Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before the fire comes, there’s always gold…

(recommended song: Sunsetz by Cigarettes After Sex) 

Bokuto woke slowly, the kind of slow that came after nights too heavy to dream. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. There was just warmth, the hush of silence, and the weight of another body pressed against his chest.

Then it sank in. Keiji.

They hadn’t moved all night. Bokuto’s arm was still draped around him, hand curled loosely against the fabric of his shirt. Keiji’s head rested under his chin, breath soft and steady, like the world outside hadn’t touched him. Like nothing could.

The room was still, but the morning wasn’t. Sunlight had started to creep past the edges of the curtains, slanting across the bed in thin golden stripes. One of them caught Keiji’s face just right, brushing over the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, and his lashes that lay feather-light against his skin. He looked unreal. 

Golden.

Bokuto didn’t move. Didn’t dare. His chest ached with the kind of feeling that didn’t need words. The kind you only understood in the quiet, that this was enough. Holding him. Seeing him like this. Existing in a moment that felt stolen from the noise of the world.

It wasn’t forever. He knew that. The weight of everything waiting outside these walls pressed against the edges of his thoughts. But for now, with the sun painting Keiji in gold and his heartbeat steady under Bokuto’s palm, it didn’t matter.

For now, it felt like they hadn’t broken at all.

Bokuto stayed still, eyes half-lidded against the gold spilling through the curtains. He could’ve sworn the light was choosing Keiji on purpose, gilding him like something untouchable.

Then Keiji stirred.

It was small at first. A shift of breath, the faintest twitch of fingers brushing against Bokuto’s shirt. And then, as if in sleep his body knew better than his mind ever allowed, Keiji curled closer. His hand fisted lightly in the fabric, his forehead pressing into the space just under Bokuto’s collarbone.

Bokuto’s chest tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t dare break the spell.

Keiji’s lashes fluttered once, twice. Slowly, his eyes opened, still soft with sleep. For a heartbeat, Bokuto expected the usual. The retreat, the mask, the way Keiji always pulled away before he could be held too long.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, Keiji blinked at him, drowsy, quiet. And then, like sunlight breaking through cloud, he smiled. Small. Gentle. The kind of smile that didn’t belong on stages or in cameras, but here. Just here.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

No sharp words. No armor. Just peace. Keiji looking at him like he was safe. Like last night’s storm hadn’t existed at all.

The weight of it was unbearable in its tenderness. And Bokuto knew he’d hold on to this moment for the rest of his life, even if it was the only one he ever got.

Bokuto swallowed hard, his own lips curving before he could stop them. His voice came out low, reverent, barely more than a whisper.

“Good morning.”

Keiji’s smile lingered, his breath catching just slightly before he whispered back, “…morning.”

Their hands found each other beneath the sheets, fingers brushing, lingering, before settling together in the space between them. Not gripping, not desperate. Just resting, warm and steady.

And in that moment, wrapped in sunlight and silence, there was no storm. No world outside. No weight of the name Starboy.

There was only this.

Bokuto holding Keiji like he was golden. And Keiji, for once, letting him.

Bokuto let the silence linger, memorizing every line of Keiji’s face in the sunlight. But the ache in his chest wouldn’t let him ignore it forever. He shifted slightly, his thumb tracing the back of Keiji’s hand where their fingers still rested together.

“You were burning up last night,” Bokuto murmured, voice low so it didn’t break the fragile quiet. “Onstage… I could see it. You weren’t okay.”

Keiji’s eyes opened again, meeting his. No denial, no mask, just tired honesty.

Bokuto’s brows furrowed, his free hand brushing lightly across Keiji’s forehead like he could will the fever away. “How are you feeling now? Do you need anything? Water, tea, medicine—”

Keiji shook his head, slow, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips. “No. Just…” His voice trailed off, soft as the morning itself. He shifted closer, fingers tightening around Bokuto’s. “…stay with me.”

The words hit like sunlight in Bokuto’s chest, warm and devastating all at once.

He didn’t answer right away. He just tightened his arms around Keiji, pulling him in until his face was buried in dark hair that still smelled faintly of smoke and stage lights. His throat felt thick, but he managed the word anyway.

“Always.”

Keiji’s breath evened out against his chest, his body settling, as if the promise was enough to let him rest.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bokuto believed it too.

Time slipped by unnoticed, the quiet stretching until the sun had climbed fully over the city. The curtains glowed brighter now, and Keiji stirred again, caught in that drowsy space between waking and dreaming.

Bokuto tightened his hold instinctively, but Keiji only shifted, his voice muffled against his chest. “What do you want to eat?”

Bokuto blinked down at him. “Huh?”

Keiji tilted his head just enough to meet his eyes, still heavy-lidded with sleep. “Breakfast.” 

Bokuto’s lips made an o-shape and then he shook his head. “I’m okay, really. Don’t worry about me.”

“Kou—“

“Keiji—”

“No, seriously,” Keiji interrupted, pushing himself upright with a lazy stretch, arms lifting above his head until his shirt tugged at the hem. He stifled a yawn. “What do you want? I’ll have Thomas make something.”

Bokuto froze. “…Thomas?”

Keiji glanced back, brow arched. “Yeah. What about him?”

Bokuto just stared, lips parting like he was trying to put puzzle pieces together that didn’t exist.

Keiji blinked once. Then realization flickered, and his mouth quirked. “Right. You don’t know who Thomas is.”

Bokuto shook his head slowly, still half-stunned.

“My chef,” Keiji said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“…Your chef.”

“Yes.”

“Your private chef.”

“Yes, Koutarou.” Keiji said flatly, rolling his eyes.

There was a long pause. (Maybe because Bokuto’s heart short-circuited hearing his name). Then Bokuto snorted, grinning so wide it crinkled his eyes. “Keiji. You have a private chef.”

Keiji shoved him lightly in the shoulder, his mouth twitching toward a smile. “Shut up.”

Bokuto laughed harder, clutching at his chest in mock offense. “All this time I thought you were a starving artist like the rest of us. Turns out you’ve been hiding Thomas, the magical breakfast man, in your back pocket.”

“Magical breakfast man?” Keiji groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

Bokuto leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Be honest. Is Thomas secretly a Michelin-star chef? Does he wear a little hat? Do you keep him in a cupboard when you’re not hungry?”

Keiji shoved him again, harder this time, but there was laughter in his eyes now. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re spoiled,” Bokuto shot back, grinning. “But I guess I’ll allow it… if Thomas makes pancakes.”

Akaashi’s lips quirked upwards. “You love your pancakes.” 

Bokuto met his eyes with a matching smile. “I do.” 

~~~

The smell of something sweet drifted through the apartment, warm and comforting against the sleek sterility of the space. Bokuto padded out of the shower with a towel slung around his shoulders, hair damp and low.

The sight that greeted him in the kitchen made him stop in his tracks.

Keiji was perched on one of the barstools, arms crossed like a sulking teenager, while a man old enough to be his father worked at the counter with military precision. Pancakes sizzled golden on the skillet, but beside them sat a tall glass of… something. A strange, thick yellow blend that looked more like a science experiment than food.

“I’m not drinking that,” Keiji said flatly, glaring at the glass.

Thomas, silver hair slicked back and sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, didn’t even look up. “You are drinking it. Your fever won’t go down otherwise.”

“It smells like feet,” Keiji argued.

“It smells like turmeric, ginger, and honey,” Thomas corrected. He slid the spatula beneath the pancake, flipping it with surgical precision. “All anti-inflammatory. All good for your throat.”

Keiji groaned and dropped his forehead onto the counter with a soft thunk. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Thomas said dryly, unfazed.

Bokuto leaned against the doorway, wide-eyed, taking it all in. The pristine marble counters, the steaming pancakes, the weird yellow drink, and Keiji pouting like a kid while this unshakable fifty-something man scolded him like it was routine.

“This is your life?” Bokuto finally said, half-stunned, half-amused.

Keiji lifted his head just enough to meet his gaze, eyes narrowing. But before he could deliver a response, Keiji’s heart stuttered from the sight. 

Bokuto’s hair was damp, hanging low over his forehead and just touching his eyes. One thing that remained true was that Akaashi was a sucker for when Bokuto (intentional or not) wore his hair like this. 

With a quirked smile and head slightly tilted to the left, Bokuto looked at him with amusement. Keiji’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly and mustered up the first thing he could think of:

 “…shut up.”

Thomas, without missing a beat, set a perfect stack of pancakes onto a plate and slid it toward Keiji. “Eat. Then drink.”

“I’ll eat.” Keiji muttered, thankful for the interruption, and stabbed a piece of pancake with unnecessary aggression.

Bokuto walked further into the room, shaking his head in disbelief, a grin spreading across his face. “I cannot believe Akaashi Keiji has a private chef forcing him to drink… banana mustard or whatever that is.”

“It’s not banana mustard.” Thomas said crisply, plating pancakes for Bokuto and sliding the dish next to Keiji’s, earning an estatic ‘thank you’ from the golden boy.

“It might as well be.” Keiji grumbled.

Bokuto laughed so hard he had to brace himself on the counter. “Unbelievable. This is actually unbelievable.”

Keiji shot him a look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Settled on his lips was a faint, reluctant smile.

Thomas finally pushed the glass closer, his expression leaving no room for argument. “Drink.”

Keiji sighed like it was the end of the world, then downed a mouthful with a dramatic wince. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Thomas said flatly, turning off the stove and gathering his utensils with quiet efficiency. “Call if you need me. Otherwise, try not to die before lunch.”

And just like that, he wiped down the counter, tucked the towel over his shoulder, and disappeared down the hallway. Leaving Bokuto doubled over in laughter and Keiji glowering at the half-empty glass like it had personally wronged him.

Bokuto was still chuckling, shaking his head as he ate half of a pancake in one bite. “So you’ve got chefs and mystery smoothies and — and who knows what else in here. What’s next? A bowling alley?”

Keiji rolled his eyes, stabbing another piece of pancake. “It’s just a penthouse, Koutarou.”

Bokuto glanced around, the high ceilings, the endless hallways stretching past the kitchen. “Okay, but like… how far back does it even go? Do you live in all of this?”

Keiji hummed, noncommittal, more focused on his breakfast than the question.

Before Bokuto could press further, a voice cut in from behind him. Calm, steady. “He lives in part of it. The rest is for staff and storage.”

Bokuto yelped, actually yelped, spinning so fast he nearly slipped on the tile. “What the—!”

Aida stood in the doorway, hands folded neatly behind his back, face unreadable. Like he’d been there the whole time.

Bokuto’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Do you—do you live here too?!”

“Of course,” Aida said, as if the answer were obvious. “Someone has to make sure he’s safe.”

Bokuto blinked, stunned. “Wait. You… you live here. Like, full-time?!”

“Yes,” Aida replied smoothly. His tone was calm, but something about it made Bokuto feel like the dumbest person alive.

Bokuto turned back to Keiji, eyes wide. “You’ve got live-in security guards?”

Keiji arched a brow, chewing his pancake slowly. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised!” Bokuto sputtered, throwing his hands in the air. “I thought that stuff only happened in movies! Do they all live here? Is there, like, a secret barracks somewhere? Do they eat Thomas’ weird yellow drinks too?”

Keiji actually smiled, faint but real. “You ask too many questions.”

Bokuto’s jaw dropped. “Keiji. You’re living in a spy movie and you didn’t tell me?!”

“Obviously.” Aida said simply, still standing in the doorway like a statue.

Bokuto gasped, pointing dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a secret spy bunker too. Keiji, blink twice if there’s an underground lair with, like… a Batmobile.”

Keiji pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to smother a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh my God, there is a Batmobile,” Bokuto whispered, eyes wide in mock horror.

That did it. Keiji’s laugh slipped free, soft, surprised, but real. He shook his head, covering his mouth as though that could hide it, but the sound lingered in the room anyway.

Bokuto grinned like he’d won a championship.

And in the doorway, Aida stilled.

He’d seen Keiji fight, argue, break down, and wear masks sharp enough to cut steel. But laughter, the kind that was genuine and unguarded, was rare. Almost foreign. Watching it unfold now, hearing the soft sound of it, Aida felt the tight coil of his job ease in his chest. For once, he didn’t think about Minami’s scrutiny, or the weight of the cameras waiting outside.

Keiji was happy.

And that was enough.

By the time breakfast was over, the plates had been placed in the sink and Thomas had long disappeared with the efficiency of someone who’d been doing this for years. Aida’s phone buzzed endlessly from the other room, his voice clipped as he handled whatever fallout Minami was hurling his way.

Keiji, however, was already fading again. The color had drained from his face, and though he tried to hide it, the sickness came back in waves that left him pale and quiet.

Bokuto didn’t hesitate. He raided every corner of the penthouse, dragging back blankets and pillows until Keiji was swallowed whole on the corner of the couch.

Keiji groaned, shifting under the pile. “I’m okay, I’m okay, thank you. No more pillows.”

Bokuto set the last one down triumphantly anyway, before finally flopping onto the couch near the edge of Keiji’s feet. He leaned forward, elbows braced to his knees, studying him.

“So… what, uh… what do you have to do today?” Bokuto asked carefully.

“Nothing.” Keiji murmured, voice soft with exhaustion. He curled further into the blanket, lashes low against his cheeks. “No schedule. Aida canceled it all for me.”

Bokuto blinked, surprised. “He seems like he cares about you.”

Keiji’s lips curved faintly, his eyes half-lidded as he whispered, almost fondly. “The one person, yeah.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, warm and fragile. Bokuto looked at him, at the way the blankets swallowed him, at the soft smile he so rarely showed. 

Caring about Keiji didn’t just mean the image or the empire that he built over time. But instead, it was about this. Sitting here. Making sure he was okay.

Bokuto hesitated, chewing at his bottom lip as he watched Keiji burrow deeper into the blanket. The faint smile still lingered on his face, soft in a way Bokuto almost never got to see.

His chest tightened and Bokuto leaned back into the couch, his voice low, careful, like speaking too loudly might break the moment. “I do,” he murmured. “I care about you.”

For a second, Keiji’s lashes fluttered, eyes flicking toward him, but sleep was already pulling him under. His lips curved faintly, and just before he drifted off completely, he whispered: “Thank you.”

The word settled in Bokuto’s chest like something sacred.

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. Just sat there, watching over him, while the morning light stretched across the room and the world outside kept turning without them.

After an hour, Bokuto moved through the apartment quietly, letting the stillness settle around him. Keiji’s breathing stayed steady from the couch, soft and unbroken.

In the kitchen, Bokuto cleaned the dishes and cups, despite the fact that Keiji probably had someone for that too. But that was when he saw them, a bouquet resting on the counter. The paper was still crisp, the petals fresh. Roses, deep and careful, arranged in a way that didn’t look like something Keiji would buy for himself.

Bokuto froze, water still running over his hands.

He dried them on a dish towel, staring at the flowers a little too long. Who had left them? Oikawa? Miwa? Some label gesture? …Kuroo?

The thought settled sharp in his chest. How often is he here? Did he bring these himself? Do they— Bokuto cut the thought off, pressing his lips together until it hurt. He didn’t want the answer. Not really.

He looked away, only to catch himself in the mirror that lined the far wall. His own reflection stared back, damp hair sticking up in every direction, a t-shirt that wasn’t his, tired eyes he couldn’t quite disguise.

For a second, he hated what he saw. The intruder, the stand-in, the one still waiting on the sidelines while someone else left roses behind.

But then his gaze drifted past the reflection, back to the couch. Keiji, cocooned in pillows, bathed in sunlight, his face soft with sleep.

Bokuto’s chest ached, but the ache twisted into something else. Because if seeing him like this — unguarded, peaceful, golden — meant living with that mirror version of himself, the one that hurt, then he’d take it. Every time.

Any amount of pain was worth it, if it meant this.

He turned from the flowers, from the mirror, and let his eyes settle only on Keiji. The boy, not the mask. The only thing that mattered.

Bokuto leaned over the couch, brushing the back of his hand across Keiji’s forehead. Warm. Too warm. His chest tightened. Quietly, he slipped into the kitchen, soaked a rag in cold water, and wrung it out until it dripped. He padded back and, with infinite care, laid it across Keiji’s forehead. Keiji stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

The apartment door clicked open.

“Hey, Keiji. Hey, Bo-chan.”

Bokuto’s head snapped up.

Oikawa strolled in like he owned the place, with baggy jeans, oversized sunglasses, cropped flowy shirt that swayed as he moved, and shopping bags dangling from both hands. He tossed a key card onto the counter without breaking stride and disappeared into the hallway.

Bokuto blinked. Once. Twice. What just happened?

A beat of silence passed before Oikawa reappeared, slower this time, sunglasses tugged down just enough to reveal his wide eyes. He stopped dead.

“…What. The. Fuck.”

Bokuto froze, lips pressed tight. His hand twitched in the dumbest possible attempt at a wave.

Oikawa’s voice shot up an octave. “Bo-chan?! What are you doing here?”

“Shhh.” Bokuto threw a frantic gesture toward the couch. “He’s sleeping.”

Oikawa blinked at Keiji, then back at Bokuto, then back at Keiji. His jaw dropped. “Oh my god. What is going on?”

The pit in his stomach that formed from the moment Oikawa found out about Akaashi and Kuroo only grew. Because seeing Bokuto here was everything at once. Confusing, exciting, disappointing. The list goes on. 

Bokuto looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His whisper came out desperate, awkward. “I was just—uh—helping. He’s sick. That’s it.”

Oikawa’s sunglasses slid all the way down his nose, eyes narrowing like a cat about to pounce. “Helping. Uh-huh. And by helping you mean… staying the night?”

Bokuto’s face burned. He threw his hands up in panic. “No—I mean, yes—I mean—ugh, Oikawa!”

“That’s why you weren’t home last night! I was wondering where you were at.” Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching at his shopping bags like he’d just uncovered the world’s juiciest scandal. “I leave for one night and suddenly we’re living in a telenovela.”

Bokuto groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but Oikawa was already circling, the grin naturally spreading wide across his lips.

“Bo-chan. You and Keiji. Here. Together.” He leaned in close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

Bokuto buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t start.”

Oikawa was mid-smirk when his eyes flicked back to the couch. His grin faltered. “Wait. What do you mean, he’s sick?”

Bokuto shifted, suddenly serious. “He had a fever last night. Still does. Pushed through his show even though he was burning up, and then…” Bokuto’s voice trailed as his jaw tightened. “There was a guy. Some creep hanging around, following him. He had a knife. Security got him out, but—”

Oikawa’s sunglasses slid fully off, clattering onto the counter as he dropped his bags and crossed to the couch in a rush. He knelt beside Keiji, gently taking his hand in both of his, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“Oh my God,” Oikawa whispered, eyes shining. “Bokuto… thank God you were there.”

Bokuto’s chest ached at the sight. Oikawa, usually so put-together and smug, now trembling at Keiji’s side.

“Being in the spotlight. Being an idol. It hasn’t been easy since day one,” Oikawa murmured, voice breaking. He looked at Keiji’s sleeping face, then back down at their joined hands. “I could tell. I always could. But he would never admit it. Not to me, not to anyone.”

His voice cracked. “I’m just… glad he could rely on someone for once.” His gaze flicked up to Bokuto, wet at the corners but steady. “You. Out of all people, you.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Bokuto sat frozen for a beat, staring at the curve of Keiji’s cheek, the faint flush of fever still warming his skin. Then he drew a steady breath.

“I’ll always be there for him,” Bokuto said quietly. His voice wasn’t dramatic, not like Oikawa’s, but sure, anchored, as if every syllable was carved from his chest. “Even if it hurts. Even if he doesn’t want me to be sometimes… I’ll still be here. Like I told you the other day. It’s always going to be him.” 

Oikawa’s heart swelled at his words, but it also twisted as he couldn’t help but wonder: If Keiji could break him once, what’s stopping it from happening again?

But regardless, Bokuto meant it. Every bit of it.

And Oikawa knew that. He always has. So he gave a small shaky nod, despite the tears welling at his eyes threatening to spill.

And between them, Keiji stirred faintly in his sleep, still wrapped in blankets, unaware of the way the people who loved him were holding him together.

