Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not August 7th in particular that sucks so much, Tsukishima explains, bored and dispassionate with his arms crossed over his chest as he seethes at the coffee maker as if it has, personally, wronged him. It’s more that it’s a Tuesday so it’s mediocre by default. It’s a day stuck in the frustrating valley between signing his V-League contract and getting to play. The weather is viciously humid, the heat unrepentant, the tar gluing the streets of Sendai together sticks to the soles of his shoes if he’s not careful to avoid it.

Oh, and that pesky thing where it won’t stop being August 7th.

Every morning Tsukishima wakes up at precisely 5:13—two minutes before his alarm and livid for it—then flops onto his back to glare at the ceiling. It’s off-white, Tsukishima drones in a tone brimming with the universe has it out for me. Not the clean sort of off-white, but the kind left behind by the previous tenant’s chain-smoking. It yellows in the shallow dips in the stucco, gleams wet in the sunrise. Every single morning, Tsukishima stares up at this disgusting ceiling he never once noticed before and fruitlessly attempts to reconcile the disaster his life has turned into. Then, a parakeet outside his window starts whistling the X-Files theme.

“The X-Files? You woke me up pounding on the door at”—Tetsurou stabs the lock screen of his phone until it displays the time—“8:25 to talk about the X-Files?”

“It was 8:12 when I woke you up.”

Tsukishima is adorably disheveled. Crisp, forest green t-shirt with the cracked, white silhouette of a googly-eyed reptile half-tucked into a pair of faded cutoff shorts; one black sock, one with what appears to be dancing stegosauruses; hair doing its best impression of seventeen-year-old Tetsurou and his love for all things pomade. Little early morning smudges streak his glasses from shoving them on his face in a rush and trying to wipe the fingerprints away. The three years since Tsukishima and Tetsurou were last friendly went straight to his shoulders, chest, and legs, but Tetsurou would hardly know it going by today because Tsukishima is wound so tight, the bulk curls inward with his posture. He is small in Tetsurou’s kitchen.

When Tetsurou saw Tsukishima last week at Sendai Gymnasium, he looked every bit as neat, put together, and huge as he did in his first year of college. Curious.

Tetsurou grabs the coffee pot and pours coffee into his mug held over the sink until it overflows and scalds his fingers. He shoves the rest of the pot toward Tsukishima and waves at the mug sitting on the counter, a cheap hunk of ceramic glazed white and decorated with typewriter-esque lettering that says ‘I really like your’ with a drawing of a dachshund right beneath. It was the first thing Tetsurou ever bought for his apartment and it tragically has yet to accomplish its morning after, pre-walk-of-shame destiny. This is pretty close, though. Score one for the novelty coffee mug.

Tsukishima maintains brutal eye contact, pours the rest of the coffee and knocks his dachshund in the air with a sarcastic cheers before draining it in one go.

“I’m operating on like a month straight of five hours of sleep or less here, so maybe expand on your point a little,” Tetsurou says.

“It’s always 8:12. It’s always the X-Files theme. My record for getting you to believe me is 9:42, but I’m not really trying this time so go ahead and work through it at your own pace.”

“How do you know where I live?” Tetsurou asks. His brain is starting to wake up instead of being shocked into a caricature of functionality by an iron fist pounding relentlessly on his door. None of this feels real. The haze drooping over the kitchen isn’t clearing even though his eyelids can almost stay open without herculean stubbornness and Tsukishima’s disastrous hair has transformed into a well-defined mess rather than a blurry heap reminiscent of a straw-colored koosh ball.

“I’ve been here before.”

Tsukishima shoves his way to the cubby where Tetsurou keeps the coffee, then in front of the coffee maker so he can get it chugging its way through another pot. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by how slow it runs.

“I stole that from my father’s house on the way out the door,” Tetsurou says even though Tsukishima didn’t ask. When Tsukishima glances over, he adds, “The coffee maker, I mean. Toaster oven, too. They’re both garbage but damn is it fun to think about him being without them. Never expected my life to be full of defunct small appliances, but here we are. Nostalgia and vengeance, all present and accounted for.”

“That’s a new one. You only told me about the clocks before.”

Tetsurou absolutely stole every last clock from his father’s house when he went to college and for the life of him cannot remember if he told Tsukishima about it. It does seem like something he would brag about. The clocks are long gone, anyway, so even if Tsukishima’s been hanging out at Tetsurou’s apartment in some parallel universe, how would it have ever come up?

A mark for Column A: time loop; one for Column B: medical intervention.

“When did I tell you about the clocks?” Tetsurou asks. He takes two gulps of his coffee and lets the fire running down his throat jolt him awake while he waits for the caffeine to kick in and do the rest.

“It’s been a while, I guess. One of the first times I was here.”

Subdued rustles sound from behind the kitchen counter—Tsukishima’s socks shuffling against the honeycomb-shaped floor tiles as he jiggles his leg. Both hands planted on the counter, fingers straining, Tsukishima frowns down Tetsurou’s hallway of a living room, out the balcony doors, into the blueish lavender of the Tokyo skyline as he fidgets. His adam’s apple bobs.

The thing about Tsukishima is, in a lot of ways, he’s the same as Tetsurou remembers. It’s unfair to think so—Tetsurou has only a brief interaction last Thursday and whatever is going on this morning to compare—but he still has to make an effort to keep his jaw loose so he won’t grind his teeth and his anxious fingers flex with the urge to wring anything in reach. Tsukishima still talks in mouthfuls, slips words that could be whole sentences into everyday conversation with a prideful smirk and Tetsurou would bet hard money this is the first time in his entire life his socks don’t match. Despite seven layers of sarcasm and snark, Tsukishima doesn’t lie—not outright—and even though this is only the second time Tetsurou has seen him in three years, he can tell that at the very least, Tsukishima believes what he’s saying.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you had your head looked at?”

“Yes.” Tsukishima levels a nasty glower at Tetsurou when he says it.

It takes a moment for the irritation to click. Tetsurou snickers. “Oh? I’d say sorry, but why lie straight to your face like that?”

“You definitely were not sorry.”

Tetsurou should drag Tsukishima to have his head examined. Again, apparently. It’s not really something that’s up for debate or interpretation. The responsible thing to do is to cart Tsukishima down to the hospital kicking and screaming and show support by doing his best to salvage Tsukishima’s freshly-inked V-League career. It wouldn’t be the first rookie breakdown and it won’t be the last. Bokuto alone caused the V-League’s insurance premiums to skyrocket; once in Division 2 and then again upon promotion.

“Moral dilemmas are the worst,” Tetsurou says.

Tsukishima refills his coffee. “Is that what it is this time? A moral dilemma?”

“What’d I call it before?” Tetsurou’s brain is starting to feel a bit like it’s being fed through a wood-chipper.

“Bunch of stuff.” Tsukishima shrugs and leans his elbows on the counter, fingers knitted together at the first knuckle as he considers the slate-tinted laminate between them. “You almost never do the same thing twice, it’s infuriating. I tested it, you know. Showed up at the same moment, said the same things five days in a row. Got a totally different reaction every time.”

That seems like the sort of thing Tetsurou should put on his CV.

“How about this then: what have you been up to?” Tetsurou wants a baseline for how well he knows the Tsukishima standing in his kitchen.

“Besides August 7th?” Tsukishima asks, snotty, condescending. Same old Tsukishima, then. “You know the big stuff. Playing for the Frogs. Got a job lined up at Sendai museum for after I graduate in the winter.”

“No shit? In the lab?”

“I”—Tsukishima glances up from the counter with a strange look on his face—“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Who could forget how geeked you were to intern there? Jesus, I almost died of second-hand nerd exposure.”

Another round of nostalgia and vengeance hangs over Tetsurou’s apartment, just tinted differently.

Once upon a time, Tetsurou said he would always be there. He said the details don’t matter; if he is able to help, he will. Piddly little things like three years of no contact and the laws of time and space don’t change something like that. Tetsurou looks again at the half tucked-in shirt, like it’s come loose from running around with no belt on. The mismatched socks. Tsukishima’s hair sticking in every direction like he tried to comb it out with his fingers and then gave up. A sentimental voice in the back of Tetsurou’s head whispers if nothing else, Tsukishima should not be left alone.

It will be easier to drag Tsukishima to the hospital once Tetsurou has confirmed a few things. Emotionally, that is; physically it’ll be a slugfest either way. There’s also the insane nagging getting louder and louder wanting to hear him out because, above all else, Tsukishima has always been a serious guy. If he wanted an excuse to see Tetsurou, he’d come up with something much better than this.

“Okay. You’re stuck in a time loop. What do you expect me to do about it?”

An incredulous, offended scoff barrels its way out of Tsukishima. The transparent look he gives Tetsurou, like he cannot believe Tetsurou is stupid enough to buy this shit, is drenched in irony.

“Oh? Surprised? Best take notes for tomorrow. Or is it simply today, again? Either way, you have a new record to beat. Write it down”—Tetsurou jabs his phone—“8:27.”

“Seriously?” A haunted desperation glimmers in Tsukishima’s eyes when the shock fades away and his frown looks exactly like the one he wore all those years ago, asking questions in quiet corners of Shinzen’s third gymnasium when he wasn’t sure he wanted answers. “That’s it? You just… believe me? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Tetsurou says. “You try like, helping little old ladies with their groceries?”

“Of course I have.”

“You apologize to Ushiwaka for humiliating him at the tender age of fifteen?”

Tsukishima snorts. “No, but I’m not sorry.”

“Philanthropy? Give away all your worldly possessions?”

“I’ve done all the logical stuff. Stop trying to problem-solve like a normal person,” Tsukishima says. “I tried to outlast it. I flew to Canada. I confessed my undying love to the one that got away. I found my father—apparently, he’s dead.”

That one still seems a bit raw.

“I jumped off a bridge. I won the lottery. I set fire to everything I own. Nothing else ever changes, you’re the only person crazy enough to have a different answer to the same question every day. No matter what I do, I wake up in the morning at 5:13 and it is August 7th.” Tsukishima’s voice is drowning and cracked by the end of his tirade.

With anyone else, Tetsurou would reach across the counter and try to offer physical comfort. He’s a tactile person, has been since he was a kid and learned to be affectionate under an avalanche of Kozume-branded attention. Tsukishima, however, never liked that sort of thing before and Tetsurou doubts he’s come around any. It is easier to resist temptation with his fingers laced together, weight on his forearms leaning on the counter. Frustration carves out a deep V in the recess between Tsukishima’s eyebrows.

The consistency is disturbing. It’s realistic.

“Start with yesterday,” Tetsurou says. He’s not allowing that defeatist bullshit. “Tell me everything you remember about yesterday.”

“My classes are all done for the semester, I just dicked around with my friends.”

Oh, isn’t that cute—Tsukishima is still every bit as terrible of a liar as Tetsurou is. This is going to be good. “Sure. What’d you do?”

The scowl crossing Tsukishima’s face is mountainous, it consumes his expression in an instant and tints his clenched jaw and tight fists pressing into Tetsurou’s kitchen counter a sickly pale red. Tsukishima reaches up to rake his open palms down his face and sighs into his cupped hands. “Went to see the Tanabata decorations.”

“You went to Tanabata?”

“Yeah, we have it in August instead of July.” The words are slow and cumbersome, exhausted as the unimpressed way Tsukishima’s staring at a point over Tetsurou’s head. His gaze drops to the counter.

“Well, I don’t know, Tsukki, maybe we should start there.” Is he kidding with this shit? Talk about burying the lede.

“Again, with your pointless in-the-box thinking,” Tsukishima says through his loosely interlocked fingers. “It is a waste of time to go all the way back to Sendai. I’ve tried this already. We have tried it.”

“Well I don’t care if we’ve tried it, I haven’t.” Tetsurou wants to see it himself. Wants to touch the paper lanterns and walk the same path Tsukishima took when he wandered around the festival. How else is he supposed to figure anything out? “You want to veto the obvious play? Give me something else to go on. You can’t throw a time loop at me, not explain at all, and then get mad when I come to a logical conclusion like ‘oh, I wonder if the bigass festival full of wishes might have something to do with this.’”

“If something started at Tanabata, it’s already happened, it was yesterday. I’m not going to end this by going to Tanabata over and over again.”

“How do you think you’re going to end it, then? Why are you here?” Long ago, Tetsurou perfected the art of arching one judgmental eyebrow for as long as it takes to crack an adversary. Tsukishima lasts around thirty seconds before looking away. The shitty attitude isn’t doing much to convince Tetsurou blind faith is the right move.

“We could start by having a day where I don’t want to toss you out the window.” Tsukishima snaps then visibly pulls himself back and takes three deep, even breaths. He looks up, above his smudged glasses and gives Tetsurou a miserable sigh. “You are so unbelievably single-minded, you know that? This is the only thing you do every time. You always throw a fit and have to go to Tanabata.”

“And you’ve been, what, trying to convince me not to? You’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“Obviously,” Tsukishima says. “Do what you want. Nothing I say ever makes you listen.”

“You do understand you’re coming, too, right?” This is another sure thing: Tsukishima’s going to try to weasel his way out of going to this festival. Like hell Tetsurou’s letting him out of his sight to wander around Tokyo, convinced he’s in a time loop.

The sulking is answer enough.

“At least tell me what I have to do. What will make you stop this nonsense so we’re not starting from zero every single time? This is the eighth day in a row, Kuroo. Eight days you’ve been doing this to me.”

That is a fair point. They’re wasting time arguing about it and theoretically would continue to waste this time every loop. Another moral dilemma: how much of this is Tetsurou willing to feed in the name of due diligence and a gut feeling? Instead of thinking too much about it, Tetsurou checks the train schedule and starts grabbing essentials. Keys, wallet, wrinkled second-hand paperback snagged at random from the overflowing bookcase. “If it resets again, come here, first thing. Tell me you need Bokuto’s contingency plan binder. You have to call it that exactly.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“When we were in high school Bokuto and I came up with plans for what we’d do if something crazy happened. You know, zombie apocalypse, aliens, dolphins rise up from the oceans to become our supreme overlords—”

“The worst part is how I’m not surprised at all.”

“—Time loop was one of them. I don’t think it’ll help you any, I’m pretty sure it was just a checklist of everything we wanted to do if we could get away with it, but there’s no way in hell you’d ever know about it unless I told you. You see?” Tetsurou grabs his phone and jerks his chin toward the door.

The dirty glares are getting more creative by the minute. This one is something in the realm of are you sure you want to be in the vicinity of a train? “Bokuto could have told me. Or any of the numerous people I’m sure you bragged to about your cunning to while coming up with whatever asinine nonsense is in there.”

“Nope. It’s a secret, we swore we’d take it to our graves.” Tetsurou savors the moment. Takes a few seconds to relish the expression he’s about to wring out of Tsukishima’s annoyed face. “Otherwise it might compromise the integrity of our plans.”

“Integrity of your…” Tsukishima mutters, looking thoroughly betrayed. By what, Tetsurou doesn’t know. It’s probably something broad and all-encompassing Tsukishima imagines has done him wrong. Life in general, maybe. Carbon.

“Well, yeah, what good are code words if everyone knows them? Be proud, you’re the first to hear anything about it.”

Tsukishima finally shakes his befuddlement off and gets into gear. “I didn’t. Know about this, that is. How is this the first time you’ve ever told me? I’ve gotten you to believe me before.”

“Not as much as you think, apparently. In all these days you say we had together I never told you a secret or something to convince me? You never thought that was weird? Amateur.”

Tetsurou gets another shove you in front of a train sneer for that one.

“Are you seriously telling me you’ve been dragging me to Tanabata over and over again and you didn’t even believe me? Why? Do you believe me now?”

Not only is it the exact sort of thing Tetsurou would do, but it is also exactly what he’s planning to do now. So, yes. With enough evidence, Tetsurou thinks he could believe this. The answer he gives is: “Well, we just don’t know yet, do we?”

“How are you still coming up with new ways to make this difficult? Are you kidding me with this shit?”

“Well, next time come here, first thing. Tell me you need Bokuto’s contingency plan binder. I’ll believe you for real, and then you can fill me in on whatever we do today. God, I’m going to hate this.” Having to blindly trust some other version of Tetsurou vetted the data and decided to move along to the next item is something straight out of Tetsurou’s nightmares. The internal plausibility pendulum swings back to hoping Tsukishima has lost it. Tetsurou would rather suffer a black eye dragging him to the hospital.

“Violently,” Tsukishima agrees. He sounds cheerful for the first time since he came crashing back into Tetsurou’s life with all the subtlety of a renegade giraffe.

“Train to Miyagi leaves in half an hour. You want a book or something for the ride?”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and lets Tetsurou hustle him out of the apartment.

Chapter Text

Sendai’s Tanabata festival is, in a word, magnificent. The vibrancy of it rivals the magic of Shibuya in the tenuous space woven between late night and early morning; like the pavement is floating on glossy, electric clouds. Massive decorations hang overhead, ten meters tall, dwarfing the city and quivering in the wind—sharp homages to endless fields of daisies, surging volcano fire, the glittering Pacific. Tetsurou has seen all of these colors. He has even seen them all at once, dancing over LED screens and slicing through basement clubs so dark and loud the lights trail like hallucinations. But never like this: inverted, stripped down and sanded to a gorgeous, satin finish etched with silhouettes of flowers, bamboo, and ancient, burly trees.

A dopey tourist smile is plastered all over Tetsurou’s face. Seems there’s something to be said about city kids same as for ones from out in the sticks who have never seen the Skytree.

Tsukishima is a frustrated bundle of anxiety, from the rigid tendon in his neck to the fists hidden in his pockets. The discomfort isn’t ideal, but this is a necessary evil of problem-solving. That Tsukishima claims he walked beneath a grove of wishes yesterday and never made it out of today has to be significant, it’s too big of a coincidence to ignore. Tetsurou believes Tsukishima when he says they’ve been down this road but he despises learning things second-hand; he needs to see for himself. It’s only pissing Tsukishima off because he’s the same way.

“So what do we usually do when we come here?” Tetsurou asks. He can at least try to go in another direction at first for Tsukishima’s sake.

“About what you’re doing now. Gawk like a moron and try to pretend you don’t want to check out the food.”

The mention of food is enough to bring the distant smell into focus: warm and meaty, the sort of greasy thick smell that settles over every festival regardless of the occasion or prefecture. “You’re right, I’m starving. Take me to the food now, please.”

“North side.” Tsukishima jerks his head down the sea of decorations and heads toward an unreasonable amount of commotion ahead. It sounds like drums rattling the pavement, shrieks and war cries chasing after.

“Am I unique?” Tetsurou wonders. It’s been nagging him all day and it wasn’t until the sea of candy-colored tanzaku papers rolling in the breeze came into sight that he started figuring out how to untangle the concept into the form of a question.

Tsukishima shakes his head and sighs.

“Like, have you had this conversation before? Have you done this exact same thing with another version of me?”

“No. We’re usually not here for another hour or so and stop with this ‘other you’ thing, you always do this. There are no other yous, it’s all… you.”

“This is the greatest thought experiment,” Tetsurou says.

“Case in point: you say that a lot.”

Tetsurou blows a mirthful pfft from the corner of his mouth closest to Tsukishima. “I bet. Okay, show me to the food and tell me everywhere you went and everything you did yesterday.”

“Oh, is that all? Just everything?” Tsukishima rolls his eyes and leads them north, toward the savory smell of grilled meat churning together with fried dough and noodles. “You’re always useless until I feed you anyway.”

Up north, heavy vibrations loll in the air and underfoot. Tetsurou is blasted clear back to Nationals, third year of high school when he catches a flash of severe, blonde hair flipping front and center of the stage. Tanaka Saeko is a vision, a wrathful goddess hammering a chill up Tetsurou’s spine as she wails on her taiko drum, screaming heavenward. There are many women Tetsurou wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but Saeko is perched high atop that list. Lev’s sister Alisa claws for the position now and then, but even she gets kicked back down to number two every time. Saeko is an amazing woman and Tetsurou never, ever wants to be alone with her.

The percussion is so loud, Tetsurou has to order his food by pointing to the menu at the yakitori vendor. The man running the booth rubs one ear against his shoulder; a neon yellow earplug pokes out of the other one. He hands over Tetsurou’s food with a toothy grin and exaggerated wave as Tsukishima leads them further from the performance so they can at least hear each other speak.

“Jesus Christ, she’s like a Valkyrie.” Wide-eyed, enthralled, incapable of looking away, Tetsurou blindly takes a few bites of his yakitori. When he’s met with silence, Tetsurou tears his gaze away to see Tsukishima staring right back at him. “What?”

“We’ve never been here in time to see her perform before,” Tsukishima says. “Didn’t realize you’d like it so much.”

Tetsurou looks back to the drum group and says, “There’s just something about a woman who could eat you alive, you know?”

“Not particularly.”

Now that he thinks about it, Tsukishima always hung around that meek, squeaky blonde girl, though she was terrifying in her own right.

With an earth-shaking rumble, the taiko group goes into their finale. Tetsurou can’t believe he’s never gone to a performance before, he may have formed an addiction from this one alone. There’s something so alive about it. Some vicious, feral energy jumping through every muscle. It’s in the concrete beneath his feet; in the air. When it’s over, Tsukishima stares at him like he’s plotting to beat his record of 8:42.

The festival grounds go achingly silent, then the crowd roars to life so loud even Saeko’s screaming crumbles under its weight. Her gaze rakes over the audience. Every hair on Tetsurou’s neck jolts to attention the instant she sees him. She knocks her chin up in a nod and spares a few words to her crew before jumping down from the stage and pushing her way through the crowd. The moment she’s close enough, she swings both arms around Tsukishima’s shoulders and hauls herself up to her tiptoes to smack a kiss on his cheek. “Little bro!”

“I have repeatedly asked you not to call me that,” Tsukishima grouses as he detaches Saeko from his neck.

“And you,” Saeko says, ignoring Tsukishima’s complaining. A predatory, going to run you for all your money grin falls over her face. Tetsurou has no idea if she’s going to rob him or try to take him home with her. Or both? She’s scary enough to do both. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

Tetsurou will absolutely not allow Saeko to become aware of how much he loves being terrified of her. “Likewise. Nice performance, I felt that in my bones.”

“Flattery. Wise choice,” Saeko says. She glances toward Tsukishima. “You doing alright?”

"Do I look like I’m doing alright?” Tsukishima asks. Saeko gives him a hefty look until he sighs and nods. “I’m fine. Calm down.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Aw, look at you, so sweet and maternal,” Tetsurou coos.

“Do fuck off,” Saeko says. “What are you two up to?”

Tsukishima gives Saeko the non-time loop cliff’s notes while Tetsurou finishes his yakitori. Honestly, it sounds boring without the whole it’s never not August 7th thing. Tsukishima rode the train for two and a half hours, they bitched at each other for around one, then they came right back up to Sendai. Even Saeko can’t pretend it’s not a clusterfuck of a story, but she seems to wave it off as idiots being idiots. By the time Tetsurou’s finished his food, Saeko has a couple of guys from her drum group hovering nearby, quietly arguing. If Tetsurou had to guess, he’d say they’re fighting over who has to retrieve their fearless leader from two monstrously tall men and they’re not sure which of the three of them is the scariest. Saeko, of course, but Tetsurou will never admit it out loud.

Finally, one of the drummers stumbles over and mutters a quick, “Tanaka-san, we need to finish packing up,” shaking head to toe, the loose ends of his headband swishing around his face.

“And that’s my cue,” Saeko says. She takes two steps back and salutes. “Have fun, kiddos, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Tetsurou scoffs. “No way. I refuse to live a life of celibacy.”

“And sobriety,” Tsukishima mutters.

“That, either. Sorry Big Sis, you’re going to have to deal with two more degenerates for competition.” Saeko shoots them an entirely too enthusiastic double thumbs up. Once she’s out of earshot, Tetsurou says, “It’s good to see she’s as loud and intimidating as ever.”

“You do not get to talk about loud after Alisa.”

“You mean she who can make lesser men consider the Van Gogh approach to problem-solving without batting an eyelash? Yeah, that’s fair.”

They head south, down the thoroughfare of the festival. Along the way, Tsukishima petulantly talks through what he remembers of his yesterday. The play-by-play is vague, broad strokes over details, but it makes sense in a twisted way Tetsurou’s brain enjoys gnawing on. For Tetsurou, yesterday was yesterday; Tsukishima is supposedly trying to recall every detail of a random day months ago. Tetsurou has no idea what he did in early May beyond the everyday basics. Literally crawl out of bed. Shower and shave. Work, work, work.

For Tsukishima it’s: here’s where he ate lunch with Yamaguchi; here’s where they ran into Akiteru watching the taiko performance; there’s the spot Yamaguchi tripped over a child laying on the ground because they didn’t want to leave and then everyone within two meters started crying, including Yamaguchi for some bizarre reason Tsukishima breezes right past.

Tetsurou doesn’t get the impression Tsukishima is being deceitful, more that he’s tired and has been over this so much, the only parts he remembers well are the cornerstones he has to say over and over. All day he’s been free with his money and his attitude, doesn’t pay mind to social niceties or any more than the bare minimum of politeness. Tsukishima keeps his arms drawn close to his chest, stepping away from anyone who comes near. Marks for the pro column. More is in there than there should be. Not only stuff from today, either. There’s the choked, wet way Tsukishima’s voice cracked this morning, but also warm summer nights pressed shoulder to shoulder, perfectly in sync, roofing Bokuto’s shots. The way Tsukishima laughs at snarky, vicious jokes like they’re funnier than slapstick. How he bitched and bitched about coming to Tanabata but didn’t actually put up that big of a fight over it.

Endless decorations hang from the storefronts and overhead as they meander south. Tetsurou goes to stand in the middle of a particularly lively intersection with a department store on the corner that dwarfs the surrounding buildings. Billions of paper cranes flap in the gentle wind overhead, a swarm of color setting the city ablaze. He feels surrounded; like he can stretch his arms out but if he takes a step in any direction, he’ll bang his fingers on something.

Tsukishima grabs Tetsurou just above the elbow and yanks him back to the sidewalk. “You look like a crazy person. What are we doing, Kuroo? I keep telling you, there’s nothing here. You’re just running around like a tourist, you can’t be getting anything out of it.”

There’s a lot Tetsurou could say, but he has the beginnings of an idea floating around in his head and it feels like standing here staring at the sea of bamboo branches is helping. “I’m thinking, just give me a second.”

“A second?” Tsukishima asks. “How optimistic. I know that face.”

“You ever try to wish your way out?”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes in a beastly display of aggravation and nods.

Tetsurou figured as much. It’s the logical, in-the-box solution and Tsukishima is in no way stupid. The confirmation isn’t as satisfying as Tetsurou would like, though, and if he turns it around and examines it from the other side, Tsukishima’s attempts don’t necessarily disprove the hypothesis he’s toying with. “What about me? Have I ever tried it?”

There is something positively magical about throwing Mister smartass, I have lived this day hundreds of times off his game. Tsukishima opens his mouth with the obvious intent to rip Tetsurou a new one, then snaps his jaw closed. “Not that I know of, but I’ve left you here a bunch of times, so I’m not sure.”

Of course he has. He’s planning to do it now, too, Tetsurou hasn’t decided if he’s going to let Tsukishima get away with it or not—but that’s only because he’s still hung up on the part where he thinks he has more control over it than he does. Basic assumptions lead to the conclusion that not only will Tsukishima ditch him eventually, but he will also do so successfully. Even without the whole time loop thing, slipping someone in a crowd this thick would be child’s play. Doesn’t mean Tetsurou has to lay down and let it happen, though.

“And it resets at midnight?”

“Yes.” Tsukishima almost says something else. Whatever it is struggles in his mouth for a good, awkward thirty seconds before he swallows it back.

The smart play is obvious. If Tetsurou has to make assumptions, he should assume Tsukishima is having some sort of breakdown. The simplest answer is generally the correct one, and there is nothing complicated about standing in front of a man-made grove of bamboo with wishes tied all the way up to the tops, weighing the plausibility of time loops. Then again, Tetsurou has a feeling. It wiggles, deep in his gut, annoying and starved for attention, big enough to remind Tetsurou that his instincts have always been fantastic. How much harm is there, really, in being swept away by a fascinating puzzle and little what-ifs?

“I’m going to try it. Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t you dare ditch me.” The last thing Tetsurou needs is to figure out whatever’s nagging him only to wind up with his memory wiped and forced to take Tsukishima’s word for it they came here. That part is bothersome. If this thing Tsukishima says he’s stuck in is real—if it were to reset right now, right this instant—then the him aware of the idea stewing would be gone forever. No one would ever know, they wouldn’t come back for who knows how long. This whole thing is the most delightful mind-fuck Tetsurou has ever imagined in his life.

There isn’t much cash in Tetsurou’s wallet but he pulls all of it out to shove in the donation box. Next to it lay a pair of containers overflowing with paper and ribbons alongside a mountain of mismatched pens, all crammed onto a folding table decorated with one of the paper-thin plastic tablecloths popular at company banquets and graduation dinners. An elderly woman standing next to the table gives him an odd look; like she doesn’t want to know what he thinks he has to pay so much for. Tetsurou plucks a sunny yellow rectangle from the container and grabs a pen to twirl between his fingers.

Tetsurou writes on the slip of paper like he did when he was a child: careful, clean strokes of ink, like Mama Kozume taught him and Kenma before having her husband help them tie their papers up high, at the tops of the bamboo stalks. It’s not the words that matter, she always said, it’s about the feeling behind them. Tetsurou’s words are nothing special or profound. In fact, the whole thing is horrendously embarrassing but it feels apt.

It’s dangerous to go alone.

Kenma would appreciate it.

That childlike desire to tie the paper up toward the heavens teeters through Tetsurou’s legs down to his toes as he reaches up to the highest branches. Nothing happens. There’s no gust of wind or chimes floating through the breeze. No zap of lightning or sudden crack of thunder. The crowds are the same and the little old lady horrified by what Tetsurou might throw away a wad of cash wishing for shoots another judgmental scowl at him.

Tsukishima looks up the moment he notices Tetsurou approaching through the intersection. Tetsurou jerks his head down the street, south, toward the train station they arrived from. When they pass by the department store again, Tetsurou veers off into an alley running along the side and behind it.

“Okay, let’s talk this out.”

A broad amusement coats Tsukishima’s tone. “Alright.”

“You are planning to leave me here.” No sense in beating around the bush.

Tsukishima shrugs, unbothered. “This is a wash. Even if I get you onboard, we’ve already wasted half the day. Better to start fresh in the morning. Besides, you don’t believe me.”

That one is a little more complicated to address. Tetsurou believes him more than he wants to. Enough to keep slipping into thinking from the perspective that it’s true; enough to prioritize making sure Tsukishima’s not running around on his own if it can be helped. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I think I might, a little. I’m not sure yet. It’s hard to take someone else’s word on something like this when—”

“When you need to see it for yourself, I know,” Tsukishima says blandly, rote, like they’ve debated this point dozens of times and Tetsurou has not once convinced him it’s a valid argument. This would be so much easier if Tsukishima wasn’t so unflappable. “Stick around if you want. Go see the rest of the decorations, you always like the ones on the east side a lot.”

“I’m not sure I want to let you walk away. That is not an acceptable outcome for me,” Tetsurou says even though he is painfully aware the only way to stop Tsukishima from leaving if he wants to is to either convince him—likely impossible—or hog-tie him.

“But you’re going to.” Tsukishima sounds both unflinchingly certain and furious. “I’m not crazy. I’m not going to do anything stupid. All that’s going to happen is I will leave, and it will be 5:13, and I’ll… I don’t know. I’ll come tell you I need Bokuto’s binder and maybe I’ll be blessed with a miracle and have a day where I don’t have to go to Tanabata.”

Letting Tsukishima go like this would be irresponsible. It is also horrible in a gut-wrenching, burning acid in the back of Tetsurou’s throat way that tastes like college served up with a healthy dose of fool me once. There is no winning here. Tsukishima is done cooperating so the options are now to either hold him hostage and work under the assumption he’s in a time loop, or let him go and hope he’s crazy. Tetsurou takes two steps. “I’m not okay with letting you leave like this. I’ve thought about it, and that’s my decision. So stick around, don’t make me tie you up. This isn’t the fun way to do it at all.”

“I can never decide if your jokes are getting better, or if my standards have plummeted after months alone.”

“I’ll take you to dinner,” Tetsurou offers. “And to that expensive bakery you like. I’ll take you to any movie you want, do your worst. Documentaries, cartoons, whatever. Tell me what it will take to convince you.”

“Can’t we just skip this part?” Tsukishima asks. “You keep saying you don’t want to let me leave, then threaten to pull my contact info from the V-League. I wind up giving it to you anyway and let you walk me over to Yamaguchi’s place.”

“Then let’s do that.” At least if Tetsurou can leave him in the care of a friend, he won’t feel so awful about it. Tetsurou can deal with the preposterous idea of being rewound sixteen hours at midnight and having to learn everything second-hand. He cannot stomach the very real possibility that Tsukishima could do something harmful thinking there are no consequences for it. Any course of action which results in him being supervised is the best one to take, regardless of how Tetsurou feels about any of the rest.

A block passes by in silence. This is the part of Sendai Tetsurou is more familiar with: the normal, humdrum, everyday crumbling sidewalks spanning either side of the roads fading from where they’re newer and carefully maintained downtown, to where they’re serviced on a rotating basis every few years. The streets spider into student housing, affordable condos, and then, finally, to the sticks with spotty cell service and kids who can’t fathom the enormity of the Skytree.

Tsukishima turns a little to keep Tetsurou in view and asks, “Are you really going to believe me just from asking about this binder? I swear, if you make me go to one more Tanabata I’m going to lose it.”

‘Again’ reverberates, ominous and unspoken.

The further they get from the festival grounds, the quieter it is. Tetsurou takes a moment to think about Tsukishima’s question and tries to answer lowly, so they’re not accidentally shouting at each other now that they don’t have a crowd to talk over. “I think yes.”

“You think.” Tsukishima sighs. “So, in reality, no.”

“You don’t think Tanabata is an important part of this puzzle of yours?”

“I think I’ve combed the place end-to-end and so have you,” Tsukishima says. He walks on the curb, arms instinctively splayed out for balance but kept tucked close, at narrow angles, palms even with the shoddy concrete and asphalt a step down to his left. Tetsurou sees why Tsukishima bitched about the tar stuck to his shoes. The road leading out to Yamaguchi’s place is slathered in it, the stripes zigzagging and overlapping every which way. Must be this road’s turn for repaving soon.

They stop at a middling apartment building—not too old, not new in the slightest. Flaky bricks adorn the facade—rust-colored and chalky where they’ve worn away. A bike rack out front is bent and half-yanked from the concrete sidewalk, a moody contrast to the power-washed windows. A cinder block fragment props the door open.

Next door, a laundromat flaunts purple and blue paper streamers—more Tanabata decorations—with a small, dark stairwell on the side of the building leading down into a store only visible through narrow, street-level windows.

Tsukishima awkwardly climbs one of the steps leading up to the front door of the building.

“Not so fast. Have Freckles come down. I want to talk to him.” Another nasty glare, good to see Tetsurou hasn’t lost his touch at all. “Oh? Do I not usually ask for that?”

Tsukishima taps out a message on his phone rather than answering.

Just when Tetsurou feels antsy enough he’s considering asking about the basement shop, Yamaguchi pokes his head out from behind the propped open door. Yamaguchi’s eyes blow wide, whipping between Tsukishima and Tetsurou. He croons, “Why, hello.”

“Yo, Freckles. Your boy tell you he thinks he’s stuck in a time loop?”

“For Christ’s sake, Kuroo.”

“I am not just leaving you. Be mad as you want about it, I don’t care.” Tetsurou turns his attention back to Yamaguchi, now alternating between shooting worried looks at Tsukishima and baffled ones at Tetsurou. “He’ll explain, or not, whatever, but if I’m leaving him here with you I want to know you won’t let him jump out a window or take a bath with a toaster. Line of sight, please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Yamaguchi looks back to Tsukishima. “Tsukki?”

“Just give us a second,” Tsukishima says. “I’ll be right up.”

“Good to see you, Kuroo,” Yamaguchi says, end tilted up like it’s a question.

Tetsurou does his best for a reassuring smile, but it feels fake and condescending. “You, too.”

Once Yamaguchi is back inside, Tsukishima settles with his feet planted on different levels of the steps, struggling with some parting gesture he doesn’t seem certain he wants to make at all. Tetsurou figures out of everything, this one he’ll take the hit on. He pulls Tsukishima back down to the sidewalk, fingers curled over his arm, right above the wrist, and waits to see if he’ll break free. When he doesn’t, Tetsurou hauls him close enough to get both arms around him. Tsukishima props his chin on Tetsurou’s shoulder; after a moment he hugs back with loose arms around Tetsurou’s waist.

It feels cruel to say anything too sentimental, so Tetsurou settles on repeating an old promise. “I will always help you. You don’t even have to ask, you just have to show up.”

“Thanks. But do you think you can be less of a stubborn ass about it next time?” Tsukishima still sounds angry, but the intensity dips for a moment—one trembling second where he presses closer before stepping away. “I’m going to yell at you for all this tomorrow. I’m not sorry.”

“I both preemptively forgive you and swear revenge.”

“Trust me, you’ve had plenty of revenge,” Tsukishima mutters. Nonstop Tanabata must certainly feel that way.

Twice, Tetsurou changes his mind before Tsukishima is in the building, out of sight, and then it’s on to the part where Tetsurou has to accept that it’s over and done. He’ll have to live with it whichever way it goes. No matter what happens, Tetsurou will have to take another day off work. Maybe he can move some stuff around and stay in Miyagi the rest of the week. There are things to iron out up here, too, after all. Preparations for the upcoming season are in full swing and Tetsurou hasn’t gotten around to feeling out the prefecture for his pet project yet.

Tetsurou keeps an eye on the door of Yamaguchi’s apartment building and thumbs through the contacts in his phone.

Bokuto answers after three rings, out of breath with caterwauling laughter in the background. “Kuroo!”

“Hey. Got a question for you.”

“Shoot.” A sharp crack pierces the phone line. “Tsum-Tsum, you dumbass, clean that up before Omi finds out. I am not sitting through another lecture this week. No way.”

“What’d he break now?”

“Dowel rod for the window.”

“Again?” Tetsurou is a social creature. He likes talking, likes figuring people out. Miya Atsumu is incomprehensible, even into the second year of Tetsurou’s career with the V-League.

“He won’t accept that he can’t lean on them like that. Keeps snapping ‘em. It’s fine, we bought like six extras and just swap them out but you’d think he’d learn by now. Anyway, what do you need?”

“You still have the contingency plan binder?”

“Yeah.” Bokuto draws the word out, eager and excited. “Did something happen?”

For approximately one-quarter of one second, Tetsurou considers whether or not he should be saying any of this to Bokuto, but then he realizes that he’s been operating under the assumption that this crazy shit could be real for about seventy percent of his day and Bokuto’s going to have to deal with the fall out either way, so it hardly matters. “Tsukki says he’s stuck in a time loop.”

“What?” Bokuto whines, long and melodramatic. “I wanted zombie apocalypse.”

“Why?”

“Flamethrowers.”

“Oh. Yeah, that does sound like fun.” Tetsurou watches the cars driving by and tries to think of a way to ask what he wants to. He settles on, “If it were you, and you’d been stuck living the same day over and over for three months, what would you do to get out?”

“Ask you,” Bokuto says.

“Really?” That’s kind of sweet. “Not Akaashi?”

“If it’s been three months, then I’ve definitely asked Akaashi. You, too, actually, so I guess that doesn’t help much.” After a moment, “You serious right now? Tsukki thinks he’s in a time loop? He okay?”

“Yes, yes, and not really.” The ‘and keep this between us until we figure it out’ goes unsaid.

“Aw, and he came to you!” Bokuto crows. “I can hear you blushing.”

“You can not.” Tetsurou is blushing though, the flush is warm in his cheeks and on his neck, stinging every time the breeze sweeps over his face.

“And just last week you were mooning over him, too, this is so fucking cute.”

“I was not mooning.” Tetsurou sounds exactly as petulant as he feels.

“Okay, okay. Sure. I’ll ask Akaashi for another word for it later—I bet he’s got a good one locked and loaded. Something Shakespearean, you know?”

“Or we could stick with mooning. Now that I think about it, I’m comfortable with mooning.”

“Too late,” Bokuto sings. “What’s the plan here?”

“I don’t know. Tsukki doesn’t seem crazy.” Tetsurou’s trying not to think too hard about the what-ifs even if they do scratch for attention, disturbingly plausible when examined from certain angles and under the right light. “Guess we’ll know tomorrow.”

“If it comes down to it, I only have morning drills all week. Call me if you need someone to hold his legs,” Bokuto says.

“Thanks, Bo.”

“Yeah, yeah, any time. Hey, tell Tsukki I said ‘hi’ when you see him again. Can’t wait to see what he brings to the Frogs.”

“Sure. Later.”

Tetsurou could go home, or try to get some work done. He could keep staking out Yamaguchi’s building, but if Tsukishima was going to bail he would have done it by now. In the end, Tetsurou decides if he’s destined to be sucked back to this morning at midnight, he’s not going without a fight. He heads back the way they came from. Who says he keeps nothing?

If Tetsurou always likes something on the east side, he will start out on the west. Tsukishima firmly believes there is nothing here, so Tetsurou should not tread any ground mentioned by him. He stands and starts making his way west. Might as well indulge the uneasy nagging in the back of his head, just in case.

Chapter Text

The noise is unholy. Violent. An iron fist beating Tetsurou’s skull in, smashing his eardrums, injecting a migraine straight between his eyes.

“Uraghafr,” Tetsurou croaks, tightening his arm around the pillow over his head. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Rap. Rap. Rap.

There’s a pattern to it. Mostly that it never ends, but also that it’s two quick and then one long cracking shriek of knuckles pummeling the front door. What a bullshit way to wake up two days in a row.

Tetsurou blinks. An acidic wave jolts up his throat.

‘August 7th, 8:12’ glows from Tetsurou’s phone in stark white when he picks it up. Tsukishima is pounding on the door. Tetsurou launches himself out of bed and slides through the living room and kitchen in his triforce socks and rainbow-sparkle unicorn boxers before he’s fully processed it.

Shirt half-tucked, disaster hair, smudgy glasses all present and accounted for, Tsukishima seethes on the other side of the threshold. He punches Tetsurou’s shoulder with nearly the force he used on the door and shoves his way inside.

“Well, good morning, sunshine.” Tetsurou’s bemusement distracts from a headache growing quieter every time he blinks.

“You are such an insufferable asshole I told you it was a waste of time but would you listen? No. You never listen. Oh, and I need Bokuto’s contingency plan binder. Now. Time loop.” Tsukishima snaps his fingers twice. His focus shifts downward for a split second then jerks over Tetsurou’s left shoulder as a wine-colored flush spreads over his cheeks.

“Bokuto’s what now? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tetsurou says, just to screw with the adorably flustered Tsukishima vibrating in his genkan, trying to untie his shoes without looking away from the ceiling. Call it payback for the rude awakening.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“You know what I hear is nice this time of year? Tanabata. Wanna go? Or do you think we got it all out of our system yesterday-today?”

“What?” Tsukishima goes deathly still. The flush darkens into an over-saturated purple spreading from his cheeks, over his jaw, to his neck. A shaky breath flares his nostrils. Tetsurou’s a little worried Tsukishima may have ruptured something important in his head.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, that was unclear,” Tsukishima says. Then, he explodes. “What did you do and where are your pants?!”

Tetsurou could float away, he’s so thrilled. This is one of those happy memories to remember always, in case he ever winds up needing one to fly or some shit. Nothing’s out of the question now, no matter how crazy. “I proved a hypothesis. Isn’t that cool? I was barely even trying.”

Tsukishima pales in an instant. The breath he takes never seems to stop, he keeps gulping air down until he sways left and Tetsurou has to grab his arm to keep him steady enough to stay upright. Tetsurou gives him a strong clap on the back; Tsukishima’s chest deflates in a rapid whoosh, then starts rising and falling with a more regular pattern.

“This is a nightmare. How did I wind up in a nightmare inside a nightmare?” Tsukishima yanks his glasses off and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.

“Look on the bright side: you crushed your record.”

“I—” Tsukishima doesn’t seem to know how to continue. He holds his glasses up and examines the lenses with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose.

“Come in. I’ll make you breakfast. And coffee. I need so much coffee. Kinda sucks I’m stuck running on terrible sleep for the rest of however long though.” Now that is something Tetsurou should have thought of before pulling this shit but who would have thought a nerdy, poorly worded impulse wish would actually work? It’s starting to hit him, in a dreamily distorted way. A time loop, how wild.

Breath still shaky, Tsukishima keeps a nervous eye on Tetsurou. Tetsurou figures there’s only around a fifty-fifty chance of asking an honest question and getting an honest answer, so he sets the coffee maker to brew, pulls down the same mugs as last time, and leaves Tsukishima to glare at the pot.

