Archive of Our Own

There’s never a dull day in the Kuroo-Tsukishima household. Once a month, Tetsurou will hold a one-man conference with himself wherein he decides that Kei is getting sick of him, then convinces himself that this is untrue, then second-guesses that conviction, all without consulting Kei.

On one such occasion, a year after what Tetsurou calls the grey bunting bank holiday, Kei tries to make it happen. The household part of it, that is.

‘My lease is up soon,’ he says one Saturday morning when the December sun is just barely creeping through Tetsurou’s living room window, one lamp still on, Kei’s coffee still steaming. ‘I’ve been looking at some places in Hatagaya.’

Peace and quiet in the living room. Tetsurou does roughly three hundred mental calculations in the time he takes to look up from his book. He does it slowly, too; one finger still keeping his place among its thin fragile pages, the rest of his hand curling golden against its rough blue cover. His eyes are just a little wide, though in a minute he’ll try to play it all off with a smirk and a joke at his own expense.

In a minute. For now, he skips right past the question. Expects Kei to follow, after all, like Kei expected him to know. That’s why he didn’t bother with do you want to, why Tetsurou doesn’t bother with do you want to.

‘But,’ he says. ‘I have a treadmill.’

Kei blinks. ‘Yes?’ He does, it’s true. It’s in one corner of his bedroom, a fresh towel always neatly draped over a handle, headset placed on top. He never uses it when Kei’s sleeping over, but there’s never a speck of dust on it.

Tetsurou closes the book. Kei waits for the joke. It doesn’t come. ‘But…you know? It’s big.’

‘It’s not that big,’ Kei says, a little blankly. Narrows his eyes, suddenly unsure of their telepathy. ‘Wait, what are we talking about here?’

‘My treadmill,’ Tetsurou says, voice doing something strange now. ‘Because if we move in together—’ Oh, all right, thank God— ‘—we need to— I’ll be bringing the treadmill.’

‘…yes,’ Kei replies. ‘Along with the rest of your things.’

✶

(Tobio has a very specific look on his face, a category of murder only reserved for those who scorn Kei. He’s been sporting it for three full minutes now, marking the tail end of Kei’s long-winded explanation, and when Kei finally comes to a stop, he’s more exhausted by Tobio’s eyes than by any of the words he said.

‘Okay,’ Tobio says, finally. His voice sounds like murder too.

‘Okay is not good enough,’ Kei replies. ‘You are going to be nice to him.’

‘I’m not going to be nice to anyone. He can earn my niceness back.’

‘Knowing you, that’ll take a decade.’

‘So be it,’ Tobio says, darker now. He gulps down his drink with unnecessary speed, mouth twisting spitefully around the bitter gin as he puts the glass back on his shiny bartop. It catches the orange of the setting sun. ‘Fine.’

And no, fine is hardly good enough, but there’s nothing else to say. What does one say to look, the man who broke my heart also has broken-heart issues, quite literally, and he’s working on them now, and I know I’ve been so miserable for the past two months since the wedding and I’ve scared you half to death, but it’s going to be all right now. None of that even sounds credible when Kei repeats it back to himself, so it’s out of the question that Tobio, whose resentment has been darkening every time Kei’s knocked thrice-and-twice on his door this winter, and whose primary objectives in life include Kei’s prosperity, is not as ready to welcome change.

‘Is he scared of me?’ Tobio asks, then.

Kei raises an eyebrow at him. He’s sitting on a barstool with one knee drawn to his chest, in a pair of baby pink pyjamas and slippers, hair wet with leave-in conditioner and cheeks flushed from his untimely cocktail.

‘Yes,’ Kei says, because it’s true. ‘You don’t even need to prepare a shovel talk. Just give him the look you’re giving me right now and he’ll understand.’

That finally does it. Tobio makes a visible attempt to soften his face, which is so ridiculous in itself— they’re nothing if not sharp edges— that it makes them both laugh.

‘Jerk,’ Tobio huffs. Straightens up, grabs both their empty glasses. ‘He better understand. He’s going to be getting it a lot.’)

✶

The new place is only a ten-minute walk from the bar, and Tetsurou jokes that they’ve used up an entire life’s worth of good luck to sign it. To Kei’s shame, it takes him thirty entire seconds to come up with a fitting retort about Tetsurou’s nine lives, though the delighted laugh he gets is worth the tardiness.

It has two rooms so that Kei can finally move his study somewhere with four closed walls, and as such, he and Tobio lock themselves in it from the morning itself, leaving Tetsurou, and Hinata to deal with practically everything else while Bokuto and Daichi-san haul all the boxes upstairs. Hinata knocks on the door to ask if they want to resurface for brunch, and to call them the world’s worst pair of edgy genius-type bastards when they ask to eat in the study.

But it pays off: sometime in the afternoon, Kei finally straightens up from under his desk just as Tobio pushes the last of the vinyls into place. And then the room that was so bare this morning that their voices echoed is the place Kei is going to overwork himself in on weekends, before walking ten minutes— just ten— to join Tetsurou at the bar. The place Tobio’ll slink into, to poke miserably at the midi keyboard until Kei can make sense of the latest notes his brain has rearranged; the place all of Hinata’s unplugged recordings will hit open air for the first time.

And, suddenly, the place Tetsurou’ll knock on the door of even though Kei won’t be able to hear him with the headphones, then step in with a mug of coffee that he’ll leave on the safest surface possible without a word. No, it’s never happened, and Kei still knows that’s how it will be. Tetsurou’ll be in his nightclothes, in slippers, fresh off the treadmill with a towel around his neck. He’ll—

‘You look happy,’ Tobio announces, just as a knock sounds on the door. A new one, and yes, Kei’s happy; just the rhythm of a new knock is making him have to smile into his hand. Just having— everything, so concretely, for the first time. The place where everything—

‘Kei?’ Tetsurou’s voice through the door is carefully, hilariously polite like it always is around Tobio. ‘Can I see?’

Tobio leans against the desk, arms crossed, as Kei lets Tetsurou in. And though they’ve been at it all morning, there’s absolutely nothing decorative about the place, which Kei only realises when he sees Tetsurou look around at the bookshelves and cabinets and the wires under the desk, and struggle to find a compliment to make.

‘It looks…neat,’ he says, finally. ‘Love what you’ve done with the, uh.’ He gestures vaguely to the—

‘Acoustic panels,’ Tobio says. Kei blinks and turns to him. No, it’s not like Tobio’s never spoken to Tetsurou in the past year, but he barely talks in the first place, and there’s no denying that the two don’t have much in common apart from a cosmically humbling amount of affection for Kei, which can only take them so far. ‘He doesn’t really need them, he always has his headphones. He’s just paranoid he’ll bother you.’

Well, then. ‘Wow, thanks, Tobio.’

But Tetsurou’s— smiling. ‘It’s not like I work at a bar or anything, right?’

‘Right?’ Tobio says. ‘And no offence, but you play way worse music than he ever would.’

‘Hey!’ Tetsurou squawks, but he’s fully grinning now, not even bothering to hide his pleasure. ‘Not all of us have piano maestro taste, you know?’

‘Amen to that!’ Hinata calls from past the door as he carries a mess of curtains into the bedroom. ‘Kuroo-san, don’t listen to them. The nameless bar has excellent music.’

‘I’d take that back if I were you,’ Kei calls back. ‘He was playing Taylor Swift in there last weekend.’

There’s a deep gasp of breath from the hall even as Tobio snorts. Then Hinata’s back in the doorway, curtains still spilling from his arms, face dark as death.

‘No,’ he rasps gravely. ‘Not her.’

‘What’s wrong with Taylor Swift?!’

Hinata simply shakes his head, so Kei supplies. ‘What happens at Lollapalooza stays at Lollapalooza.’

✶

Later, when it’s just Kei, sorting out the last of the cables, Tetsurou slips back in. If he senses that Kei’s been quiet all evening, he says nothing. Only walks slowly through the study, prodding gently at the acoustic panels, then crouching to look at all the vinyls, until he’s finally by Kei’s desk.

‘Hey,’ he murmurs, tries a small smile. Without waiting for Kei’s response, he slides a thin black box across the desk. ‘Kenma sent this for you.’

It’s a Mont Blanc, the smallest of notes placed next to it on the velvet. For the study, it says.

‘You don’t have to— I mean, I know this is your space. He knows too. He just— thought it could be nice.’

For the housewarming. The place where everything— is coming together.

‘I love it,’ Kei says, then finally looks up properly. Tetsurou’s perched on the desk, smiling down at him, and no, he doesn’t look at home just yet. And yes, it’s going to be Kei’s space, and Tobio’s. But— it’s going to be his space in a larger world, one that he shares, physically now, with Tetsurou. Nestled in a place they’re going to start calling home, the place all their tax returns will arrive, the place they will sleep in. Ten minutes from the bar where Kei first fell in love, a life’s worth of luck served to him in one nameless special, with ginger on top.

