Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After Hours by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original) 

The song was still playing.

“I‘ll risk it all for you

I won’t just leave 

This time, I’ll never leave.” 

His voice, wrapped in silk and autotune. It echoed off the walls of the kitchen like a taunt. Everyone was still talking. Laughing, even. But Bokuto couldn’t hear any of it. Just that voice. That lyric. And the man who walked in behind it.

Keiji fucking Akaashi.

Looking like a goddamn magazine cover. Straight off of Vogue. Black Prada jacket, sunglasses inside, mouth curved in that same practiced smirk Bokuto used to kiss between sets.

He hadn’t seen him this close in almost over a year. And somehow, this version of Keiji looked both larger than life and less alive than ever.

Their eyes met across the room. Bokuto’s heart stuttered. Keiji smiled, soft, smug, unreadable.

And said nothing.

No wave. No hello. Just that look. That fucking look.

Bokuto’s chest felt tight. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly, to not react. Not yet. Because if he went to him now, he wasn’t sure if he’d kiss him or punch him or break in half trying to figure out which he wanted more.

Keiji, what kind of game are you playing?

He turned away, pretending to refill his drink. Pretending he hadn’t memorized every lyric from Keiji’s album. Pretending that his fingers didn’t still twitch when he heard that voice.

Oikawa didn’t say he was actually coming…

He could feel Keiji’s gaze on him like a spotlight.

But Bokuto wasn’t ready to look back.

Not yet.

~~~

The bass thumped gently through the floor as he stood in the open doorway. Keiji stepped out into the apartment, the bands new place. Warm light spilled through the open layout. Laughter echoed from the kitchen. Someone was playing his song in the background.

“This time, I’ll never leave.”

The timing was cruel.

Keiji adjusted the cuff of his jacket, with Aida two steps behind, quiet but unmistakably present.

Daichi was the one who opened the door.

Their eyes met for a beat. Stiff.

“Hey,” Keiji said. Smooth. Measured. As if nothing had happened.

Daichi gave a nod. “Hey.”

He didn’t smile.

Keiji walked past him, the familiar thud of Aida’s boots trailing behind.

He made it three steps into the living room before it began.

“OH MY GOD! AKAASHI!” Came two overlapping shrieks.

Noya launched himself like a missile at Keiji’s leg, wrapping around it like a child. Hinata was next. A leap, full-body, straight onto Keiji’s back, knocking him forward with a grunt.

Keiji barely staggered.

Aida surged forward, hands already out to pry Hinata off. Keiji held up one finger.

“It’s fine.”

And just like that, the room saw it. Power. Control. Two words, and the tank in a suit backed off.

Hinata giggled, arms tight around his shoulders. “It’s been foreverrrr!”

Noya was sniffling, holding Keiji’s calf. “I missed your face! You still smell so good!”

Keiji let a half-smile tug at his lip. “You two haven’t changed.”

Across the room, Kageyama stood by the drink table, arms crossed. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He just stared, eyes sharp and hurt, then quickly looked past him, focusing on his boyfriend again like it took effort.

Keiji felt that one.

He didn’t say anything.

As Hinata slipped off his back and Noya finally unlatched, the sound of his best friend, beloved roommate, Oikawa Tooru, approached quickly. 

“You came! I told you so!” Oikawa appeared in a flurry, arms already open wide. He beamed like a mother hen. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, superstar.”

Keiji let him hug him, just long enough to sell it. “I said I’d try.”

Behind Oikawa, a tall blond and shorter brunette whispered.

Tsukishima muttered something under his breath. Yamaguchi gave a quiet glance, not hostile, just cautious. Old friends. Ghosted ones. The kind that don’t chase after people who leave them behind.

Keiji pretended not to notice.

“C’mon, dance circle!” Noya yelled, tugging on his wrist. “The music before was awful and I know you have taste! Pick something, Akaashi!” 

Keiji followed, still flanked by Aida, still silent.

Then he saw them.

Time stilled.

The Miya twins.

Osamu stood near the speaker setup, a drink in one hand, eyes cutting across the room like they belonged there. He hadn’t changed much, still too cool, still brooding, still staring at Keiji like he remembered exactly what it felt like to dance with him in smoke and neon.

Next to him, Atsumu perked up instantly.

“Ah, pretty boy?! No shit!” He grinned. “Yer famous now, huh? That’s why you haven’t been around at the studio.” 

“Nah.” Keiji gave him a small smirk. “I just got tired of owning the place. Figured I’d give you a chance to catch up.”

Some of the dance crew members in earshot laughed. Noya and Hinata were cackling and one of them lightly punched Atsumu in the shoulder.

“Yer still feisty, I see.” Atsumu smirked, as he sipped from his cup. “I always liked that about you.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want you thinking I’d gone soft.” Akaashi replied. 

Through the banter, Osamu didn’t move. His expression unreadable. Part nostalgia, part suspicion. He scanned Keiji head to toe, and Keiji could feel it: the memory of every almost, every night Osamu thought meant something more.

There was something else in his eyes, too.

Concern. Not for old feelings. For the incident.

Kuroo. That night. The story that wasn’t true. And Osamu had never questioned Keiji’s truth, just believed.

Keiji felt the temperature of the room shift. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice.

He met Osamu’s gaze and didn’t flinch.

~~~

“Nooooooo!” Noya’s voice cracked like a siren. “You just got here!”

Keiji was already being tugged gently away, Osamu’s hand light on the sleeve of his jacket. Calm. Intentional.

“I haven’t seen you in a year!” Noya pouted, still latched to Keiji’s wrist. “You can’t just let him steal you!”

From across the room, Tanaka hollered, “Noya, get over here, I’m trying to battle you!”

“What?! You really wanna go?!” Noya whipped around. “You’re scared of my hips, coward!”

Aida gave Keiji a side glance, checking, as always. And Keiji nodded once. It was fine.

That was all it took for Noya to be gently peeled off, mid-rant about revenge choreography.

“Give me like — ten minutes,” Keiji promised him with a faint smile.

“You better mean that!” Noya shouted, already strutting toward Tanaka.

The noise receded slightly as Keiji and Osamu stepped toward the edge of the living room, where the lights were lower, and the chatter thinned just enough to feel like privacy.

Keiji leaned back against a wall by the window. Calm. Posed. But his fingers were twitching slightly at his side.

Osamu watched him for a second too long.

“You look tired as fuck.”

Keiji exhaled a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Good to see you, too.”

Osamu tilted his drink. “Wasn’t an insult.”

Keiji didn’t respond.

Across the room, murmurs started again.

“Is that actually him?”

“He’s hotter than my boyfriend.”

“Why is he here?”

“I heard he OD’d last month.”

“Is it rude to ask for an autograph?”

Someone’s phone buzzed. A camera clicked. One girl near the kitchen blatantly took a photo before ducking behind her friend.

Osamu’s eyes flicked to them. “You’re okay with that?”

“I have to be,” Keiji said quietly.

A beat passed.

Then: “You ghosted a lot of people.”

“I know.”

“Noya was saying he heard from Oikawa that Yamaguchi cried about it? Not, like, sobbing—but he missed you. You were his friend.”

Keiji looked down. “I wasn’t good company.”

Osamu’s jaw shifted like he wanted to say something harsher. He didn’t.

Instead, he said, “I thought about texting you. A few times.”

Keiji glanced up. “I wouldn’t have gotten it.”

“Yeah. Also heard from Noya who heard from Oikawa.” 

Their eyes locked. Neither smiled.

And there it was, the thing they’d never said. The almost. The near-hook-ups prevented by Oikawa’s cockblocking. The late nights that meant something different to each of them.

Osamu took a sip from his cup, then asked, not entirely casually: “You okay?”

“Why?” Akaashi smiled, just a bit in a playful way. “I don’t look okay?” 

“You know what I mean.” Osamu’s eyes softened and he cleared his throat a little, cheeks flushing ever-so-slightly. “You always look… beautiful.” 

Before Keiji could respond, someone walked up. A guy in a backwards cap, clearly buzzed, phone already raised.

“Yo—sorry man. Can I get a picture? Just real quick. I swear I won’t post it. I promise.”

Keiji blinked slowly. “Sure.” He didn’t move. 

Osamu’s expression soured.

The guy chuckled nervously. “My girl loves your stuff. Like, she cried during that Angel song or whatever.” He moved closer, ready to take a selfie. “And you look cool as fuck right now. She’ll freak out when she sees this.” 

Keiji gave a half-smile. The kind that said ‘I’m not real to you anyway.’

The guy held up the phone, let a smirk fall on his lips and held up a peace sign. Keiji ran a hand through his hair, tilted his chin up and casually smiled. 

He took the photo. 

Then the guy readjusted his pose, pointing at Keiji with his thumb and opening his mouth like he was surprised. Keiji smiled with his teeth this time, not because he was happy, but to show off the diamond on his tooth. 

Girls loved that about him. 

The guy tried wrapping his arm around Keiji’s shoulders, holding his phone out for Osamu to take and snap a picture. 

Aida stepped in, silent and sharp. The guy quickly backed off, stammering thanks and apologies.

The quiet returned, a little thinner now.

Osamu was still watching Keiji like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Like he was trying to find the version of him that used to hang out with him at 2 a.m. with a joint in one hand.

“Does it still hurt?” Osamu asked quietly.

Keiji tilted his head. “Does what hurt?”

“Kuroo. What he did to you.”

Keiji’s body went still.

The smirk vanished.

And for the first time all night, his voice was flat.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Osamu stared at him. Jaw tight. Regret flickering behind his eyes.

“Because he didn’t… do that to me.”

“What do you mean?” 

Another beat.

Then: “It was consensual.”

Osamu’s brows pinched together, confusion written all over his face. “How? But you told me— what? That doesn’t make any—“ 

Keiji’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He lied.”

He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t have to.

~~~

Keiji’s fingers curled around the handle of the balcony door. Just a few seconds of quiet. That’s all he needed. He could still hear the bass humming behind him, the murmur of voices blending into white noise.

He pushed the door open—

And froze.

Oikawa, arms folded, waiting like he’d planned this moment.

Beside him, Iwaizumi, quieter, still, but no less present.

“You trying to escape?” Oikawa asked, voice too bright to be casual.

Keiji sighed. “Just air.”

“Right.” Iwaizumi said evenly. 

Keiji didn’t respond. Just stepped one foot out.

Oikawa’s smile thinned. “Y’know, you could talk to the people who actually care. Half of them are still inside pretending you didn’t completely ghost them.”

Keiji turned back, gaze sharp now.

“Are you two teaming up on me?”

Oikawa blinked. “No one’s teaming up—”

“Tooru,” Keiji cut in, “you were the one who begged me to come. Said everyone missed me. You asked me to show up. Now you’re still not happy?”

Oikawa’s jaw tensed. “I asked you to come back. Not to play model at the door and avoid every person you ever called a friend.”

Iwaizumi watched quietly, but his voice, when it came, was steady.

“You don’t have to be okay, Akaashi. But you don’t get to act like no one’s trying with you.”

That one landed.

Keiji looked away. Out over the city.

The skyline blurred a little in his eyes, lights like static. He swallowed once, slow.

“I came,” he said finally. “That should mean something.”

“It does,” Oikawa said, softer now. “It means we still give a shit. And maybe… that you do, too.”

Silence stretched thin.

Keiji didn’t move to leave. He didn’t step back in, either.

“Why’d you come out here, really?” Iwaizumi asked.

Keiji shrugged.

“To look at the stars.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

Neither of them replied. But they didn’t leave, either.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi glanced at each other. Stars. They knew what that meant. 

“I just want ten minutes to myself. Is that so bad?”

Eventually, Oikawa sighed and broke the tension with a gentle nudge.

“Okay. Take a breath, Keiji. We’ll be inside.” 

And Iwaizumi, as always, added the quiet truth beneath it:

“People are still waiting for you.”

The balcony door creaked as they slipped back inside.

Keiji stayed.

Just for a moment.

He didn’t light a cigarette (he wishes he had one). 

He didn’t cry.

Just stood there, fingers twitching, lips pressed thin, staring at a skyline full of strangers.

~~~

Minami didn’t smile when he opened the door.

“Come on in, Keiji.” It was an odd greeting coming from his agent, who was usually hyper and loud. 

The lock clicked behind him. Quiet, deliberate.

Three men sat across the long table, all in dark suits, hands clasped or folded, faces carved from stone. The room smelled like over-polished wood and expectation.

Keiji stood a moment too long, then took the seat across from them.

He tried a half-smile. “Am I in trouble or something?”

One of them (Keiji couldn’t place his name) opened a leather folder but didn’t look up.

“No, Keiji. Not trouble. Just… clarity.”

Minami sat beside him but said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact.

“Your numbers are promising,” said another man. “Streaming’s solid, social growth is steady. But we’re moving into a different phase now. Bigger stages. National press. International reach.”

The first man continued, eyes sharp. “So we need to know everything. Not the curated versions. The real things. Anything that could be twisted, exploited, or… misinterpreted.”

Keiji’s throat felt dry. “You want dirt.”

“We want transparency. Control the story before it controls you.”

They listed it like items on a clipboard:

Friends.

Past relationships.

The high school abusive-ex incident. (“You know what we mean, Keiji. Let’s not dance around it. We found the reports and the trials online.”) 

Bokuto. (“We found some pictures from your companions Instagrams. And yours. You understand why we made you a new account now, yes?”).

Oikawa. (“We let him stay with you. That was us being flexible. But we’re tightening now.”).

“There’s too much… noise,” the third man said, still calm. “Your friends. They’re charming, but loud. Non-professional. Risk factors.”

“They haven’t done anything wrong,” Keiji said softly.

“For now,” Tanaka replied. “But image is longevity. You’re not just a person anymore, you’re a product. The cleaner the packaging, the further it travels.”

A silence stretched. Only the hum of the AC.

“You’ve always seemed aware of your… positioning,” one added, more gently. “You carry a certain insecurity that we think we can work with. Refine. Use.”

Keiji stared at the table, at the faint reflection of his own face in the polished wood.

He had always wondered why people stuck around. Why Bokuto loved him so loudly. Why Oikawa shared a place with him when he could’ve been anywhere else. Why Suga held space for him when he shut down completely.

Now, at least, he had a reason to let them go.

A permission.

No—an excuse.

He nodded, once. “If it’s what’s best for the brand.”

Minami flinched, just slightly.

“Good,” said the man with the folder, flipping to a fresh page. “Let’s begin.”

~~~

The door clicked shut behind him.

Bokuto braced both palms against the bathroom sink. His reflection stared back at him. Flushed cheeks, sweat at his temples, pupils slightly blown.

He hated how he looked.

Like he’d been shaken just by a man walking into a room.

He dropped his head, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising fast. Too fast.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Didn’t help.

He could still see it.

Keiji’s entrance. Lit like a music video, bodyguard in tow, that expensive jacket with diamonds around his neck, glitter on his skin like he wasn’t even trying.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t falter. Just smirked.

That smirk.

Like he knew Bokuto was watching.

Like he wanted him to watch.

Like he was in control again.

“I swear I won’t break your heart again…”

The lyric looped in his head. Haunting. Hypnotic. From the track everyone knew was about him. The one Keiji wrote and performed with so much rawness that Bokuto had to leave the room the first time he heard it.

But now?

That same voice had just walked in and ignored everyone who ever meant something to him. Not a glance to Kageyama. Not a word to Tsukishima. Avoided Daichi and Suga like their love never mattered. And him?

Not even a “hi.”

Just a look.

And that fucking smile.

Bokuto dug his fingers into the edge of the sink, his breathing coming fast again.

He hated how easily it still got to him.

Keiji could disappear for 12 months, flood the airwaves with grief-soaked lyrics, sound like he was dying in every song, and then waltz in like the room belonged to him. Like Bokuto still belonged to him.

“Don’t waste precious tears on me, I’m not worth the misery…”

So why did he cry anyway?

Why did every note still sound like a fucking apology with no follow-up?

Why did he still ache for someone who left?

He looked different.

He felt different.

But somehow, he still owned him.

“Fuck,” Bokuto whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or cry, but he didn’t.

He just stood there, trying to calm down, trying not to feel anything.

Trying to figure out how Keiji still had that kind of power.

~~~

The conversation shifted. Slower now. More careful. Which somehow made it worse.

One of the men leaned back in his chair, folding his hands like this was just a casual suggestion.

“There’s one more thing, Keiji. About your image.”

Akaashi didn’t move.

“We’re entering an era where ambiguity sells. It suggests something edgy without alienating markets.”

The other picked it up smoothly, like they’d rehearsed this:

“We’re fine with certain aesthetics. Male backup dancers. Styling. Subtext. But anything explicit, like public dating, overt messaging, especially involving men… that’s not where we’re heading.”

Minami looked uncomfortable now, jaw tight. But he didn’t speak.

“You’re not being punished for who you are,” the third said, voice measured, “but the data’s clear. Female-driven demographics dominate your analytics. They want fantasy. Romance. Relatability. That doesn’t happen if they feel like you’re… unavailable.”

Akaashi didn’t answer.

“So,” the man continued, flipping a page, “your lyrics will center female perspectives moving forward. PR stories, dating rumors, those will involve women. We’ll craft something organic, nothing fake or awkward. Just… suggestive enough.”

“And if I say no?” Keiji asked, voice flat.

The pause that followed was filled with implication.

“You’re free to make whatever art you want,” the man said. “But if we’re investing in you, we expect a return. And this is the strategy. Clean, profitable, and proven.”

Another added, “Keiji, you’re talented. You’re beautiful. You were meant for this. Don’t make us regret taking a chance on you. After all, we were the only label willing to pick you up.” 

He felt something in his chest pull tight. Like a string snapping inside a piano.

He wanted to ask what kind of artist he was, if he wasn’t allowed to be honest. If he had to trade himself in piece by piece until there was nothing left but a perfectly curated lie.

But instead, he just nodded.

Because that’s what they wanted.