~~~

By the time Keiji stirred awake, the room smelled like broth and garlic. He blinked against the light, rubbing at his eyes.

On the coffee table sat a bowl of steaming ramen. Not the foil-wrapped instant kind he hoarded in the cabinet. This was rich, golden broth, noodles coiled perfectly, garnished with scallions and a soft-boiled egg.

Keiji squinted. “…Thomas?”

“Nope!” Oikawa’s voice rang out, far too loud for the quiet of the morning. He appeared with a flourish, wearing a striped apron that said Kiss the Chef. “It’s just the two best chefs of all time. Me, Chef Tooru, and my line cook, Bo-chan!”

Bokuto stepped out behind him, hair dry and fluffy, wearing an apron too — pink, and dusted with a splash of broth. He gave Keiji a sheepish grin, chest puffed with pride.

Keiji sat up slowly, dumbfounded. “You both… made this?”

Bokuto nodded like he’d just won a gold medal. “Yes!” 

Oikawa smirked. “Obviously. You’re welcome.”

Keiji blinked between them, still disbelieving. But when Bokuto crossed the room, with a glass of water, Keiji’s disbelief faltered into something else. Bokuto set the water down within reach, then crouched a little, eyes searching his face.

“Feeling any better?” Bokuto asked softly, the back of his hand brushing Keiji’s forehead before he even thought about it.

Heat crept up Keiji’s neck. “I—um. I guess.”

Oikawa leaned casually against the counter, arms folded, watching it unfold like a soap opera. His smirk stretched wider when Keiji’s eyes darted away, color blooming in his cheeks.

Bokuto didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. He fussed with the blanket around Keiji’s shoulders, adjusted the bowl so it was closer, muttered something about making sure he drank the broth. His worry was obvious, laid bare for anyone to see.

Keiji risked one glance up and caught Oikawa’s eyes across the room.

Oikawa arched a brow, his grin positively feral, saying through expression: Oh, we’re going to talk about this later.

Keiji’s blush deepened, and he ducked his head, fumbling with his chopsticks.

Bokuto just smiled, oblivious, and said: “Eat while it’s hot, okay?”

Akaashi nodded and began to enjoy the ramen. But no bit of content or peace lasts in Keiji’s world. In fact, it’s very short lived. Especially with Tooru around.

From the counter, Oikawa leaned in, his grin widening. “Wow, Bo-chan,” he said brightly. “You’re really good at this caretaker thing. You sure you haven’t been practicing on anyone else?”

Anyone else…

Atsumu? 

Was that real? 

Bokuto looked up, blinking, utterly guileless. “Huh? Nope. Just him.”

Oh. 

The words landed like a punch to Keiji’s chest. His ears went pink instantly. “Tooru—”

But Oikawa wasn’t done. He tilted his head, sing-song. “Mm, no wonder you’re blushing, Keiji. Must be nice, having Bo-chan fuss over you like this.”

The chopsticks clattered against the bowl. Keiji’s glare could have cut glass. “Tooru.”

Bokuto’s head snapped between them, confused. “Wait, what? Did I do something wrong?”

Oikawa just sipped his tea, smug and sparkling, like he’d won a gold medal. “Oh no, Bo-chan. You’re doing everything right.”

Keiji groaned, dragging the blanket over half his face to hide the color burning there. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He muttered, voice muffled in the fabric.

Oikawa gasped, hand over his chest in mock offense. “Excuse me? I live here.”

“Unfortunately.” Keiji shot back without lifting his head.

Oikawa’s grin only widened. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes sparkling. “Face it, Keiji. You’re stuck with me. And honestly? I’ve never been happier.”

Keiji groaned louder, burying himself deeper.

Bokuto frowned, scratching at the back of his neck. “Uh… did I miss something?”

“Nope.” Oikawa answered smoothly, sipping his tea with a grin that made Keiji want to throw the ramen bowl at him. “Everything’s perfect.”

From under the blanket, Keiji muttered, “I hate you both.”

Bokuto blinked, then broke into a broad grin. “Hey, at least you’re talking again. That’s progress.”

Keiji groaned again, but the smallest, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips where neither of them could see.

Oikawa had barely finished his tea before he was fishing his phone out of his pocket. “You know what? This is too good not to share.”

Keiji peeked warily from behind the blanket. “…Tooru.”

But it was too late. He already had FaceTime ringing.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa sang as soon as the call connected. He beamed at the screen, tilting the phone dramatically. “Guess who’s here!”

On the other end, Iwaizumi’s face was a blur of motion and static. “I can’t see anything, it’s all blurry.”

Oikawa groaned. “Ugh, Iwa-chan, it’s your data, isn’t it? Fix it.”

“Phone bills are expensive! Priorities. We’ve been over this, baby.” Iwaizumi grumbled. “Oh wait—hold on. Okay, I can see now. Oh… Akaashi, nice, hey! Who’s the guy?” His voice dropped to a mutter, confused.

“Hey, bro!” Bokuto’s voice boomed before anyone could stop him. He barreled across the room, practically tackling Oikawa for the phone.

Iwaizumi’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Bokuto—BOKUTO? Wait, what?!”

Oikawa was already doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach as Bokuto grinned into the camera like a kid on Christmas.

“That’s what I said!” Oikawa cackled, the sound echoing through the apartment.

Keiji groaned and yanked the blanket back over his face, muttering, “I’m going to kill him.”

Bokuto only grinned wider, waving so enthusiastically the screen shook. “Surprise!”

Iwaizumi’s voice nearly blew out the speaker. “Wait—what the hell are you doing there?!”

Bokuto, still grinning into the camera, leaned so close his fluffy hair brushed the lens. “Hanging out!”

“Hanging—?” Iwaizumi sputtered. “Weren’t you supposed to be at work or something? What is going on?”

Oikawa swiped the phone back with a flourish, angling it toward the couch where Keiji sat half-buried in blankets, chopsticks still in hand. “Iwa-chan, look. Doesn’t this explain everything?”

Keiji groaned audibly. “Do not drag me into this.”

“Oh my God,” Iwaizumi muttered, squinting at the screen.  “Akaashi. Hey, long time. Uh—” His eyes flicked past Keiji toward the looming figure hovering nearby. “And yeah— i’m not dreaming, are I? That’s definitely Bokuto standing behind him, isn’t it?”

“Yep!” Oikawa chirped, positively gleeful.

“Why?!” Iwaizumi demanded.

“Good question!” Oikawa cheered, cackling as Bokuto tried to snatch the phone back.

“Keiji’s sick!” Bokuto shouted over him, triumphant when he finally got the camera again. He held it at arm’s length, angling it down so Iwaizumi could see the mountain of pillows on the couch. “So I stayed to help. Look, doesn’t he look cozy?”

“I hate all of you.”

Oikawa leaned into the frame, smirking like the devil himself. “Doesn’t it just melt your heart, Iwa-chan? Bo-chan playing nurse, Akaashi blushing like a schoolgirl—”

“I heard that,” Keiji’s muffled voice groaned from beneath the blanket.

Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose on the other end, muttering: “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.” He squinted at Bokuto. “Bo, you better not be making a mess of things.”

Bokuto gasped, scandalized. “Me? Never!”

The camera wobbled as Oikawa leaned closer, whispering loudly enough for them to hear: “He totally is.”

“I heard that too!” Keiji barked, face still hidden.

“Hey! Wait—“ Bokuto’s eyes widened. “What are you insinuating?! Insinuating— that’s the word right?” 

“Yes.”

Iwaizumi sighed, shaking his head. “I’m hanging up before this gets dumber.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Oikawa gasped. “Iwa-chan, don’t you want to see how cute they are together?”

The call disconnected.

Oikawa stared at the blank screen, then burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped the phone. Bokuto looked horrified, and Keiji muttered from beneath the blankets, “I really, really hate you both.”

The apartment finally settled, the laughter fading with Oikawa’s footsteps as he retreated to his room, still muttering to himself about “iconic reveals” and “history in the making.”

Bokuto lingered awkwardly in the silence, running a hand through his hair. His chest was buzzing with leftover chaos. Iwaizumi’s voice ringing in his ears, Oikawa’s cackling, but when he looked back to the couch, everything stilled.

Keiji had lowered the blanket just enough to peek out, his cheeks still faintly pink, his eyes tired but soft. He toyed with his chopsticks absentmindedly, the bowl of ramen half-finished on the table.

Bokuto padded back over and sat on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle the pillows. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to… you know. Cause a whole scene.”

Keiji blinked at him, quiet for a long moment. Then, to Bokuto’s surprise, the corners of his mouth curved just slightly. “That was always going to be a scene. Oikawa lives for that kind of thing.”

For a moment, Koutarou stilled. Like his breath was stolen from him. Because maybe Keiji didn’t realize it, but somehow, he always knew what to say. He always knew what words would calm Bokuto’s racing heart and tireless mind. 

Bokuto Koutarou, for all of his life, had always felt like too much. 

Too loud. 

Too happy. 

Too passionate. 

Too emotional.

Too himself. 

That was, until he met Keiji. And somehow, as if the galaxy God’s themselves were in control, the stars aligned. Because Akaashi just understood Bokuto from the start. He understood his drive, his passion, his wants and his needs. All in a matter of moments. 