The place Tetsurou’s going to make it to. ‘I really love it.’

‘I’ll let him know,’ Tetsurou says. Then he reaches out to smooth a hand through Kei’s hair. ‘You okay?’

Kei only thinks back to it for a second: the balcony, earlier, and the sky, and how the tears in Tobio’s eyes had shone like suncatchers before tipping over. How, and only for a second, Kei had felt something profound and older than himself tug at his chest. How proud he’d been, in that second, to feel it at all.

He takes a deep breath, and smiles. ‘Yes.’

✶

(Six months after the bank holiday, in the early days of June, Akiteru finally makes a pitiful enough face on call that Kei books two tickets and brings his terrible, heavy work laptop home for the week.

Though it’s not his favourite time to visit— nothing can top the surreal quiet snow of winter— Karumai is a vision in the summer: an unreasonable green covering its every inch, sun-bright, sour, the way Hinata used to put it, so uncannily accurate. Yes, the green is sour, tangy, unapologetic. He can see as much on Tetsurou’s face as the roads turn smaller and the hills higher, and the clouds whiter.

‘Holy shit,’ Tetsurou breathes. ‘How can all of you stand Tokyo after this? I’d never leave.’

‘Don’t let my mother catch you saying that,’ Kei smiles. A little too wide, but he can’t help it; there’s Ukai-sensei’s little cornerstore, still open, dingy little granita stand running strong. He’ll have to drop by later today. He’ll have to— take Tetsurou on a walk. ‘She’ll keep you forever.’

‘Will she?’ When Kei finally looks over, Tetsurou’s grinning at him, so painfully handsome in the sun, in Karumai’s sun, in Kei’s sun— for a moment, Kei marvels at his heartbreak of six months ago, his fear. ‘Okay, be honest. Is your dad gonna hate me? You’ve always said he’s the no-nonsense type—’

‘And you are nonsensical,’ Kei sighs. ‘I’m sure he can put on a good poker face.’

He does. An excellent one, even, while Kei’s mother opens the door and immediately pulls Tetsurou into her arms, as if she’s known him for years. Even Akiteru’s rolling his eyes, shrugging as Tetsurou looks over her shoulder at him, but their father just leans against the living room doorway with a small smile and twinkling eyes, waiting for everyone else to exhale.

‘Tetsurou,’ Kei’s mother breathes. ‘Can I call you Tetsurou—? Oh, it’s so lovely to finally see you—’

‘You can call me whatever you want, ma’am,’ Tetsurou laughs, and just like that, Kei’s whole world explodes into sour, unreasonable green. He’s so much bigger than her just the way Kei and Akiteru and their father are, one more tall head in the household. He’s probably got a present for her in his weekender even though Kei told him not to bother. ‘Thank you for having me here.’

Later, after dinner— where Tetsurou is nothing but nonsensical and charming— Kei tails Akiteru into the kitchen, sleeves rolled, ready to help with the dishes. Tetsurou, of course, tries to follow suit.

‘No,’ Kei says. ‘We’re talking about you.’

‘What better conversation to be a part of?’

But he leaves them alone, after making them promise he can help with the dishes tomorrow. Kei fits the wet plates onto the drying rack mechanically, slipping so fast into their old rhythm. Only when Akiteru’s rinsing the last glass does he ask.

‘Well?’

‘Of course they love him,’ Akiteru says as he hands Kei the glass. ‘It’s over for him. Now that papa’s got someone to talk whiskey with, he’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘And you?’

He doesn’t answer for a minute. Takes great care to clean the sink, wipe down the counters, until Kei’s itching to grab the dishtowel from him and throw it out the window. But just then he stops, hangs it carefully to dry, and turns to Kei. In the dim kitchen light his gaze is altogether too heavy, too serious.

‘Does he tell you everything?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘Does he tell you everything he feels?’

Kei falters. ‘Yes? No? I— I mean, I don’t tell him everything I feel. Just— what matters?’

‘Has he ever lied to you? Hidden something from you?’

‘What? Nii-san, no. What’s this about?’

‘I’m just trying to figure out,’ Akiteru says, ‘why you look like you think he’ll run away any second.’

Kei turns away immediately. Stares aimlessly at the drying dishes, then the buzzing night sky outside, then the patient curl of Akiteru’s hands on the edge of the counter. Thinks about earlier in the car, Tetsurou in the sun and Kei amazed that he had ever been scared. Even though Tetsurou’s presence is sometimes so frail, so veiled, that it feels like if a moment lands on the wrong foot, he’ll be gone again. Even though Kei marvels at that too; that for someone who didn’t even see Tetsurou— leave, like that, he still fears the leaving. Any kind.

‘I know his past is terrifying,’ Akiteru continues gently, on cue. ‘But you’re not scared about that, are you? You’re just scared he’ll walk out, old-fashioned. Isn’t that unfair to him after all the walking he’s done towards you?’)

✶

Once a month, Kei will hold a one-man conference with himself wherein he decides that Tetsurou is going to run away, then convinces himself that this is untrue, then second-guesses that conviction, all without consulting Tetsurou. Because see, Tetsurou has a tendency of sucking up all the fear in a room for himself. None left for Kei, usually, and definitely none he can share.

A week after the move, when even the most insignificant of details has been sorted and they finally have an evening to themselves in the living room with their new vintage posters and new secondhand couch and old sound system, Tetsurou puts his glass of juice away and stretches himself across the couch, puts his head in Kei’s lap, looks up at him solemnly.

‘I think we should make out a bit,’ he says. ‘Thoughts?’

And while it’s true that Tetsurou’s a sight on any given day, there’s something so fresh about him tonight, all of spring’s mist descended on his face, his skin cool and smooth under Kei’s thumb. He’s— happy, so relaxed, in his worn-soft band T-shirt and the shorts he never wears outside. There are faint stretch marks on the insides of his thighs still, and Tetsurou shivers when Kei trails careful fingertips over them.

‘The council agrees,’ Kei murmurs. There’s nothing better to improve an evening than to get Tetsurou’s lips on his own, after all; a year in, the humming electricity of that has yet to change. Kei almost doesn’t want it to, only— only every time he thinks about the kind of life they could have now, where they both have keys and not spare keys, where Kei could knock and slip into the shower with Tetsurou and know that it will happen forever and ever, no phone chargers forgotten at their own apartments and no double sets of towels— every time Kei thinks about what it’s going to look like, gorgeous and boring and rhythmic— ‘Are you interested in christening the couch?’

‘I was actually thinking,’ Tetsurou says, reaching up and tugging at a curl of Kei’s hair, ‘that we could take it further.’

Oh. That— hasn’t happened since that first time a year and a half ago. ‘Oh?’

Tetsurou hears the tone, straightens up, though Kei wraps an arm around his waist before he can get too far. He’s got that look on his face, half-flirting, half-hesitation. That uncertain little smile.

‘I mean, it’s an excellent occasion,’ Tetsurou says, trying so hard to sound casual, like he isn’t announcing something. The way he always does when he brings these things up; like he thinks Kei resents that it’s a deliberate event every time. ‘You, me, our new home with its induction stovetops that we had to change all our pots for—’

‘Romantic,’ Kei says. And no, he doesn’t resent it. Yes, he’s wondered what it would be like if everything was instinct— but only long enough to understand that instinct, like everything else, can be recalibrated. It’s instinct, now, to wait for Tetsurou’s little wordless signs of approval before touching him. Instinct to hear the catch in his breath before Tetsurou hears it himself. Instinct to say Tetsurou, give me your hand before Tetsurou’s own starts trembling. ‘Who are we to ignore the occasion?’

‘Exactly.’ Tetsurou inhales, losing his smile, the joke drawn out a beat too long. So Kei waits for him to put it away, and takes his glasses off just in time for Tetsurou to tiptoe into his space and kiss him.

His lips are warm, soft, and everything Kei will ever want. Whenever. The way Tetsurou’s hands always rise to his hair in seconds; wherever. The thick black silk of his hair through Kei’s own fingers; the press of his nosebridge into Kei’s cheek when they pull apart and Tetsurou breathes out a sigh against him.

Kei has only ever known this Tetsurou. The one whose every exhale shivers. The one who tries and tries to give himself to Kei at the peril of his own security. It isn’t a question of calibrating instinct, then: this is Kei’s only instinct when it comes to Tetsurou.

The sun is low enough in the sky that they have to turn a lamp on when they make it to the bed. It’s new, too; the sheets are spotless white and barely touched, and Tetsurou stands out against them so stark, so unbelievable, that Kei has to stop for a moment just to stare. Just to— put away the tightness in his chest.

