Chapter Text
They do not greet the neighbors. Maybe Hitoshi doesn't even realize they are there at all. Asahi does, but slowly. He didn't see them move in, but Mrs. Ikebe moved out to go live with her daughter somewhere up north and then, sometime later, Asahi became aware of them, just one wall away, in the same way he had become aware of Mrs. Ikebe when she had lived there.
He works from home and his focus fades in and out throughout the day, sometimes grasping on desperately to whatever distraction he can find. Ikebe kept odd hours, woke up late, because, as she had put it, she was old and deserved such indulgences. When they had first met, he had felt like he already knew far too much about her, like he had been some kind of spy.
Asahi, who goes out for lunch to spend some time away from his desk— away from the apartment— started bringing her coffee as she would wake around that time. She had asked him to, that first time, both leaving at the same time, caught on the landing. She had looked at the flights of stairs between her and this small comfort with something that was not quite hatred so much as annoyance; resignation. Like one would greet an old foe, encountered once again.
She had looked sly as she asked, as though she was exerting some great powerful manipulation when she smiled at Asahi, said in that voice worn by cigarettes, "Do an old lady a favor, will you?"
He misses Ikebe. Later, she had taken to walking into the apartment while Asahi worked, sniffing at his designs, muttering things about how fashion these days made no sense to her. He has never been defensive about his work, it is one of the only things he likes about himself: The ease at which he brushes off critique of his achievements. They hardly say anything he hasn't thought himself, and often it only motivates him to continue to change what he was already unsatisfied with.
Once she had done so when Hitoshi was home, Hitoshi stumbling out of the bedroom in one of Asahi's tee-shirts, scratching at the day old stubble, having slept late as a concession to his jet lag. Hitoshi had disliked her since then, sniffing at her lack of manners. Ikebe had laughed at him, a fox's bark, and turned to Asahi and said "Ah so this is the one who keeps you."
He had not understood it at the time, let out a confused little laugh, more a muddled huff of air than anything. It was only later, when Hitoshi was complaining about her and he was listening, Asahi a little amused at how annoyed he was at Ikebe when he had never felt anything of the like, that he understood it.
Hitoshi was pacing, packing things or unpacking things (he is always doing one of the two) talking, in that rambling tone he gets when he is trying to organize his feelings. "And implying you are some—some sort of kept man? How dare she." He had said, almost under his breath, as though the comment was for himself rather than for Asahi. He stopped in his tracks, looking nearly affronted when Asahi laughed at that.
"What! She's rude. It is a rude thing to say." Hitoshi had replied, defensive but a smile already curling over it, whatever wound was there soothed at least for now.
Asahi had told Ikebe the next morning, thinking it would amuse her. She had snorted, lightly, going to their sad little balcony to smoke despite the fact Asahi always felt disconcerted when he saw her indulging in the habit. He wondered, then, if she was trying to stake some claim on him, through the act, leaving the scent of cigarettes on the little bench Hitoshi had put there, as though Hitoshi and her were playing some game of Go and he was the territory there were capturing with those little round stones. It was a self-centered thing to think, and suddenly he thought he understood the affront Hitoshi had felt at Ikebe's implication, if only because Asahi had seemed to effortlessly turn it towards himself; unsure if Asahi was more upset at the thought that he was a poor prize or the thought that he could ever consider either of them thinking of him as something to be won over.
If the comment had bothered her, if her cigarette was a sign of her discontent Asahi couldn't tell.
Hitoshi was easy to read, Asahi had become good at it, from the days where he had thought he was doing everything wrong, walking on eggshells so as not to disrupt the good mood that he felt he did not deserve (although those days aren't passed so much as rarer now.) He had no such practice with Ikebe, but she was often blunt to a fault and he consoled himself with the thought that he was probably too unimportant to her to truly upset her and if he had he had little doubt she would censor herself.
"Manners are for the young," she said, often, and not always playful; deadly serious at times, tired at others. Sometimes in a tone of voice that seemed to shock him in its candor, so completely at peace with the resentment found within it.
At times, it had felt like she was some sort of stock character, a mentor intended to impart some deep lasting wisdom. It is usually accompanied by some sort of vague amusement at the thought, perhaps a boyish sort of fantasy that he is some sort of hero in one of the magazines his mother would buy for him when he was young. The guilt chases after, quick at the heels, for thinking of her as something less than a person, complicated and messy. She shared some of that with him and does not deserve to have him cheapen it, even in his thoughts. She was lonely, more than anything. He supposes he was too— is, now.
