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This is how he falls in love: Lev, standing tall as he familiarizes himself with their small get-together of a crowd and all of a sudden, the reunion dinner seems more lively than mere seconds ago. Inuoka chirps, Yamamoto hollers and Kai laughs, all good-natured.
Morisuke thinks of baseless claims and an unfiltered mouth. He thinks of sheer willpower and nothing more.
Lev moves to sit, Fukunaga cracks open a joke and Kenma chokes on air before he can even laugh.
He thinks of scathed fingers and perpetual hunched-back. He thinks of earnest grunts, thinks of late practices but never dull-looking eyes. He thinks of adamancy and leaves no room for maybes.
It’s not grand, it’s not a spur-of-the-moment kind of feeling, he doesn’t get that ‘oh’ moment, doesn’t really get to pinpoint it—it’s actually anything but.
He thinks of a spring far away, two years back. He thinks of the second button from Lev’s gakuran tucked away in the depth of Morisuke’s breast pocket.
He thinks of Lev’s ankle hooking over his own, underneath the table.
It’s gradual in all of the ways Morisuke isn’t.
+
This is how he stays in love: He’s so tired. He’s so tired that exhaustion runs free through the build of his bones and tingling limbs easily become second nature in the course of long weeks, and even longer hours. The Russian League is relentless with its spartan-like training regimes and everyday it feels like he’s nearing his limit.
“But,” Morisuke says. “It’s also so exhilarating.”
Lev huffs a laugh. It sounds so far and distant through the drowned cellular-signal.
“I can’t believe you can speak Russian better than me, Yaku-san. When your bilingual tongue gets tangled, I’ll help you with your Japanese,” Lev says, a lilt in his voice that tells Morisuke he’s being poked fun at.
Morisuke pokes back. “I’ll spare Alisa-san the trouble and try teaching you some Russian then, Lyovochka.”
There’s an unspoken when I get back in his jab and a wait for me weighs on the tip of his tongue.
It’s heavy.
+
This is how, after everything, he falls in love all over again: Morisuke catches the wisps of Tokyo for the first time in a long while and he thinks, full of sentimentality and the veins of Japan sheering loud, yes, I miss this.
He goes to the Kozume’s household— ah, it’s as massive as Kuroo boasted it out to be— and takes in the matured, bright faces of everyone and he thinks, pride and joy swells in him, god, I miss them.
He trembles, but from what exactly? Anticipation? Jitters? He doesn’t have a clue. What he knows is this: Lev, standing tall and proud in spite of his ever-lasting battle against punctuality; Lev, looking so present and real, that Morisuke has to thrash down the nagging of his heart to just gallop more than an arm’s length away.
Lev smiles. “Yaku-san!”
Morisuke breathes in. Fuck it. He scrambles onto his feet and runs to Lev because he can. He brushes off their friends’ passing glances and brazen smiles because he can. He jumps high, presses their chests together and gangly arms come around to hold him close because they can. He tips back, holding Lev’s face in his hands and grasps every inch under the feathers of his fingers because he finally, finally can.
He thinks, threadbare yet new all the same, god, please let me have this.
It’s far from ideal, what they have— far from ever being perfect. But it’s always a render of something— something worth holding onto, something that’s non-interchangeable, something he gives and something he receives, something that’s less of a roundabout trip and more like coming home.
It’s Lev and his unrelenting patience, and his slaphappy-self; overblown confidence and equally towering dreams. It’s also Morisuke, who is anything but—with the same towering dreams.
Morisuke clutches on. He’s never going to let go.
+
It’s a mesh of everything that they are.