa: ARE YOU WITH KUROO?????????

Akaashi stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no reply formed.

He heard footsteps from the hallway. Kuroo, hoodie down now, hair flattened awkwardly on one side, held a fresh mug of tea and chewed on what’s clearly the last bite of the croissant.

“You okay?” He asked, taking notice of Akaashi’s expression. 

Akaashi turned the phone toward him. “... I think we got spotted.”

Kuroo leaned in. The article lit his face briefly. He whistled low.

“That’s a good photo of you.” 

“It’s an article, Kuroo.” 

“A flattering one. You look so intense. Like someone who makes people cry on purpose.” 

Akaashi huffed a quiet laugh, as he pressed his fingers to his temple.

“Why am I in the news?” 

Kuroo dropped beside him on the couch, leaned into the cushions like he belonged there.

“At least it’s a local article. No one will see it.” 

“Oikawa sent it to me.” 

“Fuck.” 

Akaashi exhaled slowly. His phone buzzed again, but he ignored it this time.

“Well.” Kuroo pressed his lips together to make a tight line. “Guess that makes me your mysterious, but very handsome, bodyguard.” 

Akaashi wanted to laugh. He really did. But his mind was racing in a million different areas. He barely had a reply formed to the agent's message, had zero clue what to respond back to Oikawa with, and was really… REALLY… hoping that this didn't get back to Bokuto. 

“Do you regret having me come here?” He randomly blurted out. 

Kuroo blinked at him. “What? No.”

“This kind of attention… I didn’t think it would come so fast. I mean, I didn’t think it would come at all.” Akaashi bit his lip. “And you didn’t sign up for it.” 

Kuroo took a sip of tea, then nudged the croissant box toward him again.

“I regret not getting two of these.” 

“You ate most of it.”

“You let me.” 

They fell into silence. Akaashi tucked his legs up, rested his head back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling.

“You know, they called me his son like that title means something. Like I am him.” 

Kuroo didn’t say anything for a moment. Then:

“You’re not him. But you’re his legacy. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” 

Akaashi looked at him, eyes a little soft. “You’re too good at this.”

“Years of Iwaizumi.”

He snorted and then finally leaned into Kuroo’s side, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. His phone buzzed again with Oikawa’s threat to FaceTime.

“If he sends me one more text in all caps, I'm blocking him.” 

“You won’t,” Kuroo said. “You love the drama.” 

And he did. Secretly, of course. 

But right now, what he loved more was this: quiet, safety, Kuroo’s warmth against his side. The croissant box between them. And the strange, uncertain future pressing in through the edges of a photo he didn’t even know was being taken.

Day 10 in Tokyo

It started with the second article.

The first was a blurry photo, barely a moment. The second included screenshots from someone who’d filmed them in the café. Akaashi’s laugh, the sound of mugs clinking, a flash of Kuroo’s profile in a window reflection. 

Comments swarmed underneath:

“Wait—is that Tatsuo Akaashi’s son??”

“I thought the whole family died.” 

“Are they DATING??”

“Who’s the guy in the hoodie?? pls lmk before I die”

“who even is this kid?”

The article linked to Akaashi’s performance. He didn’t even know it was recorded. He clicked it once. Only once.

The inbox was full within hours.

One offer for a tribute concert.

One for a guest interview on a popular music podcast.

Two from indie magazines.

One from a journalist who claimed she knew his father.

Kuroo was scrolling through it all with a tight jaw, thumbs twitching against the side of his phone. He was reading faster than Akaashi could.

“This one’s a no,” he said flatly, tapping the podcast email.

“They’re not that bad.”

“They ran a smear piece on some small artist last year.”

“That was a different segment—”

Kuroo set the phone down like it’s hot. “They don’t care about you. They care about the story. His story.”

“I am part of his story.”

“But not theirs to shape.”

Akaashi exhaled sharply. “You can’t make every decision for me.”

Kuroo looked up. His expression softened, just slightly.

“I know. I’m just trying to—”

“Protect me,” Akaashi finished for him. “I know.”

The silence tasted like restraint. Kuroo was still in that hoodie. Akaashi still hadn’t changed out of the shirt he slept in. The apartment was too warm, but neither of them opened a window.

“Maybe I don’t want to be protected all the time,” Akaashi said finally, quieter. “Maybe I want to speak.”

Kuroo nodded. Slowly.

“Then we figure out how to do it without you getting eaten alive.”

His phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn't Oikawa.

It was Bokuto.

Bokuto: hey.

Bokuto: just saw something.

Bokuto: hope ur ok. not trying to get in the way. just—

Bokuto: if you wanna talk, i’m around. no pressure. 

Akaashi stared at the screen for a long time. His heart didn’t race. It sunk. Like it’s been waiting for this weight.

He locked the phone without replying. Kuroo noticed, like he always did, but didn't ask. Not yet.

~~~

The apartment was too quiet.

Dinner sat cold on the table, half-eaten curry and untouched rice. The only sound was the low hum of Kuroo’s laptop, open on the counter, and Akaashi’s quiet pacing in the living room.

Kuroo was leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed. He was watching Akaashi move, but not really looking at him.

“You should respond to something,” he said, not for the first time.

Akaashi didn’t stop pacing. “I don’t want to do it just because everyone expects me to.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you mean.”

Kuroo exhaled, slow and tight. “I mean you shouldn’t go silent and let them write your story without you.”

Akaashi turned to face him, arms crossed now too. “And what if I don’t want to tell my story? What if I want to live it?”

“You can’t pretend this didn’t happen, Kei. That photo’s out there. Your name is everywhere. If you just disappear again—”

“Again?” Akaashi cut in, eyes sharp. “Is that what this is? You think I’m running?”

“I think you want to.”

The words land with a thud.

Akaashi flinched, like he'd been slapped. Akaashi stepped closer. There’s space between them, but not much.

“You keep saying you’re trying to help. That you’re protecting me. But maybe this isn’t about me.”

Kuroo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means maybe you like being the one who’s needed. The one who can fix things.”

Kuroo straightened, jaw tense. “And maybe you like being the one who’s impossible to reach.”

The air goes still. Akaashi blinked—slow, measured. His voice, when it comes, was too calm.

“You sound like him.”

The memory. The lake. The fight. The breakup. 

Kuroo’s expression cracked. Just a second. Just a flicker.

“That’s low.”

“So was what you said.”

They stared at each other, breathing quietly like animals that don’t want to bite, but might.

The microwave clock ticked. A siren howled somewhere outside.

Kuroo looked away first. “Maybe we should just… cool off.”

“Yeah,” Akaashi said. “Maybe we should.”

He walked past Kuroo to the bedroom, closed the door behind him. Not with a slam, but with the kind of finality that says I don’t want to fight you. But I can’t not, either.

Kuroo stayed where he was, staring at the curry. He finally moved to the garbage, scraped it off without eating a bite.

~~~

The bedroom was dark, except for the soft blue light of Akaashi’s phone screen. He laid on his back, barely blinking, the ceiling blurred above him. The fight sat on his chest like something physical.

He replayed it in his head, again and again.

Kuroo’s voice: Maybe you like being the one who’s impossible to reach.

His own: You sound like him.

He closed his eyes. Regret doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in quietly, like fog at the edges of his thoughts.

He unlocked his phone. The inbox was still there. The same offers. Dozens of them now.

He scrolled past the flashy subject lines. Then he found it. The first message. The original one that came in before everything got loud.

Mari Tanaka: Hi Keiji, I hope this reaches you gently. I’m an agent currently working with a Tokyo based record label called Shinkai Sound. I’ve long admired your father’s work, but more importantly, I was moved by your performance at the Composition Rounds Contest.

Mari Tanaka: I’d be honored to help facilitate a discussion or even a soft reintroduction into the public space, only if that’s something you’re ready for. No pressure, no rush.

Akaashi read it three times before typing.

Akaashi: Hi Mari. Thank you for your message. I appreciate the tone and the space you gave me to think. If the offer still stands, I’d be interested in talking further.

He hovered over Send.

For a long, long moment, he didn’t move.

Then he tapped it.

The message sent. Just like that.

Outside, he heard Kuroo moving around. Quiet, but not trying to be silent. Cup against counter. The sound of water running. A sigh.

Akaashi rolled onto his side, staring into the dark.

He didn’t know what this was. What they are. What the next few weeks would bring.

But for now, he said yes.

And that meant something.

Day 11 in Tokyo

It was late morning. Light filtered through the blinds, slanting soft across the kitchen counter. Kuroo was standing barefoot in front of the stove, making coffee like muscle memory, like routine would smooth over the sharp edges from the night before.

He didn’t hear Akaashi come out of the bedroom until he was already there, silent, leaning against the doorway.

They don’t speak at first. Kuroo poured two mugs anyway. He didn’t ask if Akaashi wanted one—he just knew.

“I sent a message last night,” Akaashi said finally, voice low. Careful.

Kuroo didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“To the agent. The first one. The one who reached out before… everything.”

Kuroo placed the mug down a little harder than he meant to. It clinked against the counter and he still did not look at him.

“So you’ve decided.”

Akaashi watched him. “I didn’t think I needed permission.”

“You don’t.”

Then Kuroo turned. His face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched at his sides, thumb pressed hard against his palm.

“But you could’ve told me.”

Akaashi’s jaw flexed. “After the way we left things last night? I didn’t think that was a conversation you wanted to have.”

“I always want to have the conversation, Keiji. That’s the whole point.”

“Is it?” His voice was sharp now, just enough to leave a mark. “Because lately it feels like you only want to talk when you’re the one in control of how it goes.”

That landed harder than either of them expected.

Kuroo blinked, once. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“And I’m trying to live.”

Silence.

Akaashi took the coffee mug and walked past him, heading to the balcony. Kuroo followed, slow, uncertain, until he was leaning in the doorway watching Akaashi lean on the railing, hair still mussed from sleep, eyes tired but clear.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” Akaashi said. “I just… needed to say yes to something. For me.”

Kuroo exhaled, long and quiet. “I get it,” he said. “I do.”

“But you’re still mad.”

Kuroo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Not mad. Just… I hate being shut out.”

“I know.”

“And I hate that I made you feel like you had to.”

They stand like that, in parallel—close but not touching. The space between them full of truth neither of them said soon enough.

Finally, Kuroo stepped forward, resting his coffee mug next to Akaashi’s on the railing.

“So. What now?”

Akaashi’s eyes flickered toward him. There’s a flicker of warmth under all the tired.

“Now I wait for her reply.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice softer. “But I’d like you to be in the room when I figure it out.”

Kuroo didn’t smile. But the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

“Then I’ll be there.”

They haven't reached for each other yet. But the worst of it had passed. For now, that was enough.

~~~

It was late afternoon by the time the message came in.

Mari replied with warmth and no pressure, just like before. She suggested a short video call later in the week, low-key, no crew, just her and Akaashi. “Only if that feels right,” she wrote. Akaashi read it twice, then once more just to be sure it still felt safe.

He doesn’t say anything about it right away. Just closed the laptop and stood up, stretching. His shoulder cracked a little, and Kuroo flinched from the couch like he felt it himself.

“That sounded like your spine gave up.”

“It probably did.”

A beat. Akaashi’s voice was casual.

“She replied.”

Kuroo looked up. That sharp spark in his eyes lit instantly.

“Yeah?”

Akaashi nodded. “We’re doing a call this week. Just her and me.”

“That’s great.” Kuroo said it like it was nothing.

But then he set down his phone. Stood up. He walked across the room and cupped Akaashi’s jaw with both hands like he needed to see him, really see him.

“Hey.”

Akaashi met his eyes, surprised.

“I’m proud of you.”

It was simple. Direct. No qualifiers. No tangled context. And it landed deeper than any long speech ever could.

Akaashi's expression faltered, not in pain, just in that way he got when he didn’t know what to do with softness. He leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against Kuroo’s collarbone.

“Even if I don’t know where this goes?”

“Especially because you don’t.”

Kuroo wrapped his arms around him. Akaashi exhaled slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the photo hit the internet.

“You could be something amazing,” Kuroo murmured against his hair. “Not because of him. Because of you.”

Akaashi didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The way he pressed in closer said enough.

~~~

Later, they sat on the floor, backs against the couch, sharing leftover mochi and playing soft tracks from their phones. Akaashi hummed quietly under his breath, half to himself, half unconsciously. A sound Kuroo knew better than any melody.

“You know you do that when you’re happy, right?” Kuroo said.

“Do what?”

“That sound you make. When something’s just right.”

Akaashi raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do that.”

“You definitely do.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“I’m basically a scientist, Keiji. I observe things.”

Akaashi huffed, but he was smiling. Quietly. Like a storm that passed. 

~~~

It was late.

Not the dramatic kind of late, just the kind that wrapped the apartment in a hush. The dishes were done. The world dimmed. Kuroo was sprawled on the couch in sweats, hair still damp from a quick shower. Akaashi was curled next to him, a book rested closed on his chest, thumb caught between the pages.

They were half-watching a documentary about jazz composers. The narration was low and gentle, some trumpet looping in the background.

“This guy had twelve siblings,” Kuroo mumbled, half-asleep. “I can’t even keep one plant alive.”

“Your plant died because you watered it with Sprite.”

“That’s a myth! No one proved anything.”

Akaashi hummed. He didn’t move. His head was resting against Kuroo’s shoulder, warm and heavy. Kuroo’s fingers found his hand, just lazily tracing the lines of his palm like he was mapping something. He had done it for a while now, never said why.

“You’re still humming,” Kuroo said, soft. “That sound again.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“You do it when you’re safe.”

Akaashi didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.

Minutes passed like that, heavy-eyed and warm. There was nowhere to be, nothing to outrun. For a little while, the pressure of the world—the music, the name, the legacy—it faded into the quiet of the room.

And then his phone buzzed.

Akaashi shifted just enough to reach for it, screen lighting up the dim space.

Bokuto: i saw the article again. i didn’t look for it, it just popped up. and it felt like someone kicked me in the chest.

Bokuto: you look happy. and i’m glad. i really am.

Bokuto: but i miss you. still. i don’t even know what i want you to say back.

Bokuto: is it him? pls just tell me Keiji so i can stop spiraling 

Akaashi stared at it.

Kuroo didn’t ask what it said. He knew that look—a stillness in Akaashi’s face that only comes when something hurts quietly.

“You okay?”

Akaashi blinked once, then again. The glow of the phone screen faded out.

“I will be,” he said.

He slipped the phone face-down onto the coffee table, then curled closer to Kuroo, fitting into his side like he belonged there.

“I’m right here,” Kuroo murmured. “Okay? Whatever you need.”

Akaashi didn’t answer. But he threaded their fingers together again, gently this time.

Day 12 in Tokyo

It was the next afternoon. Warm light spilled through the kitchen windows, golden and lazy. There was jazz playing faintly from the speaker—something slow, all brass and summer energy.

Akaashi was trying to bake. Or something like baking. The recipe was vague, his focus even worse. There was flour on the counter. Possibly also in his hair. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were pushed to his elbows. He was stirring something with mild irritation.

“This batter hates me,” he muttered.

Kuroo leaned against the fridge, smirking. “It’s not the batter’s fault you’re too pretty to take seriously.”

Akaashi didn’t even look at him. “If I dump this entire bowl on your head, will you still think I’m pretty?”

“Unbelievably.”

Kuroo stepped forward and stole a finger-swipe of the batter. Akaashi caught his wrist before he could get it to his mouth.

“That’s raw.”

“You’re raw.”

“What does that even mean?”

Kuroo didn’t answer. He just leaned in, slowly, lazily—like gravity was doing half the work. His free hand brushed the flour off Akaashi’s cheek with the kind of touch that wasn’t necessary, but absolutely intentional.

“You’re doing the thing,” Akaashi said, quietly.

“What thing?”

“The look thing.”

“You like the look thing.”

Akaashi didn’t reply, which is a reply. Kuroo leaned closer. Their noses nearly touched. His voice was low and impossible.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you like when I get in your space like this.”

Akaashi’s breath stuttered, just a little. “You’re insufferable.”

“But hot.”

“Unfortunately.”

And then he kissed him. Or maybe Kuroo kissed him. Or maybe they just crashed into each other at the exact same moment, flour-dusted and hungry, the kind of kiss that tasted like late afternoons and slow-burn finally lighting up.

Akaashi’s hands curled in Kuroo’s shirt. Kuroo lifted him onto the counter like it was second nature. Akaashi’s thighs parted instinctively, drawing him in. The bowl of batter tilted dangerously behind them. Neither of them noticed.

Kuroo’s fingers twitched as he pulled Keiji’s hips to his, earning a moan against his mouth. His heart skipped a beat and his grip tightened, still in a gentle grasp.

“Tetsu.” Akaashi sang against his lips, his arms crossed over his shoulders and behind his neck. “Mmm.” 

He was humming again. That beautiful sound, and Kuroo was bringing it out of him. He trailed down to his jaw, then to his neck. He wanted to leave marks of himself behind, to give Akaashi reminders of him. Every kiss, every bite, Akaashi gasped, hips bucking towards him. Akaashi’s lip fell between his teeth as he leaned back slightly, Kuroo only chasing him with his lips. 

Kuroo drew his hips closer, not that there was much room left. He wanted to feel the way Keiji moved, desperately trying to grind against him. He loved the feeling of Akaashi falling apart underneath his touch, the feeling of teasing, and their hunger for each other growing. 

Soft hands fell onto Kuroo’s cheeks, pulling him back to meet plump and hungry lips. Dustings of flours traced Kuroo’s jaw as Akaashi’s fingers curled against the back of his neck. It felt so good to be met with the same amount of desire and want.

The kiss broke for a breath, just one.

“We’re going to burn whatever that is,” Kuroo said.

“I don’t care.”

And then they were kissing again, deeper, slower, messier. Hands on hips. Fingers in hair. The kind of kiss that left teeth marks in memory.

~~~

The oven timer was beeping uselessly in the background.

The batter would not survive.

But they will.

~~~

The oven beeped again, angrily this time, like it knew it was being ignored.

Kuroo pulled back first, lips still pressed to Akaashi’s jaw like he didn't actually want to stop.

“So,” he said. “Is that what you meant by ‘fold gently’?”

Akaashi breathed out a laugh against his neck. “You’re lucky I don’t fold you into the trash.”

“Hot.”

“You’re impossible.”

Kuroo grinned, hand still on Akaashi’s waist. “You knew what this was when you let me into the kitchen.”

“You invited yourself in.”

“You were playing Miles Davis and measuring flour with this cute ass apron on. I had to do something.”

Akaashi finally pushed him back with a flat palm to the chest, no force behind it.

“You contaminated the batter. With your mouth. And your face.”

“My face?”

“Just in general.”

Kuroo grabbed the bowl behind them and held it up with mock reverence.

“We gather here today to mourn the passing of this brave, but over-handled batter.”

“Put it down.”

“It died doing what it loved. Being ignored for sexual tension.”

“Tetsurou.”

He was laughing now, shoulders shaking, cheeks pink, genuinely delighted.

“God, you’re annoying,” Akaashi muttered, sliding off the counter and trying very hard to look unbothered while his ears were very much red.

Kuroo followed him across the kitchen, poking at the back of his shirt.

“You liked it.”

“I liked the kissing.”

“Same thing.”

“Not even remotely.”

They ended up standing side by side at the sink, rinsing out the doomed bowl, bickering over what actually went wrong (“You added too much vanilla.” “You were distracting.”) as the sun started to dip outside.

It was warm and light. And for the first time in a long while, the moment felt entirely theirs—no headlines, no ghosts, no legacy pressing in from the edges.

Just flour, failed pastries, and the unmistakable sound of someone being home.

Day 13 in Tokyo

It was the morning of the interview.

The apartment was clean in that nervous, over-tidied way. Akaashi fixed the same stack of books on the coffee table three times. The speaker was playing something soft. Classical piano, subdued enough to feel like background.

He was dressed simply: black turtleneck, loose gray trousers, a silver ring he almost took off three times before leaving it on. His hair was neat, even though he already ran his fingers through it six times.

Kuroo watched him from the kitchen, quietly chewing a piece of toast.

“You’re going to crush it,” he said.

Akaashi glanced over. “You haven’t even heard me say anything yet.”

“Don’t need to. It’s you.”

Akaashi exhaled and picked up his phone. Opened his notes app. Scrolled. Scrolled more. Closed it again.

Kuroo walked over and sat on the arm of the couch. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

“I’m not trying to be perfect.”

“You’re trying not to shake.”

Akaashi didn't deny it. “I don’t know how much of me is allowed to show,” he said after a beat. “How much of it people even want. Or if they just want him again. My father.”

Kuroo reached out, adjusting the collar of his shirt gently. His hand lingered.

“Then show them the you that I know.”

“Which version is that?”

“The one who overthinks everything, forgets to eat when he’s focused on something, organizes his playlists by weather, and kisses me with flour on his face like it was a strategic distraction.”

Akaashi huffed. “That was not strategic.”

“Lies.”

There was a beat of silence. Akaashi sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded. He stared at them like they might start shaking if he stopped watching.

“What if I say the wrong thing?”

“Then you say the wrong thing. And you fix it. Or you don’t. And the world keeps going.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not. It’s just… not worth silencing yourself to avoid a misstep.”

Kuroo kneeled in front of him, resting his arms across Akaashi’s knees.

“I’ve seen you play in front of a big ass crowd. I’ve seen you win. Seen you fall apart and build yourself back better. And I’m telling you—this? You’re more than ready.”

Akaashi met his eyes. And in that moment, he almost believed him.

~~~

Later, just before the call, Kuroo brought him a cup of tea—ginger, with honey. No fanfare. Just set it beside him on the desk with a hand to his shoulder.

“You’ve got this, Keiji.”

Akaashi nodded. Swallowed.

Then clicked “Join.”

The video call opened to a quiet, warmly lit office.

Mari Tanaka sat at a clean desk, walls lined with music posters— old, eclectic, mostly indie acts. She dressed simply, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair in a messy bun. Behind her, a whiteboard full of names and tour dates sat half-erased, waiting.

Her smile was genuine. Familiar, but professional

“Hi, Keiji,” she said.

Akaashi nodded, stiffly at first. “Thanks for taking the time.”

“Of course. I’m really glad you reached out.”

There was a beat of polite silence. Mari didn’t push. She was good at letting people find their rhythm.

“I wanted this to be a soft meeting,” she continued. “Not a pitch, not a pressure. Just… a conversation. About you. And what you might want.”

