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Kuroo’s new apartment in Kips Bay is in a typical New York glass-and-steel highrise, with a chandelier in the lobby and a criminally underpaid yet nevertheless boisterous doorman who already knows Kuroo’s schedule by heart, judging by the way he levels a smile at them and asks, “Get off work early today?”
“Yeah, they let me out of the cage before eight,” Kuroo replies, a bashful grin on his face. “Absolutely unheard of. A Christmas miracle in July, I would say.”
“Definitely,” the doorman agrees cheerfully. “I don’t know how you business folks do it. With those endless days of yours and all. Though I bet the alcohol and crazy partying helps.”
Kuroo’s laugh is bright. “You work hard too, with those twelve hour shifts of yours. Remind me to get you a coffee one of these days, you deserve it.”
The doorman shakes his head. “You’re too kind.” Then, looking at Akaashi, he asks politely, “Friend of yours?”
Akaashi looks at Kuroo. It’s the first time he’s seen the man in months and he looks different, somehow, freer. Still not a hair out of place on his head, body wrapped sleek in a freshly pressed suit — none of this is out of the ordinary, of course, but the way his shoulders sit relaxed and the ease of the smile on his face makes Akaashi wonder how Kuroo has changed since the move. It really has been a while.
Kuroo doesn’t look back at him. He says, “You could say that.”
“Ah,” the doorman murmurs in understanding. He looks as if he wants to say something more, but eventually just shakes his head and says, “Welcome to the building. Anything I can help with, just let me know.”
Akaashi wonders how many people this porter has beckoned into Kuroo’s home, this den of marble and jewels, and quietly hopes he is the most memorable of them all.
-
The first place they go to is this sunny, cozy rooftop bar on top of a hotel in the heart of the city, with glass railings and a space so tight that Akaashi feels almost claustrophobic pressed up against bodies cloned in their ironed clothes, all angles and straight lines coupled along with the permeating scent of designer cologne and the wet, sticky heat that pervades New York in the summer. Though up here, the everyday parts of the city are left thirty stories down along the sidewalk and Akaashi is left to enjoy the metropolis so removed from the people below. All that he sees is suits and skyline. Sunset and splendor.
Kuroo hands him a dark drink in a coup, a perfectly dark cherry skewered and perched upon the rim.
“I got you a Manhattan,” he explains.
“I can see that.”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you didn’t know your cocktails.” He laughs, raising his own highball. “Thought it would be an apt way to say welcome back.”
Akaashi, quite frankly, wasn’t a fan of dark liquors, even though his previous experiences drinking with Kuroo may say otherwise. Unsolicited offers of whiskey seems to be a recurring theme with this man, as if Kuroo fancies himself as an purveyor of jazz in a plush nightclub from the twenties, pouring shots of bourbon for all the playthings he keeps at bay — the absolute asshole. Akaashi accepts the drink regardless, and as if hearing his thoughts, Kuroo swirls the singular sphere of ice in his drink and motions again for a toast.
“Cheers,” Kuroo says as their glasses touch. “To summers in the city.”
To summers. Akaashi is here for a month for a site visit for a client of his, who had flown him out to strategize in-person about how the company is going to save itself from bankruptcy, compensating him handsomely with flights, hotel stays, and a practically unlimited budget for his efforts. Naturally, as soon as he found out, Akaashi had texted Kuroo a simple are you in nyc for July, and Kuroo had responded with baby i live here now, and then you can stay with me if you want.
Akaashi had sent back a thanks, but my hotel is comped, but then followed it up with a though i’d like to see the new place. So here he is, at one of Kuroo’s schmoozy events, wiping the sweat off his brow and drinking his cocktail a little quicker than he would like in an attempt to cool down. It’s humbling, to say the least. He doesn’t know a single soul here.
Kuroo, knowing this, beckons him over with a wave. “You gotta meet my friend. I think you’d get along.”
The friend in question is the only person not wearing a suit. Dressed in pleated slacks and a short sleeve to match, he stands out from the crowd with a grown-out dye job and headphones slung nonchalantly around his neck. He looks out of place, not because he doesn't belong among a crowd of corporates, but because he is undoubtedly superior to them. Akaashi understands that he is dressed so casually because he has earned the right to, if the men surrounding him weren't enough evidence.
