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Akaashi hates music.
Everyone in the world has a song in them. Sometimes it’s soft, barely audible, part of the surrounding ambient noise. Sometimes it blares so loudly it causes physical illness. Most people are able to tune it out for most of their lives, though. They don’t think about it. It’s just another part of human existence, like breathing and sleeping and eating. Everyone has a body, and everyone has a soulsong. It’s said that the song isn’t yours, but your soulmate’s. A reflection of them that lives in you, waiting for the day you find each other and your songs blend and harmonize to create something new.
Plenty of people go their whole lives without ever finding the song that mixes perfectly with theirs, and Akaashi cannot imagine wanting to meet the sort of person with the chaotic mess of beats that resonates in his bones. Once, a few years ago, his soulmate’s “song” had woken him up in the middle of the night with a frantic and sonorous pounding. He can’t imagine any sort of harmony or melody that could make something so dissonant into something beautiful. And he has tried.
He’s a musician after all.
Akaashi hates music, but he’s always had an exceptional ear for it. Despite everyone being born with music inside of them, not everyone has a gift for it. Akaashi isn’t sure if it’s a gift or a curse that he inherited his mother’s talent for transcribing soulsongs, but he made a name for himself as a prodigy and took over the family business at the young age of 22. His mother still dabbles, but the business has been his, more or less, to run for four years.
He doesn’t understand why people willingly pay so much money for something so effectively useless. It’s not like someone will hear the song and go “oh that’s my song” because no one has ever heard their own soul sing. It feels a bit perverse, too, taking the most intimate parts of a stranger and bringing them out into the light. He doesn’t understand, but it pays for his studio, and apparently people have had success finding their soulmates thanks to his help.
Well, thanks to his musical expertise and Kenma’s strategic and entrepreneurial scheming.
His best friend has always had a knack for technological development and has created or contributed to creating a large share of the top grossing apps on the digital marketplace. His latest venture is arguably the reason business is booming, figuratively and literally, through his speakers.
“A dating app?” Akaashi had asked, lips drawn to a thin line in disbelief.
Kenma hummed confirmation around the straw of his milkshake. They often got together to discuss his latest ideas at the diner on the corner. “A joint venture,” he added. “Think about it. I build the database, you produce the content. People come to you for their music, upload it to the app, and then hopefully their soulmate is listening.”
“But how would they even recognize their own songs?” Akaashi sighed. They’ve had that argument several times over the years. His whole business model is foolish. People are foolish.
“How does anyone who comes to you find their soulmate?” Kenma quirked an eyebrow. He knows Akaashi is the best in the business. 23% of his clients find their soulmates within a year of commissioning him to transcribe their soulsong. Neither of them knows how, but he has testimonials on his business website saying so. “We can streamline the process. Give people a central hub to put their songs up and connect. Like Tinder but with music.” He grinned.
Akaashi rolled his eyes. He’d never had much luck with Tinder. Namely because every time he matches with a guy, his soulsong would pound louder in his head, like the bastard just knows he’s not with the right person and will never be at peace without them. “That seems like a logistical nightmare,” he said. “Never mind that my services do not come cheap. Who would pay for this?”
“I suppose they wouldn’t have to go to you,” Kenma mused. “It’s not like you’re the only Soul Writer out there.” Akaashi glared at him. It just wasn’t a cheap service in general, not if you wanted quality output. “I’m not saying you’re not good enough. Quite the contrary. You’re the best.” His displeasure must have shown on his face if Kenma was trying to appease his ego. He was slightly ashamed to admit it worked. “That’s why I want to propose a partnership. I’ve already got investors lined up.”
Akaashi sighed. “Of course you do.”
“World Famous Kodzuken has a new app idea? Damn right I do.” Kenma smirked. It certainly helped that he had an impeccable track record for these sorts of things. All he has to do is tweet a thought and investors clamor to his DMs wanting a piece of the pie, whether it was a full-fledged thought or just a rumination. “I sent you the financial analysis. Give it a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the numbers.”
His phone dinged with the notification. “You’re a demon.”
“Love you too,” Kenma winked.
Of course, Kenma had been right. The numbers were intriguing. By offering a discount through the app, he could bring in more clients. Typically, he saw 3-4 people a month. At his rates, he didn’t really need more than that to live comfortably. But it also meant that he had a lot of down time he didn’t particularly care for. He could easily take on that many on a weekly basis, and at the discounted rate with the app, more people could afford it, giving him a net growth.