Akaashi exhaled, easing back into his chair slightly. “Okay.”

“So I’ll ask you something simple to start,” she said. “Not what you think people want from you. Not about your father. Just… what do you want to be, Keiji?”

The question sat there. Akaashi was quiet for a while. He glanced down at his hands, then back at the screen.

“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “But I think I want to stop hiding. I’ve spent a lot of years trying to be invisible. To forget about the past… if that makes sense.”

Mari nodded, not surprised. “Some of our associates here remember you as a kid. Back when you used to perform and share your original pieces. You were very talented for such a young age. You were known for arrangement, tone layering, ambient structure. But I’ve heard what you played at the contest a few months ago.” She smiled gently. “You’re more than the background.”

“That performance wasn’t planned,” Akaashi said. “It just… happened.”

“So maybe we help make it happen again. But on your terms.”

Akaashi tilted his head, skeptical. “What would that even look like?”

Mari leaned forward, thoughtful. “We don’t have to rush it. We could start with low pressure sessions. Maybe an EP—studio recorded, collaborative if you want. Or not. No public release until you’re ready. You call the timeline. I can build a team around your voice, not your name.”

He was quiet again. Processing.

“I’m not interested in becoming a version of him.”

“Good,” Mari said. “We’re not interested in that either. We’re interested in you.”

Another pause. Akaashi’s throat felt tight. But his voice was steady.

“Then I want to try.”

Mari was beaming. “I’ll draft a proposal. Just options. We’ll take it step by step.”

Before the call ended, she said one more thing, softer than the rest:

“Whatever this becomes, Keiji… it starts with you deciding you’re allowed to want it.”

The screen faded to black. And Akaashi sat there, still. Not overwhelmed. Not scared.

Just… steady.

~~~

MUSIC SCENE EXCLUSIVE

Tatsuo Akaashi’s Son in Talks with Rising Music Label?

By Yukari Saeki

Published 2:17 PM 

In a development that has left both the music industry and longtime fans of the late lead guitarist rock legend for the band Temptation, Tatsuo Akaashi, buzzing, sources have revealed that Keiji Akaashi—the elusive pianist who stunned audiences with an unannounced solo at the Composition Rounds—is reportedly in preliminary talks with Tokyo-based indie talent house Shinkai Sound.

While neither party has confirmed the signing, insiders close to the label claim Akaashi met this week with senior agent Mari Tanaka, known for her work with minimalist instrumentalists and emerging indie soloists.

“He’s not just ‘the son of Tatsuo,’” one Shinkai associate told us under condition of anonymity. “He’s something else entirely. Quiet, intentional. Like if grief could write symphonies.”

Akaashi has largely stayed out of the public eye since his parent’s death nearly eight years ago, with barely any songs to his name. His recent public reappearance, followed by a photo that went viral earlier this month, reignited speculation about a potential return to music.

Rumors about a deal remain unconfirmed. Representatives for Shinkai Sound have declined to comment. Akaashi has not responded to direct press inquiries.

But fans of both Tatsuo’s legacy and Japan’s modern indie scene are already watching closely.

“Whatever he does,” one Temptation fan wrote on social media, “I hope it’s on his own terms. The world doesn’t need another Tatsuo. It might just need Keiji.”

Related:

• Remembering Tatsuo Akaashi: The Man, The Myth, The Frontman
• Shinkai Sound’s Slow Takeover of Japan’s Indie Scene
• Composition Rounds Contest  2025: The Night the Quiet One Played

~~~

Night had settled. The apartment was dim and cozy—blankets, half-drunk tea, and the soft hum of a record in the background. Kuroo’s legs were stretched across the couch, Akaashi tucked against his side, both of them sharing one phone like it’s a secret they’re passing back and forth.

Twitter was open. And it was nothing but chaos.

“Read that one,” Akaashi said, voice half-covered by a laugh.

Kuroo cleared his throat, overly dramatic.

“‘If Keiji Akaashi drops an album, I’m breaking up with my boyfriend and throwing my body into the sea. I need to feel pain to match his vibe.’”

Akaashi wheezed. “Why are people like this?”

“Because they have taste.”

He scrolled again. Read:

“‘Was gonna sleep but now I’m spiraling over Akaashi!! Who is this guy?? I just stumbled across him in the news but omg he’s so fine.’”

Akaashi buried his face in Kuroo’s shoulder, laughing harder now. “These people are unwell.”

“Your people.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Absolutely.”

Kuroo tapped a screenshot of a fan’s playlist titled ‘akaashi keiji if you’re reading this please ruin my life gently’ and waved it like evidence.

“You’ve got simps. Full-blown, unhinged simps.”

Akaashi shook his head, cheeks pink. He was smiling so much it hurts.

“They think I’m cool and they don’t even know me.” he said, disbelieving. “I’m not even famous.” 

Kuroo turned to him, suddenly softer. “They do. But they don’t even know the half of it.”

Akaashi blinked at him, surprised and maybe a little shy.

“Yeah?”

Kuroo kissed his cheek. “Yeah. You’re the best kept secret in Japan. And I can’t wait until they figure it out.”

Akaashi leaned into him again, scrolling one-handed now. Every so often he nudged Kuroo to read another one, like he’s still getting used to the idea that people want to hear him, not just talk about him.

Outside, the city buzzed faintly.

Inside, Keiji Akaashi was laughing. Smiling. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, ready.

Day 14 in Tokyo

The next day, they didn’t leave the apartment.

They kept the blinds drawn, the TV on low, and their phones on silent—both buzzing restlessly against the counter, unread.

Text after text on both their phones:

Oikawa: did u sign? Keijiiiiii i miss my bff, talk to me 

Kenma: Tell me it wasn’t you in that photo with Akaashi

Bokuto: hey

Akaashi didn’t open that one. He didn’t open any of them.

Kuroo was stretched on the couch with a book he was not reading. Akaashi was curled up in the armchair, legs pulled in, hoodie sleeves bunched around his wrists. The playlist in the background looped too often. Neither of them changed it.

The silence between them wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm, either. It was… cautious.

“We’re hiding,” Akaashi murmured finally.

“We’re resting,” Kuroo replied.

“Is there a difference?”

Kuroo closed the book, laying it across his chest. “One feels like recovery. The other feels like avoidance.”

“Which one are we doing?”

Kuroo’s eyes met his. They don’t blink.

“You tell me.”

Akaashi didn’t answer. Not for a long time.

Then:

“People are asking what’s going on.”

“With the label?”

“With us.”

Kuroo nodded, slowly. “And what do you tell them?”

Akaashi swallowed. “Nothing.”

“Because you don’t know?”

“Because I’m scared to.”

The words landed like a drop of ink in water, small, but spreading fast.

Kuroo shifted upright, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I meant what I said. I’m here. With you. Whatever that means, whatever this becomes.”

“I know,” Akaashi said. “That’s the problem.”

Kuroo frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re content. I know you’re calm. You made peace with it—you left everyone, you came to me. And you’re okay. But I’m not. Not really.”

“Keiji—”

“I broke him,” Akaashi said, and his voice finally cracked. “And now he’s watching me be with the person he trusted most in the world.”

The room held still. Even the music felt far away now.

“He told me he still misses me,” Akaashi whispered. “And I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how.”

“You don’t owe him a performance,” Kuroo said quietly.

“I owe him something.”

“You owe yourself peace.”

Akaashi leaned forward, head in his hands. “I think I love you,” he said, broken but soft. “But I can’t tell if that makes me cruel.”

The words freeze in the air.

Kuroo didn’t move.

Not at first.

His breath stuttered like he wasn’t expecting it, like someone pulled the floor out from under him mid-step.

“What—” His voice came out quiet, stunned. “You… what?”

Akaashi didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I didn’t mean to—”

“No—Keiji—” Kuroo knelt in front of him, hands hovering like he was not sure whether to touch him or shake him. “You’ve never said anything close to that,” he said, eyes wide. “You’ve never even—have you known? Have you felt it?”

Akaashi finally looked at him. His eyes were red around the edges.

“I’ve felt it,” he said. “For a while. I just… didn’t know if I deserved to say it.”

Kuroo swallowed hard, blinking like he was trying to keep up with his own heartbeat.

“Say it again,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Akaashi hesitated.

Then:

“I-I think I love you.”

Kuroo exhaled like he'd been punched. He let out this stunned, breathless laugh that almost broke. Like he didn’t know whether to cry or smile or just fall apart right there.

“God, you’re an idiot,” he said softly.

Akaashi flinched, but Kuroo cupped his face before he could pull away.

“You think I didn’t fall in love with you the moment I met you?”

“You never said—”

“Because I thought it would scare you. And I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with you, in any way I could.”

“And now?”

Kuroo pressed their foreheads together, voice steady now, finally catching up to his heart.

“Now I really want to be with you knowing you feel it too.”

They stay like that for a while, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.

No labels. No answers. Just honesty.

~~~

It was after midnight.

Kuroo was asleep, limbs tangled in the comforter, one hand still resting on the side of the bed where Akaashi was lying a few hours ago.

Now, Akaashi was in the other room.

The production application was lit only by the glow of Kuroo’s laptop screen. Everything else was dark. No overheads, no distractions. Just that quiet blue light and the soft weight of night pressing in through the windows.

He wasn’t writing with an audience in mind. There was no plan for release, no visual concept or structured melody. Just… feeling.

A low, uncertain chord hummed from the laptop. It was held longer than necessary, just listening to the vibration settle into silence.

Then another. Then a shift. A pattern started to form, not structured yet, but raw. Honest.

He felt like he was missing a note, but didn’t correct it. He left the imperfection in. He thought about everything he was feeling but doesn’t have words for:

The guilt of breaking relationships, the weight of his silence towards Bokuto, the way Kuroo looked at him when he said I think I love you, and the terrifying relief of finally saying it.

He built a progression around those thoughts. Something mournful, but not broken. Something that leaves space for hope without pretending it doesn’t hurt.

His phone buzzed beside him.

He ignored it.

The melody dipped into something softer. More vulnerable. His thumb brushed the modulation wheel attachment, just enough to let the pitch bend, just enough to make the whole thing feel like it’s breathing.

He closed his eyes.

Played it again. From the top. Slower this time.

It was not finished. Not even close.

But it was his.

And it was beginning.

The chords were low, soft, steady. They stretched long, like something struggling to hold on. He let them bleed together, not quite resolving. The kind of sound that feels like waiting.

Then a melody. Fragile. Wavering, like a voice that hasn’t decided if it’s allowed to speak.

He built it out slowly.

No words yet. Just textures.

Layer by layer, he added strings. A tremor of synth. Distant percussion, like a heartbeat, or footsteps retreating. It grew and grew but never exploded. It ached quietly. Just like him.

In his head, the words began to come. Just truths:

“We never learn, we’ve been here before 

Why are we always stuck and running from 

The bullets, the bullets?” 

Akaashi wrote that into the melody.

The structure began to take shape, not like a pop song, not a single. It was sprawling. It built like a wave that never quite crashes. Just rising. 

He didn’t notice he was crying until his hands slipped off the trackpad and his breath caught.

“Just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times…”

He heard it in his head. The emotion of it. The feeling of having something too big to say, so you just sing through it.

He wiped his face. Recorded a vocal scratch. Nothing polished. Just raw.

When he listened back, it was imperfect.

But it was his.

And for the first time in years, Akaashi finished something, and didn’t hate what it said about him.

Day 15 in Tokyo

The sun filtered in soft, golden, too gentle for how much his chest still hurt.

Akaashi woke up late, later than usual, but not alone. Kuroo’s arm was draped across his waist, face half-buried in Akaashi’s shoulder. His hair was a mess, his breathing slow. Peaceful.

For a moment, Akaashi let himself stay still. Pretending this is the whole world.

No label. No past. No choices.

Just this.

Eventually, Kuroo stirred.

“You didn’t come back to bed last night,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I was writing.”

“That a metaphor or…”

“No,” Akaashi said quietly. “I actually wrote something. All the way through.”

That made Kuroo lift his head, eyes half-lidded but alert now.

“Can I hear it?”

“Eventually.”

Kuroo made a small noise of mock offense, then pressed a kiss to Akaashi’s shoulder.

“Tease.”

They made coffee together, slow and clumsy, hands brushing. Kuroo insisted on doing it “the right way,” which apparently meant aggressively fiddling with the grind setting until Akaashi told him he was being insufferable. Akaashi was laughing, but it’s quieter than usual.

The morning passed in soft mundanity.

They sat at the kitchen table, eating toast from the same plate, reading tweets out loud and groaning at the ones that are just so ridiculous it’s insane.

“‘Keiji Akaashi looks like he’d break your heart and then apologize in lowercase.’”

“That’s not even wrong,” Kuroo muttered through a bite.

“‘If he doesn’t drop a debut single by winter I’m committing fraud.’”

“Encouraging.”

Akaashi smiled. He leaned into Kuroo’s shoulder and stayed there. There was a moment when Kuroo reached up to brush hair out of his face, fingers lingering behind his ear.

It was small. Familiar. Safe.

And that was when Akaashi felt it.

The edge. The part he was standing on. And it was too much.

He swallowed the weight, let Kuroo kiss his temple, and told himself not to ruin it.

~~~

They walked shoulder to shoulder down a quiet side street, bundled in their jackets, hands deep in their pockets. The sky was soft and overcast. The kind of cold that wasn’t sharp, just lingering.

They were only heading to the local grocery. It was a short walk. But it felt like something more.

“What kind of miso again?” Kuroo asked, squinting at the notes on Akaashi’s phone.

“White,” Akaashi replied. “Not the mixed kind you like that tastes like… salt and regret.”

“Bold for someone who’s out here putting tofu skin in everything.”

“It’s called texture.”

Their breaths puff in the air between bickering.

They reach the shop. It was small, warm, shelves a little uneven, staff barely attentive. Kuroo grabbed a basket and looped it dramatically over his arm like he’s about to win a cooking show. Akaashi snorted.

They split up to grab things. Kuroo returned with chips and a box of cereal that definitely wasn’t on the list.

“Necessities,” he said.

“You have the nutritional priorities of a child.” Akaashi said it dryly, but he didn’t take them out of the basket.

The cashier recognized Kuroo, barely. Nodded once. Kuroo flashed a lazy smile, tossed a comment about the weather. Akaashi watched him, quietly.

The ease of it. The way Kuroo belonged here. He didn’t even notice he was holding the bag tighter until they were halfway home.

~~~

That night, Kuroo threw two controllers into Akaashi’s lap and declared it was an “emergency game night.”

“You’ve been brooding since dinner,” he said. “I’m not letting you emotionally spiral. My orders.”

“And why this game?” Akaashi lifted the case skeptically.

“It’s high-stress and chaotic. You’ll hate it.”

“Great.”

They play anyway.

It was a dumb, colorful cooking game where they were trying to serve orders in a constantly shifting kitchen on a moving platform. Akaashi was terrifyingly good at it. Kuroo kept falling off the edge and screaming in disbelief.

“How are you so good at this?”

“Because I read the instructions, Tetsurou.”

“Wow. Academic privilege.”

At some point they were yelling over each other, laughing too hard to even press the right buttons. Akaashi nearly toppled sideways off the couch and Kuroo caught him by the wrist, eyes bright, grinning like a kid.

It was loud. It was dumb. It was fun.

Too fun.

And somewhere between the laughter and the quiet that followed it, Akaashi felt something pinch in his chest.

This wasn’t a night that belonged to someone with unfinished apologies.

It was a night that belonged to someone sure of what they wanted.

Someone who deserved to stay.

He was not sure he did.

~~~

The room was dark, save for the faint sliver of city light filtering through the curtain. Kuroo’s breathing was steady, the kind of deep, peaceful rhythm that meant he was out cold.

Keiji slipped from the bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The air was cooler outside of the covers, and the floor creaked just slightly under his bare feet as he padded toward the kitchen.

Water. That was all he needed, just a sip, something to ease the dryness in his throat. But as he passed the dresser on the way back, his eyes landed on it again.

That frame.

It had been there the whole time. Plain black, nothing remarkable, except that it was always face down. Always.

Keiji hesitated, then slowly reached out and turned it over.

The light from the hallway caught the photo just enough to make it clear: The band. All four of them. Kuroo, in the middle, arms slung around two people. One of them was Bokuto.

Younger, brighter. All smiles and tangled limbs and closeness that didn’t need words to explain.

Before. 

Keiji’s breath hitched.

The smile on Kuroo’s face, it was different. Not better. Not worse. Just… freer. 

Before.

He stared at it for a moment longer, the silence around him suddenly heavier. There was a little crack somewhere in his chest. Not sharp. Just a soft, steady ache.

He turned the frame back down, slower this time.

By the time he climbed back into bed, Kuroo had shifted toward the middle, searching for him in his sleep. Keiji let him find him, let their legs tangle again.

But he didn’t close his eyes for a long time.

~~~

Sometime deep into the night, Kuroo stirred.

He didn’t know what woke him at first—just a shift, a quiet sense that something wasn’t where it was supposed to be. His arms reached instinctively across the bed.

Empty.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, vision adjusting to the faint light. Keiji lay beside him, more distance between them— stiff, unmoving, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling.

Kuroo’s stomach twisted.

“Keiji,” he whispered.

Keiji didn’t answer right away. His breath was steady, but there was something hollow in it, as if he was trying not to drown in the stillness.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Keiji said finally, voice quiet. Detached. “I tried. I really did.”

Kuroo pushed up on one elbow, watching him. He squinted a little, confused at how wide-awake the boy was beside him. He glanced around, taking note of his surroundings, and saw the picture frame on his dresser shifted slightly.

His heart dropped. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“You saw the picture.”

Keiji didn’t flinch, but the truth sat heavy in the silence between them.

“I think I always knew,” he murmured. “Even before I turned it over. There’s still a version of you that lives in that picture. A version I can’t touch.”

Kuroo exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. “He’s not the only version of me.”

Keiji closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, still staring at the ceiling. “This bad feeling I get… doing the wrong thing. Hurting people just for my greed—” his voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on—“I began to like it.”

Kuroo stayed quiet. Every instinct in him wanted to reach out, to soothe, to say it was okay. But he didn’t interrupt.

Keiji turned his head finally, meeting his gaze. “It’s so scary, Tetsurou. Because it’s overwhelming. The desire. The temptation.” He swallowed. “I think I’ve wanted you for so long.”

The confession landed like a stone in water—no shock, just ripples.

Kuroo leaned in closer, voice a whisper. “So stay with me.”

But the ache in Keiji’s eyes only deepened. “That’s the part that terrifies me most. That I still want to.”

He looked away, folding his hands on his chest like he needed to hold himself together. “There’s a version of me that would stay. That wouldn’t even hesitate. But he’s not the good one.”

“You’re not bad, Keiji.”

“I’m not innocent, either.”

Kuroo sat up fully now, legs half-draped off the bed, arms resting on his knees. “You think I don’t know what this is costing you? That it’s not costing me anything, too?”

“I don’t want to hurt Bokuto,” Keiji whispered. “Not more than I already have. And I don’t want to be the thing that makes you lose someone you’ve always loved.”

Kuroo’s voice was steadier than he felt. “I already lost him, Keiji. A long time ago. You didn’t do that.”

“But I didn’t walk away either,” Keiji said. “And now I’m here. Lying in your bed. Wanting to stay.”

The silence returned, but this time it was heavier, sadder. Keiji turned back toward the ceiling, tears he wouldn’t let fall burning behind his eyes.

Kuroo didn’t try to pull him in. He didn’t beg.

He just stayed close.

And hoped morning would come slowly.

~~~

The hours passed slowly.

Neither of them slept.

The sky outside the window began to shift, dark blue softening at the edges, hinting at the slow approach of morning. That kind of light that doesn’t ask for attention, but makes you feel like time is running out anyway.

Keiji sat up, knees drawn to his chest, a blanket still tangled around his waist. He hadn’t spoken again since that last whisper in the dark, but Kuroo had stayed beside him. Not touching—just there. Present.

Finally, Kuroo broke the silence, voice barely above a breath. “Will you let me say something selfish?”

Keiji turned his head just slightly, nodding once.

“I don’t regret any of this. Not one second.” Kuroo looked down at his hands. “Even if you leave when the sun comes up. Even if you never come back.”

Keiji’s throat tightened. He hated how much that hurt. Hated how much it meant.

“Say something,” Kuroo murmured, softer this time.

Keiji reached out then, finally, fingertips brushing Kuroo’s hand—tentative, like a goodbye dressed in affection.

“I wish I’d met you differently,” he said. “Before we were both already stitched to other people.”

Kuroo leaned into the touch, just barely. “We still found each other.”

“I don’t know if that makes us lucky or cruel.”

“Maybe both.”

Keiji let out a shaky exhale. “Can I kiss you?”

Kuroo nodded. “Always.”

So Keiji did, softly. Like a secret. Like something only meant to last a few seconds longer.

When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against Kuroo’s, eyes closed, as if he could memorize the feeling well enough to carry it with him.

Outside, the sky was turning pale gold.

He whispered, “You’ll be okay?”

Kuroo didn’t lie. “I’ll miss you.”

Keiji swallowed, nodded. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Kuroo said, voice rough, “but it’s the truth.”

And they stayed like that. Forehead to forehead, two hearts refusing to look at the light coming in through the window, until one of them had to move.

Until Keiji did.

Leaving Tokyo

The morning was gray.

Not raining. Just that colorless kind of overcast that feels like the sky doesn’t know what to feel either.

Kuroo stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, two mugs in his hands. He didn’t call out.

Akaashi appeared a few minutes later, already dressed. Hoodie zipped. Bag slung over one shoulder. The same quiet in his eyes as the sky outside.

They drank their tea in silence.

No music. No jokes. Just the ticking clock on the wall.

Neither of them said, “it’s time.”

But eventually, they moved.

Shoes at the door.

Zippers.

Akaashi paused once, fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag.

Kuroo was watching him, openly now.

“If I don’t go now,” Akaashi said softly, “I won’t go.”

Kuroo nodded. Not agreeing. Just… understanding.

The walk to the station was slow.

Too quiet.

Both of them dragging their feet, like maybe time could be bargained with if they just kept moving slow enough.

But the platform appeared all the same. Cold concrete and steel, electronic chimes announcing an arrival. The hum of trains that didn’t care who stayed behind.

They stood a few steps away from the gate.

The air between them was brittle.

Kuroo reached up, fingers brushing a lock of hair from Akaashi’s forehead. Light, reverent.