Kuroo slinks in the circle and brings Akaashi forward, as if presenting him as a lamb for slaughter. Eyes immediately flicker over to stare; Akaashi feels the tip of his ears going red, but he steadily takes a sip of his cocktail when Kuroo says, "Kenma, this is Akaashi. Keiji, this is my childhood friend and CEO of sports company Bouncing Ball LTD, among other things."
Akaashi remembers his manners and sticks his hand out for shaking. Kenma looks at it nonchalantly before accepting the greeting and declaring, "I've heard of you."
"Me?" Akaashi says, blinking. Shaking his surprise, he returns, "I've heard of you as well."
Kenma glares accusingly at Kuroo, who puts his arms up innocently and says, "I haven't said anything bad about you."
Akaashi clears his throat and continues: "Angel investor, one of the most well-known traders in the industry, a stream to boot— it is hard to not know who you are, Kozume Kenma. Pleasure."
Kenma hums lowly, as if satisfied. "You watch my stream?"
"I… must admit I don't have a particular taste for video games, though I have seen your clips floating around."
"Hmm," Kenma responds. "Honest, at least. Can you imagine how many people have tried to talk to me about my streams in order to do business with me only to fail miserably when I ask them a single question about the games I play?"
"Many, I reckon."
"He reckons," Kenma repeats with a snort. "Yes, many. How is London?"
Akaashi decides to ignore the fact that Kozume Kenma knows that he is from London for another time, and says, "It's fine. Gloomy and depressing. Nice architecture."
"The food isn't great there."
"It could use some work," Akaashi agrees, nodding along. "A lot of work, actually."
"Enjoy the cuisine while you're here then," Kenma replied, eyes sliding over to Kuroo before saying, "Kuro, we can catch up over dinner some other time."
Understanding the dismissal, Kuroo bows slightly with a smile. "Yeah, yeah, you're too hot shit for me right now, everyone's begging to get a piece of that Kozume cash."
"Kuro."
"Going, going," Kuroo laughs.
He tugs Akaashi away from the circle and off to a small clearing away from the crowd right along the railing of the balcony. Akaashi leans on it and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding before curtly saying, "I didn't realize you were best friends with one of the richest people on the planet."
"It's not a fact I brag about," Kuroo chuckles, "He has me beat pretty thoroughly on the success front. A little embarrassing, if you ask me."
"You're right," Akaashi nods. "That is humiliating. Does he ever sleep?"
"Actually, when we had sleepovers growing up he always stayed up playing video games. I have only ever seen him pass out of exhaustion, though I do tell him to get at least four hours when he can. I think he's trying to be better at that, his skin looks better since the last time I saw him."
"Four hours," Akaashi repeats.
"Besides," Kuroo continues, "if I told you that we were close, maybe you would have only wanted me for his money."
"Why would I have wanted you for that? Might as well cut the middleman if that was the goal."
"I can't tell if that is a compliment or not, Keiji."
"You're insinuating that I ever wanted you in the first place."
"Cold," Kuroo mourns. "You know, before that would've hurt my feelings a little. But I know now that the stoicism is a facade."
"Is it?" Akaashi questions.
"Nah. I know it isn't, you are one cold bitch. I'm not hurt, though. Look at this view."
The view is beautiful indeed, with the eight o'clock golden glaze of sunset tinting the skyscrapers around them orange and red, the windows reflecting angelic glare in turn; they are baptized in this light, like a sea of glowing infinite mirrors and the setting sun dimming the city around them in its wake.
"What is there to be hurt about?" Kuroo continues. "Me, you, this view, this city."
Me, you, this view, this city. As if there is nothing out there more beautiful than this. It's a captivating thought, that he could be a part of something Kuroo finds so blissful.
But Akaashi shakes his head and says, "Is there another multi-millionaire around here to humble you?"
"Actually, now that you mention it. One of my clients here used to run the Las Vegas nightlife scene."
"You're fucking kidding me."
"Not even a little," Kuroo grins. "You want to meet him?"
Akaashi finishes his drink and follows.
-
Surprisingly, dinner with Kuroo is a quiet affair. Tucked away in a Lower East Side nook is an understated sushi restaurant with beech flooring, bonsai decor, and a two hundred dollar omakase menu with both bar seating to spectate the chef and private rooms with tatami mats for intimacy. Kuroo reserved two seats for the former; no point in going to an omakase if you can't watch the man work his magic, he says. Akaashi is not one to disagree — the work of a sushi chef is mesmerizing, the precise deft of strong fingers dipping into wasabi, dabbing it on to a thick slice of ootoro, which is then pressed firmly against rice with a delicate scoop of caviar on top and presented on their stone plates one by one. Akaashi likes dinner and a show, but it's clear that Kuroo loves it, his attention pinned on the way the chefs dance around their mise en place, ladylike in their dedication to the elegance of the craft.
