Chapter Text
Tadashi ran his finger down the tense guitar string, pressing in and feeling the cool bite of the wire against the pad of his fingertip. A breeze had blown in the crisp air of dusk, and the shopping district of downtown Sendai was starting to wind down for the evening.
Few people would be bothered by his playing here, but he might still draw a small crowd. He had learned from past experiences that it was better to go acoustic—easier to pack things up and head out, if someone from a nearby shop called in a noise complaint.
He was about to start playing, the song a familiar weight on his tongue, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Tadashi pulled it out and saw an incoming text from Hitoka.
We are playing in Roppongi tonight! Wish you were here!
He read over it with a sigh, then pocketed his phone. It had only been six months since Hitoka, Hinata, and Kageyama had packed up and moved to Tokyo. His former band mates had quickly found success there, and it had not wavered.
But a small, sad part of Tadashi was still waiting for the other shoe to drop for them. Was still waiting for them to move back to Sendai—to come back for him.
Tadashi arranged his fingers to the first chord of the song and began to strum. He wouldn’t let himself think like that. He had made his choice, and they had made theirs. Hitoka had chosen them over him. All that he could do now was live with that outcome.
“Years ago,” he sang. “I fell in love...”
The footsteps that swarmed around him hesitated as they registered the impromptu performance, stuttering to a stop. Many quickly moved on, afraid he would start begging for money, but Tadashi knew that many more stayed to hear his voice. He quirked his lips into a smile as he reached the chorus. He liked that they liked to listen. It made him feel useful. It made him feel wanted.
Tadashi let the song play out, finishing with a few tight strums, before finally looking up.
There was a small crowd, and they applauded politely for him, and then promptly scattered, as though embarrassed to have been caught by him. Tadashi felt a light pink tinge his own cheeks. He knew he was a simple performer, and not flashy or extravagant enough to make people stay. He breathed out, readjusted his guitar in the cradle of his elbow, and began strumming again.
“Cut the bonds with the moon..."
Tadashi let himself sink into the song, his mind falling back to Hitoka. Her shining face framed nicely by her blonde bob, her smiles always brightening when Hinata came bursting in with a new grand idea for progressing their music… and Tadashi, slowly fading more and more into the background.
The worst part was, he had seen it all happening, so clearly. So when Hitoka came to him, hands shaking and tears in her eyes, he didn’t even let himself feel shock. He couldn’t even hate her, he couldn’t hate them. It had been his own fault for not loving her the way she deserved.
Tadashi’s voice stuttered in the chorus, and as he caught his breath, he was horrified when a tear rolled down his cheek. He lifted his hand from the neck of the guitar to brush it away, looking up to see if anyone was watching him—
And he was met with a pair of brilliantly golden eyes, shielded by glasses with dark frames. A man was gazing at him with a stern expression, and for a moment, Tadashi thought, I’m in trouble now.
“S-Should I move, sir?”
“What?” The man’s expression tightened, as he realized Tadashi was addressing him. “How should I know?”
“Aren’t you here to tell me off? Sometimes the businesses don’t like when I play out here, so they—”
“No, I—” The man hesitated, cleared his throat. “I was just listening.”
“O-Oh.” Tadashi stretched his fingers against the strings, feeling the gentle reverberations, too quiet to be audible. Tadashi felt himself start to blush under the man’s careful gaze, realizing also that his cheek was still wet with tears. He continued to wipe at it, and figured he should ask if the man had any song requests to distract him from the dreadful scene. “Do you—”
“Are you okay?” The man asked suddenly, and Tadashi realized he was holding out a cloth handkerchief, soft and white. As Tadashi took it, he met the man’s eyes once more, trying his best to look grateful and not combust from embarrassment.
That’s when he realized with sharp clarity that he recognized this man. His shorn blond hair and fashionable frames, his tall and confident stance— Tadashi had seen him before, watching his street performances from the sidelines. Tadashi must set up along his usual walk home from work.
He ducked his head, doubly embarrassed now to have started crying in front of someone he sort of knew .
“Oh! Thanks. It’s just… break-up songs, you know?”