Although he knows they mean well, his friends and family have never quite fully understood him. Sometimes they hadn’t realized how harmful their remarks were to Bokuto’s self-esteem. But he couldn’t blame it on them. Not when he too, believed he was too much. 

After all, Keiji gave up in the end. He ran off to someone else. Someone who was just a tad bit more mellow. Someone who matched Keiji in his composure and the way he carried himself. Someone who knew Keiji’s deep and darkest desires. 

Have I always been this blind? 

“Besides, he wouldn’t have had anything to work with if it weren’t true.” 

And, oh. 

The words left Keiji’s mouth faster than he could even process them. His cheeks flushed, heat climbing up his neck. His eyes darted away from Bokuto’s so fast, it was painfully obvious how embarrassed he was. 

That’s right. 

Keiji always knew how to pull Bokuto in. To let him know that his dreams, ideas and thoughts were never too much. That instead, they were always achievable, wonderful and right. 

So perfectly right. 

This man in front of Koutarou still had the same light. In the ways that made him so wonderful. And Bokuto wanted to hold on forever, no matter what distance Keiji would keep him at. 

Finally, Bokuto laughed under his breath, relieved. And he reached forward before he could stop himself. His fingers brushed lightly against Keiji’s temple, checking his temperature again. Still warm, but a little better.

Keiji didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re still hot,” Bokuto said softly, then immediately cursed himself. “I mean—your forehead, you’ve still got a fever.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Keiji’s face, the blush deepening. “Mm. Right.”

Bokuto smiled sheepishly, letting his hand fall back to the couch cushion. “But you’re getting better. I can tell.”

Keiji looked at him for a long time, his expression unreadable in the morning light. Then he shifted, just enough that his foot brushed against Bokuto’s thigh under the blanket. It wasn’t much, barely anything, but it was something.

And Bokuto, heart thundering, let the silence hold them.

Bokuto sat quietly, watching Keiji take another slow bite of noodles, his own thoughts a storm he couldn’t quite settle. Finally, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I should… probably go.”

Keiji froze mid-slurp, chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked up, sharp even in his exhaustion. “…You have plans today?”

Bokuto shook his head, his voice soft. “No. I just… don’t want to be in your way.”

The silence stretched for a beat, the only sound the quiet clink of chopsticks against porcelain. Then Keiji set the bowl down, his gaze steady, unreadable.

“You’re not.”

Bokuto blinked, his chest tightening. The words were simple, but the weight behind them sank deep.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Just Keiji’s tired eyes, Bokuto’s startled breath, and the afternoon light pooling around them like it had been waiting for this.

“I mean, you don’t have to stay,” Keiji continued, eyes dipping toward the bowl again. His voice was soft, almost too soft. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to. I just…”

Bokuto leaned forward instinctively, pulse drumming in his ears. “You just…” His voice caught, like the air had been punched out of him.

Say it, Keiji. Say it. Say you want me here.

Keiji’s throat worked as he set the chopsticks down, fingers curling against the rim of the bowl. “Tooru will be busy today. He won’t be around.” He paused, the silence fragile. “And it’s kind of… lonely here sometimes.”

The words hit Bokuto harder than any rejection ever could. Not a plea, not an admission, but something rawer. An opening he wasn’t supposed to see.

His chest ached, but all he could do was nod, steady, sure. “Then I’ll stay.”

For once, Keiji didn’t argue.

~~~

It was later in the afternoon, the light shifting gold again through the wide windows. Keiji sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, a notebook open on his lap though the pen in his hand hadn’t moved in minutes. Bokuto sat nearby, fiddling idly with his phone but stealing glances whenever he thought he could get away with it.

“What are you working on?” Bokuto asked finally, nodding toward the notebook.

Keiji’s fingers tightened on the pen. “Just… lyrics. Nothing that matters, really.”

“What?!” Bokuto practically gasped. “It matters if you wrote it!” 

Keiji’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He stared at the page like the words there were trying to betray him. “You’ve heard the new album, right?”

Bokuto nodded with eagerness. “Yeah. Everyone has. It’s everywhere.”

Keiji’s laugh was soft, bitter. “It’s not me.”

Bokuto blinked, wide-eyed. He’d thought it — God, he’d felt it listening — but hearing Keiji say it out loud still stole his breath. “Oh.” He fumbled, not wanting to sound accusing, not wanting to make it worse. “I mean… I kind of thought that too. But I didn’t want to…” He trailed off, sheepish.

Keiji finally looked at him, gaze sharp but tired. “The songs that are mine — really mine — didn’t make it through. Only a few did. The label doesn’t want them. They don’t want the truth or the pain. They want glamour. Something they can sell.”

Bokuto’s chest ached. “But your truth is the best part,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

Keiji flinched at the intensity, his eyes flicking away. “…Is it? Because no one else seems to think so. Definitely not the ones who decide what the world hears.” His voice was quiet, raw. “And if no one hears it, does it even matter?”

Bokuto leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, desperate for him to believe it. “It matters to me. Every word. Every note. It all matters. Even if the whole world ignores it, even if they only want the shiny stuff… it still matters. Because it’s you, Keiji.”

Keiji went still. His throat worked, his gaze fixed on the page again, but his pen didn’t move. For the first time in a long time, he let the silence hang without rushing to fill it.

Bokuto couldn’t take his eyes off the closed notebook. His chest felt tight, his thoughts buzzing. Finally, he swallowed hard and leaned in a little.

“Can I… hear it?” he asked softly.

Keiji’s brows furrowed. “Hear it?”

“The song. The way it’s supposed to sound. Not just the words.” Bokuto hesitated, then added quickly, “Only if you want to.”

For a long moment, Keiji just stared at him. The kind of stare that usually meant retreat was coming. A wall, a deflection, anything to keep himself safe. But then… he sighed. Slow. Heavy.

He picked up the notebook again, flipped it open, and after another beat of silence, he let the pen rest on the page like an anchor. Then, without looking at Bokuto, he sang.

His voice was soft at first, hesitant. Nothing like the sharp polish he wore onstage.

“I can’t wait to see your face, 

Crash when we’re switching lanes,

My love’s beyond the pain,

But if I miss the brake… 

We’re dancing in the flames.”

The words hung in the air, trembling but true.

Bokuto’s eyes widened, his whole body stilling. He’d heard Keiji sing a thousand times, but never like this. No production. No mask. Just raw, unguarded pain wrapped in a melody that cracked something open in his chest.

When the last note faded, silence filled the room. Bokuto realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Keiji…” His voice broke on the name. He swallowed hard, searching for something, anything, that could capture what he’d just felt. “That was… beautiful.”

Keiji finally looked at him, and for the briefest moment, there was no mask at all. Just a boy letting someone see him burn.

Then he looked away, closing the notebook with a soft thud. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not what they want.”

The silence after Keiji’s voice faded was thick, electric. Bokuto’s heart was still pounding, the words echoing in his chest like they belonged there.

And then, like a switch, an idea lit up in his mind.

“Keiji,” he said suddenly, sitting forward. “Do you ever record songs here? Like… do you have a room for that?”

Akaashi blinked, caught off guard. “I do. I have a studio room… and my desk in my bedroom as well.” His eyes narrowed, studying Bokuto’s sudden spark. “Why?”

Bokuto’s grin spread slow and sure, bright enough to cut through the heaviness. “Because.” He leaned closer, voice low but full of conviction. “We’re gonna make you a song you’re proud of.”

For a moment, Keiji just stared at him, searching his face for the joke, the flaw, the inevitable retreat. But Bokuto didn’t waver. His smile wasn’t naive. It was steady, stubborn, the kind of promise Bokuto only made when he meant it with his whole chest.

Keiji’s throat tightened. “…With you?”

“Yeah.” Bokuto’s grin softened into something gentler, his eyes wide and earnest. “With me. Just us.”

The air between them shifted. It was fragile, heavy, hopeful. And for the first time in a long time, Keiji felt the possibility of a song that could actually be his.

Not long after, Keiji led him down a quiet hallway, stopping at a door that looked no different from the others. But when he pushed it open, the space inside was nothing like the rest of the penthouse.

It was a world of its own.

The walls were lined with instruments. Guitars polished to gleam, a keyboard set beneath a neat rack of headphones, even a drum kit tucked carefully into the corner. A massive sound table sat at the center, covered in sliders, switches, and glowing lights that looked more spaceship than music room. And across the glass barrier was the soundproof booth. A single mic suspended from the ceiling, waiting, surrounded by padded walls that seemed to hum with silence.

Keiji stepped inside like it was second nature, his hand brushing over the edge of the console. “Every instrument’s hooked in. The board’s the same one I use at the labels studio. And that,” he nodded toward the booth, “is where I do most of the vocals.”

Bokuto stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “This is insane.”

Keiji’s lips twitched faintly. “It’s just a studio.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto said, still grinning, “this is a dream.”

Then he stopped short. His eyes landed on a brushed metal compressor tucked beside the newer equipment. Its surface was worn, the knobs smooth from years of use.

He crouched down, fingertips brushing lightly over the edge. “Wait… this looks just like—” His voice caught in a sudden rush of memory. “My dad has one of these. In the basement studio. Remember?”

Keiji froze, his gaze sliding toward the piece of gear. The old hum of that basement crept back in uninvited. The faint smell of wood and dust, Bokuto’s father adjusting the levels with easy hands, Bokuto sprawled across the carpet grinning like the world was his as he watched Keiji and his dad play the electric guitar together. 

“…Yeah,” Keiji said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “I remember.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the machines filled the silence, old and new colliding in the space between them.

Then Keiji turned back to the console, fingers grazing the knobs with practiced ease. “Come on,” he said, forcing his voice steady again. “If we’re doing this, we should start.”

Bokuto’s grin crept back, wide and boyish as he straightened up from the old compressor. “This is crazy, Keiji. Show me how it works.”

Keiji blinked. “What?”

“All of it.” Bokuto spread his arms, like he could scoop the whole room into his chest. “The table, the mics, the booth. Everything. I wanna see you do your thing.”

Keiji’s brows drew together, skepticism flickering across his face. But Bokuto’s eyes were shining, so eager it was almost impossible to resist. With a small sigh, Keiji slid into the chair at the console, his fingers automatically brushing over the sliders, flipping a switch to bring the board to life. Lights blinked awake, little constellations across the surface.

“Each channel here controls a different input,” Keiji explained, voice slipping into that low, steady cadence he used when he was focused. He adjusted a few knobs, the screen glowing with the waveforms of silence. “This is for vocals, this is guitar. You can add effects, filters. It all runs through here.”

Bokuto leaned over his shoulder, eyes wide. “It’s like a spaceship.”

Keiji huffed a soft laugh despite himself. “Hardly.”

“No, really,” Bokuto said, still grinning. “You’re like Captain Akaashi, at the controls.”

Keiji rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Bokuto admitted, leaning closer, “but I’m paying attention. Promise.”

Keiji’s fingers stilled for just a second at the warmth in his voice. Then, with a quiet breath, he nodded toward the booth. “Alright then. Let’s make something.”

For the next couple of hours, the studio was theirs.

They sprawled across the floor, slouched in chairs, traded spots at the console as though the room had always belonged to them. Keiji adjusted sliders and tapped at keys, weaving little loops of sound into the air. Bokuto leaned close, wide-eyed, as if each beat was a secret only he was being let in on.

Keiji scribbled in his notebook, lines half-finished, words trailing off. Bokuto didn’t just read them. He consumed them, his brow furrowed like every lyric was another piece of Keiji he wanted to hold onto.

They teased each other over botched takes, over clipped recordings and bad timing. They lingered in the silences between, the weight of the unsaid pressing in but never breaking the fragile rhythm they’d found. It was crazy, how quickly normalcy had settled back in. Like the years between had folded into nothing.

And then Bokuto, restless as ever, reached for the guitar propped against the wall. He plucked at the strings, tuning by ear with surprising care, before glancing up at Keiji with a spark in his eyes.

“Let’s try something.”

The air shifted.

Keiji studied him for a long moment, pen paused mid-scribble. Then, without a word, he leaned back, waiting.

Bokuto adjusted the guitar in his lap, testing a few strings until the sound rang clean. He glanced at Keiji, hesitant but smiling.

“Just… let me know what you think of this.”

Dancing In The Flames - Acoustic by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji and Bokuto original) 

He started strumming, slow and steady, building a gentle rhythm that filled the room without crowding it. The chords settled like a heartbeat, soft and sure.

Keiji stilled. His pen slipped from his fingers, forgotten on the page as he leaned back, listening. Something in the sound unraveled him, like release, like air filling his lungs for the first time in weeks. Someone finally understood where he was. Someone saw him.

And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out of him, low and true:

“Traffic dies while we’re racing home.”

Bokuto’s heart stuttered, his fingers faltering for half a beat before he found the rhythm again. He didn’t dare look up, not when Keiji’s voice filled the space between them like it belonged there.

God. Oh, how beautiful Akaashi Keiji was.

Keiji’s eyes fluttered closed, his voice stronger now, flowing with the chords:

“Melted lights cover the open road.”

It was second nature. The way he matched Bokuto’s rhythm, the way his voice blended with the strings as if he’d always belonged in them. No hesitation, no mask. Just him.

“I hope we make it, ‘cause I’ve been chasing

another odyssey.”

The words rang through the studio, raw and aching. And Bokuto, strumming steady even as his chest threatened to burst, knew he’d never forget this moment.

The guitar kept them tethered, Bokuto’s strumming steady and warm, the sound wrapping around them like the safest of walls. At some point, the chairs had been abandoned. They sat cross-legged on the floor now, knees nearly brushing, nothing between them but six strings and the truth spilling out.

Keiji’s voice rose, low and steady, pouring straight from somewhere Bokuto had only ever dreamed of reaching:

“I can’t wait to see your face crash when we’re switching lanes,

my love’s beyond the pain,

but if I miss the brake,

we’re dancing in the flames.”

The chords vibrated against Bokuto’s chest. He found himself singing before he even realized it, voice husky but sure, folding into Keiji’s:

“It’s indescribable…”

The sound of their voices together cracked something open. Keiji’s eyes lifted, and for once, he didn’t hide. He let the smile tug at his lips, unguarded, light as sunlight through stormclouds.

Bokuto’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop playing.

Keiji leaned into the rhythm, the words tumbling free like they’d been waiting for this exact moment:

“The world can’t heal, they say on the radio,

so grab the wheel, want you to be in control.”

Their eyes stayed locked, the lyrics no longer just a song but a conversation. A confession. Every strum, every note said what neither of them could put into plain words.

And in that small studio, floor beneath them, guitar between them, the world outside didn’t exist. There was only this. Music that was finally theirs, and the way it bound them closer than ever before.

Their knees almost touched, breaths mingling in the tiny space between. Bokuto’s strumming steadied, pulling the chords into a pulse, a heartbeat neither of them wanted to end.

Keiji leaned into it, his voice threading through the strings like silk:

“We’re dodging headlights and you say hold tight…

another odyssey.”

His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering fully to the chorus as it spilled out of him, raw and unguarded.

“I can’t wait to see your face crash when we’re switching lanes,

my love’s beyond the pain,

but if I miss the brake,

we’re dancing in the flames.”

Bokuto’s gaze didn’t waver. He strummed, steady and reverent, utterly captivated. Every note, every line carved itself into him like scripture.

And in that moment, he thought he could spend his whole life chasing this sound, this boy, this light, and still never deserve it.

Keiji’s voice carried the final refrain, low and aching, filling the studio until it felt too small to contain it.

It was golden, electric, and heavy with everything unsaid.

Out in the hall, Oikawa paused mid-step, the faint strains of music curling beneath the door. He tilted his head, curiosity tugging him closer until he eased it open a crack.

The sight hit him all at once: Keiji on the floor, eyes closed, voice spilling free; Bokuto hunched over the guitar, gaze fixed on him like nothing else in the universe mattered.

Oikawa’s hand hovered against the doorframe, his chest tightening.

His heart could have burst with it, the sound, the sight, the truth of it all.

The chords slowed, softened, Bokuto’s strumming steady as he watched Keiji’s lips shape the words.

“Everything’s faded… we barely made it.”

Keiji’s voice was quiet but sure, threaded through with something rawer than sound.

Bokuto’s chest ached, and he leaned into the harmony without thinking, his voice slipping in warm and certain:

“The fire’s ragin’…”

And then together, eyes locking in the space between them:

“…but you’re still beautiful.”

The words crashed through Keiji, sharper than any spotlight. Heat climbed his neck, flooding his cheeks until he had to look away, lashes low, as though the song itself had stripped him bare.

But the guitar pulled him back, coaxing him into the final lines. His voice wavered, then steadied, filling the room one last time:

“And it’s amazing, ‘cause I can taste it…

our final odyssey.”

The last note lingered, trembling in the air between them.

Bokuto’s fingers stilled on the strings, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Keiji. Blushing, vulnerable, beautiful in a way no stage could ever capture.

And for a heartbeat, maybe longer, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to this moment, this song, this boy across from him.

Keiji leaned forward, eyes still half-closed, and fell headfirst into the chorus again. His voice stretched, reaching new edges, bending riffs into places the melody hadn’t gone before. He explored every note like it was territory that had been waiting for him. And Bokuto followed, strumming steady, proud, glowing.

His chest felt like it might burst. His smile was wide, unstoppable, the sound of Keiji’s voice filling him until there was no room left for anything else.

“So just have faith…

we’ll never be the same.”

Keiji’s breath hitched, then carried him higher.

“It’s indescribable…”

Bokuto sucked in a breath, his whole body alight, and then Keiji belted.

It was a note that cut straight through the air, clear and burning, held so powerfully that the walls themselves seemed to vibrate. It was raw, beautiful, alive. The kind of sound that didn’t just hit your ears, it rattled in your bones, your blood, your heart.

Bokuto actually cheered, laughing through it, voice cracking with joy. “Woooo!” he hollered, too loud for the tiny studio, but he didn’t care.

Out in the hall, Oikawa slapped a hand over his own mouth to muffle his squeal, bouncing on his toes like he couldn’t contain it either.

Keiji held the note to the very edge of his breath, then let it fall, his chest rising and falling, sweat prickling at his temple. For a second, silence reigned. All still golden, absolute, electric.

And in that silence, Bokuto looked at him like he was the only person who had ever existed.

Keiji’s chest rose and fell, his lashes low against flushed cheeks, sweat glinting faintly at his hairline. He looked… alive. More alive than Bokuto had ever seen him.

Bokuto’s own pulse thundered, his hands still buzzing from the strings, his grin helpless. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Nothing could possibly match what he’d just witnessed.

Oikawa, still clutching the doorframe, bit back the urge to burst in, knowing this moment wasn’t his to touch.

Keiji finally opened his eyes. For a flicker, the vulnerability remained. He was bare, unguarded and absolutely breathtaking. But as the silence stretched, realization crept in. His gaze darted away, his hands fidgeted in his lap. The flush on his cheeks deepened, not from the song this time, but from being seen.

The mask hovered at the edges, threatening to slip back into place.

And Bokuto, heart aching, still catching his breath, prayed it wouldn’t.

“That wasn’t…” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. No one’s ever going to hear it anyway.”

Bokuto’s chest tightened, the ache immediate, but he didn’t let the silence swallow them. He leaned forward, his grin softer now, steady, coaxing.

“So let’s record a take then.” He said lightly, like it was the simplest thing in the world. 

Keiji blinked, startled. His lips parted, ready to argue, but nothing came. Instead, he just stared, the mask caught halfway between retreat and surrender.

Bokuto strummed the guitar once, the sound warm in the quiet. “Just for us,” he added, voice low, certain. “No one else has to hear it.”

Keiji’s throat worked, his fingers twitching against the edge of the notebook. Slowly, hesitantly, he gave the faintest nod.

The mask didn’t fall back into place. Not yet.

And that was enough.