"Do you have a death row meal, Keiji?" Kuroo asks, licking the ponzu off his fingers.
"I have never thought about that."
"You strike me as a guy who would want something simple for his last meal. Like curry over rice, or something."
"Are you calling me broke?"
The chef places down yet another piece in front of them, hamachi with a razor-thin slice of jalapeño.
"Not at all," Kuroo disagrees. "Nothing wrong with something comfortable. You have so much going on up there, food isn't probably something you think about."
"On the contrary, it is. I could talk about how buttery this yellowtail is," Akaashi says, pausing to pick up the sushi, "which speaks to the quality of the fish since it can be quite lean and flavorless, and the pepper provides impact with a fresh crunch and hint of an herbaceous spice."
"See," Kuroo laughs. "So much going up in there. Just enjoy the food."
"It's an omakase. To not appreciate the meticulous detail would be an affront to your credit card bill."
"Nice to know you care about my pockets so much." Kuroo rolls his eyes. "But that's not the point. You're so damn cerebral, just thinking all the time. You're so quiet because you're in your head thinking your calculating and judgemental little thoughts and rationalizing everything that you don't know how to close your eyes and live in the moment unless you're five drinks in with Kunimi Akira shoving substances up your nose."
"I didn't know you knew me so well," Akaashi replied calmly, though he stares pointedly at the pile of ginger on his plate instead of Kuroo looking straight at him.
"I don't," Kuroo says. "I am trying to make an effort here, Keiji."
Keiji, Keiji, always purring his name as if it was some sort of beckoning call, an invitation to get closer, worming a way in. Akaashi thinks to himself, Tetsurou, and immediately recoils at the way it sounds to him, as if scratching an itch that isn't actually there. He remembers something about a cold night in San Francisco upon a hill. We were just fucking, Akaashi thinks. Then catches himself. Past tense. Plural.
"I do like curry rice," Akaashi settles on eventually.
"You look like you just went through the five stages of grief."
"Kuroo, please. This is me trying to meet your efforts. I am assuming your death row meal is sushi, then."
“Nah,” Kuroo says, despite plucking at the next piece of sushi as soon as it hits the plate. “It’s curry rice for me too. My mom made it for me a lot as a kid. It’s comforting. Feels like home and simpler times.”
“You have a lot going up there too, huh?”
“Yeah.” A wry smile. “We’re not so different, I think.”
Not so different. How can he say that, Akaashi wonders, a hasty conclusion stumbled upon during the happenstance of a chance rendezvous in a big, big city. It was only one night. And then it turned into another, and another, and another. No words spoken — none that mattered, anyway. Was it something about the way he moaned, Akaashi wonders, that would make Kuroo think of him as someone to hold close? What is there to have in common but sex and circumstance?
Akaashi pushes those thoughts away and picks up his sushi in turn. He says, “Maybe,” and entertains the distant fantasy of a skyscraper apartment with a balcony looking over the expanse of the city, and a doorman who knows him by name.
-
His job never relents on its grueling hours, especially on these business trips. Though his nights are filled with unending glasses of wine and Michelin-starred hors d'oeuvres, there is something so tiring about constantly monitoring your posture and your words around the people you are extracting millions of dollars from. Everything we do is always for our clients, his bosses say, and to that Akaashi thinks, yes, we are robbing them blind, might as well try to appease them as much as possible so we can steal a little more. So the few hours he has to himself are sacred windows of time to be alone and unwind before recollecting himself and doing it all the next day.
Akaashi finds himself at Kuroo’s apartment on more nights than not. It’s a matter of practicality, he reasons, because his place is closer to the client site than Akaashi’s hotel, and it’s honestly much nicer; though the luxury suite is immaculately kempt, there is something much more comforting about Kuroo’s flat. Maybe it’s the chaotically organized pieces of furniture that Kuroo keeps around — a bright red ceramic sculpture for a chair, an antique grandfather clock, a bar cart with rust around the wheels — that makes it seem refreshing. Or maybe it’s the fact that it is a home, and Akaashi tires of the sterile perfection of his hotel and his job and his own apartment in London that he only spends, at maximum, a couple days per month living in. It’s nice to have a place to return to, even if it isn’t a place that is his.