He did not particularly like Ikebe's daughter when he had met her. She had a high voice, sharp and nasal and there was a sense that this was an inconvenience to her more than anything. She had given a dismissive exhale when Ikebe stopped to tell him she was moving, as though Asahi was not worth their time, as though she, or perhaps both of them (all three, maybe), had better things to do. He wonders if Ikebe will like bickering with her. He only met the daughter that one time and could not tell what sort of relationship they have, if such a thing would be welcome to either of them.
The neighbors now are an almost constant hum of activity. Doors are shut a little too hard, footsteps a little too loud, something (a television, music, droning voices part of some sort of broadcast) is always playing.
It is never loud enough to be an imposition. It is not, by definition, unneighborly. Really, it is to be expected. The building is old, and Ikebe only seemed quiet in comparison because she was asleep for half the day. When she put on the stream of crime shows she watched, he could hear them just as well, perhaps, clearer even. She was a little hard of hearing.
It's this which makes the lulls so strange, days where there is nothing. In his own lulls, unable to work, his brain forcing a break upon him rather than him actively deciding to take one, straining to hear something to pull him out of the magnetic pull of things he has yet to do, he assumes they, whoever they are, must be like Hitoshi, must travel often, leaving the apartment empty for those days.
It feels like a shock, therefore, when he is climbing up the flights of stairs and he meets them, a couple, so mismatched he thinks that they must trade out, one arriving as the other leaves; the only explanation for their conflicting characters, the sudden shifts in the apartment next door.
She should really draw his eye first, but he notices nothing except a sense of breezy nonchalance, like she could be anywhere, really, with how little it would matter to her. She is speaking, or just has. Asahi is moving, far too aware that it would be worse to stand and stare, interrupting whatever casual conversation the two are having.
Perhaps this is why he stands out to Asahi far more than his partner (her hair with the flipped out ends, old-fashioned as though on purpose, the one feature he notes.) He's shorter than her, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie— almost glaringly red in contrast to his dark jeans, his stompy boots. There is a tuft of bang bleached, some of his hanging loose over his forehead in contrast to the rest of it spiked up.
They meet eyes, and if she is barely there, or, rather, acting as such, Asahi feels nearly overwhelmed with how tethered her companion seems. Not to her, or to Asahi, or anything as concrete as someone or something, but, rather to the moment. The look feels almost oppressively present, as though it is consuming details in its wake; like it is making an attempt to remember everything it takes in, churn it for useful information.
It is a foolish thought. He knows that as soon as he thinks it. Their glances scrape by each other, the man's thorough one met, and as Asahi passes him, he wonders what data has been gathered from this moment, what the man is reading in Asahi. Nothing good, he supposes, or at least, nothing important. He finds it hard to believe it will be anything else.
The landing is large, the building is old, there is no need to even flatten himself against the wall despite the impulse, the instinct. He knows he is imposing, tall and broad shouldered and always a little too big in every way. He feels himself make himself smaller anyway, curling his shoulders forward.
He heads for his door with a weak raise of his arm, looking studiously at the floor, an acknowledgement more than a greeting. It would be rude to ignore them, similarly rude to interrupt them. He doesn't want to talk to them, doesn't want halting conversation he would obsess over as soon as he closed his own door behind himself.
They were talking, something he only truly realizes when does put the thick wood between them, hand still on the knob. He can hear their conversation faintly as they descend down the way Asahi came, the man's excitable voice coming in ebbs and peaks, Asahi can barely hear her replies.
Later, buried in work he feels as though he is wading through rather than tackling, he hears the door close in the apartment next door and for the next hour he pretends he is not straining his ears trying to make out two pairs of foot falls, a conversation; anything to prove wrong his sense that the couple living there together is some strange impossibility.
He hears nothing and finds that more disconcerting than he should. In the night, halfway to sleep, he wonders, nearly dreaming, if his neighbors are ghosts, if the mystery will consume him and he will ask his landlord about it one day, the curiosity burning within him, and the landlord will reply no one has ever lived there at all.
The bed feels especially empty when he wakes.
He has always been too large for most beds, or, at least large enough that most every bed he has slept in since he was a child has felt just a little too small. Hitoshi used to push his limbs away, laughing when they woke up together, one or another of Asahi's limbs pressed into him or on top of him gracelessly. Asahi has learned to sleep curled up since then, not for any reason other than it is more convenient for both of them. Hitoshi never asked it of him, he didn't have to, not really. It is just one of the small effortless things Asahi found he could do for the both of them and so he set about making it happen.