And maybe… maybe he deserved that too.

~~~

Knock.

Bokuto flinched, hands still braced on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second,” he called, voice rough but steady.

Silence. Then retreating footsteps.

He exhaled.

Looked at himself again.

Still red-faced. Still not okay.

Knock.

He tensed.

“Almost done.”

A pause, then a soft voice: “Sorry.” 

Suga. 

And footsteps again.

He blinked hard, then bent forward and splashed water on his face. Twice. Three times.

Another knock. 

He grunted.

He didn’t towel off. He just stood there dripping, eyes locked on his reflection.

Get it together.

His cheeks were flushed, his lashes damp. His pulse was still tapping behind his ears like a metronome set too fast.

He looked like someone trying to hold back an earthquake.

I’ll go to my room, he decided. To clear his head. To breathe again.

One hand reached for the doorknob. Twist. Pull.

He opened it—

And froze.

Keiji.

Standing there.

One hand in the pocket of his trousers, jacket gone now, shirt slightly open at the collar. His lashes still lined in faint smudged black. Lips set in that careful, deliberate calm.

Bokuto’s breath caught in his throat.

Not here. Not like this.

He opened his mouth. “The bathroom’s all y—“

Keiji took a step forward.

Bokuto instinctively stepped back.

Another step.

Keiji followed.

Backed him in.

The air between them thickened. Cologne, sweat, tension. And Bokuto couldn’t move. Could barely think.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then— lock.

Metal sliding into place.

Bokuto’s stomach dropped.

He turned, eyes wide, mouth parting… what the hell is this?

But before he could speak—

“Hello, Koutarou,” Keiji said softly.

Not mocking.

Not sweet.

Dangerous.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And Bokuto?

He couldn’t breathe.

Not again.

His name slid off Keiji’s tongue like smoke.

Bokuto swallowed, breath shaky. “What are you doing?”

Keiji leaned back against the door casually, arms crossed, one foot still angled toward escape, like he wasn’t caging them in on purpose.

“Getting some privacy,” he said. “Isn’t that what you came in here for?”

Bokuto’s heart thudded.

He wanted to be angry. To demand answers. To scream.

But all he could do was stare. At the smirk. The softness in his voice that didn’t match the sharpness in his eyes.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here like this.”

Keiji tilted his head. “Weren’t you the one asking if I was going to come?”

Bokuto ignored that. “You ignored everyone.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to be seen.”

Bokuto laughed, once, bitter. “You walked in with glitter on your chest and a bodyguard behind you. You wanted everyone to see.”

Keiji shrugged. “So I’m dramatic now. Add it to the list.”

The nonchalance was a costume, perfectly fitted.

And Bokuto saw it.

“You wrote songs about me,” he said, voice low.

Keiji’s lashes flicked up. “Did I?”

“You wrote an album about me.”

Keiji pushed off the door, slow and deliberate, taking a step forward. “Careful, Kou. You start thinking everything’s about you and you’ll end up disappointed.”

Bokuto’s fists clenched. “Then why are you shaking?”

That stopped him.

Just for a second.

Keiji’s fingers twitched at his sides. His smile faltered, not gone, but thinner now.

“I’m not shaking,” he said quietly.

A lie.

Bokuto took a breath. “You are.”

Keiji’s voice dipped, soft, almost amused. “I’m just cold.”

“No,” Bokuto said. “You’re scared. You think if I see the real you again, I’ll still want you. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Keiji’s smile returned, not soft. Sharp. “Or maybe I don’t want to be wanted by someone who still believes in happy endings.”

“Your music begs me to,” Bokuto snapped.

Silence.

A flash of something in Keiji’s eyes. Not regret, not yet, but tension.

Like the strings of the act were starting to fray.

“You begged me not to move on,” Bokuto whispered. “Every lyric, every line… you told me you were sorry.”

Keiji took another step forward. Close now. Inches away.

He tilted his head again, lashes lowered, voice velvet-smooth.

“And you believed me?”

That hurt more than it should have.

Bokuto blinked fast, trying not to let it show. “Why are you doing this?”

Keiji smiled again. This one looked a little sad.

“So you’ll finally stop looking at me like I’m worth saving.”

Keiji’s voice echoed in the bathroom’s silence like the hiss of steam. Soft. Searing.

Bokuto didn’t move.

Not at first.

But then he stepped forward. Slowly. Like approaching something wounded. Or dangerous.

“I don’t want to save you,” Bokuto said, voice low. “I want the truth.”

Keiji’s eyes flicked up, and for a moment, something like fear passed through them. 

Quick. Gone.

Bokuto kept going. “Say it wasn’t about me. Look me in the face and say you didn’t mean a word of it.”

Keiji tilted his head, lips parted slightly, like a smile was forming.

But he said nothing.

Bokuto took another step. “Say you don’t want me to stay.”

Silence.

“Say you didn’t write Angel about the night I left,” Bokuto whispered. “Say the bridge in Montreal wasn’t about your regret for what you did to me.”

Montreal. 

One of Keiji’s earlier songs when he became an artist. One of his favorites. 

He hated how Bokuto was right. He hated how he heard every lyric from every song and knew what it meant. Knew when it came from Keiji or came from the label. He hated how he knew the titles, as if he was just some fan. 

But no, he wasn’t a fan. He was just a guy yearning for what they once had. Before it all went down. Before Keiji self-destructed and destroyed them. 

Keiji’s jaw tensed.

He turned suddenly, stepping sideways, fast. And Bokuto barely had time to register the movement before his back hit the sink.

Keiji’s palm landed flat against the counter beside his hip.

He leaned in.

Too close.

Too calm.

“I said what I said in the songs,” he murmured. “Now you want a translation?”

Bokuto swallowed hard. His heart was pounding.

“You’re trying to scare me off,” he said.

Keiji smiled. “Is it working?”

He was so close.

Bokuto could smell him. Cologne, sweat, the faint bitterness of tequila on his breath.

Just like the last time.

That night.

Keiji’s old apartment. Dim lights. Shattered trust. Bokuto kissing him with too much tongue and teeth and pain, trying to understand how someone who claimed to love him could fuck someone else and write about it later.

It had felt like drowning.

This felt the same.

Keiji leaned in closer. His breath against Bokuto’s mouth now.

Not touching. Not yet.

“Still want me, Koutarou?” he whispered. “Even now?”

Bokuto’s fists curled at his sides.

He hated him. Hated how much he still ached for him.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he said, voice breaking just a little.

Keiji’s smile didn’t falter.

But his eyes—

His eyes looked tired.

“Good,” he said. “Keep telling yourself that.”

And just like that, he pulled back.

Took a step away.

Cool again.

Composed.

As if nothing had happened.

Bokuto stood there, still breathless, still burning.

Still not sure if he was being seduced or punished.

Keiji pulled away, stepping back with that same effortless grace he wore like armor. His smirk had settled again, faint and deliberate.

He turned to leave, hand brushing the lock.

But just before twisting it, he spoke.

“You know…” he said lightly, like it wasn’t about to hurt. “I used to think you were the one thing I couldn’t ruin.”

He paused. Looked over his shoulder.

The smirk deepened. Just enough to sting.

“Turns out I just hadn’t tried hard enough.”

And then, like an afterthought, a parting gift with a bow on it:

“Oh, and Kou?”

Bokuto’s breath caught.

Keiji’s eyes glittered. Not kind, not cruel. Just empty.

“Welcome to Tokyo.”

The lock clicked open.

And he was gone.

Leaving Bokuto staring at the door, heart in his throat, grief in his chest, and a city outside that didn’t feel like home anymore.

~~~

The room was too quiet. That kind of padded silence that pressed in on your ears.

Keiji sat alone at the soundboard, screens glowing soft blue, his laptop open, monitors humming. The instrumental looped. Slow, skeletal, synth-heavy. The beat he’d built over three sleepless nights.

It had bones. It had mood.

But it had no voice.

No truth.

He leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled over his mouth. Eyes half-lidded. Exhausted. From the shows, the press, the pretending. From the weight of everything left unsaid.

He hit pause. The silence after the music stopped felt louder.

This was supposed to be his healing project. His rebirth. His label kept saying things like “just give us another heartbreak hit.” But every time he opened his mouth to sing, the words got stuck behind his teeth.

He’d written half his upcoming album on adrenaline and guilt. But this one… this single that’s supposed to be out already, was different.

He needed this. He couldn’t bear the label writing him another horny song for him to grind with some girl on stage to. He was given the freedom to write something for his next single.

It wasn’t about being fucked over.

It was about what he fucked up.

He stared at the waveform on screen. A flicker in the top left corner caught his eye.

A file name.

VOICEMAIL_01_K.

His stomach dropped.

He didn’t remember uploading that.

How did it get there? 

He threw his phone in the water to forget all the texts and calls and voicemails.

Shaky fingers hovered over the mouse.

Click.

Bokuto’s voice filled the room.

“Okay, so you’re probably asleep already, which is fair. You had, like, half a bottle of wine and kept telling me my arms should be in a museum.”

(a breathy laugh)

“I brought you to your room so you could get some rest. You really insisted that I stay but I wanted to be a gentle and not move too fast. I mean—- of course I would love to stay with you! Wait— did that sound weird? Fuck, I hope I’m not screwing this up.” 

(a pause) 

“I mean it, by the way. I’m not gonna rush anything.”

(another pause, softer now)

“You looked really happy tonight. I was too! It’s weird, right? That I feel like I could fall for you already?”

(he laughed again, quieter)

“Anyway. Just… sleep well, Keiji. And maybe call me when you wake up. Or don’t. I’ll probably text you either way.”

“Goodnight.”

The message ended.

Just like that.

Keiji didn’t breathe. He just sat there, frozen, the weight of memory crashing in like a wave. Their first date. The park, the piano, the stargazing. Their first kiss and Keiji telling him his name. He barely remembered the drunken flirty banter towards the end of the night. Probably out of embarrassment.

That date had been warm. God, so warm.

They’d kissed under the stars. Literally.

He bent forward, forearms on the desk, jaw tight. His eyes burned. Something shook loose in his chest. Small, sharp, unstoppable.

Montreal by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original)

He hit record.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t plan.

He just started singing.

“Laisse tomber les filles, laisse tomber les filles…”

(Let go of the girls, let go of the girls…)

“Un jour, c’est toi qu’on laissera…”

(One day, it’s you who will be left behind….)

The melody came first. Aching, breathy, almost a whisper. 

“Oui, j'ai pleure, mais ce jour-la…” 

(Yes, I cried, but that day…)

“Non, je ne pleurerai pas, non, je ne pleurerai pas…” 

(No, I won’t cry, No, I won’t cry…) 

Then the lyrics fell into place like dominos.

“And it could’ve went so many ways, so many ways it can 

‘Cause ain’t nobody feels the way that I feel when I’m alone

So if I said that I won’t call, the lying comes natural to me 

You probably could’ve had it all, you could’ve been that lonely star.” 

He layered harmonies with shaking hands.

One line, again and again:

“If we just went on…”

His voice cracked on it.

He didn’t stop.

By the time the hook ended, Keiji was barely upright. He was curled over the desk, tears slipping down his cheeks unnoticed.

“Happiness exists when you don’t know a thing 

So I hope you don’t think this song is about you.”

He stopped recording.

Silence returned.

Thick. Honest.

He leaned back in the chair, blinking up at the ceiling.

And just whispered, to no one:

“…I’m sorry, Kou.”

Not for the mic. Not for the song.

Just for him.

Just for himself.

~~~

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

Keiji stepped back into the music, into the warmth of the apartment, into the performance. Like the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t just broken the only person who ever made him believe in something soft.

The bass beat had shifted. Something dancier now, fake happy. People were laughing. Neon bounced off the walls. Someone passed him holding a tray of glitter-filled shots.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe deep.

Didn’t feel anything.

He walked straight to the drink cart and poured himself two fingers of something amber. No ice. No hesitation.

Then he heard it, Noya’s voice, bright and excited, carrying just enough over the music to reach him.

“We’re doing auditions next month, can you believe it? Actual auditions. Like, flyers and headshots and rejection emails. We’re finally like a real band!”

Keiji’s fingers tightened around his glass.

Noya was standing by the couch, talking to Hinata and Yamaguchi, bouncing on the balls of his feet like the energy was physically leaking out of him.

“Our agent said she’s gonna build a new site for us too! And that they’ll get someone to do photos — like, real ones, with lighting. Not just the iPhone crap we used to do in our kitchen.”

They laughed.

Keiji smiled.

His chest ached.

Not a sharp ache, something quieter. A twist. A knot of warmth and longing that didn’t know whether to burn or bloom.

They were doing it.

The thing they used to dream about, drunk on floor pillows and ramen fumes, it was finally happening. Without him. But because of him, maybe, too.

That was the worst part.

It made him want to cry. It made him want to kiss them all on the forehead. It made him want to vanish into smoke and never ask why they didn’t text him the flyer.

He knew why. 

He took a sip instead. Let the fire settle behind his ribs.

“So.”

Oikawa. Appearing out of nowhere like a well-dressed ghost with a glass of something pink and obnoxious.

“Have you talked to Bokuto yet?”

Keiji didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look surprised.

He turned to him with a practiced ease, one brow arched, voice smooth as syrup:

“Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

Oikawa squinted at him. “Seriously?”

Keiji shrugged. “Probably in his room or something.”

A pause.

Then Oikawa smiled, wide and knowing, with a hint of hope for a reunion of sorts. A reconnection, maybe. A glimpse of Keiji underneath the mask.

“You’re such a terrible liar.”

Keiji sipped his drink. “And yet I keep getting away with it.”

He held the glass to his lips, let his lashes drop, and smiled through the taste of his own grief.

~~~

The city outside was quiet. Just the low hum of distant cars, a flickering streetlamp, and the soft rustle of sheets as Bokuto shifted in bed.

He couldn’t sleep.

He hadn’t been able to for months, not without it creeping in. The memory. The afterimage. The echo of a voice he’d sworn he didn’t miss.

His phone lit up beside him.

1 NEW MESSAGE 

Iwaizumi: he dropped a single.

Bokuto blinked at the screen. Sat up slightly.

No name needed.

His thumb hovered over the notification. Heart skipping for no reason he’d admit out loud.

He opened the message. Link to a streaming app. Track title:

Keiji Akaashi – “Montreal”

No featured artists. No fanfare. Just black-and-white cover art: a blurry skyline and a figure walking away.

Bokuto stared at it.

He didn’t even think.

Just hit play.

The first notes were cold.

Sparse.

A few synth keys, distant and echoing, like they were underwater. Then a soft thrum of bass. Then a voice, french.

Keiji… speaking french? Bokuto glanced at the title name again. 

Montreal. 

And it hit. 

Their first date. The conversations they had under the stars. 

… [ “What’s one place you always wanted to visit?” Keiji had asked him. 

“Montreal.” Bokuto answered rather quickly at the same, a smile tugging at his lips like just thinking about the place made him happy. 

“Why?” 

“It just feels like a place where you can disappear to.” Bokuto had answered. “My mom talks about Montreal like it was created and meant for music and snow. I love music. I love snow.” He smiled, all teeth and joy. 

Keiji turned his head to look at him. “A place you’d disappear to, huh?” He let the thought linger for a moment, as he glanced back up at the stars. “I hope… when you finally go, one day—“ 

Bokuto was looking at him now. 

“I hope I’ll be there with you.”  ] …

Bokuto’s blood ran cold. The memory. The confessions whispered into the night. The gazes towards the stars. The kiss. 

His chest seized. He felt his eyes water up, emotions started to flood over him. 

And it was even worse when he could hear something lingering in the background of Keiji’s french. Something hidden, only meant for those that lived the memory to hear. 

It was him.

It was his voicemail. Only part of it. 

That night. The first date. The first time he’d walked Keiji home and felt like the world had finally stopped spinning.

His voice sounded so happy.

“You looked really happy tonight. I was too! It’s weird, right? That I feel like I could fall for you already?”

Bokuto had laughed at the time, a soft chuckle, like he was in disbelief. 

“Maybe call me when you wake up. Or don’t. I’ll probably text you either way.”

He paused the track with a trembling thumb.

Stared at the screen.

Then pressed play again.

Forced himself to listen.

To really listen for it. His words that were so effortless at the time. 

It was layered perfectly. The average ear would never pick up on it. The track Keiji created and his vocals in french covered it perfectly, like a secret not meant to get out to everyone. Just meant for them. 

Then it faded.

And Keiji’s voice came in stronger this time. Breatht, aching, slightly cracked around the edges like he hadn’t slept either.

“Oh, I guess you had no idea that you could have persuaded me 

You could’ve had me doing anything you pleased.”

The beat built slow, layered like memory. Delicate violin and piano beneath heavy synths, drums, and echo trails in the background like ghosts.

Bokuto couldn’t breathe.

Every line hit like a bruise he’d forgotten about.

“Happiness exists when you don’t know a thing 

So I hope you don’t think this song is about you.”

His throat tightened.

He shifted in bed, blankets suddenly too heavy, like they were pressing him down.

“And only I can know how close you came 

But baby, I’m a pro at letting go, I love it when they come and go.”

Bokuto squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to fall if he kept them open any longer. He kept a closed fist against his chest, as if he could stabilize the feelings he had.

“You probably could’ve had it all, you could’ve been that lonely star 

If we just went on, ooh.” 

The chorus bloomed. Soft harmonies wrapped around that same line:

“If we just went on, yeah.”

French vocals continued to layer on top of the chorus. It was too much. And with his eyes shut and his body clenched, he thought he could repress the memory. The feelings.

But it didn’t help. The music got in anyway.

Bokuto bit down on his fist.

Every word felt like a confession. Every pause like a wound that hadn’t scabbed over.

Keiji had always written like no one was watching. Like the songs were letters he never sent.

But this?

This was a voicemail in reverse.

A love song that came too late.

The final line hit soft, nearly lost in the fade-out:

“Je ne pleurerai pas non, je ne pleurai pas.”

Then silence.

Bokuto stared at the screen, barely breathing.

His heart pounded.

His fingers were trembling.

And even though he knew he shouldn’t—

Even though the smart thing would be to throw his phone across the room and forget—

He hit replay.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until dawn crept in through the window and the city started to wake, and he was still lying there, headphones in, listening to the ghost of a boy who once told him:

“I love you.”

And maybe—just maybe—

Still meant it.

~~~

Take My Breath by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original)

The music shifted.

The bass dropped smoother this time, thick and sultry, silk over skin. Lights dipped lower. Some people whooped. Someone turned the volume up just enough for the beat to crawl under your ribs.

“I saw the fire in your eyes…”

Keiji stilled.

His own voice echoed back at him, slightly remixed, polished, stretched out like elastic over sin.

“You tell me things you wanna try…”

The lyrics were familiar. Too familiar. He’d written them months ago in a haze of champagne and smoke and bodies that didn’t belong to him.

Kuroo.

No one knew it was about him. Not directly. Not even Kuroo, probably.

But Keiji remembered the night. The studio. The after. The ache in his chest after the chorus dropped and Kuroo stayed.

He took another sip, trying to stay calm.

“Take my breath… away…”

The party had stretched wider now, people dancing, drinks clinking, laughter humming beneath the song.

That’s when he saw him.

Kenma.

Standing just off the hallway, half-lit, holding a highball glass and nothing else. Pale, unreadable. A ghost with better posture.

“Want me to hold on to you tight 

You pull me close, I feel the heat between your thighs.” 

Their eyes met.

And for one long second, everything in Keiji’s stomach dropped.

Kenma didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

He stepped closer, slow and purposeful, until they were only a few feet apart. Close enough to speak without shouting.

The song behind them was peaking.

“She loves to be on the edge 

Her fantasy is okay with me.” 

Kenma tilted his head slightly. No expression.

“I’ll never know what Kuroo saw in you.”

Keiji blinked.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look away.

Kenma wasn’t waiting for a response.

He finished his drink in one quiet sip, then set the glass on the windowsill beside him. Never broke eye contact.

“But I guess I wasn’t tragic enough to keep him interested.”

That one landed.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just true.

Keiji’s lips parted, barely, but Kenma was already turning away. Calm. Dismissive.

Like the conversation hadn’t been a wound at all, just a line on a spreadsheet, closed and filed.

The music thumped behind him, bright and brilliant and hollow.

“Take my breath…”

Keiji stood there, glass in hand, voice on the speakers, and every version of himself — past, present, constructed — starting to slip.

Kenma was gone.

Just like that.

No last look. No apology. Not that Keiji expected one.

He stood still for another moment, the music still looping around him, his own voice echoing back as if to mock him.

“Take my breath… away…”

He didn’t finish his drink. Just set it down on the side table like it burned to hold.

He turned toward the kitchen, or maybe the hallway, he didn’t even know. He just needed to move.

That’s when Aida appeared.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just there, like he always was.

“Need air?” Aida asked quietly.

His voice was low, steady, not stiff like security, not overly gentle either. Just… real.

Keiji didn’t answer at first.

He didn’t need to. Aida already started walking, slow and deliberate, carving a silent path through the crowd.

Keiji followed.

No one noticed them leave.

They stopped by the far end of the apartment, near the guest bedroom, away from the lights. The music was muffled now, but not gone.

Keiji leaned against the wall. Said nothing.

Aida stood next to him, arms folded, gaze tracking the room calmly. Always alert. But this wasn’t about safety.

It was about him.

“Kenma said something,” Keiji muttered.

Aida looked over. Waited.

Keiji didn’t elaborate.

Aida didn’t press.

“I hate this city,” Keiji said, not meaning it. “Too many ghosts.”

Aida nodded once. “I can get the car.”

Keiji gave a faint, humorless smile. “You always say that.”

Aida shrugged. “I mean it every time.”

They stood there for another beat. A small moment. Quiet. Real.

“You don’t have to stay,” Keiji said, more softly now. “I’m fine.”

Aida glanced sideways. Not unkind.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Keiji laughed under his breath. Just once.

Not loud. But real.

They didn’t hug. Didn’t get emotional.

But Keiji stayed standing there for another minute, breathing easier because someone stayed with him and didn’t ask for anything.

~~~

It had been a long day.

Longer week.

The label brought in Aida after the Seoul disaster. The press, the panic, the too-close crowd that clung to Keiji like static.

They told him Aida would keep him safe. Keiji didn’t argue. Didn’t say much at all.

He figured Aida would last a week, maybe two. Probably bail the second he realized Keiji wasn’t a security risk, just a slow-motion mess.

But at 3:12 a.m., Keiji wandered into the kitchen barefoot, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, rifling through cabinets for something salty to chase the quiet.

Aida was still awake.

Sitting on the couch. No TV on, just the city lights flickering behind him.