It feels like a grunge day. A one-in-a-million shot to dress like a trainwreck. Tetsurou digs out the rattiest pair of shorts he owns—the soft ones, worn down a full shade from the wash with holes in the pockets and the entire bottom hem frayed away. Five minutes later, he still can’t find any shirts with holes, but he does find an old Nekoma tee he’s been using for pajamas for years. The ensemble is completed by running all ten fingers through his hair and mussing.

Tsukishima hasn’t moved by the time Tetsurou steps out of his bedroom, still staring at the coffee pot, still disheveled and tense as hell. He’s rinsed the smudges off his glasses but hasn’t bothered tucking in his shirt. The socks are mismatched all over again, though Tetsurou is ninety percent sure the stegosauruses were on the other foot yesterday.

“Well, what was it?” Tsukishima asks. “What did you wish for?”

Tetsurou has a dozen excellent reasons to never, ever admit he bled empathy in the form of a line from a video game onto a slip of paper, hung it on a piece of bamboo, and wound up in a time loop. It sounds even more nonsensical than Tsukishima’s whole ‘I don’t know why’ thing.

“Quid pro quo,” Tetsurou sings. “What’d you wish for?”

“Nothing.” Tsukishima shrugs. “Are you planning on going back to Tanabata and wishing it undone? Because I tried that. Many, many times.”

“Um, no?” Tetsurou scoffs. “Are you insane? I’m going to have some fucking fun. You know what, we do need Bokuto’s contingency plan binder.”

“I will kill you.”

“No, you won’t.” Inside the fridge is a pathetic variety of half-eaten takeout, four types of mustard, and most of a case of bottled water; a side-effect of fourteen-hour workdays. Tetsurou loves his job. He loves the stress and the pressure and every single challenge swatted down. Regular sleep and a home-cooked meal now and then would be nice, though.

“I will. I could. I feel like I definitely could.”

The coffee pot is in Tsukishima’s hand before Tetsurou realizes it’s finished. Amused, he asks, “How many times did I dump the whole thing in my mug and leave you with the dregs?”

“Too many,” Tsukishima says. Steam fogs his glasses when he goes to take a sip.

“Well, drink that and then I’ll buy you another. I have basically no food and I can’t cook anything good but I do know an amazing breakfast place you’re going to love. Not quite how I pictured taking you there, though.” Tetsurou dumps the rest of the coffee in his mug and mashes out a quick email to work to tell them he’s not coming. Maybe tomorrow he’ll go big, quit in a blaze of glory. He’s always wanted to do something like that: play it out like in the movies with a banker’s box, building security, and an avalanche of secrets falling in his wake. “Let’s get some food and go to the beach.”

“If I let you have fun today, will you behave tomorrow?” Steady gaze trained on Tetsurou, Tsukishima alternates sipping and blowing on his coffee.

“Aw, you think you get a say. Come on, when’s the last time you went to the beach? I bet you were a kid and you did nothing but sulk.”

“This isn’t a joke, Kuroo.”

“I’m not saying it is, Tsukki. All I’m saying is that I’m going to the beach. Want to ask questions? Do it there. Don’t want to come along? Then don’t. It’s not an end of the world sort of thing.” Tetsurou runs cold water from the faucet into his mug until it’s full, then throws down his entire cup at once.

“I hate it when you do that,” Tsukishima says with a grimace.

Tetsurou takes a handful of long, even steps back toward his bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable while you think it over. I need a minute to brush my teeth.”

On the way to the bathroom, Tetsurou shoots off a message to Bokuto. ‘You still got the binder?’ The pointlessness of it is comforting. Ask Bokuto a question, Bokuto will give an answer. He doesn’t editorialize, just offers to rent the jackhammer, content to let the chips fall where they may. Tetsurou brushes his teeth but petulantly refuses to comb his hair because Tsukishima still has a rat’s nest on top of his head so why shouldn’t Tetsurou? Honestly, they’re lucky Tetsurou got dressed.

Next time.

An old duffel is crammed in the back of his closet. Tetsurou yanks it out, and bangs his way back to his little kitchen just in time to see Tsukishima rinsing his mug out. The hem of his shirt is tucked in properly now but that hair is still a mess and there’s nothing he can do about the socks.

“Ready?” Tetsurou asks as he sweeps a random assortment of paperbacks from bookcase two, third shelf down into his bag. He crams the water bottles from the fridge into another pocket. They’ll pick up the rest on the way.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer so much as shrug. With an odd amount of delicacy, he sets the dachshund mug in the sink like it’s fragile instead of cheap, novelty shop ceramic four or five millimeters thick. Twice, Tetsurou has knocked that thing off the counter and it’s still in one piece. It’s indestructible. The look Tsukishima gives him is wary—somewhere in the realm of fifteen years old, covering up nerves with bravado, desperately trying to pretend nothing matters.

Even curiouser.

Amadeus is a café in the way cafés have been reappropriated as vehicles to serve dessert twenty-four, seven and get away with calling it breakfast. The storefront is all glass and dark, straight lines cutting from the dusty black awning to the sidewalk. Inside, expanses of white and eggshell glow under high-wattage bulbs set into moody fixtures illuminating every crag of the sharp, geometric patterns carved into the floor tiles.

The first time Tetsurou came to Amadeus was with Kenma and his parents on Kenma’s thirteenth birthday. After, it was the setting for celebrating grades, tournament wins, and every graduation Tetsurou and Kenma ever had between them. They still stop by for birthdays. Kenma treated Tetsurou to all the pancakes he wanted when he landed his V-League job, and Tetsurou let Kenma order three things off the menu and stay for hours the day he hit a million subscribers and kept zoning out, dazed, wavering between overwhelmed and proud. Amadeus makes Tetsurou’s chest feel warm and gooey and thirteen from the instant he walks in the door to long after leaving, and only half of that is the food.

Tsukishima is going to go ballistic over this place; they’ll put strawberries and marscapone on anything.

Nine in the morning sees precious little competition for a table. Only the brave or foolish search out so much sugar before lunch, and the city’s still slogging through its morning rush hours. Amadeus thrives in the afternoon when school lets out, on weekends, and late at night after the train stops running and waffles are needed to treat alcohol-soaked stomachs.

Tsukishima’s eyes go wide when he looks at the menu then settle into such keen annoyance, he probably can’t even read it anymore.

Tetsurou is nice about the glitter-soaked, magenta elephant in the room while they order and claim a square table in the back, so narrow Tetsurou can reach clear across and grip the opposite edge. The waffles come artfully arranged on stark white plates with more dark triangles printed around the edges. They almost look too good to eat, but only almost.

Tsukishima stares at his food, bewildered and awed, then sits back after three bites with his fork dangling between his thumb and forefinger, considering his plate like he’s seen God. He says, “This really shouldn’t even be allowed,” with a husky timbre.

“Probably not, but the world’s a better place because it is. I never brought you here?”

“No. You’ve mentioned it before, though.” The corner of Tsukishima’s mouth pulls back a bit, an amused ghost twitching across his cheeks. It’s sweet on him. Those sorts of thoughts are best left in the past where they belong but Tetsurou indulges himself in this way, too, while he eats his chocolaty waffles and leaves Tsukishima to his private, strawberry-garnished meltdown.

“You said you don’t know how long it’s been?” Tetsurou asks once their plates are empty and Tsukishima is glassy and complacent. It’s as good a place to begin as any. Now that there’s no pressure to get everything done in a day or start over, Tetsurou wants to hear all the mundane little details. He props his elbows on either side of his chocolate-smeared plate.

“It’s been a lot. Months,” Tsukishima says in his I’m only telling you half of it voice. “I lost track of how many.”

“And you’ve gotten me to believe you before?”

“I thought so.”

It’s a kind of weird that hurts Tetsurou’s brain. They’ve been hanging out lately, but only for Tsukishima. The whole thing is a philosophy enthusiast’s wet dream.

“Why me, though?” Tetsurou wonders. “You have friends. You have smart friends—I wouldn’t want to compare test scores with your buddy Freckles—so why are you spending two hours a day coming down to Tokyo?”

Tsukishima visibly clams up. So, the obvious answer, or worse. Tetsurou leans more weight on his elbows and chooses optimism. “Did you miss me?”

The angry flush coloring Tsukishima’s cheeks and nose says, ‘yes.’

“Aw, I missed you too.”

“Yamaguchi and I approach problem-solving in the same way,” Tsukishima says. “You are all upside-down and sideways and bat-shit crazy. That’s all. That’s the only reason. You break anything I give you, and I was hoping your crazy, backwards brain would figure out a way to break me out of this. Figures you just broke in instead, I should have known this would happen, you never do what you’re supposed to.”

Tsukishima’s plate spins back and forth in little jerks under the weight of his fingers running around the rim.

“This is fascinating.” Tetsurou is enamored by it. Starstruck and giddy with all the uncertainties zipping around. “What exactly are the limitations? Can I go get my nipples pierced and it’ll be like it never happened? ‘Cause I’m not gonna lie, I’ve kind of thought about it.”

Tsukishima blinks once, twice. “Please don’t talk about your nipples in public.”

“What’s wrong with my nipples?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“Rude.” Tetsurou flicks imaginary crumbs off the rim of his plate. “Just answer the question. You ever get hurt? Anything?”

“I got a tattoo, once,” Tsukishima says. He seems mildly embarrassed, but not so much it sets Tetsurou’s senses tingling. Something silly, then, like a T-Rex or heartfelt ‘Ma’ in loopy cursive scrawled over a blood-red heart.

“That’s clever.”

Tsukishima brushes off the compliment. Another thing about him that hasn’t changed at all. “It’s a hard reset. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing or where I am. I blink and it’s 5:13. Like nothing ever happened.”

“Speaking of, can you maybe not come pounding on my door every day? That is a brutal way to wake up.”

“We’ll see,” Tsukishima says with his nose pointed toward the ceiling in a snotty tone that means not a chance.

Tetsurou’s phone chirps in his pocket. Bokuto. ‘Yeah, I have it. What’s up? Please say zombies.’

“Oh god, Bokuto’s going to tell me he wants a zombie apocalypse every day, isn’t he?”

“Yep. For the rest of your life at this rate, too.”

“I should tell him yes at least once, right?”

That gets a laugh from Tsukishima: a quiet thing, two chuckles strung up side by side with nowhere to escape. “Only if I get to see the look on his face.”

“To Osaka one of these days, then.” Now they’re planning day trips together. How adorable. Tetsurou thumbs a reply to Bokuto. ‘Time loop.’

Bokuto says, ‘Lucky.’

“What else did we do?”

Tsukishima leans back in his chair and makes a horrible, cringing face that might be alright if it were on a clown painted up all sad and terrifying, but on Tsukishima it comes out dilapidated and sulky. “You sure you want to hear about stuff like this?”

It is painfully obvious Tsukishima is the one who doesn’t want to discuss it.

“Just talk, Tsukki.”

This look, Tetsurou decides, will be called the I could squash you but it’s too much trouble glare. Tetsurou replies with you’re not that much bigger, just try it.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tsukishima says. “We had eight days of Tanabata. We hung out for a bit before that but it didn’t seem like anything was going to come of it. We had lunch. You took me to a very questionable after-hours club.”

It’s so deliberately vague, Tsukishima couldn’t have made it more obvious he’s hiding something with a ten-meter tall, neon sign flashing the words ‘lies of omission’ over his head.

“Warp?” Imagine thinking somewhere open before midnight is after hours. “I bet you hated it right up until you loved it.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and shifts his weight forward; the front legs of his chair clang against the tile as they settle. He stands. “We’re holding up the table.”

“Oh no, our sparkling reputations are at risk.” Tetsurou grabs his bag of books and water from under the table and tactfully does not point out there’s no one waiting.

Outside, Tetsurou says, “I checked out the festival after we split up, by the way. Didn’t really get much out of it, but we should go again with both of us.”

Tsukishima balls his hands into fists. He snarls, “It’s one thing to whine and cry about how you have to see for yourself when you genuinely don’t remember, but you’re still doing it? No. No more Tanabata.”

“You know we have to go back and check it out eventually, right? I’m cool with goofing off for a while and like I said, I want to have some fun, but after that you and I are going back to Tanabata and scouring it top to bottom, together.”

“Why?” Tsukishima asks the clouds rolling overhead. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“You refused to call me back for three years, that’s what.”

Tsukishima’s mouth screws up like he’s taken a bite out of a lemon, rind and all.

“It’s cool, by the way. If you were bothered over it, don’t be.”

“Things got kind of complicated.” Tsukishima refuses to elaborate and Tetsurou refuses to press. It’s more of an explanation than he assumed he’d get, and certainly more than he’s owed. The pangs for their ruined friendship are long past. Three years is more than enough to internalize the hard lesson that timing is everything.

Tetsurou adjusts the strap of his bag and starts herding Tsukishima toward the train line that runs out to Tokyo Bay.

Odaiba beach is fake.

It is, perhaps, Tetsurou’s favorite thing about it. He loves the juxtaposition of surf lapping up the synthetic shore. The imported sand ceding to painstakingly nurtured cherry blossom trees, then the city, all in one sweeping panorama. Skyscrapers pepper the landscape, cradling Tetsurou and Tsukishima against the rolling ocean; salty lungfuls of air coat the asphalt radiating against Tetsurou’s back as he stares out at the Rainbow Bridge. It is genuine in a way Tetsurou can’t put into words—some inexpressible irony permanently caught on the tip of his tongue. In the middle of a metropolis, someone thought to create nature.

Tsukishima hates all of it, but that’s hardly surprising, and he’s sort of lying about it anyway.

Tetsurou’s duffel bag lays open between them—the bottles of water from his fridge, snacks, and the strongest sunscreen they could find all strewn inside along with the five paperbacks from Tetsurou’s bookshelf. A sixth book twists in Tsukishima’s hands. The sunscreen is Tetsurou’s favorite part of the ordeal; the whole no consequences thing seems to elude Tsukishima in some amusing, SPF 70, sorts of ways.

“Start talking,” Tsukishima says, pouting under a pink and green-striped umbrella from the corner store. He looks monstrous tucked into the pinpoint shade, huddled up with his arms and legs pulled in. “We’re here, that was the deal, right? At least tell me what you did before I drown you and have to do this whole ridiculous beach farce over again. You made a wish, right? That’s what did it?”

Tetsurou is obnoxiously proud. Despite having no long-term memory and a surly companion averse to collaborating, he still managed to get something done. Regardless of Tsukishima’s bitching and whining and refusal to answer even the simplest of questions, here they are, trapped in a time loop together.

“I think so. Don’t know what else it might be. As for what it was, tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” It’s the best place to start and the question they need answered before they get anywhere. Tetsurou turns to face Tsukishima and crosses his legs, hands rooted back and to the sides so he can soak up as much sun as possible.

“I didn’t wish for anything.”

“Really?” Tetsurou asks, skepticism weighing heavy on his tongue.

“Really.” Tsukishima shrugs and twists the book again, the coil of paper tightens then fans back out with a soft rustle when he loosens his grip. “Not yesterday. I’ve tried a bunch of times today. Never does anything.”

“I do not believe in coincidences like this.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t you say what you wished for since you’re convinced it’s so important? What’s the point of quid pro quo when I have nothing to give you?”

“I wouldn’t say nothing.”.

“And I wasn’t kidding about drowning you. Never tried it before. According to you, that makes it an experiment worth considering, no?”

Tetsurou should keep this tucked close to the chest where it’s easier to keep safe. With anyone else he would—except this is Tsukishima and this whole thing is about him in the first place. Mild embarrassment over the nerd factor and general lack of poetry isn’t enough to keep secrets over. “You ever play video games?”

“Not really,” Tsukishima says with an odd look perfectly in tune with the odd question.

“Kenma and I played a ton of them when we were kids. His dad had this old NES and all the original carts—I wrote a line from something we played in middle school. You know the drill, big grand quest to rescue the princess and save the world.”

“I’m not a princess and I didn’t need you to rescue me.”

“Yeah, but it’s still dangerous to go alone.” Tetsurou’s not sure Tsukishima even hears over the rushing water or salty breeze. Birds sing in the background, but they don’t know the X-Files theme.

The afternoon sun looms overhead. Summer has long passed its brutal peak even if this day, in particular, is muggy, but it works out—hot and humid is great beach weather. Tetsurou stretches his legs out, leans back on his elbows, and watches the waves come in from the ocean—turquoise and foamy, tumbling over each other.

“So, what’s your plan?” Tsukishima asks. “You do have one right?”

This moment, right here, is going to be one that Tetsurou remembers for the rest of his life. He’s going to tell his children about it. He’ll commission artwork.

“I’m going to look it up on the internet.”

The human face should not be so red. Eyes shouldn’t twitch like that. Tsukishima holds his breath for so long Tetsurou’s lungs burn in sympathy and then slowly, agonizingly, Tsukishima lets it all out, folded in half laughing this beautiful sound Tetsurou’s never heard in his life. Day two, an actual, honest-to-god laugh trickling out into the world, and Tetsurou is not ready at all for the smile creeping over his face before he even realizes he loves hearing it.

Tsukishima peeks at Tetsurou from between his fingers and wheezes. “We are so fucked.”

Tetsurou’s cheeks pull higher. Yeah, he thinks. They’re kind of fucked. “But at least we get a day at the beach.”

“I don’t even know where to start. You’re going to… what? Search for ‘Help, I’m stuck in a time loop how do I get out?’”

“Among other things.”

Such an obvious question will only reveal obvious answers. It’ll be more interesting to search for books about the subject, or legends from around the country, or Tsukishima’s brother’s phone number.

“I figure we’ll sit down and go over what you’ve done, make a list, and start crossing shit off.” If Tsukishima is straightforward it will go easier but Tetsurou’s not counting on it. It’s fine. There’s some time before this whole time loop thing crumbles into dull and annoying, then sweeps into torture. It’s not going to bother Tetsurou until he’s stuck.

The book coiled in Tsukishima’s hands falls loose again; this time he folds back the cover and starts reading. Slowly, his face morphs from impassive into disbelief. He thumbs through the chapters, then throws the book at Tetsurou without looking. “You brought nothing but trashy romance novels, didn’t you?”

“I can’t believe it took you so long to notice.”

Tsukishima folds sideways to paw through Tetsurou’s duffel bag. “At least tell me there’s one not so—oh, okay, I can live with sexy librarians.”

“That’s a kinky one,” Tetsurou says even though it’s not, but he doesn’t get the flush he was hoping for.

“Doubt it. You’d buy the good stuff in hardcover.”

Never before has Tetsurou been described so perfectly in only one sentence.

Tsukishima gets halfway through his dirty librarian book before Tetsurou has mercy and lets them pack up. The mid-afternoon streets are not too busy but the press of hundreds still lingers in the air, sweaty and stiff. The further they get from the beach and away from the crowded shopping and restaurant hubs that developed near it, the less of an issue it is. A few blocks and Tsukishima can comfortably walk side-by-side with Tetsurou as they try to work out complex matters like how they’re going to figure out who is responsible for remembering what and who gets to tell Bokuto there’s a zombie apocalypse first.

The answer is Tetsurou. Tetsurou gets to tell him first and Tsukishima will have to pry that God-given right out of his cold, dead hands.

“Want to come to Shibuya? Let’s go see Kenma. Get his take on it. Maybe get a crate full of firecrackers.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “I think I’d rather this just be over now. Go talk to Kenma and have your fun. Get it out of your system. Please.”

“Suit yourself.” Tetsurou shrugs. “Give me your number and I’ll call you when I’m done.”

Tsukishima rattles it off without caring if Tetsurou’s ready or not. Tetsurou mashes the numbers into his phone as a string of guesses and figures if it’s wrong he’ll pull up the Division 2 contact list. By the time Tetsurou looks back up, Tsukishima’s already storming off; tall, broad, fumbling his way through Tokyo’s afternoon crowds with all the urgency of a bank robber.

The closest station is in the direction Tsukishima left in, but there’s pushy and there’s pushy, so Tetsurou doubles back.

The first thing Kenma did once he had the money was buy a three-story box of concrete at the intersection between commercial and residential Shibuya. The building is anonymous from the front: only a garage door and a single window on the uppermost story to give it away. A twenty-four-hour café sits across the street—the kind of place for college students to loiter that has unending slews of angsty, acoustic covers of pop ballads live on Tuesdays. An apartment building cozies up on the left; the newer element moving in, encroaching on Kenma’s territory. A wide alley shared with a seemingly vacant warehouse is on the right. Kenma likes to joke about buying it for the sole purpose of expanding his bubble. If Tetsurou ever has enough money, he’s going to buy it first.

The critical lack of windows in front is compensated with too many in the back and an open center bored through the middle of the house, one winding staircase towering up to the massive skylights fitted in the roof. The skylights are what sold Kenma. He’d been intrigued by the real estate listing and fell in love the second he walked into the place and looked up, up, up to see clouds floating overhead. Tetsurou fell in love a little bit after, when he saw the yard and the little patio on the roof, and the modest gardens built in both.

Inside, the house is one hundred percent, unapologetically Kenma. At first glance, the decor appears fitting for somewhere so modern and clean, but the art hung on the walls is from Kenma’s favorite video games—commissions, official merch, silly pieces he and Tetsurou put together when they were thirteen and raging fans of Zelda, Metroid, and watercolors. Floating shelves lined with neon LED strips along the backs boast old consoles, controllers, little bits and bobs from collector’s editions purchased over the years. Like Tetsurou, Kenma has a full wall devoted to mismatched bookcases, and like Tetsurou, all but one is overflowing. Every piece of furniture in the place is overstuffed.

“I can’t decide if you’ve had a psychotic break, or if you’re screwing with me as part of some dare or bet,” Kenma says, head tilted so far to the side his world must be a full ninety degrees off. His hair slips out of a loose clip on the back of his head, falling in a drip-dyed curtain behind his cheek, past his shoulders. “It’s a good one if it’s a joke.”

“Where’s the option where I’m not joking and I’m not crazy?” Tetsurou asks. He tilts his head to the opposite side and grins at Kenma’s upside-down face.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

“Then what’s the point?” Kenma’s arched eyebrow collapses down the length of his forehead. He keeps them so stupidly neat. Trimmed, plucked, brushed, and whatever the hell else one does to eyebrows. Tetsurou’s never understood, but Kenma’s always given him a pass on his hair maintenance—or lack thereof—so Tetsurou does the same.

“I just want to brainstorm. What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop? Nothing matters, everything is reset at the end of the day. How would you approach the problem, and what would you do to get out of it?”

“Nothing mattering sounds awful,” Kenma says.

“So make it less awful.”

Kenma deliberates for a minute. He pulls his legs up on the sofa, crosses them at the ankle, and bends his neck the other way before sitting upright with his arms looped around his knees. “I guess I’d do all the stupid things I’m too scared to. One of those dead-drop carnival rides, maybe.”

“Or the reptile house at the zoo,” Tetsurou says. The full-bodied shudder across the couch cushions makes him giggle. “You have anything less boring? I’m not afraid of heights or snakes.”

“I’m not afraid of snakes, either, I just don’t like them.” Kenma kicks at Tetsurou’s leg. “And I don’t like the way you’re pressing me for ideas, either. It’s making me worry.”

“What if I promise you I won’t do anything stupid until tomorrow-today?” Tetsurou wasn’t planning on it anyway. Better to make sure it sticks.

Kenma rolls his eyes and pokes Tetsurou’s shin with his toes. “Define stupid.”

“Any probability of being shamed, scolded, fired, injured, or put in mortal peril.”

“I think the right move here is taking you somewhere where they can see if your brain is actually Jello now. Maybe you have some sort of disease that causes hallucinogenic déjà vu.” Kenma tilts his head to the right and squints. “Raspberry. I think it’d be blue raspberry Jello. Your brains would stain everything they come into contact with. Very on-brand.”

“Tell you what, you can do that tomorrow. Today, just humor me, alright?” As a fellow member of the I trust what I can see, touch, or read the source code of club, Tetsurou gets it. He’s not aiming to break the skepticism or convince Kenma, he just needs a sympathetic ear that knows him and knows him well.

Finally, Kenma starts considering the question. “Maybe go adopt all the dogs at the shelter. Run around and give wads of cash to random kids to spend at the arcade.”

“Those aren’t even stupid as we’ve defined it.”

“I don’t know, depends on how many dogs there are. What would you do?” Kenma asks, carefully phrasing the question to make it clear he still doesn’t believe a damn word coming out of Tetsurou’s mouth.

Tetsurou’s been mulling it over all day and is still empty-handed. He always assumed that if he were faced with five minutes to make the most of life, he’d be able to come up with something good. “Maybe I’ll tell my dad what I think of him.”

“That’s something you should do anyway.”

Tetsurou is over it by now, has been for a long time, and dredging it up for a more traditional sort of closure isn’t worth it. Enough years and distance have passed; everything is healed up. Certain things still sting, and certain others are trapped in thick ridges of scar tissue and won’t ever go away, but Tetsurou’s been folded into the Kozume family for so long, there isn’t much point in dwelling. Everyone has scars. Bokuto has a handful from essentially being raised by two older sisters who spent all three years of middle school in the midst of their delightful make-up phase and Akaashi could give Tetsurou a run for his money in neglected childhood without even trying. Yaku straight up fled the country two weeks after graduation. Kenma’s the only one of them who enjoyed parents both present and supportive, and even he’s got a razor-thin white strand climbing out of his mouth, up his lip from when he and Tetsurou were ten, unsupervised, and tried to build real-life Mortal Kombat in Tetsurou’s backyard with every power tool they could find.

“I want to spend every day at the beach. See if it ever gets old to lay in the sun with a book. Apparently, I’m sort of boring. How disappointing.”

“You don’t even want help, you just want me to validate your beach plans.”

“A little,” Tetsurou says. “But it hit me this morning—it’s like a video game. Before I was being reset every day but now I have a save slot. Sure, I have to start over, but I get to keep what I’ve learned, try again, and do better. It’s your kind of puzzle. How would you solve it?”

“Huh. I guess.” Kenma’s fingers dance on his legs in rapid little bursts; little phantom tap tap taps like a muffled keyboard. “If it were an RPG, you’d have to talk to everyone, check everything. If it looks important, it almost always is. The puzzle is constructed, so it follows the rules of human logic.”

It’s sort of useful, sort of not, but what the hell, this is only day two. "Interview everyone, got it.”

Kenma drums his fingers against his legs, this time slowly, one at a time as he nods along with the beat. “There is almost certainly a tragic backstory hiding in Act 3.”

“Ominous.” Doubly so, because everything with Tsukishima is.

“If you don’t call me by ten o’clock tomorrow so I know you’re okay, I’m going to hunt you down,” Kenma says conversationally, no threat in his voice but his eyes burn the sort of determination Tetsurou has seen enough times to know he means business.

“Don’t worry so much.”

“My best friend thinks he’s in a time loop, of course I’m going to worry. I don’t think I should let you leave. Actually, scratch that, I want to hear what Tsukishima has to say about all this. Call him.”

The demand is unsurprising. Kenma is in assess and catalogue mode. Another thing they have in common—some perplexing personality trait they wound up nurturing together. If the situation were reversed, Tetsurou would—did—do the same. That doesn’t stop him from being petulant about digging his phone out of his pocket and snootily scrolling through the contacts until he finds the string of numbers neatly filed under the heading 'Tsukki’. Next time, he’ll enter it as ‘ass’ with six or seven a’s to make sure it sorts to the top.

“How big of a dick are you going to be to him?” Tetsurou asks.

Kenma cracks his knuckles.

“Try to rein it in a little, okay?”

“Are you seriously asking me to be nice to the guy who ghosted you and then showed up on your doorstep three years later, crying that he’s in a time loop and needs help?” Kenma scoffs. “I don’t think I will. I have a duty as your best friend, conscience, and only sense of self-preservation. Give me the phone.”

It really is too bad none of it is untrue. “Tomorrow you can say whatever you want to him, how about that?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“Well, I’m not calling if you’re going to be shitty.”

Kenma huffs a burst of annoyance and presses his lips together. He cracks his knuckles again. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

The call rings through to voicemail. That part Tetsurou expected—but when two more calls ring out he has to admit disappointment in Tsukishima’s continued lack of phone etiquette.

“That little brat,” Tetsurou mutters. He pulls up the Division 2 contact list and scrolls through, scowling when he sees the same number next to Tsukishima Kei as in his phone. “I think I’d almost prefer it if he’d given me a fake.”

Kenma holds his hand out for Tetsurou’s phone and taps the number into his. This call, too, rings to voicemail. “Typical. Still don’t want you leaving.”

“I’ll stick around.” Even if none of this counts it’s still real in an I am the sum of my experiences sort of way and Tetsurou doesn’t want the experience of Kenma stressing over it the rest of the day—or calling the police and carting him away to check his brain for blue Jello. Kenma would do it. “Wanna stay up until midnight with me? Supposedly, that’s when I get snapped back to start this whole thing over again. What do you think it feels like? Falling asleep? Blink and it’s done? I’m so curious. I can’t believe last night is the first time I went to bed before midnight in months, how infuriating.”

“If it’s like the movies, it’d be a blink, right? But yeah, we can stay up. I usually do.” Kenma shuffles his way off the couch and stretches, one arm after the other high in the air, and then arches back as far as he can. “Want to stream with me? People keep asking about you. Dunno why, you’re terrible on camera.”

The fact that he’s bad on camera is precisely why everyone gets a kick out of Tetsurou showing up on Kenma’s streams. He can’t help it, it’s so awkward—he never knows where to look, always puts on his fake I’m in a work meeting with someone who could eviscerate me professionally and literally do-gooder voice, and instantly forgets how to play video games, at all, in general. It’s a pretty good time.

“Sure. Something I have a chance at, though. No more racing games, it’s just cruel.”

“What if I let you pick dinner?”

“Fuck it, let’s race. I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Kenma shoots over a toothy grin and snags Tetsurou’s sleeve as he walks past to get him up and off the sofa.

The night is constructed from remnants circa 2007—back when Tetsurou was thirteen years old, besieged by acne, struggling his way through the throes of puberty. They stream for hours, play a bit longer, and get dinner from the restaurant a few blocks away that serves the best, most absurdly delicious mackerel.

“11:52,” Kenma says. They’ve long moved on from streaming and on to old tabletop favorites, hunched over the low table sprawling between Kenma’s couch and television. “What are you going to do in eight minutes?”

Curse Tsukishima’s iron fist. Steal all the coffee. Go back to the beach. “Probably let you take me to get my head looked at.”

Kenma hums agreement and wrecks all of Tetsurou’s planning by laying down three tiles that net him an obscene amount of points.

“Ass.”

“Not my fault you get too caught up in your scheming.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s not the first time Tetsurou has heard it and it won’t be the last. Cooperative games have always been more his thing; one on one, Tetsurou doesn’t do so hot. Especially not against an opponent like Kenma. “11:58.”

Tetsurou thinks it’s going to be a blink and you miss it sort of thing. That’s how Tsukishima described it. Balanced on his leg, his phone’s screen glows with an electronic blue tint. Tetsurou taps it a couple of times. Then a few more, but deliberately.

Tsukishima still refuses to answer.

 A violent iron fist pounds on the front door.

Chapter Text

“Must you answer the door in your underwear?” Tsukishima asks with a dour, sagging mouth and an inexplicable number of leaves clinging to his hair. Gloom radiates from his slumped shoulders. In the air hovers his closed fist, mid-knock, knuckles white and fingers straining.

The leaves are new. How complicated.

Tetsurou steps aside and waves Tsukishima in. “You seem to enjoy the view, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

“I’m never letting you sleep in again,” Tsukishima says. Matching socks this time. Clean glasses.

8:45, claims Tetsurou’s phone. That is also kind of complicated.

Once, in college, Tetsurou went on a thirty-six-hour cram session that wasn’t half as wretched as this disorienting thing where he doesn’t fall asleep or wake up properly. Tetsurou blinked at Kenma’s, annoyed and concerned that Tsukishima apparently still considers the telephone to be optional, and then he was home, blinking awake in bed. Turns out it’s not much better to suffer Tsukishima’s wake-up call at 8:45 than 8:12; that bonus thirty minutes was lost to the void.

It’s like remembering dizziness. Fake, all in the head, but still vaguely nauseating.

Tsukishima’s glare is present and accounted for—seems whatever is different this morning didn’t give him any warm fuzzies to carry around and temper his mood. He steps inside and shakes out his fist before untying his shoes.

Tetsurou plucks one of the leaves from Tsukishima’s hair. “What’s this about?”

“Took a different route, later train. Got body-checked into a shrub by a dog for my trouble.” Tsukishima leans his head out the door and ruffles his hair with both hands until all the intruders are gone.

“Uh-huh, a shrub,” Tetsurou says. Probably three shrubs, but despite popular belief Tetsurou is sometimes capable of restraint—he decides not to press it. “Why not just call and have me come to you?”

“All about the efficiency, even when you’re screwing around and spinning your wheels,” Tsukishima says.

“I do enjoy me some well-organized shenanigans.”

“If I stay put, Yamaguchi comes over.”

“To drag you to Tanabata?” Tetsurou asks. “Maybe you should accept your fate and try to enjoy it.”

“Never.” It’s petulant and around eighty percent serious. “Though I guess I should ask what horrors you have planned for me today. Who knows, maybe Tanabata would be preferable.”

“Well, I was thinking we’d go with Kenma’s RPG approach to solving a time loop. You say all you did is dick around with your friends yesterday, right? So, let’s go talk to your friends.”

The ungrateful muttering rolls out in soft, insincere grumbles.

“It’s this or the beach. I don’t care which right now, your choice.”

“And what if I say the beach?” Tsukishima asks. Then, a moment later, “Not really, stop making that face.”

Tsukishima cracked a joke. Another first all the way out on day three. Tetsurou is so good at this.

“I’ll even be nice and let you pick who we start with. Your brother, or your bestie.”

“Not much of a choice. Has to be Yamaguchi. Akiteru’s not around today.”

“Freckles it is then. You can fill me in on the ride.”

When Tsukishima goes for the dachshund mug, Tetsurou grabs a travel one instead and gets a wary look out of Tsukishima for it. Another for the heaping pile labeled ‘curious’.

“Fill ‘er up. It’s all yours. I want a latte. An iced latte the size of my head.” Tetsurou plucks a stray leaf from Tsukishima’s hair. “Tell you what, I’ll even buy you one, too.”

“I’m so flattered. Nothing demonstrates worth like spending money that doesn’t even exist on someone.”

“I feel like you maybe missed the point of ‘it’s the thought that counts.’”

Tetsurou snatches his phone from the counter and switches in and out of his email three times while they wait for Tetsurou’s sluggish coffee maker to finish its cycle. Once Tsukishima has secured his caffeine in the travel mug, Tetsurou hustles him out the door.

The 9:07 train speeds north out of Tokyo, fleeing to milder climes and air less soggy and metallic. Both arms laid over his armrests, Tsukishima tilts his head back to watch the light flashing over the ceiling of their car; he speaks in hushed tones as he tells stories of how his life has changed over the past three years through the lens of his best friend.

Learning about someone through anecdotes carries a certain degree of voyeurism Tetsurou didn’t expect. It feels dirty, almost. Tastes like cheating.

“He’s got a job lined up for next year at an electronics store,” Tsukishima says, his cadence falling in tempo with the whop, whop, whop of the train gliding over the tracks. “He keeps saying he has all this stuff to do before the baby comes and he has to be a grown-up forever. That’s why he wanted—wants—to go to Tanabata so much. Last chance, you know?”

“No shit, Freckles is having a kid?” How mind-blowing. Not one of Tetsurou’s friends are anywhere near that stage of their lives. “On purpose?”

“Yes, on purpose,” Tsukishima says like he dares Tetsurou to say otherwise. He pauses. “Okay, sort of on purpose, but it’s a good, happy thing.”

“Unbelievable. Do I know the girl?”

“You’ve met Yachi, but I don’t know if you remember her. She was Karasuno’s manager.”

“The really intense blonde one? I’d love to meet the person who managed to forget her.”

“That’s the one.”

The picture erupts in Tetsurou’s mind: that tiny, hyperactive blonde girl, hauling around weaponized organization, baby on the way with a clipboard on her hip wailing about how she’s sure to ruin her child’s life by painting the nursery something so unbearably gender-neutral as yellow and what if the kid is blonde like her and looks so washed out, they can’t take pictures in there? Just thinking about it makes Tetsurou feel dizzy and out of breath. Little Yachi could probably give Saeko and Alisa a run for their money—what is it with the universe and terrifying, blonde women?

“Maybe we should work our way up to Blondie.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not as squeaky as she used to be.” Tsukishima snickers. “So long as you don’t ask when they’re getting married. Do that at your own peril.”

“Thanks for the heads up. No wedding talk. Got it.”

The mood relaxes in stop-motion to the rhythm of the train wheels and strips of light zooming through the trees. Tetsurou watches the bit of Tsukishima’s profile he can see reflected in the window, superimposed over a sea of green rushing by, washing away the view of Tokyo. Tsukishima’s head tilts, then his chin drops, and now, Tetsurou glances at the reflection one more time to see Tsukishima looking back, shoulders angled in and temple pressed to his headrest.

“What do you want to talk to them about? Yamaguchi believes me when I tell him about the loop, at least I think he does.” Tsukishima’s fingers tap against the armrest. “You’ve made me start wondering about that part, you asshole.”

“Sorry,” Tetsurou says, even though he’s not anywhere near it. He also does not answer Tsukishima’s question; he hasn’t decided what level of dirty cheater he’s going to be. Talking to the people Tsukishima encountered on August 6th is important, yes, but that’s not the only reason to hop a northbound train.

The rest of the trip is quiet. Tsukishima takes to staring out the window past Tetsurou as the trees get taller and greener; Tetsurou wedges his back in the corner between the side of the train and his seat and texts Bokuto—a quick ‘Guess who I ran into today?’ before typing in his new favorite search: help I’m stuck in a time loop.

Become a better person the internet suggests. Learn a hobby, reconnect with family, move a bit to the left like on Star Trek, marinate in the smoke of sage and drink bay leaf tea at sunset.

They’re going to try that one if it’s the last thing he does.

These boring tongue-in-cheek, click-bait articles are less interesting than the deeper implications. Have you wronged someone is one takeaway. Did you sleep facing north or cut your nails after sundown? Were you naughty at the last shrine you visited? Maybe don’t be so rude to the crabby old lady who lives down the hall, might be a witch. Don’t piss off Frasier.

Bokuto replies after another few minutes, shifting and sliding into a handful of guesses back and forth and then three rows of laughter when Tetsurou finally gives in and types out ‘Tsukki’.

‘OMG!’ Bokuto’s next message says. Then, ‘He’s so cute and he’s so tall and you’re just gonna die right?’

This is one of those unfortunate conversations with Bokuto that will apparently haunt Tetsurou forever. This endless array of Bokutos will never get tired of this joke. Might as well have some fun with it. Tetsurou settles in for some quality gossip about Tsukishima, and how he’s cute, and tall, and probably going to kill Tetsurou one way or another before all this is over.

Tsukishima uses more words complaining about going back to Tanabata than Tetsurou has heard him speak, ever. The bitching starts the second Tetsurou yanks him off the train at the stop near the festival and never stops—not even when Tetsurou grabs one of his arms and threatens to carry him over to all the little paper banners dancing in the wind. For emphasis, he mentions Bokuto volunteered to come hold his legs.

“You are a right son of a bitch.” Tsukishima seethes. “Traitor.”

“We are trying this, first. I don’t care if you’ve done it already, do it again. And put some sincerity into it, brats don’t get their wishes granted.” Like last time, Tetsurou pulls all the cash out of his wallet and shoves it in the donation box before sifting through the pens. “Yellow. I used yellow. Here, this pen.”

“You have serious control issues, you know that?”

“Of course I do.”

Tetsurou doesn’t watch Tsukishima write out his slip of paper and he doesn’t try to see what it says as Tsukishima stands on his toes and reaches high as he can to get his wish tied far, far up, where only children sitting on their parents’ shoulders can reach. He does take the opportunity to check around and find the one he hung on their first day missing—logical, but frustrating—and write out a new, simple slip of sunny yellow with, ‘I’ll stick around as long as he does, thanks.’

Tetsurou deserves a medal. A trophy. Prize money. Something to commend him for the way he absolutely does not lose his mind when Tsukishima covers his face with one hand while Yamaguchi whips his head between the two of them with an utterly diabolical grin growing stronger and more sentient by the second. This is so much funnier when Tetsurou isn’t worried about Tsukishima trying to electrocute himself.

“Look what we have here.” Yamaguchi’s voice drips with every good-natured rib he’s ever suffered at the hands of his best friend, all rolled up into the way he caresses the words gliding out of his mouth. “Tsukki, you could have just explained why you didn’t want to go to Tanabata.”

“I didn’t want to go to Tanabata because I hate it,” Tsukishima says. It probably wasn’t true three months ago—certainly is now, though.

“Uh-huh,” Yamaguchi says. “Have you been in town long, Kuroo-san? Here for business? Or just to check in on Tsukki?”

This is too much fun. “Ah, you caught me. Came up for this little ball of sunshine.”

Tsukishima growls low in his throat. Tetsurou throws an arm over his shoulders and hauls him close—half choke-hold, half affectionate smothering—and ignores the indignation sputtering into his armpit sounding suspiciously like “will end you.”

“I’m sorry he’s always so stand-offish, we did the best we could, you know.” Yamaguchi waves them inside and grins at Tsukishima’s scowl when he finally wrestles his way out of Tetsurou’s grasp.

“You both suck. Where’s Yachi? Yachi is nice to me.”

Yamaguchi scoffs. “I see how it is.”

Tetsurou never got to know Yamaguchi. Even during the college months where he and Tsukishima kept in touch, friends were never really brought into it, especially not the ones like Kenma and Yamaguchi—the caliber who know too much and are privy to all the sordid details. There doesn’t seem to be any resentment, unlike with Kenma. Hard to say if it’s because of whatever Tsukishima had to say about it at the time, or if Yamaguchi is more forgiving. Maybe he’s just better at hiding his spite.

“Hugs,” demands the little blonde woman on the couch, both legs propped on an ottoman. Yachi is half belly, wearing a faded pink sundress rustling over her legs from the nearby fan pointed square in her face, blowing little wisps of hair all over the place in a strange, glowing halo. She reaches for Tsukishima with urgent waves. Then, lowly, threateningly, “You’re next, Nekoma.”

Yachi uses all her weight, gravity, and Tsukishima’s apparent reluctance to struggle against her to pull him down to sit on her left. Her skinny, noodle arms wrap around his neck a lot like Tetsurou’s did out in the hall, but there’s no fighting her hold or pretending to be put out. Tsukishima sinks into the couch cushions and lets her cradle his head on her shoulder and card her fingers through his hair, the only discomfort a wary glance in Tetsurou’s direction as Tsukishima blushes a fierce, fire-engine red.

Being overly familiar and cuddly with someone isn’t anything Tetsurou’s in the habit of giving people grief over. So, even though Tetsurou wouldn’t normally indulge a loud, squeaky, demanding pregnant woman, he takes the offered seat on her right and lets her hug on him for a bit before scooting away enough that she goes back after Tsukishima. “Good to see you, Blondie. What in the world have you gotten yourself into?”

Yachi sighs, long, dramatic, and so much more self-aware than the last time Tetsurou saw her. “I have become my mother.”

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi both laugh as she giggles—a worn, familiar joke. Sort of on purpose, indeed, then.

“Seems you’re doing alright. Nice place, nice guy. Congrats, by the way.” Tetsurou nods at the bulge of her abdomen. “You know what it is?”

“Girl,” Yamaguchi says, the word sighed and reverent.

“It’s still so wild,” Tsukishima mutters.

“What really brought you all the way up here?” Yamaguchi asks, hovering around the back of an old armchair that must have come from one of their parent’s houses or a second-hand store. He leans against the headrest, rocking the chair with small, easy movements under his elbows. “Work?”

“Not really. I’ve been putting in crazy hours the last few weeks, but I figured I’d take some time off.” Tetsurou turns on his work smile, lets his shoulders relax and fall back, gives into that slithery thing in his personality that makes him so good at his job. “I hear you guys have a killer Tanabata Festival up here.”

“Yeah, we all went yesterday,” Yamaguchi says. “We were going to go today but—”

“But I’ll die if made to set foot outside the range of this fan,” Yachi interrupts. “Literal death. I’ll melt. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been pregnant?”

“Oh, here we go,” Yamaguchi says.

“Forever,” Yachi snaps. “I have been pregnant forever. I cannot wait for this part to be over and the screaming, crying, sleepless nights, terror over ruining an actual human being part to begin. And winter. I’ve never wanted winter so badly in my life.”

“It’s not really that bad out,” Tsukishima says. “Even Tokyo isn’t that hot, just humid.”

The silence is tangible. Both Yamaguchi and Yachi swivel to stare at Tsukishima with predatory grins; their twin gazes travel to Tetsurou in unison. Their smiles widen.

“Oh, really?” Yamaguchi asks.