“You’ll text me when you get home safe?” he asked.

Home. 

“I will.”

“You’ll… let me know when you’re ready to come back.”

Akaashi hesitated. “I don’t know if I will be.”

Kuroo nodded again. Swallowed hard. His throat moved with it.

Then, quietly: “But you want to.”

Akaashi’s voice cracked, just a little.

“I do.”

Kuroo stepped forward, hands cradling Akaashi’s face, thumbs brushing the corners of his jaw, eyes flicking everywhere: his mouth, his eyes, the spot between his brows he always furrowed when he was scared.

He leaned in.

The kiss was soft.

But it hurt.

Akaashi clung to his coat, fingers curling into fabric like it might keep him here longer. Kuroo kissed him again, just once more. Slow, firm, like trying to brand the shape of his mouth into memory.

“Keiji… I love you.” 

Akaashi’s breath hitched, the weight of Kuroo’s words catching him harder than the wind whipping through the station. I love you, Kuroo had said, not desperately, but like a truth he’d carried for too long. Akaashi wanted to say it back, wanted to throw everything aside and stay, but the ache in his chest reminded him why he couldn’t. 

But all I’ve done is leave pieces of us scattered behind. I keep trying to hold on, and it keeps hurting everyone—you—in the process.

He stepped back as the train neared, something between longing and apology in his eyes. 

Loving you doesn’t stop me from breaking things. Maybe it never did.

The doors opened. He hesitated, then turned away.

“I should go,” Akaashi whispered.

Kuroo nodded. He didn’t say anything. Just watched as Akaashi turned toward the train.

~~~

The doors hissed open.

Akaashi stepped inside.

Found a window seat across from the door.

His bag dropped to the floor beside him, forgotten. His hands rested in his lap, unmoving. His breath came shallow. His face unreadable.

But his eyes never left Kuroo.

Kuroo stood on the platform. Frozen, hands buried in his coat pockets, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath.

The chime sounded.

Doors starting to close.

Then—

Kuroo moved. He pushed through a couple people and shoved past someone’s suitcase.

His hand slammed against the edge of the door before it sealed shut, just enough force to startle the conductor, enough to freeze the closing sequence.

Akaashi’s heart stopped.

Kuroo was there, right in front of him. Nothing but air between them.

Breathless. Eyes wild.

“What if you stay?” he asked.

A question. Not loud.

But clear.

Akaashi didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His hands twitched in his lap. His eyes were wide, caught like something trapped between past and future.

Kuroo stepped closer, eyes filled with desire for the man seated on the train. Filled with nothing but passion and love. 

“I want you with me,” he said.

Not a question. A demand. 

Akaashi’s eyes drifted to the hand being stretched out, and offering to be helped up. He could get up right now, take Kuroo’s hand and stay in Tokyo. He could start over, live his life in the city with Kuroo. He could repeat the last two weeks, limbs tangled, laughter echoing, domestic feelings that just came too easily. 

Or, he could go home to his apartment. Where worried faces were waiting. Where his ex was pacing. Questions wanting to be asked. Lectures ready to be given. Disappointed faces to be seen. 

Keiji had a choice. To stay with the man with pleading eyes, an extended hand and a heart filled with love. Or to go back to someone who still loved him, to multiple people who loved him, despite being put through the pain and heartache. 

It was easy in Tokyo. Not so much back home. 

Akaashi felt the decision creep up. His stomach twisted as he met Kuroo’s eyes. Those patient, endearing eyes.

Kuroo couldn’t let the moment pass. After all, he cherished the last two weeks so much and prayed every morning and night it wouldn’t be temporary. He never wanted to let Keiji run. 

So he wouldn’t.  

“Stay with me.” 

Chapter Text

Going Home 

The train pulled out of the station with a low, mechanical sigh, slicing through the soft gray static of Tokyo like a blade through fog. Akaashi barely noticed the movement. He’d taken this line countless times before. To the bands concerts, to outings, to trips that stretched into the early hours of morning. But today, the rhythm of the tracks felt wrong. Too slow. Too steady. Like it was trying to lull him into calm, and his body refused.

The cabin was half empty. Two schoolgirls whispered over a phone near the opposite door, their laughter too soft to be irritating, too sharp to be ignored. A man with a rumpled suit slept upright, head nodding faintly with the motion of the train.

Akaashi had pulled his hood over his head and let his fingers fold loosely in his lap. His eyes were tired, but the kind of tired that doesn’t close. It was the kind that hangs behind your ribs, waiting.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming back. He didn’t want to, if he was being honest. He didn’t want to do anything. Not after the way Kuroo and him left things off. 

He had stepped onto the train with so much deceleration, for a guy he so desperately loved. For a guy who had told him he loved him days ago, and left anyways. 

Keiji always ran. And part of him had hoped Kuroo expected that, and wasn’t too hurt by his choice. But that would be selfish of him to think. That people can’t be upset by the choices he makes.

He debated apologizing. Explaining himself. Explaining why he turned down Kuroo’s offer to stay. Because why did he? 

He’d thought about it. He’d stared at the message window, typed the same sentence five different ways. I think I just need some space. I don’t know what I want. But I think I love you. 

But none of them felt true. Or rather, they felt too true, which made them impossible to send.

So he said nothing.

The buildings outside gave way to bridges. To parking garages. To the kind of middle spaces between cities where everything looked both in progress and abandoned.

He leaned his head against the window, breath fogging faintly against the glass. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

And that’s when his phone buzzed.

It was a single vibration. Barely enough to lift the screen off his thigh.

He didn’t look right away.

He waited.

Another bridge passed outside.

Then he turned the phone over.

Mari Tanaka: Hey Keiji. Just got off a call. Really sorry. The label’s backing out.

Akaashi blinked. A second buzz followed.

Mari Tanaka: They’re not looking to take on anyone who could bring PR complications. I tried to make the case, but it’s a no. Hope we can circle back after things calm down.

He read the messages three times. Not because he didn’t understand, but because his brain refused to accept how… quiet they were.

No explanation.

No negotiation.

Just: It’s over.

Akaashi’s thumb hovered over the reply bubble. 

He typed: Thanks for letting me know.

Then deleted it.

He typed again: I understand.

Deleted.

He turned the phone over in his palm, screen down, like it was too hot to hold. The schoolgirls’ laughter faded into a whisper. A stop passed. Someone got off.

Akaashi didn’t move.

The train moved forward. He did not.

~~~

Fifteen minutes passed. Or maybe twenty.

The city had become outskirts now. Low-rise buildings, steel fences, yellowed grass caught in the seams of concrete. The sky was the same color as dishwater. Nothing sharp. Just blur.

He turned his phone face-up again and unlocked it.

The last message was still open. Still sitting there like a paper cut: tiny, quiet, impossible to ignore.

Akaashi exhaled slowly through his nose and opened his contacts. His thumb scrolled, past Oikawa, past Bokuto, past the past.

He paused.

Tetsurou.

His full name, no emoji. No heart. Not anymore. He may have briefly added one during his time in Tokyo. Corny, he knows. 

The screen waited, patient. A white void with his name at the top.

He opened the thread. There were no unread messages. Just the last one Kuroo had sent, two days ago. It was a series of pictures they took together during their outings. On the rooftop, at the club, in the many cafes they went, candids of Keiji, and some selfies full of Kooru’s smirks and grins. 

That had been enough to make Akaashi throw his phone across the room when Kuroo first sent them to him. 

Now he just stared at it. His thumb hovered over the delete button. He tapped it. The red bubble popped up:

Delete contact?

He didn’t press it.

Instead, he opened a new message.

Did you mean everything?

He stared at the sentence.

Backspaced.

I lost the deal.

Backspace.

I don’t know what to do.

Backspace.

Backspace.

.

He stared at the single period for a long time.

Then he sighed. Locked the screen and turned it over. He tucked the phone between his knees like it might try to run away.

Outside, the countryside moved past in streaks of green and gray.

Inside, Akaashi sat still, trying not to fall apart in a train car full of strangers.

~~~

The train hissed to a halt like it was tired of carrying him.

Akaashi stepped off into a pool of cold afternoon air, his hoodie tugged low over his head, bag slung across his shoulder like a weight he couldn’t shift. The platform was nearly empty, just a couple of old men muttering about weather, a high school student asleep against the wall, a family reuniting with too much noise.

Everything looked the same. The tiled floor. The cracks along the overhead beam. The vending machine by the exit still stuck on the same out-of-stock melon soda.

But it didn’t feel the same.

His skin itched under his sleeves. He adjusted the strap of his bag, fingers stiff from holding tension too long, and moved forward. The automatic gates blinked green at him without ceremony. No fanfare. No welcome. Just a turnstile and an exit.

He didn’t expect the air to hit him so hard when he stepped outside.

The cold pressed close. Not biting, but damp. The kind of chill that soaked into your clothes and sat there like a memory. He turned down the narrow street that led toward his apartment, face hidden beneath his hood. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Didn’t need to. He wasn’t anyone.

But someone always noticed.

“Wait— Akaashi Keiji?”

His breath caught mid step. It wasn’t loud. Just a woman’s voice. Maybe mid 20s. Too sharp to ignore.

He glanced up.

She stood just past the crosswalk, holding a phone like it was a weapon she hadn’t decided how to use yet. She had a laminated press badge tucked into her coat pocket, and her eyebrows lifted as if she were surprised the ghost in front of her had answered the call.

“I thought that was you,” she said, already stepping closer. 

Akaashi didn’t answer. He kept walking.

“Just a quick question?” she added, matching his pace. “The record deal— did they drop you? A source came forward and said they’re not moving forward with your signing.”

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. He kept his eyes ahead.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Not today.”

Click.

The shutter snapped like a punch.

She was fast. Quicker than the local paper type he’d grown used to. Probably freelance. Probably already uploading it to Twitter with a pre-made caption.

And of course, like birds sensing a storm, two more people turned their heads.

One was a high school girl, phone already rising. The other, a man in his fourties, who just blinked, then whispered something to his companion.

The street had been quiet. Now it wasn’t.

Akaashi’s chest tightened. The skin between his shoulder blades prickled, like the air itself had become something watchful.

He pulled his hood lower.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, sharper this time, stopping mid-step. 

The woman blinked, but didn’t apologize. She didn’t lower the phone, either.

He walked away before she could get another.

Welcome Home

He didn’t run.

Not visibly.

But his strides lengthened. His breathing shortened.

It wasn’t the crowd, there wasn’t one. It was three people. Maybe four. But to him, it felt like a dozen.

They didn’t follow. They didn’t shout. There were no flashbulbs or microphones. Just eyes.

And that was enough.

He turned the corner onto his street, narrow, lined with cracked sidewalk and leaning mailboxes, and felt the ache in his throat crest. His chest burned. His eyes stung from nothing but cold. Or maybe memory.

The apartment complex rose ahead. Plain. Unassuming. Tired brick and a rusting railing.

He climbed the stairs two at a time.

A man smoking on the second floor balcony didn’t even glance up. The laundry hanging from the railing on the third floor swayed slightly in the wind, like it was waving him back into his past.

At the top, he paused. Not to catch his breath. To brace.

The hallway was too long.

Too narrow. Too quiet. The same gray walls and molding he remembered, but now they pressed in from both sides like a vise. Akaashi’s keys jingled faintly in his hand as he approached the apartment door, the sound too loud in the silence. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He didn’t look over his shoulder, but he felt the weight of the day chasing him up the stairs.

The second he reached the door, he fumbled the key into the lock, shoved it open, and slammed it behind him like someone might follow.

The sound cracked through the apartment like thunder.

He leaned against the closed door, chest rising too fast, breath shallow in his throat. One hand still clutched the doorknob. The other pressed flat to the wood, holding it shut as if that could keep the world out. As if that could stop the feeling from following him inside.

Then the silence hit.

It was thick. Still. Unprepared.

And in that stillness, four heads turned.

Oikawa was the first to move, to react, nearly dropping the half-folded blanket in his arms. His face twisted in something like disbelief, eyes wide and caught between confusion and something dangerously close to hope.

“Keiji?”

Akaashi didn’t answer.

Iwaizumi stood from the floor beside the coffee table, shoulders squaring instinctively, brows furrowed deep. He didn’t say anything, but he offered Akaashi a look. One he always had, a wave of understanding amongst those with strong emotions. 

Suga froze mid-sip, mug cradled in both hands, his expression open, gentle, stunned. Like someone witnessing the return of someone they’d already started to mourn.

And Daichi… Daichi blinked once. His fingers flexed slightly on the kitchen counter, like he wasn’t sure whether to move or stay still.

But Oikawa, oh Oikawa. 

He stepped forward, voice soft but urgent. “Are you— Keiji, are you okay? I’ve been calling, I’ve been texting for—fuck, I thought—”

Akaashi stared past him. Not through him, just past. Like the present was a pane of glass and he couldn’t focus on either side.

The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the fridge.

Then came the voice.

Muffled.

Unaware.

“Okay!” someone called from down the hall. “Who’s ready for Twister?”

Akaashi’s blood froze in his chest.

A pause. A shuffle.

Then Bokuto appeared, barefoot and bright, hair messy as it sweeped across his forehead. He was holding the Twister box in one hand, mid-laugh, and whatever joke had been forming on his lips died the instant he looked up.

He stopped.

The box dropped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft plastic clatter.

And for a moment, a real, breathless, endless moment… time held its breath.

Akaashi saw it happen in Bokuto’s face. In the way the brightness drained like light through a cracked pane. In the way his whole posture shifted from motion to stillness, like his body didn’t know how to hold itself anymore.

His mouth parted. “You’re…”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t fall. It just came out like prayer. Like realization.

“…back.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t relief. It was disbelief wrapped in so many layers of feeling that Akaashi couldn’t even begin to name it.

Bokuto’s eyes searched him.

Slowly. Desperately. Like if he looked hard enough, he might understand the moment before it passed.

And Akaashi couldn’t breathe.

He saw the hurt flash in Bokuto’s face, not loud or dramatic. Just real. The kind that doesn’t scream. The kind that leaves a mark.

Oikawa’s voice broke the silence again, quiet, almost a whisper now. “Keiji?”

But Akaashi’s fingers were already curling tighter around the strap of his bag. His feet moved before he told them to.

Past Suga. Past Iwaizumi. Past Bokuto, whose eyes tracked every step like he didn’t dare blink.

He made it to the hallway. To the room. Hands trembling as he grabbed the doorknob.

“Ji, wait—” Bokuto’s voice cracked.

Akaashi didn’t.

He slammed the door shut and turned the lock. He collapsed against it, breath catching in his chest like something sharp.

Inside, the walls pressed closer.

Outside, the house was too quiet again.

The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.

Then came the silence.

No one moved. No one spoke.

For a moment, it felt like the entire apartment exhaled. Not in relief, but in grief. The kind of grief that arrives slow, like steam under a shut lid. Quiet. Contained. But scalding.

Bokuto didn’t move. He was still standing where he’d dropped the Twister box. His feet planted wide like he’d braced for something. An argument, an explanation, a punch to the gut. But nothing had come. Only distance. Only the slam of a door that made the hallway feel a mile long. His hand, still somewhat raised from where he’d started to reach, lowered slowly. Then his shoulders dropped.

Oikawa was the first to speak, voice thin. “Did anyone else know he was coming?”

No one answered.

Iwaizumi folded his arms tightly across his chest, jaw clenched. “Nope.”

Suga set his mug down, gently and deliberately, on the edge of the coffee table. “He looked…” he started, then trailed off, like the rest of the sentence got lost between his ribs.

Bokuto blinked. Once. He turned his head slightly toward the closed hallway door.

“He didn’t even look at me.”

The words were so soft they barely registered as speech. Not accusation. Not anger. Just observation. Like he was describing something he didn’t know how to feel yet.

Oikawa walked over and crouched to pick up the Twister box. He didn’t speak either. He just held it, brushing dust off the corner with his thumb.

“It’s been two weeks,” he said finally, not looking at anyone. “I… we’ve been calling. Messaging. Nothing. And now he just—” His voice cracked. “Shows up. Like that.”

Daichi stood behind the counter, unmoving. He was watching Bokuto, his expression unreadable.

Bokuto stepped forward. Just one step. Then stopped again.

“I thought I’d get a warning,” he murmured. “Or… I don’t know. Something.”

No one answered.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still locked on the hallway. “He was wearing the hoodie I had told him I liked on him.”

Suga shifted uncomfortably.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Oikawa said, gently but he didn’t mean it gently. 

“Doesn’t it?” Bokuto asked, a bitter smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all. “He looked straight through me.”

“Maybe he couldn’t look at you,” Suga said. “That’s not the same.”

Bokuto shook his head once, sharp and small.

“I was scared, you know?” he said. “Like… actually scared. I thought— I thought that he might’ve...”

He paused. He didn’t finish that thought.

“Seeing him now, I still felt scared.”

No one told him he was wrong.

Because he wasn’t.

He turned to the group, but didn’t really see them. His gaze had that faraway look, like he’d stepped halfway into a memory and couldn’t find the exit.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Daichi said quietly.

Bokuto’s jaw clenched. “But I want to.”

“Then wait,” Suga said. “Just wait.”

“But what if he doesn’t come out?”

Oikawa met his gaze then, really met it, and said the truth none of them wanted to say.

“Then you don’t go in.”

~~~

Akaashi staggered backward two steps, then sank to the floor like something gave out beneath him, knees folding, shoulders dropping, spine pressed against the door.

He couldn’t breathe.

No, that wasn’t quite right. He was breathing, he heard it. Could feel it. But it was too fast, too shallow. His chest rose and fell like a wave trying to outrun a storm. He curled his fingers into the carpet, nails biting the threads, trying to ground himself in anything.

The apartment was too quiet on this side of the door. No movement. No knocks. No calls of his name.

He was grateful for that.

And also ashamed.

He pressed the back of his head against the wood and shut his eyes tight, as if that would close the world off with them.

You looked straight through him.

The thought slammed through his brain like a bell.

He dropped the game. He smiled first.

He hadn’t meant to look away. Not like that. Not… past him. He just couldn’t hold the weight of Bokuto’s face in that moment. Couldn’t bear to see that expression. That soft, unguarded look break into something else.

His chest ached.

He forced himself to stand.

He needed—

He turned to the dresser. Pulled open the second drawer. Nothing. Too much. Socks, chargers, a tangled scarf.

The third drawer.

His fingers found the bottle. Cold plastic. Familiar shape. The cap rattled in his palm as he unscrewed it.

Akaashi sat back down on the edge of the bed, bottle shaking in his hands, the pills whispering against each other like bones.

He stared at them for a long time.

Not because he didn’t know what to do, but because he couldn’t make his hands do it.

His fingers were trembling. Not a little. Not in that distant, abstract way. They were shaking. Like he was holding a live wire. Like his nerves were screaming beneath the skin.

He tipped the bottle and watched one pill land in his palm.

Then another.

He didn’t take them. Not yet.

Just sat there, breathing too fast, staring at them like they might speak.

Outside the door, nothing.

Inside his chest, everything.

~~~

His phone was facedown on the nightstand. He hadn’t touched it since the train.

Now, his eyes flicked toward it. He stared. 

Then, with a hesitation so sharp it hurt, he reached for it. Picked it up. Thumbed the screen alive.

No new messages.

Of course not.

Still, his fingers navigated instinctively. Opened his contacts. Scrolled.

Tetsurou.

He stared at the name like it was a wound.

He didn’t delete it. He didn’t message, either.

But he opened the thread.

Blank.

Still.

He typed: I’m falling apart again.

Backspace.

They all saw me. I couldn’t—

Backspace.

I looked at him and ran. Again.

Backspace.

He stared at the blinking cursor. Then locked the phone. He tossed it gently, too gently, onto the bed beside him. He picked up the pill from his palm and set it on his tongue.

Swallowed.

Then the next.

Then the bottle went back into the drawer, closed not with force, but a dull kind of precision. Like he was tidying away the evidence.

He laid back on the bed, arm across his eyes.

He didn’t cry. Not yet.

Just waited for the chemicals to smooth the edges. And for the silence to feel like stillness, instead of punishment.

~~~

It was late.

The kind of late where the house forgets to breathe. Where even the walls feel asleep. Every light was off but one, the sliver of hallway glow beneath the closed door.

Akaashi sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. Hoodie zipped. Bag packed. Shoes in his hand, not yet tied. His breath came slow, quiet, like he was trying not to disturb the night.

He hadn’t spoken since he locked the door. Hadn’t cried. Hadn’t slept.

The medication had dulled the sharpness, but it hadn’t softened the weight. It still sat heavy in his chest. A knot of guilt. Of shame. Of something he didn’t have the language for anymore.

He stood. Slid the straps of his bag over his shoulders. Glanced once around the room.

It looked the same. It wasn’t.

The hallway outside his door creaked once as he eased it open. Slowly. Carefully. Not a sound from the living room. No shadows moving behind the couch. No Bokuto in sight. Just the quiet hush of sleep, or pretending to sleep.

Akaashi stepped out.

Each step was deliberate. Measured. Like walking a tightrope.

He reached the front door. Rested his hand on the knob. Inhaled once.

Don’t think. Just go.

But before he could turn it, before the night could let him vanish, there was a knock.

A soft one.

Like someone had been about to tap and hesitated. And in that hesitation, landed perfectly on time.

The door opened.

He didn’t mean to open it. It was muscle memory. A flinch. A reaction to the shock of contact. The door swung inward. 

And Kuroo was standing there. 

Hand still raised. Mouth parted like he’d been about to say something.

They both froze. The quiet stretched between them.

Akaashi was still holding the knob. The bag was still on his shoulders. The hallway light behind him flickered faintly.

Kuroo looked the same and different, the way time does with people you know too well. His hair was tied back, a hoodie thrown over a thin shirt, expression unreadable except for one thing:

He wasn’t surprised.

He wasn’t angry.

He just looked… here.

Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d walked the whole night across the city to get to this exact moment, and not even the silence had surprised him.

Akaashi’s mouth was dry. “You came,” he whispered.

Not a question. Not an accusation.

A statement. Disbelieving. Familiar.

Kuroo’s hand dropped slowly to his side.

“Of course I did,” he said.

The words landed soft, but full. Like a pillow catching a fall.

They stood there, two outlines in opposite doorways. One trying to leave. One never really having left.

It took a matter of seconds for Akaashi to lunge forward, crashing into him with his arms wrapping around Kuroo’s torso. Immediately, he was met with longer arms pulling his body into warmth. 