Keiji paused in the kitchen doorway, kettle chips in hand.

“Didn’t think you slept,” he said.

Aida looked over, unreadable. “Didn’t think you did either.”

Keiji made a face that passed for a shrug and walked over, flopping down at the opposite end of the couch. He opened the bag, held it out wordlessly.

Aida took a few.

They sat like that for a while. Keiji’s legs folded underneath him. Aida still, spine straight even when relaxed.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled, and maybe that’s why Keiji finally spoke.

“They like to call me elusive,” he muttered. “Like that’s some kind of compliment.”

Aida didn’t respond.

Keiji looked down at his hands.

“Most of the time I think people just don’t know what to do with me. So they dress it up in adjectives.”

Still, Aida didn’t speak. Just watched.

And Keiji, somehow, kept going.

“I’m not a mystery. I’m just… exhausting. And maybe that’s worse.”

A breath.

“I kissed someone I shouldn’t have. I lied to someone I actually gave a shit about. I keep writing songs like I’m begging to be forgiven and then walk around like I’ve never done anything wrong.”

His voice had gone quiet by then. Barely there.

Aida shifted slightly, not away, just enough to show he was listening.

Keiji offered the chips again. Aida took one, nodded once. Still didn’t say anything.

Keiji leaned back.

“You’re unusually calm for someone stuck babysitting.”

Aida blinked once. Then:

“I figured I’d keep my commentary to myself.”

Keiji’s lips curved, tired, but real.

“Appreciated.”

They sat like that until almost four.

The movie played on mute. The chips disappeared.

Keiji didn’t talk more. He didn’t need to.

Aida didn’t ask for anything. Not explanations. Not confessions. Not a version of Keiji that was easier to carry.

He just stayed.

And that night, without being asked, Keiji decided to let him.

~~~

Keiji stood quietly at the far end of the hallway, beside the guest bathroom. Aida beside him, a shadow that meant safety, silence, space.

He hadn’t moved in minutes. Just listening to the thump of his own voice still playing in the background, the way people danced without knowing who bled for the lyrics.

Then he heard it.

The creak of the door.

Bokuto.

Stepping out of the bathroom, his hair slightly damp at the temples, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight like he’d bitten back a scream.

Their eyes met instantly.

Neither looked away.

The hallway buzzed around them. Voices, music, footsteps. But in that pocket of space, they might as well have been alone.

Keiji didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Bokuto didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just stared at him like he’d been staring into the mirror ten minutes earlier, like he was still reeling from the ghost of Keiji’s breath on his lips.

And then, slowly, Bokuto turned.

Walked past.

Didn’t say a word.

The moment stretched behind him like a thread ready to snap.

Keiji finally exhaled.

And from beside him, without even glancing over, Aida said quietly:

“You still love him.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because for once, someone saw the truth, and didn’t ask him to run from it.

~~~

The kitchen glowed under warm bulbs, laughter buzzing like static between bodies. Someone had switched the music — glossy, catchy. The kind meant to be danced to, not remembered.

He leaned casually against the island counter, one hand curled around a glass, the other tucked into his pocket. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the diamond-studded chain at his collarbone, glittering like bait.

That’s when she found him.

Tall, lashes long, a dress too tight to breathe in. She moved like she was used to being watched.

“Didn’t think celebrities showed up to house warmings,” she purred, a red Solo cup in hand, nails tapping its rim like a metronome.

Keiji gave a practiced smirk. “Just visiting some friends.”

She laughed, leaned closer, hand grazing his chest like it had every right.

People were watching. Phones out, a few half-aimed photos, one girl blatantly recording a Story and pretending it was candid.

So Keiji smiled wider.

Let her trail her hand down his arm.

Let her laugh too loud at something he didn’t say.

Let her stand close enough for the world to assume whatever it wanted.

“You smell expensive,” she whispered near his ear, voice syrupy with vodka. “You always wear cologne like that, or is this just for me?”

Keiji tilted his head, just a little, just enough to let the moment linger.

“For whoever’s paying attention.”

Her lips parted like she might say something clever.

But behind her, someone laughed too loudly. A flash from a phone lit up the wall. Keiji’s eyes flicked over her shoulder — and for half a second, just half — he looked exhausted.

The girl didn’t notice.

She was too busy pressing closer, body angled like they were the only ones in the room.

“I used to cry to that one song of yours,” she said suddenly, a little too real. “Like sob. I thought it was about a girl.”

He knew what song. 

Angel. 

It was the same thing every time. 

Keiji’s smile barely faltered. “Lots of people did.”

She leaned in again. “It’s not, though… is it?”

This time, he didn’t answer.

Just reached past her to grab a bottle off the counter, poured himself another inch of fire.

She was still watching him. Still waiting.

So he said what she wanted to hear:

“It’s whatever you need it to be.”

And then he downed the drink.

Not for her.

Not for himself.

For the crowd.

~~~

Bokuto wasn’t trying to look for him.

He wasn’t.

He’d just stepped away to grab another drink, breathing slow and deliberate, heart still hammering from too much proximity and not enough clarity.

That’s when he saw it.

Keiji in the kitchen, framed by soft lights, leaning in close to a girl who looked like she knew what she wanted and was used to getting it.

She was laughing. Touching his chest. Saying something into his ear that made him tilt his head and smile like sin.

And Keiji let her.

Let her flirt, let her graze his necklace, let her press up on him like they were on the cover of something.

The people nearby saw it too.

A guy with a phone out, filming.

Two girls whispering behind their cups.

Everyone watching.

And Keiji? He looked…

Beautiful.

Untouchable.

Unbothered.

Like none of this meant anything, and maybe it didn’t. Maybe that was the point.

But Bokuto’s stomach still twisted.

Because he knew that smile.

He’d kissed that smile.

He knew what it looked like when Keiji meant it, and this wasn’t it.

This was curated. Performed. Hollow.

And still—

It stung.

Bokuto didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there, half-shadowed by the hallway, watching a version of Keiji that belonged to no one. That maybe never had.

Their eyes didn’t meet.

Keiji never even glanced his way.

But Bokuto turned anyway, back into the dark, fists in his hoodie pocket like maybe he could hold something in.

He didn’t look back.

He’d already seen enough.

~~~

The girl was still smiling, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup as she leaned in to say something else flirty, something meaningless.

Keiji wasn’t listening.

His eyes flicked past her shoulder, just for a second.

And that’s when he saw him.

Bokuto.

Standing in the hallway.

Still. Silent. Watching.

Only for a moment. But it was enough.

Their eyes didn’t meet directly, not fully, but Keiji caught the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. He saw the way Bokuto turned and disappeared, hoodie pulled up like armor, hands buried in his pockets like he was trying to hold himself together.

The guilt hit instantly.

A dull ache at the base of Keiji’s throat. Heavy. Familiar.

He could’ve chased him. Could’ve pulled away from the girl, muttered something half-hearted, followed the man who once held his hand under a starry sky.

But he didn’t.

He stayed right where he was.

Smile still faintly there, posture still perfect, fingers still wrapped loosely around his glass.

Because he knew what he had to do.

Ruin it.

Ruin it all.

Burn every bridge, sour every gaze, give them all a reason to let him go. Especially Bokuto.

Because the truth was, love had never saved him.

It only ever made him worse.

And Bokuto?

He deserved better than someone who writes apologies into verses and fucks up everything else in the chorus.

So Keiji turned back to the girl. Let her laugh again. Let her fingers trail down his arm like none of it mattered.

Even as the pit in his stomach grew heavier.

Even as his chest felt hollow.

This was the plan.

Keep them angry. Keep them distant.

Keep them safe.

And maybe, eventually… 

Keep them free of him.

~~~

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, muting the bass and the rising tension outside. Iwaizumi leaned against the vanity, arms crossed, watching Oikawa fumble with the clasp of his necklace in the mirror.

“Seriously?” he asked, smirking. “Why are you even wearing that?”

Oikawa groaned, still struggling. “Because it pulls the whole look together, Hajime. I’m not trying to be hot and tragic, like Keiji. I’m trying to be hot and intentional.”

“You’re already one of those things.”

Oikawa turned with an exaggerated gasp. “Was that a compliment or an insult, Iwa-chan?”

“Both.”

He stepped forward, brushing Oikawa’s hands away gently. “Turn around.”

Oikawa did, lifting the ends of his hair just slightly, so Iwaizumi could reach the clasp. His hands were still warm from the drink he’d been holding, his back warm too, even through the light linen shirt.

The chain was gold, simple, delicate. A single letter “T” at the center.

“Are you really this self-absorbed you’re wearing your own initial?” Iwaizumi muttered, fingers working the clasp.

“Lots of people do, Haji!” Oikawa whined. “It’s trendy.” 

“There,” Iwaizumi said, letting the charm settle against his collarbone. “Now you’re trendy, Trashykawa.”

Oikawa turned to face him again, grinning. “You always say the meanest things in the nicest voice.”

“I say them because you like it.”

“I like a lot of things about you,” Oikawa said, voice lower now, teasing, but honest.

Iwaizumi blinked. The moment hung there, sudden and close. His hand was still resting lightly against Oikawa’s chest, right over the charm. Right over his heart.

And then, quiet as a promise:

“You gonna kiss me or what?” Oikawa asked.

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

He leaned in.

It was slow, not hesitant, just deliberate. The kind of kiss that didn’t rush, didn’t demand. Just was. Familiar and soft and warm in all the ways that made things hurt less.

Oikawa kissed him back, hands finding Iwaizumi’s waist, holding him like something steady. Like something safe.

When they finally pulled apart, Oikawa was smiling again, but this time, it reached his eyes.

“Took you long enough,” he whispered. “It’s like you’re depriving me of kisses.” 

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, though he didn’t move away. “You’re the one who couldn’t put a necklace on.”

“You’re the one who couldn’t stop looking at me.”

They both laughed, easy and quiet. Just them. Just this.

Outside, everything else was unraveling.

But in here?

For one perfect second…

Everything was okay.

~~~

Kageyama stood by the living room window, his drink untouched, condensation sliding down the side. He wasn’t looking at anyone, just out at the skyline, jaw tight, arms crossed, too still for a party.

Hinata spotted him from across the room, weaving through people with a frown already forming.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging his elbow against Kageyama’s side. “You look like you’re plotting.”

Kageyama didn’t look over.

“Maybe I am.”

Hinata tilted his head, gentle. “Kags.”

That cracked something.

Kageyama exhaled through his nose. “He shouldn’t have come.”

Hinata blinked, then followed his gaze to where Keiji had just disappeared down the hallway.

“Oh.”

Kageyama finally looked at him. His expression was sharp, but under it, something raw.

“He ghosted all of us,” he muttered. “Like we didn’t matter. Like… you didn’t matter.”

Hinata went quiet.

“You cried,” Kageyama said, voice lower now. “On your birthday. Remember?”

Hinata looked down. “Yeah.”

“You made cupcakes for everyone, and he didn’t show. And you still kept a plate for him.”

Hinata’s throat tightened. “I thought maybe something came up. Y’know, now what he’s famous. He’s busy and—“

“Nothing came up. He just stopped trying.”

The words weren’t angry. Not really.

Just hurt.

Hinata reached out, tugged gently at Kageyama’s sleeve. “You don’t have to be upset for me, y’know.”

“I know,” Kageyama said. “But I remember. And I still hate it.”

They stood like that for a second. Kageyama’s fists tight. Hinata closer now, just watching him.

“Do you miss him?” Hinata asked quietly.

Kageyama hesitated.

“…Yeah.”

Hinata gave a small nod. “Me too.”

Silence again.

Then Hinata leaned into his side, soft and warm. Kageyama didn’t flinch.

“I’m glad you didn’t forget,” Hinata said.

Kageyama turned toward him. “I never do.”

Their fingers brushed. Not quite a handhold. But not nothing.

And in a party filled with noise and ghosts and glittered lies, this was the one corner that still felt real.

~~~

Warm yellow lights buzzed overhead. The apartment pulsed with music, bodies, and heat. Laughter too loud, phones flashing too often. Akaashi leaned against a windowsill, drink sweating in his hand, every few minutes caught in someone’s camera without consent. He didn’t smile. He hadn’t too much since he walked in.

Fame followed him like a strong cologne, heavy and hard to breathe around.

Through the crowd, Aida pushed his way toward him, jaw tight, his voice already low and urgent.

“You need to leave,” Aida said, checking his phone mid-step.

“Not now,” Akaashi said, not looking at him.

“You’re trending.”

“I always am.”

“This is different.” Aida looked up, eyes sharp. “Someone posted a story from the apartment. Your face, the apartment number. Twitter’s trying to get you mapped already. People are asking what building you’re in. You don’t have enough security. This is a liability.”

Akaashi didn’t react at first. Just sipped his drink, the ice now half-melted.

“I knew someone would,” he said finally.

A voice cut through from behind.

“Wait—what did you just say?” Bokuto stepped forward, wrapped in a throw blanket like a makeshift cape. He had just come over for some water from a dance battle with Atsumu and Noya. His expression was hard to read, wide-eyed but cold.

“They posted where?” Bokuto asked again, tone low and dangerous.

Akaashi tensed a little. It was a reminder of his protective side when they were together. Especially when Terushima appeared in his life again. Bokuto was always there, always ready to fight on Keiji’s behalf and protect him.

“Your kitchen. Keiji’s face. The apartment number. Everything,” Aida confirmed, barely looking at him. “He’s exposed.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bokuto muttered. His expression changed. He was pissed. Not at Akaashi. Not at Aida. Not for his fame following him. But to the people who didn’t have any respect. Who only cared about the views and the likes. 

Then, louder— “Alright, if you don’t live here or actually know me, party’s over! Let’s go!”

Confused silence spread like smoke.

“We were invited!” someone said weakly.

“That was before you started turning my place into a meet-and-greet,” Bokuto snapped.

People shuffled. Phones dropped. Whispered apologies were offered like currency as strangers began filing out. Akaashi stayed still. He felt like a statue someone had thrown in the middle of a riot.

From the balcony, Iwaizumi appeared, frowning.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“They posted Ji’s location,” Bokuto said, pacing.

“Okay, so we should help him leave then, right?” Iwaizumi said. “You don’t need to turn into security.”

“I’m not letting him walk out into a potential crowd, Iwa.”

“You know he’s not your problem anymore,” Iwaizumi shot back, voice low. 

That landed hard. Bokuto looked over his shoulder at Akaashi, then away.

“I still care if he gets trampled on the way to a car,” Bokuto said quietly.

“Kou—” Akaashi started to step forward, sensing the tension, but Bokuto cut in.

“I can be hurt and still give a shit,” he said, not looking at him, but right at Iwaizumi.

Aida glanced at his phone again. “I can get the car. I’ll call Minami.”

Akaashi exhaled and stepped toward the door. That was when the floor shook a little.

Literally.

“KEIJI, WAIT!!” Hinata’s voice shot across the room like a firecracker.

He barreled into the space, nearly knocking over a lamp, with Noya following behind, spilling what was left of his beer.

“Dude, you cannot leave yet!” Noya yelled, pointing at him like he just committed a crime.

“We just cleared more furniture for a dance battle!” Hinata shouted, eyes wide, grinning. “You haven’t even judged yet!”

“And we were gonna play that stupid cup game you’re weirdly good at!” Noya added, stepping in front of him like a human blockade.

“I didn’t come here to play games,” Akaashi said, looking frustrated.

“Liar!” Hinata grinned. “You love winning. I literally saw you get competitive over Uno once.”

“We even set aside space for charades,” Noya said like it mattered. “Charades, Keiji. We were gonna force Iwa to act out Taylor Swift lyrics.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

“We haven’t even argued about music yet,” Hinata added, still bouncing slightly. “You’re supposed to say Bokuto’s playlist is terrible, remember?”

“You’re throwing a lot at me right now,” Akaashi said, dragging a hand over his face.

“Good,” Noya said with a genuine smile. “Maybe you need to sit down on the couch… where you belong.”

Akaashi looked between them. Hinata’s hopeful grin, Noya’s chaotic determination, the echo of old nights that felt nothing like this and exactly like this. Something cracked under his ribs.

“I said ten minutes,” Akaashi muttered, voice low.

“You said that at the club that one time after our performance and you ended up staying ‘til sunrise,” Noya said brightly.

“Then maybe I’ll stay ‘til sunrise,” Akaashi replied, already moving past them.

“Keiji!” Aida called from behind.

“I’ll text if I need you.” Akaashi said, not turning back. “Just ten minutes, okay?” He didn’t wait for a response. 

He sank into the couch like someone climbing into memory. Soft cushions, loud laughter, hands slapping his knees when Hinata landed a joke too well. Noya threw a pillow at him within a minute. Akaashi let it hit him.

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

But he stayed.

And from across the room, Bokuto watched him quietly, hands in his pockets, heart somewhere he couldn’t reach right now.

Outside, the world screamed on. Twitter spun, Instagram fed the flames. But inside this moment, for the first time in months, Keiji Akaashi chose to just be.

~~~

The room had quieted some. Stragglers were gone. The music was lower now, more background than pulse. A soft throwback playlist crackled from the Bluetooth speaker, interrupted only by bursts of laughter from the couch.

Akaashi sat in the middle of it. Slouched just enough to show he wasn’t planning on leaving. Hinata was curled against one side, babbling through another chaotic story. Noya leaned on the armrest, throwing in commentary every few lines.

Then came Oikawa.

“Keijiiiiii,” Oikawa sang, sliding onto the cushion. His cheeks were flushed, smile lopsided, the shine in his eyes unmistakably drunk.

“You’re so tense,” he said, leaning in like they were alone. “So standoffish. It’s kind of hot.”

“Get off.” Akaashi said flatly, already leaning away.

“No can do.” Oikawa’s head fell lazily against Akaashi’s shoulder. “I’ve waited too long for this moment. You disappeared on everyone. Broke some hearts. But you got hotter. Honestly, it’s rude! I should sue.”

“Please, contact my legal team.” Akaashi said, trying to shove him off with his elbow. “They’re busy, but I’m sure they love dealing with delusion.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa called out with mock innocence. “Keiji’s bullying me again!”

“Because you’re on top of him, dumbass,” Iwaizumi snapped, stalking over. “Get off.”

Oikawa grinned without moving an inch. “No. I’m comfy.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Emotionally available,” Oikawa corrected, then leaned even closer to Akaashi. “Keijiiiii! Let’s go to Argentina. We’ll reinvent ourselves. You can be mysterious and tortured and— and I’ll be your scandalous muse!”

“I will throw this pillow at your face.” Akaashi warned.

“You missed me.” Oikawa whispered, nudging his temple against Akaashi’s.

“In your dreams.”

“You’re so mean to me!” Oikawa gasped. “Iwa-chan, are you hearing this?”

Iwaizumi grabbed him by the back of the hoodie like a misbehaving dog.

“Oikawa, I swear to God— get your ass off of him.”

“Jealous?” Oikawa teased, winking at him. “Don’t worry, you’re still my number one, baby.”

“You're my number one pain in my ass.” Iwaizumi muttered, dragging him upright.

Hinata and Noya were losing it. Hinata curled in a ball, clutching his stomach, Noya slapping the couch with glee. Keiji couldn’t help but giggle quietly to himself.

“You’re not even sorry,” Iwaizumi grumbled, half wrestling Oikawa to his feet.

“Not even a little,” Oikawa chirped, letting himself be pulled away.

“I hate you,” Iwaizumi added under his breath.

“You love me,” Oikawa said, blowing him a kiss over his shoulder.

Akaashi sighed, tugging his sleeves down over his hands. “He’s gotten worse.”

“Drunk Oikawa has always been a menace,” Noya said, wiping his eyes.

“Don’t lie,” Hinata grinned. “You were so close to laughing.”

“I was laughing,” Akaashi admitted, shaking his head.

From across the room, Bokuto stood with a drink he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, eyes locked on the couch.

He hadn’t heard that laugh in over a year. Not really. Not like this, unguarded, off-beat, a little reluctant, but real. It used to be his. That sound. That softness.

Now it belonged to whoever could get closest.

Bokuto swallowed around the lump in his throat, chest tightening like a rope being pulled from the inside.

“Painful, isn’t it?” came a voice beside him.

He didn’t have to look. He knew that tone. Dry, cold at the edges. Kenma.