“Looks like you were wrong about why he ditched you this morning,” Yachi says. She tugs on Tsukishima’s hair as he opens his mouth to say something; he shuts right up.

Tetsurou has got to figure out a way to try that without getting maimed.

“I ditched you because Tanabata is hell,” Tsukishima grumbles, and it is just adorable how not one person in the room—including Tsukishima—believes him.

From there, getting a play-by-play is easy. Yamaguchi regales Tetsurou with tales of three months ago-yesterday: they went to Tanabata, wandered around and laughed at Yachi as she bemoaned the heat and stole bites of everything either Tsukishima or Yamaguchi bought from the food vendors. They watched Saeko’s group perform. Yamaguchi and Yachi tied wishes for their new family around the bamboo branches and all three of them agree that Tsukishima did not.

The stories pile up and up, all the way past the rafters and attic, clear up to the stratosphere. Anecdotes from the day before, then the week before, then Yamaguchi is going back years to a sweet little tale of Tsukishima saving him from bullies. He moves into another story after, this one a thrilling recollection of Tsukishima breaking into his house to cover his whole bedroom in wrapping paper after being accused of being both ‘square’ and ‘incapable of prankage’ by the loud and dumb element of Karasuno Volleyball Club.

“I don’t know what’s got you laughing so hard,” Tsukishima says when Tetsurou loses the battle against an amused snort. His eyes narrow into slits. “Considering you once had all your underwear stolen by Bokuto and went commando for two weeks because you refused to admit he got one over on you.”

“Bokuto did not get one over on me.” He didn’t, that’s an objective fact. Tetsurou absolutely knew Bokuto was up to something. That he didn’t know what, exactly Bokuto was up to is irrelevant. Besides, Bokuto only pulled it off because Tetsurou was distracted by replacing his shampoo with lube. “Least I never—”

“Oh, please, do not make us sit here and watch this,” Yachi says. “I’m prone to nausea these days.”

“And with that, I’m going to demand we leave,” Tsukishima says. “Try and stop me, and I’ll go out the window.”

“So dramatic.” Unfortunately, Tetsurou isn’t exactly one hundred percent certain he wouldn’t.

Yamaguchi winks at Tetsurou and mouths, ‘We’ll talk later,’ without bothering to hide it and then shoots a cheeky grin at Tsukishima.

Tsukishima may as well throw Tetsurou out the door and down the stairs for how insistently he pushes for them to leave.

“Well, what now?” Tetsurou asks once they’re outside and the silence has stretched on too long for his taste. They veer a bit north from the route they took that first day. Trying to bypass the Tanabata grounds, if Tetsurou had to guess. It’s weird to walk the same path, same weather, backwards, different day but not really. “Wanna show me around? We ever do that?”

“Not really,” Tsukishima says with an odd look. “We’ve only come up here for Tanabata before. This whole thing where you want to tear apart my personal life and interrogate my friends is brand new.”

“Totally a day three sort of thing,” Tetsurou agrees. It was an amazing afternoon. So much innuendo, so many knowing smirks and smiles. Tsukishima is rattled, sitting pretty at around a six or seven out of ten on the adorable rage scale, not quite furious but annoyed enough to clap back at everything Tetsurou says.

Sendai’s vibe is the epitome of shorts and flip-flops weather. The air is meaty. In Tokyo, there’s a constant buzz of honking cars and squealing hydraulics, a thrum of conversation thick in every direction. In Sendai, the ambiance is all cicada song woven into footsteps on gravel and the breeze flitting through endless blades of grass. Tetsurou is grateful for the walk, for the chance to stretch his legs after a two and a half hour train ride followed by a couple more hours trapped in Yamaguchi’s apartment. Clean, crisp air to clear his head.

“I like it here,” Tetsurou says. “Really never thought I’d say that about somewhere other than home but there it is. How’s your kiddie league?”

“Pretty shitty, actually.” Tsukishima sweeps some pebbles off the sidewalk with his foot.

Dangerous. Dangerous and warm and so, so very tempting.

“How about the Frogs? You like playing with them?”

“Haven’t yet,” Tsukishima says. Then, more thoughtfully, as if he’s given a knee-jerk response and realized it doesn’t quite cut it, “Other than the practices I went to before committing, I mean.”

“Three months and you never stopped by? You don’t want to play with your new team?”

“Not like this.”

“Not like what?”

“This, this thing where it’s just me. I don’t want to play by myself. I don’t want to learn how to work with them if they’re not learning to work with me, too. I don’t want to live in a bubble.”

Seems Tetsurou hit a nerve. This, at least, is a problem with a simple solution.

Both hands in the air, fingers spread and palms offered in surrender, Tetsurou says, “I get it. I’d probably do the same, to be honest. So if you don’t want to play with your new team, what have you been doing? Or rather, tell me more about what we’ve been doing.”

Tsukishima stares down at his shoes as he walks.

“No dice? How about this: what was the first thing you did when you realized you could do whatever you wanted?”

Silence.

“What if I guess?”

“Nope.” Tsukishima pops the word between his lips and still won’t look up.

That means it’s embarrassing. Oh, this is simply incredible. Tetsurou may or may not have to examine this thing where he enjoys riling Tsukishima up so much. Apparently, he still likes pulling pigtails every bit as much as he did in high school. “What if I only get five tries?”

“You’re convinced you only need two,” Tsukishima mutters.

He’s not wrong.

“Is that when you decided to come see me?”

Tsukishima brushes past without a word.

“Guess I only needed one!”

“Hurry up. We’re going to miss Daichi.”

“Yessir.” Tetsurou does not scramble to catch up, he would never do such a thing, but he does increase his pace and lengthen his stride until they’re walking side-by-side again. Then, because Miyagi’s summer air has the same homey nostalgia as freshly baked cookies, he says, “If it makes you feel better, I would have come to see you, too.”

Tsukishima blows a raspberry up at the wispy clouds dancing overhead. “The first thing I did after I realized I could do anything I wanted and not have to deal with the consequences was look up my father. Sorry, you needed two.”

So Tetsurou came in second to a dead man. Not too shabby considering the years apart, Tsukishima’s general stubbornness, and Tetsurou’s historical lack of first-place finishes. Silver is impressive. It’s an honor to compete and all that nonsense. Tsukishima really does love to steal those victories right out from under people.

They come upon the low, broad form of a Police Station. Tsukishima types out a message on his phone and holds onto it until it buzzes a reply. A moment later, Daichi pokes his head out of the precinct with a pleased little smile.

Tsukishima jerks his head and leads them further down the sidewalk, away from the door and open windows to exchange the usual pleasantries. Loops within loops; endless cycles of “hi, how are you, I’m going to say something weird, don’t freak out.”

“Please let me tell him,” Tetsurou says after Tsukishima mentions that last part.

“Fine.”

Tetsurou wastes no time. “We are stuck in a time loop. How cool is that?”

“Right. A time loop.” Daichi shoots a wary eyebrow in Tsukishima’s direction. Tsukishima lets loose his trademark, high school pout—the one that’s lopsided and almost as cute as it is sinister—and shrugs.

“Basically, what we’re hoping to get from you is this”—Tetsurou counts it out on his fingers—“what’d you do yesterday? Did you see Tsukki, and did he grievously wrong you or a loved one in any way? And what do you think we have to do to get out of it, I guess.”

Daichi addresses his reply to Tsukishima. “Yesterday was pretty boring. I worked late. Work again today. Suga and I saw you, Yamaguchi, and Yachi around… it was lunch, not sure what time, over by Kotodai Park.” Daichi turns to stare Tetsurou in the eye for a downright uncomfortable stretch with only slow, suspicious blinks to break up the tension. “I guess I’d wonder what lesson you’re supposed to learn.”

“Are you shitting me?” Tsukishima hisses. “Last time, you made me spend hours trying to convince you and then just patted me on the head, bought me a box of pocky, and told me to go talk to Suga!”

“Well, obviously you weren’t very convincing,” Tetsurou says.

“All you did was stare at him!”

“Sometimes,” Daichi says, leaning against the brick exterior of his precinct, “it’s more fun to let things explode than it is to poke them.”

“We should have been friends.”

Daichi makes a face like every one of his childhood dreams have been cursed into existence via a monkey’s paw. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, Kuroo.”

“Whatever. Lesson learned, that’s an interesting take. You think maybe if he admits I was a gracious and positive influence on his life as a whole, we could experience linear time again?”

“Stop talking in paragraphs trying to sound smart,” Tsukishima snaps.

“I don’t know, I just watched that Groundhog Day movie once,” Daichi says like Tsukishima isn’t sputtering indignation.

“I can’t believe how well that works.” Tetsurou jabs a thumb at Tsukishima, still on with his squirrelly, offended bitching. It’s unreal. “How did I never think of that?”

Daichi shrugs. “You didn’t have the rookies I had. They all got so worked up over every little thing. Suga’s at school now, but he should be able to chat for a bit if you head over around three. I guess if the pocky is that important, I can buy you some.”

“Better get strawberry, I think,” Tetsurou says.

Tsukishima stops swearing long enough for a single, slitted-eyed glare, then starts right back up again. “I used to respect you.”

Tetsurou doesn’t believe that for a minute. “You did?”

“Not you.”

Sugawara laughs at them.

“Yeah, this is pretty much what happened last time, too.” Tsukishima ferociously chomps two strawberry pocky between his teeth.

“I always did like you,” Tetsurou says, wagging one of Tsukishima’s pocky in Sugawara’s direction. “So, pray tell, what did our dear Tsukki here do to piss off the universe on August 6th—yesterday, for you; five days ago, for me; three months ago for Tsukki—isn’t the universe so delightfully weird?”

“Oh? We’re actually playing this straight?” Sugawara asks. He makes a show of tapping his chin with two fingers then sucks in a dramatic inhale. “I got it! Tsukishima-kun, did you”—Sugawara’s voice drops—“step on sidewalk cracks on your way home?”

Tsukishima gnoshes on the last of his pocky and turns on his heel to leave.

Sugawara, magnificent bastard that he is, keeps laughing.

“I have to chase after that one,” Tetsurou says, jerking a thumb in Tsukishima’s direction, “but seriously, he run over a witch or smash up a shrine or whatever?”

“Nah, I only saw him for a few minutes at the park before I had to take off. I don’t need to worry, right? You’ve got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Tetsurou has no idea if that’s true or not, but he seems to have an infinite number of tries and Tsukishima’s sort of around the bend already, so there’s less pressure that there could be.

Sugawara waves goodbye and calls a cheeky “Adios, Tsukishima-kun!” before heading back into the building they found him dawdling in front of—an elementary school, who would have guessed?

“We done with this?” Tsukishima asks once Tetsurou catches up to him.

“Sure, we can be done with this.” Late afternoon is bright over the horizon, sun hovering behind them like a hot stone at Tetsurou’s nape. It seeps through Tetsurou’s muscles, warm in his shoulders and down his arms, clear to his fingers. Sendai is nice today, and this puzzle is intriguing, and for one utterly insane moment, Tetsurou is a little fond of this strange expanse of the universe he’s treading water in with Tsukishima. “How about I finally make good on that dinner?”

“Which one?” Tsukishima asks.

Tetsurou wants to say the one from three years ago, but that line is still razor-sharp and dug deep despite how much he tries to wear it down when he’s not thinking better of it. “Dinner and any movie you want. That was the deal, right? To keep you from running off on your own?”

“You also tried to bribe me with baked goods,” Tsukishima points out after a moment.

“Yeah, I’ll take you for cake, too.”

“Any movie I want?”

A laugh bubbles up Tetsurou’s throat. “You’re going to make me regret it, aren’t you?”

“I hear,” Tsukishima says, painfully dry, “the theater is playing an entire movie about emojis.”

“Brutal. Never took you for an emoji kind of guy, Mister Full-Sentences-and-Punctuation.”

“Six years of Hinata and his incredible ability to communicate solely in memes and emojis changes a man. I swear, he does not even know there’s another keyboard for actual words.”

“Oh, give Chibi-chan some credit. He’s gotten better about it since his stint in Brazil.” At Tsukishima’s questioning brow, Tetsurou clarifies, “Kenma.”

Tsukishima makes a vague noise like he agrees. Another grumble later, he asks, “There’s something going on with those two, right? Kenma is the only thing Hinata’s ever been cagey about, all he ever says is that Kenma sponsored him in Brazil.”

“To be fair, Kenma sponsoring Hinata and what they have going on are two intentionally separate things.” Kenma hates the implication they’re not, says it sounds twisted. “I don’t really know the details. If he wanted to talk about it, he’d talk about it. He doesn’t, so I don’t ask.”

“Must be nice to be Kenma.”

“Kenma would not keep secrets from me if we were stuck in a time loop together,” Tetsurou says.

“Who says I’m keeping secrets?” Tsukishima asks in that pouty, five-year-old way adored by bad liars everywhere.

Tetsurou leans in close. “What’d you come see me for?”

Poor Tsukishima, spending so much of the day with all that blood rushing in his face must be terrible for his health.

“Thought so,” Tetsurou says.

“Maybe I just missed you,” Tsukishima grits out between his teeth.

That’s part of it. Tetsurou can tell, knew from the instant he leaned over their breakfast table at Amadeus, but it’s not the whole truth, and that’s sort of the point he’s trying to make here. “And?”

“And I deeply regret it.”

And he’s embarrassed, and angry, and quite a bit sad, too—and Tetsurou doesn’t know how to deal with any of these little bits and pieces he’s only now remembering how to spot.

“Well, good thing I’m making it up to you with dinner.”

“And the movie about emojis,” Tsukishima insists.

“Oh, fine.”

Chapter Text

The observation platform is cold and industrial. A space station floating in orbit. It bulges along the perimeter of the Skytree, stuck onto the spire as if by magnets, a free fall gleaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows separating Tetsurou from the open air. Nerima is nothing but a speck out by the horizon.

Hip cocked against the deck railing, Tetsurou keeps one eye gulping in the view, the other on Tsukishima’s profile. It is nothing short of infuriating how good Tsukishima looks slathered up in a thick layer of vindication. He’s been radiating fantastic quantities of told you so all morning. From the moment he shocked Tetsurou awake, through what is becoming their usual coffee routine, right up until this moment, staring out at the unbelievable sight of Tokyo sprawling beneath them. At least Tsukishima only spouted out around fourteen varieties of ‘maybe the next time I say wishes don’t undo this, you will believe me.’ Tetsurou was prepared for it to go on all day.

It’s an incredible view: Tokyo, Tsukishima’s confidence, the one shard of a leaf still clinging to his hair right behind his ear. The world is frozen around them, literally, figuratively—for as long as they’re perched on top of it and then for days and days longer as they try to sort out whatever mess Tsukishima got sucked into.

Tetsurou never imagined any of it would be so beautiful. “I’ve actually never been up here before.”

Tsukishima makes a throaty noise that could be interest, could be annoyance. Used to be Tetsurou could tell easily, but the grumble is thicker now and that, too, is a vicious prickle tugging goosebumps to life all over his neck. Four days in and Tetsurou is still relearning how to read Tsukishima. It’s coming back, drip-fed in specific gestures and idiosyncrasies: this morning, bending his fingers back; the slight croak to his voice after glaring at the rainbow-sparkle boxers slung low on Tetsurou’s hips for five seconds longer than appropriate—meaning at all; his white knuckles straining against the railing as he, too, keeps only one eye on the view.

It is unwise to consider the last time Tetsurou saw Tsukishima do any of these things. “It’s touristy, you know? Something for guests to gawk at.”

“You are such an elitist city kid.”

“Maybe,” Tetsurou says like it doesn’t mean abso-fucking-lutely.

There’s so much roaring through every street, zipping in every billboard and buzzing lamppost. No one could ever hope to experience it all, so why bother with the tourist traps? Tetsurou wonders how much of it Tsukishima’s ever gotten to see, holed up at college in Miyagi and probably studying as hard as he did in high school.

Hot nights, crowded streets, colored lights washing the landscape in pinks and greens, the electricity of millions flowing through the city like blood in veins. Sparklers in the park. All-nighters at karaoke bars. Basement clubs where the bass rattles a seabed of bodies constantly moving in waves. Tetsurou can perfectly imagine the look on Tsukishima’s face under strobe lights; something as stunned and wondrous as his soft smile staring out at the scale model of Tokyo beneath their feet.

Maybe Tetsurou doesn’t need Bokuto’s list after all.

“I can’t believe you dragged me up here. You know, I have never met anyone half as demanding as you,” Tsukishima says pretending the panorama of Tokyo isn’t the most enrapturing sight either of them has ever seen.

Growing up means acknowledging certain things about oneself. Tetsurou learned in elementary school that others trust easier; learned in middle school that not everyone is quite so analytical and that’s not always a good thing; and he walked out of Nekoma High knowing that he would never be both comfortable and happy unless he’s the one maintaining the itinerary. Some days he thinks he should work on that, others he can’t be bothered. In the end, Tetsurou likes who he turned out to be, despite all the crap along the way. Those sticky parts are what make him good at what he does. They’re why he has a friend in Kenma. Why he keeps having these moments with Tsukishima.

“This is pretty cool, though,” Tsukishima says.

For the first time in years, Tetsurou feels a pang for that unreturned phone call back when he was twenty and dumb and thinking about turning the world upside-down for the sake of a bad idea rolling around in his head. This, too, is ruthlessly quashed.

“Doesn’t it seem fitting?” Tetsurou asks. “Country bumpkin meets elitist city kid, both awed and amazed by the fabled Skytree.”

“God, you’re so dramatic.”

“If you think this is dramatic, just wait till I tell you where we’re heading next. I feel like it’s rude to deny Bokuto his zombie apocalypse. Let’s go to Osaka. We can grab Akaashi on the way. He’ll either do nothing or go all in, and the best part is there’s no telling which until it’s way too late.”

Tsukishima gives Tetsurou a bit of an aggravated look, but it’s followed by, “Yeah, fine. Could be fun. Does this mean I get another day of good behavior out of you?”

“Haven’t decided.” Tetsurou could trip down nostalgia lane all week. Show Tsukishima the most amazing parts of Tokyo he’s ever found and maybe stumble into a few more tourist attractions he’s never bothered with.

For now, Tetsurou will enjoy their quiet moment on top of the world.

Akaashi’s desk sits near the far end of the twelfth floor of an obscenely severe skyscraper right off the moat in Chiyoda. The building cracks sharp and black against the sky, an evil villain’s lair peddling shounen heroes.

At least that is how Akaashi describes it.

The space is open, a huge, sprawling complex of cubicles with only stubs for walls, arranged into a table-shaped collective. Countless sheets of paper bury each workstation, decorated with sketches ranging from food to backgrounds, to aliens. The open floor plan feels claustrophobic, same as it did when Tetsurou had a similar arrangement at the V-League before he started spending so much time on the phone and running up and down the country. Every little conversation crowds in; it’s hard to dismiss the noise when Tetsurou instinctively wants to eavesdrop on everyone.

When they get close, Akaashi glances up, over the top of his glasses slipped low on his nose, lips pulled tight and fingers twirling a pen between them. Around fifty other pens float around his desk: in cups; rolling loose; wedged between the rows of his keyboard; clipped to the collar of his shirt. The stare is greeting enough for Tetsurou. For Tsukishima, Akaashi offers a nod and a brief “hello” that tiptoes in the realm of startled. Surprising Akaashi is always unexpectedly satisfying.

“What brings you here?” Akaashi asks once he has a nod back from Tsukishima.

“Couple of things,” Tetsurou says. “Probably best to start with the big one: we’re stuck in a time loop because of, oh, I don’t know—terrible manners and The Legend of Zelda.”

“Make it sound a little less insane, please,” Tsukishima says.

“Oh my god, are you embarrassed to be weird in front of Akaashi?”

Tsukishima glares. The way he can be grumpy and put out anywhere and over anything is endlessly entertaining. He doesn’t even bother with explanations half the time, just frowns and acts disapproving, expecting Tetsurou will figure out the details like why and what. Tetsurou should stop thinking of it as a game—no good will come of it.

He sure is racking up the points, though.

Akaashi stares up at them, biting around one of his multitude of ballpoint pens. The barrel bobs in the air like a cigarette as he shifts his jaw and considers the absurd story Tetsurou drops on him of four August 7ths in a row. Tsukishima scowls and helps fill in the details.

“Well?” Tetsurou asks. “What do you think?”

Akaashi ponders this for some time. “So, theoretically, it’s not just you facing no consequences, it’s all of us. Huh.”

“I never know if I should be relieved or terrified when people actually take it seriously,” Tsukishima mutters.

“I’m the one who broke your ukulele,” Akaashi says. “You were really annoying with it. I don’t know why Bokuto took the blame, I wasn’t anywhere near sorry or ashamed, but it started out as a secret so I’ve kept it one. You should come find me, tell me you know, and see what I do. Tell me the whole story once you get it all sorted out.”

“Oh my god, there’s two of you,” Tsukishima says, devastated.

A blistering snort bursts from Tetsurou.

"Be quiet or you’ll have to leave. And no, I will not replace it. Don’t bother asking.” Then, so bald-faced Akaashi may as well be rubbing a spotlight all over the question, “Have you tried confessing to the one that got away, Kuroo-san? Every time-travel story I can think of ends in death or love.”

“It’s so optimistic of you to separate the two,” Tetsurou says.

“I figured a romantic like you would appreciate it.”

Tetsurou is sorely tempted to tie Akaashi to his desk chair, hang him out the window, and demand to know what the fuck all this sass is about. Since when does Akaashi needle Tetsurou over old crushes?

“I can never figure out if I like you or not,” Tsukishima says, his voice cooling to match Akaashi’s, “but I suppose anyone who distresses Kuroo this much is okay in my books.”

This time, Akaashi considers Tsukishima like he does his work—singular attention, picking out unconscious details and bias, ready to slice them away. He says, “Come down for lunch sometime. You will find it is easy to bribe me with food.”

“Good to know.”

“Seriously, stop dicking around,” Tetsurou says before Tsukishima and Akaashi can do something completely horrifying like make actual plans. “What’s your take on this?”

Akaashi glances at Tsukishima and mumbles around his pen. “I wonder what only you can do, today.”

“That’s an interesting way to present it. What can only Tsukki do on this day in particular?”

“I’m probably one of very few people who could drown you in Tokyo Bay,” Tsukishima offers.

Tetsurou completely ignores the jab and is immediately rewarded with an irrational amount of glowering. Tsukishima could power the building with that nonsense. Turns out Daichi is right: sometimes it’s more fun to leave things alone.

Time loop pleasantries out of the way, Tetsurou moves along to more important matters. “We’re heading to Osaka next, want to come with?”

Akaashi, bless him, also ignores Tsukishima. “It’s nearly one in the afternoon, why would we go to Osaka?”

“So, if it were earlier in the day, you’d say yes?” Tetsurou asks. Oh, this is far too easy, he thought there’d be some sort of huge, nuanced puzzle to solve. A hundred interlocking factors all hinging on the whims of a butterfly. One wrong step and Akaashi won’t come along.

“I guess.”

“Got it.”

“Let’s go swimming, Kuroo,” Tsukishima says.

They can get to Akaashi’s office by 9:30. It takes around twenty minutes to spew out enough of the story to catch his attention, and from there it’s like dunking a basketball in a toddler's hoop.

“Let’s go to Osaka,” Tetsurou says. “I want your opinion on our contingency plans.”

Akaashi stares between Tetsurou and Tsukishima and chews on his pen. “Alright.”

The ride to Osaka is another long one. Akaashi has some work to keep occupied while Tsukishima vents frustration over every corner of the internet he hasn’t been banned from today—this is, apparently, what he does on trains. As for Tetsurou, he’s still fighting his way through a time-travel-themed reading list that would make lesser men cower in fear. A few new items are tacked on the end, thanks to Akaashi: four tongue-in-cheek suggestions related to psychology and dream interpretation along with one pointed research paper on the long-term effects of hallucinogenic drugs. Akaashi is like this with his friends.

“I know you’re the one who broke my ukulele, by the way.”

Blank, gaping surprise stares back. Akaashi blinks twice. “How?”

“You told me.”

Tsukishima shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Dismay? Reluctant acceptance? It’s a hard mood to pin down. A weighty, dramatic pause oozes between their seats.

“In a parallel universe.”

There is a face Akaashi makes when he is particularly bemused: equal parts indignation, wonder, and despair, sprinkled with a generous amount of morbid humor, slathered all over a nonplussed frown. Tetsurou might die holding in the furious laughter trying to break out of his chest at the sight of Tsukishima’s angry lemon face and Akaashi’s are you fucking shitting me face all at once.

Slowly, Akaashi gathers his composure. Then, he glares, fierce and white-hot, the only warning he ever gives to take cover before eviscerating the subject of his displeasure. “I know the only reason you and Yaku didn’t sleep together the night after high school graduation is you were too drunk to”—Akaashi waves a condescending open palm in front of his crotch—“you know.”

“I don’t like this game anymore.”

“I love this game,” Tsukishima says. He wags a finger at Kuroo’s face. “Are you okay after that take-down? You kind of look like you’ve been smashed in the brain with a tuna.”

“That’s a good one,” Akaashi says. “Can I use it?”

“I could not possibly care less.”

Tsukishima and Akaashi getting along is adorable in a weird, bitchy sort of way that should probably be frightening. God, Bokuto’s going to lose his shit when he sees this.

Ever since coming onboard at MSBY, Coach Foster has made several brilliantly confounding executive decisions. He introduced an ambitious weight-lifting regimen that got Bokuto bulked up like a boxer, banned alcohol of any sort, for any reason, from August to May much to the collective meltdown of the franchise, and then deposited the entire team in a cooperative apartment building along with a bunch of young professionals, foreign students, and tennis players. Even Tetsurou thought Foster was out of his mind for packing a chaotic-evil libero, the crazier Miya twin, Satan, if Satan had a cleaning fetish, and Bokuto all in the same living space.

By some miracle, the building remains standing even after six months of duress, though no one is stupid enough to bet on it staying that way much longer; especially now that Hinata is wearing black and gold. Tetsurou has money on December. Holiday stress plus tournament stress means that sucker is going to implode.

Down the street, just in sight of the building, Tsukishima grumbles as Tetsurou ruffles his hair back into its pounding on the door at 8:12 state. Akaashi stands back and watches them with something a bit more amused than disappointed.

Tsukishima pointedly looks Tetsurou up and down. Tetsurou spreads his arms wide and spins in a slow circle to make it extra showy.

“You’re under-dressed,” Tsukishima says, then he yanks a handful of grass out of the easement, and smashes it into Tetsurou’s hair. “What’s the plan? Do you even have one? Because you usually don’t.”

“Besides the obvious run in and start screaming about zombies?” Tetsurou still can’t believe he talked Tsukishima into this.

“Suppose that’ll do,” Tsukishima says. “Third floor, right?”

“Should I be recording this?” Akaashi asks.

This right here is the reason why it’s always worth it to grab Akaashi on the way. They set off toward Bokuto’s building at a brisk pace. “Yeah, do that. Ready?”

“I guess,” Tsukishima says.

Tetsurou leads the way up to the third floor, takes a deep breath, and then bursts into the common area. “Zombies!”

One awkward beat of absolute silence later, Tsukishima shoves Tetsurou out of the doorway and shrugs. “Yeah. Zombies.”

In all fairness, this probably is about how Tsukishima would behave in a zombie apocalypse.

“Zombies,” Bokuto says.

Hinata and Miya squint at Tetsurou and Tsukishima. Miya frowns. “Nah, they’re lyin’. Look at ‘em. No blood, no rips. Weak.”

“Told you this was a stupid idea,” Tsukishima says.

How outrageous, he did no such thing.

Bokuto finally notices who, exactly, is standing in front of him. He lurches to his feet and chases the momentum into and on top of Tsukishima’s personal space. “Holy shit, Tsukki? Heard you’re about to start playing for the Frogs! Jesus Christ, you got huge.”

“Thanks?” Tsukishima asks like he’s not sure if he’s being complimented.

“Might be taller than Omi, that’s just mean,” Miya says off to the side, both hands wrapped around one of the dowel rods meant to secure the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tetsurou is so excited to see this thing break in person. “You still any good? Or did college turn you soft?”

Tsukishima shrugs the question off but Hinata, resident fanboy, latches right on.

“He’s amazing. Top three middle blocker in the collegiate league, scouted by the Frogs. This one time he got so far under the other team’s skin, their outside hitter tried to punch him in the middle of a rally.”

“This isn’t really why we’re here,” Tsukishima interrupts once it becomes clear Hinata has no plans to stop any time soon.

“Oh? What’d you come down for? Hinata asks. “It wasn’t just to prank Bokuto-san?”

Tetsurou rocks back on his heels with both hands in his pockets, grins, and says, “The time has come. I need the binder, Bo.”

“Oh yeah?” Bokuto asks, one eyebrow arched and the other arched too, just a little less because he can’t pull off the single no matter how much he thinks otherwise.

“We are stuck in a time loop.” Tetsurou will never get tired of saying it, the reactions are too fun. Tsukishima is properly infuriated by it, Akaashi’s eye twitches at the words ‘time loop’, and Miya immediately gets a look on his face like Tetsurou’s taken a big, honking bite out of his brain and managed to get the parts that control both speech and motor function.

“For what it’s worth, I’m fairly certain they’re on drugs,” Akaashi says. “When did you tell him about the ukulele?”

“’Kaashi, babe, that was a secret,” Bokuto says under his breath with a wary glance in Tetsurou’s direction.

“Huh. Interesting,” Akaashi says.

Bokuto makes a show of narrowing his eyes and considering Tetsurou. “What’s it’s like?”

“More boring than I thought it’d be,” Tetsurou says.

Tsukishima scoffs. “You’re the idiot who keeps expecting it to be fun.”

“It should be fun! Would be, too, if you’d go on that bar crawl with me.”

Tsukishima sticks his nose in the air and says, “I’m afraid if we get too drunk you’re going to make me come watch you get your nipples pierced.”

Bokuto’s face twists into heavy consideration as he turns back to Tetsurou, then glances at Tsukishima. He nods. “I’d be down with that. The nipple piercing, I mean. Let’s go.”

“You do not want to go piercing things right before volleyball season, trust me,” Hinata says. Then, when he realizes everyone in the room has turned to stare at him, wide-mouthed and baffled, he adds, “I guess maybe it’s not so bad without all the sand but the floor…”

“We’re all going to agree we didn’t hear that, right?” Bokuto asks.

Miya replies, “No.”

“I wonder if I can make it to Russia.” Tetsurou slings an arm over Bokuto’s shoulder. “It’d be fun to finally drink Yaku under the table.”

“Even if your whole time loop thing is real, I still wouldn’t bet on you against Yaku. Especially not Yaku after a year in Russia. You’d die.”

“Just get the binder.” Tetsurou claps Bokuto on the back a little harder than necessary, but that’s what he gets for telling Akaashi about graduation night.

Bokuto gives him a bit of an odd look before heading out into the hall.

“You called me weird the last time I saw you,” Miya says, eyes narrowed on Tetsurou like this is, somehow, treachery on the scope of Judas.

“You are weird.”

“What’s that saying about the glass stones?” Miya snarks.

“I think it’s stone houses,” Bokuto says as he comes back into the common room, shiny red binder in tow.

Tsukishima frowns at the light fixtures above and shakes his head.

“You sort of get used to it and then, after a while, it just makes you sleepy. Like freezing to death.” Akaashi offers Tsukishima a commiserating smile. His eyes narrow in on the binder in Bokuto’s hands. “What is that?”

“Just silly shit from high school,” Bokuto says. “Remember when we got all into disaster and apocalypse movies second year? Well, we decided to come up with plans for what we should do if any of it ever happened.”

To Akaashi’s credit, he keeps it together until about thirty seconds after he takes the binder from Bokuto and flips open the cover to expose a lovingly laminated full-page index color-coded to the tabs behind it. Tetsurou sort of has a thing about well-organized binders. Tsukishima would say it’s a manifestation of those control issues he won’t shut up about; Tetsurou thinks anyone who disparages his color-coding can shove it.

“Flip to zombie apocalypse,” Tetsurou says. Bokuto’s going to get so much shit for wanting that flamethrower.

Akaashi leafs through the pages like he’s suddenly been told his life is a lie and the earth is flat or maybe his job finally gave him the literary magazine but only for one issue because it’s also canceled. “Bokuto, why would you prepare for dolphins to flee the planet? And why is it the second dolphin-related item in here?”

“Don’t remember, those were Kuroo’s ideas.”

The answer is, of course, science fiction books. Tsukishima gets it, he’s hiding chuckles behind a hand spread over the bottom half of his face, pretending he’s only scratching an itch. When all this is over, Tetsurou is going to give Akaashi untold levels of shit for neglecting the classics. Call it payback for all that death and romance at his office.

“How to tell if we are actually trapped in a dream or the matrix,” Akaashi reads in the slow, devastated tone of a eulogy. “One: secret code phrases.”

“Oh, oh, I know this one,” Bokuto says. “Prove we’re not in a dream was… rodeo?”

“I thought it was trampoline,” Tetsurou says.

Akaashi groans.

“This is why we never told you about the binder,” Tetsurou says. “Look how judgy you’re being over our preparedness.”

Akaashi snaps the binder closed. “You could at least make it more challenging. In the event of a Godzilla attack, stock up on popsicles and hide at Kenma’s?”

“Well, it’s not like it’d hurt.” Kenma had the best hideout in high school and now he’s basically living in a well-furnished, above-ground bunker.

“C’mon, babe,” Bokuto tries again, sneaking closer and running his hands over Akaashi’s arms.

“I wouldn’t even try, really,” Akaashi says.

“Maybe let’s just stop reading it.” Bokuto eases the binder away from Akaashi and hands it behind his back to Tetsurou. Tetsurou immediately hands it off to Tsukishima because why wouldn’t he? Half the fun is getting to see everyone’s reactions to this crazy thing.

“You tried retracing your steps?” Miya asks. When no one replies, he scoffs. “You know, your whole ‘time loop’ thing.”

“Yes. We have been through yesterday. I will throw myself in front of the train before doing it again.” Tsukishima flips through the binder. Now and then he laughs or makes a horrendously disappointed noise and looks at Tetsurou like he just can’t, in general.

Miya glances at Tetsurou. His eyes narrow for a couple of seconds before he lets out an enormous huff. “What about you?”

“I came in later.”

“So? Couldn’t there still be something you both did or saw or ran over?”

Damnit, Miya’s actually correct. Tetsurou’s nose scrunches up in the center of his vision all furious and distracting. “I do not like you.”

“Oh no,” Miya says. “My feelings. Ow.”

“What did you do yesterday?” Tsukishima asks. He thumbs through another two tabs. If Tetsurou remembers right, he’s on the one where humanity’s hubris unfreezes an arctic monster. God, he and Bokuto watched way too many movies in high school.

“Spent the morning at the V-League offices and then had meetings all day. We can check it out.” Oh, it tastes nasty to have a plausible idea courtesy of Miya in his mouth. Miya grins like he knows it, too.

“Maybe you’re cursed,” Bokuto says. “Like, you have to say sorry to the little old lady you ignored trying to cross the road, or the kid you made cry or something.”

“What do you people think I do?” Tsukishima asks.

“Same shit you did in high school,” Bokuto shoots back. “What, did you get some sugar and spice on your bones along with all that muscle?”

“Not really, but I did already try apologizing to all the little old ladies I ran over for sport last week.”

Tetsurou snorts. What a picture.

“Then maybe you need some cleansing shit—run in counter-clockwise circles in the forest, slathered up in lavender paste.” Bokuto pauses then throws an exaggerated wink at Tetsurou. “Naked. It only works if you’re naked.”

Tsukishima hums. “Tried it.”

Tetsurou knows he’s lying. He can tell from that too-pleased smirk Tsukishima can’t hold back and the way he spreads all his fingers out like he’s trying to force himself to be relaxed and subtle—and it’s obvious anyway, the retort came too slow and well-thought to be genuine. Too bad Tetsurou has definitely exhausted every last ‘well do it again’ he can get away with; he should have saved one.

“So, like, what level of will they, won’t they are you?” The dowel rod bows dangerously under Miya’s weight. Tetsurou kind of understands how he keeps breaking them; he seems completely oblivious to how much strain he’s putting on it. Miya smirks and nods toward Tsukishima. “I bet you’re the one who pines.”

Tsukishima sputters. “I do not pine.”

“Think Mulder and Scully,” Tetsurou says. He can’t not. “I’m the one who believes.”

Bokuto laughs so hard he would fall over if not for Akaashi right there to collapse into. Both hands cover his mouth but he is still obnoxiously loud, so thunderous he stirs the beginnings of a headache. Chest shaking nearly as much as his voice, Bokuto says, “What the fuck, man, you are Scully.”

Tsukishima makes a horrendous, high-pitched noise that sounds mostly like “yes!”

Bokuto raises a hand in the air. Tetsurou’s heart leaps to the right and does a couple of cartwheels for good measure when Tsukishima rolls his eyes and submits to the high-five. Some things have no right being so damn adorable.

“Doesn’t make you Mulder,” Tetsurou says, but no one listens.

“Got it. You both pine,” Miya says. A ripping krrrch pierces the air. For one, amazing, endless second, Miya windmills his arms, mystified rage plastered all over his face as the dowel rod cracks in half. He crashes into the wall with a belligerent “Mother fucker!”

“That’s worth coming to Osaka for,” Tetsurou decides.

“Goddamnit, Tsum-Tsum, not again,” Bokuto rolls his eyes. He focuses his attention square on Tsukishima. “Hey, Jackals don’t have practice this afternoon but a bunch of us usually meet up at the gym anyway, wanna come? Lemme see what you’ve been up to in the collegiate league.”

“Sure, I guess.” Tsukishima sighs and turns his face, trying to hide the interested glint trapped behind his glasses.

Bokuto pleads the whole way to the gym like Tsukishima might change his mind and decide he does not, in fact, want to utterly ruin as many of Bokuto’s spikes as humanly possible—but Bokuto doesn’t know Tsukishima nearly as well as Tetsurou does, never has. Tsukishima needed no convincing, only the invitation.

The rest of the Black Jackals are, in fact, at the gym even though they don’t have afternoon practice. Single-minded savages, the lot of them. Bokuto snags Sakusa to round out the teams when Tetsurou opts to sit back and watch as the hunch Tsukishima’s been carrying around on his shoulders starts coming loose. Tetsurou feels like a bit of a mastermind for this one but it wasn’t a hard tell to spot—that faux-casual remark about how Tsukishima doesn’t have a team to play volleyball with was loud and bright.

Tsukishima is nervous, but it seems he’s learned to hide the messy thing he gets caught up in where he thinks he’s outclassed. Akaashi is helping to keep it in check. Sakusa and Hinata’s rookie status, too.

“You sure you don’t want to join?” Bokuto asks in a low stretch.

“Next time,” Tetsurou says. He’s not sure his ego can take playing with anyone other than Kenma. In the end, Tetsurou doesn’t regret the path he chose; he likes his job, and he genuinely thinks he can do some good with it. That doesn’t mean he wants the stark reminder of how far up there his prime was.

“I feel like I should be worried Bokuto and Akaashi want to be on separate teams,” Tsukishima mutters from the corner of his mouth.

“You should be,” Tetsurou says. “Akaashi comes down on weekends and they play a bit, but something like this is their version of foreplay. Be thankful we don’t care about hurting their feelings, it’ll make escaping easier.”

Tsukishima makes an unhappy noise. He’s anxious and too full of energy when Akaashi waves him over to his side of the court. Sakusa rounds out Akaashi’s selections—a trio of severe and dramatic giants up against the wild, emotional bunch that is Bokuto, Hinata, and Miya. Like in high school, the teams are wildly mismatched. Akaashi has the height this time, but he’s up against three Division 1 players—and if Tetsurou had money on this game he’d be tempted to bet it all on the quiet, understated ferocity Akaashi conned Bokuto out of for his side. Tsukishima could have gone pro instead of the college route. Could have gone Division 1 instead of the Frogs, too, but that’d mean no museum dream job.

Sakusa rolls his shoulders and starts psyching up like this is the Olympics. There’s not much for Akaashi to do in this setup other than set the ball, nice and high, and let his monsters of choice take care of business.

It’s been years since Tetsurou saw Tsukishima play. The V-League has been his focus for a myriad of reasons, so it didn’t take much rationalization to avoid following the college teams. There’s a little rust at the beginning, not much, but once Tsukishima gets going he is every bit the infuriating wall Tetsurou remembers. In the second set, Akaashi nails down how to weave Sakusa and Tsukishima’s defensive strengths together and from there on, Miya’s side has a nightmare of a time getting any points even with Bokuto’s power and Hinata’s unpredictability.

Not so for Team Akaashi. Sakusa serving while Tsukishima blocks is a brutal combination. If this were something they could retain and build off, the rematch would be incredible. Too bad the scrimmage is destined to be lost to the ether. Only Tsukishima and Tetsurou will remember it.

Hinata winds up wringing the match point out with something suspiciously fast that has both him and Miya looking far too pleased with themselves for a simple quick. If they ever get to it, this season is going to be incredible. Even Kenma won’t be able to hide how into it he is. The sentiment is odd; loose and rattling. Like Kenma is being deprived even though the season hasn’t gotten started at all.

Tetsurou joins Bokuto gathering up wayward volleyballs while everyone else takes down the net and cleans up. He elbows Bokuto then jabs his chin at Tsukishima. “What do you think? About Tsukki. He seem like he’s okay to you?”

“Bit distracted and kind of down, I guess, but nothing compared to you,” Bokuto says. Then, quieter, “What’s really going on? What’s ‘time loop’ code for? You thinking about doing something?”

Tetsurou absolutely, one hundred percent cannot allow that notion to get its hooks into him. “No.”

“He’s into you. Still, I mean.”

“That bit has to stay an elephant for now.”

Bokuto gives him a look. It means: I think you’re being stupid but you’re my friend so I’ll be supportive instead of calling you out on it. Tetsurou’s been on the receiving end of it many times, but this one hits a little harder than the rest.

Less than a week of August 7ths and Tetsurou is already starting to feel a drag, a lingering fear they’re going to be stuck like this forever. Not just in the time loop but also in this tenuous space where they can only snark at each other. No trust, no faith. No talking about what went wrong and if they want to try fixing it.

“There it is,” Bokuto says. One of his arms comes up around Tetsurou’s shoulders and squeezes.

“Hush.”

“On the bright side, if you’re stuck in a time loop at least there’s no way you mope about it so long I get sick of listening. It’ll always be brand new.”

Bokuto doesn’t realize it, but that’s the problem. In this bizarre world where it’s always August 7th, there is only Tetsurou and Tsukishima. No teammates. No one to watch Tetsurou’s back.

Chapter Text

The looming frame of Tetsurou’s office building stands proud against the 9:30 Tokyo skyline. Most people walking by have a greeting or nod for Tetsurou. Every one of them makes Tsukishima look like he wants to pull his head and arms into his ridiculous lizard t-shirt and utilize the turtle method for dealing with potential introductions.

They should have done this sooner. Tetsurou is furious he didn’t think of it right away, he was too distracted by Tsukishima’s adorable rage over Tanabata and the beach. To have something so obvious pointed out by Miya, of all people, is mortifying.

“You ever been here before?” Tetsurou leaves it vague, easy to misunderstand the whole when part of the question.

“Yeah. Couple of times.” Tsukishima’s answer is clipped with a harsh bite—no follow-up questions allowed.

The day Tetsurou finds out what Tsukishima came to visit him at work for after only seeing him once in three years is going to be a good one—and Tetsurou is sure that’s what happened. Contracts would have been signed in Sendai. There is no reason for Tsukishima to come to the headquarters in Tokyo other than Tetsurou.

For good measure, Tsukishima changes the subject. “You going to quit in person this time?”

Once again, Tetsurou stares up at the V-League headquarters and scrapes his lip between his tongue and teeth. This is a bucket list thing, and bucket list things are all the buffer Tetsurou has before the time loop thing takes its big, honking nosedive. He needs the silly, lighthearted stuff to break up the irritation and anxiety starting to churn away in his gut.

Tetsurou has never quit a job before, only aged out or graduated. A morbid curiosity festers over it—what will his boss do? Will they try to keep him? Will they say ‘good riddance?’ How many coworkers will cheer versus how many will throw their credentials on their desks and shout, “Not without Kuroo-san!”

Maybe Tetsurou is over-dramatizing this a bit.

“You seem nervous,” Tsukishima says. “How are you nervous when it doesn’t even matter?”

It is truly the most bizarre, fascinating reaction Tetsurou could ever hope for. Tsukishima’s right. None of this matters. Somehow that doesn’t make it any better. “Ever have something you really want to do, but you really don’t want to actually do it?”

“Oh good lord,” Tsukishima mutters. He grabs Tetsurou by the arm and drags him off to the side of the building to settle on a love seat-sized bench hugging the shadows. At Tetsurou’s curious look, he says, “I know you well enough to know whatever this is, it’s going to take forever.”

That’s fair. “I feel weird about it.”

“Guilt?”
 