Besides, Kuroo makes a stellar cup of coffee.
“I think I want to quit my job,” Akaashi announces, before sipping at the drink that Kuroo has poured for him. “Retire early.”
“Retire?” Kuroo asks, sitting down next to him on the couch with his own mug. “You are thirty years early for that one.”
“I do pretty well for myself. I can probably retire in ten years.”
“That’s in ten years. You want to quit now.”
“Who doesn’t?” Akaashi grumbles. “No one wants to work. We work like this to get rich as fast as possible and do what we actually want to do in life.”
“Well then,” Kuroo says. “What would you do if you retired today?”
“I don’t know. Write a book. Compose some music. Travel the world.”
“Artistic endeavors.” Kuroo nods in understanding. “Things that don’t make money.”
“The good things in life are not revenue-generating. I don’t want to mix my hobbies with the monotony of capitalism.”
“You know that whole saying — you can’t love what you do if you don’t do what you love.”
“That is stupidly unrealistic,” Akaashi scoffs. “Do you love what you do?”
“No, but I don’t hate it,” Kuroo says. “I like the hustle, I like meeting people, I like the dinners and the drinks and the nights where you don’t even know what’s happening but you’re having a blast and the next day you’re in the background of paparazzi photos posted on Twitter. It’s exciting.”
“So what would you do if you retired today?”
Kuroo hums, looking up in thought as he takes a drink of his coffee. “Probably start a company or something.”
“You absolute pig.”
“That’s not very nice of you to say,” Kuroo sighs. “But seriously, I like putting my energy and effort into materializing something. I like having goals and working towards them, and I guess the whole businessman thing stuck as a way for me to do that. If that was out of the question, then I don’t know. Maybe I’d be a lawyer. I like talking.”
“I have noticed that.”
“You’re so mean to me, Keiji. But I know you have a heart in there somewhere — you can’t write books and make music without heart.”
“And you know this how?”
“You mean you didn’t notice the grand piano in my living room?”
Akaashi had, in fact, noticed the grand piano in Kuroo’s living room. It’s hard to miss: a Yamaha grand in all its order, pearly white and imposing in the way it brightens up the space with sophistication. He had assumed it was for decoration, quietly admiring the shape of the beast and how it starkly contrasts with the other miscellaneous items in Kuroo’s space. It is almost garish in its extravagance.
“You play?”
“Not well,” Kuroo admits. “I tried to learn. That's why I bought it.”
“You couldn’t have learned with, I don’t know, a cheaper piano? This thing must have been twenty grand.”
“A little less than that. But no. Guess I wanted to commit to it. Haven’t had the time, though.”
“See,” Akaashi points out. “No time to do what you want.”
“I guess you’re right,” he concedes, shrugging. “You can play something on it, if you want.”
Akaashi pauses. Music is a practice in vulnerability. Sitting down and pouring his soul over the keys through a technique crafted only by time and effort, making himself a spectacle to be watched and listened to — even sex is less intimate than the kind of performance that playing the piano would be.
“Maybe before I leave,” Akaashi says eventually. Kuroo’s smile is wide.
-
But the sex is the same as it has been; after all, they knew each other’s bodies before they knew each other. Kuroo’s mouth wrapped around his first knuckle, his hand between his thighs, nails digging little half-moons into his skin. Akaashi’s legs around Kuroo’s waist, toes curled, shoulders tense. A ribbon knotted around his neck that Kuroo tugs sharply on whenever he wants more sound out of him, like Akaashi is some sort of wind-up toy that moans and pants at command. The blindfold is useless; he is sightless because of how his eyes roll back and flutter closed against the fabric with every push of Kuroo’s hips. They fall into rhythm like this, syncopation in his breath versus the thrumming beat of how Kuroo fucks him. Slow, fast, stop. Fast, slow, stop, steady until it’s enough. When Akaashi comes, Kuroo laughs muffled into his neck before whispering, god, Keiji, you fall apart so beautifully. Kisses Akaashi’s forehead lightly before leaving to make him another cup of coffee.
Through the windows overlooking the city, Akaashi watches the sun peek over the horizon. He waits for Kuroo to come back, and he doesn’t think about work.
