Work Text:
ONE
“For the last time, Hinata,” Kei says, dodging out of the way, “blow your damn nose.”
“But Tsugisheeeema,” Hinata sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, oh gross, “we’re graduating!”
“And I don’t want my graduation photos to be full of your snot, thank you.”
Yamaguchi’s laugh is watery and he grips tight to Kei’s jacket like he’s worried he might float away. Maybe he would — out of all of them, he’s taken on the most responsibility and now without it, without the mantle of captain draped over his shoulders, he might be wondering how weightless he feels. “Do you have a tissue, Yacchan?”
Like a fairy godmother, Yachi whips out two packs of tissues and hands one to Hinata. “I brought extras,” she says, her own eyes a little red, “just in case.”
“Thanks,” sniffs Hinata.
“Idiot,” says Kageyama, out of habit. He hasn’t shed a tear: all his crying was done on the orange court in Tokyo, and on the bus home with their bronze medals wrapped safely and stowed in their bags.
“Jerk,” Hinata fires back.
“Simpletons,” Kei adds, for old times’ sake.
The thought catches him off-guard. All his focus has been on Nationals first, and then after that, on finals and entrance exams. Hours of study, recitation, essay writing and rewriting, feedback from Akaashi to be incorporated into the next draft, recommendations from Kuroo to be researched, tutoring Dumb and Dumber, and then sitting the damn things in a blur of ink and stress and the flip flip flip of pages… To emerge on the other side with nothing much to occupy him for a month or so is a very strange feeling.
It’ll be fine, Kei tells himself. His acceptance letter to Tohuko University is in his desk, a hard-won satisfaction. His invitations to a few professional tryouts are in the drawer below that. They can’t stay in school forever.
Still.
There’ll be no class, no school, no routine. There will be volleyball, because Hinata and the King are still breathing, but even that will be in the community gym, or on the grass courts, or in a parking lot with no markings. And even then, volleyball as Kei knows it — defined by the King’s tosses, by the slam of Hinata’s palm against the ball — will only remain part of normal everyday life for a short amount of time. Kageyama Tobio, being who he is, had been scouted from his second year. Less than a fortnight and he’ll be off in Tokyo for another Youth Camp, his name on the roster for the Under-19s and his place in the upcoming V.League season nearly guaranteed.
Hinata is trying not to let it bother him, Kei knows. There has been interest in their Little Giant, but interest without intent is nothing and he knows that best of all.
But to keep their mind off worrying, and probably to stretch out comforting normalcy as long as possible, Yamaguchi and Yachi had suggested — was it really a suggestion when it was strongly implied there was no other choice but to agree? — that all five of them plus one of Hitoka’s friends from the girls’ volleyball team go down to the beach for four days.
“Graduation was supposed to be a way to get away from you,” Kei had groaned when Yamaguchi sprung the idea on them in one of their last studying sessions.
Hinata, a pencil behind one ear and a pen behind the other, just poked his tongue at out him. “Meanyshima, you’d miss us too much.”
“No I wouldn’t,” Kei’d retorted, though he would and they knew it. “I might get some actual sleep without you buzzing around all the time.”
“Without the sting of bees there would be no sweet honey to sample,” Kageyama had said, eyes focused on his page.
When he’d sensed the long silence and all their eyes on him, he looked up and pointed at his book. “One of the passages for Modern Lit. Why are you all looking at me like that? Takeda-sensei sets the readings, not me.”
“I can’t deal with you,” Kei had sighed, slumping down and resting his head on his arms. “I really can’t.”
“Are you okay?” Yamaguchi murmurs now, under the chatter of parents, students and teachers all celebrating the end of the school year.
Kei blinks away the memories and looks at his best friend, standing tall under the cherry blossoms. “You’ve grown,” he says, without really meaning to.
Yamaguchi flushes and glances down at himself. “Uh, well, that’s kind of how time works, Tsukki. And speak for yourself, Mr One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Three-Centimetres.”
“Shut up, Yamaguchi.”
“Sorry, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi retorts, dimpling. “So, are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Yamaguchi shrugs, running a hand through his hair as the spring breeze tries to tease strands across his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because we’re graduating and high school is over? Because the comforting structures of routine, system and childhood have ended and now it’s up to us to shape and control our own lives and future? Because all our friends are going in different directions and there’s always that nagging fear that, even though we’ve been through so much together, we might drift apart? Any of that?”
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Kei says flatly.
“That would be Hinata,” Yamaguchi corrects, like the smartass he is.
“What would be me?”
“The bane of my existence, the stone in my shoe, the —”
“Aw, Tsukki,” Hinata says, bottom lip trembling. “I didn’t know you thought about me so much!”
“No,” Kei says, hands out like he’s warding off a muddy dog — which isn’t far off, “no, don’t even think about —”
Hinata leaps, Kei dodges, but Kageyama’s thick head and solid body get in the way. “Ow!” Hinata gets him arms around Kei’s neck, Yamaguchi joins the hug probably to take some of Hinata’s weight and stop him actually choking Kei, and then Yachi is laugh-crying as she joins the pile too. Kageyama, dragged in by Kei’s white-knuckled grip on his jacket sleeve, squawks a protest but huddles in obediently as Hinata and Yachi wrap their arms around him.
“I love you guys,” Hinata sobs. “This is the best team I’ve ever had!”
Kei will not cry, he will not cry.
“Yeah,” says Kageyama, earnest and awkward as always. “You’re good. We’re good.”
“You guys,” Tadashi wails. “Thank you for for the last three years!”
Kei is determined not to cry. He did enough crying on the centre orange court, the 3 on his jersey bright under the lights and the medal heavy round his tired, proud neck. Then their parents finally catch up and their pictures are taken, countless pictures from countless angles; individually, together, as a group; serious, silly, peace signs and graduation scrolls held up. Ukai is there too, along with Takeda, and then the rest of the volleyball club clusters round, half of them in tears too.
“What are we gonna do without you?” Matsuda whispers, looking terrified.
Yamaguchi just smiles. “You’ll fly, of course,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Kei shoves his glasses up so he can squeeze the bridge of his nose and press defiantly against his tear ducts.
“Easy, Tsukishima-kun,” Takeda laughs. “Do you need a tissue?”
“No thank you, sensei,” he says, blinking swiftly and resettling his glasses. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wasn’t going to miss it,” their teacher insists, his eyes red-rimmed too. “I’m so, so proud of you all! I can’t believe three years have really gone by so quickly. I still remember your very first practice. And now, three years later, here we are, third in the entire country.” His voice wobbles. “It won’t be the same without you.”
Bereft of anything to say that won’t set Takeda off into another round of tears, Kei just bows. “Thank you for all your hard work, sensei.”
Takeda pats his arm. “It was my pleasure, Tsukishima-kun. Seeing you boys grow and become your best selves is all the thanks I need.” He bobs a little on his toes and looks around. “It’s a shame Kuroo-kun couldn’t join us,” he remarks out of nowhere.
Kei blinks at him. “He had exams all this week.”
Kuroo had called him last night to apologise, after an hour’s worth of sporadic texts that were either memes predicting Kuroo’s imminent demise from study overload, frantic requests for Kei to tell me I haven’t lost my mind tsukki these are definitely different data trends right, or semi-serious instructions to enjoy his graduation and not rush back into study and join me in hell. The call itself wasn’t unusual, but they mostly texted.
Why on earth would you even want to come?
Because I’m a good senpai, Tsukki!
This isn’t your school, Kuroo-san, and I’m not technically your kohai.
Technically, maybe not, but emotionally! Figuratively! Metaphorically!
Kei’d sniggered. Are you listing grammatical constructs now?
Hush, Tsukki, you wretch. I wanted to be there, though. Sorry I won’t be.
One of the ways Kei had come up with to prune back the weed-like crush that had grown ivy-wild in his ribcage was to not curl around the phone. That way he couldn’t pretend Kuroo’s quiet, deep voice was for him alone. So Kei had sprawled out on his back with the lights on. It made it feel like just another school night.
Thank you, Kuroo-san, he’d said, because he was grateful Kuroo considered him a friend. He was a useful friend to have, too. An intelligent, ambitious friend who understood the demands of academia, and valued it as highly as volleyball. But you won’t miss much.
“Ah, second-year exams can be tricky,” Takeda nods. “By then, you have to want to be doing what you’re doing. Third- and fourth-year are when it gets serious. Still, I’m sure he was sorry to have missed seeing you graduate with such honours. I was very pleased with your score in Literature, Tsukishima-kun. You worked very hard.”
“Thank you, sensei,” he says, but he frowns a little. Why should Kuroo care if Kei got the subject prizes in Literature and History?
“Do you kids still keep the second button for that someone special?” Takeda asks, grinning and glancing from Kei’s uniform up to his face.
“‘You kids’ — sensei, please,” Kei splutters. “You’re hardly an old man.”
Takeda bursts out laughing. “The first years probably disagree, but thank you, Tsukishima-kun! You’ve restored my youth. No need to get out my cane just yet. Well, even if he couldn’t make it, I hope Kuroo-kun treats you to a special graduation dinner.”
The pieces are starting to come together, but several seem like they’re from a different box and the picture on the jigsaw puzzle lid is definitely not what Kei expected.
“Sensei,” he says slowly, trying to keep calm.
“Yes?”
“Kuroo-san and I, we aren’t — we’re not dating.”
Takeda stares at him.
He stares at Takeda.
Takeda turns bright red quicker than a traffic light.
“Oh my GOSH I am SO sorry Tsukishima-kun, I can’t BELIEVE I just said that, I can’t apologise enough, it’s none of my business at all and I can’t believe I implied something like that and probably embarrassed you on your graduation day when you should only be thinking of your future successes, I do beg your pardon I really hope you can forgive me and forget this ever happened —”
He’s bowing so fast he’s practically breaking the sound barrier. Kei waves his hands desperately, trying to interrupt Takeda’s apologies before they attract even more attention, “No, no, it’s fine, really, sir, please stop, it’s really fine…”
Fortunately Yamaguchi rescues him for some more photographs.
“What was that about?” he asks, bewildered. “Tsukki, are you…are you blushing?”
“No,” Kei snaps, and pins his deadliest glare onto Yamaguchi as his cheeks burn. “Definitely not.”
“…Sure,” Yamaguchi says. “Not blushing. Right. So, what happened? Take-sensei was leaving after-images again.”
“He,” Kei fumbles for his glasses, pausing under a sakura tree to wipe the lenses. He just needs one moment of peace to get himself under control again. “He thought…I don’t know why, he just — it was obviously a mistake, how did he…”
Yamaguchi squeezes his shoulder. “You can tell me later, if you need to. It’s alright.”
Kei nods thankfully, focus still on his glasses. “I’ll join you in a bit.”
“Okay,” his best friend says, smiling. “Take your time — but not too long. I think Hinata wants to try a human pyramid, and Kageyama’s next training camp is too close for him to break an arm.”
Kei snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re the captain, you know. You could just tell them to stop.”
“Not anymore I’m not,” Tadashi replies, brandishing his graduation scroll, but it’ll take more than that to stop the team from listening to him.
Left in a small bubble of peace under the blooming sakura trees, Kei takes a deep breath. There’s no reason to be thrown so off-kilter by Takeda’s assumption. It was a simple mistake made after listening to too much teenaged gossip. Takeda is one of the most sincere people Kei knows; he wouldn’t have meant anything by it.
The root of it, Kei muses, is the embarrassing crush he harboured for most of his second year. But with the benefit of hindsight, he can forgive himself a little. It wasn’t anything special. Just your standard crush on an attractive upperclassman who was generous with his advice and attention. Notice me, senpai, Kei thinks, and wrinkles his nose.
Fortunately he caught himself before it advanced into anything more, like pining or unrequited love or whatever else was the shojo trope of the day. Nothing could come of it, or would, what with Kuroo being in Tokyo and being two years older and all. There was nothing in an immature, gangly, awkward high school rival four hundred kilometres away to tempt Kuroo’s notice, and Kei valued his insight and expertise too highly to risk it.
So all Kei had to do was stamp it out. Only message Kuroo between the hours of four p.m. and nine p.m. End the call if the silences drew out too long. Talk to the other people in his class, because one day they might be useful too. Think about how annoying his smirk was. Actually, don’t think about him at all outside of the hours of four p.m. and nine p.m., and definitely not in the shower, and absolutely not before bed.
Tsukki, his phone buzzes. Congratulations on your graduation! 👨🎓🏅
It’s a good thing I got over it, Kei reflects, typing out a reply. Friendships without the confines of school and routine are hard enough to maintain, and Kuroo is a valuable friend who deserves more than some teenager’s bumbling, inept attempts at romance.
<<11:03am
Thank you, Kuroo-san. Good luck for your last exam. Do your best.
>>11:04am
I will! 💪 You too, I’d better see you on the roster again soon.
TWO
This shouldn’t be so hard to send. Kei frowns down at his phone, where the text I’m sorry to bother, do you have a moment to talk? has been sitting for the past minute. He deletes the first few words, but then it looks too urgent so he adds them again. Then gets rid of to talk, but then Kuroo might just text him and though Kei vastly prefers texts to calls, this might be a paragraph and it gets awkward typing all that.
But if Kei keeps staring at his phone he’ll look like a slacker. So he adds to talk this afternoon, hits send and shoves the phone back in his pocket to get a few more hours of study. Kei’s anthropology professor is clearly a sadist who decided ‘study of human culture’ meant actual study of people up close and personal, and made the first assignment of the semester a group one. As 3 p.m. approaches, he packs up resentfully and makes his way over to the room they’d booked last time.
“Oh, Tsukishima-kun, hey!”
“Towado-san,” Kei says briefly, nodding to him. “Mineta-san. Niikawa-san.”
“We’re just waiting on Sachan,” says Niikawa, “her lecture’s run over a little. Did everyone do the reading?”
Towado rolls his eyes when Niikawa turns to write the study questions on the board, but Kei appreciates her straight-forward thoroughness.
“I found another source that helps define the topic,” he says, offering the printed sheets to Niikawa. “It supports our conclusion from last week.”
“That’s great!” she says, skimming through them. “What do you think, Mineta-san?”
“Huh?” He looks up from his phone. “Oh, yeah, totally.”
Kei finds himself sharing a Look with Niikawa. “Did you have anything to add,” he asks a little coldly.
Mineta glances up to the board and back. “Nah, you’ve got it covered. Hi, Sakura-chan!”
“Sorry I’m late,” Kojima apologises, flushed and breathless. She reminds Kei a little of Yachi, but without the nerves. “Class ran over and there’s always someone asking questions at the end.”
“I know,” says Towada. “It’s so lame, like just email the prof, right?”
An hour later, Kei is close to ripping his hair out, but they’ve covered most of what they need to — and by that, he means he and Niikawa have drawn up the presentation outline, and Kojima has started colour-coordinating their speech notes with little illustrations and plenty of giggles as she swats playfully at Mineta and Towada who are buzzing around her with tongues lolling.
“My pen,” she cries, when it slips off the table, and stands to retrieve it. Kei looks up when the other side of the room gets very quiet, but it’s just Kojima readjusting her shirt where it untucked from her skirt.
His phone vibrates in his pocket and he glances at it.
>>4:13pm
Of course, Tsukki. I’m free now if you are, got 30 mins before my next class.
Kei has training and more study this afternoon, and Kuroo has the same tomorrow. He probably won’t be able to talk to talk to him for the rest of the week.
<<4.14pm
Please get some lunch first. It’s not urgent. I don’t want to impose.
>>4:14pm
You’re cute Tsukki but don’t worry about me!! Got myself a couple of energy bars from Bokuto’s BJ stash.
Kei stares at his phone.
>>4:15pm
WAIT BLACK JACKALS that came out wrong I can see how that could be misconstrued.
<<4.15pm
Misconstrued…Right…
>>4:16pm
oi mr sceptic you want to call or not?
“I’m sorry,” Kei says to Niikawa, “I just have to make a quick call. I’ll be back soon to help compile the bibliography.”
Outside, he brings his phone up to his ear.
“Hey, Tsukki, how’s it going?”
“Hello, Kuroo-san. Thank you for taking the time to talk, I won’t keep you long.”