When he looked up again, the man was nodding solemnly, and Tadashi was startled by the expression on his face.
This guy didn’t look like much of a music guy at all. He was dressed nicely, dark jacket against a navy blue dress shirt, but the top buttons were undone, and there was no sign of a tie or briefcase. He was stylish, but something about him still seemed too prim and proper.
And yet, there was some unnamed emotion that flickered across his face, his eyes watching Tadashi carefully. Maybe the man did know what it was like to feel a song so deeply that you couldn’t help but cry over it.
“I… didn’t know people still carried these,” Tadashi said, handing the man back his handkerchief. He took it with a sharp smile, his serious expression breaking all at once.
“It makes an impression.”
“I see,” Tadashi worried at his lower lip, and strummed out a chord anxiously. The man readjusted his stance, but did not look like he was about to leave. Tadashi leaned his head back down, thought back to where he had cut the song off, and brought his right hand down to resume strumming.
“Shut the door to the moon, and let the birds gather…"
By the time Tadashi finished the song and lifted his chin up, he expected the man to be gone. The square was mostly dark now, but Tadashi had his back to a streetlamp, and so he was illuminated.
And so was the man, golden eyes flickering in the light as he smiled down at Tadashi; a softer smile, cool and kind.
Tadashi smiled back, and found he couldn’t help himself. “What d’you think?”
★・・☆
Kei’s first thought, crisp in his mind as the busker stared up at him, was that his day had sucked.
His day had sucked, and for a moment, this man’s song had made him forget about that. Kei had seen this man before, had heard his quiet performances as he passed through the busy street on his way home, his feet often stopping of their own accord so he could get a chance to listen.
He wondered if the man recognized him. If that was why he was even asking for his opinion.
Or, more likely, he was just being nice. Kei flushed a little as the man blinked at him curiously, dark eyelashes fluttering against skin that looked soft to touch. That was more likely. He seemed like a nice person.
“Well?” The man said, something like a laugh catching in his throat. Kei realized he had been quiet for too long, and cleared his throat. As he contemplated what to say, the other man began to pack up his guitar, strands of dark brown hair falling into his face.
“I thought it was really sad.”
The man’s face was half-obscured, but even in the shadows cast by the lamplight, Kei could still see a smattering of freckles, and a smile pulling tight at the corners of his mouth.
“You’re not the first to say that,” the man’s voice was still musical, even though he had long stopped singing. He stood and held out a hand. “My name is Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
“Tsukishima Kei.” Kei took his hand, and it was warm. He suddenly felt embarrassed by his own hands, cold from poor circulation and the night breeze, but Yamaguchi held it firmly.
“Thanks for listening, Tsukishima.”
“Thanks for playing.”
Yamaguchi swung the strap of his guitar case over his shoulder, and rocked back a little with the weight of it. Kei’s hand twitched where it had fallen at his side, wanting to reach out and help. He folded his fingers into a loose fist and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets.
Yamaguchi’s song had been sad. It had made Kei reflect too long on things that shouldn’t come to light; the stress of a job he hated, a collection of papers that would never be published on his desk, and a piano left unplayed for far too long. Kei always had been a little bit of a masochist. Maybe that’s why he liked the man’s singing so much. It shone a light on all those dark corners that held what Kei never wanted to see.
“Wait,” he said suddenly, calling after Yamaguchi, who had just begun to walk away. The man turned back to him, hand curled loosely over the strap at his shoulder, his expression curious and lovely.
“I write about music,” Kei said, his mouth curling around the half-truth. He wrote about music as a hobby, and what could he really do with that? “Could I walk with you for a while?”
Yamaguchi was posed thoughtfully, head held to the side as though he were studying Kei. Kei pulled his hands from his pockets in an almost-shrug, as though showing he didn’t know why he was asking either, and then found himself smirking at his own actions. He saw Yamaguchi’s eyes fall to his mouth, and flick back up to meet his gaze.
“Okay,” Yamaguchi said after a moment, his smile soft around the edges. “But I’m going this way.”
Kei returned his hands to his pockets and jogged to cross the short distance between them. “So,” he started. “When did you first pick up the guitar?”