Akaashi exhaled for the first time since he stepped off the trains platform. He allowed himself to be subdued by Kuroo’s presence. He was always there. Always at the right moment. 

Kuroo’s eyes dropped to the bag, still holding on, not threatening to let go.

“You going somewhere?” he asked, voice gentle.

Akaashi didn’t answer. Kuroo didn’t press. Instead, he stepped back. Just slightly, holding Keiji’s arm now, and made room.

“You want to come outside for a second?” he offered, not expecting yes. Not needing it.

Akaashi looked past him, to the long stretch of hallway that eventually led to the outside. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I just— I didn’t want anyone to see me leave.”

Kuroo nodded. Like he understood. Like he always understood. 

Then he did something Akaashi didn’t expect.

He stepped forward. Just one step. Enough to breach the doorway. Enough to meet him where he stood.

“I’m not here to stop you,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t want you to be alone when you did.”

Akaashi looked at him, and really looked. And what scared him most wasn’t how Kuroo saw through him.

It was how safe that felt.

Like maybe, if he stayed in that doorway long enough, he wouldn’t leave at all. But of course, he didn’t say that.

Instead, he stepped aside and let Kuroo in. He closed the door behind them. And for the first time since stepping off that train, he let the bag slide from his shoulders. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

Neither of them moved to pick it up.

The lights were off in the hallway. The apartment was asleep, or pretending to be. Akaashi didn’t speak as he led Kuroo down the narrow corridor toward his room. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate. He didn’t want Oikawa hearing. Or Iwaizumi. Or worse, it getting back to Bokuto.

Especially not Bokuto.

Once inside, Akaashi turned the lock behind them. Not out of fear. Just… habit. A kind of boundary. A small attempt to hold the world outside.

The room hadn’t changed since Akaashi and Oikawa began living here.

Posters still lined the far wall, curling slightly at the corners. The lamp on the desk cast a dull, amber glow, just enough to paint the outlines of books, clothes, the half-made bed. The air smelled like dust and something colder underneath. The scent of leaving too often and never fully coming back.

Kuroo didn’t say anything at first. He stepped in slowly, hands still in his jacket pockets, scanning the room like it was part museum, part memory. He didn’t sit until Akaashi did.

They settled on the floor, backs against the bed, legs stretched out, shoulders close but not touching.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… necessary.

Akaashi exhaled. He stared at the sliver of light under the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just shared the same oxygen. The same regret.

Finally, Akaashi spoke. “I was dropped before I even signed.”

His voice was quiet. Blunt. Not bitter, just worn out.

Kuroo turned to look at him, but said nothing.

“They said they weren’t looking to take on any potential… drama,” Akaashi continued. “Didn’t even have the courtesy to call. Just a message. On the train.”

Kuroo’s expression didn’t shift. No shock. No sympathy. Just that steady stillness that always made him feel less alone.

“I didn’t even know if I was going to come back,” Akaashi said. “I thought I could just… disappear quietly. But then I got here and—”

He stopped. The words caught.

“And?”

Akaashi swallowed.

“Seeing them. Everyone. Oikawa, Suga… Bokuto…”

The name hung in the air like incense, sweet, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

“It broke me,” Akaashi whispered. “I saw his face, and I couldn’t even speak. I just— I locked up. And ran. Again.”

Kuroo looked down at his hands.

“You don’t owe them anything, Keiji,” he said, not unkindly. “Not if it’s costing you everything to stay.”

Akaashi closed his eyes.

“But they’re my friends.”

Kuroo didn’t answer. Not right away. When he did, his voice was lower.

“They were mine too.”

A beat passed.

Akaashi turned to him. “You left without saying goodbye.”

“I left because no one wanted to hear it.”

“They think you’re a bad person.”

“I think they’re not wrong.”

Akaashi flinched, not visibly, but enough that Kuroo noticed.

Kuroo shifted, leaning back on his hands. “I didn’t come here to defend myself. I came because I thought you might need someone who understands.”

Akaashi’s throat tightened.

“I do,” he said. “Need that.”

Another silence followed, not heavy, but whole. Like a blanket thrown over something fragile.

“I wonder if…” Akaashi began. “If maybe I shouldn’t have left Tokyo.” 

A sharp pain settled in Kuroo’s chest. The memory of Akaashi’s terrified eyes, the conductor motioning Kuroo to make his decision, the way he stepped back and watched the train leave the platform. Kuroo couldn’t recall a time that hurt more than that one. 

Despite the pain, Kuroo reached out for him. His arm extended and offered a gentle touch that overlapped Keiji’s hand. 

“I won’t lie to you and say it didn’t hurt to watch you leave. But…” Kuroo swallowed. “You came back for a reason.” 

Akaashi’s head snapped to his side, eyebrows furrowing, confusion crawling across his face. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Kuroo began. “Every decision we make has a reason, Kei. If you really wanted to stay, you would have. Now you’re thinking about it because you feel like it would’ve been the easier choice. Doesn’t mean it would’ve been the right one.” 

Akaashi felt his breath catch in his throat. Was that true? Did Akaashi not want to stay with Kuroo? 

“Or maybe you did want to stay, but there was a reason you needed to be here.” 

Akaashi sighed. “How do you do that?” 

“What?” 

“Answer the questions that I don’t ask out loud?” 

Kuroo chuckled, deep and low. “Sometimes, I think I can read minds.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Akaashi turned to him, finally surrendering to a smile. “What am I thinking about right now?” 

Kuroo mimicked his body language as he looked into his eyes with intensity, slightly exaggerated as if he was actively searching his mind. He took notice of the shift in Akaashi’s attitude. It was quick, he seemed more relaxed now. Probably because he was away from the noise. 

“You’re thinking about…” 

Akaashi peered at him through his eyelashes with one meaningful look, only.

“… how you wanna kiss me, right now.” 

The smile tugged harder at Akaashi’s lips. Especially when Kuroo leaned forward, making him draw in to the magnetic force between them.  Keiji felt there was no control over his body when he was practically falling forward, desperately wanting to meet his lips in the middle. 

“Or maybe,” Kuroo interrupted with a smirk, “how you wanna fuck me.” 

A gasp lurched from Akaashi’s throat. “Oh, shut up!” He playfully shoved Kuroo’s shoulder, but didn’t deny it.

Kuroo caught his wrist just as he was about to draw back. After all, Kuroo never wanted to let Akaashi run too far. 

Akaashi’s breath caught, his chest tight. He let the weight of his hand fall into the warmth of Kuroo’s hold. And soon, he was climbing into his lap, hands on his hips pulling him in. His hands fell onto Kuroo’s chest, as if he needed help bracing himself, and he slid them up and around his neck. 

Kuroo tilted his chin upwards, watching him through heavy eyelids and relaxed lips. “You just saw me this morning. Can’t get enough?” 

“I hate you.” Keiji murmured as he leaned in just a little closer. 

“No.” Kuroo tugged on his hips, earning a gasp in response. “You don’t.” 

And like every other time, they met each other halfway for a kiss. For a make-out. For the part that comes before clothes are being taken off, limbs tangle in the sheets and hair gets tugged. 

Kuroo did something with his hands. Something that was new. One hand sliding up alongside his ribs, underneath his shirt while grazing his chest, and the other dipping in between his thighs. It was so new, it made Akaashi’s body shudder and a moan escape his lips. 

“Shh.” Kuroo hushed against his lips. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear you, would we?” 

And he did it again, while kissing him a little more hungrily. One hand working his upper body, the other working his lower. His thumb ran circles over his nipple, his other hand rubbing him through his sweats. 

Another moan, this time muffled by Kuroo’s lips on his. 

“Guess I found a sweet spot.” 

Akaashi pulled black, glaring daggers to the man he was on top of. He wanted to wipe that stupid smug look off his face.

It’s funny how some things never come to an end. Their relationship began from meaningless bickering, resulting from a big ego and a smart-ass mouth. Akaashi never took his shit, and Kuroo loved that about him. He pushed and poked and teased, waiting for the moments Akaashi snapped. Never did he expect he would receive the same energy. But the first time Akaashi reciprocated the teasing nature, Kuroo knew his heart did not belong to himself anymore. 

“So are you gonna keep talking or are you gonna do something about this?” 

This as in he was really fucking horny and wanted Kuroo. 

Kuroo felt the urge to snap back with something to rile him up. He wanted to engage in the banter. But even more, he was met with the urge to kiss him, to touch him and to make him feel good. 

“Keiji.” Kuroo spoke in a whisper, pulling his hips in to make them roll in his lap. “I’ll do anything you want.”  

“You already know what I want.” 

Sure, sex is nice, of course. 

But what he really wanted was a distraction from the guilt. Or maybe a reason to make it worse. 

With every kiss and every touch, Keiji felt an overwhelming feeling surge within. One that wasn’t easy to describe. It was almost as if he liked doing the wrong thing. He’s been so accustomed to dealing with pain, getting screwed over, bad thing after bad thing. Maybe it was his turn to do the bad thing. 

But how could someone feel guilt and pleasure from doing the wrong thing? Was he just fucked up? Was he sadistic? 

Maybe it was as moral ambivalence. 

He felt so guilty hurting someone he truly cared for and loved, but was, nevertheless, extremely pleased with what he was gaining in the process. 

Or maybe it was cognitive dissonance. 

He had all these values and morals, but would disobey his own beliefs in his actions. He cheated on Bokuto but believed in loyalty. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to remove himself from his relationship with Terushima. He believed in love, loyalty and respect, but allowed Teru to do the complete opposite of all that. There was always a justification, always a a shift of blame occurring. He romanticized their whole relationship to feel comfort and security in something that wasn’t. 

And this shift in Keiji…

It was avoidance. There was no maybe in that.

He was always one to run away from problems. Now he was running away to avoid the shame and guilt he felt from doing the wrong thing. He was detaching emotionally from those who showed him it was okay to be vulnerable. It was to protect himself. To defend himself. 

It was bringing him pleasure. To finally be in control. To call the shots. 

Was his empathy fading? 

Maybe. 

It was hard to feel empathy when Kuroo’s hands were under his clothes and in his pants. It was hard to feel empathy for anyone when all he’s known is trouble in relationships. 

His parents died. His relationship with Terushima was nothing but traumatic. Bokuto and Kuroo’s relationship fell apart. So did Bokuto and Keiji’s. And all Akaashi felt like was the main factor for every single situation. 

The indie label didn’t want him. 

They didn’t want him. 

They don’t want me. 

He had really truly hoped that the night he performed he would let go of the guilt for being the reason his parents died. For everything. But of course it wasn’t that easy. 

But kissing Kuroo was easy. Taking his shirt off was even easier. 

Akaashi was done. He was done with it all. So for tonight, while he drowned in his thoughts, why not mess around? 

“Tetsurou.” He moaned against his mouth. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Kuroo’s hips twitched and he groaned. “You’re gonna make me go crazy…” 

And eventually Keiji sat himself on the edge of his bed, with Kuroo standing in front of him, towering over. He watched Kuroo pull the hem of his shirt up, slowly showing his abs and toned chest. 

Akaashi watched Kuroo undress like he was watching a film on mute. It should've excited him. It did, in a way. But the tightness in his chest didn't go way. If anything, it got worse. This wasn't love. This was drowning with someone who made it look like swimming. 

“Kei, are you sure about th--”

Pants were pulled down, boxers following.

The words died in Kuroo’s throat the second Akaashi leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the skin just above his hipbone, slow and deliberate. Kuroo’s breath hitched.

Everything about this was messy. Nothing about it was right. But it felt right. And Akaashi didn’t want to think anymore.

He didn’t want to think about Bokuto, or Terushima, or the phone calls he stopped answering. He didn’t want to think about the label rejecting him, the voicemail from Miwa asking how he was holding up, or the look in Bokuto’s eyes the last time they spoke. The one that said, I don’t hate you, but I don’t know who you are anymore.

All he wanted was this.

Right now.

“You’re really something else, Keiji,” Kuroo murmured, threading a hand through his hair. “You sure about this?”

“No.” Akaashi looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes glassy. “But I’m not stopping.”

That was the closest thing to honesty he’d given anyone in weeks.

Kuroo pulled him up and kissed him again, deep and slow, like he wanted to give him space to change his mind, but knew he wouldn’t. Akaashi clung to him, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist as he was lifted without hesitation and carried to the bed.

He felt weightless.

Finally.

Akaashi welcomed the warmth, the touches, the escape. The guilt would come back later. It always did. But right now, in the arms of someone who knew exactly how broken he was and still wanted him, he could forget.

Even if it was just for tonight.

Kuroo laid him back on the bed, dark eyes heavy with want as he hovered over him. Akaashi reached up, tugging Kuroo down by the nape of his neck, kissing him like he needed air. Tongues brushing, teeth grazing, their breaths mixing in the growing heat between their bodies.

Kuroo kissed him like he was trying to be gentle. Like he thought he could be what Akaashi needed. But Akaashi didn't want gentle. He wanted to forget.

Clothes were tugged and peeled away in a rush. Fabric hit the floor, forgotten. Skin pressed to skin, warm and electric.

Kuroo’s hands roamed, mapping every dip and line of Akaashi’s body like he was trying to memorize it. His touch was rough, but never careless. A thumb dragging along a nipple, down his ribs, teasing the sensitive skin at his waist before finally wrapping a hand around him.

Akaashi gasped, hips twitching into the touch.

“Fuck…” he hissed, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re so sensitive,” Kuroo muttered against his neck, biting just under his jawline. “You always were.”

Akaashi moaned softly, spreading his legs as Kuroo moved between them, lips tracing down his chest, stomach, hips, leaving marks and worshipping his way down.

He didn’t stop until he had Akaashi in his mouth.

A wet heat wrapped around him, Kuroo’s tongue flicking, swirling, teasing. Akaashi’s back arched as his fingers found their way into Kuroo’s hair, gripping hard, grounding himself in sensation.

“Tetsu—fuck—”

Kuroo groaned around him, the vibration sending a jolt straight through Akaashi’s core. It was messy and slow and unbearably good, Kuroo’s hand stroking the base while his mouth worked the rest, taking him deep, holding eye contact when he pulled back just enough to tease.

“You taste so good,” he said, voice low, eyes dark with hunger.

Akaashi’s breath was ragged, chest heaving. He reached blindly toward the nightstand, fumbling for the drawer.

Kuroo paused, watching him.

“You want me to—?”

“I want you inside me,” Akaashi said, blunt and breathless. “Now.”

Kuroo didn’t need to be told twice.

Condom. Lube. Kuroo’s hands were shaking just a little as he prepped him—gently at first, watching Akaashi’s face with every press of his fingers, checking for tension, for doubt. But Akaashi only moaned, eyes hazy, legs open wider, begging for more.

When Kuroo finally pushed in, it was slow, careful, agonizing. Akaashi’s fingers clawed at his back, nails dragging red lines as he gasped out Kuroo’s name.

“Shit, you feel—fuck—so tight,” Kuroo groaned, barely holding back.

Akaashi wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer, anchoring their bodies together. “Don’t hold back.”

Kuroo didn’t.

The rhythm started slow but built fast, needy, relentless. Skin slapped against skin, the air filled with breathless moans and the creak of the mattress. Kuroo’s mouth found every inch of him: his throat, his collarbone, his shoulder, his lips again and again.

And Akaashi? He let go. Completely. No control, no holding back, no pretending. Just sensation. Just heat and sweat and the feeling of being taken apart by someone who knew exactly how to break him, and exactly how to put him back together.

Kuroo’s hand traveled and found Akaahi’s neck, adding light pressure. He peered at him through his eyelashes, sweat beads forming at his temple. 

“You always just wanna get fucked, huh?” He said, voice low and deep and a little out of breath. 

“Shut up.” Akaashi breathed out, moaning quietly as Kuroo tilted his head back by pushing underneath his chin. “Less talking, more fucking.” 

Kuroo huffed out a laugh. “My point exactly.” 

But Kuroo did as he was told. He fucked him even harder when Akaashi’s nails dug into his back and left imprints. He fucked him more everytime he heard his name come out of his mouth. He slapped a hand over his mouth and continue to fuck him whenever he got too loud. 

Akaashi came first, crying out Kuroo’s name, legs shaking around his waist, fingers gripping tight like he’d fall apart otherwise.

Kuroo followed a moment later, groaning deep into Akaashi’s neck as he spilled into the condom, breath hot and heavy.

They stayed like that for a moment. Tangled. Silent. Shaking.

They stayed tangled for a while, Kuroo’s chest pressed to Akaashi’s back, one arm curled around his waist, their legs still intertwined under the mess of sheets and sweat. The room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant thrum of city traffic outside the window.

Akaashi stared at the ceiling.

His body felt spent, sated in a way that didn’t quite reach his bones. His heart was still loud in his chest, but the ache that had curled inside his ribs for weeks had dulled. just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.

Unfortunately.

“I didn’t mean to be rough,” Kuroo murmured behind him, voice thick with exhaustion but still laced with concern. “Are you okay?”

Akaashi swallowed. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Physically, he was fine. His body felt good. Loose. Warm. But emotionally? He didn’t know how to name what this was.

Maybe he didn’t want to.

It didn't really sound like a yes. It sounded like the kind of answer you give when you want someone to stop asking.

Kuroo shifted, brushing hair from Akaashi’s damp forehead, then pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Gentle. Unexpected. A contrast to the heat from earlier.

“I’m not gonna ask what this means,” Kuroo said carefully. “But I need to know you’re not gonna disappear again.”

Akaashi didn’t answer right away. He could feel the question under the question. Is this real? Are you using me? Am I just a detour on your way to self-destruction?

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Tetsurou,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed upward. “I wasn’t looking for… anything.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Kuroo’s voice wasn’t angry. Just sad. “You showed in Tokyo like you’d already decided you didn’t deserve to be wanted.”

Akaashi exhaled slowly. That was too close to the truth.

He rolled onto his side, facing Kuroo now, the space between them suddenly feeling heavier than it had minutes ago. Kuroo was looking at him, not lustful now, but with something that felt worse. Like he saw straight through him.

“You ever do something just to feel like you’re in control of the pain?” Akaashi asked, voice barely a whisper.

Kuroo’s brows knit together. “Yeah. More times than I’d like to admit.”

A pause.

“I didn’t want to go to you to be fixed,” Akaashi said. “I just… didn’t want to be alone.”

Kuroo reached out, brushing his fingers along the curve of Akaashi’s jaw. “Then don’t be.”

It was so simple. Too simple.

But Akaashi didn’t pull away.

He didn’t promise anything either.

He just let himself be held.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t hollow anymore. Not quite. It was full of all the things neither of them knew how to say. Grief, guilt, longing, and the desperate, fucked-up comfort of someone who understands your worst parts and still stays.

Kuroo's arm was still around him, but it felt like an echo. Akaashi stared at the ceiling and wondered if Bokuto was still awake. If he was skeptical. If he would ever look at him the same again.

Then Akaashi’s eyes slipped shut.

For the first time in months, he let himself sleep.

Not because everything was okay.

But because, just for tonight, it didn’t have to be.

~~~

Akaashi woke before the light changed.

The clock on his phone read 5:12 a.m. The house was silent, except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of Iwaizumi turning over on the Oikawa’s bed.

Kuroo was still asleep, shirt bunched at his waist, one arm folded beneath his head. His mouth was parted slightly. He didn’t snore.

Akaashi watched him for a moment. Not out of longing.

Just… remembering. This was always the version of Kuroo he trusted most. Quiet. Undemanding. Present without expectation.

Akaashi stood carefully, stepping over the creaky floorboard near the desk. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and started boiling water.

By the time Kuroo woke, two mugs sat on the bedside table, one steaming, one waiting.

They didn’t speak right away.

Kuroo sat up in the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Hair mussed. Expression unreadable.

Akaashi sipped his tea.

“I don’t know if I want to be here,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

Kuroo studied him. “In this apartment?”

Akaashi shook his head slowly. “In this life.”

The words don’t land like a confession. More like a fact.

Kuroo didn’t offer a solution. He didn’t even push. He just sat there. And that, somehow, was enough.

~~~

The hallway was still asleep.

Akaashi moved like a shadow, Kuroo just behind him, shoes in one hand, hoodie pulled low. The early morning cast a dull haze through the apartment, soft blue light leaking in through the blinds, enough to see, but barely.

By the door, they paused.

“I’ll text you,” Akaashi whispered, even though he didn’t know if he meant it.

Kuroo gave a quiet nod. “I know.”

There was something loaded in that silence. Not promise. Not comfort. Just knowing.

And Akaashi, impulsively, leaned in.

Their lips met in a hush of warmth and regret. It was gentle, quiet, like they were stealing seconds from a world that would punish them the moment it caught up. Kuroo’s hand rested lightly on Akaashi’s waist, the kiss deepening just enough to mean something.

But not enough to justify it.

And then—

A door creaked open.

The sound was slight, but Akaashi heard it like a thunderclap.

He broke the kiss instantly, stepping back like the heat burned him. Kuroo froze, breath caught mid-exhale, eyes locked on the source of the noise.

Iwaizumi stood in the hallway, backlit by the door of Oikawa’s bedroom. His expression was unreadable at first, just sleep-softened confusion.

Then his eyes adjusted.

And his entire face changed.

Akaashi didn’t know what hurt more, the disbelief in Iwaizumi’s eyes, or the way it hardened into something worse. Not anger. Not judgment. Just quiet, stunned disappointment.

Nobody spoke.

The silence dug claws into the air.

Kuroo looked away first. He dropped his gaze to the floor, guilt painted across his face like bruises.

Akaashi wanted to say something. Anything.

But what was there to say?

“Iwaizumi—” he started.

Iwaizumi’s voice was low. “What the fuck?”

“Wait—” Akaashi said quickly. Too quickly.

Iwaizumi’s jaw worked, but he didn’t raise his voice. “What the fuck is he doing here?” He kept his eyes on Akaashi.

Kuroo’s head lifted slightly. “It’s not what you think.”

“Don’t,” Iwaizumi said sharply, eyes flicking to him, like a stranger not worth his time. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to pretend this is anything else than exactly what it looks like.”

The weight of his words landed heavy. Not cruel. Just clear.

“This isn’t just messy,” he added. “It’s… Bokuto.”

The name hit like a slap. Akaashi flinched.

“Iwaizumi,” Akaashi said again, quieter. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t—”

“But you didn’t stop it, either.” His voice cracked just slightly. “And now you’re standing here, kissing the one person he’s still not over. Like it means nothing.”