That sums it up pretty well. Tetsurou likes the idea of barging into work, screaming his resignation, and spilling all the office secrets he’s collected over the past year and some change—but the thought of what he says causing harm is distasteful. Tetsurou’s always been the sort of bleeding heart that shies away from intentionally hurting anyone.

“Makes no sense, right? They’re not even painful secrets, just office politics bullshit like who stole all the real coffee, or Hayashi selling out his team for a promotion.”

“You’re not the kind of guy to do that, though. It’s why you’re a good leader.”

When Tetsurou whips his head around in surprise, Tsukishima is staring straight ahead with both hands clasped in his lap. A legion of warm fuzzies ignites in Tetsurou’s stomach.

“Oh my god, you do respect me.”

“Used to. Only very briefly. Before you started talking,” Tsukishima says, but he can’t completely hide the sliver of laughter creeping out from the edges of it.

Swarms of office workers hustle their way past Tetsurou and Tsukishima’s bench. They are endless, zooming around in a rush to get to work, blissfully unaware of Tetsurou and Tsukishima skipping back to the beginning of August 7th over and over. A tranquil calm battles the hectic nature of it.

“Excited for this to be you in the spring?” Tetsurou asks.

“Yeah. I mean, I was. Not right now, obviously.”

“Will you tell me about it sometime? What you’re going to do when you’re not playing for the Frogs?”

“Sure,” Tsukishima says with a shrug, “but it’s boring.”

“Not to you.”

This has to be a record: a laugh and an actual, honest-to-god smile, all in less than five minutes. Check out day six Tetsurou.

“Even I think it’s a little boring.”

Tetsurou grins before clamoring back to his feet and heading back around to the front of the building. “Lucky for you I’m into all the nerd shit.”

Out of habit, Tetsurou holds the door. Tsukishima makes the best affronted faces, he can’t keep them in for anything. Imagine being so tense having a door held open is frustrating.

Tsukishima waits until they’re on Tetsurou’s floor, watching him open the door to the glorified closet that is the floater office, and asks, “How do you even have an office? Did you seriously con the entire V-League into thinking you need one?”

“It’s not really my office, it’s the office. I just so happen to be the one using it today.” That’s about the long and short of it. “Anyway. I stopped by here to drop some crap off, made some calls, then headed out to a lunch meeting.”

“I still have no idea what you actually do,” Tsukishima says.

How flattering. “Thank you! It’s that sort of broad-focused confusion that got me my bonus last year.”

“Never surprising,” Tsukishima mutters. “Much as I hate to ask, if you were only here to drop stuff off and make calls, what are we doing here?”

Tetsurou spends approximately one half of one second trying to keep a straight face. “Bucket list shit, of course.”

“This is my husband,” Tetsurou says for the fifth time. For the fourth, he leaps away from Tsukishima’s pointy devil-elbow aimed for his kidney with, frankly, worrying precision. “Now, shnookums, I’m just happy to finally introduce everyone to you is all.”

“Divorce,” Tsukishima hisses. “I will marry you and then divorce you and then take all of your shit.”

“He’s so shy.”

The poor intern—who didn’t ask, only had the grave misfortune of happening into Tetsurou’s path with an overstuffed binder clutched to her chest—nods in two shaky bursts and starts edging her way down the hall to the right. “Nice to meet you—Tsukki-san, was it? Congratulations. I really have to—”

“Your books. I’m going to take your books. And your furniture. And all of your socks.”

Tetsurou chokes down a cackle. The intern flees so fast, she’s jogging.

“What is wrong with you? There is something, right? You’ve sold your soul, you’re some sort of chaos demon, what?” Tsukishima tries—and fails—to put on an air of both indifference and rage. Mostly, he looks constipated.

“Guess I have to take you to lunch to make up for it.”

“You were doing that anyway, it doesn’t even count—and you know what? No.”

They hang a left toward the stairwell; Tetsurou uses the excuse of the turn to knock his shoulder against Tsukishima’s. “Don’t you want to find out how I wound up singing pop ballads with Yoshida from accounting at two in the morning? Leave now and you may never know.”

“You’ve already told me that. Wildly optimistic of you to assume I care, twice.”

Tetsurou has a hard time believing that one. He’s not sure he’d tell a story like that the second time he saw Tsukishima in three years. Not that it’s embarrassing, it’s just so mundane and typical. Every member of the wear-a-tie-to-work crowd eventually winds up drunk at late-night karaoke. The only shocking part of it is that it’s fun.

“How’d that day go?” One of the guys from layout waves when he glances up and spots Tetsurou. Tetsurou raises both arms in the air, points down at Tsukishima’s petulant face, and mouths, ‘My husband.’ Immediately after, Tetsurou scrambles to the left to avoid attempted elbowing number five.

“I don’t remember. It’s not hard to guess, anyway.”

“So prickly.” Tetsurou leads them down the stairs and out the front of the building into the warm Tokyo summer. “You didn’t even thank me for the tour.”

“What tour? All you did was drag me to every floor and say ‘they make volleyball shit here.’”

“Well, they do.”

“Thanks, I never would have guessed.”

Tetsurou leads them around the block to the train station and, again, uses the excuse of swaying into a turn to bump his shoulder against Tsukishima’s. He allows it again.

Tetsurou’s restaurant of choice for work meetings is a posh ramen place near Tokyo Bay with a four-meter counter, six tables, and a karaoke joint next door. They have good food, a homey atmosphere that doesn’t get too loud, and a generous happy hour featuring half-off drinks. All the necessities.

“Did you enjoy the test-drive coming out to your job?” Tsukishima asks with a knowing eyebrow arched across the table.

“This is why I like you,” Tetsurou says. “You get it.”

“Might have done something similar if it were me,” Tsukishima says. “But introduce me to strangers as your husband one more time and I will make you pay for it.”

“Do you promise?”

Tsukishima glowers.

“It was kind of fun.” The reactions were less disgusted than Tetsurou assumed they’d be. No one outright called him a heathen or degenerate, anyway. It’s almost too bad he can’t sit back and observe for a few days or weeks and see if he gets quietly let go or pushed off important projects. Or worse, pushed off his own projects. Without knowing that part, this whole experiment isn’t worth much more than catharsis.

The distraction of food comes in the form of giant, steaming bowls of warm-smelling noodles and broth that always takes Tetsurou back to Wednesday nights at the Kozume house. Ramen and board games, every week. The tradition persisted right up until the minute Tetsurou moved out and on his own, though Kenma’s mother still makes a point of inviting him over every few weeks. Sometimes, she’ll even task Kenma with dragging him along whether Tetsurou likes it or not.

“Food’s good here,” Tsukishima says, “but I still don’t see the point of doing this.”

“I actually don’t think any of it is going to be helpful, but it’s smarter to get it out of the way now, before it gets too hard to remember where all I went. We should have knocked it out first thing.” It hurts to say, but Tetsurou is nothing if not pragmatic. At least Miya will never know.

Tsukishima goes back to slurping his noodles.

Long silences, even broken up, tend to get painful after a certain point. Tetsurou pokes at the beef floating in his bowl a couple of times, snags a piece, and says, “Bokuto could have been onto something. Maybe you’re cursed.”

“Maybe.” Tsukishima scoffs.

“No, no, hear me out,” Tetsurou says with another slice of beef pointed at Tsukishima across the table. “Maybe it’s a learn your lesson thing. Or a confess your sins thing. Maybe we need to find a priest.”

“I have nothing left to confess.”

What a load of bullshit. Even Tetsurou can’t let this one go. “Liar.”

"Just because you don’t remember doesn’t mean I didn’t do it,” Tsukishima snaps.

Oh, really?

Tsukishima pokes his food around with his chopsticks. “I’m sick of this thing where you think things from before aren’t real or don’t count. It’s all real, it happened, you just don’t remember. No one could spend this much time with you and not understand that. You always pick the same thing to fixate on and everything else is completely at random and it’s all so unbearably you.”

“Least I got something done.” Maybe Tetsurou should tattoo it across Tsukishima’s knuckles.

“Oh yeah? What?”

For Tetsurou, it had to have been the wish. It fits; it is the simplest explanation and therefore the most likely cause. As for Tsukishima—the idea of different things doing this same fantastical thing to each of them is ludicrous. Not worth considering. How is the question, not what.

“Well, I don’t know, now do I? Maybe if someone wasn’t so terrified of Tanabata, we could figure it out.”

“I am not afraid of it.” Tsukishima squeezes his eyes shut, a breath flares his nostrils caught smack in the middle of angry and upset.

Poking Tsukishima is essentially a sport by this point. It’s entertaining, it’s fun—but there is still a line and not only is Tetsurou getting dangerously close to crossing it, he’s also quickly developing one of his own. The nagging in the back of his head is louder and more impatient than before. Is starting to gain a voice. Letting it drop for now is self-preservation as much as anything.

“If you say so. Let’s talk about something else. Like how amazing my restaurant choice is. Go ahead, try and tell me you’ve had better ramen with someone even half as pretty as me.”

Tsukishima looks like he might die on the spot: nose scrunched, mouth hanging open like a fool, eyebrows drawn together in a tight little furrow that Tetsurou kind of wants to stick his finger in the middle of. “Are you seriously trying to badger me onto your chosen topic of conversation by hitting on me?”

“Now, Tsukki, that’s not the case at all. I was implying that you should hit on me.”

That existential, end-of-the-world-despair washes over Tsukishima’s face again, full of are you kidding me and I’m just going to stab you with my chopsticks and be done with it and even a bit of something that’s teetering on the edge of maybe I will, asshole.

“I already told you, I’m not interested in repeating past mistakes.”

Tetsurou can’t be bothered to pretend he’s not grinning, so he says, “Ouch,” as insincerely as possible and takes a sip of his beer.

“I’m on to you, by the way. You’re enjoying this way too much to try to hide it.”

This is true. The whole stuck together thing they’ve got going on is opening some fun windows and doors despite all the landmines and tangents, and Tetsurou missed this. He missed Tsukishima. Missed fast-paced verbal sparring with someone who can keep up and doesn’t mind being a little mean about it, and it’s been a long time since Tetsurou has had someone around who both gets him and isn’t firmly shoved into the friends and family box. That spotty line between banter and flirting has always been delicate as lace with Tsukishima—and no, Tetsurou doesn’t feel inclined to hide the parts he’s enjoying.

“Oh, fine,” Tetsurou says. “We can talk about how pretty you are first, but I want my turn.”

“Some of us aren’t so vapid we require constant validation.”

“Yeah?” Tetsurou asks. He cups his chin in his palm, elbow propped on the table, and lets a deliberate smirk curl through his lips. “You’re pretty, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima, the total liar, looks away.

Tetsurou leans back in his chair, and if he can’t be bothered to hide how smug he feels over the whole thing, well, there hasn’t been much hiding during this lunch anyway. “Let’s try uncursing you. Can’t be that hard, right? I’ve already found about ten amazing methods on the internet. Or we can try Bokuto’s idea and slather you up in some flowery-smelling paste to dance under the moon. Naked, right? Bokuto said it only works if you’re naked.”

“Veto,” Tsukishima says, droll and uninterested. “Where are we heading next?”

“After this, I went to meet a potential sponsor for a kiddie league we’re trying to get running down in Hiroshima. Will be number three if I pull it off.”

Tsukishima has a little smile curling the side of his mouth. “You’re organizing kiddie leagues?”

“Yeah. That’s most of what I’ve been doing lately but with the season about to start up, I’ve had to pitch in a lot there, too. I was up in Sendai last week trying to work out all this drama over the advertisements for the tournament games because nobody wants to deal with it. You said your kiddie league up in Miyagi is pretty garbage before. Think you could put me in contact with whoever’s running it sometime?”

“Sure.” Tsukishima struggles for a moment. “That’s pretty cool, what you’re doing to get more kids into volleyball. Or even just give them the opportunity to play. You’re going to do good in the world with this one.”

Tetsurou usually loves to hear this sort of thing. Today, though, it leaves a weird, dry taste in his mouth and a huge, swelling wave in his heart. His whole project is at a standstill, stalled out until they deal with Tsukishima’s time loop issue. Impatient aches for the world to just move already crop up at the weirdest times.

Tetsurou takes a few bites of his lunch and quirks an eyebrow at Tsukishima, suspiciously quiet. “What is it?”

Tsukishima fusses with his chopsticks again. “Akiteru and I got into a fight, my first year of college, right before… before. He was mad that I turned down the V-League offer after high school, and then it kind of exploded when he found out I wasn’t planning to commit much to volleyball at college. Said it was obviously something I loved so why throw it away? He was right in the end but I didn’t want to listen so it blew up into something really stupid and huge.

“Things are better now,” Tsukishima says. He glances up. “In a lot of ways. But for a while there… I couldn’t deal with it. I thought I knew what I wanted but it was just too much.” Tsukishima sighs. “Had one more confession I guess. I never told you and I’ve always felt bad about it.”

“Was the wrong time, that’s all.” This conversation is getting itchy and too hot. While it’s nice to hear these sort of not-quite-apologies, Tetsurou doesn’t much want to deal with it when he’s busy treading water with too little to keep him focused away from the corner he keeps this particular incident confined in.

“And I guess you’re not hideous,” Tsukishima says, snipping the tension perfectly in half.

“I knew it.” A grin aches in Tetsurou’s cheeks. “Did you know I’m smart, too?”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “You also have the largest ego I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing in person.”

“Not really,” Tetsurou says. He’s got a lot of insecurities, too, but over the years they’ve gotten easier to ignore and even easier to hide.

The remainder of lunch goes quietly, only shreds of light conversation to break things up now and then. By the time they’re done and out the door, the lingering tension has mostly settled down.

“Well, I’m stuck. So, I propose we speed-run my day and then do some curse-breaking. Or go to a rave. Either one.” Screw Miya and his brilliant, useless ideas.

“We are not going to a rave.”

Tetsurou knows that tone of voice well by now. “Did I already take you to one?”

“It was just a really loud club in a basement.” There’s a tiny, fond smile playing over Tsukishima’s lips.

Tetsurou is unreasonably jealous of himself, in a parallel universe, on another August 7th, sideways, possibly with amnesia. “Yeah, you loved it. I always knew you would. Not that it’s hard to guess like the sweet tooth, but still.”

“I’m not in the mood to have glitter thrown in my face again,” Tsukishima says. “But I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you want to go to try whatever curse-breaking nonsense you’ve got in your head. I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“If I have anything to say about it? Absolutely.”

“It says you have to smudge yourself down and away.” It’s hard to get it out without cracking up but Tetsurou manages, right until he glances up to see Tsukishima holding what a burly shopkeeper in an incense-ridden basement in Shinjuku called a ‘selenite wand’ with a preposterous level of zeal. Tsukishima holds the glorified crystal stick between two fingers, as far away from his body as he can reach. His face is wholly disgusted, perfectly identical to the face Kenma makes when faced with something truly abhorrent like public displays of affection or snakes. The wand trembles in his grip like he’s thinking about dropping it to prove a point.

“I don’t know what that means. Smudge?”

Tetsurou doesn’t know either, but he might have seen it once in a movie. One of the first things he learned when he jumped head-first into the wild ride that is working at the V-League is that if you don’t know, pretend you do, and hope nobody else knows enough to call you out on it. “I think it’s like a ‘begone, pest!’ sort of thing? Like you shove it away. Banish it, you know?”

He gestures with his fingers spread into wide and long spokes, palm facing the dirt, raised to chest level then pushed down with a flourish out at the end. Seems about right. Enough so that he’s willing to pretend he’s confident.

This is so high up the list of stupidest bullshit Tetsurou has ever done, including the time he went to IRL Mario Kart with Kenma and the time Bokuto ate all those shrimp. In some weird, twisted way he’s decided this whole smudging thing can be considered Tsukishima’s punishment for continuing to hold back and be generally uncooperative. It’s another of a dozen cases with the exact same cause and unresolved issue: Tsukishima believes it is irrelevant and refuses to indulge Tetsurou. Tetsurou refuses to believe it’s irrelevant until he hears the whole story so he can try to re-enact it a few times.

They are at a glorious stalemate but that’s okay. Tsukishima has no ideas? Fine. Tetsurou can come up with plenty.

Tsukishima leans back and flings his arm down and away like he’s shooing off a dirty, wild animal determined to get its paws on his crispest slacks. The wand flies out of his pathetic, two-fingered grasp. “Begone, pest.”

“Maybe once where you pretend to take it seriously, just in case?”

One epic eye-roll later, Tsukishima retrieves the crystal and manages to wave it with a little less contempt. He drawls, “Oh, fair goddess or whatever of the… wind… lift our curse thing.”—a beat—“Please.”

It’s probably good enough, to be honest. Tetsurou found this whole crapshoot on a vague, mystical, and terrifyingly purple blog that happened to be the first search result for ‘curse breaking for idiots’. They’re not exactly working from reputable sources here.

“You understand I will not do this again, correct?” Tsukishima asks.

“Fine, but you still have to float in a natural body of water so the currents can free you of dark energy.” Tetsurou cannot believe he gets it out with a straight face.

“You just want to go back to the beach.”

“Hey, just because you think it’s bullshit and I think it’s bullshit doesn’t mean it’s actually bullshit. Try to be more open-minded.”

“It is unbelievable how oblivious you are to your raging hypocrisy.”

Tetsurou politely does not draw attention to the fact that Tsukishima is both captain of the do as I say not as I do squad, and also trying to hide his giggles by pretending to yawn.

“We can’t swim at Odaiba,” Tsukishima says.

“We’ll go down to Atami, it won’t be that crowded in the middle of the day. We can let the natural currents of the salty ocean water cleanse you. Is that irony? ‘Cause you’re so salty and all?”

“If you have to explain the joke, it wasn’t funny or accessible. In your case: both,” Tsukishima says.

“I could be convinced to make myself more accessible.”

Three seconds later, the curse-breaking crystal wand they spent an hour trekking through Shinjuku for goes sailing over Tetsurou’s head. It wouldn’t have hit even if he hadn’t ducked. If that isn’t a sign, Tetsurou doesn’t know what is.

Atami beach is nicer than Odaiba, but it doesn’t have nearly the same level of nostalgia, so it’s never Tetsurou’s first choice. He doesn’t swim much, anyway, prefers to lay out on the sand and read, play some volleyball if the mood strikes, and soak up all the sunshine he can.

Tsukishima, on the other hand, must never go out. He’s pale on the shore but near mystical in the water. All the swells of foamy blue and white crash over his shoulders, plastering hair to his forehead and over his ears. Little droplets cling between his eyelashes, bright and translucent. Ocean roaring from every direction, Tetsurou wonders about this natural cleansing thing for a moment because he feels something tense and wriggly bleeding from his pores the longer they stay in the water.

“What exactly are we doing?” Tsukishima yells over a surging wave floating them up and then dropping them back down to where Tetsurou’s toes can brush the sand. He doesn’t sound put out so much as cautiously accepting, doesn’t hate this whole swim in the ocean thing near as much as he pretended he would right up until he pointedly looked away from Tetsurou stripping down to his swim trucks before reluctantly doing the same.

Tetsurou offered no such courtesy. He stared. He’d do it again, too. Tsukishima filled out in some unreasonably delicious ways.

Another wave crashes into them and smacks laughter from Tsukishima’s chest. He grabs hold of Tetsurou’s arm with a brutal grip when it threatens to carry him away. If he holds on tight enough, for long enough, every one of Tsukishima’s fingers will leave an angry, bruised mark. An irrational resentment churns out of Tetsurou’s stomach. Any marks left today aren’t lasting, they’re less than temporary—but the irritation seeps from his muscles, through his skin, and drains out into the ocean.

Sun-kissed orange flares over the salty blue. Tsukishima’s grip loosens up enough to slide past Tetsurou’s elbow, along his forearm, and settles at his wrist under the water like he’s afraid of being swept away by the tides; like Tetsurou is stupid enough to let him go again.

“This isn’t your worst idea, but it’s still bullshit,” Tsukishima says, but with a familiar amusement.

Their legs knock together. Tetsurou mirrors Tsukishima’s hold when another crashing wave sprays over them. Seawater beats against Tetsurou’s back.

Dangerous isn’t the deterrent it should be. Fragile is better. Tsukishima is fragile, and Tetsurou needs to keep in mind some things are worth the time and patience they require because shortcuts will only destroy them. Certain matters have to stay elephants, no matter how much Tsukishima parades them around, covered in all those same looks he wore in college.

“Write it down!” Tetsurou shouts over the next rushing wave. Out of sight under the surface, their legs brush together again. “Day eight. Tsukki finally acknowledges the genius of my bullshit.”

On day nine, Tsukishima calls Bokuto and tells him in the most hilariously monotone voice that zombies have invaded the city and gnawed Tetsurou’s legs off.

Bokuto laughs for a solid minute then bombards Tsukishima with greetings and questions. Little wrinkles burst from the corners of Tsukishima’s eyes, all over his lips, spread in thin lines over the expanse of his forehead as his face gathers up around the bridge of his nose like it does when he’s frustrated with something he doesn’t want to figure out how to deal with.

On day ten, he tries it again. Deadpan, eye-rolling, completely beyond the scope of even the barest authenticity, Tsukishima says, “Morning, Bokuto. Sorry to give you bad news, but zombies have invaded and Kuroo’s not that good of a runner anymore.”

It goes about the same, except this time Tsukishima gets that thoughtful, puzzle-solving glint in his eyes afterward and it doesn’t fade all day. They dunk Tsukishima in a river, pray at four different shrines, carry shopping bags for random, distraught shoppers with children in tow—and all through it, Tsukishima wonders what, exactly, will get Bokuto to believe it in one sentence.

Day eleven, Tsukishima arrives with Yamaguchi in tow. The two of them spend three hours carefully scripting out every nuance of the conversation before ruining it in five seconds because Yamaguchi cannot stop giggling.

“Hitoka is going to kill me,” Yamaguchi says, crumpled in a pile of laughter against Tetsurou’s sofa—mass-produced, mid-range, blue because it was in stock, due to be replaced the instant Tetsurou has an apartment without the prefix ‘starter’. “She forgave me for coming down but no way she forgives me for missing this.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tsukishima says. “Time loop.”

Two hours later, the three of them are sitting in on a University of Tokyo lecture on philosophy because—as Yamaguchi puts it—if they’re supposed to learn to be better people, shouldn’t they know what that means?

Tetsurou maintains he is a fine person already. Top-notch. He’s helping children play volleyball, only sort of has control issues, and he jumped head-first into a time loop for the sake of an old friend who hadn’t spoken to him in three years because saying he wasn’t ready to date was apparently just too hard. Tetsurou is a Saint.

Day twelve, Tetsurou puts down book number fifteen—a slice of life novel with an absurd amount of fishing imagery; he’s not even trying anymore—and has mercy on Tsukishima. Kenma comes up without much hassle to show them how it’s done, then Tetsurou has to call up Bokuto’s Captain next to make sure he doesn’t actually try to get his hands on a flamethrower.

Kenma spends the rest of the morning and early afternoon staring at Tsukishima with a tiny, predatory smile that sends constant shivers down Tetsurou’s spine. It was a mistake to put these two in the same room before conversations could be had. Tetsurou distracts Kenma by dragging him down to the shelter and adopting five dogs; he pretends not to be relieved when Tsukishima bails on them the minute their backs are turned.

Days thirteen through sixteen are spent perfecting their zombie screams at Bokuto’s expense and on day seventeen Tetsurou packs a duffel bag full of snacks, water, sunscreen, and the trashiest of his trashy romance novels and lays out on the beach.

Book number eighteen in hand, gritty sand stuck between his fingers and under his nails, Tetsurou reads in the sun while Tsukishima huddles under his pink and green striped umbrella despite being slathered head to toe in SPF 70 sunscreen, wearing a brand new pair of lime green flip-flops. Tsukishima picks a book about a fickle dental student’s romantic entanglements. Hardcover.

The sun throws a spicy tint on Tsukishima’s skin and reflects off his glasses in haughty glimmers. Putting a face on something so pleasant is another danger Tetsurou should avoid but the afternoon wears Tsukishima’s slight smile like a tailored suit: perfectly fitting and flattering beyond belief.

This is the life Tetsurou wants to live; on the beach with a book. With Tsukishima. Tetsurou wants to keep this whole day and the next, and the next, and that he simply can’t churns sour and disgusting in his stomach. He’s being robbed by this infernal loop. Each passing day it’s harder to keep his irritation focused where it belongs.

“What were you trying to do?” Tetsurou asks. “Why go to eight Tanabatas if you didn’t want to?”

The question takes Tsukishima off guard. Maybe he thought Tetsurou had dropped it for good. He closes his book around his forefinger and stares out at the bay churning over the glassy sand of Odaiba beach.

Tetsurou hadn’t noticed Tsukishima’s jaw had become so relaxed until this moment, when he clenches it through a breath that shakes his shoulders. “It’s not important.”

“Bullshit.”

At that, Tsukishima ducks his head and carries on with his book.

There’s that oddly disconnected feeling again: their prime was so far up there.

The whole thing feels too tight, strapped over Tetsurou’s forehead in a band liable to snap if he pays it too much mind. His patience thins. The beach and zombies and countless waffles mean nothing if every day is taped over. Putting good in the world and helping kids play volleyball is devoid of purpose if it never actually gets off the ground. There is no progress when every day is August 7th.

Chapter Text

Day eighteen. Tetsurou steps into a pair of jeans on his way to answer the door for the first time since day one and does his best to stay even-keeled throughout Tsukishima’s usual coffee routine.

The stressors are piling too high. Tetsurou feels every bothersome notion clawing for attention and his patience for it has dried up; he’s starting to lust after the satisfying part of cause and effect. He may as well be crawling out of his skin for how omnipresent the demand is. Sitting back and waiting won’t be an option for much longer, even with distractions. It’s time to get the ball rolling before it becomes a problem.

The urge to do something is powerful. Tetsurou has had his fun and he foolishly assumed Tsukishima would be ready and eager to go once solving the puzzle became more appealing than the beach, because why wouldn’t he? Instead, Tsukishima is as immovable and uncooperative as ever. He goes about his coffee routine with the same calm pacifism as yesterday and the day before, all the way back to that first August 7th. No urgency. No ideas.

Everything was fine until they went out into the ocean, that was the first domino. Tetsurou had everything nicely compartmentalized and rationalized to hell and back and then he ruined it all in one fell swoop.

A quiet lull, the waves rocking them, Tsukishima’s hand wrapped over his wrist.

Yesterday, relaxing in the sun.

Even now: Tsukishima running his fingers over the dachshund mug like it is precious rather than cheap novelty store ceramic.

There’s no coming back from any of it. God, Tetsurou didn’t even make it three weeks.

"It’s time to talk about going to Tanabata. For real. Not in the half-joking because it’s cute to rile you up sort of way.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “No one is stopping you. If you want to go, then go. Stop being a brat and demanding I come along.”

Tetsurou chooses his words carefully, aiming for a strong but flexible stance. “I worry if I let you continue to shut down reasonable suggestions, we’ll never get on the same page long enough to work anything out. You do know you have to tell me what’s going on at some point, right? I’m not stupid—I know you know.”

“I don’t.” Tsukishima is tired, must know he won’t get away with it at all, but he still drones the denial with a blank face.

“I’m not unsympathetic to the idea that you don’t want to talk about it, whatever it is. I know it might be irrelevant. So, I am willing to offer you a compromise: if you can look me in the eye and tell me it doesn’t matter, then fine, I’ll believe you, and we’ll start taking this seriously elsewhere.” Tetsurou will try, anyway. There will be some serious effort to accept the blinders.

The silence expands between them. Tsukishima stares out the balcony doors, into the lavender and blue-streaked sky.

Anger is not a common indulgence. Tetsurou gets frustrated, gets sad, gets over-exuberant and carried away with Bokuto until Kenma or Akaashi bails them out—sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally—but he doesn’t tend to let fury or rage get its claws in him. He dealt with it too much growing up, doesn’t want that poison in his life now that he has a say. It comes to the surface in a tidal wave, violently destructive and impossible to contain. Hot and caustic with a feral need to gather up everything painful in his bones and spew it out.

Tetsurou has spent weeks telling himself and anyone who will listen that he’s not mad—because he’s not, damnit—but every time he thinks of it, it gets louder and harder to control. Every little thing pokes at that awful feeling tamped down and viciously disregarded. And in all of this turmoil, Tsukishima is—what—watching the sunrise, refusing to budge even a sliver?

At least Tetsurou can say he tried the gentle, accommodating path first.

“Is it me? Would you be acting like this with anyone, or are we just… broken? Are you ever going to stop punishing me for letting you walk away? Or is it that you’re just not done playing with me yet?” It comes out swinging, an elephant-shaped pendulum that stops millimeters shy of crashing before the momentum shifts and it’s hurtling back on Tetsurou, a spectacular backfire that he wants to take back the instant it’s out of his mouth. “Fuck. Tsukki—”

“No, it’s fine,” Tsukishima says through teeth clenched so tight Tetsurou’s feel like they’re splintering in sympathy. “Get it off your chest.”

Tetsurou had forgotten how wretched it feels to watch Tsukishima shutter every window and slam every door and then stand there, baldfaced in front of his locked-down house on fire insisting everything is just fine and it’s not like it mattered in the first place anyway.

“I didn’t mean it like it sounded.” And there it is, that horrible, ugly thing Tetsurou spent his whole childhood steeped in. Anger and condescending platitudes galore. Being nasty to make a point and get his way. Tetsurou always wanted to be better than this.

“How, then?” slips from Tsukishima’s mouth. Almost cold enough to disguise all the hurt bubbling away under the surface.

Tetsurou can’t think of a single way to answer that question because, in the end, he’s always thought Tsukishima wanted him to do the stupid thing and chase. Letting him go was the right call, Tetsurou knows that—sure as he knows if he’d pushed it, Tsukishima would have come around. The whole thing would also have crashed and burned. Nothing lasting is ever built out of being so arrogant as to think a ‘no’ is open to interpretation.

“I’m not asking for a lot,” Tetsurou tries, but there isn’t much of a chance to salvage the conversation. “If you’re not able to work together then I’m going to take a bit to cool off. Give you some time to get your priorities in order. Because we do need to get on the same page.”

Tsukishima watches the clouds fluttering outside with his bottom lip clamped between his teeth, still refusing to say a word.

A tiny, maybe a little angry shard of Tetsurou relishes the irony. “Have it your way. I’ll be here when you’re ready, but Tsukki? I’m not playing around, I’ll come after you this time. Now, off you go.”

In a tangle of Shinjuku back streets hides Tetsurou’s favorite bookstore along with a handful of vintage clothing and record shops. To the uninitiated, the building appears mundane. There is no indication it is a bookstore save for a narrow, wooden sign hanging above the door proclaiming Ginoza & Son in worn calligraphy, towering to a pole jutting out from the second-story windows.

The smell is what gets him. Not just the musty paper, but also the weird base notes of glue and leather braided through the aroma. It causes Tetsurou to unclench his muscles and take a deeper, shakier breath. Like walking into a home game full of nerves and tension and then letting the familiar territory settle it all down.

Tetsurou could spend hours here. He has, many times before. Today, though, he grabs the first book he finds about time travel and then morosely wanders the self-help section reading the backs of random covers and contemplating the general insanity of his current situation. Fighting with the person he’s stuck in a time loop with, how stupid.

The little things are the most disorienting. There are thousands of tiny pricks over the course of a day that constantly force him to readdress the most bizarre things. Take going to the bookstore, for example. Not once in Tetsurou’s life has he walked out of a bookstore without at least one or two random paperbacks; he never knows what they’re about, who wrote them, or if they’re supposed to be any good. He grabs them because it’s gambling with a surefire win. Sometimes the books are amazing; sometimes they’re so god-awful it’s hilarious. They’re always entertainment and a story.

There’s no point in grabbing random used paperbacks. It’s pointless to add to his to-read pile when not getting to something today means not getting to it ever. Walking around Ginoza’s with no desire to browse makes Tetsurou’s head feel cramped and wobbly; like he’s had too much sugar and too much caffeine all at once.

Between Doctor Ito’s manual for coping with loss and some insipid, overseas celebrity’s advice on self-esteem, Kenma pokes his head around the end of the aisle.

“Kuro. What’s going on?” When Tetsurou turns, Kenma has his hands shoved in his pockets and weight on the backs of his heels.

“Just sort of bummed.” There’s no sense hiding it, Kenma can always tell.

Kenma offers a tight smile. “Good thing I’m in the mood for waffles.”

Tetsurou picks a random novel out of the used bin on the way out. It feels wrong not to.

From Ginoza & Sons, Kenma and Tetsurou hang a left. The walk to Amadeus is short and mostly free of competition for the sidewalk. Kenma doesn’t ask any questions, just nudges Tetsurou into the turns whenever he gets too caught up thinking about things like how this is the most stressful vacation ever; how is he going to manage to go back to work as if nothing happened; what is Tsukishima doing today? Is he holed up with Yamaguchi? Licking his wounds by himself? Slathering up in lavender paste to dance naked in counter-clockwise circles? Nothing at all?

Kenma steers them toward a table in the back when they arrive at Amadeus. They spend too long looking at the menu when they already know what they want and kick the legs of each other’s chairs under the table like they’re thirteen and unconcerned with the rest of the world. Tetsurou still feels out of sorts and disoriented, but he also feels that warm, gooey familiarity softening up all the harsh edges.

Leaning back in his seat, an odd, befuddled wrinkle in his nose pulling his lips into a worried grimace, Kenma asks, “Why are you skipping work? It’s not like you.”

“No reason to go.”

“Answers like that don’t make me worry any less.” Kenma’s already so suspicious. The fact that he can read him effortlessly doesn’t help. Even if this were a Saturday and they actually had plans, he’d still take one look at Tetsurou and know something’s up. Tuesday and an out of the blue 9:00 text message? Tetsurou made his bed, he’s not getting out of this alive.

“Calm down. It’s nothing that bad.”

“I think I will hold on to my assumptions until you provide me new ones.”

A huge stack of fluffy, steaming pancakes appears in front of Tetsurou. He immediately pours enough syrup over the top to create a breakfast rivaling Kenma’s chocolate-caramel waffles for the most diabetes-inducing meal in the house. Actually, the worst thing on the menu—and by that, Tetsurou of course, means best—is probably the strawberry and marscarpone. Just looking at those waffles makes Tetsurou pine for a glucose test every time Tsukishima orders them.

His stomach sinks.

“I brought Tsukki here. A few times, I guess.” What the hell is Tetsurou doing inviting other people to the official Kozume breakfast place without so much as thinking about it?

Kenma presses his lips together. “I brought Shouyou here, once. After nationals our third year.”

“Wow. We are both dirty, dirty cheats, eh?”

“I guess.” Kenma shrugs. “I don’t really think it’s that big of a deal, but if you do, I’m sorry.”

“No, not really. It just occurred to me that I never thought about it.” Tetsurou looks around at the geometric tiles and dark lines gleaming under the crystal lighting. “This is kind of our place.”

“You can spit it out, you know. Whatever it is you’re hung up on. Stop moping over breakfast.”

Tetsurou nudges his syrup-soaked pancakes around his plate with his fork. It feels complicated in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He has the wrong perspective, only sees one side of it. “I ran into an old friend who asked me for help, but he’s being cagey about it. Tried to stick it out, but it’s hard to help someone when they act like they don’t want it. I told him we’re going our separate ways until he gets his head out of his ass.”

“Who’s the friend?” Kenma asks, stern, disapproving, fork clenched in his fist pressed to the table.

Tetsurou sighs. “You’ve obviously already guessed.”

“You’re an easy read.”

Tetsurou blows out a breath and takes three huge bites of his pancakes. The right word for it comes to him as he’s noshing through bite number four. “I’m frustrated. With Tsukki. Feels like he’s jerking me around and I get it, I know he’s not really, but I don’t know how much longer I can be understanding about it. Felt like I had to get some space before it turned into something I’m actually pissed over.”

Kenma’s left leg bounces so hard the table shakes. “When shit blew up with you two—”

“Not this again. Nothing blew up.”

“Fizzled out, then. Whatever. I never told you, but I went to see him.”

It cracks with the intensity of a livid, soap opera slap. “You did?”

“Yeah. I mean, I gave him a month to get it together, but after that? I didn’t think it was right is all. I told him to call you or not, but whichever he picked he’d better stick with it.”

Tetsurou supposes he could get away with being upset if he wanted; for the secrecy or for Kenma butting into something that didn’t involve him. On the other hand, Tetsurou can see why he did it; if the situation were reversed, he’d certainly do worse. Besides, once the image of perpetually one hundred seventy centimeter-tall Kenma cowing Tsukishima-the-mountain blooms, Tetsurou can’t take any of it seriously. “Please tell me he was terrified of you. Oh, I wish I’d seen it, you’re like, an entire small child shorter than him.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Kenma’s leg stops shaking, then a second later he kicks Tetsurou’s chair again. “No, he wasn’t scared of me. But he listened.”

“He wasn’t going to call anyway.”

“You really think so?” Kenma asks.

Tetsurou shrugs. He’s sure enough. It took the literal end of the world, didn’t it?

Kenma stabs a chunk of his waffles. “Anyway, I don’t feel bad about it, but if you’re talking to him again, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

“Is this why you wanted to yell at him?” Tetsurou asks. It’s kind of hilarious now that it’s settling down. Kenma’s his knight in shining armor, how touching.

“What?”

“Never mind, wrong you.”

“What’s going on, Kuro?” Kenma’s impatience is starting to get the better of him. He never can hold his tongue for long. “No way this is all about running into Tsukishima once and feeling guilty for taking him out to breakfast. What did he ask you for help with?”

“He got stuck in a time loop and now I’m in here with him. It’s kind of lame, actually, especially without Tsukki around.” Tetsurou shrugs.

Kenma stands up and pats down his pockets for his wallet. “Alright, let’s go. I’m having your head looked at.”

“Can we skip the part where I have to spend thirty minutes convincing you not to and go straight to playing Mario Kart?”

The look Kenma gives him says ‘no.’

“Can we go tell off my father for being an absent, angry shit-head first, then?”

Kenma examines the whole of Tetsurou’s face with brutal intensity. His eyes flicker between Tetsurou’s forehead and chin, down to his hands, back up to look him in the eye. “If you actually wanted to, of course, but I’m pretty sure you’re just trying to get out of having your head examined, so no.”

“What if I’m willing to go really, really far to avoid having my head examined?” Tetsurou asks.

A fond, exasperated laugh shakes Kenma’s shoulders. If anything, he looks more worried, but he also backs down. “I wouldn’t make you go that far.”

"I’m not crazy.”

“You’re pining over Tsukishima again, I’d say that qualifies all on its own.”

Tetsurou’s tired of keeping it in; he wants to say it after three years of keeping it shoved in a corner and refusing to look. “I really like him and I don’t think it’s ever going to go away. That boy is it for me.”

Kenma reaches out an arm for Tetsurou to grab as he stands then presses one hand to his mouth in a yawn. He pays for breakfast on the way out of Amadeus and then they’re back out in the blinding Tokyo late morning. “Yeah. I know. For now, we can go back to my place. I’ll let you talk all you want about the pretty tall boy ruining your life.”

“Seeing him again is so weird. It’s tripping me up. Half feels like we could pick up right where we left off, only there’s too much shit in the way and neither of us know where the fuck the shovels are.” An adjacent thought won’t snag. It’s so close Tetsurou can brush the pads of his fingers against it, but it stays out of reach, taunting him. Instead of driving himself crazy trying to pull it in, Tetsurou allows his thoughts to tumble in a more emotional direction. “He’s being weird in a… weird way. I’m trying not to let it bother me but I don’t know how long I can keep it up.”

“Maybe seeing you again is complicated for him, too. Want to make any stops on the way to my place?”

Tetsurou’s not prepared to say one way or the other, and it feels largely inconsequential in the grand scheme of things anyway. “I liked your idea to adopt all the dogs at the shelter. That was fun.”

Kenma’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Oh, right, that was one of the yesterday-today-yous.”

Kenma glances up to the tips of Tetsurou’s hair and makes a slow circuit all the way to his shoes. He scrunches the left side of his mouth in concentration—and anyone else would miss it, but Tetsurou’s known Kenma since before he had any idea how to put his skill reading people to productive use, and Kenma may as well be shouting that now he’s not so sure which part of this story is crazy. “That sounds like a good time.”

“Let’s go to the shelter by your house. Mine had a Doberman that wouldn’t stop humping everything.”

“Yeah,” Kenma says on their way below ground to the train platform that will take them back to Shibuya. “Sure.”

After two days of convincing Kenma not to 5150 him and one failure, Tetsurou figures he deserves a break. Bokuto won’t try to drag him off for brain scans and psychotherapy; Bokuto will rent a jackhammer first and not ask questions at all.

“You’re stuck in a time loop,” Bokuto says, arms crossed over his chest and right half of his mouth screwed up in thought. “How do I know you’re not pranking me? I know we said we’d lay off until spring, but come on, we were both lying.”

This is very true.

“I know Akaashi’s the one who broke my ukulele. Hey, give me the pink stack.”

Bokuto hands over a freshly unwrapped pad of hot pink post-it notes. “Yeah, that’s a good one, but I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

“I also know you told him about graduation night.”

That one sends Bokuto three steps back. His hands raise between them, fingers clenched around another four packs of post-its. “Okay, okay, I believe you if it means we never talk about it again. Man, that’s too bad—”

“Yes, I know. Zombies. Flamethrower.” Tetsurou absently starts peeling off post-its to stick to Miya’s door. Turns out Tetsurou’s bucket list can be boiled down to: beach; Tsukishima; chaos. He should have known, really.

“Are you spelling something?” Bokuto laughs.

“Yep.” Tetsurou says, carefully folding in a corner to sculpt the perfect shape of an ‘f.’

“Gotta admit, flamethrower’d be fun.”

“Until the zombies start gnawing your legs off.”

“Your legs, you mean.” Bokuto rips the plastic off a pack of green post-its and gets to work on the next door down the line. “I am in the best shape of my life. You work at a desk.”

“Hey, now, which one of us is college-educated, has a grown-up job working seventy hours a week, and makes less money, hmm?”

Bokuto laughs. “That’d be you, loser.”

“At least I never have any time to spend my money. I’m gonna be rich as balls when I die of stress and exhaustion at forty-five,” Tetsurou says.

“Won’t help you any in the zombie apocalypse. You wanna tell me what this is really about?”

Tetsurou admires his quite pleasant ‘u’ and trades Bokuto the pink post-its for the green ones. “Tsukki came to see me. It’s his time loop, I’m just along for the ride.”

Unfortunately, Bokuto has some opinions on the matter of Tsukishima and he’s known Tetsurou long enough, there’s no such thing as holding back.

“Oh my god,” Bokuto trills. “He’s so hot and he’s so tall and you’re so gay. Dude. We have discussed this.”

Bokuto has no idea how much.

Tetsurou steps back to admire his handiwork for a moment before moving on to the orange stack of post-its crammed in his pocket. “He’s way hotter and taller now.”

Bokuto glances over with his mouth screwed up to one side, nose wrinkled in thought. After a moment, he throws his head back and cackles. “Okay, now I believe you because no way you kept your mouth shut long enough to get that sappy ass look on your face again. Shit, someone better warn Kenma. Or better yet, warn Tsukki about Kenma.”

“Does everyone know how much Kenma dislikes him but me? How the hell did I miss it?”

“Dunno, but Kenma’s good at keeping a lid on that sort of thing.” Bokuto sticks a minty blue post-it at the bottom of a long line and starts again at the top with yellow. “I only know ‘cause it was my baseball bat.”

As a terrible liar sometimes it escapes Tetsurou that others—namely Kenma—are fantastic liars. “Baseball bat, are you kidding me? That little shit.”

“I’d be grateful if I were you, ‘cause if he didn’t do something I was gonna.”

And Bokuto certainly wouldn’t be quiet about it involving a baseball bat, either. “Do I want to know?”

Bokuto slaps a sunny yellow post-it over the room numbers on the door he’s covering and says, “I don’t figure it’s any of your business. If one of them wants to tell you, they will.”

“It’s about me.”

“But it’s between them,” Bokuto says, taking a step back to admire his handiwork—a neon bullseye plastered over every square centimeter of Inunaki’s door. “You know those two. Let them have the secret. They’ll bond over it—and like I said, be grateful it was Kenma.”

“What, ‘cause you’d do worse?”

“I’d use the wooden bat, for starters,” Bokuto says ominously. He tosses over his stack of post-its, grabs the roll of packing tape laying on the floor nearby, then sets to work preserving his art.

“I thought you liked Tsukki,” Tetsurou says, straightening the bottom of his ‘k’ before abandoning the post-its for a sheet full of football stickers.

“I do. He’s awesome and he’s good for you. Doesn’t mean he gets away with being a dick, though. It was for his benefit. A lesson learned about the proper way to decline invitations and all that.”

“How long did it take you and Akaashi to rationalize that one?”

“Just an hour or so. After I gave Kenma the bat.”