“In middle school, but I didn’t get really into it until I joined this club in high school…”
As they strolled together through the quiet streets of Sendai, Kei slowed his strides to match Yamaguchi’s, and asked a few more inane questions. He learned that Yamaguchi also played the violin, and played open mic nights at a cafe that Kei had actually visited before.
Before long, they had reached the more residential area of the city, where the apartments were stacked together in neat rows. Kei grew quiet as he realized they were actually approaching his apartment, and he would have to part from this strange encounter sooner than he had anticipated.
He wanted to know so much more. He wanted to ask for Yamaguchi’s number.
Kei rubbed the back of his neck where his nerves were prickling with sparks of anxiety. If only he were better at this sort of thing.
“Can interviews go both ways?” Yamaguchi asked suddenly. Kei found himself nodding stiffly. “What made you interested in music?”
Kei slid his gaze over, and saw Yamaguchi squirm a little. He was glad he was not the only one uncomfortable here.
“My brother was in a band.”
He wasn’t sure what the next question would be. It wasn’t often that he talked about Akiteru, but he wouldn’t mind telling Yamaguchi his story.
Yamaguchi was quiet though, seemingly lost in thought, and Kei let his footsteps fall still as they came to the door to his building.
“This is me,” he said, and Yamaguchi readjusted his guitar on his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow.
“Really?” He asked, and Kei huffed out a laugh that sounded like a scoff, harsh to his own ears.
Yamaguchi took it in stride, a smile etched across his face. “Only, I live a block down. You can practically see it from here. We’re neighbors!”
Kei’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest. “Cool,” he said, in lieu of anything that actually carried meaning.
“Anyway, thanks,” Yamaguchi said, as though Kei hadn’t been stumbling socially through the past half hour. “It was nice… I liked being asked questions, like my answers mattered.”
“They do matter,” Kei said, motioning over his shoulder towards the door. “I can show you. I write articles about local bands, and submit them to papers. I could even make it official and pull out a recorder, if you’d want to continue our conversation inside.”
Yamaguchi blinked owlishly at him, and Kei realized he was essentially inviting a perfect stranger into his apartment, even as night had long settled around them. He could have bitten his own tongue off— but he couldn’t retract his offer, either. Not with Yamaguchi studying him like that, gauging how truthful he was. Looking at Kei like he was really someone important.
Kei liked being looked at like that.
“Now?” Was all that Yamaguchi said, and Kei simply nodded in return.
Yamaguchi stood on the stoop beside him as Kei punched in the door code. Before they could step inside, he leaned in even closer, and Kei found his heart racing as Yamaguchi’s eyes sparkled cleverly, twirling his phone in his hand.
“Just so you know,” he said. “I’ve texted my friends your name.”
Kei pushed open the door to the stairwell, bright fluorescents lighting their way to his apartment, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from bursting out into laughter. “I plan to do the very same.”
☆・・★
When Tsukishima opened the door to his apartment, Tadashi was met with a flush feeling of warmth. The lights had been turned on, and there were plants and papers on most of the surfaces. It might have felt cluttered, but the floor was clear and the piles were arranged tidily. Tadashi removed his shoes and rested his guitar against the wall near the door, and made his way to the living room. Tsukishima headed for the kitchen and began to bustle around in there.
Tadashi ran a hand along a pile of papers on the coffee table, sinking into the leather couch.
“I’ll admit, I had thought you were making it up,” Tadashi said, turning over a paper and studying it. The page contained notes on a local band that Tadashi had seen before. They ran in similar circles, but he had never actually met them. Still, he had respected their rebellious genre-clashing performances, and their admittedly goofy name.
“What would you have done if I had been faking?” Tsukishima called from over the refrigerator door.
“I don’t really know. Maybe make a run for it. Maybe not… my ex is always encouraging me to meet new people. ” Tadashi felt the laugh flutter in his chest again as he observed Tsukishima’s raised eyebrow. What had seemed like guarded expressions were actually quite easy to read.
“The one from the song?”