He puts it away, and goes.

✶

‘Sorry,’ Tetsurou whispers to the ceiling. The lamp is the only light in the room now, turning all his edges white-gold, alien, and though Kei knows better, distant. His chest is still bare, though he’s put his shorts back on. ‘Again.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ Kei says. Ventures a hand across the bed, takes Tetsurou’s. It’s almost cold. ‘Again.’

‘I want to be sorry.’ Tetsurou curls his fingers weakly around Kei’s. Tries a smile, but still at the ceiling. ‘And I want you. And I want to owe you things.’

Kei wants him too, oh, God. Wants to get his head between Tetsurou’s thighs, his hands on that golden waist. So much that he’s still burning with it, slacks straining, free hand twitching where he’s tucked it under the pillow. ‘You already owe me that mug you broke yesterday. I told you that cabinet was at capacity.’

Tetsurou laughs, and even though it’s quiet, it’s a start. Because then he finally turns on his side and looks Kei in the eye. And he probably thinks he looks pathetic now, vision clouded with his own disappointment, aborted arousal; but to Kei he’s never been closer, and so, never more beautiful. His still-uneven breaths, his surgery scar. The hair Kei had his fingers curled in just minutes ago, when Tetsurou went limp in his arms and sighed sorry, can we stop?

‘Sorry,’ he says again to Kei. ‘Will you be fine?’

‘I have an excellent partnership with my hand,’ Kei smiles back. ‘And our new shower is very sexy. That temperature setting is really the pinnacle of seduction.’

It finally works; Tetsurou laughs outright, kicks Kei’s ankle lightly. ‘Don’t be a smartass. Go shower, then.’

And leave him alone to languish, of course. ‘Later. If you really do want to owe me something, let’s watch that documentary I’ve been trying to show you all month. My laptop’s right here—‘

‘Oh, God,’ Tetsurou groans. But he inches closer and throws a leg over Kei’s, and if both are trembling, neither asks. ‘Show me, darling. Blow my mind.’

✶

‘Swear on my life,’ Yaku says as Hinata wheezes, face pressed to the bartop. ‘I’m not scared of anyone or their mother, but when that man walks into a room I get chills down my spine. I haven’t made eye contact with him in four years.’

He’s talking about Kenma, which is why Kei is half-ready to believe his exaggeration even though he missed the punchline of the anecdote. It must have been good to have Hinata completely horizontal before his third drink, though anything goes with Hinata on Saturday night, especially when he’s riding the high he currently is. The high, that is, of getting to invite friends to concerts.

On cue, Tetsurou lifts his phone with a triumphant ha before putting it down and finally getting back to the strawberries he was chopping. ‘Two tickets purchased!’

‘What?’ Hinata squeaks, lifting his head so fast it jostles Tobio’s elbow. Tobio flicks his temple. ‘Kuroo-san, I told you not to buy them!’

‘I want to support your business!’

‘He’s a world-famous celebrity,’ Kei says drily. ‘His business is already sufficiently supported.’

‘You’ve just been spoiled by them,’ Tetsurou shoots back, brandishing his rag at Kei. ‘You should be paying for Kageyama’s performances too—’

‘What? He should be paying me for tolerating him—’

‘He’s right,’ Tobio says solemnly, and finishes his drink to that. Shouyou reaches for his own, sips it miserably.

’Still,’ he mutters. ‘You’ll all be backstage with me anyway, what’s the point?’

Tetsurou says nothing for a moment. Just leans forward to refill Tobio’s glass, spooning the fresh strawberries onto the ice, stirring it roughly before sliding it across the bar.

‘The point,’ he says then, looking at the grain of his wooden chopping board with a little smile, ‘is that I haven’t bought a concert ticket in years, and it was really fun to get that email.’

Kei looks quickly at Tobio, who shakes his head the slightest bit; Kei tenses. But Hinata blissfully takes it at face value the way he usually does, and doesn’t ask questions.

‘Well, when you put it that way,’ he says. ‘Still, I’m paying for my drinks then!’

‘Because you thought they were free?’ Tetsurou says, cackling as Hinata squawks in protest. ‘What, a world-famous celebrity can’t pay for a measly cocktail?’

‘Watch what you’re calling measly,’ Yaku says from the stairs. ‘I emptied half a Smirnoff in there.’

‘Smirnoff?!’

Kei tries to catch Tetsurou’s eye, but he’s in a mood. It takes a full minute before he finally looks up, and another before he finally comes over.

‘What?’ he murmurs. ‘I really do want to go.’

‘I know,’ Kei replies. ‘We’ll get you moulded earplugs. You’ll still be able to hear it all well, don’t worry—’

‘My resourceful professor.’ Tetsurou kisses his temple. ‘You’re the one worrying. I’m a big boy.’

‘Hinata’s concerts are loud—’

‘Kei,’ he says gently. ‘Let’s talk about this later, okay? The others’ll be here soon.’

Kei recognises an admonishment when he hears it. ‘Sorry.’

‘Honey, no.’ Tetsurou has to work to catch his eye now, but he’s smiling when Key finally looks. ‘I just don’t want you to have to do all that mental work a full year in advance, okay? That’s all.’

‘It’s not work,’ Kei starts, then backpedals when Tetsurou takes one of his ominous deep breaths. ‘Okay, okay. Go back to chopping your strawberries.’

‘And you’re not getting any,’ Tetsurou chides, but he kisses Kei’s temple again as he leaves. And later, slides him a martini glass full of them, with whipped cream on top.

✶

(‘My turn to ask,’ Kei says, trying to make it sound like a joke and failing. ‘Is he going to hate me?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Tetsurou closes the wardrobe and turns around, face full of judgement. ‘You’re actual Jesus Christ as far as the man’s concerned. You can do no wrong. He wears a locket with a photo of you in it.’

‘Stop,’ Kei laughs. Then sighs, turns back to the mirror, running obsessive fingers through his hair again. ‘And you’re sure he’ll like the restaurant? I—’

‘Kei, I have thirty years of professional experience in being his son. I’m pretty sure I know what he’ll like.’

But later that evening, when Kuroo Takashi walks into the restaurant, Kei isn’t ready. Not because of how similar to Tetsurou he looks, though his hair is short and grey. Not because of how utterly intimidating he is with his crisp suit and tall frame. Simply because the moment he spots Tetsurou at the table, a look— however brief— of such fierce recognition comes over his face that it makes Kei blink.

When he opens his eyes again it’s gone. Kuroo-san makes his way over to the table with poise, his smile as light as his son’s, if sharper. It softens only when they stand up to greet him; he puts a hand on Tetsurou’s shoulder and by proxy sits them both down.

‘Dad, Kei. Kei, dad,’ Tetsurou grins. ‘Dad, don’t tell him about that time Makoto-sensei called you to come get me at school. Kei, don’t tell dad what I said about Final Fantasy last week. Now if you’ll excuse me—’

And any other time it would’ve worked; Kei would’ve laughed, given in. But as it is he’s full of nerves, and only Kuroo-san laughs as Tetsurou pretends to leave, while all Kei can muster up is a smile, before he’s the one standing up and bowing again.

‘Tsukishima Kei,’ he says to the clean white tablecloth. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’

No reply comes for long enough that Kei dares to look up. They’re both smiling at him, one lighter, one sharper, both knowing.

‘The honour’s mine,’ Kuroo-san says, then. He sounds like he means it. ‘Please, sit. There’s so much to talk about and this one—’ He arches a judgemental eyebrow at Tetsurou— ‘—only gives me one appointment a month.’

‘That is categorically untrue! You’re the one who’s always busy with work—’

He is; it’s the first thing Kei learned about him. You know, since mom passed early and I grew up quick, he just had so much time. And he does love his job. God knows how they’ll ever get him to retire. Kuroo-san works in exactly the kind of company that Tetsurou once worked in, and at about the same position that Tetsurou would get to thirty years into his career. It’s eerie, almost, to see that parallel universe at the table: Kuroo-san’s navy jacket next to Tetsurou’s cream silk shirt; his neat hair next to Tetsurou’s riot. It isn’t the first time Kei’s wondered what that Tetsurou was like; the one who wore suits to work and gelled down his hair, the one who sat before computers all day and only met up with Bokuto on the evenings they had any energy.

It’s easier to imagine now. Easier to understand, if only a little, what Tetsurou meant when he said, one night weeks ago, Dad’s the me who made it. Or something.

