Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ONE YEAR LATER

He had everything. But he didn’t know what to do with it.

He was the artist of the year, the voice of a generation, the face in every station window. And still, some nights, he fell asleep wondering if Bokuto’s smile would’ve survived the silence.

Fame was louder than love. But it wasn’t warmer.

The View From Up Here

Keiji remembered the first time he said no to drugs.

It wasn’t dramatic. No spotlight moment, no storming out. Just a soft, clear “I’m good.” A firm hand on the offered capsule. Someone shrugged, the party kept moving. He went home and wrote a song about self-control that never made it past the demo.

That was a year ago.

Tonight, someone handed him a pill, and he didn’t even blink before it was under his tongue.

The bathroom floor was cold. His cheek was pressed against tile, the surface slick with something he didn’t care to name. Champagne foamed in the bathtub. His mouth tasted like smoke and something fruity. In that artificial way.

His phone buzzed where it had slid under the counter.

He didn’t move.

Not until the second buzz came — sharp, insistent. The phone’s alarm. “YOUR DAY STARTS NOW :)” blinked across the screen.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the bathroom ceiling. One light flickered overhead, casting his shadow across the mirrored walls. His own reflection looked pale, eyes ringed dark with the remains of stage makeup. Lips too red.

He looked like someone who’d been on fire last night. Still smoking.

How did he get here, you ask? 

On most mornings like this, Keiji doesn’t remember himself. On a typical night, he goes to a party, swarmed by pretty girls who want to sit on his lap, gets offered some drugs, and he blacks out. He wouldn’t remember what came after.

This time, he does. 

He remembers the pain. The numbing feeling he got when he heard. The way his best friend barged into his room, sharing the news all happily. Honestly, Oikawa was the only way Akasshi was kept up with anything about anyone. But… especially in regards to Bokuto. 

~~~

(347) 797-xxxx: yo, you sliding tn? 

There were no numbers saved on Akaashi’s new phone. Only a certain few, some saved with a contact name and some without. He never really texted anyone. He received all the texts. Despite that being the case, he spoke to this particular number so often that he knew exactly who this was. And what he was asking.

This was Akaashi’s one day off in a very long time. The one day he could curl up into a hole, drowning in his covers, and just stay in bed. No manager in and out of his apartment. No bodyguard breathing down his neck. No tedious schedule that must be obliged to. 

Akaashi: Most likely not.

(347) 797-xxxx: c’mon man, ur hot rn

(347) 797-xxxx: jasmine’s asking abt u

(347) 797-xxxx: also got some snow

Akaashi huffed. He didn't care. He didn't care who wanted him there. Or if some random girl wanted to see him. Or what drugs would be passed around. 

He didn’t care about anything. Not anymore.

Akaashi: I'm good. Thanks tho.

He slid his phone under the pillow and rested his eyes. He wanted nothing more than for slumber to take him away, and for him to never wake up. But even Keiji was robbed of his sleep.

“Baby girl! Let me see you do your dance, let me see you twirl!” 

That voice. That high-pitched voice echoed across the apartment, creeping closer to Keiji’s room. It filled the silence like a fucking nuclear bomb. 

Akaashi used to hate being alone. He used to hate being left in the quiet. But within the past year, that changed. He felt like he belonged alone, in the dark, sulking in the void. He was meant to be there.

So having Oikawa around, with his big personality and loud whiny voice, it took the pleasure and comfort out of the silence that he desperately needed on days like this. 

Back in high school,after graduation when they agreed to live together, at Miwa’s music store, Oikawa had always taken him in without questions. No judgment. Just loud nights together, loud friendship and loud love. Keiji never said thank you. He didn’t think Oikawa expected him to.

So when Keiji was presented with the opportunity to leave, he knew he couldn’t leave Oikawa behind. He gave him the option to come live with him in Tokyo. 

He may have felt like he was slipping from his self-identity, but he wasn’t completely heartless. 

At least, he doesn’t think. 

“Is that your bestie? I’ma ice both y’all like Gretzky.”

No knock. Oikawa barged in, bright lights switching on.

“Keiji!” 

Akaashi buried his face deeper into his comforter, missing the darkness. He mumbled something completely inaudible, not even vocal enough for himself. He sounded like he was drowning under water. 

“My Keiji, boo!” Oikawa sing-songed, standing beside his bed, with both hands on his hips. “What is Drake even talking about? Gretzky?”

As Oikawa contemplated in silence, he took notice of his friend's silence. He brought his knee up and nudged Akaashi’s leg, which was hanging off the bed. 

“Hmmm, Aka-chan? Do you know what a Gretzky is? What is it?” 

Akaashi groaned, sliding the cover off his face, and staring at him with a neutral look. “He’s not an it. Gretzky was an ice hockey player.” 

Oikawa blinked. 

“Get it? ‘Ice both y’all’? ‘Like Gretzky’?” 

It took a second for the words to process and then – 

“Oh!” Oikawa laughed to himself. “That makes sense, now.” 

And then he was falling, all his weight landing right on Akaashi. He chuckled when he heard his friend protesting and squirming underneath him. 

“Tooru!” Akaashi groaned. “Get out. I’m trying to sleep.” 

“C’mon! I have to tell you something.” Oikawa laid his head down, smiling sweetly.

“Is it textable? Just text it to me.” Akaashi grabbed his pillow and shoved it on his face, hiding himself from the light.

Oikawa rolled his eyes and muttered. “As if you would answer me.” He then sat up, sitting cross-legged beside him. “I got off the phone with Iwa-chan a bit ago.” 

He waited for a moment. A hum. An acknowledgement. Nothing. 

“Well, you know how they were holding auditions to fill their spot for lead guitarist? And how they found that guy? And then, y’know he tore his ACL?” 

Silence. 

“Basically, they’re gonna be have auditions again. But not from home.” 

Akaashi’s breath hit the pillow and fanned back across his face. He didn’t move, his chest was barely rising and falling. He was still. Still with anticipation. Still with knowing. Knowing exactly what Oikawa was going to say next. 

“They’re moving, Keiji. They’re coming to Tokyo.” 

Fuck. 

Akaashi quickly agreed to move once he was presented with the offer from his label because, well, he could get away from everything. Get away from the past, the choices, the mistakes. He could get away from the one person who, despite getting caught in the crossfire, still stood and waited for Keiji with open arms. He couldn’t live with that anymore. He couldn’t be there, knowing someone was waiting for him. With expectations of what could be. 

“I’ll be busy the next couple of days, y’know, helping them move in and stuff.” Oikawa stilled for a moment, eyes searching for any signs of life. “I think this is going to be really good! For everyone.” 

For you… he had really wanted to say. 

“Now we just have to convince the others to move.” Oikawa lightly joked, giggling to himself. “Everyone could be together again! It’s been so long since all of us hung out.” 

It’s been so long since you came to hang out with us … is what Oikawa desperately wanted to say. 

“There’s gonna be a house warming. Monday. You should come.” 

Akaashi hadn’t really seen anyone in almost a year. He sees Oikawa almost every day, by the nature of being roommates. He saw Suga and Daichi here and there, by force of Suga’s wrath. And Iwaizumi from the few times he was brought over to the new place. But it’s all the same. Always awkward, distant, and uncomfortable. 

He hasn’t seen Nishinoya. Or Asahi. Or Tsukishima. Or Yamaguchi. Or Kageyama and his orange haired boyfriend. He hadn’t seen Noya’s dance team. Osamu. Iris. He hasn’t even seen Kuroo…

Okay, that’s a lie. 

A few times. 

Accidental. 

He thinks. 

He doesn’t know. (shocker)

But the one person he hasn’t seen, and would rather see the others before, was Bokuto. 

With his old phone drowning somewhere deep in the river, there was no way of contact from Bokuto’s end. At least not directly. Keiji planned on keeping it that way. But now with the band moving to Tokyo, he wasn’t sure that would be possible.

Keiji wasn’t the same anymore. And people could see that now. But acceptance of change is hard, especially when it’s someone you so dearly love and know that they’re hurting. 

“I hope you’ll consider it, Keiji.” Oikawa sighed in frustration as he stood up, stalling for a moment of hope that an answer would come. “Everyone misses you.” 

Moments later, a soft click. Keiji reached up and took the pillow off his face, his cheeks slightly flushed. He blinked hard at the ceiling, listening to the faint footsteps of his best friend. 

He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t. 

Seeing them, seeing him, it wasn’t an option. Nor a possibility. 

Akaashi reached his arm underneath the pillow and fished for his phone. He unlocked it, a bright screen of default settings and wallpapers staring back at him. He opened his messages and searched for the random number, hidden by a bunch of others coming in. 

Found it. 

Tap. 

Typed.

Akaashi: Send me the address. I’ll be there. 

Sent.

~~~

The penthouse was quiet in that sterile, soundproof way all expensive places were. The only sound came from the hum of a fridge and the quiet clicking of the stove timer someone forgot to reset.

Aida, his bodyguard, sat on the couch, sipping from a canned coffee, eyes half-shut. He didn’t glance up when Keiji padded barefoot across the hardwood in low-slung sweatpants and yesterday’s eyeliner.

“Morning,” Aida offered.

Keiji grunted in return, opening the fridge. It was full, like always, but full of the kind of food that looks better on camera than it tastes. Pre-peeled fruit, microgreens, vegan cheese wrapped in wax paper.

He grabbed a bottle of green juice and didn’t drink it.

The door buzzed.

“Your agent,” Aida muttered, already rising to open it.

Minami walked in like he owned the place. Which, legally speaking, he kind of did. The label covered the lease. Slim-cut suit, phone in one hand, iPad in the other, expression somewhere between over-caffeinated and over-it.

“Keiji,” he said in greeting, scanning him top to bottom. “Jesus. You look like a ghost.”

Keiji flopped on the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Great. That’s the look I was going for.”

Minami set down his iPad. “We need Tina over here, pronto. You can’t leave looking like that.” He was calling someone. Probably Tina. “We need sexy, not depressed.”

He spoke a few words to the lady on the other end of the phone, and once satisfied, he slipped the phone into his pocket. He returned back to his iPad and squinted at the screen.

“Alright, listen up. Interview at 10:30. Studio by noon. You’ve got two Zoom check-ins and an IG live we’re slotting before rehearsal. Do not skip it like last time.”

Keiji hummed. That was it.

Minami didn’t bother arguing. “And hey, the label wants a stronger vibe today. ‘A little horny, a little seductive.’ If they wanted ‘withered,’ they’d bring back that vampire kid from the rebooted dramas.”

Keiji offered the faintest smirk. “I’m not seductive enough for them anymore?”

“You are, but you’re spiraling. And while spiraling is hot for, like, one quarter — you’ve burned two already. So today? You’re a heartbreaker with eyeliner. Not a hot indie kid on depressants, Keiji. That’s out.”

Keiji didn’t answer. He just stared at the untouched juice in his hand.

Minami sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Your next single drops next week. Billboard wants a cover shoot. We’re thinking black suit, black and white setting. Like a funeral, just hotter.”

“Am I dying?”

“No, but the charts are. Let’s revive them, yeah?”

Keiji stood slowly. “Do I have to do the interview?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I set myself on fire right now?”

“Yes.”

He wandered toward the bathroom. “Then I better change.”

Minami called after him. “Try not to OD before 4 o’clock!”

~~~

The interview went like most of them did. Under lights that made his skin glow like lacquer, on a couch that cost more than his first year of rent, beside a host who laughed a little too hard at every dry comment.

He wasn’t funny and he wasn’t trying to be.

“So tell us, Keiji,” the woman gushed, “what’s it like being the voice of a generation?”

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling just wide enough for the cameras. “I don’t talk to the whole generation. Just the broken ones.”

Cue crowd laughter. He watched it roll across the room like static.

“You’ve had such a year,” she continued. “Awards, number-one singles, your album Beauty Behind The Madness still charting in 15 countries. How are you feeling right now?”

He tilted his head, letting his voice drop a little. “Like I’m dreaming and can’t wake up.”

More laughter. A few audience members cooed. Someone gasped.

He wanted to ask if they were listening.

“And is there anyone special in your life?” 

Akaashi could see Minami watching him from backstage. That look in his eyes, the one telling him he knows exactly what to do. It was like this act was engrained into him. 

Like he was on autopilot. 

Like this is who he was now. 

Akaashi leaned back into the chair in a dominant stance, a subtle smirk falling on his lips. “Why? Are you asking for yourself?” His eyes softened, as if he was looking at her like he wanted her. 

The interviewer blushed while audience members giggled and swooned over him. She stumbled over her words but tried to stay as professional as possible. 

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “Your music alludes to someone. Someone you’ve had a past with for sure. Is it…” She blinked, peering at him through her eyelashes with hopeful eyes. “Is that over?” 

He let his eyes fall to her heels, back up to her crossed tanned legs, her thin waist hiding underneath her polyester dress, perfect posture and upright shoulders, and then to her relaxed and poised smile. 

“Yes, it’s over.” He responded, sending her a wink that the entire audience caught from the close-up of his face on the screen. “You don’t have to worry about that.” 

As the audience gushed over him, he looked past the interviewer and saw Minami sending him a thumbs-up with a satisfied smile. 

All that meant was he had done what he needed to do. 

~~~

He left the building through a back entrance and took the long way to the studio, his bodyguard trailing.

Just before the turn on 5th, it appeared. The billboard. Massive. Glossy.

Keiji Akaashi.

Shirt unbuttoned, collarbone glinting in low light. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded. A woman’s hands grazed his chest from behind, fingers tipped in silver.

It was seductive. Godlike.

He stood there for a moment, hoodie pulled up, watching.

It was him. He knew that. But it wasn’t.

That version didn’t look tired. That version looked like he knew exactly who he was.

Keiji turned and walked away.

~~~

The backseat of the SUV smelled faintly of leather and mint. Rain tapped gently against the windows, city noise muffled behind layers of soundproof glass. Keiji sat slouched against the door, hoodie bunched around his shoulders, the ambient streetlights strobing across his cheekbones like camera flashes.

He stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone for a while.

Then:

Tap. Tap. Live.

3… 2… 1…

You’re now live.

His face filled the screen. Hood down now. Hair half-slicked from styling. Some of the eyeliner still clung to the corners of his eyes, smudged just enough to look intentional. The lighting was soft and flattering. He hated how good he looked.

The comments exploded instantly.

@keijistar: HE’S LIVE HE’S LIVE HE’S LIVE

@user13975: he looks tired but like hot tired!! 

@lunastell: awh my baby looks sleepy 

@akachan: keiji it should be illegal to look this good 

@urmom: I WANT YOU TO RUIN ME 😩

@princekeiji: literally shaking rn 

He gave a lazy, almost lopsided smile. “Hi,” he said. “Didn’t plan this. Just figured I’d say hey.”

@xoxofan: say hey again please i’m begging

@mandi345: literally how are you real

@urmom: you’re glowing 😍

@keijixo: i need a moment

@oikawatooru: WHO IS THIS ANGEL

@oikawatooru: DO U WANT ME OR DO U WANT ME 😩

@oikawatooru: my bestie is GIVING and the girls are NOT READY

Keiji blinked. “Tooru. I’m blocking you.”

@xoxofan: NOT HIM CALLING HIM OUT ON LIVE 😭😭😭

@keijistar: i love their friendship so much i’m crying

@akaashikeijiupdates: you guys need a reality show

@brandonh: he’s so calm but i KNOW he’s chaotic off cam like oikawa

He glanced down at a vibration.

New Message.

Minami: talk about the single. look alive babe. you need some engagement, so tease a lyric. anything 

Minami: and smile like you meant it pls 

Keiji rolled his eyes, but only a little. 

“So,” he said, shifting to lean back in the seat, “the single’s next week. Probably Monday.”

The comments surged.

@xoxofan: OHMYGODDDD FINALLY

@fion44: whats it called??

@musicluvr: WE’RE GETTING FED

@imkeijisgirlfriend: can you sing a line 😭

@akachan: just a teaser plsssss

@babymolly: give us crumbs i am BEGGING

Keiji stared at the screen, thinking. Then he leaned in, voice soft: “I’d give it all just to hold you close.” 

He tilted his head, watching the reaction ripple in real time.

@keijistar: WHAT THE FUCK

@akaashiupdates: no bc i felt that 🥺

@urmom: what do you MEAN by that???

@keijiteaaccount: WHO IS IT ABOUT? PLS KEIJI TELL USSSSS

His voice dropped even quieter. “It’s a good one. Might be my favorite I’ve done.”

The smile on his face wasn’t quite a smile. It was thinner. Hungrier. Like he knew what the song really meant and wished he didn’t.

@oikawatooru: drop the rest or i’m gonna walk into traffic rn

@oikawatooru: i’m sobbing into my salad

He laughed. Genuinely. “You’re so dramatic.”

The hearts floated upward like confetti. The comment feed was chaos.

@dunreen: see that smile? i’m GONE

@xoxofan: i’m gonna lose my mind at the show tmrw

@xoxofan: row 2 baby let’s GO

@vienna33: keiji are you okay? you look sad baby 

@honesttruths: do you ever feel regret?

@akachan: can’t believe tomorrows show marks the end of BBTM :(

That one.

Floating quietly. Unassuming.

do you ever feel regret?

His gaze flicked up, unreadable for a moment.

He tried to keep the smile. He really did.

“Depends what you mean,” he said softly, still staring. “Regret’s tricky. Like—” He trailed off, brows furrowing just slightly. “You think you’d undo something, but if you did, you might never write the song that saved you.”

He paused. Breathed in. “I guess that’s the trade, right? Hurt for art.”

The comments slowed for a second. A break in the rhythm.

Then they poured in again:

@honesttruths: you’re so real for that

@akaashiteaupdates: who hurt you?? jk i know who

@keijistar: i’m gonna cry

@honesttruths: thank you for being honest!! we love youuuu

@willywoo: you did things you regret? 

@xoxofan: BBTM makes so much sense now

He looked down. Another buzz.

Minami: wrap it up. you’re spiraling again. 

Keiji’s thumb hovered over the screen.

He looked back into the camera. His eyes were glassy. Not red. Just… too reflective.

“Thanks for hanging out,” he murmured while running a hand through his hair. “Y’all are crazy as hell, but I love it.”

He forced a smile. One last flicker of the image they wanted.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Live ended.

He dropped the phone onto the seat beside him and rested his head against the window. The city outside looked like a blur of gold and gray.

A Ghost On Stage

The lights were too bright.

The stylist wiped powder across his collarbone. His agent on his right, listing off the order of his set and what songs he’s performing. The choreographer was on his left, repeating moves and motions as if Keiji was following. 

“Give me danger!” the photographist called from across the dressing room. “Tilt your chin like you own them.”

Keiji moved his mouth. Half-curl. People bustling beside him, movement turning into blur, but focus on the young attractive man being pampered. It was all about Keiji, like he owned everyone and everything. That’s what they wanted to portray.

The camera clicked.

He didn’t know if he was giving them power or just giving up.

They called it perfect.

~~~

He was in the underground tunnels when he heard it. A tentative, quiet voice.

“Oh! Uhm – Keiji?”

She stepped out from the shadows. Twenty-something, maybe. Trembling.

His bodyguard stepped forward, alert and threatening. She flinched from the sudden movement and looked as if she was about to retreat, run away and cry. 

Akaashi held his hand up, signaling him to stop getting closer to the young girl. He sensed her nervousness and could tell she meant no harm. He glanced at her, a welcoming look flashing across his eyes. 

She was red in the cheeks, sweat shining from her forehead. “I just wanted to say… your music… it saved me.”

Wish I could say the same.

He stared at her.

Then smiled, politely. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” He started to move. “Picture?” 

Her face lit up the closer he got. They snapped a selfie, he gave her a hug and a few kind words, and then walked away.

~~~

“Remember, Keiji. Make them want you. Make them desire you.” Minami’s voice was cool, rehearsed. “You’re the star. They’re just your fans.”

Just my fans.

The soft thwap of the powder puff against his cheek marked the final touch. The makeup artist stepped back, satisfied.

“You look hot. Go get ‘em, kid,” Minami added with a thumbs-up and a bright smile. “This is the last show for your album! Give it your all!” 

All. The moves. The eyes. The voice. 

It wasn’t a good enough job unless he was falling down coming off that stage. It needed to be perfect. The performance, the entertainment, the act. 

Keiji nodded, taking a small water bottle from some stage worker and sipping on it. He handed it back just in time as the figures in front of him started to disappear. 

The elevator doors sealed him in. Silence.

He always had 45 seconds in here. He’d timed it once, during a rehearsal when his chest felt too tight to breathe.

41 seconds left.

The bass rumbled above him, the floor trembling faintly beneath his boots. His platform was starting to rise.

30 seconds. Still silence.

Always so eerie before a show, the anticipation pressed on his lungs. It had been a year of this: the lights, the screaming, the hands, the worship. Outside, he seemed natural. Inside, he never adjusted.

How could they want him?

How could they love someone like him?

20 seconds.

He gripped the mic tighter. His eyes shut. He searched for peace.

12 seconds.

Always the same thought.

Him.

His warmth. His voice. His presence.

Bokuto had been his grounding force, and Keiji had destroyed that.

6 seconds.

He wasn’t good. He couldn’t be.

He knew it now.

1 second.

The platform lifted. A cold breeze licked the sweat at his hairline. His eyes opened, the stage lights hitting his lashes like tiny needles. And he sang.

Real Life by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

“Tell ‘em this boy wasn’t made for lovin’…”

Screams. Cries. Flashes.

But he didn’t hear it. He listened only to the echo of himself in his earpiece, his own voice, hollow and distant.

“Tell ‘em this heart doesn’t stay to one.”

Step by step, he walked toward the edge of the stage. Phones raised. Hands clutched hearts. He watched them fall in love with an illusion.

“Mama called me destructive…

Said it’d ruin me one day.”

He reached the mic stand and held it like a life raft, both hands tight, steadying.

“Cause everybody that loved me…

Seemed to push them away.”

The lights dimmed. A single cool-blue spotlight settled over him.

“That’s real life, oh-oh-ooh-oh…

That real life.”

He wasn’t just singing, he was confessing.

This song wasn’t performance. It was punishment.

He watched them adore him, worship him, miss the point completely.

“I know you don’t really understand it

I’m not allowed to regret my choice.”

He did regret it. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t get to turn back.

“Heaven only lets a few in…

It’s too late for me to choose it.”

He looked up, past the ceiling, past the lights, toward the darkened sky above the venue’s opening. The stars blinked faintly. He could only wonder… 

Bokuto are you looking too? Are you listening? 

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

I’m better off when I’m alone.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t break. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

“That’s real life…

That real life…”

As the final note faded, he loosened his grip. His palm was slick with sweat. The crowd roared, cries, shouts, I love you’s, sobbing.

He wanted to feel grateful. He wanted to feel anything.

But the machine kept moving. Even when he stood still, he was always…

Running.

Can’t Feel My Face by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The lights snapped off, total blackout.

Then: a synthetic crackle of electricity.

BOOM.

Red lights flooded the stage. The bass hit hard. Low, guttural, sexual.

“And I know she’ll be the death of me…”

The crowd exploded.

This was the song.

The one they played at clubs, in edits, in late-night playlists titled Keiji’s Hot Boy Era.

“At least we’ll both be numb…”

Keiji strutted forward under a strobe light. His body language flipped, he wasn’t confessional anymore. He was untouchable.

A tease. A ghost. A God.

“And she’ll always get the best of me

The worst is yet to come…”

He moved with confidence now, hips rolling to the rhythm, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt like he was always about to undress but never would.

Two dancers flanked him, both bodies curved and slick, faces lost in shadows. They danced in perfect sync with him, sensual and precise, but Keiji was always the focus.

“But at least we’ll both be beautiful and stay forever young…”

The crowd chanted with him: “This I know! Yeah, this I know!”

But the words felt empty in his mouth.

He could feel the sweat on his neck, the heat from the lights, the pull of thousands of eyes glued to his body. It was intoxicating, not the attention itself, but the control.

“I can’t feel my face when I’m with you

But I love it. But I love it. Oh.”

The audience screamed every word like it was gospel.

But Keiji… he was thinking about the night he wrote this. Alone in the studio. Coming down from a high. His fingers shaking.

She wasn’t a woman.

She was the drugs.

She was the music.

She was everything that numbed him just enough to keep going.

“And I know she’ll be the death of me

At least we’ll both be numb.”

A camera zoomed in on him from the front of the stage, his smirk, his narrowed eyes, the way his hand slid down his torso, inviting but detached.

The big screens flashed images behind him. Glitching hearts. Flickers of fire. A rose burning in reverse.

“This I know…

Yeah, this I know.”

Every lyric was smooth. Sexy. Dangerous.

But none of it felt real.

And maybe that was the point.

“I can’t feel my face when I’m with you…

But I love it. But I love it. Oh.”

As the final chorus roared, he let the audience sing half of it back to him, their voices thundered through the stadium, messy and euphoric.

He smiled for the first time that night.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Tell Your Friends by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The lights dropped to a golden hue, warm, glowing, intimate but untouchable.

Keiji stood alone, center stage, shoulders relaxed, lips curled into something close to a smirk. He changed outfits now. He was in a red two piece set, high-waisted trousers and a cropped short-sleeve asymmetrical button-up. He had chunky red platforms boots on, mostly hidden by his long pants. He wore silver accessories, multiple piercings in his ears, his industrial from Noya still the same. He had bling on his K9, around his neck, and even his tongue piercing was authentic diamonds now.

He wasn’t the broken version of himself from before. Not the polished, choreographed fantasy. But someone sharper. Bolder.

His voice came in low, conversational:

“We are not the same, I am too reckless 

I’m not tryna go in that direction.”

The crowd leaned in. Phones lifted again.

“And I don’t got no patience, no more testin’ 

I do shit how I want, don’t need no blessin’.”

He dragged the mic off the stand and started to walk. Slow, deliberate steps like a predator on his own stage. The visuals behind him flickered with reels of fake paparazzi photos, stylized news clippings, glossy magazine spreads with his face blurred.

“Go tell your friends about it, 

Go tell your friends about it.”

He chuckled on the mic, a genuine sound this time. Not because the lyric was funny, but because of the irony. The lie behind the legend.

“Go tell ‘em what you know, what you seen

How I roll, how I get it on the low.”

He raised his arms.

The crowd roared.

Keiji fed off the energy, leaned into it. He swaggered to the side of the stage where a live camera projected his image 30-feet high — showing every detail of his perfectly lined eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw, the sharp edge of his collarbone under sweat.

“I’m that guy with the hair, singing ‘bout poppin’ pills, fucking bitches, living life so trill…”

The label hated this verse. Management tried to scrub it clean.

But Keiji wrote this one himself. Every word soaked in bitter pride. He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness anymore.

This is what they wanted, after all.

“Cruise through the west end in my new Benz

I’m just tryna live life through a new lense.”

He pointed at the crowd. Some screamed. Some cheered. Some froze.

“Go tell your friends about it

Go tell your friends about it.”

The lighting turned deep red, pulsing like a heartbeat. A live guitarist hit a riff behind him, sharp, grimy, raw.

“Go tell your friends about it

Go tell your friends about it.”

The crowd screamed.

The screens behind him went blank.

All eyes on him.

Just Keiji and his voice, dripping with venom and clarity.

“Used to hate attention, now I pull up in that wagon

And I was broken, I was broken, I was so broke.”

Some were singing along. Some swaying to the beat. Others crying as they recorded. 

“They told me not to fall in love, that shit pointless 

Yeah, that shit is pointless.”

Eventually the final chords hit like a slow crash, and Keiji stood still, chest rising, sweat gleaming along his collar.

He looked out at them, thousands of people, faces blurred by lights and phones.

They were eating it up.

They loved this version of him.

And yet…

He didn’t know if he loved any of it.

Often by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

A whistle echoed through the dark.

Then: a pulse. Heavy. Erotic.

Boom… boom… boom.

The beat hit low and thick, like it was dragging the crowd down into something velvet and dangerous.

The stage lights bloomed red and violet, bathing everything in the color of bruises and desire. A long leather couch slid onto the stage as fog spilled across the floor.

Keiji reappeared in silhouette, body backlit, head slightly bowed, hips already swaying to the rhythm.

Another outfit change. 

This time he wore black again. A short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned, exposing his milky white skin and toned stomach and chest. The oil a stylist rubbed on him just mere seconds before he went on stage reflected in the light just right. 

“I usually love sleeping all alone

This time around, bring your friend with you…”

The crowd lost it.

This was the Keiji the label had packaged. The poster-boy sex God. The man with the voice and the stare and the moves that made people drop to their knees in the front row.

He walked toward the couch, slow and deliberate, like a panther.

Dancers emerged from the haze — four of them, two women, two men, barely dressed. They circled him like moths.

“Asked me if I do this every day, I said often 

Asked me how many times she rode the wave, not so often.”

Keiji reclined on the couch, eyes half-lidded, one hand on his chest. His other traced lightly along the thigh of the dancer closest to him.

It wasn’t real.

None of this was real.

But he knew exactly how to play it.

“Often, often, girl, I do this often

Make that p—, pop and do it how I want it.”

The lights strobed in rhythm with the beat.

The choreography built. A slow grind, bodies dipping and rising like tides, dancers pressed against Keiji’s legs and chest as he barely moved. All he had to do was exist.

The audience went wild. Phones shot up.

Flashes. Screams. Hysterical crying.

They were addicted to the illusion.

But for a brief moment — as Keiji stared out over the crowd — he imagined himself floating above it all.

Watching it happen to someone else.

He didn’t hate this version of himself.

He just didn’t recognize him.

“She asked me if I do this every day, I said often

Asked how many times she rode the wave, not so often.”

He smirked. It hit the jumbotron.

The stadium shook with cheers.

But inside, he was numb again.

Just like the song before.

Just like always.

The Hills by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

BOOM.

The stage shuddered.

A thunderous kick drum cracked through the arena like the beginning of a storm. The lights turned blood red, flashing like warning signals.

Smoke poured in from the floor grates. The dancers disappeared.

And Keiji?

He stood dead center, eyes low, head tilted like something was wrong with his neck, or with the world.

“Your man on the road, he doing promo…

You said keep our business on the low-low…”

The crowd screamed louder than any point so far.

This was their favorite.

The dark one. The sexy one. The “bad boy” anthem.

But for Keiji?

This song felt like an overdose every time he sang it.

“I only call you when it’s half-past five

The only time that I’ll be by your side…”

Red strobes blasted across the floor in sync with the beat. His body jerked with each pulse, sharp, unpolished. No finesse here. Just rhythm and instinct.

Choreo hit hard.

One male dancer dragged him by the collar and shoved him forward. Another wrapped around his waist. Keiji pushed them off roughly, all part of the act.

“I only love it when you touch me, not feel me…

When I’m fucked up, that’s the real me.”

He growled the line into the mic, half-bent forward, gripping the air like he was choking on it.

And then — he saw them.

Right off-stage, elevated slightly above the pit.

VIP section. Special access.

Oikawa. Suga. Daichi.

They were smiling. Dancing. Suga had his phone out, probably filming him. Oikawa nudged Daichi playfully, pointing up at Keiji with a look like, 

That’s our guy.

Their eyes met. Just for a second.

And Keiji?

He froze.

Not visibly. Not to the audience.

But inside, something stalled.

“Who are you to judge?

Who are you to judge?

Hide your lies.” 

He looked away. Too fast.

Because seeing them — his friends, the real ones — dancing like fans, laughing like everything was fine?

It hurt in a way he didn’t want to name.

“Only call you when it’s half-past five…”

The chorus slammed back in.

Keiji recovered instantly, letting the choreography take over, a seductive, angry release. He pushed himself too far into it, throwing his weight into the moves, body twisting, breath sharp.

“That’s the real me when I’m fucked up

That’s the real me, yeah…”

The crowd lost their minds. The stage lights pulsed like a heartbeat about to flatline.

But Keiji didn’t feel the power. Not really.

The moment he looked into the crowd and saw people who knew him…

He felt smaller. Seen. But not understood.

The beat dropped out. He held the final lyric in the back of his throat.

“When I’m fucked up, that’s the real me, babe.” 

Acquainted by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The lights dimmed to a soft gold, warmer now, smoother.

Less lust, more allure.

Keiji stood stage left, his back to the crowd. A soft synth drifted in behind him. His mic was already raised before he turned.

“Baby you’re no good…”

The first line melted off his lips like smoke.

Slower now. Slurred just enough to sound intoxicated, or like he was pretending to be.

Two female dancers approached from opposite ends of the stage. Their movements were fluid, choreographed to seduce, not to shock. Silks trailed behind their arms. One circled him slowly, the other ran her fingers along his shoulder.

“You got me putting time in, time in…”

Keiji didn’t touch them back.

He never really did.

He let them orbit around him, part of the act, part of the image. But he was somewhere else.

“You got me touching on your body

To say we’re in love is dangerous.”

His voice deepened. The phrasing was casual, almost bored, like the song had become muscle memory. A sigh wrapped in rhythm.

Behind him, the LED wall glowed with blurred hotel windows, moving slowly like they were floating underwater.

This was the scene the label wanted:

Luxury. Isolation. Desire in soft focus.

“But girl I’m so glad we’re acquainted…”

The crowd swayed.

They didn’t jump. They didn’t scream.

They watched.

They gazed.

Keiji stepped toward the center now, the dancers trailing behind like shadows. The stage had gone wide. Empty, hazy, seductive.

But there was nothing beneath it.

“But really if I could

I’d forget about you, ‘get about you, ‘get about you.”

He sang it like he’d lost track of who “you” even was.

Was it a lover?

Was it Bokuto?

Was it himself?

“You probably think i’m lying, lying.”

Some fans yelled out in joy — “YES, KEIJI!” — mistaking detachment for dominance.

He knew better.

This wasn’t his voice. It was the one management wrote. And he was just wearing it for now.

“I got you touching on your body.”

As the bridge slipped in, the dancers curled against him, heads against his chest. A pose designed for fantasy.

He held the mic with both hands now, not because it was heavy, but because he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

Shameless by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The stadium fell still.

No dancers.

No lights.

No fog.

Just silence.

And then, the slow, dragging slide of fingers on steel strings.

Keiji sat on a stool now, stage left, a black electric guitar resting against his thigh. A single spotlight dropped onto him. Pale, dim, almost blue.

His fingers plucked the intro. Simple, raw, a little imperfect.

“Say it louder, say it louder 

Who’s gonna love you like me, like me?” 

His voice was low, unpolished. He didn’t lean into the sexiness like before.

He was just… talking. Singing. Whispering truth to no one and everyone.

“Ooh, said you wanna be good, but you couldn’t keep your composure

Ooh, said you wanna be good, but you’re begging me to come over.”

The strings buzzed beneath his fingers.

He barely blinked, eyes fixed just slightly above the crowd, like he was trying to look through them, past them, to someone who wasn’t there.

“I don't wanna hurt you, but you live for the pain

I'm not tryna say it, but it's what you became

You want me to fix you, but it's never enough

That's why you always call me 'cause you're scared to be loved.” 

His lips curled into a bitter smile, not amused. Just tired. Like the lyric itself was a lie he was sick of hearing.

The screen behind him didn’t show visuals this time.

“Girl, I have no shame.”

Just a soft fade between candlelight and static.

And in one flash, a faint, blinking image of his face, distorted like a glitching video call.

He stopped strumming. He let the guitar hang across his lap.

“Ooh, said it’d be the last time, all you needed was a little closure.”

This wasn’t for the fans.

It wasn’t even for Bokuto.

Keiji was singing to the version of himself he had to kill just to survive in this industry. The one who meant well, who loved deeply, who broke anyway.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but you live for the pain 

I’m not tryna say it, but it’s what you became.”

The strings came back, soft, like memory. His fingers tighten around the fretboard like he’s holding back a scream. Every word is too close. Too much truth. The crowd sings with him, but he’s somewhere else.

“You want me to fix you, but it’s never enough.”

The line echoed in the rafters.

The audience was silent now. Phones down.

He had them, not with performance, but vulnerability.

“But I’ll always be there for you.”

He looked down.

Tightened his grip on the guitar neck.

“I’ll always be there for you.”

He could’ve meant anyone.

But deep down, he meant himself.

And suddenly, everything shifted. 

The lights flared, a blood-red flood. Smoke billowed. Keiji stepped forward, hair falling into his eyes, and ripped into the electric guitar.

He didn’t just play it. He screamed through it.

Every note was a wound, every bend of the string a cry he never said out loud. His face twisted, not in performance, but in release.

Phones shot up.

Edits would flood TikTok and Instagram within hours,  Keiji mid-solo, head thrown back, sweat on his brow.

“He’s HIM,” the captions would say. And: “He looks just like his dad,” with a split screen. 

One side: Keiji shredding the guitar solo during Shameless.

The other: His late father, frontman of Temptation, in grainy VHS footage.

But what they don’t see…

Is that Keiji’s not thinking about legacy. Or fame. Or trends.

He was thinking about the last night he saw himself.

He was thinking about the silence that followed.

And how music was the only place the grief didn’t swallow him whole.

Sharp. Lingering. Like a heartbeat that refuses to stop.

Keiji’s chest rose and fell. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

He just looked out, at 60,000 strangers chanting his name, and still felt alone.

But for a moment… it was quieter inside.

And that was enough.

Earned It by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

A spotlight beamed from above, stark white, cinematic.

Strings swelled in the darkness like the opening of a film.

The crowd screamed before he even appeared.

“Imma care for you.” 

His voice was like an angels calling, somewhere distant, traveling in the air like a hushed whisper. He wasn’t present, but he was heard.

This wasn’t just a song anymore. This was the soundtrack to every fan edit, every slow-motion clip of him licking his lips, every Keiji related montage on social media.

He knew it. He hated it.

He played it perfectly.

“You make it look like it’s magic…

‘Cause I see nobody, nobody but you, you, you.”

He emerged from the smoke in a sleek black suit jacket, shirt open just enough to hint at skin. His movements were smooth, slow, choreographed down to the flick of his fingers.

Two dancers appeared behind him, dressed like shadows in heels, moving with elegance. Not wild. Not raw.

This was seduction curated for the screen.

“Cause girl, you’re perfect

You’re always worth it…”

He stepped down a short staircase toward a chaise in the middle of the stage. One dancer was already reclining on it, arms open like a stage prop, waiting for him to arrive.

“And you deserve it…

The way you work it…”

Keiji hovered over her, one hand sliding along the edge of the chaise, never touching her directly. She arched beneath him, performing longing.

He sang it flawlessly, every run, every note.

“Cause girl, you earned it…”

Cameras flashed.

The LED wall behind him played a movie montage. Black-and-white clips of candlelight, silk sheets, close-ups of hands pulling away from zippers.

“You know our love would be tragic 

So you don’t pay it, don’t pay it no mind, mind, mind.”

Another dancer appeared beside him. He took her hand and spun her slowly. The crowd gasped. The elegance. The poise. The perfection.

But in his head, Keiji was counting beats.

Not feelings.

“Hey, hey, and you’re my favorite kind of night.”

He didn’t write this. Didn’t believe a word of it.

The label gave him the demo. Told him it would be used in a movie. They didn’t say which. He never watched it.

“So I love when you call unexpected.”

A spotlight cut in, framing only his face.

He closed his eyes and sang it with the softness of a lullaby.

But his mind was elsewhere.

He remembered watching a fan video once. A slow zoom on his jawline, lips parted mid-note, a seductive wink, and his hand trailing down his body.

The caption read: “He could ruin me and I’d say thank you.”

The fans thought this song was a love letter.

Keiji knew better.

It was a mirror.

One he avoided whenever he could.

“Cause girl, you earned it…”

He ended the song facing away from the crowd, one hand in a pant pocket.

As the final note echoed, the dancers knelt behind him.

The lights dimmed.

And Keiji remained standing, rigid.

Waiting for the next cue.

In The Night by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The lights didn’t rise gently this time. They pulsed.

Fast, strobing, violet and blue, like the inside of a club at 3AM, when your pupils are blown wide and the world is just bass.

Keiji stood center stage, surrounded by fog, head bowed, chest rising.

His white shirt was sticking to him now. Jacket off. Gold pants on now. His voice was still perfect, but his body was heavy.

“All alone, she was livin’

In a world without an end or beginnin’…”

The crowd roared. Not because they understood.

But because his voice sounded so damn good.

“And I know that she’s capable of anything, it’s riveting 

But when you wake up she’s always gone, gone, gone.”

The beat dropped.

And with it, the dancers returned.

This time, it was different.

Their choreography wasn’t polished or romantic. It was sweaty, electric, club-floor messy.

“In the night she’s dancing to relieve the pain 

She’ll never walk away.” 

Bodies grinded against him, then slipped away. Two dancers draped themselves around his arms. One pulled at his waistband, only to be shrugged off.

“In the night when she comes crawling.”

Keiji moved with them — sharp, aggressive, fast.

Not seductive.

Desperate.

Every motion was like trying to shake something off his skin. Every hip roll felt like punishment. Every spin was a memory trying to be erased.

The crowd screamed, but he wasn’t performing for them.

He was chasing a high he couldn’t reach.

“And tears keep falling down her face.”

The lights went red. Fast cuts. Bodies on bodies. One dancer kissed his neck during a beat, and he didn’t react. Just kept dancing. Kept sweating.

“He sang a song when he did it

He was cold and he was so unforgiving

Now she dances to the song on the minute.”

Only motion.

Only music.

Only pain dressed up in rhythm.

“It make her weak when she hear it.” 

Keiji dropped to his knees, exhaustion on his face but it was perfect for the part. The act of it all. 

“And it got her on her knees like religion.” 

One of the male dancers circled him, grabbing his chin while a female dancer trailed her hand along his shoulders. 

“She was young and she was forced to be a woman.”

Keiji felt the past. The haunting memories of what he never wanted the world to know. It’s what made his music so good. He poured his heart and soul into these songs, only for no one to see. To truly understand.

He belted the chorus again, voice soaring, beautiful, raw.

“In the night she hears him calling.” 

The dancers collapsed to the floor around him, reaching for him like worshipers, but Keiji now stood above them. Untouchable, expression blank.

“In the night when she comes crawling 

Dollar bills and tears keep falling down her face.”

And by the time the lights dimmed and the beat cut out…

He looked out into the crowd, drenched in sweat, chest rising like he just outran something.

They loved it.

They loved him.

And he felt nothing at all.

Angel by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The stage went black.

No sound.

No light.

No cheers.

The silence was jarring,like the concert had ended, like the whole machine had finally powered down.

And then a breath.

Just one.

Keiji stepped forward, barely lit by a cold spotlight. His body was still, mic in hand. No instruments. No band.

Just air and ache.

He was in a white set. A silk long sleeve white shirt that fit loosely, somewhat tucked in, white trousers, and glitter on his eyelids.

The crowd didn’t scream.

They knew this song.

They waited.

He raised the mic to his lips, but didn’t sing yet.

He looked up.

The venue’s roof was open, above him, stars scattered like broken glass. He stared at them so long, the lights above blurred.

He imagined Bokuto somewhere under the same sky. Maybe not watching. Maybe not listening. But out there.

And maybe that was enough.

“Ooh…

Angel, oh, oh, oh, oh…

Knew you were special from the moment I saw you.”

His voice was trembling, not from nerves. But from the weight of finally saying the one thing he kept buried.

“‘Cause all I see are wings 

I can see your wings.”

He exhaled between lines, like he was forcing himself to stay grounded.

“But I know what I am and the life I live.”

The camera zoomed in gently on his face.

“And even though I sin, we all want to live 

But I know time will tell if we’re meant for this.”

His lips were parted. Eyes glassy, but not crying. He looked wrecked. Not from exhaustion, but from restraint. From all the things he didn’t get to say when it mattered.

“And if we’re not 

I hope you find somebody

I hope you find somebody.”

Not a lyric.

A confession.

“I hope you find somebody 

I hope you find somebody to love.”

He looked up at the sky again, and for a moment, his eyes softened. Like he wanted to believe Bokuto could hear him.

Like if he just sang it right, somehow, he’d know.

“Said angel, woah, oh, oh, oh, 

You’ll probably never take me back and I know this.”

The lights dimmed further, until it was just him, barely visible.

“I said angel, woah, oh, oh, oh

I’m so desensitized to feeling these emotions.”

The crowd was silent.

No phones up.

No screams.

Just breathing. Just presence.

Keiji clutched the mic with both hands now.

“‘Cause all I see are wings 

I can see your wings.”

The words shattered something in him, but he didn’t break. He held it together with raw will.

“And even though I sin, we all want to live

But I know time will tell if we’re meant for this.”

He paused.

“Yeah, if we’re meant for this.”

His eyes searched the sky again.

Begging.

Do you hear this?

Are you listening?

“I hope you find somebody to love. 

Somebody to love, yeah, yeah, yeah.” 

Something shifted. The notes changed, the colors on the stage turned to a golden hue. 

“And even though we live inside 

A dangerously empty life 

You always seem to bring the light 

You always seem to bring the light.” 

He repeated the lines again, but this time: 

“You always seem to bring me light 

You always seem to bring me light.”

A gentle piano in the back partnered with his voice, reminding him he’s not alone. 

“Somebody to love…” 

His voice trailed off. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…. oh!” 

He belted. As if he was screaming at his past self for all the stupid decisions he made. 

The background track took over the song, repeating: “I hope you find somebody.” 

Keiji’s eyes were glossy, maybe he was crying at this point, he wasn’t sure. But he sang his heart out, a tight grip on the microphone. 

“I hope you somebod—- I hope you find somebody to love!” 

He threw in whistle notes here and there. Belts and emotion pouring out onto stage.

The final note came soft. This time not a belt. Not even a whisper.

Just the truth:

“I hope you find somebody.”

The lights faded completely.

No bow. No encore.

Keiji stood there, unmoving.

And for the first time all night…

He was himself.

The final note lingered in the air like a breath caught in a throat.

“I hope you find somebody.”

The lights went black.

No encore.

No wave to the crowd.

No final bow.

Just Keiji, standing alone in the dark, mic still clutched in his hand like it might break if he let go.

Then: a soft hiss of hydraulics.

The floor beneath him split open and lowered him slowly back into the pit below the stage. As he descended, the screams from the crowd rose like a wave crashing behind him, but it didn’t reach him.

Not really.

Backstage

The second his boots hit the floor, the world around him rushed back in, crew members snapping out commands, the hum of generators, the thump of gear cases being rolled out. Voices buzzed around him like static.

“Keiji, you crushed it out there.”

“They’re losing their minds on Twitter—”

“That ending? Chills.”

“You okay? You need anything?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod.

He walked through them like smoke — barely touching reality, his body drenched in sweat, his heart still somewhere between the mic and the stars.

He turned the corner and stepped into more of the bustling energy, stage crew running back and forth. Minami appeared out of nowhere. 

“Press is going crazy! We have a post performance interview set up for you in the morning.” Minami was smiling down at his phone. “Bring that sexy energy. This era might be over, but you’re still him, Keiji.” 

Silence.

His stylist opened a compact mirror and held it out in front of him, as someone placed a cold rag over his shoulders. Keiji peeked at his reflection, tuning out the noise and focusing on what was in front of him. 

Just him, the mirror, and the mess.

The air was too warm. The makeup on his face had cracked from crying during “Angel,” just slightly — fine lines under his eyes that weren’t from the lights. His hair was matted to his neck.

He stared into his reflection, panting.

It stared back.

Unrecognizable.

He reached out. Touched the mirror with the tips of his fingers, not to steady himself, but to see if he was still real.

Dressing Room 

Keiji pushed the door open, his shoulders still slick with sweat, the cold rag clutched loosely in his hand. The low hum of the stadium faded behind him.

He stepped inside—

And froze.

Kuroo was there.

Sitting on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other curled around a bottled water he hadn’t opened. His tie was loose, hair slightly disheveled like he’d run a hand through it too many times. His eyes were already on Keiji.

Keiji blinked, caught off guard. “You came.”

Kuroo stood slowly, that lazy, familiar smile sliding onto his face. “You sound surprised.”

“I just…” Keiji hesitated. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“I said I’d try.”

Keiji tossed the rag aside, trying to will his heartbeat into something slower. He’d gotten used to Kuroo showing up when he didn’t expect him to. But tonight, this show, he hadn’t let himself hope.

Keiji forced himself to tune back into reality, and turned around to where Aida was standing. 

“Give me five.” He said, quietly but with confidence. 

His bodyguard nodded, stepped off to the side of the door as it closed. 

Then, silence. 

Keiji turned his attention back to Kuroo. Kuroo who showed at almost every one of his performances, waited for him in the dressing room. Waited through every song. Every moment that Keiji sang and thought about Bokuto on that stage. 

More guilt. The thought made Akaashi’s heart race.

Finally— 

“You were amazing out there,” Kuroo said, voice softer now. “I think… that last one nearly killed me. The way you—”

“Don’t,” Keiji cut in, suddenly unable to take the praise. Not from him.

Kuroo tilted his head. “Okay.” He said slowly. “Then let me just say… I’m glad I came.”

They stood in silence for a second. The air between them felt heavy, electric. The kind of stillness that came before a decision you couldn’t take back.

Keiji’s eyes flicked to Kuroo’s throat, the loose tie, the way the sweat at his temples caught the low light. He took a step closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough to feel it.

“You stayed the whole time?” Keiji asked.

Kuroo nodded. “Of course I did.”

Keiji swallowed. His voice dipped, quiet. “Why?”

A beat.

Kuroo stepped forward, just slightly, and said, “Because I needed to see if you were okay.”

Keiji let out a breath, too fast. His chest still hadn’t settled from the performance, but this — this was something else. His hand twitched, like it wanted to reach out. His voice didn’t match his expression.

“I’m fine. Just exhausted.”

Kuroo’s brows lifted, just enough to call the lie for what it was. “That’s not what I asked.”

Before Keiji could answer, the door behind him burst open.

“OHHHH MY GOD, superstar!”

Oikawa’s voice cracked through the air like a slap. 

“Akaashi-san is busy, you can’t go in—” 

Suga followed behind him, flushed and glowing, and Daichi trailed in with a more subdued smile. All three of them lit up when they saw Keiji, ignoring Aida’s protest. That was until they saw Kuroo.

And the room changed.

Tension dropped like a curtain.

Suga’s eyes flicked to Keiji, then to Kuroo, then away.

Akaashi gave a subtle nod to Aida, who was standing there ready to pick all three of them up in his arms and remove them. He then walked away, closing the door.

Oikawa, to his credit, barely hesitated. He gave Keiji a sweeping once-over and stepped in for a hug. 

“You killed it out there,” he beamed. “Suga got emotional.”

“You cried during the ending,” Daichi murmured behind him.

“I mistified, thank you,” Suga corrected with a smirk, but he wasn’t looking at Keiji now. He was studying Kuroo, like a guest overstaying his welcome.

Kuroo didn’t say anything.

He stepped back, just a half step, the smile on his lips thinning.

Keiji could feel it. The weight of all of it pressing in. The sweat on his skin, the crack in his voice, the heat of Kuroo’s presence and the judgment in his friends’ silence.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

This wasn’t the first time they’d seen him with Keiji. In fact, it’s been a few times now over the year. But somehow, it never got easier. They only became less welcoming to the idea. 

Oikawa clapped him on the back, breaking the stillness. “We’re heading out for drinks! Your management sent the after party details. You better come. You can’t emotionally destroy 60,000 people and then ghost your friends.”

Akaashi opened his mouth to protest. Never, and he means never, have his friends been there for an after party. He wanted to keep it that way. 

It wasn’t a place for… let’s say, the average person. It wasn’t mean for his gentle and kind friends. 

It was a place where Keiji wallowed in self-destruction. Where he amped up his act and did things that only people in the industry would harbor as a secret. 

“Come with us,” Suga added gently.

Keiji opened his mouth, no sound.

He looked at Kuroo. Kuroo gave him nothing but quiet eyes, unreadable.

“Up to you,” he said. No challenge. No guilt. Just that same maddening calm.

Kuroo knew about the after parties. Afterall, he was the person Keiji called after his first one. His head was spinning, eyes not focusing due to whatever drug he snorted up. He was freaking out, withering away under the lack of control of his own body. 

Kuroo had come to get him at 3 a.m. He nursed him back into a conscious state over the next day. Keiji missed interviews, rehearsal, choreography lessons. It was a mess. The label was mad. The pressure was sinking in from all angles. Keiji was throwing up all of the following morning. 

But somehow, Kuroo kept his calm. He didn’t look mad. Or upset. He was just… there. 

Waiting. 

And now he was, again. Always that same look. Saying: I’m here. Waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready. 

Keiji felt like he was floating above his own body again.

Two versions of himself. Two different kinds of love. Two different regrets.

He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let me shower first.”

Afterparty 

The rooftop bar was already filling with Tokyo’s  elite — models, producers, influencers, people who smiled with their teeth but not their eyes.

Keiji arrived fifteen minutes after his team, and the entire room shifted when he stepped out of the elevator.

Girls turned. Staff straightened. Music volume dropped for just a breath, like the building itself was adjusting to his presence.

He was in fresh clothes, but on theme for his album — black pants, perfectly tailored, no shirt, just a black silk button-up hanging open to show the shine on his chest. Glitter stuck to the skin above his heart. His eyes were rimmed with black liner, lashes damp, underneath his dark sunglasses. Silver rings covered his fingers, a silver chain dangling from his neck. Real. Diamonds. Keiji could wear stuff like that now. His hair was slightly unkempt but it was intentional. In his hand, a black jacket draped across his shoulder as his other hand occupied his front pocket of his trousers. 

He was dominant. He was luxury. He was heartbreak. 

He looked like a God. And he walked in like he knew it.

Phones lifted instantly.

He threw back a shot someone handed him, offered a slow smirk that never reached his eyes, and made a show of stretching his arms behind his head — showing skin, showing collarbone, showing control.

Staff didn’t say: “You’re off the clock.”

They said: “Remember to stay on top of it, yeah? Everyone’s watching.”

Keiji gave them a little wink.

Everyone laughed.