“Not really.” Tadashi reached out to take the drink Tsukishima was offering to him. His fingers brushed against the other man’s hand, and they both pulled away quickly enough to be noticeable. “Maybe a little.”
‘What inspires you to write?” Tsukishima had picked up a slim recorder from the coffee table and waved it gently as he sat opposite of him, a silent question aimed at Tadashi. He nodded, and with a press of a button, a quiet electronic whir filled the room.
“I don’t really know. I used to write with my band… fun songs, with a story. But now I just kind of write what I feel. What inspires you?”
Tsukishima tapped a slender finger against the recorder. “Honestly, it’s just a hobby. You’re really the first… the first person I’m interviewing like this. I usually just talk to friends, friends of friends. But I like writing about music. I like having it make sense.”
Tadashi smiled. “I understand. I like playing, and performing. My band wanted to make it into something bigger, and I didn’t.”
“You’re good, though,” Tsukishima said, and his eyes were cool even in the warm light of the apartment. Tadashi shrunk a little under his studious gaze.
“Thanks. I can be content with that.”
A muscle clenched in Tsukishima’s jaw. Feeling a little awkward in the silence, Tadashi glanced around the apartment, his eyes falling on a sleek black upright piano. It was an unusual sight in a small apartment like this one.
“Another hobby?” He asked, standing to get a closer look at it.
“It… it was my brother’s.”
“You mentioned him before. He was in a band? Would I know them?”
“I don’t think so. They gave it a go, but never made it big time.” Tsukishima had moved to stand near him, and now rested a hand on top of the piano’s dark surface. “Akiteru gave piano lessons for a while, but I didn’t realize it was just to get enough money to move abroad with the band and try for the international studios. One day I just came back to my apartment to find this, and a note saying that he’d gone.”
“It’s hard to resist the spotlight,” Tadashi said softly. Tsukishima was not looking at him. His gaze rested firmly on the piano. “Do you play?”
“Yeah,” Tsukishima said in a fragile voice.
Tadashi could feel the missing piece dangling in the air right in front of him, but didn’t know where it might fit.
“Would you play something for me?”
Everything he had learned about this man and his personality tonight led Tadashi to expect a soft but firm “no.”
He did not expect Tsukishima to pull a chair over to the piano and rest slender fingers against the black and white keys. Without looking at Tadashi, he began to tap out a few quick notes.
“It’s really out of tune,” Tsukishima said, but he seemed to be speaking more to himself.
“That doesn’t matter,” Tadashi said, unsure if Tsukishima was even listening to him. But the man turned to look up at him with a smile, and it was as golden as the one Tadashi had seen earlier this night, under the light of a streetlamp.
The first notes of the piano hit like rain on a window, sharp and sudden. But then, they started to slide together easily, as Tsukishima’s fingers remembered the pattern. Tadashi was leaning an elbow against the top of the piano, and he could feel the vibrations shoot right for his heart. He studied Tsukishima, fair and lean, but sharp in the light; shadows caught in angles as he gazed down at the keys and his own fingers dancing over them.
Tadashi thought he was beautiful.
“You’re good,” was what he said, when Tsukishima slowed to a stop and leaned back from the keys.
“I still think I’ll leave it to the professionals,” he said, casting a sly glance at Tadashi.
Tadashi bit his lip and leaned back on his heels, rocking away from the piano, from Tsukishima, from a dangerous situation.
“Listen,” he said, because he was a coward, but still wanted to give this a chance. “I’m playing tomorrow night at a cafe nearby. Would you want to swing by? Maybe we can continue our interview?”
Tsukishima looked like he was pleasantly surprised and trying not to give it away.
“There will be an article, I promise,” was all he said in return.
The laughter escaped from Tadashi’s chest this time, sudden and loud. It felt really, really good. “I’m looking forward to reading it.”
★・・☆
“Hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto slung his arm heavily over Kei’s shoulders, knocking him a little off balance. He elbowed the man in the stomach, inducing a soft wheeze, before locking eyes with Kuroo, who stood directly in his way.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Kuroo said, his low voice like a purr. The effect was one of the reasons his singing had skyrocketed his band to underground popularity. Kei could only roll his eyes and tap a hand against the other man’s chest, nudging him out of the way of the entrance.
