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“Hey, pretty thing, do you have a name?”
“I do, actually, and it most definitely isn’t 'pretty thing'.”
The religious silence of the university library before noon is broken again by a bothersome guy approaching him.
Keiji should just study at the dorms, and normally he would, because he’s learned that being outside never helps him with all these people trying to hit on him, but Kenma, his roommate, had his annoying boyfriend over, and he surely wasn’t going to act as a third wheel.
It's not that he is the most attractive boy on campus, neither does he have a reputation; guys always approach him as a dare of some sorts, trying to ask the new, icy student out, see who scores a date first.
He has absolutely no time to date, anyway, and if he had, it wouldn’t be any of these boys.
“C’mon, don’t be harsh, just tell me your name and maybe your number, and I’ll leave.”
Keiji sighs, getting ready to argue with him, when a hand is placed on his shoulder and there’s sound of scraping from beside him, someone sitting down on the chair, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek. He doesn’t need to turn to know exactly who it is.
“Actually, I think you’re going to leave, now.”
“And who are you to tell me what to do?”
“I’m Bokuto Koutaro, his boyfriend, you idiot, and he has already told you he’s not interest, so shut up and leave.”
If Bokuto’s large frame or his reputation as the ace of the volleyball team hadn’t been good enough to scare the other student, his cold, demanding voice would surely suffice. The guy leaves in a whirlwind of apologies.
Bokuto immediately takes his arm away from around him and leans back on the chair, pouting adorably.
Keiji won’t admit he’s already missing the warmth, the touch, his breath near his ear.
“You really don't have to do that every time. I can handle myself,” remarks Keiji, fiddling around with the highlighter in his hands.
“I know, Akaashi, but they get on my nerves. They have no respect.”
“Stop pouting. He’s gone. It’s fine.”
Bokuto turns to him sharply, grabbing his chin delicately and making him look at him in the eyes. Molten gold, a light stream at sunset painted on the wall, a feather glistening in the shadows.
“It’s not fine. It keeps happening, you’re more than a beautiful boy they can toy with.” His voice is firm, his gaze steady, his calloused fingers soft on his skin.
Keiji opens his mouth and closes it again. The words just won’t come out. There’s a care in Bokuto’s whisper, in every action he reserves for him, that makes warmth blossom in Keiji’s heart, scalding his veins, reaching every contact point with the other boy and growing, burning away at his every defense.
He harshly frees his head and turns towards his books again, eyes downcast. “It is fine, don’t worry. I don’t really care.”
Bokuto sighs. “Okay, then. Oh, can I borrow this book?” he asks.
Keiji’s heart clenches again. This has to stop. He can’t handle it.
He pushes “The Sorrows of Young Werther” towards Bokuto, smiling faintly, involuntarily.
“Of course, you can. Treat it right, though. I don’t want to see any chocolate stains on it.”
“It was one time!” he protests. “And it was a chocolate milkshake, you can’t blame me.”
They’re all hanging out at a pub near the university. Keiji, Bokuto, Kenma and Kuroo.
It’s a weird selection of people, Kenma lazily sipping his drink from the straw, Kuroo and Bokuto throwing salted peanuts to each other to see who could center the other’s mouth.
And Keiji, watching the scene from beside Kenma, an outsider to their joy, his glass empty already.
Kenma’s eyes are distantly focused on Bokuto’s shirt underlining his biceps while he throws another peanut. Bokuto, for his part, is so intent on hitting the target that Keiji suspects he’s not much aware of anything else beside Kuroo. This one, instead, keeps laughing at Bokuto’s poor attempts, until Bokuto gets fed up and forces a bunch of peanuts in his mouth, making a mess with the salt; he wipes it away with his thumb on Kuroo’s lips, softly rubbing his skin and then leaving a soft kiss on the side of his mouth.
Keiji is not even surprised at this point.
When they all met at the start of the semester, Kuroo and Kenma were already an item, childhood friens, been together all their lives. Their relationship naturally progressed from friendship to love – one evening, while they were playing videogames at Kenma’s house, Kuroo finally took the courage to confess… and Kenma told him he thought they were already together.