~~~

Oikawa watched from across the room, jaw tight.

Suga nursed a whiskey sour, eyes tracking Keiji like he didn’t recognize him.

Daichi said nothing, but his hand was clenched around a napkin, folded over and over.

~~~

“Keiji, you’re such a genius!” Someone yelled from a booth. 

A girl in thigh-high boots climbed into his lap before he could respond. Her friends surrounded him, phones up, glittering under the bar lights.

Keiji let her rest her hand on his chest. Didn’t even flinch when she kissed his cheek.

He threw back another drink, then another.

~~~

Oikawa approached when the group dispersed, catching Keiji between fans and photo ops.

“Thought you were tired,” Oikawa said, arms crossed.

Keiji grinned, wide and lazy. “I got a second wind.”

“You’re sweating like hell.”

Keiji leaned in close, sliding the glasses off his face and tucking them into his shirt pocket, whispering, “Performance doesn’t end just because the show’s over, baby.”

Oikawa didn’t smile.

“You’re not on stage anymore, Keiji.”

Keiji just looked at him. All glitter and teeth, a diamond on his K9, and emptiness. “Aren’t I?”

A short girl in a corset interrupted, wrapping herself around Keiji’s arm. “Come dance with me,” she purred.

“Rain check, sweetheart,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles.

She laughed, charmed. He didn’t watch her walk away.

He was already turning, scanning for something else to fill the space.

Suga and Daichi approached a minute later.

“Don’t you want to rest?” Suga asked gently, eyes flicking to the open shirt. “Or we can head back to yours and watch a movie, maybe?”

“I’m good,” Keiji said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I wanna be here. Plus, the attention doesn’t hurt, right?” 

Daichi watched him for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to say something, but bit his tongue. 

Suga said it for him. “That’s not you talking.”

But it was. This was Keiji, now. This was who he was when he was surrounded by the fame, the party, the drugs and the sex. When his label was watching, people eavesdropping, fingers ready to type away on Twitter. This was him. 

Keiji turned on him fast, hissing out a respond in a whisper. “You don’t know who I am anymore. So I would appreciate it if you would butt out and leave me alone.” 

Silence.

And maybe that was the problem.

Suga swallowed, a look of hurt flashing across his face. He murmured something and instinctively, Daichi grabbed his hand and pulled him away, not even bothering to go at it with his friend. 

Keiji ignored the look of disapproval from Oikawa, whose eyes were burning a hole in his head, and walked in the other direction. 

~~~

At some point, Takeru showed up, the label’s unofficial bad influence. Ragged jeans, bloodshot eyes, a laugh like breaking glass.

He dapped Keiji up like they were brothers. “Still chasing that high on stage, huh?”

Keiji gave him a smile that looked too sharp.

Takeru offered him a small capsule in his palm.

Keiji didn’t blink.

Just took it.

Popped it.

Swallowed.

No water.

~~~

Oikawa’s voice broke through moments later. “What the fuck was that?”

Keiji rolled his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“You don’t even ask what it is anymore?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Oikawa snapped. “You’re high.” He tried to pull him aside. “Let’s just sit. You don’t have to do all of this right now.”

Keiji laughed, a hollow, theatrical sound. “Don’t you get it? I’m always on. That’s the job.”

“No,” Oikawa said flatly. “That’s the lie.”

Life of the Party by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji Original) 

The DJ cued up one of Keiji’s earlier singles —  “Life Of The Party” where he talked about the party lifestyle that was fueled by sex and drugs. And emotional detachment. But most people don’t look that far into it. 

“Prescription ain’t an issue 

You can mix it with the ‘oh’.” 

Keiji’s prescription for his depression and anxiety. It wasn’t meant to be mixed with this lifestyle. It couldn’t. It was dangerous. 

But he did it anyway. 

“Go downtown with the drugs in your body 

Take that step, you’re the life of the party.” 

The room sang it loud, off-key, obsessed.

Keiji didn’t move.

Just looked at his friends, stares being held across the room, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes.

Regret, maybe.

Or maybe nothing at all.

And then, without warning, he turned and walked away.

Through the crowd. Down the stairs. Toward the exit.

They didn’t follow.

Not this time.

~~~

Keiji didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t have to.

He slipped out of the rooftop party like smoke, eyes still wide from the pills, body still humming from the last drink, the last laugh, the last lie he told someone who said they loved his set.

The stairwell door clicked shut behind him.

Up here, above the crowd, the world wasn’t asking for anything. No phones. No applause. No cameras.

Just cold air and silence.

And Kuroo.

He leaned against the railing like he’d been there for hours — cigarette burning low between two fingers, hair pushed back, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His eyes were already on Keiji. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… present.

Keiji stopped a few feet away. He was still sweating. Glitter clung to the side of his neck. His pupils hadn’t quite come down yet.

“You didn’t come to the party,” Keiji said, voice too light, like someone playing sober.

“You didn’t look like you wanted me there,” Kuroo replied.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Keiji didn’t move. His hands flexed at his sides like they were missing a mic. His jaw clenched once, fast.

“So… you saw the whole set?” he asked.

“Every second.”

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I always come.” Kuroo’s voice was quiet. “Especially when you don’t think I will.”

The words landed somewhere behind Keiji’s ribs.

He didn’t speak.

He just stepped closer. Small, measured, instinctive.

The glitter on his skin caught the pale stairwell light. His shirt was still open from the afterparty, silk hanging off one shoulder. His lips were slightly parted, breathing uneven. Not from nerves. Not from desire.

From the crash.

“You reek of perfume,” Kuroo said softly, flicking ash to the side. “And ego. And… whatever the hell you took.”

Keiji didn’t blink. Didn’t lie.

“Is that gonna stop you?”

Kuroo stared at him for one second too long.

“No,” he said. “It never does.”

A beat.

Then Kuroo stepped forward, slow, like approaching a wild animal.

“You okay?”

Keiji didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached out and took the cigarette from Kuroo’s hand. Their fingers brushed, warm and unsteady.

He took a long drag, then exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d had in hours.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” Kuroo said.

Keiji flinched, just slightly. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Kuroo replied. “It was an observation.”

Keiji’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the fight draining out of him. “You think I do this for beauty?”

“I think you’re trying not to drown,” Kuroo said. “I also think you forgot how to ask for help.”

Keiji looked away. Glitter shimmered along his lashes.

Kuroo’s hand came to his jaw. Careful, grounding, not demanding. His fingers traced the side of his face like he was making sure Keiji was still real.

“You still don’t know what you want, do you?”

Keiji’s voice cracked around the answer he didn’t say.

“Don’t ask me that.”

Kuroo leaned in, their foreheads brushing. His breath smelled faintly of smoke and something softer. Trust, maybe.

“I’m not here to fix you, Kei.” He said. “But I’ll stay. Until you’re ready.”

Keiji let his eyes fall shut.

And for once, he let himself fall.

Keiji’s Room

They didn’t speak in the elevator.

Kuroo’s hand hovered near his, not grabbing, not insisting. Just there. A tether.

Inside the room, Kuroo took a glance as if he hadn’t been there multiple times already. It was spacious, themed with black and gold accents. Marble flooring, high ceiling. In front of his king-sized bed was a wall of windows overlooking Tokyo’s night lights. His walls were lined with posters of some of Japan’s greatest, from rock to R&B. Two electric guitars were stationed on the wall, one red and one black. He had a walk in closet and his own personal bathroom with more marbled flooring and countertops. On the far side of the room was a mini makeshift studio. He had a long desk with two monitors and an open laptop, a trackpad and DJ system resting in front. There were scattered notebooks and torn up pages in every crook and corner of the area. His miniature trashcan was full to the brim of papers. The monitors were on, revealing Keiji’s work that he left unattended for the day. 

“Whatcha working on?” Kuroo asked as he made his way over Akaashi’s desk, leaning over to inspect. “Is it your new single?” 

“No.” Keiji answered as he started to unbutton his shirt. “That’s done and ready to be released next week. That’s just some work I’m doing for another artist.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow, peering back at him over his shoulder. “So you’re producing now?” 

Akaashi shrugged, shirt fully unbuttoned. “Something like that.” He walked over, now standing beside him at the desk. “Wanna hear it?” 

Immediately, Kuroo nodded like it was a dumb question. He watched Keiji mess with the mousepad, dragging and placing squares and notes all over the software on the screen before he rewinded to the beginning. With a soft click, the track began. 

Lose My Mind by Don Toilver ft. Doja Cat (Used as a Keiji original production)

The music started slow, like a storm forming somewhere just beyond the horizon. A low hum pulsed in the air, not loud, but steady. Synthetic, warped, and stretched out, like the world had dropped into slow motion.

Kuroo didn’t even notice he’d stopped breathing.

A shimmer of sound drifted in, a ghostly synth line, weightless but sharp, slicing through the quiet like light off chrome. It wasn’t a melody yet, just mood. Dark, smooth, and almost surreal. Somewhere beneath it, a beat tapped in, faint and measured, like the sound of tires cracking over pavement before a race.

Then the voice hit. Low, melodic, coated in smoke and static. The artist’s tone wrapped around the rhythm like heat distortion off the track, smooth and disoriented, like he wasn’t just singing. He was unraveling. 

“I don’t wanna lose my mind, I don’t wanna lose myself

Tell me if I crossed a line, I ain’t tryna hurt myself.” 

It didn’t sound like joy, or pain. It sounded like losing touch. Like falling into your own head at 200 miles per hour.

“In my world, in my mind, always runnin’ outta time.” 

Kuroo closed his eyes. The bass was starting to rise, slow but inevitable, vibrating just under the skin. Every part of the song was in motion now, not rushing, but circling, tightening. The way cars warm their tires, the way thoughts start to spiral just before everything breaks loose.

And then the chorus hit. 

The song swelled through the dim glow of Akaashi’s room, curling in the corners like smoke. It wasn’t blasting, just loud enough to fill the silence between them, the kind of volume where you feel it more than hear it. Synths pulsed low against the walls, and the artist’s voice dripped through the air like honey over chrome.

Kuroo leaned back against the edge of Akaashi’s desk, arms crossed, pretending not to be watching him too closely.

But he was.

Akaashi kept his gaze on the monitor, following the sound wave lines as they dragged across the screen, posture casual, but his fingers were restless. They tapped along to the beat, then stopped. Started again. He didn’t look up.

“You made this?” Kuroo asked, low, half knowing.

Akaashi gave the barest nod. “Co-produced. Wrote on it too.”

That was it. No brag. No humble deflection. Just the truth, offered up like a secret slipped under a door.

Kuroo looked away, but only for a second. A female artist took over now, a steady flow, fast but hitting every beat like an exclamation mark. 

He let the chorus roll in again. Smooth, unhurried, the kind of hook that made your ribs expand.

“Yeah, it feels so good, I might just lose my mind…”

The words hung in the space between them like something dangerous and addictive, like the truth no one wanted to say out loud.

Kuroo studied him, quiet now. Akaashi’s expression was hard to read. Eyes on the screen, face still, like he wasn’t hearing it the same way Kuroo was. Like he was dissecting it, not feeling it. But Kuroo knew better.

“No question if it’s wrong or right…”

That line made Akaashi’s eyelids flicker. Just for a second.

Kuroo stepped forward, slow. He didn’t speak. Just crouched beside him, close enough to hear Akaashi’s breath sync with the beat. Close enough to see the twitch in his jaw when the next line hit.

“Ain’t no way to tell which way it’s gonna go…”

“That’s you,” Kuroo murmured, half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Right there.”

Akaashi’s lips parted, not a smile, not a denial. Just a soft exhale, like he knew he’d been caught. He tilted his head, finally looking up at Kuroo.

“It was late. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Sounds like you were thinking perfectly,” Kuroo said.

The track kept playing, but neither of them moved.

And in that stillness, in the secret hush of that room, with the song bleeding truth into the silence, something shifted.

Not loud.

Just enough.

The track was still looping, like it knew it had done its job.

Akaashi’s hands had gone still on the desk, splayed out as if trying to anchor himself. His chest rose and fell faster than before, not panicked, but too steady to be calm. He didn’t say anything about the scene at the party, about the harsh words he’d thrown or the half-lidded daze still clinging to his pupils.

He didn’t need to. Kuroo saw and sensed all of it.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Kuroo said, voice low, uneven.

Akaashi looked up, eyes sharp despite the drugs in his system. “I’m not.”

That landed hard, deeper than maybe either of them expected.

Silence pressed down for a beat too long. The kind of silence that didn’t need fixing. The kind that carried weight. History. Every time they hadn’t crossed this line but thought about it.

Akaashi shifted, his arm brushing Kuroo’s. Not an accident.

Kuroo didn’t move away.

“You looked good up there tonight,” he said finally, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to spook what was building.

Akaashi’s laugh was short, breathy. “I felt like shit.”

“You still lit the room on fire.”

He was close now. Close enough to feel Akaashi’s breath when he tilted his head back, exhaustion and defiance bleeding into his features.

“Why do you always show up when I’m falling apart?” Akaashi whispered.

Kuroo didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just sure.

His hand came up, brushing the side of Akaashi’s jaw with the kind of gentleness that made Akaashi’s throat tighten. Like Kuroo was handling something fragile, not because he thought Akaashi would break, but because he respected the wreckage.

Akaashi didn’t stop him.

Their mouths met like it wasn’t the first time, like they’d already done this a thousand times in dreams and near-misses and looks held too long across crowded rooms. The kiss was hot, but slow. All tension, all control barely held.

Then Akaashi’s hand gripped the collar of Kuroo’s shirt, tugging him down.

It broke something open.

The second kiss was messier, teeth clashing, hands suddenly everywhere. Dragging, pulling, like they couldn’t get close enough. Kuroo’s weight pressed into him as they shifted, lips on throat, hips grinding in lazy, drug-heavy rhythm. Akaashi gasped into Kuroo’s shoulder, half-lost, half-focused. Every nerve tuned to the friction, the mouth at his collarbone, the way Kuroo’s hands slid across his skin where his shirt was open, like they already knew him.

“I shouldn’t—” Akaashi started, but the words fell apart as Kuroo mouthed against his skin.

“You want to stop?” Kuroo’s voice was low, but steady.

Akaashi didn’t answer.

He just pulled him closer.

Akaashi didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to.

The way he kissed Kuroo told the story for him. No hesitation now, just need. Not frantic, but certain. Like he’d been trying to hold himself together all night and had finally given in to the one person who always felt like gravity.

They moved together in a mess of limbs and breath, fingers slipping under fabric, skin meeting skin in quiet, reverent chaos. Kuroo stripped off Akaashi’s shirt slowly, watching his eyes the whole time, checking in without words. He’d never rushed Akaashi. Not once. Even now, with desire thick in the air and tension thrumming between them like a live wire, Kuroo held back just enough.

It made Akaashi ache.

The drugs hadn’t worn off, not completely. There was still a buzz in his blood, a haze at the edges of his mind. But Kuroo’s hands felt real. His mouth felt right. Every kiss was an anchor. Every touch pulled Akaashi deeper into the now.

They made it to the bed half-dressed, tangled in sheets, in sweat, in every quiet feeling they’d spent a long time not naming. Kuroo moved over him with a kind of awe, like he’d never imagined he’d get this close. Not physically, but honestly. And Akaashi let him see it all: the exhaustion, the anger still humming in his bones, the need to lose himself in something that wouldn’t break apart in the morning.

“I’m here,” Kuroo murmured, lips brushing against Akaashi’s cheek, then lower. “You with me?”

Akaashi nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.”

The word cracked on his tongue, fragile and raw.

They undressed each other in pieces, touch by touch. Exploring, rediscovering, not speaking unless it mattered. Every breath became louder. Every sound they made together felt like something sacred.

And when they finally moved together, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about release.

It was about recognition.

Akaashi clung to him, back arching, gasping into Kuroo’s mouth, because this — this — was the only thing that felt clear in the fog. Kuroo whispered to him, held him, grounded him through every wave. And Akaashi let go. Of the fight, the guilt, the noise in his head.

He let himself be known.

~~~

The room was quiet.

Keiji’s head rested on Kuroo’s chest, his hand curled loosely over the rise and fall of steady breath.

Kuroo traced slow lines down his back. No words. No demands. Just warmth.

Keiji blinked up at the ceiling.

The high was gone. The noise had faded. But the ache was still there. Curled low in his stomach, behind his ribs, in the parts of him even applause couldn’t reach.

He didn’t know what this was.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

But right now, he didn’t feel alone.

And maybe that was enough.

~~~

The party had ended hours ago, but Oikawa hadn’t even bothered to shower.

He sat on the floor of his room in the new apartment in sweat-slick clothes, back against the couch, phone pressed to his ear. The room was lit only by the streetlamp glow bleeding through the blinds.

Iwaizumi’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“You sound like shit.”

“Thanks, babe,” Oikawa muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face. “He left with Kuroo.”

There was a pause. Long enough to hear Iwaizumi’s sigh all the way from his place.

“Again?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“You okay?”

“No.” Oikawa let out a short, ugly laugh. “You ever watch someone drown and just… know they’re smiling while it happens?”

Iwaizumi’s voice softened. “Tooru.”

“He was high.” Oikawa’s voice cracked there, barely. “Like, actually out of it. He popped something in front of us. Suga looked like he was gonna cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi said quietly.

“God, I wanted to punch Kuroo.”

“Why? Did he do anything?”

“He didn’t need to. He was just there. Being the one Keiji disappears into when he doesn’t want to face reality.”

Oikawa leaned his head back against the couch.

“And the worst part?” he whispered. “Keiji looked happy.”

~~~

Bokuto sat frozen on the other end of the line.

The phone call wasn’t meant for him.

He’d just been walking into the room, overhearing Oikawa vent to Iwaizumi on speaker, probably thinking he was asleep already. He hadn’t meant to stop and listen. But the name—

Keiji.

And now he was stuck.

Standing in the hallway, shirtless, heart racing.

Listening to that name said with worry. With anger. With love.

The way Oikawa said “he looked happy” made something crawl under his skin.

Because Keiji never looked happy with him. Not like that. Not during the end.

~~~

“I just keep thinking,” Oikawa said, voice dull, “how did we get here?”

“You didn’t get him here,” Iwaizumi said firmly. “He did.”

“I know. I know that.” Oikawa swallowed. “But I still feel like I lost him.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then, quietly:

“Bokuto still asks about him sometimes.”

Oikawa shut his eyes.

“Don’t tell me that.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.” Oikawa’s voice dropped. “He’s not the same either. And if you put the two of them back in a room together, they’ll just ruin each other all over again.”

Iwaizumi didn’t argue.

Oikawa ran a hand through his hair, eyes burning.

“He was my best friend, Hajime. Since we were kids. And now he’s just… this beautiful fucking ghost I have to smile at in public and pretend I don’t miss.”

~~~

Bokuto backed away from the hallway.

Quiet.

Careful.

Like if he made a sound, the weight of everything he’d just heard would finally hit him.

He didn’t go back to bed.

He didn’t call.

He just sat on the floor by the window, knees to his chest, listening to the city move without him.

~~~

The city outside was still breathing.

Bokuto couldn’t.

He sat on the cold tile of his bathroom floor, legs pulled to his chest, fingers trembling against the ridges of a half-empty water bottle.

His throat was tight. His heart was loud.

The worst part?

Nothing had happened.

No argument. No call. No text. Just the sound of Oikawa’s voice from the other room, talking about him.

About Keiji.

About the party. The pills. The girls. The smirk. The ghost.

Kuroo.

And Bokuto hadn’t meant to hear it.

He hadn’t even wanted to. But now it was there, echoing in his ribs like a song he didn’t know how to turn off.

He looked happy.

No, he didn’t. No, he couldn’t have. He never looked happy like that.

Not when he left. Not when he said, “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Bokuto’s breath caught in his throat.

He pressed a fist to his chest.

It didn’t help.

~~~

He’d been getting these attacks more often lately. Quiet ones, mostly. Sneaky. Not the kind that made you collapse in a hallway. Just enough to make you feel like your body had forgotten how to be inside itself.

He’d been performing like nothing was wrong.

Smiling during practice.

Responding back to his growing fan base on Instagram with sparkly emojis and exclamation points.

Going home. Turning off the lights. Sitting in the dark for hours, not moving.

The air always felt thinner at night.

He pressed the bottle to his lips and sipped slowly. Forced himself to count the swallows.

1. 2. 3.

Still shaking.

Still here.

He reached for his phone.

Not to text Keiji.

Not yet.

But he opened his contact anyway.

Just looked at the name: Ji 

The last message had no reply.

It just said: I came tonight. To your show. I’m really proud of you, Ji. You looked amazing up there. I hope you enjoyed it. It’s silly ‘cause I know it’s all over between us, and I should be so angry with you, but I had always hoped one day we could share the stage together. I want to sing with you. To be with you. I miss you. 

No response. Not even the “read” receipt. He sent that almost a year ago, the night of Keiji’s first concert as an artist. 

Bokuto knew he shouldn’t have went. He wasn’t really sure what he was going to get out of going. But he went regardless. All the friends got VIP, Oikawa hooked them up. To their faces, Bokuto declined. But he ended up purchasing his own ticket and watched. The entire night. 

Keiji as a performer. Keiji as an artist. Keiji as someone who was unrecognizable. He was beautiful, angelic, fluid in his motions. 

Bokuto could only sit there. He wasn’t up chanting the lyrics like everyone else, or dancing along to the beat. 

He was captivated, frozen in his seat with tears welling at his eyes. 

How did we get here?… He had asked himself towards the end of the show. 

And he couldn’t help wanting to reach him. Wanting to talk to him. To connect, even after the betrayal and the lies and the hurt.

After it was sent, Bokuto had stared at the text message for three days. Confused as to why it never was read. Why the message didn’t even turn green, indicating he was blocked. He heard the murmurs and the conversations the weeks following Keiji’s official signing. Gossip moved quickly throughout the friend group. 

It started with Oikawa, of course, sharing that Keiji didn’t have his phone anymore. Something about the label making him get rid of it. Then it was followed up days after that they were moving. Keiji offered him the other room in their new luxurious penthouse apartment, label owned. Then word got around that Keiji was dropping his first single. 

Release Party. 

He doesn’t want me there. 

Shows. 

Another single. 

Album dropping. 

Keiji’s dropping an album? 

Concerts. Performances. 

I’m so proud of him.

Afterparty. 

Angel. 

Is this about me? 

Girls. 

Does Keiji like those girls?

Ego. 

Keiji? Egotistical? 

Bokuto slowly began to understand the first few months of Keiji’s career. He was moving on from the past. From the people. From the friends. From him. 

He stared at the message for months after he sent it, hoping it would change.  

It never changed. 

And now, a year later, it was still the same. He closed the app and set the phone down like it might explode. 

Bokuto dragged himself up from the floor and paced the bathroom once. Twice.

He tried to breathe through his nose. Out through his mouth.

It didn’t help.

He reached for a hoodie from his laundry basket, threw it over his head with shaking hands. He wanted to go outside. Walk. Move. Run.

But he stayed.

Because he was scared of what would happen if he left.

Because he was scared of what would happen if he didn’t.

Eventually he slumped down on his bed.

Blanket. Silence. Knuckles pressed to his mouth.

He stared out the window.

Willed the sky to change.

Willed the ache to stop.

It didn’t.

So he just sat there, scared and quiet and burning inside a body that no one saw fading.

The Noise

Keiji woke sometime in the am. 2? 3? It was long before he could expect the sun. Kuroo was captivated by slumber, nuzzled into the millions of pillows on Keiji’s king bed. He was naked, only the lower half of his body covered by the comforter. His skin looked tan, even against the black silk sheets. Akaashi gently reached out, lightly grazing over the freckles on Kuroo’s back, as he admired him sleeping. 

It was peaceful watching Kuroo sleep. It was peaceful when there wasn’t noise and he could just exist beside him. With Kuroo, he felt like running didn’t matter. That he wouldn’t judge him if he ran or did something irrational. Kuroo made it easy. Keiji liked easy. 

He eventually got himself out of bed and changed into a slouchy hoodie, baseball cap and baggy jeans. His “invisible” clothes.

To avoid the early risers, the hidden cameras, and any crazy fans. 

He quietly removed himself from his bedroom, creeped past Aida who was passed out on the couch, and left the apartment. 

Quiet. Always preferred.

The city lights flickered through the early morning haze. Neon blues and reds blinking in the distance. A few cars driving past, tires slicking against the wet road from a brief drizzle. 

He stopped in a lot a block down from his place and looked up.

The stars were clearer tonight.

He stared so long his eyes burned.

Are you watching?

Did you hear it?

Do you understand now?

He reached for his phone. Opened his messages. Scrolled down until he saw it.

Kou

He hovered his thumb over it. Opened the chat.

No messages.

After Keiji tossed his old phone in the water, he spiraled. He bought a new phone, got a new number, but didn’t share it. Instead, he added everyone’s number’s but never texted. 

He remembered Bokuto’s. Of course he did. (He got the rest from sneaking into Oikawa’s room at night). 

He wanted to show he didn’t care. It just had to be like that. 

Right? 

He started to type: I meant what I sang. Every word.

Then deleted it.

I hope you’re okay.

Deleted that too.

You deserved better.

He let the sentence sit there. Just a blinking cursor after it.

His chest ached.

Then:

[Message deleted]

He locked the phone.

Looked up at the stars again, like maybe, somehow, if he stared hard enough…

Bokuto would understand.

He whispered, low, almost like it was part of the wind: “You were always too good for me.”

And then he walked into the night. Alone.

But honest. For once.

~~~

Keiji woke up on top of his silk sheets, still dressed, the TV flickering quietly across the room.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He ignored it.

Another buzz. Then another. The screen lit up with notifications:

@KeijiNews: Keiji’s “Angel” performance left fans SOBBING. Here’s why the final song has the internet in shambles.

PopSpill: Is Keiji okay? 10 signs his concert was a cry for help (and 5 that say it was just genius branding)

@akafan101: he looked so hot and broken like how’s that possible?? 

Rolling News: The pop prophet of our generation? Keiji’s “real life” era cements him as one of music’s most haunted, and hottest, voices.

The words blurred in his eyes.

He rolled over and let the phone fall back to the nightstand.

~~~

Edits were everywhere.

TikToks of his “Shameless” moment. Guitar, spotlight, sweat.

Fan cams screaming through “Often.”

Clips from “Angel,” stitched together with slow piano and sad captions:

“He never got to say goodbye… so he wrote it instead.”

“This isn’t a love song. It’s an apology.”

Some were sincere.

Some were aesthetic thirst traps.

Some dissected his every blink, every glance upward, speculating on who he sang “Angel” for.

@keijilover: do y’all remember when keiji was spotted in that cafe with that mystery guy? like a year ago? ANGEL WAS FOR HIM!

@fancamreacts: no bc the way he almost cried at “i hope you find somebody to love”… someone HURT HIM.

user reply to @fancamreacts: no way, keiji was definitely the one to hurt someone 

@aestheticartists: this concert was not for us. it was for the person he used to be. and the one who loved him anyway.

@AkaashiNation (Pinned): if you’re reading this… pls call him. just once. i think keiji misses you 

~~~

Articles rolled out like clockwork.

“Keiji’s Broken Halo: The Man Behind ‘Angel’” — Tempo Magazine

“…A raw display of artistry and emotion, Keiji’s final performance left little doubt that he’s evolving — and unraveling — before our eyes.”

“Tragic? Or Tactical? Keiji’s Vulnerability Sparks Debate” — CriticNow

“…Is it real, or is it the next level of performance art? We may never know. But we’ll keep watching.”

“All Eyes on Keiji: Pop Star Expectations From a Legendary Father” — The Pulse

“…He’s no longer just a voice. He’s a wound in motion.”

~~~

Keiji said nothing. 

No tweet.

No post.

No interview.

His team texted him: “You’re trending #1. Do you want to post anything?”

He typed a reply.

“Let them talk.”

Then deleted it.

Instead, he sent back:

“No.”

He closed his phone.

Turned off the TV.

And stared at the ceiling, the echo of last night still crawling up his throat.

The world loved him for bleeding.

But none of them knew what it meant to live with the wound.

~~~

The sun was barely up, the room bathed in soft gray light filtering through blackout curtains Akaashi never fully closed.

Kuroo stirred first. His arm reached instinctively for the other side of the bed, still warm but empty. The sheets were tangled, a faint imprint of Akaashi’s body left behind like a signature in dust.

He blinked, rubbed at his eyes, and sat up slowly. His muscles ached in familiar ways—not unpleasant, just… undeniable. The air in the room still smelled like skin and leftover heat.

Somewhere down the hall, there was the faint click of a keyboard.

Kuroo padded out barefoot.

He found Akaashi in the living room, curled into one side of the massive sectional, hoodie zipped up to the neck, sleeves pulled over his palms. His legs were crossed tight beneath him, laptop perched on his thighs, the screen casting pale light onto his face.

His expression was pinched.

Not surprised. Not upset. Just focused. Like he was bracing for impact.

Kuroo leaned against the doorway.

“You always read the comments?”

Akaashi didn’t look up. “Sometimes.”

The screen scrolled fast. A blur of usernames, tweets, reply chains. Some with glowing praise, others with clipped critiques and straight-up venom.

Keiji Akaashi is so calculated it’s boring. No soul in those songs. He is like a robot.

He’s the only reason i survived earlier this year, he doesn’t even know what he means to us.

he’s mid. idk why y’all keep pretending.

marry me please i’m begging

Akaashi’s eyes flicked over them all with clinical detachment. He paused on none. Absorbed everything.

Kuroo walked over slowly, dropped onto the far end of the couch.

“You looking for something?” he asked, softer now.

Akaashi didn’t answer right away. The screen flashed again. Another post. Another unsolicited opinion.

He shrugged. “Just… seeing where I stand.”

Kuroo tilted his head. “You think they know?”

Akaashi finally glanced over. His eyes were sharp around the edges, but tired underneath. “Know what?”

“Who you are.”

A pause. Then, a bitter smile. “They know what I give them.”

Kuroo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s not the same.”

“I know.”

The scrolling stopped. Akaashi’s fingers hovered, then fell still.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. More like pressure release. But his jaw was still tight.

Kuroo watched him for a beat longer, then said, “Last night—”

“Don’t,” Akaashi cut in, voice quiet but firm. “Please don’t make it mean something.”

That hit a little harder than he expected. Kuroo didn’t flinch, but something shifted behind his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to make it anything,” he said, tone even. “Just didn’t know if you were okay.”

Akaashi blinked once. Then twice. He shut the laptop slowly, set it aside.

“I’m fine,” he said, and it was almost convincing.

The silence stretched.

Kuroo leaned back, gaze tracing the high ceilings, the city framed by massive windows. “You ever think about logging off?”

Akaashi chuckled, low and dry. “You ever think about breathing underwater?”

Kuroo smiled faintly. “Same thing.”

They didn’t say anything after that. The apartment was quiet. The sun crept a little higher, casting long shadows across the floor.

Eventually, Akaashi leaned over and grabbed the remote, flicking on music. Low. Wordless. Familiar.

A song he wrote. One Kuroo had helped shape.

It played like a memory, looping in the space between them.

~~~

The front door opened with a soft click and the gentle scrape of key against lock.

Oikawa stepped inside, balancing a paper bag of groceries on one hip, sunglasses still perched on his head. His voice called out before he saw anyone.

“I brought oat milk because you keep forgetting you’re lactose intolerant—”

He stopped short in the doorway to the kitchen.