-
The paparazzi weren't here for them — they aren't famous, just employees of ostentatiously wealthy companies that are able to drop a couple thousand dollars on seats for gala they had no business attending. But they catch Akaashi off guard nonetheless when he sees a group of darkly dressed men tailing Kenma as he walks into the venue.
"He may not look it or act like it," Kuroo says, rolling his eyes as his best friend walks directly past them without any acknowledgement, "but Kenma is actually a massive drama queen. Not even a hello! What a piece of shit."
"You need to get some normal friends," Akaashi mutters, wincing at the flashing lights of the high-powered cameras following Kenma's every move. It’s a demonstration of splendor — Kenma’s nonchalance, the paparazzi’s desperation, and the crowd’s awe.
"You're one to talk. You got what, a coked up banker who has fucked half the city?"
"Kunimi isn't my only friend. And I doubt he's that promiscuous. Last I heard, he had his eyes on someone."
Kuroo whistles. "Oh, wow. Who's the lucky guy?"
A shrug. "I actually have no idea. Some grad student. Met him once. Seemed nice. Maybe a little stupid."
Kuroo snorts as a waiter comes around with a plate full of finger food and opts for a little mushroom tartlet. "I bet you think everyone is a little stupid."
“Give me more credit than that, Kuroo," Akaashi snorts, setting his emptied glass down on a table nearby. "I haven’t lost faith in all of humanity’s collective intelligence.”
“How ‘bout me, then?”
Akaashi levels a look at Kuroo. He’s wearing what he usually does — a dark suit jacket open at the waist with matching slacks that streamline his body into a length of pressed black satin. No tie, the top button of his shirt undone, the collar crooked. Akaashi lifts his hands to straighten the cloth.
“You’re more than a little stupid,” he says eventually, stepping away from Kuroo and clearing his throat. “Button up your shirt, harlot.”
“Harlot,” Kuroo repeats. Then smirks. “You think a little bit of neck skin is going to seduce the masses?”
“It’s a nice neck.”
“My, my.” His smile turns from teasing to genuine, stretching across his face with glee. “Are you flirting with me right now, Keiji?”
Akaashi flags down a waiter for a flute of champagne, which he picks up and drinks half the glass in one swift gulp. “Do you think I keep sleeping with you for no reason? Surely your self-esteem isn’t that low.”
“It's not,” Kuroo says. “But I don’t think you’ve ever complimented me in the past year and a half of sleeping with each other. This is a momentous day.”
Akaashi blinks. He knows he's not the most affectionate person in the world; not because he doesn't know how to but rather because he doesn't ever find the need to express as such. And in any case, there's no need to shower some like Kuroo with the validation he likely already has. Kuroo's rich, attractive, has a lot of social capital, and he can get whatever and whoever he wants. Akaashi's body is likely only one of many Kuroo has collected over the years, another notch carved into the same wooden headboard that the back of Akaashi's head has gotten familiar with over the past couple weeks, another tally. Still.
"You want my attention that badly?" Akaashi says, a little daring. He's only got a week left in this city, so he retraces his step back into Kuroo's orbit and runs his thumb over Kuroo's bottom lip. Drags the finger down, pulling the flesh with it, watching as the lip recoils back. Follows the line south over his chin, underneath his jaw, riding against Kuroo's Adam's apple, which bobs and bounces with the gulp that Kuroo swallows down. Clearly the eight glasses of Chandon are getting to him, because he feels his own heartbeat at the pad of his fingers but also feels the thrumming pulse of the blood in Kuroo's throat, and Akaashi feels flushed and out of place in this crowd. Like they should be alone somewhere else instead.
"Keiji."
"What?" He feels dizzy. It's warm in here. He should be warm around Kuroo's cock right now.
"Keiji," Kuroo says again, and it's pleading. Akaashi likes the sound of it, the way his name quivers in Kuroo's mouth. "You're drunk. You're not thinking straight. We're in public — people are going to look at us. Of course I want your attention."
"I'm not so improper that I would fuck you in a ballroom," Akaashi frowns, taking his hand away and feeling a little petulant. "There are cameras."
"The cameras?" A disbelieving laugh. "What about the people?"
"Who cares about the people?"
"God." The word breaks and crumbles. "You're going to kill me."
"I'm not going to kill you," Akaashi mutters. He finishes the rest of his glass and places it down a little less gently than he would've done otherwise.