Bokuto didn’t answer at first. Just watched as Oikawa dramatically flopped over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, whining the whole way to the kitchen.

“You knew he’d do this,” Kenma said, voice low. “Come back. Slip in. Make everyone love him again. That’s the thing about Akaashi. He always knows when to say just enough.”

“Not now, Kenma,” Bokuto muttered.

But Kenma didn’t move. He never did.

“I used to think you were the one he’d protect,” Kenma said. “But I guess that only works when he’s not the one doing the breaking.”

Bokuto’s jaw clenched.

“And you think you’re better?” He asked, barely audible.

“No,” Kenma said simply. “I just never pretended.”

Silence sat heavy between them.

Then—

“They still see each other.” He said. “Kuroo and Akaashi.”

Bokuto finally turned. Kenma’s face was unreadable, pale gold in the warm lighting, hair tucked behind his ears like he didn’t care what was exposed anymore.

“When I come across pictures from when everything was normal. Pictures of Kuroo, or us in groups, I see the part of me he never wanted,” Kenma said. “And the part of you he never let go of.”

Bokuto blinked, but didn’t speak.

“Whatever’s happening on that couch,” Kenma added, nodding toward the laughter, “is just noise. You know that, right?”

Bokuto looked back.

Akaashi was biting back a grin now, tossing a snarky remark at Noya, while Hinata clapped like a child. It looked like joy. It looked like healing.

But it felt like a memory Bokuto couldn’t reach anymore.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

~~~

The window was cracked open. The nighttime noise drifted in. Muffled sirens, distant horns, some kid yelling on a bike down the street. But inside Akaashi’s bedroom, it was all soft.

Bokuto lay on his back, hoodie half-off, hand lazily stroking up and down Akaashi’s spine. Akaashi was curled into him, face tucked against Bokuto’s shoulder, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts and nothing else.

The lights were off. Just the warm orange glow of a floor lamp and the sound of Bokuto’s quiet humming.

“I like your room,” Bokuto murmured.

“You say that all the time.”

“Because it feels like you,” Bokuto said, lifting a lock of Akaashi’s hair to kiss it. “Kinda cold at first, but actually really cozy once you’re inside.”

“Thanks?” Akaashi said, muffled against his chest, voice sleepy.

“You know what I mean,” Bokuto laughed. “It’s like… I don’t know. It’s just you.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes, but he was blushing. Bokuto felt it, his cheek going warm against his skin.

“You’re cute,” Bokuto whispered. “Like, so cute. It’s kind of unfair.”

“Stop,” Akaashi muttered, pulling the blanket over his face.

Bokuto grinned. “No, seriously. I don’t get how you can be all deadpan in public, then be like this the second we’re alone.”

Akaashi peeked out from under the blanket, cheeks flushed. “Maybe I’m only like this for you.”

Bokuto’s heart nearly fell out of his chest.

He kissed him then. Slow, soft, just enough.

“Promise me something?” Bokuto asked later, when they were tangled together, legs intertwined.

“What?”

“Don’t disappear,” he said. “Not from me.”

Akaashi went quiet. It had been a few days since the accident. Since Akaashi ran out into the street and almost got hit by the car. Since Bokuto came chasing after him, pushing them both away from safety. Since he had hit his head and started bleeding out on the sidewalk. 

Akaashi had wanted to die. It was as simple as that. There he was, in another situation where he tore everything apart. Where he caused someone, who he loved so deeply, so much pain. 

He wanted to escape. To run. 

Bokuto never let him get too far. 

It scared him. Someone seeing his true and authentic self and still, despite everything, continued to show up. Continued to want him. Continued to love him. 

That alone made Akaashi nod against his chest.

“I won’t.”

~~~

The couch was buzzing again. Laughter loud, drinks flowing. Oikawa was back in the middle of it (after running away from Iwaizumi), halfway draped across Noya and Hinata, flushed and clearly drunker than before.

“You’re gonna spill that drink on my couch,” Iwaizumi warned, arms crossed, already approaching.

“It’s fine,” Oikawa slurred. “Keiji’s spilled worse on me before.”

“What?” Hinata squeaked.

“I did not.” Akaashi said sharply.

“You did!” Oikawa giggled. “That one party. You told me I looked sexy, and then threw up on my thigh. It was iconic.”

Noya howled. Hinata slapped the cushions.

“You’re lying.” Akaashi said, pushing him away.

“I never lie when I’m tipsy,” Oikawa grinned, raising his glass dramatically. “Only when I’m sober.”

“Get off him, Tooru.” Iwaizumi snapped. 

“Rude,” Oikawa huffed. “You’re just mad ‘cause Akaashi only parties with me now. I get the fun Keiji.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kageyama called out from across the room. “Tell us about the fun Keiji.” 

Akaashi tensed.

“Oh yeah,” Oikawa went on, grinning like he couldn’t stop himself. “You guys don’t know! This man is wild after his shows.”

Suga and Daichi quieted in their own conversation. The expressions on their faces dropped. Because they knew too. But they weren’t sure everyone else should know. 

Oikawa leaned forward like it was a secret.

“Little rooms, lights low, everyone’s gone. And Aka-chan’s got this look, like he could set the place on fire!” Oikawa looked hysterical, like it was an exaggerated joke that he was sharing.

“Tooru—” Akaashi said quietly, warning in his voice.

“So many celebs! It’s funny ‘cause they’re all the same. They act the same and do the same stuff!” 

Suga cleared his throat, trying to interject. “Hey, does anyone want to play a game?” 

But no one heard him. Everyone’s ears were listening now. Tsukishima, Kageyama, even the Miya Twins were listening.

“Y’know, I’ve never seen blow up close before.” Oikawa continued, eyes heavy lidded and dazed off. “Not until Keiji was snorting it off some random girl.” 

Akaashi’s shoulders tensed. His heart was pounding in his chest. What was this? Shame? Embarrassment? 

His nails picked at the dead skin on the palm of his hands. His breathing staggered and his leg began to bounce lightly. He only gained a little courage to sneak a glance up through his lashes, landing right on Bokuto who, frozen across the room, looked shocked. 

Maybe disappointed. 

Keiji couldn’t look too long. Or else he might throw up here too. 

Iwaizumi noticed the energy shift in Akaashi, causing him to take a step forward and clamp a hand over Oikawa’s mouth. “You’ve had a lot to drink, haven't you Tooru?” 

“I’m not done!” Oikawa exclaimed, muffled by his boyfriend’s hand. 

“Games?!” Suga choked out, a little louder. 

“Yeah! Let’s do Charades!” Daichi stood up, his knees knocking on the underside of the counter, wincing at the sound.

“Trashykawa, you’re nasty!” Iwa yelled, pulling his hand away and shaking it after Oikawa just licked at his palm. 

“Like you’re not a freak, Haji.” Oikawa smirked. “Everyone’s a freak in this room.” 

Friends rolled their eyes, some snickered. Akaashi tried to breathe, about to get up until he heard his name again. 

“But Keiji’s the freakiest!” Oikawa started giggling to himself. “You should see the people he calls after. Or more like the one person. We all knowww him!” The brunette was still smiling. “He’s got a type, too. Always messy hair. Always taller.”

Everyone froze for a breath. Just a flicker.

And everyone knew what that meant. Who Oikawa was talking about. 

“Okay, you’re cut off.” Iwaizumi said, tugging at his shirt. “Seriously.”

“Let me live!” Oikawa pouted, but let himself be pulled toward the kitchen.

Behind him, Akaashi stared at the floor, shoulders square, but too still.

Hinata and Noya went quiet. No one laughed now.

Bokuto hadn’t moved from where he stood, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, drink untouched, gaze heavy.

Akaashi finally stood.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, brushing past them.

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked down the hall, turned into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Not slammed. Not rushed. Just enough to separate.

Inside, he pressed his hands to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

Outside, the world kept laughing.

But inside, the mask cracked.

~~~

Akaashi fiddled with his fingers. “I feel stupid.” 

“Why?” Kuroo asked. 

Akaash looked at him. “I mean… look at me! I’m dressed like this, sitting here while my boyfriend is having a good time with his ex. I just don’t want to worry so much about them both. I don’t want my mind to think that something is happening.” 

“Bokuto wouldn’t do anything. Akaashi, he loves you. He doesn’t care about her like that anymore. Plus… you look great.” Kuroo offered him a small smile. 

“Thanks…” Akaashi looked away, a small blush forming on his cheeks, invisible to others but not to Kuroo. 

Kuroo stood up, reaching his hand out, palm facing up. Akaashi looked at his hand, confused, letting his eyes travel up his arm to his face.

“Do you… want to dance?” 

Akaashi was definitely hesitant. “I told you-”

“I won’t do anything.” Kuroo interrupted, “I promise. Just two friends dancing.” 

Akaashi slowly took his hand, standing up off the stool and letting Kuroo lead him into the crowd, mixing in. They were on the opposite side of the room from where their friends were, a smart choice made by Kuroo. 

“Can I…” Kuroo had his hands close to Akaashi’s waist. 

Akaashi pressed his lips together and nodded. The feeling of his hands made Akaashi’s skin burn. He held onto Kuroo’s shoulders, looking away from him. Kuroo just smiled, slowly moving their bodies to the music. Akaashi’s skin was soft underneath Kuroo’s fingers, him wanting to run his hands all over his body. He felt Akaashi play with the back of his shirt, his fingers brushing against his neck. 

“Akaashi.” 

Kuroo’s voice captured his attention. He looked at him only to be brought forward and backwards, spun around right after. A smile formed on his lips as he was spun in a few circles, his skirt slowly lifting to the motion. Kuroo’s hand landed on the small of his back, pulling him closer so they were pressed against each other. They swayed their hips, in sync to the beat of the song. 

“You know… you do look really good.” Kuroo dipped his head, bringing himself closer. 

“Thank you.” Akaashi looked away again, starting to regret agreeing to dance.

But when he looked away, he caught his boyfriend dancing with Emile. And it hurt. So badly. The way Bokuto allowed them to be so close and for her to touch his arms, “accidentally” running her hands down or up his chest. And fuck, it made his blood boil. He wanted to be with him. Keiji wanted to be the one touching him. It should be him. Always him. 

Akaashi felt his eyes narrow and before he knew it, his hands were dancing across Kuroo’s chest. And finding their way to his hands. And then Keiji was leading Kuroo’s hands down his own body, dipping past his curves.

“Akaashi, I…”

Keiji pressed himself close. And he swayed his hips side-to-side, slowly biting his lip in the process. He flickered his eyes up to meet Kuroo’s, a smirk pulling at his lips as he was met with a desire-filled gaze. 

Then he looked in the crowd again. And instead of seeing his boyfriend dancing, he was staring right into his golden eyes. Bokuto was pissed. And Keiji was already feeling better. So he smirked at him, while moving his hands back up Kuroo’s chest and around his neck. He even winked at Koutarou, enough to top it all off. 

And it was also more than enough to get Bokuto to come over. 

Before Kuroo could even recognize the situation and the fact that he was being utterly used, he felt Akaashi’s body fly out from his hands. And Keiji gasped, his back hitting Bokuto's chest. Bokuto snuck his arm around Akaashi’s waist, a grip speaking for itself that he wasn’t planning on letting go.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bokuto growled in anger, narrowing his eyes at Kuroo who stood there like a deer in headlights. 

“Dancing?” Kuroo said, more as a question as if it wasn’t obvious. 

“Koutarou.” Keiji whined, pushing back against him. 

“With my boyfriend.” Bokuto clenched his jaw. 

“Well your boyfriend was sitting alone for the past hour because of you.” Kuroo said. “You left him alone for your ex-girlfriend.” 

“We were catching up! I haven’t seen her in-”

“A year.” Akaashi finished for him with a roll of his eyes. “You see her once a year. We know.” 

Bokuto looked at him but now Akaashi refused to look his way. So Bokuto glanced back at Kuroo. 

“What? Are you talking shit now?” 

Kuroo put his hands up defensively. “Where’d you get that from?!” 

“I’m your best friend, Kuroo. I know you.” Bokuto said. “Don’t feed him lies.” 

“Bokuto, please stop.” Akaashi begged. 

“You know what?” 

“What?” Kuroo asked. 

“You're done. I don’t even want you near Keiji anymore. Leave him the fuck alone. Stop texting him. Stop the calls. Stop the flirting. Stop getting close.” Bokuto warned. 

Akaashi now looked at him, pulling his hand off of him. “What the fuck? You're not the one to decide that.” 

“So you’re okay with him flirting with you?” Bokuto crossed his arms. 

“He doesn’t!” 

Bokuto scoffed. “Keiji. Come on. You eat it up.” 

“What?” Akaashi was in disbelief. 

“You let him act like this all the time! It’s like you want him to!” Bokuto shouted. 

Akaashi turned, walking away from the two. “I’m done talking about this.” 

“I’m not!” Bokuto followed him. 

“Akaashi.” Kuroo called out to him at the same time. “I’m sorry.” 

Bokuto looked back at his friend. “Leave him alone already.” 

Kuroo just scoffed, turning away and disappearing into the crowd. 

“Fucking stop!” Akaashi shouted, whipping around. “Don’t tell him what to do! If I don’t want him around, I’ll say it!” 

Bokuto just stared at him. 

“He’s my friend, Bokuto.” Akaashi clarified. “He doesn’t like me. He’s not flirting. We’re just having fun.” It was a lie, but Akaashi didn’t want to break the bond between the two friends anymore than it already was.

~~~

Keiji gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, knuckles white, breath shallow. The bathroom lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile, making everything feel sharper than it should. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it might crack open his ribs. The muffled bass of the party still thudded behind the door, laughter and voices bleeding through the walls like a haunting reminder of everything he’d just lost.

He stared at his reflection. Pale. Tense. Eyes wide and ringed with panic. His lips trembled before he clenched them into stillness. The words echoed in his head, over and over.

 “You should see the people he calls after. Or more like the one person.” The brunette was still smiling. “He’s got a type, too. Always messy hair. Always taller.”

Oikawa had laughed, sloppy and too loud, clutching his drink and swaying as if to stay upright. Bokuto had stood frozen, eyes wide, betrayal written across his face like graffiti. The room had gone silent before it had exploded with whispers.

Keiji had walked out before the damage could spread further, before anyone could look him in the eye with pity or disgust or amusement. He couldn’t decide which would be worse.

This is what happens when you let people in.

He had stayed when Noya and Hinata begged him to. He let Bokuto clear out the apartment like it was a holy shrine, as if protecting Keiji’s name was a sacred duty. He had let himself laugh. Let himself feel things again. Let himself want to be held. Let himself be weak.

And look where it got him.

They always took a mile. Every time. Like it would be their only chance to see Keiji again. 

Keiji slowly straightened, his breathing steadying. The fear drained out of him, leaving only clarity in its place, sharp and cold as a knife. His fingers curled against the edge of the sink, then relaxed. A decision settled over him like an old coat. Heavy, but familiar.

He didn’t need their protection. He didn’t need their friendship. And he sure as hell didn’t need their forgiveness.

A knock on the door jolted him slightly.

“Keiji?” Aida’s voice was low, calm, but edged with concern. “You okay in there?”

Keiji opened the door.

He met Aida’s gaze with eyes devoid of warmth. The panic was gone. The grief, too. What was left was something calculated. Controlled. Almost inhuman.