Only a little. Because Kei doesn’t see someone who made it, and by comparison, proves that Tetsurou didn’t. Because if life is a thousand branching possibilities, then everyone is someone who made it, where Kei didn’t. The chef de cuisine living his dream job at this restaurant. Kuroo-san, earning a salary Kei will never see a day in his life. Tetsurou, with his nameless bar and its terrible music. Tobio, Hinata, Yamaguchi. But to articulate that to Tetsurou, whose career was cut short by circumstances more violent than most— would be a disservice.

And no, it isn’t the first time he’s wondered how one reasons with someone like Tetsurou. Even Kei, who wears the medal of being the only person who’s ever managed to reason with him, in this life.

Dinner ticks by. Kei isn’t one for words with most strangers, but he answers every question as truthfully as he can, tries to contribute to the conversation while he picks at his food. Manages, once, to make an observation about Bokuto that has Kuroo-san laughing out loud, saying yes, that’s it, you’ve put your finger right on it.

Then, just after they’ve refilled their wine, Tetsurou takes a look at his phone, curses under his breath, and looks up at them petulantly.

‘Just ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Phone call. Bar emergency.’

Kei doesn’t dare speak for a full minute after he’s gone outside to take it. Then he clears his throat and wonders out loud what a bar emergency consists of, which is all it takes for Kuroo-san to launch into a list of grievances from when Tetsurou and Bokuto were setting the place up.

He’s warmer than he looks, but there is a guardedness to him that isn’t unfamiliar to Kei, an unwillingness to talk about the heart of things, that is peculiar to everyone who has loved Tetsurou for long. Kuroo-san is haunted, scarce with his words, the same kind of silence in him as in Kenma, who— Kei can only speculate; he’s never been told— who was probably the first one to go to his knees beside Tetsurou.

Kei holds in a shudder; swallows anxiety. On a plateau of silence Kuroo-san looks outside— Tetsurou’s frame is visible beyond the large windows of the restaurant, shoulders animated as he presumably yells at Yaku on the phone— and smiles.

‘And do you like his bar?’ he asks Kei.

‘I do, sir.’ Kei traces a finger up the stem of his wineglass. ‘And he loves it a lot.’ He inhales. ‘But the music is terrible.’

Kuroo-san bursts into laughter, quiet but kind. ‘As long as he loves it, and you tolerate it, right?’

Kei smiles. ‘Absolutely.’ He takes another breath, takes a sip.

God, if only he could find one thing to say—

‘You know, Tsukishima-kun,’ Kuroo-san says, then. ‘For a long while I kept thinking that Tetsurou’s vision had dimmed. And so, when he told me about you, I thought— that young man must be the brightest thing in the world, to catch Tetsurou’s eye. Nothing ever does anymore.’

He takes a sip of his own wine, smiles at Kei as if just those words haven’t put a lump in Kei’s throat. ‘But I was wrong. His vision’s never dimmed. He just had his back to everything he was supposed to see, and you took him by the shoulders and turned him towards it. And that’s much more powerful than being bright, or loud, yes? Because you showed him something he could do himself.’

If Kei doesn’t speak it’s going to end terribly. ‘Give a man a fish, sir.’

Kuroo-san is kind; he ignores the tremble in Kei’s voice and smiles wider, nods. Raises his glass. ‘To all the fish my stubborn son will catch with you.’)

✶

‘That is,’ Kei observes from the doorway as they march primly by, ‘an awful lot of children.’

‘Yes,’ Yachi says patiently. ‘He does teach children, as you know.’

Knowing it is one thing. Even seeing it, within the premises of Sawamura-san’s school, is one thing. That school, nestled in the suburbs where families and pets live, and with Sawamura-san’s chiming laughter echoing through the halls, is where children belong. They belong with him, under his wing, and on those little stages that always remind Kei of Karumai.

They do not belong here on Geidai’s intimidatingly calm campus, where people like Kei and Tobio, who stay away from children out of love and respect, reside. They most certainly do not belong on the same summer festival brochure as Tobio, even though Kei understands full well that when they grow up, a lot of them will end up coming here. There’s still at least a decade to go for that, though, and in the meantime—

‘Shit,’ Tobio says. ‘The one holding Koushi-san’s hand’s smaller than my shoe.’

Kei snorts and leans forward to squint; yes, the girl holding Sawamura-san’s hand is as little as a living thing can get. ‘You signed up for this. I told you not to come to the rehearsal—’

‘Don’t be stupid. I promised him I’d take pictures with the kids and who knows if we’ll have time on the day of the show—’

‘I’m sure the children would prefer a picture with Hinata,’ Yamaguchi points out. Tobio shrugs sagely. ‘But he’s not here, and you two’ve made your bed, so sleep in it. Rehearsal starts at five—’

‘Who’s we?’ Kei asks, turning around quickly to a grinning Yamaguchi. ‘I didn’t make any beds. I’m not even remotely involved with this whole thing, you think PhD final-years have time to organise festivals? Besides, I—’

‘It’s actually adorable,’ Yachi says. ‘One glance at a first-grader and you completely lose your mind. They’re not going to eat you.’

‘Five?’ Tobio makes a face. ‘Those things out there are like eight months old. Six.’

‘Three,’ Kei says darkly. From the hallway, on cue, crying. ‘There is no way—’

Rehearsal starts at five. Kei finds himself trapped on a seat between Yamaguchi and Yachi, but they’ve been nice enough to find ones at the back of the hall. And it is a beautiful day, sweltering as it is this close to summer. The hall’s windows are almost ceiling-to-floor, letting in swathes and swathes of sunlight tinged green by the trees outside. If Kei squints, he can actually spot the path Tetsurou and he used to take back then, when so many of their walks led them to Ueno. The same spotless blue sky, the same brave trees. But— not the same silence. New music.

Kei, of course, is always the first to spot a turn in Tobio’s music. However subtle it might be, however drastic, and regardless of whether Tobio himself has realised it or not. Sometimes he does— he comes to Kei’s office and nods gravely at Futakuchi if the caffeinated terror’s hanging around, as he is wont to; when Futakuchi leaves, Tobio slides his phone across the table and subjects Kei to the world’s most poorly-recorded composition.

The times Tobio’s realised, he says I know, okay, before Kei can make a smart comment about the windchimes of summer or the freshness of love replanted. Other times, Kei holds his silence, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. Goes to Tobio’s apartment— which will be Tobio’s-and-Hinata’s as soon as Hinata’s done with his Asia tour and Tobio gets a clue— with his laptop and notebooks and a mountain of listening, and lets Tobio play to him all afternoon, then holds his tongue all evening.

For the one Tobio’s playing right now to three dozen children sitting transfixed on the floor: Kei didn’t say anything for an entire day. Tobio’d first played it to him last October, before the sunrise. Such a smiling melancholy to it, such a blue joy— until Kei thought about it long enough to distinguish between forlornness and forgiveness, and then, long enough to know that Tobio himself hadn’t realised it.

The past is a foreign country, he said to Tobio that evening, over the dinner they were attempting to cook. They do things differently there. I read it in a book once.

Tobio’d stopped peeling his sweet potato, set it down, and groaned loudly. Oh, God, here you go again.

I’m serious, you asshole. There’s no such thing as lost time. And if there is, you can’t do anything about it. You can’t go there anymore. It’s a foreign country.

He hadn’t groaned again, but he hadn’t said anything until the potatoes were in the pot and he was sitting at the piano again.

Fine, he said then. Halfway through the album, then?

Yes, Kei had smiled. Get it all out. Call it “Nightbreak”. Then make room for the rest of the cosmogony.

The— what? What the fuck is cosmogony?

Tobio plays Nightbreak for the children, and then, of course, Sun, World, Universe. Then he makes them all turn around and points to where Kei’s trying to sink into the floor, and plays Luna.

‘It’s called love,’ Yachi laughs afterwards, when the children are finally dancing, Sawamura-san clapping and calling out encouragements. ‘All of it. That music and this one too.’ She points to the stage just as one of the boys slips and Sawamura-san rushes to steady him, ruffling his hair. ‘When things start pulling together all the time, it’s no longer a novelty, is it?’

‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,’ Kei sighs.

‘When you’re content,’ Yachi says. ‘Content all the time— with some lows, of course, but so many highs. When the standard of your life changes, it’s going to stop being new, right? But it’s still new right now. You and Tobio-kun, happy at the same time. Your worlds are full. That’s still new, isn’t it?’

She smiles, then laughs again as Sawamura-san exclaims something about this being his favourite batch of angel’s he’s ever trained, and doesn’t everyone agree.

‘Enjoy the newness, Kei-kun,’ she says. ‘And then enjoy when it gets old. I’m sure it will.’