“Don’t sweat it, happy to help,” Kuroo says, which is what he always says and why Kei rarely asks him for actual help. He’s far too busy. But this time, the question has been buzzing round and round in Kei’s head getting no closer to an answer. Akiteru says one thing, Yamaguchi another, and Kei agrees with both only to change his mind the next time he speaks to either of them. “So, what’s up?”
Kei leans back against the wall beside the study room door and fiddles with the toggle on his jacket. “I’d like your opinion, please, if you don’t mind. You know when I graduated, I had some professional teams express interest in recruiting me?”
“Yes, I do know,” and he still sounds proud.
“Well, as you know, nothing came of the few try-outs I went to. Not really.” It still stings, even five months later: that the invitations and all the impressed, thoughtful noises the coaches made at each tryout faded into nothing. Kei’d already had his Moment; his love of volleyball doesn’t need a competition to keep it fed, but it’s that same Moment that demands it be fed. One more.
“It’s no reflection of your skill,” Kuroo says swiftly. “Not at all. You’re a very talented player, Tsukki, but sometimes clubs have internal policies that prevent too many new hires, or they’re undergoing a change in management, or not enough players retired or swapped out to open up a space.”
“I know,” Kei says. “But I’m not part of the Freak Duo. If no-one invited Hinata Shoyo, the Little Giant of Miyagi, the likelihood of them inviting me was minuscule.”
“Tsukki, you have vastly different —”
“Thank you, Kuroo-san, I do know,” he says, smiling a little. “I’m not trying to be deprecating. Just a statement of fact.”
“You always were the most logical, persistent blocker I ever knew. You’ve been doing great things with your college team, though! Four months in and already a starter on Tohuko, three out of five wins under your belt. Tohuko hasn’t been this good in years.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Kei says, bringing his thumb to his mouth and catching himself in time. He drops his hand and focuses instead on the bookshelf in front of him. “Well, not a problem, really, more like… I’m just —” he sighs at himself. “Prevaricating, I’m sorry. You’re busy.”
Kuroo makes a throaty noise of dissent, “Don’t worry, Tsukki. I’m here to help. What’s on that logical, persistent brain of yours?”
“I’ve been invited to play for the Sendai Frogs,” Kei says in one breath. Pride, that elusive, hard-won creature, flares beneath his ribs. The coaches had even created a new space for him, had apologised for the months of silence, we had to fight to open a spot on the roster, Tsukishima-san, but we weren’t going to let you slip through our fingers.
“You — the Frogs? Holy shit, Tsukki! Congratulations! That’s amazing! I knew you could do it, oh my god I think I’m having an out-of-body experience here…A professional Div Two team!”
Kei’s smile widens despite himself; he tries to bite it back. “Yes, I was very grateful when I received the call.”
“Tsukishima Kei, Sendai Frogs V.League Division Two player,” Kuroo sounds like he’s bouncing around a room. “I knew you could do it. When do you start?”
“I…I haven’t accepted the offer yet,” Kei tells him, reaching the crux of the call.
“You — you haven’t? Why? Tsukki, what on earth —” Kuroo stops himself. “No, I’m not going to bully you. If you haven’t, there’s a reason. Let’s hear what you’ve got whizzing around in that big brain of yours. Study commitments?”
“Yes,” Kei admits. “If even you had to drop out of your college team because of the academic load, I admit to being wary. So I was hoping to ask for your opinion on the workload, and how you managed your time, and any study advice you might have.”
“But I didn’t want to play like you do,” Kuroo says quietly. “You want to play, Tsukki. I want to help people play.”
“I know. In truth, Kuroo-san, I…I’m also unsure if it’s fair to take the offer right now.” Kei waves goodbye to Kojima. Akiteru is all for the Frogs, already looking up merch and laughing at the colour. Yamaguchi, though, is more hesitant, though supportive as always in his own way. “Like you said, Tohuko has never been this good. I’m not nearly self-centred enough to think it’s down to me alone, but the second-string blockers aren’t…” he pauses, unwilling to be snobbish. Tadashi had asked him that. What happens to your team if you go?
“They’re not National-level blockers,” Kuroo supplies for him. “And you’re worried about the impact on your team.”
“Yes,” Kei admits. They’re no Karasuno, but still. “Between that, the sheer difficulty of keeping a spot on a professional team in first place, and my degree’s workload…”
Kuroo’s silent for a long moment.
Then,
“Tsukki, are you calling for my advice, or are you calling for validation of your choice?”
Kei flushes, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Nationals-level Bronze Champion Middle Blocker-kun, I think you’ve decided what you want. So I’m just going to say this: Tsukki, if you want both, do both. Don’t limit yourself, four-eyes. I have no doubt you’ll definitely succeed at whatever you put your mind to. I understand your hesitance to leave the team in the lurch, but this is an opportunity that might not come around again. There are ways and pathways too to make sure your grades aren’t affected, and hell, if even Bokuto can study while racking up points on a Div One team, you’ll have no problem.” He pauses. “That was a bit harsh, I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. There’s no ‘even Bokuto,’ he’s doing an awesome job. And similarly, you, Tsukki, are destined for greater things.”
Speechless, Kei can only stare out across the bookshelves. How does he…?
Kei’s a little hesitant, surprised that a professional Division Two team actually wants him — but truthfully, he wants, too. He wants to play a game that matters, not the round-robins of the collegiate league. He wants stakes that Kei can bet himself against.
He wants to play.
“Thank you,” Kei blurts out. “I really — you —” He runs a hand down his face, you are over this crush. “Thank you, Kuroo-san. I appreciate your support.”
“I can’t wait to watch your first game,” Kuroo tells him, voice warm. “I have to go, but they should give you some merch when you sign. I demand a picture of that.”
“I’m not promising anything,” Kei replies, smiling to himself. “Will I see you at Akaashi-san’s birthday party next month?”
“If neither Akaashi nor I have killed the other before then, then yes,” Kuroo replies dourly. “If you hear news of a suspicious death, then no. Will you leave flowers at my grave, Tsukki?”
Kei laughs, and hastily muffles it when a passing student glares. “I’m relieved you’re aware Akaashi-san would get you first.”
“What can I say, I’m a realist. Shit, I really do have to go. Talk to you later, okay? And if you need any help with the application paperwork just let me know.”
“Thank you, I helped Kageyama with his so it should be fine. Have a good day, Kuroo-san. And happy birthday for next week. I’m sorry I won’t able to come down; unfortunately four hundred kilometres are still four hundred kilometres, even for the Shinkansen.”
“Aw, thanks! And don’t even worry about, Tsukki, you’re busy — and about to be even busier, Div Two blocker! Take care of yourself, Tsukki, I’ll see you later.”
“Bye, Kuroo-san.”
He looks down at his phone for a second when he hangs up. Tokyo really is far away sometimes. Kei never thought he’d care about that, or have friends who’d make him care about it, but here he is.
“Long distance sucks, hey,” Towada says in commiseration, clapping Kei on the back. “Did she get mad you couldn’t make it down for her birthday?”
Kei stares at him, waiting for the words to make sense. “What?”
“Your girlfriend. Just make sure you send her something, even if she says she doesn’t want anything. Take it from me, they always want something.”
Mineta looks up as they come back in. “Oh my god, my ex is still bitching about the time I forget our anniversary. It was six months, how am I supposed to care about that?”
“I wasn’t talking to a girlfriend,” Kei says a little shortly.
“Boyfriend, then?” Towada asks, unconcerned. Mineta, though, stares at Kei with an unsettled look; Kei glares back automatically. “That’ll be easier, just suck his dick and send down a case of beers. I wish my girlfriend would give me beers. She thinks I want clothes.”
“Aren’t you wearing the scarf Sarada gave you?” Niikawa demands, unimpressed.
Towada looks down and shrugs. “Yeah, but she’s into some real kinky shit so I don’t mind.”
Niikawa sneers to herself as she packs up. Kei moves to help her, anger simmering under his skin.
“I’m not dating anyone,” he snaps. “I was asking a senpai for advice.”
“Oh,” Mineta deflates in relief. “That’s alright then.”
Towada pulls a face, sceptical. “Really? I never went to any of my senpais’ birthdays. No, wait, I did. He smuggled in this massive keg of beer and we all got plastered. He was great. So, more of a friends-with-benefits thing, then? Tsukishima, you dog,” he leers, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Fed up, Kei slams a book closed. Towada’s smile falters. “I didn’t know you were so interested in my sex life, Towada-san. Isn’t that something you discuss with your girlfriend? Please let her know that I have no desire to spice up your relationship, no matter how unsatisfied she may be with your…” he looks Towada up and down, “performance. Please remember to have your part of the presentation done by the next time we meet up.”
Swinging his bag onto his shoulder, Kei bows slightly to Niikawa and strolls off, enjoying the sound of Towada sputtering behind him. He pulls his phone out and scrolls to find the email from the Frogs.
THREE
It’s just past four p.m. when Kei’s phone rings.
“Tsukki, thank goodness, where are you?”
Kei’s stomach drops. “Why, what’s wrong,” he asks, clutching the phone tighter as he pushes back from the library desk. His jacket’s on his chair, his wallet is his bag, but all his books are on the table —
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Kuroo says, voice calmer. Kei’s heart settles. “That was stupid of me, I didn’t mean to worry you. Nothing’s wrong. I’m all over the place today! Hello, Tsukki, how are you? I’m sorry to disturb you this fine afternoon.”
Concerns assuaged, Kei sits back at his desk and lowers his voice as a passing librarian gives him a warning look. “Hello, Kuroo-san. Please don’t mind the interruption, I was just studying. I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I’m well too, thanks, if a little under the pump — which brings me to the reason for my call.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Work has decided, in their infinite wisdom, to host a company-wide scavenger hunt across Tokyo.”
Kei raises his eyebrows, spinning the pen over his knuckles as he imagines Kuroo’s marketing firm unrolling a treasure map across the boardroom table. As metaphors go, it’s probably not that far off. “Really? What for?”
“Team bonding, mostly, but also to encourage, ah, how did they put it… ‘Creative thinking and active problem-solving in a dynamic, reactive situation.’”
“Kuroo-senpai,” a voice says, “please hurry up, the train’s nearly here and we still don’t know if we’re supposed to get on it or not!”
“Thank you, Inoue-kun, he knows. Don’t interrupt,” a woman says, a little muffled as a station announcement crackles in the background.
“So have you called for a second opinion? Kuroo-san, you’re well aware that I’m familiar with approximately two streets and four train stations in Tokyo; what sort of assistance do you think I can provide?”
“Well…” oh no, here comes that charming wheedle of his, still guaranteed to slip so coyly under Kei’s skin like a cat winding around his ankles. Luckily the phone spares Kei the teasing grin and the infuriating, challenging glint in his eyes that always comes with it. “The rules state that each team is free to use whatever means they choose to solve the riddles and find ten clues as long as they don’t sabotage another —”
There’s a frustrated howl in the background. “Finance just found their eighth one!”
Kei realises he’s leaning his chin on his hand and grinning at nothing like some mindless fool, or Hinata in front of an izakaya menu. “Sounds like you’re in a pinch, Kuroo-san.”
“Not quite yet, Tsukki. What if I told you we have seven tokens and eight clues, and the eighth clue happens to be in English and reads, ‘The older it grows the more valued it becomes; it is much better when breathing is done.’”
“I would say, ‘Sounds like you have a busy afternoon ahead.’ Good luck, Kuroo-san.”
But even as he says that, Kei is turning the riddle over and over in his mind.
Kuroo sighs and clicks his tongue. “Damn. I thought, out of everyone, you’d know for sure.”
“I apologise for the inconvenience,” Kei replies, and quashes the part of him that wants to react to the disappointment.
“I think it’s a hospital. You know, old, valued, breathing.”
“It’s not a hospital,” insists someone else. “It’s a cemetery!”
“How is it a cemetery? It’s a park, the trees! They’re old and valuable and trees photosynthesise oxygen, dummy, it’s like you didn’t graduate middle school.”
“I’m sorry about them,” Kuroo sighs. “Anyway, it looks like I’ve disturbed your study for no reason, Tsukki. Sorry about that. If anyone would know… A shame, but I suppose it can’t be helped. Even you can’t be expected to solve every riddle.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Kei tells him haughtily. He’s not going to leap up in the middle of his archaeology review to join some madcap dash across Tokyo. He’s not.
“But looks like we’ll have to move onto the next round and forfeit this one. And I was really looking forward to rubbing it in HR’s faces, too.”
Kei grits his teeth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of assistance.” More valuable as it ages, it’s best when it breathes…
“No matter, Tsukki,” Kuroo says, in that sly drawl that drives Kei absolutely crazy. “We can’t all be riddle masters like Bilb—”
“Wine,” says Kei, jerking upright. A student glares; Kei just glares back as he begins packing with one hand. “It’s wine, more valuable as it ages, blah blah, and you’re supposed to aerate wine before you drink it, right?”
“Oh my god,” Kuroo says blankly. “You’re a genius. Wait, so if it’s wine, how does that —”
“The exhibition at the City Museum! A travelling exhibition from the Met about wine and glassware and how food and drink shaped society through history and how the act of being seen to indulge was often more important to the upper classes than actually enjoying the consumption of haut cuisine itself —” he realises he’s rambling and snaps his mouth shut, flushing.
“Holy — and that’s why it’s in English! Come on, quickly, south line! Mikkun, throw that away, let’s go. Train’s a minute away, we’re going to the City Museum — Tsukki, thank you so much, I knew you’d get it! I wish I could download your brain or something.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Kei says, caught up in the rush as Kuroo chivvies along his ragtag team. “I’m ten minutes away at the library, I can meet you out the front. How are you supposed to get the clue? Are you supposed to ask the front desk?”
“No, it’s some sort of geocache game with a special phone code, but — I can’t drag you away from your research for this, Tsukki, you’re busy.”
“I’m just reviewing some topics I already covered, and you did say there weren’t any rules forbidding some extra help. Unless,” and he comes to a halt before the library’s front door, a hand on the handle and a prickle of embarrassment in his stomach. “I mean, if you don’t need an extra person, that’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
The whoosh of a train pulling up obscures Kuroo’s answer for a moment. “…kidding me, Tsukki, you’re our secret weapon! Are you absolutely sure you can take the time to join us? This really is just a silly work thing, not at all worth risking your grade.”
Kei exhales, chest loosening, and pushes open the door. “What, and be the one to ruin your chances to gloat? No thanks. I’ll be hearing about it forever if I do.”
“I’m not that bad,” Kuroo protests.
He laughs at that. “Kuroo-san, do you or do you not continue to bring up the time I bought the last salmon bento at Nationals two years ago?”
The station’s only a block away from the library, and Asahi’s apartment is only two stops down this same line. It’s one of the reasons Kei asked Asahi if he wouldn’t mind hosting Kei for the three-month internship Tohuko University organised with Tokyo. Kei dodges a pair of women with prams at the top of the station staircase and hurries down.
A groan in his ear. “Oh, come on,” and Kuroo’s much quieter now he’s on the train but he still hasn’t hung up so Kei doesn’t either, though they’ll see each other in ten minutes. “I should have known you’d remember that. Respect your elders, Tsukki! Tokyo’s rubbed off on you, you used to be so polite.”
“I offered it to you,” Kei reminds him. He’d apologised twice, thrice, four times back then, pink with embarrassment as he’d tried to hand the bento box to Kuroo when he realised Kuroo hadn’t eaten breakfast and had rushed from university to the gym to watch Nekoma play without stopping for lunch.
And Kuroo had been adamant in his refusal once he’d realised it was Kei who’d bought the final bento from the little shop outside the gym. He’d scolded him for even considering forgoing the carbs and calories and whatever else, and had bought him a protein shake too. Then he’d accompanied Kei back inside and told him, I can’t wait to see how your sticky-stick blocks have improved, Tsukki. You’ll have spikers cursing your name before long. Watch out for that Karasuno number eleven — sorry, number three.
“What kind of senpai would I be if I took lunch off my kohai?” Kuroo demands. “Don’t answer that, Yoshida, that fish was a week old. You should be thanking me for saving you from food poisoning.”
Kei snorts and tries to disguise it as a sneeze as the old lady near him gives him the stink-eye.
“Hush, you,” Kuroo says, long-suffering, and Kei has to bite down his helpless smile in case Kuroo somehow hears it over their connection, how glad Kei is to be in Tokyo at this moment. How glad Kei is to have him as a friend.