Kuroo was there, standing at the island, shirtless, his hair sleep-ruined and hands wrapped around a coffee mug that wasn’t his.

Oikawa blinked. Slowly. Then lowered the bag onto the counter with exaggerated calm.

“Well,” he said, full sarcasm. “What a wonderful surprise.”

Kuroo glanced up, casual but not careless. “Morning, Oikawa.”

“You’re still here,” Oikawa noted, like observing a weather pattern. “That’s surprising.”

Kuroo just sipped his coffee.

Akaashi padded in a second later, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair damp from a shower. He took one look at the scene and sighed.

“Tooru—”

“No, it’s fine,” Oikawa interrupted, holding up both hands. “I just didn’t realize we were rotating situationships through the apartment again. It’s cool.”

“It’s not like that,” Akaashi muttered, moving to put a glass under the sink.

“Oh?” Oikawa tilted his head. “Because from what I’m seeing, it looks exactly like that.”

Kuroo set his mug down gently. “I can go.”

“No,” Akaashi said quickly. Too quickly. Then, softer: “You don’t have to.”

Oikawa’s gaze sharpened. “Right. Of course not. Why would we want boundaries when we could have unresolved sexual tension at breakfast?”

Akaashi turned toward him, jaw tight. “Can we not do this now?”

“Just curious,” Oikawa continued, voice light but eyes cutting. “Do you text him before or after you Google yourself for two hours?”

Kuroo quietly backed away from the kitchen island, heading toward Keiji’s room. “I’m gonna… give you two a minute.”

Once he was gone, the silence clamped down hard.

Akaashi closed his eyes. “You’re mad.”

Oikawa leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m not mad. I’m…” He paused, then corrected himself. “Okay, no—I am mad. Because you asked me to live here. You said you wanted stability. But every time you start to feel anything, you run straight back to the people who hurt you in the first place.” 

Akaashi stared at the sink. His reflection in the chrome faucet didn’t look like him.

“He just showed up,” he said weakly.

“And you let him stay.”

That landed.

Oikawa’s voice softened, but didn’t lose its edge. “I’m not trying to control you. But I am trying to remind you that you don’t get to heal by sleeping with him. That’s not how this works.”

Akaashi didn’t reply.

Oikawa pushed off the counter, brushing past him gently on the way to his room.

Before disappearing down the hall, he said over his shoulder:

“I love you, Keiji. But if you’re going to let him break you again— or whatever it was that happened with you two — I’m not sticking around to watch.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

~~~

The silence was thick after Oikawa’s door clicked shut.

Akaashi stood in the kitchen, still holding the same glass of water he hadn’t drunk from. The condensation had run halfway down his palm. He didn’t move.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that.

Eventually, Kuroo’s footsteps padded in, soft and careful. Not like someone intruding. Like someone trying not to be one more problem.

He lingered at the edge of the room, near the wall, like he wasn’t sure if he was invited in.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Akaashi didn’t look up. “What do you think?”

Kuroo hesitated, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. “I think Oikawa’s not wrong.”

Akaashi flinched, just slightly. “You’re really batting a thousand this morning.”

“I’m not judging you,” Kuroo said quickly. “I just… I know how it looks.”

Akaashi finally glanced at him. “And how does it look, Tetsurou?”

Kuroo held the gaze. “Like we don’t know how to stop doing this weird thing with each other.” He paused for a moment, sighing through his exhale. “You’ll perform. You’ll party. Then you break down. I show up, either cause I get a drunk text from you or I just get that feeling. We have sex. We share deep talks. Then I leave. And the same thing happens the next week.” 

The words hung there, uncomfortably true.

After a long moment, Kuroo added, gentler, “I didn’t mean to make this harder for you. I came to watch you last night because… I missed you. And I thought maybe you missed me too. Just for a night.”

Akaashi exhaled, jaw tight. “You make it sound like that’s harmless.”

“It’s not,” Kuroo admitted. “But I’m just being honest.”

That was the thing about him. He never demanded anything. Just put his truths on the table like open wounds and let Akaashi decide whether to walk away.

Akaashi rubbed a hand over his face, finally setting the glass down.

“Maybe you should go,” he said, voice flat but not unkind.

Kuroo nodded once. Pushed off the wall. No drama. He was already halfway out the door, no questions. No retaliation. He listened to Keiji, even if he didn’t want to. 

The door didn’t shut.

Kuroo stood there, hand on the knob, about to pull it closed. But he didn’t.

Behind him, Akaashi’s voice cracked out, quiet and hoarse.

“Wait.”

Kuroo froze. Turned halfway.

Akaashi still hadn’t moved from the kitchen, hadn’t wiped the condensation from his hand. But something in his face had folded. Some sharp, bitter thing melted under exhaustion.

“Just…” He swallowed. “Stay.”

Kuroo’s shoulders dropped the tiniest bit. “You sure?”

Akaashi nodded, but it wasn’t a confident nod. It was fragile. Like he was scared of what would happen if he said anything more.

So Kuroo stepped back in, letting the door shut behind him. He crossed the room slowly, stopped a foot away, waiting.

Akaashi didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t have to. He just leaned forward slightly, like gravity had shifted, and his head came to rest against Kuroo’s chest.

Not romantic. Not desperate. Just heavy.

Kuroo stood still, one hand hovering before it landed gently at the back of Akaashi’s neck. His fingers didn’t move. They just held him there.

“I don’t know how to stop this,” Akaashi murmured.

“I know,” Kuroo said. “Me neither.”

There was nothing clean about it. Nothing resolved. But in that moment, they understood each other exactly.

Akaashi let his eyes close. Let himself disappear for a little while, pressed into something that didn’t ask him to explain or heal or fix.

Just stay.

~~~

It started with the elevator chime.

Then the front door burst open. Not knocked, not buzzed. Just opened, like a gust of wind with a personal vendetta.

Akaashi barely had time to sit up before they flooded in.

“Keiji, we’re late. The interview’s been rescheduled. Sakamoto wants final approval on the shoot mood board. We’re still negotiating that feature but his team’s being difficult—”

His agent, Minami, was a force of nature, tablet already in-hand and flanked by a bodyguard, two junior assistants, and what looked like a PR manager he’d never met before.

The penthouse, moments ago wrapped in the slow hush of post-morning haze, now pulsed with clipped footsteps, urgent voices, and a rolling tide of industry logistics.

Kuroo, still shirtless, blinked from the corner of the living room.

Oikawa leaned against the kitchen counter, where was just trying to make himself some breakfast. His arms were folded, watching the scene unfold like a silent alarm was going off in his chest.

Akaashi didn’t flinch. He stood, stretched his back once, and rolled his neck like someone shaking off a different skin.

“Five minutes,” he said simply, already walking toward the bedroom.

Minami didn’t stop talking, just pivoted his chaos to follow him.

“You’ll need to wear the Gaultier suit to the dinner. No leather this time. I already told them to make the lighting warmer, it flatters your cheekbones better in video. And we’re skipping the interview with Scene unless they agree to full pre-approval—”

The assistants unpacked garment bags and clipped them open across the back of the couch.

Within seconds, the space looked like a showroom: silk ties, sunglasses, cologne samples spread across marble. Aida did a slow sweep, as if anyone in the room might be a threat.

Oikawa snorted under his breath. “They think someone’s gonna assassinate him or something?”

Kuroo didn’t answer. He was watching Akaashi.

Because when he returned five minutes later, everything had changed.

Hair styled. Cheekbones sharpened by bronzer. A high-neck black shirt with gold cuffs, sleek trousers, and boots with just enough heel to make his posture cruel.

And the look in his eyes… that wasn’t him.

It was the act. The version of him the world had bought into: siren, devastating, mythic. The one who looked through people instead of at them. Who sang about heartbreak like he didn’t know what it meant anymore.

“Who’s driving?” Akaashi asked smoothly, glancing at Minami.

“Company car. Fully tinted. Don’t you worry my beautiful prodigy.” 

That word. 

That saying. 

That wasn’t the labels. Or his agents. 

No that belonged to his parents. That was special to just them. To the people who really knew Keiji and loved him. 

Oikawa’s eyes darted to his friend, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. There was nothing. 

“Tell them I want silence until we get there.”

He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and checked his reflection in the black screen of the TV.

“Oh,” he added casually, like he’d almost forgotten. “If they booked that rookie DJ for the after-party again, I’m leaving early. I don’t work to amateur background noise.”

Oikawa looked down, jaw clenched.

Kuroo just exhaled slowly, eyes tracking every movement. Watching the real Akaashi disappear beneath that perfected shape.

And maybe the worst part was how easy he made it look.

Minami clapped once. “Alright, let’s move.”

The team filed out, carrying scraps of conversation and mood boards and wardrobe bags with them.

Akaashi followed without glancing back.

But just before the door shut behind him, he paused, one hand on the frame.

He didn’t turn around, but his voice drifted back like smoke:

“Don’t wait up.”

Then he was gone.

~~~

The storm had passed, but the pressure hadn’t dropped.

Garment bags still hung half-unzipped across the couch. A bottle of cologne lay uncapped on the counter. Someone’s laptop was still open, screen dimming to sleep.

Oikawa hadn’t moved.

Kuroo stood near the window, arms folded, staring out over the city like he could track Akaashi’s car from memory alone.

“Okay,” Oikawa said finally, voice low. “I don’t like you.”

Kuroo blinked, then turned to face him fully. He didn’t look offended. Just tired.

“Noted.”

But Oikawa kept going.

“I don’t like what you bring out in him. I don’t like that you did something to him and I don’t know about it. And I don’t care how complicated it was or who said what or whichever version of the story is true.”

He stepped away from the counter, voice sharpening.

“The fact is: you fucked him up. Badly. And I spent the last year picking up whatever pieces I could, trying my best without knowing anything. But somehow he still goes to you, or you come to him. I don’t even know what this is that you both are doing.”

To him, Kuroo is the line Akaashi crossed and never came back from. 

Kuroo didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just watched him. Because it’s easier to be hated than to explain everything. And by being silent, it protected Akaashi from judgment.

“But if you’re going to be around,” Oikawa continued, calmer now, “then I need to know we’re on the same page about… whatever the fuck that was. The switch. The performance. That whole act.”

He gestured toward the door like Akaashi’s ego had left smoke trails behind it.

“You saw it too, right? That wasn’t him.”

Kuroo nodded slowly. “It was the version they need him to be.”

Oikawa laughed bitterly. “Yeah. And the worst part? He’s good at it.”

There was a silence between them, long and weighted.

Then Kuroo spoke, quiet but clear.

“You think I don’t know I broke something in him?” He looked down, jaw tight. “You think I sleep at night pretending it didn’t happen?”

“I don’t know,” Oikawa said, arms crossing. “Do you?”

Another pause.

“I don’t come around to drag him down again,” Kuroo added. “But I can’t pretend he’s okay. Not when I see how he’s living.”

“So what, you’re his escape?” Oikawa snapped. “His safe place to collapse when it gets too hard to keep pretending?”

Kuroo’s voice was steady, even as his eyes darkened.

“I think I’m the one place he’s allowed to fall apart. And yeah, maybe that’s not healthy. But at least I don’t ask him to hold it together.”

Oikawa stared at him, long and hard. Weighing something.

Oikawa was Akaashi’s lifelong, emotionally protective constant. He believed in a whole version of Akaashi. Healthy, expressive, loving. He wants that version back. He knew that Kuroo didn’t believe Akaashi could ever go back to who he was, and that he wouldn’t ask him to. He offered stillness, not healing. Which, to Oikawa, looked like surrender.

Finally, he looked away. Exhaled.

“Just… don’t make him choose between burning out and burning up.”

“I won’t,” Kuroo said. “Not again.”

They stood there in the quiet hum of the apartment. No music. No applause. Just two men in the aftershock of someone else’s performance, wondering how long it could last before the center gave out again.

~~~

The car ride to the studio was silent, just as he’d asked. No music, no chatter, no distractions. Just the muted sound of tires on pavement and the buzz of the city beyond tinted glass.

Akaashi scrolled through the day’s itinerary: three fittings, a press briefing, a voiceover for a fashion campaign, and two hours in the rehearsal space. Everything was color-coded and double-confirmed.

He’d be home by midnight if the day ran tight. It wouldn’t.

The car stopped outside the label’s downtown compound, a glass and metal fortress surrounded by controlled chaos. A wall of fans already pressed against the barricades, phones in hand, faces lit up by the glow of camera apps.

As soon as he stepped out, the screaming started.

“Keiji! Look here! Look up! Please, over here!”

He smiled once. Just enough to feed the flashbulbs.

Security flanked him, cutting a clean path through the swarm. He didn’t flinch. He never flinched. That was part of the appeal now. Composure incarnate.

Inside, the building buzzed like a wasp’s nest. Assistants in motion. Designers with garment bags. A producer trailing behind him with a clipboard.

“We need the vocals by next week. Director’s requesting darker tonality. Less breathy, more control. We’ve sent over revised lyrics, but they might still lean a little romantic. Let us know if that’s going to be a problem.”

Akaashi didn’t even blink. “It won’t.”

“Good. Also, there’s talk of putting you on the same charity broadcast as Nakamura. She’s controversial, but numbers are numbers. We’ll script your segment to avoid overlap.”

He nodded, already filtering the information for what mattered: the song. The rest was dressing.

They ushered him into wardrobe. A stylist he didn’t know fitted him with practiced efficiency, tugging at lapels, adjusting cuffs, patting down invisible wrinkles.

“Smile lines are showing today,” she murmured. “You been sleeping?”

“Define sleeping,” he replied flatly.

She laughed, not realizing he wasn’t joking.

~~~

Later. The rehearsal space.

Massive mirrors. Clean floors. A low hum from the overhead speakers looping the instrumental to his next single. He stood in the center, posture perfect, movements sharp as a scalpel.

Cameras tracked him from three angles. Marketing wanted “behind-the-scenes” content.

He gave them what they wanted.

But when the choreographer paused the music and told him to relax his shoulders, he realized he hadn’t breathed in minutes.

~~~

Even later. A recording booth.

“One more take, Keiji.”

His voice, once full of ache and texture, now slid through the mic like glass: flawless, cold, emotionless.

“That’s the one,” the producer said. “Perfect. You’re a machine.”

He smiled faintly. Machines didn’t break.

~~~

Breakroom. Alone.

He stared at the vending machine. Not hungry. Just still.

Somewhere in his chest, a quiet ache settled in, like his body was aware of the performance even if his mind wasn’t.

His phone buzzed. A rare thing, these days. Only a short list of contacts remained.

He didn’t look. Not yet.

Instead, he pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the vending machine. Just long enough to feel human again.

~~~

The studio lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in fluorescent fatigue. His limbs felt like they were floating just outside his body, disconnected, running on habit.

Akaashi sat on the bench in the corner, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His jacket was draped across the chair beside him. The room was quiet for once.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

He ignored it.

Then it buzzed again, softer somehow, though it hadn’t changed.

He pulled it out lazily, expecting Minami, or someone from the label. Maybe Oikawa telling him to drink water. Maybe no one worth reading.

But the name on the screen stopped him.

Miwa.

Just that. No contact photo. He never added one.

He didn’t need to.

His fingers hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary. He didn’t open the message. Not yet.

But something in him cracked a little at the sight of her name.

Miwa hadn’t changed her tone in all the years she had known him. She still texted him like he was a high schooler who forgot to eat. Still called him “my sweet boy” when he let her. Still knitted him scarves every winter, even when he told her Tokyo didn’t get that cold.

She’d never asked for anything. Not when he moved away. Not when he went quiet. Not even when the headlines started.

She never watched the press. She didn’t need to.

She just loved him.

And he… he couldn’t imagine not being soft with her. She was the closest thing to his mother he had left. The only person in the world he still said “good morning” to when he had nothing left to give.

He’d paid off her mortgage four months ago. Quietly. She’d tried to argue, but he said it was already done. And that was that.

The phone sat in his hand, screen still lit with her name.

He didn’t read it now.

Not yet.

But for the first time that day, something inside him eased.

Just a little.

~~~

The penthouse was dark except for the faint city light seeping in through the glass. Akaashi didn’t turn on the lamps. He liked the way Tokyo glowed in silhouette, like something alive but too far away to touch.

It was nearly one in the morning.

His jacket was crumpled on the floor. He hadn’t eaten dinner. He hadn’t spoken since his last recorded take six hours ago. Even Oikawa had gone quiet, giving him space that felt more like distance.

Akaashi lay on the couch, one arm over his eyes, the other still loosely holding his phone.

Eventually, he turned the screen on.

Miwa’s name blinked up at him again. Still unopened.

He tapped the message.

Miwa: Hey, my sweet boy. I saw a picture of you on one of those ad screens again. Looking very serious in all black. Very cool!! I hope you’re eating something green today.

Miwa: Just wanted to say I’m proud of you. No matter what.

Miwa: Call when you can. No pressure. Just miss you. Love you.

He read it once. Then again.

His throat felt tight.

He stared at the ceiling, letting the words settle like dust over a part of him he hadn’t let anyone touch in months.

She had no idea what the tabloids said. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She didn’t ask about the music, or the fame, or the masks he wore to survive his schedule. She didn’t ask about Bokuto. Or Kuroo. Or the things he did when he thought no one could see.

She just missed him.

He sat up slowly. Scrolled up through their old messages from the past year. 

Miwa sending him photos of the cat that kept showing up on her porch. Miwa asking what kind of tea he wanted her to send. Miwa texting him during a thunderstorm to say she remembered he used to be scared of them.

He didn’t cry. Not really.

But his chest ached the way it did when you knew, deep down, that someone still saw you. 

Still believed in the parts of you you’d buried so deep you forgot they existed.

He typed a reply.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Keiji: I miss you too.

Keiji: I’m okay. Just… tired. I’ll call you soon.

Keiji: Love you.

He sent it before he could overthink it.

Then he leaned back, eyes closed, phone resting on his chest.

And for the first time all day, he let himself feel small. Not famous. Not broken. Just someone’s boy.

A Star in Motion 

Keiji’s breath came in steady pulses as his feet hit the pavement. Left, right, left, right. The early evening air bit cool against his skin, the summer haze still clinging to the sidewalks but cracking in the breeze. His black compression shirt clung to his torso, sweat darkening the collar. Grey joggers clung low on his hips, earbuds in, volume high, but not high enough to drown out his thoughts.

The bodyguard trailed him at a crawl, windows up, pace matched just enough to avoid suspicion. Aida never let him out alone anymore. Not for long. But this… this was the closest he got to freedom. Running without a route. Moving like it meant something.

The city blurred by, neon signs buzzing, a smell of roasted meat from a street vendor, distant shouts from teenagers in oversized jerseys. Keiji pushed faster. Harder. Each step slamming down like punctuation to a sentence he couldn’t finish.

He wasn’t running toward anything.

He was running from himself.

His lungs burned. His heart thundered. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to feel more.

He turned the corner onto a new street, sensory overload of people and movement and glass and light, and that’s when he saw it.

The billboard.

Massive.

Keiji Akaashi. Shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes heavy-lidded, suit jacket slung off his shoulder like sin. The promo for his single, After Hours.

It was seductive. Clean. Iconic. The version of him that made people gasp. Desire. Buy. But not love.

He stopped moving. Just stood there.

Until the screen glitched. Flickered. A second of static.

And then it changed.

Not to a model. Not to a perfume ad.

But to them.

Bokuto. Iwaizumi. Nishinoya.

Their band: The Flight.

A new promo photo, one he’d never seen. All three of them backlit in gold, guitars in hand, smiles carved sharp with ambition. The tagline beneath them blinked once before solidifying:

“The Flight. Coming to Tokyo. Auditions open for lead guitarist.”

Keiji couldn’t breathe.

He hadn’t let himself search their names. Hadn’t asked Oikawa. Hadn’t wanted to know.

But now it was right there. Staring down at him like fate.

Tokyo.

They were here.

They were coming for everything.

His legs moved again, not from decision but impulse — sprinting, chest tight, blood rushing behind his eyes. He didn’t know where he was running. Just that he couldn’t look back.

He couldn’t afford to.

Because if he did, if he stopped, he might have to admit it wasn’t anger that made him avoid them.

It was grief.

And he wasn’t ready to feel it.

Not yet.

~~~

Keiji let the door click shut behind him with a soft thud. His shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat, hair matted at the nape. He tugged his earbuds out and tossed them onto the marble counter without looking. The penthouse was quiet, dimly lit with that sterile warmth of curated comfort. It never really felt lived in. Just staged.

But Kuroo was here.

He sat cross-legged on the couch, casually leaned back, one hand holding a glass container of something suspiciously green and crunchy. He popped a piece into his mouth with an exaggerated hum.

Keiji raised an eyebrow, toeing off his sneakers.

“What the hell is that?”

Kuroo didn’t even flinch. “Kale chips. Sea salt. Your private chef makes ‘em but hides them behind the vegan cheese and microgreens.” He crunched again, obnoxiously. “Not bad. Tastes like leaves but could be worse.”

Keiji gave a faint snort and collapsed into the armchair opposite him, one leg hanging over the side. His chest still heaved slightly from the run. Not from exertion but from what he’d seen.

Kuroo glanced over at him, that familiar, too-knowing look in his eyes. He didn’t ask what happened.

Instead: “Y’know, not to objectify you or anything but… you’ve filled out a little.”

Keiji blinked. “What?”

Kuroo gestured vaguely at his frame, letting his eyes drift without apology. “Your shoulders. Arms. You’re more built and you definitely didn’t look like that last year.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Still smaller than me, obviously. But good effort.”

Cocky bastard. 

Keiji rolled his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. “You done?”

“Just saying. Celebrity workouts are clearly working. You look like you can almost lift something heavier than your trauma now.”

A pause. Then a soft exhale, almost a laugh.

Almost.

Kuroo’s smirk faded slightly, just enough. “You okay?”

Keiji didn’t answer right away. Just stared up at the ceiling, the glass light fixture reflecting the city skyline like a cracked mirror.

Then, low: “They’re here.”

Kuroo didn’t ask who.

He already knew.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now. “Kinda funny how I left home and came to Tokyo to escape everyone. Then you did the same. Now look at where we are.” 

Silence stretched between them like a string pulled too tight.

Then Kuroo tossed another kale chip into his mouth and crunched loudly. “Well. Guess that run didn’t help, huh?”

Keiji closed his eyes.

And finally let himself breathe.

Silence again. A longer one.

Then Keiji spoke, barely audible: “I wasn’t ready.”

“You don’t have to be,” Kuroo said, simple and sure.

Keiji looked at him. Something flickered behind his eyes, not quite fear. Not quite grief. Just a kind of knowing.

And Kuroo, like always, met it without flinching.

“Stay?” Keiji asked, voice soft.

Kuroo didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

“I should shower,” Keiji mumbled eventually, still slouched in the chair. “They’re bringing in stylists soon.”

Kuroo tossed another chip in his mouth. “Alright, starboy.”

Keiji paused mid-rise from the chair. “Starboy?”

Kuroo just grinned. “You’ve got billboards the size of buildings and a single dropping soon. What do you want me to call you? Keiji ‘Tokyo’s Favorite Heartbreaker’’ Akaashi?”

Keiji rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Or how about Keiji ‘Depressed AF’ Akaashi?” 

“Tetsurou.” 

“Wait! Keiji ‘Too-Hot-To-Have-Problems’ Akaashi?” 

“I hate you.” 

“You love me.” Kuroo said, grinning, tossing another kale chip into his mouth. 

Keiji didn’t answer.

Just stilled.

For a beat too long.

His gaze had dropped somewhere near the edge of the coffee table, not looking at Kuroo, not blinking either. That same kind of quiet he carried on stage sometimes. Not silence, exactly. Just… restraint.

Kuroo didn’t move. Didn’t press.

But something in his expression softened, his grin pulling just slightly at the edges. Less smug now. More familiar.

Like he remembered that night in his apartment, the one with newly welcomed warmth, many new vinyls bought over Keiji’s days spent there, and too many unsaid things hanging in the air. The night Keiji had cried in his living room, quiet and tired and unguarded, and whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Kuroo hadn’t asked for anything more. He didn’t then. He didn’t now.

But God, he’d been waiting to hear something like that again ever since.

Keiji blinked, finally looking up. His voice was low when he spoke.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

Kuroo smiled, gentle now. “I’m not.”

He tossed him the rest of the kale chips like a truce.

Keiji caught them.

Didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away either.

And for them, that was enough.

He turned toward the hallway, but not before Kuroo added, softer now, like he meant it: “You earned it, y’know. All of this. Even if it’s a lot for you.”

Keiji didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to.

He just disappeared into the hallway, and the glow of the penthouse dimmed behind him.

~~~

“Turn your head for me, babe.”

Akaashi stood in front of the tall mirror, arms out like a doll, as a stylist adjusted the cuffs of his blazer. The fabric shimmered under the warm lighting, slate blue silk with charcoal undertones. 

Subtle. Expensive. Flawless.

His hair was freshly blown out, pinned in sections. A second assistant tugged the collar of his shirt into place, making soft “tsk” sounds under her breath.

He looked perfect.

He felt like glass.

Oikawa leaned against the doorway, holding a cold brew and watching the chaos unfold with an amused tilt to his head.

“You look like you’re about to combust, Keiji.” he said. “Relax, you sexy prince.”

“Shut up,” Keiji muttered, eyes locked on the mirror. “I’m trying not to sweat through this.”

“Don’t,” the stylist barked. “This fabric doesn’t breathe.”

Keiji sighed and dropped his arms, rolling his shoulders as he stepped away. “How much longer?”

“Another fitting after this, and then glam.”

“I don’t need glam,” Keiji said automatically.

“Your face disagrees,” the assistant shot back.

Oikawa snorted. “Ouch.”

Keiji gave him a sidelong look. “Shut up, Tooru.”

“Mm,” Oikawa hummed, taking a sip. “By the way, housewarming’s still Monday. Seven. Come early if you want food before Noya’s dance circle begins.”

Keiji turned away from the mirror, tugging lightly at the hem of his sleeve. “I’m not going.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” Keiji’s voice was clipped. Practiced. “Why would I? I’ve got interviews this week. Promo meetings. A magazine shoot. I’m preparing for the drop. My schedule says no.”

Oikawa didn’t look convinced.

He stepped into the room fully, pausing behind Keiji’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’ve been saying that since I extended the invite.”

Keiji met his eyes in the glass. “I’m not going.”

The stylist clicked her tongue, oblivious, still tugging at seams. “Maybe you should. Your fans would kill to see you around some friends for once.”

“Exactly why I shouldn’t,” Keiji muttered.

Oikawa shrugged, setting the coffee down on the vanity.

“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, “you don’t have to talk to him. Just show up. Be civil. Prove you’re not a ghost.”

That stung. Keiji flinched before he could hide it.

“I’m not a ghost.”

Oikawa didn’t argue.

He just smiled softly and headed for the door.

“See you Monday, then,” he said with that infuriating, knowing lilt.

Keiji didn’t answer.

But his eyes lingered on the mirror.

And for the first time all morning, he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

The door clicked shut behind Oikawa, and for a moment, everything in the room stilled.

The stylist’s footsteps faded into the background as she shuffled through accessories behind the screen. The steamer let out one last hiss. Then, silence.

Keiji stood in front of the mirror, his reflection sharp under the lights. He was dressed half in silk, half in exhaustion. His jaw was set. His shoulders were squared. He looked… right.

Almost.

His eyes betrayed him. They always did.

He didn’t look powerful. He didn’t look free.

He looked like someone trying too hard to look like someone else.

And maybe that was the point.

He reached up and tugged the collar straight again. Tighter. Cleaner.

This was the version of himself the world loved. Distant. Composed. Polished to the edge of unrecognizable.

Maybe that’s what he needed to be.

He’d told himself a hundred times he wasn’t going. He said it to Minami. To Kuroo. To Oikawa.

He said it to the mirror.

But the truth was clawing its way out now. Slow, bitter, inevitable.

Maybe he would go.

Not for closure. Not to reconnect.

He would go so they could see it. The new version of him. The one that didn’t belong to anyone. Not to fans. Not to Bokuto. Not even to himself.

He would go so they’d stop waiting for a version of him that didn’t exist anymore.

Because it had been a year.

And still, the questions.

The whispers. The comments. The subtle glances when his name came up.

He could feel it every time Bokuto’s name got tangled in conversation. Like a thread they all refused to cut.

He missed him. Of course he did.

He still dreamed about his voice, about the warmth of his skin in the morning, about laughing over takeout containers on the floor. He still thought about the kiss, the last kiss, and the look in Bokuto’s eyes when Keiji told him he didn’t want to hurt him anymore.

The worst part?

He meant it.

But it hadn’t made it easier.

And now here he was, a year later, still being asked about someone he’d left behind… someone he ruined.

So maybe showing up Monday wouldn’t be about healing.

Maybe it was about burning whatever was left down to ash.

Maybe if they all saw him, the new him, cold and untouchable and dressed like a God, they’d finally stop looking for pieces of the old one.

Maybe Bokuto would finally let go.

And maybe… he could too.

Even if it wasn’t peace.

Even if it wasn’t fair.

Even if it left him lonelier than before.

Because at least then, the grieving would be over.

Even if it meant becoming someone he didn’t quite recognize anymore.

If I burn the rest of it down, maybe there’ll be nothing left to miss.

Maybe.

Tokyo Welcoming Some More

The hallway outside the executive offices smelled like lemon cleaner and ambition. Keiji moved silently, sunglasses perched on his nose, the world tuned out by earbuds pumping something moody and low. 

He turned a corner too fast and—

Thump.

“Watch it, starboy.”

Starboy. That word again. 

A soft grunt. A collision. His shoulder had knocked into someone smaller, someone quicker. His sunglasses tilted as she steadied herself on the opposite wall.

Keiji blinked once.

She was short with platinum streaks in her dark hair, light freckles, heavy mascara that brightened her eyes, combat boots that didn’t match her pleated skirt, and a sarcastic tilt to her mouth. Her quarter-zip was baggy on her small frame as she leaned her weight into her left leg, hip popping out and hand falling on the other. 

Keiji narrowed his eyes.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t gush.

Instead, she smirked.

“You bump into people and you don’t say sorry? What is it, part of the brand?”

Keiji blinked. “Do I know you?”

She scoffed, laughing to herself. “Please! If I had a nickel for every time a man said that just before asking for my number…”

“I’m not interested.”

She took one step forward, arms now crossed. “Didn’t say you were.”

Something about her rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was the attitude. Maybe it was the way she stood like she owned the space, like she wasn’t phased by his face, his name, his status. Or maybe—

The hair.

The bright eyes.

The grin. 

The loud voice. 

She reminded him of someone.

No. Not someone.

Him.

His stomach twisted.

He must have been standing there, zoned out for far too long, because when he swam up to the surface, she was gone. He looked left and right, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

Weird. 

Before he could collect himself and shake off whatever kind of interaction that was, a voice called down the hall.

“Keiji! There you are. We’re waiting!”

He turned, adjusted his sunglasses, and stepped into the meeting room—

Only to stop cold.

The girl was already there.

Feet up on the glass table. Drink in hand. Perfectly at ease.

The execs were all smiles.

“Keiji, meet Haruna. The label’s new rising star. We think pairing you two for a promo arc could be electric. Imagine the headlines.”

Keiji stared at her.

She grinned. Wide. Wolfish.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Haruna raised her glass. “I, for one, am very excited!” 

~~~

The new apartment smelled like paint and takeout.

The floors were still scuffed from the last tenants, and someone had already left a bag of chips on the windowsill. The walls were bare. The light was too bright.

But it was home.

“Okay, this one’s heavy!” Oikawa grunted, dragging a box labeled AUDIO EQUIP / NOYA DON’T DROP IT!!! across the floor.

Iwaizumi appeared in the doorway with two more boxes stacked on his hip like it was nothing. He dropped them beside Oikawa with a smirk. “You okay, old man?”

“Excuse you,” Oikawa sniffed. “I’m fragile and underpaid.”

“You’re not paid at all.”

“Exactly. This is child labor.”

“But you’re not a child.” 

“Iwa-chan, this is just wrong!” Oikawa pouted.

Iwaizumi leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll pay you later.”

“Gross!” Noya shouted from the kitchen. “Get a room.”

“Noya, bro, why are you holding the blender like that?” Bokuto asked from the couch, voice barely audible.

Noya didn’t answer. He was too busy investigating the blender’s buttons with a kind of religious awe.

Boxes were everywhere. The coffee table was already scratched. Iwaizumi had tripped over a guitar stand twice. And someone, probably Bokuto, had left a half-unpacked duffel bag in the hallway like a tripwire.

But still, there was laughter. Real, warm, loud laughter.

Oikawa smiled to himself as he folded up an empty box and tossed it in the corner. He turned just in time to see Iwaizumi wrestling a rug into place in the living room.

They’d made it. Finally.

He walked over and dropped beside him, floor warm beneath them both, cardboard sticking to his sock.

“I’m so glad you’re here… in Tokyo,” Oikawa murmured.

Iwaizumi leaned into his side. “I’m glad I get to wake up near you again.”

Oikawa grinned, soft and crooked. “You’re such a sap, Haji.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

In the kitchen, Noya played music off a speaker he barely unboxed, something loud and aggressively percussive.

“WE NEED ART ON THE WALLS,” he declared to no one. “And more outlets! We’re gonna need, like, four amps per room.”

Bokuto sat curled on the far end of the couch, hoodie up, legs folded under him. He held a mug of coffee that had long gone cold.

He didn’t hear the song. Not really.

Didn’t register the laughter either.

He could see Oikawa curled into Iwaizumi like a domestic daydream, could hear Noya talking a mile a minute, but it was like watching it all through glass. Too far away. Too bright.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t had a panic attack today. That was something.

But he was still waiting for the moment to hit, the one where he couldn’t pretend anymore.

Oikawa glanced at him from across the room.

“You okay, Bo-chan?”

Bokuto smiled. Tight. Hollow.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

That was always the answer.

Oikawa didn’t push. He just nodded and let the silence settle again.

The boxes stayed half-unpacked for the rest of the night.

No one minded.

~~~

The meeting ended with too many smiles and not enough answers.

Keiji didn’t wait for the room to clear.

He stood, jaw clenched, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat like they were the only thing keeping him from saying something he couldn’t take back.

Minami called after him as he stormed down the hallway. “Keiji, don’t be dramatic. It’s PR, not a proposal!”

He didn’t look back.

His boots hit the floor like punctuation marks. Sharp. Final. Angry.

Of course they wanted to “spice it up.”

Of course they wanted mystery, romance, a hint of scandal to sweeten the single.

Because apparently completely rebranding and abandoning your old self wasn’t enough anymore.

Because the music had to bleed with stupid girl gossip to matter.

“Drop a few hints,” the exec had said with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Let them wonder who the song is about. Doesn’t even have to be real — just enough smoke to make people go looking for the fire.”

Keiji wanted to scream.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so badly. After all, people were always speculating that Keiji’s music was for someone. So how was this any different? 

He nearly made it to the elevator before a voice called from behind him:

“Wow. Brooding and silent treatment? You must be fun at parties.”

He turned slowly.

Haruna jogged up, her quarter-zip tucked up into her bra now, phone tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Stalking me now?” Keiji said flatly.

“No, just trying to keep up with the drama queen I’ve been forcibly paired with,” she said, falling into step beside him. “You seem… interesting to say the least.”

Interesting. 

He jabbed the elevator button. Hard.

You seem interesting. 

The memory was there. 

He didn’t want it to be.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Oh, I plan to ignore that!” She chirped.

He turned his head, narrowing his eyes. “You seriously think this is funny?”

“Not funny. Hilarious,” she grinned. “You stormed out ‘cause you didn’t get your way. That’s funny as fuck. I see why people like you.” 

The elevator dinged. They both stepped in.

Silence for two beats.

Then—

“They want to turn my grief into marketing,” Keiji muttered.

Grief for what he had before. Who he was before. 

Haruna’s smile dimmed slightly. “Yeah. They do that.”

He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking at him. Just watching the floor numbers tick down like they had something better to say.

“I mean… aren’t you used to it by now? I’ve seen your performances. I don’t think you’re the one who wrote ‘Earned It’ and came up with that choreography. Am I right?” 

He didn’t answer. 

She was right. He hated that.  

After a moment, he said, “You didn’t even push back.”

“Didn’t have to. You were doing enough huffing and puffing for the both of us.”

He scoffed.

She turned to face him, suddenly serious. “Look. You’re mad. I get it. But if you’re gonna survive this next era of yours without breaking down, you need to stop pretending you’re too good for the game.”

“I am too good for the game,” he snapped.

“Then why are you playing it?”

That landed harder than it should have.

The elevator doors slid open, and Keiji stepped out without answering.

She followed.

Because of course she did.

“Tell you what,” Haruna said casually, skipping a step to catch up. “Let them gossip. Let them wonder. It’s all bullshit anyway, so you might as well make it fun.”

He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

Because that song wasn’t about her.

It wasn’t some clever marketing ploy or a setup for tabloids to sink their teeth into. It wasn’t flirtation or PR chemistry or some scripted tension with a newbie who didn’t even know what it meant to fall apart for real.

It was about him.

It was about Bokuto.

About everything he destroyed when he flinched at real love and traded it for spotlight kisses and hollow rooms. His music was confession, not clickbait, and now they wanted to paint over it with someone else’s face and call it strategy.

Keiji glanced at her, frowning. “What part of this is fun for you?”

She flashed him a grin that was all teeth and danger. “The part where you keep looking at me like you can’t stand me, but you still haven’t walked away.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Didn’t have an answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

She looked like Bokuto in flashes. In her chaos, in her defiance, in the way she didn’t care that he was Keiji fucking Akaashi. And somehow that made him want to claw the walls and figure her out.

She winked. “See you at the shoot, starboy.”

And then she was gone.

Keiji stood there, pulse loud in his ears, heart twisting with something he couldn’t name.

Sunday Morning 

The morning light poured in soft and golden, pooling over the half-unpacked apartment like it was trying to bless the mess.

Oikawa stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, wrist flicking lazily as he stirred matcha with a small bamboo whisk. Iwaizumi leaned against the counter beside him, hair still sleep-mussed, one hand curled around a chipped mug.

A playlist hummed low in the background. Something soft, jazzy, nostalgic.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Iwaizumi asked, eyeing the technique.

“Nope,” Oikawa said cheerfully. “But I look like I do, right?”

Iwaizumi chuckled and leaned over to steal a kiss just as the kettle clicked off behind them.

For a moment, everything felt still. Safe.

Then: Bokuto.

“Hey.”

His voice broke the quiet like a creak in an old floorboard.

Oikawa turned to see him hovering near the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes still puffy from sleep. Or maybe not sleep. Maybe just the absence of it.

He looked younger like this. Too young to carry whatever was sitting heavy on his chest.

Oikawa straightened a little. “You want some matcha?”

Bokuto shook his head. “I’m good.”

He hesitated.

Then, carefully:

“Do you think Keiji will come to the house warming?”

Silence.

Oikawa’s hands stilled over the mug. Iwaizumi looked up, jaw tensing slightly.

The quiet stretched too long.

Oikawa didn’t meet Bokuto’s eyes. He focused instead on pouring the matcha into two cups with careful, deliberate precision, like it might keep him from saying the wrong thing.

“I invited him,” he said finally.

Bokuto’s nod was slow, too slow. Like he already knew that wasn’t the real answer he was asking for.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But do you think he’ll come?”

Another pause.

Oikawa sighed, setting down the whisk. “I don’t know.”

He turned then, eyes finding Bokuto’s. Honest. Gentle. But not hopeful.

“I want to say yes,” he said. “I want to say he misses everyone, and that this could be a good thing, and that he wants to be around his own friends.”

Bokuto’s jaw flexed.

“But,” Oikawa continued, softer now, “I also don’t want to lie to you.”

There was no drama in the way Bokuto reacted.

Just that quiet blink. The one where he absorbed it all like a sponge and let it sink into the parts of him still holding out hope.

He nodded again. “Yeah. No — totally. I get it.”

Oikawa opened his mouth to say something else. To offer softness. Or maybe reassurance.

But Bokuto was already turning away.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, voice tight around the edges.

The door clicked shut behind him a second later.

Iwaizumi leaned in, hand warm on the small of Oikawa’s back. “You okay?”

“No,” Oikawa whispered. “But I think he’s doing worse than me.”

They stood in the kitchen a little longer, the tea cooling between them, the air full of silence and unspoken ache.

~~~

The apartment was bathed in orange light, that soft pre-sunset haze that made everything look cinematic and even the tension.

Keiji paced in front of his desk, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing sharper than usual.

Kuroo sat on the bed, ankles crossed, watching him like someone who had seen this show before. Not bored, not amused. Just braced.

“They want me to pretend,” Keiji snapped, voice low but hot, “again! Like I haven’t already sold every version of myself they asked for.”

He stopped pacing long enough to snatch a bottle of water from the table and toss it down again without drinking it.

Kuroo didn’t say anything. He waited.

Keiji huffed. “It’s not just the single anymore. Now it’s narrative. A ‘storyline’ for the public. A person to attach it to. Some hint of intimacy. As if the damn song isn’t already bleeding.”

He turned to face Kuroo fully, eyes sharp.

“They want me to tease a relationship. They want her face next to mine. Suggestive captions. Maybe a fake date night. Just enough to make people wonder if I’ve moved on, and who with.”

Kuroo blinked slowly. “Her? The girl from the meeting?”

Keiji’s mouth flattened into a hard line. “Yeah. Haruna.”

He laughed once. Bitter. “They said we have chemistry. That we should ‘lean into it’ for the cameras. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking about the night I wrote that fucking chorus — crying in the booth, losing my voice, because I couldn’t stop picturing him.”

Kuroo’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak.

Keiji dropped onto the edge of the desk chair, legs spread wide, hands gripping his hair like it might help him hold something together.

“I didn’t write that song for some PR rollout,” he muttered. “It’s about me. It’s about what I ruined. It’s about Bokuto. And now they want me to slap some shiny new girl over it and smile like it’s all part of the plan.”

Kuroo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet, but steady.

“You ever tell them no?”

Keiji looked up, throat tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Once.”

“What happened?”

“They said no one buys honesty unless it comes with a catchy hook.”

He scoffed again, quieter this time.

“I fake everything else. My smile. My nights. My goddamn personality. But this, the one song that I had the freedom to write...”

His voice cracked slightly. Just for a second.

“I don’t want to fake this too.”

Kuroo didn’t move to comfort him. Not yet. He just let the silence settle.

Then, gently:

“Then don’t.”

Keiji stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

“I don’t know if I remember how to be real anymore.”

“You do,” Kuroo said. “Even if it hurts.”