“I can’t believe you all conspired to protect my dignity.” Tetsurou is touched. Usually, he’s the one smashing a bat on the table, saying things like ‘we need to chat’ and recognizing that he has people in his corner willing to do the same is a tender sentiment. Soft and meek, borne of good friends like Kenma, Bokuto, and Akaashi.

“Dignity.” Bokuto snorts. He glances over out of the corner of his eye with a wry smile. “I’d say ‘any time’ but let’s hope it’s a one-and-done, thing, eh?”

Day six of this separate ways experiment, day twenty-two overall, Tetsurou blinks awake to a crash reverberating from the living room and Tsukishima swearing up a storm. It’s the biggest mindfuck Tetsurou’s experienced in weeks. Something new, first thing in the morning.

“How?” Tetsurou means to say, but it comes out garbled through a mouthful of pillow as, “Hwagfr?”

Tetsurou crawls out of bed, decked out in his rainbow-sparkle unicorn boxers, both unbearably pleased to be chased and ready to put his foot down.

Tsukishima is a wreck. His face is red, eyes puffy, lips and teeth clenched as his eyes dart around, looking anywhere except at Tetsurou. Four grocery bags are slung around his wrists. A case of beer sits at his feet.

“What?” Tetsurou clears his throat. “Seriously? Now you break in?”

“You’re always saying I should.” Tsukishima sets his bags down on Tetsurou’s table and rolls his wrists. He finally looks Tetsurou in the eye, but only for a couple of seconds before he steps around to the little expanse of honeycomb tiles littering the kitchen floor.

A lingering pause hangs over them like fog. What is Tetsurou even supposed to say to something like this? Thanks? Knew you’d come around? “What’d you rob a liquor store?”

Tsukishima rummages around Tetsurou’s kitchen drawers for a moment, then comes back with a bottle opener. “You mentioned wanting to drink booze that costs more than your salary, once. Here you go, cross it off the list. We’re going to need it for this conversation.”

“Oh? Are we finally getting to Act 3’s tragic backstory?” Tetsurou asks. He almost can’t believe it only took five days of being a stubborn hardass.

“Something like that.” Tsukishima pops the cap off a beer and takes a long swig. “I’ve never been morning-drunk before. I bet it’s terrible.”

“It only sucks when it’s not morning anymore,” Tetsurou says. “But by then you’re just afternoon-drunk. I always wind up at the movies but never remember which one later.”

“I don’t know how to feel about you having so much experience with it.”

“Was only a couple times in college. Like, four? Come on, when you’re friends with Bokuto this sort of shit happens. Just never drink sangria with him. Or at all, really, sangria is evil.”

“Sure.” Tsukishima takes another sip and then sets his beer down. He’s avoiding looking at Tetsurou. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on?” Tetsurou might come across as more authoritative and reassuring if he had pants on. Oh, well.

“I’m being punished. For being passive and a coward. For taking six months to agonize over playing for the Frogs and for walking away from the things I want if I’m not sure I can have them. For saying I’ve learned my lesson when I clearly haven’t.” Tsukishima stares into his bottle like all the answers are floating around in there. He picks at the label. “For what I did to you.”

Tetsurou can’t begin to fathom how to respond to that. Instead of responding, he pads to the kitchen for a pair of granola bars out of the pantry cubbies under the counter and as many bottles of water from the fridge as he can carry. He’s dumb—he has to be to crack open a beer thirty minutes after waking up on a Tuesday—but he’s not dumb enough to do it on an empty stomach with no water.

The beer isn’t too bad. Not Tetsurou’s favorite, but he’d drink it given the opportunity. It has an orangey tang to it that almost feels appropriate for the hour. Quintessential Tsukishima—making well-thought choices for day-drinking.

“I run for the train, you know. Every morning. I still do it, any time I’m here at 8:12 it’s because I sprinted to the train station. There’s barely enough time, if I screw any part of it up I don’t make it. Used to be a desperation thing, I wanted the earliest start possible. Then, it started to be about pride: it’s the only thing I can get better at, the only thing to work on. Now? Now I understand I’m probably never getting out of here but if I’m not running to you, I’m running from you—and I’m trying to learn my lesson.”

“Tsukki—”

“Please don’t.” Tsukishima pulls his legs up so he can rest his chin on his knees. He loops his arms over his shins and stares past Tetsurou. “I didn’t realize, at first. I went to the first day of Tanabata with Yamaguchi and Yachi, bailed the second day, bailed the third day, and then Yamaguchi called asking for the fourth time—that’s when I noticed.”

Tsukishima throws back another long drag from his bottle.

“What’d you call it? Act 3’s tragic backstory? Well, here it is.”

Chapter Text

5:13.

Kei screws his eyes shut before squinting at his phone. Two minutes before the alarm for the third time. A sickening déjà vu is tangled up in it—something his sleepy brain connects back further than it really goes.

A yawn cracks Kei’s jaw open—a long, steady stream of air bleeding from his chest. The 5:15 alarm jolts Kei the rest of the way awake. As soon as his thumb mashes the icon to dismiss it, a bird outside the window starts trilling the same familiar tune as yesterday. The day before, too, now that he thinks about it. Is this something birds do? Do they pick specific places to warble specific tunes?

Kei heaves to his feet. A green parakeet with a white belly perched in the tree outside the window stares back.

“Go away.”

The bird stares in challenge. Kei flips it off and vindictively changes his alarm to 5:10 before tumbling over his half-filled laundry basket. Leaving it out is starting to make him feel disoriented; like it’s somehow morphed into a bottomless pit of slightly wrinkled clothes that never runs out even though Kei’s been procrastinating for days already. Break is making him stupid and lazy. He’s had too many days with nothing important to do. Too much spare time to dwell on things he shouldn’t—a certain encounter at Sendai Gymnasium, a crooked smirk, hair every bit as terrible as it was three years ago—while ignoring matters relevant to his day-to-day life like clean socks.

Kei goes through his normal morning routine—shower, get dressed, finally put away the laundry—and he’s just settling down to binge a few hours of TV like the brainless idiot he’s turned into when Yamaguchi’s pop-punk wail of a ringtone blasts out of his phone.

“You seriously never know when to quit,” Kei says instead of anything that could be mistaken for a greeting.

Yamaguchi does not bother with pleasantries, either. “Please, Tsukki? Saeko’s drum crew is performing again, and we didn’t see half of it yesterday. You have to come, Hitoka won’t leave the apartment and it’s my last Tanabata before I have to be a grown-up forever.”

“What?” That déjà vu tingle skitters up Kei’s nape again. “Are you having an aneurysm? Tanabata’s over.”

A long pause. “No? Are you having an aneurysm?”

Kei thinks of the parakeet and waking up two minutes before his alarm three days in a row. The bottomless laundry basket he only just found the motivation to put away.

“Tsukki?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Kei has always thought of himself as a highly intelligent and observant individual. He retains knowledge easily and is aware of his surroundings; he notices details like what color the clerk’s eyes are at the convenience store and what kind of clothes strangers passing by are wearing if they happen to catch his attention. He would make the best witness a sketch artist ever had the pleasure of working with.

According to Kei’s phone, it is August 7th, not August 9th. He pinches the back of his hand until tears sting the corners of his eyes. The half-crescents stamped into his skin burn a furious, bloody red.

“What the hell?”

He has to be dreaming. He is dreaming or dead or clairvoyant. Maybe he had a nervous breakdown. Any of that is leagues more probable than repeating August 7th and Kei refuses to entertain such a foolish notion. Instead, Kei consumes enough caffeine to kill a less initiated mortal and attempts to go about his day without letting every tiny familiarity and inconsistency drive him mad.

Yesterday morning, Kei ate his last banana for breakfast but there’s still one laying in the bowl. He knows he watched four episodes of Luke Cage but they’re unwatched in his Netflix history. Yamaguchi, Tanabata, the laundry. A prickle in the back of his head, ignored all day.

At midnight, Kei blinks at the ceiling, two minutes before the alarm.

Kei pulls the sheets over his head and turns off his phone. When his parakeet arch-rival starts singing, he flings the phone at the window and revels in the earsplitting crash drowning out the obnoxious birdsong. It’s the theme to something, a jingle he’s heard enough times to recognize, but not recently enough to pinpoint what it is. The next notes tease his lips.

Yamaguchi walks in without knocking right as Kei begins to fall back asleep; the parakeet starts its song up again in greeting. Kei drowsily plots avian homicide as he scoots over so Yamaguchi can crawl under the protective barrier of sheets.

“I’m having a bad day. This fucking bird won’t shut up,” Kei mumbles.

“Okay. You just never turn off your phone and you’ve been sort of gloomy this week. Wanted to make sure you were alive.” Yamaguchi screws up the side of his face pressed into Kei’s pillow. “Is that the X-Files theme?”

Oh, god, it is, and now Kei’s going to be driven twice as crazy by it. Three years he suffered that show while Akiteru nursed a near fanatic obsession and here it is, back for more. He considers blowing a raspberry right at Yamaguchi’s know-it-all face, but they’re too close and Kei doesn’t feel anywhere near lighthearted enough for something that will send Yamaguchi into a fit of giggles.

“What’s the matter?” Yamaguchi asks.

“Don’t know yet,” Kei says.

He’ll figure it out, just not right now. There’s still the vague hope that maybe if he sleeps long and hard enough, it’ll fix itself. Could be he’s in a coma, after all. There’s still a pretty good chance he’s dead. He passed out last night. Had a stroke from all the coffee and energy drinks. The likelihood that he’s repeating August 7th over and over again in the real world is too preposterous to consider seriously.

“Okay. I’m going to set an alarm for ten. You can come with me to the store and then we can go check out the rest of the Tanabata decorations. Oh, and I want to show you the house I found this morning, too. I think this is the one, it’s perfect. Just like the last one we looked at but with a yard. Not far, either.”

“How is one day of Tanabata not enough for you?”

“It’s my last chance. Any day now, I’ll have to be a grown-up forever.”

Kei’s throat locks up. Any day now. What an awful thing to think about on the fourth August 7th this week.

Kei takes one more day turning off his phone and hiding under the covers. Just to check whether or not Yamaguchi always comes barging in—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he yanks the sheets over his head and calls the parakeet every dirty name he can think of.

Everything happens exactly the same: Yamaguchi crawls into bed, lets Kei mope until ten, and then drags him out into the world to retrieve ice cream for Yachi and look at the new front-runner for dream house. It’s August 7th everywhere. Kei doesn’t know why he hoped for anything different.

Thinking about it logically, this is Tanabata’s fault. No way Yamaguchi drags Kei to Tanabata one day and then the next, Kei is suddenly stuck in the plot of a bad movie. It’s probably one of those arrogant ones that think they’re worldly, want to teach the audience a lesson. Face your fears, amend your wicked ways, be a good person, damnit. That sort of thing. Sundance winner, probably.

So, first things first. Kei makes a wish. He does it right; does it properly with perfect penmanship and flawless grammar and piety so dripping his little sliver of paper is soaked through.

When that fails, Kei runs through the day as Yamaguchi requests. He goes to see the Tanabata decorations and dream house without complaint. Pays for Yachi’s ice cream and gets treats for himself and Yamaguchi, too.

Nothing.

Third, Kei accepts he could benefit from learning some patience as he begins a relentless assault ripping downtown Sendai apart. He tears through each piece of paper he finds. Hunts down every single person he knows, even in passing, and spits a torrent of apologies. Kei can’t even keep track of them, he just apologizes to everyone he sees, crisscrossing through Sendai and Tanabata in a grid—he supposes it’s fortunate nearly the entire population is concentrated on the festival rather than being all spread out.

Sorry I used to cut through your yard instead of going around.

Sorry I threatened to beat you up that one time you were being a raging dickhead.

Sorry I acted smarter than you when you asked for help studying.

Kei scours Sendai Tanabata end to end over the course of ten August 7ths. He is methodical. He is thorough. He is arrested eight times before he figures out he has to be done by ten to avoid Daichi’s unforgiving partner.

Nothing. On to the next step.

Leaving Miyagi doesn’t help. Nor leaving Japan, nor the hemisphere.

He tries staying awake again—this time sans the caffeine bender—still nothing.

It’s fine. Kei is not the type to panic over little bumps in the road, it’s the big, long-thought decisions that cause him problems. He just hasn’t found the right approach yet. So, Kei seeks additional perspectives.

Daichi listens patiently for hours of ranting and then buys Kei a box of pocky at the corner store and tells him to run it by Suga.

Suga laughs. He laughs for so long that Kei eats his entire box of pocky and is halfway to leaving before Suga finally pulls it together long enough to suggest the clichés. Confess to the one that got away, make up with someone you lost contact with, start marking things off the bucket list.

Asahi gets a fond little smile on his face and says Kei should do everything he’s always been too afraid to.

Tanaka gets a fond little smile on his face, too, and says Kei should stare down a grizzly bear.

Nishinoya shouts over the roar of wind and ocean waves that if he had one day left to live, he’d go sky diving.

Hinata and Kageyama each ignore Kei’s problem entirely and demand he come down to play volleyball.

“I’m stuck in a time loop,” Kei says to Yamaguchi’s baffled, seven in the morning-face from right outside his door somewhere in the third-ish week. He’s had the X-Files theme stuck in his head the whole way over and it makes him feel on edge; like he has to be hyper-vigilant, in case there are clues or aliens or maybe fairies coasting by, laughing at the poor sucker of a human caught in a time loop.

Yamaguchi stares for a moment. His nose wrinkles. “Okay, come in. How can I help?”

“Seriously?”

“If you wanted to mess with me, you’d say something believable.”

“And here I was, ready to ask if Yachi’s had her ice cream yet, though I guess to be fair it’s probably too early for that. She even awake yet?”

“Knowing Hitoka’s eating ice cream at seven in the morning doesn’t prove anything, she’s done it every day for two weeks.”

Kei feels every bit as sappy as Yamaguchi looks. An unbearable fondness resonates through his voice when he agrees. “Yeah, she does that a lot, huh?”

There has never really been a question of if she’ll get away with it, either. Far as Yamaguchi is concerned, Yachi just shy of nine months can do whatever her heart desires.

“So, time loop, huh?” Yamaguchi asks.

“Yep.” Kei doesn’t know how to begin this conversation. He kicks his shoes off and stares at them, then another of those gut-twisting yawns crashes out. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just start at the beginning.”

Kei tells Yamaguchi everything. The bird, the laundry, the three days of Tanabata begging—Yamaguchi looks entirely too proud of himself for it—the way every day is August 7th and every morning Kei is doomed to wake up two minutes before his alarm goes off.

“I assume you have tried the classics,” Yamaguchi says. “Outlast, outrun, etcetera?”

Kei nods.

“I mean, this is you. I know you have a theory.”

“I think it’s clear that I am dead. Maybe this is purgatory and I’m meant to learn a lesson or pass a test.” Kei hasn’t put much thought into what that lesson could be. There are too many options. Too many coarse parts need sanding down before Kei can be a functional, self-sufficient adult.

“You’re not dead, stop being so morbid.”

“Maybe I’m stuck in a movie.” It’s a character-driven art film about consequences. Or a molasses-paced horror movie that’s just drama up until the midpoint when everything goes tits-over-ass crazy.

“Oh, I like that idea. I bet it’s a rom-com. You deserve one.” Yamaguchi snickers. “Full of so many misunderstandings and miscommunication and pining. Oh, god, so much pining.”

“Shut up, I don’t pine.”

Yamaguchi arches one disbelieving, infuriatingly correct eyebrow that Kei chooses to completely ignore.

“I’m not a horrible person, am I?” Kei asks. He’s always figured he’s pretty okay. Sure, he was kind of a dick back in middle and high school, but so were lots of people. It’s not like he ever intentionally harmed someone—physically, anyway… again, kind of a dick in high school—and he tries to help his friends out when they ask. Usually. “Oh, god, I’m an asshole and I’m going to have to volunteer to read to hospice patients for years to balance it out. Fuck.”

“You’re not an asshole.” Yamaguchi snorts.

“How am I even supposed to make up for all the times I called Kageyama and Hinata a pair of conjoined brain cells separated at birth? I shouldn’t have said that!”

“Okay, even I thought that one was kind of funny though.”

“I pity the tiny human you’ll be responsible for,” Kei says, then, “Shit. Shit. I’m sorry!”

Yamaguchi waves away the apology. “Good thing she’ll have Uncle Tsukki around to pick up my slack.”

It makes Kei’s heart feel too full. Yamaguchi and Yachi talk like this a lot—like he’s going to be a major part of this kid’s life. Honorary parent number three. They include him in this wonderful adventure they’re embarking on, and it swells through his chest and into his throat where it creeps up his face and makes his eyes water. “Cut it out with the Uncle Tsukki crap. Don’t teach your child to call me that.”

“We’ll see,” Yamaguchi says with exactly zero sincerity.

Kei stands outside Karasuno’s gym, volleyball shoes in hand, trying not to pass out from embarrassment. It’s bright and early—no kids, though Kei can hear them shouting all the way in the club room. Not even Takeda has arrived. Only Coach Ukai is inside, kicked back in a folding chair, gnawing on a pen and staring at a bundle of papers on a clipboard.

“Morning,” Kei says. His voice warbles at the end. Ukai already has an eyebrow arched when he turns his head. “Sorry to intrude.”

Ukai huffs. “Cut that shit out, you know you’re always welcome. What brings you?”

I’m bored. I’m lonely. I’m struck with this dumbfounding sensation of needing an adult and you’re the only one I’ve got because even in a time loop I can’t convince myself to bother my mother when she worked a double yesterday.

“Thought I’d stop by since I was around. See how the team’s shaping up this year.”

“They’re getting changed. Stick around and tell me what you think of ‘em.” Ukai kicks the chair next to him then thrusts the clipboard into Kei’s hands when he sits.

The kids go through the same basic warm-up drills Kei remembers once they’re out of the club room. Kei studies the pages on the clipboard: plays, little notes about each player. Ukai leans over and points out each one as they come up to serve against a pair of liberos on the other side of the net and mutters what position he’s thinking of for the ones who are new this year.

Kei misses volleyball. His college team is dismissed until towards the end of summer break and going to practice with the Frogs feels like cheating something important to do right. Kei wants to learn how to play with the Frogs organically, through actual, real practice that goes both ways. It won’t do him any good to learn them if no one is there to learn him back.

The kids round out their serves and break up into two on twos without any prompting. Ukai nods to himself.

“They look good,” Kei says. The kid in Kei’s old number 11 bib gets a hand on a powerful spike. He reminds Kei of Yamaguchi. Kind of tall but not Kei-tall. Spry. Learning to both play smart and weaponize technique.

“Good to hear you think so. Warm up,” Ukai says. “Let’s show your successors why schools known for read-blocking didn’t scare the competition half as much as you did.”

Kei’s face burns hot in the apples of his cheeks. That’s a new one, Kei’s never heard it before. For it to be flung out so loud and casual—a call to arms for Ukai’s new murder of crows—is an unbelievably warm pleasure.

“There’s a reason the Frogs want you so bad,” Ukai says, quieter. “And they do. They wouldn’t have tried to get you twice if they weren’t serious about having you on their roster.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t think I knew about it? Yeah, I knew.” Ukai chews on the cap of his pen. “Didn’t say anything because we didn’t have to have a chat. You made the smart call on your own. Lots of guys with your talent go pro right out of high school, but they’re not as smart as you. College ball was the right choice. Now’s your time for pro. I’m proud of you for figuring that out, but just so you know, I was ready for a chat this time, too.”

Kei rolls his shoulders and starts stretching out his hamstrings. There’s too much emotion welling up at that tiny thing Coach Ukai laid out like it was free. No one connected to volleyball has ever given Kei such blatant approval for choosing college. It’s a little bitter that Ukai didn’t, all those years ago. Akiteru’s disapproval would have gone down a lot easier.

“This is Tsukishima, Number Three, class of 2015,” Ukai pronounces once Kei is ready. He slaps Kei between the shoulder blades so hard, his shoes squeak. “Lots of players get stuck thinking that blocking isn’t as flashy as spikes or as central to morale as a strong setter. But I guarantee you, anyone who saw Tsukishima here kill-block Ushiwaka when he was just a first-year doesn’t think that anymore.”

A delicate murmur engulfs Ukai’s students. Figures Ushiwaka is still infamous, a terror whose name is whispered in awe.

“Pick two to block with you,” Ukai says to Kei. Then, to the students, “Let’s see if any of you can get a shot past him.”

It’s fun to be the backbone of his side; just Kei and two scrawny first-years against a rotating team of six. Kei has what he’s pretty sure is a middle blocker, and maybe a wing spiker. They’re both fairly decent and take instruction well. It doesn’t take long before they’re following Kei’s lead and starting to suss out what exactly he’s catching on his reads. Only a couple of shots get past them. Kei would have been embarrassed if it’d been any more.

Ukai nods Kei outside once they’re wrapped up and the kids start cleaning up the gym. “C’mon, walk with me to the store.”

“You have some promising kids this year,” Kei says.
 
“Yeah, we draw some talent now,” Ukai agrees. “People want to come to Karasuno for volleyball again, it’s a pretty damn exciting time to be alive. Ain’t just for the little giants in our history, either.”

Kei can’t deny that feels good. He got to be part of something amazing, and even though it took him longer than the rest to really get into it, he got there in the end, and now, if he ever manages to fix whatever the hell broke, he’ll get to stand with all those monsters again.

Ukai leaves Kei to his musings the rest of the way to Sakanoshita, gesturing him inside with a sharp nod. Kei browses for a moment while Ukai grabs his apron and relieves the older woman behind the counter.

“Here,” Ukai says, holding out a pair of meat buns wrapped up in parchment paper. “You know the deal. Food after practice.”

“Thanks.”

“What really brought you over?” Ukai asks. He looks Kei up and down, frowns, and shoves another meat bun into his hands.

Kei rolls his eyes and wonders if he can get away without eating it. Judging from Ukai’s you think you’re slick, kid eyebrow lift, probably not. “I’ve just been feeling nostalgic lately.”

Betrayed by the larger universe. Lost and without guidance.

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by. Was good to see you, and it was good for the kids to play with you, too. I know you don’t like hearing it, but you’re every bit as good as the rest of them. I’ve got kids that want to be Karasuno’s next iron wall—couple of ‘em were there today, and they’re going to remember this for a long time.”

August 8th, Kei will be back. So those kids have something to remember for a long time, some small recognition that it’s not all about setters and spikers like Kei learned at a training camp in Tokyo when he was fifteen.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Any time. Now, eat your food and scram. You’ve got just as much shit to do as me.”

Kei rolls his eyes and takes a big, showy bite. “Hey, long shot, but have you seen my brother around?”

“Came by the store yesterday. Seemed to be doing alright. Why? Something happen?”

“No, he’s just not answering his phone and he’s not home.”

“Maybe he met someone.” Ukai shrugs.

Wouldn’t that figure? Akiteru finally meets someone on the one day Kei is willing to admit how much he wants him around.

Kei can do anything he wants. Nothing matters, there are no lasting consequences. He never has to pay.

On some level he always understood, but one day he wakes up on the other side of it, staring at all the tangled wires in back. All this piddly crap so far is nothing more than an unenthusiastic caricature of spreading his wings, embracing his freedom, and halfheartedly trying to solve a puzzle he’s missing half the pieces of. It’s all stuff he could work himself up to in the real world, eventually.

Kei is not doing anything he wouldn’t if this whole time loop problem simply went away.

Growing up absent a parent is a yawing deep—it is immovable and formative. Kei accepted a long time ago that he simply doesn’t get to know all of where he came from. There are things he had to figure out on his own and others he had to fumble through with Akiteru and still others that are lost in a void; Kei doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, only that there’s a lot of it and it’s all weird and varied.

If Kei can do anything he wants, and no one will ever know but him, it becomes only a matter of whether or not Kei will survive it.

It takes a while to rationalize. A few more loops of internal debate. Catch that dog running away from the kid in the park; help Ukai stock the shelves at Sakanoshita; stare at the V-League contact page until the address and phone number are seared into Kei’s memory in the shape of Kuroo’s smirk slicing across a hallway in Sendai gymnasium.

And there’s another thing Kei wouldn’t do in a world where the other shoe drops. The musing slots into Kei’s routine so effortlessly, he almost doesn’t notice. Every day he wakes up and curses both birds and aliens. Angsts about deadbeat dads. Angsts about Kuroo.

No one but him will ever know, except—is that true? What if Yamaguchi is right, what if this is a rom-com and Kei goes to talk to Kuroo and then August 7th ends? What if Kei works up the courage to ask ‘why’ and it’s a story of forgiveness and family, and Kei has to live with it after?

Kei plays the lottery and gives all the money to the sweet widow who checked in on him when his mother worked late. He gets a crow tattooed over his heart and watches every single episode of the X-Files. One day, he calls Akiteru non-stop; straight to voicemail, from 5:13 to midnight. He plays volleyball with the Karasuno kids again. Drinks at the shady bar no one ever admits going to and picks up the tallest men with the most gravity-defying hair he can find until he can’t stand the smell or taste of whiskey and can’t remember which Tuesday it is.

Somewhere in the middle, Kei accepts which of his two possibilities he can easier live with and looks up Tsukishima Naoki for the first time in his life. All he finds of the coward is one obituary courtesy of his loving family. Survived by his wife, one daughter. No mention of the Tsukishimas he left behind.

An endless, yawing deep.

The next morning, Kei drags himself to Yamaguchi’s and listens to the little whooshes in Yachi’s belly as her fingers card through his hair. He imagines the baby with Yamaguchi’s wide grin and freckles, blond like her mother. Maybe she’ll grow up to be smart and snarky like Uncle Tsukki used to be.

“Nothing works.” Kei sighs.

“Nothing so far.” Yamaguchi is cautious with Kei today, has been ever since he finally wrung it out of him that Kei went and found his father and it didn’t go quite how he thought it would. In all of Kei’s limited fantasizing, his father was always alive to hear what Kei thinks of him.

“How long has it been, now?” Yachi asks.

Kei doesn’t know anymore. He got angry and lost track. Hasn’t been able to find a bearing since. It makes him feel weightless and lost: no anchor, no frame of reference. There is nothing to spare him from spinning around and around August 7th—and that isn’t the worst part. The worst part is that now Kei is thinking of all the little, daydreaming chunks of his heart, and of all the things he’s ever wanted slipping through his fingers before he ever finds the resolve to go for them.

Like last week, Sendai Gymnasium. Kuroo Tetsurou staring from down the hall with his mouth hung open like he’s seen a ghost, then the careful, slow twist of his lips into a blinding smile wrapped around a warm “Hey, Tsukki.”

“A couple of months.”

It’s because Kei just saw him for the first time in years. Kuroo keeps cropping up because he’s distracting in every possible way and Kei is in this awful state where every little thing feels like it’s caught in water swirling down a sink drain.

Falling into the trap is easy. Kuroo is smart. He’s an excellent problem-solver and he’s not likely to coo and fawn over Kei or treat him like he’s broken—or insane—and Kei misses him so much he may as well be eighteen and stupidly smashing the battery out of his phone all over again.

Yachi brushes her fingers through Kei’s hair. His breath stutters on the exhale, but the next one doesn’t go so bad. It’s an ache. Nothing more. Kei aches for the things he took for granted because now that he has the chance to gather them all back up, what little waited around turns to dust at midnight.

“Did I tell you I saw Kuroo last week?” Kei has already had this conversation with Yamaguchi three times.

“No,” Yamaguchi says, and there are those kid gloves again. “What happened?”

“Nothing. He was at Sendai Gymnasium when I went to fill out my papers for the Frogs. Said ‘hi.’ That’s all.”

Yachi cranes her neck around to get a better look at Kei’s face and mutters, “Nekoma, right? You haven’t talked about him in a long time.”

“Things kind of fell apart. We aren’t really friends anymore.”

“I see.” Yachi considers Kei for a weighty moment, then stretches both arms over her head and yawns. Her legs bounce. “Okay. You two talk about it but first, someone has to help me up. I have to pee so bad. Then I have to sleep. Then I’m going after that chocolate ice cream.”

Yamaguchi is perfectly able to haul Yachi up on his own, but Kei grabs an arm and helps anyway.

“Oh, that’s dangerous,” Yachi says. “Set the precedent and you might wind up in the bathroom rotation. Sometimes I can’t get up by myself in there, either.”

“I draw the line at helping you off the toilet.”

Yamaguchi rolls his eyes. “Not like you can see anything anyway.”

“It’s the principle of the thing. She’s your baby mama. You get bathroom duty.”

“Ah, but only for want of a nail.” Yachi smacks a noisy kiss to Kei’s chest—the highest she can reach without manhandling him down or climbing up on the coffee table—then presses a sweeter one to Yamaguchi’s cheek when he leans down to do the same. Cheerfully, she adds, “Wake me and suffer.”

Once Yachi’s through with the bathroom and the bedroom door has clicked shut, Yamaguchi turns his attention to Kei with razor-sharp focus.

“Does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what happened with you and Kuroo?”

It’s not the first time Yamaguchi has asked or even the first time Kei has deigned to answer, but it’s all within the confines of the loop. It won’t be the last no matter what Kei does this time. None of this is real. Yamaguchi will never remember, it’ll stay Kei’s quiet, missed moment; the thoughtless choice he has to live with.

“I… I led him on. A lot. Akiteru and I were fighting and it was weird not having you around and I felt really lonely all of a sudden and didn’t know how to deal with it.” It’s not any easier to get out than it was the first three times. “When he asked me out, I said I’d think about it, then I just… freaked. It was suddenly this real, huge thing and I couldn’t figure out which part of it made me feel like I was suffocating, so I shut the whole thing down. Never answered the phone or saw him again.”

A couple of years ago, it hurt. Kei never put much effort into dealing with it, just gathered up every wide and varied feeling on the matter, squashed them into a tumbleweed, and sank them into the abyss to be forgotten. There was never any consideration that it might come up again, regardless of how short-sighted that was, and it wasn’t until he was staring at Kuroo at Sendai Gymnasium that Kei realized tumbleweeds aren’t soluble.

“So? Just go apologize, you make everything so dramatic.”

“I don’t think I’m exactly welcome in his life anymore,” Kei says.

“Why not?”

Kenma knocking on the door with an aluminum baseball bat, ire rolling off him in vengeful waves, demanding Kei not come back if it’s only to jerk around his friend, for starters. “It was made clear that I needed to be decisive. For everyone’s sake.”

Yamaguchi gives him a look so obviously sad and disappointed. “Don’t you want to… I mean, if you can do whatever you want, what do you have to worry about?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? If Kei can do anything he wants, and none of it matters, then the worst thing that could happen is it sets him free.

Oh, God, maybe it is a rom-com.

Kuroo sticks in Kei’s head; he weaseled his way in there and won’t get out. Yamaguchi’s question haunts Kei for a dozen more loops full of going to shrines, helping his neighbors with their groceries, calling his mother, and putting away his laundry with the futile hope that maybe if he can stop being such a wreck, the universe will have pity on him.

Suga said to confess. Yamaguchi and Asahi said he should use the opportunity to do the things he’s always wanted to. Tanaka and Nishinoya told him to face his fears.

It’s been years and Kei has moved on. What bothers him now is how anti-climactic it was. One day, Kei stopped calling, and then another day Kuroo stopped calling, too. After that, Kei made sure that Kuroo couldn’t ever call again because even if he was the one to put the brakes on, it still stung like rejection.

For someone as outgoing as Kuroo, there’s little of him on the internet. All his social media is professional and Kuroo seems to be awful about checking it. Three full Tuesdays go by before Kei finally sucks it up and dials the phone number from the V-League site and wrangles two transfers to Kuroo’s extension.

A bored “hello” sounds over the line.

“Hi. It’s… it’s Tsukishima.” Kei can picture the exact face Kuroo’s making. Wide eyes. Brows drawn together into little ski-slopes reaching toward each other above his nose. Lips barely parted, enough to give away his surprise but not enough to draw attention to it.

This was a terrible idea.

“Well, I can’t say I expected this, but it sure is a pleasant surprise.”

A hundred raging anxieties over reaching out crumble to dust in an instant. Kei can still hear Kuroo’s mood in his voice; there’s no hint of disdain or disappointment echoing through the speaker.

Kei says, “I was wondering if you want to get lunch,” through the frog in his throat.

Wringing Kuroo’s location and the barest outlines of his schedule out of him is pathetically easy after that. Kei ends the conversation with an ominous “see you tomorrow,” and hangs up before Kuroo has the chance to negotiate for more.

Kei makes it to the front doors of Kuroo’s office building before he turns around and heads back to Sendai.

The next day, he gets to the lobby then huddles up with his headphones and twelve hours of the sort of grungy electronica that feels like metal plates grinding against his eardrums in the last car of a train bound for Fukuoka.

The third time, Kei’s heart spews lava as he strides into the building and up four flights of stairs. He needs two laps to find Kuroo’s office, just another closet-sized hole in the wall with a single window and a desk that takes up seventy percent of the space. Kuroo leans back in his chair, spinning around while he tosses a palm-sized ball at the ceiling. He’s talking to someone; must be on the phone.

For days, Kei has been considering this moment and thinking of what he should say. A lot of regret lingers—for lost chances, for subjecting Kuroo to the slow death of being avoided, for robbing himself of a chance to be happy even if he didn’t understand how at the time.

Kei’s trying not to be a raging asshole about this, just in case, so he cracks his knuckles against the door frame in two rapid knocks rather than burst in.

A slow, wide grin spreads over Kuroo’s face and three days of plotting in the back of train cars all goes sailing out the window. “As I live and breathe. Bokuto, you will never believe who just walked into the office.”

From Kuroo’s phone, Bokuto’s voice booms. ‘What? Who?’

The worst that could happen is they both have to live with it.

Kei shuts the door behind him, strides to Kuroo’s desk, and slowly, delicately, with far too much hesitation for the entrance he made, encourages him out of his chair and wraps both hands over his face. It’s polite to give Kuroo a moment to get away, but Kei can only spare one before he’ll lose his nerve and have to start all over again in the morning.

“Seriously?” Kuroo asks, thrill-backed laughter in his voice. He makes no move to get away.

Kei could answer, but he’s tired of thinking about it.

Kuroo’s head tilts to accommodate Kei’s angle immediately, and his hands run up, over Kei’s sides, then around his back. There’s no awkwardness with height. No silly battles over who has control over the moment. Nothing intense or greedy about it, just Kuroo’s quiet confidence surging up to meet Kei’s desperation head-on.

This is the best kiss Kei’s ever had in his life. He’s suffocating all over again. Wrapped head-to-toe in an electric blanket in zero-degree weather. Dizzy. Fuzzy. All those soft, hissing ‘z’ words floating around, winding his arms tighter, pulling harder. His heart could pound through his breastbone. He could do this forever.

A sleepy, curious sort of look scatters over Kuroo’s face when he breaks away. “Missed you, too.”

“I—” It hits Kei like one of Ushiwaka’s spikes to the chest. Something searing hot and acidic burns his throat closed. His legs feel twitchy; tied up and anxious. For a split-second, his vision goes dark and Kei has to suck in a breath through his angry, closed-off throat or he’ll pass out.

The confused tilt of Kuroo’s lips flips into a knowing grin; his brows pull up instead of furrowing in. Kuroo tilts his head to the right so he’s examining Kei from a new angle, like that will somehow solve the mystery of why he’s stormed in and done this seemingly random thing. All that lava in Kei’s heart is liquefying his lungs.

This is perfect. “Oh, no.”

‘What’s going on?’—an earsplitting crash—‘Goddamn it, Tsum-Tsum!’

“I have to go.” Kei doesn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth, only that all of his blood has pooled to his legs and he has to run, now. He can’t hear. He can’t breathe. There is only the door and his pulse hammering in his toes. Four flights of stairs. Outside, there is nothing but the wide, open sky swallowing him up and the horizon flipping sideways and the concrete sidewalk scraping his palms open—

—and it is 5:13. Two minutes before the alarm. The parakeet outside the window whistles the opening theme of The X-Files. Kei clutches a fist to his sternum to keep his ribs from splintering under the volcanic pressure in his chest.

Kei chooses to believe he is forming a hypothesis.

This isn’t about Kuroo. It’s about the whole I passed out in front of the V-League headquarters and wound up reset thing. Something unusual has occurred; Kei would be remiss not to investigate further. Every doubt, every nervous pang over it is ruthlessly quashed.

The V-League headquarters are somehow even more ominous this time. The building towers into the sky, huge, dark, and looming. Kei musters every bit of stubbornness he has and marches straight inside. Some hunk of steel isn’t going to intimidate Kei, and he will not let Kuroo win without even knowing he’s playing.

This time, Kei knocks a little softer on the door frame, and he does not charge into the office. He offers a timid smile and a quiet, “Hello, Kuroo.”

“Whoa.” Kuroo wobbles a bit in his chair before catching his balance. “Hey, Bo, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” Kuroo doesn’t wait for Bokuto to answer before he hangs up.

“Well, well, well, as I live and breathe. What’s up, Tsukki?”

“I was in town. Thought I’d see if you want to catch up.”

Kei cannot imagine any universe, any loop where the answer is no. Kuroo’s smile is too wide and genuine to be anything but enthusiastic.

“Yeah, let me send some emails real quick and I’m yours.”

This would be a whole lot easier if Kuroo didn’t say it in such a low voice, dripping with subtext.

“You’re stuck in a time loop?” Kuroo asks over a bowl of ramen with the air of someone convinced there’s a punch line coming.

“Hypothetically.”

They’re seated at a quiet table in the back of a swanky little restaurant out on the west side of Tokyo Bay. Kuroo canceled his meeting but was unwilling to give up the reservation. He spent the whole train ride and walk over ranting about how much Kei will just love this ramen.

Kuroo is, infuriatingly, correct. The food is delicious and the company is so much easier than it has any right to be and Kei… Kei should have done this sooner. In every way.

“Huh.” The side of Kuroo’s mouth scrunches up for a couple of seconds. “You try like, helping little old ladies cross the street and shit?”

“Yes.”

“What about apologizing to everyone you came within a meter of between the ages of fifteen and nineteen?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Kei hates that it makes him laugh so hard.

Kuroo leans both elbows on the table and hunches in. “What about professing your love to the one who got away? You try that?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

Kuroo’s grin widens. “You show up out of the blue, ask me to lunch to catch up and then pull this demurring stop flirting thing? If I were flirting, hypothetically, I don’t think I’d be convinced to stop.”

Some far away, horrified part of Kei’s brain registers that he’s leaning in, too. Kei is eighteen and stupid all over again. There is no too deep. He never has to make a return trip. Every night, Kei zaps back all on his own.

“What would you do? If you were in a time loop and anything you do goes away at midnight?”

“Wow,” Kuroo breathes. “What an amazing thought experiment.”

“Oh my god, are you getting off on it?”

A huge, barking laugh barrels out of Kuroo’s chest. “Maybe? What a question. I think I’d spend a solid week at the beach drinking liquor more expensive than my salary.”

“I should amend: what would you do to get out of it?”

Kuroo snorts. “I mean, there are the clichés, right? But I’m guessing you’ve thought of that if you’re asking. Actually, no, if you’re here, asking me, I’m going to guess you have—within the confines of our thought experiment, of course—tried everything except that whole confession thing. Tsukki, am I the one that got away?”

He is. Kuroo knows it, Kei knows it, and not one single driving force in the universe will ever make Kei admit it, especially not hunched over two bowls of steaming ramen in an uppity restaurant out by Tokyo Bay.

“Let’s assume I’ve done that, too.”

“But did you? In this bizarre alternate universe where you may or may not be stuck in a time loop, I mean.”

Barging into the V-League headquarters and kissing Kuroo was definitely some sort of confession, even if Kei didn’t stick around to see the aftermath of it. “Yeah.”

“What’d I do?”

“Who says it was you?”

“Fine, we’ll play it your way. Tell me what you think the first steps should be.” Kuroo rolls his eyes and effectively breaks the hazy moment swirling over their table.

Kei walks through everything he can remember. Running, staying up, looking up his father, helping all the little old ladies to Kuroo’s unbridled amusement, and all the penance. All of it.

Kuroo blows a thoughtful raspberry up at the ceiling. “That does kind of cover my immediate thoughts. I mean, I expected that—you’re too smart to miss something obvious. What’d you do yesterday?”

“Tanabata, with Yamaguchi. We just screwed around the rest of the day. School’s on break, not much going on.”

Kuroo shoots something of a devastated look across the table. “I just called you smart. Why do you have to go and prove me wrong immediately? Tanabata? Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Why?”

“What’d you wish for?”

“Didn’t.”

Kuroo very clearly does not believe him. Then again, Kei is sort of hoping Kuroo doesn’t believe any of it.

“I really didn’t, it’s just a coincidence.”

“You know better than to believe in those sorts of coincidences, but if that’s what you want to go with, sure, go with it.” Kuroo flags down the waiter and pays for them both, then kicks the leg of Kei’s chair. “Wanna get out of here? Go somewhere fun? There’s a crazy-looking monster movie that just came out—seems up your alley.”

“I think I should head back to Miyagi.”

“Too bad,” Kuroo says. He holds the door open for Kei then knocks their shoulders together. Kei takes the cue and turns left, toward the station they arrived from. “I had big plans to convince you to stick around. I know a place that serves the best breakfast.”

Kuroo has always been like this. He’s a flirt—likes to be affectionate and open and push buttons just to see what they do—and Kei honestly thought he wouldn’t have to endure it anymore. It’s been three years. Kei ended things horribly. Screaming and throwing stolen ramen bowls on the street corner would be easier to deal with.

“I want it to be clear that I am not running away from you, just leaving very abruptly and without explanation.” Kei takes long, slow steps backward toward the entrance to the train station.

Kuroo makes a show of rolling his eyes, waves, and backs away, too. “Don’t be a stranger. I’ll have you know I have access to the V-League contact list.”

“Should I take that to mean you already have my number?”

“No. I’d rather you give it to me yourself.”

One second, Kei is rattling off the numbers and prying the station doors open, relishing the surprised look on Kuroo’s face as he scrambles to catch up. The doors close. Kei takes four overly long, steady breaths and heads through the turnstiles.

He blinks awake. 5:13.

“Oh, fuck.”

Chapter Text

Kei should have known better.

There are precious few absolutes in the world: Yamaguchi will always lend a sympathetic ear whether Kei deserves it or not; his mother makes the best soba in the country; Coach Ukai will always make time to listen even if Kei refuses to speak; and Kuroo will absolutely, one hundred percent of the time, break anything given to him whether or not it’s breakable.

Take now, for instance. Kuroo has managed to break time even worse than Kei did.

Once is a fluke. Twice is harder to write off but in no way conclusive. So, here Kei is, walking into the V-League headquarters for attempt number three, clinging to the flimsy excuse of testing his hypothesis.

Again, Kei walks into Kuroo’s office and says, “I was in town. Thought I’d see if you want to catch up.”

This time, Kuroo gives Kei a wary look, invites him to ramen at the posh restaurant out by the bay, and interrogates him for over an hour about where he’s been and what he’s been up to and is Kei sure he’s feeling alright?

After lunch, Kei rattles off his number like before. This time he stays put, too, feet planted on the sidewalk outside the train station as he watches Kuroo walk away. Once Kuroo rounds the corner, out of sight, Kei blinks and he’s home, in bed, and oh, this is just fucking perfect.

Kei never much got over his bullheadedness and he no longer suffers a sense of self-preservation since having it beaten out of him by this infernal time loop, so he goes straight back for round four. Kuroo is more agreeable this time, staring over their empty bowls as they once again discuss the hypothetical. A careful frown decorates his face.

“I’d call into work for you,” Kuroo says with that same gleam in his eyes as when he wants to poke at something just to see how it works. “Hypothetically, of course. Don’t have anything urgent today, just little stuff, preliminary meetings and some follow-up, and it’s all my projects—nothing big for the league. Wouldn’t kill me to miss it. I think if you showed up on my doorstep, I’d be inclined to help you.”

What a terrible idea. Kei is disoriented and turned around, and he shouldn’t do this. “What’s your address?”

“I’m in that big building on the corner of— you know what? I’ll show you.”

Kei will never get used to how adept Kuroo is at immediately punishing him for every single lapse of judgment.

“I’m not going home with you.”

“Dirty. I was only going to show you the building, but if you want to come up, I won’t say no.”

Kei used to be the one of his friends who had his shit together. He was the level-headed one. The one you could count on to keep calm and think rationally. When everyone else was gearing up to jump off a bridge, Kei was the one standing off to the side, talking people down.

Kei used to be a lot of things.

Getting to Kuroo’s apartment first thing in the morning is a taller order than it seems at first glance.

Obstacle one: Kei misses the first and second trains out.

Obstacle two: the third train has shitty wi-fi and the route goes in and out of dead zones with enough frequency to make trying to do anything online infuriating.

Obstacle three: with nothing to keep occupied, Kei falls asleep to the lulling motion of the train and wakes up at home, 5:13. On the next try, Kei has to remember to grab a book on his way out the door or be bored out of his mind for two and a half hours of struggling to stay awake.