Kei’d wavered over the internship until the week before applications were due, trying to weigh up pros and cons and whether taking the leave of absence from the Frogs this early in his recruitment was a wise choice even if it was the off-season. He’d just been subbed into a few official games, too. Was it a good idea to step back from that right now, even for an internship in one of Tokyo University’s partnered museums? There were other internships back in Miyagi, and he would be missing some key lectures in the semester…
You know what’s best for you better than anyone else does, Ukai had said when Kei had found himself in Sakanoshita one afternoon, so I won’t give you advice. I’ll just tell you what I think, for you to do with as you please. Teamwork doesn’t only happen on the court, and networking isn’t about putting up the net.
Ukai-san, he’d said, staring. That was awful.
I know, his ex-coach had wheezed. Would you believe I heard Sugawara say it to Sawamura?
It had been an excellent opportunity, and Asahi had offered the second room in his apartment without hesitation since his own roommate was overseas. And Akiteru had laughed at Kei’s neat list of ‘People to Keep Contact With’ but two years on from graduation and Akaashi proof-read the essay that had secured Kei the highest grade in his first year history course; Bokuto sent a whole stack of exercise recommendations when Kei had sprained his ankle last year; Lev had helped Kei buy some European brands that didn’t ship to Japan; and Kuroo…
Tsukki, if you want both, do both. Don’t limit yourself, four-eyes. I have no doubt you’ll definitely succeed at whatever you put your mind to.
Calls him for help in a city-wide scavenger hunt, apparently.
“We’re nearly there, Tsukki, how far away are you? After this, there’s two more to go and less than two hours left. We’re winning this even if I have to ask Kenma to hack the system.”
“Which he won’t.”
“Which he won’t,” Kuroo agrees, “so we’d better get to it.”
When Kei sees the group in the forecourt outside the museum, though, he pauses. This isn’t school and Kuroo isn’t the captain. Kuroo is only an intern too. He’s on a six-month placement as he approaches graduation from his business slash marketing slash convince-you-to-sell-your-soul-with-just-a-smile degree. Maybe Kei should just say there was a delay on the train and help over the phone.
Then Kuroo turns and sees him.
“Tsukki!” He jogs over, waving, and slings an arm around Kei’s shoulders when he reaches him. Their height difference is more apparent now than it was in high school, but the breadth and solidity of Kuroo’s body is all adult. Kei still feels like a gangly teenager when he’s near Kuroo, even though his twentieth birthday was a few months ago. “Great timing, we’ve just found the geocache. Everyone, this is Tsukishima Kei, scholar extraordinaire. Tsukishima, that’s Yoshida, this is Inoue, and that is our only font of sanity, Kobayashi-san.”
He bows. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.”
“Thanks for coming,” says Kobayashi, purported font of sanity. She bows back, a little older than the others and a little amused as she surveys them all from her sensible brown shoes. “You really saved us with the wine riddle. I had no idea — I’m not very good with English.”
“I didn’t really do anything. It was lucky I’d seen the advertisement for the exhibition a few days ago, otherwise I might not have worked it out.”
“Well?” Inoue demands, ignoring the introductions in favour of staring over Kuroo’s shoulder. “What’s clue nine?”
“Here,” Kuroo says. “Damn, a haiku.”
Next to them, Yoshida double-takes, chokes on his sip of water, and coughs out, “They’re here!”
It’s like someone threw bread among geese. Yoshida plants himself like a footballer as four people come haring up the steps from the station; Inoue squawks and grabs the phone from Kuroo, who swears when the other man fumbles and nearly drops it on the concrete. The young man leading the other group yells wordlessly and brandishes his phone; and Kobayashi starts jogging away, shouting for the others to follow her when she hasn’t even looked at the clue.
“This is what they call team building?” Kei asks, amused.
Kuroo snatches his phone back, seizes Kei by the hand, and with a wild grin on his face starts running across the plaza. “This way!”
“Where?” Swept up in the mischievous gleam in Kuroo’s eye, Kei follows.
“No idea!” They swerve around a corner and drop back to a jog. “Thanks, Tsukki. It’s good to see you out from under your stack of books.”
“Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you, Kuroo-san.”
Kuroo laughs. “Yeah, I —” He pauses, flushes, shakes his head at himself. Smiles wider. Peers bashfully at Kei out of the corner of his eye, his fringe casting its usual concealment over half of his face in the late afternoon sun. Kei wants to brush it back so he can see all of him, all of Kuroo. “Speaking of hypocrisy, I got the JVA job.”
Kei startles, and in the millisecond it takes to comprehend the words he finds himself tugging at Kuroo’s hand — he’s still holding Kuroo’s hand — to turn him towards Kei. “Kuroo-san, congratulations! That’s an impressive achievement. You must be proud that all your dedication and hard work has paid off.” Kei catches himself and fumbles for a smirk instead. “Now you can stop stress-eating instant noodles and complaining how all the flavours taste the same.”
“They do,” Kuroo protests automatically. He’s looking at Kei with a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking restlessly over Kei’s face as his fingers twitch around Kei’s hand. “It’s not that big a deal, Tsukki. Save the excitement for when you win the next Kurowashiki Tournament.”
“Not that —” Kei stops, inhales, and risks a brief tightening of the grip he has on Kuroo’s hand. He’s holding Kuroo’s hand, he’s holding Kuroo’s hand. Strong, broad, smooth. “False modesty from you, Kuroo-san? It’s a prestigious role and a hard-won opportunity. Though I suppose if you’re getting cold feet it’s better to realise that now instead of halfway through. Perhaps you should reconsider after all — imagine having to deal with people like Hinata Shoyo everyday.”
“Tsukki,” Kuroo laugh-scolds, that odd shyness disappearing from his eyes. “He’s one of your best friends!”
They’re walking down the street now, close together so the people going the other direction don’t jostle them too much. Kei’s unsure whether or not to think about his hand still being in Kuroo’s. He probably shouldn’t. It’s nothing, really. He’s no longer a teenager with a silly sappy teenage crush. Twenty-year-old Kei is luckily far too mature to fixate on Kuroo holding his hand, one of only a few people whose hand is big enough to cover Kei’s. It’s just — strange. And people might notice.
What if Kei’s hand is too sweaty and Kuroo thinks it’s gross?
“Libel, Kuroo-san. Honestly, I thought business students were taught these important things.”
“No, they had a whole unit on writing things down for evidence of slander. And then a course on how to snip cigars and blow smoke rings.”
“Oh, is that so? My mistake. That’s clearly a more pressing matter. How do you snip a cigar?”
Kuroo throws his head back to laugh, long golden line of his throat gilded by the last of the setting sun. “With a cigar snipper, I assume, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy trying not to fail Economics.”
“Kuroo-san, wait up!”
The team comes panting up the sidewalk after them. Kei feels himself flush and drops Kuroo’s hand as they turn to meet them.
“Where were you slowpokes?” Kuroo asks, trying to walk sideways and look at his colleagues and the path at the same time. Kei has to grab his elbow and guide him away from a protruding tree root before he falls flat on his ass.
“Antagonising finance,” Kobayashi says dryly. “So where’s clue nine leading us?”
Kei glances around, trying to work out where they are, and accidentally makes eye contact with Kobayashi. He bows slightly.
“I apologise for running ahead,” he says. “I hope we didn’t inconvenience you.”
She waves a hand. “It’s fine. They’re all so keen on this hunt. Thanks for giving us a hand.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m happy I could help.”
“Well, my boyfriend certainly wouldn’t. Kuroo-san is lucky you were available. But maybe I’m being too mean. Sato would try, but he thinks treasure hunts are for children.”
Kei blinks, then when he understands her emphasis, his stomach goes all prickly. “Oh, no, we’re not — it’s not — we’re friends from high school.” That makes it sound like they went to the same school, but it’s too long to say, We met through our high school volleyball club because our schools had this fated rivalry thing and we played several games against each other where he taught me how to be the best I can be before he graduated and then we just kept in touch after that.
Kobayashi stares, then blushes and bows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. I just — well, my mistake. From the way he was talking, I thought — but I was wrong. Please forget I mentioned it.”
“No, it’s fine,” but what did he say, why does she think — “Please don’t worry about it.”
Kuroo claps Kei’s shoulder and grins, hair blowing wild in the breeze. “Let’s go, Tsukki,” he says, “we have a game to win. Just like old times.”
And just like old times, Kei follows him, conscious of Kobayashi’s eyes. Later he glances up at his hand, hooked alongside Kuroo’s on the train’s handrail, and tells himself not to be stupid. He’s not sixteen anymore, or eighteen. Kuroo’s nails are neatly trimmed. Kei feels his stomach squirm when he notices the ragged edge on his own thumb where he bit it halfway through his general history course.
Maybe Kuroo noticed, when he held Kei’s hand.
FOUR
Kei looks around when he reaches the corridor and even stands on his tiptoes; he’s only the tallest person in the room when other volleyballers aren’t present. There’s no sign of Kuroo, so he glances at the venue map and turns left, and in the end only finds him by dint of listening to the whispers the women near him.
“He’s so hot!”
Her companion glances over her shoulder at someone around the corner and makes a considering sort of hum. Her friend gasps.
“What do you mean, ‘meh?’”
The other woman shrugs. “He’s very good-looking, but come on, Macchan. He’s way too intimidating. If you saw him down a dark street or something you’d cross the road and hold onto your handbag, I know you.”
Kei turns towards them. It’s not the first time he’s heard that description.
“Kuroo-san,” he says over the chatter around them, and Kuroo looks up from his phone.
There’s no doubt he’s intimidating, with his height and the width of his shoulders, the power in his thighs — his resting ‘go ahead, make my day’ expression. His cheekbones could cut your hand open, and his jaw is an imperious line sharpening his sly face. But Kei personally thinks that when he smiles, Kuroo’s whole face transforms.
Kei’s just lucky he’d caught a glimpse of Kuroo earlier, when he’d been up in the stands and Kuroo down on the court with the players. It had given Kei the time he’d needed to fortify himself. Let him catch his breath, calm his pulse. Stupid.
Not stupid, memory-Yamaguchi chides. You can like a person in different ways, Tsukki. What you felt then isn’t the same now, you’re both two completely different people. You’re adults, for one thing. It doesn’t make you a kid stuck in the past if you like Kuroo-san again.
Kei had twisted his fingers into Salamander’s fur and hugged his cat close. It was easy to believe Yamaguchi then, when they were tipsy in the lounge with pyjamas and fluffy socks, Salamander purring fit to burst as he kneaded Kei’s thighs to bloody shreds and Kei blushing over the selfie Kuroo had sent him the day before. A completely innocuous photo, with only half of Kuroo’s face in it as he pointed with a maniacal grin at a Sendai Frogs poster in Tokyo, but even half of Kuroo was more than tipsy Kei could handle and the words tripped off his tongue, I still like him, isn’t that stupid…
It was easy to hope, to blush under Yamaguchi’s waggled eyebrows, to cuddle Salamander close and kiss his soft forehead and think, maybe…
Maybe now was the time, since he’d settled into university and into the Frogs, and into his own skin better than he did as a teenager. Maybe now he could see if Kuroo would like to meet Salamander in person instead of over video call, and see if Kuroo would like to maybe, one day, in the future…call Salamander theirs, and Kei his.
It’s a little harder out here under the bright fluorescents, the sound of the crowd loud around him and Kuroo himself standing in front of Kei, the first time they’ve seen each other in person for over a year.
“Tsukki,” Kuroo calls back. “I was going to try and find you in the crowd, but I got here a bit late and I knew you’d be with your little murder so I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Please don’t say that so loudly,” Kei protests, glancing around. “Some of the people here already think you’d shake them down in a dark alley.”
Kuroo laughs, raucous and loud: his real laugh. Not the polite muted chuckle he’s been cultivating for the JVA. “Still? I tamed my hair today and everything.”
Kei’s eyes go briefly to his dark hair, its signature tufts combed in a controlled sweep to the front and right. His fingers tingle. Kuroo’s hair has always looked very soft. He hopes the gel hasn’t made it tacky.
Though that is of course not at all Kei’s business.
But it’s better than focusing on his three-piece suit, the long sleek lines of him, the taper of his waist, and how good he looks with his crisp white shirt and red tie. How the shiny watch on his wrist emphasises the elegant strength of Kuroo’s hand. The hand Kei has held, but only once, briefly.
His fingers tingle and Kei digs his nails into his palm to focus.
“First, happy birthday, Kuroo-san. Many happy returns.”
Kuroo blinks at him, surprised and, if Kei isn’t imagining it, pleased. “Oh, thanks!” He rubs the back of his neck. “My knees cracked getting off the train yesterday, but I appreciate the thought. Enjoy your youth while you can, Tsukki!”
“Yes, I can see you’re only a few steps away from a hip replacement. Are you coming to the reunion dinner tonight?”
“Of course,” Kuroo says, laughing. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Bokuto wouldn’t let me miss it for the world, either.”
“There’ll be quite a few of us. A bar’s been booked but I don’t know if we’ll fit.”
“Don’t worry, the booking’s been upgraded. The JVA wants to keep its newest little monster happy, and this being his home turf and all…”
“Is that even an appropriate use of funding?”
“Of course!” Kuroo grins. “Sendai’s home to three of the Monsters. And since the Adlers have been V.League reigning champions for three years straight, Hirugami-san is pretty sure he can say jump and the JVA will ask how high he wants the set.”
“And now they’ve just lost the opening game in the season three to one,” Kei remarks with deliberate nonchalance, raising an eyebrow at Kuroo as he leans closer to be heard over the crowd. “What are the odds he’ll be back on that podium?”
Kuroo’s eyes gleam. “Why, Tsukishima Kei-san, are you asking me, a paid and professional representative from the impartial Japanese Volleyball Association, to give my personal, biased opinion on a volleyball matter?”
Kei smirks in return, lost in the spark of challenge in Kuroo’s eyes. “Why, Kuroo Tetsurou-san, are you suggesting there’s anything untoward in a player from a Japanese Volleyball Association Division Two Team casually discussing potential outcomes of the season with a seasoned professional from that same industry?”
“Oi, car insurance salesman-san,” Miya hollers over the crowd. “Stop flirting with your boyfriend ‘n come and feed Bokkun.”
Kei startles slightly, looking around to find the crowd thinning and he and Kuroo curved into each other like brackets near the water bubblers. “Who does he mean?”
“Tsukki, that’s why you’re my favourite,” Kuroo tells him, straightening up and slipping his hands into his pockets. Kei wishes he wouldn’t: it makes him stand with his weight shifted to his hips, shoulders back and self-confidence in every line of his body. It makes Kei glad he lingered just a little bit longer over getting dressed this morning. His long tan coat is new, and a previous fling had told him he looked good enough to eat with his dark turtleneck underneath, and his slightly longer hair. Yachi had approved too, and if they both run any major shopping choices past Asahi first, well. That’s for them to know.
Kei hopes Kuroo is hungry. Even just a little.
“Hey, Tsukki, there you are!” Hinata waves from over Miya’s shoulder. “You coming?”
“Yes, in a minute,” he calls back. At Kuroo’s inquiring look, he explains, “We’re going back to Yamaguchi’s apartment once the two of them have changed. Then we’ll get the train to the dinner.”
“Sounds good. I’d better go and grab Bo so we can get ready for tonight,” Kuroo says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “What time are you thinking of getting there tonight?”
“Knowing Hinata, like, five,” Kei says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not supposed to start till seven.”
Kuroo laughs. “I have a few things to take care of here, but I’m hoping not to be later than eight. Will you save a plate for me, if it looks like Bokuto’s getting ready to chow down?”
Kei pretends to think about it. “And risk having my hand eaten as well? I’m afraid you’re on your own, Kuroo-san.”
“Tsukki! So cruel! Do the bonds of training camp mean nothing to you?”
“Considering training camp is where I first discovered just how much Bokuto-san can eat, no, I can’t say they do.”
“You know what, I can’t fault you for that. And now he’s a professional player, he’s eating even more.” Kuroo steps towards a staircase marked ‘Authorised personnel only,’ and then turns back to Kei. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, either, four-eyes. I’m not worried a stiff breeze will blow you away anymore.”
“I am fully capable of following a meal plan, Kuroo-san. My coach and I have worked out a balanced diet.”