“It’s time to burn it all down,” he said flatly. “I’m done playing nice.”

~~~

The music had shifted again. Something older, nostalgic, with a beat that didn’t demand attention but begged for it anyway.

Noya was mid-sprint across the living room with a glittery hat on backwards, trying to chase Hinata into a dance battle.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE MY TWERK, SHOUYO,” he screamed.

“You can’t twerk, you menace!” Hinata wheezed, narrowly dodging a pillow.

The chaos gave the room a little color again. A break in the tension.

Until Suga’s voice cut through it.

“Is Kageyama okay?”

It wasn’t loud. But it silenced the immediate area.

Daichi, Oikawa, Osamu and Tanaka looked.

Kageyama stood near the window, jaw clenched, arms crossed. He hadn’t moved since Oikawa drunkenly exposed Akaashi. And not since Keiji walked back in the room.

Yamaguchi approached him, quietly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Kageyama muttered.

The way people say they’re fine when they are absolutely not fine.

Yamaguchi frowned. “You’ve barely looked at Hinata all night.”

“He’s too busy playing tag with Noya.”

Yamaguchi glanced across the room.

Hinata was now pretending to ride Tanaka like a scooter.

“…okay that’s fair,” he admitted. “But he still cares. He’s just… excited Akaashi’s here, I guess?”

The name landed hard.

Kageyama didn’t react at first.

Then: “I didn’t think he’d actually show.”

Yamaguchi was quiet.

Kageyama’s voice lowered. “He used to text Hinata a lot. They would do shoots together. For months. Now… nothing. Radio silence.” 

Yamaguchi’s chest twisted. “Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s his management.”

Kageyama turned to him. “I don’t care.”

That one snapped. The room caught it. Just a little.

Osamu looked up from where he’d been talking with Daichi and Tsukishima. Oikawa’s head turned slowly from the snack table. Even Noya paused mid-dance to glance over.

Yamaguchi blinked, startled.

Kageyama took a breath, steadying himself. Then he looked across the room. Straight at Keiji.

“I want him to say something.”

Yamaguchi followed his gaze.

Keiji stood near the hallway, drink in hand, talking quietly to Iwaizumi. Aida behind him like a shadow.

Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.

“I want him to look me in the eye,” Kageyama muttered. “I want him to know.”

Suga had appeared now, watching them both with that storm-under-skin expression he saved for when he was two seconds from taking control of a situation.

“You should talk to him,” Yamaguchi offered gently.

Kageyama’s jaw flexed. “No. He should talk to us.”

And just as he said it—

Keiji turned. Eyes sweeping across the room. Landing on Kageyama. It lasted one heartbeat. He sent a quick message with a quick look. One that was cold. One that dared him to continue. Then Keiji looked away.

Yamaguchi flinched like he’d been hit.

Kageyama’s voice dropped to a whisper. “See?”

Oikawa appeared beside them then, wine in hand, voice low and flat. “This is going to blow up.”

Suga didn’t argue. Tsukishima did, though. From across the couch.

“Should’ve never invited him.”

The words cut from the couch like glass.

Every head turned toward Tsukishima. He didn’t care. Leaned back, arms folded, legs crossed, drink half-finished in one hand, eyes locked on Keiji.

“He made his choice,” he added coolly. “Now he wants to waltz back in like nothing happened? Fuck that.”

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi warned, gently.

“No,” Tsukishima snapped. “It’s not fair. He disappeared, then wrote songs about how sorry he is, then showed up like we’re supposed to forgive him just because he remembered someone’s name.”

Daichi stiffened, but didn’t speak. Suga went still beside him. 

Keiji hadn’t moved, but his spine straightened. His jaw tightened. He could hear him. He knew Tsukishima was being loud on purpose. 

“Does he think that his voice makes up for ghosting half this room?” Tsukishima said louder now. “We supported him. We loved him.”

“And we still do,” Hinata said softly, behind him.

Tsukki didn’t even look back. “Do you?”

Hinata went quiet. The silence stretched.

Then, Keiji took one step toward the center of the room. The room stilled. Friends caught their breaths, movement stilled.

Keiji’s eyes were sharp. Voice calm.

“Say it to me.”

Tsukishima blinked.

“You’ve got a lot to say, Tsukishima. So say it to me.”

The music faded into nothing. The air felt brittle.

Osamu moved first, coming up behind Akaashi. “Wait, don’t—”

But Tsukishima was already standing. “You want it to your face?” He asked. “Fine.”

He crossed the room slowly, like each step added weight to the words behind them.

“I was there,” he said. “You remember that? Or were you too busy planning to drop us all?”

Keiji held his ground.

“You ghosted me,” Tsukki went on. “Texts. Calls. Nights I stayed up waiting to hear from you. When I wanted to make sure you were okay after everything you’ve been through. Then you drop an album about how broken you are and call that closure?”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Keiji said quietly.

“Oh, right. You never were.”

Oikawa stepped in fast, stumbling as he was still drunk, glass hitting the counter behind him. “Alright. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Tsukki snapped. “Were you there when he was crying, nervous about court? Or when he could barely speak as I asked him questions about what Teru did to him? You weren’t the one checking to see if he was alive.”

“You know that’s not true. I was there through everything!” Oikawa bit back. “You think you’re the only one hurting?”

“No, I know I’m not. Pretty sure we all are.” Tsukishima looked around the room. “Everyone remembers when his team reached out to us a year ago, right? When they sent those threats if we didn't take down our posts with Keiji in them?” 

Silence. 

Because the label had tracked down all his friends. Every post with his face in it was removed, like he was never in the group to begin with. Like he wasn’t a friend. Or a boyfriend. Even the pictures Bokuto’s mom posted on facebook from their trip were gone. Even Miwa was forced to get rid of some of her posts. 

“Listen, I get it.” Osamu stepped in, right beside Akaashi, arms brushing together. “But maybe we should all take a breath. This isn’t how to—“ 

Kageyama, from the corner of the room, snapped. “Akaashi didn’t even want you, either. Why are you protecting him?”

Osamu didn’t hesitate. “Because I don’t need to be wanted to stand by someone.”

“You guys are being ridiculous right now.” Oikawa slurred. “You don’t know what Keiji had to go through.” 

“Oh please, Oikawa. Stop pretending.” Tsukki scoffed. “You’re just as hurt as the rest of us!” 

“And I’m still here!” Oikawa barked. “That’s the difference.”

In the far corner, Bokuto hadn’t moved.His eyes were locked on Keiji. Silent. Trembling. Like the only thing keeping him upright was disbelief.

Iwaizumi noticed.

He took a step forward, voice tight. “Everyone take a fucking breath.”

But Tsukki was past hearing. “You left a massive hole, Keiji,” he said. “And the rest of us had to live in it.”

“You think I didn’t suffer?” Keiji muttered.

“You think we didn’t?” Tsukki barked. “You let us carry you and then resented us for it.”

Keiji’s voice sharpened. “I didn’t ask to be carried.”

“But you let me!” Tsukki shouted. “You let me hold you up and then disappeared when maybe I needed you back!”

Suga was crying now. Daichi had his arms around him, whispering, guiding him slowly from the room as Suga’s shoulders shook.

Kageyama stepped forward next. “I tried, Keiji,” he said, voice shaking. “I tried to keep Hinata from thinking the worst. But he kept checking his phone.”

“Tobio—” Hinata whispered.

“No,” Kageyama said. “He missed your birthday. No—he ignored it.”

The whole room flinched.

“You ignored me,” Kageyama said softly. “And maybe that’s what hurts the most.”

Across the room, Asahi had gone pale. He held Noya’s hand like a lifeline. Noya rubbed soft circles into his palm, but didn’t speak.

“You all want me to — to fucking bleed for you or something?!” Keiji asked. “To fall apart in front of you so it’s easier to hate me?”

“No.”  Tsukki whispered. “Just feel something.”

“I feel everything!” Keiji snapped. “I wake up with glass in my throat from the things I never said.”

“Then say them!” Tsukki shouted.

“I tried to move on! To become someone else.” Keiji growled. “It was for the best, so I’m sorry that you can’t fucking wrap that around your head.” 

“You left us,” Tsukki said, quieter now. “And now you’re back, acting like none of what you did matters.”

“I’m not acting,” Keiji said.

“Then prove it. Feel something.”

Keiji looked around the room. At Kageyama’s trembling hands. At Asahi’s panic. At Hinata’s grief. At Bokuto. God, Bokuto. He was frozen like the floor was gone beneath him.

“I know I hurt you,” Keiji said. “But you’ll never understand what it feels like waking up every day in my mind.”

“And you didn’t say anything,” Tsukki said. “You just put it in a song. Like you always do.”

“I’m not like you,” Keiji replied.

Tsukki stared. Then, venomously:

“You’re right. I break and want someone to pick up the pieces. You break and pretend the pieces never mattered.”

Keiji stepped forward. Eyes sharp. Voice low.

“No. I break and make art out of it.” Akaashi narrowed his eyes, arms crossed now. “Sorry that you weren’t good enough to be involved.”

The silence was so complete it felt physical.

Tsukki’s mouth parted, like he couldn’t quite breathe. And then—calm, barely above a whisper:

“Fuck you.”

He turned. Walked out. The door slammed hard behind him.

Something inside Keiji snapped.

A single piano string. Tense. Pulled too tight. Finally broken.

He stared at the door, then looked across the room.

Suga was gone. Yamaguchi was shaking. Kageyama looked gutted. Daichi’s expression was pure disbelief. Kenma had that look on his face, like i told you so. Keiji’s gaze lingered on Iwaizumi. Then Oikawa. Then Osamu.

Then finally, finally—

Bokuto.

And it was like staring into a mirror of the past. The person who once loved him. Now watching the wreckage.

Keiji didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He just said, low and hollow:

“Aida, get the car.”

No one moved. No one breathed. And yet everything had already broken.

Then slowly, like the room had collectively exhaled, everyone began to peel away.

Yamaguchi followed Tsukki out the door, calling softly after him. Daichi wrapped an arm around Suga, guiding him gently down the hall. Kenma retreated back to whatever corner he stayed in the entire party. Kageyama walked out without another word, Hinata a step behind, looking back only once.

In the far corner, Iwaizumi turned to Bokuto and Oikawa, both stunned and silent.

“We need to talk,” he muttered, voice low and urgent.

He didn’t wait for a response. He just took them both by the arms and steered them out of the room, away from Keiji, away from the glass. The door shut behind them with a dull click.

And then it was just Osamu.

And Keiji.

The playlist had looped again, but no one heard it.

Keiji stood in the center of the wreckage— red solo cups on the ground, chips crushed from shoes, the remains of a celebration splintered across the floor.

Osamu didn’t speak at first. He just watched him. Breathing slowly. Like if he moved too fast, the whole thing might fall apart again.

Then, carefully:

“That didn’t have to go that way.”

Keiji didn’t turn around. “Didn’t it?”

“Keiji—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Keiji moved toward the drink cart, but paused halfway there. Hands shaking slightly.

Osamu stepped forward, quieter now. “You don’t have to burn it all down just to prove no one will stay.”

Keiji let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one. Sharp. Empty.

“I didn’t burn it down,” he said. “Tsukishima lit the match.”

“You’re not the only one who got hurt,” Osamu said, voice tighter.

Keiji turned now, just slightly. Just enough. His smile was cracked glass.

“I know. That’s why I made sure it hurts for everyone now.”

Osamu went still. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t yell. Just looked at him like he was watching someone disappear right in front of him. Keiji held that eye contact for a beat too long.

Then—

He turned away. Walked to the kitchen counter. Picked up a half-finished beer bottle someone had left there.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Just walked out the door.

~~~

Iwaizumi shoved the door open and pulled both Oikawa and Bokuto inside before either of them could protest. The bedroom door shut with a firm, final click. Oikawa stumbled a step, still rattled. Bokuto didn’t move at all, just stood by the wall, staring blankly at nothing. 

Iwaizumi didn’t sit. Didn’t breathe easy. He started pacing.

“That was a fucking mess.”

Oikawa folded his arms. “No argument here.”

Iwaizumi ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want either of you near him.”

Oikawa’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.” Iwaizumi stopped, facing them both. “I’m not letting him drag you down with him.”

“What are you talking about?” Oikawa snapped. “He didn’t even start the fight—”

“Didn’t he?” Iwa shot back. “He stood there and let it happen. He baited Tsukishima. He wanted it.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Oikawa muttered, backing up half a step. “Tsukishima and Kageyama both attacked him.”

“And Akaashi let them,” Iwaizumi snapped. “He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what he’d trigger walking into this room.”

“God, are you even hearing yourself?”

Iwaizumi’s voice rose, just slightly. “This wouldn’t have happened if Akaashi didn’t do what he did. If he hadn’t ghosted everyone. If he hadn’t come back with that look in his eye like we owed him something.”

“It’s more complicated than that—”

“Of course it is, Tooru!” Iwa shouted. “But when does it stop? When does Akaashi stop pulling people in and spitting them out?”

Oikawa didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. But he didn’t back down either.

Iwa exhaled hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying I don’t care about him. I do. I know you do too. He’s your best friend. I get it.”

“But?”

“But I’m watching you get sucked into his self-destruction. And Bokuto…”

He turned toward him.

Bokuto hadn’t moved. Still pressed lightly against the wall, arms loose at his sides, hoodie half-zipped, eyes glassy and far away.

“…he’s already in it,” Iwa finished quietly.

Silence.

Oikawa finally dropped his arms. “I’m not going to abandon him, Hajime. I’m not built that way.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon him. I’m asking you to protect yourself.”

And then—

A voice.

Quiet. Rough around the edges.

“I need to see him.”

Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa turned.

Bokuto hadn’t looked up. Just shook his head faintly, like he was trying to clear fog from his mind.

“He needs someone.”

A pause.

“He’s not okay.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched. “Bokuto—”

“I know what it looks like,” Bokuto said, a little louder now. “But I know what it feels like too.”

That stopped Iwaizumi in his tracks.

“I know what it’s like to push everyone away,” Bokuto went on. “To want help, but not know how to ask for it.” His voice cracked a little at the end. “I need to see him.”

Oikawa opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. Iwaizumi looked ready to argue, but even he couldn’t deny the weight of what Bokuto wasn’t saying:

This isn’t just about Keiji.

This is about him, too.

“Please Bo,” Iwaizumi said anyway. “I can’t watch you get hurt again.” 

One last try.

But Bokuto was already turning toward the door. And he didn’t stop. The door shut quietly behind him.

And then it was just Iwaizumi and Oikawa again. The tension deflated, but something heavier took its place.

Iwaizumi turned toward him. All the edge had melted from his voice.

“Tooru…” he said gently. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Oikawa swallowed hard. “I know, Haji.”

There was a pause. Iwaizumi stepped closer, unsure for the first time in hours.

“Stay here with us.” His voice cracked a little. “I… I want you here. At least for a little. Until I feel like it’s safe for you to be there.”

Oikawa blinked fast. Something kicked in his chest. A sting he hadn’t expected. He’d never believed Keiji could actually hurt him. Not really.

But now, that thread of certainty…

It didn’t feel as sturdy as it used to. Something in him pinged. Like the start of a fracture.

He looked toward the door. Then back at Iwaizumi.

And for the first time in years, he had a decision to make.

~~~

The night was quiet.

Too quiet for how loud he felt inside.

Keiji sat on the curb just outside the apartment complex, hunched slightly forward, beer bottle hanging loose in his hand. The sky above him was soft and heavy, smothered in cloud cover. Streetlamps buzzed faintly. The street was empty.

No footsteps. No voices. No music.

Just him. And the silence he’d earned.

He took a shaky breath. Then another. His ribs felt too tight. Like he couldn’t expand all the way without cracking open entirely.

The beer was warm now. He hadn’t even tasted it. It was just something to hold. Something to prove he hadn’t left empty-handed.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

Aida: Coming around now.

Keiji didn’t answer. He just stared down the street.

Everything inside him was still screaming, even though the shouting was over. He’d done it. He’d broken the final string, the last frayed threads tying him to any of them.

Suga’s tears. Tsukki’s fury. Kageyama’s silence. The disbelief in Daichi’s face.

And Bokuto—

God, Bokuto.

That look. That hurt.

Keiji inhaled sharply, blinking hard. He didn’t expect it to hit that deep. But it did.

It always did with Bokuto.

He gripped the neck of the beer bottle tighter. This was better. This was how it had to be.

Right?

~~~

Bokuto stepped out into the apartment’s common area, chest tight, head spinning.

He looked left, then right. Nothing. The hallway was empty.

No Keiji.

He moved faster, eyes scanning the open door to the balcony, then by the couch, then the front door.

“Hey,” he called breathlessly, catching Osamu near the doorway. “Did he leave?”

Osamu didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Sad. Exhausted. Then pointed toward the front door.

Bokuto’s heart dropped.

He bolted. Pushed the door open so hard it slammed behind him. He ran to the elevator, pushing the button for what felt like a million times, and then ultimately decided to take the stairs. He took two at a time, almost tripping over his own feet. He was down at the exit door in minutes. He pushed through and — 

Then he saw him.

Keiji. Sitting alone on the curb. Shoulders hunched. Shadowed under the streetlamp like he belonged to the dark.

And then—

CRACK.

The sound of glass shattering against the brick wall echoed down the empty street. The beer bottle exploded on impact, amber foam splashing across the pavement.

Keiji stood now, breathing heavy, fists clenched at his sides. Grunting in frustration. Grief. Something deeper.

Bokuto froze. Then he moved. Not slowly. Not cautiously. But urgently.

Like he needed to touch him. Not to fix it, not to kiss him, not even to be forgiven. But just to make sure he was still real.

Bokuto jogged the last few steps across the sidewalk. Glass crunched beneath his shoes.

Keiji didn’t turn. Just stood there, shoulders heaving slightly, like the act of breathing had turned into a chore. One hand was still curled into a tight fist, trembling at his side.

“Keiji.”

Nothing.

“Hey,” Bokuto said again, softer now, closer.

Still nothing.

Then, Keiji moved. Just his head, just enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy. Red-rimmed. And something in them didn’t look entirely present.

“Don’t,” Keiji rasped.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Bokuto said quietly.

“Go back upstairs.”

“I can’t.”

Keiji laughed, short and hollow. “So we’re both bad at taking orders now.”

He turned the rest of the way, arms limp at his sides. No defense. No aggression. Just tired.

“You want to yell too?” he asked. “Get your last shot in?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Bokuto swallowed hard and stepped closer.

“Because you’re not okay.”

Keiji blinked slowly, like the words didn’t register at first.

Then: “Yeah, well. That’s nothing new.”

His voice was hoarse. Brittle. The Keiji everyone knew had shattered upstairs. This was what was left. Sharp edges and silence.

Bokuto moved carefully now, just a few feet away. He didn’t reach for him. He didn’t ask anything.

He just said:

“Can I sit with you?”

Keiji stared at him. Like he didn’t understand the question. Then he turned away again. Sat heavily back down on the curb, dragging a shaky hand over his face.

Bokuto sat beside him. Not close. Not touching. Just there. The city hummed around them. Distant. Uninterested.

Keiji stared at the broken glass across the street like it meant something.

“I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“I meant to.”

Bokuto’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say something. To reach again.

But Keiji turned to him, eyes suddenly sharper. Crueler. The mask back on, the edge honed.

“I cheated on you.”

Bokuto blinked.

“I lied to you.”

His voice was cutting now. Not because he meant it to be, but because he wanted it to hurt.

“So why the fuck are you still here?”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It buzzed like a live wire.

Bokuto’s jaw clenched. He looked away. Then back. And said nothing.

Keiji stood again and took a step closer, nudging at Bokuto’s leg. He stared down at him with emptiness in his eyes. What once was love and admiration was now just void.

“You want to yell at me? Then do it.”

He was spitting venom now. Every word a challenge. A dare.

“You want to scream? Call me selfish? Call me cruel? You should. You deserve to.”

Still, nothing from Bokuto. Even when he stood up to meet Keiji where he was, he said nothing. His eyes were soft, expression waiting. Waiting for something. Like Keiji would crumble and need to be catched before he hit the ground. To be held. Grounded, again. 

So Keiji shoved him.

Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to demand.

“Why won’t you fucking hate me?”

Bokuto’s eyes met his. They were full. Shining. But not angry. Not even close. Just heartbroken.

“Because I can’t.”

That stopped everything. Keiji stepped back like he’d been hit.

“No matter what you do,” Bokuto said, breath uneven, “I still see the person I love in there. Even if you’re trying to bury him under all this wreckage.”

Keiji shook his head. “You’re fucking delusional.”

“Maybe,” Bokuto said. “But at least I’m not walking away.”

Keiji’s lips parted, ready to hurl something else, something sharp. But nothing came out.

Just silence. Just the grief cracking his own voice.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Bokuto stepped forward again, quieter now. “I’d rather see you like this than not at all.”

Keiji stared at him. The last thread trembled. And didn’t break.

Not yet.

Keiji’s fists were clenched at his sides now. His chest heaved like every word he’d spit had taken something from him.

Bokuto looked at him, truly looked. And then, slowly, he stepped forward again.

Not to yell. Not to argue.

Just to be close.

And Keiji didn’t move. Didn’t run. Didn’t flinch.

Bokuto reached out, just barely, fingers brushing against Keiji’s sleeve.

“I’m not leaving.”

Keiji exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years. Then he leaned, just a fraction.

Barely enough to register. But it was there. The smallest weight against Bokuto’s chest.

Like a crumbling truce. Like a silent admission:

I don’t want to be alone.

Bokuto stayed still. Didn’t push it. Didn’t ask for more.

They stood there in the quiet, surrounded by broken glass and heavy streetlight and everything unsaid.

Aida’s car pulled up at the curb. The engine idled.

But Keiji didn’t move. Not yet.

They stood there, suspended in the thick quiet of the street.

Keiji still hadn’t moved. His body was tense, like he was caught between fight and flight. Between slamming the car door behind him or letting someone follow him through it.

Bokuto’s voice broke the silence. Gentle. Careful.

“Stay here.”

A beat.

“Or we can go somewhere. Anywhere. Just… you shouldn’t be alone.”

Keiji didn’t look at him. He stared at the beer-soaked pavement. The shattered glass. The bloodless mess of a night he couldn’t take back.

He knew what he had to do. He had to say no. He had to leave Bokuto here, strand him here, just like he had everyone else. Break the last string and be done with it.

Instead, he turned to Bokuto and said, flatly:

“Get in the car.”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

Keiji’s eyes were unreadable. Voice low.

“I wanna show you something.”

And before Bokuto could ask anything else, Keiji was already walking toward the car Aida had just pulled up. He opened the door and slid in without looking back.

Bokuto stood still for a second, chest pounding. Then he moved. And got in after him.

Aida glanced at Keiji in the rearview. “Where to, Akaashi?”

Keiji didn’t look up. Just murmured, low and even:

“Take us home.”

The car pulled away from the curb, the city blurring into shadow and streetlight beyond the tinted windows.

Bokuto’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know why he was here. Didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He’d expected Keiji to shove him away again. To tell him to fuck off. To burn the last bridge and call it survival.

But now he was sitting in Keiji’s car. With Keiji beside him. And it made no sense.

He turned, quietly, eyes scanning Keiji’s face as the night light flickered across it in passing intervals, neon signs, headlights, faint glows from upper-floor windows. Soft flashes of silver over sharp cheekbones. The smallest twitch in his jaw. A flicker in his throat when he swallowed.

Akaashi felt him staring. And after a few seconds, he looked back.

Their eyes locked. Neither spoke. Neither blinked. They just looked at each other. Two people who had broken something between them. And maybe, just maybe, were still inside the rubble of it.

Keiji looked down. His gaze caught on their hands, rested close between them on the seat. So close that if he shifted just slightly, just grazed his pinky to the side…

He’d touch him.

He didn’t move.

But Bokuto’s eyes flickered too. He saw the hands. The gap. The tension like a live wire between skin and almost. He wanted Keiji to reach out. Just a little. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

But when he looked back up, Keiji had already turned away. His face shifted toward the window. Back into silence. And that’s how the rest of the drive went.

No words. No contact.