~~~

Bokuto padded into the kitchen, searching for a glass of water. As he reached for the cabinet, something on the fridge caught his eye. A square of heavy cardstock, silver with embossed lettering, held up by a white magnet.

He leaned closer. 

You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of Koushi Sugawara & Daichi Sawamura.

Bokuto’s lips curved into a grin before he could stop himself. “I still can’t believe it,” he murmured.

From the doorway, Keiji’s voice drifted in, dry but fond. “Me neither.”

Bokuto plucked the invite from the fridge, thumb brushing over the embossed letters. His chest warmed at the thought. Suga beaming, Daichi steady at his side. A night of laughter, old stories, the kind of celebration that only came once in a lifetime. For a heartbeat, he imagined himself there, music playing, Keiji at his side under the glow of string lights. Maybe even dancing.

“Are you… going?” Bokuto asked, turning back.

Keiji looked up, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I haven’t decided.”

Before Bokuto could press, Oikawa wandered out of the hall with a mug of coffee, hair still mussed. He spotted the invite instantly. 

“Oh, that’s right! I still need to RSVP. You’re both going, right?”

The silence stretched, Keiji’s lips pressed in a thin line.

Bokuto forced a smile, setting the magnet back against the fridge. “Yeah,” he said quickly, trying to sound sure. “We’ll be there.”

But as he glanced again at the neat lettering, the warmth in his chest tangled with something sharper. Weddings meant reunions. Reunions meant Kuroo.

And suddenly, the thought of string lights and music didn’t feel quite so simple.

And across the room, Keiji’s gaze had already dropped to the floor, shoulders tightening the way they always did when his thoughts drifted somewhere he didn’t want them to go. His fingers tapped against his thigh. Restless, defensive, like he needed something to hold onto.

Bokuto hesitated, the words burning on his tongue. He didn’t dare say the name, but he tested the waters anyway, his voice low.

“A lot of people will be there, huh?”

Keiji’s reaction was immediate, too sharp for him to mask. His jaw tightened, his tapping stopped dead. He didn’t look up.

“…Yeah,” he said at last, voice thinner than before.

Bokuto swallowed hard, resisting the urge to push further. The name stayed unspoken between them, heavy as stone.

The silence pressed in, heavy, until Oikawa leaned casually against the counter, one brow raised.

“Of course a lot of people will be there,” he said breezily. “It’s a wedding, Bo-chan.”

Bokuto blinked, caught between relief and exasperation. Keiji’s shoulders eased just slightly, grateful for the distraction even if he’d never admit it.

Oikawa smirked into his coffee. “Honestly, you two are so dramatic sometimes.”

Keiji exhaled slowly through his nose, still staring at the floor. Bokuto, helpless against the weight in his chest, watched him in silence.

The silence pressed heavily until Bokuto blurted: “Don’t you have plans today?”

Oikawa paused mid-step, turning with his mug in hand. “Listen,” he said, voice pitched high with mock offense. “I know I always have a packaged schedule ‘cause I’m sooooo popular—” he flipped his hair for emphasis—“but today? Not at all. It’s strictly a relaxing-apartment day.”

Bokuto glanced sideways at Keiji, who was avoiding his gaze entirely, his face flushed crimson.

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed, his smirk curling slow and sharp. “Why, Bo-chan? Need some privacy?”

“Wha—no!” Bokuto sputtered, waving his hands so fast the invitation nearly flew out of his grip.

“Hmmm.” Oikawa dragged out the sound, gaze sliding to Keiji. Keiji, refusing to meet either of their eyes, looked like he was trying to sink into the floor. Drown himself instead of dealing with the embarrassment. 

And then Oikawa gasped, delight bursting across his face. “Oh. Oh, I see!”

Keiji’s blush deepened to impossible levels. Bokuto’s jaw dropped. Oikawa doubled over, cackling, his laughter echoing through the apartment.

“No, no, no, no—you don’t see anything!” Bokuto scrambled over to him, waving his arms in panic. 

Oikawa doubled over, cackling, his laughter echoing down the hall. “Oh my God, this is so good. History is being made and I’m the only one witnessing it!”

Bokuto whirled helplessly toward Keiji, who still refused to look up, his face buried in one hand.

“Keiji—tell him!” Bokuto pleaded.

Keiji groaned into his palm. “Someone come end my suffering.”

Oikawa laughed harder, practically wheezing now. Bokuto hovered, red-faced and frantic, trying in vain to drown him out.

With one last chuckle, he straightened, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“Oikawa!” Bokuto’s voice cracked, scandalized.

But Tooru was already sauntering down the hall, humming to himself, mug in hand. His laughter echoed faintly until his door clicked shut.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Bokuto stood there, red-faced and flustered, his pulse still racing. Keiji hadn’t moved, still angled away, his hand half-hiding his face, but Bokuto caught the faint curve tugging at his lips.

He couldn’t help but smile, even through his embarrassment.

Bokuto rubbed at the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “Well, we should keep working on our song.”

Keiji’s hand dropped just enough to glance, but the pink across his cheeks only deepened from the our aspect. “Yes.”

Because it was theirs. 

Bokuto softly laughed under his breath from the sight of pink, not teasing but warm. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The silence that followed them down the hallway wasn’t heavy. It was quiet, fragile, and strangely comfortable.

~~~

Later, in the quiet of the apartment, they ended up in one of the narrow halls at the same time. Bokuto heading for the studio room, Keiji for the bathroom.

They stopped short, face-to-face.

“Sorry,” Keiji murmured, shifting to his left.

Bokuto stepped the same way.

They both froze.

Keiji tried again, moving to the right, and Bokuto mirrored him perfectly.

Of course he did.

A sigh escaped Keiji, his hand brushing against Bokuto’s chest in the not-so-cramped space (they just can’t stay apart) as he muttered: “This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah.” Bokuto agreed, grinning sheepishly. But instead of stepping aside, he acted before he thought. His hands slid gently to Keiji’s waist as he scooped him up, pivoted a full one-eighty, and set him neatly back down facing the other way.

Keiji blinked, startled, so close his breath caught. His hands hovered in the space where Bokuto had touched him, his face flushed crimson.

“…Did you just—”

“Problem solved!” Bokuto beamed, hands on his hips, as though it were the most logical solution in the world.

Keiji stared at him, lips parted, caught between outrage and disbelief. And then, to his own horror, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Bokuto’s grin softened at the sight, his chest tightening. For one breathless moment, the hall felt too small for everything between them.

And then—

“What is going on in this apartment today?”

Both of them froze.

Oikawa leaned lazily against the end of the hall, with his stupid mug still in his stupid hand, watching them with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

Keiji’s blush flared so hot it could’ve lit the corridor. 

Bokuto sputtered, arms flailing. “I—it wasn’t—this isn’t—”

“Oh, I saw what I saw.” Oikawa sing-songed, sipping his coffee with infuriating calm. “Bo-chan spinning Keiji around in the hallway like some rom-com? Honestly, you can’t make this stuff up.”

Keiji pressed his hand over his face, groaning. “Oikawa.”

Bokuto groaned too, equally red. “Seriously, do you just… live in the walls or something?”

Oikawa’s grin widened. “Mmm. Maybe. Maybe I’m just the apartment guardian, here to witness your historic developments.”

Keiji muttered through his fingers. “I really hate him.”

But Bokuto swore he saw the smile still tugging faintly at his lips.

~~~

The lights were off, curtains drawn to hide the sun, the city muted behind the glass. A movie played across the screen, the kind of half-distracting background noise that kept silence from feeling too heavy. The coffee table was littered with open bags of chips, a bowl of popcorn, and a few candy wrappers.

Keiji sat tucked against one corner of the couch, the blanket draped over both of them. Bokuto sprawled beside him, his long legs taking up too much space as usual, grinning whenever their hands brushed reaching for the same snack.

For a while, it was easy. Normal. Like nothing outside these walls could touch them.

Then Keiji’s hand stilled halfway to the popcorn bowl. His eyes stayed fixed on the flickering screen, but his voice was low, almost swallowed by the sound of the movie.

“I was scared.”

Bokuto turned instantly, attention sharp. “Keiji?”

Keiji’s throat bobbed. “Last night. With that guy. I’ve had… people follow me before. Harass me. But that close? In front of everyone?” His fingers clenched in the blanket. “I didn’t think I’d get away. I didn’t think anyone would stop him.”

The air thickened. Bokuto’s chest tightened, anger sparking in his gut. Not at Keiji, but at the faceless hands that had made him feel like this.

“I felt the knife. I-I mean it didn’t touch me, of course, but I still felt it… like the presence.” Then after a beat, he shook his head and sighed. “It’s stupid, I know.” 

Without thinking, Bokuto shifted closer, sliding his arm around Keiji’s shoulders and pulling him in. Keiji resisted for half a second, stiff and uncertain, then let himself sink into the warmth, leaning into Bokuto’s chest like it was the only safe place left.

“It’s not stupid.” Bokuto murmured, his chin brushing Akaashi’s hair. “Your feelings aren’t stupid, Keiji. Especially when it’s between us, I’m here to listen. You can say whatever’s on your mind, no matter how unsure you are.” 

Keiji closed his eyes, the blanket cocooning them both. His pulse was still uneven, but the rhythm of Bokuto’s heartbeat against his side began to smooth the jagged edges.

But that was the thing. 

Bokuto wouldn’t always be here. Keiji knew it, and he was pretty sure the man who was holding him knew it too. The label, Minami, they’re a force. Not one disobey or mess around with. 

This wouldn’t be forever. 

It couldn’t. 

Bokuto’s arm stayed steady around him, anchoring. The blanket pooled in their laps, warm, and the movie’s soft glow painted shifting shadows across Keiji’s face. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Keiji exhaled slowly, his cheek resting against Bokuto’s shoulder. “I don’t know what would have happened...”