Kuroo just laughs and strolls away, waving over his shoulder. Kei waits until his stomach has stopped tying itself into knots and then returns to the gym where Hinata is reliving his final few points with Yamaguchi in surround-sound.
“…and then I went whoosh, and then Bokuto-san came down with a kapow! And then the ball hit Ushijima-san’s block with a bam! But I knew I could reach it, so it was like, sha-ping —”
“Use your words, Hinata,” Kei says, for old time’s sake.
Kageyama, towel around his shoulders, sniggers and wanders over.
“Good game, King,” Kei grins at him. “I liked the part where you lost.”
“Oh, piss off,” Kageyama retorts, elbowing him. “I saw you cheering my last set.”
“You need to get your eyes checked.”
“Maybe you do, four-eyes, or are you so blind you can’t tell a set from a spike?”
“Alright, you two,” Yamaguchi sighs, draping his arms over both their shoulders. “Play nice, or Meian-san will think we were raised in a barn.”
The Jackals’ captain looks over from where he’s talking to their coach and laughs. “Don’t worry, Bokuto warned me about the country-bumpkin crows.”
“I wonder where he got that phrase from,” Yamaguchi says, jabbing Kei in the ribs.
Kei pokes him back. “Every Tokyo team has used it at some point,” he retorts. Yamaguchi hums sceptically, but knows Kei well enough not to bring up Kei’s romantic endeavours — as if there’s any such thing — in front of strangers.
Hinata bounds over. “Tsukishima, did you see the last point?”
Kei adjusts his glasses. “Nope.”
“Liar!” Hinata shouts cheerfully. “Come on, I’m starving! Let’s go already, I wanna shower and then go get some food!”
“Suga-san and the others went ahead,” Yachi says, hurrying over.
Yamaguchi steps out onto the court though the staff are tidying away the net and mopping down the surface. “Ahhhhh,” he sighs, spinning around on his heel with his arms spread wide. “I’ve almost forgotten what this feels like.”
“Says the captain who took us to third place,” Kei says.
“Oi,” Yamaguchi retorts. “Let an old-timer have some nostalgia!”
Yachi laughs. “It’s not an everyday thing for us like it is for you professionals,” she says.
Kei joins them, looking around. He has to admit, the arena is spectacular. But…yes, he’s used to it. He’s a professional volleyball player; he makes a living out of flying high.
He makes flying high his living.
Don’t limit yourself, four-eyes. I have no doubt you’ll definitely succeed at whatever you put your mind to.
“Good game,” he says quietly to Kageyama, their faces still tipped up to the dazzling lights far above them. He turns his head to Hinata. “Good game.” Hinata’s lip wobbles. Kei grins, only a little bit sadistically. “Welcome home.”
“Nooooooooo, Suckyshima you jerk!” Hinata scrubs at his face, “You made me cry on purpose!”
Yamaguchi laughs and flings his arms around them again. Kei grunts and staggers as Hinata joins the hug too, then Yachi’s little arms wrap as far as they can around them too. Then Kageyama, sweaty and solid and the king of the court, squeezing Hinata as hard as Hinata is squeezing them.
“Right,” says Yamaguchi, swiping his hand across his eyes. “Let’s go get some food!”
The dinner that night is loud (expected), busy (expected), and full of grown-ass men bawling their eyes out (expected). Some of the older players from both teams are absent, either having gone home to their families or skipped a night out with their teammates’ old schoolfriends whose stories are full of, ‘Do you remember when…’ which surely can’t be fun for complete strangers.
But together the Jackals and Adlers boast about six of Japan’s top volleyball schools, and between them there are enough schoolmates, teammates, housemates, rivals and acquaintances to fill a bar — which they do. And it’s loud and busy and too full of emotion for Kei’s taste, but…it’s fun, too. He hasn’t seen a few of these people for at least a year, some not since high school. And he’s ready to be referred to as ‘that other guy, the blocker, the guy with the glasses’ who rounds out the Karasuno set, but a surprising amount of people greet him by name.
Kei spends the first bit with Akaashi, then gets a drink with Ushijima and Sakusa, then spectates the spat brewing between the Miya Twins with Suga. Tanaka calls for him a little later, beckoning him over to the Karasuno table, but he’s caught in Bokuto’s exuberant embrace for a good five minutes until Hoshiumi rescues him by challenging Bokuto to an arm-wrestling competition.
“Don’t forget to eat, Tsukishima!” Daichi shouts over the din, gesturing to the plate Kei is guarding.
“Not mine,” Kei shouts back. Yamaguchi levels an absolutely sleazy grin at him, but it’s worth all the ribbing when Kuroo finally does arrive — jacket off, tie gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows — and shoots a truly grateful look at Kei as he settles in. Kei feels like he should check his gyoza for butterflies, the way his stomach is fluttering.
“Thanks, Tsukki,” Kuroo says in the break between songs on the overly-loud radio.
“I risked my life for that, Kuroo-san,” he says gravely. “You’d better enjoy it.”
“I will,” Kuroo crosses his heart, a smidgeon of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. Kei would give anything to wipe it away with his thumb. “Now, pay up. Show me the baby, Tsukki, I need my fix.”
Kei rolls his eyes but pulls out his phone, and flicks to the most recent video of Salamander chasing his favourite feathered toy. Kuroo leans close — so close, he’s solid scorching heat down Kei’s side, smelling of subtle spice and something amber like his eyes — to laugh.
“Look at that little dumbass,” he croons when Salamander runs headfirst into the wall, sits down in affront, and stalks off like no-one had noticed anything, nothing to see here. “Legs faster than his brain. He’s so fluffy! It must take you ages to brush him.”
Kei swipes to a photo of the Maine Coon belly-up on Kei’s lap, his paws spread and tufts of fur visible between each pink toe. “It does, but he loves it. He screams at me when he sees me touch the brush.”
“He’s such a big grumpy baby,” Kuroo laughs, nudging Kei as Kei shows him the next photo of Salamander pouting in front of a bowl half-full — so, completely empty. “Like his dad.”
“Oi,” Kei clucks his tongue but bites down on a smile Kuroo can probably see clear as day. Do it, he tells himself. Just ask. It’s normal for friends. “Kuroo-san,” he blurts out. “If you’re not busy, do you want to come and meet Salamander properly? If you’re not busy for the few days you’re in Sendai. He’s very friendly. We could grab lunch or something.”
How many times did he say if you’re not busy? Get a grip. Keep it casual. Just lunch. Just the cat. That way it’s not a date.
He’s not asking Kuroo out. Even with what Yamaguchi said. That would be too obvious, too detrimental to their friendship. He’s just…hoping to make a plan with a friend where they’re by themselves and not with any other friends, doing an activity together they both enjoy in the hopes of creating further opportunities to do said activity together in the future in a more permanent, exclusive sort of way. Once he’s sure Kuroo enjoyed it, just the two of them, he can try it again, and then that time it can be a Date. A proper one. Kei doesn’t rush things, and especially not things this important.
Kuroo, though, looks excited, and Kei’s heart unwinds from his oesophagus. “Oh, absolutely! I’d love to meet him. I can’t tomorrow, how’s the day after?”
Kei tamps down the swell of relief inside him. “Monday? That works. I don’t have classes then, and practice isn’t till late.”
“Great,” says Kuroo, grinning at him. “Can’t wait.”
“Yeah,” Kei says to himself once Kuroo’s been swept off by Bokuto. “Me neither.”
The music gets louder as the night gets later, and as the one beer his meal plan allows wears off, Kei’s social battery wanes. The sudden warmth and presence of a body next to him makes him groan internally, but when he looks it’s just Hinata — who promptly plonks his empty head down against Kei’s upper arm.
“Right, that’s it,” Kei decides, standing and hauling Hinata with him. “Yamaguchi, let’s go. You get His Majesty before he falls asleep too and we have to carry them.”
“Good idea, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi yawns. “See you later, Daichi-san.”
They fumble their way out of the bar, stopping every other metre to say goodbye. When they’re finally at the door, Kei cranes his neck to try and spot Kuroo, and nods goodnight when he does. Kuroo waves, mimes, I’ll call you, and Kei steps out into the sweet, cold night with his heart sparkling in his chest.
It’ll be worth it, he says to himself. Waiting for him will be worth it.
Not that he’s really been explicitly waiting for Kuroo. There just…hasn’t been anyone he’s liked as much. Not that he likes him likes him. It’s just…
Kei shakes his head at himself. It’s not a date. It’s the prelude to a date. A maybe. He doesn’t have a crush on Kuroo, because he’s not some hormonal teenager. But he does admire him and respect him and appreciate that Kuroo thinks Kei is worth his time too. Relationships are built on more than just flimsy teenaged crushes, and Kei — he swallows, feeling the warmth of Kuroo’s strong body pressed against him on the bench all over again.
Kei wants to build something with him. Kei wants. Something adult. Something…real.
His apartment is probably the cleanest it’s ever been when Monday rolls around and the entry buzzer rings.
“Sorry I’m late, Tsukki.”
“You’re not, Kuroo-san. Come in.”
Kei waits nervously in the genkan with Salamander and jumps when Kuroo’s knuckles rap against the door. After a second of strict Get It Together talk, he opens the door.
“Hello, Kuroo-san. Welcome.”
“Pardon the intrusion,” Kuroo says, eyes fixed on Salamander. “Look at you, you fluffy monster! You’re huge, geez. What does he eat, a buffalo a day?”
“He’s an older cat,” Kei defends his pride and joy immediately, “and it’s all fur. He’s not fat.”
Kuroo laughs, stretching out a hand for Salamander to sniff. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Kei dumps Salamander into his arms and Kuroo stumbles, off-balance halfway through taking off his shoes. “There you go,” Kei says smugly. “See? He’s not that heavy.”
Kuroo grunts, trying to support Salamander as the cat squirms. “Hold still, beast,” he says, then stumbles a little as Salamander clambers out of his hold and up onto his shoulders, sniffing intently at Kuroo’s hair. “Tsukki, help. What’s he — is he eating my hair? Tsukki!”
Kei smirks, leaning against the wall and watching as his cat twines around Kuroo’s neck. But after the third desperate plea of Tsukki! he relents and scoops Salamander off. He kisses the cat’s furry head and sets him gently down so Salamander doesn’t aggravate his joints by the jump.
When he looks up, Kuroo is grinning at him.
“What?” Kei asks, glancing down at himself. He might not have realised how much a cat could shed, but surely he’s not that much of a mess. He’d dressed so carefully, too, in the new black jeans that Yachi said fitted really well, a light grey shirt and the soft cherry-coloured cardigan his mother gave him last birthday. It’s not Nekoma red, but…
“He suits you,” Kuroo says, finally removing his shoes and stepping up to join Kei in the small apartment. He’s seen the place before, on a quick Skype call when Kei moved in last year, but he still looks around with curious eyes.
“Who?”
“Salamander. I’m glad he found you.”
Kei bristles all over again remembering the matted and half-starved state of his cat when he’d found him in the alley behind the apartment complex. He’d obviously been a house cat before, had clearly known and loved people, and not only had he ended up trembling dirty and afraid behind the dumpster but he’d had no ID and no owners looking for him. Kei abhors that type of disregard, especially to something as loving and harmless as Salamander. “He’s back to a healthy weight again and the patches of fur from the IV needle have grown back.”
“A healthy weight, huh?”
“He is not fat!”
Kuroo just grins and gets down on his knees in Kei’s tiny lounge to play. Salamander’s eyes are huge as he slides and skitters all over the floor in pursuit of his favourite blue tufty mouse, and they spend half an hour digging out all the toys Salamander hasn’t cared about with only Kei to impress. He’s delighted with his new playfellow — almost too delighted. Startled by a clatter from next door, he launches himself into the air at Kuroo, limbs splayed and all sixteen claws engaged.
“Ow, fuck,” Kuroo groans, toppling backwards.
“Salad,” Kei chides, lunging after Kuroo. “No, hold on, he’s got his claws stuck, wait.”
Kuroo obediently lies still and lets Kei unhook a squirming and protesting Salamander’s claws from his neckline. Once he’s free the cat leaps up onto the couch in a huff and sits with his back to them, grooming his paw.
“Did you just call him Salad?” Kuroo asks, delighted.
Kei blushes. “No,” he says anyway.
“You did! Oh my god, Tsukki, that is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“It’s a long name, okay,” Kei defends, mock-glaring down at Kuroo from where he’s balanced over him, it would be so easy and simple to swoop down and — and — “It’s a lot of syllables to yell when he’s on the counter drinking my coffee.”
Kuroo just wheezes into another round of raucous laughter. Kei can feel his chest shake where his hip is pressed to Kuroo’s side.
“Whatever,” he tuts at him, ignoring how cute — how at home — Kuroo looks sprawled out on his carpet, red-faced and happy and everything Kei has wanted since he was sixteen. “Do you want to get some lunch? There’s a good sushi place a block away. Hang on,” he says, when Kuroo starts brushing down his jeans, “I’ve got a roller.” Fetching one of the five scattered around the place, Kei checks his keys, wallet, Salamander’s water bowl, and then they lock the door behind them as Kuroo asks about the upcoming season.
It’s a little busy but the wait’s not too long. Kuroo tucks into the sashimi while Kei sticks to the soba. “…and I don’t know why the Elephants won’t just bounce him. I’m not looking for the official answer,” he pushes his plate forward so Kuroo can deposit the egg roll he’d taken by mistake, “but it’s really getting a bit ridiculous. Even Kyoutani-san thinks so, and he only pays attention to opponents when they’re directly across the net.”
“I see,” Kuroo hums, topping a roll with ginger and popping into his mouth.
“I’m not asking you to get involved,” Kei says swiftly. “I’d never. I’m just complaining.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Kuroo says, glancing up with a smile that sends pins and needles from the top of Kei’s scalp to his toes. “You’re the most level-headed person I know. If you think there’s a problem, then there’s a problem.”
“False,” Kei returns. “You know Akaashi-san and Kozume-san.”
Kuroo laughs. “Akaashi’s not level-headed, he’s a chronic overthinker in an introvert’s body. And Kenma can’t be bothered most of the time, but when something does get under his skin he holds ridiculous grudges like nobody’s business. There’s a game he never finished because it didn’t give him the correct points after a bout or something. Refuses to play it, even to this day.”
“What’s the pettiest thing you’ve ever done, Kuroo-san?”
“Oh, good question. Uh…I think back in middle school this girl stole my favourite pen, and I was way too shy to ask for it back, so I told the class blabbermouth it had cooties on it and then a day later the teacher sent her home to get treated for lice.”
Kei nearly chokes on his tea and Kuroo grins, pleased. “How about you, four-eyes? You must have quite a repertoire.”
“Are you calling me petty?”
“Never,” Kuroo places a hand over his heart. “Just…motivated in the pursuit of justice.”
“Very noble, Kuroo-san.”
“I try, Tsukishima-kun. Drop the honorific, would you?”
Kei fiddles with his chopsticks. “I will take it under advisement, Kuroo-san, and get back to you within three to five business days.”
Kuroo laughs, leaning back to spread one arm over the back of his booth. It makes his shoulder and bicep flex in a way that melts Kei’s stomach. “Well, don’t leave me hanging.”
“Which one…so, in third grade we had this art project and the teacher was very specific about no-one using glitter wastefully.”
“Oh boy,” grins Kuroo.
Kei smirks. “Saito pushed in front of me and Yamaguchi in the lunch line and bought the last katsu bowl, so I unscrewed his glitter jar and when he tried to finish off his piece, he upended it and there was this absolute flood of pink glitter all over the desk. The teacher got so angry with him, and he was brushing glitter out of his clothes for weeks.”
The laugh this draws out of Kuroo is enough to send several reprimanding gazes their way, but Kei just lifts his chin and ignores them. They’re not worthy of how Kuroo’s eyes crinkle and gleam when he laughs, and how his smile is a little crooked on the left. He calls for the bill as Kuroo mops his eyes.
“No you don’t,” Kuroo lunges across the table but Kei, expecting it, jerks back out of reach. “Tsukki, hand it over.”
“It’s on me,” he insists, heart in his throat. It’s a pre-date. He can do this much.
“Absolutely not! As your senpai —”
“You’re not my senpai, Kuroo-san, and it was my recommendation in my city, so it’s my call.”