The sun dipped a little lower, casting shadows across the room.

And for a moment, Keiji didn’t say anything.

He just sat there, quiet, tired, angry. And maybe, just maybe, a little afraid of who he might still be under all the gold and glitter.

Opening Doors

The apartment was packed wall to wall, with bodies, music, laughter, and heat. Someone had dimmed the lights and strung fairy bulbs around the ceiling like they were afraid the walls would crack without them. The bass from the speaker in the corner shook the floor in steady pulses, and half the kitchen counter was covered in empty drink cans and leftover takeout containers.

Oikawa had warned his friends it would get crowded. He didn’t warn them it would feel like a festival.

“I feel like I just got bombarded by Tokyo’s nightlife,” Tsukishima muttered as he stepped out of the hallway, Yamaguchi at his heels with a red Solo cup in each hand.

“Yeah,” Daichi said, looking slightly dazed. “Did they really invite this many people?”

“You think I know?” Suga grinned, already halfway through his second drink. “I just showed up and found someone doing karaoke in the bathroom.”

“Noya’s fault,” Hinata said cheerfully, squeezing between them. “He brought, like, twelve dancers. And a fog machine.”

“He brought a fog machine?”

All the friends were there. Even Kenma, who eventually couldn’t avoid Hinata and Noya’s persistent invitations. Noya had his entire dance crew as well, along with some people from their management team. Most of their team was relaxed, younger, and genuinely enjoyable to be around. They — Noya — also invited everyone in the building, many people taking them — him— up on the offer. 

Tanaka, the Miya twins, and a girl from Noya’s crew, Yume, had started a makeshift dance circle in the corner, egging on anyone who looked even remotely coordinated. Asahi tried to hide behind the fridge. Kageyama sat on the couch with his arms crossed, watching the chaos like he’d rather be anywhere else, but still not leaving.

In the middle of it all, Bokuto stood with a drink in his hand and a smile on his face.

Or… what looked like a smile.

Noya had an arm flung around his shoulder, talking too fast about choreography, lighting, future tour ideas. His energy was uncontainable. But Bokuto barely heard any of it. The sound filtered in and out, like static underwater. Every light was too bright. Every song too loud. Every voice too sharp.

He nodded at all the right moments. Laughed once, maybe twice. But his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere dark and echoing.

Keiji.

Was he coming?

Was he on his way? 

Was he purposefully waiting longer to make Bokuto more anxious?

He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the name.

Not out loud.

~~~

A sudden ripple cut through the room. Heads turned. Voices quieted.

Then: “It’s live!” someone shouted near the kitchen. “Akaashi just dropped it! It’s on Spotify!”

Phones came out like weapons.

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

Someone hooked up their phone to Bluetooth. The room shifted. Slowed. A beat began, low, smooth, familiar. Seductive. Like honey laced with poison.

And then, his voice.

Akaashi’s.

Soft. Higher octave. Smooth around the edges and cracked in the middle.

The single began slow, stripped down. Just a static, prolonged. Just that voice.

“Thought I almost died in my dream again

Fightin’ for my life, I couldn't breathe again 

I'm fallin' into.”

People froze.

Someone whispered, “God, I missed him.”

“Is this about someone?”

“Of course it is.”

“I mean it’s gotta be about—-”

“Bokuto?”

At that, he flinched.

“‘Cause my heart belongs to you

I’ll risk it all for you 

I won’t just leave 

This time, I’ll never leave.”

The sound rolled over him, into him, through him.

It was like being flayed open in front of an audience, and no one even knew.

“Your body next to me

Is just a memory

I’m fallin’ in too deep, oh

Without you, I can’t sleep.” 

The verses were confessions. It had to be about him. Right? Who else would this be for? 

Who else would Keiji make a song like this for? Such vulnerability whispered through a haze of his own voice. It sounded like he was drugged and spilling out his secrets. Drugged by grief, maybe. 

“Talk to me, without you, I can’t breathe.” 

A steady beat took over, the static noise continuing without any lyrics, as if a verse was missing. Or it was a transition. Either way, Keiji was a genius. The way the intro was dragged out, every syllable piercing to the ear. He wanted to make sure they heard. 

That he heard. 

It was like in those dystopian books and movie. Where some higher power could control the average person through sound. That’s how Bokuto felt. Like Keiji had all control over him, through his voice, his music, his picture, his presence. 

He made Bokuto weak. Like he knew it. 

And then it changed. The tempo and Keiji’s voice. 

“My darkest hours 

Girl, I felt so alone inside of this crowded room

Different girls on the floor, distracting my thoughts of you 

I turned into the man I used to be, to be.” 

Bokuto’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Put myself to sleep 

Just so I can get closer to you inside my dreams

Didn’t wanna wake up ‘less you were beside me

I just wanted to call you and say.” 

And the hook hit like a scream buried in silk.

“Oh, baby

Where are you now when I need you most? 

I’d give it all just to hold you close 

Sorry that I broke your heart.”

The beat came in consistent, pulsing. Longing. Smooth. 

“Never comin’ through

I was running away from facing reality.” 

Someone screamed, delighted, and hit the TV remote to cast the video.

And there he was.

Keiji.

“It was definitely a blessing, wakin’ beside you 

I’ll never let you down again, again.” 

On screen. In a black velvet suit, collar open, eyeliner sharp. Standing on a rooftop in Tokyo with neon all around him and his mouth inches from the mic, whispering confessions into the night.

He looked untouchable.

He looked Godlike.

Bokuto’s stomach turned.

He couldn’t breathe.

Keiji moved like liquid, like smoke, like something half real. His hair was slicked back, his mouth parted, his eyes cold. Everything about him on that screen was magnetic.

And yet…

Bokuto remembered the version of him who used to fall asleep with a book on his chest and glasses slipping down his nose.

He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stand still.

Someone bumped into him.

A dozen conversations overlapped, people talking about the video, about Keiji, about his return to form, his new era, how different he looked, how hot he was.

“I texted him last month, didn’t hear back—”

“Did you see the eyeliner? Oh my God.”

“I hope he’s okay. Can’t be easy being famous all of a sudden.”

“Did you hear the rumor? He’s doing promo with some girl. I saw photos.”

Bokuto’s heart dropped.

Promo with who?

Why would he—

He couldn’t take it.

He pushed through the bodies, eyes stinging, head pounding. The air felt like soup. His skin felt wrong.

He just needed—

Space.

Quiet.

A breath.

He was halfway to the door when—

Knock knock knock.

The sound barely registered over Keiji’s song and the increasing noise.

Nobody moved.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

Louder. Sharper. More urgent.

Bokuto froze.

The music slowed. Keiji’s voice was a little more urgent now, as if he could see Bokuto walking away and he just needed his attention. 

“I know it’s all my fault 

Made you put down your guard 

I know I made you fall 

Then said you were wrong for me.”

“Can someone get the door?” someone yelled. “It’s so loud—!”

Bokuto’s vision blurred for a second. Someone was tugging at his sleeve, trying to talk to him. He couldn’t hear it.

“I lied to you, I lied to you, I lied to you 

Can’t hide the truth, I stayed with her in spite of you.” 

“I SAID—can someone open the door?!”

The music was still playing. His song was still going. He had Bokuto tranced, even though Keiji’s voice was shaking. Intentional. Meaningful. That was him. 

“‘Cause this house is not a home 

Without my baby 

Where are you now when I need you most?”

Finally, someone — maybe Daichi — pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Keiji.

Framed by the hallway light. Dressed in black. Prada bomber jacket, wool pants, leather Prada sneakers. Hair loose. Expression unreadable.

His bodyguard stood just behind him, impassive. Earpiece in his ear, face neutral like he never smiled before.

But Keiji didn’t look at anyone else.

His eyes scanned the room, and stopped when they landed on Bokuto.

“And I said, baby

I’ll treat you better than I did before.”

They locked.

The chatter behind them dulled.

The party, the people, the lights, the buzz of conversation, everything stopped.

“I’ll hold you down and not let you go.”

Bokuto felt it first, that kick in his chest, that sudden realization that it was really him, in the flesh, not a screen or a song or a memory.

“This time, I won’t break your heart.” 

Keiji smirked.

Subtle. Sharp. Deadly.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing just by standing there.

Bokuto couldn’t breathe.

Keiji, what game are you playing?

Chapter Text

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

The song was still playing.

“I‘ll risk it all for you

I won’t just leave 

This time, I’ll never leave.” 

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

Keiji fucking Akaashi.

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

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

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

And said nothing.

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

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

Keiji, what kind of game are you playing?

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

Oikawa didn’t say he was actually coming…

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

But Bokuto wasn’t ready to look back.

Not yet.

~~~

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

“This time, I’ll never leave.”

The timing was cruel.

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

Daichi was the one who opened the door.

Their eyes met for a beat. Stiff.

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

Daichi gave a nod. “Hey.”

He didn’t smile.

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

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

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

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

Keiji barely staggered.

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

Keiji felt that one.

He didn’t say anything.

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

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

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

Behind Oikawa, a tall blond and shorter brunette whispered.

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

Keiji pretended not to notice.

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

Keiji followed, still flanked by Aida, still silent.

Then he saw them.

Time stilled.

The Miya twins.

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

Next to him, Atsumu perked up instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something else in his eyes, too.

Concern. Not for old feelings. For the incident.

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Osamu watched him for a second too long.

“You look tired as fuck.”

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

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

Keiji didn’t respond.

Across the room, murmurs started again.

“Is that actually him?”

“He’s hotter than my boyfriend.”

“Why is he here?”

“I heard he OD’d last month.”

“Is it rude to ask for an autograph?”

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

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

“I have to be,” Keiji said quietly.

A beat passed.

Then: “You ghosted a lot of people.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their eyes locked. Neither smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Osamu’s expression soured.

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

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

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

He took the photo. 

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

Girls loved that about him. 

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

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

The quiet returned, a little thinner now.

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

“Does it still hurt?” Osamu asked quietly.

Keiji tilted his head. “Does what hurt?”

“Kuroo. What he did to you.”

Keiji’s body went still.

The smirk vanished.

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

“It doesn’t hurt.”

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

“Because he didn’t… do that to me.”

“What do you mean?” 

Another beat.

Then: “It was consensual.”

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

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

He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t have to.

~~~

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

He pushed the door open—

And froze.

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

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

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

Keiji sighed. “Just air.”

“Right.” Iwaizumi said evenly. 

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

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

Keiji turned back, gaze sharp now.

“Are you two teaming up on me?”

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

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

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

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

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

That one landed.

Keiji looked away. Out over the city.

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

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

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

Silence stretched thin.

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

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

Keiji shrugged.

“To look at the stars.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“People are still waiting for you.”

The balcony door creaked as they slipped back inside.

Keiji stayed.

Just for a moment.

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

He didn’t cry.

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

~~~

Minami didn’t smile when he opened the door.

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

The lock clicked behind him. Quiet, deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They listed it like items on a clipboard:

Friends.

Past relationships.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silence stretched. Only the hum of the AC.

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

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

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

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

A permission.

No—an excuse.

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

Minami flinched, just slightly.

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

~~~

The door clicked shut behind him.

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

He hated how he looked.

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

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

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Didn’t help.

He could still see it.

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

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

That smirk.

Like he knew Bokuto was watching.

Like he wanted him to watch.

Like he was in control again.

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

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

But now?

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

Not even a “hi.”

Just a look.

And that fucking smile.

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

He hated how easily it still got to him.

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

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

So why did he cry anyway?

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

Why did he still ache for someone who left?

He looked different.

He felt different.

But somehow, he still owned him.

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

Akaashi didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

Akaashi didn’t answer.

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

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

The pause that followed was filled with implication.

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

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

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

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

But instead, he just nodded.

Because that’s what they wanted.

And maybe… maybe he deserved that too.

~~~

Knock.

Bokuto flinched, hands still braced on the sink.

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

Silence. Then retreating footsteps.

He exhaled.

Looked at himself again.

Still red-faced. Still not okay.

Knock.

He tensed.

“Almost done.”

A pause, then a soft voice: “Sorry.” 

Suga. 

And footsteps again.

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

Another knock. 

He grunted.

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

Get it together.

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

He looked like someone trying to hold back an earthquake.

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

One hand reached for the doorknob. Twist. Pull.

He opened it—

And froze.

Keiji.

Standing there.

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

Bokuto’s breath caught in his throat.

Not here. Not like this.

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

Keiji took a step forward.

Bokuto instinctively stepped back.

Another step.

Keiji followed.

Backed him in.

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

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then— lock.

Metal sliding into place.

Bokuto’s stomach dropped.

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

But before he could speak—

“Hello, Koutarou,” Keiji said softly.

Not mocking.

Not sweet.

Dangerous.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And Bokuto?

He couldn’t breathe.

Not again.

His name slid off Keiji’s tongue like smoke.

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

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

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

Bokuto’s heart thudded.

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

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

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

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

Bokuto ignored that. “You ignored everyone.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to be seen.”

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

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

The nonchalance was a costume, perfectly fitted.

And Bokuto saw it.

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

Keiji’s lashes flicked up. “Did I?”

“You wrote an album about me.”

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

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

That stopped him.

Just for a second.

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

“I’m not shaking,” he said quietly.

A lie.

Bokuto took a breath. “You are.”

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

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

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

“Your music begs me to,” Bokuto snapped.

Silence.

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

Like the strings of the act were starting to fray.

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

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

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

“And you believed me?”

That hurt more than it should have.

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

Keiji smiled again. This one looked a little sad.

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

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

Bokuto didn’t move.

Not at first.

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

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

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

Quick. Gone.

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

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

But he said nothing.

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

Silence.

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

Montreal. 

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

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

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

Keiji’s jaw tensed.

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

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

He leaned in.

Too close.

Too calm.

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

Bokuto swallowed hard. His heart was pounding.

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

Keiji smiled. “Is it working?”

He was so close.

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

Just like the last time.

That night.

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

It had felt like drowning.

This felt the same.

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

Not touching. Not yet.

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

Bokuto’s fists curled at his sides.

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

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

Keiji’s smile didn’t falter.

But his eyes—

His eyes looked tired.

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

And just like that, he pulled back.

Took a step away.

Cool again.

Composed.

As if nothing had happened.

Bokuto stood there, still breathless, still burning.

Still not sure if he was being seduced or punished.

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

He turned to leave, hand brushing the lock.

But just before twisting it, he spoke.

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

He paused. Looked over his shoulder.

The smirk deepened. Just enough to sting.

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

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

“Oh, and Kou?”

Bokuto’s breath caught.

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

“Welcome to Tokyo.”

The lock clicked open.

And he was gone.

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

~~~

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

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

It had bones. It had mood.

But it had no voice.

No truth.

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t about being fucked over.

It was about what he fucked up.

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

A file name.

VOICEMAIL_01_K.

His stomach dropped.

He didn’t remember uploading that.

How did it get there? 

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

Shaky fingers hovered over the mouse.

Click.

Bokuto’s voice filled the room.

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

(a breathy laugh)

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

(a pause) 

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

(another pause, softer now)

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

(he laughed again, quieter)

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

“Goodnight.”

The message ended.

Just like that.

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

That date had been warm. God, so warm.

They’d kissed under the stars. Literally.

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

Montreal by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original)

He hit record.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t plan.

He just started singing.

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

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

“Un jour, c’est toi qu’on laissera…”

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

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

“Oui, j'ai pleure, mais ce jour-la…” 

(Yes, I cried, but that day…)

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

(No, I won’t cry, No, I won’t cry…) 

Then the lyrics fell into place like dominos.

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

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

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

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

He layered harmonies with shaking hands.

One line, again and again:

“If we just went on…”

His voice cracked on it.

He didn’t stop.

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

“Happiness exists when you don’t know a thing 

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

He stopped recording.

Silence returned.

Thick. Honest.

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

And just whispered, to no one:

“…I’m sorry, Kou.”

Not for the mic. Not for the song.

Just for him.

Just for himself.

~~~

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

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

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

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe deep.

Didn’t feel anything.

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

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

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

Keiji’s fingers tightened around his glass.

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

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

They laughed.

Keiji smiled.

His chest ached.

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

They were doing it.

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

That was the worst part.

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

He knew why. 

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

“So.”

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

“Have you talked to Bokuto yet?”

Keiji didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look surprised.

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

“Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

Oikawa squinted at him. “Seriously?”

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

A pause.

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

“You’re such a terrible liar.”

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

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

~~~

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

He couldn’t sleep.

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

His phone lit up beside him.

1 NEW MESSAGE 

Iwaizumi: he dropped a single.

Bokuto blinked at the screen. Sat up slightly.

No name needed.

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

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

Keiji Akaashi – “Montreal”

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

Bokuto stared at it.

He didn’t even think.

Just hit play.

The first notes were cold.

Sparse.

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

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

Montreal. 

And it hit. 

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

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

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

“Why?” 

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

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

Bokuto was looking at him now. 

“I hope I’ll be there with you.”  ] …

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

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

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

It was him.

It was his voicemail. Only part of it. 

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

His voice sounded so happy.

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

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

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

He paused the track with a trembling thumb.

Stared at the screen.

Then pressed play again.

Forced himself to listen.

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

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

Then it faded.

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

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

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

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

Bokuto couldn’t breathe.

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

“Happiness exists when you don’t know a thing 

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

His throat tightened.

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

“And only I can know how close you came 

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

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

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

If we just went on, ooh.” 

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

“If we just went on, yeah.”

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

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

Bokuto bit down on his fist.

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

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

But this?

This was a voicemail in reverse.

A love song that came too late.

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

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

Then silence.

Bokuto stared at the screen, barely breathing.

His heart pounded.

His fingers were trembling.

And even though he knew he shouldn’t—

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

He hit replay.

Again.

And again.

And again.

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

“I love you.”

And maybe—just maybe—

Still meant it.

~~~

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

The music shifted.

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

“I saw the fire in your eyes…”

Keiji stilled.

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

“You tell me things you wanna try…”

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

Kuroo.

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

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

He took another sip, trying to stay calm.

“Take my breath… away…”

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

That’s when he saw him.

Kenma.

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

“Want me to hold on to you tight 

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

Their eyes met.

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

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

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

The song behind them was peaking.

“She loves to be on the edge 

Her fantasy is okay with me.” 

Kenma tilted his head slightly. No expression.

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

Keiji blinked.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look away.

Kenma wasn’t waiting for a response.

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

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

That one landed.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just true.

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

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

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

“Take my breath…”

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

Kenma was gone.

Just like that.

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

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

“Take my breath… away…”

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

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

That’s when Aida appeared.

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

“Need air?” Aida asked quietly.

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

Keiji didn’t answer at first.

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

Keiji followed.

No one noticed them leave.

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

Keiji leaned against the wall. Said nothing.

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

It was about him.

“Kenma said something,” Keiji muttered.

Aida looked over. Waited.

Keiji didn’t elaborate.

Aida didn’t press.

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

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

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

Aida shrugged. “I mean it every time.”

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

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

Aida glanced sideways. Not unkind.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Keiji laughed under his breath. Just once.

Not loud. But real.

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

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

~~~

It had been a long day.

Longer week.

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

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

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

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

Aida was still awake.

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

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

“Didn’t think you slept,” he said.

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

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

Aida took a few.

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

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

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

Aida didn’t respond.

Keiji looked down at his hands.

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

Still, Aida didn’t speak. Just watched.

And Keiji, somehow, kept going.

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

A breath.

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

His voice had gone quiet by then. Barely there.

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

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

Keiji leaned back.

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

Aida blinked once. Then:

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

Keiji’s lips curved, tired, but real.

“Appreciated.”

They sat like that until almost four.

The movie played on mute. The chips disappeared.

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

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

He just stayed.

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

~~~

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

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

Then he heard it.

The creak of the door.

Bokuto.

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

Their eyes met instantly.

Neither looked away.

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

Keiji didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Bokuto didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

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

And then, slowly, Bokuto turned.

Walked past.

Didn’t say a word.

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

Keiji finally exhaled.

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

“You still love him.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

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

~~~

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

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

That’s when she found him.

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

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

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

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

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

So Keiji smiled wider.

Let her trail her hand down his arm.

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

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

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

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

“For whoever’s paying attention.”

Her lips parted like she might say something clever.

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

The girl didn’t notice.

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

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

He knew what song. 

Angel. 

It was the same thing every time. 

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

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

This time, he didn’t answer.

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

She was still watching him. Still waiting.

So he said what she wanted to hear:

“It’s whatever you need it to be.”

And then he downed the drink.

Not for her.

Not for himself.

For the crowd.

~~~

Bokuto wasn’t trying to look for him.

He wasn’t.

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

That’s when he saw it.

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

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

And Keiji let her.

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

The people nearby saw it too.

A guy with a phone out, filming.

Two girls whispering behind their cups.

Everyone watching.

And Keiji? He looked…

Beautiful.

Untouchable.

Unbothered.

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

But Bokuto’s stomach still twisted.

Because he knew that smile.

He’d kissed that smile.

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

This was curated. Performed. Hollow.

And still—

It stung.

Bokuto didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

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

Their eyes didn’t meet.

Keiji never even glanced his way.

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

He didn’t look back.

He’d already seen enough.

~~~

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

Keiji wasn’t listening.

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

And that’s when he saw him.

Bokuto.

Standing in the hallway.

Still. Silent. Watching.

Only for a moment. But it was enough.

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

The guilt hit instantly.

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

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

But he didn’t.

He stayed right where he was.

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

Because he knew what he had to do.

Ruin it.

Ruin it all.

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

Because the truth was, love had never saved him.

It only ever made him worse.

And Bokuto?

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

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

Even as the pit in his stomach grew heavier.

Even as his chest felt hollow.

This was the plan.

Keep them angry. Keep them distant.

Keep them safe.

And maybe, eventually… 

Keep them free of him.

~~~

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

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

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

“You’re already one of those things.”

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

“Both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I say them because you like it.”

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

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

And then, quiet as a promise:

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

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

He leaned in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outside, everything else was unraveling.

But in here?

For one perfect second…

Everything was okay.

~~~

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

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

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

Kageyama didn’t look over.

“Maybe I am.”

Hinata tilted his head, gentle. “Kags.”

That cracked something.

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

Hinata went quiet.

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

Hinata looked down. “Yeah.”

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

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

“Nothing came up. He just stopped trying.”

The words weren’t angry. Not really.

Just hurt.

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

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

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

“Do you miss him?” Hinata asked quietly.

Kageyama hesitated.

“…Yeah.”

Hinata gave a small nod. “Me too.”

Silence again.

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

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

Kageyama turned toward him. “I never do.”

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re trending.”

“I always am.”

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

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

“I knew someone would,” he said finally.

A voice cut through from behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused silence spread like smoke.

“We were invited!” someone said weakly.

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

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

From the balcony, Iwaizumi appeared, frowning.

“What the hell’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keiji!” Aida called from behind.

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

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

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

But he stayed.

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

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

~~~

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

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

Then came Oikawa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re drunk.”

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

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

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

“In your dreams.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it belonged to whoever could get closest.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not now, Kenma,” Bokuto muttered.

But Kenma didn’t move. He never did.

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

Bokuto’s jaw clenched.

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

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

Silence sat heavy between them.

Then—

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

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

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

Bokuto blinked, but didn’t speak.

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

Bokuto looked back.

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

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

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

~~~

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

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

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

“I like your room,” Bokuto murmured.

“You say that all the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bokuto’s heart nearly fell out of his chest.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

He wanted to escape. To run. 

Bokuto never let him get too far. 

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

That alone made Akaashi nod against his chest.

“I won’t.”

~~~

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

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

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

“What?” Hinata squeaked.

“I did not.” Akaashi said sharply.

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

Noya howled. Hinata slapped the cushions.

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

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

“Get off him, Tooru.” Iwaizumi snapped. 

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

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

Akaashi tensed.

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

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

Oikawa leaned forward like it was a secret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe disappointed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone froze for a breath. Just a flicker.

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

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

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

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

Hinata and Noya went quiet. No one laughed now.

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

Akaashi finally stood.

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

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

Not slammed. Not rushed. Just enough to separate.

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

Outside, the world kept laughing.

But inside, the mask cracked.

~~~

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

“Why?” Kuroo asked. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you… want to dance?” 

Akaashi was definitely hesitant. “I told you-”

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

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

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

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

“Akaashi.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Akaashi, I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With my boyfriend.” Bokuto clenched his jaw. 

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

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

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

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

“What? Are you talking shit now?” 

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

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

“Bokuto, please stop.” Akaashi begged. 

“You know what?” 

“What?” Kuroo asked. 

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

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

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

“He doesn’t!” 

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

“What?” Akaashi was in disbelief. 

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

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

“I’m not!” Bokuto followed him. 

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

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

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

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

Bokuto just stared at him. 

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

This is what happens when you let people in.

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

And look where it got him.

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

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

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

A knock on the door jolted him slightly.

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

Keiji opened the door.

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

Until Suga’s voice cut through it.

“Is Kageyama okay?”

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

Daichi, Oikawa, Osamu and Tanaka looked.

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

Yamaguchi approached him, quietly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Kageyama muttered.

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

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

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

Yamaguchi glanced across the room.

Hinata was now pretending to ride Tanaka like a scooter.

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

The name landed hard.

Kageyama didn’t react at first.

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

Yamaguchi was quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

Yamaguchi blinked, startled.

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

“I want him to say something.”

Yamaguchi followed his gaze.

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

Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.

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

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

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

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

And just as he said it—

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

Yamaguchi flinched like he’d been hit.

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

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

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

“Should’ve never invited him.”

The words cut from the couch like glass.

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

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

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi warned, gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hinata went quiet. The silence stretched.

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

Keiji’s eyes were sharp. Voice calm.

“Say it to me.”

Tsukishima blinked.

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

The music faded into nothing. The air felt brittle.

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

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

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

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

Keiji held his ground.

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

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

“Oh, right. You never were.”

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iwaizumi noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tobio—” Hinata whispered.

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

The whole room flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then say them!” Tsukki shouted.

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

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

“I’m not acting,” Keiji said.

“Then prove it. Feel something.”

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

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

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

“I’m not like you,” Keiji replied.

Tsukki stared. Then, venomously:

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

Keiji stepped forward. Eyes sharp. Voice low.

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

The silence was so complete it felt physical.

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

“Fuck you.”

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

Something inside Keiji snapped.

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

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

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

Then finally, finally—

Bokuto.

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

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

“Aida, get the car.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was just Osamu.

And Keiji.

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

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

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

Then, carefully:

“That didn’t have to go that way.”

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

“Keiji—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Just walked out the door.

~~~

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

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

“That was a fucking mess.”

Oikawa folded his arms. “No argument here.”

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

Oikawa’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“God, are you even hearing yourself?”

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

“It’s more complicated than that—”

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

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

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

“But?”

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

He turned toward him.

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

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

Silence.

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

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

And then—

A voice.

Quiet. Rough around the edges.

“I need to see him.”

Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa turned.

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

“He needs someone.”

A pause.

“He’s not okay.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched. “Bokuto—”

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

That stopped Iwaizumi in his tracks.

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

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

This isn’t just about Keiji.

This is about him, too.

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

One last try.

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

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

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

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

Oikawa swallowed hard. “I know, Haji.”

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

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

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

But now, that thread of certainty…

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

He looked toward the door. Then back at Iwaizumi.

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

~~~

The night was quiet.

Too quiet for how loud he felt inside.

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

No footsteps. No voices. No music.

Just him. And the silence he’d earned.

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

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

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

Aida: Coming around now.

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

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

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

And Bokuto—

God, Bokuto.

That look. That hurt.

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

It always did with Bokuto.

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

Right?

~~~

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

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

No Keiji.

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

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

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

Bokuto’s heart dropped.

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

Then he saw him.

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

And then—

CRACK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keiji.”

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

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

“Don’t,” Keiji rasped.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Bokuto said quietly.

“Go back upstairs.”

“I can’t.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Bokuto swallowed hard and stepped closer.

“Because you’re not okay.”

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

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

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

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

He just said:

“Can I sit with you?”

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

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

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

“I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“I meant to.”

Bokuto’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say something. To reach again.

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

“I cheated on you.”

Bokuto blinked.

“I lied to you.”

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

“So why the fuck are you still here?”

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

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

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

“You want to yell at me? Then do it.”

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

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

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

So Keiji shoved him.

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

“Why won’t you fucking hate me?”

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

“Because I can’t.”

That stopped everything. Keiji stepped back like he’d been hit.

“No matter what you do,” Bokuto said, breath uneven, “I still see the person I love in there. Even if you’re trying to bury him under all this wreckage.”

Keiji shook his head. “You’re fucking delusional.”

“Maybe,” Bokuto said. “But at least I’m not walking away.”

Keiji’s lips parted, ready to hurl something else, something sharp. But nothing came out.

Just silence. Just the grief cracking his own voice.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Bokuto stepped forward again, quieter now. “I’d rather see you like this than not at all.”

Keiji stared at him. The last thread trembled. And didn’t break.

Not yet.

Keiji’s fists were clenched at his sides now. His chest heaved like every word he’d spit had taken something from him.

Bokuto looked at him, truly looked. And then, slowly, he stepped forward again.

Not to yell. Not to argue.

Just to be close.

And Keiji didn’t move. Didn’t run. Didn’t flinch.

Bokuto reached out, just barely, fingers brushing against Keiji’s sleeve.

“I’m not leaving.”

Keiji exhaled like he’d been holding it in for years. Then he leaned, just a fraction.

Barely enough to register. But it was there. The smallest weight against Bokuto’s chest.

Like a crumbling truce. Like a silent admission:

I don’t want to be alone.

Bokuto stayed still. Didn’t push it. Didn’t ask for more.

They stood there in the quiet, surrounded by broken glass and heavy streetlight and everything unsaid.

Aida’s car pulled up at the curb. The engine idled.

But Keiji didn’t move. Not yet.

They stood there, suspended in the thick quiet of the street.

Keiji still hadn’t moved. His body was tense, like he was caught between fight and flight. Between slamming the car door behind him or letting someone follow him through it.

Bokuto’s voice broke the silence. Gentle. Careful.

“Stay here.”

A beat.

“Or we can go somewhere. Anywhere. Just… you shouldn’t be alone.”

Keiji didn’t look at him. He stared at the beer-soaked pavement. The shattered glass. The bloodless mess of a night he couldn’t take back.

He knew what he had to do. He had to say no. He had to leave Bokuto here, strand him here, just like he had everyone else. Break the last string and be done with it.

Instead, he turned to Bokuto and said, flatly:

“Get in the car.”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

Keiji’s eyes were unreadable. Voice low.

“I wanna show you something.”

And before Bokuto could ask anything else, Keiji was already walking toward the car Aida had just pulled up. He opened the door and slid in without looking back.

Bokuto stood still for a second, chest pounding. Then he moved. And got in after him.

Aida glanced at Keiji in the rearview. “Where to, Akaashi?”

Keiji didn’t look up. Just murmured, low and even:

“Take us home.”

The car pulled away from the curb, the city blurring into shadow and streetlight beyond the tinted windows.

Bokuto’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know why he was here. Didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He’d expected Keiji to shove him away again. To tell him to fuck off. To burn the last bridge and call it survival.

But now he was sitting in Keiji’s car. With Keiji beside him. And it made no sense.

He turned, quietly, eyes scanning Keiji’s face as the night light flickered across it in passing intervals, neon signs, headlights, faint glows from upper-floor windows. Soft flashes of silver over sharp cheekbones. The smallest twitch in his jaw. A flicker in his throat when he swallowed.

Akaashi felt him staring. And after a few seconds, he looked back.

Their eyes locked. Neither spoke. Neither blinked. They just looked at each other. Two people who had broken something between them. And maybe, just maybe, were still inside the rubble of it.

Keiji looked down. His gaze caught on their hands, rested close between them on the seat. So close that if he shifted just slightly, just grazed his pinky to the side…

He’d touch him.

He didn’t move.

But Bokuto’s eyes flickered too. He saw the hands. The gap. The tension like a live wire between skin and almost. He wanted Keiji to reach out. Just a little. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

But when he looked back up, Keiji had already turned away. His face shifted toward the window. Back into silence. And that’s how the rest of the drive went.

No words. No contact.

Just the quiet ache of everything unspoken between them.

~~~

The elevator doors slid open into silence.

Bokuto stepped in first, hesitantly, eyes adjusting to the dim gold lighting and wide glass walls. The Tokyo skyline stretched out in every direction, twinkling, alive, indifferent.

Keiji followed, wordless. His shoes soft against the marble floor.

The place was stunning.

Sleek, minimalist furniture. Sculptural light fixtures. A curated art collection that screamed money and taste. Everything was sharp edges and clean lines.

Bokuto turned slowly in place, taking it all in.

“Wow,” he murmured. “This is…”

“Too much?” Keiji asked from behind him, already walking toward the liquor cabinet.

“No. I mean—yeah, maybe.” Bokuto scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just not… you.”

Keiji poured two fingers of something deep and amber into crystal glasses. Handed one over without a word.

Bokuto took it but didn’t drink yet. His gaze was still moving, searching for signs of the person he used to know.

Everything here was expensive. Immaculate.

And yet it felt cold. Like a hotel designed to impress, not belong to anyone.

Keiji sipped his whiskey, then nodded toward the hallway.

“This way.”

They reached the bedroom.

Still stylish, still clean, but warmer. Lived-in.

The bed wasn’t made. There was a sweatshirt slung over a chair. A cracked mug on the nightstand. A music book half-open on the floor.

And then—

The corner.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

One wall was mounted with guitars. A shelf of audio interfaces, stacked hard drives, physical lyric notebooks. A laptop open with producing software running in the background. A headphone cable looped around the edge of the desk.

The chaos was gentle. Intentional.

This corner was Keiji.

Bokuto stepped toward it slowly. “Is this where you…?”

“Everything starts there,” Keiji said softly.

Bokuto reached out, fingers brushing one of the notebooks. Pages of lyrics, some crossed out, some annotated, some just fragments.

He was quiet for a long moment.

“You really built something,” he murmured.

Keiji didn’t answer right away. Then—

“You’re why I sing.”

Bokuto froze. He turned, heart thudding.

“What?”

Keiji was watching him now.

Jacket off. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Whiskey glass dangling from his fingertips. His voice was lower now. Almost shy.

“Watching you perform that night… at that little venue. First time I saw you onstage…” He let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “It lit something in me.”

He stepped forward now. Eyes meeting the gold ones he used to look into and express his love. This time, Akaashi looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Like he did want something. 

Bokuto didn’t know what he wanted. He had just really hoped it was him. 

“I knew you were gonna fuck my entire world, Koutarou.”

Bokuto’s breath hitched.

Keiji was close now. Too close. Chest to chest. Barely a sliver of air between them. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His voice stayed at a whisper.

“You’re my why.”

A beat.

“My reason for music.”

Bokuto looked at him like he was trying to memorize every second.

Every inch of him. Every breath. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because if he did—

He might say I still love you.

And Keiji might say don’t.

Or worse—

I love you too.

And neither of them were ready for that.

Bokuto exhaled, slow and shaky. “Keiji…” His voice was low, thick. “I didn’t know.”

Keiji’s mouth twitched at the corners. Not quite a smile.

“I didn’t want you to.”

And for a moment, just a second, they stayed like that.

Too close. Too much history between them. Too much silence ahead.

Keiji moved first. His hand drifted up, brushing the edge of Bokuto’s shirt collar. Fingertips slow, careful. Not trembling, but practiced. Like this was a rhythm he knew.

Bokuto’s breath caught.

Keiji leaned in, his mouth close to Bokuto’s jaw, breath warm.

“Stay.”

Bokuto didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Keiji’s hand slid up his chest, fingers to his collarbone, curling slightly.

His voice dropped lower. “Just tonight.”

And Bokuto wanted to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to taste his name on Keiji’s mouth. Wanted to feel skin and memory and everything they never got right.

But something in Keiji’s eyes—

It wasn’t hunger.

It was grief.

The kind that says: take this because it’s the only way I know how to ask you to love me.

And that’s what broke Bokuto.

He reached up, gently, and wrapped his fingers around Keiji’s wrist. Stopped the motion.

Their eyes met. And Bokuto shook his head. Soft. Heart-shattered.

“Not like this.”

Keiji froze. Something in him buckled, but he masked it fast. He tried to smile. Failed.

He looked away and pulled his hand back. “Right,” he whispered. “Of course not.”

He took a step back. One, then two. And just like that, the silence grew again.

Bokuto didn’t leave yet. Couldn’t. But he didn’t move forward either.

Keiji turned toward the window again, letting the skyline fill the empty space between them.

And after a long, long pause—

“You still have to go.”

Bokuto’s voice cracked. “Why?”

Keiji didn’t turn around.

Just whispered:

“Because if you stay, I won’t let you leave. And I think you deserve better than that.”

Bokuto stood still in the center of the room. The space between them was cavernous now, too wide to cross.

Keiji didn’t move. He stayed facing the window, arms crossed, as if bracing against wind that wasn’t there.

The silence pressed in. Then, quietly and brokenly—

“Do you really want me to go?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t anger.

It was a plea. A last reach for something.

Keiji’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in once. Held it. And when he spoke again, his voice was steel. Measured. Final.

“Yes.”

Bokuto didn’t argue. Didn’t cry.

He just nodded. Once. The quietest heartbreak.

He turned. Took slow steps toward the door. Hand on the handle. One last breath.

Then—

“Keiji.”

Keiji finally looked back. Their eyes met for the last time that night.

And Keiji, God, Keiji looked wrecked. Like he was holding himself together with piano wire and performance.

But he still said it.

Voice steady. Icy. Like armor.

“And Kou?”

Bokuto paused. He turned slightly over his shoulder.

“Don’t ask for me again.”

A beat.

“Or else what happened tonight will happen again.” Keiji turned back to gaze over the view of the city. “And it’ll be worse the next time.”

That landed like a slap.

Bokuto flinched.

And then—

He left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Keiji stood alone in the silence he’d chosen.

~~~

The door shut behind him with a softness that didn’t match the violence inside his chest.

Bokuto stumbled out into the Tokyo night, the cold air hitting him like a punch. The city was too bright. Too loud. Too indifferent.

And he—

He couldn’t breathe. His steps faltered on the sidewalk. One hand gripped the railing at the edge of the building like it could hold him up.

It didn’t.

He dropped to a crouch, face in his hands. The first sob tore out of him, sharp and broken. Then another. And another. His chest tightened, lungs failing him. Like no matter how hard he tried, there wasn’t enough air.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Worse than the breakup. Worse than the silence.

Because this time, it wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t slow.

This time, it was final.

And it felt like losing the same person all over again.

~~~

Keiji stood where Bokuto had left him.

Still. Unmoving.

The city glittered before him, spread like a lie across glass. Gorgeous. Distant.

His reflection looked back at him, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

Then the first tear slipped down his cheek.

He wiped it away fast. Brutal. Like it betrayed him.

But they kept coming.

He didn’t sob. Not really. Just these soft, choked sounds. Half-laughs, half-wrecked gasps, as he folded slowly onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out. Fingers flying.

Keiji: Where’s the party?

Keiji: Need music.

Keiji: Alcohol.

Keiji: Something heavy.

He didn’t even text a name.

Just sent it to Takeru, the label’s bad boy. The supplier. The one who always knew where to go when Keiji needed to forget.

His phone dinged with an address.

He stood up. Grabbed a new jacket. Didn’t think.

Just left.

~~~

The music pulsed like a heartbeat through the warehouse walls.

Inside, Keiji was swallowed by it.

Flashes of red, violet, smoke and strobes. Hands everywhere. Voices yelling his name, not his name. Just Akaashi.

The Artist.

The Body.

The Brand.

They didn’t know him. They didn’t love him.

But they liked the idea of him. And that was enough for tonight.

He leaned over the low table, eyes glassy. A rolled bill between his fingers.

Aida stood nearby, arms crossed. Watching. Silent. Always there. Always knowing.

Keiji snorted the line in one clean motion.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel.

That was the point.

~~~

He was pressed between two bodies now.

Hands in his hair. Fingers at his hips. Laughter in his ear that didn’t belong to anyone he knew.

Someone groped him. Too rough. Too familiar. Too much.

He stumbled back, shoved past the crowd, breath catching. He found the bathroom. Didn’t go in.

Just leaned against the wall outside, chest heaving.

He pulled out his phone again. Fingers shaking.

Keiji: Come over.

Sent to one name.

Kuroo.

~~~

The door opened after Aida pulled up to the penthouse again.

Kuroo was already there, waiting. Leaning against the frame, hair messy, black hoodie, mouth already set like he knew what this was.

Keiji didn’t say anything.

Just walked past him.

Kuroo followed, silent, letting the door close behind them.

Clothes started coming off somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom.

Keiji’s jacket hit the floor.

Kuroo’s hoodie.

Shirt.

Belt.

Hands.

Mouths.

Kuroo kissed down his neck, slow and deliberate.

“What happened tonight?” He asked against Keiji’s skin.

Keiji exhaled hard. His voice was barely there.

“Just fuck me.”

And so Kuroo did what he was asked. No questions. No softness.

But as his lips moved along Keiji’s throat—

Keiji closed his eyes.

And all he could see was Bokuto. All he could hear was his voice. All he could feel was grief in the shape of a body that didn’t belong to the one he loved.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t stop anything.