Obstacle four: Kuroo has left for work by the time Kei gets to his apartment so Kei, again, adjusts his approach.

The second train out of Sendai fares better than the third. Kei can make it with time to spare, it’s not nearly so crowded, and he has plenty to distract him from all the nerves dancing around in his stomach to aggressive mariachi music.

Obstacle five: getting off the train, Kei gets shoved into an unfortunate soul clinging to an obscenely large bubble tea and winds up soaked.

He picks a different car.

Obstacle six: an overly friendly dog shoves Kei into the shrubs outside Kuroo’s apartment building and puts Kei in such a foul mood, he turns around and boards the train to Fukuoka again.

The second train out is evil. It’s cursed. Kei refocuses his efforts, does some math, maps out a route, and aims for the 5:25 departure. He lives ten minutes from the station. Less, if he runs. He can make it, he just has to figure out how.

Kei may be starting to take this personally.

No time to get into a presentable state. Instead, Kei becomes obsessed with the most efficient movements—getting his glasses on his face in one motion, the exact placement of socks in the laundry basket. It’s like developing a skill, training muscle memory. Finally, there is something Kei can work on, something he can improve, and he latches onto it with a desperate grip. The margin of error to make it is razor-thin. One misstep and Kei will be stuck waiting for the cursed second train and while that is theoretically acceptable, he is violently opposed to it.

Kei slashes his morning routine down to the bones. Brush teeth. Put on clothes—literally any clothes. Sprint. Acid churns through his veins. His heart hammers so hard his head aches with five days of finals stress, no sleep, too long wearing his glasses. His hair is a mess, his socks don’t match, and it’s so close he nearly gets stuck in the closing door of the train, but he makes it.

Victory. A foe vanquished. Finally, after all this time, Kei has accomplished something and that floaty satisfaction carries him all the way to Kuroo’s front door. It even manages to stick around for about half a second after Kuroo chokes out a flabbergasted, “What?” with every strand of hair standing at attention and jeans only zipped, not buttoned.

“Good morning.” Kei didn’t think this part through at all.

“Either that or a really good dream,” Kuroo says. He tilts his head to the side and takes in Kei’s messy appearance. “I don’t think I’d dream up a you looking like this though. Feels wrong to ask if you’re okay, so I guess come in?”

Kuroo’s apartment is pretty nice despite being slightly wider than Kei’s wingspan and only containing a coffee maker, battered toaster oven, and refrigerator in the misshapen zone defined as the kitchen. The counter is a block that juts out, smashed up against the opposite wall from the door and half as wide as the limited space. Cubbies are tucked beneath the counter and a cabinet hangs above, extending out a bit on each side like it doesn’t truly belong there—it looks cheap enough maybe that’s the case. Maybe some previous tenant hung it in a desperate attempt for more storage and then management never took it down.

One wall is covered in bookcases from the kitchen clear to the sofa wedged between them and the balcony doors at the far end. The other has a television mounted on it and a gap leading to what Kei assumes is Kuroo’s bedroom, partially obscured by a decorative wall of distressed wooden planks that don’t quite fit together.

Mostly, the apartment looks like it must have when Kuroo moved in. The personal touches are limited, and the only ones with any personality are those bookcases—but those scream Kuroo so loud, no more is needed to firmly entrench the notion that this is absolutely, one-hundred percent Kuroo Tetsurou’s home.

“I’m going to interrogate you in a minute,” Kuroo says. A bleating yawn crashes out of him.

“Take your time.”

Kuroo seems happy to do just that, disappearing for a few minutes before coming back slightly more put together in a different t-shirt, jeans buttoned, hair mildly combed. He lets out a long, tired breath that fizzes between his lips, then fusses with the coffee pot and pulls two mugs from the cabinet above. A white one slides across the counter toward Kei. Glossy ceramic slathered under crisp black writing that says ‘I really like your’ on one line with a doodle of a dachshund beneath.

“Really, Kuroo?”

“I know, I know, unearned compliments, but it’s a fair assumption to make for anyone I’m sharing coffee with. I mean, why else would you be here?” Kuroo asks with a wolfish grin. He fills his—far more appropriate—V-League emblazoned coffee mug nearly to the brim and passes Kei the rest of the pot. Another really dangles off Kei’s tongue when he sees how little is left. Kei pours it in his mug, shoves the pot back onto the burner, and motions for Kuroo to restart the brew.

“How ambitious.”

“Get over it. You’re the inaugural guest. Nobody’s dachshund is any better than yours.”

“At least have the decency to say it like there’s not a ‘so far’ tacked on the end.”

Kuroo grins, suddenly wide awake and mischievous. “I have a feeling that wouldn’t necessarily be the case.”

Kei doesn’t know how to deal with Kuroo flirting anymore. It’s both jarring and nostalgic, something foreign that gets his vocal cords all tangled up and makes his throat feel like he’s battling strep.

“So, you going to tell me how you know where I live? And what brings you over at—” Kuroo jabs the screen of his phone—“eight-thirty in the morning?”

“You told me that if I were to show up on your doorstep and tell you I’m stuck in a time loop, you’d probably take the day off to help me out.”

Kuroo makes a complicated face—a considering eyebrow, thoughtful frown twisted over half his mouth, nose scrunched on one side with a flared nostril. “Not quite what I was hoping for.”

Kei spins his coffee mug around so the dachshund faces Kuroo and takes a long, deliberate sip. “Shocker.”

“Well, I missed you, so I guess I’ll play along. Sure, you’re stuck in a time loop. Let’s go with that. Catch me up.”

It shouldn’t be so tempting, but Kuroo has that same posture and tone he did back when Kei was fifteen and sort of drowning—some snark and sarcasm padding a thorny core of genuine care so it’s not too rough going down—and the truth is Kei missed him, too. More than he knows how to describe or deal with.

“I don’t even know where to start. It’s been months.”

“Start at the beginning. What’d you do yesterday?” Kuroo asks.

“Tanabata with Yamaguchi and Yachi.”

“Oh,” Kuroo snickers. “What did you wish for that got you stuck in a time loop?”

“Didn’t.”

Kuroo doesn’t believe him at all.

In some grand, scheming way this is deliverance. Starting over. The second wind. Kei has entered the Kuroo era of this time loop.

“Tell you what,” Kuroo says at 10:32, wholly unconvinced, wearing that gonna take you for an MRI grimace he sometimes gets after looking at Kei like he can’t figure out why the city dump is delivering him his very own Tsukishima, bright and early on Tuesday morning. The look is immovable. Once Kuroo decides Kei has lost it, he cannot be convinced otherwise and Kei has to either flee or submit to the hospital. “I’ll take the day off, just have to run an errand real quick, first.”

“Sure. An errand.” Kei had forgotten what an abysmal liar Kuroo is. He’s aware of it, too, barely even tries because what’s the point? He doesn’t even have tells, more a terrible disposition for deception. When Kuroo lies, he says things like even he doesn’t believe them.

Maybe Kei can get Kuroo thinking in the right direction in the waiting room.

The next day, third pot of coffee brewing, an unending supply of leaves falling out of Kei’s hair, 11:02 this time, Kuroo looks Kei up and down and says, “I wonder if there’s something so outlandish, so insane we could do that it’d shock the timeline linear again.”

Then, Kuroo does the unthinkable and kisses Kei right there in the kitchen. It tastes like coffee and toothpaste, feels amazing—like at the V-League—is so unbelievably satisfying that Kei is instantly ruined through and through. His neck goes hot from the light trickling through the balcony doors. Kuroo’s palms snake over his skin, burning him alive.

The timeline isn’t shocked back into order but Kei is so thrown off, he flees for a reset then misses the first train out in a haze of peppermint and has to deal with the dog and the shrub and more leaves in his hair. He doesn’t tell Kuroo anything about the loop. Kuroo kisses him at two in the afternoon anyway.

Maybe it’s divine retribution. A plague on Kei’s house. The worst part is it’s unavoidable. Kei cannot ignore it. Nothing else has changed and of course, Kuroo is smack dab in the middle. The problem is that Kei doesn’t know how to deal with it. Kuroo refuses to be consistent. He destroys every hypothesis, obliterates any and all plans, and deprives Kei of every opportunity to gain his footing.

Five days in a row, Kei meticulously follows the exact same procedure. Arrives at the same moment. Says the same words. Reacts in all the same ways.

Kuroo responds to each by: taking Kei to a pub that plays nothing but bagpipe music; dragging Kei along to an advertising meeting and badgering him the whole time about the Miyagi Rec Center; calling into work and insisting on a sci-fi movie marathon; gently smiling across the kitchen counter while he waits for Kei to spill his guts and explain why he is at Kuroo’s apartment at 8:12 looking like a disaster; and teasing Kei about how if he hangs around, Kuroo knows a place that serves unbelievable waffles.

Without the excuse of the time loop, there’s no reason to hang around, so every day ends mid-afternoon with the universe cackling, ‘try again,’ and Kei once again blinking up at his dirty ceiling wondering what sort of license one needs to hunt avian pests.

It’s insane. Kei cannot wrap his head around it. There must be some minute flash of emotion that plays across his face before he even notices sending Kuroo off in these wildly different directions.

Yamaguchi doesn’t do this. Every time Kei doesn’t answer his call in the morning, he comes over. If Kei tells him about Kuroo, Yamaguchi encourages him to go to Tokyo. Yachi always eats ice cream for breakfast. Each day they go to Tanabata, they run into Saeko, she throws herself up to her tiptoes to hug Kei, refuses to stop calling him ‘Little Bro’, and demands they come to watch her drum group perform.

“Tell you what,” Kuroo says, faucet running cold water into his mug to cool off his coffee on day fourteen. He tosses the mix back like a shooter. “I’ll take you out. What do you want to do, Mister One day and no consequences?"

“I don’t care,” Kei says. “Something fun.”

Kuroo’s smile is both the most terrifying and the most thrilling thing Kei has ever seen in his life.

Music rumbles underfoot long before they’re inside. The face of the club is blank—no signs, no bouncer, no indication whatsoever that it’s even there besides the rumbling asphalt.

Kei has never been anywhere so loud and throbbing in his life. It’s amazing. Pitch black sliced by rainbows overhead. The smell of alcohol and sweat. An odd, foreign taste to the atmosphere.

“Loosen up,” Kuroo shouts so close his lips brush Kei’s ear. Kei can still barely hear him. “No consequences, right?”

Accepting the first drink is easy: radioactive green glowing under the blacklights, cold and slick in Kei’s sweaty grip. The whole place is alive. Part of Kei feels cheated: he’s three years too late, deprived of this experience when it would have been formative. The rest of him smiles under the strobe lights. Lets Kuroo ply him with drinks. Doesn’t concern himself with not being able to dance at all, instead focusing on the gargantuan bass thumping in his chest and muted neons shining in Kuroo’s hair.

The songs all bleed together. Kei loses and finds Kuroo in rapid succession, over and over, and this weird, basement club is Kei’s whole life spun in moments, bits and pieces: weaving through the crowds; getting showered in glitter in the bathroom; plucking another Day-Glo drink from the bartender’s hand and wrapping his lips around the black-light reactive straw.

It occurs to him his headphones have sat idle on his desk for weeks. Does he even have time to grab them in the morning? Is it worth the risk? Is Kei willing to give up one or two days to get the timing right?

Kuroo’s head is thrown back above the sea of strangers he’s laughing with. When he catches Kei watching, he starts slithering his way through the mass of bodies. No, it’s not worth missing the first train at all.

“How did you get so much glitter on you?” Kuroo laughs with his head tilted to the right and magenta lights dancing in his eyes. His fingers brush over Kei’s cheek twice, then trace the shape of his ear.

“The bathroom is the scariest place I’ve ever been in my life,” Kei shouts back. He shakes his head to dislodge some of the glitter and is rewarded with it scattering all over Kuroo’s face and clothes. A massive strobe—thick and viscous dish-soap blue—slides over Kuroo’s glittery face and away. Kei has never seen so many colors in one swath.

“Maybe I should go party in the bathroom, then.”

“It’s probably your scene,” Kei says, and then the rest dies in his throat at the hungry look plastered all over Kuroo’s face.

Kei is going to let Kuroo kiss him again. Maybe here, maybe in a couple of minutes, maybe halfway back to Kuroo’s place while he talks up his mystery waffles—who knows. It is a certainty that Kuroo will kiss him, and Kei is always going to let it happen. This is the perfect crime. Kei gets what he wants without ever keeping it and at 5:13 no one is ever the wiser—not Kuroo and not any of their baseball bat-wielding, Tanabata-obsessed friends.

“Hey, you wanna—”

The strobes race over them in rapid succession: fluorescent yellow and Malibu pink this time, wrapping around Kei; a blinding tunnel forcing all his attention on Kuroo. “Okay.”

The air outside is sticky warm, but after all that basement humidity and the blazing spotlights, it’s a clammy rush curling over Kei’s shoulders and tickling an explosion of goosebumps over his nape that brush uncomfortably against his shirt collar with every step. It’s a high school feeling. A shiver caught halfway up his spine, vibrating, locked in place because his body and hormones don’t know what the hell to do with it.

Blurry circles glow over the sidewalk, more lights but softer; lingering moons the size of Kuroo’s reach from fingertip to fingertip scattered beneath the glowing streetlamps. Kuroo jumps between the brightest spots, one step at a time.

Kei’s head feels fuzzy if he looks too carefully. He has to focus to the right or the left, or on Kuroo’s feet as he hops in short, careful bursts. It feels… It probably feels exactly like Kuroo hoped it would. A little slow from the booze, energized from the club, nostalgic and gut-clenching from the lights and the view and the inviting smile Kuroo shoots over his shoulder right before he turns around to walk backwards.

“You have fun?” Kuroo asks.

It’s already 11:48.

Kei says, “Yeah, I’m having fun.”

“Good. Wish I could have taken you somewhere better, Cinderella, but there’s always next time.” Kuroo grins and faces forward. He tilts his head toward the sky. “One more block. You really do look good in glitter by the way.”

What a stupid thing to make Kei’s heart squeeze like this. Kuroo laughs, soft and not mocking at all; a noise he makes when he’s quietly happy or amused that’s seared into Kei’s memory from college and from all fourteen of Kuroo’s August 7ths. Kuroo leads the way even though Kei knows exactly where they’re going. He only glances back over his shoulder a couple more times, but each has that same happy smile.

Upstairs, in the dark halls of Kuroo’s apartment building, they stumble on the same perfectly flat piece of floor, and then Kei is sandwiched between the wall and Kuroo, trembling so ferociously he feels paralyzed.

“This okay?” Kuroo asks. The question brushes Kei’s lips. One of Kuroo’s hands wind through his hair, fingernails trace zigzags over his scalp. The shiver caught halfway up Kei’s spine splits in half and rockets in opposite directions.

Kuroo tastes like the evergreen sting of gin knitted through a lime, little tonic bubbles fizzing in pulp. A hand rakes up his left side and Kei stretches back and up in a plea for Kuroo to press closer, to knock Kei through the wall, to dig that volcano out from behind his ribs. Muscles twitch and flex under Kei’s burning hands.

Then, Kei blinks and it is 5:13.

Kei rolls over, buries his face in his pillow, and screams along with the parakeet shrieking the X-Files theme until he chokes. His heart pounds like he’s still in that dark hallway. Kuroo’s hair is soft between his fingers. His lips taste like gin.

By the time Yamaguchi comes over, Kei is wrapped up in his sheets on the floor, forehead pressed to the hardwood, teeth grit and an unending mantra echoing in his head to pull it together just pull it together please just pull it together. Yamaguchi grabs a pillow for them to share and pulls his arms in front of his chest, same as Kei, and waits.

“I ran into Kuroo.”

Yamaguchi sighs and wriggles closer. He loops his arms around Kei in a hug and smacks a loud, enthusiastic kiss in the middle of his forehead. “I knew something happened between you two. You’re such a terrible liar, I don’t know why you even try. It was so obvious.”

“Nothing happened.”

Yamaguchi pinches Kei’s side.

“Ow! I’m serious. Nothing happened and nothing’s going to happen now, this is all pointless. Trust me when I say it is absolutely the complete worst thing it could possibly be. Ever. Ever.”

“Wedding’s not for eighteen months, got it.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Objectively. Factually.”

“C’mon, Tsukki, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

“I’m stuck in a time loop. He doesn’t remember.” That last part leaves barbs.

Yamaguchi’s palm comes up to cup Kei’s forehead. He frowns.

“Yachi ate the last of the ice cream for breakfast,” Kei recites. “You found your dream house this morning. It’s on the north side of town and you’re right: nice yard. For some reason, you think it’s okay to let me mope until ten but after that, you’re going to try to drag me out and into the world and Tadashi? I’m not going. Not this time.”

The hand on Kei’s forehead slides back to cup the back of his neck and then retreat. Yamaguchi says, “Tell me what happened with Kuroo, then.”

“Saw him for the first time in a long time last week. Lost my mind and went to see him in Tokyo a couple week’s worth of todays ago. Kissed him once. He’s kissed me a bunch.”

Kei is tired. Worn down to the bones and ripped free of every piece of armor he ever had. Those iron plates he covered himself with have all rusted straight through and broken apart and Kei doesn’t know how to cope without them. He wants to sleep for a month, right here on the floor. To stay in bed and mope his life away without a parakeet screeching TV theme songs or Yamaguchi barreling in to demand he get out of his mood. No Kuroo waiting in Tokyo to be so unreasonably compassionate or foolishly bold with kisses and who knows which he’ll pick each version of August 7th.

“You’ll have to explain why that’s a problem later,” Yamaguchi says and it is such a relief not to be pressed on it that the last of Kei’s resolve disintegrates.

Kei pulls the sheets in tighter. His mouth is too wet, throat too swollen to swallow any of it down. Hot, shameful tears catch in his eyelashes. Now that Kei’s started, he can’t hold it in anymore. It bursts from him, messy and raw. It’s not quite rock bottom, but it’s getting close.

“You should go see him again,” Yamaguchi says after Kei’s had some time to get it out and calm down. “Tell him what’s going on.”

“I can’t.”

Not for real, not in any way beyond the superficial. What would he even say? ‘We haven’t seen each other in years but I woke up one August 7th and suddenly my whole world revolves around you.’ It’s one thing to tell Kuroo he’s in a time loop—telling him without all the ‘hypothetically’ talk is another beast. Telling Kuroo it seems to have morphed into his time loop? There is no August 7th where Kei could be convinced to do such a thing.

“Then go plant another big fat kiss right on his mouth with your mouth. Take him out to lunch. Or dinner. Whatever. Just stop moping about it, this isn’t like you.”

“He’s going to want breakfast,” Kei whispers with heavy eyelids. No, this isn’t like him at all.

Then, it’s 5:13. Kei’s eyes aren’t swollen and his throat doesn’t hurt. He’s in his bed and that insufferable bird is singing outside his window and Kei still tastes gin.

It is unfinished. The foggy hunger clenching around his chest will never fade. The pressure is wholly distracting, so entrenched in every second of his life. Kuroo has hold of Kei and he never does anything but tug and tug as they circle around each other, even through three years and three hundred-fifty kilometers of train tracks and a bloody time loop.

Kei throws on the first clothes he comes across, brushes his teeth lightning quick. Out the door, no time to risk the headphones. To the train station. He makes it at the last second and tries to wipe the smudges off his glasses with his shirt once he’s in a seat. Then, he’s outside Kuroo’s door, panting and sweating.

“Whoa. What’s the occasion?” Kuroo asks when he answers the door.

Kei is desperate for five to ten more days covered in glitter, jumping around under throbbing neon lights so he says, “I was in town. Take me somewhere fun.”

And Kuroo, who is pathologically opposed to doing either what he is told or what is expected, takes Kei to the zoo and spends all day talking about giraffes.

Sometimes Kei tells Kuroo about the loop.

Sometimes an indescribable, panicked warmth jolts through his veins and he walks straight out Kuroo’s door in his mismatched socks, picks a direction, and goes until it’s 5:13.

Sometimes he’s the one who kisses first, and sometimes he loses it, and once… once there was this magical series of events that Kei has never managed to duplicate that was all day curled up on opposite ends of Kuroo’s sofa watching monster movies, throwing popcorn at each other, and a glowing light throbbing in his chest.

Despite what Kei initially thought, there is some rhyme and reason to Kuroo’s reactions. Showing up at Kuroo’s house puts him in a more serious mood than if Kei pokes his head in at the V-League offices. He believes Kei easier if he catches the first train, and the more he believes, the less he flirts. If Kei shows even the slightest weakness, Kuroo pounces in milliseconds.

Today, Kuroo lets Kei have the lion’s share of the coffee, delicately poured into the wretched dachshund mug quickly becoming Kei’s wretched dachshund mug. It’s nothing. A glorified cup. There’s no reason for Kei to get so emotional over it but it’s his. Given freely every morning. A rare constant.

“One more time?” Kuroo asks, grumpily staring at the coffee pot in his hand. When he’s the one left with the dregs, he never brews more. Is always a smidgen more receptive and less likely to try to drag Kei to the hospital or steal his phone to get Yamaguchi’s number.

Kei burns his mouth on a long swig. “Time loop. Doesn’t matter, I’m stuck here forever.”

Kuroo seemed straightforward when Kei was fifteen and the world was simpler. Brazen and arrogant but patient enough to be a decent teacher. At eighteen, Kuroo grew into an impassable canyon full of possibilities and permanence.

Now, twenty-one years old, Kei is still tangled up in Kuroo, trying to sort through all those possibilities again and this new, grown-up Kuroo isn’t making it easy. All those sprigs have grown into a cohesive package. Kuroo is still arrogant but he’s also still kind and empathetic. He laughs every day at the way Kei’s hair looks like he went dancing with a taser but is never angry at him for the rude awakening. The ways Kuroo has grown make Kei feel small and stunted, still eighteen and overwhelmed.

“Time loop, huh? You try tutoring grade-schoolers or learning to play piano?” Kuroo is humoring Kei. He has that lilt to his voice and smirk curling his mouth, but he’s not plotting out the best way to trick Kei into going to the hospital, yet.

Day thirty: Mk Kuroo. Kei entertains the idea that maybe the point of this is to be brave, to get it out, to confess to the one who got away. Embrace the movie for what it is.

“Yeah, I tried all that. I think I’m supposed to tell you I love you. Since this is a rom-com and all.”

“Do you?” Kuroo asks. His nose crinkles with his eyes, tiny slivers of wrinkles explode all around his grin.

Kei shrugs. He doesn’t want to answer either way and who knows what that nasty, wriggling mass of complications is or even what it used to be before Kei tossed it into the abyss and left it to drown. All of it sounds like no. He thinks he could believe no. “Maybe I do. Or did? I guess all that means is maybe.”

“Well, then say it.”

It’s an elegant trap. Kei would be angrier if he hadn’t helped set it up.

“I love you.” The ghost of a tacked-on ‘man’ crunches between Kei’s molars.

Kuroo considers it with more gravity than Kei assumed he’d get. A slow, calculating once-over rakes Kei from hairline to toes. This is Kuroo’s puzzle face, the one he makes when he’s this close to figuring something out that’s been eating away at him. It’s the same look he gets when he believes Kei for real instead of pretending.

“It might have just happened for me, to be honest. I’ll have to think on it, maybe give it a few days. Finally take you on that date. I can’t really imagine a world where it takes you a lot of effort to get there, though.”

This is the part Kei knew would hurt. As much as he whines about his life being a rom-com, he’s not sure he’ll wake up on any day other than August 7th again. This will be gone in the morning. There are no few days to think on it or be sure; just an eternity for Kei to debate himself into oblivion and never follow through.

“You don’t think it’ll stick,” Kuroo says. He looks amused. “Why bother bringing it up if you think it won’t matter?”

The pressurized ache Kei’s been learning to endure shudders. “I think I need to say it, but I don’t know how in a world where you remember.”

In the morning, Kuroo’s apartment does this amazing thing where all the light diffusing in from the balcony doors washes pale violet and bounds over the ceiling. It streaks through Kuroo’s hair. Glows at the outstretched tips. Kuroo tilts his head like he does when he’s trying to hide how hard he’s thinking. A mildly concerning grin creeps its way over his face.

Kei knows what will happen if he licks his lips. So, he licks his lips.

The kiss is not quite chaste, not quite off-center enough to be aimed at the corner of Kei’s mouth. Kuroo’s lips are always so confident, his kisses cunning and specially designed to pry Kei apart. He’s flexible, observant, and bends the kiss into the most devastating shape in seconds. Kei could do this forever. If he had any idea how to get Kuroo on any sort of rails, he’d be tempted to live this day for a solid month.

All the little touches and rising heat burning through his neck and shoulders, sinking—

“This is an amazing thought experiment,” Kuroo says, his voice husky. “In your world full of time loops, is this our first kiss? Or our hundredth?”

It is unfortunate that Kei is so good at walking away from everything he wants—and he does, he wants this. More than he did at fifteen, more than at eighteen, more than he ever knew he had the space for.

Kei’s wayward self-preservation finally rears its ugly head.

Day thirty-one, the Kuroo arc. Kei drags everything that isn’t nailed down out of his apartment and lets the fire department haul him away when they come to put out the blaze on the front lawn.

Kei hauls another box out from the back of Sakanoshita and sets it on the floor in front of the rest of the condiments. It’s one of the weird ones, packed full with a hodgepodge of one-off items that Coach Ukai likes to have a couple extras of because they never expire. Bottom shelf stuff that’s time-consuming to restock.

Mindless, boring work is something Kei never properly appreciated before. As a teen thinking about part-time jobs so he could have more money to waste on whatever caught his fancy, he always sneered at this sort of thing like it was beneath him. In college, when he had to pick up some work to support himself, he resented jobs like this one for not being interesting or challenging enough.

Jesus Christ, Kei is such a brat.

The repetition of stocking the shelves is unexpectedly soothing. Pleasure is thick in the routine of it—new stock to the back, line it all up neatly, make sure everything’s square to the front. Move on. Do it all again. And again. Kei is tempted to spend a few days unloading tampons and toothpicks for Ukai to forget all those more complicated matters churning around outside the Sakanoshita Mart.

Matters like Kuroo and his stupid, knowing grin. His lips. The way he floods Kei with an ache one part bitter, one part boiling hot, one part curious blend of hopelessness that feels more inevitable than dire.

Matters like Tsukishima Naoki. A gravestone and a whole other family that was somehow more worthy than Kei’s.

Matters like being trapped and helpless, doomed to only experience pleasure in the little things he was always too stuck up to appreciate before.

Kei unloads his box and heads back for another one.

“Bring that one up here,” Ukai says when Kei bangs his way through the swinging door in back, crisp new shipping crate in hand. This one is cigarettes. Nothing but cartons upon cartons of cigarettes.

Kei’s never had a cigarette before.

“Alright, not that I don’t appreciate the help, but what’re you really here for? No way you came all the way out to unpack my order.”

Kei has been stewing on it for a while, and what he really wants is someone to talk to who might understand a little better than Yamaguchi with his two parents and girlfriend, or Akiteru who has apparently fucked off to who knows where. “I found out my father is dead.”

“That’s rough.” Ukai pulls the cartons out one by one and stacks them on the counter, giving Kei time to talk.

“No one knows I know. I keep thinking Mom must have some idea but Akiteru? I feel like he would tell me if he knew and… does that mean I have to tell him? Do I have to break this news to him? I don’t know why it even matters, I never knew the guy, but—” Kei doesn’t know how to say it. “Akiteru knew him. For a little bit.”

“You don’t have to tell him,” Ukai says. “You know that. It’s not your responsibility, and if your brother wanted to know about him, he’d look into it, right?”

“But I should.”

“Yeah, probably. Doesn’t mean you’re obligated, though. You definitely don’t have to do it right now. Take some time to think about it, a few more days isn’t going to hurt anything.”

That is viscerally upsetting. Ukai thinks Kei could sort this out in a few days? Kei’s been agonizing for weeks and still doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t think he can figure it out without at least talking to Akiteru. Kei wants to see what his mood is, maybe try to make it seem like he wants to discuss it, see how Akiteru reacts.

“You doing alright, though? I mean, I know the answer’s no, but what level of no are we talking here?”

“I’m fine, I guess.” It’s nothing new or unexpected. Kei grew up without a father and here he is, still lacking one. Even if the man came back and begged, Kei would want nothing to do with him but that’s hard to remember if he’s not careful to keep it in sight. “Sorry, I know it’s not really your concern.”

Another few cigarette cartons pile up on the counter. Ukai stacks them in short cubes of crisscrossed layers, organized by brand and box color. After a moment of quiet, he huffs. “Hey, look here.” He waits for Kei to look up. “I know you don’t like to talk when you have something on your mind, but if you ever need someone to listen I’m here. Anytime.”

Kei will not say it. Coach Ukai would throttle him. It’s stupid.

It’ll be gone tomorrow.

Kei blinks. His eyes water, his throat burns, and it physically hurts the way “you’re the closest thing I ever had to a dad” comes spraying out of his mouth with no warning whatsoever.

Ukai chokes and knocks one of his towers of cigarette cartons over, the boxes spilling all over the floor by his feet.

“Sorry.”

“What the hell do you think I was doing when I was ten?”

"I just meant—”

“Please, whatever it is, don’t tell me. That is… I’m honored you think of me that way.” Ukai wipes the whole of his face on his shirt collar and then squats down to pick up the cartons on the floor. He glances up at Kei and sighs. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Might as well go three for three at this point. “You remember Kuroo?”

“Do I,” Ukai says. “Holy shit, kid, you were not subtle.”

If one more person tells Kei how obvious his crush was, he’s going to take Hinata’s beach spot in Brazil.

“He works for the V-League. I sort of went for it, my first year of college but when he asked me out I freaked and ghosted him. It was shitty. I’m still embarrassed.” An understatement so gross, it borders on irresponsible, but Kei’s getting used to admitting it now. He can say it; he can acknowledge it rather than suffer it like a phobia. When Ukai doesn’t say anything, Kei keeps going. “Knowing that he knows I did that—to anyone, but especially to him—makes me nauseous. Now he works for the V-League and I’m going to play for the Frogs and I thought— I thought I could avoid him, I guess, but that’s… not going so well.”

“And you still have a crush on him,” Ukai says. He bites a cigarette between his teeth. “What’s the problem?”

Kei cannot verbalize it. There is no word. The problem is this stringy, searing anxiety in his wrists. Regret. An aching volcano in his heart.

Ukai takes a heavy drag lighting his cigarette. “Whatever you thought just now? Go say it to him. That’s my advice.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then you gotta learn to live with it. Sorry, kid.”

Kei’s not sure he can do that, either.

After the insanity of failing to get Kuroo to do anything expected, the monotony of the rest of the time loop is intolerable. Kei can’t stand it. He can’t stand saying hello to the same people and walking the same paths and taking a train he doesn’t have to sprint for like his life depends on it.

Every day for a week, Kei shows up on Yamaguchi’s doorstep and every day Yamaguchi’s reaction is the same. For the seventh time in a row, Kei spends his morning curled up with Yachi on the couch, listening to the baby trying to yawn and stretch in a home it’s ready to leave as soon as Kei stops being such a fickle coward. Yesterday, he fell asleep. This time, Kei is determined not to let the world crumble into 5:13 again.

Yachi talks over her fingers combing through Kei’s hair. “Why don’t you go run your errands, we’ll be fine on our own.”

“You just want that ice cream, you adorable opportunist,” Yamaguchi says.

“Because I deserve it. I’m growing a person over here,” Yachi says. She smacks a kiss Yamaguchi’s way.

Kei watches as Yamaguchi turns toward the door, turns back, and then shuffles in each direction twice before finally calming down and asking, “Any requests?”

The question is for Kei, and completely unnecessary. Kei shakes his head. Yamaguchi spares the two of them a subtle smile hidden behind all his worry and shuts the door with a nearly silent click.

“He’ll get lost a few times along the way.” Yachi’s voice drips with affection sure as the fingers wound in Kei’s hair. “Probably come back with a bunch of capsule machine junk.”

“Yeah, he does that.” Kei’s voice scrapes like gravel. He’s not sure the words come out at all, his mouth makes the shape of them but he can’t hear anything over the roaring of baby girl Yamaguchi stretching out and testing her strength.

Most silences are calming. This one is. It’s steady, no pressure, no sense that Kei should be using it for something else. He’s missed these sorts of lulling quiets. Yachi tugs on a piece of his hair to get his attention and wriggles to sit a little more upright.

“I’ve always wanted to thank you for being such a good friend to Tadashi—me, too, of course—but him, especially. It never felt like the right time to bring it up. I know a lot of those memories are heavy for the two of you.”

More for Yamaguchi, although recently Kei has looked back at his middle school and early high school years with a different perspective. He doesn’t particularly like the arrogant snot that stares back. The image gives him a weird dizziness and leads to wondering what twenty-one will look like at twenty-six. Assuming he makes it to twenty-six at all.

“I’m really thankful for you, too. And I’m—” Kei thinks of Coach Ukai, sputtering, honored. “I’m honored you want me involved with the baby.”

“Of course we do. I do, very much. You know, it took me a long time to learn to not worry about every little possible thing that can go wrong,” Yachi mutters. “Felt like as soon as I figured it out, this happened—let me tell you, it is not fun to finally grasp a concept and then immediately be tested on it like that—but I’ve never worried much about the baby. She’s scary but more happy and exciting than anything else. I know I’m going to screw up a lot, but I also know that it’s not just Tadashi who will always be there, making sure she has a wonderful life. You’ll be there, too.”

Yachi’s thumb rubs little circles behind Kei’s ear. “Don’t tell, I’m going to surprise Tadashi later, but I decided on a name. We’re going to call her Mizuki, with the characters for ‘beauty’ and ‘moon’. I’m so grateful my little girl’s going to have her Uncle Tsukki to teach her how to be smart and cunning. To keep calm under pressure because lord knows she’s not going to get it from me. I’m thankful she’ll grow up knowing love comes in many shapes and millions of colors.”

Kei thinks he understands what Tsukishima Naoki lacked. What Coach Ukai embraces for every kid walking through his gym doors. And what sort of man he wants to be when he finally meets little Mizuki who’s counting on him to show her how to be smart and snarky and strong.

At minimum, Kei wants to be able to say he kept trying. That he looked it in the eye, acknowledged he may fail his test, and kept going.

The concept of hopelessness is useless here, anyway. Kei has as many tries as it takes to figure it out, and he can, too, if he just stops dawdling. Everyone keeps telling him to make up for past mistakes and embrace the clichés. What does Kei do instead? Lie around feeling sorry for himself? Continually talk about the hypothetical and let Kuroo kiss him in hallways?

Only Kuroo has caused changes and he will break anything Kei gives him. There’s no harm in letting Kuroo at the problem for real; he might break this, too. If not, well, Kei still has some clichés left and it’s a whole lot easier to get something out when he can wipe failures off the board at midnight.

Kei does sort of love Kuroo. Just a little.

He loves the way his hair is kind of like that naturally, even if he does help it along, and he loves how he either gulps down his coffee too hot or dilutes it with water until it’s lukewarm and chugs the disgusting swill. Either, or; nothing in between. That absurdly cheesy coffee mug reserved for a lover but given to Kei every morning until Kei starts taking it on his own and thinking of it as his.

He loves those mismatched bookcases crammed full of books Kuroo’s only read once, laying every which way to get as many in there as possible. Kuroo picks them up at thrift stores. Never reads the covers or blurbs on the inside, doesn’t care what they actually are, he’ll read them all the same. One of the shelves is devoted to romance novels—a shrine to all the sappy stories Kuroo has read about princesses and dragons, or surly dentists, or pirates who secretly want to be loved. Another is for accidental duplicates and is already half-full even though Kuroo is only twenty-three years old.

He loves the way Kuroo pretends to believe him up until the second he actually does, and he loves the way his mind knits together pieces that Kei never noticed could fit.

If Kei goes to Kuroo in earnest and tells him about the loop without the thin veil of the hypothetical, Kuroo doesn’t pull his usual nonsense. He tones down the flirting, doesn’t make as many lewd jokes. Instead, he immediately fixates on Tanabata and refuses to be redirected. There is no preparing for Kuroo, presented with a puzzle, only hours to solve it, and zero first-hand knowledge.

Three days in a row they go to Tanabata and Kuroo stares at the paper dancing in the wind like he’s never seen colors before. He watches the tanzaku with such sublime wonder that Kei’s messy nonsensical longing comes spewing out of every pore, so intense he wonders how the whole city doesn’t see this supernova exploding in the middle of downtown Sendai.

Kei doesn’t have to come along. He could stick Kuroo on the train and leave, reset his day, and try again, but he never so much as entertains the notion. The late-morning sun looks good on Kuroo; the sense of childlike wonder sweeping over his face is reminiscent of basement clubs and glitter and strobe lights. All of Yachi’s shapes and colors. Few have seen this look before, Kei is certain, and he wants to be included in that number in the unlikely event this ever ends for real.

Days four through six: Kei figures out how to get Kuroo on board a whole hour earlier, and in retaliation, Kuroo drags Kei to every morsel of food he sniffs out and demands they taste everything. It doesn’t matter if Kei has had it before, isn’t hungry, can’t make him understand they’re on a clock, here.

Seven.

It’s like watching the first set of one of Kuroo’s games over and over and over. He’s always warming up. Never gets going because he won’t start anywhere but at the beginning. If Kuroo demands one more Tanabata festival Kei’s going to spend the next five loops throwing him in the river and then probably the five after that trying to get back to opposite ends of the sofa throwing popcorn, watching monster movies.

“Well?” Kei snaps. It is infuriating to sort of love a little bit of someone who is so unbelievably single-minded. How is he ever supposed to explain how he feels when Kuroo constantly makes him want to strangle him. “We’re here. What magical solution are you expecting to pull out of your ass this time? Doesn’t matter you’re the one who can’t remember the last week, no, let’s try this again and again and again. You are turning my life into the definition of insanity.”

Kuroo’s amusement grows throughout the rant; at the end, he lets out a snort. “Because we’re repeating the same experiment and hoping for a new outcome? Nerd.”

“Oh my god, if I have learned anything it’s that your level of nerd is unsustainable. The universe cannot sustain you!”

“Do you always come up with new stuff to say? Or do you cheat and repeat the same things over and over because I don’t know any different? This is such an amazing thought experiment.”

It is stunning, the way Kuroo can look at hell and call it profound, and Kei hates that he’ll never have the results of this thought experiment he’s so enamored by, he can’t see anything else. He hates the useless optimism of Tanabata. How every time Kuroo sees it, Kei has to acknowledge that wriggling, drowned mass that loves him, just a little.

Kei turns around and walks down the streets lined in Crayola slips hanging from bamboo, wishes bled on little scraps of paper and trussed up near the heavens. He keeps going until there’s no more chatter, paper, or color. There is only Kei and the traffic; cars honking; a woman asking if he’s okay; 5:13 and his alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

Chapter Text

Tetsurou feels like he’s been yanked inside-out through the throat.

It could be the scotch. Could be it’s past noon and they’ve been drinking for hours on one granola bar each like morons. Or, maybe it’s the flawless nonchalance seared into Tetsurou’s memory from when Tsukishima looked him in the eye and said, “And then I kissed you,” like it wasn’t cannon fire.

Tetsurou splashes more scotch in his glass and swirls it around like he always sees in the movies then throws it back same as the cheap stuff. He sets his empty glass on the table and spins it in place with three fingers pressed to the rim from above.

Even if Tetsurou doesn’t remember, he understands. He can easily guess what he was thinking or what he saw, or even which of the levees broke open the floodgates. In some ways, it’s immeasurably worse than not knowing why at all. What is one supposed to do with a revelation like this?

Tetsurou slumps against the front of his pathetic starter-couch—not even in the color he wanted—surrounded by spiteful small appliances and furniture he doesn’t care about. The only part of it that ever meant anything were his books but even those he reads once and hoards like they make him worldly and wise. His whole life is narrow and west-facing, and then there’s Tsukishima. Blasting in with the sunrise and a time-loop hot on his heels, demanding Tetsurou acknowledge what he hid in all the corners.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say something about—” Tsukishima swallows; hunched in with his knees pulled up to his chest, glowing in the sun all over again.

There’s a lot of this Tetsurou is not drunk enough to deal with right now.

“So it doesn’t revolve around you, not entirely,” is what Tetsurou’s mouth chooses to say through the shiver jolting down his spine, instead of anything more poignant or appropriate for the moment. “It only started with you. Huh.”

“Are you shitting me?” Tsukishima hasn’t touched the scotch more than to taste it, but he has a row of bottle caps collected throughout the morning lined up in front of him. He slides one between his shadow and the afternoon sun reflecting on the table—far too bright for how much they’ve had to drink—then flicks it at Tetsurou’s chest.

“Well, do you want to talk about the other part?”

“No, but I want you to want to talk about it, so I can shut it down now instead of having this ridiculous, looming conversation hanging over my head.” Tsukishima spits ‘conversation’ like it’s vile and huffs into a slouch, his elbows propped on his knees and hands cupped over his nose and mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. This was all such a bad idea.”

“Oh, calm down, I’ll make sure you get your rom-com moment.” Another drink and Tetsurou might make sure Tsukishima gets his slutty art film, too. “Is it weird I still think the answer is Tanabata?”

“Not really. You fixate on it every time. Do you have any idea how infuriating you are?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Tsukishima goes back to scraping his bottle caps around on the table. “There’s nothing there, Kuroo. I’ve torn the place apart. I’ve searched it top to bottom, and so have you, by the way. Even if that’s not enough, Yamaguchi told you: I didn’t make a wish. He did, Yachi did, but not me.”

The simplest explanation is generally the correct one, though. Tetsurou gnaws on his lip and lets a vague, shapeless idea roll around in his head. There are infuriating holes here: all this negative space and none of the perspective needed to make sense of it. Who knew it’s possible to be so annoyed with being drunk? So many interesting things to consider and all of it far too complicated for Tetsurou’s poor alcohol-soaked brain to cope with.

“It’s about you, not Tanabata,” Tsukishima says. “Leaving you makes the loop reset.”

“I don’t agree with that at all. You’re getting lost in the complications. In the effect, not the cause.” Tetsurou stumbles over the words but it feels crucial to make this perfectly clear. “It’s not about me. I’m just… what happened.”

Tsukishima groans. “Of course, you think the thing I spent weeks trying to figure out how to tell you is irrelevant. What else would you do? I am going to toss you in the river, you know. I mean it this time. Right in.”

“So dramatic. You just wanna get back to throwing popcorn at each other and watching movies.”

Tsukishima’s ears flush pink.

“You’ve told me the other part before. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Another infuriating realization rears its head: Tetsurou could have gotten away with so much this whole time. How unfair, Tsukishima spent all these loops figuring out how to avoid Tetsurou kissing him? There will be compensation for that later.

“It’s a lot harder to say when you’re actually going to remember it. Was hard even when you didn’t and any missteps just went away without hurting you. Are you”—Tsukishima clenches a fist—“I understand if you’re still mad, but I want you to know I wasn’t playing with you. Then or now.”

Tetsurou tilts his head back on the couch cushions and stares up at the wobbly ceiling churning over their heads.

“I’m not mad at you.”

Tsukishima makes a throaty noise like he objects and grabs one of the water bottles rolling around on the floor.

“I was, a little. Maybe. For a while.” Tetsurou turns his head to watch Tsukishima’s reaction. “But you were eighteen and still figuring yourself out, and I was… greedy. Wanted to chase down the chemistry we had before it could float away and—I mean, we were both kind of stupid about it, right? So let’s agree not to be so stupid, anymore. I don’t like to dwell.”

It takes Tetsurou a moment to remember there’s something else. “And don’t worry about Kenma. I’ll threaten to show Hinata his baby pictures if he doesn’t behave. Maybe steal Bokuto’s baseball bats, too.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and sips his water. “Not like it matters.”

“You don’t think that whole, huge story about how in love with me you are will do any good?” Maybe Tetsurou actually is drunk enough to talk about this now. Who knew?

“The point,” Tsukishima says, punctuated with another bottle cap flung straight at Tetsurou’s head and another sip of his water, “is that I sort of love you. There is no ‘in’ and it’s not some debilitating romantic thing ruining my life. It’s just a normal thing ruining my life.”

And then Tsukishima is off to the races, the rant has been building and building for months, and Tetsurou is blessed with catching the instant it overflows.

“This isn’t even a time loop, really it’s a… it’s a Kuroo loop. Every time I think I have it figured out you yank me further in and change all the rules.” Tsukishima caps his water and drops it on the table with a thud. “You think it’s not about you? Then tell me why I go see you once and get shackled to you. I convince you to believe me and then you jump into it headfirst. The whole thing manages to revolve around you despite starting out in an entirely different solar system and what the hell? Every time I get my footing you knock me over again. How are you doing this? How do I wake up one random day caught in a Kuroo loop?”

“Yes,” Kuroo says. It’s hard to remember the productive questions sometimes. “How. I want to know how. It’s so much more interesting than why.”

“This is what I mean when I say the whole thing is so unbearably you.” Tsukishima scowls at his water bottle knocked sideways on the table then scoots around the corner of the table to lean against the couch with Tetsurou.

