Work Text:
“I’ll meet you in the next life.”
Akaashi closes the book carefully, setting it on the table with a soft thunk as the spine knocks against the wood. His head feels light and blurred, breath coming a little short like he’d just gone on a run. (In a way he has, spending his afternoon in a secluded corner of the library, running laps through the world you’d painted with words.) It is a new book, hanging from the lips of the professors whispering excitedly in the hallway and displayed on the window bookshelf of the nearest bookstore. All books are treasures to Akaashi, and this one is no different. No more special, no more ordinary.
(At least, that’s what he tells himself. Maybe it’s a little bit more special, considering who the author is.)
The fact that it’s written by you, his classmate, is what spurred him to buy the book. Tied neck to neck with him in the not-very-competitive battle for the professors’ attention, you stand out slightly more to him.
“Akaashi-kun.”
He jolts a little, then turns to you, lips parting slightly.
“Ah, L/N-san.” He immediately stands up and gives a small bow before walking to pull out the chair opposite him.
You smile brightly in thanks, sitting down and watching him circle the table to his own seat.
“Y/N will do,” you quip before leaning forward, eyes gleaming with apt interest. “So, what did you think? Your exemplary analyses are the professors’ pride and joy, after all.”
The tips of Akaashi’s ears dust pink, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. “That is much too high praise, Y/N-san,” he mumbles, embarrassed.
You scoff, leaning back into your chair and waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t get humble with me, Akaashi-kun. Your analyses are amazing and we both know that. Now, do tell me what you think, I’m dying of curiosity here.”
He goes silent for a while, lips pressing into a thin line as his thoughts line up in his head. His gaze falls to the inside of your wrist, half hidden from view.
“Oh, is that - ?”
You grin, eyes crinkling with good nature. “The birthmark of my main character, yes.”
Akaashi’s eyes trace the star-shaped mark, inked with the colour of blood. The words he had on the tip of his tongue dissolve, replaced with memories spreading like ink on water, blurring the line between present and past.
“What’s that, Your Highness?”
He starts, brush in one hand. The sudden movement flings two drops of black ink on a blank section of the paper. He frowns, irked, then turns to you.
“Do you not know of the rules of the palace?” His tone is as ice-cold as the other servants make it out to be. You are not afraid. Not of the boy you caught feeding birds at his windowsill with the fondest of smiles gracing his lips, far more beautiful than any crown he could wear.
“Of course I do, Your Highness,” you chirp, setting your broom, mop and bucket of soapy water by the door, closing it behind you. “ ‘Do not speak in the royal family’s chambers.’ But my curiosity got the better of me, sire, you seem to love it so. I can see it in your eyes. Would you please tell me?”
His lips stay stubbornly shut as he judges you doubtfully, but his eyes do brighten a bit, though the curtains never moved to let sunlight in.
“Do you promise not to tell anyone?” he relents.
You nod eagerly and scoot closer, your tasks forgotten for the time being. He flinches a little at your proximity, but lets you into his personal bubble nonetheless.
“I’m writing poetry,” he confesses quietly, placing a secret in your hands for you to keep. He gestures at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves next to him. “I’m supposed to be studying law and treaties, but I love poetry. I’ve snuck into the library in the dead of night to read the most amazing works ever.”
His dark, dark eyes gleam. “Did you know? The library is magical, what with the light from the stars, the dancing dust in the air and the glowing words.”
You can’t help but chuckle at his awed expression. “What a rebellious prince we have.”
He doesn’t reprimand you for your cheek; there are more pressing matters, like your trustworthiness. “Surely you won’t tell anyone?” he pleads for confirmation.
“I won’t.” You wink and finally set about the job you were sent to do, humming as you whip open the curtains to wipe the windows. Laughter fills his room as he shies away from the light (‘what are you, a vampire?’) and he thinks that perhaps 2 p.m. in the afternoon can be just as magical as his nights alone in the library.
He scolds you for the two drops of ink you’d made him spill when you’d startled him. You laugh, take his brush, and make the mistake into something beautiful.