Kuroo took a step forward, a defensive wall ripping through the ground. “It meant something.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes cut to him. “To who?”

“To me.” 

Iwaizumi looked back at Akaashi. His expression wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Tired. Heavy with everything he didn’t say. He waited for Akaashi to cut in, to say it meant something to himself too. 

“You need to figure out what you want,” he said. “Because this?” He gestured between them. “This is going to blow a hole in everything. And when it does, I hope you’re ready to deal with the repercussions.”

Akaashi felt his throat tighten. He nodded once, barely.

Iwaizumi stepped back. “Get him out of here before Oikawa wakes up.”

Then he disappeared into the hall, the door shutting softly behind him.

Kuroo didn’t speak.

Neither did Akaashi.

They stood there, the kiss still fresh on their lips, now tasting like guilt.

Finally, Akaashi reached for the doorknob and opened it, not looking at Kuroo as he did.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t need to.

Because the silence said enough.

~~~

It was sometime past nine when Oikawa knocked.

Akaashi had been in his room for hours, not asleep, but not really awake either. Just… there. The walls had gotten closer. The air staler. The silence too loud in places where music used to live.

The knock wasn’t loud. Just two soft taps, like someone asking permission but already knowing the answer.

Akaashi didn’t respond.

A moment passed.

Then the door creaked open anyway.

Oikawa poked his head in, his expression tentative, not theatrical for once. His hair was pulled up into a tiny ponytail on the top of his head, with strands falling out. He had under eyes masks resting above his cheek bones. A hoodie draped off one shoulder. There was a cup in his hand.

“I made tea,” he said, holding it up slightly. “Didn’t know if you’d want any.”

Akaashi sat on the bed, legs pulled to his chest, phone face down beside him.

He didn’t say no.

Oikawa took that as yes and stepped inside.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over to the desk, set the mug down, and glanced around like he was checking for broken glass.

He sat in the chair, backwards, the way he always did when trying to be casual, and rested his arms on the backrest.

“You’ve been really quiet lately,” he said softly. “Even for you.”

Akaashi didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the floor, somewhere between the cup and his hands.

“I was tired.”

“Of us?”

The question landed sharper than expected.

Akaashi blinked. “No.”

Oikawa let out a quiet breath. “Good.”

A pause stretched between them. The kind that tried to grow teeth if no one filled it.

“I just—” Oikawa began, then shook his head and started again. “You left without a word, Keiji. You ghosted us. And now you’re back and it’s like… you never really came back at all.”

Akaashi flinched. Not visibly. Just… somewhere behind the ribs.

“I needed space.”

“You got it,” Oikawa said, too quickly. “No one’s trying to take that from you. I just—” He rubbed a hand down his neck. “We were worried. Bokuto was going crazy. Suga kept texting. Iwaizumi didn’t say it, but he was checking the door every time it creaked.”

Akaashi closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“I know you didn’t.” Oikawa’s voice softened. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

He looked down at his fingers, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

“And it’s not even that you left,” he continued. “It’s how you left. How you didn’t say anything. And now you’re back, and it’s like… you’re still not here, Keiji.”

Akaashi’s throat tightened.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

And he did. Oikawa always knew. That was the worst part. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t accusing. He was trying. Desperately. To be the friend Akaashi wouldn’t have to explain himself to. The one who waited without asking for permission.

Oikawa shifted slightly, leaning forward now, his elbows on the backrest of the chair.

“I don’t want to push,” he said. “But… was it him?”

Akaashi didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to. He just nodded once.

Oikawa’s face barely changed, but something flickered behind his eyes.

“Did you get what you needed from him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you want to?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Oikawa exhaled through his nose. He glanced toward the mug he brought in.

“Someone sent me the article,” he said. “About Mari Tanaka, the label and the signing.”

Akaashi’s gaze didn’t lift.

“So I’m just going to ask,” Oikawa continued, gently but clearly, “Are you still planning to sign?”

“I don’t think they want me anymore.”

“Why?”

Akaashi’s jaw clenched.

“They said I was too messy,” he said. “PR liability. Image risk. Whatever they call someone who makes people uncomfortable.”

Oikawa’s expression crumpled just slightly. “You’re not—”

“I didn’t ask for comfort,” Akaashi cut in. Quiet. Firm. Tired.

That shut Oikawa up.

Not because he was offended, but because he heard the truth in it. The truth that Akaashi had nothing left in him to absorb softness. Like his skin had gone raw and nothing gentle could touch it without stinging.

“Okay,” Oikawa said. “Then I won’t say you’re okay. Or strong. Or that you’ll be fine.”

Akaashi’s eyes lifted slightly.

Oikawa met them. Calm. Steady.

“But I’m here,” he said. “Even if you’re not.”

That did something to Akaashi. His eyes darted away again, and something in his posture shifted, smaller. Not broken. But bruised.

Oikawa didn’t press further. Didn’t climb into the bed. Didn’t hug him. He just sat in the chair, close enough to reach but not reaching.

“You know,” he added, “I always thought we were similar. You and me.”

Akaashi gave him a look that almost bordered on amusement.

“Okay, maybe not on the surface,” Oikawa admitted. “But… we both build walls. We just show them differently.”

“Yours are probably made of mirrors.”

Oikawa laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Okay well yours has locks.”

Neither of them smiled long. The quiet returned, but this time it didn’t feel empty.

“Can I ask something else?” Oikawa said.

Akaashi nodded once.

“When you saw Bokuto again… did it hurt?”

Akaashi’s hands tightened in his lap. The memory came back too fast, the hallway, the Twister box, the look in Bokuto’s eyes that had no defenses left.

“Yes,” he said. “But not in the way I expected.”

“Then in what way?”

Akaashi didn’t answer for a long time.

“I think I looked at him and realized he still saw me as someone worth saving,” he said. “And I couldn’t live up to that.”

Oikawa leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, the space between them drawn tight now.

“He still sees you that way, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Oikawa nodded. Not in agreement, just in understanding.

Then he stood slowly, and crossed to the desk. He picked up the mug he had set down earlier, walked it over, and placed it gently beside Akaashi’s knee.

“Drink it,” he said. “It’s cold now, but I can reheat it if you want.”

Akaashi didn’t touch it.

Oikawa lingered for a second, then turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

“I meant it, you know,” he said. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me stop showing up.”

Akaashi’s voice was small. “Even if I want you to?”

Oikawa smiled sadly. “Especially then.”

He stepped out.

The door clicked softly behind him.

And Akaashi sat in the quiet again, this time not alone, but not comforted either. The tea steamed faintly beside him, untouched.

Like most things in his life, it was waiting.

Waiting for him to reach for it.

Even if it knew he wouldn’t.

~~~

It was nearly midnight when Oikawa finally snapped.

Akaashi was out and Iwaizumi had just returned from his shift, keys tossed in the bowl, jacket half-off when he heard it: the slam of a cupboard in the kitchen, too hard to be casual, followed by the unmistakable sound of Oikawa pacing.

And then the spiral began.

“I don’t even know who he is anymore!”

Iwaizumi froze mid-step in the hallway. He heard the rush of movement, then saw Oikawa storm past the living room, barefoot, hoodie askew, phone clenched in one hand like he might throw it.

“I mean—what the fuck, Hajime?!”

Iwaizumi blinked, stepped into the kitchen, arms crossed. “What happened now?”

Oikawa spun on him like he’d been waiting for a cue. His eyes were wild, not angry, but hurt. Deep, layered, panicked hurt.

“We left the lake house and he was completely different,” Oikawa said, voice climbing. “I mean, he didn’t even tell me he broke up with Bokuto. I found out because Bokuto came to you crying, and I was just standing there like an idiot, like, oh, cool, I guess I’ll hear about it when he feels like it.”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond, but Oikawa plowed ahead.

“And then he disappears? Just vanishes. Gone. Doesn’t answer texts. Ignores the group chat. I thought he needed space, fine, okay, we all spiral, I get it. But he didn’t even say he was leaving. Just poof. Gone. And where does he go?”

Oikawa took a step forward now, as if pointing out the most ridiculous part of the story.

“He goes to fucking Kuroo’s. KUROO’S!”

He threw his hands in the air, nearly knocking over a chair.

“I didn’t even know there was something going on with them. Have I been blind?! I mean, yeah, I saw the looks, the little… things, but I thought—fuck, I thought Keiji would never do that!”

Iwaizumi leaned against the counter, jaw tight, silent.

Oikawa kept going. It was a flood now. No brakes. No filters.

“Do you know what it’s like? Watching someone you love, your best friend, turn into someone else while you’re right there? Like I was right there, Haji. And he just drifted. And then what? He starts showing up in the news? The fucking news?!”

He grabbed his phone, unlocked it and thrust it toward Iwaizumi. A blurry photo of Akaashi on a street corner, hood up, face half-hidden, some gossip blog headline screaming about indie-label controversy and secrets.

“Why is my bestie in the news, Hajime?? Why do I have to read about him like I’m some stranger? Why am I watching his life fall apart through a fucking feed!?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

And for the first time in minutes, Oikawa stilled.

He lowered the phone slowly. He stood there, trembling slightly, eyes glassy but refusing to cry. Oikawa didn’t cry easily. Not in front of Iwaizumi. It meant things had passed some quiet line inside him.

“I just—” he tried again, breathless now, “—I want to shake him. I want to scream at him. But also I want to—fuck—I just want to grab him and make him come back.”

Iwaizumi finally stepped forward.

“He’s not gone.”

Oikawa let out a laugh, bitter and hoarse. “Then where the fuck is he?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer right away. He looked at the phone again, at Oikawa’s trembling hands, at the heartbreak packed into too many emotions.

“You want the truth?” he asked.

Oikawa swallowed. “Always.”

“He’s drowning.”

That landed like a weight.

“Slowly,” Iwaizumi added. “Quietly. The kind of drowning where you don’t flail. You just… start going under, and you don’t tell anyone. Not because you don’t trust them. But because you’ve already decided no one can save you.”

Oikawa’s shoulders dropped, the fight suddenly leaving his frame.

He leaned against the counter beside Iwaizumi, the weight of everything finally catching up to him.

“I just thought I knew him,” he whispered.

“You do.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m losing him?”

Iwaizumi was quiet for a long time. Then: “Because maybe you are.”

Oikawa looked at him sharply.

“But that doesn’t mean he’s gone forever,” Iwaizumi said quickly. “It just means… right now, he can’t be reached. It’s like you’re knocking on the door, and he’s sitting inside, too afraid to open it.”

Oikawa stared down at the floor.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate feeling like this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I’m mad at him and worried and heartbroken all at the same time.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I miss him so much I can’t sleep.”

Iwaizumi reached out and rested a hand on Oikawa’s back. Firm. Solid. The way he always was.

“I know.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.

The kitchen was quiet. The glow from the fridge was the only light.

Finally, Oikawa straightened.

“I’m not giving up on him,” he said. “Even if he’s fucking this all up.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “I didn’t think you would.”

“But if he breaks Bokuto’s heart for real… I might break his nose.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “You’d have to beat me to it.”

That got the ghost of a smile from Oikawa, small, but real.

They stood together a while longer, silent allies in the storm.

Both angry.

Both scared.

Both still waiting for their best friend to come home.

Walking In The Void

The street was empty.

It always was this time of night, not quite midnight, but late enough for the world to forget itself. The air was thick with numbing silence, a gentle breeze, colder than the day. The only sound was the soft hum of a vending machine across the street and the rhythmic slap of Akaashi’s sneakers against the pavement.

He didn’t know where he was going.

He never really did on nights like this.

Hood up. Hands in his pockets. Head down.

Just walking.

Streetlights painted soft yellow pools across the sidewalk, and his shadow stretched and shortened with each one he passed. He didn’t look at it. He didn’t look at anything.

There was something strangely comforting about being invisible in the dark. Like no one could ask him who he was if they couldn’t really see him. Like he didn’t have to answer to anyone. Not Oikawa, not Bokuto, not even himself.

A breeze passed, carrying with it the faint scent of old ramen broth from a late-night shop still open somewhere blocks away. Akaashi didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just kept walking.

His thoughts weren’t loud tonight. Just present. Like background noise he couldn’t turn off.

Why didn’t you tell him?

Why did you go to Kuroo?

What did you think you’d find there?

His chest felt hollow, like a place someone had lived in and then left without packing up.

He passed a row of closed shops, shutters drawn, graffiti half-scrubbed away. A neon sign flickered once above a shuttered karaoke bar, buzzing like it was trying to keep itself awake.

Maybe that was what he was doing too.

Trying to stay awake.

Trying not to sink.

He turned down a smaller street, narrower, darker. The kind where the only light came from windows, pale blue televisions in empty living rooms, the flicker of phone screens in strangers’ hands behind curtains. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see lives still moving. People still choosing. Still loving.

His hands curled tighter in his pockets.

He could still hear Bokuto’s voice. Not yelling. Not crying. Just the echo of that one word, said like a question:

“…Back?”

It haunted him. Not because of what it meant, but because of how much it hadn’t meant. He hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. And that silence had spoken louder than anything.

The ache behind his sternum swelled, but he didn’t stop walking.

Maybe if he kept moving, he wouldn’t feel it. Maybe it would slip behind him, like the streets, like the past, like everyone he’d hurt.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

He didn’t check it.

He already knew it wouldn’t be the message he wanted. Or worse, it would be.

A part of him wanted to throw the phone into the river he was approaching. Watch it sink. Watch it disappear like every version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore.

But he didn’t.

He crossed the small pedestrian bridge and leaned against the railing, staring down into the black water. It didn’t reflect much, just a few streetlights, distorted and quivering, like everything was too fragile to hold steady.

Akaashi closed his eyes.

Breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t soothe. Just reminded him he still could.

He didn’t know what to do with all this space inside his chest. This gnawing sense that something was missing, and maybe it had always been missing. Maybe he was never whole to begin with, just a well-stitched patchwork of guilt, effort, and silence.

He opened his eyes again. The river was still there. So was he.

He didn’t cry.

Not because he wasn’t close, but because there was no one around to see it. And crying in the dark felt like whispering to no one.

The wind off the water was stronger tonight.

Akaashi leaned forward on the railing, elbows locked, hood drawn low. The river below moved sluggishly, black and silver, reflecting nothing. Just motion. Constant, indifferent.

The metal felt cold against his forearms. He didn’t mind.

He’d been standing there for — he didn’t know. Long enough for his fingers to go numb. Long enough for the thoughts to stop screaming and settle into something duller, quieter. The kind of silence that came not from peace, but from fatigue.

This wasn’t the same bridge, but it could’ve been.

The one from months ago.

The one where he had stood on the other side of the railing and thought, maybe.

That night, he hadn’t jumped. He’d just stood there until the sun rose, too ashamed to cry, too tired to die.

Tonight, he wasn’t on the other side.

But he wasn’t exactly on solid ground either.

He heard the footsteps before he saw him.

Soft. Quick. Hesitant.

Akaashi didn’t turn.

Bokuto’s voice broke the night like breathlessness. “Keiji?”

Akaashi closed his eyes.

He wanted to say he hadn’t meant to be found.

But maybe… part of him had.

He didn’t move.

Bokuto stepped closer, his shoes scraping slightly against the concrete. “I saw you from the end of the street. I—I thought maybe it was someone else, but…”

He trailed off.

A pause.

“I got scared.”

That made Akaashi turn.

Bokuto stood a few feet away, hoodie unzipped, chest rising fast like he’d been running. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his hair was messier than usual, like he’d dragged his fingers through it a dozen times on the way there.

His eyes searched Akaashi’s face like he needed confirmation he was real.

“I’m not doing anything,” Akaashi said quietly. “You don’t need to worry.”

Bokuto exhaled sharply, not relief exactly. More like a release of something tightly wound.

“I didn’t know,” Bokuto said. “Where you were. If you were okay. No one knew. And then the pictures, and the rumors, and I—fuck, I didn’t even know if I should be worried or mad or…”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he said. “Even if I already had.”

Akaashi didn’t speak.

The silence stretched between them like the river. Wide, moving, impossible to step across without getting wet.

Bokuto stepped closer.

Not too close.

Just enough.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I know you’re probably still… nevermind. I don’t know. You never told me anything.”

Akaashi looked away. The river blurred beneath his gaze.

“I didn’t know how,” Akaashi murmured.

Bokuto let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You always knew how with me,” he said. “That’s the part I don’t get. You always told me the truth. Even when it hurt.”

“I thought it would hurt you worse if I did.”

“You were right,” Bokuto said. Then, quieter: “But it still hurt when you didn’t.”

The wind picked up again, rustling their sleeves. Neither moved.

“I never wanted to stop loving you,” Bokuto said suddenly, voice thick. “I want you to know that. Even now— I look at you and I don’t know if I’m heartbroken or just… stuck.”

Akaashi’s throat tightened.

“I think I broke everything,” he whispered. “I think I don’t know how to be a good person anymore.”

Bokuto took a cautious step forward.

“You’re not broken.”

Akaashi’s voice was a breath: “Then why do I feel like this?”

“Because you’re hurting,” Bokuto said. “And you’re going to hide it until it eats you.”

A beat.

“I still see you, Keiji,” he added. “Even when you think you’ve disappeared.”

Akaashi’s eyes stung. 

He looked down at his hands on the railing, fingers clenched tight. “I came out here tonight and I didn’t even know why.”

Bokuto tilted his head slightly, gaze gentle. “Yeah, you did.”

They stood like that for a long moment.

Then Bokuto stepped beside him, shoulder just brushing against Akaashi’s. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t force contact.

He just stood.

And Akaashi, slow and hesitant, let his shoulder stay.

They watched the river in silence, the current below them endless.

“I’m not asking you to come back,” Bokuto said, voice soft. “Not to me. Not yet. I’m just asking you to come home, Ji.”

Akaashi blinked hard.

“I don’t know where that is.”

Bokuto didn’t smile. But his eyes held something close.

“Then let’s build it again.”

The words landed like a breath of warm air on cold skin. Not a solution. Not forgiveness. Just an offer.

A chance.

And for the first time in a long time, Akaashi didn’t feel the urge to run. He stood there beside Bokuto, on the bridge that once felt like the end.

And thought, maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning.

~~~

By the time they reached the apartment, Akaashi could barely keep his eyes open.

Bokuto stayed close the whole walk back, not touching, but always in arm’s reach. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t fill the silence. Just matched Akaashi’s slow steps and kept glancing at him from the side, like he was trying to memorize the outline of someone slipping through their own skin.

When they reached the door, Akaashi fumbled with the key. His hands shook.

Bokuto gently took it from him and opened the door instead.

Inside, the apartment was quiet except for the low murmur of the TV. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were curled up on the couch, neither of them asleep. Oikawa sat up the second the door clicked open, eyes wide. Iwaizumi followed a second later, already pushing himself upright.

Oikawa’s relief was audible. “Keiji—thank God.”

But the smile never reached his mouth. His gaze flicked from Akaashi’s slouched posture to the dark circles under his eyes, and then to Bokuto standing just behind him, visibly braced.

“You were gone for hours,” Iwaizumi said, more gently than usual. “We were about to go looking.”

Akaashi didn’t answer. Just toed off his shoes like he wasn’t even in his body.

Bokuto stepped past him, offered a small nod to the two on the couch, and turned back to Akaashi.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Shower. You’ll feel better.”

Akaashi blinked at him, like the words hadn’t registered.

Bokuto nudged him a step forward. “I’ll grab you clothes.”

Akaashi didn’t protest. Just moved, slow and obedient, toward the bathroom like someone underwater. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

The three of them stood in it.

Then Oikawa stood up and walked to the kitchen without a word. He poured a glass of water, set it on the counter, then leaned on it like he was trying to keep from collapsing.

“He looked like he hadn’t eaten,” Bokuto said quietly, mostly to himself. “Or slept. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

He opened the fridge, scanning it without really seeing. He pulled out leftover rice and some miso paste. Then he began boiling water.

Iwaizumi watched him from the couch. Brow furrowed. Jaw set.

Bokuto stirred the pot. “I’ll make something easy. Just enough to settle his stomach.”

Iwaizumi’s voice was low. “You don’t have to do that.”

Bokuto didn’t look up. “I want to.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Silence again. Just the soft bubble of broth starting to simmer.

“He’s not okay,” Bokuto said. “You saw him.”

Iwaizumi stood now, crossed to the kitchen, leaned on the opposite counter.

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw him.”

He nodded toward the kitchen counter, where Akaashi’s phone lay face-up, discarded next to his keys. It vibrated once. Then again.

The name lit up the screen.

Tetsurou.

Bokuto froze.

Iwaizumi’s voice was quiet. But not soft.

“Maybe don’t be too sure you’re the one he wants taking care of him.”

Bokuto’s hands clenched slightly on the counter. He didn’t answer.

The phone buzzed again.

Tetsurou. Calling.

Oikawa returned from the hallway just in time to see the name on the screen. His face paled. “Is that…”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said.

Bokuto’s shoulders sank, just slightly. Like someone had reached inside him and turned down the volume.

“What really went down between them?” Oikawa asked. “I know you all know and aren’t telling me.” 

“Tooru.” Iwaizumi replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s complicated.” 

Oikawa scoffed, throwing his hands up angering them slap against his thighs. “Of course it is. It’s always fucking complicated.” 

Iwaizumis eyebrow flinched from the sound. “Please, it’s just not our place—“ 

“I’m going to bed.” Oikawa interrupted, retreating back to the hallway. 

Bokuto didn’t say anything. He just turned back to the pot, stirring in silence. The water was starting to boil over. He turned the heat down too late.

The phone lit up again.

Tetsurou. Missed call.

No one moved.

No one picked it up.

Finally, Bokuto ladled the soup into a bowl and set it carefully on the counter beside the water.

“I’m still going to take care of him,” he said quietly.

Iwaizumi sighed. Not frustrated, just tired. “I know.” He watched Bokuto for a long moment. “Just… don’t lose yourself doing it.”

Bokuto didn’t respond.

But when he carried the soup toward the hallway, he hesitated just outside the bathroom door. He could hear the water still running. The quiet splash of movement.

And he hoped… God, he hoped that Akaashi would open the door when he knocked.

~~~

The shower had been running for a long time.

Long enough that the tile was slick with steam and Akaashi had stopped registering the heat. He sat on the floor now, knees pulled to his chest, hair plastered to his forehead. His skin was wrinkled at the fingertips. His chest was hollow.

He had dried off once already.

But he’d turned the water back on because it filled the silence.

He didn’t want to think about the bridge.