The afternoon sun glints off his glasses and shines incandescent in his hair. Face flushed, nervous fingers toying with a bottle cap he still hasn’t let go of—maybe Tetsurou’s not the only one who’s been exposed for too long. Tsukishima certainly can’t hide all these little tells even if he did figure out how to repress certain others in pursuit of getting Tetsurou to stop acting on them. Some day, when the idea of missing all this doesn’t make his stomach clench hot and bitter, Tetsurou will ask for specifics.

“If it’s about me, what does that say about you?” Tetsurou wonders.

“Is that not abundantly clear by now?”

“Fair,” Tetsurou says. “I can’t believe we’re so drunk even you’re willing to talk about it.”

Laughter vibrates through Tsukishima in a hefty burst. He turns his head and rests his cheek against the cushions. “Oh, wow. That’s kind of true, isn’t it?”

“I don’t hold it against you, you know. The quiet. The way you don’t like to talk about stuff directly, more in circles. How’d you put it? Pulling you in? I like pulling you in.” There are so many little things to be fond of. All those tiny pieces of Tsukishima that make him interesting, easy to keep pace with, such a furious bright in a sometimes too-mundane world. “Never bothered me much that you allow things in your own time.”

“I really did miss you,” Tsukishima says, suddenly urgent; the sentiment cracking like lightning. “You know that, right? No one else gets me like you do.”

“Not even Freckles?”

“It’s not the same.”

And because Tetsurou went and drowned his filter in scotch, he says, “You, too, but I think it secretly drives Kenma crazy.”

Tsukishima laughs again, the same delightful sound from on the beach, in the sun, trashy romance novel in hand. Or maybe it’s closer to the lulling sensation of rocking waves. “I think Kenma is just very protective of you.”

They’re butting up against too-serious matters again, and it’s all stuff they need to talk about, but Tetsurou doesn’t want to do it now, like this. “I’m excited to think about this when I’m capable of thinking. But for now, you know what I want? Waffles. Waffles and then all these deep, dark talks about our feelings. Or maybe skip that last part.”

“Damn.” Tsukishima sits back up and drains the rest of his beer. “Waffles sound amazing.”

“Question is, how big a ripoff is the delivery service?”

“From your breakfast place? They’re not going to deliver themselves. Who cares. Doesn’t matter. Let’s go get them. Haven’t been arrested in a while.”

Tetsurou’s Drunk Bokuto alarm starts wailing in the background. “No. No, that is obviously a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know but it is.” And it doesn’t take much to learn the instinct should always be respected.

Tsukishima slumps into a recline again, this time with his whole body turned a little toward Tetsurou, shoulder digging into the couch. Quieter than his waffle and jail talk, he asks, “Why do we keep having breakfast together, this time, Kuroo?”

Tetsurou’s not anywhere near ready to think about why it was only this time—the serious one, the one with a day two—that he ever took Tsukishima to Amadeus. “Here’s a better question: what if your dumb ass only needed to confess your undying love and tomorrow we wake up on August 8th and have to deal with the hangover? Wouldn’t that fucking figure? I mean, I’d still take you to breakfast since that’s what we do and it’s fun to rile you up—”

“You know what? I’d take the hangover just to make sure you get one, too.” Tsukishima curls a fist in front of his chin.

“How cruel. I would never wish something so terrible on you.”

Tsukishima smiles—a tiny, subtle thing, but it’s there, in the corner of Tetsurou’s vision washed out by the sun. Tetsurou blinks and it’s gone.

“You know what I miss?” Tsukishima asks.

“Hmm?”

“Dreaming. Laying in bed, letting my mind wander. I used to have these amazing, vivid dreams of whatever I fell asleep thinking about and now it’s… nothing. There’s no dreaming. No sleep. It’s all the same day over and over.”

“Not forever,” Tetsurou says. “We’ll figure it out. You said something earlier—I’m not sure what it is yet. I really hope I remember tomorrow.”

“You better because I’m not telling that whole-ass story again.”

“It’s fine,” Tetsurou says, wiggling a little closer and readjusting the angle of his head to avoid the sunshine slicing through the living room. “I’ll remember the good part.”

Tetsurou’s eyelids waver from running on no sleep for a month of real-time and another month’s worth of August 7ths on top and it is so tempting to drift—not quite falling asleep, not quite awake—all curled up on the living room floor with Tsukishima.

Going from so drunk he can’t stand up on the first try to stone-cold sober, waking up to the wail of an alarm is unbelievably disorienting. In a way, it’s worse than a hangover. Tetsurou has never felt so amazing while also wanting to dunk his whole head in the sink and throw up in the shower. After a couple of minutes sprawled out, staring at the ceiling, Tetsurou starts reconciling his situation. He supposes it’s considerate of Tsukishima to keep his distance, but it’s probably more for his own sake than Tetsurou’s.

What a clusterfuck of a story.

Tetsurou doesn’t know where to begin with it. There’s so much to unpack, so many pieces screaming for attention. Something important is stuck in there, too. A tiny detail latched onto an idea Tetsurou has been allowing to simmer; he just has to figure out where it went between all the booze and napping.

Auto-pilot carries Tetsurou out the door and into the blinding early morning. The whole train ride to Shibuya, Tetsurou mulls over the heaping pile of sort of and little bit and life-ruining love.

Kenma is passed out on the living room couch, the television darkened with a prompt of ‘Are you still watching?’ when Tetsurou tiptoes his way into the house. Tetsurou snags a magazine from Kenma’s table, retreats to the kitchen to leave a note, and heads out back.

The yard isn’t huge, but it’s big enough to feel like one. A fence even taller than Tetsurou rings the lush, dewy green space littered with disused lawn chairs. Off to the side is a raised garden—nearly as big as the one on the roof Tetsurou has been caring for and destined for Hinata’s spring plans. Kenma may call Tetsurou a sap, but Tetsurou’s not the one who bought a house with gardens for other people.

Tsukishima would like it here. Might take some time before he and Kenma get along, but it’ll happen eventually. Bokuto’s right; they’ll bond, Tetsurou just has to sort out this time loop problem, first.

Simple, right? Tetsurou snorts.

This whole thing is too complicated. There are too many weird nuances and Tetsurou shouldn’t be letting them distract him. The simplest explanation, if they strip all the nonsense out, is a man-made grove of bamboo guarding the wishes of Sendai.

The simplest explanation is Tsukishima made a wish.

Except—maybe not. Tsukishima’s story is solid in this regard. To lie so thoroughly and consistently, even sober, is no easy feat; even Kenma would have trouble. So, walk it back a bit. The simplest explanation is someone made a wish, and a hundred possibilities explode onto the scene with that one shift in perspective.

Tetsurou starts making a list.

Kenma stumbles out the back door with two mugs of coffee an hour or so later, tight and too-knowing smile pulling his lips perfectly horizontal.

“What happened?” Kenma hands over a mug and pulls up a lawn chair.

The question has no urgency. Tetsurou and Kenma struck an agreement at thirteen—huddled in Kenma’s bedroom sandwiched between futons and blankets and sheets—to always say certain things out loud, and to say the rest in their own time. Kenma will not press; Tetsurou has to be the one to open the conversation, and it’s harder than he thought it’d be.

“What if I told you I’ve been stuck in a time loop with Tsukki for almost a month and I’m—let’s call it ninety-five percent sure—what if I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s in love with me?” What a gross understatement, Tetsurou is one hundred percent sure, Tsukishima literally admitted it, but he can’t just say that; not even to Kenma. He needs the wiggle room until he comes to grips with it.

Kenma smacks the back of his hand over Tetsurou’s forehead and frowns. “Ah, shit. If you’re talking to him again, I should probably tell you something.”

“I already know you went and yelled at him. With a baseball bat, apparently. What the fuck, Kenma?”

Kenma rolls his eyes. “Bokuto?”

“No,” Tetsurou says before it crosses his mind that outing Bokuto for snitching has zero real-world consequences.

“Yeah, Bokuto,” Kenma says. He presses his hand against Tetsurou’s forehead harder before dropping it and leaning in, eyes squinted as he looks into Tetsurou’s. “Don’t see how your whole ninety-five percent thing is an issue. You’ve been sort of in love with Tsukishima for years.”

This is not untrue, but it was very different on August 6th and every prior iteration of August 7th. Tetsurou has never dared to think about it too much and it faded into a muted pang long ago.

“Doesn’t matter. I mean, it does, but I’m more stuck on how I apparently wooed him over time and space or whatever.” Tetsurou slouches in his chair and takes a couple of minutes to sip his coffee and get the rest in order. There’s so much jumbling around. So many pieces and half of them he’s only heard about rather than ever seeing them himself—and it’s just the worst. Taking things on faith sucks. Nothing feels real second-hand, he’s tangled up wondering what was lost in translation or went unnoticed. All those details, gone.

“I have feelings, too. Ninety-five percent of them, easy. That’s the part that matters. The part I don’t know what to do with right now. I have all these feelings and I used to know what they meant and it’s weird, right? Like one of those amnesia movies where someone wakes up and they’re in a relationship but they don’t know who the person is or what happened—”

Kenma kicks Tetsurou’s chair. “Stop being so dramatic. You know him.”

“Not like he knows me, though. Not anymore.”

“Are you seriously jealous you didn’t get to play with him without having the inconvenience of him remembering it? That’s kind of low, Kuro.” Kenma always has gone for the throat.

“No.” Tetsurou scowls. He means it, too, but he’s also unreasonably angry with himself for never kissing Tsukishima on this August 7th. Ridiculous. Three perfectly good opportunities spring to mind, what the hell was he thinking ignoring them?

“Then I fail to see the issue.”

Tetsurou drains the rest of his coffee. “I didn’t think you’d be this supportive.”

“Please. You’re going to do what you want and we both already know this is a foregone conclusion. Like I’m going to bail on you just because you like fickle blond men in desperate need of empathy lessons. I’m here now and I’ll be here if it goes tits-up. It’s not like you wouldn’t do the same.” Kenma kicks Tetsurou’s chair again and stands. “Come in. I’ll make you breakfast and then you can run some errands with me.”

“I’m not letting you drag me off to have my brain checked for blue raspberry Jello.”

A faint smile curls Kenma’s lips when he glances back, one hand paused on the open back door, the other clutching his coffee mug. “We’ll see.”

Tsukishima lets Tetsurou wake up to his alarm again, but there’s no time to worry before he’s knocking on the door. Today, his raps are crisp and polite; nowhere near the fury of all the other loops.

Silly lizard t-shirt, mismatched socks, smudgy glasses—Tsukishima’s appearance says more than he probably realizes. The nerves are obvious in Tsukishima’s face—lining his mouth and the little scrunch between his eyebrows, half-hidden by his glasses.

A swarm of hornets buzz in Tetsurou’s gut.

Tsukishima looks up and to the right. “Are you seriously still answering the door with no pants on?”

Tetsurou’s gotten so used to it, he didn’t even notice.

“Apparently.” Then, because he has no idea what to say, even now, he asks, “Is this supposed to be our rom-com moment? Because I don’t think I’m prepared.”

A laugh cracks across Tetsurou’s threshold. Tsukishima covers his mouth and leans against the door frame, head tilted back, one hand covering half his face. He can’t seem to stop, just keeps laughing and laughing, shoulders shaking like crazy, and wow, those might be actual tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, holy shit,” Tsukishima chokes out.

“I mean, I think I’d rather have pants on for it.”

“After all your running around in your underwear, now you want pants.” Tsukishima snorts. He hauls himself inside to pull off his shoes and make his usual beeline for the coffee maker while Tetsurou retrieves his jeans.

Tetsurou has gotten used to Tsukishima in his kitchen. Every morning, he stands in the same spot and makes this same face and Tetsurou feels soothed he’s still doing it, now, after spilling his guts. Back in college, there would have been a full week of avoidance followed by at least a month of awkward, abrupt attempts to smooth out the wrinkles—none of this calm ease weaving through all the nerves. No dancing hornets or quiet certainty.

A lot of contenders battle it out for where to start but deciding is harder than it was in Kenma’s back yard, kicked back in a chair, watching the sunrise glint off the wet grass. Tetsurou wants to begin with what Tsukishima’s lizard shirt says about him on this day in history. What it means that he’s back after only a day. That he keeps coming back despite all the reasons he wouldn’t have, before.

Maybe it’s perfect Tsukishima never answered that last phone call. They were meant to meet again here, now, in this nebulous space where they can choose to see this as an eternity to get to know each other again and still walk away after only one day. Tetsurou likes the feel of that. The uncertainty and the elbow room and the way it’s all still heading in the same direction, just slower, more well-thought. Scenic and lazy; like a day at the beach.

Tsukishima doesn’t object when Tetsurou reaches out to touch his arm, but he does glance over with his lip clamped between his teeth and bald anticipation. None of this is anywhere near as complicated as they’re making it out to be.

Tetsurou winds his arms around Tsukishima’s middle from behind, mouth pressed to his shoulder. The hug is spontaneous and fraught with emotion—like back on day zero when Tetsurou was full of questions but still couldn’t stand the thought of sending Tsukishima off without something supportive to take along. Warmth envelops Tetsurou’s wrist. Tsukishima fiddles with the handle of the dachshund mug with his other hand.

The coffee maker chugs away.

“I know you’re thinking things through, but I just want to say thanks. For listening and for being you.” A long pause. Tsukishima leans back a little; keeps one hand tight around Tetsurou’s wrist and the other gripping his mug. “When things were hard or complicated, I never had to worry about how you’d react to me popping up with no warning. I don’t think I can explain how much it meant to me.”

“When I say I’m here for you, there’s no terms or expiration on it.”

“I understand that, now.”

The little twinge of awkwardness melts. Tetsurou props his chin on Tsukishima’s shoulder, and after one more squeeze lets go so Tsukishima can get his coffee. “Well, then. What do you say we get ourselves out of this mess so we can move on to better things?”

A tiny smile plays at Tsukishima’s lips. “Oh, you’re finally warmed up and ready to go, huh?”

“I have a couple of ideas,” Tetsurou says, hunching over the kitchen counter while Tsukishima does the same from the other side. Weight on his elbows, Tetsurou considers the light shining against the wall from the balcony and lets the nagging in the back of his head form up. This is all backwards. Refracted. In negative. “I guess we should start at the beginning. We can’t split up, but can we start on our own? Like, what happens if you text me? If I answer, do you reset?”

Tsukishima’s frown is horrific and amazing. Like something in his brain has snapped and he’d rather die than admit it.

“You never tried it, did you?”

“You never thought of it, either,” Tsukishima says.

Tetsurou absolutely cannot contain the snort exploding out of him; it fizzes through his sinuses like a mouthful of wasabi. “Are you sure you want to go down that road?”

“Not really,” Tsukishima grumbles. “We’ll try it tomorrow. Anything else? Let’s get it all out of the way now, don’t drip-feed me shame and mortification, here.”

“I don’t plan on giving you much grief about anything right now,” Tetsurou says. “Later, maybe. When we’re old and crusty and all we have are our stories and our dogs.”

“What in the world makes you think I’m masochistic enough to stick around for that long?” Tsukishima asks.

“Call it a hunch,” Tetsurou says. “Mine are usually pretty solid.”

“Debatable.”

“Well, I suppose we'll see, now won’t we? Because I have another one.” Because it is the most infuriating way to put it, Tetsurou says, “I want to go to Tanabata and look for a wish written by a Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima hasn’t looked so close to exploding since day two, besieged by the sight of Tetsurou’s unicorn boxers. “Why? I keep telling you, I didn’t make a wish.”

“Not you. Your brother.”

“Akiteru?”

Tetsurou shrugs and drums his fingers on the countertop. “Maybe it’s not actually about you in the way we keep assuming. You said you’ve never seen him, right? Not even once?”

“Nope. It sucks. So much about this sucks. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, look at it this way—are you the only person who might wish for you to have something or be happy?”

Tetsurou sees the instant it clicks. Tsukishima always has had trouble wrapping his head around the notion people actually care about him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. So, since you’ve never seen him anywhere, and coincidences are bullshit, I think maybe it’s time to do some recon and hunt down the prodigal Tsukishima son.”

Tsukishima fixes a steady gaze out the balcony door as he drinks his coffee. It’s a hopelessly domestic scene. Tetsurou’s had dreams like this before. “We can try but I don’t know where to start. I haven’t seen him, no one I ask has seen him. He doesn’t answer the phone no matter when or how much I call.”

“Even with me being crazy and refusing to do the same thing twice? Seems unlikely.” Really, what are the odds? Between Tsukishima’s destructive adventures and Tetsurou’s general randomness, how in the world can Tsukishima be missing someone? “Is he the only person you’ve never been able to track down?”

“I guess so, but Akiteru couldn’t have made a wish, either. I have torn that place apart, I looked everywhere.”

“But not after the festival. You said you always had to clear out before Daichi’s partner came along.”

Tsukishima frowns. “Yeah, but nothing’s happening after six.”

“You can still go though, right? It’s not like it’s physically closed, there’s no gate. Let’s try staking it out. What’s the latest you were ever there?”

“Around ten,” Tsukishima says. He sounds cautiously invested; like he’s slowly coming around to the idea this might be something worth considering. “No point trying to stay any later than that when I could just start over.”

“So we’ve got two hours unaccounted for,” Tetsurou says. “Maybe more. Bet you’re the only fool getting arrested for tearing up downtown Sendai, everyone else is probably quiet about sneaking around after-hours.”

Tsukishima denies none of this. “I really hate Tanabata.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s the bane of your existence it has wronged you terribly. Hey, if something happens or we get split up, I’ll come to you in the morning,” Tetsurou says. “Call me when you wake up so we can see what happens and then I’ll take the train out. Don’t waste two hours coming down here.”

Tsukishima sighs. “Funny how some things never change even when you’re throwing the whole world off its axis.”

“Some might call it my talent,” Tetsurou says. “Alright, Operation: Find Akiteru. Let’s do this.”

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Operation: Find Akiteru is essentially Operation: Interrogate All of Tsukishima’s Friends, Speedrun Edition.

Tetsurou didn’t realize how annoying it would be to hunt down all the same people for slightly different questions. All morning and afternoon they tromp around the festival grounds asking after Akiteru and everyone wants to stop and chat. If it’s not congratulating Tsukishima on his Frogs signing, it’s asking about his museum job; or badgering Tetsurou about what he’s up to, where’s he been, it’s so nice to see him around Miyagi again.

Even the barest of interactions take forever.

After three laps around the whole of the festival grounds, Tetsurou can even admit it out loud. “I think I owe you an apology. This is not as fun the thirty-seventh time.”

“You think. I don’t even know what you’re whining about. Thirty-seven, please. You are on number three.”

Across the street, Saeko catches sight of them and waves before heading in their direction. She is every bit as terrifying and beautiful as the last time they saw her—spinning a drumstick between her fingers, shoulders back and lazy, Cheshire grin spreading wider the closer she gets.

“What’s up, Nekoma? Crazy seeing you here. And with Little Bro, too.” Saeko reaches up to pat Tsukishima’s head. “Aw, you look so mad. What’s the problem?”

Tetsurou supposes it’s probably funny, the way they both look at him like he’s the obvious source of Tsukishima’s distress.

Tsukishima bats Saeko’s hands away. “Made the mistake of coming here and talking to you.”

“Oh, whatever,” Saeko says. “You know your life wouldn’t be half as fun without me around.”

“Why do you think I’m doing something as psychotic as hanging out with Kuroo?”

Ouch, but it really is a good one. “I’ll have you know I’m delightful, charming, and definitely not anywhere near as chaotic as her.”

Tsukishima gives Tetsurou a look that very clearly explains, in detail, how he does not believe him for one second.

“Good to see some things never change,” Saeko says.

“You have no idea,” Tsukishima mutters.

Saeko offers Tsukishima another sympathetic head pat. “Alright, well I have to run. People to see, free drinks to claim, you know how it is. You boys have fun.”

“It is barely noon,” Tsukishima says with all the tired disbelief of someone who now knows the perils of day-drinking.

Saeko shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

“I’m sure you have. Before you go—have you seen my brother around today?”

A hefty pause. “No? Have you?”

“No?” Tsukishima and Saeko stare at each other for an awkward moment.

“Me, either.” Saeko backs away with a choppy wave. When she turns to leave, it’s with a curious look lingering over her shoulder.

Certainly not the reaction Tetsurou was expecting.

“Why would she lie to us?” Tsukishima wonders.

A dozen reasons blink to life, but they all seem to be flying hilariously over Tsukishima’s head. “Well, well, would you look at that. We have a lead. And from Tanabata, who would have thought?”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Tanaka’s gym isn’t far. We can head there next, he should be around. Unless you want to risk trying to follow Saeko.”

Following Saeko would be incredible, but she’s long gone. “Next time. Let’s focus on gathering as much information as we can.”

Their destination turns out to be a free-standing, single-story gym a few blocks from Karasuno High School. They make it just in time to catch Tanaka heading out, bag slung over his shoulder and impatience clear in his quick pace.

When he sees them, Tanaka offers Tsukishima a one-armed, back-patting hug, and then gives Tetsurou an up and down look like he’s surprised they still let Tetsurou in the prefecture. Once this is all over, Tetsurou will have to figure out some fun ways to exploit his whole infamous Nekoma hooligan out to corrupt the general population persona.

“Nah, haven’t seen Akiteru,” Tanaka says when Tsukishima gets around to asking. “But you could always ask Sis if you’re looking for him. Aren’t they dating? She’s been talking about him non-stop for like a month.”

A cramp erupts behind Tetsurou’s left ear from his neck whipping around but he’s not about to miss the flabbergasted betrayal seeping from every one of Tsukishima’s pores. Tetsurou snickers. “Oh, I knew it.”

“You did not,” Tsukishima snarls. To Tanaka, he demands, “When did this happen? I didn’t think he’d ever work up the nerve, it’s been five years.”

“Yeah, man, they’ve been hanging out and I don’t want to know any more than that, do not tell me.”

“This means we have to find out where she went, we are going to have to follow her,” Tetsurou says. “Oh, this thrilling. Bokuto’s gonna be so pissed he missed this.”

“What is your deal with her?” Tsukishima asks. He sounds baffled; like he can’t reconcile Tetsurou’s tone with his words.

Tetsurou shrugs. “I like a woman who mixes it up. I never have any idea if she’s going to pat me on the head, crush me, or try to take me home.”

“Ew, asshole,” Tanaka says.

“Agreed.” Tsukishima and Tanaka fist bump without taking their eyes off Tetsurou.

Tetsurou mulls it over for a minute while Tsukishima and Tanaka keep giving him looks like he’s somehow the crazy one. “Saeko said she was going out for drinks, right? You know where she usually goes?”

Tanaka shrugs. “I don’t really care beyond not being there, too. You ever go drinking with her? It’s awful. I guess try the bars on the south side, she lives down there.”

Tsukishima spares a thank you for the information and waves goodbye over his shoulder as he gets them pointed back toward the train station. He gnaws on his lip as they walk. “If Saeko’s out drinking, that’s… that’s a lot of places to check.”

“Maybe we can ask those guys she was always cheering with at your games. They used to go drinking with her, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know where they are today.”

How disappointing.

Tsukishima’s angry lemon face makes a valiant return when he notices the look Tetsurou is giving him. “Why would I bother pinning down the whereabouts of my high school volleyball coach’s friends? They’re not my friends.”

“Fair enough. Add it to the list for tomorrow, then—we’ll catch up with her at the festival and see where she goes. And you said you wouldn’t go on a bar crawl with me.” Tetsurou could do with a few ‘for tomorrow’ lists. Miyagi is so nice—the air tastes cleaner, there are pebbles strewn everywhere, the cicada orchestra in the background never stops, not even downtown where it’s half as noisy as Tokyo. They can’t walk around like this and chat in the city, where there are thousands of other pedestrians to weave between and the constant rumbling of car engines and train tracks jacking up the volume on everything.

“How you could ever want to drink again after last time is beyond me. I’ve been cured of all desire for alcohol.”

“The bigger question is how the hell did you not know your brother was dating Saeko of all people? I mean, really, we need to congratulate him. Tougher than I assumed.”

Tsukishima shakes his head and shrugs, both gestures caught up and bleeding into each other. It looks exactly as confused as Tetsurou feels. “I have no idea. He used to talk about her a lot but they settled into being friends after a while. What is your deal with her, anyway?”

“Aw, are you jealous?”

Tsukishima knocks his shoulder into Tetsurou’s hard enough to make him step off the sidewalk to stay balanced. “Of course not.”

“You shouldn’t be. She’s fun is all. Woman like that could sell you a bridge and then rob you blind on top for shits and giggles.”

“I guess. Just weird when you keep saying she could eat you alive like you’re excited by it.”

And it feels so easy. This whole conversation, the mood, the afternoon sun pelting their skin. Tetsurou grabs the back of Tsukishima’s silly lizard shirt and pulls him close enough to get an arm around him. “You poor thing. So repressed and inexperienced. Don’t worry, I’ll help you grasp this concept.”

Tsukishima shakes his head. “I walked into that one.”

“Little bit.”

No more leads materialize throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, and they’re on the wrong side of the prefecture to start shaking down south-side bars in search of their queen. It’s all the same as far as Tetsurou’s concerned. He’s too caught up with movie moments for deep thought. Better to sleep on what information they’ve gathered and try to come at it with a clearer head tomorrow.

Following Tetsurou around, snotty commentary dotting the procession, Tsukishima is mostly stuck in his head, too. Long after the festival is cleared out, after dinner, after lounging in the park mocking Tetsurou’s silly book while the streetlights kick on, and all through an hour spent loitering in a coffee house, Tsukishima remains a little distant. Constantly at the cusp of saying something but he yanks it back every time. If Tetsurou were less distracted, he’d call him on it.

Sendai Tanabata felt magical in the late morning and early afternoon, but at night, it is an entirely new vista. The papers fluttering above are washed in the electric yellow of the streetlights, warm despite all the dark creeping in, and Tetsurou feels at peace, all the way down to his bones. They walk a curious, meandering path around the festival grounds with only the chirps of cicadas to keep them company. An eerie calm settles; a vacuum snaked through the streets of Sendai.

Daichi’s infamous partner remains unconcerned with them so long as they behave like pedestrians. Tetsurou’s curiosity burns. What, exactly, did Tsukishima tear apart to wind up arrested? Another question for later—Tetsurou has thousands.

“I’m coming back next year,” Tetsurou mutters.

"I don’t understand why you like it so much.”

“It’s cool. We don’t do Tanabata like this at home.”

“I guess,” Tsukishima says with the same air as eighteen-year-old Tetsurou mocking him over the Skytree. He walks with his hands shoved in his pockets, hunched in a little but nothing so severe as that first day he showed up at Tetsurou’s apartment, all those August 7ths ago.

Down the street, back the way they came, a shrieking “whoop!” pierces the festival grounds.

“Please, please be who I think it is,” Tetsurou says. He grabs Tsukishima by the sleeve and drags him into the department store alley. Next time they can interfere. This time, Tetsurou wants to see how it plays out.

A moment later, Saeko ambles onto the scene, one arm looped around the back of Tsukishima Akiteru himself.

Tetsurou grabs Tsukishima’s arm to keep him from barging into the street. “Gathering info, right? Let’s see what happens before we mess with it.”

An angry grumble huffs from Tsukishima, but he stays put.

“You drum again tomorrow, right?” Akiteru asks. “Sorry I missed it today.”

“Right,” Saeko snorts. “Because this was somehow the big, important one. You’ve seen the show dozens of times. Catch this one or not, it’s fine. There’s always gonna be more.”

Akiteru tightens his arm slung over her shoulder. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you.”

“Oh, be still my heart. Such flattery. You coming back with me?” Saeko asks.

“Yeah, have to at least get my phone, it’s been driving me crazy being without it all day even if I did sleep half of it away on Udai’s couch. How the hell are you even upright?”

“I’m just more amazing than you.”

“There is more alcohol in your blood than actual blood I think,” Akiteru teases. He stumbles when Saeko throws her arms around his neck. “You know, I haven’t been to Tanabata in years. Not since that whole soul-crushing real job thing happened. Mom could never make it when we were kids, but I’d bring Kei down to see the decorations. We’d bet on who’d win, eat too much food, and then sprawl out in the park all afternoon. Was a good time. Don’t miss much from those days, but I do miss stuff like that.”

“He was here earlier,” Saeko says. She taps her chin. “He seemed kind of glum, but he’s always a little bit, isn’t he?”

“I guess.” Akiteru says something else, quieter. Tetsurou has to strain to catch it. “I just hope he knows what he’s doing with the job and the pro team. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy for him. I just worry he’ll burn himself out and wind up hating these two things he couldn’t choose between.”

“And I think you worry too much.” Saeko lets out what is probably supposed to be a giggle, but it comes out more as a snort. “Oh my god, and you’ll never believe who he was here with.”

“Not one of the usual suspects?”

“Nope.” The word pops between her lips. “Kuroo Tetsurou. Little Bro is running around with Nekoma trash again. Maybe we should throw him a party.”

“Trash?!” Tetsurou hisses.

Tsukishima clamps a hand over his mouth. From between his fingers, he whispers, “Accurate.”

“Really?” Akiteru laughs. “That’s amazing.”

“Just about fell over I was so surprised. Seemed close, too, not like they just happened to run into each other. Tsukki even said they were hanging out, so…”

“Maybe if Kei ever brings him home for dinner or something, you can come, too.” Akiteru sounds unbearably nervous saying it.

“You want to bring me home to meet your Mom?” Saeko asks. “First time for everything, I guess.”

“She’ll like you,” Akiteru says.

Tsukishima stifles a laugh. At Tetsurou’s questioning look, he says, “He’s right. She’ll love her.”

Isn’t that just the cutest smile spreading over Tsukishima’s face? Must be genetic. “Good lord, your family terrifies me.”

“Maybe let’s talk about it another time,” Saeko says. “Ready to get your Tanabata wish on? Let’s do this so we can go back to mine. I want to convince you to spend another night.”

“Yeah, alright. I still think it’s adorable you wanted to do this.” Akiteru pulls a yellow slip of paper out of his pocket.

Saeko shrugs and pulls out a slip of her own, then gestures at the bamboo overhead. “Give me a boost, will you?”

Akiteru laughs as he lifts Saeko up to get her wish tied up high, near the heavens. “I can’t wait to hear what’s so important, you need to put it all the way up there, above children and the elderly.”

“Maybe now I won’t tell you at all,” Saeko says. She smacks a kiss to Akiteru’s forehead on her way down and then shuffles to his side and peers at the little piece of paper. “What’s yours say?”

Akiteru mutters something they can’t hear. He angles his paper toward Saeko.

“I wish for Kei to continue expanding his horizons, to have infinite chances to embrace what he loves, and to find the greatest joy in life,” Saeko reads. “That’s so sweet. You’re a good brother, you know. I think he’s going to be alright no matter what happens.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” Saeko says. “He’s come out of his shell so much. You don’t see it because he’s always been more open with you than anyone else, but that kid is going to be just fine. And the Nekoma trash is going to be really good for him.”

“They were cute, weren’t they?” Akiteru asks. “Dancing around each other. Flirting across the net at Nationals like nobody could tell. God, I don’t think Kei shut up about him for that whole summer between his first and second years at Karasuno.”

“I forgot about Nationals.” Saeko cackles, obnoxious and loud. “That was adorable as hell.”

"Each other,” Tsukishima snaps before Tetsurou can so much as breathe a word. “They mean you, too.”

“Never denied it.”

A huge grin falls over Akiteru’s face when Saeko says something too quiet to hear. He pulls her closer and rocks them in gentle sways like they’re dancing. “Then get me a pen, I need to make some last-minute changes.”

“Oh?” Saeko asks. She wriggles her way out of Akiteru’s grip and snags a pen from the little folding table still sitting idle on the sidewalk. “What are you wishing for instead?”

Akiteru lays his tanzaku flat on his palm and scribbles, then sticks the pen behind his ear and reaches toward the bamboo. He chuckles. “For the Nekoma trash to get as many tries as it takes to get through to Kei.”

The simplest explanation, and all that.

Tsukishima’s jaw drops. “Mother f—”

Tetsurou wakes to his phone ringing. He ignores it.

There are worse things than being constantly flung back in time because the guy you’re into’s brother approves of you, he supposes. Lots of worse things. He whispers, “Tsukki’s got to be losing his mind.”

Tetsurou rolls over, smashes his face in his pillow, and laughs.

The call with Tsukishima lasts seven seconds and consists of:

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Come up to Sendai. Bring gym clothes and shoes.”

“Okay.”

Click.

Tetsurou’s not waiting two and a half hours for the answer to his question. He calls back straight away.

“What?” Tsukishima asks, all in one tone, teeth snapping around the end.

“Just checking.”

“Of all the type-a nutjobs in the world,” Tsukishima mutters before hanging up and this, too, prompts a giddy round of laughter Tetsurou can’t be bothered to hold in.

Tetsurou showers, combs his hair, tries to remember all those little, unconscious parts of his morning routine tossed by the wayside for nearly a month of irrelevance. Decent clothes today. A moment set aside to let his supervisor know he won’t be working the rest of the week and reschedule what meetings he can. Five laps from the balcony to the front door, just mulling the whole thing over while he waits out the train schedule.

This is the last one. It could be, anyway. Tetsurou wants to embrace optimism and it’s a good feeling churning around in his stomach. Nerves and anticipation, no fear. Even if they don’t have hold of the solution, they’re closing in fast.

Tetsurou turns his phone over in his hands and keys Tsukishima’s number into a blank message then backs it out. On his way out the door, he snags a book from the duplicate shelf.

Early morning train rides are the worst sort of hell. The motion is lulling, the noise is intolerable, and the people are endless. If they had done this sooner, Tetsurou might have been more understanding of Tsukishima’s coffee possessiveness and generally tense and unforgiving attitude these past weeks. Nothing but time and a vapid reread on his hands, Tetsurou considers what he wants to be real when this parade of August 7ths is over and done with.

If this were Tetsurou’s rom-com, he’d want their moment to happen on the beach.

Tetsurou would lay out on the sand, second-hand paperback novels stuffed in a tote bag along with water and sunscreen. The flip-flops might not be lime green, but maybe hot pink, and the umbrella Tsukishima huddles under could be red and white polka dots instead of stripes. On the sweet refuge from the humidity-soaked city, a cushion set against the rolling waves lapping in from the ocean, accompanied by a tiny smile hiding in the crease of Tsukishima’s lips as he reads. By toes wiggling like he’s thinking about digging them into the sand. The roaring waves. SPF 70 sunscreen that matters.

It happened out there, whatever it is that’s floating around in Tetsurou’s chest, trying on names that don’t quite fit and saturating his lungs. Or, if not in the ocean, somewhere around the scotch. Tetsurou definitely had feelings before Act 3’s tragic backstory. If he wants to be honest about it, he had feelings before any of this started, but he’s not in the mood to be so transparent about what he’s been carrying around since college.

Out in the sand with the guy he’s ninety-five percent in love with is a good place for a moment. And even that is hedging the bets, Tetsurou is all-in, but he feels left behind. A little lied to—a lot, actually, but only a little of it bothers him—and how the hell is he supposed to catch up? Should he even get to? Is he really all that far behind in the first place? Maybe Tsukishima hasn’t so much pulled ahead as pulled even. Tetsurou likes the feel of that. It slots into place neatly, no snags to get caught on wondering what he’s missed.

Tetsurou would want something goofy and loud; heavy on the ‘com’. An outrageous declaration that would make him laugh and no one would believe any of it when he tells the story later.

What sort of moment does Tsukishima imagine?

By the time Tetsurou arrives in Sendai, he’s only a couple chapters into his book and not any more level than when he left Tokyo.

Tsukishima’s apartment is a ten-minute walk from the train station. It’s obviously student housing—a short, decently maintained building with every front-facing window decorated by plants and stickers. Apartment 206 is on the second floor, facing the back but Tetsurou would lay down money there’s no window decorations. Tetsurou only knocks once before the door is yanked open and Yamaguchi’s beatific grin shines across Tsukishima’s threshold.

“Hello,” Yamaguchi says, drenched in smug validation. He steps aside for Tetsurou to enter but is immediately thwarted by Tsukishima.

“Out,” Tsukishima says, herding Yamaguchi into the hallway. He is properly dressed and presentable for only the second or third time since that day last week at Sendai Gymnasium, though the lizard shirt is still present and accounted for. Seems Tetsurou’s not the only one thinking about what he wants to be real when this is all over. “I don’t even know why you’re still here.”

“Just wanted to say ‘hi’ to Kuroo,” Yamaguchi jabs an elbow at Tsukishima while he locks up. Then, in that same smug voice wrapped around his grin, he says, “Hi, Kuroo.”

“Good to see you, Freckles,” Tetsurou says. “What are you up to on this fine August morning?”

“Not much. I actually have to run some errands, so I can’t stick around.”

“Then go,” Tsukishima says. “We have shit to do, too. Go take care of Yachi’s ice cream addiction.”

“My girlfriend,” Yamaguchi gleefully informs Tetsurou with a handful of steps backward toward the stairs. “She’s hella pregnant and not at all shy about embracing the clichés of it.”

Tetsurou almost says he knows, but the warning look Tsukishima shoots over the top of Yamaguchi’s head is enough to pull it back. “Congrats. Yachi’s the squeaky girl who used to manage your team, right?”

“She’s less squeaky now,” Yamaguchi says. He makes a shapeless motion in front of him as he hits the stairwell. “Well, sort of, anyway. Was nice to see you, Kuroo. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I plan to be around.”

Yamaguchi grins that terrifyingly bright smile of his, waves, and heads down the stairs.

“Not a word, Nekoma trash,” Tsukishima says once Yamaguchi is long out of sight. He leans back against his door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay, I’ll be quiet. Gotta make sure you can shoot your shot after all.”

“Right. I’m the one shooting their shot here.”

Tetsurou reaches out to fiddle with the hem of Tsukishima’s shirt pulled taught over his arm. “Should be. From the way you tell it, I’ve made my feelings abundantly clear.”

“Many times.” And Tsukishima has no objections. That says enough.

“Well, what do you want to do, Mister this day finally might have consequences?” Tetsurou asks. “What do you want to be real when all is said and done?”

Tsukishima stands up straight and heads for the stairwell. “Well, funny you mention it. I have an idea I think you will like.”

“Oh? Are we finally going to go get our nipples pierced? Not going to lie, I’m still curious.”

“Now that we’re hoping things are for real, you still want to pierce your nipples?” Tsukishima asks as he takes the steps one at a time. Tetsurou jumps for the landing two-thirds of the way down and knocks the door open with his shoulder.

“Mostly I just wanted to see if I could get you to say ‘nipples.’” Tetsurou walks backward down the sidewalk, grinning when Tsukishima follows. “I don’t care what we do.”

“Thought you’d insist on stalking Saeko.”

“We could, I guess. It’d be fun as hell but do we really need to? I just want to enjoy the day off from work, with you.”

“I won’t say no to that.” Tsukishima allows Tetsurou approximately five seconds to savor the warm, fuzzy explosions before gathering up all those delightful feelings and lighting them on fire. “You know what this means, though, right?”

Tetsurou is positive he doesn’t want to hear it.

Tsukishima’s eyes gleam. “Your whole stupid Zelda wish thing was a coincidence.”

Gyms have a smell, even vacant ones coated in urethane with aluminum chairs and plastic bleachers. It’s something inappreciable without good memories to back it up. That cloying scent of sweat is nostalgic under the pressure of hard work paying off, championships, that heart-pounding blink and you’ll miss it split-second decision-making. Karasuno’s gym is no exception, sitting meters away, open and inviting.

“Not that I object, but what are we doing here?” Tetsurou asks.

“You asked what I want to be real when this is over,” Tsukishima says. “I want Karasuno’s history to be more than little giants. And—”

“What?”

“I want to give them what you, Bokuto, and Akaashi gave me. Show them it’s not all about the flashy spikers.”

Tetsurou never set out to teach a lesson—he’d mostly wanted someone to trash Bokuto’s shots with and Tsukishima has an aura about him that screams poke at me, it’s fun. Even later, when it morphed into trying to give worthwhile advice, it was all about enjoying volleyball. Getting some satisfaction out of it. That Tsukishima walked away with something so heavy is humbling.

“Well, well, look who finally comes home a superstar,” Coach Ukai hollers when they walk in the door. He looks up from his clipboard with a pen cap clenched between his teeth. “Congrats, hear you’re pro now.”

The last time Tetsurou stood in front of Coach Ukai he was eighteen years old, incredibly self-assured, and looking for any excuse to blow the house down. It’s not so different from being twenty-three, and maybe looking to blow things up instead. Ukai hasn’t gotten any taller but he still feels bigger. He looks the both of them up and down in the same way Coach Nekomata does every time Tetsurou sees him—assessing and rough.

“Warm up, both of you. Let’s see how my kids fare against two national-level blockers.” Ukai’s too in-the-know to not be aware Tetsurou contributes to volleyball from a desk, now. How considerate of him to not mention Tetsurou’s skills are atrophied to hell and back.

Ukai’s gaggle of kids pretend they’re not staring while Tetsurou and Tsukishima stretch. They hover on the sidelines of the volleyball court, whispering to each other. Tetsurou does his best to look intimidating. Might as well go all-in on his dastardly Nekoma reputation.

“He do this every time?” Tetsurou asks, rolling his shoulders.

“Yeah. Show up at practice, you’re expected to play.”

Exactly what Coach Nekomata always did, too.

When they’re ready to go, Coach Ukai jams his whistle between his teeth and blows a sharp, high-pitched wail. “Hey, munchkins, other side of the net. Got a treat for you.”

The kids Ukai has them up against don’t stand a chance, even two to six. Tsukishima is every bit as beastly as he was playing with Akaashi and Sakusa, and Tetsurou can hold his own against fifteen-year-olds. It probably says something about him that he enjoys wiping the floor with high-schoolers almost as much as he enjoys the worshipful awe every one of them radiates at Tetsurou and Tsukishima starting with the first rally. Tetsurou’s always gotten a kick out of being notorious.

After three runs through Ukai’s lineup, he blows his whistle again and sends the kids out to run.

“Keep an eye on ‘em for me, will you?” Ukai says to Tsukishima, lagging a bit behind. Then, when Tsukishima’s to the door and Tetsurou’s just passing by Ukai’s chair he mutters, “Hang back,” without looking up from his clipboard.

Ukai’s got his coach-voice down pat now, Tetsurou doesn’t even register obeying. He makes Tetsurou wait nearly an entire minute before he glances up, pen gnashed between his molars. He considers Tetsurou for a long, pregnant moment before pulling the pen out of his mouth. “Do you and I need to have the shovel talk?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You know, Tsukishima never needs the talk, either, but he struggles a lot because of it. Can be hard to let him get where he needs to be in his own time, but just remember: he always gets there.”

It’s another wrap you up in one sentence sort of thing; like the hardcovers. Tetsurou figures he could be offended to be the one getting threatened with a shovel talk, but Tsukishima apparently endured a baseball bat-wielding Kenma and fair’s fair. “I know.”

“For the record, I hope things work out for the two of you. Don’t screw it up. And don’t make me change my mind. I’m petty enough to call old Nekomata over trivial shit like this.”

It feels trite, but Tetsurou answers with “yes, sir” and barely keeps himself from outright saluting.

“Scram. Catch up with the others.”

Tetsurou doesn’t get his nipples pierced, but he does get late-afternoon waffles almost as good as the ones at Amadeus and an afternoon hanging around the park across the street from Tsukishima’s apartment building. He gets the full story of the time Tsukishima lost his shit and set all his stuff on fire—right over there, where there’s no trees, just grass. Little anecdotes about various people wandering around. Tsukishima talks about his upcoming job and volleyball career like they’re on the horizon for the first time since all this began.

Never in Tetsurou’s life has he had such a calm, blissful afternoon.

These are the sorts of moments Tsukishima remembers well, Tetsurou thinks. The uncomplicated ones where conversation comes easy and honest, and every line has a rebuttal waiting on the sidelines. Dinner at a quaint Indian restaurant neither of them have been to before. A movie theater all to themselves because the whole town went straight home after Tanabata. All the same things they’ve been doing, washed in a different shade, validating Tetsurou’s ninety-five percent.

By 11:45, Tetsurou knows what Tsukishima’s moment is meant to look like: colors swirling around the night sky, paper swishing in the breeze. The one thing he’s never been able to deny Tetsurou no matter how frustrated and angry it made him.

Tsukishima stops in the middle of the big intersection blanketed in wishes, department store towering overhead, clear up to the moon. He crosses his arms, then lets them fall at his sides. When Tetsurou takes a step closer, determined to say his piece, Tsukishima yanks the moment right out from under him.

“I’m sorry. For what I did to you, you deserved better from me. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said it so there it is. I’m sorry.”

Tetsurou has tried saying it’s fine. Tried letting it go, tried ignoring it even though it’s a glitter-soaked, magenta elephant creeping its way out of the corner. None of it felt half as genuine as saying, “I forgive you. And it wasn’t all your fault, anyway.”