"Yeah, you will," Kuroo affirms softly, before brushing a lock of hair behind Akaashi's ear. "You don't even live here."
It strikes him then, that Akaashi really only does only have a week left in this city, that his suitcase is unpacked with clothes strewn around Kuroo's apartment, he hasn't been in his hotel room for longer than two nights. And that the two of them are at this a gala with ceilings painted in baroque and beautiful women in sequins and silk not because of work, not because of sex but because they want to be, the two of them in this room dripping in wealth. And right now Akaashi wants nothing more than to go back to Kuroo’s place on the east side with a cup of coffee and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the ashes falling into his lap. Kuroo dusting them off with a napkin and lifting a ceramic ashtray under the smoke, catching the cinders.
“I can’t move here.”
“Sure you can.”
“My company is headquartered in London.”
“You could ask to move here. I don’t think they’d mind, with how much time you’re spending here already.”
Akaashi lets out a breath. “You want me here.”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s a little stupid,” Kuroo says, smiling only just a little. “As if I don’t ask to see you every time you’re in town. As if I don’t lie in wait every time you might be here.”
Around them, the crowd shifts and turns, moving towards something bigger, the main event across the room— Akaashi and Kuroo stay behind, the only two people left in this expanse. Akaashi shudders and says, “As if I don’t come running to you every time.”
Kuroo’s smile deepens. “Yeah. As if.”
-
Placelessness, namelessness. There is something uniquely isolating about the way his life has morphed into this existence where he’s bouncing from city to city. London to Paris to Tokyo to everything scattered in between. And then New York, a city that has shed all of its glamor and pretense and is now distilled into only a handful of things: blinding lights of taxis driving by, hazy nights, and a man at the center of it all. Someone who he goes back to every time he is here, a return destination, or maybe a layover where he has overstayed. But Kuroo welcomes him back every time. There is something to that, Akaashi thinks, a kind of familiarity has crept into his love of this city and grown into an unconscious association with this place that has bled into a home away from home.
There are no tallies to be kept. There is only a lover in a city that he finds himself anchored to, over and over again.
-
That last night, Kuroo murmurs, “Play me a song.”
So Akaashi lifts his hands and rests them on the keys of Kuroo’s grand, and with a muted timidness he begins with a soft press of one, two. B-flat, a high G. The nocturne expands and contracts, and Akaashi feels himself drifting away with each chord his fingers write down, Kuroo’s breaths rising and falling with the melody like a metronome. Inhale, exhale. A chord, a trill. Akaashi’s hands with the music, and Kuroo’s regards. His gaze, his worship.
The piece is a classic, maybe a little cliche, and ultimately a score of the heart: Chopin’s no.2, three minutes of antique romance, a lilting voyage on an European river that cascades in Eb major. It’s something he keeps in his back pocket for times like this, when he finds himself in front of a piano unpracticed and unprepared. Maybe one day he’ll bring out the Rachmaninoff, the Tchaikovsky, the grandiosity — but for now, with his eyes closed and body swaying to the tune, Akaashi thinks that Kuroo is enchanted enough by the lulls of Chopin. He hears it in the way Kuroo buries his nose into Akaashi’s neck and takes a deep breath.
“You’re amazing,” Kuroo croons, the vibrations going straight down Akaashi’s spine. “A man of many talents. You could play at Carnegie, you know. I can see you on the Perelman stage. Surrounded by red and gold and the applause of the entire world.”
“It was just an obligation,” Akaashi replies, taking his hands off the keys. “My mother sent me to lessons when I was a child. It was a source of tension between us. I hated it, but eventually it turned into a hobby. Music is relaxing, even though I was forced into it.”
“Mm. That’s beautiful. You made something out of something painful. Who can say that?”
“Artists, for one.”
“That’s right,” Kuroo says, smiling curving into the pane of Akaashi’s nape, mouth moving across skin. “You’re an artist, Akaashi.”
“I could be,” Akaashi corrects.
“You are,” Kuroo affirms. “You are if you let yourself be.”
Akaashi hears the harmony underneath, and he closes his eyes. It’s his last night in New York and there are still more songs to perform. Still more mornings to be had. Still more things to say: I’m letting myself be yours, and I’ll be back, and I’ll call for you, just like I always do, time and time again.
“Maybe I will,” Akaashi says.