Or Bokuto’s face.

Or the soup on the counter.

Or the name on his phone that still haunted him, even when he wasn’t looking at it.

But there were only so many distractions in a bathroom.

He was sitting on the floor again when he heard it.

A knock.

Soft. Once. Then again.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Just there.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto’s voice, muffled through the door, gentle but shaky. “I brought you soup. It’s miso, but it’s warm.”

Akaashi didn’t move.

“I didn’t want to leave it on the floor. I thought that might feel… sad.”

He laughed softly, awkward, a little nervous. Like he wasn’t sure he was still allowed to laugh.

Akaashi pressed his forehead to his knees.

There was a pause.

Then, quieter: “I’ll leave it outside, if you want. But… if you don’t want to eat alone, I’ll stay.”

The hallway went quiet.

Akaashi sat there, breath uneven, body still damp, robe clinging to his shoulders. For a moment he stayed frozen.

Then, without knowing why, he stood.

He reached for the towel. Wiped his face. Pulled the robe tighter.

And he opened the door. Just a crack. Enough to see him.

Bokuto stood there with the bowl in both hands, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected it to actually happen. His hair was pushed back now. He looked tired. Not from sleep, but from waiting.

They stared at each other for a second. Neither spoke.

Then Akaashi stepped back. Wordless. A silent invitation.

Bokuto didn’t rush in. He stepped carefully, like he was entering sacred ground. He didn’t touch Akaashi. Just carried the bowl to the bed and set it down on the nightstand.

“I can sit with you,” he said. “Just sit. Not talk, if that’s easier.”

Akaashi nodded once. Barely.

He walked to the bed and sat down slowly. Picked up the spoon with a hand that still trembled. Bokuto sat a foot away, legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap.

They didn’t look at each other.

But the silence wasn’t heavy.

It just… was.

Akaashi took one sip of soup.

Then another.

He didn’t finish the bowl. But he didn’t push it away either.

After a while, he spoke. Barely a whisper. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” Bokuto said. “But I want to.”

Another silence.

Then Akaashi’s voice again. “I don’t know what this is. What I’m doing. I’m not okay.”

Bokuto nodded. “Okay.”

“I might still fuck everything up.”

“I know.”

He said it with no anger. No fear. Just truth.

And care.

Akaashi finally turned toward him, just slightly. And Bokuto, quietly and gently, reached out.

Not to touch. Just to offer his hand.

It hovered in the space between them like a question. Akaashi stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, he let his fingers fall into it.

And Bokuto didn’t squeeze. He didn’t pull. He just held on.

Like that was enough.

~~~

The soup bowl sat half-full on the nightstand.

Akaashi had fallen asleep sideways across the bed, still in his robe, head resting in Bokuto’s lap. His face was peaceful in a way that didn’t look restful, more like he’d passed out from exhaustion, not comfort.

Bokuto hadn’t moved.

He sat on the bed, hand resting in Keiji’s hair. Gentle, almost scared to touch. Watching. Not in the creepy way. In the caretaker way. The I-don’t-trust-the-dark way.

He’d told himself he’d leave when Akaashi fell asleep. But then Akaashi did, and Bokuto couldn’t bring himself to go.

So he stayed.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

The apartment had gone quiet, the only sound the slow hum of the fridge and Akaashi’s breathing. It was even, shallow, real.

Eventually Bokuto stood, carefully laying Akaashi’s head on a pillow he dragged over, and took the soup bowl back to the kitchen. He stepped carefully over the creaky board near the dresser, easing the bowl into the sink with practiced hands.

He reached for a glass of water to leave by the bed.

And that’s when he saw it.

Akaashi’s phone. Still face-up on the counter.

It lit up briefly as he walked by, screen cracked slightly at the corner, smudged from half a day in someone’s hoodie pocket.

And the name was still there.

Missed Call – Tetsurou

The air shifted.

Not drastically.

Just enough.

Bokuto froze, water glass half-poured, the hum of the fridge suddenly louder.

He didn’t touch the phone. Didn’t pick it up. He just stared.

Tetsurou.

No heart emoji. No nickname. No initials. Just the first name, but that was almost worse. It meant something had been there. Something still was.

He wondered if Akaashi would have picked up the call. Or if he would have silenced it. 

Maybe this was a follow-up call. Maybe they talked earlier.

Maybe Bokuto had been a fool for thinking this meant anything at all.

His jaw tightened.

He picked up the phone and water, and walked back into the room.

Akaashi hadn’t moved.

Bokuto set the phone and glass down quietly, careful not to wake him. Then he sat again, not on the bed this time, but on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame, knees drawn up.

He wouldn’t go look at the phone again.

But it stayed with him.

And in the dark, with Akaashi asleep inches away, Bokuto whispered something to no one.

“I don’t know if I’m helping you or just letting myself drown.”

Akaashi stirred, just slightly, brow furrowing in sleep. But he didn’t wake.

And Bokuto didn’t leave.

~~~

It was sometime past 3 a.m.

The apartment was still.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi had long since gone to sleep. Bokuto, after hours of sitting by the bed, had eventually moved to the couch, leaving the water and a folded blanket at Akaashi’s feet. No note. No explanation.

Just presence.

Akaashi sat on the edge of the bed now, staring at the floor.

He hadn’t slept long. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. The quiet had woken him, or maybe the weight of his own thoughts had. Either way, he was upright, the robe loose on his shoulders, bare feet pressed to the floor like they were anchoring him.

His chest ached. Not the sharp kind. The hollow kind.

He reached for the glass of water. Took a sip. His hand trembled slightly when he set it down again.

Then he looked at his phone. It was face up on his desk now. 

He stood and crossed the room without thinking. He picked it up. The screen was dark at first, then lit.

Tetsurou

The missed call sat there like a scar.

He stared at it. For a long, long time.

Then he unlocked the phone.

No texts. No new messages. Just the call.

He hesitated. His thumb hovered.

This was a bad idea.

He pressed call anyway.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Akaashi almost hung up.

Then—

Click.

Kuroo’s voice, low and groggy. “Kei?”

Akaashi exhaled like he’d been underwater. Neither spoke at first.

Then Kuroo again: “Are you okay?”

Akaashi sat down on the floor. Cross-legged. Head bowed.

“I don’t know.”

A beat.

“I saw the missed calls.”

“I figured you did.”

“Why did you call?”

Kuroo didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “Because I knew you wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

Akaashi’s throat tightened. “I shouldn’t be calling you.”

“You already did.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know what I want,” Akaashi said.

“I know.”

“I think I’m hurting people.”

“I know that too.”

“I think I’m still choosing you sometimes because… because it’s easier to feel bad with you than to try and feel good anywhere else.”

Kuroo’s voice was quiet. “Do you want me to hang up?”

Akaashi closed his eyes. “No.”

Neither spoke for a while.

Then, Kuroo’s voice again, gentler this time. “Where are you?”

“At home. My place. Bokuto’s here.”

Another silence. He heard the shift in Kuroo’s breath.

“You shouldn’t have called me.”

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

That was the worst part.

Because so was Akaashi.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

~~~

The scent of broth lingered in the apartment, warm and faintly herbal. Akaashi stepped into the kitchen slowly, his movements sluggish, like he hadn’t fully returned to his body yet. The tile was cold beneath his feet. Morning light filtered through the blinds in narrow slats, striping across the floor like a grid he didn’t know how to walk through.

Iwaizumi stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan with methodical focus. He didn’t look up.

“Sit,” he said. It wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t soft either.

Akaashi lowered himself into the nearest chair without argument. His hands rested limply in his lap.

A plate clinked against the table a few moments later — eggs, rice, soup, and a small dish of pickled vegetables arranged with simple, quiet care. Akaashi didn’t reach for the chopsticks.

Iwaizumi turned off the stove, wiped his hands on a towel, and leaned against the counter. He stared at him, not glaring, not frowning, just watching.

“You need to eat,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tough.”

Akaashi stared down at the plate. The smell made his stomach turn, but he didn’t move.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Iwaizumi said finally. His voice was calm in a way that meant he’d already been angry, and this was what came after. “With Bokuto. With Kuroo. With yourself. But you can’t just disappear and show up again like nothing happened.”

“I’m not trying to,” Akaashi murmured. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You kissed Kuroo,” Iwaizumi said. He didn’t flinch saying it. “I saw it. I figured it wasn’t my place, but I saw it.”

Akaashi’s jaw tightened. He looked at the food like it was accusing him.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Iwaizumi went on. “I’m not asking for that. But I want to make one thing clear.”

He stepped forward, arms crossed, but his voice dropped.

“You’re not a bad person. But if you keep acting like one, you’ll make that true.”

Akaashi’s fingers twitched against the table. After a long pause, he picked up the chopsticks. The first bite of rice tasted like paper. But he kept chewing.

~~~

The knock came just after one.

Akaashi didn’t move to answer it. He lay on the couch, half-buried in a worn blanket, the television on but muted, light flickering across his face. The knock came again, gentler this time. Then Oikawa’s voice, dry and unsurprised.

“It’s for you.”

He already knew who it was. Something in his chest twisted as he sat up.

When he opened the door, Bokuto was standing there like he’d never left. Hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, hair tied back messily, a plastic bag dangling from his wrist. He looked tired. Familiar. Like memory made flesh.

“Hi,” Bokuto said.

Akaashi didn’t say anything. He just stepped aside and let him in.

Bokuto toed off his shoes like it was still his apartment. Like nothing had changed. He followed Akaashi down the hall, quiet footsteps behind him until they reached the sliding door that led to the balcony. Neither of them spoke as they stepped outside.

It was narrow, barely enough space for the two of them. One low chair sat against the wall, a cushion still faded from sun. Akaashi leaned against the railing. Bokuto sat cross-legged on the floor.

The sky above was heavy with haze, a dim veil over the city. The outlines of stars blinked faintly through the clouds, struggling to be seen.

“You still name them?” Bokuto asked.

Akaashi’s fingers tightened around the railing. He didn’t have to ask what he meant.

“The stars?” he murmured.

Bokuto nodded, eyes fixed upward. “You used to make up constellations.”

Akaashi breathed out, slow. “Not as often.”

“I remember the one that looked like a cat curled in a book.”

“And you said it was smug because it knew something we didn’t.”

“You agreed,” Bokuto smiled.

A silence fell between them, soft but charged. The kind of silence that had once been comfortable, the kind that had filled late nights in hotel beds, limbs tangled, whispering stories into the dark.

Akaashi turned his head slightly. Bokuto’s knee rested against his leg, not pressing, but there. Present. Steady. He didn’t move away.

“You used to trace them,” Bokuto said. “On my back. Remember?”

Akaashi swallowed hard. He remembered everything.

“Keiji,” Bokuto said, voice lower now. “You don’t have to talk. I’m just… I wanted to check on you.”

“I know.”

Their knees touched. Not by accident. Neither of them shifted.

For a second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like they were just them again — cloudless sky, warm hands, stories made out of stars.

But it wasn’t the same. Akaashi knew that. He had made sure of it.

He closed his eyes. The warmth of Bokuto’s knee against his own felt like sunlight on a wound.

“You okay?” Bokuto asked, quieter now.

Akaashi opened his eyes. “I’m here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He didn’t answer.

There was a pause, longer than the others.

Bokuto didn’t press.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said after a while. “I just… miss you. That’s all.”

That was the part that hurt most.

Akaashi didn’t say anything. He watched the stars that barely shone through the clouds, and wished he could rewrite them into something softer, something that didn’t lead back to guilt.

Bokuto shifted slightly and rested his hand beside Akaashi’s on the metal railing. Their pinkies brushed.

Akaashi didn’t move.

He hated himself for that.

~~~

It had been two days since the balcony. Two days since Bokuto had sat cross-legged on the concrete like nothing had broken. Since his voice had wrapped around the words “I miss you” and handed them over like a small offering.

Akaashi hadn’t let himself think about it since.

He moved differently now, not faster, but with purpose. The kitchen had been cleaned that morning. The laundry folded. His bed made. There were groceries in the fridge, some of them things he didn’t even eat. He swept the floor twice that afternoon and watered the little plant near the window he usually forgot about.

It was a performance, and he knew it. But it was one he could control.

Oikawa didn’t say anything. But he watched.

He leaned in the hallway, arms crossed, one shoulder against the wall, as Akaashi silently wiped down the countertops for the third time that hour. The cloth moved in tight, repetitive circles. Akaashi’s brows were drawn, his jaw set, eyes dull.

“You know it’s clean, right?” Oikawa asked, finally.

Akaashi didn’t look up. “It’s not about that.”

Oikawa pushed off the wall and walked into the kitchen. He stopped a few feet away, not close enough to crowd, but close enough to be felt.

“Then what’s it about?”

Akaashi’s hand froze mid-wipe. He placed the cloth down carefully and rested both hands on the counter.

He didn’t answer.

Oikawa watched the way his shoulders rose and fell, too even. Too practiced.

“You’ve been walking around like a ghost for days,” he said. “And now suddenly you’re scrubbing tile grout and reorganizing the spice rack.”

Akaashi stared ahead, eyes on nothing.

“I’m trying,” he said eventually. “Isn’t that what you all want?”

Oikawa let out a quiet sigh. “No one wants you to fake it.”

“What if faking it is the only thing keeping me from falling apart?”

That stopped him.

Oikawa didn’t respond right away. He looked at the younger man — the slope of his spine, the tired tension in his arms — and saw everything he wasn’t saying.

“You don’t have to be okay,” he said softly. “You just have to be honest.”

Akaashi gave a faint, humorless smile. “That’s harder.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa agreed. “But it’s real.”

They stood there in the quiet. The hum of the refrigerator was loud in the stillness.

Akaashi picked up the cloth again, but this time he didn’t use it. He just held it.

Oikawa turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“When you’re ready to talk,” he said, “talk to someone who won’t let you lie.”

And then he was gone.

Akaashi stayed in the kitchen, gripping the cloth like it might tether him to the floor.

~~~

The knock came just past six. Oikawa again.

“You’re coming,” he said, arms crossed in the doorway.

Akaashi didn’t respond. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, shoelaces still undone. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“I’m serious. Everyone’s already there. Bokuto’s place. You’ve been hiding in this apartment like a ghost, and I’m done watching you pace.”

Akaashi stared down at his shoes.

Oikawa crossed the room and knelt in front of him. Not cruel. Not soft.

“Keiji,” he said. “You can’t live in this hallway forever.”

“I don’t know if I can be around him.”

“I didn’t ask you to be okay,” Oikawa said. “I asked you to show up.”

What Used To Be

The apartment hadn’t changed. Akaashi knew it before he even stepped inside. He could feel it in the stairwell, the familiar hum of the air conditioner, the faint scuff on the fourth step where Bokuto had once tripped carrying two bags of groceries and a box of tea.

He hesitated outside the door.

Inside, laughter spilled out, muffled but unmistakable. Hinata’s high-pitched yelp, Noya shouting “bullshit,” Iwaizumi’s low rumble, Kageyama saying something and getting booed by everyone.

It sounded like joy. It sounded like his old life.

It sounded like something he had no right to walk into.

Oikawa didn’t wait for him to decide. He opened the door and stepped in, throwing a greeting over his shoulder.

“Look who finally came out of the crypt.”

Ten heads turned.

Akaashi stood in the doorway like he was underwater.

“Keiji!” Hinata bolted toward him, arms open. Akaashi barely had time to brace before he was pulled into a hug that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. “Oh my god, it’s been forever—why haven’t you—are you okay—wait, your hair’s longer—”

“Shouyou,” Kageyama said, yanking him back by the hood. “Give him space.”

Akaashi smiled faintly. “It’s okay.”

Noya clapped him on the back, hard. “Damn, still pretty as ever. We thought you got scouted by a modeling agency or something.”

“Or sold your soul for a 360,” Suga added, smirking as he passed a beer to Daichi.

“Wait, yeah!” Noya shouted. “Did you sign the deal? I read that article.” 

Akaashi’s eyes lingered, not sure ready to answer that question. He took notice of Iwaizumi, who raised his cup in quiet greeting. Kuroo wasn’t here. Not that Akaashi expected him to be. He would never be. Not anymore. 

But Bokuto was.

He stood by the kitchen island, drink in hand, greeting Oikawa, who of course b-lined for a drink. His laugh floated over the chatter like it always did, louder than it should be, contagious, golden. Then he turned, and their eyes met.

Bokuto’s eyes widened a little, like disbelief caught up to him. Like he couldn’t believe Akaashi actually showed up. 

And after Oikawa whispered something into his ear, Bokuto’s feet began to move. 

Akaashi mumbled something, a half-assed response to Noya. Something that was good enough for him to shrug his shoulders and walk away as Bokuto approached. 

“You came.” A smile tugged at Bokuto’s lips. 

“I did.” Akaashi nodded. “Tooru left me no choice.” 

A small chuckle escaped Bokuto’s lips, and his cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” 

Akaashi didn’t say anything to that. He felt the eyes, the curious glances. No one said anything. But everyone noticed. They weren’t standing like they were together. They hadn’t hugged. They hadn’t even exchanged proper hello’s.

Everyone knew they weren’t together anymore.

But no one knew why.

~~~

The game was Oikawa’s idea. Of course it was.

“I brought it as a joke,” he said, dragging the Twister mat out of his tote bag. “But now it’s actually happening.”

“No,” Iwaizumi groaned.

“Yes!” Noya shouted.

“It’s like high school all over again,” Suga said, already barefoot.

“Which is why we should not do this,” Daichi muttered.

Oikawa was slipping off his shoes. “Time to put my flexibility to use!” 

“As if Iwaizumi doesn’t do that for you already.” Kageyama scoffed. 

“Tobio-chan! You dirty freak.” Oikawa giggled. “Why are you thinking about Iwa-chan stretching me ou— Ow! Haji!” 

Iwaizumi drew his hand back from where he smacked his arm. “Enough yapping. Let’s get this over with.”  

And somehow, Akaashi ended up in the second round. He hadn’t meant to. The group shifted, and suddenly Oikawa was pulling him into the circle with a grin.

“Come on. Keiji, don’t be boring.”

It was him, Bokuto, Noya, and Hinata.

The mat was unrolled across the floor like a trap.

At first, it was fine. Noya cheated blatantly. Hinata yelled “foul” at least three times. Akaashi reached for yellow, for green, for red, knees bent awkwardly, body too aware of every movement.

Then Bokuto shifted.

He reached behind Akaashi to press his hand on a green circle, and his thigh brushed Akaashi’s.

Not a little. Not nothing. A full, warm, remembered touch.

Akaashi froze.

The laughter kept going. Noya shouted something. Someone elbowed Hinata in the ribs. But Akaashi couldn’t hear it. His vision tunneled, narrowing to the mat, to the warmth of Bokuto’s leg still against his.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Keiji?” Bokuto said, voice close, low. “You okay?”

Akaashi pulled his hand back. Stepped off the mat. Straightened slowly.

“My arms got tired.” he said.

“Out!” Someone chanted. 

He didn’t wait for a response. Or a reaction. Instead, he walked toward the front, past the kitchen, past the noise, into the hallway, and out the door.

The cold air hit his face like glass.

He didn’t realize he was shaking until he was alone.

~~~

Suga found him sitting on the apartment steps, elbows on his knees, hands threaded in his hair.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside him.

The noise from the party felt far away now. It might as well have been a memory.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” Suga said finally. “But you’re not good at hiding when something is.”

Akaashi didn’t look up.

“I’m not good at anything,” he whispered.

Suga exhaled through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“You needed to,” Suga said. “Even if it hurt you a little.”

Akaashi pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“Can you sit with me?” Akaashi asked, voice raw.

“I already am.”

~~~

The noise of the apartment swelled again after Twister, music pulsing from someone’s speaker, the thump of footsteps, bottles clinking together in the kitchen sink. Akaashi slipped back in through the front door quietly, minutes after Suga retreated, trying not to draw attention.

He moved through the crowd like a shadow. No one noticed. Or they did and didn’t say anything.

In the kitchen, he reached for a glass and filled it halfway from the tap. His hand trembled, barely. Just enough for the surface of the water to catch it.

“You’re shaking,” Kageyama said.

Akaashi turned. He hadn’t heard him enter. Kageyama stood by the fridge, arms crossed over his chest, a can of soda unopened in his hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Kageyama said, voice flat. Not cruel. Just direct.

Akaashi looked back down at the water.

“You didn’t come to Hinata’s birthday,” Kageyama added after a pause. “You didn’t answer anyone’s messages. We didn’t know if you were okay.”

“I was okay.”

Kageyama's brows pulled together, that same creased expression he always made when trying to solve something he didn’t quite understand.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “And I’m not asking. But… you were always solid. It’s weird seeing you like this.”

“I don’t know how else to be anymore.”

Kageyama stared at him for a moment longer, then opened the soda and took a sip.

Behind them, someone laughed. Noya, loud and sharp.

“You looked like you were trying to disappear out there,” Suga said, walking in the room and standing beside Kageyama like it was an interrogation. “That’s not the Akaashi I remember.”

Akaashi forced a small smile. “Maybe I’m just someone else now.”

Suga raised his eyebrows. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Akaashi didn’t say anything. He just walked away.

Kageyama’s eyes sharpened as they followed his silhouette. “Maybe. But he’s earned it.”

~~~

The living room lights were low now, softened by a single string of fairy-bulbs someone looped across the curtain rod. The air smelled like melon soda and leftover take-out; music pulsed from Bokuto’s Bluetooth speaker, tinny and nostalgic.

Someone— Noya, of course— shouted, “Group photo! Everybody squeeze in, c’mon, before the food coma hits.”

Phones were raised. Furniture was dragged. Hinata scampered to kill the overhead lamp so the fairy-lights could do the heavy lifting.

Akaashi hovered near the hallway arch, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to ghost out if anyone looked too closely. But Bokuto’s hand found the small of his back before he could drift. A barely-there touch, like asking permission, not claiming space.

“Stay for one picture?” Bokuto murmured, voice pitched low for them alone. “We can do constellations after.”

The words were a secret compass pointing to a different night: balcony rail, two mugs of instant cocoa, smog-tarnished sky, Bokuto tracing shapes on Akaashi’s palm. “That one’s Cygnus… that one’s Lyra…”

Akaashi’s chest tightened around something bright and dangerous. He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.