Bokuto tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t there.” Keiji’s voice was barely a whisper. His fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket, restless. “He moved so fast. He could’ve—- I could’ve—-”

Bokuto’s chest ached. He turned slightly, close enough that Keiji had to feel the weight of his gaze. “You’re safe now. I promise.” he said softly. “I know that won’t take away the fear but as long as I’m here, nothing will ever happen to you.”

The words hung between them, heavier than anything on the screen.

Keiji’s pulse stumbled. His walls screamed at him to shut down, to retreat, but his body betrayed him, leaning closer into the heat of Bokuto’s chest, drawn by a pull he couldn’t name.

He could feel Bokuto’s breath against his temple now, warm and steady. The arm around him tightened just slightly, like Bokuto couldn’t help himself. Their hands brushed under the blanket, fingertips grazing, and Keiji didn’t move away.

For a moment, it felt too close, too dangerous.

And yet… he stayed.

Bokuto’s voice was low, steady, right at his ear. “I don’t want you to be scared to live, Keiji.”

Keiji’s chest tightened, magnetic and terrifying all at once. He should have pulled away. Every instinct told him to. But instead, he found himself tilting, just slightly, drawn closer by a gravity he couldn’t fight.

Then Keiji spoke again, quieter. “You pulled me away. You didn’t even think. You just… grabbed me.”

Bokuto hummed softly. “Of course.”

Keiji hesitated, then: “Why?”

Bokuto blinked, looking down at him. “What do you mean, why?”

Keiji’s jaw flexed. His voice trembled on the edges, small but cutting. “Shouldn’t you want me to get hurt? Even just a little?”

Bokuto froze.

Keiji’s hands twisted tighter in the blanket, knuckles white. “After what I did. After how I made you feel. Isn’t this what I deserve?”

The words hit like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading through the quiet.

Bokuto’s breath left him in a slow exhale. He turned, just enough for Keiji to see the look in his eyes, steady and unflinching.

“Don’t say that.”

Keiji didn’t look up. “It’s true, though.”

“No.” Bokuto said, firmer now. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve any of that.”

Keiji’s throat worked, but he didn’t answer.

“Whatever happened between us,” Bokuto continued, his voice softer again, “I was angry. I was hurt. But I never wanted you to be hurt like that. I couldn’t even think about it. All I saw was someone I lo—” He stopped himself, the word catching. Then quietly: “All I saw was you. Scared. So I moved.”

The silence that followed felt different now, not avoidance, but something raw and honest.

Akaashi’s eyes flicked up at him, glassy with something unspoken. “You shouldn’t still care.”

Bokuto’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed gentle. “That’s what you think. But it doesn’t matter. Because I do.”

After a moment, Keiji murmured under his breath. “I don’t understand.” 

“Keiji.” This time, Bokuto pivoted so he was facing him more and instinctively allowed his hands to cradle Akaashi’s face to look him in the eyes. “I’m not here trying to pretend everything is normal between us. Or we’ll just suddenly go back almost two years and be how we were.” 

It felt like Keiji’s throat was closing in on him. He couldn’t look away. The heat of Bokuto’s hands were so… so warm. And the golden eyes holding his own were bright. Unbelievably so.

So, why? Why are you here, Koutarou? 

“I’m here for you.” 

Oh.

“Because I want to be, not because you need me. I want to make sure you’re okay. To make sure you have someone you can lean on, no matter what that looks like.” 

If Akaashi was the same person he was when they were dating, he would have been in tears. But his life now doesn’t allow something like that. Vulnerability is weakness. And he’s already gone too far. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Keiji.” Bokuto said, thumbs brushing gently along Keiji’s jaw. He paused, voice dropping softer—

“You don’t have to understand it. Just know you’re not alone anymore.” 

The words sank into the silence, rippling through him like light touching the surface of deep water. Keiji’s breath caught before he could stop it. He wanted to speak, to deflect, to remind him that idols don’t get to fall apart, but his throat wouldn’t move. The ache in his chest wasn’t sharp this time. It was slow, spreading warmth where fear had lived for too long.

The movie played on, the sound muffled beneath the pulse in Keiji’s ears. He leaned his head against Bokuto’s shoulder, small, tentative, like it might shatter the fragile peace between them.

Bokuto didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stayed there, steady and solid, his hand resting lightly over Keiji’s.