“Keiji.”
He quivers, the tone of his father colder than the marble kissing his knees as he kneels before the throne. He feels like he’s five again, shivering as he faced his parents’ wrath for milling about in the garden with his head in the clouds.
“Keiji.” Harsher, demanding. Unforgiving.
“Y-Yes, father.”
“P-Please, sir,” Bokuto interjects, frantic and trembling as he steps a foot out of his faithful position by the throne. The look the queen shoots him is enough to make him freeze.
“Stay out of this, Koutarou,” Akaashi’s mother snaps. “My son is enough of a disgrace. I don’t want the second heir to dip into any more of this nonsense.”
Disgrace. Yes, that’s what he is. Despite being the second heir, his cousin, Bokuto, had always been more suited to be a ruler than Akaashi ever was. His cousin is formidable on the battlefield, kind but strict regarding matters of the country. Akaashi was as weak-willed and uncertain as the flowers swaying in the wind, and as uninterested in ruling as Bokuto was in literature.
Bokuto steps back to his place, eyes spelling an apology. Akaashi smiles weakly at him. Differences aside, Akaashi had never been resentful of his cousin. He loved him, no matter how many times his parents compared him to the boy made to be king.
“I will give you one last chance,” his father thundered. “Do you still love that girl?”
Akaashi thinks before he speaks. He always does. It’s a code ingrained into his system, never malfunctioning. He thinks of the afternoons he spent with you, bathed in the golden sunlight, soaking in your talk about the world outside the castle walls, of the markets and the farms, of the poverty and the famine. It was so real, and Akaashi drew inspiration from it, scrolls filling with verses upon verses that solidify his imagination.
He thinks of playing with your hair as you perch on his lap, having taken his brush again to draw another quirky doodle on his scrolls. He tells you of the new book he found in a dust-veiled corner of the library. He describes the fear he felt when the librarian sleepwalked in. You giggle, and once again, he thinks that the charm of the library dulls in comparison to your warm, calloused hands on his, your laughter chiming in his ears.
He thinks of the stormy nights of calm, save for the angry thumps of him flinging his law books at the portrait of his parents, covered haphazardly by a cloth and slightly askew from the times he tried to wrench it off. You rush to circle your arms around him, pressing your cheek to his chest, and his tears fall into your hair. You soothe his sobs, rubbing his back and shushing him, tender like how you held a duckling to show him by the pond. He falls asleep of exhaustion in your arms, and when he wakes, he thinks this is how he wants to spend his days for the rest of his life, with you beside him.
He thinks, then he speaks.
“Yes, father.”
The air in the room stiffens.
“You are no son of mine,” the king snarls. “Guards!”
The heavy mahogany doors blocking the outside world flew open and in marched two guards, dragging you, beaten up and bruised, between them. Akaashi’s blood runs cold as they fling you on the floor next to him.
He wants to run to the throne and scream in his parents’ face and - and what? Kill them? He could barely lift a sword. He wants to run to you and wrap you in his arms and protect you forever so he wouldn’t ever see you with blues and purples blooming on your face. He wants to run, away, hurl himself off a cliff and become one with the endless raging sea.
He can’t move.
HIs father flings a hand, and the executioner enters.
Strangely, it is this sight that pulls him back to the present when it should’ve made him faint.
You’re trembling, he notices as his arms pull you close to his chest. You look up at him, mouth slack, then the tears start falling.
“Keiji,” you sob, “Keiji, I’m sorry. Please don’t bother with me anymore. I’m not worth it. Please just leave me.”
“Never,” he swears. “Never.”
“Keiji,” his father booms. “Leave.”
“No.” He hugs you tighter. Then the bomb drops. “If you want to kill them, you’ll have to kill me too.”
Silence crystallises, then shatters with the sharp SCHWING of his father’s hard edged “so be it” and of the blade cutting through air, through ties, through all the things you could have done together. The beautiful silver stains red, driving straight through Akaashi’s abdomen, all the way through yours.