✶

By all logic, there’s no reason for Tetsurou to be home early from the bar on a Friday night in the middle of July. If it was Saturday Kei would be right there with him, if only for an hour or two, on his usual spot at the far end of the counter where he can best make conversation with Yaku and watch Tetsurou and Bokuto shake cocktails and laugh with patrons. Every once in a while Tetsurou would come over to refill Kei’s drink and collect a kiss and promise we’ll get out of here soon.

It never happens. Kei doesn’t want it to; can’t imagine anything more selfish than tearing Tetsurou away from all that activity.

Friday nights, though, when Kei gets home late from work, student appointments and supervisor deadlines still clogging his brain, he enjoys the blissful quiet of the apartment. Takes his time in the shower, heats the food he picked up on the way, and eats it on the couch before an art history special with his feet propped on the coffee table.

Sometimes, after, he cleans up and heads to their perfect bedroom with its always-glacial temperature and blackout curtains and Tetsurou’s weighted blanket that Kei can no longer do without. Then, sometimes, with just one lamp on—

It’s where Tetsurou finds him, of course, because it wouldn’t have been reasonable to get home early enough from the bar to catch Kei watching something boring on the couch. No, he sneaks in when Kei’s already gotten rid of his clothes, when the air-conditioning is raising goosebumps all over his bare shoulders and chest, when he’s gotten so far he doesn’t realise Tetsurou’s home until the bedroom door slides open.

‘Kei? The— oh.’

To his credit, Tetsurou moves fast. Turns his back while Kei sits up and adjusts his boxers, face flaming. He looks hilarious; they both probably do, with Kei half-naked on the bed and red all over, and Tetsurou in his dress shirt, back turned, shoulders oddly straight like he’s standing to attention.

They’re both acutely aware of it: that it’s the barest Tetsurou’s ever seen Kei, even with the boxers covering his still-hard length. The perfect intersection of their personal preferences and the careful, loving film of modesty they keep between them has made it so that they don’t shower together; they don’t sleep shirtless; they don’t.

And Kei has never craved it, until this very moment, where he can see Tetsurou crossing his arms, nails digging lightly into his own elbows like he has never craved it until this moment too.

‘You can turn around if you want.’

It takes a second, but Tetsurou does turn. And oh, thank God, he doesn’t look nervous— only sheepish, and endearing, and a little aroused.

‘Sorry,’ he says with a crooked smile. ‘I texted you but, well. You were clearly occupied.’

‘I was.’ Kei takes a deep breath, wills his erection down. His heart’s thundering. ‘Have you eaten? There’s—’

‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Please,’ Kei whispers.

In a moment Tetsurou’s striding to the bed, swooping down on him. He tastes like candied ginger, of course he does, a grain or two of sugar still tucked into the corners of his lips, Kei licking up all of it from behind his teeth. He smells like the cigarettes Kei’s stopped smoking and the sticky summer air, and yes, Kei’s almost always thinking of Tetsurou when he touches himself, but it’s nothing compared to having the real thing in his arms so close to the moment he was imagining it. He’s caught off-guard, too weak to suppress his sounds; gasps when Tetsurou touches his neck, moans when Tetsurou pushes him back into the pillows, gets some weight on him. Whimpers when the lips he’s spent more time with in his head than awake start finally trailing down his chest, then back up to his own.

‘Can I?’ he manages between two kisses. ‘Continue? Can I?’

‘Yes,’ Tetsurou says. His voice is tight, and by now Kei knows to recognise— and— it’s good tight, good tight. Good. ‘Just— just you, is that okay? Can I stay like this?’

Of course he can. Kei turns on his side as Tetsurou settles on his own, and for a moment it’s only kisses and breaths, noses bumping, hands wandering. And then Tetsurou gets his thigh between both of Kei’s, then laughs when he realises he’s trapped Kei’s boxers. Kei laughs too, though it’s more breathless. With Tetsurou before him he’s shielded from the nightlamp, and doesn’t think twice about easing the boxers down, only shivers as the cold air hits him. Then shivers again as Tetsurou’s arm comes to rest on his hip and he feels the sleeve of his shirt— Kei’s naked; Tetsurou’s not. This time Tetsurou’s trousers rub the soft insides of his thighs, and if Kei had been any further gone when Tetsurou stumbled upon him, he’d come just from the knowledge of that cotton on his skin.

As it is, he knows it won’t be long, the moment he gets a hand around himself. Tries his best to draw it out, to memorise this, keep it warm in a corner of his mind for winter months, for the next time he’ll be alone in this bed or in the shower, with something tangible to think back to this time instead of a half-imagined, half-extrapolated image of Tetsurou under him, mouth open, chest heaving, hips out of control under Kei’s. No, this is a million times more powerful; it’s real and imperfect and somehow exactly what Kei expected, though his brain could never have come up with it. It’s Tetsurou pressed clumsily close to him, so that Kei can smell the day’s work in the crook of his neck. It’s Tetsurou’s watch still on his wrist, the metal of it cold when he runs trembling fingers down Kei’s cheek, tucks Kei’s hair behind his ear. It’s the way his eyes are so dark and focused on Kei, so focused they’re faraway— it’s Tetsurou, here, next to Kei, committing this to memory for the day he will touch himself. Thinking of Kei, thinking—

‘Fuck,’ Tetsurou bites out. Trails a hand so close to Kei’s length that Kei sees terrifying stars, grabs his wrist and pulls it closer, Tetsurou’s fingertips at his base— ‘I want—’

And Kei knows. Kei knows; the desperation, the frustration, the guilt of the frustration. Presses a half-kiss to Tetsurou’s mouth, whispers, ‘We can find ways—’

‘I don’t want to find ways,’ Tetsurou growls. ‘I want to see you come. I want you to get inside me and do— magical— things—’ He finally wraps his hand around Kei’s erection and that’s just about it, but when Kei whimpers and curls into him he continues, strangled and ruthless. ‘Do you get it, professor? I want this just as bad. Promise. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. I want you so bad I might go insane—’

And Kei can’t believe he’s about to come to this, but he can’t believe anything when it comes to Tetsurou. So he squeezes his eyes shut and lets Tetsurou stroke him frantic and possessive, and thinks, for just one second, about it— about opening Tetsurou up, about how they could, could—

Kei shouts when he comes, a rough sound tearing out his throat and into Tetsurou’s shirt, just above where it’s going wet. Tetsurou doesn’t seem to care; presses himself closer, even, as if he wants Kei’s orgasm to soak into his skin. For the winter months. Yes, he holds Kei tight enough to see them both through until the next time. Because there will be one; Tetsurou’s promising him fervently in his ear even as Kei writhes, we’re doing this again, please, can we do this again—

‘Yes,’ Kei gasps. Whenever. ‘Yes.’

✶

Tetsurou gets that look on his face when Kei’s brushing his teeth later. He’s leaning on the counter, his own toothbrush in hand, toothpaste in the other, hair still damp from his shower. Watching Kei wash his mouth out like he’s never seen it before. It happens occasionally; when Kei cracks a particularly brutal joke while drying the dishes, or when they’re fighting traffic in the car and regretting just not taking the metro, and a song comes on the radio that Tetsurou loves. It’s a specific look; Tetsurou fighting himself because even a year and a half in, he doesn’t know which touches he has an unasked right to— which is, all of them.

It’s ironic, then, because Kei— who doesn’t allow very many people to touch him at all— would let Tetsurou kiss him every minute of every day. Even in the heat of summer. Even stuck in a traffic jam. Even if he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth. But instead, Tetsurou will get the look he has on right now, where he’s convincing himself he has no right to reach out and kiss Kei’s shoulder when he just refused to undress before Kei in bed.

Kei has thought of trying to explain it to him before: that just because Tetsurou’s hundred percent doesn’t look like Kei’s, doesn’t mean it’s not hundred percent. That it’s unbelievable to Kei that every day, Tetsurou tries his stunning best to redefine hundred percent just so he can give more to Kei. That it’s ridiculous that he should think it isn’t enough, that—

What if I want to give you all that, and I know I can’t, and it fucking kills me?

Courage fails Kei, as it often does. He makes space for Tetsurou before the sink, and imagines the kiss instead of asking for it.

✶

‘I was the one who stopped therapy,’ Tetsurou says when they’re back in the bed, blanket heavy and perfect on them both. He’s on his back, eyes trained on the ceiling. ‘Three years ago, once the bar was up and running.’

Kei doesn’t know whether to put his book away or keep it open, which would be less threatening. Opts to close it but leave it on his chest, and hums carefully.

‘I think— I wanted a goal. You know, that— the reason I had to get over it, get better, was so I could open this bar with Koutarou. And I thought once I did that, that’d be it. I’d be proud, and happy, and all— the fog would clear. And everything would fall back into place. Even if it wasn’t the same place.’

Kei puts the book away.

