Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Mix the dough and water with your fingers, until the dough begins to form.
Coming together was not the easiest part or the hardest part. It was just the beginning, a gradual change from a you and me to an us. Shoulders bumping, knees touching, late night texts about nothing and everything, a slow coming together until there was a something.

2. Knead the dough and form pleats, until it looks like a chrysanthemum.
The hardest part really, was figuring out Oikawa Tooru. Matsukawa already knows so many things about Oikawa, but he's not sure he actually knows Oikawa, much less who Tooru is. Oikawa is more than all the roles he's assigned himself over the years, and Matsukawa is learning new ways to frame him. Here, he stops being captain and setter, and starts becoming a boy with stars in his eyes, held together by stubbornness and threads of childhood dreams, weaving them into a reality for himself as best as he can.

3. Press it down now, and start rolling out the dough.
There are a lot of nights where Matsukawa comes back late from work, and Oikawa's still up even though he has an early morning. They sit together and don't talk, let their silences stretch between them until it is easier to breathe. He learns how to fit his hands around Oikawa's, the strong fingers and the ragged nails. Another reminder, they're not in high school anymore.

4. Fold the dough and cut it to form the noodles.
Some days Oikawa drops by before dinner rush starts, when Matsukawa makes soba for him even though he’s on break. The kitchen is in suspension, a pause after finishing the prep work for dinner and before the rush starts, and Matsukawa loses his hours in a flurry of noodle making and serving food. Matsukawa might be used to this now, the early mornings and late nights, the never ending work, but he thinks Oikawa looks even more tired than he does sometimes. He runs his hand over Oikawa’s shoulders; an apology, a question.

5. Cook the noodles by dipping them into boiling water, then ice. Serve with mentsuyu.
In the end, it comes down to this: Oikawa’s hand pressed against his, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip, curling to link together. A point of contact, a reminder. He is learning Oikawa Tooru, the places where he holds together and the places he breaks, how best to handle it. But Matsukawa’s always been good at patience, he has steady hands that are unwilling to let this go. It is enough for now, the rest can come in time.

Chapter Text

Go back to where they started, a gym and the squeak of shoes, the sound of chatter as the seniors started their warm ups. He introduces himself, painfully awkward and earnest in his desire to become part of the team.

It could be a dream, for all the haziness that Kunimi remembers it with. But he remembers how it feels to spike the ball Kageyama had set for him that day, precisely where it needed to be at the right time.

Go back to the last time Kunimi saw him. The coffee is dripping, hot water collecting flavour as it seeps through the filter paper. The key on the counter, the sense of detachment as he watches Kageyama close the door behind him.

Kunimi remembers this with startling clarity, the faint strains of jazz seeping through the walls, the coolness of the floor against his feet. The balcony door had been open, awaiting a breeze to help ease the summer humidity. How he’d held his coffee cup for hours afterwards, long after the neighbour had turned off his stereo and gone to bed. The coffee stopped dripping, curdling in the pot where it stood untouched for a week afterward.

Kunimi stopped drinking coffee after that. It didn’t quite taste the same anymore, strangely sour instead of bitter, even with the addition of cream and sugar.

Come to the present, where he’s moved continents away. There’s a promising career for program developers anywhere in the world. Code comes in many languages, but it is a language Kunimi learned to speak with a fluency he’s never quite grasped with English. He still trips over words, even after all these years away from Japan.

Sometimes he misses coffee, bitterness seeping into him that turns into energy. He needs it now, after spending most of the night trying to debug the piece of code he was writing and answering the door to find Kageyama there.

Kageyama. A question, a confirmation. Kageyama should not be here, not in this space Kunimi has built for himself, separate from the past. But he is, and while Kunimi has no compunctions about telling people to get lost, he opens the door wide enough for Kageyama to come in.

They sit at his coffee table, the tea his mother had sent him for New Year’s steeping in the teapot. There is no unmaking the past, it seems. Kageyama is no genius anymore, a prodigy child set to blaze a trail through the world. He is in Kunimi’s living room, unearthing all these things Kunimi prefers to forget.

I’m sorry, he says. Kunimi thinks he’s too tired for this, uncovering all the scars they left on each other. I’m sorry too, Kunimi says. It could be a reconciliation, but Kunimi thinks of this as an offering to appease all the ghosts of their past, still crying out in loneliness despite their burial in the backyard of Kunimi’s childhood home.

Trace it, trace the link of past, present, and future. Connecting, like the commute Kunimi used to make when they both still lived in Sendai. In this, find a path to the uncertain future where all their ghosts could be laid to rest.

Chapter Text

“You came.” Konoha’s sitting on the edge of the roof, one of those tall buildings that crop up so often in the dreams he builds. An anonymous city, a busy skyline, a world where people never think to look up, only down.

“You left.” Akaashi replies, like it answers everything. He takes a seat next to Konoha, legs dangling over the edge. It’s so far down, an easy way to wake up if Akaashi’s ever seen one.