They reached out to his previous clients for their permission to use their testimonials on the app. They also asked for those who had yet to find their soulmates to be beta testers. Akaashi went through his network of Soul Writers and pulled them in to the project as well. Within a year and a half, they had a sizeable database of soulsongs and testimonials to launch the app. Some of their beta testers even found their soulmates during the trial stage, including Kenma.
“You really want to put your own soulsong out there?”
Kenma sat in Akaashi’s studio in his usual seat by the mixing board, but this time he wasn’t just there for gossip and friendly chatter. “Who’s gonna use a product the creator won’t use?” He shrugged, but he was nervous about revealing that part of himself, even to Akaashi.
“Everyone is going to try to match with you, you realize that, right?”
“You just let me worry about that.” Kenma shot off an email on his phone and then set it down. He was serious. “Ok. Let’s do this.”
Kenma’s soulsong was, for lack of a better word, soulful, a lazy melody floating above wind instruments and undercut by a lack of a defining beat. It wasn’t bad, on its own, many soulsongs weren’t, but it was clear an addition would make it better. Akaashi thought about the percussive beats that plagued him all his life and wondered if Kenma’s soulmate had a similar drumbeat in their head. He’d never actually encountered a soulsong without some sort of melody before. Even those who came to him with lyrics in their heart still had a melody to go along with them.
Within a month of soft launching the app, Kenma found his soulmate. A messy-haired athletic trainer, who was even taller than Akaashi, appeared on Kenma’s Instagram one afternoon with the caption “Soul Harmony works! Thanks @akaashiwritesmusic for making it happen! Book with him through the app and find your soulmate, too!” Requests came flooding in after that and Akaashi struggled to keep up.
He wanted to ask what it was like, how had it worked, was the music really better or more complete now that they had found one another, but the questions were beaten down by the thrumming in his heart, in his blood. Kenma had suggested Akaashi put himself out there too, as a measure of good faith, but since finding his own soulmate seemed to invigorate the masses, there was no need, or time, for Akaashi to endure transcribing his own.
So, he still doesn’t understand. And he still hates music. But he takes people’s money and transcribes their songs and they use Kenma’s app and some of them even find their soulmates.
He rubs his eyes as he pulls them away from his overflowing inbox. The beat in his head is softer today, almost grounding. It nearly fades into the background, a rarity especially when he’s stressed. He takes the moment of peace to breathe and think.
It’s been six months since the app fully launched and he has more requests than he knows what to do with. Only about 7% of users have found their soulmates, but that’s not an insignificant number for such a new app. With every successful match, signups jump and so do requests. He can’t weed through them and compose at the same time. The longer it takes him to go through his emails, the less time he has to actually set appointments.
He chews his thumbnail as he considers his options. He could forward the requests to the writer’s group and ask for backup. He may be the best in the business, but that doesn’t mean his network is shoddy. He would never push a client’s request to someone who couldn’t do the work, but it is a fairly elite circle, and they have no shortage of requests either since the app took off.
What he needs is an assistant.
He texts this thought to Kenma. This is your fault anyway, so send me a minion.
Kenma responds. I’ll see what I can do.
Akaashi opens the studio for the day. His first appointment is already waiting. They’re fluttery and excitable and cannot wait to hear their soulsong in the world. They love his work and they love music. Akaashi cannot relate, but he doesn’t tell them that. He puts on a warm smile and leads them into the consult room. He pulls out a notebook and settles in across from them. “So, tell me about your soulmate.”
♪♫♪
Bokuto loves music.
He loves the way different instruments create different atmospheres and voices blend to make wondrous symphonies. He loves that music is as wild and varied as people, that there are as many different styles of music as there are cultures in the world. He loves that everyone has a song inside of them to keep them company during dark days and he loves the song that plays in his heart. Its tender, steady melody weaves into his blood and soothes his nerves whenever he gets too anxious and lulls him to sleep when the nights are bad.
He loves music, but he is sure his soulmate must hate him. There’s no way someone with such a beautiful song could ever want to meet someone like him.
For one thing, he’s a mess. He knows he’s a mess. He’s had mood swings his entire life, and while medication helps to a degree, it tends to make him spacey. He can’t imagine how that translates to a song, but he assumes it must be unpleasant. Especially with what plays in his head. It’s already perfect; how could he add anything to it? His soulmate must be so embarrassed. He wishes he could meet them, if only to apologize.
Kuroo flops on the bed next to him as Bokuto goes through Help Wanted ads for the third time in as many months. If his moods don’t get him fired, his distractedness does. He still feels like it wasn’t his fault that pizza was cold when he delivered it. There was a parade of ducklings in the park on his route! How could he not stop and watch them?
“Bro, I’m telling you, this app is amazing.”