‘But,’ Tetsurou inhales, ‘that just— didn’t happen. I mean, everything was in motion, and you know how smart and sexy I am—’ Kei can hear the grin in his voice, allows himself a snort— ‘—it was all going well. But I wasn’t— there was no pride. No happiness.’

He clears his throat. ‘So I stopped. Because I figured life was just going to be like this now, and there was nothing to look forward to. What was the point of getting any better— what was the point?’ Tetsurou takes an unsteady breath; Kei’s hand shoots out under the blanket; their fingers touch and jump; Tetsurou latches on. Cold but tight.

‘It’s different now,’ he says. ‘I want to go back. I didn’t realise that— happiness needs work too. Being happy, I mean. Not— not getting there. Being it.’

He doesn’t say anything for long enough that Kei dares to speak up. ‘Are you saying you need happiness management classes?’

Tetsurou bursts into laughter. So sweet it rushes into Kei’s chest and hurts all over. ‘Fuck— yeah, that’s it. I need happiness management classes.’ He turns to his side, fits his fingers better between Kei’s. ‘I need classes to deal with wanting more things. Like your excellent manhood—’

‘Tetsurou.’ But he’s the one who brought it up, so Kei takes the chance. ‘Is that something you’d— want to see a professional about, too? I could come along, if you wanted.’

Tetsurou’s smile wanes a thread. ‘You shouldn’t have to come along. It’s my problem.’

‘It isn’t a problem,’ Kei says. ‘And whatever it is, it’s ours, not just yours.’

There it is; the ominous deep breath, the one Tetsurou takes before either making a well-placed remark that reminds Kei to step back— or before smiling and saying okay, just to stop the discussion.

But this time, Tetsurou speaks. ‘It is just mine. Hinata’s concert is my problem. Figuring out where to put the treadmill and the meds and this stupid anti-anxiety blanket was my problem.’ It’s a miracle he hasn’t let go of Kei’s hand yet. ‘Kei, I’m the one bringing all these— these caveats into the house. Not you.’

But Kei’s the one who lets go. Just so he can sit up cross-legged, and prop his chin on his hand to stare openly at Tetsurou, who looks back with all his might. Kei thinks with all his might, too.

‘I’m allergic to passionfruit,’ he says, finally.

Tetsurou blinks. ‘I know. I had to stop buying those stupid mixed fruit juice packs.’

‘The first time I slept over at your apartment,’ Kei continues. ‘When I woke up my nose was completely stuffed. I hadn’t had rhinitis that bad in months. It took us all day to figure out it was your detergent, remember?’

Tetsurou sighs, catching on. Sits up too, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Kei…’

‘And just so you know,’ he says, leaning forward and putting on his widest serious eyes, ‘I hate getting blowjobs. And I would’ve hated it even if you’d met me five years ago. And I would’ve been allergic to passionfruit and your weird manly mint detergent back then too.’

He pushes one last time, when Tetsurou doesn’t answer. ‘Of course it matters where the caveats come from— yours didn’t come from the same place mine did. But at the end of the day, all caveats are the same. They exist and we work with them.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Together.’

For a moment he thinks Tetsurou’s going to do it again. Take a deep breath, smile, and say okay. But he doesn’t. He takes a corner of the blanket and plays with it, buffs a nail with its stiff cotton edge, rolls it tight in thin while Kei waits.

‘I’m— not ready for that,’ Tetsurou says, finally. ‘I want to try figuring it out with just the two of us first.’ He looks up quickly, eyes wary. ‘But if you—’

That’s where the real problem is, Kei thinks. That Tetsurou thinks they’re working on a certain supply of Kei’s patience, and that it will one day run out. That Kei knows this, knows they’re working on a certain supply of Tetsurou’s resolve in the face of a patience he imagines to be finite.

And that is the problem; that Tetsurou keeps mistaking love for patience, and then attaching a limit to it.

‘Then I’m not ready either,’ Kei says. ‘I’m not ready to do something you’re not ready to do yet. And there’s a much shorter way to say that.’ He smiles. ‘We’re not ready yet. We’ll try figuring it out between us first.’

‘Okay,’ Tetsurou murmurs, closes his eyes. Opens them again suddenly. ‘Wait— you hate getting what now?’

✶

(‘You know what I don’t like about this?’ Tobio asks at the end of moving day, when they’ve finally slunk out of the study to help Hinata with the curtains and kitchen and recycling.

Kei freezes, shoulders going taut with unpleasant surprise for a second before he forces himself to move. Puts away the wine he was about to sip and leans backwards the rail, eye on the living room where Tetsurou and Daichi-san are battling the wifi router.

‘What,’ Kei sighs. ‘What do you not like about this, your highness?’

But Tobio doesn’t answer. When Kei turns to him, he’s looking down where the rush hour traffic’s beginning to gather, five floors below. Face carefully blank the way it gets when he’s sorry, but sorry’s not enough.

‘Come on,’ Kei says. ‘You’ve already pissed me off, and it can’t be the worst thing you’ve said to me.’

Tobio takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair. Turns to Kei.

‘It’s that you’re still—’ he takes a deep breath, that darkness in his eyes going, for a moment, so sad. ‘You’re still just pining for him. How come you haven’t stopped pining?’)

✶

Though at least a dozen others will eventually show up at the boundless celebration of Bokuto’s thirty-second birthday, Kei, by dint of being Tetsurou’s partner, is in the privileged early spot— tasked with chopping tomatoes and de-stemming herbs while Akaashi battles the tiramisu and Tetsurou tries to sneak beers to Bokuto. The music’s already going strong, the sun already setting this late into September. Kei’s favourite season, and so, great luck that his own thirtieth is in three days.

‘Kuroo-san seems to have magnificent things planned for the weekend,’ Akaashi says on cue, as he stirs his coffee, the rich, bitter smell of espresso marrying the coolness of the kitchen perfectly. ‘Don’t tell him I told you, but I heard something about a combined doctorate party.’

‘Oh, God,’ Kei sighs. ‘I have half a mind not to get it just to spite him. I still have a semester to go and he keeps asking me to practice my defence before him.’

Akaashi laughs, pours the coffee into a bowl. ‘He’s very proud of you, you know.’

Kei shrugs, stares at the steam rising from the bowl for a second before turning back to his tomatoes. ‘I don’t know what he’s so proud of, honestly. I was already four years into the degree when we met— he just saw the last of it.’

‘So that disqualifies him from being awed at your previous work?’ Kei tenses at that, worried Akaashi’s offended, but when he looks up Akaashi’s smiling, a knowing twinkle in his eye. ‘I think it’s very possible not to have been present for something and still understand the magnitude of it. It’s what made you who you were when you met, no?’

And— Kei would give anything to just be able to ask. Just say yes, I hear what you’re saying, but the magnitude before me is so vast I can’t even begin to compute it, and no one wants to tell me about it, only talk in riddles. Just be selfish for a second and demand it, a word or two, a photograph. Anything to be able to participate, just once, just a little, in that hushed significance of loving Tetsurou.

Only—

‘Gentlemen, I’m happy to announce— wow.’ Tetsurou stops short in the doorway, an empty beer can held up triumphantly, mock-serious. ‘Akaashi, what terrible truth did you reveal to my consort? Why does he look like a pensive old wizard?’

‘Nothing too bad,’ Akaashi says. ‘I might have told him about when you and Terushima tried to dye your hair—’

Only, Kei is the only one who can love him like this. With the fragility of witnessing his past through a glass wall— with the abandon of never having seen it play out before his eyes. Safely. He is the only one who can love Tetsurou safely, surely, soundly. He is the only one who can be loved by Tetsurou to the full extent of his ever-evolving hundred percent. The only one safe for Tetsurou to touch as often as he wants, hold as tight as he wants. The only one who chose, and was chosen.

‘I wasn’t quite listening,’ he says. ‘Could you tell me again, please, Akaashi-san? I’ll record it this time.’

✶

Late into October when autumn has its dry, chilling grasp on their ankles and Kei’s days on campus feel longer and longer because of how little the sun stays out, he comes home one Friday evening to the sound system playing the nameless bar’s closing-up mix and the spicy, mouth-watering scent of a curry that has just come together.

The day’s been long; endless revisions of the penultimate section of his thesis until he had to take a painkiller for the headache behind his eyes, a runthrough of his defence with Futakuchi that lasted three hours, and the entire metro ride filled with the self-doubt that creeps up on him more and more often the closer he gets to the end of his doctorate. And yet it all melts away when he steps into the open kitchen and sees Tetsurou at the stove, in a dress shirt and duck-patterned sweatpants, and the ridiculous cat slippers Kenma got him last Christmas.