Of course I came, he doesn’t say. You don’t spend days, months, years building dreams together and not care about a person. Akaashi has seen the secrets Konoha has tucked into his subconscious, hidden from himself and others. He’s seen Konoha put on and shed a million personas, identities like it is nothing. He becomes whatever they ask of him.

“You didn’t have to. It’s not your job anymore.” Konoha says.

“It’s not about whether it’s my job, Konoha.” Konoha shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like Akaashi shouldn’t be here anymore.

It’s a dream, Akaashi. Anything can happen in a dream. Konoha’s smile is a sliver of a thing, sliding out of Akaashi’s grasp. Akaashi’s never seen worlds like Konoha builds them, beautiful and strange and achingly lovely. Memories stored in the tinkling of windchimes, people remembered in the grain of wood, trees made of glass. It’s unreal and dreamlike, a part of Konoha that Akaashi could never have guessed at.

It was easy to love Konoha; it still is.

“Won’t you wake up?” he asks, lacing his hands together. Konoha turns to him, and Akaashi wishes he’d learned better how to read Konoha, then maybe he’d understand him better. Maybe he’d understand where they had gone wrong, where he had gone wrong.

“You know, Akaashi, we spent so much time chasing secrets and living in dreams. I don’t think I know how to live normally anymore.” Konoha turns away. “Think about it. We’ve lived lifetimes in dreams, done impossible things, seen the most unlikely things. You can do anything you want in dreams.” The city starts crumbling, like a sandcastle losing shape. Then it reshapes itself, rearranges itself a way only Konoha knows. The city blocks look familiar now, like the route he and Konoha used to take home from school.

“You should go.” Konoha gestures, and Akaashi is thinking of winter, summer, and spring, the long walks home. Autumn like Konoha himself, changing and always changing.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” Konoha meets his gaze. It’s the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes.

When he wakes up, Konoha's still sleeping in the chaise across him. He removes the line with the ease of long practise, but when he looks up, Konoha is watching him, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Welcome back.

Chapter Text

atsumu has always been certain of two things. that he would have to make his own place in the world, carve out a space for himself to stand. their world is one that regards twins as ill fortune, and atsumu dares to defy them with his existence. the other thing is that osamu would support him. they are their own person, both of them. osamu has different dreams and aspirations than atsumu does, and atsumu has always known osamu wouldn't always be beside him. only it wasn't supposed to happen this way. osamu was supposed to tell atsumu that he wants to go eat all the different kinds of rice in the world, or leave because atsumu always ate all the sweets before osamu could have any.

he wasn't supposed to leave this way.

--

he learns a new way to frame the world, one without osamu making pointed comments next to him. some things are still the same. the skies are still cloudy, the townspeople still regard him with wariness. once a twin, always a twin. never mind that osamu is only a ghost who haunts him now, a memory slowly losing detail with the passing of seasons. for all the years atsumu has spent tracking the differences between osamu and him, he cannot remember them now. osamu had always been the mirror in which the best and worst parts of himself were reflected back, but always with love.

the skies still refuse to clear, a portent of ill fortune. but the worst has already come to pass, in atsumu’s opinion.

--

he sees things that osamu will never see. the skies, clear for the first time in his memory. kita, smiling. he’s never known kita to smile like this, despite his and osamu’s best attempts over the years. aran too, can’t stop looking up, even though it hurts to look at the sun. he wonders what osamu would have made of this group of people, how he would have fit in here with them. he wonders what osamu would have said about the sky, the brilliant blue of it and the warmth of the sun on his face. you are never more aware of your losses when faced with things you have fought to gain.

if atsumu stops to count the years that have passed, he will find them slowly growing in number. one day that number will be more than the years osamu lived, and atsumu will still remember he once had a brother who looked like him.

Chapter Text

These tracks lead nowhere. He remembers walking down them once, just to see where they would lead.

He'd found himself at the bus stop instead, unsure where the tracks had ended, where the asphalt had begun. Above him, he can almost sense the electric humming through the wires of the transmission towers, leading away from here.

The rain starts to fall then, everything slowly melting into the puddles that form, until it seems like nothing ever existed.

//

In the gently swaying carriage of a broken ferris wheel, Konoba remembers Akaashi's profile outlined against a red sky and the slow simmer of a world falling to pieces.

Akaashi had said something important, he knows. He just can't remember it anymore.

He remembers the single lily that Akaashi had been holding, still waiting to bloom.

//

There's a glass vase on the table, an arrangement of lilies still in bud, only one beginning to unfurl. Konoha doesn't remember getting them, so he assumes someone else must have.

There is a pause in the air, a feeling of expectation, as if the house is waiting for someone else. Not all the players are here yet, but Konoha doesn't know who else should be here.

He can hear someone saying his name, but it sounds far off, more memory than present.

Konoha.

//

They're in the ferris wheel, the city spread before them. There is fire still spreading, but Konoha can't feel the heat. He's not sure why, but he knows that they are safe here, sitting in the last remaining carriage of a ferris wheel that hasn't turned in years.