The cafe was packed, but he saw a dollop of dark hair ringed with blonde at a table not far from the makeshift stage. Kei made his way over and sat down on the rickety stool next to Kozume.
Kozume had a laptop open and was clearly trying to do work rather than give his attention over to the open mic that was about to start, but Kei still thought it was nice that he was here. It wasn’t often that he got to see the quiet computer programmer, but he was always grateful for his presence when faced with the obnoxious might of the even more obnoxiously named band.
Kei was still unsure how the third member of Owls Turning People to Cats had allowed that name to pass the drafting stage, but he didn’t want to think too much on exactly how Bokuto had persuaded him.
“Is Akaashi coming?” He asked, as Kuroo and Bokuto slunk through the crowd to join their table.
“We’re not performing tonight,” Bokuto said with a pout painted on his lips. “Keiji is sick.”
“Which is why it’s such a surprise to see you here,” Kuroo said, his eyebrow raised as he curled into a spot near Kozume, who shifted slightly into his presence. “I don’t remember texting you.”
“This is a coincidence,” Kei said, and he willed his heartbeat to still, trying not to feel caught out. “Someone else invited me.”
Bokuto’s curious roar and Kuroo’s clever smirk nearly drove him to find a new table. He glanced over at Kozume for relief, but was met with a raised eyebrow that showed even he was interested in the story.
He tried not to obviously duck his head away from the attention, instead turning his eyes to the performance area. The first performers were setting up, one with dark hair and glasses and the other a bad dye job he looked too old for. Both men had guitars and were adjusting their mics.
“A performer?” Kozume asked, taking note of his glance.
“Oh,” Kuroo said, elongating the syllable as he leaned closer to Kei and right over Kozume’s work. “Anyone we’d know?”
Kei chewed his lip as he debated telling them, but found that he was curious to know if their circles had overlapped. “His name is Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
Both Kuroo and Bokuto frowned at this, and said that the name was unfamiliar to them. Kei shrugged as the first act started to play a set of crooning ballads. Their table sat and listened politely, though Kuroo and Bokuto kept casting glances at him as Kei’s mind raced with anticipation.
Yamaguchi was the third performer of the night. Kei’s eyes were on him the moment he walked out into the small area, guitar slung over his shoulder and his dark hair falling in his face.
Yamaguchi adjusted the mic tentatively, shifted his guitar strap, and strummed out a few anxious notes to check his tuning. Kei wasn’t sure if Yamaguchi truly was nervous, or if Kei was projecting his own feelings onto the man. When Yamaguchi raised his eyes to study the crowd, he scanned until his eyes caught on Kei. A smile flickered over his face, freckles shadowed in the soft light directed at him, and he leaned forward.
“My name is Yamaguchi Tadashi,” he spoke into the mic, his voice crystalline even through the static. “I’m here to play a few songs for you. Thanks for listening.”
“Is that him?” Bokuto whispered at the lowest volume he had, which still sounded far too loud and obvious in Kei’s ears. Kei avoided his gaze and tuned his attention to Yamaguchi and Yamaguchi only.
“I don’t know you,” Yamaguchi sang, “But I want you, all the more for that…"
Yamaguchi’s voice was just loud enough to carry throughout the still air of the cafe, embedding itself coolly into Kei’s heart. His nerves thrummed under his skin, a drum beat that echoed loudly in his ears whenever Yamaguchi’s eyes reached him.
“Falling slowly, eyes that know me, and I can’t go back…”
There was a soft nudge in Kei’s ribs, and he looked over to see Kuroo reaching around Kozume to poke at him.
“I know him,” he said, and as Yamaguchi ended the song with a few fervent strums before reaching for a glass of water, Kei leaned over to hear what Kuroo had to say. Kozume edged back in his seat with a frustrated huff.
“You do?”
“I recognize him too,” Bokuto said, voice teetering back on the edge of too loud. “Isn’t he from Kogarasu?”
“Kogarasu?”