Just let it fall.

~~~

The bedroom was quiet now.

Cold building lights filtered in through the curtains. The sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed. Kuroo sat up against the headboard, bare chest rising and falling slowly, eyes fixed on the man beside him.

Keiji lay on his side, back turned. Breathing steady. Too steady. Like none of it had touched him.

Kuroo wiped a hand down his face, reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand, took a sip, then let the silence stretch a beat longer.

Then he said, quietly:

“What happened tonight?”

No answer.

Keiji didn’t shift. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

Kuroo tried again. “I mean it. You showed up wrecked. You never text like that unless it’s bad. So… what happened?”

Keiji exhaled through his nose. Still, he didn’t turn around.

“Nothing important.”

That landed like a slap.

Kuroo stared at the back of his head. The cut of his spine. The way his hands were folded under the pillow like a ghost trying to disappear.

“Kei.”

Finally, Keiji rolled onto his back. He looked up at the ceiling like it was more interesting than anything Kuroo had to say.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“We had sex. You did your job. You don’t need a postmortem.”

Kuroo flinched.

He wasn’t new to Keiji’s moods, but this— this was colder than usual. Colder than even Keiji.

“Okay,” Kuroo said, leaning back. “Guess we’re doing the dead-inside routine again.”

Keiji didn’t smile. Didn’t bite. Didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes.

Kuroo stared at him a moment longer. Then stood up, grabbing his shirt from the floor.

“At least before,” he muttered, “you’d talk to me. Now it’s just—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

Keiji opened his eyes slowly. Still flat. Still unreadable.

“If you want something else,” he said, “you should stop coming here.”

Kuroo pulled his shirt over his head, not meeting his eyes anymore.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I should.”

He left without slamming the door.

Keiji didn’t watch him go. He just stared at the ceiling again.

Blank.

Alone.

Exactly the way he wanted it.

Right?

Terms & Conditions 

The curtains were still drawn.

Sunlight bled in through the gaps, too sharp for how little sleep he’d gotten.

Keiji blinked against it. Head pounding. Mouth dry. His sheets still smelled faintly of Kuroo’s cologne.

And under that?

Nothing.

He didn’t feel guilt. Didn’t feel shame. Didn’t feel anything.

That was the problem.

His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then—

The bedroom door opened.

Without knocking.

“Rise and shine, my superstar,” Minami said, voice bright and ruthless. “It’s a good fucking day!”

Keiji didn’t sit up. Didn’t even turn his head.

Minami walked in anyway, tablet in hand, already swiping.

“So your single’s out. You’re trending. Top five on streaming in the first six hours. Numbers are strong.” He tossed a look over his shoulder. “But we want better.”

Keiji stared at the ceiling. Still shirtless. Still ruined from the night before.

Minami didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“You’ve got back-to-back press blocks starting in two hours. Then your first performance for your single at 3 on that day-time show. The social team needs fresh content too. Behind-the-scenes, moody lighting, all that vulnerable artist shit.”

He paused by the window, yanked the curtains open. The light hit Keiji like a slap.

“We’ll push the heartbreak angle for now. ‘Traces of love,’ ‘what could’ve been,’ whatever it is you’re going for.” He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s working.”

Keiji didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.

Minami finally looked at him directly.

Still lying there. Still hollow.

He clicked his tongue once. “Don’t make me call hair and makeup to your bed again.”

A beat.

Keiji exhaled. Slowly. Like dragging air through ash.

Then he sat up. Not because he wanted to.

Because he was told to.

~~~

The rest of the morning was a blur of lights and voices.

Keiji sat in front of a press wall, black hoodie pulled over a designer tee, eyes low, cheekbones sharp from not sleeping.

He gave the answers they wanted.

“The single’s about regret and heartbreak. Wanting to reconcile.”

“Desire for the thing you ruined.” 

“It’s meant for the people who are lonely and are in despair.” 

“Yes, I still believe in love. Just not the easy kind.”

Laughter. Nods. Clips already cut for TikTok.

His voice was smooth. His posture perfect.

A well-built lie.

~~~

In between interviews, Minami hovered like a bee buzzing in his ear.

“Keep it vague, but loaded. They eat that shit up. Mention loneliness in Tokyo. Mention waking up alone. Don’t name names.”

Keiji nodded and sipped his water. He didn’t speak unless prompted.

There were cameras everywhere.

And none of them knew that twelve hours ago he was begging someone to leave him.

~~~

He was backstage now.

The performance was in twenty minutes.

A livestream across three major platforms and channels. A collaboration with a Tokyo day-time show and his label.

It had aesthetic: red neon, rain-glossed streets, melancholia in designer threads.

Keiji sat in the makeup chair, quiet.

The stylist dabbed a soft gold shimmer across his lids. Brushed gloss on his lips. Smoothed his hair back in that careless way it never was.

He looked like someone people wanted to ruin.

He looked perfect.

Minami leaned in, checking angles on the monitor. “You’re gonna kill them.”

Keiji nodded.

He didn’t feel anything.

~~~

The room was black.

A slow fade up: city lights, artificial rain, blurred figures and slow mine embers.

Keiji stood center stage.

Backlit. Shadowed. Sharp.

The opening chords of “After Hours” spilled into the room.

He lifted the mic and began to sing.

“Thought I almost died in my dream again 

Fightin’ for my life, I couldn’t breathe again 

I’m fallin’ into.” 

His voice was low, mournful and molten. It rolled across the room like smoke. He moved like water, slow and certain, every note soaked in longing.

He was mesmerizing.

“‘Cause my heart belongs to you

I’ll risk it all for you 

I won’t just leave 

This time, I’ll never leave.” 

~~~

Kuroo sat on his couch. His hood was pulled up and a drink rested in his hand, untouched.

Keiji’s voice echoed through his speakers.

And all Kuroo could do was stare.

The same mouth that had whispered “just fuck me” was now giving the world a carefully curated heartbreak.

“Your body next to me 

Is just a memory.”

Kuroo turned the volume down.

He didn’t turn it off.

~~~

Bokuto sat on the edge of his bed. The livestream was open on his laptop. He didn’t even know why he’d clicked.

Habit. Weakness. Maybe hope.

Keiji looked untouchable. Flawless.

He sang like someone who was grieving, but not shattered.

And that’s what hit Bokuto the hardest.

How easy he made it look. How easy it was to lie to millions. When the truth had nearly destroyed them both.

Keiji was gripping the mic stand when the beat dropped, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth close to the mic. The camera showed his body, foot tapping to the beat. He wore a black set. Long trousers, cropped suit jacket with squared shoulders. Underneath was a skin tight turtle neck that reached just under his Adam's Apple. There were gold accents stitched into the design on his set. He wore golden gloves, thin and elegant. 

“My darkest hours 

Girl, I felt so alone inside of this crowded room.” 

God, he looked beautiful. Even underneath his self-destruction and multiple masks he carried on him, he was stunning. 

“Put myself to sleep 

Just so I can get closer to you inside my dreams.” 

There was smoke rising behind him. Bokuto could see figures walking through, slow and calculated. Backup dancers ready to perform. 

And that’s when Keiji took the mic off the stand and backed up a few steps. 

“Oh, baby 

Where are you now when I need you most?

I’d give it all just to hold you close 

Sorry that I broke your heart, your heart.” 

He moved elegantly, fluid in the steps and simple motions. The choreography was simple, but just enough to capture attention. And when the next verse picked up, he slowly walked forward while the dancers continued on without him. 

The camera he was singing to was following him, catching every angle. He looked so intensely into the lens that Bokuto was sure he was trying to get through to someone. To him. 

The camera followed Keiji to where he went to the first row of the crowd, only taking a few steps down the stage. The chorus picked up again, and this is where he gently held a reached out hand, and sang to an audience member. 

She was swooning, cheeks flushed and nearby members giggling. Keiji kept the eye contact and moved with grace as he held her hand.  

“I said, baby

I’ll treat you better than I did before.” 

Everything about what he did was perfect. It was so calculated. It had everyone in his trance. 

And then he slowly made his way back up the few steps and put the mic back on the stand. The beat faded and echoed. 

This is where Bokuto leaned in, chewing anxiously on his nail. His favorite part. 

Where Keiji sounded and felt so real. Like he was finally saying what he couldn’t before. 

“I know it’s all my fault 

Made you put down your guard.” 

Keiji’s eyes were tightly shut, as if singing the truth hurt. His grip on the mic was strong, knuckles white.

“I lied to you, I lied to you, I lied to you.” 

His voice was shaking now. It was so real. From his heart. A taste of truth that’s been covered for the past year.  

“‘Cause this house is not a home 

Without my baby.” 

Keiji opened his eyes now, immediately finding the camera. They were glossy, unintentionally. 

“Where are you now when I need you most? 

I gave it all just to hold you close 

Sorry that I broke your heart, your heart.” 

Bokuto let his hand fall from his mouth, his throat clenching as he tried to suppress the cries and sobs that were fighting their way out. 

“And I said, baby 

I’ll treat you better than I did before 

I’ll hold you down and not let you go.” 

His voice echoed off the walls. Everyone could hear the shakes and the emotion. 

The dancers were gone now. Smoke faded into the air. It was just him on stage, in his black set and gold glitter on his eyelids. 

“This time, I won’t break your heart, your heart, no.” 

Bokuto somehow made it through the full performance.

He closed the laptop— only after watching Keiji’s close-up. The camera smoothly moved in a circle around him, showing the audience cheering and Keiji finally snapping out of performance mode, flashing a bright smile and waving. There was gold glitter on his eyelids, highlight on his cheekbones, and a bright diamond on his tooth. And yet under all that sparkle, his eyes held none of it. 

Bokuto sat there.

In the silence that followed.

Alone.

~~~

The room was still dark, but the sky outside had lightened, washed out gray through the windows.

Oikawa lay curled under the duvet, hair messy, eyes open.

He hadn’t slept much.

Iwaizumi was behind him, arm resting loosely around his waist, body warm and steady against his back.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Just the hum of the city outside. Just breathing.

Then, barely audible—

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to choose.”

Oikawa blinked. Stared at the wall.

Iwaizumi’s voice was soft. Raw.

“Last night. I wasn’t trying to make it a fight about sides. I just wanted to protect you. That’s all I was ever trying to do.”

Oikawa swallowed. His chest ached.

“I know.”

He reached up and touched Iwaizumi’s hand where it rested against him. Laced their fingers together.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A beat.

“I did.”

Iwaizumi shifted slightly. “What do you mean?”

Oikawa’s voice cracked just a little. “It was too soon. Too many people. Too much tension already. I shouldn’t have brought him.”

“You didn’t bring him. He came.”

“But I wanted him there.”

A pause.

“I needed him to be okay,” Oikawa whispered. “And I fucked it all up. I embarrassed him. I know I did.” 

Iwaizumi exhaled against the back of his neck. “You didn’t say anything that anybody didn’t already know.” 

“I still shouldn’t have done that.” Oikawa swallowed the lump in his throat. “I mean… I just made it worse for Bokuto, too.” 

“Baby, you were drunk. It was a mistake.” Iwaizumi kissed his shoulder. “Was it smart? Not at all. But it wasn’t made out of ill intent. You’re hurting.” 

Oikawa bit down on his lip, almost wanting to feel the pain. “So is he.” 

“Do you think he wants to feel okay?”

Oikawa didn’t answer at first.

Because yes.

Of course yes.

But not in the way everyone always assumed.

Finally—

“I don’t know.”

They were quiet again.

Wrapped in silence and all the weight that followed it.

Then Oikawa said, quieter now:

“It just feels like maybe… some of what happened a year ago was my fault.”

Iwaizumi sat up behind him slowly, leaning on one elbow. “Hey.”

Oikawa rolled to face him.

Iwaizumi’s gaze was steady. Gentle. Firm.

“You didn’t break him.” Another beat. “He was already breaking. He’s been breaking for a long time.”

Oikawa’s eyes shimmered, but he didn’t cry. He just nodded.

And Iwaizumi leaned in. Pressed his forehead gently against his.

“You are not responsible for someone else’s ruin, Tooru.”

“Even if I stayed?”

“Even then.”

They stayed like that for a while. Not fixing anything.

Just breathing together.

And for once, that was enough.

~~~

The apartment was bigger than the last, half-unpacked, and smelled faintly of new carpet and takeout soy sauce.

Kageyama lay on a futon in the living room, blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling like it had offended him.

Across from him, Hinata. Curled under two comforters, one leg already kicked out, hair a mess, cheeks still flushed from brushing his teeth too fast.

The only light came from the sun leaking through the closed curtains. Soft, golden. The apartment was still asleep, despite it being the morning.

They hadn’t spoken much since the party last night. And they hadn’t really slept either. Both tossing and turning up until the sun started to creep. Then they were still, staring at walls and ceilings.

Not really.

Not until now.

Hinata shifted. “Are you mad?”

Kageyama didn’t look at him. “No.”

“You sound mad.” Hinata frowned. 

Kageyama huffed. “I’m not mad.”

A pause.

“I’m disappointed.”

Hinata sat up, groaning. His curls stuck out in every direction.

“You can’t say things like that! That’s, like, ten times worse than being mad.”

Kageyama looked over now. His expression was soft, despite the words.

“I didn’t like seeing the person who hurt everyone get so close again.”

Hinata blinked. Guilt flickered across his face.

“I just…” he trailed off, biting his bottom lip. “I was excited that Akaashi was there. It felt like maybe things were gonna be okay.”

Kageyama didn’t respond right away.

Then:

“He hurt you too.”

Hinata looked down. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“But I missed him.”

Kageyama turned onto his side, facing him fully now. “I just wanted you to talk to me.”

Hinata nodded. “I’m sorry.”

And he meant it. In the quiet way that mattered most.

Kageyama nodded too. “Okay.”

They were quiet for a while.

Then Hinata mumbled:

“I can’t sleep when you’re upset.”

Kageyama muttered back:

“I can’t sleep when you breathe like a dying rabbit.”

Hinata gasped, offended. “WHAT?! I have very healthy lungs!”

“Then why do you wheeze when you sleep?”

“It’s not wheezing! It’s called ‘dream breathing!’”

“Bike, that’s not a thing!”

“Says who? You and your perfect nose?”

Kageyama rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Hinata pouted for effect, then flopped down dramatically, stealing one of Kageyama’s pillows with a mischievous grin.

Kageyama yanked it back. “Get your own.”

“Yours is comfier!”

“No way. Your head smells like hair gel.”

“That’s because I HAVE HAIR.”

They glared at each other for a beat.

Then both burst out laughing.

The tension finally cracked.

Kageyama shook his head, rolling back into his blanket. “Idiot.”

Hinata beamed in the dark. “You love me though.”

Kageyama didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Yeah.”

Quiet. Sure.

“I do.”

Hinata’s smile softened.

And finally, they both started to fall asleep again.

Still facing each other. Still slightly tangled in blankets.

Still them.

~~~

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint clatter of a pan and the low hum of city traffic beyond the windows.

Iwaizumi stood at the stove, flipping eggs in a pan like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. His hair was still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up. He hadn’t said much since waking.

Oikawa sat at the kitchen island, legs tucked under him, a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. He was scrolling through his phone, frowning at the glowing screen.

Bokuto walked in last. Still in running shorts, hoodie half-zipped, damp hair sticking to his forehead. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and probably hadn’t.

Oikawa looked up. “You went running?”

Bokuto nodded, heading straight for the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. He cracked it open. Drank half in one go.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Iwaizumi glanced back at him. “You okay?”

Bokuto gave a half-shrug. “Fine.”

It was the kind of answer that wasn’t supposed to be believed. He hadn’t told them about where he went off to last night. Finally stepping foot into Akaashi’s place. His conversation with Keiji. How close they came to kissing. And the way Keiji told him to stop asking for him. 

Oikawa noticed the look in his eyes. He didn’t push.

Not yet.

He would wait until Bokuto was ready. 

Iwaizumi slid a plate onto the counter. Eggs, toast, something green neither of them would eat.

“Eat.”

Bokuto sat down, eyes distant. He picked at the toast, tore off the crust. Didn’t eat much.

Oikawa’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at it, then hesitated.

“He’s still trending,” he said quietly. “Keiji. The performance…”

Bokuto didn’t look up.

Iwaizumi shot him a warning look.

Oikawa nodded slightly. Got the message. Still, the silence hung like static.

Until Bokuto finally said:

“He looked fine.”

Oikawa froze.

Bokuto wasn’t looking at either of them, just staring at his plate like he was trying to figure out how it got there.

“He looked so… fine.”

A breath.

“Like nothing happened.”

Iwaizumi leaned against the counter. Crossed his arms.

“It’s all a show.”

“He was always good at that,” Bokuto said softly. 

Then—quieter still:

“But I wish he hadn’t been closed off as much as he was with me.”

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

“Maybe I should try… dating again.”

Both heads snapped toward him.

Iwaizumi blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Like, start over. Move on. People do that, right?” Bokuto said it breezily, like he was reading off a cereal box. “I mean, it’s been a year.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Bokuto smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“There’s this singer near the rehearsal studio. He performs at the bar right next to it. Pretty eyes. Good voice. Maybe I’ll take him out.”

“You don’t even remember his name,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“That’s what dating’s for,” Bokuto said with a shrug.

The bathroom door opened with a whoosh of steam. Nishinoya stepped out, towel slung around his neck, toothbrush still in his mouth.

“You’re gonna WHAT?”

Everyone jumped.

“Noya, you’re gonna wake Kageyama and Hinata.” Iwaizumi groaned.

Noya yanked the toothbrush out and pointed it like a sword, completely ignoring his friend. 

“You’re gonna rebound from THE Keiji Akaashi with some baritone twink named—what?—Kyle? Ryan? That’s your plan?”

“I said I was thinking about it!” Bokuto protested, raising his hands.

“No you weren’t, you were lying out loud with conviction!”

“You don’t even know the guy!”

“I don’t need to know him! I know you!” Noya crossed the kitchen and jabbed a finger at Bokuto’s chest.

“You’re gonna try to fill the Keiji-shaped hole in your heart with a dude who cries at ‘La La Land’ and then be sad when it doesn’t work out!”

Bokuto opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Oikawa choked on his coffee.

Iwaizumi sighed. “Noya, maybe tone it down?”

“NO!” he shouted, gesturing dramatically with the toothbrush again. “You don’t get to emotionally combust and then flirt with the nearest sad guitar boy with a septum piercing!”

Bokuto finally cracked a smile.

Small. Shy. A little sheepish.

“…His name is probably Ryan.”

The room dissolved into tired laughter.

Oikawa shook his head, relieved to see even a flicker of the old Bokuto again.

Iwaizumi handed him a fork. “Eat your eggs before Noya creates your Tinder profile for you.”

“It’s already in my Notes app,” Noya said, grinning. “First line: ‘Recently gutted by an emotionally unavailable singer-songwriter. Still hot though.’”

Bokuto laughed again.

And this time, it sounded a little more real.

Bokuto was halfway through pretending to eat his eggs when—

“Wait… so you and Akaashi aren’t gonna get back together?”

All heads turned toward the living room.

Hinata sat up groggily on the futon, curls flattened on one side of his head, blanket tangled around his legs. Kageyama was beside him, rubbing sleep from his eyes like this wasn’t the weirdest conversation to wake up to.

Bokuto blinked. “How long have you two been awake?”

“Since Noya yelled ‘baritone twink,’” Kageyama mumbled.

“You two are loud,” Hinata added. Then, as if repeating the question to clarify it:

“So… not getting back together?”

The room froze for a second.

Bokuto looked down at his plate.

Noya opened his mouth, but Iwaizumi held up a warning hand.

Oikawa sipped his coffee slowly.

Bokuto finally exhaled and gave the smallest shake of his head. “No. We’re not.”

Silence.

Hinata frowned. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Kageyama sat straighter. “Are you sure?”

Bokuto looked at him. “I was last night.”

Oikawa watched him carefully now. “And this morning?”

Another pause.

Bokuto didn’t answer.

Until—

“Wait,” Hinata said, brows furrowed. “So if you’re not dating Akaashi and you’re maybe gonna date Ryan the bar singer, does that mean we’re allowed to hate him like—only a little bit?”

Oikawa sputtered into his coffee. 

Iwaizumi looked like he was about to fold himself in half.

“Shouyou,” Bokuto said, half-laughing, half-horrified, “you can’t just say that.”

“Why not?” Hinata blinked. “I’m so good at holding grudges.”

“You held one against Kageyama for three weeks because he called you a dumbass during your little volleyball match.”

“HE SAID IT SO MEANLY—”

“It was one time,” Kageyama snapped from the futon, “and you were being dumb—”

“YOU SAID IT LIKE I WAS INCOMPETENT, TOBIO—”

“BECAUSE YOU THREW A VOLLEYBALL AT MY HEAD—”

*“I WAS AIMING FOR YOUR SOUL—”

“YOUR AIM IS TERRIBLE—”

“YOUR FACE IS TERRIBLE—”

Noya clapped once, cutting through the building argument. “Okay, great! Love this energy!” Noya directed his attention back to Bokuto. “I’d like to formally begin the petition to get Kou on a dating show.”

“Noya,” Bokuto groaned. “No.”

“Yes!” Noya grinned. “You’d be a ratings magnet. Hot, big arms, abs, sob story.”

“You’re terrible.” Iwaizumi snickered.

“What? I can’t admit my roommate is sexy? C’mon guys, we have to support each other!’”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Bo? Help me out, man.’”

“Stop—”

Noya tapped a finger to his chin. “Your show. Let’s call it… Sad But Jacked?”

Bokuto buried his face in his hands, laughing despite himself.

Oikawa leaned into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, who joined him at the counter, smiling into his mug.

Kageyama threw a pillow at Hinata and missed.

Hinata declared it a victory.

And for a few minutes, just a few, the room felt warm again.

Like maybe the world hadn’t ended.

Like maybe it could still be okay.

~~~

The apartment had settled again.

Hinata and Noya were arguing over who got to DJ their fake dating show.

Kageyama had gone back to sleep on the futon with a pillow over his head.

Out on the small balcony, Bokuto stood leaning against the railing, arms folded, eyes on the skyline.

Oikawa stepped out quietly. He had changed into sweats and a hoodie, a second cup of coffee now in a to-go mug, hair still a little messy from sleep. He joined Bokuto without a word.

They stood in silence for a while.

Just the two of them. Two pieces of Keiji’s history, side by side.

Finally—

“You good?” Oikawa asked softly.

Bokuto exhaled, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Oikawa nodded, like he understood that answer a little too well.

“Last night…” Bokuto’s voice trailed. Then came back, rougher.

“He said it like it was final. Like there’s nothing left. But—” He paused. “I still feel him. You know?”

Oikawa looked away. Swallowed.

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“Is this the right thing to do?” Bokuto finally asked. “Trying to move on? To date?”

Oikawa didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was calm. Careful.

“Do you want to?”

Bokuto shrugged helplessly. “I want to stop feeling like this.”

Oikawa stared at the skyline for a moment. His fingers curled tighter around the mug.

“Then yeah,” he said. “It’s the right thing.”

Bokuto looked at him, surprised. “You always wanted us together.”

Oikawa nodded. “I still do.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

“I wanted it so bad, Bokuto. I thought you were the only thing keeping him grounded.” A long pause. “But if someone keeps choosing to drown… you can’t follow them forever.”

Bokuto’s jaw clenched. “He’s not a bad person.”

“I know,” Oikawa said immediately. “That’s what makes it worse.”

They stood there again in silence, the weight of shared love and shared hurt between them.

Then Oikawa added:

“If someone does come along… someone who holds your heart right—” His voice caught, just a little. “Let them. Okay?”

Bokuto didn’t answer. But he nodded.

And Oikawa stayed beside him, finishing his coffee in silence, watching the city move beneath a sky that still hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

~~~

The door clicked softly behind him.

Oikawa slipped back into the bedroom and stood for a second, just inside the doorway, like the weight of the morning was finally catching up with him.

Iwaizumi sat on the bed, legs outstretched, flipping through emails on his tablet. He looked up immediately.

“You okay?”

Oikawa gave a hollow laugh. “No.”

He dropped onto the bed beside him, shoulders slumping forward, hands clutched in his lap.

“Everything’s changing,” he said quietly.

Iwaizumi frowned. “What do you mean?”

Oikawa shook his head. “Bokuto’s trying to move on. Keiji’s unraveling. You and I are…”

He trailed off.

Iwaizumi waited. Gave him space.

“…we’re good,” Oikawa said finally. “But I keep thinking about how fast good things fall apart.”

He looked at Iwaizumi now, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“What if I lose you too?”

The question hung there. Bare and trembling.

Iwaizumi set the tablet aside and pulled Oikawa gently toward him.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Oikawa muttered. “People always say that before they do.”

“I’m not people.” Iwaizumi said, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched.

He hated how scared he sounded.

But he couldn’t help it.

“I don’t want us to end up like them.”

“We won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Iwaizumi pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Because we talk. Because we fight. Because we try. And because you let me see you like this, even when you’re scared shitless.”

Oikawa laughed, tearful. “Romantic.”

Iwaizumi smiled softly. “Honest.”

Oikawa leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Needy. Grateful.

Not out of fear but out of relief.

When they pulled apart, he rested his head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“If I get weird or clingy…”

“You’re already both.”

“Hajime—”

“And I’m still here.”

A silence followed.

This one warm. Steady.

Oikawa exhaled. His fingers curled into Iwaizumi’s shirt like he was anchoring himself.

He didn’t know what came next.

But for now—

This was enough.

The Price of Fame

Three days of radio silence.

No Oikawa.

No Bokuto.

No Kuroo.

No one knocking on the door he used to pretend not to want opened. No one checking to make sure he was okay. 

Keiji’s world had gone…still.

But not in the peaceful way.

In the sterile, hollow way. Like silence had teeth.

~~~

He was on hour 17 of his day.

Hair slicked back from an early morning shoot. Makeup long since wiped off, leaving only the faintest shimmer beneath his eyes. His black long-sleeve shirt clung to his back, wrinkled from leaning over piano keys in the studio for hours.

Aida had dropped him off two hours ago. The apartment still smelled like expensive nothing.

The curtains were open, Tokyo’s neon haze painting long shadows across the penthouse floors.

He stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea he hadn’t taken a sip of. Staring at absolutely nothing.

The silence wasn’t even peaceful anymore.

It was oppressive.

Like it wanted to remind him:

“You won.”

“You got what you asked for.”

“So why does it feel like you’re bleeding out in velvet?”

His phone was face down on the table.

Notifications off. Even his label had stopped checking in past midnight.

He hadn’t heard from Oikawa in 72 hours. The longest stretch in over five years.

Even when he disappeared off to Kuroo’s a year ago, not wanting anyone to reach him, Oikawa still blew up his phone everyday. 

He hadn’t even realized it until today.

Kuroo hadn’t tried to slide through with a bottle of wine and unasked-for advice.

And Bokuto—

Well.

That was permanent now.

Wasn’t it?

His chest ached, but not in the theatrical, musically tragic way.

In the quiet, human way.

The I miss you way.

The I might’ve gone too far this time way.

The I have no one left to blame but myself way.

He sat down on the floor of the living room, tea forgotten behind him, and stared at the glass coffee table like it might offer some sort of answer.

His calendar was booked solid.

His name was trending again.

His face was on another massive billboard.

And still—

Still, he felt like a house that had already collapsed, just pretending it hadn’t.

Smile for the Suits

The office was all glass and intention.

Keiji sat in the lounge area of the executive floor, sunglasses on indoors, hood pulled halfway up like a veil he couldn’t admit he needed. He’d just wrapped an interview on artistic vision, followed by a ten-minute lecture on his next campaign rollouts.

He hadn’t said more than five words outside of rehearsed talking points all morning.

Then—

“Are you trying to look mysterious, or are you just that hungover?”

He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Haruna.

Keiji exhaled. “Do you ever not enter a room like you’re picking a fight?”

“Do you ever answer a question without sounding like you’re annoyed by existing?”

She dropped onto the couch beside him like she owned the place.

Keiji turned to look at her.

Sleek ponytail. Gold rings on every other finger. Oversized blazer. Sharp-lined eyeliner and eyes that dared you to misunderstand her.

She was sharp. Loud. Too much in the exact way the label loved right now.

And for just a second—

She reminded him of Bokuto.

That too-big energy. That refusal to sit quietly. The way she filled a room and didn’t apologize for it.

It made his throat tighten.

Haruna raised a brow. “What?”

Keiji blinked. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me like I just told you I was your long lost twin.”

“You just remind me of someone.”

She scoffed. “Wow. Deep.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Good. You’re bad at it.”

A silence settled.

Not uncomfortable. Just aware.

Haruna reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of mints, popping one into her mouth. She offered him one without looking.

Keiji took it.

“You here for another PR brainstorm?” He asked.

“Lunch with your manager.”

“Pity invite?”

She snorted. “Probably.”

Then, a beat later:

“You okay?”

Keiji looked at her again.

She wasn’t mocking this time.

Not pushing.

Just watching.

He almost said yes.

Almost gave her the polished version.

But something in her face, maybe the way she didn’t blink, maybe the fire she refused to dim, made him tell the truth instead.

“No.”

Haruna nodded once. She didn’t pry.

Just leaned back into the couch, legs crossed, mint clicking against her teeth.

“Well. If it helps, your performance the other day made me cry, and I hate admitting that.”

“You cried?” Keiji echoed, surprised.

“Shut up.”

“Was it the lighting? The outfit?” 

“You’re a menace.”

He smirked, just a flicker.

And it felt weird. Foreign. Like muscle memory of a feeling he hadn’t let himself access in weeks.

Haruna glanced sideways at him. “If we’re stuck pretending we’re dating for the tabloids, you better start being less depressing.”

Keiji scoffed. “You love my brooding.”

“I tolerate your brooding. I love the royalty checks.”

He laughed under his breath.

And again, it felt strange. But not bad.

~~~

Love Me Harder by Ariana Grande ft. The Weeknd (Used as a Haruna ft. Keiji original)

The recording booth was dimly lit, soft LED glow casting the room in blues and purples.

Haruna stood near the mic, headphones perched over her sleek ponytail. She was running through a section of the chorus, eyes closed, voice sultry but sharp. Confident in a way that felt earned, not rehearsed.

Behind the glass, Keiji sat in the producer’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, leaning forward just enough to show he was listening. His expression unreadable, eyes flicking between her and the screen.

The track played back.

“‘Cause if you want to keep me,

You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta

Got to love me harder…”

She cut herself off mid-line and exhaled. “Too breathy?”

“No,” Keiji said into the mic. “It works. One more like that. But this time, pull back just a little on the vibrato. Trust the lyric.”

Haruna rolled her eyes. “You say that like it’s not the hardest part.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s the part that matters.”

Later, they switched.

Keiji stepped into the booth. He wore black from head to toe, sleeves pushed up, hair just barely disheveled. Like he hadn’t decided if he cared about today yet.

The verse came in, his part.

Low. Velvet. Controlled.

He didn’t sing so much as burn slowly into the mic.

“I know your motives, and you know mine

The ones that love me, I tend to leave behind…”

From the console, Haruna watched. And for a moment, just a breath, she saw something break open in him.

A flicker of ache behind the smoothness.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t call it out.

But when he stepped out of the booth, she handed him his water bottle without a word.

They sat side by side on the studio couch as the playback rolled.

“You hate this song, don’t you,” Haruna said after a beat.

Keiji shrugged. “I think it’s honest. I don’t like that right now.”

Haruna sipped her tea. “Good. That’s why you’re the right one for it.”

He glanced at her. “You really think the label would’ve picked someone else?”

“Oh, they would’ve.” She gave him a knowing look. “But I wouldn’t have said yes.”

That surprised him.

He looked back at the screen.

Haruna leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We’re gonna sell the hell out of this, you know.”

“We already are.”

“Yeah, but—” she paused. “Just once I want to make something that feels like mine. Not theirs.”

Keiji looked at her again. This time… softer.

“Then let’s make this that one.”

And for the first time in days, he meant it.

Not because he needed a hit.

Not because it was strategic.

But because maybe, just maybe, he was starting to care about something again.

~~~

The brief had been clear:

“Lowkey but photogenic. Walk around Tokyo. Grab something at a café. Let the paparazzi do the rest.”

Haruna had rolled her eyes the second she read it.

Keiji hadn’t responded at all, just shown up in a fitted black coat, dark jeans, sunglasses, and that eternally unbothered energy that somehow made everything worse.

The two of them were walking through a high-end side street, lights twinkling overhead, the air crisp. 

“Do you think they’re watching?” Haruna muttered, glancing over her shoulder.

“They’re always watching,” Keiji said dryly.

“Smile for our fake relationship, darling.”

He turned to her and gave the most dead-eyed grin imaginable.

She burst out laughing.

Click.

Across the street, a paparazzi caught the moment in perfect lighting.

Another caught the follow-up: Haruna grabbing his arm while laughing, Keiji biting back a smile, the two of them framed by luxury store windows and golden hour light.

They looked like a real couple.

They weren’t.

But they looked like one.

~~~

At the café, Keiji ordered both drinks because she couldn’t remember what she liked there. Haruna made fun of his “off-duty model” look. He pretended to trip over a chair and said it was for the drama.

They sat outside with their drinks.

Haruna sipped her caramel iced coffee and groaned. “Ugh, they added whipped cream. They’re trying to sabotage me.”

Keiji leaned back in his seat, lazily sipping his matcha. “That’s the price of fame. Sugar foam and sexual tension.”

“Please never say ‘sugar foam’ again.”

Click. Click. Click.

Across the street, the camera shutters snapped quietly.

~~~

Later, on the way back toward the car, a small crowd started forming. A couple of fans. Some strangers with phones out. The usual. Haruna tensed slightly.

Without a word, Keiji shifted closer.

One arm across her back. The other tugging his hood up. He stepped in front of her, not rudely, just enough to shield her from the first few flashes as they ducked through the growing noise and toward the alleyway where Aida waited.

Haruna didn’t say anything at first.

But when they got in the car, cheeks flushed, heart racing, she muttered:

“Thanks. For that.”

Keiji shrugged. “They’re vultures. I don’t like when people stare at you like that.”

She didn’t say anything, but she looked at him for a long time.

A moment passed.

Then they both looked down at their phones.

Because the photos were already blowing up.

~~~

@hourlykeijixharuna: “he covered her in the crowd. i’m throwing up tears. they’re ENDGAME.”

@idolwatchtokyo: “Keiji Akaashi and Haruna seen laughing together in Tokyo. Exclusive pics show the new power duo radiating effortless couple vibes. Thoughts?”

@keijicryclub: “not to be delusional but that’s not how he looked at that mystery guy in those pics a year ago.”

Top Comment on TikTok Recap Video: “my parents. literally my parents.”

~~~

Back in the car, Haruna was scrolling. “They’ve already given us a ship name.”

Keiji sighed. “God help me.”

“Harushi.”

“No.”

“Keina?”

“Still no.”

She smirked. “We could always just… not fake date?”

Keiji looked at her sideways. “And disappoint millions?”

“Right. How dare we.”

But under all the sarcasm, for the first time in days—

He felt… okay.

Maybe not happy. But steady.

And maybe, in this strange little pretend partnership, that was enough for now.

Collision Course

Oikawa stood frozen in Iwaizumi’s room, half a piece of a potato chip in his mouth, phone in hand, face absolutely ghost white.

Iwaizumi stepped out of the bathroom mid-shirt adjustment. “What? What happened?”

Oikawa didn’t respond at first. Just turned the phone around slowly.

On screen: A high-res photo of Keiji and Haruna walking through the city, laughing. One of Keiji holding his hand behind her back, shielding her from the crowd.

Their faces soft. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“Oh… shit,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“He’s gonna see this, Hajime.”

“No, no—he can’t see this. We have to—” Iwaizumi blinked.

“Where’s Bokuto?”

“Living room— OH MY GOD HE HAS HIS PHONE.”

~~~

Cue a blur of panic.

Oikawa skidded into the living room where Bokuto was scrolling on his phone, hair a mess, blanket around his shoulders like a cape.

“GIVE ME THAT—”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

Iwaizumi came flying in behind Oikawa. “YOUR PHONE. WE NEED IT.”

“Um— why??” Bokuto clutched it tighter, suspicious.

“SURPRISE PHONE CLEANING.”

“GOVERNMENT RECALL.”

“THERE’S A BUG. A VIRAL BUG. IT’S EATING PHOTOS.”

“I literally just updated it.”

“TOO LATE.” Oikawa lunged for the phone.

Bokuto rolled over the couch dramatically, sprinting for the hallway. Blanket still on.

“YOU GUYS ARE BEING WEIRD.”

“WE’RE TRYING TO PROTECT YOUUUU,” Oikawa shouted, chasing him around the table.

“FROM WHAT?”

“FROM HEARTBREAK,” Iwaizumi yelled, tripping over a chair.

They all collapsed in a heap near the coffee table, panting and tangled.

Bokuto, wide-eyed and suspicious, pulled his phone back out and finally said:  “…Wait. What’s this trending tag?”

Oikawa looked at him with pleading eyes. “Bo, don’t—”

He tapped it.

Silence.

He stared at the photos.

The one of Keiji laughing. The one of him reaching toward Haruna. The one that looked like love.

Bokuto’s face changed instantly. The color drained from his skin. The breath left his chest like he’d been hit. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

Oikawa sat up carefully and reached out. “Bo—”

“I’m fine,” Bokuto said quietly.

He wasn’t.

But he stood up anyway. Phone still in hand. Blanket dropped.

“I’m gonna go shower.”

And then he was gone.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Oikawa let his head drop into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “… we really tried.”

Iwaizumi exhaled. “So hard.”

The silence after Bokuto shut the bathroom door hung heavy in the air.

Oikawa stayed on the floor, groaning dramatically into Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Iwaizumi just sighed. Still panting.

Then—

“Wow.”

Both heads turned toward the hallway.

Noya leaned against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed, a bowl of cereal in one hand. Behind him, Asahi stood rubbing his temples like that was the hardest thing he’s ever had to watch.

“You guys suck at espionage,” Noya announced. “You literally tackled him with a blanket cape still on.”

Oikawa groaned. “We tried.”

“Tried and failed.”

Asahi winced. “Spectacularly.”

Noya shook his head like a disappointed coach. “Next time you wanna hide a trending topic, maybe don’t scream ‘SURPRISE GOVERNMENT PHONE CLEANING.’”

Iwaizumi muttered, “Okay yeah, that was weak.”

Noya shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and headed back into his room. “Five out of ten for effort. Negative twelve for execution.”

The door shut behind him.

Oikawa stared at Iwaizumi. “We’re never gonna live that down, are we?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Not even a little.”

~~~

Steam curled at the edges of the mirror.

The water wasn’t running anymore, but Bokuto still sat on the closed toilet lid, towel draped over his shoulders, phone gripped loosely in his lap.

His breathing was shallow.

Sharp.

His chest heaved every few seconds like he was trying not to let it show, like if he just held still enough, he wouldn’t cry.

But the tears were already coming.

Quiet. Messy. No performance here.

He wiped at them roughly with the edge of the towel, like that might stop them.

But it didn’t.

His eyes flicked back down to the photo on his screen.

Keiji laughing.

Keiji shielding someone else.

Keiji looking happy.

He tried to be happy for him.

He tried to believe it.

But all he could see was:

Keiji curled up on Bokuto’s bed, reading a book off his phone, muttering, “Now why would you do that? You know you love him!”

Their fingers brushing backstage, the way Keiji looked up at him with all smiles and support for his performance. 

That night on the balcony, Keiji whispering, “I’m glad you found me.”

Keiji looking away last week, saying, “Don’t ask for me again.”

Bokuto hunched over.

Sobs finally breaking free.

Not loud. Not violent. Just exhausted.

Like his heart had been cracked too many times and this was the last time it had energy left to bleed.

~~~

The label meeting dragged.

A screen projected sales data and fan engagement charts. Minami was talking numbers. Haruna was across the table, half-listening while sipping tea. The air was full of manufactured enthusiasm.

But Keiji—

He couldn’t focus.

His leg bounced under the table. His fingers tapped a phantom rhythm on his knee. He was staring at the data, but not reading it.

Something was off.

Not in the room. In him.

He felt… heavy. Wrong. Like he’d missed something important and the ache hadn’t caught up until now.

Did he see them?

He hadn’t checked his phone since earlier. Didn’t need to. He already knew.

Minami was saying something about a new magazine spread. Haruna threw him a look.

Keiji didn’t react.

Minami’s tone sharpened. “Keiji, are you with us?”

He blinked. Looked up. “Yeah. Sure.”

Haruna frowned.

Keiji stood abruptly. “I need ten.”

Someone in a suit started to protest, but Haruna cut in. 

“Let him breathe. Jesus.”

Keiji left the room.

And the second the door closed behind him—

He sagged against the wall.

Fingers pressed to his eyes.

His throat clenched.

He didn’t cry.

He just—

Felt.

And it hurt like hell.

~~~

Bokuto finally came out of the bathroom.

His eyes were red. His cheeks blotchy. But his expression was composed in that dangerously quiet way. The kind that said he was done crying because there was nothing left.

Oikawa was waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed, back against the wall.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pushed off the wall and walked beside him toward the kitchen.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Bokuto didn’t answer.

They stood at the counter. Oikawa poured them both glasses of water. Handed him one.

After a long silence—

“I’m trying,” Bokuto said finally, voice low. “I really tried to be okay with it. To move on. But seeing him with her, smiling like that…”

He trailed off.

Oikawa nodded. “I know.”

“It felt worse than the first time we broke up. Is that crazy?”

“No. It’s not.”

Bokuto looked down. “I hate how much I still love him.”

Oikawa swallowed. Set his glass down. “You’re allowed to.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Bokuto glanced sideways. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Oikawa gave a tired smile. “No. And knowing him? He won’t let himself be. But maybe someday.”

They stood there together for a while. Quiet. Steady.

~~~

Keiji had come back from his break a little more collected, but colder. He hadn’t spoken much.

Now the team had cleared out.

Just him and Haruna again.

She sat on the couch in the back of the studio, watching him run through a track mix for the tenth time.

He didn’t even flinch when she spoke:

“You’re not okay.”

He kept clicking.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she added. “The ghost mode.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling.”

Keiji stopped. He took a breath.

Then turned toward her. “You read the comments?”

“Of course. They think we’re Tokyo’s favorite couple.”

He huffed. “Yeah. Great PR.”

Haruna stood and crossed to him. Not confrontational, just calm. Steady.

“You can pretend with them,” she said. “Don’t do it with me.”

That stopped him. He looked at her. Really looked.

For once, there wasn’t a wall between them.

Not romance. Not tension.

Just something like—

Recognition.

Haruna stepped back, nodding. “Thought so.”

Then, quietly:

“Whatever it is… I hope it’s not gone forever.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

But he watched her walk out of the studio like someone who maybe, for once, knew how to stay.

~~~

The front door creaked open.

Bokuto walked in, coat half-off, hair wind-tossed, and an expression that screamed “I regret every life decision I’ve made since 6PM.”

Oikawa glanced up from the couch, mouth full of popcorn. “So. Bad date?”

Bokuto collapsed face-first into the cushions. “He referred to Coldplay as ‘classic rock.’”

Coldplay. That was his and Keiji’s band. It was special to them. 

“Yikes.” Oikawa shoved the bowl closer to him in solidarity.

“And he called me ‘bro.’ Three times.”

“Arrestable offense.”

Bokuto groaned into the throw pillow. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t do this. I can’t move on. Nobody is him. I want him.”

Oikawa stilled. His smile faded for a moment. Then: 

“So maybe it’s time to get strategic.”

Bokuto lifted his head. “What does that mean?”

Oikawa’s eyes gleamed like a raccoon who just found a drawer full of shiny drama. “We give him something to see.”

“…What kind of ‘see’?”

Oikawa sat up straighter, fingers already flying over his phone. “A little public illusion. A soft launch. You. You’ll fake a relationship. Just enough to rattle him. Maybe snap him out of his cold, emotionally-repressed fog.”

Bokuto blinked. “That’s—wait. That’s kind of brilliant.”

“I know!” Oikawa beamed. “Nothing crazy. Just a hint. Mystery hand. Or maybe a slight jawline. You can add a caption. Or not.”

“Like ‘date night vibes?’”

“Nah, that’s too on the nose. Go subtler. One emoji like the black heart. Or just the dinner plate one!”

They were spiraling now.

“God, I’m gonna need lighting.”

“Use Noya’s ring lamp.”

“I need a believable stand-in!”

“We can blur the face. Shoulder crop.”

“This is genius.”

“I’m a menace and I live for chaos.”