“You’re not paying, four-eyes, so help me —”
Kei darts from the table and over to the register, the bill clutched tightly in his hand. Kuroo bangs his knee on the table as he tries to intercept him, swears, and limps after Kei, still scolding him.
Kei brandishes the receipt smugly. “Next time, Kuroo-san,” he says, and feels the double meaning sit like a secret in his heart.
Kuroo loops an arm over Kei’s shoulders and shakes him gently. “Tsukki, no, really, let me pay you back.”
The waitress laughs. “You’re a very cute couple,” she says, smiling at them. “You’re allowed to take turns.”
Kei’s cheeks flood with heat and his stomach twists into a knot. That means — there’s something, there must be if she thinks — he’s not making things up, he’s not dreaming. Other people see it too.
Kuroo, though, just laughs and drops his arm. “Thanks, but my girlfriend would have something to say about that,” he winks at her. “My kohai is just being a brat and refusing to let his senpai pay like he should.”
Oh.
Kuroo glances at Kei and then away, hand coming up to the back of his neck. He leads the way outside, waving to the waitress, and guides them to the sidewalk back to Kei’s apartment, chatting about nothing. He stays a casual step apart.
Ah.
Kei is sure of two things. Kuroo knows how he feels. And Kuroo is endlessly kind.
“Congratulations, Kuroo-san.”
“Thanks,” Kuroo says, offering his phone. “You might recognise her, actually —”
“Haiba-san.”
“Yeah, Lev’s sister. We started dating a few weeks ago now she’s back in Japan for a longer modelling contract. Hey, the next time you’re in Tokyo we should all grab lunch or something. Alisa’s always keen to meet Lev’s volleyball friends. She remembers Karasuno, too, I think she actually met Tanaka’s sister at a match. She said to say hi when I saw you.”
“Please give her my regards.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I’d better get going, but thanks for the lunch. I’ll definitely get the next one, okay? And give Salad a treat from me.”
“Salamander.”
“Salad,” teases Kuroo, finally looking him in the eyes again. “It was great to see you, Tsukki. I probably won’t see you before, so have a good New Years. I’ll see you next year, though, for the finals. I know the Frogs will get there again.”
“Thank you. You as well.”
“See you.”
“Have a safe trip.”
Up the stairs. To the front door. Pull out the keys. Slip them into the lock. Turn. Open the door. Step inside, close it. Lock.
Make it to the couch, telling yourself idiot idiot idiot as lunch turns sickly inside your gut.
Hold it together until your cat jumps up with a mrrrp? of curiosity and steps with careful paws onto your lap, inquisitive face and tickling whiskers brushing your chin.
Then Kei bursts into tears, helpless, hopeless, and clutches a startled Salamander close.
FIVE
“Let’s go out tonight,” Shoyo says, a gleam in his eyes.
“No,” Kei says.
“Yes! Come on, grumpy-gills, three days before you fly back, so make the most of Rio! Tobio, you’re in, right?”
Tobio glances warily from tall glare to short glare and clearly chooses the lesser of two evils. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Coward,” Kei hits him with a sofa cushion. Tobio grunts, seizes the other one, and whacks back.
“Pillow fight!” Shoyo screeches, and joins the fray.
It’s far more fun than Kei will admit, getting ready that night. If they were sixteen he would have been jailed for homicide two days into their two-week holiday. But twenty-three means they’ve known each other for nearly a decade, and while Kei threatens bodily harm more often than not they know he doesn’t mean it all the time.
“Get out of my face, shorty,” he gripes at Shoyo, elbowing him aside as Shoyo tries to get between Kei and the mirror.
“What do you even need the mirror for,” Shoyo whines, elbowing back. “You can’t see!”
“That’s the point,” Kei retorts, closing the contact case before Shoyo makes him drop it. “I’m trying not to poke out my eyeball here, do you mind?”
“Hey, I don’t think these will fit me,” Tobio says dubiously from behind them.
“Crappy-yama so help me you will wear exactly what I laid out for you or else,” Shoyo warns, finally leaving Kei alone in the bathroom as he races back into the AirBnB’s bedroom.
“How, though?” Tobio complains. “They’re really small.”
“They’re skin-tight, they’re supposed to be! Tsukki! Come and make Tobio wear the damn pants!”
“For god’s sake, if he can’t fit, he can’t fit,” Kei shouts back, contact lens balanced on the tip of his finger. “Let him wear jeans, you know he’ll just bitch about it feeling weird under his oh-so-manicured setter fingertips.”
“See? Kei says I should wear jeans, so I will.”
“Ugh! You’re both idiots with no sense of style!” Shoyo pops his head back into the bathroom. “Can I do your eyeliner?”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease? I’m doing Tobio’s. Just a little, to make you all smoky and hot, and not squinty and pale.”
Kei gives him the finger.
There’s something Portuguese blasting on the radio and the sun is taking its sweet time to set, painting the whole sky in rich orange and dark umber. No wonder Shoyo loves it here, had thrived so well under its warm weight. A moth flutters about the flowers in the window box on the balcony, and from next door comes the mouthwatering smell of dinner, something unfamiliar and exciting for its newness.
“Not too bad, King,” he says when he rejoins them in the bedroom. Tobio’s in black jeans ripped at the knee, a plain black tight t-shirt, and as many of Shoyo’s necklaces and bracelets as Shoyo could cram onto his protesting mannequin. Shoyo’s perched in between Tobio’s thighs, one hand on Tobio’s chin and the other wielding the eyeliner like a weapon.
“Eh,” Tobio grunts.
“Look forward,” Shoyo scolds. He’s in a pair of fake leather pants like the ones tossed aside by Tobio, the material almost glued to his legs. His tank top, the arm holes dipping down low to his pecs, is a vivid tie-dye of eye-watering purple, green and orange, and he’s got the leftover bangles chiming up and down his arms. Only he could pull it off, which, Kei supposes, is the point. “I’m so glad you guys came to visit!”
“I guess it hasn’t been completely horrible.”
Shoyo laughs at him. “I saw you smiling, Sulkyshima! There, blink. Not bad! And now,” done with Tobio, Shoyo reaches for a bottle. “We do shots!”
“But aren’t we going out?”
“Tobio-o-o,” Shoyo sings. “I know you skipped college but you had to have gone to at least one party. I know I took you to some of mine. No-one goes to a club sober, stupid! So drink up!”
Kei finds himself with a glass of something brown and eyes it suspiciously.
“Kanpai!” Shoyo downs his and whoops. “Saúde!”
Tobio and Kei glance at each other and shrug. What the hell. It’s Rio, they’re on holiday, volleyball doesn’t start for a few weeks, and they’re together — three out of the four of them at least, through no fault of Tadashi’s.
He prepares himself and gulps it down, but — coughing at the sudden burn of the alcohol and how it evaporates into his sinus, Kei has to admit it’s not as bad he thought. It’s fragrant, and goes down much smoother than he thought booze owned by their feral wild-child would. “What is it?” He asks, not protesting when Shoyo refills the glass.
“Beirão,” Shoyo tells them, smug. “I knew you’d like it. So, what are you wearing?”
* * *
It’s a good thing Kei decided on the mesh tank top, he finds himself thinking as the strobing lights and blazing heat of the bodies all around them make him feel like his blood is turning into Beirão. Paired with the fake leather pants Tobio refused, it’s far more skin and far tighter than any outfit he’d usually choose, but it’s so hot here he’s glad of his bare arms.
And he’s not regular Kei — he’s Rio-Kei, as sultry as the rich drink in his hand. He can show skin! He has a lot of it, after all, being six foot five. He’s muscled and lean, he knows, body adult at last. And Shoyo did his eyeliner like he promised, and Kei’d flushed in the mirror in Shoyo’s bedroom at the sight of his own dusky pink nipple just barely covered by the mesh, but he looks a little like the attractive stranger he’d see — and secretly always want to be — in a club back home.
“Yes, queen!” Shoyo’d howled, slapping Kei’s ass. “Slay!”
“My dick feels weird in the jeans,” Tobio had protested, joining them in the huddle in front of the mirror. “I don’t see why we had to go commando for this.”
“So does mine,” Kei had agreed sheepishly, eyeing the way the fake leather pants were nearly laminated to his skin and leaving nothing to the imagination. And he’s not packing like the heftier spikers — Ushijima, Bokuto, Meian — but he’s tall and, well, proportional all over.
“Hang to the left, to the right, to the left to the right…” Shoyo had chanted, giggling maniacally as Kei and Tobio had tried to shuffle into a more comfortable alignment under skin-tight seams, and it was so fucking funny Kei finds himself laughing now at the memory and the way Shoyo’d taken a million photos of them together, tipsy and hysterical, and Tadashi had messaged back,
>>9:43pm
IM SO GLAD YOUR HAVING A GREAT TIME!!!!
>>9:44pm
ALSO FUCK YOU IM SO JEALOUS I CANT BELIEVE I HAD TO GO AND GET PROMOTED AND MISS THIS!!! JOBS SUCK!! ONE OF YOU RICH ASSHOLES MAKE ME YOUR SUGAR BABY!! Also hitoka says hi and your eyeliner looks great she wants to know the brand so text her ok shoyo have a great time!!!! Be safe! Get smashed!
>>9:46pm
And get Tsukki dick pls he needs it!!!
“You look cute when you smile,” purrs the man dancing with him, grinding up against Kei’s ass. “But I think I’d like it more if you cried, huh?”
Kei scoffs, throwing back the last of his drink and sticking his tongue out at Shoyo who’s waving his phone around and no doubt taking the blurriest insta-reels in the history of film. “Please,” he sways back as the bass drops. “You couldn’t handle me.”
He grabs at Tobio who comes shuffling past in his awkward earnest electro-bop — that man has no rhythm off the court — and they plunge back through the crowds towards the bar. Another drink turns into two, but Kei still remembers his graduation from uni well enough — actually, he remembers nothing at all, which is the point — to down a few glasses of water too, and he passes them to Shoyo and Tobio.
Then Shoyo declares he’s bored and they go two doors down to a pub with a courtyard strung with fairy-lights, and Shoyo shrieks in delight at his favourite song and drags them in.
Kei’s eyes catch on a man by the bar, tall, dark-haired, smooth-smiling, warm-eyed. The man eyes him back, so amused by the world Kei wants to claw surrender out of him. No time like the present.
“Isn’t this Spanish?” Tobio shouts at Shoyo when the live band swaps out for the DJ a while later and the bass drops, Kei down with it low against Carlos’ thick thighs. “You speak Portuguese.”
“Shakira is universal,” Shoyo informs him like he’s teaching worldly wisdom. “Tsukki, get it!”
Kei’s got a mouthful of tongue that’s not his, and two huge hands on his ass — blocking did give him a good one, it’s true — and a sort of pine cologne in his nose that smells like home.
Carlos bites at his neck and Kei groans and tips his head back, panting. “Another drink, yes?”
He turns away towards the bar and Kei catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. “Where’re — Ku —”
Tall, dark-haired, smooth-smiling, warm-eyed. His mood plummets like a feint into the open space behind the blockers.
He should have realised sooner why he let Carlos buy him a second drink.
The music’s too loud, the people around him too close, the courtyard too hot and the alcohol in his gut too volatile. Sweat hangs heavy on the air and Kei stumbles back to the edges, good mood long gone. It’s not fair. It’s not fair and Kei hates it, hates him, hates himself for not hating him at all.
Stop it, get a grip. Get a life.
“Tsukki,” Shoyo whines, lurching into Kei’s side. “Stop making the walls spin!”
He forces his hazy mind to focus. “Where’s Tobio?”
“Dunno, over… somewhere,” Shoyo shouts, waving a hand at the room in general. Then he sways closer, squinting up at Kei’s face. “Are you sad?” He bundles in close despite the stuffy heat of the night, and wraps his arms tight around Kei’s chest. “No, don’t be sad,” he cajoles, chin on Kei’s sternum. “Why are you sad?”
The vibrant good mood of earlier seesaws down to make way for the unhappiness Kei usually keeps deep in his chest. He curls down in an ungraceful lurch to hide his face in Shoyo’s hair, eyes prickling with no reason, there’s no reason to be upset, he’s lucky to even be here. He should be grateful for his good fortune and his privilege, not sulking on the side of a dance floor.
“Oh, Tsukki,” Shoyo mumbles, hugging tighter. “I’m sorry. Don’t be sad. You’ll make me sad too.”
“Sorry,” Kei manages, biting his lip fiercely against the sting in his eyes.
“Are you sick,” Tobio stumbles into them, listing heavily against Kei. “Me too.”
“Should we go?” Kei asks.
“Yeah.”
“No,” protests Shoyo. He could go all night, of course, but their livelihood depends on healthy livers and Shoyo won’t really leave them to stumble back alone. So they squeeze out of the crowd hand-in-hand until they’re spat out into the cool street on the other side.
“Sorry,” Kei says again, staring up at the moon. “Didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”
“You didn’t,” Shoyo says, skipping a few steps ahead to stick his head under a water fountain.
“I did,” Kei knows, but he doesn’t push as Tobio blinks sleepy eyes over at him. “Come on, King, can you walk?”
“Yeah,” Tobio says grumpily, and falls off the curb.
“Uh huh.” So Kei slings his arm over his shoulders and calls for Shoyo to not run so far ahead, and stay out of the road, idiot!
He’s had a year to get over this. He should have moved on by now. There’s been a brief relationship and several one-night stands; there have been setbacks and successes, wins on the court and accolades for his resume. It doesn’t revolve around Kuroo. Kei’s life revolves around Kei.
It’s hard to believe that when Kei’s heart still jumps at every man passing by with dark riotous haired, a smooth smile, and warm eyes.
But the unhappiness subsides again as the quiet, beautiful night surrounds them. The ocean hushes and shushes on one side, laughter and music on the other. Rio de Janeiro, the other side of the world. Who’d have thought, ten years ago, they’d find themselves here?
“We have time.”
“Huh?” Kei looks over at Tobio, whose head is tilted back towards the huge silver moon hanging overhead.
“Y’know,” he says, and reaches for the stars. “Time enough.”
“For what?”
Tobio lolls his head over to look at Kei, “Everything. It’s not over —”
“Until the ball hits the floor,” Shoyo and Kei say with him, muscle memory. There’s no ball in play here, but maybe Tobio’s right. Life is a game, after all.
“Oooooooh,” Shoyo sighs as he scampers inside and dashes to the bathroom. “Peeing after wearing these pants is, like, the best feeling ever.”
“I wanna pee,” Tobio insists, god those competitive idiots. “I bet my piss is gonna be longer than yours —”
“Nope, enough,” Kei says, dumping him onto the couch. “Your cock, your call. I am not dealing with you two. Drink some water.”
It’s nearing two a.m. and his eyes prickle with tiredness. Everything’s made better by coming back to a cup of tea, bed, and soft comfy pyjamas.
Tobio brushes his teeth as Kei takes out his contacts, and Shoyo giggles at his Instagram on the counter as he pours them some tea. Kei puts the radio on just because and the singer crooning in low Portuguese with a jazz band turns the room slow and syrupy around them.
“Goodnight,” he whispers once they’re all in bed. “Thank you.”
“G’night, Tsukki,” Shoyo says. “G’night, Tobio. Love you guys.”
“Snnnnnnnnrrrrrr,” snores Tobio, mouth open.
“Kick him,” Shoyo sighs, “or he’ll keep us up all night.”
Kei knows, and Kei does, and Tobio grunts, rolls over, says, “G’nnn,” and falls into silent sleep at last.
Shoyo drops them at the airport the day after, sniffling gently. He’s got a few more things to finish up and people to visit before he flies back to the Jackals next week. “You can do anything you set your mind to,” he tells Kei with that intense solemnity of his, in the final moments before security. “If you want something, make it yours. Take it. Be it. You can do it. Make Kuroo-san so crazy about you he falls at your feet.”
Kei flushes, “It’s not like that…”
“It should be,” Shoyo says. “You’re good together,” and he sends them off with a big hug each, waving boisterously until they’re out of sight.
Kei settles into his seat trying hold onto whatever meditative zen he’d achieved in the street under the stars. Life and the beauty thereof. Time enough.
A difficult task when his knees don’t fit into the tiny space of his seat and the recycled smell of the plane is already making him antsy. But it’s homeward-bound — only thirty-three hours and he’ll be home in his own bed.