And for the first time in a long time, Keiji let himself be held without trying to earn it.

~~~

Later on, when Oikawa found himself back in the common space, his phone buzzed first. He glanced down, brow lifting as the headline bloomed on the screen: 

STARBOY SICK? AKAASHI SPOTTED LEAVING CONCERT PALE — MYSTERY MAN AT HIS SIDE. 

The photo was grainy but clear enough: Keiji wrapped in a jacket, Aida’s shoulder visible, and a hulking shadow in the background that looked suspiciously like it could be Bokuto. 

“Oh no.” Oikawa breathed, voice small for once.

Keiji’s fork paused. The color left his face. Bokuto, who had been hovering with a pot of tea, peered over. “That’s—”

Before anyone could finish, Aida’s voice echoed from the entry corridor, clipped and urgent. “Two minutes. Minami’s on the way up. Now.”

The apartment turned electric.

“Hide!” Oikawa hissed before anyone could protest, already sweeping his arms toward Bokuto like a tornado. Bokuto blinked, processing the command three seconds too late.

“Wait—what—where—” Bokuto started.

“Closet. Now.” Aida’s tone allowed no argument. He had Keiji’s back and a look that meant: do it, or I will do it for you.

Bokuto didn’t hesitate after that. He was shoved, gently but with the efficiency of someone who’d handled this exact panic a dozen times, into the small coat closet by the door. Hangers, a blanket, a pair of boots, and Bokuto all went in a tangle. He landed sitting on a heap of winter scarves, face pressed against a velvet blazer, whispering: 

“Guys? Are we—are we actually doing this?”

“Two minutes.” Oikawa muttered in Bokuto’s ear like a conspiratorial narrator, then closed the door with a soft click. The muffled sound of closet-shoved Bokuto protesting (“This is humiliating”) drifted through for a second and then stopped.

They had maybe ninety seconds left.

Minami arrived like a storm: slamming through the lobby, tablet already open, fury mapped in measured lines across his face. He didn’t bother knocking. Aida met him at the threshold, shoulders squared like a sentry.

“Where is he?” Minami barked, already pointing at the tablet. “You know what this looks like. This is—this will blow up. Who is that man? It better not be who I think it is. Explain.”

Keiji’s chest tightened. He could feel Minami’s pressure like a physical thing, the kind of management force that rearranged people. Bokuto’s muffled cough from the closet (someone had apparently dropped a shoe) was like a pinprick to the bubble of calm Aida tried to create. Oikawa slipped into the role of smooth deflector.

“Out of context, Minami!” Oikawa said breezily, too breezy. “You know paparazzi is trash with angles.” He reached for the tablet, fingers dancing like he could rewrite the pixels with charm.

“Who is this?” Minami was looking at Keiji and Aida at this point. “Why is he talking to me?”

Minami knew very well who Oikawa was. After all, he went back and forth with Akaashi numerous times on their roommate situation. But in a moment like this, and many others, it was the job to belittle people in this industry. To make them feel less-than. 

But Tooru knew better than to take shit like that. “I represent Keiji on social media. TikTok specifically.” 

Between Keiji and Aida, one stared at him with fear bubbling in his chest, and the other with a straight-face that hid just how impressed he was by Oikawa diving into the fire head first. 

With a huff, Minami turned to Oikawa. “Don’t touch my tablet.” He snatched it back. “And out of context? We can’t have this narrative. Cancelled schedules? A sick idol? A mystery man in the background? Do you know what tabloids will do—spin, manufacture—” His voice had that economical menace managers get when they’re thinking in brand dollars. “Keiji hasn’t been publicly seen with Haruna in days! Fans are already speculating a break-up. This makes everything worse. Especially since it’s a man—“ 

Aida stepped up, interrupting him, voice cold and controlled. “Keiji’s unwell. He needs rest. That’s the priority. We will handle PR. You should trust the staff you put in place.”

“Staff!” Minami barked out a laugh as he glanced between Oikawa and Aida. “What staff?” Then his eyes found Keiji. “This is pathetic. You have your friend and bodyguard managing your shit now?” 

Akaashi seemed so small, sitting there and taking the wrath. “They’re just helping.” 

“I help you, Keiji. That’s all I’ve been doing!” Minami’s glasses slid down the bridge of his nose by a centimeter. “But you keep messing shit up! You make my job much more complicated. If you would just listen to me—“

“He’s sick.” Aida cut in, repeating himself. “He needs to rest.” 

“We’ve been nursing him back to health, for your information.” Oikawa added, with his arms crossed, hip popped and just a hint of attitude in his voice. 

Minami’s eyes flicked, just for a second, to the shadowless hallway, the absence of a visibly giant figure. Suspicion niggled for a heartbeat.

“Who else was here?” Minami demanded. His hands were white-knuckled around the tablet now. “Names. I want them all. And schedules — why was the day canceled without my approval? You work even when you’re sick, we have been over this.” He paced like a man calculating loss.

Keiji opened his mouth, then closed it. His voice, when it came, was a small, tired thing. “I… needed to rest.” He didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t. He folded in on himself like a well-worn coat.

Oikawa handed Minami a smile as if it were a bandage. “The buildings security was already notified about the stalker incident. We sorted it. No photos beyond what you see.”

Minami’s jaw worked. For all his bluster, he listened. He computed possibilities like a chess player. Then, because Aida had the right posture, because the apartment showed no sign of a scandal staging ground, Minami’s tone sharpened into instructions instead of accusations.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Immediate damage control. I want statements drafted in the next hour. No interviews. Aida, tighten security. No unsanctioned guests in the building for at least a week. And I want a full report on my desk by seven.” He jabbed the tablet toward Aida like a gavel. “And this”—he tapped the blurred image—“cannot breathe.”

Aida inclined his head. “Understood.”

Minami didn’t stay to soothe. He was a force that needed to move on. Logistics, lawyers, optics. Before he left, his eyes flicked toward the hallway with that same calculating glint. “And anyone discovered to be aiding narrative leaks will be dealt with. Understood?”

“Yes.” Aida said, answering for them all.

Minami strode toward the door, his presence like a cold wind that swept the room. He left them with a final, precise barb. “If this turns—if this grows—I will be on your neck, Keiji.” Then he was gone.

The apartment sighed in the quiet that followed. Oikawa cracked the closet open an inch and peered in like it might explode into chaos. Bokuto stuck his head out, hair wild, cheeks stuffed with a scarf.

“You look ridiculous.” Oikawa whispered, half-laughing, half-panicked.

Bokuto popped out in a shuffle, crimson from being crammed, but proud. He crossed to Keiji before anyone could stop him and dropped down beside the couch without a word, hand warm and steady on Keiji’s knee.

Keiji’s shoulders loosened a fraction at the contact, the kind of tiny relief that could only come from someone who’d been willing to get shoved into a closet for you.

Oikawa wiped his hands like he’d just finished defusing a bomb. “Right,” he said, back to theatrical calm. “We survived. Now a statement. I’ll handle that. Aida will handle the facts. Bo-chan, maybe don’t hide in the closet next time.”

Bokuto pouted, but the smile that came after was real.

Aida returned to his place at Keiji’s side, voice low. “You rest. I’ll brief Minami later.” His eyes flicked once to Bokuto, an unspoken thank you and a warning: don’t make it worse.

Keiji let out a shaky breath and nodded. The bubble had popped; the outside world had intruded and left a bruise. But for now, tucked into the safety of the couch and the warmth of Bokuto’s hand at his knee, he could breathe again.

Not an hour later, Oikawa had his laptop open on the coffee table, fingers flying across the keys. His hair was tied back, glasses perched on his nose. This was the Oikawa who devoured media and everything it had to offer for breakfast.

“Alright,” he muttered, typing fast, “we need something clean and boring. People only chase drama when you give them silence.”

He read aloud as he worked:

Akaashi Keiji is currently resting after a mild cold. Last night’s performance went on as scheduled, but with the advice of his team, he is taking time off to recover. We appreciate the concern of fans and assure you that he is safe and under care.

He glanced up, smug. “Simple. Nothing flashy. No mention of mystery man. Just a cold. Fans will buy it.”

Keiji, curled into the couch under a blanket, pressed his lips together. He hated how easy Oikawa made it sound. Like the truth was disposable. Like his body was just another part of the brand.

Aida’s phone buzzed on the counter. He scanned the message, jaw tightening. “Minami wants it up in twenty minutes. And he’s sending PR interns over with alternate drafts.”

Oikawa scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Alternate drafts? Please. The more they add, the faker it looks.” He clicked, clicked, clicked. “Mine’s better. Trust me. I know how to play fans.”

Another buzz. This time, Keiji’s phone. He didn’t reach for it, but Bokuto did, frowning at the lit-up screen. Minami again. The preview line was enough to make his stomach twist:

Minami: You have one chance to control this. Don’t make me regret fighting for you.

Bokuto’s fingers curled around the device, jaw tight. “He talks to you like that all the time?”

Keiji’s eyes stayed on the blanket pooled in his lap. He didn’t answer.

Oikawa slammed his laptop shut with a flourish. “Alright, PR done. Damage control in motion. Fans will be hashtagging ‘GetWellSoonKeiji’ within the hour. See? Crisis averted.” He leaned back smugly, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the tension buzzing underneath.

Bokuto set the phone down beside Keiji, softer now. “Doesn’t feel like it’s averted.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything Minami had said.

Bokuto leaned forward, voice low but firm. “Keiji… you can’t let him talk to you like that.”

Akaashi froze.

Bokuto’s hand flexed on his knee, grounding himself. “I mean it. The way he doesn’t care if you’re sick, or tired, or—” He swallowed hard. “Or breaking. He just cares about your brand. That’s not—” His voice cracked, raw. “That’s not okay.”

Keiji’s lips pressed tight. The mask started to rise, that familiar wall of silence, but Bokuto pressed on.

“You sang today. You—you were you today. And it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. And then he storms in here and makes you feel like nothing.” His chest heaved. “I can’t just sit here and watch that.”

The room was silent, Aida’s eyes unreadable, Oikawa biting his tongue for once.

Keiji finally looked up. His gaze was sharp, wounded, vulnerable all at once. “You don’t understand,” he whispered.

“Then help me,” Bokuto said, breathless. “Help me understand. Because all I see is someone I care about letting himself get torn apart.”

The words hung between them, heavier than any headline.

Something in Keiji’s face cracked at that, just for a second. The smallest flinch, the barest flicker of truth.

And then his walls slammed back up.

“Stop.” His voice cut through the room, sharper than it had been in months. Bokuto blinked, startled.

Keiji sat up straighter, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. His expression hardened, the mask snapping into place with surgical precision. “You don’t get it, Kou. You can’t get it. This isn’t your world. It’s mine.”

Bokuto’s mouth opened, desperate to argue, but Keiji’s voice rose over him, brittle with something that sounded like panic. “I let you in today. I—” His breath hitched, his throat tight. “I never should have. That was a mistake.”

The words hit like ice water. Bokuto went still.

Keiji’s hands fisted in the blanket, knuckles white. “The moment I signed with them, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone close. Not friends, not—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Especially not you.”

His breath came unsteady now, but his mask stayed on, steel over trembling glass. “I can’t afford it. Not with him watching. Not with everyone watching. This life—it doesn’t work like that.”

The silence afterward was suffocating. Oikawa stared down at his laptop, Aida’s jaw clenched, and Bokuto sat frozen, chest aching, the sound of Keiji’s words ringing louder than any song.

The air was heavy, suffocating. Bokuto leaned forward, voice breaking. “Keiji, it’s not a mistake to need someone. Not me. Not ever.”

Keiji’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered. For the first time that day, he looked directly at Bokuto. His voice was low, hard. “We need to talk. In private.”

He left without waiting for an answer, retreating down the hall. Bokuto followed, pulse hammering. Behind them, Oikawa and Aida exchanged a glance — one sharp, one worried — but neither moved to stop them.

The bedroom door clicked shut.

Bokuto stood there for a beat, staring at Keiji’s back as he paced to the window, his silhouette sharp against the city lights. His shoulders were tight, rigid, his every movement screaming distance.

“Keiji…” Bokuto’s voice was quiet, but it filled the room. He stepped closer. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“You don’t get it!” Keiji snapped, but softer now, frayed. He kept his gaze fixed on the glass. “I chose this life for a reason. Everything I do is for a reason.”

Bokuto moved closer still, each step deliberate. “I get it. I do. But I’m also here right now. So there’s a reason for that too, right?” 

Keiji’s breath hitched.

Another step. Bokuto was behind him now, so close the heat of his body brushed Keiji’s back. “You keep pushing me away, but I can’t stop. I can’t. Not when I know you’re still here.”

Keiji spun, sharp, but Bokuto didn’t retreat. The sudden closeness stole the words right off Keiji’s tongue. Their lips were inches apart, breath mingling in the space between.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.” Keiji whispered, but his voice trembled.

Bokuto’s hand hovered at his side, fingers brushing against Keiji’s knuckles. “Of course I do.”

Keiji’s chest heaved. Every wall he had ever built felt paper-thin in that moment, Bokuto’s presence burning through every layer. From the moment he dropped his phone into the water. From when he signed his life away to his label. To when he lashed out on his friends at the party and built an unloveable persona to the world. All of it was cracking. Because somehow Bokuto always got through. He was always there. No matter how many times he was beaten down, thrown away and hurt. He came back. 

For Keiji.  

Akaashi tried to step back, but the bed pressed against his calves, trapping him. Bokuto leaned in, not touching, but close enough that the possibility hung in the air, thick and undeniable.

The silence buzzed with what neither of them could say.

The room had shrunk to nothing. Just walls, silence, and the two of them.

Keiji’s back brushed the bedframe as Bokuto leaned in, close enough that their breaths tangled. The heat of him pressed at the edges of Keiji’s resolve, his walls shaking like scaffolding in a storm.

“Keiji…” Bokuto murmured, voice raw. “I see you. And I’m not scared.” 

No. No you don’t see me. Not all of me. 

But Keiji’s chest pulled tight, something magnetic tugging at his ribs, dragging him forward. It was a force he couldn’t fight, no matter how high he built his walls. His body betrayed him, leaning closer, closer still, until their lips hovered on the edge of touch.

The daze swallowed him whole. The world blurred, narrowed, burned down to this. Bokuto’s eyes, wide and wanting; his breath, warm and uneven against Keiji’s mouth.

Keiji’s pulse pounded in his ears. He could feel it, the inevitability of it, like gravity had already decided for him.

So close.

So unbearably close he could almost taste it.

His lips parted. His eyes slipped half-shut. The magnetic pull in his chest was relentless, dragging him forward into something he knew he couldn’t have, couldn’t hold, couldn’t survive—

Bokuto didn’t move closer, didn’t press. He only held the space, steady, waiting. Letting Keiji decide.

And Keiji… God, Keiji felt it like a current in his veins. That magnetic pull in his chest yanked him forward, unrelenting, unstoppable. His lips parted, his lashes dipped low. The daze wrapped around him, soft and heavy, until all he could see was Bokuto — Bokuto’s eyes, bright and wide, his mouth inches away, his warmth like gravity itself.

For one impossible heartbeat, he let himself fall.

Their lips hovered—

brushed—

the faintest ghost of a touch that wasn’t a kiss, not really, but was enough to steal the air from Keiji’s lungs.

And then it shattered.

Keiji jerked back like the moment had burned him. His chest heaved, his eyes wide, panic flooding in where the daze had been. He shook his head, once, sharp, as though trying to physically throw the pull away.

“I can’t.” His voice cracked. “Kou, I—I can’t.”

Bokuto stood frozen, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, every instinct screaming to reach for him but knowing he couldn’t. The silence roared between them, louder than the city outside, louder than any song. And for the first time since he’d stepped back into Keiji’s world, Bokuto understood just how high the walls around him really were.

Akaashi avoided his eyes, tears threatening to fall as he gripped at his hands, tugging and pulling and wishing it was all a dream. When he heard the slight inhale from Bokuto, he braced himself for what would come. The disappointment. The hurt. The betrayal, once again. 

“It’s okay.” 

But, no. Keiji hadn’t expected this. 

Wide eyes shot up, finding his. Bokuto stared at him with that gentle, reassuring smile. There was no disappointment or hurt. It was kind, still, understanding. No amount of desire or passion was too strong to overcome the simple fact that Keiji needed time to make terms with how he was feeling. To do so on his own time and with his own will. 

“You’re okay.” 

I am? 

Akaashi bit the inside of his cheek, as the tugging of his fingers slowed to a rest. Bokuto reached forward and took his hand in his own, running his thumb gently along Keiji’s smooth skin. Warmth blossomed in both their chests, a touch so simple but so grounding between them. 

“I’m sorry— I shouldn’t have—- I didn’t mean to —“ Bokuto grunted in frustration, but eventually sighed as he stared at their hands. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay. I want to… be here for you. That’s all. Even if it’s as a friend.”

Friend.  

Keiji couldn’t help but stare at their hands as well, as he exhaled a shaky breath. “You’ve done a lot for me, Kou.”

Probably more than I deserve.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today.”

For staying after everything.

“I just think… I need to focus. I have a long day tomorrow and should prepare for that.” 

I can’t let you in anymore. I’ll just ruin you. 

Bokuto glanced up, desperately wanting to meet his eyes. To really see the truth, that Keiji wants him to leave. But those eyes never met his. Instead, his hand pulled away. The absence of Keiji’s warm hand hit hard. 

“Right. Yeah, totally.” Bokuto began, desperately fighting his lips for a smile. “I don’t want to get in your way.” 

You’re not. You never are. 

“I’ll get my stuff.” Bokuto swallowed the lump in his throat as he aimlessly started looking around the room. 

Akaashi nodded, wrapping his arms around himself like it was the only way to keep himself warm. As if the sudden absence of Bokuto’s presence was too strong, like it may knock him over. 

“Can I get you anything?” Keiji finally gathered the courage to ask. “Water? Something for the trip back? I can have Aida bring you home.” 

“Nah. I’ll walk.” Bokuto chuckled as he reached down to grab his jacket off the floor. “But thank you, Ji.” He looked up to smile, the same big boyish smile that still never failed to make Keiji’s heart stutter. 

And ah, that name. 

“You’re welcome.” Akaashi hadn’t even realized he whispered, as he was completely lost in the curves of Bokuto’s lips and the bright light that reflected off of him. 

And in this moment— the way Bokuto looked at him, the bright smile that still came after being knocked down by Keiji’s walls, and the golden light that seemed to seep from his skin — Keiji knew he would never forget this sight. 

No matter where he is tomorrow, in a month or a year. He would never forget Bokuto’s beautiful soul and his heart. 

Koutarou, you are the gold that warms the day. Without you, even my brightest hours turn to ash.

(recommended song: i am not who i was by Chance Peña) 

The apartment had settled into the soft hush that follows a storm. City light pooled along the floor. Aida had retreated down the hall. Oikawa was pretending to be busy at the kitchen sink, very obviously not listening, very obviously listening.

Bokuto stood near the front door with his shoes in one hand, jacket slung over his shoulder. He didn’t move to put either on.

Keiji hovered a few steps away, arms folded like he could hold himself together by force, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere near Bokuto’s collarbone.

“Thank you, again.” Keiji said, quieter than he meant to. “For… today. And yesterday.” 

Bokuto’s grin tried to barrel through him the way it always had, big and golden, but he softened it at the last second, careful. “Always.”

Silence stretched, not heavy, just full. Bokuto rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat, eyes darting to the door and back.

“So, um—Saturday.” His voice tripped over itself, and he laughed under his breath. “Saturday night, we, uh— we’re playing a set at a bar. It’s nothing crazy, just… trying to get back out there, keep the hands warm.” He gestured with the jacket like that explained anything. “And we’re still looking for a lead guitarist. Not— I mean, not you, obviously.” His face flushed. “I know you can’t— you shouldn’t— be around us anymore. I know.”

Keiji’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t step closer either.

Bokuto rushed on, words tumbling now. “I just thought— I’ll text Oikawa the details. You don’t have to say anything. I just— I would love it if you came. Y’know. It’s been a while. Not for me. Or— well, yeah, for me too, but—” He winced at himself, then pushed through. “Just to… see you. Even if it’s for one song. Even if you leave before we’re done.”

Keiji’s chest tightened. Something inside him tilted, helplessly magnetic.

“Bokuto—” He meant to make it formal. To make it sharp. It came out soft. “Kou…”

Bokuto’s smile went crooked, boyish, like it used to when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He finally shoved his feet into his shoes, then looked up, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

“No, I know,” he said quickly, saving him from having to say it. “You can’t. It’s fine.” He lifted a shoulder, attempted a casual shrug that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m gonna send Oikawa the info anyway. Just in case.” His smile steadied into something truer. “Today was really nice. I don’t know.” He laughed, a little breathless. “Seeing you again like this… it was everything I could’ve asked for. I’d do it all over again to get this chance again.”

Keiji’s breath hitched so quietly he almost got away with it. Almost.

He felt the vow he’d made to himself tremble, then crack at the edges. Not again. Not this.

Why am I so weak?

He swallowed, eyes flicking up just long enough to let Bokuto see what he shouldn’t.

“Kou…” His voice frayed. He forced the words out anyway, each one a shard. “If you knew the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Bokuto didn’t flinch. He just looked at him, steady, open, and unbearably kind.

“Never.” He said softly. “I’m right here.”

The hallway light hummed. The faucet from the kitchen dripped once and went still. Somewhere below, the elevator dinged.

Bokuto eased the door open, then paused in the frame, glancing back with that same stubborn hope that had always made gravity feel optional around him.

“Saturday,” he said, gentler this time. “No pressure.”

Keiji didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Bokuto’s grin tipped into something small and certain. “Goodnight, Keiji.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Keiji stood in the quiet, the magnetic pull in his chest refusing to let go, the words he’d just used to push him away echoing back like a lie he wished he could make true. He pressed his palm to the wall, steadying himself against a tide he’d sworn he wouldn’t drown in again.

From the kitchen, Oikawa’s phone buzzed. A new message lit the screen.

Bokkun: sat 9 pm @ Blue Lantern Bar. would love it if he came :D

And as quick as he received it: 

Oikawa: i’m on it ;) 

Oikawa blinked as Keiji brushed past, the air stirring in his wake. “Keiji—”

“Nope.” The word snapped like a frayed wire. “We aren’t talking about it.”

The bedroom door shut hard enough to make the picture frames on the wall tremble. A click of the lock followed, final and sharp.

Oikawa exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. Aida leaned against the counter, unreadable.

“Give him space,” Oikawa muttered, more to himself than anyone. “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

Inside the room, Keiji didn’t feel ready. Not even close.

He paced from wall to wall, breath shallow, heartbeat a drum in his throat. The echoes of Bokuto’s voice still lived in the air. Every word, every tremor. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have reached him like that.

But it did.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel it… the almost of it. The nearness. That tiny, shattering moment before he pulled away.

“Stupid,” he whispered to himself. “You’re so stupid.”

His knees gave a little, and he sat on the floor before his body could betray him any further. His fingers fumbled for the edge of the bed, reaching underneath until they found the cool metal of the lockbox, the familiar scrape of cardboard beside it.

Two boxes. Two halves of him.

He set them side by side.

The lockbox first: it was cold, heavy, smelling faintly of chemical ghosts. The little baggies inside caught the light like false promises. He stared at them too long. His reflection warped in the silver latch, hollow-eyed and small.

He pushed it away.

Then the other one: the memory box. The softer one.

The lid lifted easy, like it had been waiting for him.

Inside, everything was color and warmth.

Photo strips of him and Bokuto at the summer fair, cheeks pressed together, Bokuto mid-laugh, Keiji caught somewhere between embarrassment and awe. A movie ticket, the corner folded where Bokuto had doodled a tiny owl. A keychain shaped like a shooting star. His, once clipped to a bag he hadn’t carried since. A photo with Miwa and Oikawa, blurry from laughter. Another with Suga and Daichi, the kind of night you didn’t realize was perfect until it was gone.

He picked up a picture of him and Bokuto with Bokuto’s parents. His mother’s gentle smile, his father’s arm around both of them. They looked like a family. For one fleeting heartbeat, Keiji almost remembered what it felt like to belong there.

Then the guilt hit, low and hard.

He set the picture down carefully, like it might burn him.

He knew the rules. He’d made them himself. Distance. Detachment. Clean breaks. He’d ruined everything once already, pushed Bokuto out before the storm could swallow them both. He wasn’t supposed to let him back in.

But the thing about walls was that they cracked from the inside first.

Keiji pressed his palms to his eyes until stars burst behind them. “You don’t get to want this,” he whispered. “You don’t get to want him.”

His breath hitched. The air tasted like dust and regret.

The world outside his door went quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel like everyone had already given up on knocking.

He slid the picture back into the box, closed it, and this time didn’t look at the lockbox beside it.

He didn’t have the strength to choose which part of himself to listen to tonight.

So he shoved both boxes back beneath the bed, sealing them in darkness.

Then he crawled up onto the sheets and lay there, eyes open to the ceiling, heart still thrumming with the echo of a touch that wasn’t quite a kiss.

It would’ve been easier if he had just let himself fall.