He coughs up blood onto your face, and oh, the PAIN, searing in his stomach and making him vomit scarlet again. The liquid seeping out of his chest mixes with yours as it trickles heavily down your garments.
With the remains of his energy, he traces a star on the inside of your wrist with blood, then seals your deaths with a kiss that tastes nothing like the usual tea and chocolate. It tastes like blood and tears. (It still tastes like love.)
"I’ll meet you in the next life.”
“Y-You have a pretty birthmark.”
You beam at the boy next door, who’s shifting on the soles of his feet and wringing his hands. He has a mop of soft wavy hair (you kind of want to ruffle it.) The beauty of the bluebells in his garden seep into his eyes and the afternoon sun lends a curious glow to them.
“Thank you! What’s your name?” You skip past the open gate leading to your house and stand in front of his.
“Akaashi Keiji,” he replies timidly, eyes flitting away after a few seconds of contact with yours.
“Hello, Keiji-kun!” You step closer. He flinches a little, but lets you stand in front of him with his wooden gate separating the two of you. “Do you want to play?”
He hesitates, hands wringing more frantically, then visibly steels himself and nods. You grin, reaching around the gate to flip the bolt open before dragging him to the park.
Akaashi decides as you hold his hand, his fingers kissing your star-shaped birthmark, that his two favourite things in the world are his books and you.
“Akaashi Keiji.”
You know what has finally come, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of your heart dropping to the ground in cadence with the solemn announcement of the names of soldiers ordered to the battlefield. Akaashi steps forward and bows, accepting the order and his fate. He bows like he has graciously chosen to serve his country. He bows like he has a choice. (He doesn’t.)
He wipes away your tears again and again that night, until you’re sure he must have left an indent the shape of his thumb on your cheeks. He hugs you close, hands caressing your shivering back.
“I’ll come back,” he whispers. You don’t acknowledge that the promise is baseless and flimsy. “I’ll come back.” He says it twice to harden it.
You sniffle, unconvinced. “You better.” You hit his arm like it’s his fault, and he grins for the first time that night. You drift into an uneasy sleep in the safety of his arms.
Come morning, the dread has burrowed itself deep into your chest, rotting away like a cavity, black flowers blooming thorns. You stand rigidly on the platform, surrounded by weeping wives and brave men about to charge into the battlefield.
“Keiji,” you clutch onto his sleeve as the steam blows, palms clammy, desperate. Desperate. “Is it too late to tell you not to leave? Please don’t leave. Please. Please, please, please. I can’t - I can’t live without you. Please. I can’t -”
He cups your cheek, thumb running over the same expanse of skin it did last night. It burns.
“You won’t have to,” his words come out light and hopeful. “I promise I’ll come back.”
You shake your head violently, tears streaming.
“You can’t just say that,” you choke. “You can’t promise anything, don’t go, please -”
He cuts you off with a gentle shush sound, then smiles sadly. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
You sob, fists thumping on his chest, each one a reminder that he doesn’t have a choice. None of you do.
Before the battlefield, soldiers take the test of leaving. Of willing their feet to board a train that leads to doom or paradise. Of leaving behind everything they’ve ever known and loved for the slim chance they come back alive and honoured by all. Or they die on the spot, right here. You almost feel the blood of past rebels (people who didn’t want to go to war) seeping into your boots.
Akaashi pushes you away gingerly as the train horn blares a warning and the military officers hold their guns tighter.
“I’ll come back.”
And you take what little hope he gives and pray to the gods, because there’s nothing you can do, and no other option he can choose.
He comes back, but nothing is the same.
“Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”
You smile at the egg sizzling on the pan, a thousand emotions intersecting. “Yes, Keiji, you have. You tell me that every day.” You flip the egg over.
He smiles wryly. “I wish I could see you.”
You turn off the fire on the stove and place the egg on the plate on top of the hashbrown and ham. Whisking another plate into your hands, you shuffle to where Akaashi sits on the couch, hands folded on his lap. He turns to you when he feels the sofa sink as you sit, setting the two plates on the coffee table, but his eyes are cast to the wall behind you. You smile as sadly as he did, but he cannot see it. The war took his eyes, and something inside him too.