Bokuto groans, dropping his head onto his arms. “Kuroo, I’m really happy for you and all, but I don’t have time to be tracking down my soulmate when I can’t even hold down a job.”
Kuroo’s lips curl up in a lazy grin. “Well maybe your soulmate is as rich as mine and you don’t even have to worry about it?” He yelps as Bokuto throws a pillow in his face.
“There is no way I am that lucky,” he grumbles. “Besides which, they probably hate me. Have you met me?”
“No one could hate you, dude. You’re like a giant puppy.” Kuroo throws his arm around Bokuto’s neck and ruffles his hair. “I just want you to be happy, man. I don’t mind letting you crash with me while you sort your life out,” Bokuto gives him an indignant snort, “but you’ve been stuck in this same cycle for years. Maybe it’s time to try a new approach.”
“Dude, if I haven’t figured my life out in the last 27 years, I don’t think I’m gonna figure it out in the next few months.” He figures that’s the expiration date on his mooching off of Kuroo since his best friend will probably move in with his super famous soulmate soon and forget all about him and he’ll be left to wander the streets until he—
A finger flicks his forehead, startling him back to the present. “Kou, you’re going dark places again.”
He sighs. “Sorry. I’m just tired of always being such a fuckup you know?”
“Hey.” Kuroo grips him firmly by the back of the neck, threading his fingers into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck and bringing their foreheads together in his favored grounding method. “You’re not a fuckup. You were dealt a shitty hand in life, and you’ve fought harder than anyone I know, but you’re still here, right?” Bokuto swallows thickly at the reminder. He doesn’t like to dwell on his lowest moment, that night a few years back, before the diagnosis and the meds. Back when everyone but Kuroo had given up on him. The only thing that kept him going was his soulsong, humming sweetly, singing soft encouragement that there would come a day when he wouldn’t be plagued by dark thoughts and dangerous impulses. Someone so beautiful deserved someone better than him, but they also didn’t deserve silence. That song saved him, and even though he’d always had a fondness for music, he’s really loved it ever since. “Besides,” Kuroo goes on, “even if you don’t find them, you’ll still have me.”
Bokuto rolls his eyes and gently shoves him away. “And what about Kenma, huh?”
“Pfft. He can support us both. We’re a package deal, after all.” His grin turns devilish.
“A set,” Bokuto chuckles, reciting their old in-joke. “Do not separate.”
“Absolutely not.” Kuroo rolls over onto his back, folding his arms behind his head and throwing one leg over his knee. “But speaking of Kenma, he asked me if I knew anyone who needed a job. Turns out he’s in need of a minion.”
Bokuto perks up at that. “What is he, an evil overlord?”
“Something like that,” Kuroo laughs. “He owes his business partner a favor, and I happened to see the text and told him I knew a guy.”
“You were snooping again, weren’t you?” Bokuto frowns at him.
Kuroo gasps, pressing a wide palm over his broad chest. “I would never. I am always this kind.” Bokuto laughs at the old mantra. “But seriously, his musician friend is swamped with requests and needs someone to help him organize them.”
“What, like a secretary?”
“Hey don’t knock it,” Kuroo admonishes. “Also, I’m pretty sure no one calls them that anymore. But I also know you’re weirdly good at sorting and organizing shit when it’s not yours. It could be a good fit for you, plus you’d be surrounded by music all the time.”
Bokuto hums at that thought. He always does best with music and a focused task, and if he can’t straighten out his own shit most days, he does have a knack for helping other people sort theirs. He really likes helping other people. He thinks of it as paying it forward, a private promise to his soulmate as thanks for helping him all his life. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to try, right?”
“That’s my bro,” Kuroo hoots. He pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick message.
Bokuto’s phone goes off a few minutes later. An unknown number provides a time and an address. The Bouncing Ball logo in the signature tells him this is Kuroo’s clandestine soulmate. “Dude,” he breathes. Kuroo grins that lazy Cheshire cat grin of his. “Is it really alright for me to have this?” He means Kodzuken’s personal number, but of course Kuroo knows that.
Kuroo drops his voice and growls. “With great power, comes great responsibility.” It makes Bokuto laugh, and eases his growing nerves.
“I promise I will use it wisely.”
“Of course you will. You’re not an idiot.” He makes a face to protest that, given the track record of his life to this point, but Kuroo stops him with another flick to his forehead. “You’re not. Unless you don’t go to that studio tomorrow and get that job. Then I’ll call you an idiot.” He nods with an air of finality.