Akaashi is watching the buildings smoulder, the last of a ruined city to fall. The ferris wheel creaks and sways as the wind blows, but they are safe here, only observers.

Are you still dreaming? he asks.

Konoha doesn't know what he means.

//

The stillness unsettles him, the red sky of a blazing sunset, a city reflected in puddles of a passing storm. There are train tracks that seem to lead somewhere, but he's not sure where they go.

It is a city in ruins, soot on the walls and under his feet, a sky that refuses to be anything but red. There is a ferris wheel ahead of him, the only movement in the stillness and all the more unreal for it. It turns slowly, like it's remembering how it used to be.

There is someone waiting for him at the platform of the ferris wheel, who only turns around when Konoha draws near. He looks familiar, like someone Konoha should know, should remember.

Hello, Konoha.

Chapter Text

you left me behind without a second thought.

well, maybe that's unfair of me to say.

you left to go catch the stars in your hands, see the edges of everything so you could pull them together, make something of this vast, weird world we have.

that's better, right?

you left me behind and i watched you go, because i couldn't stop you. maybe i didn't really want to stop you, i just wanted you to stay. we've always been apart and we were only just starting to learn to be together. i was learning you were messy and i was messier, that between us the floor was a laundry basket of some sorts. i was learning you knew how to make tamagoyaki and curry and between us we could sort of cobble a meal together.

i was learning your dreams were even bigger than i thought they were.

see, where i saw danger and reason for caution, you saw possibility and endless potential. so you left, and all i hear from you now are texts that take longer and longer to come.

your last message was two months ago, and i'm still thinking about it. i wonder where you are now, if you're still the same as you are when you left. but of course you aren't. i've changed while you were gone, and you would have changed too, with all your new experiences. you're changing at a rate i cannot see or calculate or predict, and i don't know if it frightens me or intrigues me more.

will i recognise you the next time we meet?

well, i don't suppose it matters. i cannot tell you everything that is happening with me, all the things that have changed. i don't know all the ways i have changed either, but i know i have been growing older and growing up.

they say that you will be coming back soon, but time moves differently for you in space, where you measure time at the speed of light. we are growing apart, you in your changing rates of time, while i move at the same pace i have my whole life. it's a strange thought, isn't it?

but you've never been the one to think about these things. you have always run forward, reach forwards, trying to grasp new things.

i admire it, i do. but sometimes i wish it wouldn't take you so far away.

Chapter Text

“What did you find this time?” Kageyama’s at the door, watching as Kunimi rearranges the jars on the shelf. He opens one and drops the tiny horse in it, where it dissolves into the smoky contents.

“Nostalgia.” He can still feel it, the sharp desire for things long gone, the muted acceptance of knowing it won't ever be the same again. Kageyama just nods awkwardly while Kunimi stares at the jar in his hands, the swirling contents forming vague shapes of things that used to be. A city, a playground, a cup of coffee.

“You've always been really good at this.” Kageyama says, glancing at the shelves that line the wall. All of the jars are full, their contents ever shifting and changing.

“You can't sell them if you can't find them.” Kunimi shrugs, placing the jar back where it belongs. “What are you here for?” he asks.

Kageyama looks uncertain for a moment. “Courage.” he finally says, his hands shoved into his pockets. Kunimi frowns, because it's always difficult to find, but also a strangely dangerous emotion to give to anyone.

“Why?” Kunimi rarely pries into people's affairs, but sometimes he asks questions just to make sure the emotions aren't being misused.

“I want to know what it feels like, I guess.” Kageyama admits. Kunimi frowns, but gestures at Kageyama to sit. He perches awkwardly on the stool as Kunimi makes his way around the counter, settling on a stool himself. Kageyama's now pressing his thumbs together, fidgeting while Kunimi stares at him.

“I think you're brave enough without.” Kunimi says. They've come a long way, both of them. Kageyama just shrugs, the gesture almost helpless. But then, Kageyama's never been particularly good with emotions. His forte had always been in other things. Strategy, precision, pushing forward with all the determination and pigheadedness he can muster. Things Kunimi could not do, would not do.

“It doesn't feel like it.” Kageyama says. “I’m not sure what to do next, now that everything is almost over.” Kunimi remembers Kageyama mentioning this, his uncertainties for the future after volleyball.

“You apologised to me, didn't you?” Kunimi says. “Kindaichi, too. That's braver than I was already.” Kageyama's always been braver than the two of them, he thinks. Determination to make his own way regardless of his failures and other people's judgment, the ability to admit to his mistakes and to fix them, however clumsily. Kunimi might have a knack for picking up emotions, but Kageyama's always been very effective in using his.

“It's not really the same.” Kageyama finally says.

“It isn't.” Kunimi agrees. “I don't think you need it though.”

In the end, he gives Kageyama a tiny vial of it, barely larger than a memory. It glows faintly, more liquid than smoke now.

“Thank you.” Kageyama bows, even though Kunimi thinks they are past these kind of formalities. He wonders what Kageyama will do with it, even as the room sighs with his departure.