And then there’s a delay on their connecting flight in Texas.
“What do you mean, technical problems?” Kei stares at the woman at the flight desk. “We have a flight in San Francisco back to Tokyo, how long are we going to be here?”
“Our ground team is investigating the fault,” the woman repeats, customer-pacifying smile pinned firmly to her lipstick. “We will have more information for you shortly. If this unexpected delay affects your connecting flight, we will be able to rebook the connection once confirmation comes through from our staff.”
“But our bags —”
“If we have to reschedule your flights, sir, all your baggage details will be updated too.”
“Kei, let’s go,” Tobio says, tugging him away. “They’re not going to be able to do anything. Let’s go find something to eat.”
“But that’s ridiculous, we don’t have a big gap in San Francisco. I told you we needed to book a longer connecting gap.”
“And I told you there was no other flight that didn’t add another twelve hours on, so shut up, okay? Would you rather they just flew the plane and we fell out of the air halfway over the ocean?”
Kei stops in his tracks. “That — that happens?”
“No, idiot. I mean, sometimes an engine blows but they say they can fly with three.”
“An engine explodes?”
“Which is why,” Tobio repeats with forced patience, “we let them deal with technical difficulties and wait.”
They wait for eight and a half hours. Their connecting flight has definitely taken off without them. They’re rebooked, but Kei is already three pages into a search on aircraft failure. Time crawls by and Kei wants to go home. He’s tired and sore and feeling sicker the longer he reads. Tobio confiscates his phone, but then he falls asleep like a pro volleyballer used to international travel, and Kei can steal it back and doom-scroll through passenger accounts of emergency landings and pray nothing happens on their flight.
He should sleep, he knows, or get something to eat, but what if the flight leaves without him? What if he gets lost and can’t find his way back? What if Tobio gets up and goes looking for him and then they both miss their flight? No. Better to stay right here, curled up on the most uncomfortable seat known to man where he can see the updating departures board.
Of course, when they finally do board the plane, there’s a baby two rows behind that won’t stop crying, and Kei just wants to sleep, they could crash and he wouldn’t care as long as it stopped that baby from wailing. But what if they do crash, what if he dies without ever punching Kuroo Tetsurou in the face for ruining Kei at age fifteen for every man that isn’t him for the rest of Kei’s miserable life?
“Welcome to San Francisco, folks, where the local time has just gone eleven-thirty p.m.,” the pilot is saying when Kei next blinks his gummy eyes open. He jolts awake, disorientated, but then the time sinks in and adrenaline fires on all cylinders.
“Tobio, our flight is in thirty-five minutes,” he hisses, scrambling to pull off his sleep mask, find his glasses, grab his phone and undo his belt all at once.
“Shit,” says Tobio, staring at the line that’s already formed in the aisle. And they’re right over the wings in the middle.
“Go,” Kei urges him, and they force themselves into the crowded aisle. They have to make that flight, Kei cannot spend another seven hours crammed into a tiny airport chair. He will actually go mad, he wants to go home so badly. The plane comes to a halt and its engines power down. Good thing they’re both professional athletes and over six feet tall. Kei’s mother would be ashamed at his lack of manners, but there’s no room for politeness when five hundred people are trying to disembark a claustrophobic tube of pressurised metal at the same time and their flight is in twenty-nine minutes.
They shove their way down the aisle bit by bit, then reach the door and have to wait for an elderly couple to navigate the small antechamber of the airbridge, twenty-seven minutes. Then they sprint up the passage, and Kei realises he’s left his neck cushion on the plane, fuck. No time to go back for it, even with a thirteen-hour flight ahead.
“Passport, Tobio,” he snaps as they race through the terminal under the lumbering weight of their backpacks. Twenty-six minutes.
“Here —” Tobio skids to a halt. “I —”
Kei tangles his hands desperately into his own hair, pulling tight as Tobio fumbles in all his pockets. He’s going to be sick. “Where’s your passport, come on —”
“Fuck off, I’m — ah, here!” It’s in the top pocket of his backpack, thank god thank god, twenty-five minutes.
“Let’s go,” he urges, and they reach the shuttle bus between domestic and international terminal just in time. Nineteen minutes to go when they arrive, then it’s a sprint to Customs.
Seventeen.
“Passport,” the man says when it’s finally their turn. “Name.”
“Kei Tsukishima.”
“Reason for visit.”
“Transit. We’re flying home to Tokyo.” In fourteen minutes.
The man scans Kei’s passport and glances from it to his face and from face to it. Then it’s his fingerprints all over again, and at the next booth the TSA agent is grilling Tobio on the Korean stamp in his passport and Tobio’s saying with his stilted English it was for work, I play volleyball professionally. An official tournament. They had all their visas, he says, just like Kei had told him to. Only there for ten days. There’s news about it, he can check out the JVA website, Tobio’s name and face will be on the main page, he says.
“You’re clear to go,” the man at Kei’s booth says, sliding back his passport and boarding pass. Thank god, nine minutes. “Put your bags and everything in your pockets on the conveyer belt for X-ray. Belts and watches too. All laptops, electronic items and aerosols out of your bag and into the trays.”
Six minutes. “Pack on the plane,” Tobio snaps at Kei when they’re through and Kei is trying to squash his hoodie back into his bag but the pack with his toothbrush keeps getting in the way.
“This is the final boarding call for Japan Airlines flight JA57 to Tokyo from Gate 84. The gate is closing…”
“That’s us!” Two minutes.
“Wait,” Tobio shouts as the gate finally comes into view, one minute! The crew are closing the doors. “We’re here, that’s our flight!”
“The gate is c—”
“We got delayed,” Kei pants, “please, we were rebooked on this flight, here, all our details, this is our flight.”
She scans their boarding passes, checks their passports.
“This way,” she says, “and hurry.”
Kei’s knees nearly buckle; Tobio grabs his elbow and hauls him along. They get on and the doors close behind them. The window seat for Tobio and a middle seat for Kei three rows back. This is his punishment for all the times he laughed at Shoyo faceplanting in diving drills, he knows it.
And of course this is the flight where all the jetlag, anxiety, exhaustion and rubbery airplane food combine and Kei spends seven of the thirteen hours hunched over the airsick bag. Please be sick, he tells himself, aching for relief from the nausea. But nothing happens, nothing but queasy misery for hours on hours as they fly into the sunrise and lose a day as the date line disappears below them.
Kei tries to catch as much fitful sleep as his uneasy stomach and numb legs and sore neck allows, but the sunlight and bustle of the breakfast service around him makes sleep an elusive animal and he gives up to stare blankly at Star Wars playing on someone’s screen two rows ahead.
Five hours to go.
Four.
Three hours, forty-five minutes.
Three hours, thirty-one minutes.
Two hours.
The last hour take the longest. The final twenty minutes when they’re circling Tokyo itself waiting for their turn in the landing queue are torture. Kei can see the ground right there, see the bay, the sprawl of buildings, and the rolling green hills beyond. He just wants to go home…
They land at last and disembark. He’s woozy on his feet. They find their baggage carousel and Kei has to sit down before his shaky knees tip him over.
“You okay,” Tobio asks, handing him a bottle of water. Kei takes a small sip and winces when his stomach churns. “I’ll get the bags.”
Half an hour later, they’re forced to accept Kei’s isn’t coming. He digs his knuckles into his eyes and breathes deep and slow while Tobio deals with the agent at the desk. She takes his details, apologises, and says it should be sent through within seventy-two hours.
“Three days?” Kei repeats hollowly.
“Let’s go,” Tobio grabs his own suitcase. “Still got to get through Customs. Miwa’s waiting, is Akiteru-san here?”
Kei shakes his head. “Taxi,” he says, despair turning his bones to lead. They were supposed to arrive last night; Kei’d even booked a cheap hotel to recover before taking the train home. But it’s 1 p.m. and his internal clock’s fucked, and he has to get home one way or another.
Tobio leads the way to a Customs queue. “You want a lift,” he says, earnest but unenthusiastic. Kei swallows down his irrational resentment. Close as they are, forced physical proximity for a full fortnight is something else.
“No,” he says. “It’s fine.” He forces himself to focus on the Customs official when it’s their turn, but they must look pathetic enough that it’s cursory. Swipe, nod, they’re through.
Miwa waves and tuts over their bedraggled state. She bows to Kei, thanks for looking after my brother, but Tobio did more looking after Kei than Kei did of him and Kei might throw up again so he just curves his lips up. Tobio pulls him into a hug, short but strong, and Kei wants to take it back and beg they don’t leave him here alone, but another second and they’re gone, Miwa with Tobio’s suitcase and a brisk march together towards the exit.
Kei’s twenty-four and a professional athlete. He is more than capable, he tells himself, of getting a taxi to the station. Then it’s only three hours till Sendai, then half-an-hour by bus to his apartment. That’s…only five hours till he’s home.
Oh god, five hours.
Frustrated, overwhelmed and exhausted, he feels a new surge of ugly angry tears claw their way up his oesophagus.
“There you are! I thought I’d missed you in the crowd.”
How —
Kei turns, dumbfounded.
“Ah, the joys of international travel,” Kuroo says gently, cupping a hand around Kei’s elbow. “Where’s your bag?”
“How —”
“Shorty sent your flight details when I asked. Nine hours in Texas, huh. I bet you didn’t sleep a wink.”
The tears in his throat change from sharp and angry to crippling, grateful relief. Forty hours of transit have robbed Kei of his usual restraint, and he tips into Kuroo’s sturdy embrace trying not cry.
Kuroo just takes his weight and wraps his arms around him, humming in sympathy. “Air travel sucks, I know,” he murmurs, rocking them gently side to side. “Welcome home, Tsukki.”
“They lost my bags,” Kei tells him wetly, “and the chicken was the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my life, and we were a minute away from missing the connection in San Fransisco, and I never want to do that again. Also, I’m going to throw up.”
“Oh dear,” Kuroo murmurs, guiding them swiftly towards a bin. “There we go, Tsukki, deep breaths.”
Braced over the bin with Kuroo’s palm rubbing soothing circles on his back, Kei takes deep breaths. When he’s hovered there long enough without anything happening, Kuroo supports him over to a bench and sits him down before crouching in front, casual and comfortable in jeans and a blue hoodie. He smiles up at Kei and rests the back of his hand on Kei’s forehead.
“How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” Kei mumbles, shoving his glasses up and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up. I figured you’d need a ride.” Kei lowers his hands long enough to raise an eyebrow at him, then covers his eyes again. “What? I’m always this nice, Tsukki, oh ye of little faith. Here, I know what’s making you sick — airplane smell. Take this.”
Blinking foggily at Kuroo, Kei realises he’s halfway through stripping off his hoodie, one side of his t-shirt riding up with it and revealing a muscled flank. “What’re you…?”
Hair mussed from the hoodie, Kuroo just grins and leans forward to tug Kei’s hem up. “Off,” he says. “The smell’s getting to you.”
Kei’s too bemused to protest, and lets Kuroo manhandle him out of his hoodie before he really knows what’s going on. Then Kuroo plops his own jumper over Kei’s head.
Ensconced in warm, pine-scented darkness, Kei drifts for a peaceful second. “But you have work,” he says, finally locating the arm holes and squirming properly into the hoodie. He wonders if Kuroo will notice if he hugs the fleecy material close, dip his nose to the neckline to catch Kuroo’s cologne.
He emerges a little ruffled, glasses knocked askew. Kuroo’s face, when the world comes back into focus, is doing a funny sort of crumpled thing, almost like the time Salad fell asleep curled up in Kuroo’s scarf on Kuroo’s lap.
“I left early,” Kuroo answers after a moment, refocusing. “I started early, and I have a decent chunk of overtime built up. Should I go and get you some tea?” Kei shakes his head. Kuroo rummages in his pocket and pulls out a candy, “Here. It’s ginger. Helps with my carsickness.”
Long inured to Kuroo foisting food on him, Kei takes the sweet without protest and submits to Kuroo touching his forehead again, even though it makes him want to turtle down into Kuroo’s soft fleecy hoodie and stay forever. “You’re a bit warm,” Kuroo says, sinking back onto his haunches. “Are you really sure you don’t want tea? You should hydrate as well, that recycled air really is the worst. I think some sleep should do the trick, but we can stop by a pharmacy on the way home if you’ve picked up gastro or something like that.”
Kei feels better the longer he sits with legs spread comfortably and non-airplane-smelling hoodie coaxing warmth back into his limbs.
“…so cute,” he hears a few feet away, tired brain taking a moment to understand the English. “I wish Tom was that nice to me after a long-haul flight.”
“Dump him then,” another woman answers, “and you have to stop assuming good-looking guys being kind and decent human beings to each other automatically means they’re boning!”
“Oh my god, excuse me for having eyes,” snaps the first woman, a blonde in a massive pink sweatshirt near the row of chairs opposite Kei’s. “Maybe you just fall into the heterosexual trap of assuming guys can only be brothers or friends, huh, what, like Achilles and Patroclus were ‘cousins?’”
“I’m just saying,” her companion says, zipping up her backpack with a sharp jerk. “You can’t just go around fetishising every hot guy you see. Is it even legal here? Yaoi doesn’t exist in real life, it’s just horny women pandering to horny women.”
“Okay, first, wow bitch,” they gather their things, “and second, gay people exist in real life, like, they’re obviously together. Thirdly, god forbid women explore their own gratification away from a male gaze…”
Their bickering gets lost in the crowd. Kei tries not to look at Kuroo and glances anyway, stomach sinking.
Kuroo is smiling a little wryly and when he catches Kei’s gaze he rolls his eyes, a tourists, what can you do sort of thing.
Well, you can stop making it so fucking hard to move on, for a start, Kei thinks. Why is it only outsiders who can see it? This always happens to Kei, it’s always someone else and he’s left staring at himself in the mirror what can they see that I can’t, what do they mean, why is it always everyone other than the two of them who think they look good together?
Then, “Wait, what do you mean, stop by a pharmacy on our way home?”
Kuroo blinks. “You’re staying with me tonight, obviously. You can’t catch the train in this condition.”
“And what condition is that?”
“Exhausted, dehydrated, nauseated, and resentful of humanity in general.”
Kei wishes Kuroo didn’t know him so well. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’m fine. You can drop me at the station, I need to pick Salad up from Tadashi’s place anyway.”
“I texted him earlier when I saw your delay,” Kuroo says. “He says it’s fine to pick Salad up tomorrow. I dropped round some more food when I was in Sendai last weekend, too, the proper Senior Cat crunchies Salad likes. Freckles said he was running low, and we both know he wouldn’t have bought the right brand.”
“That’s not the point,” Kei says, trying to ignore the warmth he feels at Kuroo’s attention to his fluffy monster. Tadashi is an outstanding friend in many ways, but in one he’s sadly lacking: cats are cool, is his opinion, but I dunno, I’d just rather have a dog.
“Then what is the point, Tsukki?” Kuroo’s jaw clenches: stubbornness 2.0 engaged. “You’re groggy and jetlagged, international travel sucks ass, and you don’t even have any clothes to change into — just come back to mine for the night. You can shower and borrow clothes that’ll actually fit.”
The point? He wants to know the point? Fine.
“The point,” Kei glares, forty hours of soul-crushing travel under his belt and in the bags under his eyes — the only bags he has, thanks — “is I’m sure your actual boyfriend will have something to say about that.”
Kuroo rocks back slightly onto his heels, something shuttering in his face. “He won’t care.”
“He did the last time I was in Tokyo,” Kei reminds him, “because heaven forbid you spend one hour with a friend and not text him for a whole sixty minutes. Or is he out with the ‘study partner’ again?”
Kuroo sighs and ducks his head to run a hand through his wild hair.
At the slump of his shoulders Kei feels even worse. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s not my business, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, you’re right.” Kuroo looks up at him through his fringe, wry. “You were right and Kenma was right and Bokuto was right…but also you’re wrong. He’s not with his ‘study partner,’” he adds the air quotes too. “He’s with the gym instructor. Wasn’t that an eyeful. And then he said it was just hot yoga and I was overreacting. I don’t think hot yoga is supposed to be done utterly naked in the bedroom, but I’m not a yogi. What do I know.”