~~~

Enter Iwaizumi. Towel around his neck, hair damp, face already twisted in suspicion.

He took one look at the duo and muttered, “…No.”

“You don’t even know what we’re doing, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa chirped.

“I do. And it’s dumb.”

“It’s smart!” Bokuto insisted.

“It’s a desperate cry for attention.” Iwaizumi deadpanned.

“Still works,” Oikawa said, unbothered.

Iwaizumi flopped onto the couch beside them and looked Bokuto square in the eye. “Kou, bro, I love you.” 

“I love you, man!” Bokuto’s eyes shimmered. 

Iwaizumi continued. “You’re one of my closest friends. But this plan? It’s garbage.” 

Bokuto’s face fell. 

“He’s not going to come running because you faked a mystery boyfriend. He’s either going to spiral harder or ignore it completely.”

“What if he gets jealous?” Bokuto asked.

“What if he thinks you’ve moved on and finally gives up?”

That landed a little too hard.

The silence that followed wasn’t fun anymore.

Oikawa sobered slightly, voice softer now. “It’s a bad idea.”

Bokuto leaned back. Quiet.

“…But it’s something.”

Iwaizumi sighed and leaned his head against the couch. “You two are impossible.”

“But lovable!” Oikawa offered.

“Barely.”

~~~

The lighting in the living room had shifted to “moody Instagram thirst trap.”

Noya’s lamp was on the coffee table. Oikawa was crouched beside it like a set designer. Iwaizumi sat in the corner, arms crossed, radiating judgment.

“I’m not helping,” he muttered.

“You already are, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa said sweetly. “Your disapproval is the perfect tension.”

Bokuto stood by the couch, shirt perfectly rumpled, sleeves pushed up just enough to look casual. He stared at his phone like it was a live grenade.

“Okay. One blurry mirror pic, hint of collarbone, background wine glass, no face. Just enough to confuse him.”

“Crop the hand in,” Oikawa instructed, scrolling through reference posts on his own phone. “It has to look intimate but not obvious. Like, ‘I’m not hiding him, but also I’m totally hiding him.’”

“Oh, and this song in the background,” Bokuto said, tapping his playlist. Something moody and vague, just sensual enough to hurt.

Oikawa peered over. “That’s good! It’s very soft launch energy.”

“You guys need therapy,” Iwaizumi muttered.

Bokuto took a breath. Hit record.

A short, quiet video. The clink of a wine glass. His hand over someone else’s (Oikawa’s hand, awkwardly posed and already regretting being the stunt double). A low hum of music in the background. Nothing specific.

Just enough.

They stared at it in silence when it was done.

“Okay, what’s the caption?”

“Nothing,” Bokuto said. “That’s the move. No context. Just the video.”

“Bold,” Oikawa grinned. “Post it.”

Bokuto hesitated.

Then: “Screw it.”

Tap.

Posted.

~~~

They all stared at Bokuto’s phone for a second.

Hope and wreckage twined like smoke in the room.

And somewhere in the city, someone was going to feel the ripple.

~~~

The notifications began immediately. Comments from their growing fan base. 

@bokukoutarou uploaded a story.

“Wait… is he dating someone??”

“THAT’S A HAND. WHOSE HAND IS THAT.”

“all the hot ones are always taken.”

“i will not survive a new couple era rn.”

Oikawa clutched his phone and gasped. “Oh my god. Your lil fans are spiraling. I’ve created a monster.”

“It’s working,” Bokuto whispered. “It’s actually working.”

“No,” Iwaizumi said, standing. “It’s a delusion. It’s a terrible plan. And I give it twenty-four hours before it all explodes in your face.”

“So you’re saying there’s time for a second post?”

“I hate you.”

~~~

Oikawa and Bokuto sat glued to the couch, watching the chaos unfold on their phones. Notifications pinged. Some reposts, DMs, group chat screenshots.

Bokuto leaned back, triumphant. “I actually feel a little powerful right now.”

“We’re viral,” Oikawa grinned. “Who knew I would be your mystery boyfriend, Bo-chan!”

In the corner, Iwaizumi rubbed his temples. Then, quietly, deadpan:

“Wait.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“Does Keiji even follow you on Instagram anymore?”

The silence was instant.

Bokuto blinked. Oikawa’s jaw dropped.

“No… his management wiped his old account," Oikawa said slowly, like the realization was physically painful. “His new one follows like three people.”

“…So he’s literally not gonna see this?” Bokuto asked, already sounding devastated.

Iwaizumi leaned back with a smug sip of water. “You two just staged a mildly desperate fake relationship launch… for nobody.”

Oikawa groaned and fell face-first into the couch cushions.

Bokuto grabbed a throw pillow and screamed into it.

Iwaizumi smiled.

“You know what this is?” he said, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “This is karma. And I’m having the best night ever.”

Studio Confessional 

The studio was quiet, just the faint hum of the equipment, the click of Haruna’s acrylics tapping her phone, and the soft swirl of steam rising from Keiji’s matcha.

He pushed through the door like he always did: calm, unreadable, exact. Sunglasses still on, hair tousled in that just-perfect way, all control and composure.

Haruna was curled into the couch in the vocal booth, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and an even bigger smile. Her phone was inches from her face, her legs swaying lazily.

Keiji let the door shut behind him with a quiet click. His voice was still husky with sleep when he asked:

“What are you so glued to?”

She didn’t look up. Just made a dramatic ugh sound and waved the phone.

“My heart just got shattered, that’s all!”

He raised an eyebrow as he set his drink on the table by the soundboard. “Breakup?”

“Betrayal,” she corrected, kicking her heel lightly against the couch. “One of my favorite band vocalists just hard launched some mystery guy and ruined the fantasy for all of us.”

Keiji smirked faintly, settling into his chair. “That’s brutal. Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she grumbled. “I’ve already blocked out the pain.”

He chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his matcha. But something about her tone stuck. She was teasing, but not really. Her energy buzzed with something else. Something close to surprise. Or disbelief.

She kept talking.

“They just got to Tokyo, like, two seconds ago. And he’s already out here being soft and cryptic and annoyingly hot. God.”

Keiji’s brows drew in slightly.

He wasn’t sure why his chest tightened.

“Wait,” he said, lowering his cup, voice light. “Who just got into Tokyo?”

“The band. The one I was telling you about. The one from tbe live performance clips I tried to show you last week?”

He didn’t remember. Or maybe he had tuned her out that day, distracted with work.

She kept scrolling, thumb flying. “Anyway, they came here recently. And then last night, this goes up?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Like, really? You don’t even give us time to pretend you’re single?”

Keiji’s hand was motionless on the edge of the table.

Her words were still harmless. Still vague.

But they were pressing on something in his chest that hadn’t been touched in days.

Something raw.

“…Let me see,” he said casually, reaching out his hand.

Haruna passed him the phone, still rambling. “He posted it on his story. It’s not, like, explicit or anything, but you know. The hand. The vibe. The lighting. And the song choice? Oh my god. It’s so intimate it’s basically foreplay.”

Keiji didn’t respond.

His thumb moved across the screen, silent and slow.

The account loaded.

He didn’t even need to see the name.

The profile picture was enough.

He knew that face.

Keiji had been the one to pick out this profile picture. Back when they visited his parents. Bokuto just never changed it. 

His heart stopped.

His thumb hovered, then tapped.

The story began to play.

Blurry lights. Warm tones. Two wine glasses clinking. A hand draped across someone’s thigh. The faint murmur of a sultry song in the background. Someone’s voice, maybe, but muffled. Not clear enough to confirm. Just enough to hurt.

Keiji blinked once.

Then again.

He didn’t breathe.

The screen went black as the story ended, but he didn’t move.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

His voice was so quiet it almost didn’t make it out.

But Haruna heard it. She glanced over, amused.

“Right?! I mean, aesthetically it’s beautiful. But emotionally? Devastating.”

Keiji didn’t answer.

Because all he could hear was the click of a lighter in his head.

All he could see was Bokuto’s hand. Still wearing the ring Keiji gave him last year. The one he never took off.

And just like that…

everything he buried

had clawed its way back.

Chapter Text

The week blurred.

Days collapsed into nights, nights into mornings he didn’t remember. Keiji floated through it all in a kind of soft-focus delirium. Neon smears of light, glitter on skin that wasn’t his, the taste of strangers’ mouths and something chemical melting under his tongue.

He didn’t sleep so much as crash in fragments. He woke in other people’s beds, on sticky leather couches, once in the back of a taxi that had been circling Shibuya for an hour because he couldn’t remember his own address.

Nobody called. Nobody he wanted to hear from, anyway.

But that was fine. He’d made sure of it.

This wasn’t new for him. He’d done months like this before, nights where the drugs kept the dark from catching up to him, mornings where the hangover hit before the sun. But lately… it was louder. Messier. Because the last time he’d seen anything or heard anything about Bokuto, he wasn’t alone.

He was with someone else. Drinking wine together. 

Like they used to. 

Keiji could still see it, even now, beneath the strobes and smoke: Bokuto’s hand around a wine glass, ring on his finger, clinking with someone else’s wine glass who had a much more slender hand. Like it had never belonged to Keiji at all.

He told himself he’d ruined it, so he couldn’t be mad. But God, he hated it anyway. Hated the way the image gnawed at him between lines in the bathroom, between anonymous hands sliding under his shirt.

It didn’t matter how many nights he stayed out, he still went home with that picture in his head. And no amount of powder or pills had been able to blur it yet.

The club’s air was damp and sweet with perfume, sweat, and something acrid from the smoke machine. A bassline shook the walls, the floor, his ribs.

Keiji leaned against the bar like it was holding him up, chin tipped toward the girl in sequins shouting a drink order over the music. She kept smiling at him, but he wasn’t hearing a word she said. The world was muffled, underwater, except for the bass.

“Two more,” he told the bartender, sliding over a metal black card with his name on it.

After drinks were served and the card was returned, a hand found his shoulder. It was one of the guys he’d been running with this week. He wore a grinning, coke-shiny smile. 

“Bathroom?” he mouthed.

Keiji didn’t answer. Just followed.

They slipped down a hallway sticky with spilled liquor and body heat. The music was duller here, a heartbeat through the walls. The bathroom door swung open, light flickering like an old film reel.

Three strangers were already crowded at the sink, lining up tiny paper folds like offerings. Someone laughed too loud; the sound stabbed through his temples. He didn’t care.

The first line burned his throat. The second blurred the edges of his thoughts. By the third, his head felt light enough to float away.

When he stumbled back into the main room, the crowd had doubled. Lights pulsed, catching in the gloss of strangers’ lips, the glitter on bare shoulders. A woman grabbed his hand, pulled him into the press of bodies, moving to music he couldn’t hear anymore.

Her face was close, hair brushing his jaw, perfume dizzy-sweet. She laughed, said something against his ear. All he caught was ‘baby’ and ‘dangerous.’

For a second, it was almost enough. Almost enough to forget the shape of Bokuto’s smile when it wasn’t aimed at him.

Then, through the tangle of bodies, he thought he saw it.

That hair. That stance.

Not him. Of course not. Just some stranger in a white tee.

But his chest still pulled tight like a wire.

So he kept dancing, harder, faster, until he couldn’t think at all.

~~~

By the time they spilled into the street, it was past three and the city felt like a dream. Neon bled into the puddles, taxis slid by like lazy sharks, and the air tasted faintly of rain and smoke.

Someone shoved a joint between Keiji’s fingers. He lit it without thinking, hands still trembling from the beat. The others were laughing, jostling, trying to decide on an afterparty.

“Rooftop!” someone yelled.

“Hotel suite!” another countered.

Keiji didn’t answer. The music was still in his head, thudding against his skull, but it had warped into something slower. Meaner.

The guy with the coke-shiny smile reappeared at his side, a folded bill in one hand, a baggie in the other. “One more before we go?”

Keiji hesitated. Just long enough to realize he wasn’t hesitating.

They ducked into an alley, the kind that smelled like rust and rainwater, lit by the blue flicker of a vending machine. The walls seemed to lean in. Someone’s phone light clicked on.

The first hit was too deep. The second one made his teeth ache. By the third, his knees were threatening to go. He swallowed hard, coughed, then laughed, because everyone else was laughing, and it was easier than explaining why his heart suddenly felt like it was clawing out of his chest.

When he straightened, the street tilted a little. The sky looked closer than it should. He wondered what it would feel like to reach up and touch it.

“You good?” Someone asked, grinning like they already knew the answer.

Keiji nodded. Took another drag of the joint. “Perfect.”

But when they stepped back into the main streetlight, his vision went static-white for a second. And in that static, in the smear of color and noise, he saw it again. That white tee, that broad shape of shoulders.

It wasn’t him.

But God, it still hurt like it was.

He let them pull him toward the waiting cab, the city blurring behind glass. Somewhere between the second and third turn, the lights stretched into lines, and the laughter in the backseat faded to a low hum.

By the time they hit the highway, Keiji was already gone.

~~~

The knock came like a warning. Two sharp raps against the door, heavy enough to make the cheap frame rattle.

Keiji peeled one eye open.

Daylight, the cruel kind, leaked through half-drawn curtains, pale and cold. His mouth tasted like ash and sugar. His head was a slow drumbeat.

Another knock. Louder this time.

He sat up, realizing he wasn’t in his own bed. Not in his own apartment. The sheets were twisted, perfume clinging to the pillow. He didn’t know whose. His shirt was missing. His jeans were still on.

A voice through the door: “Keiji. Open it. Now.”

Aida.

Keiji scrubbed a hand down his face, the skin under his eyes tacky from last night’s makeup. 

“How the fuck did you find me?”

“You left your location on. Again.” Aida’s tone was flat, clipped. “And your phone’s been blowing up. Management wants you in twenty minutes.”

Keiji swung his legs off the bed, immediately regretting it as the floor tilted under him. He caught himself on the nightstand, knocking over an empty champagne flute.

The door clicked open, Aida didn’t wait for permission. He filled the doorway, broad-shouldered, in his usual black jacket, expression carved from stone.

“Get dressed,” he said. 

No room for argument.

Keiji reached for the crumpled shirt at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t his. He let it drop back to the floor. 

“I need a shower.”

“You need help,” Aida said evenly. “And a ride. You’ve got both if you move now.”

Keiji gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Where are we going?”

Aida’s eyes flicked over him, messy hair, bare chest, necklace still glittering under the morning light. 

“Back to your place,” he said.

Then, after a beat: “And Keiji… you’re on the front page of Tokyo Daily. Again.”

That sobered him faster than anything in the bathroom bag last night. “What for?”

Aida didn’t blink. “They’re calling it an ‘incident.’”

Another beat. “Don’t make me explain it here. Move.”

~~~

The SUV smelled like leather and rain when Keiji slid into the back seat, slamming the door harder than he meant to. His head was still pounding, the motion making it worse.

Aida climbed in after him, setting a paper coffee cup in the cupholder. “Drink. Not sip. Drink.”

Keiji took it, fingers brushing against the cardboard sleeve like it was some kind of lifeline. The heat burned his palms. He didn’t drink. Not yet.

Traffic outside was slow, the morning folding in on itself and turning gray. Raindrops slid lazy patterns across the glass. The quiet between them was thick enough to choke on.

Aida finally reached into his jacket and slid a folded newspaper across the seat.

Keiji didn’t want to look. He really didn’t. But his fingers moved on their own, pulling it open until his own face stared back at him.

Not stage Keiji. Not album cover Keiji.

This was him under a streetlight at 4:17 a.m., eyes glassy, collarbone exposed under an unbuttoned shirt, leaning too close to someone, he couldn’t even tell who. The flash had caught every detail in cruel clarity: the smeared eyeliner, the way his mouth hung open mid-sentence, the hand he’d braced on their hip like he knew them.

The headline was worse:

A FALL FROM GRACE: “Pop idol Keiji Akaashi spotted in late-night exchange outside Tokyo club.”

Beneath it, a smaller photo of him climbing into the back of a cab, looking wrecked. The subtext didn’t even bother hiding what it implied.

“So what?” Keiji’s throat tightened. “They don’t even know what they’re looking at.”

“They don’t care,” Aida said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were steel. “They’re selling a story. And your label is already on fire about it.”

Keiji let the paper fall to the seat. “They’ll survive.”

“You might not,” Aida replied. “You keep giving them stories. They’re not going to want to keep up with this.”

Keiji leaned his head back against the seat, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Then maybe they’ll just give up on me.” Then he muttered under his breath. “Like everyone else.” 

Like I have. 

Aida didn’t answer. The car kept moving.

~~~

The elevator ride up to his floor felt longer than usual. Keiji stayed slouched in the corner, coffee untouched in his hand, watching the digital numbers crawl. Aida stood in front of him like a wall, arms folded.

When the doors slid open, the first thing Keiji noticed was that the hallway was too quiet. His building was never quiet, someone was always clattering with grocery bags or bustling with garment bags and cosmetic suitcases in hands. But now? Nothing.

Then he saw them.

Minami was leaning against Keiji’s apartment door, phone in hand, suit jacket sharp enough to cut glass. Two more people in dark suits stood a little behind him, briefcases in hand. They looked like they’d stepped straight out of a boardroom and into a stakeout.

Keiji’s stomach sank. “Seriously?”

Minami looked up from his phone, his eyes skimming over Keiji from head to toe in a slow, deliberate assessment. He didn’t smile. “You look worse than the photos.”

Keiji brushed past him, putting the keypad code in. “Guess I’m keeping the brand alive.”

“You’re keeping your lawyer alive,” Minami shot back, following him inside.

The apartment was spotless, too spotless. Aida had clearly been here already, clearing out whatever chaos Keiji had left behind. The smell of antiseptic cleaner clung to the air.

One of the suits shut the door behind them, the lock clicking into place with the same sound it made in interrogation rooms.

Minami set his phone on the counter. “Sit.”

Keiji stayed standing. “I’m not a dog.”

“No,” Minami agreed. “But you’re making a mess like one. That article’s already hit three syndicates. I’ve fielded calls from PR, legal, and—” He gestured vaguely at the two suits. “—our ‘friends’ from the label, who now want to talk about the pattern.”

Keiji took a slow sip of coffee, still not sitting. “And what pattern is that?”

“The one where you end up in tabloids with strangers at four in the morning. The one where you look too high to spell your own name. The one where people start to wonder if you’re worth betting the next album on.”

The words landed sharper than Minami’s usual jabs. Aida didn’t say anything, just lingered by the window, watching.

Finally, one of the suits spoke. “Keiji, we’re not here to scold you. We’re here to remind you that every time you get photographed like this, it makes our job harder. We can spin one, maybe two incidents. But three in a month?” He shook his head. “You’re asking for a public collapse.”

Keiji smirked faintly. “Maybe that’s the show people actually want.”

The suit’s expression didn’t change. “Careful.”

Minami glanced at the suits, then back at Keiji. “Look. The label’s not pulling the plug. Yet. But they are making a call.”

Keiji tipped his head, feigning interest. “Oh? Do tell.”

“They want you back on track,” Minami said, flat as concrete. “PR-friendly, camera-ready, and standing next to Haruna every time a lens comes out.”

That made Keiji laugh, a short, humorless exhale. “Of course. Because nothing says stability like a fake romance with my duet partner.”

“It’s not a romance,” one of the suits corrected, voice sharp. “It’s synergy. Your single together is finished, and promo starts this week. That means interviews, photoshoots, and your first live performance together. And before you start—” He raised a hand. “Yes, we know you and Haruna can barely stand each other. No, we don’t care.”

God, do these people even pay attention? 

That wasn’t even true anymore. They actually got along quite nice. It was more so the fact that the idea of a “fake romance” was ridiculous to Akaashi. 

Keiji set his coffee on the counter, leaning back against it with folded arms. “And if I say no?”

“Then we start talking about breach of contract,” Minami said smoothly, as if discussing the weather.

Keiji stared at him for a long beat. “You’re really betting people will forget that headline if they see me smiling next to Haruna?”

“Yes,” Minami said. “Because they will. They always do.”

One of the suits stepped forward, sliding a printed schedule onto the counter like a loaded weapon. “First run-through with Haruna tomorrow, noon. Wardrobe at eleven. We want the chemistry so obvious, even the press corps gets jealous.”

Keiji glanced down at the paper, eyes scanning the neat blocks of time, the endless parade of obligations. His jaw flexed once.

“Great,” he said finally, voice dry. “Guess I’ll go iron my halo.”

The suits didn’t laugh.

PROMO DAY 1

The rehearsal space smelled faintly of floor polish and old sweat, the kind of clean that still felt lived-in. High ceilings, mirrored walls, a wall of speakers stacked like black monoliths in the corner.

Haruna was already there when Keiji walked in, perched on a stool in black leggings and an oversized sweater, hair twisted into a casual bun. She looked up from her phone, smiled.

“You made it,” she said. Light, teasing. “And upright!”

Keiji smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

Aida trailed in behind him, carrying two garment bags from wardrobe. Minami wasn’t far behind, already talking about camera blocking like they were shooting in the next five minutes.

The music director clapped his hands once. “Alright, let’s run it from the top. Mics up.”

Haruna adjusted her in-ear pack, catching Keiji’s reflection in the mirror as he leaned casually against the wall. She gave a little shrug, saying: let’s just do it.

The opening synth slid out of the speakers, smooth and slow, the bass warm enough to feel in his sternum.

Haruna’s voice slipped in like silk:

“Tell me something I need to know…”

She was already in character, gaze locked on her reflection, movements small but precise.

“Then take my breath and never let it go…”

Her delivery was effortless, not oversold, just velvet over steel. The kind of opening that made you lean forward without realizing.

Keiji waited. Head slightly bowed, one boot tapping in time.

“If you just let me invade your space…”

Haruna turned in the mirror now, as if she was about to look right through him.

“I’ll take the pleasure, take it with the pain…”

The beat started to pick up at this point, edging the chorus. Backup dancers came in at her sides, striding smoothly, where Haruna stood in the middle and slowly gravitated her arms up above her head, and trailing one hand down an arm. 

“Something bigger than us and beyond bliss… 

Give me a reason to believe it.” 

And then the hook came crashing in, and Haruna smoothly fell into step with the dancers. It was like she created the choreography herself, with how perfect each step was. 

“‘Cause if you want to keep me 

You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta got to love me harder.” 

The dancers were really only there to highlight Haruna, as this was her song and she was the main focus. And she did a great job at making it seem like that. She barked under the studio lights, facial expression’s on points, hitting every beat and perfecting every move. And not to mention her vocals were graceful. 

And then, the cue. Keiji pushed off the wall, stepping into her orbit as naturally as if the song had pulled him there.

“I know your motives and you know mine…”

His voice was lower than hers, smooth and deliberate, a shadow slipping in beside silk. Their eyes met for a fraction before shifting back to the mirror.

“The ones that love me I tend to leave behind…”

By the time the pre-chorus hit, two male backup dancers were already moving in from the edges of the room. Fluid, precise, framing Haruna and Keiji without stealing the focus.

When the chorus dropped, the choreography locked in: Haruna at the center, Keiji moving into step beside her. Shoulders brushing. Turning in sync. Backup dancers fanning in and out in mirrored lines.

“So if you want to keep me…”

They turned toward each other on keep me, leaning just close enough to toe the line between performance and something else.

“You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta…”

They stepped forward together, mirrored by the dancers behind them:

“…love me harder.”

It looked seamless. Sharp. Exactly what the label wanted.

When the track faded, Haruna’s laugh broke the tension. “Still makes me laugh how serious you look during that part.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Keiji said, tugging his mic pack loose.

From the far end of the room, Minami clapped once. “Perfect. Now again! But this time, sell it like you’re in love.”

Keiji’s smirk was thin. “Guess we’ll have to raise my rate for method acting.”

They reset. Haruna rolling her shoulders loose. Keiji taking a long pull from his water bottle before tossing it aside.

“From the top,” the music director called.

The synth swelled again, that smooth, pulsing heartbeat. Haruna’s voice slid into place, soft but laced with heat:

“Tell me something I need to know…”

Keiji watched her for a moment before shifting his gaze to the floor, not because she wasn’t good (she was flawless) but because he knew the eyes on them weren’t looking for flawless. They were looking for chemistry.

“Then take my breath and never let it go…”

The backup dancers glided in, filling the edges of the mirror. The room seemed smaller when they moved like that, everything pulling toward the center.

“If you just let me invade your space…”

Haruna’s glance toward him was sharper this time, calculated.

“I’ll take the pleasure, take it with the pain…”

After Harunas choreography with the dancers during the chorus, Keiji stepped in on cue, voice dropping low:

“I know your motives and you know mine…”

This time, he didn’t just meet her gaze, he held it. The kind of stare that could be cut into clips and GIFs and looped across fan accounts for weeks.

“The ones that love me I tend to leave behind…”

He circled her in the pre-chorus, their shoulders brushing just enough to read intimate without wrecking the choreography. Haruna tilted her chin toward him in response, the move so subtle it would look unscripted on camera.

When the chorus hit, they went all in.

“So if you want to keep me…”

They closed the gap between them until they shared the same breath, voices intertwining on the hook.

“You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta got to love me harder.”

Keiji slid a hand lightly along her waist as they turned, guiding her into the next beat with the backup dancers flaring out behind them like a frame. It was smooth. Sensual. And utterly mechanical.

Because while his mouth shaped the words, his mind wasn’t here.

It was somewhere else.

Someone else.

Bokuto’s laugh in a kitchen two years ago. The way his hand used to find the back of Keiji’s neck in crowded rooms. The look on his face the last time Keiji walked away.

Keiji blinked once, snapping back into the room just in time for the last chorus.

“So if you really need me… you gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta…”

Their eyes locked for the line. 

The moment hung there like a staged confession.

The track cut. Silence.

Minami exhaled in satisfaction. “That’s the one. Do it exactly like that for the cameras.”

Haruna grinned, brushing past Keiji to grab her water. “Told you we still had it.”

Keiji’s answering smile was small. Almost convincing.

The speakers went quiet, leaving only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The backup dancers drifted toward their bags, stretching and checking their phones. Minami stepped out to take a call, already talking numbers.

Keiji sank down on the edge of the stage, one knee bent, a towel draped over the back of his neck. He didn’t bother hiding how winded he was, not from the singing, but from the pretending.

Haruna padded over, still in her mic pack, water bottle in hand. She crouched down in front of him, elbows on her knees. “You good?”

Keiji smirked faintly. “Define good.”

She tipped her head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The kind where you don’t look like you’re seeing ghosts.”

He huffed a laugh, low and without humor. “Guess not, then.”

Haruna didn’t push right away. She unscrewed her water, took a sip, then said, “You know… I wasn’t gonna say it, but—” She paused. “When I showed you your ex’s story a couple weeks ago? I didn’t think it would still be sitting in your head like this.”

Keiji’s gaze slid past her to the empty mirrors. “I told you who he was to me.”

“I know.” She shifted closer, lowering her voice. “I also know you’ve been burning yourself out since. You think I haven’t noticed? Every rehearsal, every shoot… you look like you’re chasing something that’s not here.”

He didn’t answer. Just ran a hand over his face, towel slipping down to his lap.

Haruna sighed, sitting beside him now. “Keiji… if this is about proving something to him—”

“It’s not,” he cut in. Too fast. Too flat.

She glanced sideways at him, reading the lie for what it was. “Right.”

For a moment, the only sound was the click of the AC kicking on.

Haruna capped her bottle. “Well. Whatever it is you think you’re running from… you’re gonna trip if you keep looking back.”

Keiji gave the barest hint of a smile. “That your way of saying I’m sloppy?”

“That’s my way of saying I’ve seen you sharper,” she said, standing. “And I know you can be again. Even if it’s not for him.”

She left him there, towel still in his lap, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, not the polished one the label wanted. The tired one. The one that still hurt.

PROMO DAY 2

The studio lights were softer than stage lights, but the heat still crept under Keiji’s collar. Cameras lined the far wall, red tally dots blinking like they were watching him breathe.

Haruna sat in the chair beside him, posture easy, one leg crossed over the other, smile set to effortlessly charming. She had a way of leaning into interviews like they were private conversations. Like she’d known you for years.

It worked.

“First time performing together?” The host asked, leaning forward just enough to look invested.

Haruna’s smile curved. “First time performing this song, yes. We’ve been working together for a few weeks now, on some other things too.” She said it in a teasingly way.

Keiji let his mouth soften into the smallest smirk. “We’ve survived worse.”

The host laughed. “Worse?”

“Late-night recording sessions,” Haruna supplied, eyes sparkling. “He turns into a perfectionist after midnight.”

“Only because I want to make it perfect for you.” Keiji countered, glancing her way. The audience, a polite row of producers, staff and crew, cooed and awed.

They teased through the rest of the segment. Talked about the track, the choreography, the “unexpected” synergy between their voices. All the while, Keiji could feel the weight of lenses in the corners of the room, catching every sidelong glance, every almost-smile.

By the time they wrapped, Haruna’s laugh had warmed the air between them, and his hand found the small of her back as they stood. It was nothing. Just a guide toward the exit. But it would photograph well.

And it did.

The second they stepped outside, camera shutters stuttered against the afternoon sun. Haruna linked her arm through his, murmuring something about ‘just smile’, and they did. Side by side, eyes squinting against the flash, the perfect collaborators.

Somewhere between the car door and the curb, he let her lean in to say something in his ear. Didn’t matter what. The photo would do the talking.

~~~

His apartment was too quiet.  

He dropped his bag by the door and went straight for the couch, kicking off his boots without untying them. His phone was already in his hand before he’d even sat down.  

Bokuto’s profile.  

The same posts. The same photo with the ringed hand and the wine engraved in his mind. He scrolled further down, past old concert clips, past band rehearsals, past the carefully unremarkable snapshots that could belong to anyone.  

Still nothing.  

He went back to his gallery where the screenshot of the wine photo sat, thumb hovering over the screen like maybe if he stared long enough, it would explain itself.  

Then back to the profile.

The “Follow Back” button sat there, blue and taunting.  

One tap and he’d see more. Notifications. Posts on his feed. The parts you couldn’t catch from the outside.  

His thumb pressed down, almost. But it just missed his screen.  

And lifted again.  

He locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the other cushion.  

The quiet felt heavier now.  

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until the flashes faded, until all he could see was the grainy afterimage of himself outside the studio with Haruna, smiling like none of it mattered.  

PROMO DAY 3

The ring light was too close.

Haruna leaned into the frame, her hair loose now, smile warm enough to melt the chat section. Keiji sat back in his chair, posture loose, hoodie half-zipped, letting her do most of the talking.

“We’re in rehearsal again today,” she said, voice pitched just above the flood of comments. “Getting everything ready for you guys. First live performance tomorrow—”

He flashed the smallest smirk when she nudged his knee under the table. “You’re forgetting the part where you kept messing up your spin.”

“I didn’t mess up—” She started, laughing as the chat immediately exploded into SPIN CAM SPIN CAM.

This was their rhythm now. Tease, deflect, charm. Haruna leaned into the lens like she was telling secrets. Keiji let his mouth curl at the edges just enough for fans to screenshot later. Someone in the comments typed: LOOK AT THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. The rest followed suit.

It wasn’t a look. Not really. But no one watching would believe that.

~~~

The rehearsal hall was brutal under fluorescent lights. The music director ran them through the same section again, again, *again*, each time clapping louder over the track when something didn’t click. 

“Sharper on the turns, Haruna. Keiji, stay with her hips.”  

He bit back the urge to say something sharp. Haruna caught his eye in the mirror, the ghost of a smirk flickering like she knew exactly how close he was to snapping.  

By the eighth run, his throat felt dry, his calves buzzing with fatigue. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, not on purpose, just… forgot. Or didn’t care.  

“From the bridge!” the director called.  

Keiji stepped forward into position, the sweat cooling on the back of his neck. Haruna spun into him on cue, their shoulders brushing. He locked eyes with her for the count, then broke away like nothing lingered there. 

~~~

Wardrobe was colder.

Racks of stage clothes stood in perfect rows. Sequins, satin, leather pressed flat against tissue paper. Haruna was already in fitting, her laugh carrying through the curtain.

When Keiji stepped onto the low platform, the stylist fussed with the fall of his jacket, tugged at his collar, smoothed a thumb over his lapel like she was polishing him for sale.

“You’ve got the look,” she said, stepping back. “Dark circles work for you, but I covered them for today’s shoot. You need to look… entranced.”

Entranced. Right.

He didn’t bother answering. Just glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Hair too neat, jaw too sharp, undereyes brightened by concealer, hiding his shadows.

From the corner, Haruna’s voice: “You ready to make them believe?”

He looked at her in the mirror, one brow lifting. “They already do.”

~~~

The photo setup was tucked into the far end of the building, a seamless white backdrop glowing under softbox lights, the floor lit like a faint halo. Racks of unused props leaned against the wall, the air faintly metallic from the camera equipment.

The photographer was already pacing, camera strap swinging against his chest.

“Outfits on? Good. Let’s get started.”

Haruna moved into place beside Keiji like muscle memory. She was poured into a black satin bodysuit with long sleeves and a daring cutout down the center, the fabric catching just enough light to look almost liquid. A sliver of gold chain draped at her waist, glinting when she shifted. Thigh-high boots framed the long line of her legs, the patent leather reflecting the brightness of the set. Her hair in a high ponytail, with the ends curled and reaching her lower back. 

Keiji’s look was darker, sharper, as black tailored trousers that skimmed his frame, a deep V-neck shirt in gauzy black silk tucked just loosely enough to hint at his collarbone. A fitted blazer sat perfectly on his shoulders, the lapels subtly studded with matte black crystals that caught when he moved. Polished boots grounded him, the shine clean but not ostentatious. Around his neck, the same slim silver chain he always wore, barely visible, but there.

The stylist swept in, tugging at the hem of Haruna’s bodysuit, straightening the fall of Keiji’s blazer, smoothing one stubborn strand of hair over his brow.

“Closer.” The photographer called, circling them like a hawk. “Closer, closer… yes. That’s it. Like you’re sharing a secret!”

Haruna tilted her chin toward him, her smile caught somewhere between warmth and precision. Keiji turned just enough to make it look intimate without ever touching truth.

“Perfect. Haruna — hand on his chest. Keiji — look at her like she’s the only one in the room.”

He did. Or at least, he made it look that way.

The shutter clicked in rapid bursts. Haruna laughed once between shots, leaning in so close he could smell the faint citrus of her perfume.

“Good, good — now heads closer… yes, hold it!”

Flash after flash.

The photos would be everywhere by tonight: their Instagrams, the label’s account, the inevitable carousel of fan edits. By morning, they’d be cropped and color-corrected into the official cover art for the single.

By morning, the whole world would see exactly what it wanted to see.

PROMO DAY 4

The photos went up just after midnight.

Haruna posted first. A carousel of stills from the shoot, the first one cropped tight on their faces, her hand pressed to his chest, their mouths caught mid-smile. The caption was clean, professional: 

LOVE ME HARDER 

Out Now.

Keiji’s post was the same images, different order. His caption: 

Out now. 

No emojis. No extra words. The label account pushed the photos everywhere within the hour.

By morning, they were unavoidable.

Trending on Twitter. In Instagram Explore. Spliced into TikToks with slow reverb edits of the chorus.

~~~

The label sent them both a text: #2 on iTunes Japan in four hours. #1 trending topic. Keep the momentum.

Haruna was already buzzing by the time Keiji arrived at the radio station for their morning promo. She held up her phone, grin wide.

“Look at this! We’re everywhere.”

Keiji glanced at the screen. Side-by-side shots of them at the mic, smiling at each other like they’d just agreed on something no one else would ever understand.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Everywhere.”

The interviews blurred together, small talk about the song’s concept, about working together again, about how “fun” it was to explore a more mature sound. Keiji smiled where it counted, laughed when Haruna laughed. The hosts complimented their chemistry like it was a shared hobby.

In the backseat between stops, Haruna scrolled their tags and giggled. “They’re shipping us so hard.”

Keiji just hummed, eyes on his own phone. Not the tags. Not the edits.

Bokuto’s profile.

Still no new posts. No new stories. Just the same photos as before. And the reminder of the wine, the ring, the hand that wasn’t his.

~~~

Bokuto…

It wasn’t like he’d gone looking for them. The photos just… showed up.

First on his Explore page. Then in the group chat with his friends. The sent from Kenma with the caption: Your boy’s moving on.

Bokuto clicked. And clicked again.

Haruna’s hand on Keiji’s chest. Keiji’s mouth tilted in that half-smile that used to be for him. Their faces close enough to look dangerous. The comments below were all fire emojis, heart emojis, COUPLE GOALS.

The music was good, he couldn’t even lie about that. He’d listened to the single the second it dropped. Twice. Three times. The hook had that warm, pulsing beat that made you want to move even if you didn’t mean to. Their voices braided together like they were meant to.

It was pop. It was trendy. It was fucking catchy and Bokuto hated that. 

But every photo, every clip, every “spontaneous” moment between them, it was like swallowing glass.

Bokuto closed the app. Reopened it. Closed it again.

~~~

That night, Haruna convinced Keiji to go Live again.

“Just for twenty minutes!” She promised, already setting her phone against a water bottle.

They sat side by side in her apartment, still in street clothes, hair slightly damp from the rain outside. Haruna leaned into the camera to thank fans for streaming, for buying, for sending in reaction videos.

Keiji nodded along, letting her carry it. When he did speak, it was to tease her about flubbing a lyric in rehearsal. She nudged his shoulder, smiling like it was just them in the room.

“Tomorrow’s the big one,” Haruna said toward the end. “First live performance. If you’ve got tickets… see you there.”

She signed off with a wink. Keiji raised his hand in a lazy wave.

The live ended.

Haruna reached for her phone to plug it back in. Keiji reached for his to open Instagram.

Bokuto’s profile. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Nothing.

~~~

Haruna stretched out on the floor first. Keiji followed without thinking, lowering himself onto the rug beside her. The ceiling was high and bare, rain pattering faintly against the window.

“You okay?” She asked after a moment, her voice soft enough that it didn’t sound like small talk.

“Fine.” He said, which wasn’t convincing even to him.

She rolled onto her side, cheek propped on her palm. “You’ve been weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is different.” Her eyes narrowed in that way she had when she was reading him. “You think I don’t notice you stalking his page every time you get a chance?”

His gaze flicked toward her, the faintest crease at the corner of his mouth. “You’re spying on me now?”

“Please. You hold your phone like it’s hiding secrets, then scowl when it doesn’t update. It’s obvious, ‘Kaashi!” 

His eyebrows furrowed together. “Did you just call me ‘Kaashi?” 

“Yeah…” Her voice trailed off. “Is that okay?”

Akaashi swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s okay. Koutarou… used to call me that. Sometimes. When he got excited or started whining.” 

He didn’t even realize a smile started to tug at his lips. He was just laying there thinking about Bokuto. When they were out on dates. When Keiji watched him and the band practice, and the way Bokuto would purposefully try to show off in front of him. Sometimes fail. The way Bokuto would pick him up any chance he got. Or the way his lips felt along his neck when he would whisper his name. 

“You never talk about him.” Haruna cut in, her voice quiet. “Thank you for sharing that.” 

He didn’t answer.

She let the silence stretch, then added lightly, “Should I turn on his notifications so I can tell you when he posts?”

Keiji snorted, a quick, reluctant laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Wasn’t going to.” She rolled back onto her back, eyes on the ceiling again. “Just… maybe don’t let it eat you alive, yeah?”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy this time. She reached across the space between them, fingers brushing his until she found his hand.

Her grip was warm. Steady.

“I know you’ll say you’re fine,” she murmured. “But if you’re not, I’m still here. Whether you tell me or not.”