There are the big, swelling orchestra moments and the ones where the tension snaps after a three-year slow-burn, and there are moments more suited to Tsukishima. Quieter. Subtle, yet straightforward. The sweet impression of a smile.

Tetsurou cannot physically hold it in for one second longer. “Also, I’m at least ninety-five percent certain I’m in love with you.”

Tsukishima chokes on nothing. “Excuse me?”

“I am. Happened in the ocean. Three years ago, too, but that wasn’t our time, now was it? Now’s our time. A little older, wiser, more at home in our skins and better able to understand others because of it—at least I am, anyway. So I’m going to say it mostly happened in the ocean. How’s that for your rom-com moment?”

“Why’d you have to ruin it like that?” Tsukishima asks, nervous, and not at all sounding like Tetsurou ruined anything.

“I also think it’s cute how you’re pretending not to like it. I’m going to kiss you now, okay? You owe me a good one.” A massive understatement but Tetsurou isn’t going to tally up the score properly. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes that meandering notion of Tsukishima pulling even. Of them finally being on the same page after misfires spanning years. This is what’s right for them.

“I know. You’ve been making that face all day”—Tsukishima makes a vague, circling gesture with one finger. Tetsurou grabs him by the wrist and pulls him closer—“What’s my tell? I’ve never been able to figure out what you’re looking for.”

Tetsurou’s fingers slot into the space between Tsukishima’s. “You give me this look. Like you don’t have any idea what’s coming next but you can’t wait to find out. And your voice drops. Just a little. You fidget, too, bend your fingers back like you’re going to crack your knuckles. And you get this adorable—”

The best kisses are the ones struggling with laughter. At midnight with the glow of streetlamps hot in his eyelids and thousands of tanzaku dancing with well-wishes. Tsukishima’s anxious fingers finally kept occupied with Tetsurou’s hair. Tetsurou can almost taste the gin from that oh-so-amazing night he missed with the glitter and strobe lights—next time it’ll be a better club, after-hours, darker and louder—and Tetsurou’s heart pounds with all the promises of next time.

Tetsurou fists the back of Tsukishima’s shirt and if his other hand lets go of Tsukishima’s and wanders a bit, well, sue him.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to grope my ass like this in a rom-com,” Tsukishima mutters.

“You’re watching the wrong movies. Don’t worry about it, I’m an expert.”

Tsukishima’s arm winds around Tetsurou’s neck. It’s exactly the reply Tetsurou wanted. Soft and desperate after three years, and this one amazing day. “I lied. One hundred percent. I’m one hundred percent sure about both of us.”

“I’m going to pretend I know what you mean to stop you from explaining.”

Like Tetsurou could be bothered to explain at all when Tsukishima kisses him like this.

Down the street, Saeko’s shrieking “whoop!” pierces the festival grounds again.

Tsukishima is halfway to his brother before Akiteru even notices he’s there.

"Akiteru,” Tsukishima snarls in four distinct syllables. “You make that wish and yeet me back to 5:13 one more time and I will murder you.”

“Kei?”

“I’m not kidding, where is it? Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?!”

If anything, Akiteru looks more confused. He glances at Saeko like she might understand, but she simply shrugs before focusing on Tetsurou. “Holy shit. What’s up, Nekoma?”

“Oh, so much but we’ll explain later,” Tetsurou says before Tsukishima can get any of that explosion simmering in the back of his throat out. “You’re here to do some cheesy, romantic Tanabata wish thing, right? We’re going to need you to not.”

Tsukishima completely ignores the explanation along with the questions dancing all over Akiteru’s face. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sure you wanna know?” Saeko waggles her eyebrows.

“Oh, gross.”

“Way to go, elder-Tsukishima!” Tetsurou claps a hand on Akiteru’s back. “I assumed she’s like a praying mantis and devours her mate.”

Saeko snaps her gum and gives Tetsurou a look full of diabolically fluttering eyelashes. “That can be arranged.”

“This is even less funny now than it was before.” Tsukishima scowls.

“Ah, good point,” Tetsurou says. “Sorry, babe, looks like you and I have a common fondness for Tsukishima boys, though. We’ll have to exchange notes sometime. Does yours get weirdly possessive over novelty coffee mugs but in a totally adorable way, too?”

Saeko backhands Akiteru in the chest. “He does.”

“Oh my god, both of you just stop it. Akiteru, give me the wish.” Tsukishima snaps his fingers in the space between them. “Now! You obviously cannot be trusted.”

Bemused, Akiteru digs the little slip out of his pocket and hands it over. “Not sure what this is about but there it is.”

“Do I burn it? I feel like I have to kill it with fire.” Tsukishima glances up, and from the look on his face, Tetsurou wouldn’t put it past him to nuke the thing from orbit.

“Tsukki, calm down.”

“I don’t want to!”

Of course he doesn’t. He wants to soak Tanabata in gasoline just to make extra, extra sure Akiteru’s wish is decimated. “Look at the time.”

One moment, Tsukishima’s eyes blow wide in the light of his phone. 12:03 reflects in his glasses. The next, Tetsurou has two armfuls of Tsukishima collapsing into him and no air in his lungs. Tsukishima’s arms curl tight around Tetsurou’s shoulders. Shaky breaths rattle the both of them. Tetsurou shuffles them around a little to give Tsukishima a little shelter from the onlookers. “I think we’re good now, guys. You gonna be around tomorrow?”

Ignoring Tetsurou, Akiteru steps to the side for a better view of Tsukishima’s face half-smashed in the crook of Tetsurou’s neck. “Kei? What’s wrong?”

Tsukishima takes three rapid breaths, then one that is long and thoughtful. He lifts his head to prop his chin on Tetsurou’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to care at all that Akiteru and Saeko are standing right there, baffled, watching the whole debacle like it’s daytime television.

“I’m good. Sorry, it’s been a really long day. Kuroo’s right, we should talk tomorrow. Today. We should talk later.” His voice wobbles, but is nowhere near as wrecked as Tetsurou’s would be, eyes lined pink and puffy.

Tetsurou pats Tsukishima’s back. “C’mon, I’ll get you home. Let’s have our morning after moment the morning after.”

“Gross,” Akiteru says.

“Honey, do not make me point out why that is wildly hypocritical of you,” Saeko says.

“But I’m a grown-up,” Akiteru mutters.

“So am I,” Tsukishima says, stepping back, though a hand lingers on Tetsurou’s wrist. He wipes his eyes one more time. “And it’s not like it sounds.”

Every passing second, the giddiness bouncing around Tetsurou’s chest swells. “I mean, I wouldn’t guarantee it.”

Tsukishima groans. “It just hit me that I’m going to be stuck with you, now. I changed my mind. Let’s be friends. The sort that only see each other on birthdays and holidays.”

“Aww,” Saeko says. “I have no idea what’s going on but it’s so cute.”

“Me either.” Akiteru cocks his head trying to get a better look at Tsukishima’s face again. “Are you sure you’re alright, Kei?”

Tsukishima clears his throat and regains more of his composure. “I’ll be fine after some sleep. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ve just been trying to get a hold of you all day.”

“Ah, sorry. My phone’s locked up at Saeko’s place.”

“It’s fine”—one last, slow exhale—“Everything’s fine now. Just… go get your phone. You shouldn’t hang around here in the middle of the night.”

“If you’re sure.” Akiteru doesn’t sound at all convinced but he lets Saeko drag him away in the direction of her place with a cautious “goodnight” wafting behind them.

Tetsurou twists his arm to get hold of Tsukishima’s forearm and haul him closer. “Sleep?”

“Sleep. I’m tempted to leave you stranded here but I guess I’ll let you—”

Midnight kisses struck with relief so profound, every bone is jelly are a close second to the ones dancing in laughter.

Chapter Text

The alarm screaming from Tsukishima’s phone is both the worst thing Tetsurou has ever experienced and so very welcome after four hours crammed into a single with Tsukishima and a solid kilometer of his legs. Tsukishima fell asleep around three. Tetsurou didn’t sleep at all; just floated in the void, lulled by Tsukishima’s moving chest. It’d be nice if Tetsurou wasn’t so tired and Tsukishima wasn’t so damn tall.

Tsukishima groans and nearly gets Tetsurou in the face swatting at his phone on the nightstand. The alarm quiets.

For one beautiful moment, everything is perfect. The sun’s coming out, Tsukishima is warm, and Tetsurou can feel it in his bones. He’s so utterly certain he got the timing right, he’s already laughing before his phone lights up next to Tsukishima’s on the nightstand and the X-files theme, tinny and compressed, starts playing as his alarm goes off, too.

“You are the worst.” Tsukishima groans. He smacks this alarm quiet, too.

“I was worried you’d feel uncomfortable if you didn’t get to start your day with the X-Files.”

“Literally. Quantifiably,” Tsukishima says with a tired slur running the words together. He turns his head away and yawns. “I could write a proof. Wouldn’t even be hard.”

“At least your bird friend is gone,” Tetsurou says to a face-full of Tsukishima’s hair. “Besides, you’re the one who didn’t turn off your insanely early alarm. Mine was quiet. Could have slept right through it.”

“Oh, well then, obviously I deserve this.” Tsukishima pinches Tetsurou’s side with the pads of his fingers. No nails—too soft to hurt, too lingering to be out of spite—then shoves him right off the side of the bed. “I changed my mind. Go away. I don’t sort of love anything about you at all.”

Before Tsukishima thinks to retract his arm, Tetsurou grabs hold and yanks him off the bed, too. Tsukishima lands on Tetsurou’s chest with a mighty oompf. “Too bad, ‘cause I thought it through and I definitely had a moment somewhere between the ocean and the scotch.”

Tsukishima slides sideways so he’s mostly on the floor, then wriggles around so he’s facing Tetsurou. He is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Between the club and the waffles, I think. But I couldn’t keep it, so I guess it was the ocean for me, too. That was really nice.”

“I almost kissed you,” Tetsurou says.

Tsukishima reaches up to the bed for pillows then yanks the sheet down, too. “Yeah, I know. I probably would have let you, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Such a travesty. Can’t believe I could have gotten away with it.” A yawn escapes Tetsurou as he pulls the sheet around his back to cocoon them together on the floor. His voice feels heavy, head foggy, and at least here he can stretch out a little without giving up the opportunity to tangle their legs and squirm close as he can.

“I’ll make it up to you.” Tsukishima shifts again to get his arm under Tetsurou’s neck and smothers another yawn with his free hand.

What a lovely sentiment to fall asleep to.

Kenma is not amused by Tetsurou and Tsukishima showing up on his doorstep unannounced at three in the afternoon. “If all that booze is for you, please drink it out back so I don’t have a mess to clean up when you die of alcohol poisoning.”

“I’ll have you know only that one”—Tetsurou tries to gesture at the case of beer under Tsukishima’s arm but only manages to turn slightly and wobble—“and this one”—he raises an arm—“is booze. Volleyball season.”

“Well, whatever it is and whatever you think you need it for, reassess.”

Now that Tetsurou’s looking for it, Kenma’s poker face is truly masterful. It’s not the level of disdain giving him away—some amount of it is always present, he’s never not a little peeved—but the tone of it shifts into something a bit more protective when he looks at Tsukishima. A harder glint in his eyes to go along with his harsh jaw.

Holy shit, who knew?

“Too late. Calls have been made, people are on trains. It’s party time, Kenma.”

“Excuse me, Kuro, I love you like a brother but who the fuck says you get to throw a party in my house? My house. It’s mine.”

“Hinata’s coming.”

Kenma goes ferociously quiet. Same glare, same utter disdain for the idea of having people over even if he is friends with most of them and would have invited them anyway; he just doesn’t want to argue about it anymore.

If Tetsurou is anything like that with Tsukishima—actually, there is no ‘if’. Tetsurou is just as obvious and smitten—and really, who cares? Never killed anyone. “Please notice how I am not saying a word.”

“Noted,” Kenma grumbles. Then, as an afterthought turning around to go back inside, “Good to see you again, Tsukishima. Been a while.”

Tetsurou mutters, “You have no idea.”

“If you’re throwing a party, you’re paying and cleaning up. Kenma gestures to the house at large. “I get veto rights on invites.”

“You’re acting like I don’t know and abide by the rules.” Tetsurou heaves his bags of drinks onto the counter and unloads the case of beer from under Tsukishima’s arm so he can do the same.

“Oh, I know you know them, I’m just making sure Tsukishima knows too, otherwise you’ll get him to break them for you."

Fair enough.

Once all the bags and boxes are settled in Kenma’s kitchen, Tetsurou starts pawing through the fridge and freezer, taking stock. “What do you have against ice?”

“Not all of us live in constant preparation to party,” Kenma says and sure, he says so, but he’s also already grabbed a stool and started moving his more valuable items to the tops of the kitchen cabinets where even Bokuto would have to expend some effort to cause damage. After the second trip, Tsukishima starts putting the collectibles up for him and if Tetsurou wasn’t so terrified of spooking them into actually hating each other, he’d coo over it.

“Is that why you have so much ice in your freezer?” Tsukishima asks. Tetsurou deigns not to answer. It doesn’t fool Tsukishima any. “Make me a list of what all you want. I’ll go get it.”

Normally, Tetsurou would tease Tsukishima for the blatant escape attempt—but he needs a chance to speak to Kenma in private.

“Two blocks south—that’s the convenience store we usually go to. Just ice and snacks, we’ll order food later, too, but get what you want. That way it’ll probably be approved for Bokuto and Hinata.” Tetsurou pulls out his wallet and hands over what cash he has. Figures yesterday—the first one—he spent it all on a wish and today he gets a party to celebrate it coming true.

Kenma huffs a displeased breath the instant Tsukishima is out the door. A bit of his poker face falls away, but not as much as Tetsurou was expecting. He mindlessly drums his fingers on the counter for a moment; long enough to be sure Tsukishima’s out the door and down the block. “You obviously already know. I’m not sorry. I won’t apologize.”

“No one’s asking you to. Just be nice. We worked it out, you don’t need to worry. And no more baseball bats, okay?”

The betrayal racing through Kenma’s expression is almost worth having to make such a ridiculous demand in the first place. Kenma seethes. “I knew Bokuto couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Wasn’t Bokuto,” Tetsurou says, but Kenma doesn’t believe him at all.

Kenma gives Tetsurou a wary look and starts pulling glasses out of a side cabinet where he keeps all the cheap, mismatched dishes he doesn’t care about. Another cabinet off to the side houses the nicer set Kenma bought when he moved out on his own but he hardly ever uses them. He sets two glasses down then places his hands on the counter and stares at Tetsurou until Tetsurou stares back. “If you tell me this is good and you are happy, then I’m good and I’m happy for you.”

“This is good, and I am really, really happy.”

Kenma’s face softens. He rolls his eyes, but it hardly has any effect now that he’s backed off. “Did he at least apologize?”

“Yes.”

Tetsurou’s phone buzzes on the counter: Tsukishima asking if it’s safe to come back by double-checking how much ice Tetsurou wants.

On his way past, Kenma wraps a one-armed hug around Tetsurou’s middle, then knuckles him in the side hard enough to make Tetsurou jerk away with a yelp.

“What’s that for?!”

“Did you invite all of Bokuto and Shouyou’s team, or just them? I don’t know if Sakusa will survive bitching me out over my oven-cleaning schedule again, and I’d hate to deprive Shouyou of his shot at the Division 1 Trophy.”

Tetsurou had forgotten about that. It’s not even in the top ten weirdest things he’s witnessed anymore. “To be fair, he didn’t even want to come the time we did invite him. No way he shows up for this. Especially since you still haven’t cleaned the oven.”

Kenma leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Or that Mayo guy. The Mayo guy is not invited.”

“Do you mean Miya?” Tetsurou asks through the laughter clogging up his throat. He takes a second to answer Tsukishima’s message with ‘take your time’ tacked on the end.

“Whatever. The one who keeps hitting on Shouyou. I don’t care what his name is.”

“To be fair, I don’t think he’s hitting on him. Not really.” Miya gets his kicks riling people up. It’s slightly easier to see when he’s far away and focused on someone else, though.

“Still don’t like him.”

Yeah, Tetsurou, either. “Don’t worry so much, it’s just going to be Bokuto and Akaashi, Hinata, and a couple of Tsukki’s friends. Oh man, you remember Karasuno’s manager your last year at Nekoma? The blonde girl with the clipboards? She’s having a baby with the guy with all the freckles.”

“Yamaguchi. Yeah, I know.”

Mildly annoying, but Tetsurou supposes he’s not surprised Kenma didn’t keep him in the know for what’s been happening in Miyagi. Tetsurou’s phone buzzes again.

“Just tell him to head back, it’s fine. No baseball bats.” Kenma snags his laptop from the living room and wanders back with it balanced on one arm. “I’ll order food, what does he like?”

“Lots of stuff he can’t have right now, don’t worry about it.” Everything will be fine. Kenma will let it go, Tsukishima will keep up his cautious distance until the awkwardness is gone, and neither of them will make Tetsurou feel trapped in the middle if they can help it. Bokuto’s right: they’ll bond.

“If he stomps on your heart again, I’m going to rent a chainsaw,” Kenma says.

Eventually.

“I’ll have you know,” Tetsurou says, arms tight over his chest, feet planted shoulder-width apart, back straight and chin up, “that I am aware of what happened to my ukulele.”

Akaashi keeps a masterfully blank face. “How would you ever find out about something like that?”

Bokuto and Tsukishima have settled into hilariously schoolyard positions: just a bit back and to the right of Tetsurou and Akaashi, watching the showdown. At least Tsukishima understands what it’s about; Bokuto is clueless and no less invested for it.

“I suppose the point is we’re going to see if you can figure it out.”

“I wasn’t that mean to children,” Tsukishima says. “I don’t deserve this insanity.”

Akaashi considers Tetsurou for a drawn-out moment. “Did I tell you about it the night we all got drunk on sangria at karaoke and you sang that Lady Gaga song?”

“Nope.” But what a night that was.

“You know, the ‘spin that record’ one,” Akaashi says. “Not the one with all the Hitchcock references, the time you were drunk on piña coladas.”

Also a fun night. “It’s not necessary to list out every time I got trashed and sang Lady Gaga songs, it doesn’t embarrass me as much as you’re hoping.”

Akaashi grumbles but keeps his impassive expression nailed down.

“Well, would you look at this,” croons from off to the side. Yamaguchi’s head pokes around the corner of the front hall, grinning fierce and vindicated.

Hot on his heels, Yachi waddles along looking less than enthused, but she spares a hug for Tsukishima and then settles into it, leaning her weight against him with her arms carelessly draped around his middle. “Can you believe he made me come down? I mean, I love you, and I’m happy to see you, but what if I went into labor on the train? What about getting home? Forget it. We’re staying in Tokyo. Find a job and house here, Tadashi.”

Yamaguchi reaches over Yachi’s head to give Tsukishima a quick hug hello. “It’ll be fine. Women all over the world give birth on trains all the time.”

Yachi’s tirade was half nonsensical good humor, and the other half instantly dissolves into more of the same. “Oh? And how do you know this? Are you researching shinkansen birth rates now?”

Bokuto abandons his place by Akaashi in favor of towering over Yachi with a proud smile. “Yacchan! I always knew you’d do amazing things and look at you now. Growing a human. I call dibs on Godfather, by the way.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Yachi says in a tone Tetsurou almost believes. “Tsukki has Godfather duties, but you can fight it out with Kuroo for Godmother if you want.”

Bokuto gives Tetsurou the look. Adjacent to the Drunk Bokuto alarm but a hundred times more dangerous because neither of them will have the excuse of alcohol. How exciting.

“Whatever you’re thinking, yes,” Tetsurou says. “I will totally fight it out to be Godmother.”

“Can’t have a drinking contest, Foster’s alcohol ban already started.”

“Maybe a joust?”

“If either of you makes it out of this without a closed-head injury, I’ll be astounded. Excuse me,” Tsukishima says. He disentangles Yachi from around his waist and steps toward Yamaguchi. “Yachi, Hinata’s out back, he said to let him know when you get here.”

“I’ll show you,” Tetsurou offers. Better to give Akaashi space to ponder his mysterious puzzle—he’ll have much more entertaining answers after stewing on it for an hour.

Hinata and Kenma sit close together in two of the folding chairs, both angled toward a third they have their feet propped on in an entirely too-familiar tangle. Never mind, not even Tetsurou is this obvious.

“Oh, that is so adorable.” Yachi giggles under her breath.

Behind them, Akaashi asks, “Did you hear about it from Konoha? I didn’t think he knew…”

“Nope.”

“Is there video?” Akaashi tries.

Tetsurou’s dying to know who Akaashi thinks might have been taping it so he can make a few calls and see if said video exists—but he doesn’t dare ask for fear of giving away that he doesn’t know the specifics. “Not even close.”

Akaashi gnashes his teeth and takes a harsh sip from his beer. It bothers him so much more than Tetsurou guessed it would—and worse, it was Akaashi’s idea. What the hell was he thinking telling Tetsurou to do this to him?

“You are a weird, weird dude, you know that?”

Akaashi’s gaze flashes severe and determined. “Oh? I suppose crashing children’s birthday parties is a ‘normal’ pastime?”

“That one wasn’t me!” Tetsurou cackles as he steps out onto the patio with Yachi. He never gets to say that, this is the best day ever. “Try again!”

“Yacchan!” Hinata calls. He immediately stands up, dislodging Kenma’s propped-up legs when he spins the extra chair toward Yachi. “Sit!”

“Oh, it’s nice back here. This is more like it.” Yachi collapses into the chair and turns her face toward the breeze wafting in. “Tadashi’s inside, he’s dying to see you. Go say ‘hi’ and tell him I’ve found my new home and I’m never leaving. Sorry, Kenma. Hope you like babies.”

Kenma pales.

“She’s kidding,” Tetsurou says.

“Am I?” Yachi asks, and if Tetsurou didn’t have a bit of experience with this new, bolder Yachi, he might believe she intends to seize the property.

“I think I’ll head in with Shouyou. Good to see you, though. Glad you could make it down,” Kenma mutters with one last nervous glance toward Yachi. Please also make sure to go home when this is over hangs heavy in the air.

Tetsurou snags Kenma’s abandoned chair and kicks Hinata’s over close enough for Yachi to kick her feet up.

“So, just you and me, huh? How’s it been, Nekoma?” Yachi asks.

Tetsurou kicks back and crosses his legs. A little part of him is dying to know what the nickname is about. “Am I really so infamous that you all run around calling me Nekoma?”

Yachi grins. “Yes, but probably not for the reason you think.”

“Oh? Storytime already? I thought I’d have to get in good with Freckles, first.”

“Tadashi may have stories, but don’t count me out. You know we used to date, right? Me and Tsukki?” Yachi bites back giggles as if the notion is every bit as absurd as it sounds.

“No.” Tetsurou almost doesn’t believe her.

“Yeah, beginning of our third year of high school and it was a disaster. Ask him about it but wait a couple of weeks. He won’t be sure which of us told you that way. Play your cards right and I’ll even give you good questions.”

“Where do I even start with this?” The notion is completely absurd, Tetsurou cannot even imagine Yachi and Tsukishima attempting any sort of a relationship. “He never told me, didn’t once mention a girlfriend at all.”

“I don’t think he even told his family. Tsukki was… finding himself. We were getting used to the idea of growing out of high school and thinking about what we wanted to do next versus what everyone expected of us—and it was a little more complicated for him. I think he needed the breathing room more than anything else.” A fond smile plays in Yachi’s cheeks, flushed from the sun and the heat. Her toes wiggle. “We like to joke, now, about how sometimes only the outcome is set in stone. One way or another, I think the three of us were always going to wind up with a baby. Just so happens it’s because Tadashi and I got together.”

“That’s… really sweet, actually.” Tetsurou hasn’t given much thought to this part of things, yet. Holy shit, a real baby. An ‘any day now’ that means any day.

“Could have happened so many other ways though. I used to be a little surprised Tsukki and Tadashi didn’t end up together, but they’re just not that sort of friends and Tsukki—well, he’s always been looking at you.”

“Gonna make me blush.”

“Well, I’m trying but you’re not as easy as I thought you’d be,” Yachi says with a slurry of the same devastated exasperation Tetsurou remembers spewing out of her in high school.

Tetsurou can respect that. “I’m too giddy. This is a good day.”

Yachi tilts her head to the side and grins at Bokuto sliding open the patio door. A moment later, a heavy clap lands on Tetsurou’s shoulder.

“Hey, congrats,” Bokuto says, quietly so only Tetsurou can hear.

The grin Tetsurou shoots back is so wide, his cheeks hurt.

Yachi rocks the chair her feet are propped up on in invitation but Bokuto waves her away.

“Wasn’t me, right?” Bokuto asks. “I didn’t tell you about the ukulele the night with all the sangria?”

“No, it wasn’t you,” Tetsurou says.

Bokuto shrugs. “Just seemed like something I’d do. Anyway, Yacchan, you have to tell me everything. Boy or girl? Name? Oh, I’m gonna get you so much baby Black Jackals merch, no way Tsukki has the connections to dress your kid in Frogs gear every day of the week.”

Tetsurou leans back further in his chair and lets the conversation seep into his skin along with the sun. Saying it’s a good day is underselling it. It’s August 8th. A new era. This whole unread chapter of his life unfolding—and Tetsurou is not convinced the stupid Zelda wish was a coincidence at all. Kenma’s mother always said it wasn’t about the words.

‘It’s dangerous to go alone.’ Tetsurou may as well have written, ‘So take me with you.’

Even if he still feels a bit like he’s been robbed blind, there’s always tomorrow and the next day. Infinite chances to make sure the various August 7ths are paid for in full.

Yachi’s midway through the story of Yamaguchi nearly fainting when they told her mother about the baby when Hinata herds Kenma back outside.

“Where’s Akaashi?” Bokuto asks, a thoughtful scrunch twisting his mouth to the side when he notices Akaashi’s absence.

“I think he’s up on the roof with Tsukishima,” Hinata says with his chin propped on Kenma’s shoulder and hands creeping over his hips. Everyone’s trying to ignore that part. Only Kenma is failing.

Sweet, glorious blackmail material. Tetsurou savors the taste of it for a good ten, fifteen seconds before Hinata’s actual words register. “Tsukki and Akaashi are… alone on the roof?”

“Nah,” Hinata says. Relief crashes through Tetsurou for one wondrous second, then Hinata smashes it to dust. “Yamaguchi’s up there, too.”

Isn’t that the most terrifying prospect in the known universe?

“I think maybe… No, definitely. I definitely feel like that’s not the greatest idea.” Bokuto cringes, edging his way back inside.

“Thank fuck he already knows about Yaku.” Tetsurou doesn’t mean to say it out loud; it careens out of him, smacking straight into Bokuto’s dumbfounded and horrified face. Tetsurou slings an arm over Bokuto’s shoulder once they’re inside and leads them toward the stairs towering up the middle of the house, lit up from the skylights. “Don’t worry about it. Your time will come. You go around acting like you tell Akaashi everything, but no way you told him about The Shrimp Incident.”

“I deserve that one.” Bokuto leans into Kuroo. “Let’s go break it up before they can do too much damage. I… Well, I also might have told Akaashi about the time you drove the Go Kart through the 7-Eleven.”

“Traitor.”

“Like I don’t know you told Kenma about the bowling tournament.”

No better time than the present. Tetsurou might as well fess up now. “I told Tsukki about the contingency plan binder, too.”

Bokuto throws his head back and howls. “Oh, man, I forgot about that, it’s still packed up in a box in my closet.”

They could do this for hours. Tetsurou shoves Bokuto up the stairs. “Shut up. We have more important things to deal with.”

Kenma’s roof was renovated into a patio shortly before he bought the house. He had to add the furniture—just a metal table and chairs—but the garden bed and wooden planks for flooring were installed before he got his hands on the keys. The roof is easily Tetsurou’s favorite part of the house; the skylights a close second. When Kenma and Tetsurou were kids they’d hide on Kenma’s balcony wrapped up in blankets watching the city come alive and now, grown up and on their own, they huddle up here on Kenma’s roof with books and portable gaming systems, watching Shibuya bloom at sunset.

Tsukishima, Akaashi, and Yamaguchi sit around the small table looking far, far too pleased with themselves. Yamaguchi doesn’t even have the courtesy to stop cackling when they catch sight of Kuroo and Bokuto.

“Shit,” Bokuto groans.

“Oh, no,” Akaashi says, completely deadpan. “They caught us.”

“I have blackmail on you, too, you know,” Tetsurou says, but it’s an empty threat. Akaashi knows far too many of the stupid things Tetsurou and Bokuto have done and he was born without a sense of shame for his own nonsense.

Akaashi stands and stretches both arms over his head before tapping Yamaguchi’s shoulder and nodding toward the door. On their way past Tetsurou to join Bokuto inside, he says, “Don’t worry. I’m saving the good stuff for the wedding roast.”

Make this the second most terrifying prospect in the known universe.

Akaashi pauses, one hand on the door handle. “Time travel?”

Tetsurou’s heart stops.

“No, no that’s far too implausible,” Akaashi mutters. He gives Tetsurou an outrageously disappointed look; like the implausibility of time travel is somehow his fault.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

Akaashi rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him and Yamaguchi, leaving Tetsurou alone with Tsukishima.

“He manage to tell you anything you didn’t already know?” Tetsurou ignores the table and chairs in favor of leaning his elbows on the half-wall running around the edge of Kenma’s roof. Dusk in Shibuya is always such a magnificent sight. Almost as captivating as the Rainbow Bridge at night, or thousands upon thousands of tanzaku wishes fluttering in the wind.

“You sound worried.” Tsukishima comes over to stand next to Tetsurou, arms dangling over the edge, brushes Tetsurou’s.

“Nah. Akaashi knows a lot, but he doesn’t know everything. Will still have plenty to horrify you with after you’ve bled him dry.”

Tsukishima knocks their shoulders together then loops his arm under Tetsurou’s so he can sandwich Tetsurou’s hand between his. “You don’t have to tell me everything. In fact, please don’t.”

“If you’re angling for a ‘you, too,’ you best cut it out now. I want to hear it all. You owe me, I can’t believe I missed out on so much. I demand reparations. Definitely have to go to a rave with me now.”

“Really? I thought you’d want to know about the time we had sex,” Tsukishima says.

“Excuse me?!”

The instant he says it, it’s obvious Tsukishima was joking.

“Your face…” Tsukishima nearly tilts over the edge of the roof laughing, head bowed to his clasped hands and head tilted sideways to watch Tetsurou’s face.

“You’re such a shit.” Tetsurou can barely get it out. This is more like it—the best side of Tsukishima. Snarky and a little mean. Affection all twisted up in a dry tone and near-cracking knuckles.

“I’ll come down Saturday. We’ll go wherever you want. Sound good?”

“It’s so cute, how you’re acting like I’ll let you go back home for the rest of your break without a fight.”

“But Yachi—”

“Will not be one of those miracle women who have their first baby in three hours. Are you kidding me? That’ll be a two-day long affair and everyone will need a vacation afterward.”

Tsukishima chuckles. “Fair point.”

“God, it’s just hitting me now, you’re going to have a baby.” Tetsurou can’t wait to see it: Tsukishima-the-Goliath with an infant. His heart will explode, he won’t survive it.

“She’s not mine,” Tsukishima says like the technicality is meaningful.

“I think you and I both know that’s not true at all.”

Judging from the little, proud smile dancing in the corner of Tsukishima’s mouth, he doesn’t want to argue.

“It is exciting,” Tsukishima says, trailing off at the end as if he has more to say but thinks better of it.

Tetsurou can guess the worries. There will be plenty of time to dig into all of it later. Actions over words; a more meaningful assurance. For now, he says, “I’m excited, too. And I’m serious, stay for the rest of your break. I took the week off work. I want to spend it with you.”

Tsukishima gives Tetsurou an odd look. “You don’t want some time to yourself?”

“No.” Tetsurou could expand. He decides not to.

Tsukishima leans a little heavier against Tetsurou. Neon lights start buzzing in the late evening Shibuya skyline, fizzing to life a couple of blocks away and then out as far as Tetsurou can see. The whole cityscape transforms—the sight, the sounds, all jolting awake with the setting sun. Warm scenery glowing hot against the horizon; like Tetsurou’s hand cupped between Tsukishima’s open palms.

After a few peaceful minutes, Tetsurou asks, “What do you think did it?”

“No idea. I haven’t thought about it much, yet.”

It’s been nagging Tetsurou all day and now there’s finally space to start examining the pieces. “Did we have to stop Akiteru from making the wish? Did we have to have our big rom-com scene? Did it have to be there? Then?”

“You hate that you can’t figure out how it works, don’t you?”

Tetsurou scowls, then decides he doesn’t care if Tsukishima knows he tends to rip things apart to see how they tick. If Tsukishima doesn’t know by now, it’s kind of on him. “Yes. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Calm down, Scully,” Tsukishima says. He squeezes Tetsurou’s hand. “I’m choosing to believe it was you. Not wishes or sappy moments. Just you. I want to believe this is our time.”

And Tetsurou still wants to take it apart. He wants to run Tanabata experiments next year. Dissect Tsukishima’s experience in brutal detail and pinpoint the most likely answers to every question. More than any of that, though— “I want to believe it was you, too.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me a story,” Mizuki says at five years old, curled up in imitation of the calico cat purring against her chest.

She’s chosen the precise middle of Kei’s king-sized bed for her battleground. A little girl lost amongst the pillows and blankets kicked down to her knees as she struggles to stay awake just a little while longer. A little crescent moon plugged into the wall outlet provides a pitiful accent to the hallway lights bending around Kuroo’s shadow lounging in the door frame.

Sternly, Mizuki adds, “A good one.”

A good one means a Kuroo one. Kei has learned this through months of trial and error. He taps his fingers against the bedspread, pretending to think about it, and shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged on the side of the bed right by Mizuki’s toes instead of with one foot on the floor.

“I suppose I could tell you a story. You have any in mind?”

Mizuki hums and kicks the blankets into a puddle around her legs. “Wanna hear about the giraffes.”

Why this is her favorite story, Kei has no idea. One day it slipped out while she was half-asleep, and then another and another, and suddenly Kei’s entire time loop adventure had spun out of him in little anecdotes presented as fables and fairy tales. Mizuki devours them like candies. She senses something in Kei’s posture or his tone—she always knows which are stories and which are The Good Stories.

Kei should probably worry she’s developing favorites. He should definitely worry that she’s getting smart enough to see through the thin veil of fake names and unfamiliar Tokyo locations—but just as Mizuki has become fond of these stories in particular, Kei has found he likes getting to share them with a sweet rose-colored tint. Telling stories to Mizuki is unassuming and uncomplicated. It’s nice, stripping those four months down and remembering the good parts.

“Oh, the giraffes made Hotaru so angry though,” Kei says with a mock growl and ridiculous face that sends Mizuki into shivering giggles.

“No, no, Hotaru liked the giraffes,” Mizuki insists. She snuggles up to the cat a bit more, sending a hurricane of purrs rumbling through the bedding as Maho wraps both arms around Mizuki’s skinny one. “See? Maho thinks so, too.”

“Well, if Maho thinks so…”

From the doorway, Kuroo’s laughter rumbles out of the background. “She’s right, you know. Hotaru had a really good time with Kanerou at the zoo. Who wouldn’t? Kanerou is so charming.”

“Exactly!”

Kei sighs. “The two of you, always putting words in Hotaru’s mouth.”

Kuroo flops on the bed with the subtlety of a Saint Bernard and swipes a rogue lock of hair out of Mizuki’s face. “Little missy, do you think if you fall asleep in the big bed, you get to sleep in it all night?”

Mizuki’s impish grin is far too proud for her to hide. “It’s a special sleepover.”

“It’s special because you get to stay all weekend instead of just one night,” Kei points out, more out of the fun of it than anything else.

No matter how this conversation goes, Mizuki will wind up sleeping smashed between them with the cat, it happens more often than Kei or Kuroo care to admit. By morning all three of them will be some variation of sleeping on Kuroo, and he’ll wheeze and complain about them suffocating him but Kei is always the first awake—he always sees the contented look Kuroo wakes up with when he finds a cat snuggled in his armpit and Mizuki perched on his chest.

“No, it’s special ‘cause Papa’s gonna ask Mom to marry him,” Mizuki says through a full-bodied yawn.

Kuroo doesn’t even pretend he’s not laughing. “How do you know about that?”

“He asked my permission.” Mizuki stumbles her way through the big word and wrinkles her nose at Kei. “’Cause that’s what you do when you ask someone’s Mom to marry you, Ukai-san at the store said so. He said it’s important.”

“Oh yeah?” Kuroo wriggles his way up to the headboard so he can sit against it. He unconsciously reaches down to pet Maho purring between Mizuki’s chest and his leg. “What else did Ukai-san teach you?”

“Not to fall for tricks! This is a daverson— disversion—” Mizuki’s little face scrunches up in irritation as she fights to remember the word she’s going for.

“Diversion,” Kuroo says. He sounds the word out syllable-by-syllable for Mizuki to follow along with. “Excellent use of a big word. That’s at least five points.”

“Only five?!”

“I don’t think it matters much for you and me,” Kuroo whispers conspiratorially. He jabs a thumb at Kei. “We’re never gonna catch up to that one, he sent a grad student into a panic searching for a dictionary the other day.”

“How many points?” Mizuki asks, scandalized and starry-eyed.

Kuroo slouches in. “Had to give him twenty. Even I have to look up the fancy dinosaur words.”

“Daddy Kei is really smart.”

A scoff pitched with indignation barrels out of Kuroo’s mouth. “Hey! I’m smart, too, you know.”

Mizuki has learned the correct response to this sort of thing is more giggles.

Kei’s heart commonly feels like it’s swollen too big for his rib cage around these two. “Apparently, you’re also a diversion from our special sleepover.”

“Yes!” Mizuki says. “It’s special! That means we all sleep in the big bed after the giraffe story.”

“Is that so?” Kei asks. “I thought it meant you got to pick dinner, dessert, and second dessert?”

“Please, we all know second dessert was for you,” Kuroo says, ever Mizuki’s co-conspirator in wringing treats out of Kei in the name of special occasions, regardless of if the occasion is fabricated or not.

“Never you mind that, I thought you wanted to hear about the time Kanerou tormented Hotaru with giraffes at the zoo?”

“Sure, tormented.” Kuroo snickers. Mizuki immediately tries to imitate him. They both settle in and watch Kei expectantly. “Go ahead, then.”

Kei has told this story near a dozen times. Sometimes Kuroo interjects with bits of commentary, sometimes he listens with attention every bit as rapt as Mizuki’s. He carries a quieter appreciation tonight with Mizuki settled into his side and Maho nestled between them, purring so vibrantly, Kei can feel it from the other side of the bed.

Mizuki falls asleep within minutes of getting to the giraffes, little fingers wrapped around Kuroo’s shirt and mouth fallen slightly open. Kuroo eases her grip away and gets her settled under the blankets. A moment later the cat decides she’s been cuddled enough and sneaks free to wander away. Kei closes the door behind them so they won’t wake Mizuki with their talking or the television.

“Can’t believe you caved so easily, usually you at least try to make her fight for it,” Kei says, sitting on the couch and then letting out a huff when Kuroo drops between Kei and the arm, throwing his legs over Kei’s thighs. “Don’t know why we bought that bed.”

“We both know you’re the one who can’t deny her,” Kuroo says. “Besides, all we’d have to do to get her to sleep in her room is to say Maho isn’t allowed in our bedroom anymore.”

Kei will never admit he didn’t think of that once. It would work perfectly. A boiling torrent of affection wells in Kei’s heart. For Mizuki, for Kuroo, for this life they get to live now where they do things like chat about how they could trick a five-year-old into sleeping in their own bed but don’t feel particularly motivated. “I never knew I could love someone so much.”

“What about me?” Kuroo asks, mock indignation crawling off his tongue, chased by the certainty that Kei’s not the only one who loves that little girl more than anything else in the world. Kuroo leans the side of his head against the back couch cushions and watches Kei, his eyes flicking between their bedroom door and the one across the hall, ostensibly for Mizuki but seldom used for more than naps and storage.

“Who ever said I love you?”

“Oh, honey, please. My evidence is conclusive and overwhelming.”

It is, too. Both ways.

“Anyway,” Kuroo says, gaze settling on Mizuki’s door, “what if I want one?”

“One what?”

Kuroo bites his lip and keeps staring at the door. The puzzle pieces slot into place.

“You want a kid?” Kei is less surprised than he should be.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Yes?” Kuroo glances at Kei out of the corner of his eye. He’s nervous—a novelty not often on display.

Kei isn’t sure what to do about the sudden jackhammering in his chest. “You’ve never said anything about it before.”

Kuroo shrugs one shoulder and scrapes his nails on his jeans. “I never used to think about it much but I like when we watch Mizuki—seeing you with her, teaching her new things, watching her grow. I like putting better into the world than I got.”

A sentiment they share in many regards. One of Kei’s happiest thoughts at any given moment is that Mizuki has an army of people anxious to look after and love her.

Nerves zap in Kei’s stomach to match Kuroo’s dancing around his fingertips still tracing imaginary lines over his jeans. Kei reaches out a hand to still Kuroo’s and shifts to rest his cheek against the back of the couch, too.

“Yachi told me she would—you know. For us. If we ever wanted.” Kei can’t even think about it without getting emotional; when she tricked him over for lunch on their own and told him, he’d cried a little. Age has broken down a lot of Kei’s reluctance to show weakness. He walked out of that lunch a mess to be proud of.

“We can’t ask her for something like that even if she did offer.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you but I think she really wants to. Not that she’s hung up on us with a kid or anything. Just if we had one, she wants Mizuki to have a sibling. Yachi was an only child but me and Yamaguchi had our brothers.”

Kuroo’s gaze flicks to Kei as he considers this. “I think I would have liked that growing up. I was never close with my sister but when I met Kenma, everything was just a little—” Kuroo trails off and doesn’t pick up again but he nods unconsciously in little warbles and Kei hasn’t ever needed more to understand.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I was really just asking if you want to think about it,” Kuroo says. “I didn’t have plans or arguments laid out or anything. Just sometimes we have Mizuki and I start thinking… What if? I always thought I’d be a shit parent—but now? With you? I think maybe I’d be alright.”

He would be. Kei knows this like he knows his birthday, like he understands the hours of the day and can do basic arithmetic in his head. It’s incontrovertible. A certainty dug into sharp grooves in his bones. Ever since Yachi laid out her offer from across her kitchen table, Kei has wondered, too.

“If you want to have a kid, let’s have a kid.” Kei will relish the opportunity to show Kuroo just how wrong he is thinking he wouldn’t be phenomenal at it.

Kuroo’s bottom lip slips from between his teeth. His fingers stretch between Kei’s and curl to tangle them together. “God, you only just said it and I already can’t stop thinking about it. You and Yacchan would make the cutest baby. I’d be proud to put my best into something like that.”

“You don’t want—” Kei isn’t even sure how to say it, not when he knows the answer so deeply. Kuroo hasn’t ever cared about blood, every bit of family he has is family he chose.

“No. I’d want it to be you.” Then, flushed pink and speaking fast, Kuroo adds, “Gotta do your Ma a solid since her other grandbaby’s half-Saeko.”

“You keep forgetting that she adores Saeko and to be honest, I think she loves Etsuko more than me and Akiteru put together.” As she should.

Kuroo’s attention shifts to the right a little. His expression goes so soft and affectionate, Kei feels it seep between them. “What are you doing up?”

Kei turns to find Mizuki peeking from behind the cracked-open bedroom door. Her sleepy voice wobbles as she says, “I woke up.”

“Well, we better do something about that, huh?” Kuroo asks, swinging his legs off of Kei’s and standing in one smooth motion. To Kei, he asks, “Coming to bed?”

“In a little bit.”

Kuroo nods, his touch lingering on Kei’s shoulder for a moment before he goes to tend to Mizuki. One last smile lingers before the door latches shut.

Kei doesn’t know how to deal with how acutely he feels so many wondrous things all at once, sometimes. It’s been years and he’s not any better at it, doesn’t think he’ll ever improve, not really. Every time one thing settles down, another kicks up. Kei finally got some equilibrium with the majesty of Kuroo and Mizuki’s word game and now Kuroo’s churning around something even bigger. Kei hopes it never ends.

They have a nice apartment. Are in a good place financially. Kei can’t stop thinking about a weird, copy-pasted blend of Akiteru and Yachi’s faces and it makes his heart swell all over again to imagine Kuroo doting over a child wearing some of Kei’s face.

They could do it if they wanted to. They could put something better into the world than they got and do right where their fathers went wrong; let this happy life they get to live grow more branches.

Kei wants to.

—— Omake: Two Years Later ——

“I’m gonna tell you a story,” Mizuki whispers at seven years old, standing on her tiptoes with both hands gripping the crib’s top rail so hard, white blooms across her knuckles. “’Bout Daddy Kei and Uncle Tetsurou going to see the giraffes.”