“Shit…” Kei breathes, letting his head fall back against the wall. And the girlfriend after Alisa had tried to scam Kuroo before Kozume stepped in. “I’m so sorry, Kuroo-san. Why was a Russian supermodel your only normal girlfriend?”
Kuroo laughs, but his face is still a little drawn. Kei had loathed Wakano but he’d never in a million years wish an end via cheating.
“When?” he asks, nudging Kuroo’s knee with the toe of his converse.
“Three weeks ago,” Kuroo sighs. “Couple of days before you flew out. Tuesday.”
“You should have told me —”
“No, I didn’t want to worry you. I saw the end coming. It was only a four-month thing, if that. Don’t look so fretful, Tsukki, the wind will change and your face’ll get stuck like that. You had your exciting Brazilian adventure to look forward too, and it looks like you enjoyed it. I saw Shorty’s reel,” he wiggles his eyebrows, but something’s off about his leer. “Looks like you had heaps of fun.”
Kei blinks at him, confused.
“You know,” Kuroo says, expression slipping a little. “Mr Sun’s Out Guns Out on the dance floor? Tattoos for days? He was a good ten years older than you, by the way, I hope he was a gentleman.”
Realisation dawns, and with it a poisonous cocktail of so you do care how dare you care fizzing in Kei’s veins. “Not,” he snaps, “that it’s any of your business, but Tobio started feeling sick so we went back early.” Where does Kuroo get off acting like this, like he cares who Kei hooked up with when he won’t hook up with him himself, like he supports Kei’s choices but isn’t happy with them, like he — like he — Kei grabs his backpack. He’ll just call an Uber or something, cost be damned.
“Ah, sorry,” Kuroo says quietly, sitting back on his heels and out of Kei’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t — I just.” He runs a hand over his face. “None of my business. Are you feeling okay to go? I think I have some plastic bags in my car if you do feel sick.”
“It’s fine,” Kei insists again, so tired now he feels hysterical. “Just drop me at the train station —”
“For the last time,” Kuroo interrupts, sharp face turning harsh as his eyes darken and his jaw sets, “you are in no state to travel another four hundred kilometres alone. I will drop you at the station tomorrow when you’re feeling better, so stop being so stubborn —”
“Why don’t you stop acting like you always know what’s best for me,” Kei retaliates, clawing his bag open so he can stick his arm inside and start shoving things out of the way as he searches for his phone. “Stop acting like a concerned senpai when we’ve been out of high school ten years and never went to the same one in the first place!”
“Is that all I am to you? A dutiful senpai looking out for his kohai?”
“That’s all I seem to be to you,” Kei snaps back, panic now colouring his anger as he sweeps aside wallet and passport boarding pass and bottle and used tissues and old mask and headphones and book and still no phone — “Where the fuck is my phone, I just had it, it — it was right here!”
Warm, large hands cover his and still their frantic searching. Kuroo leans close enough Kei can feel the feathery tips of his hair brush his chin and opens the interior zip pocket of the backpack. He puts Kei’s phone into his hands and squeezes them gently.
Kei blinks down at his phone. His eyes go hot and prickly. Pulling one hand free he presses it to his eyes and tries to breathe.
He’s gathered into Kuroo’s arms again, a hand in his hair guiding his head gently down to Kuroo’s shoulder. A strong, safe, careful hand. Held only once but dreamt of a thousand times.
“I’m sorry,” Kuroo murmurs. “I know you’re feeling rotten, I didn’t mean to push.”
Kei clutches fistfuls of Kuroo’s soft cotton t-shirt, too tired to cry. “Want t’go home,” he manages.
“I know. Come on, can you stand? I parked about five minutes away, but I can come round to the pick-up if you don’t want to walk.”
Kei shakes his head, unwilling to let go of Kuroo even for an instant. He might evaporate if he does, or crumble away, or wake up and realise he’s still on the plane.
They wobble to their feet, Kuroo’s knees cracking as he stands. Kei’s stomach lurches but a few deep breathes and the ginger sweet finally unwrapped and melting on his tongue keeps it at bay. He brings the neck of Kuroo’s hoodie up to his nose and can’t keep his eyes open as Kuroo guides him through the throng of people all with their own miseries and triumphs bringing them to Narita Airport on a Wednesday afternoon.
The drive back to Kuroo’s place is a movie montage — snatches of colour and sound, scenes that don’t seem to link, far away one moment and close another. Kuroo tells him they’re here and he fumbles for his seatbelt, eyes crusted closed.
Then cold air on his side, the door open, and Kuroo’s hand over his unbuckling the belt. The slide of warm skin, the smell of him, the comfort of his nearness.
“Tetsurou,” Kei mumbles, reaching for him as Kuroo slips one arm under his knees and the other around his back. Dreaming, surely, as he’s held close and a kiss is brushed butterfly-brief to the top of his head.
“Don’t you know you’re everything to me, Kei?” is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.
+ ONE
The one TV in the office has been dedicated to the volleyball channel, but when there’s no games being played it’s usually tuned to the preferred sport of whichever person won the battle for the remote.
Currently it’s golf, and Tetsurou is hyper-focused on his strategic alignment matrix out of sheer self-preservation. If he stops concentrating on the minutia of various’ high schools’ sports curricula he’ll fall asleep at his desk, and it doesn’t help that the coffee both in the office kitchen and at the tiny cafe near the front entrance is awful. What he wouldn’t give for a Vietnamese coffee from the place just near their apartment… oh god he’s drooling just thinking about it. Clearly his caffeine levels are at an all-time critical low. Tetsurou never thought he’d say that Tokyo would fall short compared to somewhere out there in the sticks, but stranger things have happened.
….and oh dear, the approach out of the fairway bunker on the 16th seems to have skimmed too close to the wind and — yes, it’s caught the bunker face. Would you agree, Kendo-san, that if this leads to a double bogey it’ll doom Hickson’s chances?
What in great heavens is a double bogey?
No, focus. He got to Tokyo a few days before the Opening Ceremony, and now they’re on Day Four. Every time he glances out of the window the Olympic Rings are bright and vivid against the sky. Day Four of the Olympics! Thirteen to go, and then work for a few days after the Closing Ceremony too, to get a head start on promotion. That’s when interest runs hottest, after all.
After a quick stretch, Tetsurou grabs a bottle of water and gets back to it. It all depends on the qualifiers. Japan has the best team anyone’s seen in a goddamn decade, but he’s well aware that every country here thinks the same.
“Yes!” Onodera cheers softly, waving the tiny flag they all have on their desk as the tiny figure on the screen stoops to collect his ball from the hole.
When, Tetsurou tells himself, they reach the last round of the qualifiers, that’s when interest will pick up from the sponsors. It’s time for a Japanese volleyball resurgence. Though luck of the draw has placed heavy hitters Russia, Brazil, France and Argentina all in Pool B, Japan in Pool A still has Italy and Poland to contend with. They don’t need to win the pool, they just need to comfortably place in the top 4 to advance to the quarters.
They want gold, of course, obviously — Tetsurou can feel it, even from the sidelines: Bokuto’s hunger, the raw want in Hinata’s eyes, Ushijima’s implacable determination, how Kageyama whets the blade of his monsters’ appetites on the adamantine of his own will to win. They want it, and they’re strong enough and hungry enough to get it. But to be blunt, Japan doesn’t need it for volleyball to be impactful.
Volleyball is fun, and the more the world sees how much the players enjoy playing — enjoy the game, enjoy pushing their bodies to their full potential, enjoy being part of a team where the whole is so much greater than the sum of its parts — the greater the chance of a kid looking up at the TV just for a moment and thinking, oh, that looks cool. That looks fun. Maybe I can try it too, and see what it’s like.
It’s Tetsurou’s job to lower the net, and he can’t wait to get to it.
So they need sponsors and investors, a marketing campaign, a good slogan and one inspirational ‘I-didn’t-know-human-bodies-could-do-that’ photograph for the upcoming season after the Olympics, especially with qualifiers for the Spring Nationals approaching for high schoolers. With their lineup, though, Tetsurou has no fears about that last one. Putting a camera near Hinata will always result in some gravity-defying stunt.
They need the good momentum on the court and the passionate patriotism from the Japanese flag on their shirt to become keys to open the door to schools, clubs, associations and universities around the country, and have you considered offering volleyball here as an extracurricular?
Volleyball is fun, Tetsurou thinks, tamping down a smile in case anything thinks he’s glad about the bungled stroke on the links that’s currently fascinating at least two of his colleagues. Then he remembers he’s wearing a mask and no-one can see, so he grins anyway.
Excitement lives in his stomach alongside a manic sort of exhilarated stress that’s been growing since the Opening Ceremony. They split work between Ariake Arena and the JVA office, and four days in, the thrill hasn’t gone away: holy shit we’re actually at the Olympics. Eighteen months of near-constant work, pushing hard and jumping higher, and now the red and white of the Japanese flag vivid on every street corner.
“Kuroo-san, I’m sorry to disturb but do you have a moment to show me the best way to understand the stats?”
Tetsurou saves the file he’s working on before glancing over. The top button on Takahashi’s blouse is undone and she’s wearing thicker and more elaborate eyeliner than yesterday. “Sure, Takahashi-san, always happy to help. Sohma-kun, you were asking me about the stats yesterday too, weren’t you? Come and sit in, we’ll get you both trained up.”
Sohma perks up and Takahashi slumps down.
“I don’t mean to interrupt your work,” she says quickly. “Maybe we could go over it later —”
“No time like the present,” Tetsurou smiles. “And we might not have time later.” Technically they don’t even have time now, but Japan’s last round-robin game in Pool A isn’t until tomorrow so they have maybe an hour to spare. It’s the major media companies and whatever deal they signed with the IOC that dictates each sports’ airing time for the next two weeks, so the onus is on the JVA when it comes to specific promotion of the time slot the volleyball games are being shown. And it’s not just the next two weeks, of course. Getting someone excited by sport when it’s on practically every screen in the country is one thing; continuing that interest past the Games is quite another.
“We’re looking at the demographic stats from middle schools in the region, right?” Tetsurou says, genially shepherding Sohma into the chair Takahashi offers to Tetsurou. “Surveys show most of the potential is in ages eight to twelve, where children start wanting to choose their own sport instead of the ones their parents made them play as younger kids. So this is how you use Excel to bring out the important points in the data, and how you can embed a pivot table within the document to best represent those ideas in a report…”
Getting them up to competency takes Tetsurou a good forty-five minutes, and then there’s a glitch with the Meta program for scheduled Facebook posts. When that’s sorted someone locks themselves out of the JVA’s Twitter account and Tetsurou has to log it with Twitter and wait for a back-up code while the poor intern cries in the bathroom, then Suzumeda, bless her, texts Tetsurou just in time that Panasonic is looking to muscle in on post-game interviews the next day and that’s just a whole shitshow Tetsurou takes up to the boss when it grows too hot to handle.
They smother out the flames a few hours later, but just when he thinks there’s time for a very late lunch and maybe a quick call home there’s a scheduling mix-up with the National Swimming Team. It wouldn’t usually be Tetsurou’s problem but Sekita is, to be frank, a useless lazy asshole. Tetsurou is called down as the Guy in ‘I know a guy’ which he relishes, absolutely, collects favours and contacts in his little black book like a bee gathering pollen on every amble through a flowerbed, but not on a day like today without even a good cup of coffee to get him through.
They work late into the evening to make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow. After tomorrow’s game against Venezuela those eligible to make it through to the knockout stage will be announced, and the brackets for the quarterfinals released. Japan will definitely make it through to the quarterfinals, and they’ll probably win against Venezuela without issue, but Tetsurou doesn’t count crows before they hatch.
He falls face first into his hotel bed that night and sighs as he stretches out an arm to find only cold sheets on the other side. It might be the Olympics and eighteen months of work, but it’s also twenty-three days away from home. Tetsurou reaches for his phone. It’s late, he knows, but still…
The next morning includes a disappointingly lukewarm cappuccino and Takahashi lying in wait just inside the door.
“Good morning, Kuroo-san,” she smiles, sweeping her hair back behind her ear. “Did you have a good evening? Thank you for your assistance yesterday, Excel makes much more sense now. I did try and get training back in the Kyoto office, but the instructor wasn’t anywhere near as good as you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Tetsurou says, coming to a halt as she steps closer. “I’m glad I was able to help. I’ve just got to put my laptop on charge, so if you’ll excuse me…” He sidles around her to drop his things off at his desk.
Takahashi follows. “I’m sorry to always be asking silly questions,” she confesses, knitting her fingers together. The habit catches Tetsurou’s eye; it softens his temper almost without his permission. “I really do find your explanations very helpful.”
“That’s alright,” he answers reassuringly. “No question is really stupid. The only stupid thing you can do is not ask in the first place.”
She blushes and brightens a little. “Yes, I agree. I always think trying is the most important thing. Without asking, how do you know for sure?” She takes a breath — shit, Tetsurou only now realises the accidental double-meaning in his words, is she really going to —
His phone rings.
“Sorry,” Tetsurou says, anything but. “It’s Fujimoto-san. Good morning, sir, how can I help?”
Otsuka approaches him an hour later, after the urgent meeting Fujimoto called them into has concluded. “Takahashi’s gunning for you, Kuroo-kun.”
Still caught up in the contract negotiations for what could be an incredible opportunity with a nearby middle school coalition, Tetsurou blinks at her for a moment until the words register.
“Oh, hello, Otsuka-san,” he says. They’ve worked together several times before; they’re both in the Tohuko subbranch of the JVA. Tetsurou’s based in Miyagi and Otsuka is in Iwate. He sighs and rubs at his neck. “Yeah, it seems so.”
His colleague raises her eyebrows at him. “Good, you noticed.”
He rolls his eyes at her as they step into the kitchen. “I’m not that dense.”
“You’re a man,” she tuts, stepping in front of the reflective microwave and pulling her steel-grey hair up into a bun. With an efficient twist she skewers it with one of her long hair clips and reaches for a cup. Tetsurou feels a little like her bun at the moment, or a butterfly on a collector’s canvas waiting for the pin. “You’re all as thick as wet concrete when it comes to matters of the heart. I half-expected to hear you defend her interest as purely academic or some such nonsense.”
Tetsurou chuckles, leaning against the doorframe to make sure the object of their discussion is still down by the printer at the far end of the room. “Well, I admit I wasn’t entirely sure until yesterday.”
“Kuroo-kun,” she sighs despairingly. “That girl’s had her eye on you since she first stepped through the door.”
“I don’t go around thinking everyone is in love with me,” Tetsurou protests indignantly.
Otsuka tuts. “She must be inspired by the Olympics’ infamous orgy reputation — and all the discussions about the cardboard beds to ward it off.”
He laughs at that, remembering Bokuto’s disgruntled tirade when they met for breakfast the day after the Opening Ceremony.
It creaks and groans every time I turn over in the middle of the night! I feel like it’s gonna snap in half underneath me, how am I supposed to get enough sleep on something made out of a shoebox?
Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you can’t bring Akaashi back to your room, Tetsurou had teased. You’re rooming with Suna, right? I’d be afraid he’d film the whole thing and blackmail you in the morning.
“Anyway, no-one drops that many pens right near your desk for no reason.”
Tetsurou blinks at that. “I — really? Huh. I thought she was just clumsy. She did need guidance for some of Meta’s new updates, though, and she’s earnest about learning and improving herself.”
“And yet she’s not quite such a diligent student when it’s anyone but you teaching her,” Otsuka says disapprovingly. “It’s none of my business, Kuroo-kun, but she’s too young for you, and workplace romances never end well. Might be a good idea to hint her off.”
He folds his arms, uncomfortable. “I’ve considered it, but I don’t want to make her feel awkward or unwelcome here. I’m happy to help out if she needs advice, and we’re about to get even busier with the quarterfinals coming up. Won’t calling attention to it just make it a Thing that has to be handled?”
“No-one’s telling you to say point-blank, I’ve noticed your new push-up bra but I’m not interested, so thanks but no thanks,” Otsuka replies, stirring her coffee. Tetsurou chokes on his glass of water and she smacks his back unsympathetically. “Make up a girlfriend and drop her in the conversation. Tell Takahashi about an anniversary you have coming up or something.”
“She’ll want to see pictures,” Tetsurou argues, rinsing out the glass and leaving to dry, “and my personal life is none of her business.” He lifts his mask back over his mouth, makes a face, and throws it out to replace it with another from the pack in the drawer.