He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t let go either.

~~~

By the time the rain slowed to a mist against the windows, Keiji was sitting up again, his hoodie pulled over his head, thumb hooking into the strap of his bag.

“I should go,” he said quietly.

Haruna stayed on the rug, leaning back on her elbows, watching him pull his shoes on by the door. “You sure? You can crash here. Couch is clean. Or the floor. Or we can share my bed. I don’t really care.”

He hesitated, laces hanging loose in his hands. “…Nah. I’ll go.”

She nodded once, like she wasn’t going to push.

He was halfway out the door when he stopped. “…Hey, Haruna?”

“Yeah?”

His back was still to her. “I’m not a good person. So… please don’t think I am.”

There was a pause, just the sound of the hallway air vent, the faint ticking of the radiator.

Then, soft but steady: “I don’t believe that for a second.”

He turned just enough to catch her expression, not pity, not blind optimism, but something quieter. Solid.

She shrugged. “And even if you were right… I’m still here.”

He didn’t answer. Just tugged his hood further forward, muttered something that could’ve been ‘goodnight,’ and stepped into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him, but the echo of her words followed him all the way down the elevator.

PROMO DAY 5

The venue buzzed like a beehive.

Every hallway thrummed with motion, stylists darting past with armfuls of sequined fabric, techs hauling cables, interns whispering into headsets. Keiji kept his hood up as he slipped through the backstage crush, the echo of Haruna’s words still ghosting behind his ribs.

I’m still here.

His dressing room was blessedly empty. A row of mirrors lined the wall, bulbs humming faintly overhead. He dropped into the chair farthest from the door, letting the quiet settle like gauze.

The hum of his phone was immediate.

Bokuto’s profile.

Open. Refresh.

Nothing.

Another refresh.

Something new.

A story, grainy bathroom light, a mirror selfie. Bokuto in a white hoodie, his face only half in frame, covered by his phone. Someone else’s arms looped around him from behind, their head ducked out of sight. The hood fell just low enough to hide the stranger’s face.

Keiji’s chest went tight, a hot, airless pinch. The collar of his stage shirt suddenly felt two sizes too small.

He stared until the screen dimmed, then pressed it awake again, like the photo might have changed. It hadn’t.

A knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Keiji!”

His voice came out wrong, clipped and shallow. “Yeah.”

Another knock, sharper. “Wardrobe says you’re still not in shoes. Let’s move.”

He didn’t move. Just sat there with the image burned behind his eyelids until the door swung open and one of the PAs appeared, headset crooked, eyes flicking over him without catching.

“Makeup!” They called into the hall. “He needs a touch-up.”

A powder brush swept across his cheekbones. Someone adjusted his mic pack, fingers grazing his collar. No one asked why his breathing was off, why his eyes didn’t quite focus. No one noticed.

They didn’t need Keiji. They needed the version of him who could step on stage and sell a song.

Love Me Harder by Ariana Grande ft. The Weeknd (Used as a Haruna original ft. Keiji)

The stage was all smoke and heat, lights coiling in pink and gold ribbons over the crowd. The first notes of the song rolled out like velvet.

The crowd was already screaming before the first note hit.

A wall of cameras and glowing phones lit up the arena like a second set of stage lights.

The music swelled, synth smooth and warm, as Haruna stepped into the spotlight. She wore black silk that clung and caught the light, her hair slicked back into a high pony that moved with her. Just like the promo photos. Behind her, four female backup dancers fanned out like shadows, mirroring her sway.

Her voice slid through the air, high and captivating.

“Tell me something I need to know…”

A slow step forward, eyes locked on the crowd as though every single person was hers.

“Then take my breath and never let it go…”

Her hand lifted to her lips, tracing the words, then falling gracefully to her side.

“If you just let me invade your space…”

She stepped into the line of dancers, moving between them like the center of gravity itself.

“I’ll take the pleasure, take it with the pain…”

A slow turn, one hand sliding down her own arm, head tipping back just slightly under the stage lights.

The beat began to build.

The dancers closed in, hitting sharp, fluid motions in sync with her.

“Something bigger than us and beyond bliss…”

Their hips rolled in unison, feet sliding across the stage like liquid.

“Give me a reason to believe it…”

The lighting shifted to deep crimson, pulsing with the beat.

Haruna’s voice rang out over the first chorus, her body in perfect rhythm with the dancers:

“’Cause if you want to keep me

You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta

Got to love me harder…”

Her every move was precise, each step, each flick of the wrist, but there was nothing mechanical about her delivery. She owned the stage.

The lights shifted.

From the shadowed far end of the stage, Keiji stepped forward.

Black suit jacket over a deep V‑neck shirt, chain glinting faintly under the spotlight. The cheers spiked instantly.

He moved slow, deliberate, the kind of pace that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

“I know your motives and you know mine…”

His voice was lower than hers, smooth and controlled, carrying across the crowd like a secret.

“The ones that love me I tend to leave behind…”

He walked toward her with each line, eyes locked on her like the lyrics were meant for no one else.

Haruna’s head turned toward him, her expression shifting from performance‑smile to something sharper, more knowing.

“If you know about me and choose to stay…”

He reached out, sliding one hand to her waist, fingertips pressing just enough to pull her a fraction closer.

“…Then take this pleasure and take it with the pain…”

The grip tightened, not harsh, but firm, grounding her in his space. The audience roared, their shouts blending with the beat.

Haruna’s expression didn’t falter; she leaned into it like she’d been waiting for the cue. Her head tipped just slightly toward him, catching the stage light in her eyes.

Keiji’s next line dripped from his mouth like velvet:

“And if in the moment you bite your lip…”

As he sang it, Haruna did exactly that. A perfect piece of choreography.

“…When I get you moaning you know it’s real.”

His voice dipped lower, a faint rasp curling at the edges. His hand slid a little lower on her hip, guiding her through the step.

The arena erupted.

He didn’t break eye contact as the next lyric fell between them like a dare:

“Can you feel the pressure between your hips…”

He moved with her, closing the space until their bodies brushed in time to the rhythm.

“…I’ll make it feel like the first time.”

The hand at her hip pressed in again, accentuating the movement. Her free hand found his shoulder, nails barely grazing the fabric.

The crowd screamed like it was a confession, a scandal, a promise.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Keiji knew exactly what this would look like in slow‑mo edits later, the way his fingers curled against her hip, the lingering stare, the heat of the choreography perfectly hitting the line between performance and something more.

And he gave them exactly what they wanted.

They circled each other now, steps small, like predators deciding who would strike first. The tension between them was thick enough the front row could feel it.

When Keiji stepped closer, Haruna held her ground.

When Haruna turned, Keiji followed, their bodies nearly brushing but never quite touching.

The beat dropped harder this time, and they moved in sync with the backup dancers.

“So if you want to keep me…”

They leaned toward each other on keep me, almost chest to chest.

“You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta…”

Their turns were mirrored perfectly, stepping forward until they were sharing the same breath.

“…Love me harder.”

The word harder landed like a challenge.

Keiji reached for her hand, pulling her into a turn that spun her back into him, as he sang:

“So what would I do if I can’t figure it out?” 

Haruna’s head tilted toward his, lips just inches away as she sang:

“You got to try, try, try again…”

Her hand slid up his chest, stopping just short of his collar.

Keiji’s voice dropped in under hers, his gaze unwavering:

“So what would I do if I can’t figure it out?” 

They broke apart, only to cross paths again, Haruna brushing her shoulder against his as the dancers shifted around them like a frame.

“I’m gonna leave, leave, leave again…” 

The lights blazed gold, flooding the stage.

“’Cause if you want to keep me…”

They stepped together, perfectly timed, their movements now bigger, sharper, feeding off the crowd’s electricity.

“You gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta…”

This time, Keiji slid his hand to her waist, guiding her into the final step.

“…Love me harder.”

Their faces were so close the crowd screamed like they’d just witnessed a kiss, though their lips never met.

They stood in the center, breathing hard, the dancers fanning out behind them in a final formation.

“Love me, love me, love me…”

Haruna’s voice faded, breathy and soft.

Keiji’s final line came like a quiet warning:

“…Harder.”

The lights cut to black.

~~~

Bokuto had told himself he wouldn’t watch it live.

But the link found him anyway. Just like the photos. Noya sent it with a: holy shit, look at this.

And then: so dating profile a go???

Now it filled his phone screen. Keiji and Haruna, bodies aligned, voices weaving in perfect sync. Her hand grazing his jaw on a lyric that landed like a kiss. The crowd screaming so loud the mics barely caught it.

Bokuto chewed at the skin around his thumbnail, eyes locked on the screen like it was proof of something he didn’t want to name.

They looked like they were in love.

Bokuto sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, the live stream lighting his face in flashes of gold and crimson from the stage.

Haruna looked flawless. The crowd was losing its mind.

But Bokuto barely saw her.

His eyes were locked on Keiji.

That black suit jacket hanging open just enough, the chain catching the light when he moved, the smooth, calculated way his hand gripped Haruna’s hip like he owned the stage, like he owned her.

Bokuto’s jaw clenched. He knew it was performance. He knew this was exactly what the label wanted. But knowing didn’t stop the twist in his stomach when Keiji leaned in, lips close to her ear, voice rolling through those lines like silk.

He felt the twinge of jealousy bloom, sharp and irritating.

Not because of Haruna.

Because it wasn’t him.

He wanted to be the one holding him like that.

The one close enough to feel Keiji’s breath catch when he sang into the mic.

The one with his fingers pressed into that narrow space at his hip.

Bokuto dragged a hand down his face, groaning quietly. The camera cut to a close‑up. Keiji’s head tipped forward, hair falling just so, mouth wrapping around the words like he meant them.

Something low in Bokuto tightened. His knee bounced restlessly, his chest uncomfortably warm.

“Goddammit,” he muttered to himself.

Horny. Frustrated. Jealous.

It was all a mess, tangled in ways he didn’t want to think too hard about.

He leaned back, but his gaze stayed fixed on the screen. No matter how much he wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

The crowd’s roar bled through the speakers, even as the stage lights faded to black and the credits for the live broadcast began to roll.

Bokuto stayed staring at the frozen thumbnail of the performance on his TV, his remote limp in his hand.

He told himself he should turn it off. That it was just promo. That Keiji was only doing what he was told to do.

But the image kept looping in his head anyway. Keiji’s fingers tightening on Haruna’s hip, that low, deliberate rasp in his voice, the way he leaned in close enough for the entire arena to hold its breath.

Bokuto dragged a hand down his face, groaning quietly. He could feel the frustration buzzing under his skin, sharp and restless.

He pushed up from the couch, pacing like a man trying to walk off an injury.

“You’re fine,” he muttered to himself. “It’s fine. Just promo. Totally fine. …Goddammit.”

From the hallway, Oikawa’s voice drifted in, lazy and smug: “If you’re gonna stomp around like that, at least go jerk off in the shower and spare the rest of us the tension.”

Bokuto spun toward him. “What the hell—”

Oikawa leaned against the doorway, arms folded, one brow arched. Iwaizumi, sleepy behind him, rested his chin on his shoulder.  

“Seriously, Bo. You’re wearing your frustration all over your face. And you’re pacing like my mom’s Roomba stuck in a corner. Go deal with it.”

Bokuto’s jaw dropped. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Oikawa said, turning to walk away. “And if you’re gonna deny it, at least close your bedroom door so I can pretend you’re not.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes but spared Bokuto a glance. “It’s okay to be…. frustrated, man.” The smallest ever smirk danced on his lips.

Bokuto groaned into his hands. “You guys are the worst!”

“Love you too!” Oikawa called from down the hall.

~~~

The lights went black.

For a beat, all Keiji could hear was the ring of the last note in his head and the roar of the crowd bleeding into the wings. Then the stagehands were moving, coiling cables, pulling props, ushering dancers off in every direction.

Haruna squeezed his hand once, quick and professional, before melting into her own team.

“We nailed it,” she breathed, already smiling for a camera that had appeared out of nowhere.

Keiji smiled too, the one the label liked. Just enough teeth.

He walked offstage in measured strides, mic still in his hand. His in-ears dangled around his neck, the cord swinging against his chest. Every person he passed clapped him on the back, tossed out quick praise, told him they’d felt the energy out there.

He didn’t feel it.

The second he was alone, three steps inside the dressing room, he shut the door with his shoulder and leaned against it like he needed it to hold him up.

The applause outside had already started to fade, muffled by concrete walls and distance. But in his head it was replaced by something sharper, meaner: the flash of that hoodie in Bokuto’s story, the faceless shape pressed into his back, arms snug around his waist like they belonged there.

The stage shirt itched against his skin. His chest felt like it was still catching on the collar, even though he’d already torn the mic pack loose.

Someone knocked. “Interview room in ten, Keiji.”

He didn’t answer.

Another knock. “My bad. They’re ready for you now. Big push while the stream’s still trending.”

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until the crowd, the hoodie, the arms, all smeared into static.

When he finally straightened and caught his own reflection in the mirror, it was the same mask as before. Eyeliner sharp, hair perfect, mouth curved like he had something worth smiling about.

No one would know the difference.

He opened the door.

And stepped back into the noise.

THE AFTERMATH 

His place was too clean.

Not just tidy but sterile. The kind of clean that made every sound sharper, every shadow longer. Keiji stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, still in the black trousers from tonight’s performance, blazer dropped somewhere between the door and the minibar.

Tokyo glowed under him. Restless, endless, but he wasn’t really seeing it.

The live stream had already been clipped to death online. Fan edits looping that near-kiss from a dozen angles, slow motion, color-graded, captions like LOOK AT HIS EYES and THEY’RE IN LOVE FR. Trending hashtags stacked under his name.

Haruna’s team had reposted some of them. The label had, too.

He hadn’t opened Bokuto’s profile since the dressing room.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But the moment he pictured that hoodie again, those arms, the photo in his head rewrote itself into something uglier. Something he couldn’t unsee.

~~~

It was stupid to watch the replay. Bokuto knew it. But the link was right there on Twitter, timestamped to the exact moment they leaned in.

So he watched it again.

And again.

Each time, it felt a little less like performance and a little more like something meant for someone else to see. The way Keiji’s hand rested at Haruna’s waist. The flicker of a smile in his eyes, or maybe that was just the lighting.

The hoodie photo with Oikawa had been a mistake (him and his stupid plans). He hadn’t even realized the mirror caught more than he meant it to. But now… now it sat there in his story, a marker neither of them would admit was for the other.

~~~

Keiji’s phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Another buzz.

Still ignored it.

Then Aida’s voice through the suite door: “Management wants you in the morning. Nine sharp.”

Keiji stayed by the glass, the city buzzing far below, the reflection of his own face ghosted in the night outside.

His mouth curved just enough to pass for a smile.

It didn’t feel like one.

~~~

The band’s apartment was warm in that way only lived-in places could be. Heater on too high, faint smell of last night’s takeout, Bokuto’s amp still buzzing low in the corner like it had a mind of its own.

Oikawa was sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling over the armrest, phone balanced in his palm. Iwaizumi sat at the opposite end, flipping through a notebook, pencil wedged behind his ear. Bokuto was in the armchair by the window, hood pulled up, absentmindedly drumming a rhythm on his thigh.

Oikawa’s smirk appeared before he even opened his mouth. “So… you think it’s working, right?”

Bokuto looked up, faint grin in return. “Oh yeah. Hopefully.”

Iwaizumi glanced between them, suspicion in his brow. “What’s working?”

“Our plan.” Oikawa said, like it was obvious. “The hoodie picture? The one Bo posted with me? You know — to make Keiji wonder who it was.”

Iwaizumi groaned. “Jesus Christ. You two are still doing this.”

Bokuto shrugged like it was nothing. “Hey, it was his idea!”

“My brilliant idea,” Oikawa corrected, wagging his phone. “Didn’t even need to show my face. Just enough mystery to make him spiral. He’s probably losing sleep over it.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto muttered, leaning back, “Maybe.”

Iwaizumi snapped the notebook shut and jabbed his pencil toward Oikawa. “If you actually care whether he’s okay, maybe you should go back to your apartment and check on him. You haven’t been home in weeks.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa frowned. “Now you want me to go back? You’re the one who told me to stay here.”

“That was when you looked like you needed space from him,” Iwaizumi shot back.

“I did need space,” Oikawa countered.

Bokuto smirked faintly. “And my cereal.”

“That too.” Oikawa said, deadpan.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “God, you’re impossible. Both of you.”

Oikawa propped himself on an elbow. “And yet you love me.”

“That’s debatable,” Iwaizumi muttered.

The bickering blurred into white noise for Bokuto. His head was still full of the performance. Keiji under the stage lights, leaning into Haruna like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“I’m just saying,” Iwaizumi continued, softer now, “it’s complicated. I don’t know what the right answer is here. But ignoring him forever probably isn’t it.”

Oikawa didn’t reply right away. Then: “Maybe. But timing’s everything. And right now…” He smiled again, sly. “…right now, he’s definitely thinking about Bokuto.”

Iwaizumi groaned. “I give up.” 

Oikawa sat up, now staring intensely at his boyfriend. “Iwa-chan? Are you team Bokuaka?” 

“What the fuck is that?” 

Bokuto gasped, eyes wide. “Oikawa! I love it!” 

“Right?! It’s so cute.” Tooru gushed as he slapped Iwa’s arm. “Bokuto and Akaashi. Bokuaka!” 

Iwaizumi stared at the two like they were impossible. “I’m genuinely concerned for your mental. Both of you.” 

“Oh, Iwa-chan! Lighten up.” Oikawa giggled. “So? Are you? Team Bokuaka?”

Iwaizumi stood up, ready to exit the room and the conversation. “I’m team ‘you all need help.’” He was walking away at this point. 

“Thanks, bro!” Bokuto called after him. 

“Hajiiiiiii! Is that a yes??” Oikawa waited for an answer, but didn’t get one. “I’ll take it as a yes.” He giggled, looking to Bokuto as they snickered with each other. 

AFTERMATH PT.2

Oikawa didn’t bother texting the next morning. He let himself into the apartment with the keypad code, the morning light spilling pale across the marble flooring.

“Keiji?” He called once.

Nothing.

He started with Keiji’s room, door cracked, bed made like it hadn’t been touched in days.

The living room was empty too, just an abandoned coffee mug on the low table, TV remote perched on top like it had been set down mid-thought.

A sour feeling crept into Oikawa’s gut as he padded down the hall toward his own room. He pushed the door open.

Keiji was there.

Stretched diagonally across Oikawa’s bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, hoodie twisted around his neck like it was choking him. His lips were pale, eyes shut so tightly it looked almost deliberate.

“Keiji?” Oikawa crossed the room fast, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

No movement.

“Keiji.” A shove, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Oikawa’s pulse started to climb. “Keiji??” He gripped both shoulders now, shaking. “Wake up—”

There was something crusted at the corner of Keiji’s mouth. His chest moved, but shallow, too shallow.

Panic cracked through him like a lightning strike. “Shit—shitshitshit—”

He shook harder, voice rising. “KEIJI!”

A door opened somewhere in the apartment. Heavy footsteps. Then Aida’s voice, low but edged. “What the hell is going on—”

“He’s not waking up!” Oikawa’s words came in a rush. “He’s—he’s breathing, I think, but it’s—”

And then, just as suddenly, Keiji groaned, rolling onto his side.

“The fuck?” His voice was hoarse, eyes slitting open against the light.

Oikawa sat back on his heels, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. “What the hell is wrong with you? You scared the shit out of me.”

Keiji rubbed a hand over his face, glaring blearily. “What? Why are you even in here?”

“Why am I—?!” Oikawa’s voice jumped, noticing the way his eyes weren’t focusing. “Keiji, are you high right now? It’s nine in the morning! What did you take?”

Keiji laughed once, humorless. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” Keiji shot back, sitting up slow. “You left. You can’t come in here trying to get me to act right when you left too. You haven’t been back in weeks.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.” Keiji’s tone was sharp now. “You don’t get to disappear and then show up like some savior.”

For a second, neither moved. Oikawa’s chest heaved like he was about to yell again. Aida stayed in the doorway, arms crossed, watching both of them like he was deciding whether to step in.

The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.

Oikawa dragged a hand through his hair, the worry still sharp under his ribs. “You think I left because I don’t care? I left because you were spiraling and I didn’t know how to stop it without you hating me.”

Keiji scoffed, swinging his legs off the bed. “Newsflash — I hated you for leaving anyway.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” Keiji said flatly, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. “You bailed. So don’t show up now acting like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem when you’re doing this to yourself!” Oikawa’s voice cracked, frustration bleeding into something closer to fear. “I walk in and find you passed out, barely breathing—”

“I was sleeping,” Keiji snapped. “Sorry if I don’t wake up pretty enough for you.”

Oikawa’s jaw tightened. “You’re not taking this seriously—”

“Because you don’t get to interrogate me,” Keiji shot back, voice rising. “You’re not my keeper. You’re not even my roommate lately.” 

He stilled for a moment, debating whether to say what he really wanted to. Of course he did. 

“Are you even my best friend at this point?” 

Oikawa stepped closer, finger pointed like he wanted to jab it into Keiji’s chest. “I’m the only one here who’s actually trying to keep you from ending up dead in some stranger’s bathroom.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Keiji bit out. “You’re the one who used to be with a stranger every other night. Even when you first had Iwaizumi.”

The air between them went knife-sharp.

Aida moved then, stepping fully into the room, his shadow cutting across both of them. “Enough.” His tone wasn’t loud, but it was the kind that made people listen.

Oikawa glanced at him, still bristling. “You didn’t see him—”

“I don’t care what you saw,” Aida said, calm but cold. “This isn’t how you help him.”

Keiji stood, shoulder brushing Oikawa’s as he moved past him toward the door. “Exactly. You want to help me? Stop showing up when it’s convenient for you.”

Oikawa’s throat worked like he was about to fire something back, but Aida’s hand came down hard on his shoulder. 

“Leave it,” he said quietly.

Keiji didn’t look back. The door to the hall clicked shut behind him, leaving Oikawa in the middle of the room, chest still tight, Aida’s hand a steady weight keeping him in place.

Keiji didn’t go to his own room. He kept walking, down the hall, past the kitchen, past the front door.

Aida’s voice soon followed him, low and even. “Keiji—”

“Not now,” he muttered without slowing.

He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack, slipping it on while his other hand fished through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. The lighter clicked, the first drag filling his lungs with something hot enough to mask the sting still sitting in his chest.

The elevator was colder than he expected. His boots echoed as he walked in, each step louder than it needed to be, like he was trying to convince himself he had somewhere to be.

Once outside, the air was damp and sharp. Morning traffic rolled by in lazy intervals, tires hissing on wet pavement. Keiji leaned against the brick wall just outside the building’s entrance, cigarette glowing faintly in the gray light.

He kept replaying it. Oikawa’s voice rising, the flash of something almost desperate in his eyes, Aida stepping between them like a referee who’d seen this fight before.

“Convenient,” he’d called him. That part stuck.

Keiji exhaled smoke toward the overcast sky, the word curling with it.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He didn’t check it. He already knew it wouldn’t be who he wanted.

When the cigarette burned low, he flicked it into the gutter, pulled his hood up, and started walking without any real direction. Just away.

~~~

The apartment was slow that afternoon.

Noya was in the kitchen making coffee, Iwaizumi stretched out on the couch with his laptop, the TV murmuring some sports commentary neither of them were really watching. Bokuto sat cross‑legged on the floor, guitar in his lap, idly picking out chords that didn’t go anywhere.

The door swung open hard enough to hit the wall. Oikawa stepped in, hair wind‑tossed, jacket half‑unzipped.

“Well?” Iwaizumi asked without looking up.

Oikawa dropped his bag on the nearest chair, still standing in the middle of the room like he was deciding where to put all the restless energy buzzing under his skin. “He was at the apartment.”

“Akaashi?” Noya’s perked-up voice came from the kitchen doorway.

Oikawa exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in my bed. Completely out. I thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “I thought he wasn’t breathing for a second.”

Noya’s face fell. 

Bokuto’s hands froze on the strings.

Iwaizumi finally closed his laptop. “Jesus.”

“I shook him, called his name— nothing. Took me almost a minute to get him to even open his eyes.” Oikawa’s tone sharpened. “And when he did, he was pissed at me.”

Nishinoya frowned. “Pissed at you?”

“Yeah.” Oikawa’s laugh was humorless. “Asked me what right I had to show up and ‘get him to act right’ when I hadn’t been there in weeks.”

Iwaizumi muttered something under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

Bokuto stayed quiet. The guitar felt heavier in his lap. He could picture it too easily: Keiji sprawled out, not waking up, the slow panic crawling into Oikawa’s voice.

Oikawa looked at him then, maybe for the first time since he walked in. “I don’t know what he’s doing to himself right now. But it’s bad. And if somebody doesn’t—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know anymore.”

No one answered right away. The coffee machine clicked off in the kitchen. The TV went to commercial.

Bokuto set the guitar down gently on the carpet.

Bokuto hadn’t said anything for a long time. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Finally, his voice came low, almost careful.

“Do you think we made the wrong decision… pretending I moved on?”

“No,” Oikawa cut in instantly. No hesitation. “It was the right one. I just think we need to amp it up.”

Both Bokuto’s and Iwaizumi’s heads snapped toward him.

“What?” They said in unison.

“We’re close!” Oikawa exclaimed. “He’s breaking, and it’s working. We give him another push and he’ll crack.”

Bokuto swallowed hard, the words sitting heavy in his throat. Breaking. He pictured Keiji in Oikawa’s bed, unresponsive, the sluggish way he came back to consciousness. That wasn’t a game. That wasn’t working. That was… wrong.

Iwaizumi’s voice was sharp. “You’re being delusional. Tooru, you can’t help him like this.”

“Yes, I can!” Oikawa snapped back, the words too loud for the quiet room.

The air stilled. The hum of the fridge down the hall seemed louder than it should’ve been.

Noya held his mug in his hands, still. Half confusion, half disappointment written on his face. He didn’t need the full story to understand what was going on here. 

Oikawa was desperate. And he wouldn’t stop until his plan worked. Even if that meant making it all worse before it got better. 

He just knew that eventually… it had to get better. 

Right? 

Oikawa’s chest was rising and falling faster now. “I can help him if I do this. If we do this. If we just give him one more—” He cut himself off, gripping his knees. “He’s close. He’s right there. He just needs to break so he can—”

Bokuto’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “So he can what, Oikawa? Hate us?”

Oikawa met his eyes, something flickering there — conviction, desperation, maybe both. “So he can finally see what he’s doing to himself. So he can stop.”

Bokuto didn’t answer. He just sat back, the pit in his stomach growing heavier.

For the first time since they started the plan, he wasn’t sure they were on the same side anymore.

~~~

Bokuto’s room was dark except for the weak spill of light from the streetlamp outside. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The muffled sounds of the TV in the living room filtered through the door, low laughter from some sitcom that didn’t match the knot in his chest.

His mind kept circling the same loop: Keiji in Oikawa’s bed, not waking up. Oikawa calling it breaking. Iwaizumi calling him delusional. His own voice asking if they’d made the wrong choice.

He didn’t hear the knock before the door cracked open.

Oikawa slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him. He leaned against the frame for a moment before stepping forward.

“Bokuto, I need you to trust me.” He said, voice pitched softer now, less sharp than before. “I’ve known him since we were young. We can reach him like this.”

Bokuto’s throat worked. That might have been true. Oikawa had known Keiji the longest. But did he know him best? Did he really understand the version of Keiji that existed now, behind the cameras and under the weight of everything he carried?

Oikawa crossed the room, lowering himself onto the edge of the desk chair. His knee bounced once, restless. “I have an idea. A last attempt, okay? And I know exactly who we can use for this.”

Bokuto lifted his eyes to him, something uneasy twisting in his gut.

“Who?”

Oikawa’s smile was thin, almost conspiratorial. “Don’t worry. You’ll see.”

Bokuto wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

AFTERMATH PT.3

The next week and a half passed in a blur Akaashi couldn’t remember living.

He was there for it. The rehearsals, the lights, the two more sold‑out Tokyo shows for Love Me Harder. He hit every mark, remembered every harmony, smiled when Haruna bumped her shoulder against his between verses.

They did interviews back‑to‑back until the questions blurred into the same tired rotation: What’s it like working together? How did your chemistry develop? 

Haruna would laugh, toss a glance his way, and he’d play along. He was good at that now.

There were YouTube guest spots too, playing games, blind taste tests, those absurd challenge videos that racked up views faster than real conversations ever could. The fans ate it up. Fluff and cuteness. The complete opposite of where his head actually was.

The label had him on a short leash, no late nights out, no clubs, no “off‑brand” appearances until the promo cycle wound down. The single was still sitting high on the charts, and they weren’t about to let him derail that with one of his disappearing acts.

It was autopilot. It was survival.

~~~

The email came in late one night while he was scrolling in bed, the pale glow of his phone the only light in the room.

LOUIS VUITTON — INVITATION

Tokyo Fashion Week, front‑row seat.

His label was ecstatic. There was already talk about a potential partnership, him as one of the new faces for an upcoming campaign. It was the kind of “brand synergy” Minami could barely keep from drooling over.

The next morning was a flurry. Fittings, stylist consultations, PR briefs on who he’d be photographed next to. They talked in the language of opportunity, exposure, longevity.

But one thought threaded itself through all the noise.

He knew someone who modeled for Louis Vuitton. It was mentioned briefly before a certain drunken outing that changed Keiji’s life entirely. 

Someone who’d apparently been in campaigns, walked in shows, and then, just like that, bailed on him too.

Kuroo.

~~~

The fittings were in one of those minimalist studios that looked like it had been carved out of light and money. All white walls, brushed concrete floors, and an espresso machine worth more than his old apartment.

His one stylist, Yumi, was already unpacking garment bags when he walked in. 

“Front row,” she said without looking up, “means they’ll be photographing you as much as the clothes. We want something sharp, clean. Statement, but not screaming for attention.”

The label always pushed him toward black. It wasn’t just a color on him, it was a whole aesthetic. Black made him look sleeker, colder, untouchable in a way they thought was pure gold for the brand. In black, Keiji looked like a man who never let anyone close enough to hurt him.

Yumi slid the first hanger toward him. “This.”

It was a long, tailored overcoat in matte black wool, the shoulders cut crisp, the hem skimming just above his boots. Underneath, a jet‑black silk shirt with a deep neckline, the top three buttons left undone to frame the delicate chain he always wore. Slim‑cut trousers kept the lines clean, the whole look anchored by polished black leather boots with a subtle stacked heel.

When he pulled it on, the coat draped perfectly over his frame, heavy without looking stiff. The silk shirt caught the light when he moved, a whisper of shine against all the matte.

Yumi stepped back, arms folded. “Black loves you,” she said, almost to herself. “It photographs so well.”

He glanced in the mirror. She wasn’t wrong.

~~~

By the time he left the studio, PR had texted the show’s details twice. Arrival time, seating chart, reminder to be visible.

Keiji scrolled through the list of confirmed attendees and models walking. Names blurred until one stuck.

Tetsurou Kuroo.

~~~

The Louis Vuitton venue was a glass‑and‑steel box tucked into the heart of Omotesando, all sharp lines and reflective surfaces. Outside, the street was already swarming with photographers jostling for position, flashes popping against the cool sky light.

Keiji stepped out of the black SUV into the frenzy, the coat settling over his shoulders like armor. The matte black wool drank in the daylight, the silk shirt beneath catching it in small, deliberate flashes when he moved. Black on black, broken only by the thin silver chain at his throat.

The label’s PR handler murmured instructions in his ear as they walked. “Pause here, front‑facing. Chin up. Now turn. Good, let them get the coat.”

The cameras clicked in a staccato rhythm, swallowing every shift of his shoulders, every slow tilt of his head. He gave them just enough.

Inside, the chaos softened into curated elegance, dimmed lighting, minimalist decor, a runway stretching like a blade down the center of the room. His seat was exactly where PR wanted it: front row, angled toward the photographers, every major camera within reach.

“Perfect,” Yumi whispered as she smoothed his sleeve and disappeared to the back of the venue.

Keiji sat, crossing one ankle over the other, letting his gaze skim the crowd in idle sweeps. Industry faces, magazine editors, a few actors here for the flash factor. 

None of them mattered.

He felt the eyes. The whispers. 

He expected it. This was his first fashion show he was invited to. In this world, in this industry, it was a big deal.

He heard his agent's voice in his head and automatically straightened his posture like a reflex. He looked picture-perfect. Sleek, mysterious, desirable. 

He caught a woman’s eye across the runway. She had a vibrant look, blue and purples shouting at him. Her makeup was loud, her clothes even louder. 

He smiled at her and she blushed, giggling with her friend beside her. It was that easy.  

The lights dimmed further, the music swelling low and heavy through the room.

The first model stepped out. Severe, angular tailoring, all purposeful strides and eyes fixed just above the crowd. Keiji let himself settle into the rhythm of it: the flash, the turn, the retreat.

Another model. Another. The clothes shifted in palette and texture. Deep navy, slate, a whisper of cream. But the mood stayed sharp, controlled.

And then—

Mid‑stride down the runway came a shape he knew before the face. Broad shoulders filling the cut of a slate‑gray suit. Long, deliberate steps that carried a quiet confidence.

Kuroo.

He emerged like a question mark carved from velvet and shadow.

Kuroo walked down the runway in a charcoal-black suit, speckled with silver embroidered LV motifs that caught the light like stars in orbit. The jacket was perfectly cropped, buttoned tight across the chest, the shape both nostalgic and new, a quiet rebellion against convention. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and slim black tie anchored the chaos in elegance.

A slouchy beanie clung to his head, streaked with gold like careless brushstrokes, the way an artist signs something just before walking away. His platform boots, bold in leopard print, slammed softly against the runway, loud without sound, like a warning only Keiji could hear.

And in one hand, he carried a miniature Louis Vuitton trunk-bag, chain glinting, swaying like a taunt.

Keiji’s pulse ticked higher, but his body stayed still. He kept his eyes on the model two places behind, jaw relaxed, like the sight of Kuroo here, wearing the brand, walking their show, wasn’t punching through the careful black‑clad armor he’d put on for the night.

It was only a matter of steps now before Kuroo would see him.

Kuroo’s steps were precise, measured, the kind of walk that made the suit look like it had been built around him. The overhead lights caught in the subtle sheen of the fabric, flashing off the brushed metal clasp at his belt.

Three more strides and he turned his head just enough to scan the front row.

And then he saw him.

Keiji didn’t flinch. His chin stayed lifted, expression carved into a confident monotone, eyes locked forward like they had been since the show started. No hint of surprise. No visible shift.

But Kuroo’s mouth curved anyway,  that slow, infuriating grin he always wore when he knew he’d gotten under someone’s skin.

It was barely there, a ghost of a smirk, but it landed like a direct hit.

Keiji held his stare as Kuroo drew closer, the rest of the room fading into a blur of camera flashes and low bass. It was a silent exchange, impossible for anyone else to read, the kind of look that carried years in its weight.

Kuroo passed him, the grin still hooked at the corner of his mouth, and didn’t look back.

Keiji’s gaze followed him for half a second longer than it should have before he caught himself.

The cameras caught everything.

Faith by The Weeknd (Used as a Keiji original)

The track changed.

A slowed, hollow synth buzzed through the speakers. Eerie and familiar.

Keiji’s heart skipped.

His head turned instinctively toward the ceiling rig where the audio pulsed like it was crawling straight down his spine.

He knew that opening.

Everyone did, even if they didn’t know what it meant.

Minimal. Raw. Personal.

He hadn’t expected it to ever play again, let alone here.

“Wait,” Minami leaned in, his smile sharp behind his whisper, “This is you.”

Keiji blinked once. Then again.

“Light a blunt up with the flame 

Put that cocaine on a plate.”

And the memories landed all at once:

The late night.

The studio.

Kuroo stretched across the couch behind him, eyes half-lidded, saying nothing and saying everything just by being there.

He wrote Faith in two nights, with Kuroo’s silhouette in his periphery the entire time.

He released it quietly. No press push, no marketing plan. Just dropped it and let it live.

It wasn’t a hit.

Maybe it was too honest.

Maybe that was the point.

Now it was echoing through a Louis Vuitton venue in front of the biggest fashion names in the world.

And people were clapping.

A few turned their heads, recognizing him, whispering. Phones came out. Lightbulbs popped like popcorn.

They were clapping for him.

Keiji swallowed, spine straightening automatically.

He smiled — soft, a little unsure — and offered a few polite nods as cameras flashed in his direction.

Minami nudged his elbow. “Look proud. You’re the moment.”

“Well, I feel everything 

When I’m coming down is the most I feel alone.”

Keiji laughed under his breath, but the sound never reached his eyes.

Then the lights dimmed, then came the burst of glittering snow from the ceiling, cascading softly as the final models stepped onto the runway.

And there he was.

Kuroo.

“To go back to my old ways, don’t you cry for me

Thought I’d be a better man, but I lied to me and to you.”

Head high. Shoulders broad. Drenched in command.

He wore a bone-white LV suit, clean-cut and razor-sharp, like someone had taken a blade to luxury and carved it into him. The tailored jacket sat smooth over his frame, the trousers wide and fluid with each step, almost gliding. Beneath the blazer, a deep burgundy tie anchored the look, printed subtly with monogrammed symbols.

But it was the bag that killed.

A massive duffle, magenta and blinding, slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, as if he’d packed everything Keiji ever left behind and carried it right onto the runway.

The snow caught in his curls, on his shoulders, in the crease of his smirk.

“But if I OD, I want you to OD right beside me.”

He didn’t glance at Keiji this time.

“I want you to follow right behind me.” 

He didn’t have to.

“I want you to hold me while I’m smiling 

While I’m smiling.”

The silence between them burned louder than any applause.

And Keiji?

“When I go missing, you know where to find me.”

He didn’t blink.

His song played out as the models kept coming, even after Kuroo disappeared. The final model stepped off the runway, the music fading into a low, sultry hum. Applause rippled through the room like a wave. Polite, refined, exactly the way the Louis Vuitton crowd liked to do it.

Chairs scraped softly as people rose. Keiji stood with them, letting the coat settle perfectly over his frame.

He was immediately swept into the slow‑moving current of the front row, air‑kissing actresses he only knew by name, clasping hands with magazine editors in bespoke suits. Other rich men leaned in close when they spoke to him, voices pitched just for him, their cologne mingling with the faint scent of champagne already in the air.

He was every inch the image the label adored. Approachable, dashing, hair swept just so, a faint glint in his eye like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

From across the room, a pair of female models lingered by the bar, glancing over in quiet intervals. One whispered something to the other behind her hand. He didn’t look their way, but he felt the attention.

The lights shifted warmer, gold spilling into every corner of the glass‑and‑steel space. Waiters drifted through with trays of champagne flutes, crystal catching the light in delicate bursts. Somewhere in the back, the bass line of a new playlist began to roll in. Low, smooth, an unspoken cue that the after‑party had begun.

It was time to network. Time to mingle. Time to be the version of himself that slipped so easily into these rich, lacquered environments.

He moved through it with practiced ease. Polite nods, charming half‑smiles, just enough small talk to seem engaged without saying much at all.

And then, in the fluid movement of the crowd, he caught sight of a figure across the room.

Slate‑gray suit. Loosened tie. That same infuriating half‑smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Kuroo.

Kuroo was standing near the edge of the bar, one elbow propped casually on the counter, fingers curled around a champagne flute he hadn’t taken a sip from yet. His posture was loose, easy, the kind of confidence that came from knowing he belonged in a room like this.

He saw Keiji almost instantly.

That same slow smirk spread across his face, the one he’d flashed mid‑runway, the one that said:

I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

Keiji didn’t rush over. He made his way there at the same measured pace he used for everything in public, a controlled glide through the clusters of suits and glittering dresses. Heads turned as he passed.

By the time he reached him, Kuroo had already set his glass down, both hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

“Front row,” Kuroo said, his voice a low, easy drawl. “Guess I should’ve known you’d be here.”

Keiji’s gaze didn’t waver. “Guess I should’ve known you’d be walking.”

Kuroo’s grin deepened, sharp at the edges. “And here I thought you weren’t watching me.”

“I wasn’t.” Keiji’s tone was flat, monotone, but it was too clean, too deliberate.

Kuroo tilted his head slightly, studying him like he was reading the fine print on something expensive. “Liar.”

A passing photographer angled his lens toward them. Without missing a beat, Kuroo shifted half a step closer, the movement smooth enough to look like nothing more than leaning in to be heard.

From the outside, it was just two men having a quiet conversation in a loud room. But Keiji could feel it, the deliberate press of proximity, the subtle scent of Kuroo’s cologne, the way he always knew how to stand just close enough to disrupt his breathing without touching him.

“Still mad at me?” Kuroo asked softly, like it was a joke meant only for them.

Keiji’s eyes flicked toward the nearest camera flash, then back to him. “You’ll have to remind me what for. I’ve lost track.”

Kuroo chuckled under his breath. “Don’t worry. I’ll refresh your memory.”

The smirk was back in full as he picked up his drink again, sipping slowly without breaking eye contact.

And just like that, he walked away, leaving Keiji standing there with the taste of the exchange still in his mouth. Sharp, electric, and far too familiar.

The crowd swallowed Kuroo up in seconds.

One moment he was right there, slate suit, sharp grin, eyes pinned on him like a dart. The next, he was just another tall silhouette moving through the gold‑lit haze.

Keiji stood where he was, glass of champagne still untouched in his hand. The bubbles clung stubbornly to the crystal, fizzing soft against the hum of conversation.

He could still smell him. That clean, faintly spiced cologne Kuroo always wore, the one that stayed in his clothes long after he left.

Keiji took a slow sip of the champagne, letting the dryness coat his tongue. His face didn’t move, didn’t betray a thing, not here, not with cameras drifting like lazy sharks across the room.

But inside, there was a shift.

Kuroo’s walk, that runway grin, the ease with which he still managed to stand close enough to feel like a touch. All of it had the same effect it always did. It scraped at something under the surface. A reminder. A warning.

He moved toward the far end of the room, weaving through clusters of people, nodding politely when someone stopped him to say they loved the single. The words hit his ears but didn’t stick.

Halfway to the exit, a voice from somewhere behind him called his name. Not Kuroo’s. Someone from the label. Maybe Minami. He turned, slipping the mask back on, approachable, dashing, untouchable in black.

Still, the taste of that conversation lingered.

It always did with Kuroo.

~~~

By the time he’d done another slow circuit of the room, greeting a couple more magazine editors, accepting a compliment from a film director whose name he only half‑remembered, Keiji could feel the air in the venue getting thicker.

The lights were warmer now, the champagne sweeter, but the edges of the night had gone dull. Every time he caught himself scanning the crowd, it was for the same reason. Every time he didn’t find him, there was that same small ache, ridiculous in its persistence.

He drained the last sip of champagne and set the empty flute on a passing tray.

Minami intercepted him near the exit. “Leaving already?”

He smiled, polite but thin. “Early day tomorrow. You know that.”

It worked.

The night air outside was cool and damp, smelling faintly of rain and the perfume of the crowd still lingering near the entrance. A line of black cars idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the soft fog.

In the back seat of the SUV, he pulled his phone out. His thumb hovered over Kuroo’s name in his contacts, still there, buried between other people he hadn’t called in months.

Instead, he tapped Haruna.

Akaashi: Still alive?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. 

Haruna: Barely. Wardrobe tried to put me in feathers today. Save me.

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, leaning back against the seat. 

Akaashi: Feathers would suit you.

Her reply came fast. 

Haruna: You’re drunk.

Akaashi: Not yet.

He didn’t feel like going home. The thought of walking into his own apartment, too quiet, too neat, smelling faintly of the last time Kuroo had been there, made something in his chest tighten.

So he scrolled again, this time landing on Aida.

Akaashi: Where are you?

Aida: Home. Why?

Keiji typed quickly. 

Akaashi: Come get me. Don’t feel like going back yet.

Three dots. Then—

Aida: On my way.

He locked the phone and stared out at the blur of city lights rushing past the window, letting them smear into nothing.

Tonight wasn’t ending yet.

~~~

The ramen shop was tucked into a narrow side street, its red paper lantern swaying gently in the cool night air. Inside, it was dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of pork broth and soy. The counter was half‑empty, the only other customers a pair of salarymen arguing quietly over beers.

Keiji sat hunched over his steaming bowl, black coat draped over the stool beside him. He cradled the chopsticks loosely in one hand, letting the rising steam fog his face for a moment before speaking.

“Thanks for coming on your day off,” he murmured, eyes on the broth as he stirred it lazily. “I appreciate it.”

Aida was two stools down, a massive hand wrapped around his own bowl. He gave a low grunt that was more you’re welcome than anything else.

Keiji slurped a mouthful of noodles, leaning back slightly. “The guard they had today is lame. Doesn’t get me like you do.”

That earned a faint smirk from Aida. “You mean he doesn’t let you get away with shit.”

Keiji grinned around another sip of broth. “Maybe. But it’s not the same.”

They both chuckled, the sound low and easy.

The shop owner passed behind the counter to refill their tea, and for a moment it was just the quiet clink of chopsticks against bowls and the soft hum of the radio playing some old enka song in the background.

It wasn’t the kind of place where people looked twice at him. No one asked for selfies. No one whispered behind their hands. Just the comforting anonymity of late‑night Tokyo and a friend who didn’t need him to be anything other than a man eating ramen.