They were, and still are, disgustingly in love. Keiji could see it in the details, how Kuroo always wears red nail polish because it’s Kenma’s favorite, how this one seems to know what food the other is craving, the simple, undeniable way they look at each other every day, as if it was always a discovery, a new adventure, to get lost in each other’s eyes and find themselves again.
And then Bokuto came along, with his energy and his warmth. He immediately washed them in his gold light, and Keiji couldn’t miss the lingering looks Kuroo reserves for him when they practice together, how Kenma lets Bokuto touch him and hug him without protesting, how he actually seeks the comfort of the ace’s arms, crawling in his lap while playing on his phone, bantering with him until Bokuto tackles him.
Keiji considers himself a fairly smart person, it doesn’t take long to realize what’s going to happen.
It takes even less for him to understand there’s no place for him.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces as he gets up.
He quickly washes his hands and face, just to remember he put on some makeup for the night and open his eyes to the mascara running down his cheeks as if he’d cried. He curses under his breath and quickly uses some toilet paper to get rid of it.
Someone comes in while he’s finishing cleaning the border of his eye, and when Keiji turns to throw away the toilet paper, he finds himself face to face with a student from his semantic class, watching him up and down.
“Hi?” Keiji asks, voice cold.
“You’re Akaashi, right? We have a class together,” the boy asks, running his hand through his bleached hair and continuing looking at him from head to toe.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Keiji can’t even understand what he’s looking at, to be honest. Is he fascinated by Keiji’s large jeans? Perhaps his blue button-down shirt?
In any case, he doesn’t offer any more than that and he makes to leave when the other blocks his way.
“Wait a minute. Are you here alone?”
“In the bathroom? Yes, I am.” His tone is even icier than before. These guys truly have some nerve, coming up to him like this. He knows his type already, harmless, annoying boys who try to act like men. It’s always more bothersome than anything else. “In the pub? No.”
The student lets him through, probably realizing he has come off as too insistent, but he asks, “Can I offer you a drink, maybe?”
Keiji is half out of the door already but he halts. He turns around, really takes the time to observe this person in front of him.
So, what if he lets him buy him a drink? He seems nice enough, with his caramel eyes and grey jacket, the rings on his hands and the fitting black slacks.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” pipes in a low voice behind him.
Kuroo.
A muscular arm is slinged over his shoulder, pressing him against a large chest, a beating heart, warm skin.
Keiji sighs, incredibly tired all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry?” the guy snickers.
“I forgive you,” Kuroo answers, devilish in his red shirt with his sleeves rolled up and the matching nail polish, his fingers brushing against Keiji’s collarbone. A shiver runs up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, tickled by Kuroo’s breath. “Keiji’s my boyfriend, so you might want to go offer a drink to someone else.”
The other narrows his eyes, gaze flitting from Keiji to the man behind him, holding on to him almost possessively. “But I thought you were with the small blondie, the gamer?”
Kuroo doesn’t bat an eye and replies, “Yeah, I am, so?”
The guy looks thoroughly confused now, so Keiji decides to intervene to make the tension deflate. “It’s fine, let’s just go, Kuroo.”
“See you in class,” he throws behind him before grabbing Kuroo’s hand and leading them away from the bathroom and back to their booth.
“Akaashi, what took you so long?” inquires Bokuto once he and Kuroo take their seats once more.
“Nothing,” he says, sipping on his second drink.
“A guy was hitting on him,” says Kuroo instead.
“Again?” Kenma raises his eyes from under his brows, looking more menacing than ever.
“Yeah, can you believe that? He’s got to be the third just this week!” complains Kuroo.
Keiji can’t take this. Not now, when he’s already tipsy and all seems to be crashing down on him.
“Well, it’s none of your business now, is it?” he asks, voice louder than intended.
The other three immediately halt their conversation, turning to him, observing him, searching for something, an answer he can’t give.
There’s an equilibrium, and he can’t mess it up.
There’s a tower, and he's a brick that doesn’t fit.
There’s a heart, there are walls, carefully built and maintained.