Asahi does an admirable attempt at convincing himself it is the fact he's making himself small which makes the bed feel cold and vast, like a room left empty of everything but fond memories and even those fading. The simile depresses him, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He could sleep like a starfish, spread out corner to corner, and it wouldn't feel any warmer.
He puts off checking the calendar on his phone until he has brushed his teeth, dragged on his tracksuit, steeled himself on the idea of going for a run. There is no notification yet, no little reminder, so it feels like defeat when Asahi opens the calendar and sees that it will be another week and a half until Hitoshi comes back from his business trip. A long conference and then scattered networking meetings to visit those companies who weren't able to make it. Hitoshi doesn't like talking about work, especially to Asahi who grasps little about what is happening at his company and in business in general, but the trip was long enough to merit an explanation, although Asahi can't remember if he asked for it or if it was offered.
Now when he sees the reminder on Friday it won't be a surprise and he'll have nothing to ease the sting of the empty weekend except his vague plans with Daichi and Suga, which he can't help pessimistically think will probably unravel by then. The trip is long for them, having to drive down, and he keeps expecting the meetings to peter out slowly, eventually stopping altogether. When he is really bad, he thinks the only reason they don't is pity.
His sneakers are laced too tightly and he only notices when he makes it all the way down the stairs, frustrated enough with the uncomfortable pull that he has to kneel in the doorway to the building to untie and retie them. His frown deepens when he is brought out of this mundane inanity by the rhythmic clatter of something being dragged down the stairs.
It is one of the neighbors, the woman with the flipped out hair, the detached expression. She is wearing the uniform of an air hostess, her luggage, the source of the noise, giving one final hammer against the tile floor of the landing rather than the muffled bang it had made against the carpet of the stairs before it begins to roll smoothly behind the click of her heels. She does not look at him as she opens the glass door and gets into the waiting taxi lingering in front of their building.
He finishes with his shoes, sets off the opposite direction that the cab went, along his regular route to the park not far off, following along the paved walkway there. He runs with his head empty and when something attempts to push its way in he speeds up, willing it away as though he could outrun it. It is a middling success, compared to past attempts which usually either leave him feeling pleasantly clear, unattached from the usual clinging worries, or like a hollowed out coward.
He has landed in the middle today, clear but still distracted, like remembering only that you have forgotten to do something, uncertain what exactly what it is.
When he returns, taking the stairs three at a time in long bounding steps as though he is not quite ready to give up his run, the apartment next door is louder than ever with some sort of fast tempo-ed rock, so loud Asahi can hear it from the landing. He frowns as he unlocks his door, confused and then, unsettled as to why the feeling overtakes him, feeling vaguely guilty like he had when he first met Ikebe; like he has been privy to something he shouldn't have.
He nearly believes, nearly convinces himself that it is just the strange restlessness that he has woken up to today. Some days are worse than others. He considers his medication, decides that he can do without, makes a mental note to tell his therapist, ask for strategies for days like today. This feels like a measure of success, like crossing off something from a list he hadn't realized he had made. It makes the day feel less like it's likely to slip into 'bad' the moment he lets himself thing the wrong thing.
The music is still pounding next door when he gets to work, providing a hum of background noise that helps him focus, indistinct enough for him not to distract himself by bothering to search for words or recognition, but present enough to keep his thoughts from wandering. He becomes so accustomed to it that he is thrown when it suddenly stops, having to remember that he is doesn't have any control over it. Asahi nearly convinces himself that it is the somewhat jarring realization which causes him to pay attention to the closing of the door in the apartment next door. He can maybe even imagine the man, sharp eyes and hoodie maybe pulled up, hands in his pockets as he goes out to do whatever. Errands maybe.
The knock at his door nearly causes him to jump, caught up in this, what? Daydream? It can't be anyone but the neighbor and if not next door than another tennant. They have a buzzer for visitors and Asahi hasn't ordered anything and isn't expecting anyone. He expected to feel caught out, seen. It's the way he usually thinks, or, rather, the way his anxiety usually makes him think, feeling hunted and seen and too transparent. Perhaps the run was better for him than he had thought.
Still, he takes his time getting up, taking a breath before he ambles to the door, opening it and still somehow surprised. It's the smile, maybe. It looks not forced, but over-bright. Asahi feels as though he has done something to cause it, it doesn't seem like the sort of expression one just wears for no reason, and knowing he's done nothing throws him a little. The expression does softens the man's eyes, distracting that perceptive, fierce attention Asahi had noticed yesterday, but as Asahi meets them, it's still there, looking up at Asahi, taking in his face with that keen stare. Asahi hadn't realized how much taller he is than him yesterday. His hair is spiked the same way as it was yesterday, the bleached tuft still undecided between hanging over his forehead or sticking up with the rest of it. Asahi assumes it must be intentional, then. It's not as though he can say much of anything about anyone's hair. He hadn't even bothered to brush his after his shower, clipping it up to avoid pulling it into a bun while wet. Kiyoko had mentioned once it was bad for it, to do that.