Bokuto isn’t sure what to expect as he walks up the sleepy downtown sidewalk the following morning. For one thing, he thought a high-profile musician like Akaashi Keiji would have a more central location in the city proper. The plain concrete façades that line the non-descript side street could be any stretch of businesses or residences. It’s not all that different from the building with the convenience store on the ground floor, on the corner of Kuroo’s street, when he really looks at it. Only, he knows that the business that operates out of the space is far more important than simply providing groceries or toiletries. People hear their soulsong here.
His own is dancing wildly around him as he stands at the door, checking the address on his screen once more, just to be sure. The sign above the door, AKAASHI WRITERS GROUP, should be proof enough, but Bokuto also notes the wide array of instruments and musical posters he can see through the windows. He pushes the door inward, inhaling the scents of wood and brass and paper, absorbing the soft music that plays from the speakers, and it soothes him instantly, like coming home after a long stay away.
“You must be Bokuto-san,” a gentle voice echoes from behind a shelf of records. The man that steps out is tall, nearly as tall as he is, which is saying something. Curly raven hair frames a sharp face with hooded, gemstone eyes. His dark skinny jeans and darker turtleneck accentuate the length of his limbs and emphasize his height, giving him a grace and elegance Bokuto recognizes almost instantly. “I’ve been waiting for—,” his eyes widen when they land on him and Bokuto knows he feels it too.
He would never say his soulsong felt incomplete. Never in a million lifetimes would he say his soulmate was anything less than perfect and beautiful the way they were. He had never imagined anything could improve the warmth he felt in his limbs every day, the lullaby he fell asleep to at night, the constant melody that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
And yet.
The song is new, now. There is a lively rhythm threading through the notes, a jovial beat that screams triumph and demands dancing. It is bouncing and erratic but it fills in the spaces in the song he’d never noticed existed before. It’s everything he has ever loved about the music he fills his days with and it fills him to bursting with overwhelming relief. Objectively, he knew his soulmate was a real person. That he could potentially cross paths with them someday. He’d never really let himself hope, though, and he feels a dampness on his cheeks to mirror the sheen on Akaashi’s.
He knows the man is Akaashi. Even if they weren’t standing in the front of the studio he owns, Bokuto would know the beautiful soul facing him is Akaashi Keiji, his soulmate. The music within them rises to a crescendo as he smiles. “Don’t you just love music?”
♪♫♪
Akaashi spends his morning tidying up the front of the studio. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, but he hasn’t been able to stop pacing since Kenma said Bokuto was on his way. He attributes it to his soulsong thrumming rapidly in his veins, moreso than usual. It’s like it’s excited for something, trying to hype him up and get him excited too. Which is just foolish. He’s just meeting someone who should help take the pressure off of him as business skyrockets. Akaashi trusts Kenma. If he says this guy will work, he’ll hire him. But he is also wary of the warning that came with it. You may need to be patient. He can be overwhelming.
Well, Akaashi has an overabundance of patience. He needs it to get through most of his consults. He’s a genius at transcribing soulsongs from scraps, but pulling those scraps out of people who have no ear for music or eloquence to articulate their innermost feelings requires delicacy and lots of patience. He taps his finger along the back of the record shelf in time to the beat that has followed him all his life.
He stops when he hears the door open. He comes out to greet his guest. “You must be Bokuto-san. I’ve been waiting for—” The “you” dies in his throat. The man he sees is not just overwhelming, he’s larger than life. Fleetingly, he wonders where Kenma found the tall, broad shouldered hunk of a man and swallows a pang of indignation that they’d never been introduced before today. His pale blue button down is open over a plain black t-shirt, and with the way the sleeves strain against his biceps Akaashi isn’t sure the man could button it if he wanted to. Paired with straight denim jeans tucked into sturdy work boots, his outfit is the plainest thing about him. Akaashi has never seen hair quite as eccentric as the spiked white and black streaked strands on his head. His wide eyes are golden and wild and startlingly familiar.
And that’s when Akaashi notices the music.
He always plays gentle music in the studio to set the ambience. People come into a musical space expecting to be serenaded and entertained. Silence would seem out of place. But the music he hears now isn’t coming from his expensive speakers. It swells inside of him and settles something in his heart. A tender medley weaves inside the heavy beats, holding them and dancing with them, softening and guiding them until they twist in an intricate symphony. He sees tears falling from Bokuto’s eyes and knows the warmth on his cheeks is from the same.
He never knew music could be so beautiful.
Bokuto grins, toothy and bright. “Don’t you just love music?”
And for the first time in his life, Akaashi understands. He nods, smiling with all his heart. “It’s the most beautiful thing there is.”