Just the quiet ache of everything unspoken between them.

~~~

The elevator doors slid open into silence.

Bokuto stepped in first, hesitantly, eyes adjusting to the dim gold lighting and wide glass walls. The Tokyo skyline stretched out in every direction, twinkling, alive, indifferent.

Keiji followed, wordless. His shoes soft against the marble floor.

The place was stunning.

Sleek, minimalist furniture. Sculptural light fixtures. A curated art collection that screamed money and taste. Everything was sharp edges and clean lines.

Bokuto turned slowly in place, taking it all in.

“Wow,” he murmured. “This is…”

“Too much?” Keiji asked from behind him, already walking toward the liquor cabinet.

“No. I mean—yeah, maybe.” Bokuto scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just not… you.”

Keiji poured two fingers of something deep and amber into crystal glasses. Handed one over without a word.

Bokuto took it but didn’t drink yet. His gaze was still moving, searching for signs of the person he used to know.

Everything here was expensive. Immaculate.

And yet it felt cold. Like a hotel designed to impress, not belong to anyone.

Keiji sipped his whiskey, then nodded toward the hallway.

“This way.”

They reached the bedroom.

Still stylish, still clean, but warmer. Lived-in.

The bed wasn’t made. There was a sweatshirt slung over a chair. A cracked mug on the nightstand. A music book half-open on the floor.

And then—

The corner.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

One wall was mounted with guitars. A shelf of audio interfaces, stacked hard drives, physical lyric notebooks. A laptop open with producing software running in the background. A headphone cable looped around the edge of the desk.

The chaos was gentle. Intentional.

This corner was Keiji.

Bokuto stepped toward it slowly. “Is this where you…?”

“Everything starts there,” Keiji said softly.

Bokuto reached out, fingers brushing one of the notebooks. Pages of lyrics, some crossed out, some annotated, some just fragments.

He was quiet for a long moment.

“You really built something,” he murmured.

Keiji didn’t answer right away. Then—

“You’re why I sing.”

Bokuto froze. He turned, heart thudding.

“What?”

Keiji was watching him now.

Jacket off. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Whiskey glass dangling from his fingertips. His voice was lower now. Almost shy.

“Watching you perform that night… at that little venue. First time I saw you onstage…” He let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “It lit something in me.”

He stepped forward now. Eyes meeting the gold ones he used to look into and express his love. This time, Akaashi looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Like he did want something. 

Bokuto didn’t know what he wanted. He had just really hoped it was him. 

“I knew you were gonna fuck my entire world, Koutarou.”

Bokuto’s breath hitched.

Keiji was close now. Too close. Chest to chest. Barely a sliver of air between them. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His voice stayed at a whisper.

“You’re my why.”

A beat.

“My reason for music.”

Bokuto looked at him like he was trying to memorize every second.

Every inch of him. Every breath. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because if he did—

He might say I still love you.

And Keiji might say don’t.

Or worse—

I love you too.

And neither of them were ready for that.

Bokuto exhaled, slow and shaky. “Keiji…” His voice was low, thick. “I didn’t know.”

Keiji’s mouth twitched at the corners. Not quite a smile.

“I didn’t want you to.”

And for a moment, just a second, they stayed like that.

Too close. Too much history between them. Too much silence ahead.

Keiji moved first. His hand drifted up, brushing the edge of Bokuto’s shirt collar. Fingertips slow, careful. Not trembling, but practiced. Like this was a rhythm he knew.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

Keiji leaned in, his mouth close to Bokuto’s jaw, breath warm.

“Stay.”

Bokuto didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Keiji’s hand slid up his chest, fingers to his collarbone, curling slightly.

His voice dropped lower. “Just tonight.”

And Bokuto wanted to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to taste his name on Keiji’s mouth. Wanted to feel skin and memory and everything they never got right.

But something in Keiji’s eyes—

It wasn’t hunger.

It was grief.

The kind that says: take this because it’s the only way I know how to ask you to love me.

And that’s what broke Bokuto.

He reached up, gently, and wrapped his fingers around Keiji’s wrist. Stopped the motion.

Their eyes met. And Bokuto shook his head. Soft. Heart-shattered.

“Not like this.”

Keiji froze. Something in him buckled, but he masked it fast. He tried to smile. Failed.

He looked away and pulled his hand back. “Right,” he whispered. “Of course not.”

He took a step back. One, then two. And just like that, the silence grew again.

Bokuto didn’t leave yet. Couldn’t. But he didn’t move forward either.

Keiji turned toward the window again, letting the skyline fill the empty space between them.

And after a long, long pause—

“You still have to go.”

Bokuto’s voice cracked. “Why?”

Keiji didn’t turn around.

Just whispered:

“Because if you stay, I won’t let you leave. And I think you deserve better than that.”

Bokuto stood still in the center of the room. The space between them was cavernous now, too wide to cross.

Keiji didn’t move. He stayed facing the window, arms crossed, as if bracing against wind that wasn’t there.

The silence pressed in. Then, quietly and brokenly—

“Do you really want me to go?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t anger.

It was a plea. A last reach for something.

Keiji’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in once. Held it. And when he spoke again, his voice was steel. Measured. Final.

“Yes.”

Bokuto didn’t argue. Didn’t cry.

He just nodded. Once. The quietest heartbreak.

He turned. Took slow steps toward the door. Hand on the handle. One last breath.

Then—

“Keiji.”

Keiji finally looked back. Their eyes met for the last time that night.

And Keiji, God, Keiji looked wrecked. Like he was holding himself together with piano wire and performance.

But he still said it.

Voice steady. Icy. Like armor.

“And Kou?”

Bokuto paused. He turned slightly over his shoulder.

“Don’t ask for me again.”

A beat.

“Or else what happened tonight will happen again.” Keiji turned back to gaze over the view of the city. “And it’ll be worse the next time.”

That landed like a slap.

Bokuto flinched.

And then—

He left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Keiji stood alone in the silence he’d chosen.

~~~

The door shut behind him with a softness that didn’t match the violence inside his chest.

Bokuto stumbled out into the Tokyo night, the cold air hitting him like a punch. The city was too bright. Too loud. Too indifferent.

And he—

He couldn’t breathe. His steps faltered on the sidewalk. One hand gripped the railing at the edge of the building like it could hold him up.

It didn’t.

He dropped to a crouch, face in his hands. The first sob tore out of him, sharp and broken. Then another. And another. His chest tightened, lungs failing him. Like no matter how hard he tried, there wasn’t enough air.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Worse than the breakup. Worse than the silence.

Because this time, it wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t slow.

This time, it was final.

And it felt like losing the same person all over again.

~~~

Keiji stood where Bokuto had left him.

Still. Unmoving.

The city glittered before him, spread like a lie across glass. Gorgeous. Distant.

His reflection looked back at him, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

Then the first tear slipped down his cheek.

He wiped it away fast. Brutal. Like it betrayed him.

But they kept coming.

He didn’t sob. Not really. Just these soft, choked sounds. Half-laughs, half-wrecked gasps, as he folded slowly onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out. Fingers flying.

Keiji: Where’s the party?

Keiji: Need music.

Keiji: Alcohol.

Keiji: Something heavy.

He didn’t even text a name.

Just sent it to Takeru, the label’s bad boy. The supplier. The one who always knew where to go when Keiji needed to forget.

His phone dinged with an address.

He stood up. Grabbed a new jacket. Didn’t think.

Just left.

~~~

The music pulsed like a heartbeat through the warehouse walls.

Inside, Keiji was swallowed by it.

Flashes of red, violet, smoke and strobes. Hands everywhere. Voices yelling his name, not his name. Just Akaashi.

The Artist.

The Body.

The Brand.

They didn’t know him. They didn’t love him.

But they liked the idea of him. And that was enough for tonight.

He leaned over the low table, eyes glassy. A rolled bill between his fingers.

Aida stood nearby, arms crossed. Watching. Silent. Always there. Always knowing.

Keiji snorted the line in one clean motion.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel.

That was the point.

~~~

He was pressed between two bodies now.

Hands in his hair. Fingers at his hips. Laughter in his ear that didn’t belong to anyone he knew.

Someone groped him. Too rough. Too familiar. Too much.

He stumbled back, shoved past the crowd, breath catching. He found the bathroom. Didn’t go in.

Just leaned against the wall outside, chest heaving.

He pulled out his phone again. Fingers shaking.

Keiji: Come over.

Sent to one name.

Kuroo.

~~~

The door opened after Aida pulled up to the penthouse again.

Kuroo was already there, waiting. Leaning against the frame, hair messy, black hoodie, mouth already set like he knew what this was.

Keiji didn’t say anything.

Just walked past him.

Kuroo followed, silent, letting the door close behind them.

Clothes started coming off somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom.

Keiji’s jacket hit the floor.

Kuroo’s hoodie.

Shirt.

Belt.

Hands.

Mouths.

Kuroo kissed down his neck, slow and deliberate.

“What happened tonight?” He asked against Keiji’s skin.

Keiji exhaled hard. His voice was barely there.

“Just fuck me.”

And so Kuroo did what he was asked. No questions. No softness.

But as his lips moved along Keiji’s throat—

Keiji closed his eyes.

And all he could see was Bokuto. All he could hear was his voice. All he could feel was grief in the shape of a body that didn’t belong to the one he loved.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t stop anything.

Just let it fall.

~~~

The bedroom was quiet now.

Cold building lights filtered in through the curtains. The sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed. Kuroo sat up against the headboard, bare chest rising and falling slowly, eyes fixed on the man beside him.

Keiji lay on his side, back turned. Breathing steady. Too steady. Like none of it had touched him.

Kuroo wiped a hand down his face, reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand, took a sip, then let the silence stretch a beat longer.

Then he said, quietly:

“What happened tonight?”

No answer.

Keiji didn’t shift. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

Kuroo tried again. “I mean it. You showed up wrecked. You never text like that unless it’s bad. So… what happened?”

Keiji exhaled through his nose. Still, he didn’t turn around.

“Nothing important.”

That landed like a slap.

Kuroo stared at the back of his head. The cut of his spine. The way his hands were folded under the pillow like a ghost trying to disappear.

“Kei.”

Finally, Keiji rolled onto his back. He looked up at the ceiling like it was more interesting than anything Kuroo had to say.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“We had sex. You did your job. You don’t need a postmortem.”

Kuroo flinched.

He wasn’t new to Keiji’s moods, but this— this was colder than usual. Colder than even Keiji.

“Okay,” Kuroo said, leaning back. “Guess we’re doing the dead-inside routine again.”

Keiji didn’t smile. Didn’t bite. Didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes.

Kuroo stared at him a moment longer. Then stood up, grabbing his shirt from the floor.

“At least before,” he muttered, “you’d talk to me. Now it’s just—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

Keiji opened his eyes slowly. Still flat. Still unreadable.

“If you want something else,” he said, “you should stop coming here.”

Kuroo pulled his shirt over his head, not meeting his eyes anymore.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I should.”

He left without slamming the door.

Keiji didn’t watch him go. He just stared at the ceiling again.

Blank.

Alone.

Exactly the way he wanted it.

Right?

Terms & Conditions 

The curtains were still drawn.

Sunlight bled in through the gaps, too sharp for how little sleep he’d gotten.

Keiji blinked against it. Head pounding. Mouth dry. His sheets still smelled faintly of Kuroo’s cologne.

And under that?

Nothing.

He didn’t feel guilt. Didn’t feel shame. Didn’t feel anything.

That was the problem.

His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then—

The bedroom door opened.

Without knocking.

“Rise and shine, my superstar,” Minami said, voice bright and ruthless. “It’s a good fucking day!”

Keiji didn’t sit up. Didn’t even turn his head.

Minami walked in anyway, tablet in hand, already swiping.

“So your single’s out. You’re trending. Top five on streaming in the first six hours. Numbers are strong.” He tossed a look over his shoulder. “But we want better.”

Keiji stared at the ceiling. Still shirtless. Still ruined from the night before.

Minami didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“You’ve got back-to-back press blocks starting in two hours. Then your first performance for your single at 3 on that day-time show. The social team needs fresh content too. Behind-the-scenes, moody lighting, all that vulnerable artist shit.”

He paused by the window, yanked the curtains open. The light hit Keiji like a slap.

“We’ll push the heartbreak angle for now. ‘Traces of love,’ ‘what could’ve been,’ whatever it is you’re going for.” He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s working.”

Keiji didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.

Minami finally looked at him directly.

Still lying there. Still hollow.

He clicked his tongue once. “Don’t make me call hair and makeup to your bed again.”

A beat.

Keiji exhaled. Slowly. Like dragging air through ash.

Then he sat up. Not because he wanted to.

Because he was told to.

~~~

The rest of the morning was a blur of lights and voices.

Keiji sat in front of a press wall, black hoodie pulled over a designer tee, eyes low, cheekbones sharp from not sleeping.

He gave the answers they wanted.

“The single’s about regret and heartbreak. Wanting to reconcile.”

“Desire for the thing you ruined.” 

“It’s meant for the people who are lonely and are in despair.” 

“Yes, I still believe in love. Just not the easy kind.”

Laughter. Nods. Clips already cut for TikTok.

His voice was smooth. His posture perfect.

A well-built lie.

~~~

In between interviews, Minami hovered like a bee buzzing in his ear.

“Keep it vague, but loaded. They eat that shit up. Mention loneliness in Tokyo. Mention waking up alone. Don’t name names.”

Keiji nodded and sipped his water. He didn’t speak unless prompted.

There were cameras everywhere.

And none of them knew that twelve hours ago he was begging someone to leave him.

~~~

He was backstage now.

The performance was in twenty minutes.

A livestream across three major platforms and channels. A collaboration with a Tokyo day-time show and his label.

It had aesthetic: red neon, rain-glossed streets, melancholia in designer threads.

Keiji sat in the makeup chair, quiet.

The stylist dabbed a soft gold shimmer across his lids. Brushed gloss on his lips. Smoothed his hair back in that careless way it never was.

He looked like someone people wanted to ruin.

He looked perfect.

Minami leaned in, checking angles on the monitor. “You’re gonna kill them.”

Keiji nodded.

He didn’t feel anything.

~~~

The room was black.

A slow fade up: city lights, artificial rain, blurred figures and slow mine embers.

Keiji stood center stage.

Backlit. Shadowed. Sharp.

The opening chords of “After Hours” spilled into the room.

He lifted the mic and began to sing.

“Thought I almost died in my dream again 

Fightin’ for my life, I couldn’t breathe again 

I’m fallin’ into.” 

His voice was low, mournful and molten. It rolled across the room like smoke. He moved like water, slow and certain, every note soaked in longing.

He was mesmerizing.

“‘Cause my heart belongs to you

I’ll risk it all for you 

I won’t just leave 

This time, I’ll never leave.” 

~~~

Kuroo sat on his couch. His hood was pulled up and a drink rested in his hand, untouched.

Keiji’s voice echoed through his speakers.

And all Kuroo could do was stare.

The same mouth that had whispered “just fuck me” was now giving the world a carefully curated heartbreak.

“Your body next to me 

Is just a memory.”

Kuroo turned the volume down.

He didn’t turn it off.

~~~

Bokuto sat on the edge of his bed. The livestream was open on his laptop. He didn’t even know why he’d clicked.

Habit. Weakness. Maybe hope.

Keiji looked untouchable. Flawless.

He sang like someone who was grieving, but not shattered.

And that’s what hit Bokuto the hardest.

How easy he made it look. How easy it was to lie to millions. When the truth had nearly destroyed them both.

Keiji was gripping the mic stand when the beat dropped, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth close to the mic. The camera showed his body, foot tapping to the beat. He wore a black set. Long trousers, cropped suit jacket with squared shoulders. Underneath was a skin tight turtle neck that reached just under his Adam's Apple. There were gold accents stitched into the design on his set. He wore golden gloves, thin and elegant. 

“My darkest hours 

Girl, I felt so alone inside of this crowded room.” 

God, he looked beautiful. Even underneath his self-destruction and multiple masks he carried on him, he was stunning. 

“Put myself to sleep 

Just so I can get closer to you inside my dreams.” 

There was smoke rising behind him. Bokuto could see figures walking through, slow and calculated. Backup dancers ready to perform. 

And that’s when Keiji took the mic off the stand and backed up a few steps. 

“Oh, baby 

Where are you now when I need you most?

I’d give it all just to hold you close 

Sorry that I broke your heart, your heart.” 

He moved elegantly, fluid in the steps and simple motions. The choreography was simple, but just enough to capture attention. And when the next verse picked up, he slowly walked forward while the dancers continued on without him. 

The camera he was singing to was following him, catching every angle. He looked so intensely into the lens that Bokuto was sure he was trying to get through to someone. To him. 

The camera followed Keiji to where he went to the first row of the crowd, only taking a few steps down the stage. The chorus picked up again, and this is where he gently held a reached out hand, and sang to an audience member. 

She was swooning, cheeks flushed and nearby members giggling. Keiji kept the eye contact and moved with grace as he held her hand.  

“I said, baby

I’ll treat you better than I did before.” 

Everything about what he did was perfect. It was so calculated. It had everyone in his trance. 

And then he slowly made his way back up the few steps and put the mic back on the stand. The beat faded and echoed. 

This is where Bokuto leaned in, chewing anxiously on his nail. His favorite part. 

Where Keiji sounded and felt so real. Like he was finally saying what he couldn’t before. 

“I know it’s all my fault 

Made you put down your guard.” 

Keiji’s eyes were tightly shut, as if singing the truth hurt. His grip on the mic was strong, knuckles white.

“I lied to you, I lied to you, I lied to you.” 

His voice was shaking now. It was so real. From his heart. A taste of truth that’s been covered for the past year.  

“‘Cause this house is not a home 

Without my baby.” 

Keiji opened his eyes now, immediately finding the camera. They were glossy, unintentionally. 

“Where are you now when I need you most? 

I gave it all just to hold you close 

Sorry that I broke your heart, your heart.” 

Bokuto let his hand fall from his mouth, his throat clenching as he tried to suppress the cries and sobs that were fighting their way out. 

“And I said, baby 

I’ll treat you better than I did before 

I’ll hold you down and not let you go.” 

His voice echoed off the walls. Everyone could hear the shakes and the emotion. 

The dancers were gone now. Smoke faded into the air. It was just him on stage, in his black set and gold glitter on his eyelids. 

“This time, I won’t break your heart, your heart, no.” 

Bokuto somehow made it through the full performance.

He closed the laptop— only after watching Keiji’s close-up. The camera smoothly moved in a circle around him, showing the audience cheering and Keiji finally snapping out of performance mode, flashing a bright smile and waving. There was gold glitter on his eyelids, highlight on his cheekbones, and a bright diamond on his tooth. And yet under all that sparkle, his eyes held none of it. 

Bokuto sat there.

In the silence that followed.

Alone.

~~~

The room was still dark, but the sky outside had lightened, washed out gray through the windows.

Oikawa lay curled under the duvet, hair messy, eyes open.

He hadn’t slept much.

Iwaizumi was behind him, arm resting loosely around his waist, body warm and steady against his back.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Just the hum of the city outside. Just breathing.

Then, barely audible—

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to choose.”

Oikawa blinked. Stared at the wall.

Iwaizumi’s voice was soft. Raw.

“Last night. I wasn’t trying to make it a fight about sides. I just wanted to protect you. That’s all I was ever trying to do.”

Oikawa swallowed. His chest ached.

“I know.”

He reached up and touched Iwaizumi’s hand where it rested against him. Laced their fingers together.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A beat.

“I did.”

Iwaizumi shifted slightly. “What do you mean?”

Oikawa’s voice cracked just a little. “It was too soon. Too many people. Too much tension already. I shouldn’t have brought him.”

“You didn’t bring him. He came.”

“But I wanted him there.”

A pause.

“I needed him to be okay,” Oikawa whispered. “And I fucked it all up. I embarrassed him. I know I did.” 

Iwaizumi exhaled against the back of his neck. “You didn’t say anything that anybody didn’t already know.” 

“I still shouldn’t have done that.” Oikawa swallowed the lump in his throat. “I mean… I just made it worse for Bokuto, too.” 

“Baby, you were drunk. It was a mistake.” Iwaizumi kissed his shoulder. “Was it smart? Not at all. But it wasn’t made out of ill intent. You’re hurting.” 

Oikawa bit down on his lip, almost wanting to feel the pain. “So is he.” 

“Do you think he wants to feel okay?”

Oikawa didn’t answer at first.

Because yes.

Of course yes.

But not in the way everyone always assumed.

Finally—

“I don’t know.”

They were quiet again.

Wrapped in silence and all the weight that followed it.

Then Oikawa said, quieter now:

“It just feels like maybe… some of what happened a year ago was my fault.”

Iwaizumi sat up behind him slowly, leaning on one elbow. “Hey.”

Oikawa rolled to face him.

Iwaizumi’s gaze was steady. Gentle. Firm.

“You didn’t break him.” Another beat. “He was already breaking. He’s been breaking for a long time.”

Oikawa’s eyes shimmered, but he didn’t cry. He just nodded.

And Iwaizumi leaned in. Pressed his forehead gently against his.

“You are not responsible for someone else’s ruin, Tooru.”

“Even if I stayed?”

“Even then.”

They stayed like that for a while. Not fixing anything.

Just breathing together.