‘Welcome back,’ Tetsurou calls when he hears Kei’s satchel drop. ‘We couldn’t open today because Inuoka busted a pipe in the washroom. A pipe, Kei! My shoes were soaked—’ Kei walks into Tetsurou, chest to back, arms around his waist. Tetsurou doesn’t even jump. ‘—and you clearly seem to have had a worse day than me anyway. Why do you always win?’

‘It wasn’t bad,’ Kei mutters into his collar. ‘Just long. Do I have time to shower?’

He does. Dinner is even better with the fatigue washed off him, and real hunger in his stomach. He spends all of it listening to Tetsurou rage about the broken pipe and how expensive plumbers are, then, once they each have a glass of wine in hand, starts on his own complaints. Tetsurou’s animated, involved; knows all the gossip at Geidai’s department of music, whispers no way when he’s supposed to, and promises, as always, that once Kei has his degree safely in hand, he’s going to have words with this Muramatsu character, thesis supervisor or not.

By the time they clear the table, the joy of the weekend has crept up on Kei. He doesn’t want to watch something on the couch; he wants to take his laptop and a spare speaker to bed and put one of his favourite playlists on, maybe have a glass or two more, and not move until late into the morning tomorrow. Then they can heat up leftover curry and have it with hot rice before a movie, and Saturday will still be theirs. A walk, maybe, and tea and cake by the river—

‘You’re staring,’ Tetsurou says. And Kei is; in the doorway of their bedroom, Tetsurou looks a picture with Kei’s glass of white in one hand, a glass of water in the other, still in his ridiculous combination of clothes. Kei wants it all off. ‘Do I look that provocative? All you have to do is—’

‘Get changed,’ Kei says, rolling his eyes and going back to his song selection. ‘You’re going to crease the shirt.’

And Tetsurou takes the shirt off, but doesn’t replace it with anything. Kei only realises when he puts his laptop away and sees Tetsurou right there beside him, all golden skin and easy lines, focused on the text he’s typing at lightning speed. It’s so unthinking, his absent posture, and it’s been six months but it’s still new. Still enjoyable.

Kei shifts closer, leans his chin on Tetsurou’s shoulder. ‘Who’re you texting?’

‘Koutarou,’ he replies. The text’s a paragraph long and full of words Kei doesn’t care about, like plumber and that bastard Yaku and tomorrow. ‘I’m just letting him—’ Kei tries it; a kiss on his shoulder. ‘Letting him know—’ Another. ‘So that—’ Another; Tetsurou sends the text and lets his phone drop. ‘Aren’t we frisky tonight, professor.’

‘Maybe.’ And Kei’s at the cusp of something astute about Tetsurou’s reaction or lack thereof, but between the music and the wine and the autumn fog outside, he doesn’t want to say it. Something about spontaniety and letting want happen as it does, which is only possible now that they’ve set up security around it.

Tetsurou, though, says it. Leans back into Kei’s arms and bares his neck for Kei to kiss, and laughs softly.

‘This is so stupid,’ he whispers. ‘I hated undressing, it gave me just enough time to think about we were doing and freak out. Turns out I just had to take my shirt off beforehand.’

‘Or,’ Kei says, lips under Tetsurou’s ear now, working a shudder out of him, ‘maybe you need to stop thinking about it so much, period.’

‘One thing at a time, sweetheart. And now hurry up and kiss me before I start thinking about it again.’

But he does think about it, because he’s allowed to, now that they’ve established handholds and footholds between the two absolutes that are yes and stop. Places for Tetsurou to draw back, lean his forehead against Kei’s, and whisper break and close his eyes until he’s ready again, either to start again or end it.

That’s the point, Kei had said when they spoke about it. It’s not about trying to avoid us having to stop. It’s about making sure we can stop without dropping from hundred to zero. He’d tried not to make his honesty sound harsh. Because that’s what makes you feel so terrible afterwards, I think.

‘Break,’ Tetsurou says again, when Kei’s eased him down to his boxers, the hard line of his length so perfect under the dark red fabric. ‘Blanket, I think. Will you be too hot?’

‘I’ll just have to undress, won’t I?’ Kei quips, exhales when it makes Tetsurou laugh. Reaches to the foot of the bed to draw the blanket over their legs, and works to slide out of his nightclothes. ‘Water?’

‘I’m good.’ Tetsurou turns on his side and opens his eyes; laughs weakly and closes them again. ‘Oh, God, you look like an angel.’ Opens them again. ‘Come back here.’

This time each kiss lasts longer, hands bumping into each other on the way to necks, ribs, hips. Tetsurou doesn’t stop him once, not even when the slide of Kei’s fingers down his flank makes him shiver down to the toes pressing against Kei’s ankles. No; Tetsurou curves even closer, smooth and instinctive like he’s only following the rise and fall of the music into Kei’s arms. And Kei doesn’t save any of it for later; enjoys it now. The perfect bass line of one of their favourite songs, one that Tetsurou showed him, and gloated about weeks later to everyone at a party. I showed him a song he liked. How many of you present here can say that?

Kei loves him. Loves his jokes and poise and breathy little sounds, the way his pulse actually calms every time Kei feels him start to tremble and guides his hand up, up, to where Kei’s own heart is beating fast but moored. Tetsurou steals his heartbeat and imitates it; Tetsurou takes deep breaths before kissing him. When he turns around to press his back to Kei’s chest, Kei already misses his face.

‘Like this?’ Tetsurou asks, as if Kei wouldn’t give him everything he wanted. ‘I thought we could— like last time— but just me first? Just— my hand, so I know where it’s going.’ Then he hooks an arm backwards around Kei’s waist. ‘But stay. Please.’

Kei takes his wrist and brings his hand forward, places it over his stomach. ‘I’ll stay. Just you tonight.’ Just him, because Kei’s so aroused he can’t even imagine ending it with an orgasm when he could stay like this all night, between anticipation and enactment. Between imagination and realisation.

Between his and Tetsurou’s desire. Right where they are learning to make place for themselves. Kei’s hands on Tetsurou’s strong thighs, lips on the nape of his neck as Tetsurou starts to stroke himself, as those first shudders that Kei knows so well roll up his spine, so heavy for how long it’s been.

I just couldn’t, Tetsurou’d whispered to him late one night, when they’d talked enough for the quietest stories to come out. I— it felt like if someone wasn’t around to— fuck, supervise me, I don’t know— I’d— well. I mean, that’s what the French call it, right? The little—

‘Oh,’ Tetsurou whispers. Kei closes his eyes and presses his temple to Tetsurou’s shoulderblade, trying to listen for the hitch in his breath before it makes it to the outside air. The beautiful surge of his blood. His body, learning what it can and cannot do. Each lesson a curl of his free hand caught up in Kei’s, nails digging into Kei’s palms when it starts mounting. ‘Kei?’ It sounds almost like a whimper, shoots straight to a place in Kei’s chest he didn’t even know existed. A place Tetsurou made for himself. ‘Kei—’

‘Right here,’ Kei promises. ‘It’s all right. You’re all right.’

Tetsurou nods furiously, then makes a sound. Wraps his free hand around Kei’s hard enough to make his joints hurt, and drags it up, presses it to his damp chest. Kei screws his eyes shut and splays his fingers, feels the thundering of Tetsurou’s most troublesome muscle; the beat, yes, of his impossible heart. Safe under Kei’s staying hand but terrified of itself—

Tetsurou comes, crying out so loud it makes Kei gasp, then biting the pillow to muffle the rest of it. Kei still hears it echo from his chest to his back, still feels the feverish twitch of his hips, the jump in his stomach as he rides it out. Kei can’t help a sound of his own, open lips dragging over Tetsurou’s shoulder, body heaving along with his.

It lasts long, each aftershock an earthquake, Tetsurou now silent, if breathing hard.

Then, slowly, he lets go of the hand Kei has on his chest, reaches for the tissues on the nightstand. Kei backs away enough to let him clean up and tug his boxers back on; is close enough to realise he’s not relaxing, not fully.

But: ‘Wow,’ Tetsurou laughs breathlessly. Voice a little high, a little bruised. The song playing in the background is too wrong, suddenly. ‘God. Forgot what that was like.’

‘I hope that’s positive,’ Kei murmurs, smoothing a hand down his side. Tries to stifle the fluttering in his own chest, the sinking in his stomach.

‘Oh, very.’ But Tetsurou doesn’t turn around, and Kei knows he’s not lying, but— ‘Holy shit. God, sorry, let me just—’ He sits up too fast, leaves Kei’s arms curled around air. ‘Fuck, I’m all sweaty. I should shower. And— let you relax a bit, huh? Unless you’ve changed your mind about—’

But he doesn’t turn around.

‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ Kei says. Oh, God, his voice sounds too dull. He should— ‘Do you want to shower—?’