You take his hands in yours. His empty gaze flits downwards.
“You can’t see me, but you can touch, can’t you?” You bring his palms to your cheeks. He runs a thumb over your cheekbones, then moves to outline your forehead, then traces your eyebrows, then leans forward to press a kiss on each of your eyelids, then on your nose, and finally on your mouth. You taste salt.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly that you wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been practically speaking into your mouth. “I’m sorry.”
You kiss him again. “Don’t be. I’m not ashamed. My husband fought bravely for the last war, no matter what the prissy wives in the neighbourhood say. ‘He can’t fight in THIS war’, what nonsense. It’s not your fault you came back blind. It’s the enemy’s. Don’t say sorry.”
He takes a shaky breath and nods. You smile, you always do, even though he can’t see it. You place one plate in his lap and guide his hands to it. You don’t know this is the last lunch of your life.
It rains bombs tonight.
You’d heard the telltale whistle of airplanes overhead, and you’d rushed out of the kitchen to help your husband evacuate, not expecting this:
“Stay, Y/N.” His voice was steady, not a single wavelength of fear. You frantically stuff some necessities in the nearest bag you can find, then reach out to tug his arm, hard.
“What’re you saying?” you demand, breathless as you try to push him without letting him trip over the stray objects on the floor. He digs his feet into the floor stubbornly, and you give up to search those blank eyes of his.
“We won’t make it.” His hands travel up your arm to rest on your face. “I can hear planes, lots of them. They’ll burn this whole place to the ground. We can’t go anywhere.”
You let the despair sink in, screams outside barely registering as you focus on your husband’s lulling voice to calm your panic.
“What do we do now?” you voice your hopelessness, and he pulls you close.
“Let’s watch TV,” he decides. You laugh, at the sheer normalcy and absurdity of it all. He gives you a small smile, then gropes his way to the couch. You rush to help him, and the both of you settle down with your arms around each other. You reach for the remote and switch the TV on.
You don’t know what’s playing. All you know is the curve of Akaashi’s eyebrows, his forehead bathed in the harsh light of the TV, his mouth set in a determined line, his eyes seeing yet unseeing. His hands do not tremble as they take yours, clasping them one on top of the other in a warm hamburger (you’ve gone crazy at this point, if you’re thinking that).
There’s something calming about the end of the world.
You remember the daisies he’d braid into your hair when you were younger, the hide-and-seek under the shade of the trees. You remember the rickety old bicycle he’d ride to and from school, always with you perched behind him, arms around his waist. You remember the sound of glass breaking in Akaashi’s house when you lean out of your window. You remember the school anthem, the wedding vows, the dog you’d fed on the road.
You remember a prince, a servant, an execution.
The images playing on the screen crackle into static. His thumb rubs circles on the birthmark on your wrist. As the world caves in, you lean forward for a kiss that tastes like fire and ash and sweet, sweet love.
"I’ll meet you in the next life.”
“Y/N,” he breaths. His head feels light and blurred, breath coming a little short like he’d just gone on a run. (In a way, he has. He’d just run laps through those lifetimes, after all, all in a few seconds.)
You smile, and it’s the same smile that charmed him every single one of those lifetimes. It’s the one where he knows that he’s the only thing you’re seeing, the only one you’ll ever love.
“Keiji,” you acknowledge, voice molding beautifully around his name. Gosh, he loves his name the most when you say it.
“Did you - did you know?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No. I - I only remembered when you pointed out my birthmark. Come to think of it, it’s been like that ever since we met in the first lifetime, hasn’t it? It’s like this birthmark marks me as yours.”
His eyes twinkle. “Found you again.”
You throw back your head with a laugh, and he’s back in his room with you on his lap doodling on his parchment. You lean forward, and he’s back on the couch, feeling your breath on his cheek as he memorises your face with his hands.
You kiss, and it tastes like a new life.