And for once, that was enough.

~~~

The apartment was bigger than the last, half-unpacked, and smelled faintly of new carpet and takeout soy sauce.

Kageyama lay on a futon in the living room, blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling like it had offended him.

Across from him, Hinata. Curled under two comforters, one leg already kicked out, hair a mess, cheeks still flushed from brushing his teeth too fast.

The only light came from the sun leaking through the closed curtains. Soft, golden. The apartment was still asleep, despite it being the morning.

They hadn’t spoken much since the party last night. And they hadn’t really slept either. Both tossing and turning up until the sun started to creep. Then they were still, staring at walls and ceilings.

Not really.

Not until now.

Hinata shifted. “Are you mad?”

Kageyama didn’t look at him. “No.”

“You sound mad.” Hinata frowned. 

Kageyama huffed. “I’m not mad.”

A pause.

“I’m disappointed.”

Hinata sat up, groaning. His curls stuck out in every direction.

“You can’t say things like that! That’s, like, ten times worse than being mad.”

Kageyama looked over now. His expression was soft, despite the words.

“I didn’t like seeing the person who hurt everyone get so close again.”

Hinata blinked. Guilt flickered across his face.

“I just…” he trailed off, biting his bottom lip. “I was excited that Akaashi was there. It felt like maybe things were gonna be okay.”

Kageyama didn’t respond right away.

Then:

“He hurt you too.”

Hinata looked down. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“But I missed him.”

Kageyama turned onto his side, facing him fully now. “I just wanted you to talk to me.”

Hinata nodded. “I’m sorry.”

And he meant it. In the quiet way that mattered most.

Kageyama nodded too. “Okay.”

They were quiet for a while.

Then Hinata mumbled:

“I can’t sleep when you’re upset.”

Kageyama muttered back:

“I can’t sleep when you breathe like a dying rabbit.”

Hinata gasped, offended. “WHAT?! I have very healthy lungs!”

“Then why do you wheeze when you sleep?”

“It’s not wheezing! It’s called ‘dream breathing!’”

“Bike, that’s not a thing!”

“Says who? You and your perfect nose?”

Kageyama rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Hinata pouted for effect, then flopped down dramatically, stealing one of Kageyama’s pillows with a mischievous grin.

Kageyama yanked it back. “Get your own.”

“Yours is comfier!”

“No way. Your head smells like hair gel.”

“That’s because I HAVE HAIR.”

They glared at each other for a beat.

Then both burst out laughing.

The tension finally cracked.

Kageyama shook his head, rolling back into his blanket. “Idiot.”

Hinata beamed in the dark. “You love me though.”

Kageyama didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Yeah.”

Quiet. Sure.

“I do.”

Hinata’s smile softened.

And finally, they both started to fall asleep again.

Still facing each other. Still slightly tangled in blankets.

Still them.

~~~

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint clatter of a pan and the low hum of city traffic beyond the windows.

Iwaizumi stood at the stove, flipping eggs in a pan like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. His hair was still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up. He hadn’t said much since waking.

Oikawa sat at the kitchen island, legs tucked under him, a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. He was scrolling through his phone, frowning at the glowing screen.

Bokuto walked in last. Still in running shorts, hoodie half-zipped, damp hair sticking to his forehead. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and probably hadn’t.

Oikawa looked up. “You went running?”

Bokuto nodded, heading straight for the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. He cracked it open. Drank half in one go.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Iwaizumi glanced back at him. “You okay?”

Bokuto gave a half-shrug. “Fine.”

It was the kind of answer that wasn’t supposed to be believed. He hadn’t told them about where he went off to last night. Finally stepping foot into Akaashi’s place. His conversation with Keiji. How close they came to kissing. And the way Keiji told him to stop asking for him. 

Oikawa noticed the look in his eyes. He didn’t push.

Not yet.

He would wait until Bokuto was ready. 

Iwaizumi slid a plate onto the counter. Eggs, toast, something green neither of them would eat.

“Eat.”

Bokuto sat down, eyes distant. He picked at the toast, tore off the crust. Didn’t eat much.

Oikawa’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at it, then hesitated.

“He’s still trending,” he said quietly. “Keiji. The performance…”

Bokuto didn’t look up.

Iwaizumi shot him a warning look.

Oikawa nodded slightly. Got the message. Still, the silence hung like static.

Until Bokuto finally said:

“He looked fine.”

Oikawa froze.

Bokuto wasn’t looking at either of them, just staring at his plate like he was trying to figure out how it got there.

“He looked so… fine.”

A breath.

“Like nothing happened.”

Iwaizumi leaned against the counter. Crossed his arms.

“It’s all a show.”

“He was always good at that,” Bokuto said softly. 

Then—quieter still:

“But I wish he hadn’t been closed off as much as he was with me.”

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

“Maybe I should try… dating again.”

Both heads snapped toward him.

Iwaizumi blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Like, start over. Move on. People do that, right?” Bokuto said it breezily, like he was reading off a cereal box. “I mean, it’s been a year.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Bokuto smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“There’s this singer near the rehearsal studio. He performs at the bar right next to it. Pretty eyes. Good voice. Maybe I’ll take him out.”

“You don’t even remember his name,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“That’s what dating’s for,” Bokuto said with a shrug.

The bathroom door opened with a whoosh of steam. Nishinoya stepped out, towel slung around his neck, toothbrush still in his mouth.

“You’re gonna WHAT?”

Everyone jumped.

“Noya, you’re gonna wake Kageyama and Hinata.” Iwaizumi groaned.

Noya yanked the toothbrush out and pointed it like a sword, completely ignoring his friend. 

“You’re gonna rebound from THE Keiji Akaashi with some baritone twink named—what?—Kyle? Ryan? That’s your plan?”

“I said I was thinking about it!” Bokuto protested, raising his hands.

“No you weren’t, you were lying out loud with conviction!”

“You don’t even know the guy!”

“I don’t need to know him! I know you!” Noya crossed the kitchen and jabbed a finger at Bokuto’s chest.

“You’re gonna try to fill the Keiji-shaped hole in your heart with a dude who cries at ‘La La Land’ and then be sad when it doesn’t work out!”

Bokuto opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Oikawa choked on his coffee.

Iwaizumi sighed. “Noya, maybe tone it down?”

“NO!” he shouted, gesturing dramatically with the toothbrush again. “You don’t get to emotionally combust and then flirt with the nearest sad guitar boy with a septum piercing!”

Bokuto finally cracked a smile.

Small. Shy. A little sheepish.

“…His name is probably Ryan.”

The room dissolved into tired laughter.

Oikawa shook his head, relieved to see even a flicker of the old Bokuto again.

Iwaizumi handed him a fork. “Eat your eggs before Noya creates your Tinder profile for you.”

“It’s already in my Notes app,” Noya said, grinning. “First line: ‘Recently gutted by an emotionally unavailable singer-songwriter. Still hot though.’”

Bokuto laughed again.

And this time, it sounded a little more real.

Bokuto was halfway through pretending to eat his eggs when—

“Wait… so you and Akaashi aren’t gonna get back together?”

All heads turned toward the living room.

Hinata sat up groggily on the futon, curls flattened on one side of his head, blanket tangled around his legs. Kageyama was beside him, rubbing sleep from his eyes like this wasn’t the weirdest conversation to wake up to.

Bokuto blinked. “How long have you two been awake?”

“Since Noya yelled ‘baritone twink,’” Kageyama mumbled.

“You two are loud,” Hinata added. Then, as if repeating the question to clarify it:

“So… not getting back together?”

The room froze for a second.

Bokuto looked down at his plate.

Noya opened his mouth, but Iwaizumi held up a warning hand.

Oikawa sipped his coffee slowly.

Bokuto finally exhaled and gave the smallest shake of his head. “No. We’re not.”

Silence.

Hinata frowned. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Kageyama sat straighter. “Are you sure?”

Bokuto looked at him. “I was last night.”

Oikawa watched him carefully now. “And this morning?”

Another pause.

Bokuto didn’t answer.

Until—

“Wait,” Hinata said, brows furrowed. “So if you’re not dating Akaashi and you’re maybe gonna date Ryan the bar singer, does that mean we’re allowed to hate him like—only a little bit?”

Oikawa sputtered into his coffee. 

Iwaizumi looked like he was about to fold himself in half.

“Shouyou,” Bokuto said, half-laughing, half-horrified, “you can’t just say that.”

“Why not?” Hinata blinked. “I’m so good at holding grudges.”

“You held one against Kageyama for three weeks because he called you a dumbass during your little volleyball match.”

“HE SAID IT SO MEANLY—”

“It was one time,” Kageyama snapped from the futon, “and you were being dumb—”

“YOU SAID IT LIKE I WAS INCOMPETENT, TOBIO—”

“BECAUSE YOU THREW A VOLLEYBALL AT MY HEAD—”

*“I WAS AIMING FOR YOUR SOUL—”

“YOUR AIM IS TERRIBLE—”

“YOUR FACE IS TERRIBLE—”

Noya clapped once, cutting through the building argument. “Okay, great! Love this energy!” Noya directed his attention back to Bokuto. “I’d like to formally begin the petition to get Kou on a dating show.”

“Noya,” Bokuto groaned. “No.”

“Yes!” Noya grinned. “You’d be a ratings magnet. Hot, big arms, abs, sob story.”

“You’re terrible.” Iwaizumi snickered.

“What? I can’t admit my roommate is sexy? C’mon guys, we have to support each other!’”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Bo? Help me out, man.’”

“Stop—”

Noya tapped a finger to his chin. “Your show. Let’s call it… Sad But Jacked?”

Bokuto buried his face in his hands, laughing despite himself.

Oikawa leaned into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, who joined him at the counter, smiling into his mug.

Kageyama threw a pillow at Hinata and missed.

Hinata declared it a victory.

And for a few minutes, just a few, the room felt warm again.

Like maybe the world hadn’t ended.

Like maybe it could still be okay.

~~~

The apartment had settled again.

Hinata and Noya were arguing over who got to DJ their fake dating show.

Kageyama had gone back to sleep on the futon with a pillow over his head.

Out on the small balcony, Bokuto stood leaning against the railing, arms folded, eyes on the skyline.

Oikawa stepped out quietly. He had changed into sweats and a hoodie, a second cup of coffee now in a to-go mug, hair still a little messy from sleep. He joined Bokuto without a word.

They stood in silence for a while.

Just the two of them. Two pieces of Keiji’s history, side by side.

Finally—

“You good?” Oikawa asked softly.

Bokuto exhaled, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Oikawa nodded, like he understood that answer a little too well.

“Last night…” Bokuto’s voice trailed. Then came back, rougher.

“He said it like it was final. Like there’s nothing left. But—” He paused. “I still feel him. You know?”

Oikawa looked away. Swallowed.

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“Is this the right thing to do?” Bokuto finally asked. “Trying to move on? To date?”

Oikawa didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was calm. Careful.

“Do you want to?”

Bokuto shrugged helplessly. “I want to stop feeling like this.”

Oikawa stared at the skyline for a moment. His fingers curled tighter around the mug.

“Then yeah,” he said. “It’s the right thing.”

Bokuto looked at him, surprised. “You always wanted us together.”

Oikawa nodded. “I still do.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

“I wanted it so bad, Bokuto. I thought you were the only thing keeping him grounded.” A long pause. “But if someone keeps choosing to drown… you can’t follow them forever.”

Bokuto’s jaw clenched. “He’s not a bad person.”

“I know,” Oikawa said immediately. “That’s what makes it worse.”

They stood there again in silence, the weight of shared love and shared hurt between them.

Then Oikawa added:

“If someone does come along… someone who holds your heart right—” His voice caught, just a little. “Let them. Okay?”

Bokuto didn’t answer. But he nodded.

And Oikawa stayed beside him, finishing his coffee in silence, watching the city move beneath a sky that still hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

~~~

The door clicked softly behind him.

Oikawa slipped back into the bedroom and stood for a second, just inside the doorway, like the weight of the morning was finally catching up with him.

Iwaizumi sat on the bed, legs outstretched, flipping through emails on his tablet. He looked up immediately.

“You okay?”

Oikawa gave a hollow laugh. “No.”

He dropped onto the bed beside him, shoulders slumping forward, hands clutched in his lap.

“Everything’s changing,” he said quietly.

Iwaizumi frowned. “What do you mean?”

Oikawa shook his head. “Bokuto’s trying to move on. Keiji’s unraveling. You and I are…”

He trailed off.

Iwaizumi waited. Gave him space.

“…we’re good,” Oikawa said finally. “But I keep thinking about how fast good things fall apart.”

He looked at Iwaizumi now, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“What if I lose you too?”

The question hung there. Bare and trembling.

Iwaizumi set the tablet aside and pulled Oikawa gently toward him.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Oikawa muttered. “People always say that before they do.”

“I’m not people.” Iwaizumi said, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched.

He hated how scared he sounded.

But he couldn’t help it.

“I don’t want us to end up like them.”

“We won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Iwaizumi pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Because we talk. Because we fight. Because we try. And because you let me see you like this, even when you’re scared shitless.”

Oikawa laughed, tearful. “Romantic.”

Iwaizumi smiled softly. “Honest.”

Oikawa leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Needy. Grateful.

Not out of fear but out of relief.

When they pulled apart, he rested his head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“If I get weird or clingy…”

“You’re already both.”

“Hajime—”

“And I’m still here.”

A silence followed.

This one warm. Steady.

Oikawa exhaled. His fingers curled into Iwaizumi’s shirt like he was anchoring himself.

He didn’t know what came next.

But for now—

This was enough.

The Price of Fame

Three days of radio silence.

No Oikawa.

No Bokuto.

No Kuroo.

No one knocking on the door he used to pretend not to want opened. No one checking to make sure he was okay. 

Keiji’s world had gone…still.

But not in the peaceful way.

In the sterile, hollow way. Like silence had teeth.

~~~

He was on hour 17 of his day.

Hair slicked back from an early morning shoot. Makeup long since wiped off, leaving only the faintest shimmer beneath his eyes. His black long-sleeve shirt clung to his back, wrinkled from leaning over piano keys in the studio for hours.

Aida had dropped him off two hours ago. The apartment still smelled like expensive nothing.

The curtains were open, Tokyo’s neon haze painting long shadows across the penthouse floors.

He stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea he hadn’t taken a sip of. Staring at absolutely nothing.

The silence wasn’t even peaceful anymore.

It was oppressive.

Like it wanted to remind him:

“You won.”

“You got what you asked for.”

“So why does it feel like you’re bleeding out in velvet?”

His phone was face down on the table.

Notifications off. Even his label had stopped checking in past midnight.

He hadn’t heard from Oikawa in 72 hours. The longest stretch in over five years.

Even when he disappeared off to Kuroo’s a year ago, not wanting anyone to reach him, Oikawa still blew up his phone everyday. 

He hadn’t even realized it until today.

Kuroo hadn’t tried to slide through with a bottle of wine and unasked-for advice.

And Bokuto—

Well.

That was permanent now.

Wasn’t it?

His chest ached, but not in the theatrical, musically tragic way.

In the quiet, human way.

The I miss you way.

The I might’ve gone too far this time way.

The I have no one left to blame but myself way.

He sat down on the floor of the living room, tea forgotten behind him, and stared at the glass coffee table like it might offer some sort of answer.

His calendar was booked solid.

His name was trending again.

His face was on another massive billboard.

And still—

Still, he felt like a house that had already collapsed, just pretending it hadn’t.

Smile for the Suits

The office was all glass and intention.

Keiji sat in the lounge area of the executive floor, sunglasses on indoors, hood pulled halfway up like a veil he couldn’t admit he needed. He’d just wrapped an interview on artistic vision, followed by a ten-minute lecture on his next campaign rollouts.

He hadn’t said more than five words outside of rehearsed talking points all morning.

Then—

“Are you trying to look mysterious, or are you just that hungover?”

He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Haruna.

Keiji exhaled. “Do you ever not enter a room like you’re picking a fight?”

“Do you ever answer a question without sounding like you’re annoyed by existing?”

She dropped onto the couch beside him like she owned the place.

Keiji turned to look at her.

Sleek ponytail. Gold rings on every other finger. Oversized blazer. Sharp-lined eyeliner and eyes that dared you to misunderstand her.

She was sharp. Loud. Too much in the exact way the label loved right now.

And for just a second—

She reminded him of Bokuto.

That too-big energy. That refusal to sit quietly. The way she filled a room and didn’t apologize for it.

It made his throat tighten.

Haruna raised a brow. “What?”

Keiji blinked. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me like I just told you I was your long lost twin.”

“You just remind me of someone.”

She scoffed. “Wow. Deep.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Good. You’re bad at it.”

A silence settled.

Not uncomfortable. Just aware.

Haruna reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of mints, popping one into her mouth. She offered him one without looking.

Keiji took it.

“You here for another PR brainstorm?” He asked.

“Lunch with your manager.”

“Pity invite?”

She snorted. “Probably.”

Then, a beat later:

“You okay?”

Keiji looked at her again.

She wasn’t mocking this time.

Not pushing.

Just watching.

He almost said yes.

Almost gave her the polished version.

But something in her face, maybe the way she didn’t blink, maybe the fire she refused to dim, made him tell the truth instead.

“No.”

Haruna nodded once. She didn’t pry.

Just leaned back into the couch, legs crossed, mint clicking against her teeth.

“Well. If it helps, your performance the other day made me cry, and I hate admitting that.”

“You cried?” Keiji echoed, surprised.

“Shut up.”

“Was it the lighting? The outfit?” 

“You’re a menace.”

He smirked, just a flicker.

And it felt weird. Foreign. Like muscle memory of a feeling he hadn’t let himself access in weeks.

Haruna glanced sideways at him. “If we’re stuck pretending we’re dating for the tabloids, you better start being less depressing.”

Keiji scoffed. “You love my brooding.”

“I tolerate your brooding. I love the royalty checks.”

He laughed under his breath.

And again, it felt strange. But not bad.

~~~

Love Me Harder by Ariana Grande ft. The Weeknd (Used as a Haruna ft. Keiji original)

The recording booth was dimly lit, soft LED glow casting the room in blues and purples.

Haruna stood near the mic, headphones perched over her sleek ponytail. She was running through a section of the chorus, eyes closed, voice sultry but sharp. Confident in a way that felt earned, not rehearsed.

Behind the glass, Keiji sat in the producer’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, leaning forward just enough to show he was listening. His expression unreadable, eyes flicking between her and the screen.

The track played back.

“‘Cause if you want to keep me,

You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta

Got to love me harder…”

She cut herself off mid-line and exhaled. “Too breathy?”

“No,” Keiji said into the mic. “It works. One more like that. But this time, pull back just a little on the vibrato. Trust the lyric.”

Haruna rolled her eyes. “You say that like it’s not the hardest part.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s the part that matters.”

Later, they switched.

Keiji stepped into the booth. He wore black from head to toe, sleeves pushed up, hair just barely disheveled. Like he hadn’t decided if he cared about today yet.

The verse came in, his part.

Low. Velvet. Controlled.

He didn’t sing so much as burn slowly into the mic.

“I know your motives, and you know mine

The ones that love me, I tend to leave behind…”

From the console, Haruna watched. And for a moment, just a breath, she saw something break open in him.

A flicker of ache behind the smoothness.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t call it out.

But when he stepped out of the booth, she handed him his water bottle without a word.

They sat side by side on the studio couch as the playback rolled.

“You hate this song, don’t you,” Haruna said after a beat.

Keiji shrugged. “I think it’s honest. I don’t like that right now.”

Haruna sipped her tea. “Good. That’s why you’re the right one for it.”

He glanced at her. “You really think the label would’ve picked someone else?”

“Oh, they would’ve.” She gave him a knowing look. “But I wouldn’t have said yes.”

That surprised him.

He looked back at the screen.

Haruna leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We’re gonna sell the hell out of this, you know.”

“We already are.”

“Yeah, but—” she paused. “Just once I want to make something that feels like mine. Not theirs.”

Keiji looked at her again. This time… softer.

“Then let’s make this that one.”

And for the first time in days, he meant it.

Not because he needed a hit.

Not because it was strategic.