They all shuffled in: Noya perched on the sofa arm like a gremlin; Hinata kneeling on a throw pillow; Daichi dropping cross-legged to level the height disparity; Suga hovering behind him, fingers hooked over Daichi’s shoulders. Kageyama, arms reluctantly draped around Hinata and Noya, scowls like the flash owes him money; Iwaizumi stood off to one side with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, expression unreadable but present; Oikawa with his arms looped around him, peering over his shoulder with a big bright smile. 

Bokuto guided Akaashi to the far end of the couch, then sat half-turned toward him, thigh pressed to thigh. Warmth that was offered, not demanded. His voice dipped again, soft enough to disappear beneath the chatter.

“Cassiopeia’s out tonight,” he says. “Crooked W, right above the skyline.”

The corner of Akaashi’s mouth quirked, just barely, but it felt like movement after weeks of stillness. “We never decided if it looked more like a crown or a chair,” he whispered back.

“Crown,” Bokuto answered, immediate and certain. “Chairs don’t shine, 'kaashi.”

Akaashi’s almost-smile flickered wider. A camera timer beeped.

flash

Noya whooped. Hinata elbowed Kageyama in the ribs (“Smile next time, grump!”). Someone demanded a second shot. Suga turned the phone horizontal and counted down aloud. Bokuto leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Akaashi’s ear at the final beat.

“Just look at me,” he said, quiet and steady. “I’ll hold the stars for you.”

Akaashi’s gaze lifted, colliding with amber eyes lit by fairy-bulb halos, and something inside him loosened. Slipped. Shined. The shutter snapped. To anyone watching, it was another candid. To Akaashi, it felt like proof of life.

~~~

The laughter inside was distant now, blurred by glass and time. Someone turned the music down, or maybe the song ended. The hush that followed didn’t quite reach him.

Akaashi leaned forward on the balcony railing, chin resting on his hand. The air was cooler than it had been, and the smell of someone’s cherry vape still lingered faintly below. He could see the sliver of moon, dull and thinning, barely clinging to the sky like it didn’t want to be there either.

He exhaled, head tipped back, searching for the crooked W, wondering if it’s really there or just a memory.

He wished he smoked. He wished he drank more. He wished he had a better excuse for coming out here than not being able to breathe inside.

He took out his phone instead. Not to scroll. Just to hold.

The screen lit up before he could even unlock it.

Tetsurou: You looked like you wanted to run.

It wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was accurate.

The photo was attached. The one from the living room. Everyone piled together, limbs touching, laughter caught mid-breath. Bokuto angled toward him, all soft light and crooked smile.

And him. Akaashi.

Smiling. Not forced, not posed. Just… caught.

His stomach turned.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The screen dimmed. He let it go dark. Let his thoughts rise.

He’d gotten so good at hiding the truth in motion, in folding blankets, pouring drinks, showing up for a photo like it didn’t split him open from the inside. But Kuroo always knew where to look. He always found the part that flinched.

The phone buzzed again.

Tetsurou: Are you alright? Do I need to come get you?

Akaashi stared at the words.

They were too simple. Too kind. Too him.

He could picture it. Kuroo at home, backlit by laptop glow, brow furrowed, hoodie sleeves pushed up. Still waiting for an answer that didn’t exist.

Akaashi hesitated, then typed:

I’m okay.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then stopped.

Then started again.

Tetsurou: Then why do I feel like I’m watching you disappear?

He stared at that one for a long time.

He didn’t have an answer. Not one he could type. Not one that didn’t sound like a confession, or an excuse.

Inside, someone laughed again. He couldn’t tell who. The sound was soft, like a memory. It didn’t reach him.

The night stretched wide around him, thick with unsaid things. Akaashi slid his phone into his pocket and braced his elbows against the railing again, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel the words burning through the denim.

He didn’t look for the stars this time.

He already knew they were gone.

~~~

The hallway was dim, lit only by the spill from the kitchen and the flicker of the TV two rooms away. Most of the group had settled into the living room, bodies half-sprawled across each other, the kind of closeness only found in long friendships and long nights.

Bokuto stepped into the hallway with an empty glass in hand. He didn’t make it to the sink.

“You got a second?” Iwaizumi asked, already leaning against the wall near the pantry.

Bokuto hesitated, then followed him a few steps further, out of earshot.

“What’s up?”

Iwaizumi looked at him for a beat, unreadable. Then:

“I see what you’re doing.”

Bokuto frowned. “What?”

“You’re trying to fix him.”

Bokuto rolled his eyes. “I’m not. I’m just trying to be there.”

“Same thing,” Iwaizumi said. “And it’s gonna hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Iwaizumi said, low. “You think you’re close. You think he’ll come back to you if you’re soft enough. Patient enough. If you remind him of what it was like to be loved.”

Bokuto flinched, just a little. But he didn’t step back.

“Is that so bad?” he asked. “To want someone you love to feel safe again?”

“No,” Iwaizumi said. “But it’s dangerous when you tie your own healing to theirs.”

Bokuto’s expression shifted, frustration flashing across his face before he could stop it. His voice rose, just slightly.

“Oh, come on. You tried so hard with Oikawa when he fucked you over. You let him back in how many times?”

Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t interrupt.

“How is this different?” Bokuto asked, a little breathless now. “How is me still caring any worse than what you did?”

Iwaizumi looked at him for a long time.

“Because I’m not still doing it,” he said quietly. “And I learned the difference between loving someone and bleeding for them.”

Bokuto said nothing. His hands were shaking slightly. He hadn’t realized he was holding the glass so tight.

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve grace,” Iwaizumi went on, softer now. “I’m saying you deserve… some respect. Some boundaries.”

There was a long pause. Then Bokuto, quiet and wary:

“What are you not telling me?”

Iwaizumi’s face didn’t change. His voice did.

“Ask him that question.”

And then he walked away.

~~~

The hallway was quieter now.

Someone had turned off the music. Most of the lights were out, save for the kitchen glow and the soft flicker from the living room TV. Pillows were scattered across the floor like leftover laughter.

Akaashi needed water. Or stillness. Or neither. He slipped past a cluster of shoes and followed the hallway without thinking. Just moving, looking for a breath of quiet.

He stopped outside a door he hadn’t meant to find.

His fingers brushed the handle before he could tell himself not to.

It was open.

Bokuto’s room was dim, lit only by the pale blue of a moonwashed window and the corner glow of a lamp left on, too low to be useful. The sheets were unmade, a hoodie tossed across the end of the bed, a pair of earbuds coiled on the floor. A framed photo still sat on the bookshelf. Them, from a festival two months ago, Bokuto in a yukata, Akaashi laughing at something out of frame.

He froze in the doorway.

Then Bokuto looked up.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one socked foot curled beneath him, the other flat on the floor. A book rested closed beside him. His hair was down.

For a second, neither of them moved.

“I didn’t mean to—” Akaashi started.

“It’s okay,” Bokuto said. His voice was soft. “You can come in.”

Akaashi hesitated, then stepped inside. The door didn’t close behind him, but the quiet made it feel like it had.

Bokuto didn’t say anything. He just shifted over a little, making room on the bed. Akaashi sat.

They didn’t look at each other.

The silence between them wasn’t sharp. Just worn. Lived in. Like a sweater that used to fit.

“You always used to come here,” Bokuto said, voice barely more than a breath. “When things got too much for you. You’d sit right there and read until everyone left.”

“I remember.”

Akaashi stared at the floor. Bokuto watched him from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“I’ve been quiet a lot of nights.”

“I know.”

The pause stretched.

Akaashi reached down and picked at a loose thread on the blanket, something small to keep his hands busy. Bokuto watched his fingers move, slow and shaking.

“Iwaizumi talked to me,” Bokuto said after a moment. “Pulled me aside.”

Akaashi froze. “What did he say?”

Bokuto shrugged. “To be careful.”

Akaashi’s fingers tightened around the thread. “He’s right.”

Bokuto looked at him then. Really looked. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I already did.”

There was a long beat of quiet.

Then Bokuto, almost whispering: “Keiji… you let me get close again.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.”

Akaashi didn’t answer.

Bokuto reached out, slowly and carefully, brushing a strand of hair behind Akaashi’s ear. His fingers lingered at his temple, a warmth he wasn’t ready for.

Akaashi didn’t pull away. He just closed his eyes.

“I keep hoping this is still ours,” Bokuto said.

Akaashi’s voice cracked when he answered. “It’s not.”

“Why?”

Akaashi swallowed. Hard.

“Because I ruined it.”

He stood before Bokuto could ask what that meant. Before he could ask anything else.

The photo on the shelf caught his eye again, the one where they were still happy. Still simple.

He looked at it like it might speak.

Bokuto stayed on the bed. He didn’t chase.

Akaashi left the door open when he walked out.

~~~

The party had started to unravel in that soft, slow way all good hangouts did. People drifting into little clusters, energy dropping to a hum, shoes kicked off and forgotten under coffee tables. Someone had turned the music down, and now a lo-fi remix of an anime theme floated through the speakers like it was trying not to disturb anything.

Akaashi stood by the hallway arch, half in shadow, watching.

Bokuto was on the couch, sandwiched between Daichi and Noya, hands flying mid-story, mouth open in a grin so big it looked impossible. That laugh, the one that took over his whole face, whole chest, like his body couldn’t contain the joy, rang through the room again.

Akaashi’s stomach twisted.

“Still loud as ever,” Hinata said, appearing beside him, soda can in hand.

Akaashi didn’t flinch this time. “He hasn’t changed much.”

“Nope,” Hinata said, popping the tab open. “Still a golden retriever with so many emotions.”

Akaashi huffed. “That’s an oddly accurate description.”

They stood in silence a moment, watching the group pile up on the couch like it was a makeshift nest. Hinata glanced sideways at Akaashi.

“You ever think it’s weird we’re adults now?”

Akaashi blinked. “What?”

“Like, back when we used to be in high school, we thought everything was building up to something,” Hinata said, waving vaguely. “Like sports, careers, who we’d marry, whatever. And now we’re here, and I still feel like I’m seventeen half the time.”

“I feel like I’m eighty,” Akaashi said dryly.

Hinata laughed. 

Akaashi almost smiled. 

Hinata crunched down a chip from a nearby bowl. “Do you think pigeons have accents?”

Akaashi turned to look at him. “What?”

“Like. Osaka pigeons versus Tokyo pigeons. They must sound different to each other.”

“I hate how much I want to know the answer to that.”

“Right?!” Hinata said, pleased. “I think about it all the time.”

They lapsed into silence again. Akaashi let himself feel it. This moment, small and dumb and almost happy. Like nothing was broken. Like nothing terrible had ever happened.

Then Hinata, softer now: “He really is different when you’re here.”

Akaashi didn’t respond. He watched Bokuto laugh at something Daichi said, the way his whole body leaned into the joy like it was second nature.

“I mean it,” Hinata added. “You don’t orbit him like the rest of us. You ground him.”

Akaashi exhaled. The smile, if it ever was one, vanished.

“I don’t think I do anymore.”

Hinata tilted his head. “You’d be surprised what gravity can survive.”

“Since when are you so philosophical?”

Kageyama’s baritone cut in from behind them. He must’ve been returning from the kitchen, mug of instant coffee in hand, eyebrows drawn in that permanent frown that somehow wasn’t a frown at all.

Hinata spun, orange hair bobbing. “I can have layers , y’know.”

Kageyama took a slow sip, eyes narrowing in mock-suspicion. “Yeah, maybe like an onion. All you do is make people cry.”

Hinata squawked, half offended, half delighted. “Oi! I was having a moment here.” He jabbed a thumb toward Akaashi. “Let me inspire the man.”

Kageyama shrugged. “If gravity’s involved, I just assume you’re about to trip over something.”

Even Akaashi’s mouth twitched at that. The exchange was so quintessentially them. Hinata reaching for the stars, Kageyama yanking him back down, arguing the whole way. Familiar, harmless, normal.

Hinata ignored the jab and faced Akaashi again, determined to land the sentiment. “Point is, grounding works both ways. Maybe he’s your gravity too.”

Kageyama rolled his eyes but nudged a fresh can of soda into Akaashi’s hand on his way past. “Philosophy hour’s over. Drink something before Shouyou talks you into debating pigeon dialects.”

“Hey!” Hinata protested, but he was grinning as he chased Kageyama back toward the couch, their bickering already blending into the room’s soft chatter.

Akaashi glanced down at the cold aluminum in his palm, then back at Bokuto’s easy laugh across the room.

Gravity, once again, pulling in directions he couldn’t quite dispute.

~~~

The apartment was winding down. The last of the conversation had become static, the kind you didn’t need to participate in, just feel. Blankets were claimed. Lights had softened. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

Akaashi stood on the balcony with the cooling can in his hands, the city stretching out in tired blinks before him.

The door slid open behind him.

“I figured you’d be out here,” Bokuto said.

His voice was gentle, careful. He stepped out barefoot, sleeves hanging loose, holding a tangled pair of wired earbuds and his phone.

“They still work,” Bokuto added, untangling them with a lopsided grin. “Sort of.”

Akaashi took one. Their fingers brushed.

Bokuto sat first, back against the wall. The cord pulled Akaashi down beside him, close, their knees touching, shoulders nearly brushing. The cord was short. Intimate by necessity.

(Fix You by Coldplay)

The song started low. Chords, steady and slow, familiar in a way that made Akaashi’s throat close.

He knew this one. Rainy drives. Dim kitchen lights. The space between them when it wasn’t stressed.

"When you try your best, but you don't succeed

When you get what you want, but not what you need

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse."

He shouldn’t have let himself be here.

But he was.

"And the tears come streaming down your face."

The music swelled. The lyrics spoke of time passing without clarity, of holding on to something not because it was easy, but because it mattered.

"When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone, but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?" 

Akaashi looked down at his hands, fisted in the hem of his sweater. He wasn’t breathing right.

"Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you."

He turned toward Bokuto to say something, anything.

But Bokuto was already looking at him. And it wasn’t a passing glance.

"And high up above or down below."

It was soft, stunned, still. His eyes searching Akaashi’s face like it was something he hadn’t allowed himself to study in a long time.

"When you're too in love to let it go

But if you never try, you'll never know

Just what you're worth."

And God, Keiji wanted to kiss him.

"Lights will guide you home."

He wanted it so badly he forgot how to hold himself together. The love hadn’t left. Not really. He’d buried it, boxed it, convinced himself that walking away made it less real.

He thought Kuroo had been something else. A lifeline. A distraction. A temptation. He’d told himself it didn’t count because his heart had already let go.

But it hadn’t.

Not even close.

And now Bokuto was right here, close enough to touch, to want , and the guilt was sharp and unforgiving, a fire in his lungs.

The song kept playing. The music intensified, instruments joining in. Feelings of hope scattered amongst the guitar and drums, as if they were hands reaching for him. Reaching out to shake him and say "everything is going to be okay." To tell him to stop being so blind. To look at the person right in front of him. The one who never left. Who was always there, through the best moments and the worst ones. The one who saw the good, the ugly, the beautiful, and loved it all. Loved him through everything.

Their legs touched. Their faces tilted toward each other in perfect, unbearable symmetry. Bokuto’s hand shifted, slow, deliberate, brushing the outside of Akaashi’s wrist.

Their noses almost touched.

Akaashi’s lips parted. Bokuto leaned in.

He could already taste it.

The end and the beginning, all at once.

"Tears stream down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down your face, and I"

A repetition of chorus, mimicking his heartbeat picking up in pace. He felt Bokuto's breath on his lips, hairs standing up on the back of his neck. His throat was thick, but burning for the feeling. Of what he once had before he ruined it all.

"I promise you I will learn from my mistakes."

And then—

The balcony door slid open behind them.

“Oops,” Noya said, stepping out with an empty water bottle. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

They jerked apart, breath caught mid-motion, the cord between them suddenly too short and too cruel.

Akaashi stood up like he’d been caught doing something shameful. “I should go inside.”

He didn’t look back.

Bokuto just sat there, blinking slowly, as if he couldn't understand how quickly a moment like that could vanish into the air. The song was fading out, just like Keiji's scent from where he slipped through the balcony door. Away from the confrontation. Away from the moment. Away from him. 

He was always running away. 

"You good, Bo?" 

Bokuto swallowed. "Yeah... I'm good.

"And I will try to fix you."

~~~

The apartment was nearly silent. Akaashi moved like a ghost, past tangled limbs and half-empty mugs, past the remnants of warmth he couldn’t hold.

He didn’t mean to stop at Bokuto’s door.

But he did.

The lamp was still on. The room unchanged. A slice of gold light caught on the photo above the dresser, a booth strip, four frames. Laughter, faces pressed close. One where they kissed.

The hoodie sat on the bed. His hoodie. Folded. Clean.

He stepped inside.

He didn’t touch it.

But he stared like it could answer the question he hadn’t asked yet.

The door creaked slightly behind him.

Oikawa leaned in, one eyebrow raised. His voice was casual, but his eyes weren’t.

“You staying the night or not?”

Akaashi looked down at the hoodie again. Then at the photo. Then away.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Oikawa nodded. Like he understood exactly what that meant.

He didn’t push. Just left the door open behind him.

The room had gone still again after Oikawa left.

Akaashi lingered.

He turned toward the door, ready to go, to disappear before Bokuto came looking. But something caught his eye near the desk.

Not the clutter of pens and cords. Not the pair of game controllers or the cracked phone stand.

Another photo.

Framed. Hung neatly above the desk, just under the floating shelf of books.

He stepped closer.

It was a candid. A little faded from sunlight.

Bokuto and Akaashi sat in the grass of a park, leaning shoulder to shoulder, both laughing about something out of frame. Bokuto’s mother was on his other side, hand resting lightly on his knee, and his father stood behind them, looking off toward something with a soft smile on his face.

A family photo.

With him in it.

And not just in it. Belonging in it.

The memory hit hard and fast:

That weekend they visited and Akaashi met his parents for the first time.

Bokuto’s mom hugging him first.

His dad asking about his favorite bands.

Dinner that lasted three hours because no one wanted to leave the table.

Bokuto falling asleep on the couch, his head laid in Akaashi’s lap the whole time.

It had been simple then. Whole. A love that extended beyond them, out to parents, dinners, photos on walls.

Akaashi stared at the picture like it had betrayed him.

Or maybe like he had betrayed it.

His throat clenched.

The hoodie on the bed.

The booth strip on the mirror.

Now this.

Everywhere he turned, there were artifacts of a life that still held him, even though he didn’t deserve it anymore.

He blinked hard and looked away.

But the photo stayed. Quiet and permanent.

~~~

Akaashi stepped out of Bokuto’s room with a mind full of ghosts. The photo. The hoodie. The version of himself he used to be, someone who was loved by more than just one person.

The hallway light was soft. The carpet muffled his steps.

He turned toward the living room.

And stopped.

Bokuto was there.

Barefoot, hair tied up messily, arms full of crumpled sheets and an extra pillow. He looked up the second he heard movement, eyes widening like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Oh—” Bokuto froze. “I was—uh—I was just—” He lifted the bundle in his arms like that explained anything. “I was grabbing stuff. For the couch. In case. I mean. If you were staying.”

Akaashi blinked. “Oh.”

“And about earlier,” Bokuto said quickly, voice too fast, tripping over itself. “On the balcony. I didn’t— I mean, Noya didn’t know. I wasn’t trying to— It wasn’t supposed to—”

He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “God. I suck at this.”

“You don’t,” Akaashi said softly.

Bokuto’s grip tightened on the sheets. “I just wanted… to say I’m sorry we got interrupted. Not because I expected anything to happen. I just— I liked being near you. I liked the quiet. I liked you.”

Akaashi looked down.

“And I didn’t want it to feel like it didn’t mean anything,” Bokuto added. “Because it did. To me.”

The silence hung between them, heavy as thunderclouds.

“I’m going home,” Akaashi said.

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

“You can take the bed. You don’t need to sleep on the couch for me.”

“No, that’s not— Keiji—”

“I’m going home.”

“But…” Bokuto stepped forward, sheets forgotten in his arms now. “Oikawa’s staying here. Iwaizumi too. You’ll be alone.”

Akaashi nodded. “I know.”

Bokuto opened his mouth. Closed it. His shoulders dropped slightly.

“I just don’t want you to be alone if you don’t have to be,” he said. “Not tonight.”

There was so much tenderness in his voice. Like he was still hoping for a way to reach him. To hold onto whatever sliver had been reborn on the balcony.

But Akaashi just gave him a small, empty smile. “I’ll be okay.”

Bokuto didn’t fight it.

“Okay,” he said, gently. “Then I’m walking you home.”

Akaashi looked surprised.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“I know,” Bokuto said again, already moving past him, setting the pillow down on the hallway bench. “But I want to.”

Akaashi said nothing.

He followed him out the door.

~~~

The city was quiet in that specific, sacred way late nights always are. Streetlamps hummed. A breeze tugged gently at loose jacket sleeves. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed and the sound echoed too long.

They walked side by side.

Neither spoke at first. Their steps were soft against the concrete, casual on the outside, but heavy under the surface.

Akaashi kept his hands in his pockets. Bokuto didn’t.

Every few steps, their arms swung close enough to brush, fabric on fabric, the faintest pressure.

Akaashi didn’t move away.

Bokuto looked sideways once. Twice.

Then he spoke.

“You used to count stars.”

Akaashi blinked. “What?”

“Back during some of our first dates,” Bokuto said. “You’d tilt your head back and try to name constellations. Even if we were in the middle of the city and you couldn’t see shit.”

Akaashi let out a tiny breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You said it made me look pretentious.”

“I did,” Bokuto said, grinning faintly. “But I thought it was cool.”

They kept walking. Streetlights made pools of amber on the pavement. The air smelled faintly like rain, even though it hadn’t.

Bokuto’s voice softened.

“I miss that version of you. Not because he smiled more. But because he let people in.”

Akaashi’s jaw tensed.

“He’s still there,” Bokuto said. “I know he is. I saw him tonight. Just for a second.”

Their hands brushed again.

This time, Bokuto let his fingers linger.

Akaashi didn’t pull away.

“I know you think you ruined everything,” Bokuto continued, quiet now. “I don’t know why. And I’m not asking. But I wish you’d stop treating yourself like a stranger.”

“I don’t recognize who I am anymore,” Akaashi whispered.

Bokuto slowed beside him, their steps falling out of sync.

The night closed in around them, soft, vast, holding its breath.

Then:

“Then let me remind you,” Bokuto said.

Akaashi stopped walking.

The streetlamp above them hummed faintly, casting gold along the curve of Bokuto’s jaw. His face was open, vulnerable in the way only someone still in love could be.