“We played some shows with them,” Kuroo said, nodding thoughtfully. “They had this crazy good drummer, and a female vocalist. He sang too,” Kuroo said, gesturing to Yamaguchi who was readjusting his stance to sing again. “They were good.”
“What happened to them?”
“I can’t wait forever,” Yamaguchi’s voice rang out once more, and Kei waited for their eyes to lock once more. “Was all that you said…”
“They don’t play shows anymore. We haven’t seen them for months. I guess they broke up.”
Bokuto let out a quiet whine of pity, and Kei saw Kuroo knock a fist against his shoulder, a sign of solidarity, a signal of I won’t let that happen to us.
“And you won’t disappoint me, I can do that myself.”
Yamaguchi wasn’t looking up. He wasn’t looking at Kei. His eyes were fixed on some faraway spot on the floor, his expression crestfallen.
“Now if you don’t mind, leave. Leave, and free yourself at the same time.”
Yamaguchi’s voice broke with emotion, but his hands were firm in their rhythm as he strummed out the notes, carrying the song out of his chest and across the room. His words rose to a crescendo and he started to bring his gaze up, finally locking eyes with Kei, turning his sunken expression into a heartbreaking smile as he ended the song.
A roar of applause broke out among the audience, but Kei’s hands rested on his elbows, curled tightly as he held his arms over his chest.
Yamaguchi did look strong, and beautiful, and worthy of praise.
But Kei thought he also looked really lonely, a solo performer under a spotlight that he used to share with others.
“He’s good,” Kozume said, his voice almost lost in the bustle of the crowd as Yamaguchi slid out into the back area so the next performer could come out.
“He is,” Kei said, and he flashed a smile at his table. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Kei grabbed his things and began to push through the crowd in the direction Yamaguchi had left.
☆・・★
“Great set, kid,” Shimada said, tapping Tadashi lightly on the shoulder as he passed.
“You too,” he replied back, glancing between the older man and his companion, Takinoue. Shimada had been really kind to Tadashi since he had started attending these open mics, helping him choose the best locations and giving him advice on setlists. The small and cramped atmosphere of nightly cafe performances was a little nerve-wracking, even though Tadashi had performed in clubs and bars with actual stage set-ups.
But that had been with his band. Alone, the spotlight made Tadashi’s heart race uncomfortably fast.
He slid past the older men to a door in the back of the cafe, which led to the stairwell the employees walked trash through. A few of the performers used the empty space to practice in, as the acoustics were hidden from the main area. When he opened the door, though, he saw he was alone.
A chilly breeze trickled in from the alleyway door below, and Tadashi felt the beads of sweat that had gathered at his hairline cool rapidly.
He had been slowly getting used to performing solo. And tonight, locking eyes with Tsukishima— that had made his heart race in a different way. It was sudden, and a little scary, but also something sure and sweet. Tadashi leaned against the railing at the top of the stairs and let himself smile.
He had just released a deep breath when the door swung open suddenly. Tadashi turned, expecting to see Shimada, or a performer who wanted to practice— but instead, he came face to face with Tsukishima.
“Yamaguchi,” the man said, and Tadashi nodded a greeting. He noticed that Tsukishima wasn’t letting the door close, and wondered if it was meant to be an escape route. Tadashi laughed, lightly.
“You look surprised to see me,” he said. Tsukishima cleared his throat.
“No, I was looking for you,” he returned. “I wanted to say… great show.”
“Thanks,” Tadashi said, and he let himself melt back against the railing, watching Tsukishima’s face fondly. He noticed Tsukishima’s eyes scan over him, and then, too quick Tadashi almost didn’t spot it, his throat bobbed and his tongue darted over his lower lip.
“You looked good out there,” Tsukishima continued, and Tadashi flushed red. He felt too illuminated in the warm light drifting in from the hall and the cool white fluorescent of the stairwell. He was back under the spotlight, and back under Tsukishima’s coy watch.
“Thanks,” he said again, well aware he wasn’t contributing much to this conversation. “It’s weird. It’s different from what I’m used to.”
Tsukishima had his hip resting against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “What are you used to?”
“Not being alone, I guess. I’m okay when I'm busking, or performing with others. It’s really different when it’s just… me. You know?”