‘Alone. Sorry, uh— I’ll be quick. Save you lots of hot water.’ He finally turns around, only halfway, giving Kei only his profile as he reaches back to stroke Kei’s cheek. ‘My pretty professor.’

It is the first of the many things that start to kill Kei when Tetsurou’s left, sliding the door carefully shut. That profile, thrown into shadow by the lamp just behind it, so that Kei couldn’t distinguish any of Tetsurou’s features. It’s the first: that he didn’t even get to see Tetsurou’s face. He could’ve done with that alone for the rest of his life— just one second, just one, of seeing him open and vulnerable and in complete, perfect surrender.

All at once the music is too loud, the song now playing the second one they ever danced together to upstairs at the bar, past closing when only the dimmest lights were on and Yaku was cleaning downstairs with headphones on. Upstairs, Tetsurou had pretended to listen with scientific gravity as Kei explained the production of the album to him, shoulders swaying, feet shuffling. Kei closes his eyes and sees the corner of the upper floor where the stairs cut off, where one of the floorboards has started creaking, and when he opens them next they’re wet.

Kei sits up, takes a deep shuddering breath, and then, when it doesn’t work, another. Presses the heel of his hand to his sternum.

What he really needs, he decides, is a cigarette. He must have a pack left over somewhere, if he could only get up, turn the music off, and look for it. Put his clothes back on. Bring his wineglass back to the kitchen, make tea, maybe. The night is still young; once Tetsurou’s gone to bed, he could even call up Futakuchi to see if the menace is still out in town. Do something, anything, other than sit here and—

The door slides open again. It can’t have been even three minutes— Tetsurou’s— dripping wet, a new pair of boxers on him, wet, too, like he pulled them on without— no, he didn’t bother with a towel. Stepped out of the shower halfway through and walked right back here, like—Kei looks up at his face, his soaked hair swept back from his forehead, cheeks flushed, lips trembling—

He looks into Tetsurou’s eyes last; Tetsurou’s face crumples. He stumbles to the bed, falls into Kei’s arms. Soaks him immediately, water slipping past their shoulders and down Kei’s back. Down the backs of his hands. Into where his palms are pressing into Tetsurou’s hair.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tetsurou sobs; Kei’s drenched heart goes to shreds. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you.’

Kei can’t answer yet. Can barely breathe. Lies back on the pillows with Tetsurou on top of him, and tries not to make a noise, blinks up at the ceiling, lips parted, temples wet. Tries only to listen as Tetsurou cries and cries and cries, tries to take full breaths. Brings Tetsurou’s hand against his heart when it doesn’t work for either for them; holds it there, cold and wet and real. Wonders where they’ll sleep tonight if the mattress gets wet. Thinks about reaching under the bed and pulling out spare sheets, drying Tetsurou’s hair. Thinks I love you. I love you. I love you.

‘Can you tell me?’ he whispers; his voice breaks even then. ‘Can you try and give me some words?’

Tetsurou shakes his head, clutches him harder, tucking both hands tight under the solid weight of his back and inhaling with all his might, only to break his breathing again. So Kei lets him. Lies there and feels them both seeping through to the mattress, legs shivering, gooseflesh on their arms.

Finally, Tetsurou tries. ‘I was here.’ His voice is wrecked. ‘I was here. I was in my body.’

‘You still are.’ If Kei could move he’d prove it. Press Tetsurou’s hand to his own heart, the one Kei hears even when he isn’t listening for it. ‘Tetsurou.’

‘I want to be here,’ Tetsurou says. Shakes into sobs again. ‘I want to be here with you. All the time.’

He wants to say I’ll wait until you are. Wants to say I’ll come get you. But neither of those could do justice to Tetsurou, whose here, when it means with Kei, means the world Kei lives in. Who has to fight himself every morning to trust life for one more day, so that he can make it that much closer to all the love he doesn’t dare touch. Who is impossible to reason with, so intimate is his reality, so absolute his truth.

‘You can be,’ Kei answers. ‘You already are. But— but you can be.’ It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He means it with all his heart. ‘Tetsurou, listen.’ He passes a quick hand over his eyes, only it’s wet and they’re wet and everything— ‘Listen. Favourite song. Silly lyrics. Great synth.’ It’s true. Kei showed him this one. Tetsurou said the chorus was pure Shakespeare. ‘You didn’t shut off the exhaust fan. Still going.’ Kei doesn’t have to recalibrate his instinct; his vision of the world. Tetsurou is at the heart of it, in a place only he could have made, turning music into more music. ‘Do you hear it?’

‘No,’ Tetsurou says. And then, oh, he laughs. Thick and clogged and terrible. ‘Can’t hear anything. Your heart’s so loud I think it’s about to punch me on the nose.’

Kei laughs too. Then laughs again, presses his lips to Tetsurou’s messy wet hair. ‘That’s your own.’ Takes a deep breath. This one sticks. ‘Because you broke mine a little earlier. Don’t do that again. When you’re here— stay here. Let me be here too.’

‘I will.’ Tetsurou finally raises his head, eyes rimmed red, face pale, cheeks wet. ‘Now I know I can. That’s— that was the scariest part. Realising I could— that I could be here. And you could— see it. And be here too.’

And then he smiles. Beautiful and here and here. And here. ‘I just thought of a shorter way to say that.’

✶

(Kei stares at Tobio for a long moment, then snorts and looks away, shakes his head, squints into the setting sun. Tries to find the words to say it.

That’s just the Tetsurou effect, he wants to say first. Don’t you know? Where you want to both hold him and shake him but you’re not close enough to do either. But that would be immensely unfair, and moreover, untrue.

But— there are barely any words to articulate the truth of it, then— the horrid and joyful and singing undertaking that is loving Kuroo Tetsurou in his second life. And ninth. And hundredth.

‘I’m not pining,’ he says, finally. ‘I’m waiting. We’re here together. He just turns his back sometimes.’ That young man must be the brightest thing in the world. ‘But he always turns around.’

Tobio stares at him, stares, stares, until suddenly his eyes fill up, as if Kei burns to look at. He lets them, lets two tears brim over, mouth set stubborn, daring Kei to say something about it.

‘He’s going to turn around,’ Kei says, instead. ‘He turned around yesterday. And he’ll turn around tomorrow. So wipe your face and finish your wine. And let’s go inside.’)

✶

‘Oh my God, yes,’ Hinata says solemnly the moment his eyes fall on Tetsurou’s shirt. ‘Yes. This is exactly what everyone should be wearing to my gigs. Those girls in those huge platform heels need to take note.’

Kei rolls his eyes, goes back to that one lock of Tobi’s hair that refuses to bend to the gel. Tetsurou, of course, is never going to let anyone live this down; never mind that it’s showtime in half an hour and the first act is on the stage, he’s already striking his third pose for Yachi’s camera. It’ll all be up on Instagram tonight, Hinata in his gig gear and Tetsurou in his blue tiger shirt, a misplaced holidayer who accidentally walked into a pop concert.

His hair looks terrible. One of his earplugs is slowly sliding out.

‘Tetsurou, they’re moulded,’ Kei huffs, dismissing Tobio and stomping over. ‘Will you just press them in—’

‘They’re gross! They feel like silicone!’

‘Yes, that is what they’re made of, and you’re a big boy, so press them in—’

‘Fine, fine.’ He makes an exaggerated motion, shoves both earplugs in as far as they’ll go. ‘Happy?’

‘Very.’ Kei smooths both hands down his ridiculous shirt, then up his neck and into his hair. ‘And you’ll tell me if you want to leave? Even if it’s five minutes in—’

‘Wow, really selling Shouyou short there—’

Kei leans around Tetsurou’s shoulder and flips Tobio the bird. ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be having pre-gig sex in the bathroom?’

Tobio says fuck off just as Hinata laughs good point, so Kei ignores them both and turns back to Tetsurou, who’s looking at him with a very strange smile. Half-impatient, half-adoring, like he can’t decide how exactly he wants to annoy Kei.

‘I promise,’ he says. ‘Okay?’

‘Promise what?’

Tetsurou grins. ‘I just promise.’

✶

A world of anticipation awaits them when they finally get to their seats. Or— a world of silence. Thousands of held breaths and murmurs as the stage goes dark, thousands of delicate lights on held-up phones and torches. Tetsurou’s already standing at the edge of the box, elbows leaning on the velvet parapet keeping him above and away from the crowd. Kei stares at him in the glittering dark, then stares out at the lights.

Then the stage lights up and the world explodes into sound, a single, perfect note filling the air.

Tetsurou freezes as if stunned. Then cups his hands around his mouth and screams as loud as he can.

ORESTES: It’s rotten work.

PYLADES: Not to me. Not if it’s you.