And Keiji looked at him like he wanted to believe it.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to forget the weight behind his ribs.

Bokuto stepped closer.

No rush. No bravado.

He tilted his head, just a little. Eyes flickering between Akaashi’s lips and eyes. Giving him every second to pull away.

Akaashi didn’t.

Their hands were still brushing.

And now their shoulders did too.

Bokuto raised one hand, slow, careful, and touched Keiji’s cheek.

His fingers were warm.

Akaashi leaned in. Barely. But enough.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Their foreheads touched.

Breath caught in the narrow space between them. Close enough to kiss.

So close.

And then—

Akaashi stepped back.

Like he’d been burned.

Bokuto’s hand dropped. His mouth parted, but no words came.

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi said, voice hoarse. “I can’t.”

Bokuto froze. Confused, hurt, and—when he saw Akaashi’s eyes—something deeper.

“Keiji…” His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you. I just thought—”

“It’s not you,” Akaashi said, breath sharp, body rigid.

Bokuto blinked. “What do you mean?”

And that was when it happened.

Akaashi’s face twisted. He turned away slightly, but not before Bokuto saw the first tear slide down his cheek. His hands were shaking. Chest tight.

“Keiji,” Bokuto breathed. “Hey, what’s going on?”

They were in the middle of a quiet street. No cars, no people, only streetlamps buzzing and leaves rustling in a breeze too soft to comfort.

Akaashi looked down at the pavement, then at his own hands, like he didn’t recognize them.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice raw and breaking. “You’re going to hate me.”

Bokuto stepped forward again, slower this time, gentler. “That’s not possible.”

Akaashi didn’t look at him.

“It was the night of the performance,” he whispered. “After the final show. When I had to leave to go somewhere.”

Bokuto nodded once. Slowly.

Akaashi’s hands clenched. “I went to Kuroo’s.”

The silence was instant. Crushing.

Bokuto didn’t speak.

“I don’t even know why,” Akaashi said. “I just wanted an explanation. Closure from what happened. But it turned into something… I must’ve been repressing? I don’t even know.” He laughed once, humorless. “It felt like control. Like something I chose.”

Bokuto’s lips parted, but no sound came.

“I kissed him,” Akaashi said. “I kissed him and then I left. And the minute I did, I realized I’d ruined the only thing in my life that ever made sense.”

A sob shook through him, small but real. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” he added quickly, desperately. “Not… that night. But it doesn’t matter, right? I crossed the line. I betrayed you. I broke us.”

Still, Bokuto said nothing.

Akaashi finally looked up at him, eyes red, lashes wet, face twisted in grief.

“I’ve hated myself every day since.”

The silence stretched long and deep. A car passed by at the end of the block, headlights sliding over them like ghosts. Neither moved.

And then Bokuto, voice low:

“You kissed him.”

Bokuto’s voice sounded small. Not angry. Not even hurt, yet.

Just lost.

Akaashi nodded once. His throat too tight for words.

“You chose him.”

“No,” Akaashi rasped. “I chose to run.”

Silence fell again. The kind that rattled your ribs.

Bokuto stared at him. Not moving. Not blinking. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“No,” he said finally, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t.”

“Bokuto—”

“You didn’t kiss him,” Bokuto said again, firmer this time. “You’re just saying this to make me let go. I get it. You’re hurting. You want space. You want to push me away.”

“I’m not—”

“I know you,” Bokuto said, voice rising, cracking. “You’d never do that. Not to me. Not to Kuroo. We were—” His voice caught on that last word. “We were everything.”

Akaashi’s face twisted. “I did.”

Bokuto looked like he’d been hit. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Bokuto said, stepping back now. “You’re lying because you think it’ll make it easier. Because you think I’ll walk away if you give me a reason to hate you.”

“I’m not trying to make you hate me,” Akaashi said, pleading. “I already do.”

Bokuto’s jaw clenched.

“I thought he hurt you,” he whispered, more to himself than to Akaashi. “I thought he… I thought that was why he left.”

Akaashi looked down. “He didn’t hurt me.”

The air around them went sharp. Cold. The streetlamp above flickered once.

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

“That night… Kuroo didn’t do anything I didn’t allow. He didn’t force me. He didn’t take anything. He— we — I… just let it happen.”

Bokuto shook his head again, slow and disbelieving.

“He left,” Akaashi said. “Because he couldn’t handle it. He felt the guilt too.”

Bokuto’s lips parted like he might speak. But nothing came.

“I hurt both of you,” Akaashi said. “And the worst part is… I thought I could carry it. I thought if I buried it deep enough, I could still fix things.”

Bokuto’s hands were shaking now.

“Keiji,” he breathed. “You were supposed to be the one thing I could count on.”

“I know.”

“And Kuroo—he was my—”

“I know.”

Bokuto took a shaky step back, like the air between them was fire now.

“I didn’t want to ruin you both,” Akaashi said. “But I did.”

And then finally—

Bokuto looked at him. Really looked. Like he was trying to find the version of Keiji that wouldn’t do this. The one who loved him back. The one he’d been trying to reach all night.

But that version didn’t speak.

It just stood there, tear-streaked and still, offering only the truth. And the heartbreak of it all was:

It wasn’t enough.

The streetlamp buzzed faintly above them.

A breeze passed. A few leaves scraped along the pavement.

And still, neither of them moved.

Akaashi stood there, head bowed, hands at his sides like he was waiting for something to strike him down.

Punishment. Absolution. Anything.

Bokuto… just stared. Eyes wide, unblinking. Like his brain hadn’t caught up to his heart yet, or maybe his heart was too loud for him to think at all.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His mouth opened again, then closed. Not even breath left him now. It was the kind of silence that hurt. That filled your ears with ringing. That made your chest feel too small.

Akaashi didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t reach. Didn’t beg.

He just stood there, letting Bokuto look at him, all of him. Not the version he wanted to be. Just the truth.

The quiet stretched on and on. Until the night itself began to feel like it was crumbling at the edges.

The silence had started to hurt.

Bokuto looked at Akaashi like he was trying to put him back together just by looking, but every piece cut his hands.

Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t know what to do with this.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even sharp.

Just tired. Like something inside him had gone quiet.

“I’ve spent weeks telling myself I lost you because I wasn’t enough,” he said. “Because I loved too loud. Because I was too much. I was ready to carry that.”

He laughed once, bitter and broken. “Turns out, I didn’t even get to be the reason we ended.”

Akaashi opened his mouth, but no words came.

A single, tentative raindrop landed on the back of Bokuto’s hand. Then another. And all at once, the sky tipped over.

Rain hammered the street, loud enough to drown the silence they’d been sitting in, but not loud enough to wash away what had been said.

Water slid down Akaashi’s neck, soaked into Bokuto’s hoodie, pooled at their feet like the night itself was spilling open.

Bokuto wiped at his face quickly, as if he didn’t want Akaashi to see that he’d been crying.

“I want to hate you,” he said. “I should. Everyone would tell me I should.”

He looked down at his hands like he didn’t recognize them anymore.

“But I can’t.”

And that was the part that broke him.

He sat down on the curb, hands resting between his knees, breathing like he was trying not to fall apart in front of the one person who already knew he was broken.

Akaashi hovered. “Should I… go?”

Bokuto didn’t look up. 

“No,” he said. Quiet. Barely a breath. “Just… stay. A minute.”

So Akaashi did.

He sat beside him. Not touching. Not speaking.

Just there. In the silence. In the wreckage.

And for one last suspended moment, they stayed like that. Two people who didn’t know how to love each other anymore, but didn’t know how to stop either.

They sat on the curb in silence.

Akaashi’s shoulders were curled inward, his face hidden by his hands. Bokuto sat beside him, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

Time passed, not fast, not slow. Just heavy.

Then Bokuto spoke. Quietly. Like he was afraid of the answer.

“What did he give you that I couldn’t, Keiji?”

Akaashi’s breath caught.

He turned his face slightly, but not all the way. His voice came muffled through trembling fingers.

“It wasn’t about that.”

“But it feels like it was,” Bokuto said. “I keep trying to tell myself it was a mistake. That you were scared. That you were hurting. But I can’t stop wondering—” His voice cracked. “—was I not enough for you?”

Akaashi’s heart split straight down the middle.

“You were too much,” he said.

Bokuto blinked.

“You were everything. You loved me like I mattered. Like I was good. Like I was still me, even when I started to feel like I wasn’t.”

His hands dropped into his lap now, eyes wet and open.

“And that scared me. Because if I messed that up, if I lost you… then what did that make me?”

Bokuto didn’t respond right away. He swallowed hard. His jaw twitched.

Then finally, voice barely audible:

“You didn’t lose me. You gave me up.”

Akaashi closed his eyes.

The truth sat between them like a third person. And this time, it was Akaashi who couldn’t speak.

“I’m still walking you home,” Bokuto said, pushing up from the curb.

Akaashi shook his head, rain plastering his hair to his forehead.

“No. You’re coming inside,” he insisted, voice steady in a way it hadn’t been all night. “You’re drenched, and I won’t watch you walk five blocks in this.”

Bokuto opened his mouth to protest, but a fresh gust of wind shoved the rain sideways, and the argument died on his tongue.

Silently, he followed Akaashi toward the building lights.

~~~

Inside, the apartment was still. Too still.

Bokuto’s eyes scanned the place like he was searching for something he’d forgotten, something that used to be his.

Akaashi turned toward the kitchen.

“I can get you something.”

“No.”

Bokuto’s voice was low. But solid.

Akaashi turned back.

Bokuto stepped in close, heart in his throat, fists clenched, something wild behind his eyes.

“What did he give you, Keiji?”

Akaashi’s breath faltered.

“Did he make you feel safer? Stronger? Like you could breathe again?”

No answer. 

“Did you love him?”

Akaashi shook his head. Once, twice. Then he blurted:

“No. I don’t know! I don’t think I did.”

And that broke something open in both of them.

Bokuto flinched, then stepped back like he couldn’t stand to be that close.

“You don’t think?” he repeated, voice breaking. “You don’t think?”

“I—”

“You kissed him. You went to him. You lied to me for weeks, and now all you can say is you don’t think?”

“I was falling apart—”

“So was I!” Bokuto shouted, chest heaving. “You think I didn’t feel it? Every time you pulled away, every time I asked what was wrong and you said ‘nothing’, you were disappearing. And I thought it was me.”

Akaashi’s eyes filled again. “I thought I had already lost you.”

“No,” Bokuto spat, voice cracking. “You left me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You chose to.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“But you did!” Bokuto’s fist slammed against the side of the counter. “You broke me, Keiji!”

The sound rang out, harsh and real. Akaashi jumped.

Bokuto’s breathing was ragged now. His hands were shaking.

“I woke up every day thinking I wasn’t enough. That if I’d just loved you a little quieter, held you a little less tightly, you would’ve stayed.”

“Bokuto—”

“But it didn’t matter what I did,” he hissed. “Because the second it got hard, you ran to someone else.”

Akaashi’s voice cracked open on a sob. “I was scared.”

“So was I,” Bokuto said, quieter now. “But I stayed. I stayed and I loved you and I trusted you.”

“And I failed you,” Akaashi whispered.

“You betrayed me.”

Akaashi’s knees buckled slightly as if his body couldn’t carry the weight of hearing it spoken aloud.

He leaned back against the kitchen counter for support.

“I slept with him,” he said, voice shaking. “I thought it would help the pain.”

Bokuto laughed once, hollow and bitter.

“Of course.” He scoffed. “And that’s where you were these past couple weeks right? You went to the address on that stupid fucking note!” 

Akaashi flinched, hearing the anger rise out of Bokuto’s throat. “I—“ 

“You let him fuck you, didn’t you?” Bokuto shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t even answer that. I already know.” 

He wiped his face, furious with himself for crying. But he couldn’t stop.

“You meant everything to me,” he said, eyes red and raw. “Everything. And you crushed it. And you think a few tears and a confession make it better?”

“I don’t think it makes it better,” Akaashi said, quietly and softly. Like he had nothing else to give. “I just… I needed you to know.”

Bokuto stared at him. For a long time. Until the silence buzzed louder than the rain outside.

Then, the tension snapped.

Bokuto surged forward and kissed him.

Hard.

Hands in Akaashi’s hair, gripping his jaw, backing him up into the edge of the kitchen counter. The kiss was angry, sad, starving. Not for affection. For proof.

Proof that he still mattered.

Akaashi gasped against his mouth, but didn’t stop him. His hands found Bokuto’s shoulders, clutching tight, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d disappear entirely.

Bokuto pressed in, hips against the counter, mouth dragging across Akaashi’s like he wanted to brand the feeling into him. Like he needed to leave something behind that Kuroo never could.

Fingers curled into sweaters. Teeth grazed lips.

It was too much. And not enough.

“Tell me, Ji.” Bokuto growled against his lips. “Does he make you feel better than I do?” 

He had a firm hold on Akaashi’s neck, underneath his jaw, tilting his head back. He pushed his hips in when he felt Akaashi’s grip tighten on his arms. 

“Tell me.” He grazed his tongue along his bottom lip. “I know it hasn’t ever felt better than this.” 

Akaashi’s eyes were squeezed shut, repressing the tears threatening to fall. His lips were parted, his hands numb, at a complete loss of control, letting Bokuto handle him. He was like jelly in his hands, his hips being dragged closer, his lips being forced open. He could feel the frustration and the anger and the hurt in his movements. He could feel how broken the man holding him was. How he had broken him. 

And when they finally pulled apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, neither of them spoke.

The only sound was their breathing. The heartbreak still between them, clawing at the silence.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” Akaashi whispered.

Bokuto’s reply came slow, shaking, final:

“You already did.”

Thunder rolled somewhere above the ceiling, low and incessant. Bokuto’s shoulders sagged like the sound carried all his exhaustion.

“Stay,” Akaashi said, softer than before. “Please. The couch is yours.”

Bokuto didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either. He just let the weight of the night steer him to the living-room shadows while Akaashi fetched towels that couldn’t keep up with the rain already inside their clothes.

~~~

Sometime around five, the rain thinned, thunder and lightening taking over. Akaashi tried to sleep, tossing and turning in his bed, but sleep was nowhere to be found. His thoughts were elsewhere, his room unable to hold him. He stepped out in the hallway, met with thunder rattling the walls and lightening flashing images among the floor.

He heard a click. The front door latch. Then feet on the hallway tile.

By the time he reached the doorway, Bokuto was already a silhouette in the stairwell light. No door slam, no goodbye, just absence wearing a wet hoodie and disappearing down the steps.

~~~

The apartment was too still.

Too clean.

Too quiet.

Akaashi stood in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter, staring down at nothing.

He could still feel Bokuto’s hands on him. His mouth. The desperate way he kissed like he wanted to leave a mark that would never fade.

And maybe he had.

Akaashi’s chest hurt. Not like heartbreak, like shame. It settled deep in his stomach, curled around his spine, pressed against the roof of his mouth.

He turned the sink on and let the water run.

Didn’t drink it.

Just let it flow.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought:

What did I just do.

But the thought didn’t come with regret. Not yet.

Just the cold, familiar voice:

You ruin everything. And now you’ve done it again.

He walked into the living room in a daze. Sat down on the floor like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.

He didn’t cry. Not because he wasn’t sad, but because he was numb.

After a long moment, he pulled out his phone.

Hands shaking. Throat tight.

He opened Kuroo’s contact. He just stared at it.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t know what he planned to say, maybe nothing. Maybe just come over. Maybe he wanted to feel something. Maybe he wanted to ruin what little was left.

It wasn’t about Kuroo. It wasn’t even about Bokuto anymore.

It was about finishing what he started. Following the spiral all the way down.

He typed the first letter.

Then the screen lit up with a new notification.

Unknown number. Foreign preview.

He hesitated.

Opened it.

Akaashi Keiji, we’ve been following your work for some time. The previous situation with Shinkai Sound no longer concerns us.

We’d like to offer you an exclusive debut contract with us. Full creative control. Unlimited backing. We’re prepared to move quickly.

Akaashi read the message once.

Twice.

He stared like he didn’t understand the words.

Like they were meant for someone else.

Someone cleaner. Someone whole.

Then, with hands still trembling and heart completely empty, he typed:

Yes.

Send.

He dropped the phone onto the floor beside him and leaned back against the couch.

The room was dark.

The street outside was quiet.

The taste of Bokuto still lingered on his lips.

If he was going to ruin everything, he might as well finish the job. He said yes to the future, and no one would ever know it was the same thing as giving up.

And for the first time in a long time, Akaashi Keiji felt like he had finally become the worst version of himself. 

Hello Stranger

TOKYO SOUNDLINE: The New Face of Japan’s Music Scene

By: Naomi Ishikawa, Senior Culture Editor

Published: 12:48 PM JST, Friday

In a surprise move shaking the Japanese music industry this week, up-and-coming artist Akaashi Keiji has officially signed with Mercury District, Japan’s most influential label, and one of the largest powerhouses globally.

Known for his moody vocals, piercing lyricism, and raw underground edge, Akaashi made waves after a viral live performance at the Composition Rounds earlier this season. Since then, he’s become the face of quiet return in a scene filled of his father’s, Akaashi Tatsuo, legacy.

“We see Keiji as the future,” says Mercury District’s A&R head, Mina Saito. “His sound isn’t just marketable, it’s undeniable. It’s a feeling.”

Sources close to the label confirm that Akaashi’s debut EP is already in early production, with a projected release within the next month. Fans online are buzzing, flooding platforms with speculation about the sound, style, and story behind the artist who, until now, has remained reclusive.

“He’s the one to watch,” says producer Ryo Tsubaki, who’s rumored to be involved in the project. “I’ve worked with a lot of talent. Keiji? He doesn’t just write music. He bleeds it.”

No public statement has been made by Akaashi himself.

But maybe that’s what makes him all the more captivating.

~~~

His phone buzzed again.

Then again.

And again.

He didn’t check it.

Akaashi sat at the long conference table, hands folded neatly on the lacquered wood, eyes fixed somewhere past the view of the high-rise windows. Below, Tokyo glittered like a city pretending not to be asleep.

To his left, Minami—his newly assigned agent, sharp suit and sharper grin—was talking fast about global roll-outs and “controlled mystique.” Across from them, a senior Mercury District executive was mid-sentence. 

“We need to pivot you as emotionally enigmatic, but grounded. The past? Let them wonder. What matters now is presence, structure, trajectory.”

Akaashi blinked slowly. Someone was laughing, not at him, around him. The sound rang hollow.

His phone kept vibrating. Miwa. Oikawa. Kuroo. Unread messages lighting up like warning signs.

Oikawa: u ok?

Tetsurou: Saw the news. Are you really doing this?”

Miwa: Hi honey. Call me when you can. Please.

He didn’t move. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. No one noticed.

Minami slid a glossy folder across the table. “First step. Visual campaign. Think grayscale, think chiaroscuro, think ‘the boy who won’t look at the camera.’ That’s power.”

The junior producer beside him slid a different folder. “Or we take a different angle for your first release. We come out strong. High ego. Pretty boy. Heartbreaker. And your music sells it.”

Akaashi nodded.

They smiled.

Another message came in.

Bokuto: no matter what, i'm here. i'm here for you, keiji. 

He turned the phone face down. Then, at last, he spoke—voice flat, hoarse, and far away:

“Whatever you need. Just tell me what to do.”

~~~

It was raining. Barely. Just enough to mist the air, turn everything soft at the edges. The sky hung low and silver, pressing quiet into the city like a blanket no one asked for.

Akaashi sat in the back seat of the town car, hoodie pulled over his head, headphones off. He hadn’t said a word since they left the building.

Driver: “Want me to take you home?”

Akaashi: “Yeah.”

That was twenty-three minutes ago.

Now, he stirred.

“Can you pull over?” His voice cracked as it left him.

The driver eased the car to the curb near the a river. The wipers kept a slow, sleepy rhythm.

Akaashi stepped out. Humid air brushed his cheeks, the faint smell of wet concrete wrapped around him like an old coat.

His phone buzzed in his palm. Fifty-seven unread messages, sixteen missed calls, four voicemails.

He walked to the rail, shoes scraping damp pavement. The river, black and glassy, moved with monsoon patience, carrying stray leaves and old neon reflections toward someplace he couldn’t see.

He stared down. Rain stitched the surface with silver pinpricks. Every tiny splash erased itself the moment it appeared, gone before it even had a chance to matter.

Another buzz. Then another.

Oikawa: i just want to help.

Tetsurou: You don’t have to be this version of you.

Bokuto: I still love you. I always will.

His thumb hovered over the screen. A lifetime lived on glass, he thought. All these voices, all this weight, and the plastic never even cracked.

He inhaled. The breath felt foreign, like it belonged to someone stronger. Maybe the version of himself the magazines were already writing about.

Rain ticked against the hood of his jacket. A car passed somewhere behind him, tires whispering over slick asphalt. The world kept going, unbothered.

He closed his eyes. Let memory bloom, uninvited:

Bokuto on a rooftop, laughing so hard he almost fell. The joy spread along his own lips. It was all golden, in the sky and his eyes. 

Kuroo’s hands, steadying him after a drunken slip. Heat rushed along his cheeks, the burning touch seeping into his skin. 

His mother’s voice on an old voicemail he could never delete, saying “Come home safe” when he was out at a party in high school. 

He exhaled, shoulders trembling. The kind of trembling that happens when you finally admit you’re exhausted.

The screen lit again. One more notification, an unknown number. Probably a journalist. Probably another question he didn’t have an answer for.

He opened his fingers.

For half a second the phone rested on his palm, weightless, like it might decide to stay.

Then gravity chose.

A soft plunk.

A ripple.

A shiver.

Silence.

The glow disappeared beneath the dark water, swallowed whole, as if the river had been waiting just for this confession.

Akaashi’s chest tightened, but something inside him loosened at the same time, a knot unspooling, painful and relieving all at once. The rain felt colder now, honest against his skin.

He didn’t look down again. Just closed his eyes, letting the drizzle bead on his lashes, letting the city blur.

If anyone asks where I went, he thought, tell them I was here, learning how to be quiet.

He breathed in, slow, deliberate, tasting metal and dusk.

And stood there a little longer, listening to the water argue softly with the night, until the driver cleared his throat behind him and asked if he was ready.

Not ready.

But finished.

Akaashi turned, hoodie dripping, and climbed back into the car without a word. The door shut with a gentle click, sealing the moment behind glass.

The town car pulled away, taillights bleeding red across the wet street. 

Leaving the river to keep its secret.