“Not really. I always hated performing; I tried everything to get out of the school play.” Tsukishima glanced away from him. “I have no problem staying away from the spotlight.”
The statement startled a laugh out of Tadashi, and Tsukishima glanced at him sharply. He waved a hand. “Sorry, Tsukki— it just sounded so familiar. I always think that’s why my band left me.”
Tsukishima’s gaze softened into something more questioning. “Left? What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re in Tokyo now, playing underground shows. They actually had one last night.”
Tadashi rubbed at his bare arm. The stairwell was growing colder. “People are starting to notice them. They could go big time. It’s what they always wanted.”
“And you didn’t want that?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to go. Things just ended. Not badly, but… they ended.”
“How?”
“Well…” For a moment, Tadashi’s mind brought him back. He saw Hitoka with tears in her eyes, Hinata watching carefully, eerily silent, and Kageyama piling bags into their van. He shook his head like he was clearing away a fog. “I was actually seeing our singer, and… well, when our drummer and bassist decided to pack up and move to Tokyo, so did she. And she decided to stop seeing me about that same time.”
“Oh,” Tsukishima said. “Well, that’s…”
“And then she started seeing the drummer.”
“I’m sorry…”
“And the bassist.”
Tsukishima’s inhale of breath was sharp. “Oh. I can see why that would be more awkward.”
Tadashi ducked his head with a bitter laugh.
“They’re happy, the three of them. I can’t blame them… I wasn’t the best boyfriend. I’m… unsure of myself, a lot of the time. We weren’t a good match, though I still love her. I love them all. I’m just... not sure where I fit in now.”
Tadashi suddenly realized what he was saying, how pitiful he must seem to the other man. Whatever Tsukishima could have been to him, he had probably just ruined it. He twirled a strand of hair that had fallen in his face around his pointer finger.
“Anyway, thanks, Tsukki,” he said, “for listening.”
“Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know, I just mean— you didn’t have to listen, but you did. I’m glad—”
“No, I don’t mean that. You listened to me whine about my brother last night, I don’t mind at all. I mean…”
“What?”
“You keep calling me that,” Tsukishima said. “Tsukki. Why?”
“Oh!” Tadashi hadn’t even realized he’d started doing that. It just felt natural. “I don’t know. I’ll stop,” he said quickly, embarrassed at it being pointed out to him.
Tsukishima pushed away from the door jamb, holding it open with just one hand. Open in a way that seemed like a silent invitation, beckoning for Tadashi to join him back in the real world.
“No,” he said. “Don’t worry. I like it.”
“Okay,” Tadashi said, and though his face was still burning brightly, he didn’t feel like backing down. Not from this. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your friends. Did you want to go back there?”
Tsukishima shuddered theatrically, and Yamaguchi covered his laugh with his hand. “No thanks.”
The door to the stairwell closed gently behind them. Tadashi saw that the hall was miraculously empty, and was glad that Shimada and Takinoue hadn’t been privy to their conversation, at least not all of it.
“Where should we go then, Tsukki?”
He didn’t miss the way Tsukishima’s expression softened as he glanced at him.
“It’s a little late for coffee. How do you feel about ice cream?”
★・・☆
It turned out that Yamaguchi’s favorite flavor of ice cream was strawberry, which made Kei like him very much.
As if Kei didn’t already like the pattern of freckles dotted along the bridge of his nose and the curve of his cheekbones. The lyricism of his voice, even as he said the most normal things. The hitch of his breath when he sang. The cowlick of dark hair that Yamaguchi was always brushing away, or curling around his slender finger, the way he curled his fingers around the neck of his guitar.
Kei ordered a strawberry cone, too, and immediately brought it to his mouth, trying to keep these secret thoughts from spilling out.
The night was cool, but not cold, and so they brought their ice cream with them as they started in the direction of their neighborhood.
“I have your song stuck in my head.”
“Which one?” Yamaguchi looked amused.
“I’ll butcher this, but…”
Kei hummed a little, his throat dry and scratchy, but Yamaguchi caught the notes.