~~~

By the time Bokuto reached the apartment, the city had started to blur. Neon washed over wet pavement, car horns echoing through the kind of night that made even the loudest hearts go quiet.

He pushed the door open, toeing off his shoes before he even looked up. The familiar scent hit him first: laundry detergent and Iwaizumi’s terrible instant coffee.

“Hey.”

The voice came from the couch. Iwaizumi was half-sunk into the cushions, hair damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose. The TV flickered on low, a baseball game paused mid-swing, and an untouched bowl of ramen sat on the coffee table.

Bokuto froze halfway through hanging up his jacket. “You’re up.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well. Hard to sleep when you know your best friend is at Akaashi’s place.”

Bokuto winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah. Right.”

“I can’t lie, though. It was hillarious. Tooru is such an idiot.” Then Iwaizumi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You okay?”

The question hit harder than it should’ve. Bokuto gave a lopsided grin, too bright, too practiced. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

Iwaizumi didn’t buy it for a second. “Well, you saw him. Spoke to him.”

Bokuto nodded, the motion slow. “Yeah.”

“How do you feel? Was it bad?”

Bokuto hesitated, words caught somewhere between pride and ache. “Not bad. I mean, he looked tired. You know, like… the kind of tired that doesn’t sleep out of you.” He laughed once, soft and brittle. “But we talked. It was— I don’t know. It felt like… like it was us again, for a second.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed steady. “And then?”

Bokuto’s shoulders sagged. “And then he shut down. I pushed too hard. I should’ve known better.” He swallowed. “We almost—” He stopped, biting down on the word before it could break loose.

Iwaizumi’s silence was knowing. He leaned back, arms crossed. “You still love him.”

“Aw, man.” Bokuto’s laugh came out strangled. “That’s not really something I can turn off, is it?”

“No.” Iwaizumi said quietly. “It’s just something you have to live with.”

That landed somewhere deep. Bokuto sank down beside him on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the flickering TV. The apartment hummed with the quiet comfort of lived-in space, the faint buzz of the fridge, rain against the balcony glass.

He let out a long breath. “You ever love someone who keeps running from you, but you still… wait? Because you know that if they ever turned around, even for a second, you’d be there?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth tilted, half grimace, half sympathy. “You’re describing Oikawa’s entire emotional development arc, so yeah. I get it.”

That earned a short, tired laugh from Bokuto.

Iwaizumi nudged his shoulder. “But you also remember how long it took him to stop running, right? And how it wasn’t me chasing him that made him stop. It was him deciding to.”

Bokuto nodded slowly. “Keiji’s not ready.”

“Maybe not.” Iwaizumi said. “But that doesn’t mean you stop being ready.”

The words hit like something gentle and heavy all at once.

Bokuto stared at his hands, calloused fingers flexing open and closed. “I just—” His voice caught. “He thinks he ruined everything. Like he has to keep punishing himself for it. But all I want is for him to know that I don’t— I never stopped—” He broke off, shaking his head hard. “God, I sound pathetic.”

“You sound like someone who means it.” Iwaizumi said simply. “Don’t shame yourself for that.” 

For a while, they sat in silence. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

Finally, Iwaizumi reached over, grabbed the remote, and unpaused the game. The announcer’s voice filled the space, grounding it.

“Wanna watch?” he asked. “I don’t need you sulking in your room alone.” 

Bokuto smiled faintly. “Yeah. I’ll watch.”

He leaned back, head hitting the couch cushion, eyes tracing the ceiling. The memory of Keiji’s voice still lingered: If you knew the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t be here right now.

Bokuto closed his eyes. Whispered, mostly to himself: “Still here.”

The rain outside softened to a hush. The city lights blinked against the window, fading and returning like a heartbeat.

And somewhere across town, in a locked room, someone else lay awake, haunted by the same gravity.

How It Began 

(recommended song: 12 to 12 by sombr)

The apartment was quiet, too quiet for a Friday night in Tokyo. Kuroo sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, his elbows balanced on his knees. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, another message from a manager, another email from a brand, another invitation to an event people would kill to attend. He didn’t bother picking it up.

Louis Vuitton extended his contract, offering way more than he could have ever imagined. Semi’s offer was still sitting in his inbox like a lit fuse. A dozen rappers in the city had promised him a spot if he wanted to step on stage. He’d earned it. He should’ve felt unstoppable.

Instead, his chest ached like he’d been benched.

His roommate had tried earlier, joking, offering him a beer, talking about old times. Kuroo had played along, grinned where he was supposed to, but the laughter felt thin. Even the nights out with the guys, the ones he knew weren’t Bokuto but at least were something, had started to feel like static.

What was the point of the view from the top if the only person he wanted to share it with wouldn’t climb up there with him?

Kuroo tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, willing the heaviness in his chest to ease. The fight replayed again, sharper than any spotlight, cutting deeper than any applause could mend.

Then maybe you should leave.

He had. And now here he was, back in a room full of opportunity, with nothing but the echo of Akaashi’s voice to keep him company.

For the first time in a long time, Kuroo wondered if this was what winning felt like. Because if it was, why did it feel so much like losing?

~~~

It all started with a text. 

Tetsurou: i listened to your song. 

The studio reeked of champagne and smoke, the air thick with the hum of speakers still bleeding bass. Screens lit the room with graphs and numbers climbing higher by the second. Streams, followers, mentions exploding like fireworks. Three hours in, and Keiji was already everywhere.

Somewhere lost in the smoke, Keiji sent out a text in response.

Akaashi: Come listen to it with me. 

The label execs were losing their minds in the next room. Someone popped another bottle. Minami’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with updates. But none of it mattered half as much as the sound of the track itself, looping back on the monitors like a heartbeat. House of Balloons / Glass Table Girls. Keiji’s first official release. His name stamped across it. His voice pressed into every speaker.

Tetsurou: i’m on my way 

Five million more followers in three hours. Fans pouring in like a tidal wave. He was an artist now. Official. Irrefutable. The dream wasn’t a dream anymore.

Akaashi: Good. 

They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since Keiji signed. He had completely disappeared, like he fell off the face of the earth. His accounts were taken down from social media, any method of contact bruised, and NDA’s and contracts flying out left and right to those meant to stay in the past. 

But somehow, Kuroo had an opening. A number was attached to the email he received, meant for the past to be signed away. 

He held onto that number for a while, debating on the right time to reach out. Kuroo had kept up with Keiji’s debut. The teasers and promotional material that his label previewed to get the world excited for their new star. He remembered watching Keiji cover one of the labels songs, and the choreography. 

He knew he was going to be someone amazing. And he wasn’t wrong, because his first ever single was everything and more. 

And there wasn’t a more perfect time than this to see him. 

So not long after the texts, Kuroo had him pinned against the wall before Keiji could even catch his breath. His mouth was hot, relentless, stealing every inhale, his body caging him in. Each kiss was messy, desperate, like he was trying to drink in the moment, to brand it into both of them.

“You did it,” Kuroo murmured against his lips, the words ragged between kisses. “You’re—fuck—you’re a star now, Kei.”

Keiji’s fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, the champagne still burning on his tongue. His chest heaved, the adrenaline of success bleeding straight into the heat of Kuroo’s mouth on his.

“You hear that?” Kuroo pressed, dragging his lips down his jaw, his throat. “That’s the world losing its mind over you.” His teeth grazed skin, his breath hot. “They’re never gonna stop.”

Keiji’s laugh cracked out, sharp and breathless, cut off when Kuroo kissed him again, harder, hungrier.

In the studio, with Keiji’s phone lighting up with a million strangers screaming his name, Kuroo kissed him like he was the only one who mattered.

And maybe that was why he stayed, even when Keiji cut everyone else off.

Because in those first hours of fame, when the label was clapping him on the back and the world was calling him a god, Kuroo was the one pushing him against a wall, murmuring the truth into his mouth.

You’re mine. You’re wanted. You’re fire.

The kiss broke only because the door clicked open.

Minami’s reflection caught in the darkened glass first — a neat suit, phone in hand, the faint glow of numbers still dancing across his screen. His steps faltered when he saw them.

Kuroo froze, lips still a breath away from Keiji’s, hand braced on the wall beside his head.

Keiji’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly what this meant.

The NDA had gone out weeks ago. Every friend, every family member, every tether to his old life had signed the dotted line — delete the pictures, erase his name from your memory, never speak of him again. In exchange, they got a payout, a silence fee wrapped up in legalese.

Kuroo had received one too. And yet here he was.

Keiji braced for it — the explosion. Minami’s sharp voice cutting the air, threats of security, lawsuits, exile.

But instead, Minami just paused. His gaze flicked over Kuroo once, sharp behind the lenses of his glasses.

“You’re that one model for LV, aren’t you?”

Kuroo’s throat bobbed. He nodded once, silent.

“Ah.” Minami adjusted his glasses, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips. He strolled forward, plucking his tablet off the console like he hadn’t just walked in on something that could ruin an empire.

Keiji’s skin still burned from Kuroo’s mouth, but his blood ran cold. He knew the terms. He knew what he’d given up to step into this life. He couldn’t be gay — not openly. Not with someone from his past. Not with someone like this.

“Keiji,” Minami said smoothly as he reached the door. He didn’t even look back. “This doesn’t get out. To anyone.” A beat. “We’ll make sure of it.”

The implication landed like a blade: Kuroo wasn’t a threat. He was leverage. An opportunity. A model with an in at Louis Vuitton, someone useful enough to keep close.

Not because Keiji wanted him. Not because Keiji needed him.

Because Minami smelled profit.

“And please, lock the door next time.” 

Next time. 

The door shut softly behind him, but the weight of it pressed harder than if he’d slammed it.

Keiji stayed pinned against the wall, lips swollen, chest heaving, every nerve still singing with Kuroo’s touch. But underneath, he felt the familiar sting of the cage closing tighter.

Silence swallowed the room again, save for the heavy thrum of Keiji’s first single spilling from the speakers — bass curling through the walls, his own voice echoing back at him like a ghost.

Kuroo exhaled slow, chest rising and falling against him, before he finally leaned back enough to see his face. Their foreheads nearly brushed, Keiji’s breath still shallow, lips parted like he hadn’t caught up yet.

And then Kuroo smiled. Crooked, dangerous, tugging at his lips like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

“Next time, hm?”

Keiji blinked, still frozen, still reeling from Minami’s voice. “Kuroo, I—”

But his words vanished when Kuroo’s mouth claimed him again. No hesitation. No room for thought. Just heat.

The kiss slid rougher, lower, his lips trailing along Keiji’s jaw, down the column of his throat. Keiji shivered, a broken sound escaping before he could choke it back.

“God, Kei…” Kuroo murmured against his skin, teeth grazing before his mouth sealed over the pulse racing at his neck. His hands were restless, greedy, slipping lower until his fingers brushed metal. The buckle of Keiji’s jeans clinked under his touch, sharp in the quiet.

The song looped through the speakers, the same intoxicating beat that was already clawing its way across the internet, already reshaping Keiji’s life. His first single. His first step into stardom.

And here he was, back pressed to the studio wall, drowning in Kuroo’s mouth, his hands, his want.

Fame roared outside the glass, numbers climbing by the second.

But in that moment, the only thing Keiji could feel was the heat of Kuroo’s lips and the buckle coming undone.

~~~

The present felt quieter. Too quiet.

Kuroo sat slouched, the city lights bleeding through the blinds in fractured stripes across his face. The TV flickered muted in the corner, some late-night variety show he hadn’t bothered to turn off, laughter canned and distant.

The TV glow washed pale across the apartment walls, laughter bleeding tinny from the speakers. Kuroo had half a mind to turn it off, but then the camera cut, and there he was.

Keiji.

The host leaned forward, cards in hand, his grin too wide. “So, how does it feel to be a global superstar?”

Keiji’s smirk was smooth, effortless. “I don’t really think of myself like that. I just make music. The rest is… noise.” The audience erupted, clapping, cheering. He tilted his head, eyes glinting under the studio lights. “But of course, I’m grateful. I wouldn’t be here without the support across the world.”

Kuroo’s chest tightened. He knew that tone. It was polished and guarded, every word sharpened by rehearsal.

The host chuckled, tapping his cards against the desk. “Your album is off the charts! Number one everywhere. Critics are calling it career-defining.”

Keiji leaned back, lips curling. “I think it’s just the beginning.”

The crowd roared again.

Kuroo let out a dry laugh into the empty room, the sound bitter on his tongue. Just the beginning. He could still remember when it really was the beginning. When Keiji had been trembling in a studio with his shirt half-off, the first single rattling the walls, Kuroo’s mouth on his throat.

On-screen, the host pressed on. “No one is doing it like you right now. It seems like you’re releasing new music every week.”

Keiji’s smile sharpened, diamonds flashing when he spoke. “That’s the job. Give them what they want, and give them more before they can ask for it.”

Applause thundered again.

He muted the volume with a sharp click. The silence that followed was heavier than the cheers had been. He sat back, jaw tight, staring at Keiji’s face on the screen.

To them, he was untouchable. To Kuroo, he was still the boy who whispered his name like it hurt.

Kuroo dragged a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. It had been so long, but moments like that still clung to him like smoke in his lungs. Every kiss, every sharp laugh muffled against his throat, every time Keiji looked at him like he was both a mistake and a necessity.

And now? Now he was just another face in the crowd. A model with a rising profile, sure. LV on the line, Semi dangling offers too good to pass up, the world suddenly cracking open under his feet. But even with all of it, even with the promise of Tokyo stages and flashing cameras…

It felt hollow.

Because none of them would ever kiss him the way Keiji had that night. None of them would burn him alive and then freeze him out in the same breath.

Kuroo leaned back, tipping his head against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. His chest ached.