But because maybe, just maybe, he was starting to care about something again.

~~~

The brief had been clear:

“Lowkey but photogenic. Walk around Tokyo. Grab something at a café. Let the paparazzi do the rest.”

Haruna had rolled her eyes the second she read it.

Keiji hadn’t responded at all, just shown up in a fitted black coat, dark jeans, sunglasses, and that eternally unbothered energy that somehow made everything worse.

The two of them were walking through a high-end side street, lights twinkling overhead, the air crisp. 

“Do you think they’re watching?” Haruna muttered, glancing over her shoulder.

“They’re always watching,” Keiji said dryly.

“Smile for our fake relationship, darling.”

He turned to her and gave the most dead-eyed grin imaginable.

She burst out laughing.

Click.

Across the street, a paparazzi caught the moment in perfect lighting.

Another caught the follow-up: Haruna grabbing his arm while laughing, Keiji biting back a smile, the two of them framed by luxury store windows and golden hour light.

They looked like a real couple.

They weren’t.

But they looked like one.

~~~

At the café, Keiji ordered both drinks because she couldn’t remember what she liked there. Haruna made fun of his “off-duty model” look. He pretended to trip over a chair and said it was for the drama.

They sat outside with their drinks.

Haruna sipped her caramel iced coffee and groaned. “Ugh, they added whipped cream. They’re trying to sabotage me.”

Keiji leaned back in his seat, lazily sipping his matcha. “That’s the price of fame. Sugar foam and sexual tension.”

“Please never say ‘sugar foam’ again.”

Click. Click. Click.

Across the street, the camera shutters snapped quietly.

~~~

Later, on the way back toward the car, a small crowd started forming. A couple of fans. Some strangers with phones out. The usual. Haruna tensed slightly.

Without a word, Keiji shifted closer.

One arm across her back. The other tugging his hood up. He stepped in front of her, not rudely, just enough to shield her from the first few flashes as they ducked through the growing noise and toward the alleyway where Aida waited.

Haruna didn’t say anything at first.

But when they got in the car, cheeks flushed, heart racing, she muttered:

“Thanks. For that.”

Keiji shrugged. “They’re vultures. I don’t like when people stare at you like that.”

She didn’t say anything, but she looked at him for a long time.

A moment passed.

Then they both looked down at their phones.

Because the photos were already blowing up.

~~~

@hourlykeijixharuna: “he covered her in the crowd. i’m throwing up tears. they’re ENDGAME.”

@idolwatchtokyo: “Keiji Akaashi and Haruna seen laughing together in Tokyo. Exclusive pics show the new power duo radiating effortless couple vibes. Thoughts?”

@keijicryclub: “not to be delusional but that’s not how he looked at that mystery guy in those pics a year ago.”

Top Comment on TikTok Recap Video: “my parents. literally my parents.”

~~~

Back in the car, Haruna was scrolling. “They’ve already given us a ship name.”

Keiji sighed. “God help me.”

“Harushi.”

“No.”

“Keina?”

“Still no.”

She smirked. “We could always just… not fake date?”

Keiji looked at her sideways. “And disappoint millions?”

“Right. How dare we.”

But under all the sarcasm, for the first time in days—

He felt… okay.

Maybe not happy. But steady.

And maybe, in this strange little pretend partnership, that was enough for now.

Collision Course

Oikawa stood frozen in Iwaizumi’s room, half a piece of a potato chip in his mouth, phone in hand, face absolutely ghost white.

Iwaizumi stepped out of the bathroom mid-shirt adjustment. “What? What happened?”

Oikawa didn’t respond at first. Just turned the phone around slowly.

On screen: A high-res photo of Keiji and Haruna walking through the city, laughing. One of Keiji holding his hand behind her back, shielding her from the crowd.

Their faces soft. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“Oh… shit,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“He’s gonna see this, Hajime.”

“No, no—he can’t see this. We have to—” Iwaizumi blinked.

“Where’s Bokuto?”

“Living room— OH MY GOD HE HAS HIS PHONE.”

~~~

Cue a blur of panic.

Oikawa skidded into the living room where Bokuto was scrolling on his phone, hair a mess, blanket around his shoulders like a cape.

“GIVE ME THAT—”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

Iwaizumi came flying in behind Oikawa. “YOUR PHONE. WE NEED IT.”

“Um— why??” Bokuto clutched it tighter, suspicious.

“SURPRISE PHONE CLEANING.”

“GOVERNMENT RECALL.”

“THERE’S A BUG. A VIRAL BUG. IT’S EATING PHOTOS.”

“I literally just updated it.”

“TOO LATE.” Oikawa lunged for the phone.

Bokuto rolled over the couch dramatically, sprinting for the hallway. Blanket still on.

“YOU GUYS ARE BEING WEIRD.”

“WE’RE TRYING TO PROTECT YOUUUU,” Oikawa shouted, chasing him around the table.

“FROM WHAT?”

“FROM HEARTBREAK,” Iwaizumi yelled, tripping over a chair.

They all collapsed in a heap near the coffee table, panting and tangled.

Bokuto, wide-eyed and suspicious, pulled his phone back out and finally said:  “…Wait. What’s this trending tag?”

Oikawa looked at him with pleading eyes. “Bo, don’t—”

He tapped it.

Silence.

He stared at the photos.

The one of Keiji laughing. The one of him reaching toward Haruna. The one that looked like love.

Bokuto’s face changed instantly. The color drained from his skin. The breath left his chest like he’d been hit. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

Oikawa sat up carefully and reached out. “Bo—”

“I’m fine,” Bokuto said quietly.

He wasn’t.

But he stood up anyway. Phone still in hand. Blanket dropped.

“I’m gonna go shower.”

And then he was gone.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Oikawa let his head drop into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “… we really tried.”

Iwaizumi exhaled. “So hard.”

The silence after Bokuto shut the bathroom door hung heavy in the air.

Oikawa stayed on the floor, groaning dramatically into Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Iwaizumi just sighed. Still panting.

Then—

“Wow.”

Both heads turned toward the hallway.

Noya leaned against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed, a bowl of cereal in one hand. Behind him, Asahi stood rubbing his temples like that was the hardest thing he’s ever had to watch.

“You guys suck at espionage,” Noya announced. “You literally tackled him with a blanket cape still on.”

Oikawa groaned. “We tried.”

“Tried and failed.”

Asahi winced. “Spectacularly.”

Noya shook his head like a disappointed coach. “Next time you wanna hide a trending topic, maybe don’t scream ‘SURPRISE GOVERNMENT PHONE CLEANING.’”

Iwaizumi muttered, “Okay yeah, that was weak.”

Noya shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and headed back into his room. “Five out of ten for effort. Negative twelve for execution.”

The door shut behind him.

Oikawa stared at Iwaizumi. “We’re never gonna live that down, are we?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Not even a little.”

~~~

Steam curled at the edges of the mirror.

The water wasn’t running anymore, but Bokuto still sat on the closed toilet lid, towel draped over his shoulders, phone gripped loosely in his lap.

His breathing was shallow.

Sharp.

His chest heaved every few seconds like he was trying not to let it show, like if he just held still enough, he wouldn’t cry.

But the tears were already coming.

Quiet. Messy. No performance here.

He wiped at them roughly with the edge of the towel, like that might stop them.

But it didn’t.

His eyes flicked back down to the photo on his screen.

Keiji laughing.

Keiji shielding someone else.

Keiji looking happy.

He tried to be happy for him.

He tried to believe it.

But all he could see was:

Keiji curled up on Bokuto’s bed, reading a book off his phone, muttering, “Now why would you do that? You know you love him!”

Their fingers brushing backstage, the way Keiji looked up at him with all smiles and support for his performance. 

That night on the balcony, Keiji whispering, “I’m glad you found me.”

Keiji looking away last week, saying, “Don’t ask for me again.”

Bokuto hunched over.

Sobs finally breaking free.

Not loud. Not violent. Just exhausted.

Like his heart had been cracked too many times and this was the last time it had energy left to bleed.

~~~

The label meeting dragged.

A screen projected sales data and fan engagement charts. Minami was talking numbers. Haruna was across the table, half-listening while sipping tea. The air was full of manufactured enthusiasm.

But Keiji—

He couldn’t focus.

His leg bounced under the table. His fingers tapped a phantom rhythm on his knee. He was staring at the data, but not reading it.

Something was off.

Not in the room. In him.

He felt… heavy. Wrong. Like he’d missed something important and the ache hadn’t caught up until now.

Did he see them?

He hadn’t checked his phone since earlier. Didn’t need to. He already knew.

Minami was saying something about a new magazine spread. Haruna threw him a look.

Keiji didn’t react.

Minami’s tone sharpened. “Keiji, are you with us?”

He blinked. Looked up. “Yeah. Sure.”

Haruna frowned.

Keiji stood abruptly. “I need ten.”

Someone in a suit started to protest, but Haruna cut in. 

“Let him breathe. Jesus.”

Keiji left the room.

And the second the door closed behind him—

He sagged against the wall.

Fingers pressed to his eyes.

His throat clenched.

He didn’t cry.

He just—

Felt.

And it hurt like hell.

~~~

Bokuto finally came out of the bathroom.

His eyes were red. His cheeks blotchy. But his expression was composed in that dangerously quiet way. The kind that said he was done crying because there was nothing left.

Oikawa was waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed, back against the wall.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pushed off the wall and walked beside him toward the kitchen.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Bokuto didn’t answer.

They stood at the counter. Oikawa poured them both glasses of water. Handed him one.

After a long silence—

“I’m trying,” Bokuto said finally, voice low. “I really tried to be okay with it. To move on. But seeing him with her, smiling like that…”

He trailed off.

Oikawa nodded. “I know.”

“It felt worse than the first time we broke up. Is that crazy?”

“No. It’s not.”

Bokuto looked down. “I hate how much I still love him.”

Oikawa swallowed. Set his glass down. “You’re allowed to.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Bokuto glanced sideways. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Oikawa gave a tired smile. “No. And knowing him? He won’t let himself be. But maybe someday.”

They stood there together for a while. Quiet. Steady.

~~~

Keiji had come back from his break a little more collected, but colder. He hadn’t spoken much.

Now the team had cleared out.

Just him and Haruna again.

She sat on the couch in the back of the studio, watching him run through a track mix for the tenth time.

He didn’t even flinch when she spoke:

“You’re not okay.”

He kept clicking.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she added. “The ghost mode.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling.”

Keiji stopped. He took a breath.

Then turned toward her. “You read the comments?”

“Of course. They think we’re Tokyo’s favorite couple.”

He huffed. “Yeah. Great PR.”

Haruna stood and crossed to him. Not confrontational, just calm. Steady.

“You can pretend with them,” she said. “Don’t do it with me.”

That stopped him. He looked at her. Really looked.

For once, there wasn’t a wall between them.

Not romance. Not tension.

Just something like—

Recognition.

Haruna stepped back, nodding. “Thought so.”

Then, quietly:

“Whatever it is… I hope it’s not gone forever.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

But he watched her walk out of the studio like someone who maybe, for once, knew how to stay.

~~~

The front door creaked open.

Bokuto walked in, coat half-off, hair wind-tossed, and an expression that screamed “I regret every life decision I’ve made since 6PM.”

Oikawa glanced up from the couch, mouth full of popcorn. “So. Bad date?”

Bokuto collapsed face-first into the cushions. “He referred to Coldplay as ‘classic rock.’”

Coldplay. That was his and Keiji’s band. It was special to them. 

“Yikes.” Oikawa shoved the bowl closer to him in solidarity.

“And he called me ‘bro.’ Three times.”

“Arrestable offense.”

Bokuto groaned into the throw pillow. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t do this. I can’t move on. Nobody is him. I want him.”

Oikawa stilled. His smile faded for a moment. Then: 

“So maybe it’s time to get strategic.”

Bokuto lifted his head. “What does that mean?”

Oikawa’s eyes gleamed like a raccoon who just found a drawer full of shiny drama. “We give him something to see.”

“…What kind of ‘see’?”

Oikawa sat up straighter, fingers already flying over his phone. “A little public illusion. A soft launch. You. You’ll fake a relationship. Just enough to rattle him. Maybe snap him out of his cold, emotionally-repressed fog.”

Bokuto blinked. “That’s—wait. That’s kind of brilliant.”

“I know!” Oikawa beamed. “Nothing crazy. Just a hint. Mystery hand. Or maybe a slight jawline. You can add a caption. Or not.”

“Like ‘date night vibes?’”

“Nah, that’s too on the nose. Go subtler. One emoji like the black heart. Or just the dinner plate one!”

They were spiraling now.

“God, I’m gonna need lighting.”

“Use Noya’s ring lamp.”

“I need a believable stand-in!”

“We can blur the face. Shoulder crop.”

“This is genius.”

“I’m a menace and I live for chaos.”

~~~

Enter Iwaizumi. Towel around his neck, hair damp, face already twisted in suspicion.

He took one look at the duo and muttered, “…No.”

“You don’t even know what we’re doing, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa chirped.

“I do. And it’s dumb.”

“It’s smart!” Bokuto insisted.

“It’s a desperate cry for attention.” Iwaizumi deadpanned.

“Still works,” Oikawa said, unbothered.

Iwaizumi flopped onto the couch beside them and looked Bokuto square in the eye. “Kou, bro, I love you.” 

“I love you, man!” Bokuto’s eyes shimmered. 

Iwaizumi continued. “You’re one of my closest friends. But this plan? It’s garbage.” 

Bokuto’s face fell. 

“He’s not going to come running because you faked a mystery boyfriend. He’s either going to spiral harder or ignore it completely.”

“What if he gets jealous?” Bokuto asked.

“What if he thinks you’ve moved on and finally gives up?”

That landed a little too hard.

The silence that followed wasn’t fun anymore.

Oikawa sobered slightly, voice softer now. “It’s a bad idea.”

Bokuto leaned back. Quiet.

“…But it’s something.”

Iwaizumi sighed and leaned his head against the couch. “You two are impossible.”

“But lovable!” Oikawa offered.

“Barely.”

~~~

The lighting in the living room had shifted to “moody Instagram thirst trap.”

Noya’s lamp was on the coffee table. Oikawa was crouched beside it like a set designer. Iwaizumi sat in the corner, arms crossed, radiating judgment.

“I’m not helping,” he muttered.

“You already are, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa said sweetly. “Your disapproval is the perfect tension.”

Bokuto stood by the couch, shirt perfectly rumpled, sleeves pushed up just enough to look casual. He stared at his phone like it was a live grenade.

“Okay. One blurry mirror pic, hint of collarbone, background wine glass, no face. Just enough to confuse him.”

“Crop the hand in,” Oikawa instructed, scrolling through reference posts on his own phone. “It has to look intimate but not obvious. Like, ‘I’m not hiding him, but also I’m totally hiding him.’”

“Oh, and this song in the background,” Bokuto said, tapping his playlist. Something moody and vague, just sensual enough to hurt.

Oikawa peered over. “That’s good! It’s very soft launch energy.”

“You guys need therapy,” Iwaizumi muttered.

Bokuto took a breath. Hit record.

A short, quiet video. The clink of a wine glass. His hand over someone else’s (Oikawa’s hand, awkwardly posed and already regretting being the stunt double). A low hum of music in the background. Nothing specific.

Just enough.

They stared at it in silence when it was done.

“Okay, what’s the caption?”

“Nothing,” Bokuto said. “That’s the move. No context. Just the video.”

“Bold,” Oikawa grinned. “Post it.”

Bokuto hesitated.

Then: “Screw it.”

Tap.

Posted.

~~~

They all stared at Bokuto’s phone for a second.

Hope and wreckage twined like smoke in the room.

And somewhere in the city, someone was going to feel the ripple.

~~~

The notifications began immediately. Comments from their growing fan base. 

@bokukoutarou uploaded a story.

“Wait… is he dating someone??”

“THAT’S A HAND. WHOSE HAND IS THAT.”

“all the hot ones are always taken.”

“i will not survive a new couple era rn.”

Oikawa clutched his phone and gasped. “Oh my god. Your lil fans are spiraling. I’ve created a monster.”

“It’s working,” Bokuto whispered. “It’s actually working.”

“No,” Iwaizumi said, standing. “It’s a delusion. It’s a terrible plan. And I give it twenty-four hours before it all explodes in your face.”

“So you’re saying there’s time for a second post?”

“I hate you.”

~~~

Oikawa and Bokuto sat glued to the couch, watching the chaos unfold on their phones. Notifications pinged. Some reposts, DMs, group chat screenshots.

Bokuto leaned back, triumphant. “I actually feel a little powerful right now.”

“We’re viral,” Oikawa grinned. “Who knew I would be your mystery boyfriend, Bo-chan!”

In the corner, Iwaizumi rubbed his temples. Then, quietly, deadpan:

“Wait.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“Does Keiji even follow you on Instagram anymore?”

The silence was instant.

Bokuto blinked. Oikawa’s jaw dropped.

“No… his management wiped his old account," Oikawa said slowly, like the realization was physically painful. “His new one follows like three people.”

“…So he’s literally not gonna see this?” Bokuto asked, already sounding devastated.

Iwaizumi leaned back with a smug sip of water. “You two just staged a mildly desperate fake relationship launch… for nobody.”

Oikawa groaned and fell face-first into the couch cushions.

Bokuto grabbed a throw pillow and screamed into it.

Iwaizumi smiled.

“You know what this is?” he said, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “This is karma. And I’m having the best night ever.”

Studio Confessional 

The studio was quiet, just the faint hum of the equipment, the click of Haruna’s acrylics tapping her phone, and the soft swirl of steam rising from Keiji’s matcha.

He pushed through the door like he always did: calm, unreadable, exact. Sunglasses still on, hair tousled in that just-perfect way, all control and composure.

Haruna was curled into the couch in the vocal booth, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and an even bigger smile. Her phone was inches from her face, her legs swaying lazily.

Keiji let the door shut behind him with a quiet click. His voice was still husky with sleep when he asked:

“What are you so glued to?”

She didn’t look up. Just made a dramatic ugh sound and waved the phone.

“My heart just got shattered, that’s all!”

He raised an eyebrow as he set his drink on the table by the soundboard. “Breakup?”

“Betrayal,” she corrected, kicking her heel lightly against the couch. “One of my favorite band vocalists just hard launched some mystery guy and ruined the fantasy for all of us.”

Keiji smirked faintly, settling into his chair. “That’s brutal. Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she grumbled. “I’ve already blocked out the pain.”

He chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his matcha. But something about her tone stuck. She was teasing, but not really. Her energy buzzed with something else. Something close to surprise. Or disbelief.

She kept talking.

“They just got to Tokyo, like, two seconds ago. And he’s already out here being soft and cryptic and annoyingly hot. God.”

Keiji’s brows drew in slightly.

He wasn’t sure why his chest tightened.

“Wait,” he said, lowering his cup, voice light. “Who just got into Tokyo?”

“The band. The one I was telling you about. The one from tbe live performance clips I tried to show you last week?”

He didn’t remember. Or maybe he had tuned her out that day, distracted with work.

She kept scrolling, thumb flying. “Anyway, they came here recently. And then last night, this goes up?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Like, really? You don’t even give us time to pretend you’re single?”

Keiji’s hand was motionless on the edge of the table.

Her words were still harmless. Still vague.

But they were pressing on something in his chest that hadn’t been touched in days.

Something raw.

“…Let me see,” he said casually, reaching out his hand.

Haruna passed him the phone, still rambling. “He posted it on his story. It’s not, like, explicit or anything, but you know. The hand. The vibe. The lighting. And the song choice? Oh my god. It’s so intimate it’s basically foreplay.”

Keiji didn’t respond.

His thumb moved across the screen, silent and slow.

The account loaded.

He didn’t even need to see the name.

The profile picture was enough.

He knew that face.

Keiji had been the one to pick out this profile picture. Back when they visited his parents. Bokuto just never changed it. 

His heart stopped.

His thumb hovered, then tapped.

The story began to play.

Blurry lights. Warm tones. Two wine glasses clinking. A hand draped across someone’s thigh. The faint murmur of a sultry song in the background. Someone’s voice, maybe, but muffled. Not clear enough to confirm. Just enough to hurt.

Keiji blinked once.

Then again.

He didn’t breathe.

The screen went black as the story ended, but he didn’t move.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

His voice was so quiet it almost didn’t make it out.

But Haruna heard it. She glanced over, amused.

“Right?! I mean, aesthetically it’s beautiful. But emotionally? Devastating.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

Because all he could hear was the click of a lighter in his head.

All he could see was Bokuto’s hand. Still wearing the ring Keiji gave him last year. The one he never took off.

And just like that…

everything he buried

had clawed its way back.