"Hey! I live next door."
Asahi blinks and apparently the lack of response is seen as censure because the man's smile widens a little more and he adds, his tone still friendly. "But yeah, you knew that, didn't you?"
The gesture reminds Asahi a little of a dog barring teeth, but if it's aggressive, it's only in its sheer positivity, as though through the expression alone the man can will this to be pleasant.
Asahi nods, smile weakly, confused and trying not to show it, already thinking about how he has started everything off on the wrong foot. There's a pause and Asahi grasps at something to fill it.
"Ah, um, yes." He says, blankly, feeling stupid.
The neighbor blinks, as though confused himself by this response and it's only then that Asahi looks down and realize he has something in his hand.
"Oh! Yeah that's why I knocked. I think this is yours right? It's got our number on it but it's not addressed to us, so."
Asahi has the impression he trips a little over the word 'our.'
Asahi takes the letter carefully, feeling the caution in the movement as he wonders at its purpose. It's addressed to Hitoshi.
"Oh. It's for my boyfriend," He says before he can think better of it, and then, as though trying to hide the word he continues, forcing the words out, "But yes, thank you."
It's not that it is any kind of a secret, not really, but it's still the sort of thing he would rather not tell strangers. He gets tired of being on guard for looks and comments, gets tired of moments like these when he has to wait to figure out if he will be thinking about what his neighbor said for the rest of the day. It's a problem Hitoshi seems to never encounter. He has always, even back in high school, introduced Asahi effortlessly, in a way that used to make Asashi shift where he stood, uncomfortable. It was as though Hitoshi had put the weight of waiting for that judgment on him and him alone and, worse, had taken the ability to guard that moment, to keep it from happening, away from him.
It's gotten easier now, they're older, Asahi cares less. He cares less, but he still cares and he would rather not have to deal with knowing his neighbor is unpleasant if he could have lived in ignorance.
His neighbor blinks once, head tilting a little to the side.
"What's your name then?"
It was not the question Asahi was expecting, and he blinks back before feeling silly for doing so, like a mirror.
"Azumane."
He nods, and only then looks Asahi over, as though putting this information away.
"I'm Nishinoya." The smile, that over-bright one returns. "You can call me Noya, though."
He pauses for a moment and Asahi only has the chance to wonder if he is supposed to say something more before Noya speaks again.
"My girlfriend is Nakamura. Nakamura Reina."
Asahi contemplates how something that is so obviously not a dream can seem to follow such non-sequiturs, loopy surreal logic that he can't seem to follow.
If Noya is dissuaded or disappointed by Asahi's obvious confusion he doesn't show it, rocking forward on his toes before rocking back, the same smile on his face before he says:
"I just thought, since I know your boyfriend's name, you should know my girlfriend's right? That way we're even."
Noya nods then, as though pleased with himself. Asahi is fairly certain this conversation is going to replay a thousand times today, but is also fairly certain he isn't going to be analyzing it for his own faults. It seems like today is a day for middling successes.
"See you around Azumane-san!" Noya says suddenly, bounding back to his door as though this was a perfectly normal interaction. Asahi watches him open his door, unable not to trail him as though this departure could answer some question he is not even sure he has formulated yet.
He wasn't wearing the hoodie, just a tee-shirt.
Noya gives another bright smile at him, a little wave, before the door closes behind him. Asahi unsurprisingly, finds no answers and no questions. Raises a hand in reply, because it is polite.
The music unpauses, returning Asahi's background noise to him. He supposes it's not his, not really, but he also feels uncomfortable considering Noya living his life, the same way he was uncomfortable imaging him in the hoodie going out of errands. It is easier to think about it as noise rather than someone living on the other side of the wall. It makes it feel like less of an intrusion. He had thought the same of Ikebe's crime show marathons, although they were usually late enough that Asahi wasn't distracted from work considering her settling down to watch them.
Asahi doesn't let himself consider what Noya might be doing. It still isn't his place to. The fact the music lasts for the rest of the day and well into the night gives him the chance to forget it's Noya's and trick himself in some mundane way; it is his the way the cicadas in the summer are his. He lets the hum of the bass and the faint impression of words and instruments be his company for the day.