Success was supposed to taste sweet. But all he could taste was the ghost of Keiji’s mouth and the silence he’d left behind.

~~~

Keiji crossed one leg over the other, smirk sharp. “That’s the job. You give them what they want… and more, before they can ask for it.”

The audience erupted again, some even standing. Keiji let the noise wash over him, but his chest felt tight. None of it sounded like him.

And then the host grinned wider, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. “Speaking of what people want… how about giving us a little something live tonight? Maybe a tribute to the song that got you here?”

The crowd screamed. Chanting started again — Keiji, Keiji, Keiji — filling the studio until the walls shook.

Keiji’s throat tightened. He adjusted the mic clipped to his silk collar, fingers steady, mask unbreakable.

He was already nodding before he could stop himself.

“Of course.”

The cameras zoomed in, catching the curve of his lips, the effortless charm. Inside, his pulse hammered like a cage door rattling.

Because this wasn’t just an interview anymore. It was another performance. Another chance to prove he was exactly who they wanted him to be.

Even if it wasn’t who he was.

The mic was in his hand before he even thought about it, the studio lights catching the silver chain at his throat. The band behind him was ready, the crowd chanting his name like a hymn.

House of Balloons / Glass Table Girls by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original) 

The first chords hit — familiar, haunting. His debut. His origin.

“Been on another level since you came, no more pain

You look into my eyes, you can’t recognize my face.” 

The cheer that erupted made the floor tremble. To them, this song was nostalgia, an anthem of who he was when he first exploded onto the scene. To Keiji, it was a mirror, the night everything had begun, the moment he’d traded himself for the mask he wore now.

“Ooh, you belong to me.”

He let his body move the way they wanted. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous. The smirk curved onto his lips at all the right places, his voice curling over the mic with practiced ease.

“Oh, your mind wants to leave, but you can’t go.”

The crowd screamed, dancing in their seats, camera flashes popping like fireworks.

“Oh, this is a happy house

We’re happy here

In a happy house.” 

Keiji’s gaze skimmed the audience, but he didn’t see them. He saw a studio wall, Kuroo’s mouth on his neck, a buckle being tugged loose while this very song bled from the speakers. He saw the version of himself that had still believed the music might set him free.

Now it caged him.

He eventually hit the transition into Glass Table Girls, his tone dropping darker, sharper. The beat throbbed through the studio, and the crowd lost their minds, waving their arms, chanting along.

~~~

The elevator ride up felt endless. Keiji’s reflection stared back at him in the gold-trimmed glass, hair styled sharp, shirt unbuttoned low enough to show skin he hadn’t meant to. Minami stood at his side, scrolling through his phone, casual like this was routine.

“Smile when they ask you to. Don’t drink too much unless they hand it to you. Everyone in there either wants to own you or fuck you — sometimes both. Just remember, they’re useful.”

The doors slid open before Keiji could answer.

Sound hit first; bass, heavy and throbbing. Then the light: neon strips cutting across the ceiling, chandeliers dripping crystal that caught every strobe. The penthouse stretched wide, bodies everywhere, laughter sharp and manic.

And then the smell: liquor, perfume, and something chemical that burned the back of his throat.

Minami’s hand pressed to his shoulder, pushing him forward. “Welcome to the family. Go have some fun.” 

Heads turned. People noticed. Hands reached out, shaking his, clapping his back, pressing glasses into his palms. “The new boy,” someone said. “Such a sexy voice,” another murmured. “Star in the making.”

Keiji’s chest thudded. This wasn’t like the cramped clubs he’d snuck into as a teenager. This wasn’t ramen with friends at two a.m. This was a different planet.

He turned around only to be met with Minami disappearing behind closed elevator doors. The last thing he saw was a sharp smirk, almost daring. 

A label representative and a temporary bodyguard were the only ones who accompanied Keiji into the party. But even then, they stayed in their corner. 

Akaashi was alone. 

In the corner, a glass table gleamed, dusted white. A model bent low over it, a man’s hand steadying her hair as she laughed into the lines. Another girl leaned back on the couch, lips wrapped around a stranger’s cigarette, her dress hitched high.

Keiji stared too long. Some popular actor’s voice cut in as he passed by, sharp but low. “Normal. Get used to it.”

The music shifted, and a glass was shoved into his hand again. A stranger’s mouth pressed warm against his cheek. The air was smoke and perfume and powder.

Fuck, it was all too much. Keiji couldn’t get through the night sober. 

So he tipped the drink back. It burned, sharp enough to numb.

Happy house, happy house. 

He let the noise swallow him, let the world strip away whatever version of himself he’d carried up that elevator.

Because his debut would be out tomorrow, and not just his first official song, but the life.

The label wanted him to belong here. To survive here. To shine here.

And for one reckless, dizzying moment, Keiji almost believed he could.

The moment he stepped into the room, they looked at him. Not just looked, but devoured.

Keiji had always known he was good-looking, but this was different. This was after the label had gotten their hands on him. With the haircut sculpted sharp, the silk shirt clinging just enough, the diamonds glinting at his throat. He’d been rebuilt into something gleaming, a product polished to perfection.

And the industry noticed.

Girls slid closer before he’d even had his second drink, nails painted, perfume cloying. A hand brushed his chest when she laughed, another tugged lightly at the chain resting against his collarbone.

“You’re prettier than the pictures,” one murmured in his ear, lips grazing skin.

Another leaned in from the other side, eyes glassy with powder, whispering: “Bet you sing even better when you’re on top.”

Their laughter was high, too sweet, and it mixed with the music until he couldn’t tell where it ended.

On the couch, a producer twice his age had a girl bent over his lap, his hand pressed high on her thigh as he murmured into her ear. Her eyes flicked to Keiji once, dazed, and then back to the line of powder laid out on the table in front of her.

“Everything’s a deal in this business,” Minami had told him in the elevator. And now Keiji understood. Sex wasn’t just pleasure here. It was leverage. It was currency.

Another hand slipped into his, guiding him toward the glass table. A girl with smeared lipstick giggled, pressing a rolled bill to his mouth. 

“First time’s always free,” she said, her voice slurred silk. The powder gleamed under the lights like snow.

His heart thudded in his chest, too fast, too loud. He remembered Suga’s chaotic aggression, Bokuto’s calming guitar playing, Noya’s bad jokes. A life that felt like it belonged to someone else now.

And then he bent, let the sting hit his nose, and the world blurred into neon.

The girls cheered, bodies pressing against him, lips grazing his jaw, his throat. Hands tugged at his shirt, at his belt. 

“Idol.” Someone whispered, biting the word like a promise.

The powder still burned in his nose when she kissed him.

Her lips were wet, sweet with liquor, her laugh muffled into his mouth as she climbed into his lap like she’d been waiting for him all night. Perfume clung to her skin, heavy, dizzying, and her dress rode up high as her hips pressed into his.

“God, you’re beautiful.” She murmured, tugging at his chain, letting it snap back against his chest. Her hand slid lower, unbuttoning his shirt without asking, her nails scraping skin.

Keiji let out a shaky breath, his head tipping back against the couch. It was too much, with the music pounding, the lights strobing, his name being shouted somewhere across the room. And her mouth was hot against his neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark.

“Keiji,” she whispered, his name catching on a laugh. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Her hand slipped lower, fumbling at his belt, and he felt the buckle clink. 

Keiji had only ever kissed girls three times. Once in middle school. Another in high school. And the last when he turned twenty. Beyond that, nothing. 

And it wasn’t due to a lack of attraction. It just never went beyond that. When he was a young boy, Keiji always felt, or rather hoped (due to his parents), that he was meant for one and one person only. That soulmates did exist and that his love was written in the stars. 

So when Keiji never got that immediate spark, like stars bursting with color, he knew it was nothing more than a fling. A kiss. Whatever it was at the time.  

Maybe that’s why everything that had happened with Bokuto hurt so badly. Because he always felt that. Like the love they had for each other was tethered in the stars. 

But how could it be if Keiji did what he had done? 

He lost everything, traded everything, destroyed everything for a…

Happy house. 

When he blinked, it was her eyes he saw first, wide and glassy, pupils blown. Her grin was sharp, practiced. 

“C’mon, sing something for me,” she teased, her fingers already tugging him free. “I wanna hear your voice while you—”

The rest was swallowed by the music. By the cheers. By his own pulse hammering in his ears.

The label's representative was watching from across the room, glass in hand, expression unreadable. Except for the small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Like this was exactly what was supposed to happen. Like they got what they needed out of him. 

Keiji didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.

Because his limbs were weak. 

His mind was dazed. 

But he was aware enough to know that this was the deal.

This was the industry.

He was theirs now.

Her mouth trailed lower, wet heat pressing against his skin, and Keiji’s hand shot to the couch, fingers clawing at the fabric as if he could ground himself. The room pulsed red-blue-red with the strobe, shadows cutting her into fragments as she slid further down his body.

The zipper was all the way open now. His shirt hung loose around his shoulders, his chest bare to the air thick with smoke. She tugged him free without hesitation, her nails grazing skin, and looked up through her lashes with a grin that didn’t reach her glassy eyes.

“You feel that?” She purred, breath hot against him. “This is what makes you a star.”

And then her mouth closed over him.

Keiji’s head tipped back hard, a gasp tearing from his throat before he could bite it down. His eyes squeezed shut, but that was worse, because behind his lids he saw everything he traded for this life. 

But this wasn’t his friends. Or his family. This wasn’t want. This was transaction, initiation, power disguised as pleasure.

The girl’s rhythm was steady, practiced, like she’d done this for every boy branded “the next big thing.” Her hands anchored him down, nails biting his thighs, while his own music roared in his mind, his own voice echoing back: We’re happy here, happy here.

He wasn’t.

And still, his body betrayed him. His hips twitched, his breath hitched, his pulse hammered against his ribs as the noise of the party blurred into a single throb of bass and sensation.

Somewhere across the room, a cheer went up as another girl bent to the table, a line disappearing in one sharp inhale. A man laughed too loudly, the sound breaking through like glass. The representative’s voice carried above the din, smooth and confident, negotiating something Keiji couldn’t hear.

And on the couch, Keiji let himself be taken apart, piece by piece.

He gripped the edge of the couch until his knuckles went white. His voice broke once — not singing, not performing, just him — and no one noticed.

Not even her.

When it ended, when his body finally gave in, it felt less like release and more like surrender.

The girl wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning as if she’d won something. She leaned up, kissed him sloppily, and whispered, “Now you belong here.”

The rep’s glass caught the light across the room, lifted faintly again, like a silent toast.

Keiji pulled his shirt closed with trembling hands.

He didn’t say a word.

Because he knew it was true.

He belonged to them now.

That night, when Keiji returned to his place — stumbling through the doors at 4 a.m. — he wrote the second half of his debut. His mind still high in the clouds, body trembling from what he gave into, he created Glass Table Girls, etching it into a perfect transition from House of Balloons. It was darker. The hidden truth behind a happy house. A truth most would ignore and see what they wanted too. 

The star. 

The bad boy. 

The heartbreaker. 

The new young man taking Japan’s music industry by storm. 

His debut would cause his career to take off. Take him places he couldn’t even fathom at the time. 

But Keiji? 

He was always going to be stuck in the memory of that night. Because reality couldn’t have hit him harder. What he left. What he gave up. What he has now. 

This was his life. 

He could have anything. 

So why… why after he finished recording and sent over the finished product to the label —- did he still feel so empty? 

When would it be enough? 

What would fill the void? 

The scariest part wasn’t the coke on the glass table, or the way the girl got on her knees with such ease for him. It wasn’t higher-ups watching him from across the room or the way Keiji let himself be consumed. 

No. 

The scariest part is he knew nothing — nothing — would fill this void. 

Not until he takes his last breath. 

~~~

To them, it was a performance. To Keiji, it was confession. A house of balloons. A glass table. Pleasure and destruction tangled together, playing out in real time.

The lights were blinding, the crowd still chanting as the last note bled out of his throat. Keiji’s chest rose and fell steady, controlled, his lips curling into that sharp little smirk the cameras loved. He bowed low, let the diamonds glint under the spotlights, let the applause wash over him.

On the outside, flawless. Untouchable.

Inside, the memory cut through clean as glass.

The first night. The first time he’d ever been with a woman like that. Her mouth, her laugh, the powder burning his nose, the noise of the room swallowing the sound of his gasp. And afterward — the way she slipped from his lap, her dress crooked, lipstick smeared.

He remembered watching her head for the door, shaky on her heels, still laughing too loud. And then the hand on her arm — one of his team, sharp suit, sharp smile — pulling her aside.

A stack of papers appeared, thick and heavy, clipped at the corner. A pen shoved into her hand. A stack of cash in the other.

Keiji had sat frozen, shirt half-buttoned, while she scrawled her name across the lines, tucking the envelope into her clutch before slipping out into the night.

That was the deal. That was the beginning.

And now, here he was still singing the song that had come from that night. 

This is a happy house, we’re happy here.

The audience rose to their feet, clapping, screaming, begging for more. To them, it was a performance. To him, it was a reminder: every stage he stood on was built on nights like that.

Keiji forced the smile wider, let the camera catch the curve of his lips.

He’d learned long ago how to make it look like happiness.

And he thought of Bokuto. Loud, golden Bokuto, who had loved him like he was sunlight. Who still looked at him like there was something worth saving.

Keiji’s smirk didn’t falter, but his chest twisted so hard it almost knocked the air out of him.

Because if Bokuto knew — if he knew what Keiji had done, what he had let happen, what he had become to survive in this world — there was no way he’d ever want him again.

The audience roared louder. The cameras zoomed closer.

Kou, if you knew what I’ve done… you wouldn’t be here right now.

And Keiji smiled right into the lens, flawless, untouchable, every trace of the truth buried deep where no one could see.

Later, backstage hummed with the fading echo of applause. The air smelled faintly of hairspray and stage lights, thick with leftover adrenaline. Keiji unhooked the mic pack from his collar, the practiced smile still lingering even though the cameras were off.

“Great job.” Minami said as he passed by, one hand in his pocket, the other scrolling through something on his phone. “That was perfect. Exactly what we need right now.” 

“Thanks.” Keiji said quietly. He hesitated, then added: “Hey, did you get a chance to listen to my demo? I sent it over yesterday.”

“Yeah.” Minami replied without looking up. He kept walking, his pace unbroken.

Keiji blinked, falling into step beside him. “So? What do you think?”

Minami finally glanced his way, expression unreadable. “It’s cute.”

Keiji tried to laugh, light, uncertain. “Cute enough to release?”

Minami’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Cute,” he said again. “But it won’t sell.” Then he turned down the hall, already moving on to something else.

The words landed harder than they should have.

But it won’t sell. 

His song. Their song. 

It wasn’t good enough. 

Nothing was ever good enough. 

His truth. 

His connection. 

His love. 

What was the point? 

What was the point if it couldn’t sell? 

Keiji stood alone for a moment in the dim corridor, the buzz of the stage fading into silence. His reflection stared back at him from a wall of dark glass, perfect, polished, unbothered.

I’m weak when I’m with you.

But under the quiet hum of fluorescent light, something inside him felt like it was folding in on itself.

But I feel like I can’t breathe if you aren’t near.

He had opened himself up, allowed Bokuto to break through. Just for their song, something tenderly created in the space shared between them, to be deprived of its chance. To not see the light. 

Bokuto’s voice flickered in his mind: You’re not alone in the dark anymore.

Keiji swallowed hard. Because right now, under all this light, he’d never felt darker.

…

Maybe some things are meant to burn, just to prove they were ever real.