“Oh!” He began to hum too, and then his lips parted and he began to sing.
“Falling slowly, sing your melody, I’ll sing along…”
Kei watched Yamaguchi’s face light up around the words, and slowed his pace a little. He found himself wishing time would stop whenever he was with this man.
“Did you write it?” He asked, as Yamaguchi stopped to take another bite of ice cream.
“I did. It was unfinished for a while, but…” Yamaguchi darted a glance over at Kei. “Not anymore.”
“I’d love to learn how to play it,” Kei said thoughtfully. Yamaguchi shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know how it would work on piano. But I bet you could figure it out.”
They continued their walk in pleasant silence, but it wasn’t long before their conversation picked up again. They dumped their trash in a bin along the road, and Yamaguchi asked what Kei did for work, “when you’re not stalking musicians, that is.”
Kei let out an exasperated huff of laughter, and then shook his head. “I actually hate my job.”
“Really?” Yamaguchi’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you do?”
“I guess I work in advertising. I was a temp at a local firm for a while, and then they hired me to do odd jobs around the office. I get to write in my downtime, and I met some good people there, but…”
Kei sighed, thinking of the dim walls of his office cubicle, the stench of stale coffee and the burn of printer ink, the dull drone of the overhead lights.
“I never wanted an office job,” he said dully, and left it at that.
Yamaguchi took it in stride. “Me either, I guess.”
“Did you always think you’d be a musician?”
“Definitely not. It was just something fun. I actually went to university to be a teacher.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I knew Hinata and Kageyama from high school… they were the ones who were serious about Kogarasu. They wanted it to be something more.”
Yamaguchi rubbed at the back of his neck before continuing.
“I dropped out of university in my last year to commit to the band. It’s a little embarrassing to admit, now.”
“Kogarasu…Is that your band’s name?”
“Yeah. Had I not mentioned that?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, Hinata and Kageyama never went to university, but that just meant they got better at music. Hitoka— Yachi stayed and got her degree. Music and art theory. She was always the most talented of us.”
Yamaguchi’s smile was soft and distant; Kei tried not to feel the bite of jealousy in his heart.
“Would you ever go back? Finish your degree?”
“And be a teacher?” Yamaguchi said this thoughtfully, like it was something he had been considering. “Maybe.”
They were approaching Kei’s apartment now, and Yamaguchi looked up like he recognized it. He turned to Kei with a smile.
“I like where I am right now, though.”
Kei wondered at the notion, and found he could not relate. He hummed in the back of his throat.
“This is me,” he said.
“I know.”
“Yama—”
All of a sudden, Yamaguchi was rocking forward to press his lips against Kei’s cheek. It was quick, too quick, but Kei’s nerves lit up like firecrackers as he struggled to remain standing.
They both stepped away from each other. Yamaguchi’s freckles were dark over the red that dusted his cheeks.
“Sorry, Tsukishima. I just wanted to thank you. You’re a good listener. I’ll just…”
Kei’s hand darted out without any conscious order from his brain. He just knew he couldn’t let Yamaguchi go. Not like this.
He caught Yamaguchi’s wrist and pulled him back.
“Yamaguchi… you don’t have to thank me. I like listening to you. I like… you.”
“Oh,” Yamaguchi’s smile was a little watery, and Kei moved his thumb over the base of his wrist, feeling his pulse flutter under the skin. “I like you too.”
“Cool,” Kei said. “That’s… cool.”
He leaned his head down, wanting to be closer, but Yamaguchi was pulling away, face bright with laughter.
“Yes, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi was moving to brush at his eyes, and Kei released his grasp on his wrist. “It is very cool.”
Their eyes met again, but Kei knew the moment had passed. Yamaguchi promised to text Kei later, and with a cheerful wave, he turned to continue on to his apartment, guitar slung carefully over his back.
As he watched him go, Kei’s phone buzzed in his pocket. When he pulled it out, the screen flashed too brightly in the dark of the night, and he blinked as he read the name on the incoming text... Akaashi.
Good news... Tokyo interview came through.
Kei released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and then his eyes darted to the next line.
By the way, who is Yamaguchi Tadashi?