Aida set his chopsticks down, leaning back slightly on the stool. “You seem… off tonight.”

Keiji didn’t look up from his bowl. “Define off.”

“You turned down an after‑party you could’ve milked for weeks worth of press,” Aida said. “That’s not you.”

Keiji smirked faintly. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Aida grunted. “Or maybe you just didn’t want to be there.”

Keiji twirled a strand of noodles, watching them disappear back into the broth. “It’s all the same. Shows. Cameras. People pretending to like me while they decide if I’m worth something to them.”

“That’s the job.” Aida said evenly.

“Yeah.” Keiji murmured. “And sometimes I’m just tired of the job.”

Aida studied him for a long moment. “So what was it tonight? Bad crowd? Or someone in it?”

Keiji let the chopsticks rest across his bowl. “Doesn’t matter.”

Aida’s brow furrowed. “It does if it’s making you like this.”

Keiji’s gaze lifted just enough to meet his. For a moment, there was no smirk, no sharpness. Just the truth, plain and tired. “I’m fine, Aida. Really. Just… don’t want to think for a while.”

Aida held his eyes a beat longer before picking up his tea. “Then don’t.”

Keiji managed a small smile, the kind you give when you’re grateful but not ready to say so.

They went back to their bowls, the steam curling between them like a fragile truce.

~~~

The apartment was dark when Keiji stepped inside, the only light coming from the hallway through the half‑open door.

The guard, not Aida, stood just outside, posture rigid, arms folded across his chest. Built like stone, unmoving, his gaze fixed on some distant point down the corridor. He didn’t glance at Keiji when he passed. Didn’t speak.

It was different with Aida. Aida would take the couch, TV on low, the sound of some late‑night comedy show spilling into the quiet. A comfort in the background.

Tonight, there was no comfort. Just silence.

Keiji slipped off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair. His eyes drifted down the hall, catching on Oikawa’s door, closed, the room behind it empty. Unoccupied for weeks now.

A faint, unwelcome pang hit his chest. Guilt.

He told himself it was better this way. That pushing people away was necessary. Cleaner. Safer. No one close enough to see the cracks. No one close enough to get caught in them when he inevitably broke.

But the emptiness still hurt. Especially when it was his best friend on the other side of that absence.

He lingered there for a moment longer, eyes on that door like it might open if he stared hard enough.

It didn’t.

Keiji turned away, heading for his own room without bothering to turn on the lights.

His room was as he’d left it, bed unmade, a glass of water on the nightstand still half‑full from two days ago. The air was still, faintly scented with whatever cologne he’d worn last.

Keiji sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer him a way out of himself.

He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t even really thinking. He just… needed to feel something. Anything that wasn’t this quiet, this still.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over contacts until he landed on Minami.

Akaashi: Am I cleared to party yet?

The reply came quicker than he expected.

Minami: No.

Keiji exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back against the headboard. His thumbs moved again.

Akaashi: Why not?

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Minami: A couple more days. Still finishing NDAs from the last group of people.

Keiji stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

He could almost hear Minami’s voice in it, calm, clipped, final. This wasn’t up for negotiation.

The weight in his chest didn’t lift. If anything, it sank deeper.

~~~

An hour later, the silence broke with a knock on his bedroom door.

Keiji looked up, half‑expecting it to be the stone‑faced guard telling him something trivial like a package had arrived. Instead, the man’s voice was deep, even.

“Someone’s here for you.”

Keiji straightened slightly. “Who?”

“A… Kuroo Tetsurou.”

The name landed like a small drop in still water, a ripple he felt in his chest more than his ears.

Keiji set his phone down and pushed off the bed. “Let him in.”

By the time he reached the front door, Kuroo was already stepping inside. A bouquet of flowers sat casually in his grip, the blooms a messy mix of lilies and wildflowers that somehow still looked deliberate.

Kuroo’s eyes flicked to the unfamiliar man standing near the door. “Who’s the new guy?”

The guard didn’t move.

Kuroo smirked, turning his gaze back to Keiji. “He looks like he could bench‑press me… twice. Is that part of the job description now? Or are you just collecting human furniture?”

The joke hung in the air with that same infuriating ease Kuroo carried everywhere.

Keiji crossed his arms, trying, and mostly failing, to keep his expression unreadable.

Silence settled between them like it had weight.

Kuroo stood there in the doorway, flowers dangling loosely at his side, eyes locked on Keiji’s. It wasn’t the casual look he’d given him at the fashion show. This was sharper. A little heavier.

Keiji held it, not blinking. Both of them knew exactly what was running through the other’s mind. The last time they’d spoken, Keiji tossing out a careless you did your job like it meant nothing, and Kuroo walking away with a look that said it meant a lot more to him.

Neither of them moved.

Finally, Keiji’s gaze flicked to the guard. “You can go.”

The man’s eyes slid to Kuroo before returning to Keiji. “You know where the emergency button is, sir.”

Kuroo’s smirk broke through as the guard stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. “Woah, okay. Didn’t realize I was a security risk. Should I be flattered or offended?”

He took a few slow steps inside, glancing toward the closed door, then back at Keiji. “Guess I’ll go with flattered. Keeps the mood lighter.”

Kuroo lifted the bouquet slightly, like he’d just remembered it was in his hand.

“These are for you,” he said, voice easy, but there was something sharper underneath.

Keiji eyed them for a moment before reaching out. His fingers brushed Kuroo’s just briefly as he took them, not enough to count as a touch, but enough for it to register.

“You bringing peace offerings now?” Keiji murmured.

“Maybe.” Kuroo tilted his head, studying him. “Or maybe I just thought you looked like you could use something alive in here.”

Keiji glanced toward the living room, neat, still, nothing out of place. No signs of life beyond him. “Not sure they’ll survive long.”

“Then we’re a good match,” Kuroo said without missing a beat, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Keiji set the flowers down on the counter, turning back to him. “Why are you here, Kuroo?”

Kuroo’s smirk softened, just slightly. “Same reason I always am.”

That answer was vague and dangerous, and it hung in the air between them like static.

Kuroo moved first, making himself at home like he always did, coat off, tossed over the back of the couch, lowering himself into the corner with that infuriatingly relaxed sprawl.

Keiji stayed standing for a moment, like he was weighing whether to join him at all. Then he crossed the room, slow, and sat at the opposite end of the couch, putting just enough space between them to make a point.

Kuroo leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes still on him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Keiji didn’t look over. “Busy.”

“That’s not it.”

Keiji’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp. “You sure you want to go there?”

“Already there,” Kuroo said easily, though the glint in his eyes wasn’t all humor. “Last time we talked, you basically told me I was a… what was it? Oh right. Doing my job.” He let the words hang there. “Then you sent me on my way like I was—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You know what? Never mind.”

Keiji’s tone stayed even. “It wasn’t personal.”

Kuroo gave a low laugh, but there was no warmth in it. “See, that’s the thing. I wanted it to be personal.”

That landed between them like a crack in the floor.

Keiji shifted back against the couch, arms crossing. “And now you’re here with flowers, hoping that changes?”

Kuroo’s smirk was faint, but his voice was steady. “No. I’m here because I’m not done with you.”

Keiji’s laugh was short, humorless. “You always sound like a bad movie line.”

“Maybe,” Kuroo said, leaning forward now, forearms braced on his knees. “But it’s still true.”

Keiji shook his head, gaze fixed on some point past Kuroo’s shoulder. “You don’t get it. I’m not something to be finished. There’s nothing here for you to win, no prize at the end of whatever game you think you’re playing.”

Kuroo spoke quietly. “I’m not playing any games.”

Keiji’s jaw flexed. He hated that the words landed at all, hated that a part of him wanted to believe them.

He leaned back, tone cooling further. “You left, Kuroo. You bailed just like everyone else. So don’t act like you’re the exception.”

Kuroo’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Yeah, I left. And I hated it. Still do. But I came back.”

“For what?” Keiji’s voice sharpened. “To remind me I’m difficult? That I push people away? Congratulations, message received.”

Kuroo smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. To remind you that I don’t scare that easily.”

Keiji’s fingers curled against his armrest, nails pressing into the fabric. He wanted to say something cutting, something to end this before it dug any deeper. But all that came out was a quiet, frustrated exhale.

Keiji finally found his voice, low and steady. “I can’t give you what you want.”

Kuroo didn’t back off. If anything, he leaned in, closing the space between them until Keiji could feel the faint brush of his breath.

“That’s okay,” Kuroo said softly. His hand came up, fingers warm as they cupped Keiji’s cheek, thumb just barely tracing along the edge of his jaw.

“I’d rather be here every day and suffer not having you the way I want…” His voice caught, not from hesitation, but from the weight behind it. “…than watch you self‑destruct on TV.”

The words hung there, heavy in the low light of the room. Keiji’s eyes searched his, looking for the game, the angle, and just finding none. Just stubborn sincerity, the kind that didn’t leave much room to hide.

Keiji didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.

The heat of Kuroo’s hand against his cheek was grounding in a way he hated. It was steady, real and the opposite of the noise he’d been drowning himself in lately.

His lips parted like he might say something, but nothing came. His mind felt split between wanting to shove Kuroo back and… not wanting him to move at all.

Finally, he let out a low breath and tipped his head just enough for Kuroo’s hand to fall away. “You make it sound noble. It’s not. You’ll just end up wasting your time.”

Kuroo’s smirk was gone now, replaced by something firmer. “Then I’ll waste it.”

Keiji let out a short, sharp laugh, but it didn’t have much bite. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still here talking to me.” Kuroo countered.

Keiji looked away, jaw tight, but the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Just for a second.

Kuroo saw it. He leaned back slightly, giving Keiji just enough breathing room, but not enough to feel like the moment had ended.

“I’m staying,” he said simply.

Keiji shot him a look. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Kuroo kicked off his shoes without ceremony, one landing upright, the other toppling sideways onto the rug. “It’s not up for debate.”

Keiji arched a brow. “You think you can just show up with flowers and—”

“And make sure you don’t spiral the second I walk out the door? Yeah. Exactly that.”

“Kuroo…” Keiji’s tone carried that familiar warning edge, the one meant to keep people at arm’s length.

But Kuroo didn’t budge. He leaned back into the couch, sprawling like he belonged there, one arm hooked lazily along the backrest. “You can glare at me all you want. I’m still not going anywhere.”

Keiji exhaled, long and slow, before muttering, “You’re a pain in the ass.”

Kuroo’s mouth curved. “And yet…” He gestured vaguely between them. “Here we are.”

For a moment, the apartment was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt less like emptiness and more like a temporary cease‑fire.

~~~

Hours later, the apartment was still.

The kind of stillness that came after the city outside had dulled to a distant hum.

Keiji had occupied the couch, legs folded under him, phone in hand but barely scrolling. The TV was on low, playing some late‑night variety show he wasn’t following.

Kuroo was stretched out at the other end, one arm behind his head, the other idly flipping through channels with the remote. He stopped on a cooking show neither of them would ever admit to liking.

“You hungry?” Kuroo asked, casual.

“No.”

Kuroo glanced at him. “Liar.”

Keiji shot him a flat look but didn’t argue when Kuroo pushed himself up and disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinet doors opened, the fridge hummed, the sound of rustling bags carried faintly into the living room.

A few minutes later, Kuroo returned with two mismatched bowls of instant ramen, steam curling lazily into the air. He set one in front of Keiji before dropping back into his seat.

Keiji stared at it. “You know I can make my own food.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo said, twirling noodles around his chopsticks. “But you wouldn’t have.”

Keiji didn’t answer. Just took a bite.

They ate in easy silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windows.

Halfway through his bowl, Keiji caught himself glancing at Kuroo, not out of suspicion, not to measure him, but simply because he was there. And for the first time in weeks, the apartment didn’t feel quite so empty.

Kuroo noticed, but he didn’t call it out. He just smirked faintly and kept eating.

~~~

The quiet between them shattered with the sharp click of the front door swinging open.

“KEIJI!!” Haruna’s voice rang through the apartment like a fire alarm, her heels clattering against the floor as she sprinted inside.

The guard was right behind her, looking harried. “Ma’am—please—”

Keiji didn’t even flinch. He set his ramen bowl down on the coffee table like this was just another Tuesday. “Yes, Haruna?”

Kuroo arched a brow, leaning back against the couch. “How did she get past that guy and I didn’t?” He muttered under his breath.

Haruna skidded to a stop mid‑living room, hair bouncing, eyes flicking immediately to Kuroo. She froze.

“W‑woah,” she said, pointing like she’d just spotted a celebrity in the wild. “You’re the guy!”

Kuroo blinked. “…I am?”

“The Flight!” Haruna dropped onto the couch beside Keiji, eyes wide. “The lead guitarist! Or was… wait, what even happened? Did you guys break up? Why aren’t you in their promo photos anymore? Why did Bokuto unfollow you on Instagram?”

She rattled off the questions like a machine gun, forgetting whatever urgent reason had brought her barreling into the apartment in the first place.

Kuroo shot Keiji a sidelong glance. “Do I answer all that in order, or…?”

Keiji’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked toward the guard. It was the smallest nod, a silent: it’s fine.

The guard relaxed and stepped back out into the hall, leaving the three of them in a living room thick with curiosity, sarcasm, and whatever tension had been there before Haruna burst in.

Haruna was still staring at Kuroo like she was trying to solve a puzzle only she could see.

“You know, you’re actually taller in person. Oh my god, I remember this one song you did with—”

“Haruna,” Keiji cut in, his tone patient but pointed. “Why are you here?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“Why. Are. You. Here.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again as the memory clicked. 

“Oh! Right. The label sent me.” She sat forward, rummaging in her bag until she pulled out a crumpled envelope. “I was supposed to give you this tonight. Some fancy last‑minute event thing they want us at tomorrow morning. They’re freaking out because you didn’t answer your phone.”

Keiji took the envelope, setting it on the coffee table without looking at it. “I was eating.”

“With… him?” She nodded toward Kuroo, her tone implying she was dying for context.

Kuroo smirked. “Don’t worry, I’m just the live‑in guitar player slash flower delivery service now.”

Haruna narrowed her eyes at him for a beat, then shrugged it off. She turned back to Keiji with a spark in her eyes. 

“Anyway. Do you want to go out? There’s this rooftop thing — drinks, live DJ, low‑key.”

Keiji shook his head. “Minami won’t let me. I’m still on lockdown until promo cools down.”

Haruna waved a hand like she was swatting away a mosquito. “Screw the label! You’ll be with me, it’s fineeee.”

Keiji arched a brow. “That’s what you think.”

“That’s what I know,” she countered, grinning. “They won’t care if you’re glued to my side. I’m practically your PR shield at this point.”

Kuroo glanced between them, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sounds like trouble.”

“That’s the point,” Haruna said, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it lightly at Keiji’s arm. “Come on. It’ll be fun. You might even remember what fun feels like.”

Keiji didn’t answer right away. But the smallest flicker of consideration passed through his eyes.

Keiji just sighed, leaning against the back of the couch. “Anything else?”

“That’s it.” She grinned, unbothered by the tension she’d walked in on. “Well… except maybe explaining what he’s doing here.”

Keiji didn’t answer. Neither did Kuroo. The air between them said enough.

Haruna’s grin widened, her voice dropping into that sing‑song tone she used when she smelled gossip.

“Keiji… you dated Bokuto. Are you seeing this guy too now?” She leaned back, throwing her arms wide. “Keiji, you’re messssyyyyyyyyy!”

Kuroo smirked, clearly enjoying this far more than he should.

Haruna jabbed a finger toward Keiji like she’d cracked some unspeakable code. “Why do you always get the hot ones? Seriously. Save some for the rest of us.”

Keiji just stared at her, face impassive. “Are you done?”

“Nope,” she chirped, sinking deeper into the couch. “I’m just getting started.”

Kuroo chuckled under his breath. “You know, she’s got a point.”

Keiji gave him a slow side‑eye, the kind that promised he was two seconds away from kicking them both out.

Haruna shifted on the couch so she was facing Kuroo now, her eyes sparkling like she’d just spotted a new game to play.

“So,” she began, pointing at him with both hands like a prosecutor in designer heels, “What even happened? Did you guys break up?“

Kuroo blinked, leaning back with a faint smirk. “Wow. Straight for the jugular, huh?”

Haruna ignored him, already steamrolling into the next one. “Did you and Bokuto have a fight? Or is it some weird PR stunt? Because if it’s a PR stunt, honestly… ten out of ten, it’s working.”

Keiji rubbed his temple. “Haruna…”

“No, no, no, I’m invested now,” she said, holding up a finger at him before swinging her gaze back to Kuroo. “So tell me, rockstar. What’s the tea?”

Kuroo grinned, slow and deliberately evasive. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be as fun to watch, would it?”

Haruna gasped dramatically, throwing herself against the couch cushion. “Ugh, you’re one of those. The mysterious ones. Keiji, your taste is infuriating.”

Keiji’s voice was flat. “He’s not my taste.”

Kuroo scoffed, putting a hand to his chest as if he was offended. “Kei, you continue to just break my heart.” 

“And still, you choose to stay.” Akaashi met his eyes, face monotone but his lips threatening to turn into a smirk. 

A devious grin crawled onto Kuroo’s face as he leaned forward, just a fraction, to enter Akaashi’s bubble. “You make it hard to want to leave.” 

Keiji felt the tips of his ears burn, his mind telling him to turn away but something in his chest keeping him there, eyes locked. 

Haruna’s brows shot up, eyes ping‑ponging between them. “Uh‑huh. Sure. And I’m a backup dancer for Beyoncé.”

Kuroo chuckled, clearly enjoying every second of this.

Haruna’s phone buzzed in her hand, cutting off whatever teasing remark she was winding up next. She glanced at the screen and lit up.

“Oh! Gotta go — my friend’s waiting downstairs.” She hopped up from the couch like she’d been shot out of a cannon. “Keiji, if you change your mind, come out tonight! Bring Kuroo too!”

Keiji’s expression didn’t change. “Not happening.”

She ignored him, leaning down to kiss him quickly on the cheek. “Bye‑bye!”

And just like that, she was out the door, her perfume trailing behind her, the sound of her voice floating faintly back from the hallway as she called something to the guard.

The apartment fell quiet again, save for the soft click of the front door closing.

“Wow.” Kuroo chuckled to himself. “She kind of reminds me of—-“ 

“Bokuto.” Keiji finished for him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I know.” 

“Yeah…” Kuroo’s voice wavered off, letting the silence rest between them again. 

He glanced at Akaashi from the corner of his eyes, watching the way the younger's brows furrowed as if he was in deep thought. 

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “So… I’m invited too, huh?”

Keiji didn’t answer.

The quiet stretched for a beat.

Kuroo leaned back into the couch, arms stretched along the backrest like he owned the place. “She was definitely flustered,” he said, tone lazy but edged with amusement. “Couldn’t decide if she wanted to interrogate me or set us up.”

Keiji stared ahead at the darkened TV screen. “She just talks too much.”

“That too,” Kuroo agreed easily. Then his brows ticked just slightly. “She knows about you and Bo. How?”

Keiji didn’t answer, his gaze fixed forward.

Kuroo smirked. “Guess it’s not much of a secret then.”

He let that hang for a second before tilting his head, eyes glinting. “So… I’m not your type?”

Keiji gave him the barest sidelong glance. “You always think you are.”

“And most of the time, I’m right.”

Keiji didn’t bite. He reached for his ramen again, lifting a lazy forkful without looking at him.

Kuroo watched him for a moment, then leaned forward just a touch. “You know,” he said, voice lowering just a fraction, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a little flustered too.”

Keiji’s chopsticks paused mid‑air, but his face stayed perfectly monotone. “You do know better.”

Kuroo’s grin deepened, that slow, deliberate curve. “Do I?”

Kuroo leaned in a little more, his arm draping casually along the back of the couch, close enough that Keiji could feel the faint shift of air between them. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, like he was just observing the weather.

Keiji didn’t look at him. “Maybe I don’t have anything to say.”

“That’s a lie.” Kuroo’s voice was low now, almost soft. “You’ve got plenty to say. You’re just afraid I’ll be right about you.”

Keiji set his bowl down a little harder than necessary. “Right about what, exactly?”

“That you care more than you want me to think you do.”

The air tightened between them, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen suddenly the loudest thing in the apartment.

Keiji’s gaze slid to meet his, slow and deliberate. “You’ve always been bad at reading me.”

Kuroo smiled faintly. “And you’ve always been bad at hiding when something gets under your skin.”

Keiji’s jaw ticked, a flash of heat in his eyes before he leaned back against the couch, trying to reclaim the space between them. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet…” Kuroo’s grin edged back in. “…I’m still here.”

Kuroo didn’t back off.

If anything, he shifted closer, closing that final inch until the side of his knee brushed Keiji’s. The touch was light, casual enough to pass for nothing, if not for the deliberate way Kuroo let it linger.

Keiji’s body stayed still, but every sense sharpened.

Kuroo leaned in, his shoulder just grazing Keiji’s, his voice pitched low enough that it felt like it was meant for him alone. “See? Not so scary.”

Keiji turned his head, slow, meeting his eyes up close. “You think this proves something?”

Kuroo’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. That you’re not moving away.”

Keiji’s lips parted slightly, like he might say something, maybe even pull away. But instead, he stayed right where he was.

Kuroo’s hand came up, fingertips brushing lightly against the side of Keiji’s arm, a barely‑there touch that still managed to feel loaded. 

“Told you,” he murmured.

The room felt warmer now, the air heavier, every inch between them charged.

Neither of them moved for a long moment.

The weight of it, the proximity and the quiet, pressed in until it felt like the air itself might snap.

Kuroo’s gaze dipped, just briefly, to Keiji’s mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured, “definitely not moving away.”

Before Keiji could come up with something cutting to throw back, Kuroo closed the last fraction of space. The kiss was unhurried, deliberate, a slow press of lips that felt less like a question and more like a statement.

Keiji didn’t pull back. He didn’t even think to.

The faint brush of Kuroo’s hand slid from his arm to the side of his jaw, thumb resting lightly beneath his cheekbone. Keiji’s breath caught, his body leaning into the contact without meaning to.

For a few suspended seconds, the noise in Keiji’s head quieted. No label. No promo cycle. No cameras. Just this.

When Kuroo finally pulled back, it was only far enough to meet his eyes again, his thumb still warm against Keiji’s skin.

“See?” Kuroo’s voice was low, smug in that way only he could get away with. “Not so scary.”

Keiji’s tone was even, but softer than he intended. “You talk too much.”

Kuroo grinned. “And yet…”

Keiji didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again.

Kuroo was still wearing that grin when Keiji kissed him again, harder this time, shutting him up the only way that ever worked.

The ramen bowls sat abandoned on the coffee table, steam long since faded, as Keiji shifted closer without breaking the kiss. One hand pressed to Kuroo’s shoulder, the other braced on the couch beside his head.

Kuroo barely had time to register it before Keiji swung a knee over, straddling his lap in one smooth motion.

Kuroo’s hands found his hips instantly, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie like he was grounding himself. The kiss deepened, messy now, years of unresolved want threading through it.

Keiji’s breath was warm against his mouth, his pace deliberate, not hurried, but full of intent. Like he’d decided this was happening and was going to take his time making sure Kuroo knew it.

Kuroo pulled back just enough to catch his breath, eyes darting between Keiji’s. “So… not your type, huh?” He murmured.

Keiji’s lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Shut up.”

And then he kissed him again, deeper, pushing Kuroo back against the couch until there was nothing between them but heat and the soft drag of breath between kisses.

Somewhere in the background, a phone buzzed against the coffee table.

It was faint at first, a little vibration skittering across the wood, but then it came again, longer this time.

Neither of them moved.

Keiji’s mouth was still on Kuroo’s, the taste of him pushing out any thought of checking whatever was lighting up the screen. His fingers stayed tangled in Kuroo’s hair, holding him close, refusing to give the moment an out.

Kuroo’s hands were firm at his waist, thumbs brushing the hem of his hoodie in small, almost absent circles. If he noticed the phone at all, he didn’t show it.

The buzzing stopped. Silence for a few seconds.

Then it started again.

Keiji broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, their foreheads still touching. “Not important,” he murmured, already leaning back in.

Kuroo smirked against his lips. “Damn right it’s not.”

They let the phone ring itself out, shutting out the world for just a little longer.

Kuroo shifted beneath him, breaking the kiss only to stand in one smooth motion. Keiji’s legs tightened instinctively around his waist, arms looping around his neck to steady himself.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Kuroo muttered against his jaw, but the smirk in his voice gave him away.

Keiji’s lips brushed his ear. “Don’t drop me.”

“Not a chance,” Kuroo said, tightening his grip.

He carried him down the hall like it was the easiest thing in the world, their mouths finding each other again between steps, Kuroo’s stride steady despite the heat curling between them.

They reached Keiji’s room, the familiar scent of his sheets and faint cologne meeting them as Kuroo kicked the door shut behind them. He crossed to the bed, lowering Keiji onto it without breaking eye contact.

Keiji lay back, still half‑smiling, one hand trailing down the front of Kuroo’s shirt, hooking a finger in the collar to pull him down again.

The kiss this time was slower, deeper, no rush, no interruptions, just the two of them and the low hum of the city outside.

Kuroo braced one knee on the bed, leaning over him, their mouths finding each other again with that same unhurried precision that said neither of them was ready to let go.

Keiji’s fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from Kuroo’s throat. That sound tugged at something deep inside him, so he did it again, slower this time, lips still moving against Kuroo’s like they’d been doing this for years.

Kuroo’s palm skimmed over his side, the press of his hand warm through the fabric of Keiji’s hoodie. He didn’t push, just traced slow paths like he was mapping the shape of him all over again.

The city outside was a dull blur, muted traffic, a faint horn in the distance, all of it falling away under the weight of their shared breath.

Keiji broke the kiss for a moment, his lips brushing Kuroo’s jaw instead, the words coming out low. “You really don’t scare easy, do you?”

Kuroo’s mouth curled, his voice warm against Keiji’s skin. “Told you.”

Then he kissed him again, and for a while, there was nothing else.

Kuroo didn’t waste time.

The moment Keiji pulled him down again, the kiss turned rough, impatient, all teeth and heat. Keiji’s hands slid under the back of his shirt, fingers digging into warm skin as if to hold him there, to make sure he didn’t pull away.

Kuroo shifted his weight, pressing him deeper into the mattress, his knee pushing between Keiji’s legs. Keiji responded immediately, rolling his hips up against him in a way that made Kuroo groan into his mouth.

“Thought you weren’t interested.” Kuroo murmured between kisses, but his hands were already sliding up Keiji’s sides, tugging at his hoodie.

“Shut up,” Keiji breathed, lifting his arms just enough for Kuroo to strip it off and toss it to the floor. His necklace caught the light for a second before Kuroo was kissing down his throat, biting lightly at the spot just below his jaw.

Keiji’s breath hitched, not from surprise, but from recognition. Kuroo knew exactly where to press, where to drag his teeth so that Keiji’s fingers curled tight in his hair.

Their mouths crashed together again, harder this time, the room filled with the sound of shallow, uneven breathing. The rhythm of it was fast, greedy, each kiss leading to another, neither of them slowing down.

Kuroo’s hand found its way to Keiji’s hip, gripping hard enough to keep him still, not that he was trying to get away. If anything, Keiji was meeting every push, every shift forward, pulling him closer, closer, until there was nothing between them but the burn of skin and the sharp edges of want that had been building for too long.

“You’re—” Kuroo’s words cut off as Keiji dragged him back down by the collar, kissing him like the conversation was over.

And for now, it was.

Kuroo barely had time to catch his breath before Keiji’s mouth was on his again, pulling him deeper into it. His hands roamed with no hesitation now, tugging at the hem of Keiji’s shirt until it was gone, discarded on the floor with the rest.

Keiji pushed back against him, the urgency in his movements making it clear, he wasn’t interested in slow. Not tonight.

Kuroo’s fingers made quick work of his jeans, dragging the zipper down as their mouths clashed again, kisses breaking only for the brief, shaky breaths between them. Keiji’s hands weren’t idle either, pushing Kuroo’s shirt up, running over warm skin, tracing the lines of muscle like he was mapping them.

“Keiji—” Kuroo’s voice was low, almost a growl, but it broke when Keiji rolled his hips up sharply, grinding into him with intent.

The sound pulled a smirk from Keiji. “Yeah?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Kuroo warned, but his tone was shot through with heat.

“Who says I can’t?” Keiji shot back, pushing him down just enough to flip their positions. Now it was Keiji straddling him again, palms flat on his chest, holding him in place.

Kuroo’s hands immediately went to his hips, gripping hard as Keiji ground down against him. The friction was rough, unrelenting, every movement drawing another low, muffled sound from Kuroo’s throat.

It was fast, hands everywhere, mouths barely keeping up with the pace, heat spiking between them like they’d been waiting for this breaking point far too long.

Clothes ended up wherever they landed, the line between kissing and biting blurring until all either of them could hear was the sound of their own breathing, fast and shallow.

The pace between them was past the point of no return. Every kiss was rougher, every drag of hands more insistent. Keiji pressed Kuroo back into the mattress, their bodies locked together in a rhythm that left no space for thought.

Kuroo’s fingers dug into his hips, dragging him down harder, faster, like he was trying to fuse them together. Keiji’s breath stuttered against his mouth, breaking only when Kuroo rolled his hips up in answer, pulling a low sound from deep in Keiji’s throat.

“Keiji—” Kuroo’s voice was tight, ragged, like he was holding back and failing miserably.

Keiji caught his bottom lip between his teeth, tugging lightly before letting go. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took. Kuroo’s hands slid lower, gripping him in a way that made Keiji gasp, their movements losing any semblance of restraint. It was messy now, heat and friction and the kind of desperation that had no patience for finesse.

The air between them was thick with breathless curses, broken gasps, the creak of the bed under their weight. Kuroo’s forehead pressed to Keiji’s, their noses brushing, eyes half‑lidded as the pace built higher, sharper.

Keiji’s hand fisted in the front of Kuroo’s shirt, pulling him up just enough to kiss him again, deep, consuming, teeth knocking slightly from the force of it. Neither of them slowed.

It hit them almost at the same time, the coil winding so tight it finally snapped, heat spilling through the both of them in waves that left them shaking, clinging harder, mouths still locked like they couldn’t let the other go yet.

For a few long moments, all they could do was breathe against each other, the rapid rise and fall of their chests syncing slowly back into something steady.

Keiji didn’t move. Neither did Kuroo.

The world outside the room didn’t matter. Not yet.

~~~

The room was warm and still, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside the window.

Keiji lay back against the pillows, one arm draped loosely above his head, his breathing still not completely even. His hair was mussed, sticking to his forehead in places, his necklace tilted slightly off‑center against his collarbone.

Kuroo was half‑propped on one elbow beside him, head turned just enough to watch him. His own breathing had slowed, but there was still a faint flush along his cheekbones, a trace of the heat that had filled the last half hour.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Keiji finally broke the silence, voice low. “You’re still here.”

Kuroo smirked faintly. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Keiji huffed a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo murmured, eyes still fixed on him. “But I’m here. And so are you.”

Keiji turned his head toward him then, their gazes locking in the dim light. There was something in Kuroo’s expression, not gloating, not smug, just… steady. The kind of look that didn’t ask for anything right now.

It was almost enough to make Keiji say something he’d regret. Almost.

Instead, he closed his eyes and sank a little deeper into the pillows. “Don’t get used to it.”

Kuroo leaned down, brushing his lips against Keiji’s temple. “Too late.”

Neither of them moved to get up.

~~~

The bass was low, steady, the kind that pulsed through the floor and into his ribs.

Lights strobed in quick flashes: gold, white, violet. Bodies moved in waves across the dance floor, drinks in the air, sweat in the air, that humid mix of perfume and smoke clinging to every breath.

Somewhere under the thump of music, a faint hum persisted,  like the low whir of a fridge left running in the next room. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

Keiji moved through it like he’d been here a hundred times before. White shirt open at the collar, chain glinting faintly in the dim light. His eyes swept the room without meaning to, like they were searching for something they already knew they’d find.

And then, there he was.

Bokuto.

Leaning against the far end of the bar, head tipped slightly as he watched the room. His shirt clung in all the right places, a single silver ring catching the light as he lifted his drink. He hadn’t seen Keiji yet.

Keiji’s steps slowed. His throat tightened in a way that was too familiar.

He told himself to keep moving, to stay in control, but the crowd shifted, and suddenly Bokuto was looking right at him.

That same energy crackled between them instantly. The same heat from that night.

The night Keiji had disappeared to another city.

The night he’d let himself get drunk enough, reckless enough, to end up in the backseat of Kuroo’s truck.

The night Bokuto had found out.

And the night Bokuto had grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him in hard, kissed him like it was a punishment.

Does he make you feel better than I do?

Now, across the club, that look was back in Bokuto’s eyes, all fire and challenge.

Keiji’s body betrayed him, shoulders squaring, chin lifting like he wasn’t already crumbling inside.

Bokuto didn’t wait. He cut through the crowd with that unshakable stride, one hand finding Keiji’s arm the second he was close enough.

Keiji barely had time to register the warmth of his palm before Bokuto was pulling him in, so close his breath grazed Keiji’s ear.

“You’re still pretending you don’t want this,” Bokuto said, voice low, rough, meant only for him.

Keiji smirked, or tried to. “I’m not pretending anything.”

But the pulse in his throat gave him away.

Bokuto’s hand slid from his arm to the back of his neck, firm, unyielding. “Then stop shaking.”

Before Keiji could fire back, Bokuto’s mouth was on his, hard, claiming, like that night all over again. Heat shot straight through him, knees threatening to give even as his hands pressed against Bokuto’s chest in a useless attempt at space.

He was losing. And Bokuto knew it.

The kiss deepened, Bokuto’s other hand gripping his hip, pulling him flush against him in the middle of the crowd. The music, the lights, the bodies, it all blurred until there was only this, only him.

Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard the patter of rain against glass.

Keiji’s control cracked completely.

Bokuto pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips. “Thought so.”

Keiji jolted awake, chest heaving. His sheets were twisted around his legs, skin hot, breath uneven.

The hum of the fridge.

The soft patter of rain outside his window.

The darkness of his own room.

Just a dream.

But it had felt so real.

Then, a shift beside him.

Kuroo.

One arm draped lazily across Keiji’s waist, his breathing slow, steady, still deep in sleep. A faint lock of messy hair fell across his face, lips parted just slightly. Completely oblivious.

Keiji’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than he meant to before dragging his gaze away. He reached for the bottle of water on his nightstand, taking a long swallow just to ground himself.

The dream still clung to him, sharp around the edges. Bokuto’s voice, the press of his mouth, the heat in his chest, so vivid it made his fingers twitch.

His phone sat on the nightstand too. He stared at it for a beat, thumb hovering over the screen before he let it drop back down. No.

Kuroo shifted again in his sleep, tightening his arm slightly around Keiji’s middle in a lazy, unconscious pull.

Keiji lay back, eyes on the ceiling, trying to slow his breathing. He didn’t move Kuroo’s arm away. But he didn’t close his eyes either.

A Taste of the Past

Oikawa was sprawled across the couch like he’d been poured there, one leg hooked lazily over Iwaizumi’s lap. His head rested against the armrest, scrolling his phone one‑handed while the other absentmindedly traced patterns over Iwaizumi’s knee.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Oikawa said without looking up.

“What thing?”

“That brooding drummer thing. Silent. Moody. Pretending you’re not waiting for me to ask what’s wrong.”

Iwaizumi’s lips twitched but he didn’t look at him. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Liar.” Oikawa sang softly, tapping his shin with his toes.

They stayed like that for a while, Oikawa scrolling, Iwaizumi tapping a quiet beat on Oikawa’s calf with his fingers. It was comfortable in that familiar way they had; they didn’t need to fill every second with talking.

Then Oikawa’s eyes flicked down, past Iwaizumi’s thigh, to the drumstick case sitting on the couch beside him. There, half‑tucked under the worn leather flap, was an envelope. Thick. Cream‑colored. His name in neat, expensive handwriting.

Oikawa grinned to himself. “Ohhh, what’s this?” He reached lazily for it.

But the second his fingers brushed the edge, Iwaizumi’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop him.

“Don’t.”

The word wasn’t playful.

Oikawa blinked at him, caught off‑guard. “Whoa. Okay. Guess I found one of your secret love letters.”

“It’s from my dad.” Iwaizumi said flatly, letting go of his wrist but keeping one hand over the envelope like it might vanish if he didn’t.

Oikawa’s teasing grin faded. “Your dad dad?”

Iwaizumi gave a short nod. “Yeah. The one who ignored me as a kid. The one who thought wiring money into my account every now and then made up for not caring. The one who…” His jaw tightened. “Never showed up.”

Oikawa’s voice softened. “Hajime…”

“They want to meet.” Iwaizumi’s tone was almost a scoff. “Said they’re in the city for a while. ‘Thought it’d be nice to catch up.’” He mimicked the words like they were something he’d pulled from a bad commercial. “I told them no.”

Oikawa pushed himself upright, his leg still over Iwaizumi’s, leaning in now. “And you’re just… closing the door? Like that?”

“Like that.”

The air between them shifted. Oikawa knew how stubborn Iwaizumi could be, it was one of the things he both admired and wanted to strangle him for.

“Not everyone gets a second shot at family.” Oikawa said quietly.

“Not everyone wants one.” Iwaizumi shot back, gaze fixed ahead.

Oikawa studied him for a long moment. “You could have both your parents in your life if you wanted. Not just one.”

That landed heavier than he intended. He saw the flicker in Iwaizumi’s eyes but didn’t push.

“You’re not me.” Iwaizumi said finally, low. “You didn’t grow up with mine.”

Oikawa leaned back a little, his hand finding Iwaizumi’s knee again, thumb rubbing slow circles without thinking. “No. I just grew up with a dad who made me wish I didn’t have one at all.”

That hung there, uncomfortably real, neither of them moving to break it.

Oikawa smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If I could’ve had one who actually wanted to be there, even if it was late, I think I’d take it. Just once.”

Iwaizumi didn’t look at him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Oikawa said, still tracing circles against his knee. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

The words were still hanging in the air, and neither one seemed willing to be the one to brush them aside.

Oikawa stayed where he was, half‑turned toward Iwaizumi, his leg still draped across him. His hand remained on Iwaizumi’s knee, thumb moving in slow, thoughtless circles. The kind of touch that said I’m here without saying it out loud.

Iwaizumi leaned back into the couch, arms folded loosely, eyes on some invisible point in front of him. But he didn’t move Oikawa’s leg. He didn’t move Oikawa’s hand either.

The envelope sat between them on the couch cushion, neither hidden nor opened, its neat, expensive handwriting staring up like it was waiting.

Oikawa’s gaze drifted down to it again, then back up to Iwaizumi’s face. “Just… think about it.” He said quietly.

Iwaizumi exhaled, slow. “Yeah.”

But the tone said no.

Oikawa didn’t push. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the TV in the background playing some muted late‑night rerun. His touch on Iwaizumi’s knee stayed steady, anchoring them both in the quiet.

Slowly Breaking 

The city outside was pale with late‑morning light, the kind that slid through windows and made the air feel cleaner than it was.

Across town, Oikawa tugged at the hem of one of Iwaizumi’s sweatshirts with a dramatic sigh.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “how does he live like this? No color, no cut, no anything.”

He was down to his last clean shirt from the pile he’d brought over weeks ago. Which meant, unfortunately, a trip back to the apartment he shared with Keiji, whom he hadn’t seen after their fight. 

It was quiet when he let himself in. No sound from the living room, no clatter from the kitchen. Perfect. He could grab a few outfits, maybe some shoes, and be out before anyone noticed.

Oikawa slipped into his room, unzipping his duffel he’d stolen from Iwaizumi’s closet. He was halfway to stuffing a sequined jacket into his bag when the front door clicked open.

Footsteps.

He froze, listening.

It was Keiji.

His voice carried through the apartment, even though it had that low, even quality Oikawa recognized from when he was trying to sound professional.

“Thanks, Minami. Don’t worry. I’ll behave.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll stick with Takeru. Yes, the NDAs. I know. Bye.”

Oikawa’s brows lifted. So. Keiji was officially out of lockdown.

He heard the faint rustle of fabric, then Keiji’s voice again, lighter now, casual, almost excited.

“Yo. I’m good to go out. Tonight? Velvet?” A beat. “Bet.”

Oikawa smirked to himself, zipping his bag closed a little slower than necessary. This was interesting.

Oikawa stepped out of his room slowly, bag slung over his shoulder, catching Keiji just as he was setting his phone down.

“Well, well, well,” he said lightly, but there was something sharper beneath it. “Someone’s making plans.”

Was Oikawa taking his devious cupid mastermind plan to heart? Yes. 

Was he perfecting his role? Also yes. 

Keiji looked over at him, brow lifting. “Getting clothes?”

“Getting answers,” Oikawa countered, leaning casually against the wall. “So… you’re free again. That mean you’re going somewhere tonight?”

Keiji’s expression stayed unreadable. “Yeah. Out.”

“Velvet?” Oikawa asked, tone deliberately casual, though he was watching Keiji closely.

Keiji’s head tilted. “Were you listening?”

“Don’t make it sound so ugly, Kei-chan!” Oikawa replied with a faint smile. “I was… staying informed.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the kind of look two people share when they’ve known each other long enough to read past the words.

Keiji finally broke it, grabbing a water bottle from the counter. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Too late for that,” Oikawa said quietly.

Keiji paused mid‑twist of the cap. “It’s just a night out, Tooru. You don’t have to make it a thing.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa replied, a little softer. “But sometimes… a night out is exactly where things break.”

Keiji’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t answer. He took a long drink instead, letting the silence settle.

Oikawa pushed off the wall, heading toward the door with that faint, familiar smile he wore when he didn’t want to explain himself. “See you around, bestie.”

As he stepped into the hall, his thoughts were already elsewhere.

Because he knew exactly where Keiji would be tonight.

And he knew exactly who he wanted there to make sure Keiji saw what he needed to see.

Bokuto.

With the mystery man.

Not because he hated Keiji.

But because sometimes… breaking someone was the only way you could reach them.

Right? 

~~~

The band’s new rehearsal space in Tokyo was low-lit and loud with hardwood floors scuffed from years of drum kits and boots, amps buzzing faintly in the corners like restless nerves.

Bokuto stood at the mic stand, fingers curled too tight around the metal, breath fogging slightly as the air conditioning fought against the late heat from outside. Iwaizumi sat at the drums, brow furrowed in concentration, and Noya was behind with his bass, plucking at the strings.

But Bokuto wasn’t really there.