There’s an empty ballroom, just waiting to be filled with music and laughter, lights and dance, burning candles and soft silk, but no doorway.
He needs to get out.
Abruptly, Keiji stands up and leaves, once again. The voices of his closest friends calling him.
He needs to get out, reach the cold night air, get away from the warmth that’s making him dizzy.
When he’s finally outside, he takes a deep breath, gets oxygen to his brain and then walks, as fast as he can, as far as he can go. He can feel the tears prickling his eyes, demanding to be let out. But he can’t, not yet.
He reaches the dorms quickly, only a short road away form the pub, sniffling and frantically searching for his keys. As soon as he’s alone in his dorm room, he leans back against the wall and breaks down.
He crumbles to the ground like an origami taken apart by the hands of a mischievous child.
Tears now run free on his cheeks, his eyes stinging and his head hurting; he tries to be silent – he doesn’t want the other students on the floor to hear him.
All the self-deprecating thoughts he’s been hiding in the back of his mind now come forward, an imposing presence that cuts his heartstrings and leaves him empty. All his regrets, his mistakes, the hugs he didn’t give out, the hands he never reached for, the feelings he was never able to disclose.
Everything comes back to him like a woeful flashback, and he can’t do nothing more than take it all in, his undeserving past and his broken present, the fears that held him back and the dreams he never dared to hope for.
Knocking on the door makes him halt, tears coursing down his face silently.
“Akaashi... Keiji, you’re there, aren’t you?” comes Kenma’s soft voice from the other side.
Keiji can’t speak, his throat sore and dry, his voice undoubtedly quivering. He just cries harder, pressing his hand on his mouth to keep any noise in.
“Akaashi, we’re coming in,” announces Bokuto, before opening the door and turning the lights on.
Now, Keiji has nowhere to hide, no shadow to cover him.
“Akaashi,” Kuroo whispers when he sees him, approaching him like a wounded animal – and that’s what he is, after all, perhaps.
“Stop,” he says. “Go away, please.”
Kuroo is taken aback, flinching and stepping back.
“No,” intervenes Kenma, getting closer and closer until he can sit right in front of him, “we’re not leaving. Please, just talk to us.”
“What’s wrong, Akaashi? You can talk to us,” says Bokuto, behind Kenma.
“Does it have anything to do with the guy from the bathroom?” the other asks, putting a hand on Keiji’s knee.
“We will beat him up, if it’s his fault.”
“Stop!” he repeats, louder. “You can stop acting now, no one is watching! You don’t have to pretend to be my boyfriends here, you don’t have to pretend to-”
“Pretend to what?” asks Kuroo, sitting beside Kenma. “Pretend to care? Pretend to love you?”
Keiji is stunned. His heart is hurting more than ever. The words are out there and if he’d been hoping for peace, now he can only feel the pain coursing through his veins, the air leaving his lungs.
“You can stop pretending, yes.”
“But it’s not a lie!” exclaims Bokuto, popping up between the other two and grabbing Keiji’s face in his hands, cradling it, wiping his tears with his thumbs. “We’ve never had to pretend to love you, Keiji, we just do!”
“No, but you-” he tries to protest, to move Bokuto’s hands away, but he’s stopped by Kuroo’s firm hold on his wrist.
“Why do you doubt us? We love you, Keiji, that’s it, as simple as that.”
They- They love me?
“Keiji,” whispers Kenma, taking his hand in both of his and delicately kissing his knuckles, his palm, wet with tears, “do you love us? Like we love you?”
Keiji sees the moment doubt creeps inside their eyes, and he realizes they were waiting. They’ve been waiting for him to reach out, to make the first move. They’ve been giving him space and time to think and avoid overwhelming him; they thought he needed that.
But he never needed any of that, he knew from the first time they all laughed together that they were meant to be. At least, he knew he loved them, and he knew he’d do anything to be with them. And yet, he believed for so long that he just couldn’t fit in, that maybe they didn’t want him, and so he’s led them to believe he was the one not wanting them.
“I do,” he forces out, voice trembling, eyes watering again, “I love you more than anything.”
They laugh, holding each other, kissing and touching and feeling each other, closer than ever.