“Takahashi is trying to make it her business,” Otsuka says dryly. “I don’t think you can avoid her for the whole Olympics, Kuroo-kun. Like I said, it’s none of my business, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I just wanted to make sure you were aware.”
“Thanks, Otsuka-san,” Tetsurou shakes his head ruefully. “God, I need a proper cup of coffee to deal with this. If it looks like she’ll try and drag me somewhere one-on-one, promise you won’t leave me alone?”
Otsuka raises one unimpressed eyebrow at him. “I’ll do my best.”
They have another briefing to get to, then a call with the National Soccer Team’s promo division for an upcoming advertisement series, and then it’ll be time to hop on the bus to Ariake Arena for the Japan v. Venezuela game. It’s still uncanny, being in a stadium built for thousands and instead having a dozen of spectators at the most, all masked and mostly all staff from the teams or the venue.
The dozen or so staff making up the JVA’s Sports Promotion Division gather at the lifts around eleven a.m. “Maximum safe occupancy of the lift is two people,” Sekita reminds them, shepherding in Ri and Kyan and blocking Sohma. “Wait your turn, please.”
“See you downstairs,” Tetsurou tells Otsuka, and makes his way to the stairs.
Halfway down the first flight — they’re only three floors up, and he’s still very much in his prime, thank you, professional athlete or not — he hears the click-click of high heels, and his stomach sinks just as Takahashi trills, “Wait for me, Kuroo-san!”
Ugh.
“Of course, Takahashi-san,” he says, slowing on the next landing. Then the door at their floor swings open again and it’s Otsuka’s sensible low-heeled pumps following them down.
“Room for one more?” she says, eyes crinkled.
Tetsurou darts back up the stairs to her side, touched and manifestly relieved, and a little guilty. “Are you sure, Otsuka-san? Go slowly.”
“Oh, hush,” she grumbles at him, one hand tight on the rail and the other slipping gratefully into his outstretched arm. “Got to get some exercise after sitting at a desk all morning. And I’m only sixty, punk.”
“I’m very sure you could wipe the floor with me,” Tetsurou grins, “but for the sake of my ego let’s not test it.”
“I hope we won’t be late,” says Takahashi, waiting on the floor below and shifting from foot to foot. It’s clear that’s the only rebuke she’s willing to offer, and when Otsuka raises an eyebrow at her she quails and skitters on down the staircase.
“Blast this thing,” Otsuka mutters, tugging at her mask. “Would you mind, Kuroo-kun — I’m sorry, I know it’s not recommended, but…”
“Breathing is probably more highly recommended,” Tetsurou assures her, and she slips the mask off one ear to catch her breath. “I’ve already had it. Caught it last October, and scared my partner half to death.” Otsuka starts a little. Tetsurou smiles and continues, “Wasn’t fun. But I was very lucky, and came out of it with none of those terrible side-effects. My partner caught it a bit after, probably from me, unfortunately, but also recovered without any long-term issues, thank god.”
“Why are you telling me?” Otsuka demands, smacking Tetsurou’s arm. “Go and tell Takahashi that!”
He laughs and steps back when they reach the ground floor so she has some space to catch her breath, rearrange her coat and put her mask back on. When they arrive in the lobby, only half the office is present anyway.
Takahashi approaches and steps close again, ignoring the recommended distance signs plastered all over the lobby. “What do you think about the match this afternoon, Kuroo-san?” she asks, peering up at him. “Oh, your tie is a little crooked…”
“Is that you, Kuroo-san?” Ino from reception trots around the building’s weird L-shape and waves. “I thought I heard someone say your name. That’s handy! I was just about to ring you, you have a visitor at the front desk.”
Tetsurou glances at his watch. He’s got about ten minutes; hopefully it’s not the wife of the Falcons’ owner again. He’ll be lucky to get out by dinnertime if it is.
“I won’t be long,” he tells Otsuka and Takahashi, and follows Ino. Takahashi trails after him anyway, and it annoys Tetsurou more than it should.
He rounds the corner with the agenda from this morning’s briefing still on his mind, and —
“Kei?”
Kei lifts a hand and flutters his fingers, looking a little shy where he waits by the front desk. He steps forward; Tetsurou’s already hurrying to meet him, and throws his arms around him.
“Hello to you too,” Kei grunts, hugging back just as tightly. “Sorry to intrude.”
“What are you doing here?” Tetsurou asks, delighted, as he lets go to look at Kei properly. “You didn’t tell me you were coming! Did I miss your call? And what intrusion? You’re Div Two, you’re more than allowed to be here. Encouraged, in fact. Damn, I left that Sony ad contract back on my desk. I’ll get you on the big screen next time.”
Kei rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. He swapped glasses for contacts when the mask mandate went out, complaining that his glasses fog too much; his eyes are alight as he looks into Tetsurou’s.
“A friend of yours?” Ion asks genially, and they start.
“Oh, yes,” Tetsurou says, guiding Kei a little away from the doorway with a hand at his back as a group of harried accountants come in. “This is Tsukishima Kei, one of the best middle blockers in Div Two. We’ve known each other since high school.”
“T — Kuroo-san, please,” Kei says, ducking his head.
“What? You are,” Kuroo insists. “You’re absolutely dominating the rankings with one-touches per game, and you’re consistently up in the top five kill-blockers of Tohuko. And I have it on good authority spikers hate going up against you.” He winks. “I have Kindaichi’s verbatim quote, by the way.”
Ino laughs. “He’s a walking stats book,” she says to Kei. “It’s very nice to meet you, Tsukishima-san.”
“And you as well, Ino-san. Thank you for fetching Kuroo-san for me.”
“My pleasure,” she says, settling back in her chair. “Have you come for a meeting?”
“No,” Kei says, looking at Tetsurou. “I came to bring Kuroo-san this.” And he holds out a small thermos, screwed tightly shut.
Tetsurou accepts it, surprised. Then, as Kei’s eyes flitter curiously over his shoulder, he turns to see Otsuka and Takahashi behind him. “Let me introduce you to my colleagues,” he says. “I’ve told you about Otsuka Mai-san, Team Leader of the Iwate Office. Otsuka-san, this is —”
“Tsukishima-san, I heard,” she says, bowing. “I also met you briefly a few years ago, I think, at a Kurowashiki Tournament. It’s belated, but congratulations on the Frogs’ top-four placement at the last Emperor’s Cup Championship.”
“Oh, thank you,” Kei says, pleased. “And thank you for looking after Kuroo-san. He speaks highly of you.”
“He’s probably lying,” Otsuka says cheerfully. “And this is our college Takahashi Rina-san.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says briefly, bowing. “Kuroo-san, we don’t want to be late to the Arena.”
Kei glances up at the clock in the lobby. “I’m sorry, am I keeping you —”
“No,” Tetsurou insists, squeezing Kei’s hip. “You go on ahead, Takahashi-san, I can catch a taxi if I miss you all at the bus stop.”
“Tetsurou, don’t be late on my account,” Kei says, turning into him and reaching up to adjust Tetsurou’s tie with deft fingers. “I just came to give you the coffee, I have a meeting with the curator at the Aeronautical Museum in an hour.” He rests his hands on Tetsurou’s lapels for a moment, warm and familiar and dear. Tetsurou remembers Kei mentioning it, how the AM was leading the way with accessible online displays and 3D virtual tours for the long months when museums were closed to the public. “I can meet you later. I’m staying the night in Tokyo and heading back to Sendai tomorrow.”
“Is Yacchan or Yamaguchi looking after Salad?”
“Yachi. She’ll stop by this evening to feed him. I said she could use the Paramount Plus subscription.”
Tetsurou reaches for his wallet, then remembers he has the thermos in his other hand when he tries to fish out the spare room key for his hotel. Kei takes his wallet to get the key himself, and Tetsurou opens the tiny thermos curiously.
The aroma —
“Oh my god, is this…?” He takes a sip, jubilant, and it is! The Vietnamese coffee he’s been craving, still on the hot side of warm and just sweet enough. “Holy shit, I love you.”
“Me, or the coffee?” Kei asks, smirking at him. “Is it okay? I got it just before the train, it should still be warm.”
“Mmmm,” is all Tetsurou can say, eyes closed as he luxuriates in the taste. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Tsukki. I miss — this.”
“Me too,” Kei says quietly. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry, did you come all the way from Tohuko with the coffee?” Takahashi asks, disbelieving.
“Yes,” Kei replies a little coldly. “It was no trouble.” He turns a little more towards Tetsurou. “You should head off. Give my best to the team?”
“I wish I could get you a ticket,” sighs Tetsurou. “They’d love to see you. I will, maybe we can get dinner with them later. Bokuto will want to relive every moment of every game with you, fair warning.”
“Dinner sounds good, if they’re free. Not Miya, though. Exclude him with my best wishes, okay?” They smirk at each other. “I should get going too,” Kei fiddles with the strap of his satchel. “Text me when you’re done? And tell Shoyo not to screw up his approach again.”
Tetsurou squeezes his wrist gently as Kei returns his wallet. “Will you be okay on the metro?”
Kei taps his mask. “Ennoshita-san got a whole stock of medical-grade ones and he’s been shoving boxes into everyone’s hands.”
“God bless the healthcare profession,” Tetsurou claps his hands together in earnest thanks. “Alright, have a good meeting.”
“It was nice to meet you, Otsuka-san.” Kei glances back at him, eyes softening. “See you later.”
“See you later,” Tetsurou agrees, fervent and a little forlorn as Kei leaves, lithe figure soon swallowed up in the bustle of Tokyo.
He sighs.
Otsuka bursts out laughing.
“What?” he asks her as they finally leave too, turning right instead of left.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “Just that I was worried over nothing. That’ll do the trick!”
“What do you mean? And where’s Takahashi?”
“She went ahead to join the others at the bus stop,” here Otsuka elbows him, “with her tail firmly between her legs.”
“Otsuka-san, what on earth are you on about?”
“Your beau!”
Tetsurou stumbles over a lip in the pavement. “My — my what?”
“Your partner,” she tuts at him. “Don’t play dumb, Kuroo-kun, it doesn’t suit you.”
“I thought all men were supposed to be thick as concrete?”
“And you’re proving me right at this very moment. Takahashi is quite thoroughly hinted off, Kuroo-kun. How long have you been together?”
He considers the question for a moment, looking carefully, but he can’t find anything in her eyes but amusement and her usual forthright regard. A weight lifts of his chest and Tetsurou tips his head back to beam up at the blue sky, Kei came to see him! He brought Tetsurou’s favourite coffee from a shop two hours away, god he loves that man.
“A year and a half,” he confesses, happiness sparkling inside him, hotter and sweeter by far than the coffee. “Isn’t he just stunning? He’s so incredible; such a talented volleyball player, and he’s a museum curator too! He got his degree while playing Div Two, and in April he and the Frogs won bronze at the League Finals then a week later he and his department opened an exhibition at the Sendai Museum that was nationally reviewed.” Tetsurou sighs, besotted. “He brought me my favourite coffee…”
“He sounds quite the young man,” Otsuka says approvingly.
“Wait,” Tetsurou turns to her. “How did you know? What do you mean Takahashi was hinted off?”
Otsuka stares at him. “Kuroo-kun, if you’d undressed him any harder with your eyes he would have been naked in the JVA front lobby.” Tetsurou chokes. “You put your arm around his waist almost the moment he came in the door and forgot to move it until you handed him your wallet with your spare hotel key. You nearly recited his entire professional career to Ino-san, he adjusted your tie like he’d done it a thousand times before, and,” she concludes with relish, “you told him you loved him in front of three witnesses and the trophy from the 2004 Olympics.”
“Oh my god,” Tetsurou whispers, his life flashing before his eyes. “I did, didn’t I.”
“Don’t worry,” Otsuka softens her voice at whatever shellshocked expression is on his face. “I think they did think you were talking to the coffee.”
“Otsuka-san, you won’t — you won’t tell anyone, will you?” Tetsurou asks anxiously. “We can’t advertise our relationship while he’s still playing. It would raise questions about conflict of interest and nepotism that could damage his — well, both our careers.”
“Oh, Kuroo-kun, of course I won’t,” she tells him, patting his arm. “Don’t look so worried. Is he why you transferred to Miyagi, if you’ll forgive me prying?”
Tetsurou savours another sip of coffee and texts their boss to let him know they’re about five minutes away, delayed by a brief meeting with one of our valued V.League players.
“Yes, mostly, but it was also a good career move for me. There’s more potential for advancement in the regional offices; Tokyo’s a little stagnant with everybody comfy in their salary bracket. I didn’t want to pressure us and say our relationship was my only reason for moving, but, well, a similar opportunity opened in Kyoto and I can tell you I had absolutely no intention of applying for that, even with a company car included in the offer.”
Otsuka makes another approving noise. “I’ve always considered you to be one of the few sensible young men coming out of Tokyo. Most of them see the regional districts as either a dead-end not worthy of effort, or a cushy ride before being promoted back.”
“And that’s something I intend to change,” Tetsurou grins, sharklike. “Give me a few years, you won’t even recognise the JVA by the time I’m through with it. Anyway, we’d been dating long-distance for maybe eight months when the job opened up, and the rest is history.”
“You said you’d known each other since high school?”
“Oh,” Tetsurou laughs, finishing the last mouthful and unashamedly sticking his tongue into the thermos to try and scoop out the last droplets, “yes, the love of my lifetime.”
She blinks at him, taken aback. “High school sweethearts?”
Tetsurou’s smile softens as he thinks back to long days drenched in sticky summer heat, to late nights under gym lights, flushed cheeks and the rush of endorphins on the court. Back to the start, nostalgic for its innocence and cherished for what they were, are still, to each other — inspiration. Admiration. Learning together, in this adventure called life.
“No, it was right person, wrong time for us, for a long while. We were friends from high school onwards, since, oh god, 2012? 2013? Geez, that’s nearly a decade ago. When his team knocked mine out of Nationals, anyway. We were close friends through university and there were a few times, I think, that might have turned into something, but something else always came up.” The hurt is long-dulled — and is that even the right word? Hurt? No, more like a wistful what-if, the soft twinge of a healing barely-visible bruise.
They might have been celebrating their third anniversary by now, but they also might not, hampered by each of their ambitions and the blunt self-centredness of young adulthood. Their relationships in between were necessary too, Tetsurou knows. He’s still friends with Alisa, and the less said about that wanker Wakano the better, but they all taught him something about himself, and the him he became is the best complement to the Tsukishima Kei that Kei became. They’re together now, and that’s what matters. They’re the best for each other, and they choose to be, every day.
God, he’s so lucky to be the Kuroo Tetsurou loved by and in love with Tsukishima Kei.
“We were lucky enough to stay friends, and then finally,” they see their bus in the distance and stick their hands out for the driver, “it was the right time for us.” The hypocritical jealousy in his gut, the roiling anger and unjust indignation when that reel from Hinata blazed across Tetsurou’s instagram. How dare you, don’t you know you’re mine? Don’t you care anymore that I’m yours? “And that’s it, really.”
Otsuka laughs as the bus pulls up. “I’m sure it isn’t, not at all. But thank you, Kuroo-kun, for sharing.” She glances back at him as they wait for a mother and her enormous stroller to navigate her way on, and winks. “Maybe I should invite you both to dinner some time, after the Olympics are over. I’m sure my Chihiro would like to meet you too.”
Tetsurou nearly trips over his own feet as he climbs on, and she snickers.
“I — we’d be delighted,” he says faintly, already reaching for his phone to send Kei a bunch of keysmashes.
“After the Olympics, though,” she says, smiling up at a poster of the JNT they’d arranged for display by the Kōtō station.
“Of course,” Tetsurou says, grinning at both the poster — Bokuto looks so feral there, he loves it, never lets his best friend forget it — and the Pusheen sticker Kei always uses when he’s teasing Tetsurou’s melodrama, the cat shutting a laptop with an unimpressed expression. “We’ve still got work to do.” It’s the Olympics at last, their nation’s pride on their shoulders. Volleyball, its essence distilled down to the chosen six on the court and the ball in play. And partnership in Tokyo’s blazing blue summer, teamwork, love shared along a trainline and coffee made just the way he likes it, still warm in his hand.
“It’s a long way to the top, but the view from the summit…that’s always worth the wait.”